Things I Hate, Volume 2

Dear Matt Smith,

To start with, here's an update on some things I hate:

1) Public displays of affection. If it's not my hand you're holding/lips you're kissing/butt you're grabbing, I don't want to see it. So stop it. Now.
2) Stupid people. I must admit this is not a new addition to The List, but it's a sentiment that bears repeating. Stupid people should not drive, walk, talk, procreate, or eat. That way, they'll die off and leave the rest of us alone.
3) Phone calls. Whether incoming or outgoing, the phone is old. Old as in, write me a letter. It'll last longer and annoy me less.

On the subject of phone calls (now that we're on it), there's a new, special person in my life that you should know about. I don't know his name. I know his phone number: 412.441.6871. I hesitate to write it here, but as I know that you and Anne Brannen are the only two people on Earth who read this blog, I know it won't be used for harm.
You're wondering, how do I know this man? Well, I'll tell you. I don't. I don't know him, and I probably will never know him. Mr. 412.441.6871 calls my phone on a regular basis -- usually on the weekends, most often Friday nights. Here's the kicker, though: I've never actually answered the phone. I just let the voice mail pick up. So the man leaves messages. Not for me. For Bob.
Whoever Bob is, he must sound awfully effeminate, as the Guy Looking For Bob never catches on to the fact that my voice mail message is ME and you know, MY VOICE, saying that I -- MEREDITH -- am sorry that I -- MEREDITH -- can't get to my -- MEREDITH'S -- phone right now, but to leave a message and I -- MEREDITH!!! NOT BOB!!! -- will get back to you. He leaves the messages anyway, ranging anywhere from "why don't you call me? I haven't heard from you in a while" (no kidding? I wonder why he hasn't called. Could it be that Bob's not getting the messages???) to "You should go see this really good movie. The good scenes are really... good."
I suppose someday I should do the humane thing and actually answer the phone to tell him that he has the wrong number, that there's no Bob at this number, and please stop calling. But, I just can't. It's too surreal... and yes. Entertaining. So for the time being I just added him to my Contacts List in my cell as Guy Looking For Bob.

Oh. And for Anne's sake, I should say that I'm moving to Minneapolis. Next Saturday. And I have no apartment. (All the cool kids don't have homes. It's true.)

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

All sum total, my vacation in the Dominican Republic was what could only be described as a "blast," although no actual blasting occurred. We spent a week eating, drinking, resting, touring, beaching (or "playa"ing, as they would say in the Spanish), drinking, swimming, eating, sunning, drinking, and yes, more resting. It was a vacation. And it was good.

Hopefully at some point I'll learn how to post photos up here, and then you could see all of that in picture form.

I did, however, start using that laptop that Peter gave me for graduation, and it is SUPERB. I love wireless. At the moment, I'm perched on the trunk of my car, and I AM CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET. (Don't worry. The car's not moving.) So very very strange, and yet, so great that I can do this. It was really only a whim to sit outside. I was going to type up a resume...

Which brings me to my next bit of information -- the Philly folks at the Arden Theatre have NOT called, and I don't think they will call. But never fear... I've got some other yummy interviews lined up. I have to send a headshot out to a touring children's theatre in Minnesota and I'm looking into becoming a "teaching associate" at The Neighborhood Academy here in Pittsburgh for a year...

More to come. Never ever EVER a dull moment...

Love,
Meredith

Hey Matt Smith.

Here's the deal:

1) My interview at the Arden Theatre in Philly is scheduled for 2pm on Thursday, May 27. This means we'll either a) have to leave Pittsburgh on Wednesday night and stay with some friends of mine (well, my brother's... I guess they're more acquaintances of mine, but nevertheless, very cool and hospitable people) or b) have to leave Thursday morning at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm rooting for option A, simply because the ass-crack of dawn is a time I see a lot of, and I don't think driving across the state in the that-time-of-the-morning mood is a very good idea. So, of course you're welcome to stay with my sister and me at her/my new place all that week, if indeed you do come into Pittsburgh in week or so. It'll be good clean fun -- unless we make you clean something, and then it'll be sort of clean fun, but still good all the same.

