Last Week #24 | Waiting for Waffles

When you hear the words "there's a 45 minute wait for waffles,"at 11:30 am on a Sunday when you haven't eaten anything yet, it doesn't really inspire courage. Or patience.

This week was a lot of valley, with Peaks in sight. I got a lot of news-- the apartment will be getting brand new cabinets, you have 5 assignments due October 3rd, your birthday is next week, and oh yeah, the official move-in date is October 1st. By Saturday, I was a hurricane of emotions. As I had to assure Eli, it wasn't anyone's fault. It just happened, and suddenly I was too overwhelmed to even spend time with him. Figuring out the logistics of where we were going to go was too much, so I sent him home, felt guilty, laid in my bed, watched my favorite movie, and cried. 

There's been so much happening lately, I think it all just caught up to me, and I couldn't even give love to the person I love the most, because I hadn't given enough love to me.

My birthday is tomorrow, and I don't feel ready for my it. I don't ever, really. I mean, who feels ready to face the fact that another year has gone by and what have they done with it and also they're one year closer to death?! Certainly not me. But I'm also not ready for the disappointment. I mean, really. Who decided it was a good idea for everyone to have one specific day each year that they can pin all their idyllic birthday hopes and dreams on? It's practically guaranteed to be a letdown. And it's, again, not anyone's fault. It's the system's fault. (F*ck the system, man.) Each year, my birthday feels a lot like waiting 45 minutes for waffles. Exasperating, and at the end someone usually does something wrong, like gives you vanilla instead of chocolate ice cream on top. Listen, this isn't meant to be some white girl's first-world-problems post about how she hates her birthday because she never got a pony. (Truth be told, I never wanted a pony. My biggest dream was to get a portable DVD player with the Gilmore Girls boxed set and be left alone to watch it in my room.) No, maybe I just don't know how to have a good birthday.

Case in point: last weekend, I had an early birthday celebration with Eli's family, and I was holding back tears the entire time. Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it was, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I thought a lot about how a person becomes who they are. Suddenly, without knowing it, these random people just understand your aesthetic and you become known for a purple flower and brownie pie. I still don’t understand family, because mine is not what I ever expected, or, if we’re being honest, what I hoped for. It’s more, and it’s less. It’s disappointing and it’s more than I’d ever imagined. So I don't know what to expect from tomorrow, but I've decided not to make a big deal of it. Last year, the 19th was way better than the 20th. My friends threw a party for me, and as I drove home in the rain with the boy I really, really liked in the passenger seat, I started to cry because it had been too perfect. 

"So maybe I don't want the perfect birthday, because I probably wouldn't be able to handle it anyway." I think to myself negatively as I write this at 8:50 on a Monday morning. And then I realize that is exactly what my astrologer was talking about when she said I needed to let go, and open my heart and deal with Chiron and shit. Maybe I need to let go of the bad birthday archetype I have in my head, and open myself up to it being whatever it's gonna be. Okay, that was a more positive ending, right? 

 -Fran

Last Week #23 | Act Your Age

 Since I didn’t write a blog post last week, I am going to write a little about both two weeks ago, and this past week. Between last week and this week, a weekend existed. A glorious, perfect, amazing three day weekend. (For the first time in my life, I understand why Labor Day exists.) Eli and I went to my family’s lake house in the finger lakes, because I had only been there once all summer and decided this was probably my last chance, before school and work and creative business overtook me and my precious schedule. So we went, and spent time with my cousins, who were also there. 

During the first evening’s dinner, talking to my cousin who is precisely my age and also still in college, I was telling her everything I do with my time. (I’m a talker.) 

At the end of it, she looked astounded. 

"You're doing so much!" She said.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"You're doing so many things that you're passionate about!"

I was confused. Wasn't that the point? Sure, you probably have to get a 9-5 to survive, preferably in something that you don't hate, but that doesn’t mean you should then spend the rest of your precious time bemoaning the fact that you don't have any time to do what you love. Use that precious little time to DO WHAT YOU LOVE. I get up early and do those things, or use that time to do things that are good for me. Then I go to work, and try to put myself into it. And then I come home, and I try to love others. My boyfriend, my friends, myself. I do some fun things, but mainly deliberately unproductive things. And that's it. That's all I do. That's all we can do. 

