The One about Emmitt.

I've never been really big into football. Aside from occasionally watching my brother's team play during high school, it was never really my cup of tea. However, it's hard to grow up in Texas and not know a little bit about the NFL. Do you know who Emmitt Smith is? Yes, he won Dancing With the Stars in 2006, but I remember him best as the unbelievably respectable Dallas Cowboys running back - #22. He always seemed to handle himself with such etiquette - on the field and off - and had the most welcoming smile with the whitest teeth and the most sparkly eyes.I remember hearing about his induction into the Football Hall of Fame in 2010 where he offered more than a nice smile and manners. He offered wisdom in a phrase so plain and simple, yet so memorable and so applicable to so many. He said, "Never, never let others define you."

For as far back as I can remember, I have all too often allowed other people's opinions of me characterize who I am, who I'll become, and what I do. You would think that since I am able to recognize this weakness, I might be able to overcome it. But here I am: twenty-four years old and still letting people's words get the best of me.

In addition to this, for as far back as I can remember, I haven't been quiet about the people that mean the most to me. I don't just walk life without making it clear - through some love language or another - that I care for certain people, and that care is not something that I take lightly. It's something, instead, that I cherish.

These two things put together led to my nearly-three-month blog hiatus and my making my blog by invitation only. I won't go into much detail about exactly what occurred; truthfully, it isn't even worth repeating. It also isn't worth it to let something so petty get in the way of something I loved to do. Write, or better yet, express.

Back in January, I wrote a post about how important this blog was to me. I said, "[My blog] has become strangely therapeutic - something that I don't really take very lightly and something that I hold very close to my heart." It blessed my life when I wrote because I allowed myself those "soapboxes." I allowed myself those moments of question, of cheesiness, and yes, even of sharing how much I care about one person or another.

It's a fact: when I care about someone, I show it. This has been something in my life that I have been proud of. And I refuse to be the wimp that lets three lashed-out sentences from an obviously confused bystander define this blog.

So I'm back. Hopefully in full-swing. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll fill in about my experiences over the last three months. Of course there have been plenty, and of course I'll talk your ear off about each and every one.

The blog isn't even by invitation only anymore. I want people to read it. If they don't, that's okay, too... because I'm still making a choice to write, which makes me happy. A choice to be happier.

I'm not going to sugar-coat this. It won't be easy. It was a habit writing and now it's a habit to not write. There will be that nagging voice in the back of my mind that tugs and tears and reminds me why I stopped writing for three months. And I imagine it will be there for a while.

But Emmitt Smith offers even more applicable advice, "Consistency shows value. Consistency is necessary for trust, durability and longevity. You have to show up every week no matter how difficult the game or life might be."

The One where I'm Scared of Christine.

I have enjoyed publicizing my thoughts and receiving feedback from many of my friends... until someone takes my words and uses them against me. When I started pouring my heart into these writings, I told myself the second that something like that happened, I would make this blog a bit more private. I will spare you the details of the dramatic situation, and instead, thank those of you who respected my words and didn't criticize or insult me for my feelings - however emotional they might be - and beliefs.

I keep thinking that I will get over it, but it's still full-force. I. Am. Scared. To. Death. Isn't it interesting how we, as performers, dream for roles and when they happen to us, sometimes we feel so lost about it and unbelievably afraid of it? (That doesn't mean I'm not completely grateful for it.)

For whatever reason, it's easy for me to dig in and pull out the older, motherly, mature woman (even though I'm far from maternal or mature). Sometimes that seems like the only role I've ever played. The dramatic roles are easier for me. It's easy for me to brood, mope, and even cry onstage. Which is why I've never been cast as Miss Sunshine. Christine is Miss Sunshine and then some, and she scares me to death.

I wouldn't trade this opportunity for anything, but I can't lie and say that I haven't shed a few tears out of fear of the feat ahead (even right smack in the middle of the process). I just want it to be perfect. If I don't do this role justice... well, that's just out of the question. I want to be a versatile performer, and I want it to make perfect sense why this is my biggest dream role. More than proving it to anyone else, I want it to make sense to me why my heart wanted this role so much for so long.

I find myself reaching her more and more with each rehearsal. This has definitely been a trying role for me. I don't want it too sound snotty when I say this - most of the roles I've played have been easy to grasp weeks before the show opens.

It's not hard to look at this as a very good thing: I will constantly be working on and attempting to perfect, and playing the most accurate portrayal of Christine that I know how. Right through the end of the run. I am more than okay with working on that. More than happy to.

