Mr Cellophane

"A human being's made of more than air
With all that bulk, you're bound to see him there
Unless that human bein' next to you
Is unimpressive, undistinguished
You know who..."

-Chicago

I'm not a big Bob Fosse fan, but for those of you who are I understand. Great work. Love Chicago. Everyone know the scene where Amus finally gets called by his name and he looks up at the lawyer and says bewildered with content, "Amus. That's right--my name is Amus." because the whole time people mix up his name and call him Andy?

You can tell it gets him down, like his whole life everyone expected him to be some Andy-guy. And really it's not that big of a deal, but to him you can see it. His whole life has been a big mess of people scrunching up their faces for recognition and saying to one another, "You know him, the one---ahh, what's his name, Andy or something? Yeah. Him."

Let's take for example a couple of days ago where someone ran into me on a bike and not fifty steps later I had to jump off the sidewalk and into a puddle to avoid beeing careened in the face by a skateboarder. Felt like screaming out a "Hey! I'm walkin' here!" Midnight Cowboy-style but I'm not sure if Dustin Hoffman has given up the rights to that scene. And I was running late for class.

This moment right here, where the group from Germany told me they would love to work with me, a lot of frustration I had been having sort of sighed itself out. I don't know if it was the combination of having something to look forward to in the next couple of months, or if it was being able to check something off my big life to-do list, or even if it was just knowing that it is maybe possible, a tiny bit possible, to do something I'm really excited about with my time.
I can look at my name typed on that envelope, think, "That's right--my name is Rebecca" and be content.

Another Life Lesson Tossed at Me as a Curve Ball.

I've been itching to write for a while. I know, I know. Radio silence hurts me more than it does you, Computer. Honestly though nothing was worth posting up for eternity. I did have some whiny little post up for a day or two but thought better of it. I don't want to look back and just see me sobbing to a lonely keyboard. Windshields on a car are bigger than the rearview mirros for a reason. Look forward.

So as a catch-you-up, I guess I'll start by saying I'm getting over this crazy illness that had choked the very breath from me just a week ago. My nose is scabbed over and I haven't had a great nights sleep in a while, but apart from people telling me I look horrible, I'm alright. Other drama has been tossed in my path but for right now let's just excuse ourselves from it so I can post something without any regret.

I may have gotten my dream job.

For my major I need 'practical experience' to graduate. That's really just a fancy way of them telling me that I need to actually apply myself to the work before I can say with any conviction that I want to do this for the rest of my life. Not a bad idea, if I may add.

So I started looking around. I can't be affiliated with the university here, so working again at my old job was out of the picture. Next step? Google. I googled environmental psychology (I suggest you do it too if you're curious as to what I want to go into) and lo and behold they appeared. Check them out.

They are the Wald-Piraten It translates to Forrest Pirates. Their mascot is a parrot. I don't get it either. But they are a camp for children recovering from cancer treatments. Their logo is 'Keine Mitleid, nur eine faire Chance!' (No sympathy, just a fair chance.) and I want to squeeze them all to death. They're perfect. So so perfect. Located in Germany--like it would take another battle to get me over there--and doing something I don't just find admirable, but exactly what every kid needs, and what I am full speed ahead about helping. Especially if that involves canooing, rock climbing, horse back riding, and basically enjoying my summer with a bunch of people who deserve a nice childhood.

I remember the stupid counseling we went into after cancer crisis in my life. Coloring pictures and soothing colors painted on the walls. To this day I avoid telling people about my family because they get this empathetic hallow look behind their eyes, like they want to take my hand and say it'll be alright.
This won't be anything like that, I hope. Letting these kids just simply be kids for ten days, I feel, is the best idea. No pity here. Heck, I might even scold them if they're acting up. (Because that's what grown-ups do, right?)

I threw together my papers really fast after indicating interest in their program and now I have a phone interview set up. But they are already talking about my housing and transportation--so I feel like my chances are good.

There are a few drawbacks in play already, but I'm hoping within the next six months they'll work themselves out.

Finally feels like something might be going my way.

Dear Robitussin,

I am writing concerning the size of your bottles. They are too small. Over the course of two sleepless nights I have managed to finish one to know avail of diminishing my cold symptoms. Your labels promise effective cold relief and you do, for the span of three short hours, which is a bummer to anyone that may want to sleep longer than two hours and forty-five minutes in a stretch of time.

I have exams this week, one tonight, and can count the number of hours of sleep I've had in the last three days on one hand. However, my tissue expenditures are through the roof and still counting.

I realize you cannot do anything for the wear and tear on my nostrils, which currently are cracked and fissured to the point that the even sight of a tissue is painful, but for heaven's sake, PLEASE put more of your remedy into the bottles you sell. It's imperative I not fail these tests.

Yours,
Rebecca


--

Side note: I would like to publicly thank Connie L. for one of the best graduation gifts I received. Remember that giant pink tote you filled with basic medicine cabinet stuff? (ie cough drops, bandages, Robitussim?) Best idea ever.

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner.

