UPDATE! Cute Overload featured this exact same video on July 2nd, a full FOUR DAYS AFTER I did. You know what this means? WE'RE AHEAD OF THE CURVE, PEOPLE! YA-WOOOOOO! (and Susan Isaacs is even more ahead of the curve than we are.)
Then you watch this. Repeatedly.
It's ridiculous, because it's the worst Beatles impersonation in the world, but I love it.
Hat tip to Susan Isaacs at Gray Matter , she found it first. :)
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Surprised Laughter
A couple of weeks ago I went on an impromptu trip to Disneyland. Sister Agatha and Mr. Agatha had given me passes for my birthday, and they expired in the first week of June, so I had to hustle. And while some of my friends have annual passes, most of them couldn’t go because of this, that, and the other thing (mainly rehearsals for a play.)
You can’t just take anyone to Disneyland, people. Well, maybe you can if you’re in a big group, but if it’s gonna be just you and someone else, as it ultimately came down to be, you’d better get along with that person, because everyone knows a trip to Disneyland involves a lot of line standing. If that person isn’t down with lines, with walking, with dealing with noisy children, or if that person doesn’t appreciate the Disneyland experience in general, with all of its childhood nostalgia, adult perspective, and jacked up prices on food and beverage, that person is not the person you wanna go with.
Luckily, I pleaded and cajoled and got Dewey to come with me. Dewey has an annual pass of his own, and loves Disneyland as much as I do, he loves just walking around the park, appreciating the attention to detail that Disneyland still retains (though the cast members could be friendlier.)
Both my pass and his annual pass allowed us to park hop between Disneyland and California Adventure, so we started in California Adventure because last October, we had spent all of the day in Disneyland. And though Dewey had been to both parks plenty of times, he had somehow never made it onto Soarin’ Over California, which is one of my favorite rides.
I tried to describe it to Dewey what it was like, and got as far as “simulated hang glider thingie” before I gave up, and said, “Just trust me, you’re gonna love it.”
So Dewey trusted me, as everyone should do when it comes to all things Disney. We got our Fast Passes so we could come back later with no wait, I told the person putting us in rows that we wanted the top row, so nobody’s feet would be dangling in our sightline. Dewey didn’t understand what that meant, though I’m saying things like “kinda like Back To The Future at Universal Studios, but waaaaaaay better.”
So then we get onto the ride, and the people sitting next to Dewey realize, from all the questions he’s asking me, that this is his first time riding Soarin’. “This is going to be your favorite ride from now on,” they tell him, “Cause it’s our favorite ride.”
Then the ride starts, and we’re lifted high into the air and the movie starts.
And Dewey laughs. The most beautifully surprised laughter I’ve heard in a long time. Kind of a hey, what’s going on...oh my GOD! This is amazing! And he keeps laughing and chuckling all the way through the ride as we soar and swoop and sniff our way through all sorts of California landscapes.
I think I like Soarin’ not just because it takes you up in the air, so you feel like you’re flying, but also because it’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is. It’s not built around a specific Disney movie, it’s not simulating a storyline where something goes horribly awry. You’re flying through the state of California. Boom. Done.
We get back down when the ride’s done and Dewey’s still laughing, but also applauding enthusiastically. And though we do plenty of other things that day, including inadvertently stumbling into the best place to watch the fireworks in Disneyland (by It’s A Small World), it’s Dewey’s laughter that has stayed with me weeks later.
When’s the last time I laughed in that surprised laughter kind of way? I can’t remember. Sure, I laugh, who doesn’t, but it spans the gamut of rueful chuckling to laughter forced from you by a TV show or a movie that’s working REALLY HARD to get you to laugh.
Surprised laughter. It sounded almost like joy.
You can’t just take anyone to Disneyland, people. Well, maybe you can if you’re in a big group, but if it’s gonna be just you and someone else, as it ultimately came down to be, you’d better get along with that person, because everyone knows a trip to Disneyland involves a lot of line standing. If that person isn’t down with lines, with walking, with dealing with noisy children, or if that person doesn’t appreciate the Disneyland experience in general, with all of its childhood nostalgia, adult perspective, and jacked up prices on food and beverage, that person is not the person you wanna go with.
Luckily, I pleaded and cajoled and got Dewey to come with me. Dewey has an annual pass of his own, and loves Disneyland as much as I do, he loves just walking around the park, appreciating the attention to detail that Disneyland still retains (though the cast members could be friendlier.)
Both my pass and his annual pass allowed us to park hop between Disneyland and California Adventure, so we started in California Adventure because last October, we had spent all of the day in Disneyland. And though Dewey had been to both parks plenty of times, he had somehow never made it onto Soarin’ Over California, which is one of my favorite rides.
I tried to describe it to Dewey what it was like, and got as far as “simulated hang glider thingie” before I gave up, and said, “Just trust me, you’re gonna love it.”
So Dewey trusted me, as everyone should do when it comes to all things Disney. We got our Fast Passes so we could come back later with no wait, I told the person putting us in rows that we wanted the top row, so nobody’s feet would be dangling in our sightline. Dewey didn’t understand what that meant, though I’m saying things like “kinda like Back To The Future at Universal Studios, but waaaaaaay better.”So then we get onto the ride, and the people sitting next to Dewey realize, from all the questions he’s asking me, that this is his first time riding Soarin’. “This is going to be your favorite ride from now on,” they tell him, “Cause it’s our favorite ride.”
Then the ride starts, and we’re lifted high into the air and the movie starts.
And Dewey laughs. The most beautifully surprised laughter I’ve heard in a long time. Kind of a hey, what’s going on...oh my GOD! This is amazing! And he keeps laughing and chuckling all the way through the ride as we soar and swoop and sniff our way through all sorts of California landscapes.
I think I like Soarin’ not just because it takes you up in the air, so you feel like you’re flying, but also because it’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is. It’s not built around a specific Disney movie, it’s not simulating a storyline where something goes horribly awry. You’re flying through the state of California. Boom. Done.
We get back down when the ride’s done and Dewey’s still laughing, but also applauding enthusiastically. And though we do plenty of other things that day, including inadvertently stumbling into the best place to watch the fireworks in Disneyland (by It’s A Small World), it’s Dewey’s laughter that has stayed with me weeks later.
When’s the last time I laughed in that surprised laughter kind of way? I can’t remember. Sure, I laugh, who doesn’t, but it spans the gamut of rueful chuckling to laughter forced from you by a TV show or a movie that’s working REALLY HARD to get you to laugh.
Surprised laughter. It sounded almost like joy.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
How Did You Treat Them?
I made a horrible horrible oversight last week in not giving proper credit for one of my song discoveries. The Arcade Fire song, “The Suburbs” was something I discovered on my awesome friend Fauna’s blog, http://laisthenewny.com/ You all need to go there every Friday to check it out, because she’s super awesome and has impeccable taste (and no, she did not demand an apology, I’m a dumbass with a monster guilt complex. ☺ )
Speaking of shoutouts, are you all watching Friend O’ The Blog Aarti kicking ass on tonight’s episode of The Next Food Network Star? I couldn’t be happier for her, and fyi, how NICE is it when you can be genuinely happy for someone’s success? Instead of that twinge of why the hell aren’t I getting the opportunities they’re getting? I can’t say enough nice things about Aarti, y’all. If you notice, it’s only episode 2, and everyone that’s coming into contact with her are all saying the same thing – that she’s so warm and bubbly and inviting. IT’S ALL TRUE. She’s adorable, and that’s exactly what she radiates when you meet her. And no, she's not paying me for the endorsement, either.
I have the most incredible friends in the world, I really really do. There’s nothing better than watching someone do what they love, whether it’s recommend good music, or cook good food, or stare down a fight with cancer, and KICK ASS at it.
So I know this here bloggy has kinda gotten away from its original purpose of chronicling Amy’s Quest For Communication With God. Haven’t really been kicking ass with that, lately, have I. Well, the other way to look at it is, if I was successful at communicating with God, the blog wouldn’t have anything to say, because communication with God is so personal, I couldn’t tell you what worked for me and have it work for you.
Just like how Jesus never healed a person the same way, God speaks to us in different ways, and even when it does work, there’s no guarantee you can make it happen the same way. Just because I hiked in Griffith Park and stood on a very high hill and begged God for help, and thought I heard rescue is coming, the unfortunate part of that is that I think it was 98 percent me answering as though I was God, because that sounds like something God would say. Eventually.
The point is, there’s no guarantee that I should hike up that very same high high hill and expect Him to be there. Because that reduces God to the proverbial genie in the lamp, and He will pop out to do your bidding when you rub that f’ing lamp, and I’m pretty sure He doesn’t work like that.
Right now, it appears that God is acting like the benevolent grandparent who drops by every eight months or so to shower some blessings and then is off again. He showed up last fall to get me into a new place, a new job, and poof, off again, probably to go down to the Gulf and weep copiously at how man is destroying his creation.
But that’s okay, I can shamble along okay, even though He’s not HERE here, it doesn’t mean I can’t pretend like He’s talking to me anyway.
I was running slides today, and we’re hitting the extra controversial stuff in 1 Peter, where they say things like, “Husbands, in the same way, be considerate as you live with your wives, and treat them with respect as the weaker partner.”
THAT’S IT! I’M NEVER COMING BACK TO THIS CHURCH AGAIN!
Ha ha ha. Man, context truly is everything, isn’t it.
The pastor...oh boy. I haven’t given him a name yet. He needs a name, huh. Well, his joke is that every week, he gives himself a different middle name. He’s a WILD MAN, our pastor is. Last week, his middle name was Diet Slice, so even though it’s gonna change this week, he will forever be known on this blog as Pastor Diet Slice.
So Pastor Diet Slice was talking about why men need to value their wives, and why wives need to value their husbands, and why single men need to treat single women with respect, and why single woman need to treat single men with respect, and he said this phrase:
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
I’ve heard different variations of this, like, “You will have to give an accounting for every blessing you didn’t take advantage of” or something like that. Whether it’s what did we right, what we did wrong, how we used our talents (Matthew 25), la la laaaaaaa, we’re gonna have to talk to God when we die about what we did.
I can’t WAIT for this conversation, fyi. I hope it’s over tequila. I bet they have GREAT tequila in heaven.
But I love this idea: that we need to treat everyone as though they’re a son or daughter of God. Because basically, they are. I mean, in all honesty, in our day to day lives, do we REALLY have enemies? Of course we don’t. We have people we disagree with, people who aren’t doing what we want them to, or people who want us to do things we’re not doing, but nobody’s trying to kill us. Nobody is actively working for our personal destruction. The United States Of America, yeah probably. Amy The Writer? Not so much.