On another side of the situation, the fact that Christine is Miss Sunshine and she is the "romantic interest" in the show contributes to the fear. Besides Annie Oakley, I've never played the "romantic interest." I could get away with it in Annie because she didn't have to be teeny and graceful (-ish); she was a woodsy girl (who could've eaten her fill of wild game) and certainly a tomboy.

Many of my close friends know that part of the motivation behind my losing weight was to aim for this role. In fact, many posts back I mentioned the "potentiality" of a situation. This was that situation. OF COURSE there was so much more to the losing the weight than getting a role. I knew that I would be able to gain greater confidence; I knew that it was the right way to live my life; I knew that it was taking care of myself. I knew that it wouldn't be easy, but I knew I had to do it, and I knew that I also wanted this role so much.

I'm sitting at 43 total pounds lost, which means I still have 7 pounds to go before I reach my goal of 50. And after that, I might even shoot for five more. It feels like there's at least 12 more that I can lose.

I've become much more lax in my eating habits lately, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I've taught myself exactly what and how much I can eat in order to maintain my weight... which I've done for well over two months now. It's an amazing feeling to be this self-aware of my body and my weight and my health overall. It's amazing what you can learn, and even teach yourself, in (almost) eight months.

However, I still have a goal, and when I reach that goal, then I know what to do to maintain it.
In exactly four days, I will be making the move to Salt Lake. I have been packing and work on it little by little everyday. It's interesting to recognize that I've been living in Ogden since January of 2008. Besides my home in Texas, this is the longest that I've lived anywhere. Now, granted, I've lived in seven different places since January of 2008... regardless of that, Ogden has become home to me.

I have been through some unbelievably difficult times during my stay in Ogden. I have had some of the best times of my life here, too. I have been through some of my greatest changes here. And I suppose when I finally make the move from Salt Lake in a year and a half or so I'll be saying the same thing. It will become my home. And having Little Sister there will only make that more true.

I'm very excited to move. I have felt a bit of a rut in my emotional life as of late, and I need the change. A new focus. New surroundings. New friends. This can, and will be, an absolutely positive experience. I want that; I need that.

The One where I'm Supposed to Be.

Growing up, I was never a reader. I didn't like books. In fact, I really hated them and did everything I could to avoid them. Book reports often were results of literally scanning pages. If I could just get away with singing a song in front of the class instead of reading a book (which was really an option for my 5th grade reading class with Mrs. Simmons), I would absolutely take it. I even remember one time when I was "reading" a book for my 4th grade GATE (Gifted and Talented-Ennis) class, my mom caught me flipping past about 20 pages of "My Side of the Mountain." So embarrassing, even for a 10-year-old.

I don't remember the moment when that changed. I just know that, for years now, reading has been somewhat of an escape from the real world, the opportunity to live someone else's story for however long those pages went on. Like everything else in my life, I become completely wrapped up in a book. While I'm reading it, it goes with me everywhere and I think about it often. I remember reading "The Hunger Games" last year, seeing a blinking light in the night sky and automatically thinking it must be a parachute gift of bread from District 11 (you have to read the book to understand).

Currently, the book that I'm carrying around is the one I mentioned in my last post, "The Book of Awesome" by Neil Pasricha. I often pull it out to show and share with other people. Interestingly enough, when I carry my books around, it isn't because I have a feeling I'll be somewhere and get a chance to read it. It really is to share it... because I've had so many sweet books shared with me.

I remember one very distinctly. I read it back in 2005... twice. I was at lunch with a friend and she pulled out the small 200-page book and, with the biggest smile, said, "You have to read this." After reading the book, I even bought the movie (which was garbage; don't bother). I became immersed in the story by Mitch Albom called "The Five People You Meet in Heaven."

This morning, I packed some boxes... or started to anyway, until I came across this book again. I thumbed through the pages and remembered the time of my life when I read it and the effect it had on me. The writing wasn't particularly fabulous, but the idea was what really touched me. It offers perspective on the term "life lessons."

It follows a man named Eddie to Heaven where he meets the five people who made the biggest influence on his life. In the book, Eddie doesn't choose his five people, they just show up... some of them surprise him, because a couple aren't really the people that he would've expected, but by the end of their lessons, he understands how each person has molded his life. I won't spoil it, of course. I've started reading it again today, and I'm amazed at the things that I'm catching now that I didn't see then. I remember making a mental list back in 2005 that consisted of the five people that I thought I would meet in Heaven (granted I actually get there, of course). And then I started thinking about how much that list has changed in the last six years and how much I absolutely have changed in almost every aspect of the word.

