Thursday, March 29, 2012

Not to be too self-promoting or anything....


Next week April 4th-7th will be my first show in Boston, at the Plaza Theatre at the Boston Center for the Arts.  Because I'm a big deal now people, let it be known that India Pearl is actually an actress post-theater-degree college life. 

The show is rightly dubbed "Blogoliloquy" due to its makeup of multiple monologues all being excerpts from fellow Boston bloggers.  Most or all of these bloggers are followed much more than I, which would grant them the awesome privilege to see their written word come to life onstage, therefore I am conflicted between the two following emotions of jealousy (obviously I wish more people read my blog, but I wonder what my audience would even be?  I should put more thought into that for future posts, like who the heck am I writing to anyway?!) and thankful (for the opportunity of the show as a relatively new actress and as a fellow blogger). 

I find the material relatable for a couple of reasons.  The fact that I write on a regular basis makes me truly think about what is my author aiming at and what were they possibly feeling when they wrote the words that I'm speaking?  Sure, I could jump up and down about how exciting snow suits or jazz clubs are, but it's easier to do so when I look back on a post where I also jumped up and down for something equally special to my heart.  Also, most of the blogs are written so well that I feel like I sort of know their authors already, which I'm sure is their intent as bloggers to relate to their readers.

One of our original instructions as actors was to not go to the blogs themselves and read the authors' other works, as it may or may not skew how we play the few pieces of material we were performing.  Sometimes with too much background information, your approach can change completely to something far from where you wanted to end up.  (It's sort of like being in a play after you watched the movie, and you suddenly start to imitate the other actor that played the part before you did.)  That being said, I can't wait to meet the chick I'm playing!!!

I know that's weird, but apparently we're about the same age, love useless junk, random accessories, Obama, and snowball fights.  In an alternate universe where we meet before I played her blogger personality in a show, we would've been those cool friends who wear vintage clothes without trying too hard and make fun of hipsters at bars in places like Harvard Square or Allston where we may or may not also sort of be hipsters but would never admit it.  So yeah, I hope she doesn't think I'm a creep when I hug her as soon as Justin tells me who she is at one of the shows and then I'm like, "We're the same persoooooonnnnn!!!!"

So for those readers that are interested in coming to see a great show put together for real Bostonians, you can go to and look up the title "Blogoliloquy" in the search bar for tickets.  I hope to see your lovely reading faces there!

Sunday, March 25, 2012

I think I might be psychic, or at least deja-vu is ruining my life.

I'm not certain that the link will work, but I wikied deja-vu and it's pretty interesting to read about.  My whole life has had moments like this, where I dream something very detailed, or even just a brief moment, and then it happens.  Sometimes days, weeks, or even years later.  I forget if I had posted about a dream I had when I was a very young kid and how it influenced my becoming a Christian, but this post is more specifically about...


I've only ever had one dentist, because I have terrible fears concerning my teeth.  If my dentist ever retires, I will either let my teeth rot out of my head or just kill myself.  Because I would rather have to eat mashed potatoes for the rest of my life then trust some other psychopath to stick sharp metal tools into my face and tell awful jokes like, "the good news is, this will hurt you more than it'll hurt me."

The week before last, I had this very vivid dream about my teeth.  I've had many dreams where my jaw gets stuck in an awful wide open dead person rigamortis position, or it's wired shut and I can't open it, or all of my teeth fall out.  This dream that I had recently however, was far worse.  I was sitting with my boyfriend, and I was grinding my teeth, when all of them crumbled like rocks and pebbles in my mouth, and all I had left was awful silver broken stubs.  I woke up sweating, thinking about it all day, worried that I would never eat anything solid ever again.  My dinner was mashed potatoes that night just to keep myself calm.

During my wonderful vacation with said boyfriend after we fast forward to last week, we were driving around at ten o'clock at night, doing a junkfood run in the middle of nowhere.  He bought me a delicious ice cream cookie sandwich, to which I happily bit into. 
Suddenly, the worst possible thing that could possibly happen, well it happened.

Tears running down my face.
Body shaking.
Pieces of my tooth floating around in bits of chocolate chip cookie and ice cream.
Boyfriend panicking because I can't tell him what's wrong, as I have yet to open my mouth to see the horrorific after effects of my mouth falling apart.

There was nothing I could do but cry... and then maybe call my mom because that was the first thing Will suggested we do.  What a good boyfriend.  He knows me too well.

 Two days later I'm sitting in the chair at the dentist's office, hoping it's not as bad as I think.  When I looked in the mirror, half of my incisor was just gone.  It was brown and rotted on the inside, like when you crack open an egg and think everything on the inside is great but soon as it's in the bowl it's green and stinky and your pancake mix is ruined.  My mouth looked like those posters at the office next to my chair, where someone with mouth cancer has teeth brown and half gone, and the tagline says:  DON'T SMOKE - take care of your teeth or you'll look like this guy and you'll have to get dentures, trust us it's no fun.

