I have become a suburbanite.  For a while I was just a former Hoosier dwelling in an outlying area of Atlanta. It was all luck of the draw and Dairy Queen dreams… now it’s become who I am. How did this happen to me?

Growing up there were two types of people – city folk and country folk and neither the twain shall meet. There was no middle ground. Though raised in a rural locale, I was always drawn to more urban areas. Living in Chicago was my goal –everything right there at your finger tips. The diversity, the culture, the architecture, the lake all had me excited about the post-college life that this great Midwest metropolis would provide.

Alas, I married Clifford and got stuck in the South. I’ve come to accept this setback… for now. We were originally ITP when we got hitched and settled down. For those that live anywhere other than the Hotlanta metro area, that means Inside The Perimeter. I may have mentioned this before. Atlanta is essentially encased by I-285. It’s been dubbed the Perimeter. If you are on the one side, you are considered Inside which is Atlanta for all intents and purposes – the city. If you were to venture to the other side of I-285, well then, that’s Outside The Perimeter which would make you OTP. It would also mean you are officially in the burbs – and here we have middle ground.

My first employer in Atlanta often spoke about ITP and OTP. Though she’d lived in Atlanta for 17 years, she’d never ventured Outside The Perimeter. With everything in the city, why would you ever need to visit the suburbs? I could understand that sentiment with museums, restaurants, and nightlife all within walking distance or a short cab ride away, why live in an area filled with strip malls, soccer moms, and pizza joints that close at 9 o’clock on a Friday night? Again, I understood the sentiment, but I was also from Nowheresville, Indiana. We drove an hour to eat at an Outback Steakhouse. We drove two hours two Chicago. We drove four hours for a theme park. So what I couldn’t understand was why someone refused to drive just twenty minutes to another part of the metro area to do something potentially fun. And it worked in reverse. We’d visit my in-laws Outside The Perimeter and their friends would talk about wanting to see something playing at The Fox Theater or attending something going on at Piedmont Park. I’d ask why not and I would always get a hearty laugh of “We’re not going into Atlanta.” and “It’s too far to go.” But it was 20 miles away? 30 minutes tops? That I didn’t understand.

Then I moved to the burbs. I am now OTP. Suddenly, I understand everything.

My cousin said says he’s coming to town and wants to drive to Gwinett Stadium to grab a minor league souvenir cup. Makes sense. That’s what rural Hoosiers do. We drive. We drive long distances to entertain ourselves, to eat, to buy souvenirs, to enjoy life beyond the cornfield confines in which we live. I love driving those roads and distances. It makes me feel so incredibly free to take off down a two lane road with the windows dopen and the wind in my hair, radio blasting to John Mellencamp or Tom Petty … 70 miles could be driven in 45 minutes flat, but in Atlanta, the same distance isn’t the same kind of drive. It’s irritating. It’s stop lights and tail lights and it’s exhausting.   My life was built around drive times to gauge distances. 36 miles on back country roads could be nailed in 25 minutes. 36 miles in Atlanta turns into an excruciating 90 minute exercise in exerting patience that I no longer have.

And it doesn’t end there. Clifford asks me what’s for dinner and we decide it’s a take-out night.  What do we want to pick up? Clifford says Five Guys and I actually whine, “But that’s 15 minutes away! Pick something closer.” My younger non-suburban self would have been devastated at that decree.

There’s no life but Netlfix beyond 9PM. Say I want to go to a great new bar downtown? A cab from the burbs to the city and back would break my bank.

I need to go to Ikea, nestled in the heart of Atlanta, and I can’t just hop in my car and go. I have to plan ahead. Calculate rush hours and traffic patterns and construction sites.

And forget blasting the radio with the windows down. I’d be choking on the smog before Tom Petty could finish his intro.

So I stay in my 2 mile bubble to shop and eat and experience things and it is SO limiting and I miss my non-suburban self so much…

Gone With The Wind (http://web.calstatela.edu/library/mmc/100/~g3.htm)

Besides, growing up in the 80s and 90s, the phenomena that was Gone With The Wind had been around for over fifty years. It was ingrained in pop culture. Everyone knew the story of a snobby Southern Belle named Scarlett and her roguishly debonair lover/foe Rhett Butler.  Thanks to Carol Burnett, we knew she wore curtains for a dress. We knew Scarlett would “never be hungry again.” Kids on playgrounds everywhere would say, “Frankly Scarlett, I don’t give a damn” (it was a way of getting away with swearing because you were quoting a classic).

If you were aware of all of this, you were also aware of how ridiculously long the book and the film are. Like The Wizard of Oz, no need to waste your time when you knew the happily ever after.