And, like I (and most of us) do, my mind just went on a tangent. A tangent I'll share now. Via Soapbox #284.

Have you ever felt as if a comparison to who you are "supposed to be" may be holding you back?

I've touched on it before: over the past few months I have encountered alienation from those around me. I can't understand it entirely, and that is frustrating to me. Perhaps it is that these people don't like the new person that I have become. It's no secret: life experiences change people. They bring about a respect and empathy while providing the possibility that another viewpoint is, perhaps, better?

For a very, very, very long time, I chose to base every decision and action on whether I would receive approval from those around me. I became a wash of gray in the world of colorful people around me. If approval was not granted, I would mercilessly beat myself up emotionally and not take the time to heal before I let it happen again.

It was undeniably a life of 100% self-hate. A disorder, even.

I have made a choice to no longer base my life on anyone else’s standards, viewpoints, or expectations. I am proud of how far I've come. Even more proud of how far I've come is how far I get to go in becoming better. The sky really is the limit.

Does my past filled with self-hate sometimes lurk in the back of my mind? Yes. Will it always be there? Yes. Will I still have to fight it? Yes. It's easy, after so many years of that self-hate, to scold myself when a moment of my past creeps in. It would be easy to just fall into a mode of self-pity... but I'm not going to do it. I make mistakes; I do REALLY stupid things. No one is perfect, and I know I am SOOOOO far from it. That does not mean that my heart deserves the brutality it received for so long.

I have qualities about myself that I have grown to love. That being said, I also have many qualities I want to improve. Moreover and additionally, I am no longer afraid to make choices in my life that will make me happy. I want to dodge the possible flow of negativity if I don’t pursue the “rights” or the “wrongs,” according to someone or something else. When we are happy with where we are, as long as we continue moving forward, any adversity about how we are supposed to be will fall like water off a duck’s back. Again, if we choose to continually improve. An action is an action; a mistake is a mistake; a slip-up is a slip-up... and then we move on. You are you.

A copy never shines as bright as the original.

The One with the Surprise Book.

Over the past few weeks, I've sort of just been going through the motions. It's an easy thing to do: wake up, breakfast, work, class, lunch, work again, dinner, homework, sleep. And then start the whole thing over again the next day.
I've never really liked going through the motions (who does?), and I'm lucky enough to have a little wrench thrown into everyday - while work and class are pretty consistent, rehearsals (and eventually, performances) offer some sweet elements of surprise every time. This rehearsal process of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels has been interesting for me. I've had a total of five rehearsals so far. My character doesn't enter until about 60 pages into the script, so I haven't been called to rehearse until really recently. I suppose the lack of rehearsing and the lack of that element of surprise is why I feel like everyday is on "repeat" for me. Thank goodness I'm back in full-swing with it; I didn't like feeling disconnected from the process.

This past Saturday was a long (but fun) day, and I was absolutely exhausted. When I got home, I had every intention of crawling right into bed and falling right to sleep. Until I saw a package with my name on it sitting on the table in the living room. I opened it up to find this:
Along with it was a typed note that read:
"This book reminded me of you because you should be in it."

It wasn't signed and there was no return address. I was floored, and of course, I got teary-eyed. What sweet person would do something like this for me? Who on Earth would go out of his or her way to make me feel special? And why?

Instead of falling asleep like I'd planned, I started reading it.

This book is blowing my mind. Seriously. There's a website for it (and it's "even more awesome" companion book, which I will be purchasing shortly), and I think it's safe to say that it would benefit anyone to go and visit it: http://www.1000awesomethings.com. The book is quirky; it's smart; it's glorious. And I agree with just about every single "awesome thing."

(I'm not above telling anyone who is looking for a pick-me-up to go out and get this book. You can get it just about anywhere right about now and it runs about $15 on paperback; I've been doing my research.)

The Book of Awesome isn't just a list of 1,000 awesome things; it's explanations, too. Just so that the reader will get it. Some of the "awesome things" are:

• Finding money you didn't even know was lost
• When you pull to a read light and the guy in front of you nudges up a bit so you can make a right turn
• Wearing underwear right out of the dryer
• Picking the perfect nacho off of someone's plate
• Sneezing three or more times in a row
• Hearing a stranger fart in public
• Somebody flashing their high-beams at you to warn you about the cops
• The first scoop out of a jar of peanut butter
• Taking your bra off after wearing it for hours
  
• Having a whole row by yourself on a plane

And the list goes on and on and on. I can't tell you how many of these "awesome things" have made me cry with joy already. I'm taking my time reading it, even though I am finding it absolutely fascinating. My fascination with it is the author's recognition of the little things, and I mean itsy-bitsy. I want to be like this; I talk about it, but I never take the time to actually do it. As I read them, I literally find myself nodding and laughing in agreement. It's incredible. It makes me want to start my own list of "awesome." Don't be surprised if I reference back to this book a billion times.