Dr. Bob asks if he can look at the tooth, and he gasps I said,
"I know, it was horrifying"   he said,
"sweetie, that is worse than horrifying... be right back" and he leaves the room.  I'm left alone, panicking and waiting for my impending doom asking myself,
He may as well have said,
"your jaw is going to fall off... sit tight kiddo"

Turns out, it was the same tooth that I had a root canal on three years ago and I never got the crown.  I also no longer have dental insurance.  1200 dollars later, my savings account is crying, and I really wish I had Mass Health.  I was saving for something, saving to pay off some of my smaller loans, saving to eventually get a vespa or a motorbike or something vehicle-like that wouldn't eat at my wallet with all these gas prices rising.

Maybe I'd consider being a stripper if I wasn't such a terrible dancer, and I didn't already have a college degree...
Maybe I can hone in on these psychic skills of mine, read one of those "how to find your chakra" books and scam people like that chick on Main st in Hyannis who tried to sell me a happiness crystal for 200 bucks. (which she probably made herself out of superglue and some Claire's accessories)
Or... a psychic stripper... hmm that's new and innovative.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

wack fall the daddy-o, there's whiskey in the jar

I have often caught myself loving St. Patrick's Day almost as much as I love Christmas.  In fact, now that the nostalgic sadness of Christmas 2011 has ceased from my veins, I could say that it may even be my favorite holiday.  (Don't let me hear myself saying that come November!)  But yes, ever since I was a small child this holiday has had a very special meaning to myself and my family as we had many traditions and loving memories that go alongside of it.

Some people don't quite understand the love for a Hallmark holiday when it's clearly overly-commercialized and doesn't seem to have any sort of relevant importance to the rest of the world.  Heck, I'll admit that St. Patty's is just an excuse for a lot of Bostonians to go out and get shitfaced together and pretend that they're Irish when they may or may not have the last name to prove it such as a generic "Murphy" or "O'Brien". 
(For those of you who did not know this, India Pearl is my first and middle name, so yes it is my real name but my last name is a proud and unusual "Daughney" which is quite similar to more popular Irish last names such as "Donaghue" and the like. Please don't be annoyed if you're a closer friend and you had no idea, the only people who really know it are my family and whoever writes me a check.)

Anyway, when I was young I was told on a very regular basis that I was Irish, and my freckles were homegrown to prove it to the rest of the world.  I was brought home Woolie sweaters from Ireland when my Nana went on her travels, we had Irish music playing at almost every holiday aside from the 4th of July, and I was put into Irish Step Dancing class so that I would have to put on a little jig at family parties.  Everyone would say they were so proud of me for keeping up the tradition, and I was having fun being in the Worcester St. Patrick's Day Parade every year. 
God rest her soul, my step dancing teacher Mary McInerny passed away a couple of years ago from cancer.  Her kids were very young, it was really sad.

I remember every argument or hardship, tale of luck and happiness, and exclamation of emotion involved the Catholic Jesus Christ, the luck of the Irish, or both. 
"If that landlord thinks I'm payin the rent before he fixes the fuse in the basement, he can kiss my white Irish ass!"
"You pray to St. Anthony and your Irish luck will bring that lost wallet back to you."
"Don't forget, you're married to an Irish woman and you don't want to piss her off, she's smarter than you and you know it, you dumb drunk."
"Are you having another beer?" -- "Yes dear, it's ok I can still drive I'm Irish." 
And so on and so forth.  Once, when I was well under the drinking age, I was told that if I was a real Irish woman when I grew up, I would love Irish whiskey.  Well Mom, you were right.  Too bad Jameson is so effing expensive.

Every year my Nana and her husband and so many of our family members would help out with the St. Patrick's Day Parade Committee.  (I want to say it was planned by the Teamsters, or the Teamsters were/are involved, but I don't want to misprint information this is just from my childhood perceptions and that my uncle worked for them.)  I would stand outside and some years it was nice weather, while other years it was freezing.  There's a picture of my mom and a couple of us kids sitting behind the judge's table watching the show, Our apartment was right off of Park Avenue in Worcester, which was so lucky because we could walk one block to watch the parade.  My cousin Ronnie and I would wave to the people on the floats, and beg them to throw us candies.  I would beat up whatever little flag-clad 4 year old that tried to take those soft-filled strawberry-shaped penny candies from the sidewalk before I got there.  I still say they're my favorite.  And yes, I'm aware they can rip your fillings out and they cost mere pennies.

