In lieu of me telling you things, I thought I would use this platform to share some amazing
lists that I've found.  Yes  Lists.  Lists of amazing Black-owned businesses.  Most of these have ties to me (either located in Wisconsin, are vegetarian/vegan, etc.) Enjoy.

Black-Owned Bath/Body Shops on Etsy
Black-Owned Clothing Shops on Etsy
Black-Owned Knit/Crochet/Embroidery Shops on Etsy
Black-Owned Jewelry Shops on Etsy
Black-Owned Businesses in Wisconsin 
Black-Owned Food Establishments in Milwaukee​

I did the thing, guys.  

I did the thing that I tell all of my friends (especially those battling mental illness) not to do.  

I scrolled on Facebook.

We’ve all been there: check the notifications, nothing exciting, something at the top catches your eye (“Cats who can rollerblade?!  Show me!”), and then before you know it, you’ve lost an hour of your life staring at baby pictures of that chick Jenny who used to work at Panera with you.  (“How did I get here?” you scream into the abyss.)  

We’ve all been told the dangers of social media: you don’t get the whole picture of someone’s life.  You only see the achievements, the awards, the progress, the glory, etc.  So you’re left thinking that that’s all there is to that person’s life.  Progress and glory. 

If you’re like me, eventually you’ll have to stop because one post hits you just a little too directly.  You stop because you saw something about some female friend of yours (who is, most likely, around the same age as you and involved in theatre.)  She’s proudly talking about a show that she’s in, a show she wrote, an award she won, someone famous she knows, something she did...She’s talking about progress and glory
and it leaves me with the question, “Am I doing enough?”

I’d like to take a moment now to assess this thing we call “fame” or “success”.  Obviously, the two are very different.  Fame has, more or less, a singular definition: do people know who you are?  There are obviously different circles of fame as a popular musician might be known throughout a whole country where a famous animal chiropractor is probably only known within the circle of their peers and patients.  Success, instead, asks the question “did you do what you set out to do”, and because of this, it’s more of a matter of judgement; a musician’s level of success is different from the success of our animal chiropractor friend.

But how exactly do we measure an artist’s success?  

I think many people would be quick to say that the more famous an artist is, the more successful they are, but this line of thinking is flawed on many levels.  I know plenty of famous authors whom I would not categorize as “good” (Stephanie Myers, I’m looking at you), but likewise, there are many great artists who I say are phenomenal but have failed to hold the public’s attention.  (For example, Hanson.  Yes, Hanson.  From the 90’s with the "Mmmbop" and whatnot.  Look them up.  They have grown to be fantastic musicians and songwriters but no one remembers them for anything more than being that long-haired bubblegum pop band from back in the day.  Seriously, go look them up.)

Do you measure success by the amount of awards won?  Again, flawed.  Look at films like 
or "Crash" or "Green Book" that both won Academy Awards but never received the popular vote to match such accolades.  Bruce Springsteen has won twenty Grammys over the course of his career.  Compare that to Taylor Swift who has won ten or Billy Joel who has won five.  Find yourself a die-hard Billy fan who is willing to call Taylor Swift a better musician than the piano man.  

Perhaps you have decided that success is a monetary issue: when I make enough money solely off of my art to live then I will be successful.  As with a lot of art, though, that simply isn't possible.  Lauren Gunderson who is one of the most produced playwrights in all of the US still holds a regular teaching job in order to supplement her income.  Let’s not forget examples such as Johan Sebastian Bach whose talents as a composer were not fully discovered until after his death.  Bach is now considered one of the greatest symphonists of all time but died in oblivion essentially.   

Success, as stated above, is a matter of perspective...especially for artists.  And grand success (like the kind that wins Grammys, Oscars, or Tonys) is a very specific kind of success.  The road to an award like that is a very specific road; it’s a journey that has its merits, but it’s not the only mark of greatness.  The Tony’s, for instance, look at shows specifically on Broadway...in New York City.  While NYC is considered the mecca of American theatre, it simply isn’t the only place where good theatre exists and telling ourselves that “talents that are good enough 
 eventually make it to Broadway” is delusional.  At the end of the day, Broadway is just a place.  