Since my birthday is nigh, I’ve been thinking a lot about age. And for some reason, that old adage keeps fluttering back into my head. “Act your age.” And I hate that adage. What even is age? As one of the books that always sat on my mother’s kitchen shelf read, “Age is just a number.” So I don’t get how I can act it. When you’re a young person, people tell you to do this a lot. And it confuses me. Because, how the hell do I act 21? Do I drink? And therefore perpetuate stereotypes about my generation? Or do I work really hard, just so they’ll say that I’m the exception? Is there a way to act your age without stereotyping yourself? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer. Right now I’m nearly 21, I have a full time job and I’m a part-time student. I’m a full time girlfriend and best friend and creator. And I’m also a full-time Fran. I might be young, I feel really old. I hate that just because I haven’t lived 47 years, I’m considered less. I wish that when people said “act your age” they didn’t mean, “Act the age I wish you still were.” It seems that many people are confused by young people if they don’t fit in to a box they can understand. So they say "act your age" but they mean, “Act a different way so I can make sense of you.” I’m 21, I have a full time job, I’m a student, I’m in love, and I’m creative and logical and practical and impractical and stupid and senseless and naive and wise beyond my years. 

I guess what I'm saying is, I don't want to be known for, and judged by, my age. I want to be known for my personality, or writing, or purple hair, or art, or how hard I work, or my heart. And maybe I am. This weekend, I babysat for a family I've been watching for years. (About 6, to be exact.) 

I was telling them about my job, and the mom said, "You're working full time and still doing school?!" She seemed taken aback, like she couldn't believe it. I sighed and moaned about how yes, I was crazy enough to be doing that (because to be honest it was almost 1 am and I was half asleep and freaking moody), but in the back of my head I was thinking, "Dude. Come on. I have a very delicate balance going on here. Don't make me question how in the hell I'm doing this. If I think about it too hard, it'll all come crumbling down."  But the next day, in talking to one of my good friends, she said, "It's because you're an organizational queen. That's how." Essentially telling me to never question or doubt myself. And that's what I mean. I want to be known for who I am, not for my age, not for how much I do. As one of my favorite astrologers once said, "You're a human being, not a human doing." I'm trying to remember that in this stressful time, this age of the rat race, this season of my life. 

-Fran

Last Week #22 | Ron Swanson Officiated Our Wedding

 Last week, Nick Offerman (AKA Ron Swanson from Parks & Recreation) officiated my and Eli's wedding. Before I get into the (absolutely incredible) details, first, let me just tell you why this is significant.

1. I often jokingly call the Parks & Recreation theme song my antidepressant, because for a few dark months in early 2014, it pretty much was. I had watched the show when it first aired, but lost track of it during high school. Post-high school, however, during a very depressing winter when I had nothing else to do, I revisited it and watched three seasons in about a month. From that point on, the show was my drug of choice.

2. When Eli and I first started talking, it was via text, and we were cripplingly awkward with each other, I think because neither of us had ever been this interested in and attracted to another person before. So we started giving each other compliments in the only nerdy way we could think of to tell each other we wanted to kiss each other’s faces. We started Ann Perkins complimenting each other. If you're unfamiliar, it looks a little something like this: 

3. One night, we both took quizzes to see which Parks & Recreation characters we were. I got Leslie, and he got Ben. Then, I took another quiz. “Which Parks & Rec character would be ‘Ya Boo’?” I got Ben, and I sent it to him with the smirk emoji. That was flirting to us.

4. When we finally said I love you, Eli said it the normal way, but I said, “I love you and I like you.” Not because I wanted to be like Ben and Leslie, (even though I definitely do), but because that was how I felt. Love and like were two different things in my mind, and I felt both. Later, Eli would put it perfectly: “I like you to the point of loving you without losing any of the liking you.” 

