Maine for Realz or Our Digital Dependency

Dear Victoria,
I want to begin this letter with an apology. When we were first discussing the idea of maintaining an epistolary blog this year, my immediate reaction was to impose a timeline. It was my idea that we would each be obligated to write at least once a week, and more often if events encouraged it. However, I, so early in our exploits, have violated that. But I would like you to know that I have a very good reason for it.
As you may know, I have recently moved into my new apartment in Maine. The apartment itself is enormous, and much nicer than Alex's, (her words, not mine, although I certainly agree with the sentiment.) Of course this has been tremendous fun for all involved, and between cleaning the apartment and getting all of my preliminary dramaturgical work done for our first production, I have certainly had my hands full. But that's not why I haven't posted.

I didn't have the internet.

Actually, I still don't. I'm at a Starbucks right now. It's like I never left Seattle.  I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that during my first weekend in such a wonderful little city I'm choosing to sit in a chain coffee shop, but the first two cute, independent places I passed weren't open on Sunday and, as previously stated, I don't have any means of looking up where to go.
Still, there's something strangely comforting about spending time in a place that is such a tremendously known quantity. I know that if I go to Starbucks it may be the clinical definition of mediocre, but it is consistently and air-conditionedly mediocre. There are also chairs and wifi, and this morning that was really what I needed.
Up until now I've always considered myself to be one of the less internet-dependent members of my generation, but being without it for a week has shown me just how much I really do use it for. Since I don't own a smart phone, I use my computer to look up directions, which is especially relevant immediately after moving to a new city, since I don't even know how to get to the grocery store yet. My entire recipe book equivalent is a list of urls that lead me to various food blogs.
Perhaps most uncomfortable since beginning my new job is that I cannot do any internet research from my apartment, which means that I spend a lot more time planning ahead and looking up facts at work, and then doing more of the writing and editing around those facts at home.
I've also started getting the shakes and these massive pounding headaches in the evenings. It's not that I need the internet. If I could just get a taste, you know? Just one cute cat v

I'm not even making this up, but halfway through writing that sentence the Starbucks I'm in lost internet. This is getting real, y'all.

Okay, I managed to connect to the wifi that is inexplicably supplied to the park across the street. A field of uninhabited grass has internet and I don't. I'm lower on the technological totem pole than a ground covering. But the joke's on it because grass can't own a laptop. Suck it, empty park.

I may have a problem.

Major props go to my roommate, Julianne, who's been letting me borrow her phone in the evenings to check my email and look stuff up.
Speaking of Julianne, the time has come for me to revisit that list of good roommate criteria I made all those weeks ago.
In case you forgot, this was the list:

1. You have a netflix account.

2. You'll eat anything that I cook for you and act like it's the greatest thing anyone's ever cooked ever. 

3. You joke with me over the summer about how we should build a blanket fort in our apartment. You then proceed to bring a stack of sheets adorned with various cartoon characters with you to college.

4. You actually build a blanket fort with me. 

5. You care about the things I care about to the degree that I care about them, or at least close enough that we make it work.

I will now address these points one by one and then give her a rank accordingly. 

1. As you might imagine, this has been a bit of a sore subject for us so we haven't actually discussed it yet. As a result, I'm forced to give Julianne a preliminary score of "0". 

2. I haven't cooked anything specifically designed for sharing yet, but things are looking good. Last week she gave me a tremendous amount of praise when I added gardenburger and veggies to my Annie's mac and cheese. I plan to make muffins this afternoon to confirm this, but as of right now my best guess is a "9".

3. We could totally do this. We have a giant living room and a bunch of random extra furniture. I'm going to suggest it to her when I get home. I'll give her a hopeful "8". 

4. This has yet to be seen, but I wouldn't rule it out. "5".

5. This is where Julianne really shines. We spent our Friday night deep cleaning our kitchen floor... I don't even know that you would have done that with me. "10". 

So now, if I remember my maths correctly, to find an average I just have to take every number and multiply it by 100. That gives me a percentage which I can divide by ten, then I just add all the numbers together and divide by 50 because there are 50 states in the union, discounting Puerto Rico. 

Math was never my strength.

Okay, with a zero in the netflix category she gets a combined average of 6.4 out of 10. A solid "D", which incidentally would be a great nickname for my poops. 

But I digress. 

Ignoring the netflix category entirely she gets an 8, which sounds much more accurate. 

Keep in mind that when we first started living together you wouldn't eat fish, so you only scored a 7.3.

Oh, and for those of you who get this reference, she does not love dolphins. I repeat: No dolphin teeshirts are worn by her. 