The difference between a famous writer and an unknown writer is that one was simply at the right place at the right time.  This is not to take away from their talents or say that they don’t deserve the acclaim that they receive; I’d be a fool to call Paula Vogel, Lauren Gunderson, or Lin-Manuel Miranda unworthy.  The point I’m making is that rather than paint someone’s talents out to be better or worse than yours, we should instead think of our talents akin to food.  Art is sustenance after all, and the same way that one cannot live on ribeye steak all the time, one cannot only ever enjoy Arthur Miller.  There is a time and a place for each artist.  

When I was much younger, I was under the assumption that the best actor who auditioned for a show got the bigger roles, and likewise, those who were poorer actors didn’t get cast or perhaps were given smaller roles.  If you’re good, you get Hamlet.  If you’re bad, you get Marcellus.  As a seasoned actor and director, I can see now that that isn’t the case.  The question is never, “Who is the best actor?” but rather, “Who fits this role the best?”  In this same light, as a playwright, the question cannot be, “Am I a good writer?” but instead, “Is this the play what this company needs right now?” 

As I sit here writing this, I’m currently reeling from yet another rejection notice; it’s never wise to let your imagination run away with you and start thinking that a “We’re very interested” is a “Yes, we will produce this.”  (Don’t believe anything until you’ve signed the contract.) Covid 19 is going to make the theatre scene tumultuous to say the least especially for new artists as it will always be a safer bet to produce Neil Simon versus an emerging writer, and as companies scramble to recover any losses, Neil Simon is looking pretty favorable right now.  I expect a lot of the “interested” conversations I've had will suddenly turn into “no, thank you’s”, and that’s something that I have to square with.  A global pandemic is bound to turn everything on its head, but I can’t let that take any thunder away from me.  It’s incredibly easy to sob into a glass of cheap Cabernet (believe me; I’m doing now) and say that all is lost.  I find myself throwing my hands in the air and asking, "What is even the point?  Why write a show if no one is going to touch it with a ten-foot pole?"

Lady Gaga famously (I think it's famous) has a line from Rainer Maria Rilke's "Letters to  Young Poet" tattooed on her upper arm.  The passage is in German but the translation reads, "Confess to yourself in the deepest hour of the night whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?"

And I know that I do.  Even before I thought I was good, I wrote.  Even when I was just scribbling silly poems and random dialogues into my notebook at school, I knew that I had to write.  It just comes to me (as pretentious as that is to say).  When I was in college and struggling to understand story structure, script analysis, and all the technical aspects of writing,  I had a conversation with my professor Jan Nelson-Gompper that has stuck with me for some time.  I can't recall what led up to it, but at one point, Jan looked at me and said, "You have something to say, and that's why you'll be a good writer."  

Fame and success would be lovely, but I can't base my worth on those things because fame is fickle, success is subjective, and whether or not I achieve either of them, I know that I will still put the pen to paper and tap away at my laptop.  Yes, Rainer, I must write.

​We're coming up on the one-year anniversary of my great soul-seeking adventure that took me out of the country for the first time.  I had a lot of expectations and  even more trepidation about the trip; I was going by myself, I had never been that far away from home, I couldn't afford this trip, I didn't know anyone over there, when I was in Prague, there'd be a language barrier so how was I going to deal with that, and so on and so on.  But, despite the nagging terrible thoughts that plagued me prior to my departure, I did it.  I survive Ireland all by myself.  

So what exactly did I take away from that trip?  

It's taken me almost a year to really nail it down, but I think I've finally got the overall moral/point that God/the universe was trying to give me.  And it all centers on the idea of shame.  