Basically, Parks & Recreation is super freaking important to our relationship, and to us as individuals. I take waffles seriously. And on Wednesday night, Ron Swanson officiated our wedding. We went to Nick Offerman & Megan Mullally's Summer of 69 Show (no apostrophe) and were just enjoying the beautiful weirdness that was the show when they asked for a volunteer couple from the audience. The next thing I knew Eli was raising his huge arms and we were being beckoned onstage by two of our favorite actors. The rest is kind of a blur, but I shook Nick Offerman's hand and he complimented my lavender hair and I hugged Megan Mullally and Nick kept talking about Eli's man bun and we played a compatibility game where we were challenged to answer questions in precisely the same way...and we pretty much crushed it. Not to brag, but we answered all but one question the same way, all while standing in the presence of two people we routinely watch on Netflix while cuddling. Then Nick Offerman stood between us and asked us one final question... "Do you, Eli, take Fran to be your lawfully wedded wife..." He then presented us with rings and that is how I got married onstage to my absolute favorite person by Ron freakin' Swanson.

The funny thing about this whole story is, I've recently been plagued by a question that this experience completely put to rest. The question is this-- when you're happy, can you experience as much true joy in new shows and music and art and life experiences as when you are not? Is there some inherent connection that you make with culture when you're lonely and sad that you don't make when you're satisfied? I was thinking about the connection I made to Parks & Recreation when I was depressed, and worrying that I'd never find such happiness in another show or movie again, because I'd already found it in a person. And I know, any logical, rational person would say-- but Fran, this is so much better! You've made a connection with a real, tangible human who can register your love and give love in return! But you don't understand. My connection with music and stories and television shows is what makes me, me. 

The notion that somehow those connections wouldn't be as strong in light of my finding Eli is completely terrifying to me. I think these fears can honestly be linked to an experience I had a few weeks ago. On a sleepy Monday morning recently, I was watching a terrible young adult reality show on YouTube to wake myself up, as you do, and everyone was lamenting the fact that summer is almost over. And for the first time in my life, I realized that the end of summer doesn't mean everything sucks again. Everything in my life will pretty much stay the same, no matter the season. But then of course I started worrying that normalcy is bad and regularity equals stagnation, lack of inspiration, boredom and indifference.

Now I realize that's so not true. Of course not. Now, I get the privilege of experiencing new shows and extraordinary life experiences with someone who loves them and me just as much. Last week I finally realized that just because I have a big girl job that doesn't mean I or my life is anything close to boring. Because I have someone in my life who is willing to seek out the weird and extraordinary with me. 

-Fran

Last Week #21 | We Have a Guest Room Now

On the day my sister left for college, I made a few mistakes.

Mistake #1 was putting on makeup. Ironically enough, I'd all but stopped wearing it until this point, because I like how I look without it, it's effort to put on, and I cry too much anyway. 

Mistake #2 was bringing up Gilmore Girls. Why, oh why, did I bring up Gilmore Girls?!

Mistake #3 was thinking that this wasn’t going to be a big deal. Because it freaking was. 

Let me rewind. My sister and I have a complex relationship, as I think most sisters do. We’ve kind of sort of gotten along our entire lives, but have never had that cliche sisterly bond some films tell you you should have. (I'm looking at you, Sisters.) But one thing we’ve always had in common was…Gilmore Girls. When we were younger, we used to bathe together, as most little kids do. We all have those embarrassing pictures of us with our siblings in the bath, hair spiked and bubbles all over everything. So we took showers together, and I can remember singing the theme song at the top of our lungs while she stood at the corner of the shower because I always turned the water way too hot. And granted, if we were young enough to still be taking showers together, chances are we were too young to be watching Gilmore Girls. But I was against censorship from a very young age, and therefore did not give a shit. And she followed my lead. 