When you realize that, you figure out that most everyone is worthy of politeness, of respect, of being treated like a human being. As much of a misanthrope as I can be, I find it surprisingly easy to be polite to people. Especially people I would rather aim a flamethrower at. Because when you’re polite and nice to them, it totally throws them off their game. That kinda makes everything worthwhile.
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
That one might be going over the computer as a reminder.
Speaking of shoutouts, are you all watching Friend O’ The Blog Aarti kicking ass on tonight’s episode of The Next Food Network Star? I couldn’t be happier for her, and fyi, how NICE is it when you can be genuinely happy for someone’s success? Instead of that twinge of why the hell aren’t I getting the opportunities they’re getting? I can’t say enough nice things about Aarti, y’all. If you notice, it’s only episode 2, and everyone that’s coming into contact with her are all saying the same thing – that she’s so warm and bubbly and inviting. IT’S ALL TRUE. She’s adorable, and that’s exactly what she radiates when you meet her. And no, she's not paying me for the endorsement, either.
I have the most incredible friends in the world, I really really do. There’s nothing better than watching someone do what they love, whether it’s recommend good music, or cook good food, or stare down a fight with cancer, and KICK ASS at it.
So I know this here bloggy has kinda gotten away from its original purpose of chronicling Amy’s Quest For Communication With God. Haven’t really been kicking ass with that, lately, have I. Well, the other way to look at it is, if I was successful at communicating with God, the blog wouldn’t have anything to say, because communication with God is so personal, I couldn’t tell you what worked for me and have it work for you.
Just like how Jesus never healed a person the same way, God speaks to us in different ways, and even when it does work, there’s no guarantee you can make it happen the same way. Just because I hiked in Griffith Park and stood on a very high hill and begged God for help, and thought I heard rescue is coming, the unfortunate part of that is that I think it was 98 percent me answering as though I was God, because that sounds like something God would say. Eventually.
The point is, there’s no guarantee that I should hike up that very same high high hill and expect Him to be there. Because that reduces God to the proverbial genie in the lamp, and He will pop out to do your bidding when you rub that f’ing lamp, and I’m pretty sure He doesn’t work like that.
Right now, it appears that God is acting like the benevolent grandparent who drops by every eight months or so to shower some blessings and then is off again. He showed up last fall to get me into a new place, a new job, and poof, off again, probably to go down to the Gulf and weep copiously at how man is destroying his creation.
But that’s okay, I can shamble along okay, even though He’s not HERE here, it doesn’t mean I can’t pretend like He’s talking to me anyway.
I was running slides today, and we’re hitting the extra controversial stuff in 1 Peter, where they say things like, “Husbands, in the same way, be considerate as you live with your wives, and treat them with respect as the weaker partner.”
THAT’S IT! I’M NEVER COMING BACK TO THIS CHURCH AGAIN!
Ha ha ha. Man, context truly is everything, isn’t it.
The pastor...oh boy. I haven’t given him a name yet. He needs a name, huh. Well, his joke is that every week, he gives himself a different middle name. He’s a WILD MAN, our pastor is. Last week, his middle name was Diet Slice, so even though it’s gonna change this week, he will forever be known on this blog as Pastor Diet Slice.
So Pastor Diet Slice was talking about why men need to value their wives, and why wives need to value their husbands, and why single men need to treat single women with respect, and why single woman need to treat single men with respect, and he said this phrase:
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
I’ve heard different variations of this, like, “You will have to give an accounting for every blessing you didn’t take advantage of” or something like that. Whether it’s what did we right, what we did wrong, how we used our talents (Matthew 25), la la laaaaaaa, we’re gonna have to talk to God when we die about what we did.
I can’t WAIT for this conversation, fyi. I hope it’s over tequila. I bet they have GREAT tequila in heaven.
But I love this idea: that we need to treat everyone as though they’re a son or daughter of God. Because basically, they are. I mean, in all honesty, in our day to day lives, do we REALLY have enemies? Of course we don’t. We have people we disagree with, people who aren’t doing what we want them to, or people who want us to do things we’re not doing, but nobody’s trying to kill us. Nobody is actively working for our personal destruction. The United States Of America, yeah probably. Amy The Writer? Not so much.
When you realize that, you figure out that most everyone is worthy of politeness, of respect, of being treated like a human being. As much of a misanthrope as I can be, I find it surprisingly easy to be polite to people. Especially people I would rather aim a flamethrower at. Because when you’re polite and nice to them, it totally throws them off their game. That kinda makes everything worthwhile.
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
That one might be going over the computer as a reminder.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Join Amy’s Dance Party Part 2
When I got nothing to say...I dance.
(or in reality, if I have nothing constructive to say except bitching and whining...I dance.)
And I'm a moody little beeyotch, so here's some moody songs for you to mope and sway to:
The Submarines "Brightest Hour (Morgan Page Remix.)"
Yeah, I heard this one on an episode of The Vampire Diaries, so WHAT. If you make fun of me, I'll totally cut you. :)
Arcade Fire's new one "The Suburbs." You get to this end of this one, with the repeated lyrics "We're still screaming" and it's another song that would play over the end credits of a movie I will one day write (or maybe I already have, and will one day be produced.)
An oldie but goodie: Mew's "Comforting Sounds." I saw a comment, "It's worth it if you're patient." HEE! They mean specifically 4:22 minutes in. Totally worth it if you start there and listen to the build. Another song to make life changing decisions to (but only if you keep with the build.)
And finally, one for friend o' the blog, Spunkieselkie: Michael Hutchence's "Rooms For The Memory." Love ya, Spunkie!
(or in reality, if I have nothing constructive to say except bitching and whining...I dance.)
And I'm a moody little beeyotch, so here's some moody songs for you to mope and sway to:
The Submarines "Brightest Hour (Morgan Page Remix.)"
Yeah, I heard this one on an episode of The Vampire Diaries, so WHAT. If you make fun of me, I'll totally cut you. :)
Arcade Fire's new one "The Suburbs." You get to this end of this one, with the repeated lyrics "We're still screaming" and it's another song that would play over the end credits of a movie I will one day write (or maybe I already have, and will one day be produced.)
An oldie but goodie: Mew's "Comforting Sounds." I saw a comment, "It's worth it if you're patient." HEE! They mean specifically 4:22 minutes in. Totally worth it if you start there and listen to the build. Another song to make life changing decisions to (but only if you keep with the build.)
And finally, one for friend o' the blog, Spunkieselkie: Michael Hutchence's "Rooms For The Memory." Love ya, Spunkie!
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
doitagaindoitagaindoitagain
Let’s check in with everyone’s favorite Chickenlegger, Ginger Puppy! How goes it Ginger Puppy?
Uh-huh...uh-huh...mmmmm...well at least they trimmed you down to match the hair growing in on your chickenleg (which we can’t see because you’re still kinda leaning on it) and you can walk the stairs on your own, as opposed to God carrying you around, so that’s good, right? Right? And…lovely flowers you’re sitting next to, right? Right? Hair still in the face, I see, ha ha ha.
Ginger Puppy, Basil Diva Dog and I spent a very lovely Memorial Day Weekend lounging around by the pool. I got a new outline underway while we all enjoyed the sunshine, and even Nadine came up one day to drink the afternoon away.
It was very peaceful and the tranquility was only marred occasionally by a plane going overhead.
I would be angry about that except #1 – that’s a stupid thing to get angry about and #2 – my friend Beatrice and her new hubby Beauregard invited me to go flying in Beauregard’s plane yesterday.
Beauregard is my second Honorary Big Brother (Wella is my first), and these are the guys I call on when my car breaks down, or furniture needs to be transported or assembled, and they’re the ones that’re gonna have to give their approval to any guy who wants to date me, ha ha ha.
Even though I knew Beauregard had a plane, I had never been in it before, and I had determined that him taking me up in his plane was going to be my May Adventure, so thank God he agreed to it, ha ha, ha.
Here’s Beatrice and Beauregard, pulling the plane out of the hangar in Hawthorne. In all the pictures I took, I neglected to get a picture of the full plane, but it’s a Meyers 200D, it seats four people and its name is Gracie.
Beatrice goes flying with Beauregard all the time, so they let me sit in the front seat. Beauregard was very nice and detailed all the safety features and explained what all the dials were, and how turning this thing turned that flap that way and la la la. He told me several times that if at ANY point I felt scared, nauseous, or unsafe, to let him know and he’d take us back to the airport instantly.
HA! Little did Beauregard know that I LOVE flying! I LOVE turbulence! I love turbulence, I love roller coasters, I love cruises in high swell seas, I LOVE danger, it’s just pain I don’t like so much.
But there was no pain here. Nope, no pain, no danger, because Beauregard is an expert pilot, and up up up we go!
Beauregard apologized for the marine layer (like it was his fault, heh) that prevented us from seeing out to the ocean, but he took us past Long Beach harbor, then up to downtown, and turned the plane so I could get crazy angles of downtown Los Angeles.
We continued on and somewhere around the Hollywood Sign, Beauregard said the most incredible thing any man has said to me in recent memory:
“Ever experienced 0 gs before?”
NO!?!? CAN WE DO THAT!?!?
WE CAN! WE CAN AND WE DID!
Oh my GOSH, you guys it was so much fun!! He dips the plane sharp enough to where we’re all floating weightless! Sure, it’s only for two or three seconds, but we’re WEIGHTLESS! WEIGHTLESS AND FLYING!
Sure, I initially scream, but then I laugh and laugh and laugh and say, “doitagaindoitagaindoitagain!” So Beauregard cheerfully obliges, because he is my Honorary Big Brother and loves me bunches and bunches.
All together, it was three times of us floating weightless. The last one was the best one, EVERYTHING went flying, including my unzipped purse in the back seat. If ONLY I had had the foresight to get a picture of that, heh.
We then landed and went to an awesome tequila bar in Hawthorne, because, as Beatrice pointed out, you wanna drink AFTER you get off the plane, not before.
So the next time I’m sitting in the backyard and a plane flies overhead, I’m gonna remember the day that I was up there, screaming, laughing and floating above our fair city. It was an awesome awesome moment.
Uh-huh...uh-huh...mmmmm...well at least they trimmed you down to match the hair growing in on your chickenleg (which we can’t see because you’re still kinda leaning on it) and you can walk the stairs on your own, as opposed to God carrying you around, so that’s good, right? Right? And…lovely flowers you’re sitting next to, right? Right? Hair still in the face, I see, ha ha ha.Ginger Puppy, Basil Diva Dog and I spent a very lovely Memorial Day Weekend lounging around by the pool. I got a new outline underway while we all enjoyed the sunshine, and even Nadine came up one day to drink the afternoon away.
It was very peaceful and the tranquility was only marred occasionally by a plane going overhead.