I've talked before about how I believe sometimes things happen at the exact moment when we need them the most. I needed this book to help me stop going through the motions and to "stop and smell the roses." I don't know what tender person sent me this book, but whoever you are, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

Angela's #1 Awesome Thing: A very special book from an anonymous friend.

The One on Mother's Day.

Reading time in Mrs. Schwartz' second-grade class was always a fun time. She always had a new book to share with us and we'd take 15 minutes to sit down on the "reading rug" and listen to her new books. One day, she brought a very special book. I remember even loving the colors of the precious illustration on the cover of the book when she pulled it out of her canvas tote bag.
If you haven't gotten the chance to read this book, you need to somehow find it and do so. It's hard to read it and not shed a tear or two, whether you're a mother or not. It is the most perfect representation of unconditional love between a mother and child. When I heard this story, I think this was the first time that I noticed the importance and intangibility and steadfastness of a mother's love.
I don't want to sound like a broken record, but I couldn't let a special day like today go by without expressing my gratitude of absolutely the most important and amazing woman in my life. (Besides, I guarantee I'll always be able to find new things to say, even if I do go back to the same topic over and over.)

I hear people say, especially on a day like today, "I have the world's best mom."

Well, I feel that way, too. Let's come to an agreement: you have the world's best mom for you and I have the world's best mom for me.

I couldn't have asked for a more compatible mom. It may not have always been that way because I wasn't the most pleasant child, but now that I'm almost 25 years old, I realize that she has been and always will be the most perfect match to be my mother.

Growing up, I remember things just sort of happening when I wanted them to. One day, when I was about five years old, I remember wanting to take voice lessons and the next thing I knew, I was standing in Mrs. Ritchey's music studio for half an hour each week for nine years, then moving on to other teachers for the next four years. Our swimming pool just happened. Cars just happened. Puppies just showed up when I wanted one. Food just happened. I never really had to ask for anything.

But more than these material possessions, there was one thing that I never craved or begged for because I was never starved of it. In fact, it was the most abundant supply in our home: my mother's love.

One of my greatest memories growing up was snuggling up to my mom on the couch before bedtime and hearing the words, "I love you, Angie. Thanks for being my baby." I remember always responding with, "Thanks for being my mama."

I remember the day that I realized that my mom was my best friend. I was 16 years old, in the 10th grade. I had just gone through my first break-up, and I was devastated. I went into my choir teacher's office and asked if I could use her phone, and I called my mom. I talked to her for about two minutes before she said, "I'm sorry, baby. Do you want to spend the day with me?" And then it, like everything else, just happened. She drove the 40 miles back from work and picked me up. We saw two movies in the theaters that day and had lunch and dinner. We talked and laughed and cried... and when we got home that night, it was as if the terrible morning hadn't even happened at all. That was, really, the first time I realized the sacrifices my mother makes just so that I can stay happy. She put her whole world on hold so that I wouldn't be sad. That is a best friend if I ever heard of one.

Even now, my mom goes out of her way to make her children happy. She aches for them, supports them, laughs with them, cries for them and with them, works with them, teaches them, plays with them, and feels with them. It's hard to imagine that she could love us any more than she already does, but somehow it happens - everyday, her love for her babies grows. I have never, ever doubted that.

So happy Mother's Day to the best mother in the world for me - the most fearless, tender, honest, loving, and beautiful woman in the world. I never have to ask for my mother's love. It just happens... and that is the greatest gift of all. I hope one day I will be able to repay you for everything. Love you forever, and, of course... thanks for being my mama.

The One with the Two MJs.

I am such a dog-lover. Always have been and always will be. I grew up with so many dogs, and I loved every single one. I'm also willing to bet I could still name them ALL.
I'm moving in one month exactly, and I really cannot wait. It's just time, you know? Even though I still have a little bit of school left, my time in Ogden and my time in this house is up. And I feel like it has been for some time.

Aside from feeling like I'm actually getting on with my life, there's another exciting little detail that's making the move extra-special. Well, two little details...
Meet Martha the Little Sister and Mary Jane the Pit Bull.