We watched it when we spent the summers home alone together, our little brother forced to go to the babysitter. And we watched it, in full, from the very beginning, starting in November 2014 and lasting through to September 2015. We had never watched the show front to back like that before, and I gotta say, it’s one of my favorite memories with my sister. Through some of the hardest years, and hardest moments in our lives up to that point, we always had Gilmore Girls to come back to. I remember spending the day before Thanksgiving in my bed while a snowstorm raged outside, watching episode after episode. Both of us staying up way too late on a school night (for her) because we had to see what happened with Luke and Lorelei and that crazy cliffhanger. Debating who we preferred— Dean, Jess, Logan? (She’s team Jess, I’m team Rory.) My asking, "One more?" even when we had already been watching for four straight hours. Analyzing who was who… I told her she was Paris, because I’m mean, but she’s really Rory and I’m a definite Lorelei. Even though I'm the older sister, much like Rory, she's always been the one in charge here.

So when I went into her room on Thursday morning before leaving for work, I talked about the only thing I could manage— Gilmore Girls. “I’m not saying we should make a pact not to watch it apart…but I think we should wait and watch it together.” I hesitantly said about the new revival season coming to Netflix this fall. (Okay, that sounded like an ad. But I don't even care because everyone should watch this show and I’m not even sorry.) She nodded her head vigorously in response. I asked her when she’d be home, she said she’ll be here for Thanksgiving. And then something crazy started happening. She started to tear up. Now, let me give you some more backstory. I’ve seen my sister cry about real people and real emotion (we aren’t counting stress from school or Fault in Our Stars related tears) about three times. I can legitimately count them. 1) When I got in my car accident in September of 2013, my sister was still at home. My mom was supposed to drive her to school that morning, but didn’t when she got the phone call from me. So when I got home and was just sitting at the kitchen table sobbing, my sister came over, crying too, and hugged me. (That’s also one of the few times she’s ever voluntarily hugged me.) 2) When our childhood babysitter died, and we went to her funeral. I’m pretty sure she cried. 3) Thursday morning. 

I hugged her, and because we aren’t emotional with each other said, “Don’t cry or I’ll throw up on you.” And then, because I’m not a monster, “You’re going to be so fine. I’m not even worried about you, I’m worried about me worrying about you.” 

“I know I’m going to be fine, I don’t know why I’m crying.” Then she cried more, and I cried more, and then I said, “F**k you, I did really good makeup!” And then I realized that if I stuck around any longer it would only get worse, so I said, “I have to walk away from you now," and she nodded and I did. 

We didn't know why we were crying so much, and I still don't. And I know what you’re thinking, it’s fine, chill out, she didn’t die or anything… But I think it has something to do with this: her toothbrush is gone. Like for good. I keep thinking that I hear her in the morning, or will run into her in the bathroom when I'm getting ready for work and she's getting ready for the weight room. The most crippling realization for me has been-- every time she comes home now, it will be to visit. Even though she probably won't think of it that way for a while, each time she comes home it'll feel a little less like home to her. That's what's effing with me most right now. The spaces we inhabit mean nothing until we inhabit them. And after, they mean even less. They're just shells of memory. I think the hardest part for me is remembering the words to that theme song and realizing that this time, I can't follow where she leads. 

 -Fran

Last Week #20 | I Got Lost in the Woods and All I Got Were These Lame Cliches

Disclaimer: This blog post is about to be really really real. 

On Monday of this past week, I had my first day at a brand new job. Granted, it's just a different library job (it's not like I changed careers) but it was one hell of an adjustment nonetheless. I'm not going to sugar coat it. On days one and two, I was overwhelmed as hell. To put it in culturally relevant terms, I felt like Eilis at the beginning of Brooklyn. I walked out the doors at the end of my shifts the first two days, sat down in my car and promptly burst into tears, soaking Eli through with my worries and fears and doubts. 

This library is simply different. The vibe is different, and the job I'm working is just MORE. It's a definite step up in terms of hours and workload. There's a much more serious tone. Which is absolutely fine, professionalism is great, but at 20 and 7/8ths years old, it's a little overwhelming. I'm used to wearing whatever I want and not having to worry about what will happen if I get a tattoo one day. I'm used to making jokes and showing off what I like to call my "trash youth interior" while also still being professional and doing my job. So the first two days, when I was getting oriented and didn't really get to talk to anyone, I was drowning. And I find that really interesting, because I always thought I didn't like people. But on day 4, when I got to do more of what I'll be doing every day-- sitting behind the desk and interacting with patrons, I was happy. Which was mind blowing to me. I like people?! I thought. My whole life is a lie! 

