*Le Sigh*
I have a little bit of a sad today, and I'm just not exactly sure why. Part of it is that I'm overloading myself with this particular anniversary by watching the History channel all day today. I'm a little bit of a tragedy magpie (if that makes any kind of sense) in that instead of collecting shiny objects (though I do love a good shiny object!) I find myself wallowing in any given tragedy, collecting stories and anecdotes. I have this compulsive need to try to understand what cannot ever fully be understood. I did it with the OKC bombing, with the JonBenet Ramsey murder, with the West Memphis 3 (still a favorite cause), with Matthew Shephard and Harvey Milk, with WWII, and of course, 9/11. I read books and I watch movies and TV shows and read articles and just generally obsess and try try try try to comprehend it all. But I never do. And I never will. But you know what they say--"those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it." Yet for all of my obsessing, rarely do I fully let myself REALLY feel it. It's just too overwhelming to let it all in at once. I'll never forget how shaken I was after watching "United 93" in the movie theater. The entire audience just sat there through the credits, silent (save for some sniffling), absolutely unsure how to process what we had just experienced. I got up to go to the bathroom on my way out and nearly fainted in the stall. When it hit me, it hit me hard and my legs shook, my hands shook, and one of those god-awful silent sobs welled up in my chest. As for the real event, witnessing September 11, 2001 in real time, even all these miles away, I still can't grasp it. I remember thinking, "Plane...into...building? How is that possible?" Part of it was the Okie in me, so used to low, tornado-prepped buildings and wide-open skies. Part of it was the sheer shock of it all, of realizing our world would NEVER be the same again. Knowing that the current class of college freshmen don't really remember a world before 9/11 is unsettling to me. Then again, we didn't really understand tragedy at my age until April 19, 1995 (and I use the word "understand" VERY loosely). I suppose nearly every generation has their event, their "Pearl Harbor." But 9/11 was different, somehow. And while I can in NO WAY claim her as a friend or really even an acquaintance, I did lose a classmate at the Pentagon that day. I think of her smiling, gorgeous senior yearbook photo every year at this time. I think about my fellow classmates who were close to her. I try not to think about her last moments, I simply hope they were painless and somehow peaceful.
I'm also a little sad because I miss the DH. Our time apart is growing shorter each day, but it also seems to stretch on almost endlessly. In spite of my strength and fierce independence and contentment and distractions, I know I am not my complete self when he is not with me. Marrying him allowed me...it gave me the freedom...to become the woman I always wanted to be. And I will never be able to express to him my gratitude and unending love.
Luckily for me, I have wonderful kitties who give me loving snuggles and remind me that food still must be poured into their bowls every morning and fresh water must be added to their fountain. I have a lovely home with comfortable furniture where I may retire after a long day. I have a wonderful job that I really do love. I have loads of sick time and vacation days available if/when I need them. I have amazing, supportive, wonderful, generous friends who get me through the dark spots, even if they don't realize they're doing it. I have my Puma Bait for glorious flirtation with absolutely no-strings-attached. I have a fabulous, ever-evolving fashion sense and hot pink hair and some pretty damn cool tattoos. My bills are paid and there's food in the kitchen. My family is for the most part healthy and doing well, also. I have so very much to be grateful for and I am, every day.
But some days, the sad just catches up. Some days I just don't want to talk about it, because anyone to whom I would speak about it already knows exactly what I'm feeling, so there's no need. So some days, I just don't have the energy to keep the smile up. Some evenings, I just need to sit here on my sofa in Mutts pajama pants and a black sweatshirt, kitties purring contentedly nearby. Some days the laundry doesn't get done and the dishes don't get washed and I have pretzels and peanut butter for dinner, with Twizzlers for dessert. Some evenings, I just can't convince myself to do anything but sit here and watch TV and try not to think about anything but this moment. Right now. So that's what I do. And that's what I'm doing.
Sadly, but gratefully,
Lola
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
some days ya gotta dance...
Some of you may already know this about me, some of you may have no idea: I love to dance. And I used to be quite the party girl in college and for a few years thereafter. In other words, before I got married and settled into being an old married lady. The other night, I actually got the urge to go out to the club and dance my cares away. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I also know that it used to keep me sane. When I was single, there were a lot of nights I would do almost ANYTHING not to be alone in my shitty apartment. Those 5 rooms were so depressing sometimes that I almost couldn't bear it. Factor in the lack of central heat or A/C and it's pretty easy to understand why I went out so much. Funny thing is, I probably drink more now than I did then. (And I certainly drink better quality stuff now!)
