"Let no one tell me that childhood is lived in a timeless present. Rather it is a fever of anticipations. Edwin stretched his arms greedily toward the future, bright with unopened presents. As his sixth birthday approached, he was quite unaware that more than half his life was over."
-Edwin Mullhouse by Steven Millhauser
I've been hounded by a dear friend for a blog post and it is certainly time to write again. Much has happened since my last post, and yet, I am not at all sure what to write about. I have settled back into a routine of sorts here in Chicago. Same apartment, same roommate, Eric. Life is much as it was before I left for Iowa City with a few differences. Audition season is slow right now and I'm hoping things pick up within the next month. For now, I am working hard for the money, taking improv classes at the Second City Conservatory, and marketing/costuming a show for the Vintage Theater Collective.
I am still working as a standardized patient (if you recall, that is where I pretend to be sick to train doctors). One week last month, I had meningitis on Tuesday, a yeast infection on Wednesday and a thyroid disorder on Thursday. I recovered miraculously by the weekend, only to be struck down by a seizure on Sunday morning. Oh, epilepsy... always sneaking up on you when you least expect it. I am currently working with the second-year medical students on the head-to-toe physical exam. This class involves me sitting in a fake doctor's office in a patient gown as three future doctors discuss how to listen to my heart and lungs with their stethoscope without exposing my nipples. There is really nothing like it. At most jobs, people are not allowed to say, "Now lift your left breast." I hear it every day.
|Me at the office.|
I am nannying for a new little boy in Wicker Park, who I affectionately refer to as "the 1%." A. is a very fancy, sweet baby who enjoys regular lunches at The Goddess and The Grocer and Miko's Italian Ice. At home, he delights in avocado and seltzer water. I have the guilt of the 99% on me as I order him his $6 macaroni and cheese lunch at the G&G. The hot dishes at this tiny cafe are served by weight a la carte. The first day we dined out, I only had the $6 in cash his mother had given me in my pocket. (I left my own wallet at home so as to not tempt myself to buy a meal I could not afford.) Despite asking for the smallest piece of macaroni and cheese, the total still came to $6.17. We all stared helplessly at each other as the cashier counted the contents of the "take a penny" cup and A. happily knocked over a stand of expensive toffees. The blonde, manicured woman behind me begrudgingly handed the cashier a quarter, more to get me out of her way than to be generous to a frazzled hipster. I thanked her and felt the need to explain to everyone involved that I was sent here by the boy's mother, not wanting to be perceived as a wealthy Bucktown socialite too cheap to carry around more than $6 to buy her son lunch. After this whole ordeal, A. proceeded to throw about $4.53 worth of the hard-earned dish onto the cafe floor. And yet, we return every week (with a pocket full of change.) I swear they cringe when they see me and his red stroller rolling down Damen. I will never take my own 14 month old out to a restaurant. Lil Clementine will just have to eat her pasta at home and drink her water sans bubbles.
When we aren't harassing upscale grocery clerks, A. and I love going to the dog park and reading Goodnight, Moon in Hebrew (I make up all the words, as I cannot speak Hebrew and refuse to read the book right-to-left, back-to-front. So really I suppose we read something more like Good Morning, Moon where the moon is rudely woken up by a pack of rabbits still in their pajamas.) I've become a regular at the Wicker Park playground, rubbing elbows with an Australian au pair, the homeless gentleman who play bongos at the park's entrance, and Hazel, a very cute baby who flirts with A. and wears her hair in a sprout at the very crown of her head. A. calls me "Mmmm" which is also what he calls 'milk.' Since it is I who provide him with his milk, our exchanges are quite efficient. In all seriousness, A. and his family are very nice and I'm thankful for the work.
|A. and I reading Steven Millhauser|
No one ever said it would be easy. But is it worth it? All the hustle and the moving and the pursuit? Today, I say yes. Yes it is. The dream must be pursued with energy and fervor. We just went to Taliesin, Frank Lloyd Wright's home in Spring Green, Wisconsin. Part of the home burned down three times and each time he rebuilt it. Because the home was his dream and no crazy person or act of God was going to defeat his dream. And so we must be grateful for our crappy apartments and endless job interviews. We must work on our audition pieces and read plays, even though we'd much rather watch 30 Rock. We must learn to cook things that could not be perceived as breakfast foods. We must celebrate our friends' successes, for they are great indeed. And we must end this post, because we have an audition at a theater company called Babes with Blades, and who wouldn't want to see this saucy minx speak some Shakespeare with a sword in her hand?
Much love to you indeed.
|Enjoying a laugh with Breana, who just closed her first season at American Players Theatre|
This post is dedicated to Melinda George, in recognition of her fierce pursuit of her dreams.