I have tried and tried and tried and tried again for the past three years to give up dairy and eggs completely.  It started off from a very selfish place; I wanted to lose weight and my co-worker told me that veganism was the way to go!  (I did lose weight when I first "became" a vegan because I didn't do it correctly and basically just ate steamed vegetables all the time.  My first attempt did not last long.) 
But the more I looked into it and the more I learned about the dairy industry, the more my intentions changed.F rom a young age, we are told that cows produce milk, and it's very much insinuated in our children's literature that they enjoy doing that; it's what they were made for apparently.  (The cows in Animal Farm demand to be milked because their udders are so full, it's becoming painful.  And, yes, that is a real thing.)

But!  Cows are not milk machines.  They are, in fact, not continually producing milk as our happy picture books would have us believe.  Cows (like humans) only lactate after they give birth.  That means that female cows' lives consist of a continual cycle of impregnation, have baby, have baby stolen, sucked dry of milk, impregnation, have baby, have baby stolen, sucked dry of milk, and so on and so on.  Their babies are either sold for meat (if they're males) or held captive for their milk (if they're females).  We've been lied to, people!  

I bring all this up simply to illustrate where I'm coming from.  I've been exposed to the truth, and I can't look back.  The dairy industry can be just as bad as the meat industry, and, as an animal activist, I should do whatever is possible to not support such torture of animals.  (This post is not intended to turn you vegan; it's simply the backdrop for my great revelation).  

So, like Hamlet, I have all the reasons in the world to do the deed and swear off all cheese.  But, also like dear Hamlet, I get stuck halfway and end up putting on a big show rather than actually doing what I set out to do.  The thing is: I really like cheese.  Okay?  I really, really like cheese!  (I've had basically no problem giving up milk.  But there's something about solidified milk that really gets my engine going I guess.) I'm from Wisconsin for crying outside!  And (I don't care what anyone says) being a vegan is expensive.  Any time you remove an entire food group from your diet, things get complicated.  I don't make a lot of money and I work at a store that just happens to have egg and cheese sandwiches available for a cheap price.  

So for the past three years, my life has been dotted with questions like, "Are you a vegan today?" or "How much of a vegan are you today?" because I continually say that I'm giving up cheese and eggs and then fall of the bandwagon.  And, dear Lord, does that sting.  I feel as though I've failed every cow everywhere.  I feel as though I may as well go out and order twenty sirloins while I'm at it.  What's the difference?!  Things haven't gotten easier since my roommate began dating a full-fledged vegan (he's also a full-fledged magician, but that's a different story), and I find myself continually comparing myself to him.  The past three years have been a battle.  

But when I went to Ireland, I gave myself one strict rule: no shaming.  I didn't have a ton of money so I was going to have to eat what I could and shut up about it. (No matter what, though, I don't eat meat.  I haven't eaten meat in years, and the times that it's accidentally happened, I always end up feeling sick afterwards.) Luckily, Europe is far more accommodating to vegetarians and vegans than the U.S. is.  This simple rule allowed me to enjoy food how it's supposed to be enjoyed: without shame.  Perhaps all I needed was the excuse of stepping completely outside of my normal routine for it to click, but I can make up my own damn rules and be (what I call) an "imperfect vegan"

And the same goes for theatre.  I love the theatre.  I love seeing shows and talking about shows.  My happy place probably consists of chatting with friends over a glass of Chardonnay about that play we just saw.  (There are probably rats involved as well...somehow).  But when I was overseas I didn't see one damn show.  I had plans to.  A fantastically reviewed production of The Cripple of Inishmaan was playing in Dublin at the time I was there, and there's a lovely company right in Prague that specializes in physical theatre and clowning.  I had plenty of opportunities to, but I didn't.  Perhaps because I had told myself there'd be no shame and thus I didn't feel pressured to go see anything?

