Last Wednesday I went to my first audition. You heard me . . . AUDITION. Am I an aspiring actress? Nope. Have I ever done this before? Not really, unless you want to count the church auditorium before my freshman year when I auditioned with my then boyfriend. (We nailed it, by the way, and went on to wow multiple church audiences all around Orange County.) Am I currently funemployed with occasional open afternoons on my hands? You got it!
So, I saw an ad on Craigslist and I figured, “Why not?” For all of you amateurs out there who have never been to an audition before (I am no longer part of your community having graduated into the “step above you” leagues) it went down exactly like it does in the movies. Seriously. I kept looking around at the stark and depressing room filled with strangers of all shapes, colors, and ages, completely amused with how cliché the whole thing seemed. There was the couple that argued on the way in, he accusing her of making them both late while shaking his head at every excuse she proffered in return. She scolded him, reminding him that anger shows through and it won't help him get the part. There was the girl sitting next to me, rocking back and forth as she muttered the lines from the wrinkled slip we were each given with the short monologue typed out. I briefly considered memorizing my lines, but I also experienced butterflies every time I repeated it silently in my chair that I decided to just read it when the time came. I became one of the many nonchalantly reading their books or checking their twitter feed or playing games on their iPhone. Cool cats, if you will, not caring about something like rehearsal when it was just an extra gig for goodness' sakes.

Adios, Belize. Or should I say, Hasta Luego. You were even lovelier than I had envisioned. And the people. The beautiful natives with their laidback, happy attitude. Genuine happiness. The children chasing each other into the water. The dogs roaming the beaches. The food (oh, Belize, you sure do know the way to this gluttonous girl's heart). The drinks that smelled like the world's most perfect tanning salon-those drinks sure made my friends' days seem even brighter. And sure, there was the Rasta man with dreads down to his butt and a handful of aliases who knew nothing of personal space boundaries and who found my sobriety amusing. And yeah, there was the irie man who asked to touch my legs, proclaiming he was a “freak about skin”. (Oh yeah, buddy??? Well, I'm a freak about karate kicking creeps in the nuts.) And, this is hard for me to admit because I truly was enamored with our little isla bonita, there was homophobia flitting about, which just made us all so sad. But. But, Belize, you have water like no other and the time I spent diving into the turquoise, amongst the most colorful of God's creatures, was transcendental. The massive manta ray that glided above our heads made me forget to breathe. The sharks, in all of their awesome and formidable wonder, were truly spellbinding. And the God-loving people that keep the island running are showing the peace and light within. I will be back, Belize.

This is a reminder to you, but mostly to me, but also to you, that God answers prayers. I mean, not every single one of my prayers in life has been answered (and yes, I'm still stunned that my one painful and critical request two years ago was not fulfilled) but some of them have. Specifically, in the last two months alone, I can think of 8 prayers that were acknowledged and handled. This is a miracle when I truly sit and ponder it, and I wish that appreciation and thankfulness would stick with me 100% of the time, instead of wavering in and out while I focus on unanswered prayers. It's important to have faith. And even if you don't believe in the God that I believe in, you can still throw your prayers out there, and you can still have a little faith.

The unkempt man behind me could not wait his turn. Maybe in his fifties, casually dressed, his demeanor was one of barely controlled panic. “Miss? Nurse? I need to take a sh*t. Please. Check me in for a colonic. Did you hear me? I need to take a sh*t. Let's do this, can you hurry, please?” Apparently the blood on my cheek did not warrant respect in his book, like he deserved to go first for his obvious emergency. (And later the nurses couldn't help but laugh as they recalled his brash demands, especially when they discovered that he was a patient of the hospital, had a regular doctor, and didn't need to be in the ER. Why are you even in the ER? Go back to your own team, Mr. Colonic.)
And the man to my left, not a patient but a visitor waiting patiently, stared at my cheek, clearly fascinated by the periodic dribble of blood. Sitting so close even though we had an armrest between us, the man waited until I turned to finally give him attention, and then he belched in my face.
“Sorry,” said quietly and with little conviction. Sorry? How about next time you don't burp in my face! And I know it isn't attractive when blood trickles down my face, so excuse me for using this gauze square to mop it up. Your dirty and disgusted looks at my necessary actions are unappreciated.
And then I heard a ruckus. A behemoth of a white man in sweats and unruly gray hair was causing a scene.
“Well, nurse, you just called my name, ya can see that I'm limping, and now you're asking me to sit back down. What the hell? What's next? You want me to do backflips or something? Should I backflip back to my chair? Where's your supervisor!!?” said in a Brooklyn accent. “Where's your gosh darn supervisor!! Give me a supervisor!”
And then I was admitted through the daunting double doors, see ya later suckers, I'm gonna be seen by a doc. But of course, I wasn't seen right away and of course, the doors do not discriminate so I found myself surrounded, once again.