Many Friday and/or Saturday nights, I would get dressed up in some ridiculously cute outfit, occasionally bordering on the very inappropriate but fun, climb into my vehicle, and head out. I usually went alone, thinking that would keep me out of the drinking kind of trouble but allow me to engage in the naughty kind of trouble, if I so chose. I would listen to my "Goin' Out" compilation CD, with all the glorious randomness of the B-52's, Destiny's Child, Monifah, and Blondie, and I would sing my heart out and wiggle along to the beat while I drove. I went out to one particular club so often, the bouncer at the front recognized me by my tattoos. (I wore wigs a lot back then, so my hair and makeup always looked VERY different from night to night!) I would make a round, see who I could see, feeling bold and sexy and free. If a good song came on, I got on the dance floor. And I didn't gravitate to the middle of the floor, hoping to hide from the spectators, oh no, I stayed out on the edges and put on a fucking show. Sometimes I would pick a boy to dance for. Sometimes boys would try to dance with me and get shut the fuck down. I was ruthless if I wasn't interested. If I was interested, well..."ruthless" also applies. Most of the time, though, I wasn't after anything. I just wanted to DANCE. To sweat and to make myself sore and tired and thoughtless. To literally shake off everything that built up on me for the week before. To talk if I wanted to talk or to just shut the hell up and dance my ass off. To drape myself on some hot boy during a romantic country song, singing into his ear and then walking away.
When I was exhausted and couldn't take any more, I would leave. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. If I was hungry, a stop at Whataburger or Taco Bell was a must. I would go home reeking of cigarette smoke and sweat and pheromones. Too tired to shower sometimes, I would just put on my PJ's and fall into bed, hair still stinky and sometimes even still sweaty. It was delicious. And if I didn't go home alone? Well, a shower was inevitable.
So this past weekend, I thought for a few brief moments about putting on my favorite jeans and a sexy top, mussing up my hair, spritzing on some perfume, and chumming the proverbial waters at the club. I didn't do it, obviously. I realized after those few brief moments that it would be insane of me to do it. I wonder now how I didn't get myself hurt or killed back then. Some of the choices I made, well, they're for another post, darlings. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret a fucking thing. Matter of fact, I've said before that the only things in my life that I would remotely consider regrets are missed opportunities to hook up with a boy. Not all the times I did hook up with boys. Of course, my objective had I gone this weekend would have had nothing to do with boys and everything to do with me dancing and dancing and sweating and dancing until I had nothing left.
Some days, ya just gotta dance.
Sweatily,
Lola
Many Friday and/or Saturday nights, I would get dressed up in some ridiculously cute outfit, occasionally bordering on the very inappropriate but fun, climb into my vehicle, and head out. I usually went alone, thinking that would keep me out of the drinking kind of trouble but allow me to engage in the naughty kind of trouble, if I so chose. I would listen to my "Goin' Out" compilation CD, with all the glorious randomness of the B-52's, Destiny's Child, Monifah, and Blondie, and I would sing my heart out and wiggle along to the beat while I drove. I went out to one particular club so often, the bouncer at the front recognized me by my tattoos. (I wore wigs a lot back then, so my hair and makeup always looked VERY different from night to night!) I would make a round, see who I could see, feeling bold and sexy and free. If a good song came on, I got on the dance floor. And I didn't gravitate to the middle of the floor, hoping to hide from the spectators, oh no, I stayed out on the edges and put on a fucking show. Sometimes I would pick a boy to dance for. Sometimes boys would try to dance with me and get shut the fuck down. I was ruthless if I wasn't interested. If I was interested, well..."ruthless" also applies. Most of the time, though, I wasn't after anything. I just wanted to DANCE. To sweat and to make myself sore and tired and thoughtless. To literally shake off everything that built up on me for the week before. To talk if I wanted to talk or to just shut the hell up and dance my ass off. To drape myself on some hot boy during a romantic country song, singing into his ear and then walking away.
When I was exhausted and couldn't take any more, I would leave. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. If I was hungry, a stop at Whataburger or Taco Bell was a must. I would go home reeking of cigarette smoke and sweat and pheromones. Too tired to shower sometimes, I would just put on my PJ's and fall into bed, hair still stinky and sometimes even still sweaty. It was delicious. And if I didn't go home alone? Well, a shower was inevitable.
So this past weekend, I thought for a few brief moments about putting on my favorite jeans and a sexy top, mussing up my hair, spritzing on some perfume, and chumming the proverbial waters at the club. I didn't do it, obviously. I realized after those few brief moments that it would be insane of me to do it. I wonder now how I didn't get myself hurt or killed back then. Some of the choices I made, well, they're for another post, darlings. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret a fucking thing. Matter of fact, I've said before that the only things in my life that I would remotely consider regrets are missed opportunities to hook up with a boy. Not all the times I did hook up with boys. Of course, my objective had I gone this weekend would have had nothing to do with boys and everything to do with me dancing and dancing and sweating and dancing until I had nothing left.
Some days, ya just gotta dance.
