That’s not gonna work for me.

Nope.

Actually, I can’t.

No.

Let me say that in Spanish for you, in case it wasn’t clear:

No.

This lesson is continuing to rear its uncomfortable head over and over again in my life.

The issue of saying no.

And I’m not talking about The Three Most Important Things You Should Say No To that is drilled into us as kids. I have no problem saying no to drugs, sex, and the celebration of Columbus Day.

Oh, was that last one not on your JUST SAY NO! list? I guess Lynn Latshaw is not your mother, then.

In fact, I don’t know what it is about me, but nobody ever offers me drugs. Like, nobody. Friends who will remain nameless will be happily smoking weed and won’t even try to get me to join in. “You’re too good,” they will remark to me. “We know you don’t smoke.”

But it’s not that I don’t smoke because I’m “good;” nobody is good, really. I’m just me. I don’t smoke because I happen to like my brain cells. I’d rather not become even more directionally challenged than I already am. I mean, I’ve been walking from Grand Central Station to 2nd ave and east 47th for a couple weeks now, and I still have to pull out my google maps app just to figure out which direction it is I walk in again, once I get out of the terminal. If that app could talk it would totally tell me that it  has TOLD ME THIS ALREADY! and don’t you EVER LISTEN?!?!

I can’t even imagine where I’d end up if I were high.

And with the amount of strangers who seem to target me, it makes me shudder to think of this countrified, friendly, and generally lost on the east side of town girl totally high.

And I guess it’s illegal. Smoking weed, I mean. I try to stay away from illegal. But then, I do speed. In my car,  I should clarify. Like, I sometimes drive fast, is the point. So I guess there’s some hypocrisy there, huh?

And sex with strangers honestly does not interest me. Hook-ups seem rather awkward and I’d rather not contract a disease if I don’t have to. Call me conservative. So right, saying no to all that isn’t exactly on parr with being a saint. Nobody ever got a standing ovation for saying no to someone offering them something they find distasteful anyway. Like beans. I say no thank you to beans all the time. Random hook-ups don’t seem that different to me, really.

But what’s uncomfortable for me is the idea of disappointing people. Hurting their feelings. Just because I cannot do what they want me to do. Well, I could–but I know I don’t want to, so the better thing to do is just say no and move on. Cause it’s not like a moral or ethical thing. It’s more just like a I-don’t-want-to-be-close-to-you kind of thing.

And part of me gets all kinds of busy just wishing that other people who have questionable boundaries would please stay away. Like, it’s their fault. I wouldn’t find myself in these uncomfortable situations if it weren’t for them! But no, I need to have boundaries and live honestly from my heart, regardless of the boundaries of others.

If someone is getting too close, demanding too much, etc., it is because I am allowing this.

So, anyway, I am practicing this.

Saying no.

And then moving on.

And for some reason, this is no easy fete for me.

Sigh.

I met David, a friend of mine who I have not seen for some time, and together, we strolled the High Line. It was once an elevated train here in New York, but has for some time just been empty. But now it’s renovated and planted all over with gardens and a lovely, among-the-highrises stroll. And the weather was absolutely perfect.

A little too perfect. Because now my shoulders and collarbone are sun kissed. Okay, more like I look like the sun made-out with me. I am, in a word: burnt.

And then I went and did about four hours of martial arts. Whoa. I am exhausted. But feeling pretty happy. There is nothing like moving about. It puts me in this heightened state; it solves my problems. I am not sure why, but the world seems a far friendlier place when I am moving.

Oh, and I auditioned for this DVD exercise/vocal thing last week, called The Broadway Warmup, and I was offered the job today. Nice.

In other news, the stranger with whom I unprecedentedly agreed to go on a date last week has been texting me. I did not, however, text him back today. I need to just say that I am not really interested in what he is interested in. Or I guess I could just not respond, but that sounds mean. Anyway, a pretty sad part is that I cannot, for the life of me, remember the guy’s name. So I refer to him among my friends by his area code. “I think I need to tell 917 that I am just not interested in any kind of romance,” I told David.

“Just don’t respond; 917 will get the message,” he replied.

But 917. How pitiful. Kind of funny, though, too.

(I ain’t your) lost boys

Then I excitedly asked my mom if she wanted to hear the recording.

“Yes!” she said.

So I obliged.

And by the end, every last creature in the house was sound asleep. Well, except for me. Even every one of the nine pups were sleeping, though. I don’t know if that is a good sign for the song, but it was kind of funny.

It is very late or very early, depending upon the way you look at it. It is now April 1st and that means it’s April Fool’s Day. Wouldn’t you know it, but I’m going to therapy first thing in the morning. My therapist has a sense of humor. Could you imagine going to one who didn’t? Dreadful. Who wants to talk about every nook and cranny of their life without being able to see how hysterical it is sometimes? Not me. Anyway. April Fools. Therapy. Hopefully she cooks up a real zinger. Cause joke diagnoses are so funny.

