Back again...

Not much time to write in the past couple of weeks. I worked on the local middle/high school production of Les Miserables.

This is my second go-round with Les Miz on a high school stage, and I'm always amazed by kids who can sing, no matter what they're singing. Honestly, I'm amazed by anyone who can sing, 'cause I sure can't.

I still remember the first time I saw Les Miz, on a high school trip to the Broadway production. I spent the entire second act sobbing into a cocktail napkin torn in half. My friend Marie was sobbing into the other half. To this day, I still get a little choked up by "A Little Fall of Rain" and "Bring Him Home."

Not so much so for the kids who came to our two school performances on Monday. Maybe it was because the acting wasn't quite Broadway-caliber (though it wasn't half-bad for a bunch of teenagers), or maybe it was because they all knew they'd see Eponine, Gavroche, and the student-soldiers in their fifth period math class the next day. But I couldn't help but think that some of the actors and audience members might find themselves in a situation where the guns aren't plastic and the dead don't scamper offstage once the lights go down. One of my favorite actors from last year's production is at the Air Force Academy this year. I don't know if any of the other students have military service in their future, or if any of the ones graduating this year will. But it made me look at and listen to the show with a different perspective than I had in high school or even when I did the show three years ago.

The Single Majority

The New York Times (my favorite morning procastination device while I try to absorb enough caffeine to function like a normal human being) reports that 51% of women are now living without spouses. Well y'all, welcome to my world.

Not that all of us who are living without spouses are unmarried; some are temporarily separated by choice or by situation. But there's probably a lot like me, comfortably "shacked up" and enjoying the arrangement, thank you very much. Although I'd probably enjoy it more in a house with walk-in closets.

The New York Times is also the source of two of my favorite articles of late, one ("Saying Yes to Mess") that I shared with my boyfriend/housemate and one ("What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage") that I kept as my little secret. The boyfriend was not amused when I quoted the line in the former about really neat people being "humorless and inflexible prigs." But the truth hurts, ya know?

Both of the articles have been sources of comfort, inspiration, and outright laughter as I explore "living without a spouse" and the idea -- so incompatible with the mantra of "till death do us part" -- that living with another person is a choice that I get to make every day. If I really hated stubbing my toe on the boots he leaves right between the bedroom door and bedside lamp, arguing about how the extra light bulb in the bathroom fixture really is essential to keep me from slitting my ankles when I shave my legs and not just a waste of electricity, and (prepare to gasp in horror) living with a Republican, I wouldn't have to. But then I'd really have nothing to write about.

Writer's Block Already?

If you want a boring life, I think your best bet is to start a blog. As soon as you do, all the crazy things that happen to you and the people in your life -- the things that you thought you'd love to blog about -- will stop happening. Or maybe they -- and your life -- will suddenly seem less interesting, and two weeks into the blog you'll feel like you've got nothing to say.

But maybe I'm just not ready to expose all the crazy things that happen to people in my life yet, and nothing recently has provoked me to the point of spewing my political, social, religious, or sexual guts yet.

Or maybe it has. I didn't think I'd end up writing much about religion, because I'm about as un-religious as it gets. Especially here in the South, where everyone seems to have a "church home" and ministers approach you in the grocery store and invite you to theirs. Not the type of "home" that I'm used to having a man invite me to -- or the type of man I'm used to being invited by, but that's another story.

Lately either the pressure of living under the buckle of the Bible belt or subconscious lingering doubt about the fate of my soul has started me on a half-hearted search for a "church home." I'm a recovering Catholic with a laundry list of complaints about the current state of that particular faith, so I turned my attention almost immediately to the numerous Protestant possibilities. A brief stint of being married to a Baptist convinced me that wasn't the direction to go. Not because I have anything against Baptists, even the one that I married, but because going to Baptist services made me miss the familiar Catholic Mass. Some people might argue that I want churchgoing to be a mindless ritual rather than a deep religious experience, but I find it hard to experience religion deeply when I'm worrying about saying the wrong prayer, standing when I should sit, or reading aloud during the parts that only the minister should read.

After attending a funeral at an Episcopal church, I thought I'd found the perfect solution: a service that was as comfortable as last century's jeans in a denomination that's living in this century (or at least some of it is). But there's no Episcopal church in my small town, and I realized that I needed to be practical above all else: I have a much better chance of getting to church on Sunday if I minimize the effort required. I decided that I would check out the local Catholic church, try to have an open mind and thick skin, and concentrate on deep religious experience rather than deep resentment of Catholic doctrine.

My decision hit a brick wall when I turned on NPR the next day to hear their series of stories on the scandals that have plagued the Catholic Church, and I realized that I'm not ready to forgive, forget, and support with my collection dollars all the practices, preachings, and ideas that drove me from the Catholic Church in the first place.

I don't believe the people who say that in order to embrace a faith you have to embrace all of its laws and teachings wholesale. I believe in coming as close as I can to doing right and having a long talk with God about the times I fall short. But I realized that there wasn't much about the Catholic Church that I could embrace anymore that wouldn't leave me feeling a little bit dirty and a lot bit disillusioned.