Sweatily,
Lola
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
so many questions...
I just want to ask him, "Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you to make you loathe me so much?" But I can't. For one, I'm afraid. I just don't have the nerve to look him in the eye and see it there. But mostly, I just feel that it's so pointless. I'll never get the truth from him. He doesn't have the nerve to look me in the eye and let me have the peace of the truth. Even though it might hurt me. It might feel shattering in the moment. But the knowledge...maybe knowing what happened...what REALLY happened...could finally set me free.
I know people think that by not confronting other people, by not ever really telling them how they feel about them, they're letting those people down more easily. "They'll figure it out soon enough." "Can't she take a hint?" "Why doesn't he get it?" But they deprive us of that dreaded word, "closure."
Then again, those of us who have been abandoned by someone we cared about eventually come to terms with that abandonment. We may never fully understand their motivation, but we have to tell ourselves that maybe, just maybe, it was US and not, in fact, THEM. That maybe I did something to drive him out of my life forever. And depending on my mood, that can be good or bad. Some days I tell myself that he just loved me too much. That he had to be stronger than me and walk away because I never would. That I brought him pain by being so near and yet so unobtainable. Other days I tell myself that clearly, I am an annoying stalker psychopath and he didn't get me because I'm nutso. That he didn't walk away, I DROVE him away. And that's when I feel sick. I threw something so beautiful away with both hands and there's nothing I can do to get it back. Nothing I can say that will fix it. Nothing I can do to put us back to where we used to be. And then I get sad all over again. I mourn that loss over and over and over.
You can tell me to let go. You can tell me to get over it. But I honestly don't believe that will ever happen. This pain, it stays with me as a reminder. I can try to let it go and get over it, but either it will happen or it won't. So go ahead and judge me for holding onto this pain. Go ahead and think I'm a silly girl for letting these men get to me. Go ahead and think I'm being ridiculous that it's been so long and I'm still not past it. But this is me. The pain and abandonment and thwarted desire and longing and joy and anger and loss and memories are all mine. They have created this woman I am right now. I'm more than OK with me. If you're not, then show yourself the door.
Lola
I know people think that by not confronting other people, by not ever really telling them how they feel about them, they're letting those people down more easily. "They'll figure it out soon enough." "Can't she take a hint?" "Why doesn't he get it?" But they deprive us of that dreaded word, "closure."
Then again, those of us who have been abandoned by someone we cared about eventually come to terms with that abandonment. We may never fully understand their motivation, but we have to tell ourselves that maybe, just maybe, it was US and not, in fact, THEM. That maybe I did something to drive him out of my life forever. And depending on my mood, that can be good or bad. Some days I tell myself that he just loved me too much. That he had to be stronger than me and walk away because I never would. That I brought him pain by being so near and yet so unobtainable. Other days I tell myself that clearly, I am an annoying stalker psychopath and he didn't get me because I'm nutso. That he didn't walk away, I DROVE him away. And that's when I feel sick. I threw something so beautiful away with both hands and there's nothing I can do to get it back. Nothing I can say that will fix it. Nothing I can do to put us back to where we used to be. And then I get sad all over again. I mourn that loss over and over and over.
You can tell me to let go. You can tell me to get over it. But I honestly don't believe that will ever happen. This pain, it stays with me as a reminder. I can try to let it go and get over it, but either it will happen or it won't. So go ahead and judge me for holding onto this pain. Go ahead and think I'm a silly girl for letting these men get to me. Go ahead and think I'm being ridiculous that it's been so long and I'm still not past it. But this is me. The pain and abandonment and thwarted desire and longing and joy and anger and loss and memories are all mine. They have created this woman I am right now. I'm more than OK with me. If you're not, then show yourself the door.
Lola
Friday, August 6, 2010
sweet dreams are made of this...
My oh my. I had an absolutely lovely dream about OFH2 last night. One of those dreams I didn't want to wake up from and couldn't wait to get back to. We were part of a group, maybe a choir or something, and we were all traveling together--we were out of town at a hotel. We were sitting together during a presentation of some kind, when he reached over and took my hand, entwining his fingers with mine and squeezing...Keeping me close and making sure we were touching. But we couldn't let anyone see us, so we had to keep our hands hidden between us. Then later, when there was no one around, he leaned down and kissed me. It was so sweet and totally romantic in that whole "forbidden love" kind of way.
Also, my darling Puma Bait came to see me today, wearing a shirt & tie (he's usually rocking MUCH more casual clothing, like t-shirts and basketball shorts). I was rendered speechless. He looked so...YUM. It made me think all sorts of naughty things! I needed a cigarette after he left and I don't even smoke! I'm not trying to make too much of it, but darlings, the world around him went all blurry for a minute. I forgot myself, forgot all my stress, damn near forgot where I was and tossed my kit off right then! It was a lovely sight. Many a fantasy will be constructed around that particular outfit.
