In two more days, After the Fall will be over, and though I’m working on another show (as a dialect coach), my job there is mostly done at this point. Which means that I will have my evenings free again. Well, once I get caught up on the cleaning and the cooking and my sleep. Which means that I’ll be posting here again. Hopefully regularly. I’d like to get back to it, anyway. I miss you people.

So keep an eye out. I’m on my way back.

And I mean that.

My attorney called as I was changing trains at Fullerton. He needed some statistical info for the decree documents. And then said, “You’re divorced. The judge signed the decree this afternoon.”

It took a minute for that to register.

I mean, we’d pretty much tied up all of the loose ends on Monday. I knew it was coming. I just didn’t think it was coming this week. Early next week was my guess. Instead, it’s almost six months to the day since the moment in the laundry room when–over the phone–David told me he didn’t want me in his life any more, and now, well, I’m not.

“How are you?” my attorney asked.

“Numb,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting it to happen today. But fine. Now I have to figure out who I am all over again.”

I have to agree with what he said in reply, though. I’m pretty well on my way to that place already. And I’ve achieved the goals I set for myself at the beginning of this whole process. I didn’t want to come out bitter and brittle and full of repressed anger and resentment. I wanted to live the most authentic, honest, open life I could. And I think I’ve done that. Of course I have my moments of bitterness. Of course I do. The last six months (almost to the day!) have had some pretty shitty moments in them. Like the three and a half months when I thought I was going to end up on the streets because I couldn’t find a job. Like all of the feelings of guilt and pain and all of the other horrible things you feel when someone you trusted to love you for the rest of your life because they promised tells you they don’t think they love you any more. But I am going to be fine.

I really am. I have a killer job. I’m in one of the most talked about productions in Chicago right now and I’m being favorably mentioned in reviews. I have an amazing network of friends both old and new, and I am surrounded by kindness. I haven’t sacrificed my honor or my integrity in this process. In fact, I’ve done the opposite. I’ve claimed my space and stood up for myself and insisted on being done right by. I am in a far better place than I ever imagined I could be, with or without husband. It just so happens, I’m without.

So here I stand.

I am single. Solo. Solitary.

I am Sallyacious. Hear me roar.

After the Fall opened on Sunday. And it is being ROUNDLY praised. And I? I am being MENTIONED. In reviews. In papers like the Chicago Sun-Times. THE CHICAGO SUN-TIMES. And also on Chicago Tonight. (Though not by name in that one.) And have I mentioned yet that the production is Jeff Recommended? (That’s Chicago’s version of the Tony Awards. As it says on their website, “‘Jeff Recommended’ indicates that at least one element of a show was deemed outstanding by opening night judges. The entire production is then eligible for nomination for awards at the end of the season.” We have been recommended. YES!)

It’s my first show in Chicago, and I cannot believe my good fortune. It’s a fantastic cast, full of talented, wonderful people, and I am playing the role I wanted to play since I first re-read the play as a grownup. How lucky am I?

If you live in the area, you really need to come see this show. And if you don’t, too bad, because you’re missing out. And I don’t just say this because I’m in it. It’s good.

But don’t just take my word for it:

This is the Chicago Tonight video of last night’s review. The woman she talks about at 2:28 or so? “That wife he eventually marries… she’s also very real…” That’s ME!!!!

And this is the Chicago Sun Times review, by the same critic, in which I am mentioned BY NAME.

Here’s the review in the Chicago Tribune. Not as enthusiastic, but he has some lovely things to say about the production and my talented castmates.

This is what the Chicago Reader had to say about it.

And the Fourth Walsh, the first review up. (I’m working in reverse chronological order, sort of).

Those are the reviews so far. I’ll continue to post them as they come in.

I still can’t believe my luck.

As I was coming back from taking out the trash, bird shit spattered my foot.

At first, I was annoyed, another stupid and annoying element in my currently issue-filled life (and those of you who know me well know how much I LOVE living in crisis). But then I thought, You know, given how long I’ve been around, and the paths my life has taken–washing skoders, murres and greebes at an oil spill for two weeks my senior year of college; enduring a roommate who let his parakeet fly freely around the house–perhaps the fact that I’ve never been shat upon by a bird until now means that *actually,* I have been extraordinarily lucky.

That I’ve been cast in a show.

I’ll be playing Holga in Arthur Miller’s After the Fall at Eclipse Theatre in Chicago.
The show runs July 11-August 22.

You should totally come see it.

This entry has been pinging around in my head for several days now. I just haven’t had the time to sit down and write it up. Now, I do. It’s Saturday, after all.