I would be angry about that except #1 – that’s a stupid thing to get angry about and #2 – my friend Beatrice and her new hubby Beauregard invited me to go flying in Beauregard’s plane yesterday.
Beauregard is my second Honorary Big Brother (Wella is my first), and these are the guys I call on when my car breaks down, or furniture needs to be transported or assembled, and they’re the ones that’re gonna have to give their approval to any guy who wants to date me, ha ha ha.
Even though I knew Beauregard had a plane, I had never been in it before, and I had determined that him taking me up in his plane was going to be my May Adventure, so thank God he agreed to it, ha ha, ha.
Here’s Beatrice and Beauregard, pulling the plane out of the hangar in Hawthorne. In all the pictures I took, I neglected to get a picture of the full plane, but it’s a Meyers 200D, it seats four people and its name is Gracie.
Beatrice goes flying with Beauregard all the time, so they let me sit in the front seat. Beauregard was very nice and detailed all the safety features and explained what all the dials were, and how turning this thing turned that flap that way and la la la. He told me several times that if at ANY point I felt scared, nauseous, or unsafe, to let him know and he’d take us back to the airport instantly.HA! Little did Beauregard know that I LOVE flying! I LOVE turbulence! I love turbulence, I love roller coasters, I love cruises in high swell seas, I LOVE danger, it’s just pain I don’t like so much.
But there was no pain here. Nope, no pain, no danger, because Beauregard is an expert pilot, and up up up we go!
Beauregard apologized for the marine layer (like it was his fault, heh) that prevented us from seeing out to the ocean, but he took us past Long Beach harbor, then up to downtown, and turned the plane so I could get crazy angles of downtown Los Angeles.
We continued on and somewhere around the Hollywood Sign, Beauregard said the most incredible thing any man has said to me in recent memory:“Ever experienced 0 gs before?”
NO!?!? CAN WE DO THAT!?!?
WE CAN! WE CAN AND WE DID!
Oh my GOSH, you guys it was so much fun!! He dips the plane sharp enough to where we’re all floating weightless! Sure, it’s only for two or three seconds, but we’re WEIGHTLESS! WEIGHTLESS AND FLYING!
Sure, I initially scream, but then I laugh and laugh and laugh and say, “doitagaindoitagaindoitagain!” So Beauregard cheerfully obliges, because he is my Honorary Big Brother and loves me bunches and bunches.
All together, it was three times of us floating weightless. The last one was the best one, EVERYTHING went flying, including my unzipped purse in the back seat. If ONLY I had had the foresight to get a picture of that, heh.
We then landed and went to an awesome tequila bar in Hawthorne, because, as Beatrice pointed out, you wanna drink AFTER you get off the plane, not before.
So the next time I’m sitting in the backyard and a plane flies overhead, I’m gonna remember the day that I was up there, screaming, laughing and floating above our fair city. It was an awesome awesome moment.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Flinch
(Hi Mom! I drop the F bomb again with this one! Oopsie! To take your mind off of it, I’ll post pictures of pretty pretty flowers around the house, so you can look at the flower when you get upset with my language! Yaaaaaaaay!)
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I’ve long suspected that one of the contributing factors to my Amazing Ass is the fact that I was a hurdler in high school. I’m not sure why I gravitated towards that event, except for the fact that it was a short distance, and I’m pretty lazy when it comes to outdoor fitness.
The 100 meter sprint was the same length with zero things to jump over, why didn’t I like that one? Probably because Coach would force me to compete in that event despite being no match for the crosstown thoroughbreds who would make fun of my woeful whiteyness at the starting line.
But most of the crosstown thoroughbreds didn’t wanna jump over hurdles, and while I never came in first, I was decent enough to place third very now and then, which would net my team one of the extra points it would need to win.
One day (I think I was a junior) I was trying to master three steps in between the hurdles. If you take three steps between the hurdles, you’ll lead with the same leg every time, as opposed to four steps, where you have to alternate right leg, left leg, right leg. One leg is usually more dominant than the other, which is the leg you wanna lead with. (Ironically, the one picture we have of me competing in this event shows me sailing over the hurdle with the left leg, my worse leg, but I still look awesome anyway.)
Our track was pretty meager, so we had enough room and hurdles to set up about four or five, and we’d practice over and over, shooing away the football players who’d wander into our way, because football players never pay attention to anything that doesn’t have a helmet on it.
So I was trying to master the distance between each hurdle by taking three steps instead of four. Maybe I had been at it for awhile, maybe it was hot, maybe I was tired of yelling at football players to get out of my way, but over one hurdle (with my non-dominant leg) I hit it with my other knee, got tangled up, and went down hard. The kind of hard where anyone watching goes ooooooohhhhhh, ouch.
Let’s leave me writhing with my skinned knees, bloody palms, and agog football players on the Alabama asphalt and return to present day. Specifically, yesterday.
Stella and Wella had helped me pick up an Ikea bookcase on Monday, and as we were out eating dinner, Wella mentioned that Children’s Hospital had called him for platelet donations. The blood and platelet banks were extremely low, there were brain tumor kiddos sucking up all available units. Wella can’t donate because he’s on medication, but he thought maybe I could.
Platelet donation is super scary, much scarier than regular blood donation, because it involves a needle in your arm for an hour and a half, as they take the blood out, run it through an apheresis machine to separate the platelets out, and return the blood back into you. I’ve seen the setup when I’ve been at Children’s Hospital to donate regular blood, they give you pillows, blankets, a movie to watch on your own personal DVD player, all sorts of things to take your mind off the fact that there’s a needle in your arm for an hour and a half. Platelet donation is super super scary. I don’t know that I could ever do it.
And yet.
There’s a need for it.
Wella can’t do it.
I need an Adventure for May.
And I have a huge masochistic streak.
So I remain vigilant on the iron pills and steamed broccoli, and show up for my appointment yesterday. I’ve told the staff that I get bounced for low iron count a lot, I don’t really like needles, but I really really wanna do this (I leave the part about my masochistic streak out, I don’t think they’d understand.)
After taking a sample from my left arm, and running it up for tests that I can’t see, they report back that I haven’t beaten the Red Machine O Death. 12.5 is passing, I’m 12.4. However, that statistic doesn’t matter so much when you’re donating platelets, and they set me up in a bed with pillows, blankie, and DVD player. I’ve brought my own DVD to watch, the first four episodes of Glee (research for my foray into TV writing) and they tell me to go ahead and press play while they prep my right arm. I fast forward through the previews while turning my head to avoid the sight of the needle going into my arm. There’s a pinch, I wince and say “ouch ouch”, while the nurse soothes me, though I can’t see her, my head is so violently turned away.
I eye the DVD player and watch Sue Sylvester, the cheerleading coach, bellow through her microphone, “You think this is hard!? Try waterboarding, that’s hard!”
And that’s as far as I get.
Because there appears to be a problem. Apparently, I flinched when the needle went into my arm. And because I flinched, the needle punctured the vein and then slipped out, so now it’s bleeding into my arm and causing lovely bruising and swelling. They try another vein, doesn’t work. They don’t like any of the veins on my left arm, the only viable one was punctured for the sample.
So they slap a bandage and an ice pack on my arm. They offer me juice, they offer me cookies, and the "Be nice to me, I donated blood today" sticker even though there’s no donating anything for me today, thank you very much.
I politely decline all of it. And burst into tears in the safety of my car in the parking lot.
What the f is wrong with me? I didn’t help little kids with brain tumors, big deal. They’re not gonna die because they didn’t get my platelets, the hospital will buy some if they have to. I can come back as soon as this bruising goes down, “Maybe next week,” the hospital staff says, not knowing that I’m going to be dogsitting Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy for Memorial Day Weekend, and plan on being drunk off my butt by the pool for the holiday weekend.
What the f is wrong with me? I tried, I failed, so what. I failed. I...failed. I was all set to face my super scary fear of platelet donation and a needle in my arm for an hour and a half. I was gonna go all Hail Hail the Conquering Hero once it was done, and have an awesome May Adventure to document for you all here on the blog. I had no doubt it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I was all ready for battle in the name of Little Kiddos With Brain Tumors Whose Names I Don’t Know (But Apparently There’s Three Of Them.) And so I don’t get any Hail Hail the Conquering Heroes, so what? Just come back and donate next time, who cares.
But I failed. I’m very big on Productivity. Goal Setting, Goal Completing, Write The Lists And Check ‘Em Off, all of it. Don’t know where it comes from, it’s just a big part of me. And I’m tired of failing at donating. I already got bounced in March from regular blood donation. I'm running about 50/50 on the complete/incomplete donations. Most people would stop at this point. In fact, other than Wella, I’m the only person I know (aside from the people at church who go to my blood drive when I host them) who DOES donate. My friends tell me all the time how they're scared, they faint, their veins collapse, they spent too much time out of the country, la la la. Most of the time, it’s that they don’t like needles.
I don’t like needles. None of my merry adventures in blood donating have made me like them any more. It ALWAYS hurts.
But if none of my friends are gonna donate, then who will? I don’t like needles, but if I don’t shove that aside and step up to the plate, who will?
How can I be an example that It’s Not About Your Fear, It’s About How Mastering Your Fear Helps Someone Else if I keep failing? How can I help ANYONE if I keep failing?
Let’s return to the scrawny high school hurdler weirdo bleeding on the Alabama asphalt. I’m crying here too, from humiliation as much as physical pain. And as I’m lying on my back, clutching my knee, and brushing the pebbles and dirt off my shins, my beloved Coach looms over me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My response begins with, “NO I’M NOT OKAY, GODAMMIT, LOOK AT ME!” and continues in such a way that my beloved Coach gleefully repeats the story a year and a half later at the sports banquet honoring the track team. Into the microphone for the entire auditorium to hear, he tells the track team, the faculty, their parents, MY parents about the time Amy crashed into the hurdles and cussed him out with a memorable blue streak the likes of which nobody knew I was capable of.
But at the time, he lets me surf the blue wave until I finish, smiles at me, and simply says.
“Okay. Get up and do it again.”
My response to that begins with, “FUCK YOU, NO WAY, I’M NOT DOING THAT AGAIN, LOOK AT ME!” I continue cussing at him, at the agog football team, at the hurdle, at the fact that I can’t do three steps between the hurdles, because if I could I wouldn’t have hit it and gone down hard.
I trail profanities as I pick myself up, it’s not my fault, it’s hot, the football team won’t get out of my way, I’m white, crosstown thoroughbreds make fun of me at starting lines and hobble back to the starting line, and...
...and...
And yes, I do it again. Crying. Bleeding. Four steps between the hurdles. But I didn't fall.