Ha.

Oh, also–I made banana chocolate chip muffins tonight. I put them in a basket and brought them over to a friend’s house. I felt like little red riding hood. Well, not because I got eaten by a wolf or even because I was wearing a red hood. I guess just because I had muffins in a basket. It felt downright idyllic.

I like baking. It feels real. It feels useful. These are good things that make me feel real and useful. What is that called? The transitive property? It’s 4:13 am. Just humor me. Even if it’s not, can it be so now? Thank you.

If I don’t go to sleep soon, I will be a wreck for therapy in the morning and then she won’t even have to say April Fool’s! after her diagnoses, cause she won’t even be joking.

She’ll be like, “Girl, you need help.”
And I’ll be like, “I need sleep.”
And she’ll be like, “You need both.”
And she’ll be right; she’ll be totally right.

But guess what is decidedly not perfect or delicious or intentional? My leg. Well, the injury on my leg. I guess my leg is intentional. But that wound I got while running in Charlotte this past weekend hurts like the dickens. It kind of looks like I contracted some kind of flesh eating disease. To my knowledge, though, I have not. Fingers crossed or knock on wood or try not to walk underneath a ladder or any such superstitious activity of your choice because I don’t really think any of it means anything anyway.

But I was recently looking through Plato’s Closet (which is an excellent consignment/second hand shop here in this area, btw) and found a pair of purplish checkered pants that seemed like they’d be a good fit for my life. And my legs. They have angel wings on them and everything, guys. I am actually not totally sure what the everything part of that phrase entails, cause there is no rest of the angel to be seen on the pants, but oh well, my point is that they have angel wings. And though they are rather on the tighter side, I must have really liked them. Because I tried them on. And by tried them on I mean I gingerly pulled them over my flesh-eating-diseased-look-alike leg and said shoot! once or ten times in the process cause it hurt. It didn’t even hurt real good. It totally hurt real bad.

But it was worth it because I wore them tonight to teach two dance classes, eat pancakes, and listen to a reggae band. So yes, they passed muster, since I cannot think of any more rigorous combination of tests through which one can put a pair of pants. Perhaps wrestling an alligator or going on an awkward date. But since I am not planning on either anytime soon (or hopefully ever; though I must say the awkward date makes the storyteller in me think that there could be some allure…), I will have to be content with the limited tests I have within my grasp.

Oh, but it was a good night. And seriously, whoever invented pancakes deserves a cookie. Or better yet, a pancake.

That was not a compliment. No offense to the girl with glasses. I suppose, that, at least nobody has told me I look like Sloth. Or Chunk, for that matter.

I was gone for two and a half days and was told that I look like two different people in that time.

Emily Mortimer, to the left here.

I don’t think I’d mind owning those purple shoes.

Or the dress, either.

And then Felicia Day.

“You don’t know her?” the guy on the plane said to me.

“Nope, sorry.”

“She’s big on the internet…” he said, which made me start to feel uncomfortable. But then he clarified, “She’s on a show and stuff. All the nerds are big into her.”

“Cool,” I said.

“But she’s short,” he continued, and, looking me over while I was sitting down, he told me, “You don’t look very short.”

“I’m not.” And that was that.

I don’t think I really look like any of these people.  I think I look like my family, but I guess a lot of strangers don’t know my family and therefore aren’t going to say, “Do you know your niece Lyric? You look a lot like her.”

But then I might just agree. Both that I know her and that there is some resemblance.

But anyway, now I am home and I am tired and my leg is all bandaged and hot with inflammation (which I actually find fascinating. It gets all hot to burn away infection. Our bodies are miracles. Or wonderlands. Or something). And oh, did you know that there is a website called plentyoffish.com? There is. I think the name is pretty funny. I hope good things happen from it, and I am not saying they don’t, but how would you like to be at your very formal office Christmas party telling your boss’s mother that you met your significant other at plentyoffish.com?

I know, I know. None of that will happen. I don’t think I will ever be connected with a very formal office.

Or talking to a boss’s mother.

Okay, so maybe the latter. I actually really like mothers of any kind. So, when next I have a boss, I wouldn’t mind talking to his or her mother at all.

Tonight, I am hanging out with two very special people: my friends, Betsy and Todd. And Betsy made some adorable cupcakes and let me help her decorate them. I especially liked the broken hearted one. I have a soft spot in my heart for broken hearts, I guess.

Right now I feel very content. I don’t mind this feeling at all. No, wait. I do mind it, actually. In the sense that one should mind their manners, at least. I pay attention to this sense of contentment. I listen to it. I realize it. I tell it to please be at home here. I take a cue from Betsy and Todd and set out a gerber daisy in full bloom beside the guest bed, in hopes that contentment will know just how very welcome it is.

