Name: La Nina
I'm a Jersey girl without the big hair or the accent (well, most of the time anyway), but with all of the bad driving and the penchant for weekly manicures.
Oh, and I'm an interior design student. That's how all of the weird terminology comes into play.
In addition to the 20+ boxes currently blocking my view of the loveseats -- don't cry for me, Argentina, those things are not very pretty and far from comfortable -- I've thrown out at least a dozen large garbage bags' worth of stuff. It's amazing the smorgasbord of completely useless bits and pieces one can accumulate in 5 years of living in one spot. Receipts for tarot reading sessions, MC Hammer pants, the dashboard to a Daewoo Nubira, a lock of Andy Warhol's hair, silly things like that. Thank goodness for storage closets, or else I would have been buried in my apartment ages ago.
Time for a fun and exciting game of "Where's Nina?" (or ¿Dónde está La Niña? in my name's native language)
One thing that this sense of displacement has given me is an even larger desire to finally see this move through to completion. (Odd how excitement can make time speed up and slow down at the same time without resulting in inertia. But I digress.) All I know is that I won't be able to rest until this is over, and I haven't even packed the bed yet.
Regarding her first audition for a Broadway musical:
"Finally my turn came. I gave my name -- no experience except American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I gave my sheet music to the accompanist, a faceless young man -- I was so terrified I didn't see a thing. Mr. Abbot called to me to move out to center stage. First he asked me to do the time step again -- which I could do, God knows, but my knees were shaking so badly I even had trouble with that. Then the dreaded song. I wanted to hang on to the piano, but that was out. I sang it, or talked and sang it, or did something with it. I got through it terribly without confidence or voice -- at the end I was told to leave my name with the stage manager, thanked for my trouble, and the next name was called. I knew I'd never hear from them. What an experience! It was like going to the chair."
...Bacall back then.
That's what I love about a good biography: getting a look behind the persona and really seeing the person. I hardly expected to read something like that from the woman who at the age of nineteen uttered the immortal line, "You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow." Now that's acting.
I am now slowly crawling out of the hole. I'm ruining my manicure in the process, but so what?Only now am I realizing that this is totally the wrong approach. Instead of tolerating it I should appreciate it for what it represents. When I look back on this period in a couple of months, I'll value it as a time when I woke up each morning full of excitement and hope. As a time when I spent every free moment I could with my family since my visits with them will be most likely few and far between once the move happens. As a time when I could stick my head outside and and revel in the fact that I wasn't friggin' freezing. And that memory would be a much clearer one if only I would just get out of my funk and document it. So here I am.