In which I ramble about children and being remembered, in a feverish ibuprofen haze.

I don't want this blog to become my place where I unload all of my "I'm not going to have children" rants but...

I'm not going to have children, and, once again, I need to rant about it.

When I was out on my birthday, an older friend and I delved into one of those ~conversations~ about my future. I try not to approach those with a begrudging sigh, but come on, guys. I know that I'm 25 and work at a zoo and am not using my degree to it's fullest potential so can we just drop it??? Alright, now that that's out of the way. I mentioned in passing that I know I won't be having children, and that put the emergency breaks on, FAST. I've grown very used to this happening (see: nearly all of my previous posts here), so I rattled off my usual thing about how I know only one thing for certain about my future, blah blah blah.

That explanation seemed to work for her, but she did have one more question that managed to stick with me until I was at the gas station this afternoon and this blog post managed to write itself in my head.

"Don't you realize that when you die, you're going to leave no part of you for people to remember you by?"

To quote the lovely John Mulaney, "First of all; no."

Does that mean that when people think of me, all they think of are my parents? I mean, sure, they raised me well and I'm happy to have them. But... my dad fucked up, big time, a few years ago. I don't like talking about it most of the time (most of the people who have entered my life more recently don't even know a thing about the situation) and I have to stifle a comical amount of anger whenever I'm greeted with a "Hey Meredith, how's your dad?" The concern is sweet and it is nice knowing that when I do need support, there are people out there. Whether the offender realizes it or not, though, they are pushing me more and more back under my parents' shadow, just when I've begun to make my stake in this bizarre world. I'm not saying I'm resentful toward my parents. In the future, when I think back on them, I'm going to remember them as their own people, with their own qualities and accomplishments, which is the least anyone can do for each other. I'm not a perfect person by ANY sense of the word, but the last thing I would want for any children I'd hypothetically have would be for them to be remembered simply as being my offspring.

Going beyond all my daddy issues (ugh, if there was ever a phrase I hate), her question set off the fledgling funny person that lives inside me. I know that for as long as I'm stuck in small-city Pennsylvania, I can't really make any huge strides toward a career in comedy. The instant I find myself in New York (or Chicago), with enough money to live and take improv classes, though? I'll finally be on the path to channeling the comedy I grew up with into something productive.

I'm not flying down some crazy delusional path. I know that the odds of my actually becoming a Weekend Update anchor are ridiculously slim and my 494 Twitter followers that I have now may very well be the closest thing I ever get to "fans." Whatever impact I make here... isn't it better to be remembered by the people who genuinely want to remember you? I'd like to think that if I've contributed something worth thinking about to the world, the people who want to talk about it down the road are going to do so, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to them.

...This was a weird post. I've had three protein shakes and four huge glasses of juice today (along with probably too much ibuprofen) because I have what feels like a sinus infection, minus the actual pressure in my sinuses, and I'm terribly paranoid that it's actually the beginning of this monster flu, and I do NOT have time to deal with that. Anyway. Thanks for reading this mess that is my brain.

This is a Christmas blog post? Alright.

Christmas is really fucking weird.

Like. For one week of the year, we're supposed to get together with people we never see otherwise and give them presents that they may or may not like? For existing???

I mean, honestly, it's hard to not look at that end of Christmas in Michael Scott's view: "Presents are the best way to show someone you care. It's like this tangible thing that you can point to and say 'Hey man, I love you this many dollars worth.'"

I don't want this to become a preachy soapbox thing where I wax rhapsodic a la Charlie Brown (or right-wing wing-nuts who sneer at a "Happy holidays!" greeting when really, isn't the thought behind ANY greeting at all better than nothing?). I mean, sure, there are those moments where I'd love to go back to the simpler times, when Christmas was a joy-filled dinner in my grandma's basement (no, really), but I'm grounded in the real world, where things move crazy fast and our society is always growing and expanding. I love that.

Um, anyway.

