What the Hell Does LoloKirby Mean?

Blog Challenge- Day 18!

What is the meaning behind my blog name, you ask?

Well friends, the gist of it is that I’m a crazy person with an identity crisis.

It may come as a shock to you, but my first name is Lauren. (Take a breath, it’s bombshell I know, but we’ll get through this).

But yes, it’s true! Only again, crazy lady, I don’t really respond to it. I realized that no one really says my name. Even I don’t say my name. I’m called a variety of nicknames, the most popular being “Lolo,” which has now evolved into “Loli” (low-lee) to some. It’s the only nickname that resembles “Lauren” so I figured it’d take it for a spin around the WordPress block. Toot toot.

As for the Kirby part, it’s my middle name! I think it was my paternal grandmother’s maiden name. A lot of men in the family have it. I don’t know of the other girls. I wonder what the hell that’s all about.

Now I’m going to have to consult the family tree and talk to my ancestral mystics about that.

**

In other news, tomorrow is my showcase!

Shouldn’t you be studying your lines?

Yes.

Then why aren’t you?

BECAUSE I’M BLOGGING AND EATING ICE CREAM, JESUS. GET OFF MY BACK, MAN.

Fine, I didn’t want a piggy back ride anyways.

See what I did there?

No?

Alright fine.

Time to go study lines so I don’t suck really bad tomorrow! I’ll post the shoes I’ll be wearing. You don’t want to miss these puppies.

Until next time, my little toaster strudels!

Dude, Where’d My Face Go?

Hey my Cabbage Patch Squids,

I think I may be having an identity crisis, but mainly just at my gym.

Every time I walk in and buzz my little card at the scanner, I get greeted with “HEY! You haven’t been around lately!” by one of the staff members. What? No! I was here yesterday and you said the same thing to me then. Maybe they’ve mistaken me for someone else? I smile and lie “I know, right?!” and I head over to the boxing area.

“Hello! How are you?!” asks a lovely woman I’ve maybe smiled at once or twice when she looked in my general direction.  Is she talking to me? She’s staring at me. Maybe she remembers me from the last thirty sessions we’ve had together? I haven’t answered her yet. Oh God. “Um, hi! Good! How are you?” Maybe she does remember me and she’s being friendly. There are a lot of new people here today.

“How’s your shop doing?” she asks as she wraps up her hands. I don’t have a shop, do I? Did I tell her I had a shop? Have we spoken before? Is there a woman who looks exactly like me and coincidentally comes into boxing every time I’m not there and talks about her shop? I wonder what kind of shop it is. Does she sell doughnuts or scarves? Thankfully the instructor started shouting drills at us so I couldn’t answer, and I made sure to ignore and avoid all eye contact for the next 45 minutes of class.

As the instructor was calling out drills, I saw him do a double take of me out of my peripheral. Oh Lord, unwanted conversation in three…two…

“Hey! How are you doing? You’ve been out lately.” Guh. No I haven’t. Who are you people? Who am I? What’s happening here?

I just kept smiling and answering his questions of my whereabouts. “Oh, you know,  just busy.” Nope, I’ve been here the past three days. Right there, on that treadmill and over there on the yoga mat and right here, right now for my example tomorrow when you don’t realize who I am. This does bring attention to all the times he called all the other girls names out in class and then stared at me and said “and you.”

It began to dawn on me that maybe I’m just another face in the crowd, easily mistaken for anybody and everybody else. “I just saw your sister!” I don’t have a sister. “How was the swim meet?” I don’t own a bathing suit. I’m beginning to see myself as a body with one of those fencing masks on. Nothing distinguishable, nothing unique.

But I am, I am! I yell in my mirror as I outline my lips with black lip liner and toss glitter into the air. I’m different! Look, a big nose! And look, a lazy eye! How are these things not jumping out at you? I mean, my nose is practically touching your face, sniffing all those little invisible hairs.

I think my quarter-life crisis has been rearing it’s over/underqualified, resume-hating, attention-wanting head.

Meeting David Sedaris (But Really This Time!) : Part Three

I think I can finally make it through this post without sobbing.

Here’s the story.

The past few months I’ve been having a bit of a quarter-life crisis. It dawned on me, as I was sitting on the work toilet counting the dead flies caught in the fluorescent light, that I didn’t know what the hell I’ve been doing with myself for the past 23 years.

I’ve always been a sheep. I like  doing what I was told and begging people to tell me what to do. That meant I wouldn’t have to take responsibility if I sucked.

Thankfully, I finally had breakthrough. “I NEED TO DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE,” I shouted at my fly friends, startling my fellow employees outside the restroom.  I pulled up my pants and went back to my desk (don’t worry I wiped and washed).

