Tangent Class

Welcome to Tangent Class. I've decided, in honor of my beloved high school students, to write this blog in the format of my class last semester, where we basically just rode out every conversational tangent we could, until we learned things about theatre. Ta-da!
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Question: Do High Maintenance Women Snag Better Mates?

Before anyone wonders what bad crack I've been smoking, I will clarify that this is not MY question. In fact, this isn't really something I'd ever thought about before. Until EHarmony sent me an email with THAT as the subject.

Golly. I don't know. Define "better" please, oh Dating Gods.

Tangent: I don't actually say "golly" in real life.

Tangent: 9 times out of 10, even when I try to avoid swearing when talking to my students, by using a word like golly or heck, I will then swear in the following sentence. Such as, "Okay guys, I don't know what the heck you think you are doing. The dressing room is not the place to be loud and fuck around." Ooops. Thank goodness I teach high school(ish).

Tangent: I don't teach in a curricular high school. This is a plus for many reasons, not the least of which is the occasional swear.

Okay.

Define "better." Is "better" someone who is also seeking a high maintenance person, because that, for me, would be "worse." I spent a good deal of time in previous relationships trying to be seen as legitimately low-maintenance, when they really wanted the opposite.

Tangent: A lot of the men I see with extremely high maintenance women (I'm being generic and going with the women who you KNOW take 2 hours to get ready to go to the 7-11) do NOT seem like the prize picks. These men seem alternately terrified of and angry at their ladies.

Tangent: This may or may not have to do with the odd coincidence that I never seem to see ugly people yelling at each other outside of bars. I know it happens. I just seem to keep catching the really drunk, really made-up girl shouting at the really drunk, really gelled hair guy.

Tangent: I don't know how readily this can be interpreted as any kind of fact. I think I've been out at bar closing time exactly three times in the last eight years.

Tangent: That's a lie. If I check my bank statements for ATM transactions at the Golden Nugget on Lincoln I'm sure I could manage a more accurate late-night count.

Tangent: The Golden Nugget is a chain of amazing, wonderful diners. Their food is best when you are pre-soaked in booze.

Back to the high maintenance. And, the article. It doesn't (as I was hoping) provide examples that we mid-maintenance ladies can use to up our maintenance level. This is the best I could come up with:

Can I change my own windshield wiper blades?

Definitely.

Tangent: I'm nearly 30. If I couldn't do that by now, I'd be up shit creek.

Tangent: I have recently heard this expression as "Shit's creek." I have no idea which version is accurate. Was it a family property with a creek bearing the family surname? Because, yikes.

Tangent: Now a family called the Shits makes me think about Robin Hood, Men in Tights, when Latrine makes the joke about changing the family's name in the 1500's from Shithouse to Latrine...

Tangent: The other day my Dad used an expression that I hadn't heard in years. When describing a very large and terrifying woman at the airport he said she was, "Built like a brick shithouse." It was not an untrue statement.

ANYWAY.

Can I change my own windshield wiper blades? Absolutely.

Wouldn't it be nice for a man to do it, especially in the god damn freezing cold? YES!

Unfortunately, I don't think this makes me "high maintenance" enough...

EHarmony suggests that I focus on my "Mate Value" (I swear to jeebus I am not making this up) instead of contemplating ways to be more high maintenance. It also mentions that I need to be aware that if I want to attract someone with a High Mate Value, that being high maintenance is a strong strategy.

Pause.

FTW?

Tangent: My sister and I recently discovered that FTW did not mean what we thought it did. It really means "For The Win." We both thought it was "Fuck the Whaaaaat?" So, I mean FTW in that context. Fuck. The. What.

Suddenly this dating website has gone from matching me with the most nonsensical array of men in the history of time, to telling me that if I want to date a 10, I need to ACT like a 10. Sure. That sounds awesome. Let me spend my evenings carefully grooming myself for the perfect man to come and scrutinize my Mate Value!

I'd rather listen to my Spice Girls Pandora station and make a wall decoration out of old keys I found.

Tangent: That is a thing that I did.

Back to overly strategic grooming and dressing. After all that, the article has a caveat...but now that you are a 10...and you've attracted your Highest Value Mate that Tolerates Your Non-Make-up Face, what happens next?