I'm such a lucky girl to have boys to fantasize about and flirt with who never have to see me sick or take care of me or suffer my wrath when I'm cranky. Likewise, I don't have to wash their dirty socks or put up with their temper tantrums or pick wet towels up off the floor. I'm even luckier to have a DH who has seen me at my worst and at my best and still loves me. Sick, tired, cranky, stressed, excited, hyper, rude, horny, hateful, over-worked, broke...he has dealt with all of it and stuck around. Not to say I haven't put up with all the same crap from him! We got a good thing and I KNOW IT. But hey, a girl's gotta dream, right?
Dreamily,
Lola
Also, my darling Puma Bait came to see me today, wearing a shirt & tie (he's usually rocking MUCH more casual clothing, like t-shirts and basketball shorts). I was rendered speechless. He looked so...YUM. It made me think all sorts of naughty things! I needed a cigarette after he left and I don't even smoke! I'm not trying to make too much of it, but darlings, the world around him went all blurry for a minute. I forgot myself, forgot all my stress, damn near forgot where I was and tossed my kit off right then! It was a lovely sight. Many a fantasy will be constructed around that particular outfit.
I'm such a lucky girl to have boys to fantasize about and flirt with who never have to see me sick or take care of me or suffer my wrath when I'm cranky. Likewise, I don't have to wash their dirty socks or put up with their temper tantrums or pick wet towels up off the floor. I'm even luckier to have a DH who has seen me at my worst and at my best and still loves me. Sick, tired, cranky, stressed, excited, hyper, rude, horny, hateful, over-worked, broke...he has dealt with all of it and stuck around. Not to say I haven't put up with all the same crap from him! We got a good thing and I KNOW IT. But hey, a girl's gotta dream, right?
Dreamily,
Lola
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
i don't know what it is...
I don't know if it's because it's summer time, or because I'm lonely, or because I'm stressed out and tired, or maybe it's some junky combination of all three...But I find myself longing...
Maybe longing isn't even the right word. Missing? Wishing for? Remembering? I don't know.
I miss having free time stretched out before me like that glorious yellow-brick road in Oz. I remember spending entire days in bed, whether I was snuggling with someone special or just watching TV alone. It's the snuggling with someone special I miss the most. That languid, sexy, peaceful feeling of having NOTHING but time, to do with whatever I pleased. Tangled naked in the sheets, limbs wrapped around each other, fingers entangled, hair a mess. Kissing for hours with no other intentions. Smoking cigarettes and eating pizza dipped in ranch dressing. Watching some ridiculous movie and laughing our asses off. Waking up in the morning feeling warm and safe and loved. Getting up only to make coffee and grab doughnuts from the kitchen before rejoining the mattress-monial bond. More kissing. Making love until we were hungry again, then taking a shower and not bothering to get dressed after.
I miss DA. Yes, I know. Just when I haven't thought about him in weeks, I think to myself, "I haven't thought about DA in weeks!" Then I realize...I just did. And it starts hurting all over again.
I hate to say it, but I even miss Adam Levine a little bit. It's just a smidgen, more in that whole "he-got-away" way. If that makes sense. Or not, fuck it, it makes sense to me.
I miss OFH2. He ignores me about 75% of the time online and I don't know how to take it. It hurts.
I miss...oh, shit...I just realized this one doesn't have a nickname...OH! I've got it. Let's call him AC/DC, because he looks like if Anderson Cooper and Daniel Craig had a baby. (A strong possibility now in California, thanks to the overturning of Prop 8...And that I think AC and DC are both gay.) AC/DC...we have a long history that I think belongs in another post. But he's gone, too, and my connection with him grows longer and thinner every day, like gum stretched from your lips to your fingertips.
Having Puma Bait helps a lot. An outlet for my flirtations is definitely a requirement for me. He's just smokin' sexy dipped in totally adorable.
What this boils down to is that I want. I long for the indiscretions of my youth. I want a good, long, slightly painful make-out session. I want new discoveries. I want something naughty. Food and booze only satisfy so much. But that's all I've got. It sucks.
I want power, I want to be desired, I want to be dominated, I want to be worshipped, I want to be devoured, I want to be comfortable, I want...I want...I want...
Longingly,
Lola
P.S. I feel compelled to add that YES, I know how lucky I am. I'm extremely lucky/fortunate/grateful...I have a job that I love (most of the time), a comfortable life, and a man who has seen me at my absolute worst and loves me anyway...sometimes even because...
But the grass is always greener, and we always want what we can't have and we can't always get what we want and all that...blah blah blah.
Maybe longing isn't even the right word. Missing? Wishing for? Remembering? I don't know.
