I’m not the kind of person who likes to have Master Plans. It’s not that I don’t like a good plan, I just know whenever I shake my fist at the sky and say, “I *will* do (insert action item here),” The Universe laughs, pats my head condescendingly, and says, “Isn’t THAT special.” Come to think of it, The Universe sounds a lot like the Church Lady from the old SNL skit, which is neither here nor there.
Because my plans so rarely work out as according to, well, my plans, I’m used to shrugging my shoulders, cursing a little, and saying dramatically, “Come what may,” or, to be honest, it’s more like, “whateves.”
Instead, I grit my teeth, throw shit at the wall, and see what sticks. And I wonder how I broke two teeth in the span of six months. Here I was thinking it was “stress,” but we all know it was the rocks I’ve been gargling.
Wait, what?
MOVING ON.
Or, I should say, EVENTUALLY moving on, because really, that’s what Life in Limbo means: you duck, cover, and hope that this time, you’re the pigeon and NOT the statue, and tell yourself that if you’re the statue, that pigeon shit on your head makes a LOVELY accessory, isn’t THAT special?
I’d been planning to move into my shoebox apartment, of which I am extremely proud because it’s MY awesome dorm room, October 13. I’d figured that giving myself the opportunity to find things like oh, JOBS and DRINKING glasses might be good, because, hey, drinking water from champagne glasses sounds a lot more refined in theory than in practice. Kinda – but not really – like communism.
I’d slowly begun packing my things, realizing that I’d been in FAR too many weddings, what with the sheer number of black high heeled shoes I own, labeling them all “fragile” (FRA-GEE-LAE) just to confuse myself later on, because hey, moving sucks – gotta get your kicks where you can. If I don’t own a magnificent leg lamp, the best I can do is pretend that one might be in one of the boxes I’ve packed.
I do not, in fact, own this. However, THAT DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T PRETEND.
Late last week, the apartment company called and told me the original apartment in which I was going to be moving into wasn’t going to be vacant any longer - blah, blah, blah owners staying blah blah blah – but that I’d be able to have another apartment. Did I still want to keep my move-in date October 13?
The answer was, of course, a resounding NO.
Not because it would be terrible to stay here a couple more weeks, not because I was quite ready to move, not that I actually owned glasses yet (SOON!), but because it was time. Living in my home, which I’d spent a hell of a lot of the past (counts on fingers) LOT of years, is just a reminder of what’s over. And while I may loathe goodbyes, it’s time for me to pack my happy ass up and move on down the road.
I told the apartment people I’d be ready to move by the end of September, because, well, I am. Days later, I’m still waiting to hear back if my NEW apartment will be ready by this time. I know apartment people are busy, and while I’ll usually use my patented, “stalk you until you tell me what I need to know – good or bad,” these are the people I’ll be renting from. As such, it’s probably a better idea NOT to piss them off or come across as “that crazy chick who calls every five minutes.”
So I wait. I pack, hoping I’m not going to be wearing the same outfit for the next 4 weeks, and I plan ahead, even while The Universe giggles in my direction.
While I wait, I play with this, which is pretty much window shopping for me (especially since they give away cool shit for free), while I wait.
And I research how to live on my own, how to cut costs, and what I can do to ensure that I don’t fall on my ass too hard. Learning how to live frugally? Kinda awesome.
One upon a January afternoon, three dumbasses walked into the ghetto (click to read the story), armed with bags of costumes and more makeup than a stripper could possibly use in her lifetime on the pole, which was a good thing, because we were on our way to LOOK like hookers – BAD hookers, I should add.
We were on our way to a photo shoot, which you’d think would be something that, as a child who grew up thinking the cameras in her face were actually paparazzi capturing her every blunder, I’d have been excited about, but I as I’d had to retake Yee Old Thanksgiving Family Portraits so often that I’d never learned that turkey was actually supposed to be warm, I wasn’t.
I was dead nervous.
Partially, it was the horrifying outfit I was wearing, so unlike the t-shirt and jeans I’d thrown on in the meantime. After Band Back Together had taken over the Blogger Body Calendar, we were all EYE OF THE TIGER about the 2013 calendar. Which I was in. You can call me “Ms. January, if’n you’d like,” or you can call me “Al,” if you don’t.
I’d ordered the outfit from some dance supply company, and it was too big, which meant my boobs flopped around like oranges in tube socks.
While the jaunty, spangly beret came with the awful oufit, I decided that I didn’t particularly want to wear it, perched atop my head like the world’s most ridiculous acorn cap – although to be fair, it may have made me APPEAR to be smarter – we all know that objects in mirror are stupider than they appear. The hat was no exception.
Even my daughter, who loves a good shiny almost as much as I do, decided it was hideous and refused to pose for a picture in it. Guess she’s got better taste than I do. Plus, it appears that if you wear the hat, you lose your calves and feet, and while I’m not entirely sure that WON’T happen with me one day, I’d rather not expedite that particular process. I’m rather fond of my feet, which do things like ensure I can walk into the kitchen to make ridiculously terrible coffee.
Anyway, I’d been waiting and waiting for the stylist to show up before Dawn and The Guy Formerly On My Couch were all, “Fuck, Becks, come here – let US style you.” So I did. What else could I do? Find some hooker and make her apply makeup more expertly? It was WAY too early in the morning for hookers.