I knew what the point was. You can’t let your fear master you. If I hadn’t picked myself up and gotten back onto the track and over those hurdles, it would result in a mental stumbling block, and that’s what I would remember every time I was facing a 100 meter line of hurdles.
But I didn’t let my fear, my pain, my tears master me. I mastered it. I got to three steps between the hurdles. I ended up placing fifth in the state championship my senior year. I have an Amazing Ass. My parents are proud (of placing fifth in the state championship, not of my Amazing Ass. I don’t think they care about that.)
You don’t have to like it to master it. You just have to master it.
So, back in present day, sobbing in my car in the parking lot, I remember that bleeding hurdling weirdo and know what I have to do.
It’s not gonna be next week. But probably the week after next. I’m going back. I’m going to KEEP going back.
I don’t care how many bruises I get. I don’t care how much it hurts. It’s not about my fear, it’s not about my pain. It’s about the fact that Three Little Kiddos Whose Names I Don’t Know have brain tumors and need people to fight for them. I don’t have to know who they are. I don’t have to be related to them to fight for them. I just have to fight. I just have to keep fighting.
So here’s a toast (with five dollar sparkling wine from Trader Joe’s in my souvenir cup from the Disney Cruise.)
Fuck you, bruises on my arm. Fuck you, pain I felt. Fuck you, tears I shed. None of you will stop me from fighting. I will master this fear.
I will fight.
-----------------
I’ve long suspected that one of the contributing factors to my Amazing Ass is the fact that I was a hurdler in high school. I’m not sure why I gravitated towards that event, except for the fact that it was a short distance, and I’m pretty lazy when it comes to outdoor fitness.
The 100 meter sprint was the same length with zero things to jump over, why didn’t I like that one? Probably because Coach would force me to compete in that event despite being no match for the crosstown thoroughbreds who would make fun of my woeful whiteyness at the starting line.
But most of the crosstown thoroughbreds didn’t wanna jump over hurdles, and while I never came in first, I was decent enough to place third very now and then, which would net my team one of the extra points it would need to win.
One day (I think I was a junior) I was trying to master three steps in between the hurdles. If you take three steps between the hurdles, you’ll lead with the same leg every time, as opposed to four steps, where you have to alternate right leg, left leg, right leg. One leg is usually more dominant than the other, which is the leg you wanna lead with. (Ironically, the one picture we have of me competing in this event shows me sailing over the hurdle with the left leg, my worse leg, but I still look awesome anyway.)
Our track was pretty meager, so we had enough room and hurdles to set up about four or five, and we’d practice over and over, shooing away the football players who’d wander into our way, because football players never pay attention to anything that doesn’t have a helmet on it.
So I was trying to master the distance between each hurdle by taking three steps instead of four. Maybe I had been at it for awhile, maybe it was hot, maybe I was tired of yelling at football players to get out of my way, but over one hurdle (with my non-dominant leg) I hit it with my other knee, got tangled up, and went down hard. The kind of hard where anyone watching goes ooooooohhhhhh, ouch.
Let’s leave me writhing with my skinned knees, bloody palms, and agog football players on the Alabama asphalt and return to present day. Specifically, yesterday.
Stella and Wella had helped me pick up an Ikea bookcase on Monday, and as we were out eating dinner, Wella mentioned that Children’s Hospital had called him for platelet donations. The blood and platelet banks were extremely low, there were brain tumor kiddos sucking up all available units. Wella can’t donate because he’s on medication, but he thought maybe I could.
Platelet donation is super scary, much scarier than regular blood donation, because it involves a needle in your arm for an hour and a half, as they take the blood out, run it through an apheresis machine to separate the platelets out, and return the blood back into you. I’ve seen the setup when I’ve been at Children’s Hospital to donate regular blood, they give you pillows, blankets, a movie to watch on your own personal DVD player, all sorts of things to take your mind off the fact that there’s a needle in your arm for an hour and a half. Platelet donation is super super scary. I don’t know that I could ever do it.
And yet.
There’s a need for it.
Wella can’t do it.
I need an Adventure for May.
And I have a huge masochistic streak.
So I remain vigilant on the iron pills and steamed broccoli, and show up for my appointment yesterday. I’ve told the staff that I get bounced for low iron count a lot, I don’t really like needles, but I really really wanna do this (I leave the part about my masochistic streak out, I don’t think they’d understand.)
After taking a sample from my left arm, and running it up for tests that I can’t see, they report back that I haven’t beaten the Red Machine O Death. 12.5 is passing, I’m 12.4. However, that statistic doesn’t matter so much when you’re donating platelets, and they set me up in a bed with pillows, blankie, and DVD player. I’ve brought my own DVD to watch, the first four episodes of Glee (research for my foray into TV writing) and they tell me to go ahead and press play while they prep my right arm. I fast forward through the previews while turning my head to avoid the sight of the needle going into my arm. There’s a pinch, I wince and say “ouch ouch”, while the nurse soothes me, though I can’t see her, my head is so violently turned away.
I eye the DVD player and watch Sue Sylvester, the cheerleading coach, bellow through her microphone, “You think this is hard!? Try waterboarding, that’s hard!”
And that’s as far as I get.
Because there appears to be a problem. Apparently, I flinched when the needle went into my arm. And because I flinched, the needle punctured the vein and then slipped out, so now it’s bleeding into my arm and causing lovely bruising and swelling. They try another vein, doesn’t work. They don’t like any of the veins on my left arm, the only viable one was punctured for the sample.
So they slap a bandage and an ice pack on my arm. They offer me juice, they offer me cookies, and the "Be nice to me, I donated blood today" sticker even though there’s no donating anything for me today, thank you very much.
I politely decline all of it. And burst into tears in the safety of my car in the parking lot.
What the f is wrong with me? I didn’t help little kids with brain tumors, big deal. They’re not gonna die because they didn’t get my platelets, the hospital will buy some if they have to. I can come back as soon as this bruising goes down, “Maybe next week,” the hospital staff says, not knowing that I’m going to be dogsitting Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy for Memorial Day Weekend, and plan on being drunk off my butt by the pool for the holiday weekend.
What the f is wrong with me? I tried, I failed, so what. I failed. I...failed. I was all set to face my super scary fear of platelet donation and a needle in my arm for an hour and a half. I was gonna go all Hail Hail the Conquering Hero once it was done, and have an awesome May Adventure to document for you all here on the blog. I had no doubt it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I was all ready for battle in the name of Little Kiddos With Brain Tumors Whose Names I Don’t Know (But Apparently There’s Three Of Them.) And so I don’t get any Hail Hail the Conquering Heroes, so what? Just come back and donate next time, who cares.But I failed. I’m very big on Productivity. Goal Setting, Goal Completing, Write The Lists And Check ‘Em Off, all of it. Don’t know where it comes from, it’s just a big part of me. And I’m tired of failing at donating. I already got bounced in March from regular blood donation. I'm running about 50/50 on the complete/incomplete donations. Most people would stop at this point. In fact, other than Wella, I’m the only person I know (aside from the people at church who go to my blood drive when I host them) who DOES donate. My friends tell me all the time how they're scared, they faint, their veins collapse, they spent too much time out of the country, la la la. Most of the time, it’s that they don’t like needles.
I don’t like needles. None of my merry adventures in blood donating have made me like them any more. It ALWAYS hurts.
But if none of my friends are gonna donate, then who will? I don’t like needles, but if I don’t shove that aside and step up to the plate, who will?
How can I be an example that It’s Not About Your Fear, It’s About How Mastering Your Fear Helps Someone Else if I keep failing? How can I help ANYONE if I keep failing?
Let’s return to the scrawny high school hurdler weirdo bleeding on the Alabama asphalt. I’m crying here too, from humiliation as much as physical pain. And as I’m lying on my back, clutching my knee, and brushing the pebbles and dirt off my shins, my beloved Coach looms over me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My response begins with, “NO I’M NOT OKAY, GODAMMIT, LOOK AT ME!” and continues in such a way that my beloved Coach gleefully repeats the story a year and a half later at the sports banquet honoring the track team. Into the microphone for the entire auditorium to hear, he tells the track team, the faculty, their parents, MY parents about the time Amy crashed into the hurdles and cussed him out with a memorable blue streak the likes of which nobody knew I was capable of.But at the time, he lets me surf the blue wave until I finish, smiles at me, and simply says.
“Okay. Get up and do it again.”
My response to that begins with, “FUCK YOU, NO WAY, I’M NOT DOING THAT AGAIN, LOOK AT ME!” I continue cussing at him, at the agog football team, at the hurdle, at the fact that I can’t do three steps between the hurdles, because if I could I wouldn’t have hit it and gone down hard. I trail profanities as I pick myself up, it’s not my fault, it’s hot, the football team won’t get out of my way, I’m white, crosstown thoroughbreds make fun of me at starting lines and hobble back to the starting line, and...
...and...
And yes, I do it again. Crying. Bleeding. Four steps between the hurdles. But I didn't fall.
I knew what the point was. You can’t let your fear master you. If I hadn’t picked myself up and gotten back onto the track and over those hurdles, it would result in a mental stumbling block, and that’s what I would remember every time I was facing a 100 meter line of hurdles.
But I didn’t let my fear, my pain, my tears master me. I mastered it. I got to three steps between the hurdles. I ended up placing fifth in the state championship my senior year. I have an Amazing Ass. My parents are proud (of placing fifth in the state championship, not of my Amazing Ass. I don’t think they care about that.)
You don’t have to like it to master it. You just have to master it.
So, back in present day, sobbing in my car in the parking lot, I remember that bleeding hurdling weirdo and know what I have to do.
It’s not gonna be next week. But probably the week after next. I’m going back. I’m going to KEEP going back.
I don’t care how many bruises I get. I don’t care how much it hurts. It’s not about my fear, it’s not about my pain. It’s about the fact that Three Little Kiddos Whose Names I Don’t Know have brain tumors and need people to fight for them. I don’t have to know who they are. I don’t have to be related to them to fight for them. I just have to fight. I just have to keep fighting.
So here’s a toast (with five dollar sparkling wine from Trader Joe’s in my souvenir cup from the Disney Cruise.) Fuck you, bruises on my arm. Fuck you, pain I felt. Fuck you, tears I shed. None of you will stop me from fighting. I will master this fear.
I will fight.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Another shoutout (because I have no time to write.)
Sorry, I'm too far behind on multiple fronts to do a proper blog post. Let's just say I have new furniture in the Shabby Shack (some of which isn't assembled yet) and very very very awesome friends who helped me transport it back here.
But since I'm in a kind of supershoutout mode, here's a another rec:
Whenever I go to Shannon Lee's website, I instantly smile. She has the best job in the whole wide world. I'd wager she might even take a decent pix of me, if I ever can scrape up the money and the special occasion to book a session with her.