2) After the interview in Philly, we'll be heading into NYC, which is about a 2 hour drive, and it's something I've never done before, so it'll be frightening as hell, which I hear is pretty scary. That aside, we do have a place to stay -- and ironically, the person we'll be staying with is originally from Philadelphia, so he knows the drive like the back of his hand. (I can only blindly assume that he's one of those people who spends a lot of time looking at the back of his hands. I mean, I don't do that personally, but there are apparently a lot of people who do that, if it's become such a popular simile.) His name's Lee, and he's going to be a great New York City tour guide for us. He lives on the Upper East Side (again, I don't know how to get there, and we'll probably die trying, but that's fine, right?) and I think he's taking most/all of Friday off to take us around and show you things. His only stipulation is that you don't steal from him. He didn't say anything about ME stealing from him, so I guess THAT'S okay... We're going to have to park the car in a garage for 3 nights, and that's probably going to cost us a bit (hence the stealing), but Lee's going to talk with a few of the nearby places to see if he can get a total lower than $120 out of them. We'll see.

3) As for money, I don't have a lot of it -- and we'll need gas, food, parking, and show ticket money. Show tickets I can tell you are $45 each, and once I figure out mileage, I'll know more about the gas thing. Food's pretty much up to us, I guess. If we stock the car with munchies and a cooler, I think we'll be better off than if we bought it along the way. (Yay for road trips!) So, think about that.

4) Let me know when you're planning on getting here, and if you're coming by bus, and if I need to pick you up, and if you're staying with me, and all that other stuff. My old phone number still works until the end of the month and I'll send you the new one, which is the phone we'll have on the road with us. I don't want to post it here, because then everyone who reads this (all two people... me and Anne Brannen) will now have my phone number. And that would just be sad. Although I wouldn't mind hearing from Anne Brannen, there's always that slim chance that some oddball crazy person -- aside from Anne -- would be able to track me down. (But the phone itself is pretty choice -- it's got a little alien on it. I told my friend, Lee, that and he said, "Yeah, Meredith... we're trying to turn down the crazy." Whatever.)

So that's what life looks like right now. I don't have a large trip fund -- because after our excursion, I'm headed to Punta Cana! Yay! (So, yeah... more on that later. Meredith's Vacation Episode #2 still to come.)

Love,
Meredith

I don't know where you've gone, Matt Smith. I hope you're out there in cyberspace somewhere -- in the dark recess of time and space between Spain and Goshen, Indiana -- and I also hope that you call me at some point. There've been some addendums to our travel plans, and I gave them the go-ahead, hoping against hope that you'd be around to, y'know, go. We'll talk about that later, though, a)because it's two weeks away, and we don't plan two weeks in advance. Hell. We don't plan two days in advance... b)I just don't have the time to tell you all about it now, although it involves Interview #2 at the Arden Theatre in Philadelphia (yay) and some stops along the way, and c)I really don't think you're reading this blog at all, so it's all for naught.

I've been doing a lot of outside activities lately -- the weather is fantabulous. (I guess you could more rightly call them "non-activities." The last day of finals, after my directing final at 11am, I drove over to Schenley Park, not really having a set destination and ended up falling asleep for about 2 hours. It was the feeling of done. I'm done.

And really, yay for being done.
Yay for the done not really sinking in until next fall.
Yay for heat and sunshine and having very little to do.
Yay for the fluid feeling of driving, and the sunroof that's broken.
Yay for discovering that even though the sunroof is broken, it does go to the "UP" position.
Yay for old men who happily drive around in sports cars in this fine weather.
Yay for my Ninja-like avoidance of my Starbucks stalker (and his fat baby) yesterday at work.
Yay for my spy-ways -- like knowing how to get to the far end of 376E without going through the Squirrel Hill tunnels, and knowing how to get back to Fifth Ave from Penn Hills without getting back on the bastardized 376W.
Yay for planning vacations, or the lack thereof.
Yay for summer cocktails -- the fruity, refreshing goodness.
Yay for drinking a lot of water.
Yay for my cat, who discovered the awesomeness of his new best friend, the fan.
Yay for that customer at work who asked why we skipped spring and moved straight into summer.
Yay for me -- I told that customer it was to get a jumpstart on construction.
Yay for angry people, who can't help but be happy in the sunshine.
Yay for the sidewalk, even though it bit me twice.
Yay for the late afternoon.
Yay for the early evening.
Yay for finding someplace to see all the stars you can see.
Yay for drive-in movie theatres.
Yay for little blue Volkswagens.
Yay for cardboard boxes, iced grande nonfat chai lattes, strawberry lemonade, grass, sunflowers, bluebells, yellow roses, deodorant, the clicking sound that my cat's claws make, my pull-out sofa bed, DVDs, Disney movies, contact lenses, Jill Sobule, WYEP, Subarus, trying to find a job, snow peas, flip-flop sandals, driving barefoot, donut shops, STEAK!, golden retrievers, Gabby's green tie, my mom, my new toggle cap, permanent markers, duct tape, my roommate, the backseat of my car, marachas, my new cellphone, picnics, brie cheese, the Enrico Biscotti Company, gin and tonics, Icky the cat, high cheekbones, Dave and Andy's ice cream, parking meters, clowns, shiny new pennies, graduation, and of course, Matt Smith.