There also was an incredible amount relief when I told people that I couldn't audition for or go see this show or that show...I was going to be out of the country, after all!  For five weeks, I was completely disconnected from the theatre scene back home, and it allowed me to take a breath and be something outside of an actress and playwright.  Ever since high school, that's been my identity more or less (with an occasional Harry Potter reference or rat anecdote thrown in there).  When I was at Jampa Ling, I even ran into a lovely woman who works as a theatre professor at a local university, and I instantly felt compelled to flex my artistic muscles and prove that I was, indeed, one of her own.  

In the same way that I'm not a true vegan, I worry that I'm not a true theatre person, either.  I can't tell you the exact date of Stella Adler's birth, I'm not very good at accents or dialects, and I definitely haven't read all of Shakespeare's stuff (let alone Marlowe's or Jonson's".  In a lot of ways, I'm a fake simply walking around with my chest puffed out and pretending that I know what's going on.  That's why Ireland was so refreshing: I didn't have to pretend for anyone.  

Tennessee Williams wrote a fantastic (in my opinion) retelling of The Seagull called The Notebook of Trigorin, and it gives a bit more insight into Trigorin's story.  While, yes, it can be assumed that good old Boris runs away with Nina because he's caught up in the excitement of it all and the a new, younger woman who is showing interest in him, not a lot is said as to why he abandons her.  We can put the pieces together ourselves and chalk it up to guilt, boredom, or even sheer malice, but Williams'  gives the reader a bit more of an understanding.  Trigorin is, first and foremost, a writer.  When presented with the admiration of Nina, he remarks to himself that this opportunity could be, "the most important romance I've ever written."  Trigorin was never truly interested in Nina, but, rather, interested in the story that might develop by being her lover and how said story would further his identity as a writer.  (In true Tennessee Williams' fashion, Boris Trigorin is also bi-sexual).  

I've often wondered how like this new Trigorin I am.  How often am I should be enjoying things for what they are rather than hurriedly stashing details in my memory where it will live until it turns into a play.  I, of course, did run home from Ireland and wrote "my Ireland play".  (Look for my new piece Islands soon.)  It's the society in which I live in also.  We can't just enjoy a sunset but must take a photo of it and instantly share it to all social media outlets.  I can't just go see a show.  I must take a sassy selfie of me with the program and pass it out like candy to everyone on the internet as if to say, "Look! I'm a real girl!  I saw a show!  Look at how cultured I am!"  No matter what I do, I am doing it for someone else and not myself.  

I won't say that I came home from Ireland with answers.  It's taken me almost a year to really make sense of all that I thought and saw; I certainly believed that the woman getting on the plane in Chicago would not be the same woman getting off five weeks later.  I was more than a little disappointed to find that there was nothing particularly new about me apparently.  If anything, I have more questions: where do I go from here?  How can I remove the shame from my life?

I do love the theatre and I do legitimately believe that the extent to which humans use and abuse other species is morally wrong.  But there's also got to be a little joy to living, and when the things we love become the things that hold us down, well, that's simply no way to live.  There's a lot I still need to figure and process, but the clarity that my trip abroad gave me truly helped me on this journey to mental peace.  

Perhaps this is all something that can be solved with another runaway attempt.  What do you think?  Berlin or London?

This is the part of the blog where I aimlessly talk about shows that I've seen.
Today's blog is about "Little Wars" at Milwaukee Entertainment Group.
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Overall:
Overall, MEG’S Little Wars is a beautiful and powerful piece of theatre.  Seven women have gathered in Gertrude Stein’s home in France during World War II where they will spend the next few hours batting around ideas of literature, theatre, art, politics, and everything in between.  Each woman has a method behind the madness of her character and while we may not agree with some of them, we, as an audience, grow to at least understand their choices and what brought them here.  Everyone agrees that what Hitler and the Nazis are doing is horrific, but how we fight back (or if we fight back at all) is up for debate. 
 