Go ahead, check out her blog and try NOT to smile. She's awesome.
But since I'm in a kind of supershoutout mode, here's a another rec:
Whenever I go to Shannon Lee's website, I instantly smile. She has the best job in the whole wide world. I'd wager she might even take a decent pix of me, if I ever can scrape up the money and the special occasion to book a session with her.
Go ahead, check out her blog and try NOT to smile. She's awesome.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Aarti! Cedar Grove! Poppies! Nutbag Dalmatians!
You guys! I finally met Aarti Paarti! In person! I didn’t even plan it!
Aarti Paarti is better known as the incredibly lovely and Faithful Friend O The Blog Aarti Sequeira. She is the mutual friend of the equally lovely and Faithful Friend O The Blog Nadine (who has a blog and hasn’t updated it since September of last year. Bad Nadine! Bad bad Nadine!)
So on Friday night, we all went to support Nadine and her improv group over at the Hothouse, and I saw Aarti in the lobby and attacked her, screaming, “Oh my GOD! You’re Aarti Paarti!” And then in a quick split second, I remembered that she wouldn’t know who I am, since I do such a good job of making sure nobody sees my face on my blog, so I follow up with, “I’m Amy The Writer!” And then she started screaming, and it was a lovefest all around.
Aarti needs to get used to strange people attacking her in public, because she’s one of the contestants on The Next Food Network Star, premiering June 6th, 2010. Check her out here.
However, I will say this – she’s f’ing GORGEOUS in person. Seriously. That hair, that skin, that smile, that warmth. Just such a lovely person inside and out. And JUST maybe, she’ll help me figure out what I can cook in my wretched kitchen nook, when all I have to work with are two burners, a toaster oven, a microwave, and two crazy Dalmatians just outside the back door.
Yeah, let’s talk about those crazy Dalmatian landlords, shall we? I am going to sleep SO GOOD tonight, because Pepe and Pembleton’s human owners were on a Viking River Cruise, for the past two weeks, so that meant the Running Of The Dalmatians was in full effect for two weeks. TWO SOLID WEEKS of getting up at 5:45am and running through Griffith Park with two Dalmatians that think they’re birds and don’t understand why they haven’t taken flight yet.
Here they are, when we’re still walking up the hill in Griffith Park. It’s two separate leashes tied to one belt around my waist. This is preferable to two leashes on two separate belts around my waist. Because these guys are so insane, the first thing they do is run themselves in circles which ties the leashes up in knots. It’s easier to untangle them when it’s one belt. As opposed to two.
So off we go, much like Santa on his sleigh, pulled by two ADD Dalmatians instead of reindeer. Most of the time we run about two miles through Griffith Park, dumping us out onto Vermont. But this morning, I detoured us up to Cedar Grove in Griffith Park.
One of the unexpected things I’ve grown to appreciate about Los Angeles is how there are these pockets of places you wouldn’t expect to find, and Cedar Grove is one of them. It’s like stepping into the woods of your childhood, or maybe any church camp you went to in your youth. You could be anywhere BUT Los Angeles, and yet here you are, surrounded by your own wooded oasis, and two nutbag Dalmatians who insist on peeing every five steps, and eating grass every ten steps. One day, I’m going up here with friends and no dogs and do a picnic lunch or something. It’s seriously awesome.
There are points where the path is so narrow, and covered in flower bushes, that you have to go on faith that yes, that’s a trail, and yes, it will continue even though you can’t see it, and you have to jockey for space with two Koo Koo for Coco Puff Dalmatians who are literally tying themselves in knots. But you keep going.
Because when you do, you see this. That is an honest to God poppy field. In Los Angeles. I KNOW! They’re white poppies, and not the red and pink ones we know so well from Wizard of Oz. Our path takes us through the poppies, and in the six o’clock hour, before the heat of the day hits, when it’s you in a poppy field with two Crazypants Dalmatians trying to make it down a very narrow and very steep path and getting whacked in the face with poppies, which really do put you to sleep with their high pollen count (thank God I made it back to the house in time), you think I can’t believe this is my life. And it is good.
Check out a very rare picture of me, the poppies, and my strangely thick earlobe.
Check out Pepe and Pembleton at the end of the trail. They did that all by themselves. I wonder why they’re not going anywhere. ☺
Yep, I’m sleeping AWESOMELY tonight.
Aarti Paarti is better known as the incredibly lovely and Faithful Friend O The Blog Aarti Sequeira. She is the mutual friend of the equally lovely and Faithful Friend O The Blog Nadine (who has a blog and hasn’t updated it since September of last year. Bad Nadine! Bad bad Nadine!)
So on Friday night, we all went to support Nadine and her improv group over at the Hothouse, and I saw Aarti in the lobby and attacked her, screaming, “Oh my GOD! You’re Aarti Paarti!” And then in a quick split second, I remembered that she wouldn’t know who I am, since I do such a good job of making sure nobody sees my face on my blog, so I follow up with, “I’m Amy The Writer!” And then she started screaming, and it was a lovefest all around.
Aarti needs to get used to strange people attacking her in public, because she’s one of the contestants on The Next Food Network Star, premiering June 6th, 2010. Check her out here.
However, I will say this – she’s f’ing GORGEOUS in person. Seriously. That hair, that skin, that smile, that warmth. Just such a lovely person inside and out. And JUST maybe, she’ll help me figure out what I can cook in my wretched kitchen nook, when all I have to work with are two burners, a toaster oven, a microwave, and two crazy Dalmatians just outside the back door.
Yeah, let’s talk about those crazy Dalmatian landlords, shall we? I am going to sleep SO GOOD tonight, because Pepe and Pembleton’s human owners were on a Viking River Cruise, for the past two weeks, so that meant the Running Of The Dalmatians was in full effect for two weeks. TWO SOLID WEEKS of getting up at 5:45am and running through Griffith Park with two Dalmatians that think they’re birds and don’t understand why they haven’t taken flight yet.
Here they are, when we’re still walking up the hill in Griffith Park. It’s two separate leashes tied to one belt around my waist. This is preferable to two leashes on two separate belts around my waist. Because these guys are so insane, the first thing they do is run themselves in circles which ties the leashes up in knots. It’s easier to untangle them when it’s one belt. As opposed to two.So off we go, much like Santa on his sleigh, pulled by two ADD Dalmatians instead of reindeer. Most of the time we run about two miles through Griffith Park, dumping us out onto Vermont. But this morning, I detoured us up to Cedar Grove in Griffith Park.
One of the unexpected things I’ve grown to appreciate about Los Angeles is how there are these pockets of places you wouldn’t expect to find, and Cedar Grove is one of them. It’s like stepping into the woods of your childhood, or maybe any church camp you went to in your youth. You could be anywhere BUT Los Angeles, and yet here you are, surrounded by your own wooded oasis, and two nutbag Dalmatians who insist on peeing every five steps, and eating grass every ten steps. One day, I’m going up here with friends and no dogs and do a picnic lunch or something. It’s seriously awesome.
There are points where the path is so narrow, and covered in flower bushes, that you have to go on faith that yes, that’s a trail, and yes, it will continue even though you can’t see it, and you have to jockey for space with two Koo Koo for Coco Puff Dalmatians who are literally tying themselves in knots. But you keep going.
Because when you do, you see this. That is an honest to God poppy field. In Los Angeles. I KNOW! They’re white poppies, and not the red and pink ones we know so well from Wizard of Oz. Our path takes us through the poppies, and in the six o’clock hour, before the heat of the day hits, when it’s you in a poppy field with two Crazypants Dalmatians trying to make it down a very narrow and very steep path and getting whacked in the face with poppies, which really do put you to sleep with their high pollen count (thank God I made it back to the house in time), you think I can’t believe this is my life. And it is good.
Check out a very rare picture of me, the poppies, and my strangely thick earlobe.
Check out Pepe and Pembleton at the end of the trail. They did that all by themselves. I wonder why they’re not going anywhere. ☺Yep, I’m sleeping AWESOMELY tonight.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
You Only Get One Burning Insight Post Per Month ;)
Everyone say hello to T-Bone. A purebred Shih Tzu three year old. He was one of the dogs I played with for this year’s Big Sunday event. This year, I wanted a service event where I could play with animals, and there was an animal adoption event in Beverly Hills.T-Bone was pretty mellow, most likely because he’d been neutered the night before. He’s also a boy, despite what the bows in his ears, courtesy of the groomer, would have you believe. That’s probably the biggest reason for his Harumph expression.
But I hung with T-Bone, and showed him off to the best of my ability. He got a lot of attention, but no buyers, though I’m sure he’s gonna find a home soon. Purebred Shih Tzus don’t stay lonely for long.
But really, all he wanted was to be held (who can blame him, poor guy got snipped last night.) So I held him. For three hours. Maybe this is my new gig? Amy The Writer, Friend To The Woofies? She Holds The Woofies?
Better than Wookies, those are too big for me to hold. ☺
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A Photo Illustration Featuring Ginger Puppy
So I totally understand if some of you who are friends with me don’t wanna be friends with me right now. Because bad things are happening to my friends all over the place.
Seriously. Cancer diagnoses, aneurysms in heart walls, job stress, financial stress, car stress, losing jobs, seeking counseling for stress matters, being sick for the past couple of months, yeah, months, not weeks. This is what’s going on with all of you. Not me. Nothing’s wrong with me. Which makes me feel just awful.
Like if there was one of those double bladed ax things above all our heads going back and forth, and I was the only one who successfully ducked each time, so the blade picked off one of you instead, whereas if I only had taken the blow that one time, I could’ve saved one of you. I totally would’ve done it, had I known that was the metaphor we were all in.
This bad news is extending not just to my human friends, but my four legged ones as well.
Behold Ginger Puppy, in all her misery. She had surgery on a torn tendon last week. She knows EXACTLY how ridiculous she looks. The shaved leg, the inflatable blue collar to keep her from chewing out her stitches.
At least it’s not this collar:
This is the Collar Of Shame, which is what she has to wear when I wasn’t at home this weekend. She hates this collar a lot. It prevents her from going inside her crate, from drinking out of her water bowl, and from getting close to me when I come home. Because the Collar of Shame hits my leg first. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk.
She’s not allowed to go up and down stairs, and of course, that’s all this housesitting house is! Lots and lots of stairs! Which means I’ve been carrying her everywhere, all weekend long. She’s really heavy, folks. You’ll see it in a second.
(Basil Diva Dog, meanwhile, has been doing his own thing, and paying a good Never You Mind on us both. I think he’s secretly laughing at Ginger Puppy, he’s never liked her, not really.)