Another challenging aspect of this week was filming. As you may know, I'm working on my second short film of the summer (but my 4th overall project). Once again, we had limited time to get it done-- basically Friday was all we had. So we ventured back out into the woods at around 6 pm, with storm clouds looming ominously over our heads. We got the shots, we got the shots, we had fun, blah blah blah. It started to get dark, and we still had a few shots left and increasingly limited time, so we powered through. But then, in the wake of the excitement of getting the shot, reality settled back over us-- in the forms of darkness, fog, and thunder. 

I won't say we got lost, because that would be an insult to Eli's navigating skills. But we did get a little... disoriented and eventually realized that instead of taking the long way back (which would lead us to the water bottles and other supplies we had left behind while the daylight still lingered), it was smarter to take a shortcut, because our ever-anxious director was freaking out a little bit. This turned out to be a very muddy, mucky, messy and sharp shortcut. I hated it. But afterwards, lying in the safety of my bed in borrowed sweatpants while my white shorts that I stupidly wore soaked in a bucket in the bathroom, I looked over the shots I got and I realized two significant things. 

1. It was worth it. Even though I knew that behind the shots where the camera movement was glorious were the oozing scratches on my legs now covered in Neosporin, they were so worth the blood, sweat, and tears.
2. And 2, and this relates to my post last week, I really love filmmaking. Because even though it is sometimes a perfect recipe for stress, anxiety, and occasional pain, everything else pales in comparison.

So I guess if I were to try to connect these two topics somehow, I'd say this. When I was hemming and hawing over whether or not to even apply for this new job, my brilliant and wise mentor Yvonne said something that stuck with me. She said, "There's really no such thing as wrong choice.  It's all just experience and whether it's awesome or not so awesome, we learn what we need to learn and adjust and go forward and look forward to the next things. Enjoy the in between-ness, if you can." When I was lost in the woods, I thought I had made the worst choice in the world. On day 1, I questioned whether I had made a mistake. But sitting here, on the morning of day 5, I'm realizing that she's right. It's all just experience. And for better or worse, we're going to get lost in the muddy woods sometimes, but hopefully in the end we can sit on our beds and realize it was worth it. 

That was so cliche, I think I need to take another shower. 

-Fran

Last Week #19 | Filmmaking, Why Do I Love You?

 There's nothing like having a week where you are literally able to accomplish nothing-- due to your body's complete inability to do anything-- to make you entirely rethink your approach to productivity. This week, only the basics happened. On Monday I got my blog/vlog posted. Then I lurched through the days to follow, dragged down by sickness and expectations of me. But I still got done what was absolutely necessary. Uploaded the thing. Emailed that person. 

And suddenly, being productive took on new meaning. It started to mean doing what made me happy. Going out for an hour to catch Pokemon, just so I wouldn't feel like crap for doing absolutely nothing at all the rest of the day. Eating dinner with friends. Reading. FaceTiming friends in California. I started to let my body tell me what it was capable of, and listen to it. Being dragged down to nothing makes you have an appreciation for mobility, energy. When I was at my worst, I sobbed on FaceTime to Eli about how I was afraid I wouldn't get better before my first day at work. 

But now, productivity is back to normal and I'm starting to feel like I need to catch up on all that I missed. Make up for the time I "wasted" while I was sick. And I don't know what to do about that. I'm afraid that I'm starting to slip back into old ways of being, where nothing is ever enough for me and I never feel fulfilled. And aside from Pinning article after article about self-care and being a morning person, I don't know how to tackle this. 

But what I'm really wondering going into this new week is-- How do you decide if you love something or hate something? I spent the latter half of this past week deep in the pre-production and filming process of my new short film. And it's always a strange feeling, because when I'm in it I really have no idea if I love or hate making short films. I'm so eaten up with stress and anxiety right now, but I know when the final product comes out I'll say that it was such a learning experience and I'm so glad I did it. So this is sort of a call-out post. Fran, which is it? I have no idea. I'm sure the people around me don't know either, because every other day I'm having a mental breakdown and crying and getting headaches and Eli has to calm me down and tell me it's all going to be fine and get done in the end.

