Monday, October 30, 2006

One of "Those People" Part II

So here I am. It's a Saturday, and I am at home with plenty -- and I mean PLENTY -- to keep me occupied. My house is stuffed beyond belief with crap I don't need or want anymore. I have laundry to do. Summer clothes to store (and trash) and fall clothes to wash and hang up (and trash), a bed to assemble, a bedroom to rearrange, a litterbox to clean out, a dishwasher to empty, a floor to vacuum, groceries to buy, bills to pay...the list is endless.

But it's Saturday. And I could have gone to a movie tonight. But I rescheduled for tomorrow because I'm stressed over how much I want to get done. And I'm paralyzed.

And while I would feel oh-so-much better digging in and getting it done -- or at least make some decent progress, I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin.

Because I am here. In my gilded cage. Alone.

I remember being in my 20s -- even in my early 30s -- looking forward to spending time alone, getting stuff done. I'd revel in spending an entire weekend rearranging my living room, moving pictures around, painting, whatever. I didn't need to go out very much. One or two nights a month was plenty. My home was my haven.

Now it feels more like a prison. For the past, say, four years, any period of time at home that exceeds two hours (unless I'm sleeping) leaves me feeling anxious and cut off from the rest of the world. I feel as if life is passing me by if I'm not out and about doing something with someone.

I don't know what my problem is. I was at my reunion last weekend. I'm going to a cabin in the mountains with friends next weekend. Just last night, I attended my first-ever NASCAR race. Life is definitely not passing me by. Skipping out on a movie with a friend won't kill me. But I swear, I feel like it will.

And it doesn't help that I miss Mr. G. I can't even call him because he doesn't have a phone yet. He doesn't have an Internet connection yet, at least one that's reliable. He is sometimes able to hop onto a free wifi connection from one of his neighbors and call me that way.

I just like having someone around. I remember looking down on people who were like that...who were rendered virtually useless if they were forced to spend any time with their own company.

Yet again, I have become one of "those people." And I hate it.

OB

Sunday, October 29, 2006

One of "Those People"

In 10 minutes, one of my all-time favorite artists is set to walk on the stage in a small venue no more than four miles from me. She's Shawn Colvin, who I discovered in 1994 at the Kentucky Theatre while I was volunteering for the Troubador Concert Series. Since then, I have learned just about every word of every song on Steady On, Fat City, and A Few Small Repairs.

I haven't kept up with her much lately, and I haven't seen her live since she came to the area in 1997. That's almost 10 years. So why am I sitting here instead of in an orchestra seat at the McGlohon Theatre?

I have no one to go with.

I have become one of "those people" I have always pitied...the ones who never go anywhere or do anything unless they're tagging along with someone else. I made it my mission never to become one of "those people." You know the type. The ones who say nothing is fun if there's no one to share it with. Hogwash, I say! I went to London alone. Twice. I went to Dublin alone. And San Diego. And New York City. But those were all at least three years ago.

Honestly, the thought of going to that show alone has practically no appeal for me whatsoever. And I hate myself for becoming one of "those people." What has happened to me?

When I saw Shawn in '97, I went alone. Unencumbered by the demands of someone else whining to go home because it was a work night, I was able to linger by her tour bus and get my picture taken with her. Unfortunately, it's not very flattering. I wouldn't mind getting another one taken.

Well, I can't feel too badly...she doesn't look so hot, either. But who cares...it's Shawn frickin' Colvin!

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Alma Mater Part 2 (Let's Talk Property)

It is a small, small, small world. It truly is. I can hardly go anywhere without bumping into someone I know. Even when I went to San Francisco in June, as I was walking on to the tram on my way to pick up my rental car, a voice greeted me with, "You know, OB, you run into the STRANGEST people in San Francisco!" I looked up to see someone I knew from where I live now and immediately replied, with eyes rolling, "Can I not go ANYWHERE without bumping into someone I freakin' know?! Sheesh!"

Back in February, Mr. G. and I began attending a new church I found about through a postcard in the mail. It's an upstart, part of the "emergent church" movement. It meets at a small reporatory theatre every Sunday morning, and it's co-pastored by two 30-something guys who met doing mission work in India and who now spend most of their days planning sermons in nearby cofffeehouses. I bump into them so often they probably think I'm stalking them.