Well. It says that if you have found yourself as the mate with the lower value in the pair, you will have to work very hard to keep your mate from wandering.

Tangent: I teach "status" a lot as an acting teacher. In one game, the students all draw playing cards (face down) and hold them up on their foreheads, face out. The idea being that the students themselves can't see their own number, but must discern their number by the way they are treated by the others who CAN see their number.

Tangent: Once, on a high school work trip, I am fairly certain we played a game called "Indian Poker" that had a similar idea...only I can't remember the rest of it. It also sounds monstrously racially insensitive.

Tangent: Back to status. The ones at the far ends of the spectrum figure it out pretty fast. The face cards are all treated well, and over in a corner someone is using the two of clubs as a footrest.

What was I actually talking about? AH! Yes. Mate-Value-Dynamics. What an utterly terrifying prospect. I can also tell you that being the person with the "higher value" guarantees you absolutely nothing. AND, you get to be a dick for walking around going "Doot de do, I'm the higher valued person!"

Tangent: I'm not just talking about ladies on this one. I see plenty of guys crap all over amazing women because they have simply devalued them. While I might be pissed at the EHarmony phrasing and tactics, the concept of value in a relationship is important.

Tangent: I got really good at spelling maintenance correctly on the first try while working at Blue Man. When you manage a show that hadn't changed in 12 years, that's a lot of maintenance!

Tangent: But they changed the show this year! Yay! Go see it! Or, don't! Whatever!

So, where does this leave us? Me, particularly? I have no idea.

That's not true. I do have an idea. I admit to coloring and flat ironing my hair, to indulging in a fake-bake from time to time. I admit that I like my eyelashes better when they have mascara on them, to painting my toe nails, and to thinking carefully about what I put on...but that isn't because I'm thinking about my Mate Value. It's because I like to do it, and I feel great when I do.

Tangent: My hair is naturally brown and very wavy. Some might call it curly, but only half of it will curl on any given day, and that look is not great. All I wanted when I was growing up was to have straight, blond hair. When I got old enough to buy it, I bought it. So there.

Tangent: Did that raise my maintenance value!? How about my Mate Value.

Tangent: Does anyone else thing Mate Value sounds like some kind of hardware store where they sell erotic toys?

Blah blah, right. I'm glad I read the damn thing, because it did make me stop and think about where I fall on the spectrum, and what kind of guy will ultimately click with whatever nonsense I've got goin' on. Moreover, it made me glad that I canceled my subscription.

Tangent: I literally JUST got another email from them, this one with the subject: "It Will All Be Worth It When You Find True Love." What will be worth it? All this awkward posturing or the monthly subscription fees?

Sugar, if it's "true love," we'll be well past Mate Value and into the Douglas Adams quotes before you can say, "Fuck the Whaaaaaaat?"

Shower of Possibilities

This year has been jam packed with major life events for friends of mine. More so than in previous years. Everyone keeps saying, "Well, you ARE at that age."

No! I'm not. Wait. Yes I am. Crap.

Anyway.

Engagements, marriages, first babies, SECOND BABIES, new homes, new lives getting underway. To say that I am excited for them all would be an understatement. These friends of mine are lighting the way, showing me that not only can they take these big steps, but that overall its also a lot of fun. For those of you who know me well, my general opinion of my own matrimony can be summed up in the theme of my statistically likely wedding: When the Earth Collides with The Sun.

Fortunately for me, I won't have to worry about that for a while. Instead, I just returned from standing up in two weddings within seven days, across the country from each other. The usual events occurred in the usual way. The brides were gorgeous and radiant, the grooms dashing and adorable. The families were happy and kind to each other, the food delicious and the dancing hilarious.

In the wind up to the big day (both of them) I found myself looking forward to the same thing. Something I've realized I enjoy outside of the wedding context...

The "getting ready" shower.

It is a shower with a special purpose. To emerge pink, smooth, clean, and a blank slate. Ever since I was in middle school, getting ready to go to a dance, this has been a favorite ritual, because it is the moment when EVERYTHING is possible.

I find myself standing under the water, thinking about how I'll eventually do my make-up, how my dress will look, about how maybe this time they won't make my hair all crazytown. Maybe I'll get to dance with a cute fella. Maybe I'll be able to keep my heels on the whole time. So many of these musings are exactly what 13 year old me was thinking about!