And I was thinking, there has to be an awesome metaphor to this. Like a really awesome religious metaphor. I haven’t churned out any burning insight in quite some time, and here is this poor poor pooch with the chicken looking hindleg and can’t I figure something out to justify this weekend and Ginger Puppy’s unspoken pain? Can’t I turn Ginger Puppy’s Unspoken Pain and Baleful Glances Into Religious Metaphor GOLD!? CAN’T I, PEOPLE!? CAN’T I!?
Well, I couldn’t. Not until I went to church today, and right in the middle of the sermon on 1 Peter, did it hit me: Idiot. It’s not about you. It’s about everyone else.
I don’t have pain. I don’t have suffering. Whatever stress I have is more of an Eeyore Mumbling well. That sucks. Oh well. Other people have it much worse than I do. Guess I’ll go eat some thistles now.
So while I don’t mean to mitigate anyone’s pain, here’s a hopefully charming and humorous photo journey into What God Does For You. I will be playing the role of God (HA! That never happens!) Ginger Puppy is playing the role of All Of You. (Special thanks to Meriwether, who did most of the work behind the camera.)
This is you. You are in pain. You are in pain and nobody knows it, chiefly because you happen to be lying on your recently operated leg. You are also blind, no, sorry. Your hair is in your face, and that’s how you grew up, so you don’t even know the difference at this point. Sometimes you see, sometimes you don’t, you get along with the world just fine.
And you are alone. Nobody’s in the room with you, and if only you had opposable thumbs, you’d work that Macbook sitting behind you and email some peeps to come keep you company. But…no. No you wouldn’t, because you’re in pain and you’re alone and you think that God has abandoned you. A cruel God who placed you in a house full of stairs, with an aloof older brother who’s laughing at you from upstairs, and this blue inflatable collar that you have to wear to keep you from gnawing at your sin NO, your stitches. Those creepy creepy stitches (that were soooooo creepy I took a picture of them and promptly deleted it because they were just too creepy to post on a blog.)
Life sucks, you’re a dog, your hair is in your face, you’re alone, and you itch.
Except. You’re not alone. You’ve got God.
Whatever with God you think. God doesn’t do shit for me. God put me in this awful house of stairs. God made my tendon tear. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything except be a dog. I’m SUPPOSED to be a dog. I was being myself. I didn’t deserve a torn tendon.
You’re right. You didn’t deserve a torn tendon. You don’t deserve an aloof older brother laughing at you from upstairs, and a blue inflatable collar that causes your snoring to increase triplefold in volume. And that’s the GOOD collar. We shall not speak of the Collar Of Shame.
But you do have God.
God will pick you and your shaved chickenleg up. God will not mock your left foot tuff, and will wonder along with you why the vet decided to shave everything BUT that. It does look kinda silly. But God just smiles at you and picks you up anyway. Oh, and you’re still blind because your hair is still in your face. But God just smiles at you and picks you up anyway. Because God loves you and your silly tuffed foot, and your blue inflatable collar, and the scary stitches that we can’t show on this blog.
You are wounded. Literally, you’ve got a big huge gaping scar that you’re not gonna show anyone, because people would think it’s gross, and would then think you and your huge gaping scar is gross, and why would you wanna gross people out by showing them your big huge gaping scar, and who wants to be that vulnerable, anyway, right?
God still loves you and your big huge gaping scar. Your big huge gaping scar does not scare off God. He sure winces on your behalf, because WOW, it looks really painful. But God picks you up anyway. Not because He has to. Yes, He’s in charge of you, He’s responsible for your care. But because He loves you. You belong to Him. He will take care of you. He will pick you up.
(and yes, you better believe you are heavy. And yes, you better believe carrying you and your chickenleg, and your silly tuffed foot, and your big huge gaping scar, and your blue inflatable collar up and down multiple stairs from Thursday to Monday is exhausting work, which is why God is currently relaxing with a mojito while you snore next to His office chair. And this is where we also point out God’s awesome awesome biceps. It’s not just where the shadow hit it. It’s really that awesome. All those bootcamp classes at the gym are paying off! WOOT!)
God will pick you up and carry you. Sure, you THINK you can make it on your own, and yeah, you probably could, but if God left you to your own devices, you’d be tearing all over this backyard, and you’d injure yourself in ways you didn’t even think possible. I bet you’re not thinking about a faceplant into the pool, with your inflatable collar barely keeping you above water, or a bloody chickenleg, or choking on surgical stitches, are you? God is. God is and he does NOT want that for you, you poor little hair in your face pooch, you.
God will pick you up and carry you. Up and down the stairs. ALL WEEKEND LONG. God and God’s awesome biceps will carry you through the bushes to your special pee spot beneath that one tree in the backyard. You won’t go anywhere else. You like peeing there. And God knows you like your special pee spot, and will carry you to it again and again. ALL WEEKEND LONG. Because that’s what God does. God picks you up, and carries you even when you think you can get there on your own, because if you did try to get there on your own, you’d hurt yourself worse. So God will carry you.
(God will even give you your privacy. Once He’s taken a picture. Of course.)
God loves you, poor little Ginger Puppy. You only have a dim understanding of what’s going on, all you know is pain, ache, itch, and why can’t I do this by MYSELF already, and WHAT’S WITH THE HAIR!? THE HAIR IN MY EYES!? WHY DOES IT JUST HANG THERE! SOMEBODY CUT IT ALREADY!
But God know a bit more than you. And while He can’t make you understand all the ins and outs of canine healing or owner grooming whims, He can carry you. You are heavy. You look silly. And your breath isn’t the greatest. But He will carry you.
He will even hold your paw, the front one they shaved for the morphine patch, while you both sit in the media room watching Sherlock Holmes on Blu-Ray. Okay, God’s watching the movie, and you’re snoring away, because you can’t understand Robert Downey Jr. in a British accent, and since you’re a dog, you can’t read the subtitles when God turns them on. But there are times when you just want someone to hold your paw. And so God does that.
God didn’t have the camera for that one. But He (SHE) was there. Holding your paw. Because God loves you. He really really does.
Seriously. Cancer diagnoses, aneurysms in heart walls, job stress, financial stress, car stress, losing jobs, seeking counseling for stress matters, being sick for the past couple of months, yeah, months, not weeks. This is what’s going on with all of you. Not me. Nothing’s wrong with me. Which makes me feel just awful.
Like if there was one of those double bladed ax things above all our heads going back and forth, and I was the only one who successfully ducked each time, so the blade picked off one of you instead, whereas if I only had taken the blow that one time, I could’ve saved one of you. I totally would’ve done it, had I known that was the metaphor we were all in.
This bad news is extending not just to my human friends, but my four legged ones as well.
Behold Ginger Puppy, in all her misery. She had surgery on a torn tendon last week. She knows EXACTLY how ridiculous she looks. The shaved leg, the inflatable blue collar to keep her from chewing out her stitches. At least it’s not this collar:
This is the Collar Of Shame, which is what she has to wear when I wasn’t at home this weekend. She hates this collar a lot. It prevents her from going inside her crate, from drinking out of her water bowl, and from getting close to me when I come home. Because the Collar of Shame hits my leg first. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk.She’s not allowed to go up and down stairs, and of course, that’s all this housesitting house is! Lots and lots of stairs! Which means I’ve been carrying her everywhere, all weekend long. She’s really heavy, folks. You’ll see it in a second.
(Basil Diva Dog, meanwhile, has been doing his own thing, and paying a good Never You Mind on us both. I think he’s secretly laughing at Ginger Puppy, he’s never liked her, not really.)
And I was thinking, there has to be an awesome metaphor to this. Like a really awesome religious metaphor. I haven’t churned out any burning insight in quite some time, and here is this poor poor pooch with the chicken looking hindleg and can’t I figure something out to justify this weekend and Ginger Puppy’s unspoken pain? Can’t I turn Ginger Puppy’s Unspoken Pain and Baleful Glances Into Religious Metaphor GOLD!? CAN’T I, PEOPLE!? CAN’T I!?
Well, I couldn’t. Not until I went to church today, and right in the middle of the sermon on 1 Peter, did it hit me: Idiot. It’s not about you. It’s about everyone else.
I don’t have pain. I don’t have suffering. Whatever stress I have is more of an Eeyore Mumbling well. That sucks. Oh well. Other people have it much worse than I do. Guess I’ll go eat some thistles now.
So while I don’t mean to mitigate anyone’s pain, here’s a hopefully charming and humorous photo journey into What God Does For You. I will be playing the role of God (HA! That never happens!) Ginger Puppy is playing the role of All Of You. (Special thanks to Meriwether, who did most of the work behind the camera.)
This is you. You are in pain. You are in pain and nobody knows it, chiefly because you happen to be lying on your recently operated leg. You are also blind, no, sorry. Your hair is in your face, and that’s how you grew up, so you don’t even know the difference at this point. Sometimes you see, sometimes you don’t, you get along with the world just fine.And you are alone. Nobody’s in the room with you, and if only you had opposable thumbs, you’d work that Macbook sitting behind you and email some peeps to come keep you company. But…no. No you wouldn’t, because you’re in pain and you’re alone and you think that God has abandoned you. A cruel God who placed you in a house full of stairs, with an aloof older brother who’s laughing at you from upstairs, and this blue inflatable collar that you have to wear to keep you from gnawing at your sin NO, your stitches. Those creepy creepy stitches (that were soooooo creepy I took a picture of them and promptly deleted it because they were just too creepy to post on a blog.)
Life sucks, you’re a dog, your hair is in your face, you’re alone, and you itch.
Except. You’re not alone. You’ve got God.
Whatever with God you think. God doesn’t do shit for me. God put me in this awful house of stairs. God made my tendon tear. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything except be a dog. I’m SUPPOSED to be a dog. I was being myself. I didn’t deserve a torn tendon.
You’re right. You didn’t deserve a torn tendon. You don’t deserve an aloof older brother laughing at you from upstairs, and a blue inflatable collar that causes your snoring to increase triplefold in volume. And that’s the GOOD collar. We shall not speak of the Collar Of Shame.
But you do have God.
God will pick you and your shaved chickenleg up. God will not mock your left foot tuff, and will wonder along with you why the vet decided to shave everything BUT that. It does look kinda silly. But God just smiles at you and picks you up anyway. Oh, and you’re still blind because your hair is still in your face. But God just smiles at you and picks you up anyway. Because God loves you and your silly tuffed foot, and your blue inflatable collar, and the scary stitches that we can’t show on this blog. You are wounded. Literally, you’ve got a big huge gaping scar that you’re not gonna show anyone, because people would think it’s gross, and would then think you and your huge gaping scar is gross, and why would you wanna gross people out by showing them your big huge gaping scar, and who wants to be that vulnerable, anyway, right?