Except there was no happily ever after. WHAT?!!

A few weeks ago, I thought I’d join my mother in her annual viewing of this epic tale of love and loss during the Civil War in Atlanta. I mean, I live here now. It’s weird knowing everything about something that came from your backyard but never actually experiencing it yourself. So another check off the bucket list, if you will. I saddled up and prepared to be enlightened for the next four hours.

Four hours I can NEVER get back. Let me begin with the characters.

Scarlett: One of the most hideous characters ever created. It’s no wonder Vivien Leigh ended up as Blanche DuBois. Essentially the older version of a money-hungry life-sucking troll.

Hated Harlot

Rhett: An idiot.

Mr. Brass Balls

Melanie: A woman that could spit sunshine and rainbows  like a genuine unicorn.

Little Lady Lost

Ashley. The unexpected 60 year old playing a 20 year old being lusted after by a 16 year old. Kind of sick.

Old Man Pimp Daddy

The plot?

A timeless tale of a total bitch that has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. She essentially ruins everything and everyone around her and has a twisted affinity for a cotton farm that usurps any sentiment she could possibly have for another living breathing human being. There is no growth. There is no happy ending, maybe a well-deserved ending, but no happy ending. He leaves her. Rhett just leaves her. Are you kidding me?!!! I could not have been more surprised than if the Titanic didn’t sink and Kate Winslet kept her clothes on. Seriously? Did everyone else in America know? Was I the only one in the dark?

Now don’t get me wrong, part of me was ecstatic that the evil wench would be left all alone the rest of her years for the horrific woman she was, but still, for over 30 years, I knew the story and its ending. I would never have guessed one of the greatest love stories of all time actually wasn’t. Oh yeah, and that such a critically acclaimed movie sucked. Blew. My. Mind.

A total-take-back.

Listen To Your Mother: Atlanta at the Strand Theater in Marietta (photo by Miranda Wicker http://www.findingwalden.com/)

Is it over yet? Has the fat lady sung? What the hell was I thinking? Don’t get me wrong, I  am SO excited to be cast in LTYM: Atlanta, but these were the thoughts I had as I walked into Taco Mac one cool spring evening a couple of weeks back. I’d missed the first rehearsal because I was away on business. That means the cast got together without me. That also means everybody already knows everyone and I am officially the last kid picked at the next kickball game.

The producers had taken pity on my plight and were willing to set up an independent read-through with me. I was thankful for their pity and grateful when I found out that someone else had missed the rehearsal, too. Now there would be another who would duke it out with me for that second to last spot on the field (because being the last man standing when being cherry picked by your peers is never a desirable result).

I walked in and there was Shelly Davis. She peeked around the first booth in the joint. “Are you Libby?” I smiled. She had my hair. Everything was going to be ok.

Miranda Wicker (producer #1) slid in the booth right behind me. We cajoled, ordered beers, and eventually got down to brass tax. After I read my composition, I felt calm. After Shelly read her work, I felt even more at peace. After Miranda shared her essay, I felt this was going to be good. This was going to be really good. If their pieces were indicative of the rest of the casts’ caliber, it’s not going to be really good – it’s going to be incredible.

A second rehearsal was just around the corner. I was finally going to meet the rest of my teammates.  I strolled into Panera, ordered my sweet tea and headed to the conference room (by the way, am I the only one who didn’t know Panera has a conference room?).

The first person I saw in the room was familiar at least – Jana Anthoine (producer #2). As everyone gathered, sharing their hellos and making small talk, all I could do was smile. Whatever I’d gotten myself into, there were thirteen others in it with me. And I was about to find out they were thirteen totally amazing others.

I listened to everyone’s stories. I was in awe of the pure talent that was before me. And to think, I’d actually be sharing a stage with these people in about two weeks’ time (as Wayne and Garth might lament – so not worthy!)  Each was a personal portrait of their reflections on or their experience with motherhood told in a way that had me laughing, crying, and at times almost wishing I was a mother (and you know that would take some pretty heavy convincing).

I sat in that back room of Panera Bread inspired and thankful and totally indebted to my producers for seeing something in my work I clearly didn’t see. I love all of these people who have offered up bits and pieces of themselves in order to celebrate motherhood (and I only met them like five minutes ago!). I was having one of the best kinds of no-take-backs there are: the warm and fuzzy kind.

These people have put themselves out there, just like me, and are finding a powerful return on their investment. The more you put out, the more you get back, people. It’s that simple. So why not make it a warm and fuzzy no-take-back week for yourself? And if you are in the Atlanta area this Saturday night, come and join us for Listen To Your Mother.