-- Meredith

In honor of my forthcoming vacation, here's a little break for you, Matt Smith. And now, as they say, for something completely different:

BRANNENISMS:
A COLLECTION OF QUOTES FROM THE MOUTH OF DR. ANNE BRANNEN

On God:
“Aha! There’s Jesus, lookin’ just like a gardener!”
“Glad I could clear up that theological problem: He’s God.”
“Humans often pretend to be God. It’s never good.”
“While Jesus was harrowing Hell, someone had their cell phone on.”
“That’s logic. ‘Should you chew Jesus’s body?’ No.”
“Isn’t that nice? God is sane. This makes me cheerful.”
“God’s very shiny.”

On Lucifer and his demons:
“It has been set up so that they’re actually paying to see the Devil. Which, by the way, they’re not supposed to do.”
“As if it’s [Lucifer’s] idea to fall into Hell…”
“It’s crucial that you like the Little Demons.”
“Sometimes you have long spaces of demonic hilariousness.”
“Demons are especially bad at messing with the audience.”

On being a subtle angel:
“They’re very unsubtle, angels.”
“Whoa. It’s the Marys. Quem quaeritis?”

On unobtrusively holding a palm in your hand:
“I’d like for you all to go home and practice that.”

On the sprinkling of holy water:
“Great. My silks have been blessed.”

On the slaughtering of innocents:
“Lassie! Lassie! The innocents have fallen in a well!”

On interpretations of the Bible:
“And then Herod did taketh his sword, and did try to whack the star from afar.”
“Vatican II? Is that when limbo bit the dust?”
“Religion: According to Me. Why I Don’t Work in the Theology Department.”

On “The Greatest Hits of the Cycle Plays”:
“Gee, I wonder if Basingbone might put on a St. George play this year?”
“They’ve hired a fiddler.”
“What do they do to earn money? They have what are known as ‘church ales,’ which are the equivalent of bake sales… with beer.”
“Woo-hoo! The crucifixion!”
“It’s like… The Three Stooges Crucify Christ.”

On what Noah’s wife could’ve said:
“Oh, did you talk to God today? How’s he doin’?”

On biblical realizations:
“Well, it starts raining. That’s a bad sign.”
“ ‘Cause apparently he’s not a stupid child and has noticed that they have brought no goats.”

On making a pitch to the Red Masquers:
“Castle of Perseverance! You can do this in your backyard!”

On Mary Magdalene:
“She’s a princess… and she has a castle. I love Mary Magdalene.”
“Jesus has died and we have the harrowing of Hell… but we don’t see that… because we’re in Marseilles!”
“And then a priest shows up in the wilderness because… one just does.”
“And so Mary goes to Jerusalem, with her new friend, Lust… and they go to the bar.”
“Mary’s good now… which is nice.”
“She’s preaching… which, as we know, women were not supposed to do… at this time. But it’s okay, because she’s Mary Magdalene, apostola apostolorum, and the star of our show!”
“This is actually the only instance in the history of drama – that I can recall – wherein the audience becomes the ocean.”
“The child is not dead, but apparently will be soon, on account of his being left with a dead woman.”
“Then, caeli gaudent… which you would assume, I guess. I suppose whenever someone gets assumed into heaven caeli gaudent.”

On Herod:
“He’s the guy who can’t control anything.”

On singling people out, whether or not to:
“I would.”

On how to seduce a woman:
“You’re cute. Real cute. I mean, cute.”

On the Middle Ages and humans therein:
“Mercy: The Rin-Tin-Tin of the Medieval World.”
“Oh the horrible Middle Ages! And then the Renaissance came and everything got better… Oh yes. Didn’t it just?”
“They probably called it, ‘That Play With the Little Demons In It.’”
“And what a life it was in the Late Middle Ages!”
“Times like this you could say, ‘The Reformation. Coulda seen it comin’.”

On humans:
“Most of the humans don’t actually think.”
“You’ve been studying Shakespeare. I know this because you’ve been growing up in America. And you’ve been breathing.”
“We are, indeed, paying attention to the stinking dunghills which are our bodies.”
“The truth of the matter is, not all of the humans are happy when they have to sing a Peter, Paul and Mary tune.”
“The humans are not moderate. Even the ones who look kind of quiet.”
“And they all follow the star. And we do, too. ‘Cause we’re human.”
“History tells us that adultery does not usually work out well… But the humans are going, ‘Well… maybe this time…’”
“None of us can ever know what we mean to another person in their heart.”
“I’m really looking forward to not being one anymore.”