I miss having free time stretched out before me like that glorious yellow-brick road in Oz. I remember spending entire days in bed, whether I was snuggling with someone special or just watching TV alone. It's the snuggling with someone special I miss the most. That languid, sexy, peaceful feeling of having NOTHING but time, to do with whatever I pleased. Tangled naked in the sheets, limbs wrapped around each other, fingers entangled, hair a mess. Kissing for hours with no other intentions. Smoking cigarettes and eating pizza dipped in ranch dressing. Watching some ridiculous movie and laughing our asses off. Waking up in the morning feeling warm and safe and loved. Getting up only to make coffee and grab doughnuts from the kitchen before rejoining the mattress-monial bond. More kissing. Making love until we were hungry again, then taking a shower and not bothering to get dressed after.
I miss DA. Yes, I know. Just when I haven't thought about him in weeks, I think to myself, "I haven't thought about DA in weeks!" Then I realize...I just did. And it starts hurting all over again.
I hate to say it, but I even miss Adam Levine a little bit. It's just a smidgen, more in that whole "he-got-away" way. If that makes sense. Or not, fuck it, it makes sense to me.
I miss OFH2. He ignores me about 75% of the time online and I don't know how to take it. It hurts.
I miss...oh, shit...I just realized this one doesn't have a nickname...OH! I've got it. Let's call him AC/DC, because he looks like if Anderson Cooper and Daniel Craig had a baby. (A strong possibility now in California, thanks to the overturning of Prop 8...And that I think AC and DC are both gay.) AC/DC...we have a long history that I think belongs in another post. But he's gone, too, and my connection with him grows longer and thinner every day, like gum stretched from your lips to your fingertips.
Having Puma Bait helps a lot. An outlet for my flirtations is definitely a requirement for me. He's just smokin' sexy dipped in totally adorable.
What this boils down to is that I want. I long for the indiscretions of my youth. I want a good, long, slightly painful make-out session. I want new discoveries. I want something naughty. Food and booze only satisfy so much. But that's all I've got. It sucks.
I want power, I want to be desired, I want to be dominated, I want to be worshipped, I want to be devoured, I want to be comfortable, I want...I want...I want...
Longingly,
Lola
P.S. I feel compelled to add that YES, I know how lucky I am. I'm extremely lucky/fortunate/grateful...I have a job that I love (most of the time), a comfortable life, and a man who has seen me at my absolute worst and loves me anyway...sometimes even because...
But the grass is always greener, and we always want what we can't have and we can't always get what we want and all that...blah blah blah.
Monday, July 26, 2010
the acting bug...
So I thought I should share a little bit with all of you about my whole acting "thing." I have to say that without acting, without the theatre, I would not be who I am today. I auditioned for and was cast in my very first show (sad to say, not the same show) at the age of 5. Not only does performing shape my personality, it has shaped my life by bringing people to me that I might otherwise have never met. I met my first boyfriend at Cabaret Supper Theater. We shared our first kiss there, too. I have a wide network of people who have built me up, shaped me, loved me, and been loved by me. It has taught me things. Memory skills, teamwork, musical ability, emotional connectedness, grace under pressure, confidence, and many other very valuable lessons. These have served me throughout my life and I hope will continue to do so.
I don't just love performing, I love watching others perform as well. I love musicals, I love comedies, I love dramas, I love a little bit of all of it. Musicals are definitely my favorites to perform in, but I'm told I'm funny sometimes, so comedies are really fun for me, too. Also, being the sex goddess that I am, I tend to be cast as the mistress, the tart, the slut, the slutty ingenue, the...well, I think you get the point. It's a tough cross to bear, being the go-to sexy chick, but it's my cross and I'll bear it well...
Doing a show, no matter how big or how small, is a HUGE time commitment. Between rehearsals themselves, learning lines/songs/choreography/etc., and the time to and from and in between rehearsals and work, I get very little time for myself or for relaxation or really much of anything. But I wouldn't trade it. I need it. I live on it. I thrive. It keeps me sane. I work so hard on a show, I almost always get very sick as soon as it closes. Sometimes it's more emotional this physical, but no less draining. And at some point during the run of the show, I start questioning my sanity--why would I do this to myself? I want my life back! I need SLEEP! I want to watch TV and make a real dinner and have a whole weekend to myself or to spend time with friends! But then...
Then we take those curtain calls...I hear the applause, the cheers, and I feel all that love and joy and I wouldn't trade that feeling for ANYTHING. Then I get to see my friends and family and supporters and hug them and get kisses and flowers and ego love, and it makes it ALL so worth it.