The space:
The bottom line is that the Subterranean Theatre at Brumder Mansion is a difficult space in which to stage a show.  When you first see it, you are blown away by the charm and character of such an intimate setting, but these come at a heavy price.  Seven women on such a tiny stage often leaves the entire set feeling overcrowded.  Sightlines were never really an issue for me, but with so little room to move, scenes at time became rather stagnant from lack of action.  I wish that more of the whole basement (not just the traditional stage) would have been utilized.  In favor of getting enough furniture on the stage so that every character may have a place to play (sit), the set was made into a kind of obstacle course that often played the actors rather than the other way around.
 
Performances:
Cara Johnston as Dorothy Parker was probably the biggest highlight of the show for me.  When we first meet her, there’s little more to her than a love of boasting and an infatuation for gin, but once said gin begins to flow, Johnston’s Dorothy reveals herself to be a feisty yet simultaneously melancholy artist.  There is a natural grace and gravitas to Johnston which commands the audience’s attention.  In short, it’s hard to look away from her.
Ruth Arnell as Muriel Gardiner and Victoria Hudziak as Agatha Christie likewise give standout performances.  Hudziak’s Agatha has little to no time for melancholies; she’s here to enjoy herself and prove that she’s the smartest woman in the room.  Agatha has her own moments of reflections, but, on the whole, she is a steady and unfaltering woman, who enjoys giving out commentary rather than deep insight.  This allows Hudziak to fully flex her comedic muscles and give the show a break from its many dark themes.  Arnell’s Muriel, on the other hand, is less comfortable in the presence of such women as she is neither a writer nor really supposed to be there.  Her awkwardness will melt your heart and her passion for her cause will light a fire inside you. 
It would be erroneous to talk about Little Wars without giving mention to Maggie Wirth’s Gertrude Stein.  I don’t know the complete nature of playwright McCasland and Wirth’s relationship (if I understand correctly, they are friends and Wirth was the one to suggest this play to MEG after it was initially performed in New York City), but it strikes me as a possibility that the playwright wrote this part specifically for Maggie.  It plays to all of the actress’s strengths: a larger than life persona, mixed with hilarious one-liners, and sprinkled with a touch of vulnerability.  Wirth shines here. 
The cast is rounded out by Molly Corkins who gives a beautiful performance as the German maid Bernadette, Carrie Gray as Lillian Hellman, and Donna Daniels as Alice B. Toklas. 
 
The language.
Aside from staging, the biggest issue of the piece was the script itself, and I don’t mean plot or character development, but, rather the poetic nature of the language.  Let me be clear: this is a beautiful script, but it requires special attention.  The story moves from straightforward dialogue into rhythmical prose, and it was obvious that some actors had a better understanding of those transitions than others.  When you step outside of natural dialogue, there has to be a reason why.  What changed to make you want to speak now in metaphors and similes?  For Johnston and Wirth, their trips into poetry seemed more than justified (Dorothy was now drunk and Gertrude was…well, that’s just the way that Gertrude Stein is).  Gray, on the other hand, often seemed uneasy with her dialogue.  Early on, she is left alone with Muriel (a woman she only met five minutes ago) and begins to tell a long-winded story about her former husbands.  The monologue had layers to it, but they were layers that I don’t think Gray really explored.  Why is she pouring this intimate story out to Muriel?  The character that you’ve created so far doesn’t appear to be uncomfortable with silence, so this isn’t out of a need to fill empty space.  Gray has worked a great deal in musicals (she’s a fantastic singer in case you didn’t know 😉 ), and it’s been a joy to watch her develop her acting abilities more and more over the years.  She clearly has the talent and devotion to her craft, and while parts of her performance were lacking here, I’m excited to watch her grow more as time goes on.
 
In conclusion…
Little Wars was not a perfect show, but it was a damn good show.  

I was sure that once I was left at the airport in Chicago, I’d be overcome with a feeling of dread; I’m really all alone.  But I didn’t.  I was just confused by O’Hare’s setup.  So I figured that that feeling would hit once I was actually in a foreign country.  But it didn’t.  Mainly, I was just tired and needed coffee.  The general fear that’s been stifling me is, “Don’t look like a stupid tourist, Deanna.”  But that’s hard, especially when you’re lugging a huge ass rolling suitcase everywhere you go. 
 