I do credit my thirteen years of Catholic education for teaching me how to have those long talks with God. And for helping me to become an intelligent person capable of questioning and drawing my own conclusions rather than swallowing what I'm fed. Maybe their success in that is part of what's led to the Catholic Church's decline.

So I'm still church-homeless, though I'm taking another look at an Episcopal church that's not too far from the couch where I spend my Sunday mornings now. In the meantime, I'm sticking to long talks with God and hoping for the best.

And so the countdown starts for next season

Saints 27, Eagles 24.

The Eagles fan in the seat beside me (we were in a surprisingly large pocket of green just below the rafters of the Superdome) brought his lucky flask of Jack Daniels. So I shared sips of whiskey with strangers for each touchdown that the Birds scored. Right about the time the flask ran dry, the Eagles ran out of gas. Coincidence?

Probably. The Saints and their fans deserved to win the game, and the sentimental "gotta-root-for-the-good-story" part of me is glad they did. I rooted for them all season except for the two weekends that they played -- and beat -- us. If we had to lose, I'm glad it was to give New Orleans the chance to keep going. Of course, I'd rather that we didn't have to lose. But that's just part of being an Eagles fan. Sigh.

But the football-oblivious boyfriend has decided to become a Saints fan. So hopefully we'll make more trips to the Superdome next season. Till then, we'll be rooting for the Saints from home.

Fly, Eagles, Fly

Philadelphia Eagles 23, New York Giants 20.
Playoff tickets for the game next Saturday night in New Orleans: a ridiculous amount of money.
Gas to and from New Orleans: about $100.
Hotel room in New Orleans: about the same.
Twelve hours in the car with the football-oblivious boyfriend: quality couple time.
Watching my team extend the season that many of us thought was finished a month ago: priceless.

Yes, this particular Yankee bleeds green, and now her wallet does too.

A hui hou

Last night I said goodbye to my borrowed parents. They're moving to Hawaii for good next week.

I borrowed them (from their kids, who live out of town) when I moved here about six years ago. I already had an adopted mom (who really belonged to my best friend from high school) and surrogate parents (when I lived in Virginia). I also have two perfectly good birth parents and a recently-added stepfather. But it's nice to be able to borrow a pair of parents when you're in a new town. Especially when they're as wonderful as mine have been.

As we were leaving the restaurant, they taught me the Hawaiian phrase "a hui hou," which means "until we meet again." Which I hope will be soon. The island life is a lot more tempting now that I know I can bring the $800 alleycat without having to quarantine him. And I wouldn't even need to find a new pair of parents to borrow.

So, to my borrowed parents, who have meant more to me than I could ever tell them and have loved me as unconditionally as those who brought me into this world, "a hui hou." And mahalo.

Well, not quite...

I don't actually live on Confederate Ridge Road -- yet. And I probably never will. My boyfriend and I were driving around aimlessly looking for a place to move to (not that he'll ever sell the house like he's been talking about for the last three years). This particular aimless drive took place at about the same time I started thinking about writing a blog (like I've been talking about for the past six months or so -- nobody's perfect).

We drove past Confederate Ridge Road and the house on the corner with the giant stars and bars flying high, and my boyfriend said, "wouldn't you just looove to live around here?"

"Of course, dear. I'd just never be able to open my mouth around the neighbors. I don't think they like Yankees much on Confederate Ridge Road." And in the back of my mind, the little voice said, "What a great name for a blog, if you ever get off your a$$ and start one like you've been saying you're going to."

So it's the time for New Year's resolutions, and I put "starting a blog" somewhere on the list with organizing my life, keeping my car clean, and working out more. OK, working out at all, ever. So far this year I've hiked about three miles (to and from the beach in high-heeled flip-flops -- not recommended), rearranged one pile on my endlessly cluttered desk at work, and made a list of things in the house that need for my boyfriend to organize them. Tonight when I get home I'll throw out the empty Oreo package in my car. Oh, yeah, and I started this blog.

That last item actually has a lot less to do with the whole New Year's resolution thing than with that other New Year's tradition: the bringing to mind of old forgotten acquaintances that people who actually know the words to "Auld Lang Syne" sing about at midnight. So last night after the boyfriend went to bed, I googled my high school sweetheart. As far as I can tell, he's making wine back in the 'burbs where we grew up. But maybe that's not him. Another high school boyfriend -- or someone with the same name who lives in the same city -- is designing video games.

Then I googled a summer romance from my college days. He apparently launched his website -- fourth on the list of Google results for his name -- long before I even started thinking about talking about writing a blog. Among his many posts that I sat reading until six this morning was an oblique reference to... me.

I was touched to think that he remembered me then (the post dated about eight years after we did), and might still remember me now (he does). And it resolved the last lingering doubt that I had about starting a blog of my own: how would my friends, family, co-workers, etc., feel if they ever realized they were reading about themselves? Hopefully they'll feel as I did, and then maybe they'll want to start their own blogs, too.

So that's roughly how I got here today and a taste of some the things you'll probably read about if I keep posting and you keep reading.