Can I trust you, Computer? I'm going to tell you a secret. One I've kept balled up in the deepest nether regions of my soul until this day.

Once, back in fourth grade, we had a short story contest. To say I wanted to win is an understatement. Chalk it up to birth order or repressed insecurities but I wanted--needed-- to win. This was fourth grade after all, the real deal, the claws come out.  Plus, the prizes were monumental. A book to third and second places with first taking home a book AND a gift certificate for a free Pizza Hut pizza. I would have killed for it.

I remember getting so bent out of shape over it as I mulled over ideas in my head. Political satire told through my pre-school experiences? A harrowing parable of over coming class stratifications? C'mon Rebecca! We need gold here!
  Really, I just couldn't decide of all the amazing things floating through my head so the night before the due date, choked with pressure, I picked up a book from my shelf and summarized the plot into my very own plagiarized short story. About a child-detective that may have worn a hat very similar to that of Sherlock Holmes.

I pity fourth grade me. I really do.

There were days when I was younger that I would make up big sounding words in front of my sister and when she looked at me confused, I would roll my eyes and sigh, exasperated that someone her age didn't know what "experdubality" meant. (It was very obviously when someone did something in a very suspicious and sneaky manner.)

Girls can be so experdubalicious.

The day the story winners were announced I fidgeted about, twirling my hair like I always do when I'm nervous. I felt sick to my stomach and was sure that my teacher would have read the book I copied and would call me out in front of everyone. What did they do to cheaters? I just assumed public flogging. Or at least banishment from fourth grade. Forever.

I was almost happy when I didn't win. I got second to another boy in my class. The book I won was Garth Pig Steals the Show. I remember that. It was a glossy hard-cover with my name written, in neat cursive, on the inside cover. I never did read that book. I was too ashamed.

And that sums up my life of academic crime.

And honestly, until my high school art class, in one beautifully thought up conceptual art project, I hadn't written creatively since.
Until now, of course.
Funny how the world works and here I am back on the creative expressions horse. Blogging will do the soul good and it's even gotten me entering writing contests.

Just imagine, back in high school when my English teachers would assign another essay I would ooze apathy. It was pointless, they didn't care what I wrote so long as it followed their neat little formats.
To me, it was all just jumping through hoops to get to college and I never realized how LIBERATING it can be to just put words to paper. (Or computer, in this case.) I honest to goodness get a writers high.

So I entered this little essay contest my university put on for our German language week. (It's a thing the German embassy does to incourage learning German and the societle benefits of another culture--benefits may include, but are not limited to pizza, free t-shirts, pens, and warm fuzzy feelings of cultural acceptance.)

And guess what, Computer? I won! Scout's honor, I did it right this time around. The e-mail came congratulating me and offering me free dinner at an award ceremony. I'm kind of overwhelmed. I've never thought of myself as a person who was much good at anything. (I am amazingly average at a lot of things.) Does this mean I am a for real writer now?

Violin Monster. Someday, I will find you.

Major orchestras provide a screen during auditions so that the panel of judges may not see the applicant. Within its first implications beginning in the early twentieth century, one trombonist earned first chair before the judges realized one trait differing from the other. She had a second X chromosome.

Even with her extraordinary talent, beating out all other male applicants, she was let go because there was no way that a woman could 'play as well as a man'. Even if she had already proven it.

Maybe this is why I am so enamored by the Violin Monster.

 He strolls around Ann Arbor, amongst other places, and tweedles out tunes for those who pass by. If you're one like me, the first time you see him you immediately grab the arm of the person you're walking with and mumble, "Turn around. Let's turn around. Just don't look at it. Turn around."
People like me are afraid of street performers though. Mostly just the ones that stand like statues. Just heebie-jeebies all over the place.

But ViolinMonster has his charms. In the fact that he is very charming. And he is exceptional at his trade. He is most gracious, allows photos, and welcomes listeners with open arms...er..paws?

I had heard him a few times but not once did I stop to listen because of my inane phobia. Life kind of smiled on me one day as I met him walking to class and saw his mask. I ran up behind him, not even passing by him like a normal person and definitely not thinking how creepy I would come off, and sort of half-yelled at him, "You're the ViolinMonster!" As if this guy walking around with a "Violinmonster.com" sign, violin, and mask didn't fully realize who he was.
"I am."
It took me a second to realize how this monster was very not monstrous at all. He was nicely dressed, warm and friendly and didn't seem to notice how out of breath I was from my two second sprint. Why was I afraid of him again?

We chatted for a half a second before I noticed that I was just saying, "I enjoy your playing so much." over and over again (Such an eloquent lady, I am, under pressure.) and I chose to hurry off, excusing myself to econ class.

Afterward I thought about how I did enjoy his playing (And how I really want a picture with him.) Even before I saw his face. He was the trombonist behind the screen. Only instead of boobs he has a real people face. I like his idea that the music is his focus and what he looks like is only a sideshow.

He sums it up in his own whimsical style on his website. When he's caught without his mask people, especially children--his main fans--, sometimes say, "But I thought you were real." to which he has replied, "I AM real--especially wild in your imagination."