There were four of us in matching puffy coats, waiting for the light to change. And I was the only one on a girl's bike (lovingly categorized as “vintage”), even though there were two other girls in the group. Clouds of heat puffed out of our chapped lips, and I regretted leaving my gloves at home. The girl to my right intrigued me. She had on dark green riding pants and a black velvet riding helmet perched on her short, blonde hair. Like you wouldn't be surprised to hear her say, “No, no Mummy. No time for tea. I must mount Chauncy and rush to the office.” Except that Chauncy wasn't a gorgeous brown thoroughbred, but rather a beat up BMX bike. And yet, she rode it with grace. I wondered, was she a time traveler? I saw that the one boy in the pack was also checking her out. Perhaps he was also confused by her contradictory appearance (even her stature was different than all of ours) or maybe he thought she was pretty. And the other girl smiled at me, maybe feeling left out from the silent exchanges somehow. She was brunette. That is all I can say about her.
And then the light changed and I kicked off, thankful for the sunshine.

I just want to make sure we're on the same page.
Or: It's becoming obvious we're not on the same page. Would you mind flipping to mine?
Or: I want this to appear like a mutual decision, and I hope you fall for it.
Or: I thought we'd discussed this already, but it appears you need to be schooled again.
Or: So, listen, open up and expose what you are feeling (I will take it in), then sit back and accept how I want things to be.
Or: Do you like me? Then nod and agree, “Totally, we're totally on the same page”.
Or: I've thought about your side, and I still like my side better.
Or: This is my bandwagon. You should jump on it.
Or: I'm trying to sound sincere, because I am sincere, and now I am sincerely telling you to accept my terms.
Or: Hopefully we won't have to have this talk again, but if we do, you better believe I'm going to bring up this conversation to point out that I assessed that “we are on the same page”.
Or: I'm not going to change. Cool? Cool.

I resisted Facebook for a long time. I remember using words like “lame” and “trendy” and “not gonna last” when my friends first started peer pressuring me to join. But then, I caved. And now, I post photos on Fbook on a regular basis, and I love looking at friends' photos, and I certainly am entertained by the ridiculous comments that my hilarious friends post on my photos. But. But! Facebook is of a certain strain of evil that is weaved into our world so deftly it is disguised as fun. One obvious element is the fact that it can be (and is for most) a total time suck. That's a topic for another day, don't even get me started on it now, people. But when it comes to dating, Fbook is potentially the worst outlet to turn to, and can cause multiple kinks and bruises to all parties who get sucked into the Fbook vortex. Our mothers never had to deal with the complicities involved in easily accessible cyber stalking. Shooot, not even our older sisters were exposed to this strange side of dating! But here we are, single women, trying to be the mature, better person and fight our desire to stalk our current love interest. And if I resist the urge, I also have to instruct my gal pals to refrain from gleaning what they can from what's available. But what to do when information is broadcasted for all to see? I “friend” you, photos are posted here and there (not even by me, but what can you do, my friends and I love to take pics) and you are obsessed with “checking in”. My friends find it amusing that you check me in at every coffee shop, lunch place, bar, and concert we go to, even though I am not necessarily a fan of the whole four square thing. And I go along with it, half the time don't even notice that you're doing it, and I shake it off. But then I notice over the weekend that you have checked in with someone else. You two are at an Italian place for dinner, followed by a show downtown.

This is a thank you letter to you. And you. And Me. And you. You make me laugh so hard my cheeks ache. You understand me. You write me letters. You are so thoughtful. You appreciate me. You listened to me when I babbled. You listen to me. You take me seriously. You don't let me take myself too seriously. You humble me, but in a way that makes me a better person. You have helped me overcome silly inhibitions. You remind me that I am pretty. You make me write. You are loyal. Your hugs are the best. You love me, even when I don't love myself. You go with me to church. You pray for me. You let me pray for you. You call me and leave the sweetest voicemails. You knock my socks off. You are beautiful. You are my therapizer. You love my sister, my family. So, thank you. I am blessed in this life with so many things, but it is the people around me that form my world. I am so thankful.

When I was approaching my teenage years, my family got a dog. We all put our names into a hat to decide who would get the esteemed job of naming our baby black fluff ball (she was a Peki-Pom back before designer breeds became all the rage). My kid sister, abnormally obsessed with Victor Hugo's Les Miserables at such a young age, won the round and christened our new pet with the name Cosette. It wasn't long before we shortened it to Cozy, which was much more apropos for our four legged little buddy.
Cozy was a licker, and a lover, and a playful little animal. She was also a barker, sometimes a racist, and she developed a lethal brand of halitosis in her latter years. But my family loved her like family, like some people tend to do, like the kind of people that non-dog-lovers roll their eyes at and deem “strange”.