God still loves you and your big huge gaping scar. Your big huge gaping scar does not scare off God. He sure winces on your behalf, because WOW, it looks really painful. But God picks you up anyway. Not because He has to. Yes, He’s in charge of you, He’s responsible for your care. But because He loves you. You belong to Him. He will take care of you. He will pick you up.
(and yes, you better believe you are heavy. And yes, you better believe carrying you and your chickenleg, and your silly tuffed foot, and your big huge gaping scar, and your blue inflatable collar up and down multiple stairs from Thursday to Monday is exhausting work, which is why God is currently relaxing with a mojito while you snore next to His office chair. And this is where we also point out God’s awesome awesome biceps. It’s not just where the shadow hit it. It’s really that awesome. All those bootcamp classes at the gym are paying off! WOOT!)
God will pick you up and carry you. Sure, you THINK you can make it on your own, and yeah, you probably could, but if God left you to your own devices, you’d be tearing all over this backyard, and you’d injure yourself in ways you didn’t even think possible. I bet you’re not thinking about a faceplant into the pool, with your inflatable collar barely keeping you above water, or a bloody chickenleg, or choking on surgical stitches, are you? God is. God is and he does NOT want that for you, you poor little hair in your face pooch, you.
God will pick you up and carry you. Up and down the stairs. ALL WEEKEND LONG. God and God’s awesome biceps will carry you through the bushes to your special pee spot beneath that one tree in the backyard. You won’t go anywhere else. You like peeing there. And God knows you like your special pee spot, and will carry you to it again and again. ALL WEEKEND LONG. Because that’s what God does. God picks you up, and carries you even when you think you can get there on your own, because if you did try to get there on your own, you’d hurt yourself worse. So God will carry you.
(God will even give you your privacy. Once He’s taken a picture. Of course.)
God loves you, poor little Ginger Puppy. You only have a dim understanding of what’s going on, all you know is pain, ache, itch, and why can’t I do this by MYSELF already, and WHAT’S WITH THE HAIR!? THE HAIR IN MY EYES!? WHY DOES IT JUST HANG THERE! SOMEBODY CUT IT ALREADY!
But God know a bit more than you. And while He can’t make you understand all the ins and outs of canine healing or owner grooming whims, He can carry you. You are heavy. You look silly. And your breath isn’t the greatest. But He will carry you.
He will even hold your paw, the front one they shaved for the morphine patch, while you both sit in the media room watching Sherlock Holmes on Blu-Ray. Okay, God’s watching the movie, and you’re snoring away, because you can’t understand Robert Downey Jr. in a British accent, and since you’re a dog, you can’t read the subtitles when God turns them on. But there are times when you just want someone to hold your paw. And so God does that.
God didn’t have the camera for that one. But He (SHE) was there. Holding your paw. Because God loves you. He really really does.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
What If
I read Don Miller’s blog occasionally and have heard him speak when he swings through Los Angeles (the one church retreat I missed in 2008 due to being burned out on retreats was the one where he was the guest speaker. I still have the podcasts he did on my Itunes, though I have yet to listen to them.)
This blog post of his poses the “What If” challenge to you, to me, to everyone reading, which now includes you.
“God gives life to you to live, and you can either tell meaningful stories or boring stories. We can’t wait around anymore for God to make something happen in our lives, meanwhile we shop at Bed Bath and Beyond. The truth is, God gives you wisdom and direction and morality and His presence and support, and then asks you to live, to conquer, to risk and experience the whole of life. People grow when they are in motion.”
Not that I think I’m on par with Don Miller, a dude who’s much smarter and more well spoken than me (I don’t even think that sentence is grammatically correct) but this is something I had challenged myself to do at the start of 2010 – have one big adventure a month. If I was going by Don Miller’s challenge, it would look like this:
January 2010 – What If I Wrangled An Invite To The Magic Castle?
February 2010 – What If I Got A Group Together To Go To The Snoopyologist Brunch?
March 2010 – What If I Worked As A Stand In For A Particular Awards Ceremony?
I’ve been having a great time with this, and have already alerted friends to future monthly adventures (one of which I’m super excited about as it will involve my friend’s plane and a tequila bar in San Francisco.)
Now true, most of my adventures are not necessarily spiritual in nature. If you look at the people leaving comments on Don’s blog entry, they’re doing things like running marathons, or fundraising for noble causes, or going on missions to Africa. They are all beautiful people who aren’t as cranky as me, don’t mud wrestle with God as much as I do, and probably don’t drop the F bomb as I do. But that’s why variety is important. ☺
This past week, I realized that April was gonna be over pretty soon, and I hadn’t lined up a big What If Adventure for the month. There was the possibility of running a Los Angeles based Amazing Race, but I couldn’t get a team together fast enough, and that might be something we do later on in the year.
But I stumbled upon an opportunity that I hadn’t even thought about. Because this is the kind of opportunity that you are seriously doomed if you try to create it. This kind of opportunity can really only happen organically.
April 2010 – What If I’m The Only White Girl On The Dance Floor?
Friday night was a co-worker’s birthday party. My department had had a pretty shitty week, with firings and arguments and lies and blah blah blah. I was ready to blow off some steam, and I still had my dance jones on from the new music I had discovered earlier in the week.
So I get to the club in downtown L.A., and I’m pretty sure that I’ll be in the Whitey Minority, but I gotta dance, and I’m pissed off about work, so I’m pretty fearless at this point.
I wait in line for a bit, finally make it in, find my co-worker and her friends and say hi. I chat here and there, meet new people, drink Patron, but what I’m really waiting for is for the Birthday Gal to say “Let’s go dance!” Which she finally does.
Though there are a few pale faces sitting at tables on the patio, there are zero Caucasians on the dance floor. And I don’t give a shit.
You know what’s awesome about being the only white girl on the dance floor? Nobody’s looking at you. Seriously. My co-worker is beautiful, and her mocha colored skin would turn heads in any club from here to Hollywood. But nobody’s looking at me getting my groove on.
All the times I’ve wanted to be anonymous on a dance floor, because I’m not dancing to get attention, I’m not dancing as a potential mating call, I’m dancing because I love to dance, and here I am, on an overstuffed dance floor, not recognizing any of the hip hop songs playing, and I’m having the time of my life.
I’m laughing with my co-worker and her friends, we’re saving each other when guys try to dance with us, we’re cringing when couples get explicit on the dance floor (if my co-worker hadn’t pulled me away in time, I would’ve been impaled by a stiletto wrapped around some dude’s shoulder.) We’re all in the moment with the rhythm and the beat and lost in the music, and it doesn’t matter what color any of us are. I don’t know if I could ever find another dance floor that could compare with this.
But okay! Let’s try and come up with something slightly more spiritual!
Here is my backyard. It’s basically Griffith Park. I’ve been trying to adapt to a routine of hiking on Sundays, and I’ve had limited success.
But today I looked at the backyard and thought What If I Hiked Up To That Tree Waaaaaaaaaaay Up There?
April 2010 - What If I Hiked Up To That Tree Waaaaaaaaaaay Up There?
Part of the reason I wanna incorporate hiking into my Sunday routine is that I feel like it’s an Automatic God Experience. How can you not encounter God somewhere along the way when you’re chugging around in Nature, right? God made trees and flowers, and the trail and the canyon and la la laaaaaaaa.
Check it out, it’s an Instant Metaphor! What’s Around The Bend? God knows, ho ho ho. Trust Him, Ye Who Mud Wrestles With The Almighty, And You Shall Discover Ummmmm…Sacred Secrets (or something like that.)
What I discovered is that though I could see the tree clearly from my backyard, I lost it once I got up there.
And that once I got to what I thought was the top, the trail would keep going, beckoning me further. Keep going! There’s a cooler view over here! Look at how high up those people are! You wanna get over there, you know you do! C’mon, keep going!
And then when I did reach that point, there was ANOTHER peak with the Hollywood sign that seemed just as high, if I wanted to keep going.
But it had been about an hour already, and that was just getting here. I still have to hike back home.
So I took a picture of what my house looked like from the top (lest you think that I’ve finally hit the big time, keep in mind I don’t live in the main house, I live in the Shabby Shack on the other side of the garage) and headed back down.
So if I learned anything, maybe it’s that Always Leave With Something Else To Look Forward To. There’s probably a better way to phrase that one. I bet Don Miller would know.
This blog post of his poses the “What If” challenge to you, to me, to everyone reading, which now includes you.
“God gives life to you to live, and you can either tell meaningful stories or boring stories. We can’t wait around anymore for God to make something happen in our lives, meanwhile we shop at Bed Bath and Beyond. The truth is, God gives you wisdom and direction and morality and His presence and support, and then asks you to live, to conquer, to risk and experience the whole of life. People grow when they are in motion.”
Not that I think I’m on par with Don Miller, a dude who’s much smarter and more well spoken than me (I don’t even think that sentence is grammatically correct) but this is something I had challenged myself to do at the start of 2010 – have one big adventure a month. If I was going by Don Miller’s challenge, it would look like this:
January 2010 – What If I Wrangled An Invite To The Magic Castle?
February 2010 – What If I Got A Group Together To Go To The Snoopyologist Brunch?
March 2010 – What If I Worked As A Stand In For A Particular Awards Ceremony?
I’ve been having a great time with this, and have already alerted friends to future monthly adventures (one of which I’m super excited about as it will involve my friend’s plane and a tequila bar in San Francisco.)
Now true, most of my adventures are not necessarily spiritual in nature. If you look at the people leaving comments on Don’s blog entry, they’re doing things like running marathons, or fundraising for noble causes, or going on missions to Africa. They are all beautiful people who aren’t as cranky as me, don’t mud wrestle with God as much as I do, and probably don’t drop the F bomb as I do. But that’s why variety is important. ☺
This past week, I realized that April was gonna be over pretty soon, and I hadn’t lined up a big What If Adventure for the month. There was the possibility of running a Los Angeles based Amazing Race, but I couldn’t get a team together fast enough, and that might be something we do later on in the year.
But I stumbled upon an opportunity that I hadn’t even thought about. Because this is the kind of opportunity that you are seriously doomed if you try to create it. This kind of opportunity can really only happen organically.
April 2010 – What If I’m The Only White Girl On The Dance Floor?
Friday night was a co-worker’s birthday party. My department had had a pretty shitty week, with firings and arguments and lies and blah blah blah. I was ready to blow off some steam, and I still had my dance jones on from the new music I had discovered earlier in the week.
So I get to the club in downtown L.A., and I’m pretty sure that I’ll be in the Whitey Minority, but I gotta dance, and I’m pissed off about work, so I’m pretty fearless at this point.
I wait in line for a bit, finally make it in, find my co-worker and her friends and say hi. I chat here and there, meet new people, drink Patron, but what I’m really waiting for is for the Birthday Gal to say “Let’s go dance!” Which she finally does.