At one of the first services we attended, Matt, one of the co-pastors, mentioned that he was born and raised in the same state I was. So I approached him after the service and asked him what town he was from. When he found out where I grew up, he asked me what year I graduated and what school I attended. After telling him, his eyes grew big and he said, "Oh wow ...do you know Jay X? He's my best friend and was the best man at my wedding!" Know him? I only went to school with him from first grade all the way through 12th. Too trippy.

Word has it that Jay is now a city councilman running for a second term. So I knew he was going to be shaking a lot of hands at our high school reunion last weekend.

Sure enough, Jay was there. I went up to him, and he immediately recognized me. I told him that Matt said hello, and proceeded to weave the tale of how I knew him. He quickly grabbed his cell phone, called Matt, and left an ascenine message about how I was standing right next to him and what a small world it was and blah blah blah.

Without warning, Jay launched an assault of 20 questions on me about my parents' house, saying he's mentioned my name probably 20 times in the past month because he drives by there just about every day. Just how many acres is it? Isn't there a barn in the back? Have developers come around making offers?

When my family was looking for a new house back in 1974, we came upon a "for sale" sign along a rural road rimmed completely by horse farms. The property was completely hidden by a tall line of trees and hedges. We turned in to find a long driveway that was a tunnel of trees. At the end of the long drive stood a modest limestone house sitting on seven acres of land. The front yard was as big -- if not bigger -- than a football field. Before even getting out of the car, Mom said, "That's our house." And that's where I grew up.


View from the front porch

The back yard and barn

You see, in the 32 years since my parents bought that house, it has become a haven practically in the middle of town. The city has grown it around like silt surrounds a cypress. My parents and our next door neighbor are the only ones who haven't sold our land. We're the last men standing.

My parents told me that they have their will arranged to split the house evenly among us three kids. Given that my brother lives in China and will probably stay there the rest of his life, and that my sister has nothing -- not even a job, I stand a fair chance of buying my siblings out and keeping the house. I've actually considered moving back home when my parents pass.

Now that Mom and Dad are 65 and 75, respectively, this is something I must think about, which terrifies me to no end.

And here's Jay, pitching himself as the benefactor to the place I grew up, where I climbed trees, made mud-cakes topped with poke berries and holly leaves, and created long passages among the treeline from one end of our property to the other.

As if I didn't feel enough like I was being stalked by a vulture, he signed my yearbook with this:
Yeah, I really feel the love, Jay....

Monday, October 09, 2006

Alma Mater

I attended my (gulp) 20th high school reunion last weekend. A reunion is a quagmire of unresolved feelings. I'd venture to guess that most folks attend reunions in the spirit of seeing old friends and recalling more carefree days: before jobs, kids, marriage, divorce, ill parents, and just plain old life started nipping at our heels.

Some people go to show off. Like my friend Ashley. He's a professional actor and has transformed himself from a chubby kid to a pretty hot gay man,if I say so myself. But I've kept in touch with him for years, so I've been acquainted His Royal Gay Hotness for many years. Something I found telling, though, was as he was driving me back to my parents' house at 4am after the "main event" on Saturday night. He said, "I bet this is the highlight of most of those people's year. I have something to go home to." I confess, I found that to be extremely arrogant. Which leads me to think that inside His Royal Gay Hotness lies a sexually confused chubby kid who just wants to be liked by the popular kids. Goodness knows he got his wish. He flitted around the room, senior yearbook in hand, asking anyone and everyone to sign it. By night's end, there was hardly a spot to write.

So, someone voted me least changed since high school. And someone else wrote in my yearbook that I'm the same crazy girl I was when I was a teenager. Very cool.

I voted myself most eligible bachelorette. Goodness knows no one else did.

While everyone (but me) is married, has kids, and is making a ton of money in fantastic careers, some things never change. Despite the most popular girls being married and moms, all the guys still follow them with hopeful attention. Not a one stopped to chat me up. Hmph...

Anyway, on to the dirt. Here are my awards:

Looks Most Like She's Been Ridden Hard Over The Years



Most Interesting Career
Strip club owner (met his wife when she gave him a lap dance. I think she's 12 years old.)

And...(drum roll please)

Most Changed Since High School

Ladies and gentleman, meet the former Mr. Jody, now Ms. Natalie.

A trannie at the 20th. It can't get any better.