Here's all I know now: 1) I love writing things, and watching the things I write come to life. 2) I'm a control freak, so I really do need to be in charge of those creative evolutions in order to feel fulfilled. 3) I'm really good at scheduling and organizing. 4) Scheduling and organizing stresses me the eff out. 5) Despite all of the ups and downs and headaches in between (and the fact that I can never make things run as smoothly as my brain would like), I love making films. And it sort of goes against my better nature, because I love when things are easy and simple and come together perfectly, which filmmaking absolutely is not. From my experience, filmmaking, as much as you may try to give it some order, is chaos. It is ugly and messy and dirty and time consuming and exasperating. But for some reason, I can't stop doing it. Maybe this is growth?

-Fran

Last Week #18 | This Blog Post Was Always Going to Be About Harry Potter

The following is a sample of a text conversation between myself and my boyfriend.
Me, last night at midnight: "lol when your weekly vlog is 1:48 long. hahahaha." 
Eli: "Haha...that's ok, it's been a tired week." 

And a tired week it was. The week began with a screening of OVERDUE, and ended with my final day at the Minoa library. Then on Friday, on my first real day off in a long time, I started to get sick.  Coincidentally, my family left for vacation on Friday, and I was planning on joining them at some point during this week. But in a stunning turn of events, the few days I had to myself this weekend were spent sicker than I've been in a long time. I don't really get sick. I get headaches sometimes, my periods are pretty bad, but other than that I'm healthy. So to have the first fever I've had since probably 2013, on the first days of my "vacation," and be completely alone to boot, sucked. I spent a lot of time crying, a lot of time sweating, a lot of time shaking with cold, and a lot of time watching Portlandia. (I may have watched 3 seasons in two days...maybe.)

I cried for a few reasons. 1) Because Eli and I had plans to do a lot of cool things on Saturday-- like go to the local market and see new bakeries-- and I couldn't do any of it. Suffice to say I was seriously bummed. 2) Because one of the reasons I even stayed home to begin with was so I could go get the new Harry Potter book (technically it's a script book...) at midnight. But as I was sweating and dizzy from a fever, I couldn't really do that. 3) Because, and I found this out later, I was PMS-ing.

Sounds like a fun weekend, right? Just a perfect storm of misery. Anyway, even though I still don't feel 100% sitting here on Monday, yesterday I was able to drag myself out of bed for long enough to go pick up my reserved copy of The Cursed Child, go to Peaks, eat some waffles, and start reading.

In the bookstore, I found myself thinking about all of the past Frans. The 2007 Fran, at the midnight release party of what she and everyone else believed to be the last story she'd ever get from the Harry Potter universe. The 2013 Fran, sitting on the couch miserable with undiagnosed back pain, but overjoyed having just learned that that hadn't been the end-- we were getting a TRILOGY of new movies based on the companion books! I also thought about what 2007 Fran would think of her life now. Would she be happy with where she is? Reading, writing, learning, and creating more things than she ever would have imagined. Sitting in a coffee shop owned by her best friends, at which her super hot boyfriend works. (I imagine she would be.)

On the drive from the bookstore to Peaks yesterday, I cried. But I didn't cry because of the new Harry Potter book. I cried because I remembered how sad past Fran was, and how (generally) happy current Fran is. I cried because I realized that something I'd always suspected had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. Through everything, Harry Potter has been there. And through everything, he always will be. I'm not going to lie, before I got my hands on this book I wasn't even that excited for it. I was afraid it wouldn't be good, and worse still, that I just didn't care about Harry Potter like I used to. In the darkest corner of my mind, I was terrified that somewhere along the line I had outgrown it. But on Sunday afternoon, after a weekend of tears and anxiety, reading this book felt like going home again. All those times when I was younger, where I picked up a Harry Potter book whenever I was sad, those weren't isolated incidents reserved for childhood. While this new book may be a tad different, it still feels the same way it always did. It feels like going home.

-Fran