On the theatre world, costumes, and props:
“Your wardrobe mistress would kill you with her knitting needles.”
“I mean, you can hit people with your shovel… but… it’s not good in a war.”
“We’ve got space here and a little distance… but we have no fourth wall! Danger!
Danger!”

On spelling and grammar:
“It’s just like the prod… prod… prodig… pro-di-gal… you know… that guy who goes away and then comes back?”
“CHI-VAL-RY”
“ ‘Iwis’ means, ‘really, truly, no kidding.’”
“I spit on spelling. And I don’t play Scrabble.”

On sarcasm, and how it should be used on Dr. Jay Keenan:
“Dryden. We love him. He’s so… deep.”

On 7-year old sons, and what to say when one tells you he wants to be a writer:
“My son understands that there are different levels of discourse.”
“Great. I am so glad.”

On Everyman:
“I’ve become reconciled with Everyman.”
“It’s so nice to be reconciled with to Everyman. I kind of missed it while we were having a fight.”

On the projector screen:
“No, no! You’re a bad thing! I hate you!”

On learning things from characters in plays, whether or not to care for them and what to do if we did:
“What’s wrong with you? Go to therapy! You! Get your pants on!”
“If I learning anything from this play, it’s not to let my wife run around with a priest. Which, in my case, is sort of irrelavent. I mean, there’s something about pies and a candle and a bucket, but it’s not taking me anywhere.”
“If there is anyone there that is connecting with him, he is the most uncomfortable guy there… having the worst time.”

On audiences:
“Because, all of a sudden, we’re sitting in his living room… with nefarious designs upon his coat.”
“You’ve just had a nice little dinner, and you’ve had a play about the wonderfulness of your system.”

On the Medieval and Renaissance Players:
“We stand for inferior drama.”

On Medievalists:
“This is what we Medievalists do. We take the baby and put it in the bathwater, and then we find another baby and put it in, and then another, and another. And then… we take all the babies out and go, ‘We don’t know what happened!’ And then we take the babies later and rehabilitate them.”

On plays, interpretations of:
“It’s as if society’s supposed to be boring.”
“It takes all the ideas of the nobility out to their logical, stupid conclusion.”
“Here is my lesson. I am a Medieval allegory.”

On Anne Brannen:
“This is because I am in no way predictable.”
“You wouldn’t think I’d need a calculator. But… I’ve met me.”
“I’m the non-Barry Manilow alto.”
“I need constant reinforcement on account of the incredible badness of me.”
“I live right next door to Liza Minelli.”

On the classics:
“Oh… too bad for you, Oedipus! Here’s your curse! Ooop! Marryin’ my mother! Thought she was somebody else!”
“Poison in the ear. How often did that happen?”
“Indeed, how can we love somebody else until we go stab someone? That’s why the divorce rate’s so high. There aren’t nearly enough revenge tragedies.”

On things to say to students at Duquesne:
“Late would be, like… later.”
“They put me in a bad room for standing on desks.”
“I need a graduate volunteer and an undergraduate volunteer to administer the Holy Sacred TEQs of Our People.”
“I’m changing the subject… and it was subtle!”
“No! Let’s have a bake sale!”
“What is a piget?”
“That wasn’t funny, was it? I blame SpongeBob.”
“It’s really good to see you. I’m really excited about the part where you’re not dead.”
“Stop writing things down!”

On Joe Barron:
“Our Ignorance was so ignorant.”

On good and bad ideas, the fine line between:
“He was arguing for the Reformation of the Church… Oh well!”
“And then the Bad Angel said, ‘Go and get your son.’ And Mankind did say, ‘Okay. That’s a good idea.’”
“There may have actually been some whips and chains… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

On Bumper Stickers for England:
“England – We Love It!
“The Queen – Good Stuff!”
“England is an entire field of mud.”

On things not said in the Middle Ages – or ever:
“Gee, I think I’ll sit down and read the Castle of Perseverance!”

On the dead, death, and dying:
“Ay, these are spectacles to please my soul! Grr-eat.”
“… and when they died, which was the fashion then, as it is today…”
“… it makes me want to go kick some dead people.”
“Later on, we’ll be able to see without mirrors… meaning when we’re dead… not, y’know, next week.”
“We care so deeply about [religious issues] that we’re going to slaughter thousands of our countrymen.”