True, I'm not generally this girly about getting ready to go out, but I really love to let my mind wander in those instances. In the most recent past, it also acted as a sort of self-preservation. Shielding my loneliness with a hopeful bubble. Creating a diversion for my brain!

Of course, things don't exactly happen in the way I lay them out. I hadn't anticipated the awkward conversation during wedding #2....

(Scene opens with LD sitting at the family table during the reception, watching everyone's purses and drinking a mimosa)

GUY (swaggering over and sitting down): Hey.

LD: Hi.

GUY: I'm Dude (name changed for hilariousness).

LD: Hi, Dude. I'm Laura how do--

GUY: Just so you know, I'm like the only single guy here. I heard you were the single bridesmaid.

LD: What? Uh, who is going around telling people that?

GUY (laughs into his drink): So. How do you know these guys?

LD: Sarah has been one of my best friends since seventh grade. You?

GUY: I live down the street. So, are you her sister?

LD:.....what?

GUY: Sarah. Are you one of Sarah's sisters?

LD: No...we met in seventh grade....

GUY: Oh! right. Sorry, I'm kind of distracted. I'm worried about my son.

LD: What's wrong?

GUY: I don't know. He might be in the hospital...I don't really know though...

LD: Wait, you don't know if your son is in the hospital?

GUY: Well, he's visiting his Mom in Arizona and she really wants him to go. He's got severe strep throat or something.

LD: How old is he?

GUY: Eighteen.

(long pause)

GUY: Yeah, I really want him to be a windmill mechanic but I'm not sure.....

And, there we have it. After the shower of possibility, I have an empty glass and the moniker "the single bridesmaid." Oh, and I have Dude. Who is now talking about the merits of vocational training.

Wedding #1 yielded slightly better results, but I unfortunately reverted into my low-functioning flirt mode (see the previous post regarding a giant bear chasing boys up into trees) and after 500 glasses of wine probably laid it on a little thick...including making a lovely fella pinky promise to dance with me, and then later informing him that my pinky had CALLED me, wondering what was going on with the whole dancing situation. Bless his heart, he placated my continual demands with a dance to Styx. Awesome.

Also, getting covered in rain water and bug body parts while hustling with my fellow bridesmaids to pull the tent flaps down when the rain finally showed up in Ohio. Spending a solid 5 minutes with another woman's hand on my butt keeping me from sliding off a folding chair while I try not to pop out of my strapless dress mid-tent-flap-pull was NOT in my shower matrix of things to be hopeful about. It was, however, hysterical.

After two weeks of weddingness, two of my closest gals are now Mrs. Pacheco and Mrs. Viccellio. They are literally showered with possibilities now, the bright futures they have with their new families, and I am so happy for them both.

Meanwhile I'm still Miss Dieli, and if anyone needs me, I'll be in the shower, dreaming.

Weird-Awesome

Perhaps I am not doing myself any huge favors by admitting the following:

I just serenaded my cat with a charming rendition of Don McLean's "And I Love You So" while washing the dishes. I thought it was charming. The cat is still on the fence about it. The lesson here requires a little context...

About halfway through, I had the self-conscious "oh god, I'm THAT cat lady" moment. I paused for a second while the song kept going on my iPod, and I realized that not only was I that cat lady, but OF COURSE I was that cat lady.

For those of you who haven't known me long enough to remember my childhood (life-long?) cat addiction, let me fill you in.

In my early elementary school years, I was convinced I was half-cat. I've explained this before as being similar to ethnic heritage. Some people in my grade were half-Polish. I was half-cat. It makes total sense. Made total sense...

I had a whole backstory worked up in my mind. I'll spare you the fine details that I crafted over time and give you the snapshot. I was born a cat. I lived in a forest. One day a magical fairy came down and turned me into a person, and sent me to live with my current parents.

Looking back, this seems like a hybrid between Little Bunny Foo-Foo and all that Stork business they try to tell you about.

At any rate. There I was, a half cat. I had cat instincts. I communed with the cats. I loved everything that was shaped like a cat, had a cat on it, had a cat in it, or generally related to cats! My Mom has an original cast recording of CATS! that she and I would listen to, and dance around the house. My life was cat covered and cat centric. I loved it.