The fall of 2010 when I went to Dublin and took a tour through the countryside, I was so happy I can't even express it into words without taking up ten more paragraphs.  I "shook the hand" of a crusade soldier and had massive luck for at least a week, (heck, maybe I'm still getting that luck) I toured the Jameson factory, I met some Americans here and there when I was missing home and my family that couldn't be in Dublin with me, I saw the Book of Kells and went to St. Patrick's Church and said a little prayer at both places, posed with the infamous Molly Malone, drank a Guinness at the oldest pub in Dublin, gushed over the green pastures in the countryside, and so on and so on. 

St. Patrick's Day might just be an excuse to drink for some people, but to me, or at least to the kid version of me, it means a whole world of things.  Who our family was, where our blood came from, the traditions of a country passed on through generations and being carried on in another country, it's all sort of a beautiful idea when you forget about the beer chugging contest.  I love my family, and I love our background, and I love Ireland and the Boston version of being Irish. Just the sound of Irish music makes my heart and soul cry and sing at the same time.  That's love.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone, I hope it's really lucky and fun for all of you.  Here's an Irish blessing that you all might know but I truly do mean it:
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I want to add a small note here that my Nana's soon to be ex husband whom I don't mention very often and don't like to name on my blog, truly influenced a lot of my love for our background and being a Massachusetts Irish Catholic.  Even though we don't speak anymore, this time of year is a little bit hard because he used to be such a huge part of all of us getting together.  We don't wish to have him in our lives anymore, but I'll be drinking a whiskey to him this year in hopes that he's doing well.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

It's spring, we sprung ahead, and my heart is springing!

I'm not totally sure what my odd daylight savings time subject line means.  This morning I woke up in a terrible mood because I was overheated, dehydrated, and it was after "noon" (really felt like eleven 'cause they switched the clocks last night).  I said goodbye to my boyfriend who went to go play some basketball with his buddies, and I proceeded to be stuck on the phone for two hours with TMobile. 

They are awful, their customer service stinks, they're apathetic, they charge you for ridiculous things, and their warranty exchange is absurd. This post isn't supposed to be about my phone service, but wouldn't you think that paying a processing fee when your phone has a defect just to get another phone is a form of robbery?  Sure, if I broke my phone then I will gladly pay for the replacement, but since that is not the case I shouldn't have to pay to get another one.  And here's the clincher: they don't take formal complaints over the phone, you have to mail them a letter to file a formal complaint.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! 
"I'm speaking to a customer service rep right now on the phone, and you can't take my complaint?"
"No mam, they only process them through mail. Please be as specific as possible when you write the letter."
"Oh believe me... I will be."

That being said, I didn't get out of the house until the clock said it was 4:45 and I was very cranky.  I wanted to go to the gym, and then I missed the bus.  So instead of trekking all the way to Porter Square, and after realizing that I had almost missed out on this beautiful day altogether, I went for a run in the Tufts track down the street from my apartment. 

I was amazed at how much running in 50+ degree weather cleared my brain.  I had no headphones, no tv in front of me like at the elyptical machine, and all I tried to concentrate on was the green turf and trees around the track, and my breathing.  My lower back began to pang with jolts of tightening up so I had to stop a little sooner than I wanted, but it was still worth the trip.  Every time that my mind wandered to, "I have to do this and this and this..." I would stop myself and just look at the trees and think, "green... air... breathe... outside... sun..." and simple little thoughts like that to make myself happy.  It worked.

After a trip to Family Dollar and getting off the bus to return home, I just felt this rush of happiness at the thought that Spring was truly here.  Many other thoughts were rushing into my head as well, but mostly feelings associated with memories that simply happen every year when the weather is warm. (Halfway through this I realized I was typing about summer, but Spring is just an exciting enticement for what is to come)
Everyone is in a good mood because they're finally getting out of the house
You go out and stay up late without caring about the long walk home
The smell in the air makes you want to take that walk home
The middle of the night is like a whole 'nother day, just a different kind of day and sleep need not interrupt your enjoyment
Crickets keep your mind quiet while all the windows are open wide and you feel a comforting soft breeze
You feel like love is possible even if it's not real love, that's what summer is for
Walking around in your underpants in your apartment is completely acceptable, as is walking around outside in a bikini or something else that would otherwise be considered slut-gear
Campfires make you miss being a teenager
The rain, when the sky cracks open after five awfully hot days and you push your nose up against the screen door and breathe deep taking in the smell
Grass is a perfectly acceptable mattress 
Guitars and instruments are everywhere in the city, as though the sun brought a soundtrack with him upon his return
Booze and cigarettes are casual company for a lazy afternoon
Any night of the week is acceptable to be out and about

You're just plain happy and feeling free like anything is possible.