Although, no matter how many times I do this...how many performances, no matter how many songs I learn or dances I dance or lines I spout or giggles I tease from my audience...I get nervous every time. Sometimes worse than other times, but I've learned to love and embrace the nerves. I learned that if I'm not nervous, it means I don't care, and I will fuck it up royally. I have to be invested...desperately invested...in this role, this story, this EPIC. Some shows it starts very early in the day, and for those shows, I try to take at least half of the workday before opening night off. This gives me time to slow down, relax, and get focused. I usually can't eat very much before a performance, and certainly nothing very rich or heavy. I try not to even drink too much water because...well, inevitably, just before I'm about to go onstage, I have this moment: "Oh, oh no...Oh goodness...I have to PEE...OH! Oh no, no, no, I'm going to throw up...Shit, no, shit...yes...that's it, oh gah, I'm going to shit myself...Bathroom, I need the bathroom...Oh god, now I don't have time/can't get out of this costume/am too far away..." Then sometimes I go through something like this: "Oh god, I'm going to forget my lines. What if I forget my lines? What if SOMEONE ELSE forgets their lines? What if I mess up that lyric again? Will I hit that note? I've got to get that right, or I'm bombing out there...OK, go over the song...OK, go over the choreography...OK, I think I've got this...Oh god, I am going to fuck this up so bad!" Of course, no sooner do I step onto the stage than that is completely forgotten.
That's why I love this so much. I get to step onto a stage and for a couple of hours or so, I get to be someone else. I usually have a very similar routine for each show, including what I wear to the theater and how I carry all the stuff I will need. I sit down at "my spot" in the dressing room and begin changing my appearance. This is all very meditative for me and I'm not my usual talkative, friendly self. I may answer you if you address me, may crack-some-wise, but mostly I try to stay quiet and allow myself to get focused. I put on makeup in a very certain way for the character. I style my hair differently or put on a wig so that I get farther and farther away from looking like myself. Then I step into a costume and the transformation is complete...I am now another person. This someone else doesn't have my problems, doesn't have my headache, doesn't worry about my job or my house or all the things I have to get done this weekend. I get to play...no, I get to BECOME someone else. I step out of myself and let this other person take over for a while. And her problems get wrapped up/solved/remediated during the course of her 2-hour journey. Somehow, when I remove myself from her to go home...when I take off the costume and wash off the makeup and take down the hair, I'm back to myself again...but my problems don't seem as major anymore. Sometimes my headache is gone. Other times it hurts even more than it did before but I still feel, somehow, better. Maybe I'm all hopped up on adrenaline and afterglow, and that's OK. It restores my soul more than any church or religion ever could. On the stage is where I both find myself and leave myself. It is my first love and my last love. It consumes me, it builds me, it destroys me and nourishes me. The theatre is my Alpha and my Omega.
Theatrically,
Lola
I don't just love performing, I love watching others perform as well. I love musicals, I love comedies, I love dramas, I love a little bit of all of it. Musicals are definitely my favorites to perform in, but I'm told I'm funny sometimes, so comedies are really fun for me, too. Also, being the sex goddess that I am, I tend to be cast as the mistress, the tart, the slut, the slutty ingenue, the...well, I think you get the point. It's a tough cross to bear, being the go-to sexy chick, but it's my cross and I'll bear it well...
Doing a show, no matter how big or how small, is a HUGE time commitment. Between rehearsals themselves, learning lines/songs/choreography/etc., and the time to and from and in between rehearsals and work, I get very little time for myself or for relaxation or really much of anything. But I wouldn't trade it. I need it. I live on it. I thrive. It keeps me sane. I work so hard on a show, I almost always get very sick as soon as it closes. Sometimes it's more emotional this physical, but no less draining. And at some point during the run of the show, I start questioning my sanity--why would I do this to myself? I want my life back! I need SLEEP! I want to watch TV and make a real dinner and have a whole weekend to myself or to spend time with friends! But then...
Then we take those curtain calls...I hear the applause, the cheers, and I feel all that love and joy and I wouldn't trade that feeling for ANYTHING. Then I get to see my friends and family and supporters and hug them and get kisses and flowers and ego love, and it makes it ALL so worth it.
Although, no matter how many times I do this...how many performances, no matter how many songs I learn or dances I dance or lines I spout or giggles I tease from my audience...I get nervous every time. Sometimes worse than other times, but I've learned to love and embrace the nerves. I learned that if I'm not nervous, it means I don't care, and I will fuck it up royally. I have to be invested...desperately invested...in this role, this story, this EPIC. Some shows it starts very early in the day, and for those shows, I try to take at least half of the workday before opening night off. This gives me time to slow down, relax, and get focused. I usually can't eat very much before a performance, and certainly nothing very rich or heavy. I try not to even drink too much water because...well, inevitably, just before I'm about to go onstage, I have this moment: "Oh, oh no...Oh goodness...I have to PEE...OH! Oh no, no, no, I'm going to throw up...Shit, no, shit...yes...that's it, oh gah, I'm going to shit myself...Bathroom, I need the bathroom...Oh god, now I don't have time/can't get out of this costume/am too far away..." Then sometimes I go through something like this: "Oh god, I'm going to forget my lines. What if I forget my lines? What if SOMEONE ELSE forgets their lines? What if I mess up that lyric again? Will I hit that note? I've got to get that right, or I'm bombing out there...OK, go over the song...OK, go over the choreography...OK, I think I've got this...Oh god, I am going to fuck this up so bad!" Of course, no sooner do I step onto the stage than that is completely forgotten.