I don't exactly remember how old I was, but there were two defining events in my half-cat journey that ultimately made me lose faith in my belief that I really was part cat. The first was when I told the principal of my elementary school the long version of my "origin story." In front of my entire class. Needless to say my already questionable social status was reduced from "nice, but odd" to "hahahahahawhaaaat?" I remember something about the Principal either talking to my parents or to my teacher, who attempted to straighten me out.

The second was when I tried to eat cat crunchies. Let's just say I wrote that one off, assuming that my tastes had simply changed from cat food to people food in the magical transformation. While it didn't ruin the illusion, the realization that I might be more human than cat was enough to start unraveling the entire myth.

There was no melt down, so crisis of catness. I slowly started to let go. I know it happened gradually because I still find tiny doodles of cats, flying cats, sleeping cats, cats with their tails curled around them, on most of my notebooks from those years in elementary school (I still doodle cats, who am I fooling). Carefully drawn pictures of our family cat, Boo, hung on the fridge. My favorite earrings were cats. They were also the craziest looking earrings ever, but that is unrelated. I didn't just abandon my love as soon as it made me look like a dork. It was a part of who I was then. Moreover, it is a part of who I am now.

So, here's the lesson...taking the long way around.

Everyone is weird, and I am no exception.

We like to pretend we're less-weird by finding the weakness in others, or what makes them more different. I can cite examples of this throughout my whole life simply using stories regarding the webbed toes on my left foot and/or two-different-sized feet and women who feel compelled to call me a "freak" while smiling and laughing.

My head always goes immediately to, "Oh, I'm totally a freak, but not because of that...last night I drank half a bottle of wine, sang to my cat, and danced around in my pajamas and a pair of gold heels."

Every time I have engaged people on the topic of their particular weirdness, I have learned volumes. Things I never would have guessed, stories and moments that make them who they are, and each amazing in their own way. While sometimes it is easy to go in for the kill, to snark, to be snide, I invite you to think about what makes you weird-awesome, and how I bet it is one of your favorite traits. I know it is one of mine.

How I didn't set anything on fire.

Despite all my attempts to completely ignore the reason I created this blog, I actually crossed something off my list! I learned to weld, thanks to the patient instruction of Mr. Ray Vlcek.

For those of you who have not yet done this, let me tell you the most important thing.

It makes you feel like a goddamn bad ass.

Getting hit repeatedly in the teeth with the welding mask is, at best, an acquired taste, but suiting up and getting ready to JOIN TWO PIECES OF STEEL is pretty rad. Standing there with the welder, the sparks, and the satisfying "bbbzzzzzzt...bzzzzzzzzzzzzttt" sound was an excellent way to spend an afternoon during Porgy previews. AND! I didn't set myself or anyone else on fire (accidentally or on purpose). Double bonus.

There I was, all psyched from my welding time, when I set about assembling a new chair for the greenroom in the lobby of the theatre while rehearsal was happening. Never in my life have so many male actors tried to tell me how to do something. Perhaps I'm spoiled at Court in that most of the people there have a healthy automatic respect for the assumed talents of the people that work there.

That was not the case in this instance. You would have thought I was assembling a car engine, or disarming a nuclear bomb. Those fellas, bless their hearts, were convinced that I was going to do it completely wrong. I'm all for helpful suggestion, and did genuinely need a second pair of hands to keep the whole operation going, but IT'S A CHAIR. A CHAIR! I just avoided setting the scene shop on fire with tools far more sophisticated than these oddly sized hex keys! I can do it!

I wish there was some kind of amazing hilarious turn where I set the chair on fire. I didn't. I assembled the chair after gently swatting my "helpers" away. It took me proving that I knew how to use my Gerber (think Swiss army knife) and a screwdriver at the same time. High. Tech.

There was, in an earlier draft of this post, a scene between the Gerber and the Hex keys. They all had accents. But, it didn't make any sense. I'll let you imagine that instead. The Gerber was southern and the Hex keys were German (because I couldn't sort out how to write a Swiss accent). By the end, victory was mine, and the chair was completed.

In real life, too, the chair is done! And, when people sit in it, the whole thing DOES NOT collapse. Yet....