I honestly can't wait until she discovers this blog and realizes I'm a crazy person. I'll know she's read it if she starts locking her door at night. 

I should probably just go ahead and post this before the field realizes it should set a password. 

Talk to you later,

Emily

If I Never Find Love...

Dear Emily,

I greatly enjoyed your last letter and refuse to think about how we grow farther and farther apart with each passing hour. Physical distance, of course; our psychic connection continues to grow stronger each and every day. Your left foot just felt a little itchy, but now that I've pointed it out, you're trying really hard not to scratch it.

As soon as you mentioned all the weird banks in that fake town, I thought, "THE TRUMAN SHOW!!" and was already formulating a response in my head. I'm sure you can imagine the pure glee I felt when I continued to read your development of everything I was thinking and more.

Remember that one time we were talking about The Truman Show and then "fake" checked our apartment for cameras?

Here's a picture of my cat. (See figure c.at_3)

figure c.at_3

I'm not going back to Spain until September 22nd, so I've got a little over a month here in Gresham/Portland before my life gets objectively interesting again.

As a placeholder for interesting international stories, here are 7 funny/random things that have happened, are happening, or will happen to me recently, currently, and futurely.


1)  While I was waiting at a MAX stop to go to Portland, a old bald guy with glasses (who looked quite a bit like actor Joe Pantoliano, but with less hair) stepped considerably into my space bubble and said, "If I gave you my name and number, would you like to go out sometime?"

I looked up from my new smartphone, which I still have no idea how to use, and said, "Um. No. Sorry."
And he said, "Ok," and walked away.

If I never find love, this may be the moment I always look back on and ask myself, 'what if...?'



2)  I got my very first smartphone ever and I have never felt less intelligent.
Although I haven't had much time to play around with it yet, you'll be proud to know I figured out how to place a telephone call all by myself.



3)  My little brother's computer got a bunch of malware on it and pretty much stopped working. After spending a considerable amount of time on it, I fixed it without having to reformat the entire thing and celebrated by using it to listen to the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack on YouTube.



4)  I saw Guardians of the Galaxy and it's the only movie I've ever gone to see twice in theatres. Given, the first time I went on $5 Tuesday, and the second time had a free pass... But still.

I'm just sayin', if Chris Pratt came up to me at a MAX stop, I'd be telling a different story. (See Image _beautiful.7)

Image _beautiful.7

5)  My friend Alex and I went on a short trip up to Seattle to visit a friend, and right before we got on the freeway on our way home, his brakes went out. We were able to pull over pretty quickly and he took off the tire and bled the brakes to get them to work again, but during the almost two hours that we were pulled over on a very busy street corner with the hood up and the right rear tire off, not one single person offered to help us!

When Alex left to go to a hardware store to buy a specific wrench he needed, I figured maybe someone would stop and offer to help if they saw a young woman in distress, standing by herself next to an obviously out of commission car. Actually... I just wanted it to happen because it would be a funny story to tell.

Nothing.

A police officer came by on a segway, glanced briefly at the tire on the ground, and rolled right on by. Seattle lost points on that one.

I bet Chris Pratt would have stopped.



6)  Also on the MAX, a sixteen-year-old boy tried to impress his friends by hitting on me.

I gave him the death stare until he giggled nervously and avoided eye contact for the rest of the ride.



7)  I'm currently searching for a new pet rock.
Her name is Edna.
She can't just be any old rock, I'll know her when I see her.



There's a tiny spider named Ricardo chillin' in the corner by my bed. He hasn't moved in three days, but I don't think he's dead.

I'll just leave you with this:

PS: Remember how you said you'd be writing for SNL in the future? Apparently I'm more suited for Buzzfeed.

Madison, WI Doesn't Exist (And I Can Prove It.)

Dear Victoria,
I've passed the halfway point between Seattle and Maine, traveling through eight states in three days. I have seen such wonders as the boyhood home of Meredith Willson, lyricist of The Music Man, and a vending machine outside of a Walmart in Iowa that systematically distributes off-brand sugary beverages when water is requested. It would have been a fun allegory for what's wrong with middle America if I hadn't been so thirsty.

But it hasn't all been fun and games. We've had our scary moments too, like when we found the spider you'll see pictured in Figure 8. I tried to get my mom to put her hand next to it for a size comparison, but she wouldn't put it close enough so you can blame her for the awkward fingers in the foreground. Since her hand is actually several inches off the wall it makes the spider appear smaller than it actually was. Trust me. It was huge.

Figure 8, as in a spider almost 8 me.