Five minutes later, I got a text from one of my best friends. She asked if I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day. Being favorite of David Sedaris’ books, I told her it was my Bible. “I’m convinced I’m reading a book you wrote” her next message read. Naturally overdramatic, I sobbed and looked up David Sedaris show dates. It just so happened he’d be in Boston the next month. Click. Two tickets bought.

During my crisis, I visited some different people, who I like to refer to as I’m-here-so-you-don’t-ruin-your own life advisors. Naturally, in every interaction with a human being I had, I let them know I was going to see David. “Can you get some of your work to him?” one of the advisors suggested. I just sat there staring blankly. “Well, I guess I could.” I had four weeks to prepare something, I guess it was worth a shot.

It was an hour before I had to leave for the show and I was still staring at a blank word document. Shit.

I then unloaded the insults onto myself. “Lauren, you fuck! You have to leave. BUT YOU HAVE TO FINISH THIS.” I had never done something so bold for myself and I knew I’d have to throw myself down a flight of stairs if I didn’t bring something for this opportunity. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more about a time I had find a way not to take a piss in my dad’s ashes (I’ll explain later) and edited it down to four pages of semi-funny shit, and flew out the door.

I picked up my friend and we drove into Boston, passing the venue David would be speaking at. There were hundreds of people outside the theatre waiting to get in. “Oh…other people are going to this?” The fantasy of me, my friend, and David, laying around in robes talking about what type of cheese we’d like with our tuscan flavored Triscuits, did not include the mod scene forming around us, fighting for their favorite types of cheese. The essay folded in my pocket burst into flames.

We got in the theatre and watched an amazing reading. When it was finished David said “I’ll be out in the lobby signing books after.” A collective swoop sounded and the entire auditorium made a dash for the doors. After the smoke cleared, my friend and I made our way behind the others, as we were pushed and shoved like we were passengers running the corridors of the Titanic.

“Welp, I guess we’re never going to find the lobby.” In my heart I felt like a moron for thinking I could fight my way through these people. We stopped walking amidst the chaos. Goddammit. We should probably just head home. At that moment, a man behind us shoved open a set of doors nearly invisible to the naked eye. Behind ehind them was the signing table.

I don’t want to say we tuck and rolled into the lobby, but I can’t really remember from all the tumbling. We claimed out place in line, 10 people deep. David came in, and we slowly made our way front.

He signed books and chatted with the other fans, and I tried to keep myself grounded in the moment. I have a tendency to let my mind go on autopilot (similar to a coma) and I don’t come out of it until the moment has passed. I wanted to be present when talking to him. I wanted to be professional and fun, but not “fan girl”. The couple in front of us left in what looked like slow motion, and David sat there waiting for us to move forward.

A normal person would have shaken his hand, gave him their book to sign, made a little small talk, thank him, and move on.

We ran up to him and said hello, and immediately I knelt down in front of him, like a child, and stared in his eyes. My friend held the conversation beautifully, and I made incoherent comments every so often. David liked my outfit, and confessed his displeasure of Cold Stone Creamery. I hate Cold Stone. I hate that when you tip them, you have to sit and take their singing as if you’re being rewarded. I didn’t make any witty comments though, I just shouted “YES.” Original. Professional. Fun.

As the moment wrapped up, he signed our books, and the nervous rash I developed flared up my neck and to my face. I stood up and like an ostrich, I shoved my entire head in my purse in search for the essay. I pulled it out (with my mouth? I’m not sure).

“I WROTE THIS FOR YOU!” I shouted, and shoved the folded chunk of paper at him.

“Oh. Thank you, I’ll read it later!” He said and smiled, as he stuck it into his back pocket.

I don’t remember what was said after that, but I know I stumbled away, my shirt see-through from the gallons of sweat I poured out.

I kept laughing hysterically out of nervousness the rest of the night. Myy friend and I talked and fantasized about our future visits (robe-wearing dates) with David. I dropped her off at her house, and as soon as I hit the highway to go home alone, I sobbed.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I weeped a little today.

I hear that when you are around someone who does what they love, they emit a different kind of energy. I’m no new age hippie, but I like hummus, and every time David looked down at me, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t cry.

It was awesome.

I don’t know if I’ll hear back from him. I don’t think it really matters (Yes it does). I did my part, which was in a nutshell (teehee) to grow a pair. Sure, the essay wasn’t my best, but I’m the type of person that still makes my mom order the pizza so I don’t have to interact with anyone.

This was a huge step. What the hell have I been waiting for (aside from the pizza)?