One day last week, as I hung like a rhesus monkey on one of the poles in a purple line train (Eddie Izzard reference, anyone?), I overheard a couple of pinstriped twenty-somethings talking about another fellow’s wife. “She’s a bit older than he is, in her mid-40’s,” one said. “She’s HOT,” said the other. That exchange made me smile for obvious reasons, but it also hit that sensitive spot I’ve been carrying around for a bit now. That sensitive spot where I respond to the references to husbands and wives with the recognition that I’ll soon not be anybody’s wife any more, I won’t belong to anybody, which saddens me deeply.

But then the oddest thing happened. I realized that it’s not as big a deal as it used to be to me.

When I was in my teens and twenties, belonging to somebody was the most important thing in the world. Don’t ask me why, because I have no idea. Social conditioning, biological imperative, a standard step in human female psychological development, who knows. All I know is that it formed a huge part of my daydreams and yearnings and behavior.

By the time I was 28 and Dave and I rediscovered each other, I was pretty much past that, though. I’d decided that I didn’t need to be a part of somebody’s life in a forever sense, that I would probably be happier if I wasn’t. In fact, I was so convinced of that approach to romantic life that it took a great deal of effort on Dave’s part to get me to agree to marry him. Hell, it took him months to get me to admit we were dating.

In the years since then, I have had the opportunity—and in the past few years, the need—to become closer to myself, to dig to the core and figure out who I really am, all of which has made a big difference in my reactions to the situation I find myself in now. Because I have such a solid idea of who Sally is, I have been able to figure out who I want to be in this new life as it comes and how I’m going to get there. I know what I am willing to do and what I’m not willing to do, and what for me is the most authentic way to live. I also know that living an authentic life is VITAL to me, that being true to the person I’ve discovered I am is as necessary as breathing.

So when I heard those young men talking about someone else’s wife, my mind ran in its accustomed grooves and my first thought was, “I’m not anybody’s wife, I don’t belong to anybody any more,” which, predictably, made me sad.

And then I thought, “Wait a minute. That’s not true.” Because it isn’t. In the course of all the space-claiming I’ve done over the past five weeks, I’ve discovered one very important thing. I very much belong to somebody.

I belong to me.

This sonnet is dedicated to the following people:

To Rebecca, who offered to let me use her car whenever I need it saying simply, “You’re family.”

To Laura, who calls to check up on me pretty much weekly.

To Heather, who, when I voiced my fears of ending up living on the streets said, “No. You won’t end up on the streets. You’ll end up on my couch.” And when I said, “But I have three cats,” replied, “Who my cat will have to get to know.”

To Napoleon, for taking late night phone calls and for calling me when my texts make it clear that I’m trying to cope and failing miserably, and to Seraphina, his wife, for being okay with that.

To Chris, who pointed out the other night that, “I know I can always call Sally about stuff. She’s pretty much up for anything” arts-wise. And who does indeed call.

To Sara and Jon and Jamie and Anna and Branson and Azar and Jared and Bridget and Emily and all of my local friends from UI who have given me so much love and support.

To Hillary, who has offered TONS of useful advice.

To Amy and Uli , who are there when I need them.

To my landlady, who keeps calling me with job announcements she reads in the paper and checking with her friends to see if any of them might be interested in hiring me because she’d like to keep me as a tenant.

To Aunt Sally, who got a tearful phone call last Wednesday and whose listening skills and practical observations helped me see things from a healthier perspective.

To Mom and Dad, for being there whenever I need to talk, and for checking in later to be sure I really am doing okay.

To the people at Eclipse Theatre for welcoming me in with such wide open arms.

To John and Janene for also being family and giving me the help I need.

To Kieran for always saying, “I love you Auntie Sally.”

To the members of the Tim Miller workshop who created that place
of safety where I could discover the seed that led to the claiming of my space.

And to Tim Miller himself for being such a generous human being.

To that lovely young man on the street who called back at me over his shoulder, “Don’t tell nobody I said this, but you are a beautiful lady.” And to the man who said “Hello cutie” as I passed him on my way to the store. And also to the guy who gave me a wolf whistle from his car the other day on Lincoln.

To Daniel for always being happy to see me, and to Eric who, when he told me about a musical his company is putting on next fall and I said, “but I haven’t sung in years,” replied, “That’s okay, we’ll teach you.”

To the members of the Chicago theatre community who are being so welcoming.

To the Reverend Kip and James and Sam and Shelby and Ellen and Kim and Crystal and Audrey and Tara and all of the other people I’ve reconnected to through Facebook who have offered so much love.

To Steven who said, when I gave voice to a few of my fears of surviving, “And you have us.”