On modern vs. medieval insanity:
“If you run into anybody on the bus going, ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ would you please come let me know?”
“Meanwhile, back in Jerusalem… ‘Out, out, harrow!!!’”

On deep thoughts:
“You don’t know where the edges are unless you can feel them.”

Mr. Smith,

I spent last night at Dee's at Tim Colbert's going-away party. Not the whole night. Just a little part of it. If I'd spent the whole night there -- like, slept at Dee's? -- that would've been strange. It was kind of stuffy there anyway. I wouldn't ever want to sleep in a bar. Well... that bar. I don't know about other bars. I never thought about it before.

On the above salutation: Yes. I think it's about that time in your life where people might call you "Sir" or "Mr. Smith." Of course, with all those people (waiters, mostly, I suppose) calling you Mr. Smith, we might have to postpone the trip to New York and go to Washington instead. But then you'd have to be Jimmy Stewart, and he's dead, so I can't work that one out at all in my head. Seriously though... I've been "ma'am"-ed, which is ludicrous. I'm not a ma'am, I've never been a ma'am, and I don't know if I'll ever be a ma'am. (Elliot the Flaky Barista calls every woman "miss." I think he just gets away with it because he has big ears like a little kid.)

Emma and I spent two hours in that cold room in College Hall watching "The Matrix." (You know the room... It's the one right next to the hot room? I think they're 104 and 105 and one's always hot and one's always freezing and Duquesne always throws the Comm courses in them.) This was supposed to be our "final." All in all, what it ended up being was an hour and a half nap and a half hour spent really NEEDING TO PEE. When we finally broke out of there, we made a mad dash (is there such a thing as a "happy dash" or a "sane dash..." maybe that'd be a hyphen) to the restroom where we had what could only be described as a "Zen pee." (Not to be confused with a tee-pee, as this one is not triangular in form.) It was glorious as only peeing after a long time of not peeing could be.

Things I've realized/noticed/discovered today:
a) When you've reached a certain in point in schooling, you remember everything else, but you forget your pen -- but then it's okay, because you're (well... I'm) almost done and it doesn't matter that you don't have a pen.
b) The World Wide Web is stupid. I don't know who came up with it, but it's awful. And it's the worst kind of awful, because I love it. There's not a thing I need to know out there that I can't find on the World Wide Web. And that's the problem.
c) There's not a single person that I know in the North Jersey/NYC area who is going to be home May 28-30. Which sucks for us. But, you know, whatever... we're going to see RENT.

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

I'm skipping class to plan my vacations. If the irony of this escapes you, I'll have to bean you over the head with something heavy. Say, a chair, or a television, or my Abnormal Psychology book (although I really don't know how heavy it is since I'm SKIPPING THAT CLASS TO PLAN MY VACATION). I love life.
New York! Finalized vacation time at work... Looks like I'm going to have to be back by May 31, which, as you've previously mentioned, is Memorial Day. I guess everyone that works at the South Side Starbucks will be busy remembering things that day, and I have to be there so they can have time to do that. (Memorial Day. Who thought that one up?)
I guess there's a few questions that we should answer before we actually GO on this trip, not the least of which are: how are we getting there? and where are we going to stay? We could drive, and that might be interesting, I guess -- and we'd have to find a place to crash near the city ('cause I refuse to drive there -- that is right out). Or, we could take a bus. It's $180.00 total for both of us to get to New York on a Greyhound -- round-trip, no crazy bus-switching. But I can't really say I LIKE buses. It'd be nearer to the truth to say I DON'T LIKE buses. Or I HATE buses...

Side note: The last time I took a Greyhound bus to New York, Emma and I encountered a toothless, garbage-bag, duffel-bag toting man named Barry who spent the entire trip from NYC to Pittsburgh riding locked in the bus's bathroom with a pogo stick. No lie. He got on the bus, dropped his duffel and garbage bags in the front overhead storage area, took his pogo stick, and hightailed it to the back of the bus, chattering nonsense. The bus driver loaded up, put the bus in gear, and about 5 minutes down the road, she yelled, "Could someone back there check on Barry from time to time?" And someone must have said, "Sure" or "Yes" or something, but I looked around and everyone was acting like this was nothing. Em and I sat there in silence, staring at the backs of the seats in front of us for a few long miles before she said, "I tried to make that normal... but it's not."

And thus, I HATE buses. (Phew. That was good to get off my chest.)

So, there you have it. Vacation Matt Smith/Meredith-style. No place to stay and no way to get there. We'll figure it out. I'm sure we will. Because, well... we have to. Or we're not going.