I left the airport and quickly grabbed a taxi.  My driver talked to me some, but I found hid dialect different from the attendant’s.  He was harder to understand, more of a layman than the perfect woman who had served my chicken.  I usually had to ask him to repeat something after he asked it.  He inquired as to where I was going and what brought me here.  I asked him what was one good pub I needed to see in Dublin.  We talked a bit.  He helped me with my luggage, and before I knew it, I was alone again outside my hostel. 
 
This was my first time staying in one, and it reminded me a lot of a college dorm.  It was about noon now, and I couldn’t check in until two so I rented a locker (10 Euros but after the first day, you got 8 back.  After the second day, you got 6 back and so on…), stowed my huge ass suitcase and carryon and took to the streets on foot.  At first glance, Dublin wasn’t that much different from any city back home except that there are way more coffee shops, way more vegetarian options as far as food goes, and everyone drives on the wrong side of the road.  In my planning, I had figured that these first few hours would be dedicated to sleep (I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to check into my hostel) so this little sneak peek of the city was a surprise.  I didn’t have a plan…I just wanted to walk.
 
Now with just my purse in tow, I felt a little more incognito.  I visited the Starbucks that was next door and tried the cereal latte (America, let’s get us some more oat milk please!) and something called a butter scone which was basically a sweater version of a biscuit (American biscuit, not an Irish biscuit).  I wandered around couple of grocery stores, bought an Irish tabloid, and eventually found myself in a lovely little pub called The Oak where I ordered a Guinness (your tourist is showing) and proceeded to watch the football (soccer) game on the telly (television).  I don’t watch a lot of soccer in the US so maybe this is true across the board, but injured players were particularly funny to me.  It happened about three times where a player would go down and then proceed to lie there on the ground, rolling around, clutching some part of their body, wincing in pain, and screaming.  It must have been some awful injury for such a display of hurt…something that I’d never seen on an American field unless in the case of shattered spines.  So this player is writhing in agony and then a peer walks over, helps him up, and, suddenly, he’s right as rain, back in the game.  What the hell was that dramatic tantrum for? 
 
“Get up, Frank.  You’re not fooling anyone.” 
 
That was at least my take on it. 
 
Back at the hostel, there’s the locker where I stored my huge ass rolling suitcase and carryon.  There’s also a locker hidden under my bunkbed (I’m on the top bunk…I haven’t slept in a bunkbed since my sophomore year of college).  As I was getting ready for bed, I was struggling, trying to figure out how to coordinate this all.  The locker under my bed didn’t come with an actual lock (you’re supposed to bring one of your own), but the one that I rented in the general area does.  I would have probably been fine just stowing everything under my bed, but my dad’s voice was ringing in my head telling me not to take any chances.  I only shared the room with two other women, but I don’t know them and someone could easily take something while I’m sleeping (I’m a very heavy sleeper).  So there I am: standing in the cramped general locker area, trying to pull out my pajamas, tooth brush, toothpaste and all that jazz from my huge ass suitcase.  I’m going to take what I need, run upstairs, take a shower, get changed, and then run back downstairs, stash my toiletries and purse in the locker, run back upstairs and go to bed.  Tomorrow, I’ll run back downstairs, collect my toiletries and my clothes for the day, run back upstairs, change and then…
 
And finally, I realized that this was all a bit stupid.  I decided to cheat a little bit and just took the lock off of my general locker, moved everything I owned up to my room, and stashed it all in the locker under my bed.  It isn’t big enough to hold my carryon as well so I slept with that next to me.
 
“Don’t take any chances,” my dad’s voice says.    
 
My anxiety kicked in in again, and I began to imagine the hostel workers walking through the general locker area, seeing that locker number 56 doesn’t have a lock on it, and then (I don’t know) kicking me out because I stole their lock or something.  I go to sleep feeling like a renegade but at least I know that my stuff is safe. 
 