To Jen, Lindsey, Dwina, Lewis and Jean, who are awesome people to have on my references list.

To Karma and Cyndi (and Cyndi’s partner), for offering to take vacation time to come here from Idaho and Australia and help me move back home when that’s what I thought I would do.

To Kyle and Brittney and Skyler and all those other people who gave me so much affection while I was in Moscow.

To Rebekah and Ashlee and Jodi and Nora and Sam and everyone else who has asked for my resume (some of whom have never even met me) in case they might know someone who knows someone who needs someone like me.

To all of you who read the blog and have commented with love and reassurance, even if we don’t know each other.

Know that when I read this sonnet, I think of you.

Sonnet XXX
by William Shakespeare

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Current emotional state: Mixed
Outlook: Rocky
Still and all: Hopeful

Things are tough here. I’m looking frantically for a job. I had a conversation yesterday with a woman from a placement agency who told me I am basically unemployable at the wages and level I want to work. Deep down, I know that’s bullshit–and two other placement agencies are sure they can find me the kind of work I want–but somehow, that’s the message that stuck and I re-revised my budget down to the bare bones minimum and was still pretty sure that there was no way in hell I would be able to get a job that could pay for everything I need to pay for.

In part, this is due to the Girls. If I could find a roommate situation, many things would be easier. But somehow, nobody wants to take on a roommate with three cats and a houseful of furniture. And nobody is going to want to move into my one-bedroom with us. Though maybe I could find someone who’s looking for a roommate and an apartment. I should check with my friends now that I have an increasing number of contacts here.

So I woke up this morning feeling gloomy, much as I felt when I went to bed last night, though the conversations with my mom and dad, my Aunt Sally and my friend Napoleon all helped a great deal. (Thank you ALL so much for the support and the love. I would not be surviving this without you.) I decided to go ahead and face things head-on, however, so I made myself breakfast and sat down to apply for some more gigs.

When I got to the fourth listing that seemed like a good fit, I had this overwhelming urge to give them an entirely different kind of cover letter. While my current cover letter is okay, I’ve been feeling like it’s a bit “meh,” and I’ve been wondering whether it’s actually doing the job I need it to do, which is to convince people that though I haven’t been an Executive Assistant for seven years, the things I’ve done in the meantime have given me some new skills to apply to the job that not a lot of other candidates can offer.

So without giving much thought to it, I whipped out a new letter, edited and polished it, and submitted it with my resume. It’s more vigorous and interesting. It explains my skills in relation to my work history, and while it covers all of the bases, it feels strong and capable and intriguing. Which is how I want potential employers to think about me.

I’ve also sent a copy to my dad to look over, to see what he thinks about it.

The thing is, as I have been thinking about it since, though I’ve taken back the power in some areas of my life, I feel like I’m still giving it up in others. I think that’s what my panic last night was about. I need to remember that I am more than capable of doing these jobs, and that any employer would be lucky to have me because I will bring more to the task than they would expect.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that that’s what yesterday’s rejection was about. I started out by apologizing for not being enough (not in those words, but that’s what it came to), and I think the recruiter responded to that. You can’t do it on stage, and you can’t do it in life, because people can sense it and will either reject or walk all over you.

So here and now, I am taking back that power too. I am claiming that space, the space of a capable, intelligent, killer administrative assistant. I am claiming my memory. My analytical skills. My attention to detail. My sense of humor. My patience. My ability to listen without me getting in the way. My focus. My ability to think quickly on my feet. My mental flexibility. I CLAIM THIS SPACE.

Future employer, you will be damn lucky to have me, and I don’t think it will take you very long to figure that out.

Katala at 19

Happy Birthday to my sweet old lady, my April Fool, the cat who has come such a long way in her 19 years. From Idaho to Oregon to Idaho to Illinois. And from scared, abused little beast to the lovely girl who finally, just this morning, for the first time ever, let me scratch her chin and seemed to enjoy it.

She sat on my lap yesterday. Today, she’s curled up in the chair behind me again. This seems to be her favorite space. Except for at bedtime, when she sleeps to the left of my pillow. Where she has slept for years.

Health-wise, she’s doing okay. The gut issues have come back over the last week, so she’s back on both anti-and probiotics. But I haven’t taken her in for fluids in over a month. She hasn’t needed them. Hopefully that will continue, because the stress of the trip is pretty hard on her. But I’ll do what I need to do to make sure she’s comfortable and happy. She’s given so much to me over the years. (NINETEEN of them!!!)

Sweetheart, I promised you when you came into my life that I would always take care of you. It seems like that’s about to get a whole lot harder, but I am going to do my very best. I love you, Old Lady Cat.