I am in love with this dog. And I'm not kidding when I say that anyone who meets her falls in love with her. I didn't think that when I went home for Christmas that I would really even care about this dog, but when she snuggled with me and fell asleep with her legs wrapped around me in a hug, how on EARTH was I able to resist? She also plays a very special role in Martha's life; she's her best friend. So, when Martha decided she was going to move up to Utah, I knew Mary Jane had to come, too.

So, I went looking.

Do you know that pit bulls are considered "dangerous breeds," and in some areas, people are trying to ban them completely? I've learned more about this than I ever wanted to, and I'm kind of blown away by it all. I never imagined, by throwing a pit bull into the mix, finding a place would be so hard. I called literally over 100 places. I always asked what their breed restrictions were. "Dangerous Breeds" include: Doberman Pinschers, Presa Canario, Pit Bulls, Rottweilers, Alaskan Malamutes, Huskies, Akitas, Wolf-Mix, Chow Chows, Boxers, German Shepherds, and Bulldogs, plus SO MANY MORE.

I laughed out loud when one lady I talked to even said Golden Retriever. I said, "Are you kidding?!"
Yeah, that just screams "DANGER," doesn't it?

Finally, though, we did find a place. And it was an absolute miracle. According to the lady in the office, it is the only apartment complex in the Provo/Salt Lake/Ogden areas that allows pit bulls.

It wasn't easy to find. It was frustrating. It was discouraging. It was tiring. But, honestly...
... it was all worth it.

The One about Joy.

Most of what I remember about high school was my involvement in the theatre program during my sophomore, junior, and senior years. The other classes I took, save a couple, sort of just breezed past me with little interest. I remember my teachers, sure; I remember the basics of each class. But very little stuck out to me.

Except for those classes in that little black box. It's safe to say that was my second home. I spent countless hours before and after school in that classroom, getting to know very tender people and trying to get to know myself. I learned countless lessons in those three years, and that is, after all, where I started actually doing shows. I feel like I owe a lot to that place.

More specifically, I owe a lot to a particular individual.
This sweet lady spent literally hundreds of hours talking to me about anything and everything. She was there for me during times of serious struggle. She helped me through every little thing. I didn't make her job easy, but she still showed the most unconditional love for me and the rest of her students. She gave me such a drive to actually get out and do something with the talents I'd been given. Such invaluable lessons learned in just three short years.

The gratitude for this special mentor comes especially lately because one thing she said to me during my senior year has been on the very brim of my mind over the past few weeks. The thought initially came about thanks to my last post; what started out as a negative energy turned into my being able to reflect on past wisdom and positivity.

During one of my saddest times, I remember running to her - crying, of course - in a state of helplessness. I very distinctly remember saying, "I don't know how to be happy anymore." It's hard to say if she remembers this conversation, and it's hard to remember every little detail myself. But somewhere, shortly after I said that, she said, "Happiness, though it is a choice, is a fickle thing. Joy is a condition of the heart. Teach yourself how to restore joy."

I didn't get it then; I don't even really suppose I felt joy before that. I'm not saying that I had it bad for 24 years; I had and have the sweetest family, the most tender friends, the best opportunities... I just was choosing and conditioning myself in a way that disallowed true joy.

But today, six years later, joy has been restored.

Joy is a condition of the heart. One can feel joy no matter what is going on around him or her. Unlike happiness, which is dependent on circumstances, joy is a condition of the heart that we can hold to no matter how difficult life becomes. No matter how lonely I might get because I'm a single girl, 24 years old in Utah, surrounded by relationships. No matter how fat I might feel one day. No matter how frustrated I get at work. No matter how bummed I get about classes. No matter how tired I feel. No matter.

My mom, another incredible and inspirational woman in my life (as I've expressed several times before), has said to me over and over for literally as long as I can remember, "All I ever wanted you to do is love yourself."

And I do. I am my own best friend; I know myself better than anyone knows me; I like spending time with just me; sometimes, I even think I'm hilarious (sometimes I'm the only one who thinks so, and that's okay, too).

That's not to say that I don't get in fights with myself. That's not to say that sometimes I don't want to be by myself. That's not to say that I don't appreciate and treasure and hope to nurture every sweet friendship I have in my life. Remembering that happiness is contagious, I choose to surround myself with positive people who share my values, goals, and dreams. I have immense joy and joyous occasions in my life everyday. I'm going to do everything I can to refresh it and keep joy restored.

I know this sounds cheesy, but I'd be a fool to say that my whole life isn't cheesy. It certainly is. A cheesy, happy, sometimes bumpy, but eventually absolutely beautiful and joyous life.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.