That's why I love this so much. I get to step onto a stage and for a couple of hours or so, I get to be someone else. I usually have a very similar routine for each show, including what I wear to the theater and how I carry all the stuff I will need. I sit down at "my spot" in the dressing room and begin changing my appearance. This is all very meditative for me and I'm not my usual talkative, friendly self. I may answer you if you address me, may crack-some-wise, but mostly I try to stay quiet and allow myself to get focused. I put on makeup in a very certain way for the character. I style my hair differently or put on a wig so that I get farther and farther away from looking like myself. Then I step into a costume and the transformation is complete...I am now another person. This someone else doesn't have my problems, doesn't have my headache, doesn't worry about my job or my house or all the things I have to get done this weekend. I get to play...no, I get to BECOME someone else. I step out of myself and let this other person take over for a while. And her problems get wrapped up/solved/remediated during the course of her 2-hour journey. Somehow, when I remove myself from her to go home...when I take off the costume and wash off the makeup and take down the hair, I'm back to myself again...but my problems don't seem as major anymore. Sometimes my headache is gone. Other times it hurts even more than it did before but I still feel, somehow, better. Maybe I'm all hopped up on adrenaline and afterglow, and that's OK. It restores my soul more than any church or religion ever could. On the stage is where I both find myself and leave myself. It is my first love and my last love. It consumes me, it builds me, it destroys me and nourishes me. The theatre is my Alpha and my Omega.
Theatrically,
Lola
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Oh Joey, I'm not angry anymore...
I honestly have SO much I'd like to write about. I get the hint, though, darling readers and new Lola fans, that ya'll do NOT like when I rant and rave and write like a crazy bitch. Noted. Alright, I will return to the salacious naughtiness you've all come to love from your Lola. So here goes...
I've reconnected with an old...er...ex-boyfriend. He's one of the few exes with whom I had lost touch and was actually sorry for it. He was one of the ones who really sculpted me, who aided in the formation of the woman I am today. It's lovely to know that he's doing well and that he still thinks of me, too. Most of his story I'd like to save for my book, but I figure a short introduction/overview won't hurt...
I met him through Steve. Steve was an acquaintance of mine from college and we had lots of mutual friends. One fateful night, Steve threw a party at the home he shared with...oh, let's call him SR for Steve's Roommate, shall we? I don't remember the first moment I met SR. I know I was having a fairly dramatic time at the party, having gotten into a fight with the boy I was...oh, let's just say the boy I had recently had a one-night-stand with and we had previously hated each other and I don't think either of us quite knew what to do or how to feel about it...I know he left early and that was essentially the end of that. Doesn't matter now, didn't really matter then. What I do remember is that I made my way over to the trash can, full of, well, yes, of course--trash can punch. I remember hands taking my plastic cup and filling it from the sizeable plastic repository of booze and fruit. I remember brushing fingers as I took back my cup. Then I looked up into warm brown eyes, sparkling and fringed with feathery lashes most women would drop a mad amount of money to have. We smiled at each other. I might have done that coquettish thing where I looked down then back up at him through my own envy-inspiring lashes. Then his thumb and forefinger tipped my chin up to his face and he kissed me, right on the lips. I was startled but thrilled and I swear my fingers and toes tingled in that moment. That was also exactly the moment EVERYONE at the party began to hate us. Why? We became attached at the mouth...making out in the back doorway, making out on the front porch, making out in the kitchen, making out on the couch in the living room. It was so ridiculously hot. Throughout what would become years of on-again/off-again togetherness, we never lost the heat. That much was consistent for us.
I don't want to say it was all downhill from there, because I don't really believe that. We had a fantastic time together for several months. But his ex-drama and fear and my immaturity and slight neediness started to get in the way and we ended things. Truth be told, I don't even remember our breakup. It's possible that it never happened, that we just stopped calling, stopped craving each other, stopped wanting to spend time together, and that we eventually just let it all slip away without a fight.