But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about today. I wanted to let you know that I've arrived in the first fictional town of my journey. Actually that's not true because Meredith Willson's boyhood home contained a replica of River City Iowa, but this is the first fictional town that bothered to try and fool everybody. I am in Madison, Wisconsin, which I've discovered does not actually exist. 

I only have one piece of evidence for this, but I think you'll find it compelling.

My mom went to college at the University of Wisconsin, Madison and hasn't visited once in the intervening decades. We spent the evening walking around town and I started noticing a pattern. A disturbing, disconcerting pattern. 

There are no bank chains. No bank of America, no Wells Fargo, no Chase. Instead they have Wisconsin Bank and Trust, Wisconsin Community Bank, and Mid America Bank. At first I figured it was a regional thing. After all, the odds that I would encounter such geographically specific establishments, having never previously been to the Midwest, are negligible. 

Then it got weirder. 

Johnson Bank, Capitol Bank, Associated Bank.

Bank Mutual. 

Just let that sink in for a minute. Keep in mind, I did not seek these out, nor do I pay any special attention to bank names as a rule. 

Being a 90's baby, The Truman Show came into my life while I was still at a profoundly impressionable age. As a result, I have always been on the lookout for signs that elements of my life have been constructed for the entertainment of others. It has become clear to me that Madison, Wisconsin has been created as a television set in order to film a long-form documentary on one specific individual for the span on his entire life. No actual banks agreed to sponsor the project, meaning that they had to fabricate generic bank names for copyright reasons. 

My logic is sound. 

Seriously, though. Bank Mutual? I bet the Mayor of Madison uses his Bank Mutual Card to buy Let's Potato Chips before his flight on Oceanic Airlines. Figure 2 is the Mayor of Madison. You try to tell me that he doesn't look way more like a documentary filmmaker than a mayor. 

Figure 2 as in "I wonder how long I will have 2 live this fiction."

Well, that's it for now. Remind me when you go back to Spain. Wisconsin/Gresham is not what our adoring readers signed up for. 

For now I'll leave you with this image of the breakfast menu left in my room at a Best Western that got a little too big for its britches. 

Really? I can have my choice of any kind of milk in my five dollar cereal? Seriously? How do I warrant such luxury? 

I am Tina Fey

Dear Victoria,

Leaving town by car is a strange thing. A flight seems formal and final and definitive. But, at eight this morning when I was sitting in Seattle traffic ten minutes from my house, it was difficult to register the fact that, although I was geographically so close, I wouldn't see my dog again for several months. With a face like he has I'm surprised I ever leave the house. See Figure Toby for an idea of what I'm talking about.

Figure Toby

Yes, that entire first paragraph was a longwinded excuse to brag about what a cute dog I have. What can I say? Doting grandmother runs in my veins. 

But you didn't start this blog so I could backdoor brag about Toby, you started it so we could write profound, informative, riveting letters to one another on a public forum. Your last post, for instance, had me absolutely enthralled. Seriously, it was a masterpiece. You've ruined me for all other written correspondence because now my expectations are just too high. I'll try my best to live up to your standards. 

In that ilk I'm now going to write about something profoundly vital to both of our lives: Tina Fey.

I spent the day driving all of my worldly possessions from Seattle to Butte, Montana. I chose this location for the night both because of its convenient position nine hours from my starting point, and because the name makes me giggle. During those nine hours I listened to the entirety of Tina Fey's self-narrated audiobook, Bossypants. 

A few things struck me about it. The first you'll think is really funny but it involves something embarrassing about both of us so remind me and I'll tell you about it later by less public means. 

The second is the fact that shortly after graduating from school she applied for several entry-level jobs including one as a box office worker at a Chicago theatre. She went to the interview and everything was going well until the interviewer said something along the lines of "we like to think ours is the most innovative theatre in Chicago" to which the hilarious Fey replied "well, I like to think I'm the most beautiful woman in the world." She did not get the job.

Anyway, this reminded me of a moment from my job interview at a day care. I was describing an obstacle I had to overcome while working at a children's theatre. I talked about parents complaining when their children were not given the leading role in the play and how it was tough to navigate those conversations because every parent thinks their kid is a star. At this my interviewer's face completely dropped and she replied, utterly aghast, "they all are stars."I promptly back-peddled, insisted what I meant was that they just can't all have the lead, and managed to get the job anyway. 

The moral of the story is that this time next year I'll probably be writing for SNL.

Good Intentions

Dear Emily,

Sorry for showing you Cookie Clicker.