(Did I mention I have to be completely moved out of my apartment before we even leave on this weekend excursion? Yeah. So... I mean, that's out there.)

Love,
Meredith

Oh, Matt Smith.

Sometimes I forget how funny you are. I know you hate it when I describe you to people as being The Funniest Person I Know, or more often The Funniest Person in the World, but I give credit where credit is due. You have the unique curse of being able to make just about any situation seem both plausible and entertaining...
Wednesday night after Medieval Drama, Monica English and I headed off to the South Side via the stairs. Monica LOVES the stairs. She is the Stair Queen. I've told her several times how ridiculous it is to take the stairs to the South Side, especially when we're leaving Fisher Hall, but we go anyway. (I think it'd be easier -- and considerably less hilly -- if we just took the elevators to the ground floor and walked through the Armstrong Tunnels. And I guess one could say that I LOVE the Armstrong Tunnels, that I am the Tunnel Queen -- judging by the number of times I've mentioned them in my past few musings -- but, you know... whatever.)
So anyway, we're walking uphill to go downhill -- another reason taking the stairs is stupid and wrong -- and we cross the little metal death-bridge that leads to the stairs. All of a sudden, we're there at the very top of this long, killer set of stairs, and the wind is careening towards us. I swear to God, both of us were trying to take the first step down the stairs, and neither one of us could move our legs... So there we are, at the top of the stairs, not moving. That must have gone on for at least a minute before we could move -- and before we realized how stupid we must have looked.
And while we were walking, Monica looked at me and said, "You know, I wish Matt were around to tell this story."
Well, yeah. Me, too. My telling of it really paled in comparison, I suppose. Maybe at some point, you could pretend to be me and go back in time to that precise moment (I guess you'd have to ask Monica to go with you, and I don't know if she'd be entirely up for that... she's a busy girl), and then you could write it down for me, so I can remember it the way I'd like to.
At any rate -- I'm going to go pop some Advil. Graduating's giving me a migraine.

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

It was nice to finally get to talk to you the other day. It made you more real. You know how you have those friends? The ones you talk about but never hear from? I'm constantly telling Matt Smith stories: the McDonald's french fries that were my back-to-school present that I now keep in my car, the time we realized there was a feeble little tree planted in honor of the "friends and family of Duquesne University" who were lost in the September 11th attack ("it'd be a shame if someone flew a plane into it"), and the Four Eagles of Catholicism. But then you're not here. And so the stories seem as if they never happened.

I'm supposed to be writing a journal entry for my Communication History class and writing a paper for Medieval Drama right now. But, in doing the journal entry, I realized that two of the essays that were assigned reading are not actually in the book that they're supposed to be in. Moreover, they're not in any book. I mean, I guess they're in SOME book, SOMEwhere. But they're not in any book that I own. Or that Emma owns, because I haven't actually paid her for the use of her books yet. I think initially I was supposed to pay her $75, but then we made dinner one night, and I paid for the groceries, which came to about $32. So, $75 minus her half of the dinner groceries ($16) is $59. I guess when we bought the groceries I said something like, "Don't worry about it" or "I owe you money anyway," but what does that even MEAN? Does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries AND I'll pay you what I owe you?" Or does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries, and then I won't owe you as much?" These are some of the rules that should be written down in the General Rules of Friendship. But I don't think there's a chapter on Lending Money to Friends, because you're really not supposed to do that. Everyone does it, though... saying "I'd rather lend it to you than to someone else," or "At least I know I'll get it back," even though most of the time, they don't get it back, do they? It must be one of those rules that's meant to be broken.

All in all, I guess if you ever needed money, I'd lend it to you. I'd break that rule for you. But you're getting back from Spain on your own wallet. (Don't really try to fly home from Spain on your wallet though. You're not any good at flying without your wallet's help. Even if you do hold out your arms like an airplane.)

Love,
Meredith

Hi friend.

I'm sorry that I'm ridiculously difficult to get a hold of... You called once while I was at work, and once while I was in a choir rehearsal, and I'm sorry. The phone's on, but I don't answer. Sort of like "the lights are on, but nobody's home," only I'm really there, even though most of the time, I'm not at home. Or something.

Yes. I'm alright. I'm failing out of a class -- maybe two -- and everyone but me seems to think that this is an okay thing to be doing less than 3 weeks before my graduation day. I'm trying very hard to be optimistic, but the best I can muster is nostalgia, or something really close... like retrospection. I take all the blame for this sort of thing. It's not just due to the fact that I procrastinate. Yes, it's procrastination -- plus something Anne Brannen and the rest of the Medievalists call "honest recreation" (on par with believing you should "do something good for yourself" every once in a while), plus the growing hatred I seem to have for all things academic, divided by the number of times I tell myself that there's only 3 weeks and "how bad can it be," equals Meredith not graduating on May 8 as previously planned. It's a deadly equation.