What I'm trying to get out in this blog post is how weird it all is. We literally save up money (or, in my broke-ass case, scramble to make non-existent money move around in a favorable way) to buy more things than we do for the rest of the year, for the people in our lives? But, like, 90% of those expected presents are for people we don't see except for when we're giving them presents? So we're conditioning children to Pavlov-dog their way into every family gathering??? I remember being disappointed when my uncle got re-married because I knew it was a big family event, and then I didn't get one gift. What IS that?! Yes, Meredith. Your uncle is getting married so here's a ton of presents! It's April!!!

...I truly don't know where I'm trying to go with this post but I suppose this is my Christmas gift to the internet. You're welcome.

ALSO!! IMPORTANT ~BLOGGER~ NOTE. I was one of those fools who hastily deleted my instagram account the second they pulled the rug out from under us pseudo-photographers, but I decided to take that and turn it into something positive to hide my shame for being so quick to remove my beautiful shots of my dog and beer. I made a new account, meredithcesare (whoa, just like my name!), and for the entirety of 2013, I am going to post one picture every day. It'll keep me a bit more reigned in and will really let my iPhone photo editing skillz (?) shine. So, if you want to follow that project (the more followers I have there, the more pressure I'll feel to actually keep up with this), go for it!

I also hope to actually blog more in 2013. This past year has kind of been a waste for me, intellectually-speaking. Obviously, I'm not back in school or anything like that -- nor do I ever plan to be -- but I really feel like I didn't accomplish anything. Sure, I saw a lot more responsibilities at work and helped put on some freakin' massive musicals and plays, but... I need a writing outlet. So. Peer pressure. Tell me to write.

AND, speaking of peer pressure, I also got a gym membership from my aunt for Christmas. I haven't had a gym membership in nearly three years, and after one dance rehearsal two weeks ago, I was sore for four days. I need to better myself. YELL AT ME IF I DO NOT TWEET REGULARLY ABOUT GOING TO THE GYM.

...

Merry Christmas?

Ugh, a blog post about ~feelings~ [Insert Liz Lemon eye-roll here]

In any given group of people, I'm that person.

The one who cheers too loudly, laughs too hard, cries for a little too long after the credits roll.

You name the feeling, I feel it. Strongly. Stronger than anyone else I know. It's all-consuming. I get excited to a fault; I put too much faith in people. In some settings, it's really good -- I don't think I would have been front row, center, for the Steve Martin concert last year if I hadn't parked myself outside the theater eight hours before he took the stage (for mic check -- it was an additional two hours before the actual show). 

Actually, in most situations, this is ultimately a good thing. Sure, I may take over peoples' Twitter timelines because I reply to comedy writers and celebrities all the damn time, but when exciting or genuinely nice exchanges come from it? Those tweets are worth it. When I'm working on a musical and can't see the light at the end of the tunnel that is tech week, I subconsciously dig my heels in a little deeper and pour every bit of energy in me into the production. It's exhausting and makes me unbearable to be around if you're not on my crew, but again, in the end, it's worth it. I'm so proud of the theater kids I've worked with who are now in college, off starting their own careers. I hope it's a comfort for them that no matter what they go on to do, they have at least one constant cheerleader who believes in them.

I'm not in the best of moods as I sit here, writing this, though. I'm watching The Fifth Element because I wallow in stupid girly feelings in really stupid ways, and I'm trying to keep my mind off circumstances that are making me really, really sad.

For all those times I feel so proud or excited or valued, I feel those stupid single girl feelings. Even though I don't see myself """"settling down"""" in the stupid traditional sense (what even IS traditional anymore?), I feel all those desires that go along with being a woman. I know that I'm not always the best at expressing those feelings, and I know that changing that is entirely in my hands, but when those feelings are as strong as they are, it's hard to get them out of my head. It's frustrating. It's also something I've been forced to grow comfortable with, as much as it sucks (like right now). Basically, when it comes to romance, there's a whole lot of thinking on my end, but not a lot of action. I like that I'm a grounded person, and on nearly any day, it serves me well. Then, there are days like today, where everything just builds up and comes to a frustrating head that doesn't offer any sort of closure or comfort. It's just a mess of feelings that I can't express quite to my liking or explain away. 

On days like this... I write. And I hope that someone reads what I write. And that maybe, something will resound within them, and they'll be a little better off for it. At least then I can feel like my mopey evening hasn't gone entirely to waste.