I auditioned for something! Yeah. Me. I auditioned. I’m not the theater chick in the family, either. In fact, quite the contrary. Pretty much every production I’ve ever been in has ended in me doing something really stupid in front of the entire audience.

Cases in point:

Christmas pageant – I messed up the words to basically every song while singing loudly and extremely off key.

I was no angel. I was murdering those songs.

Men In Black Senior Pep Rally Dance – I forgot the choreography in the middle of the song.

I guess maybe I did look like a blind KD Lang dancing to her own drum …?

Church talent show – again, I forgot the choreography, this time actually stopping and smacking my forehead so loudly it could be heard above the cassette music while heartily resonating throughout the sanctuary for all to hear.

Slapping the forehead – my infamous move.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly dramatic, and I do thrive on congratulatory offerings from my peers, but performing in any way shape or form in front of a live audience was traumatic enough in my formative years, let alone at 34 years of age.

So here’s what happened. I wrote a post that reconnected me with a girl I met for just three hours over 16 years ago. Her name is Lovelyn Palm. In the course of our reconnection, she told me about a show that was coming to Atlanta – Listen To Your Mother. The sign up for auditions ended that very evening. I thanked her for sharing and of course checked it out. It looked really cool. There was also not a snowball’s chance of me signing up for that audition. It was already like 9PM and who knows if the sign up really went to midnight anyway?

But right when I was about to file it away into the “cool things I’d never attempt to do” folder, I had that feeling. Deep in the pit of my ever expanding stomach, I knew that if I didn’t at least put my name on that sign up, my entire blog would be a lie. This was the perfect example of doing something I’d never ordinarily do. This was a No-Take-Backs moment of epic proportions. I added my name.

Then – I had an audition. I had to write an essay for it regarding motherhood. I’m childless. The situation just went from bad to worse. It could be about any aspect of motherhood, but I was hardly an expert on the topic, but I wrote one anyway.

I got to choose my audition slot. It was at 9:45 AM. I was nervous. I wasn’t just reading other people’s words with feeling, I was having to read my words with feeling and in front of the co-producers: Jana Anthoine and Miranda Wicker.

It was my time. I walked in and it was like a scene from a hilarious yet awkward movie. There in front of me sat seriously the longest conference table I’d ever seen in my life. And yes, the producers were all the way at the other end. I actually asked if I needed to read from there and they said “No! No! Come on down!” with smiles. Whew. At least there were smiles.

Seriously.

So I sat across from them and read my piece. Jana and Miranda made it the most comfortable experience it could possibly be for the eight and a half minutes I was there. I appreciated that. We shared a laugh or two (they were so sweet). Then they thanked me and said they’d be in touch.

As I headed to the parking lot, I was so proud of what I’d done. I had put myself out there in an extremely unnerving scenario and lived to tell the tale. I’d done it. I had auditioned for something. One of the most exciting no-take-backs yet. You may not believe it, but this was a hard one for me, folks.

And the best part? I got cast.

You can check it out here. Buy a seat and come see me in April!

Other Atlantans disagree. Because things like this happen.

                                                                  A hiccup.                                                                  (Ben Gray/Atlanta Journal-Constitution/AP Photo) from http://abcnews.go.com/US/slideshow/southern-snow-storm-22280146

Which leads to this.

                                                                A gulp.                                                                (Ben Gray/Atlanta Journal-Constitution/AP Photo) from http://abcnews.go.com/US/slideshow/southern-snow-storm-22280146

And then this.

                             Reckless abandon. Like literal reckless abandon.                                                                     (David Tulis/AP Photo) from                                   http://www.cnn.com/2014/01/30/us/winter-weather/

Luckily I was at the house all day and could actually enjoy my home sweet home. However fleeting, it was a  welcome sight.

We played. It was great.

Reagan, me and Guinness playing in the snow.

But most importantly, I made snowmen. I mean you have to make snowmen when there’s snow. It’s like an unwritten rule in the How To Live A Little Handbook. As an ode to Calvin and Hobbes, one of THE best comic strips of all time, I created these.

The Days Are Just Packed snow army…            or rather snow army fail.

Of course mine were all big fat fails – except one little guy. One little guy made it work. For him, I am eternally grateful.

My Calvin and Hobbes lone survivor.

My sister made a snowman.

My sister’s snowman.

Her daughter, confused by the snowman. (she’s not alone)

I think we are both either way out of practice, or we have pretty disturbing childhood memories of how snowmen should look.

Regardless of what a pain it might seem, enjoy it folks. It won’t last long.