Years passed. I ran into Steve again one evening and asked about SR. I was informed that he was still in-state and single. I gave Steve my number and practically begged him to make SR call me. I guess it didn't take much convincing, because I got a phone call the next day. Long story short, he came to visit me for a long weekend, and all the promise of a new start with our new knowledge but same history proved to be something we both seemed to want but still couldn't figure out how to create. We had a great first date night, mind-blowing reunion sex, and the next day spent time with his family. No sooner did we get back to my apartment than things started going to hell. Things happened, I don't care to get into all the dramatics of it, but suffice it to say another boy was involved, though it was all very innocent (well, then it was, but I will admit things got very...guilty...later in our relationship. But that's for another blog, darling readers...) So we fought some more. Then we tried to put things back to rights. We tried to end the weekend on a happy note. We tried to stay in touch after he returned home. But we once again let things just...fall away...
I know he loved me, in his own way. I hope he knows that I loved him, too, in my own way. But I don't believe we were ever truly in love with each other. I think we wanted to be. Desperately wanted to be. Because all the good was SO SO good. Sadly, it never canceled out all the bad, all the fear, all the indifference, all the disappointment...
Now here we are, years later again, and I think we stand a pretty decent chance of staying friends. Not super close, not besties, not anything dangerous or inappropriate. Just friends with a very long history.
Reminiscently,
Lola
P. S. I also have a new fake boyfriend, but I think I'll save that for another post. This one seems strong enough on its own.
I've reconnected with an old...er...ex-boyfriend. He's one of the few exes with whom I had lost touch and was actually sorry for it. He was one of the ones who really sculpted me, who aided in the formation of the woman I am today. It's lovely to know that he's doing well and that he still thinks of me, too. Most of his story I'd like to save for my book, but I figure a short introduction/overview won't hurt...
I met him through Steve. Steve was an acquaintance of mine from college and we had lots of mutual friends. One fateful night, Steve threw a party at the home he shared with...oh, let's call him SR for Steve's Roommate, shall we? I don't remember the first moment I met SR. I know I was having a fairly dramatic time at the party, having gotten into a fight with the boy I was...oh, let's just say the boy I had recently had a one-night-stand with and we had previously hated each other and I don't think either of us quite knew what to do or how to feel about it...I know he left early and that was essentially the end of that. Doesn't matter now, didn't really matter then. What I do remember is that I made my way over to the trash can, full of, well, yes, of course--trash can punch. I remember hands taking my plastic cup and filling it from the sizeable plastic repository of booze and fruit. I remember brushing fingers as I took back my cup. Then I looked up into warm brown eyes, sparkling and fringed with feathery lashes most women would drop a mad amount of money to have. We smiled at each other. I might have done that coquettish thing where I looked down then back up at him through my own envy-inspiring lashes. Then his thumb and forefinger tipped my chin up to his face and he kissed me, right on the lips. I was startled but thrilled and I swear my fingers and toes tingled in that moment. That was also exactly the moment EVERYONE at the party began to hate us. Why? We became attached at the mouth...making out in the back doorway, making out on the front porch, making out in the kitchen, making out on the couch in the living room. It was so ridiculously hot. Throughout what would become years of on-again/off-again togetherness, we never lost the heat. That much was consistent for us.
I don't want to say it was all downhill from there, because I don't really believe that. We had a fantastic time together for several months. But his ex-drama and fear and my immaturity and slight neediness started to get in the way and we ended things. Truth be told, I don't even remember our breakup. It's possible that it never happened, that we just stopped calling, stopped craving each other, stopped wanting to spend time together, and that we eventually just let it all slip away without a fight.
Years passed. I ran into Steve again one evening and asked about SR. I was informed that he was still in-state and single. I gave Steve my number and practically begged him to make SR call me. I guess it didn't take much convincing, because I got a phone call the next day. Long story short, he came to visit me for a long weekend, and all the promise of a new start with our new knowledge but same history proved to be something we both seemed to want but still couldn't figure out how to create. We had a great first date night, mind-blowing reunion sex, and the next day spent time with his family. No sooner did we get back to my apartment than things started going to hell. Things happened, I don't care to get into all the dramatics of it, but suffice it to say another boy was involved, though it was all very innocent (well, then it was, but I will admit things got very...guilty...later in our relationship. But that's for another blog, darling readers...) So we fought some more. Then we tried to put things back to rights. We tried to end the weekend on a happy note. We tried to stay in touch after he returned home. But we once again let things just...fall away...
I know he loved me, in his own way. I hope he knows that I loved him, too, in my own way. But I don't believe we were ever truly in love with each other. I think we wanted to be. Desperately wanted to be. Because all the good was SO SO good. Sadly, it never canceled out all the bad, all the fear, all the indifference, all the disappointment...
Now here we are, years later again, and I think we stand a pretty decent chance of staying friends. Not super close, not besties, not anything dangerous or inappropriate. Just friends with a very long history.
Reminiscently,
Lola
P. S. I also have a new fake boyfriend, but I think I'll save that for another post. This one seems strong enough on its own.
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