And Valentine’s Day.

It doesn’t hurt.

I think I will walk with a bounce in my step tomorrow and try to smile at as many people as I can. I will hope that love has found each and every one of them, just as it has found me, again and again, though I try to hide somtimes. I am ridiculous. I am like a child, pulling the blanket over my still form on the bed, thinking that love won’t know what the me-shaped lump is and so pass me by. But, no. Love finds me. It has so many names, love does.
God.
My parents.
My family.
My friends.
My pups and kitties.

Too bad I didn’t pack anything red to wear tomorrow.

I suppose my yellow pants will have to do.

May you be found in love . Always. Not just on the day that Hallmark made up, but every last one of them.

I thought I’d finally be like my brothers and have to do homework, too. I knew they didn’t exactly love that club, but I loved any club that involved being more like them, so I was all for it. But it didn’t happen. I know, I know, cry me a river.

I say that because, well, I don’t really mind the idea of homework. Probably because I don’t have to do much of it right now. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do a lot of work at home, actually. But it’s not anything I have to hand in to Mrs. Birdsall, who was my kindergarten teacher, God bless her.

So this is why I very excitedly ripped open my package from Amazon today. It was my book. My, ah, workbook, to be specific. It’s called breaking free. No, sorry, It’s called Breaking Free. At first I was confused, because someone had already taken a highlighter to it. And then I remembered I only paid $3.47 for it. Read: it is used. Oh well, at least the highlighter is yellow. But, right away, I started eating granola and working through it. Well, if right away means after a rehearsal and after I baked bread and after I worked on choreography, that is.

And then I got sad. Because you have to think heavily on some sad things that have happened to you. Actually, you have try to remember every dadgummit last one of them. And then you have to analyze them. How did it make you feel? What lesson did it teach you concerning your value? Your ability to be vulnerable? Your imperfections and what they mean?

Well, book that is surprisingly highlighted all over every one of your pages but not surprisingly only $3.47, How would you feel if your husband packed his bags and snuck out while you were sleeping, only to much later finally answer the phone and tell you that you’ll never see him again?

Probably not like throwing a party on Valentine’s Day, I am guessing.

Which is exactly something I have been considering. Either that, or joining a convent, I told one friend. He told me that his monk robes are in the wash. And then I said there might just be a few options somewhere in between partying on Valentine’s Day and marrying the church. I mean, google might have a few ideas, at least. Google seems to think of everything.

So, yeah. I believe in this kind of thing, though. And who was it who said that it’s the darkest hour just before the dawn? Probably Google. Google is so smart. But right. I think we go through hard times–sometimes even on purpose (gasp! clutching my pearls! and still gasping!) in order to live freely. Let me make that less boring.My oldest brother broke his arm once. Nobody knew it because he’s kind of a beast in the department of pain tolerance. So it healed all kinds of wrong. Wasn’t his fault the arm broke and nobody blamed him for it; nobody even blamed him for it healing wrong. But the doctor had to re-break it. And then set it properly, so it could heal right. And then he could use his arm properly, the way it was meant to be used.

So it is with a heart and a mind and a soul, I believe.

We go through the pain of feeling the break again in order to make sure it is set the kind of way that will heal it up right.

And then we throw parties on Valentine’s Day.

Or not.

But we at least don’t go around singing Love Stinks.

Because it doesn’t; it really doesn’t. It takes my breath away, actually.

——-

At any given time of the day one of the five of us here will burst out into song. It might not be beautiful. It might sound operatic. It might sound like a chicken. It might involve the words hot tottie (include those in any song for an instant hit, you know). And it might even be Jase trying to keep up with Eminem. Except Eminem isn’t actually here. And nobody is rapping but Jase.

——

I got a dress for five dollars today. It’s long, real long. And it has all these bright stripes that are horizontal. Enough to make me feel like a psychedelic caterpillar when I wear it. Not that I don’t feel like one when I don’t. Okay, so I don’t. But my point is, I try it on for Jason and Darby tonight and have to start doing some terrible polka-esque ballet around the living room while I am wearing it. Yes, have to. And Darby is laughing and Jason is looking like he doesn’t know what is going on (though he’s been my brother long enough now to know terrible polka-esque ballet when he sees it ).

——

But I think it is when Darby is singing in some sort of squawking-like tone that I finally just ask, “What do normal people do?” And we all laugh, but nobody answers. So I ask again, “No, seriously–what do normal people do?”

And silence ensues.

Because I’m pretty sure that none of us in the house know what it is that normal people do.

And we wouldn’t want to give up our songs and our dances and the faces that we make and the raps that we attempt in order to find out, either.

And then I put on some earrings.