Of course, they didn’t notice or didn’t care.  I returned the lock to its proper place just before checking out. 
 
I didn’t really meet my roommates.  I heard one of them enter the room while I was trying to sleep and she (very respectfully) didn’t turn on the light or make too much noise.  Maybe an hour later, I heard the second one enter.  We spent approximately five minutes all awake and in the same room.  I didn’t even catch their names.  When I woke up this morning at 5:30, they were both gone. 
 
I’m on the train now, headed for Cork, and when I arrive, I’ll once again be faced with a problem regarding my huge ass rolling suitcase: where do I stow it?  I don’t intend to spend a lot of time in Cork; I’m catching the 3:30 bus to Dingle where I’ll stay the night, but I do want to check out the English Market and some of the coffee shops there; I’d really prefer to do that sans the twenty extra pounds of luggage.  Hopefully, there is a storage facility at the station.  We’ll see. 
 
All in all, I’m trying to let go of the fear of looking like a dumb tourist because (guess what) I am a dumb tourist. 
 
Also, while digging around blindly in my suitcase last night, I cut myself on my five-bladed razor.  (The safety cover had popped off in transit.)  I know that it’s a five-bladed razor, not because I remember purchasing that specific kind, but because I can count the five parallel cuts that run along my wrist.  I didn’t feel it when it actually happened, but the sight of all that blood gave me pause for sure.  It’s a good two inches long. 

​My first Irish battle scars.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

​The adventure really began when my brother-in-law, Nick, dropped me off at O’Hare.  We weren’t really sure which terminal I was supposed to go to, but we figured that because there were five, dropping me off at three would be a lucky bet.  We were wrong.  Nick gave me a hug, drove off, and I began my great journey of self-discovery by wandering around the airport for a good fifteen minutes like an idiot.  Life lesson: when in doubt, just read a sign and ask am employee.
 
Skip ahead several hours.  I’m getting on the plane.  The flight attendant greets me with a warm smile and a, “Welcome aboard.”  I giggle like a stupid tourist because her dialect is thick and beautiful.  My assigned seat is close to the bathroom (good news) but in the middle (bad news).  A bald stranger sits to my left, watching “Oceans 8” on the tiny TV in front of him.  To my right is am empty seat.  It's only a matter of time before both the bald man and I must rise to make room for the third member of our trio.  I’m not too terribly cramped, but I also have a six hour flight ahead of me.  I dread the idea of being stuck in here like sardines.
 
Luckily, I hear a passenger ask an attendant a question a few rows ahead of us.  Something to the effect of, “Are we taking off soon?”  The beautiful lady clad in a smart green pencil skirt and matching blazer informs my fellow traveler that everyone has boarded and they’re doing final preparations.
 
Jack.  Pot.
 
I eye the empty seat next to me.  The blessed window seat.  God has smiled upon me this day and said, “Deanna, the person who was supposed to sit there isn’t going to sit there.”  So I scoot on over, giving myself and the bald stranger plenty of elbow room and stare out the window.  Like a stupid tourist. 
 
The plane seems to taxi forever and then it finally takes off.  Chicago looks golden beneath us.  A million tiny torches.  I smile.  The plane rises and the land disappears from sight. 
 
Cut to a few hours later.  I have fallen asleep (I did take two sleeping pills before getting on the plane) and have awoken with a stiff neck and a rumbling tummy.  And then I suddenly ask myself, “How long have I been asleep?”  The last thing I remember is the overhead announcements telling us that it was free to move about the cabin and then watching a flood of people run towards the bathroom.  Now I’m watching as my bald companion (I should stop referring to him simply as bald…there is more to him than his hair style)…my Oceans 8 companion…handing his empty dinner tray to an attendant.  I missed the free beverages and pretzels!  I missed handing out dinner!  I missed eating dinner! 
 