Love,

Victoria

A Brief History of Elephant Crushing

Dear Victoria,
Hello! Thank you for your warm introduction and the brief exposition you included, which allowed me to better recall where our friendship currently stands. I'm sure it helped the folks at home, too. That's right, I know you're reading this. See that fourth wall? I break those for dinner.

Since I will soon be setting out on my epic trek across this fine country of ours, I am currently buried under a pile of my own materialism. This is not a figurative statement. This is literally true. And I mean literally as in actually literally, not literally as in figuratively. I'm talking true, true. Like happening in the real world. (Side note: I wish people would stop abusing that word so I wouldn't have to qualify it so much. It's common courtesy.)

In the interest of building trust between our two blog entries, I've included a photo as evidence (See figure 3.14)

Figure 3.14

Please note the look of terror on my face as the weight of the stuff I have yet to deal with slowly crushes my ribs, a process that will presumably lead to my eventual suffocation. The risk of my imminent demise has proven to be a moderately effective incentive to speed up the packing process. 

Side note: Did you know that one of the most popular methods of capital punishment in India and Asia up to the 19th century was via elephant stomping? (See figure 28.38).

Figure 28.38

The things you learn when googling "crushing to death" for a blog entry. Amiright? If there was ever a time and place to be executed, I'm thinking that's it. I mean, I'm sure it hurts and all, but there are worse ways to go. Your heart may be popping like a cherry tomato, but you've got an elephant trunk cradling your leg.

But back to things we care about--

I find that as I prepare to begin my new life at Portland Stage, my greatest anxiety is surrounding having a brand new roommate for the first time in three years. In case you've forgotten, here are the things that make you an exceptional roommate:

1. You have a netflix account.

2. You'll eat anything that I cook for you and act like it's the greatest thing anyone's ever cooked ever. 

3. You joke with me over the summer about how we should build a blanket fort in our apartment. You then proceed to bring a stack of sheets adorned with various cartoon characters with you to college.

4. You actually build a blanket fort with me. 

5. You care about the things I care about to the degree that I care about them, or at least close enough that we make it work.

You're also a great person or whatever, but I consider the above list to be the important ones. Let's call them the Big Five.

Upon meeting my new roommate I will repost this list with detailed explanations of how exactly she fails at living up to your standard. (Side note: Julianne, if you're reading this, just remember that I wrote it before I met you and I hope by this time you've discovered that my good-natured, humorous insults are just part of my charm. If not, let me know and I'll bake you cookies to make up for it.)

I am so pleased that our places of residence are aurally appealing so that we can be friends again. If any readers are planning to move to Bahrain, Ukraine or Great Britain (and you have some sort of weird accent that causes you to pronounce it with an "ane" sound) then feel free to join in the rhyming fun.

Golden out.

And so it Begins...

Dearest Emily,

In case you need some quick exposition on where our friendship currently stands, we were once the most epic roommates on the face of the planet who accomplished many an adventure in our time, including but not limited to: thriving for an entire year in an apartment with no furniture, marathoning several notable TV shows during our regularly scheduled dinner time, super-couponing for about three weeks, figuring out how to rename our WIFI 'Gryffindor', and building a suspension blanket fort in our living room using only yarn, safety pins, and a pole from the closet (see Figure 1.2).

Figure 1.2

See? Look how cute we were:

@intheblanketfort

Everyone knows that apple juice tastes sweetest when consumed in a blanket fort.

Also, in case you are suffering from a case of temporary amnesia, I am soon returning to my job in Spain, where I teach bilingual courses to young adults aged 12-18, and you will be traveling to Maine where you will be a kickass directing/dramaturgical intern at Portland Stage, directing and dramaturging like no other.

[Sidenote: I hope you don't really have amnesia.]

It has come to my attention that we were very lukewarm penpals last year. Mostly because I wrote you a postcard and then took five months to buy stamps.

That is probably because Seattle/Spain just doesn't have the same ring to it, so our correspondence was naturally strained. Now that you and I are going to be living in Maine/Spain respectively, a public record of our letters to one another is clearly a must.

[Sidenote: I know you don't really have amnesia. I was just providing some casual and completely natural exposition for our guests.]

One of the funny things about writing this to you is that I know Erika is totally going to want credit for coming up with this idea, but I'm not going to give it to her. So HA.

I can't wait to tell you about random happenings in Spain and greatly look forward to hearing about your hilarious mishaps in the mysterious land of Maine in our next episode of Maine/Spain.

I don't think we're in the Pacific Northwest anymore, Toto.

[Sidenote: That was a reference. I know your name isn't really Toto.]

Love, Victoria