Instead, my two “friends,” armed with a crimping wand and some makeup we found around the photo studio did my makeup in such a manner that I appeared to be a hideously BAD Diana Ross imposter, one of those things you just don’t wake up one morning and say, “today? I will do my BEST (WORST) Diana Ross impression.”
The pictures turned out better than expected, and all was right with the world.
Well, until I had to walk back to the car looking like a half-priced Diana Ross imposter, wishing I could stand around taking photos of the area without someone trying to buy a happy ending for 5 bucks.
I sorta forgot about the pictures because I’ve been a little busy with stuff-n-things, until Dawn reminded me, once again, that I needed to pull my head from my bung and LOOK AT THE DAMN pictures. Am I the only one who loathes looking at pictures of themselves? I can’t be. Because I totally do. I was basically all, *covers eyes* “WOW THAT LOOKS, *squinches up face in what I hoped would look like interest and not horror, * AMAZING!”
I can’t believe anyone puts up with me, either.
Anyway, the 2013, Band Back Together: I Am The Face Of Calendars are both ready and on sale – we’re doing a presale right now because obviously, cheaper is better (OR SO I HEAR).
Front Cover:
Back Cover:
If you’d like a pretty awesome calendar, even if it’s so you can hurl darts at my face, you can totally get one here.
So, um, what are you supporting when you buy this?
Keeping the lights on over at Band Back Together. Why? Isn’t that shit free?
Oddly, no. To handle the volume of work the site does, we rely on donations – often out of my pocket – to keep the servers whirring and clicking away.
Proceeds from the 2013 Band Back Together Calendar will be used for outreach efforts in 2013.
Band Back Together runs as a nonprofit, meaning we do not profit from any incoming funds. All proceeds go directly into Band efforts such as server costs or outreach efforts. As of this writing, we have not received a federal nonprofit status, therefore purchases or donations are (unfortunately) not tax deductible at this time.
Back before my life became a Telenovela – which may or may not be an insult to Telenovelas everywhere – I’d signed up to do the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Walk in Chicago.
In case you’re unawares, I’ve been working with mental illness-y stuff for over two years at Band Back Together, trying to reduce the stigma of mental health and other traumas through the power of written word and appropriate resources so that we may all grow, learn and heal.
So this NAMI walk, winding through some of the most beautiful parts of downtown Chicago (not a dead rat to be seen anywhere!), I’d completely forgotten about, what with the impending move (which may or may not occur two weeks early), the dissolution of my union, packing, and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity (shut UP, I am sorta sane). Thankfully, our ever-present hero Dawn was around to remind me.
Repeatedly.
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Dawnie, July 27: “Do you want to just go from my house? You can drive here and we’ll go.”
Me: “Huh? Your house? Sure! Can we order pizza?”
Dawnie: “You don’t remember?”
Me: “I remember pizza!”
Dawnie: “THE NAMI WALK!”
Me: “Isn’t that next year?”
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Dawnie, August 8: “So you’re meeting me at my house and we’ll go park downtown and walk to the area of the walk.”
Me: “WALKING? Should I wear my fuck-me pumps?”
Dawn: “I.Am.Going.To.Kill.You.”
Me: “What? They’re a PRETTY shade of blue.”
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Dawnie, September 1: “So Erin and Maggie are meeting at my house on the 15th. We’ll carpool.”
Me: “K.”
Dawnie: “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
Me: “Nope. Will there be cake?”
Dawnie: “You’re fired.”
Me: “Second time I heard that today.”
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My pea-brain can only handle so much information at once, so it’s safe to say I didn’t TRULY remember the NAMI walk until Thursday, when I was all, SHITFUCK how did I forget that? and both Dawn and The Guy Formerly On My Couch reminded me that my memory is like a block of Swiss cheese.
Which is why, on Saturday, not one, not two, not three, but at least 15 people reminded me to wear “sensible” (read: boring) shoes for walking a 5K. The Guy Formerly On My Couch went as far as to come over ahead of time and made sure I was not wearing gaudy flippity-flops or those awesome Strawberry 4 inch heels. He just subtly put my running (HA! LIKE I RUN!) shoes in front of me and stared pointedly at me until I put them on.
We arrived at Dawn’s with enough time to notice this:
If THAT’S not therapy-provoking, I don’t know what is. It’s also a handy way to ensure NO ONE EVER will steal your car. Because OMFG no. Clowns make me scared in my no-no square.
It was a good thing we were walking for mental health.
On the way to the city, I performed my dramatic re-readings of various emails, much to the delight (read: horror) of my car mates, which made me wish I had some old crappy love letters to do this with – it’s one of my favorite things to do at a party, besides yell randomly, “NO I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR RASH.”
When we got downtown, we made a beeline for the NAMI 5K, held somewhere in Grant Park.
While I’ve never been one to walk (or run) for a cause, I have to say that it was pretty empowering, even if there were no snacks to be had. (WANTED SNACKIES!)
Mental illness is one of the only illnesses in which you’re actively judged for having. It’s our job – high heels or not – to reduce that.
I think we’re off to a good start.
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Wrote this about dreaming big and the importance of NEVER giving up your dreams.
