It is once again hot in the evenings, which means a return of my allergies and red nosed-ness. Nobody is looking more forward to October and the whispered rumors of cool weather more than me. It is God’ chronic joke that an avowed albino such as myself has to be in sunny Los Angeles to pursue her dreams, but whatever.
Polka Dotted Platypus is closed. Finally. We ran for nine long weeks, plus six weeks of rehearsal before that. It’s not that we don’t love each other, because this cast RAWKED, but we were all ready for it to be over, for sure. At the cast party, they gave me a bottle of my favorite tequila Don Julio, so all my copious hint dropping worked! Hurray! Copious Hint Dropping Is Awesome When It Gets You What You Want! Heh.
And when I got home, I put the tequila on the shelf, like I usually do. It’s special, I said to myself, It’s my favorite tequila. I shall save it for a special occasion.
And then I stopped. That top shelf that I put Don Julio on has several thousands bottles of wine already on there, as Albert and Abbot usually give me a bottle everytime I come over to housesit Basil and Ginger Puppy (perhaps it’s considered liquid strength to deal with them? Who knows.) Also on the shelf is some leftover Sauza tequila. Even a never opened bottle of cognac. Basically, there shouldn’t be a party in the next two years that I have to buy alcohol for, just grab one off the shelf and I’m good to go.
And then I looked around my tiny tiny nest. (We need to come up with a name for it. Amy The Writer’s Hidey Hole? The whole place is perched on a bluff. Could we call it Amy The Writer’s Beauteous Bluff? Bountiful Bluff? That could conjure up inappropriate images if you were, say, twelve. Hmmmm.)
The one benefit about living in a small place is that it forces you to be neat, because clutter makes the place look ten times smaller. No, that stack of un-filed bills cannot stay on the table, the jewelry has to go STRAIGHT into the jewelry box, the dishes have to be put away as soon as they’re dry (takes about ten seconds in this heat.)
I’m still slowly unpacking stuff, but finally tackled the bathroom the other day. And was stunned at the amount of body lotion, shampoo and conditioner that I had pilfered from this, that, or the other hotel (or cruise), really nice stuff that I had kept for YEARS, for a “special occasion.”
Now what, I ask you, what kind of special occasion has to happen in order for me to bust into my stash of “special” shampoo? It’s dumb. Just just dumb. My mentality is something like I have to wait to use it, I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to grab it again. But now I have a whole plastic crate of special shampoo, I think I’ll be fine for awhile (the conditioner on the other hand, hmmm. It weighs down my hair.)
I am reminded of a long ago boss, (and now I’m starting to worry I’ve already shared this anecdote before. Please remind me if I have.) This Bossman was batshit crazy in a number of ways, but ultimately was a kind person, and someone who’s turned out to be an unexpected champion of my writing, and taught me everything I know about organization, which is definitely helpful here in Amy The Writer’s Tiny Teepee of Torrential Tale Telling (Yes? No?)
Bossman arranged the offices in such a way that I was staring at his back all day long, and was able to hear his end of several thousands phone conversations. And one day he was talking to a writer about how the next step of her writing deal had kinda closed, but the studio still needed her to do a lot of work. And she must’ve said something to the effect of “Is it time to pop the champagne?” Because Bossman replied, “It’s always time to pop the champagne.” And went on to explain that you have to celebrate every step of the journey, because you don’t know if it might be your last step, but the fact that you’ve taken ANY Forward Step on this rocky road of screenwriting is cause for celebration.
Which was such an optimistic thing for Bossman to say, it always stuck with me.
There was indeed champagne at the cast party for Polka Dotted Platypus, and we drank copiously. And I was telling Xaiver, Nick and Nora about how this year has twisted and buckled in such a strange fashion for me. “At the beginning of the year, I had a job.” I started, then we all busted out laughing.
Yeah, I had a job, I had a house I was sharing with two slobs, Pink Piggy, my first produced written feature, made its debut at Film Festival C (and I pilfered all the shampoo from that hotel), and plans were in place for Polka Dotted Platypus to debut in July. I took two cruises, (stole the shampoo from there, too) and those was the first vacations since New Orleans in 1999. I looked liked I was the shit. I looked like I was on my way.
Twisty, twisty, buckle buckle, toil and trouble and now we’re here: Scrambling to thread temp jobs together, Pink Piggy seems to be dying on the film festival vine, Polka Dotted Platypus came and went to okay but not rapturous reviews, and now I live in Amy The Writer’s Shabby Shack of Storyspinning (Yes? No?)
But I am here. I am perhaps not on my way (or I am, and simply can’t see the bigger picture), but enjoyed a ride that may be lurching to an end.
I am wanting too much. Okay reviews are better than bad reviews. Temp jobs are better than no jobs. There’s nothing to say that Pink Piggy couldn’t be revived when the right person sees it. And a Shabby Shack is better than the muck of the Slobborium that I left (and those roses BETTER appreciate me!)
Whether a Solid Standing, Refusing To Bow Down Or Turn Around Stance carries as much weight as a Forward Step is yet to be seen.
But I’m popping the Don Julio anyway. And busting into the Special Occasion Shampoo. Unapologetically. Because, if nothing else, it creates more room. HA!