But, other than that... I guess I'm okay. I'm feeling a little wonky every now and then. ("Wonky" like off-balanced, not "wonky" like Willy and his chocolate. And side note: how funny would it have been if Roald Dahl HAD named him Willy Wonky? That would have just been sad.) There's a lot of surreal aspects to my life at the moment, and while I'm adjusting to most of them, sometimes I just look around and wonder, "How did I get here? And how will I ever get back?"

Love,
Meredith

Hey yourself, Matt Smith.

I saw these two little blond kids today -- a boy and a girl of about 6 or 7 -- walking through the Armstrong Tunnels with a older guy, who I blindly assumed was their father. Only I guess he couldn't have been that old. He may have been 25 or so -- which isn't old at all -- but he seemed older to me because he had to be their dad.
The kids were absolutely loving the tunnel. I mean, tunnels -- on a whole -- are remarkable. They're big and long and empty and hollow-sounding... tunnels. (Side note: My sister and I used to play this game on road trips in the car where whenever we'd come to a tunnel -- I mean, come right up on top of it... right where there was no turning back -- one of us would shout, "Imagine you're a spitball!" Funny the things you remember when you're not trying.)
But back to the blond kids. They were screaming just to hear the sound of the echo. (The little girl was doing more of a squealing, stuck-pig sort of noise, but you get the idea.) And they were singing, but not real songs. Just songs you'd make up if you were six and wanted to hear the sound of your voice singing back to you in a tunnel. And they were shouting and talking and making up nonsense-words and just being annoying in general.
The thing of it was, I wasn't annoyed. I hate kids. Especially the loud, squealing kind. And all I could think was, "How perfect."
All of a sudden I wanted so badly to be six again. I wanted to love the sound of my own voice, talking back to me, but not really saying anything at all. I wanted to be a little blond kid, whose dad was only 25 and happy.
I wanted to not have to worry about how loud I got in the tunnel.

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Are they right? Who are "they" anyway? Do they even matter? And why, if we don't know who "they" are, do we always seem to put so much weight on what "they" say? I suppose at one point "they" were just one person, and then he (or she) became so important that they earned an reputation for being wise, creating a situation where they have the wisdom of many -- thereby making them "they."
Or maybe they were just really fat, and people thought they looked like two or three normal-sized people put together. The fat person probably thought that was pretty cool (being referred to as "they," not being fat -- that just sucks) -- and maybe he or she thought that it was some sort of term of endearment, when really it was just a term for fat people.
Fat people have it rough. They can't ride roller coasters -- you always need a coaster buddy. (Unless it was okay that they be their own buddy. Then that's cool.) They have to sit in the handicapped seats at the movie theatre, which is awful, because I really am not of the opinion that obesity is a handicap. Maybe selective obesity could be considered a handicap. For instance, if one had an inexplicably fat left foot, or a really chubby elbow. Aside from being just sad, that could be hard to deal with. How could you drive a standard transmission with a fat left foot?
But, I guess if the fat people want to be handicapped, that's okay. I hear it's in now.

-- Meredith

Greetings, Matt Smith.

You're always comparing the Red Masquers to a ship. Now, I know you like ships and all, and it's a commendable analogy. As analogies go, I think it's probably one of the better ones -- although I'm a sucker for a good cliché.
One of the bigger problems with that, though, is that the ship has to eventually dock someplace. It has to stop. A ship can't sail on and on forever without coming to shore for supplies or to get rid of the garbage or to drop the dead bodies off. Sure, there's a lot to be said for "sailing away into the sunset," but the thing about sunsets is -- they get dark.
I'm not sure where all this is coming from. I'm not knocking your ship-thing; I think I'm just sad. It's not an entirely foreign feeling for me, and I'm getting more and more used to the way sadness sneaks up on me. I can be anywhere, just doing my thing -- cleaning, singing, walking through the Armstrong Tunnel -- and all of a sudden, there it is, looking over my shoulder, chewing loudly on really crunchy things and reading my paper. I guess a lot of people would call it a "sinking" feeling, but for me it's not (probably because I'm so bitter about your ship references... and ships sink occasionally, which is not good at all).
It's nearer to nothing. My sadness is other people's apathy.
And it's horrible.
But that's not to say that I'm apathetic about leaving the Masquers. I'm not. I have a lot of feelings about it -- not the least of which is that sadness/apathy cross-breed. I just haven't figured out the best way to say it.
Because my sister says that everything's a show... everything's a story. And being a part of the Masquers is its own sort of story. Leaving them behind makes me curious as to just what sort of story it's been.