I really, really like dyeing my hair.

This all started when 19-year-old me looked in the mirror and realized that my lovely shade of mousy brown had somehow transformed into mousy gray. I was 19, and, in most light, I had a full head of gray hair. I've been blessed to have the best stylist EVER at my beckon call, so shortly after working through the expected existential crisis, I was in his chair, watching my hair transform into a lovely shade of auburn.

He created a monster.

I quickly learned that red hair is the hardest color to keep up with, so, thanks to my never remembering what shade I used, my touch-ups turned into (not so) subtle color changes. Unfortunately, I was on a student's salary, so my dye jobs were typically done in a friend's kitchen. Hey, I got free food while I waited for the color to set, so it wasn't all bad! I was crazy experimental back then -- if it's a shade of red that you can buy at CVS, it was on my head. I'd love to tell you that being a brazen ginger was a fantastic time, but 97% of those shades made my skin look fluorescent yellow (damn my awkward skin tone) -- or, more often, I just looked like a foolish college student who was discovering what fun hair dye could be. OH. I was also getting wickedly curly perms through all of this. This was a dark period in my life, kids.

Fall 2009 brought a nice round of sanity with it. I cut nearly a foot of (orange) hair off (it was frizzy perm growth (did I mention that it had turned orange?), so I was not upset in the least to see it go) and had my stylist take me to a nice, sane chocolate-y brown. I finally looked closer to my age, and I spent the winter trying out different shades of brown... until I realized that I had been unintentionally working my way darker and darker.

In the spring before I graduated college (eww, weird December graduate alert), I snap-decisioned a really really REALLY short haircut. I'm talking... nearly shaved on the right side of my head. Part of the decision was due to my wanting to thoroughly erase all the damage the red dye and perms had left behind, but 3/4 was entirely my walking into the salon and saying "Let's do something new." I also let all of the dye grow out with the short haircut. Graduating college puts you in a bettering-yourself state of mind, so it was only natural to do.

I was actually okay with the ashy brown through most of that summer. It wasn't as shockingly gray since my hair was short, and it was definitely awesome feeling something healthy and natural on top of my head. ...And then I found Feria's midnight collection. Black dyes, with either red, purple or BLUE undertones? I was there. The red black faded to an auburn that reminded me too much of my previous mistakes, sadly, so I decided to say "Screw it" to being mainstream, and picked up purple. God, that purple black. It was just your average pitch black in indoor lighting, but a brilliant eggplant whenever I hit the sun. It also made my first showers after dye jobs look like murder scenes because of how much red and pink was rinsing out, but whatever.

And then there was the blue black. Starry Night. The best thing to happen to my hair since that very first auburn dye job, back in 2007. It was just black enough to be considered a natural shade when I was at work, but the second you put me under the sun or stage lights, I had blue hair. Blue hair!!! Do you know how awesome that made me feel? I stayed with that color for much longer than any other; for almost a year, I paraded around my blue hair like the proud little kid I am.

Then... I realized that blonde was the only color I'd never done. My hair was actually bright white blonde until I was 3 years old, but obviously, that was irrelevant in my thought process. Plus, since Amy Poehler holds the lady hero key to my heart, following her lead is something I'm always eager to do. For whatever reason, after years of bizarre hair colors, this was the one that gave me serious anxiety, though. I was terrified as I sat under my stylist's hairdryer. Since I'm a moderately paranoid child of the internet age, I spent the hours before my appointment reading up on bleach horror stories.

Thankfully, I had nothing to worry about, and, at least for the extended time being, I'm pretty sure my color-changing days are over. I really like being blonde. We do have more fun. Of course, that doesn't mean I've ruled out throwing in sections of pink every now and then, but I don't think we'll see that god-awful red ever again.

There's something wonderfully therapeutic about tweaking your appearance in an afternoon. I... might blame this blog post on hair dye fumes since I just touched up my color.

Um, if you want a glimpse of some of my color mistakes/triumphs, go through my album of profile pictures on Facebook. Look! A link!

...remember when I actually wrote blog posts?