My midwestern nature takes over and I tell myself, “Well, you missed your chance.  The attendants are very busy and they aren’t going to make a new meal just for you.”  (I don’t travel a lot, okay?)  But, still…my tummy rumbles.  I make the choice that if this really is my journey self-discovery, I need to start with not being afraid to ask for the things that I need…let alone paid for. 
 
I tentatively hit the call button.  My anxiety begins to slowly take over and I picture the bothered look on the attendant’s face…her perfectly crafted red slips get very thin and her eyes narrow.  I picture her lovely lilt reprimanding me with a, “I’m sorry, ma’am.  But you had your chance.  Dinner is over.”  And then all the passengers will turn and look at me, their lips just as thin and their head shaking.  “How dare you.”
 
Of course, nothing like that happens.  The attendant walks over, and I explain that I was asleep during dinner and if it was possible for me to get it now. 
 
“Absolutely,” she says, “Chicken or beef?” 
 
I should tell her that I’m a vegetarian and ask if she has any non-meat options, but I’ve just climbed a really big mountain already so let’s take things one step at a time. 
 
I order the chicken but wrap it up in a napkin and just eat the rice that comes alongside it.  And the delicious “Emperor’s Shortbread” (kind of like ice cream or custard with caramel on the bottom.)  Well done, Deanna.  You did it.  Good job.
 
I turn on “Solo: A Star Wars Story” (everyone is right; there needed to be more Donald Glover.) And then I fall asleep again.  And then I wake up to the sound of the attendants telling us that we’re getting ready to land.  My eyes dart out the window and I watch with great anticipation.  All I see are clouds and ocean, but I want to be ready.  I want to see Ireland.  Once again, my face is pressed against the window (like a stupid tourist) as I feel the plane begin to descend.  And then all at once, the ocean becomes a shore and the shore becomes a beach and this goes on until I’m looking at farms and highways.  They look like Wisconsin farms and highways (aside from the fact that the cars are driving on the wrong side of the road), but deep in my heart I know that they aren’t: they’re Irish farms and highways. 
 
And now I’m sitting here enjoying a latte with some of the most beautiful foam I’ve ever seen (no, I didn’t go to Starbucks).  My hostel doesn’t allow check-in’s for another couple of hours, but right now I’m just enjoying watching people exit baggage pick-up.  Some of them are running into the arms of loved ones and many are just going about their business. 
 
But it’s not just regular business.
 
It’s Irish business.   

Inspired by the frustrations of my fellow females.  

(Note: A good friend and I had a great chat about this phenomena that occurs when men and women are friends.  It obviously doesn't happen all the time, but it does happen.  This one is for you, hun.) 

PS: The following are song lyrics, and if anyone feels the need to put it to actual music, please do so.  I'd love to hear it.  :)
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I can appreciate a man
Who can appreciate his girl
Goodness knows you’ve told me
That she is basically your world  
 
I can appreciate a man
Who’d be the first to say he’s blessed
You know a good thing when you see it
But just this once give it a rest
 
I can appreciate your love
That’s some straight up Nicholas Sparks
But maybe if you just read the room
You’d see you’re shitting on my heart
 
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
I really don’t care that she is amazing
I’m trying to be polite and all but
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
 
I’m all for my fellow women
Empowered girls empower back
But you spin a tale of beauty
And then I see just what I lack
 
I can’t blame her for being grand
I’ve seen her once and I don’t doubt it
But I can shoot you dagger eyes
‘Cause you won’t shut up about it
 
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
I really don’t care that she is amazing
I’m trying to be polite and all but
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
I get it that she is like your soul mate
She’d make a great mom and all of that shit
But, boy, open up your eyes and see that
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
 
For one so clever
You can be
The densest man in my company
 
Please do endeavor
When you’re with me
Tread lightly now and have mercy
 
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
I really don’t care that she is amazing
I’m trying to be polite and all but
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
I get it that she is like your soul mate
She’d make a great mom and all of that shit
But, boy, open up your eyes and see that
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend
I get it
She completes you
You don’t need nothing else
But, boy
I don’t wanna talk about your girlfriend