Love,
Meredith

I feel that I should be careful, lest this Blog turn into just an inventory of "All Things That Meredith Hates." I do hate a lot of things, though, including motorized wheelchairs (and often, the people in them), pudding, artificially blue foods, and my sunroof.

Lately, I've discovered that while I love driving, I hate drivers. (This falls in the same category of Hated Things that acting and actors falls into, and I'm sure I'll dive headlong into that topic at another time.) Driving is fluid and soft and wonderful. It's one of the only things humans can do that will make them feel absolutely weightless and in control. Like swimming. Drivers, on the other hand, are mean-spirited, ridiculous folk who have little concern for the well being of anyone who is not in their particular vehicle.

Drivers without passengers are the worst. I like to think they're just lonely, but really, I think it's one of those things that has to do with having more concern for your family and friends -- or your dog -- than you might have for yourself. I used to spend a lot of time with a relatively impulsive driver who, when I would grip the door or my seat in fear, would assure me, "You're not going to die while I'm driving" or "I drive safer with you in the car... really." Why is that a part of human nature? Flirting with death. I just don't get it. There's a lot of other -- better, warmer -- things to flirt with.

Driving in Pittsburgh is another sort of beast. (Read that again. It's funny. Don't you picture a beast -- big and hairylike -- just driving a little VW Bug around the city? The English language is fun.) I hate the Pittsburgh Left, and the stupid, stupid parking lanes (but not between the hours of 4 and 6pm!) and the stupid, stupid drivers with big hair or mullets or sandwiches. (The ones with sandwiches are often the worst. Have you ever seen the size of a Pittsburgh sandwich? They're immense.) I swore to my sister yesterday, after having several of these mullet-people pull out in front of me without warning, that I must have some sign attached to my car that reads: "Go Ahead. I Won't Hit You."

There must be a button for that somewhere in the car. I'll be darned if I'm not going to find it.... and smash it to smithereens.

Dear Matt Smith,

I feel the need to tell you that you misspelled my name in your last correspondence. It's Meredith -- with three syllables -- not "Merdith" with two, which, while appealling as a name (it reminds me of mermaids and mermen... or, I guess, merpeople), is not actually MY name. My name is Meredith. And that's better than any name I've got. (If you stare at that sentence for a while, it'll go all wonky in your brain. I swear. Give it a shot.)

There are a dozen and some odd reasons why you're getting this e-mail. One of the larger ones is this: I started a Blog. One of the problems with modern-day Blogging (and I guess Blogging is and always has been modern, unless, by some odd turn of chance, some fallen civilization out there invented the Blog and we don't know it. Like the Incas. I bet they were Bloggers) is that, although it's supposedly an online "journal" meant for your own purposes, you're constantly writing to entertain your audience. And that could be ANYONE, right? There could be some drunken, toothless man in a woolly mammoth costume out there right now reading this blog and I wouldn't have a clue. Which is more than scary, 'cause it's the truth.

Ah. You've caught on. "This blog." That's right. This e-mail is indeed a blog. And after I copy and paste it, it'll REALLY be a blog. (Blog's a funny word. It makes me think of "logs." Only with butter. Like a fat, buttered log.) I guess my thought was, if I'm going to blog, and I'm going to inevitably try to be entertaining, I might as well write to the person who entertains me the most, and in turn, makes me entertaining. I glean my entertainment value from you, Matt Smith. (So you'd better hurry up and be famous so I can be famous, too.)

SO... yeah. Now that we've got all that in the open. Every Blog has a purpose. What's my purpose? Huh. Well, that's a darned good question. It reminds me of this question that I've been staring at for weeks on my application for Dallas Theatre Center's directing internship: "What are your long-range goals?" Basically, what's your purpose in life? What's your aim? I'm certain that I'm reading into that a bit much, because -- well, that's what I do best... But all the same, I keep thinking, "I don't have any long-range goals." Or maybe I do, and they're just so long-range that I can't see them yet. Like something that's, y'know, really far away. In the distance. Far. Away. What's worse is, I keep thinking that it's okay for me not to know what my goals are. And it's not. I have to know... if only to fill out that god-foresaken application...

In the meantime, things keep getting darker and lighter and curiouser and curiouser...

Love,
Meredith