But suddenly, I just got this feeling–and I think I might have even said it out loud while I looked at my reflection. “Too much,” I proclaimed before removing the earrings and going on my way.

However, the dress and boots and shirt were not too much, not at all. And it’s funny, I get people telling me–just yesterday, in fact–that I wear “crazy outfits” that they could just “never wear.” I don’t quite know how to take that, but I say thank you anyway because I am generally happy with what I am wearing; I picked it out, after all.

And just now I read in a blog that it is “time to say good-bye to your white clothing.” And I was like, hmmmm, nope. Truth be told, I don’t have a lot of white clothing anyway, but if I feel like wearing white, then I will wear white. After Labor Day and all.

But it’s funny, these rules that I have:

(and I’m gonna throw in some bullets here, since Lindsay and I were discussing how that is one sure fire way to keep my brother Jason interested.)

• don’t ever wear two different pieces of the same color.
• don’t ever wear white jeans (before or after labor day, doesn’t matter for me).
• do mix and match colors and textures and patterns.
• do pair dresses with sneakers.
• do wear the kinds of boots that make you look like you should be starring in the movie Newsies right alongside Christian Bale.
• and apparently, sometimes earrings are just “too much.”
• and wait, one more–I don’t really believe in not being able to wear a certain color because of skin tone or whatever. Perhaps this is because I never have found out what kind of skin tone I have, but I think that if you like it, then wear it.

So, these are my rules that I could think of. It’s not like they are unbending or anything, or even consciously put into effect; but thinking about it, those are my basic guidelines. And I was wondering, do you have any rules? Or do you not even think about it at all? I think our idiosyncrasies are part of what make life interesting, so please, feel free to share.

Oh, and fashion aside, Shane shared one of our songs that we recently recorded on  his blog. So go on and listen to it!

I mean, look at him.We went on a date tonight. I agreed to drive since he’s underage and all and when I picked him up he had a lovely yellow sparkly card for me. Yellow. Of course. And inside the card, he thanked me for taking him on a date and told me that he loves me.

Like I said, my life is rich.

He also informed me that he wanted to get me flowers, but unfortunately ran out of time. Understandable. He had a very busy day of slip and slides and play-making, from what I heard over dinner tonight. And really, it’s the thought that counts. Well, at least in this case, anyway.

We went to Ollie’s favorite restaurant and had some amazing Vietnamese food. And then had some ice cream at Friendly’s, which is always perfect, if you ask me. We also saw a baby bunny eating some grass outside and how hilarious this sentence would be if I swopped out eating for smoking.

But hugs, not drugs, baby bunny!

It was an altogether adorable night and I think I might love one-on-one time with people I love more than anything else.

And yesterday I had the pleasure of speaking with a man named Larry on the phone about buying a certain bedroom set that I never do want to see again. We were talking about addresses and what his ETA might be to pick it up when all of the sudden he started talking me through it. What? I know, that’s how I felt too. He was telling me that he had been divorced, too. TOO. You know, me and Larry. So much in common. And that he had gotten through it. And then he told me that he’d pray for me and that’s real nice, it really is, but it’s bad enough getting random Larrys out and about buying your bed, but when they start praying for you too…Well, let’s just say that’s when you’re like, yep. this is my life. take a nice inhalation because this is what it smells like–larry praying for you.

And nope, I am not an ounce above Larry’s prayers.

But seven months ago my life didn’t look quite so much like it was in such obvious need of prayer by total strangers who are buying my bed. Not a complaint, though; just an observation. And I am not crying or anything; I actually think it’s kind of funny.

Oh, and tonight I got home to a quiet and dark house. This might sound creepy, but I kind of like it. Because there was the piano, all begging to be played and it was like, you spend all day with kids and they make you necklaces out of gimp and you wear them! and yet you’re gonna just walk on by…?

So I was like, You’re right, piano. And if you made me a necklace out of gimp, I’d wear it too.

So I sat down and played and then I decided to play a ballad that I wrote for the play my brother wrote that he asked me to turn into a musical by way of adding tunes. And if you are an editor, please, have yourself a field day with that terrible sentence.

And there was one song in particular that strikes a chord with me. Jason emailed me, asking me if I would have a very hard time writing a sad song for Esther to sing; that this song should be something about how Xerxes (which happens to be Drew’s screen name for just about everything, ironically enough) falls very short of his role as husband and how Esther is a woman of worth, despite how she is treated by him.

Do you think you could handle writing something like that? he asked, more than a little tongue in cheek.

So I sat down and wrote it in just a few minutes, it felt. Bam. Here’s a little bit of what’s happened to me, a little bit of my childhood, and a little bit of hope anyway.

It’s called You’ll Know Him. And my niece Charis sure did knock it out of the park when she sang it on stage, by the way.