Though there are a few pale faces sitting at tables on the patio, there are zero Caucasians on the dance floor. And I don’t give a shit.
You know what’s awesome about being the only white girl on the dance floor? Nobody’s looking at you. Seriously. My co-worker is beautiful, and her mocha colored skin would turn heads in any club from here to Hollywood. But nobody’s looking at me getting my groove on.
All the times I’ve wanted to be anonymous on a dance floor, because I’m not dancing to get attention, I’m not dancing as a potential mating call, I’m dancing because I love to dance, and here I am, on an overstuffed dance floor, not recognizing any of the hip hop songs playing, and I’m having the time of my life.
I’m laughing with my co-worker and her friends, we’re saving each other when guys try to dance with us, we’re cringing when couples get explicit on the dance floor (if my co-worker hadn’t pulled me away in time, I would’ve been impaled by a stiletto wrapped around some dude’s shoulder.) We’re all in the moment with the rhythm and the beat and lost in the music, and it doesn’t matter what color any of us are. I don’t know if I could ever find another dance floor that could compare with this.
But okay! Let’s try and come up with something slightly more spiritual!
Here is my backyard. It’s basically Griffith Park. I’ve been trying to adapt to a routine of hiking on Sundays, and I’ve had limited success.But today I looked at the backyard and thought What If I Hiked Up To That Tree Waaaaaaaaaaay Up There?
April 2010 - What If I Hiked Up To That Tree Waaaaaaaaaaay Up There?
Part of the reason I wanna incorporate hiking into my Sunday routine is that I feel like it’s an Automatic God Experience. How can you not encounter God somewhere along the way when you’re chugging around in Nature, right? God made trees and flowers, and the trail and the canyon and la la laaaaaaaa.
Check it out, it’s an Instant Metaphor! What’s Around The Bend? God knows, ho ho ho. Trust Him, Ye Who Mud Wrestles With The Almighty, And You Shall Discover Ummmmm…Sacred Secrets (or something like that.)What I discovered is that though I could see the tree clearly from my backyard, I lost it once I got up there.
And that once I got to what I thought was the top, the trail would keep going, beckoning me further. Keep going! There’s a cooler view over here! Look at how high up those people are! You wanna get over there, you know you do! C’mon, keep going!
And then when I did reach that point, there was ANOTHER peak with the Hollywood sign that seemed just as high, if I wanted to keep going.
But it had been about an hour already, and that was just getting here. I still have to hike back home.
So I took a picture of what my house looked like from the top (lest you think that I’ve finally hit the big time, keep in mind I don’t live in the main house, I live in the Shabby Shack on the other side of the garage) and headed back down.So if I learned anything, maybe it’s that Always Leave With Something Else To Look Forward To. There’s probably a better way to phrase that one. I bet Don Miller would know.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Join Amy’s Dance Party
I’m not getting any writing done at the Shabby Shack, I’m dancing to these songs. I love grooving around, I gotta go find a club to get my groove on again
When it rains great music, it pours. The hilarious part is that a lot of these songs are already old, but I’m just now figuring them out.
(You don't have to watch the videos, it's the music that's important than the visuals.)
This one I heard from the DJ who plays outside our church on Sunday mornings. That’s right. We’ve got a DJ now. He’s playing some awesome stuff.
He also played a band called Paper Route. I thought the song he was playing was interesting, but not as awesome as this song, which I found when I went home to look ‘em up. I'm SO in love with this song right now.
My awesome friend Fauna runs her own music site, http://laisthenewny.com/, and she’s got the best taste in music. She featured this song last week, which sounds exactly like the type of song that would play over the credits of a movie I’d write, where the lead character has just made a huge life changing decision and is going off into the horizon to make it happen.
Awright, awright, you guys stay and listen to this stuff. I gotta get back to rewriting.
When it rains great music, it pours. The hilarious part is that a lot of these songs are already old, but I’m just now figuring them out.
(You don't have to watch the videos, it's the music that's important than the visuals.)
This one I heard from the DJ who plays outside our church on Sunday mornings. That’s right. We’ve got a DJ now. He’s playing some awesome stuff.
He also played a band called Paper Route. I thought the song he was playing was interesting, but not as awesome as this song, which I found when I went home to look ‘em up. I'm SO in love with this song right now.
My awesome friend Fauna runs her own music site, http://laisthenewny.com/, and she’s got the best taste in music. She featured this song last week, which sounds exactly like the type of song that would play over the credits of a movie I’d write, where the lead character has just made a huge life changing decision and is going off into the horizon to make it happen.
Awright, awright, you guys stay and listen to this stuff. I gotta get back to rewriting.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Grant Us Peace
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this post was supposed to go up last night, and I crashed from a monster Easter sugar bender, I’m sorry sorry.
I wonder if maybe I should go back to posting on Monday nights. Maybe that would work better? Hmmmm.
My good friend Flora has been battling cancer. She’s younger than most people who battle it, and it took us all by surprise. Two months ago, it wasn’t on anyone’s radar. Last week, she went in for surgery, chemo and radiation to follow. She made it through like a champ, and is now back home resting.
Merriweather had a great idea that we should upload some of our favorite positive songs and create a kind of mix CD for her. And I’m going through my collection and thinking um, wow. Would I call this positive? I mean, I think songs like Halloween, Alaska’s “Drowned” are sonically uplifting to me. But then I look at the lyrics and think “Confidence and the crosswalk, not the cross. Not the dove” may not be what she needs right now.
But then I remembered Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “Pray Your Gods.” At first blush, the lyrics may not be exceedingly helpful: “i feel my body weakened by the years, as people turn to gods of cruel design, is it that they fear the pain of death, or could it be they fear the joy of life”
But I never listen to the whole song anyway, I just skip to the end, here ya go, start at 2:53 on the counter:
It's where they sing a phrase in a beautiful round. It’s a beautiful piece of harmony and melody, powerful and poignant all in its own way. It’s haunting and inspiring, the kind of music that you make life changing decisions to.
And as I was uploading that part of the song for Flora, it occurred to me that I never knew exactly what they were singing at the end, and maybe I should check it out first because for all I know it could mean “Eat the bullet now.”
So I googled it. Turns out they’re singing “Dona nobis pacem”
Which is Latin for grant us peace.
Wow.
Thank You God, thank You. Thank You God, thank You.
I wonder if maybe I should go back to posting on Monday nights. Maybe that would work better? Hmmmm.
My good friend Flora has been battling cancer. She’s younger than most people who battle it, and it took us all by surprise. Two months ago, it wasn’t on anyone’s radar. Last week, she went in for surgery, chemo and radiation to follow. She made it through like a champ, and is now back home resting.
Merriweather had a great idea that we should upload some of our favorite positive songs and create a kind of mix CD for her. And I’m going through my collection and thinking um, wow. Would I call this positive? I mean, I think songs like Halloween, Alaska’s “Drowned” are sonically uplifting to me. But then I look at the lyrics and think “Confidence and the crosswalk, not the cross. Not the dove” may not be what she needs right now.
But then I remembered Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “Pray Your Gods.” At first blush, the lyrics may not be exceedingly helpful: “i feel my body weakened by the years, as people turn to gods of cruel design, is it that they fear the pain of death, or could it be they fear the joy of life”
But I never listen to the whole song anyway, I just skip to the end, here ya go, start at 2:53 on the counter:
It's where they sing a phrase in a beautiful round. It’s a beautiful piece of harmony and melody, powerful and poignant all in its own way. It’s haunting and inspiring, the kind of music that you make life changing decisions to.
And as I was uploading that part of the song for Flora, it occurred to me that I never knew exactly what they were singing at the end, and maybe I should check it out first because for all I know it could mean “Eat the bullet now.”
So I googled it. Turns out they’re singing “Dona nobis pacem”
Which is Latin for grant us peace.
Wow.
Thank You God, thank You. Thank You God, thank You.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Miscellaneous
Sorry about the no post last week. I had a birthday, I deserve a week off as much as anyone.
Does everyone remember when I was getting hassled by homeless people wanting money here and here? I got accosted again as soon as I stepped out of my car on Tuesday night.
I was going to the Target on La Brea, and not two seconds after I’ve stepped out of my car, a guy comes up to me, claiming that he’s lost his wallet and he needs $4.50 to get on the bus to get back to Venice. He’s carrying target bags, he seems appropriately shocked that his wallet is gone. He says the last three people he asked didn’t speak English, the person before that gave him a penny. The story is going on so long that it’s verging on being fake. But I’ll feel like a cold heartless bitch, if I listen to him for this long and not give him anything. So I give him $4.50, though that seems a bit pricy for a bus trip, but maybe he’s gotta change lines or something.
I watch him walk away thinking to myself I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do. I want to believe this guy really is heading towards the bus stop, that he’s not going to head into the Starbucks and get a latte.
I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do.
Just then, another guy comes up to me, asking me for money. “Sorry, I gave my money to that guy,” “I know, I saw.” He says grinning. Part of me wants to say why do you think I’d give you money, dumbass? But I don’t, I just walk away from him.
I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do.
As I’m going through the Target aisles, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the dumbass, because I fell for the sob story. I should’ve tailed the guy, and if it turns out he did just go to Starbucks, I would’ve shamed the hell out of him. But what good does that do? Shaming someone? You can’t inflict shame on someone, it’s something that they have feel on their own.
After I’m done at Target, I swing by the Starbucks, he’s not there. He’s not at the bus stop either. Maybe he got on the bus already. I’ll never see that guy again, and I’ll never know if he was conning me or not.
I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do.
I wish they’d stop asking me for money, though.
I went to give blood at a Red Cross Blood Drive today, and as I was waiting for my turn, I had a woman sitting next to me. She says she got bounced because of low iron, and is waiting for her husband. She asks me why I’m donating, and I give my standard spiel about how I’ve not had personal experience, like I was in an accident and needed blood, but I do it because it’s ridiculously easy, there’s a serious need for it, and I have no good reason not to do it. She says that’s really admirable, as she does it because she’s one of those mothers who lost a lot of blood in childbirth, needed a transfusion, and now wants to pass it on. She seems to be in awe that I do it just because.
It’s nothing to be in awe of, though. It’s ridiculously easy. It’d be something to be in awe of if you had to run a marathon first, or solve Algebra problems first. But you don’t, all you have to do is lie back and bleed. It requires ZERO skill, ZERO energy. More people need to do it.
What it does require, though, is an iron count of 12.5. Which sadly, I did not reach today. 11.1 in one hand, 11.7 in another. I got bounced. Annoying, since I ate a mountain of broccoli yesterday, and have been taking iron pills like a good little slightly anemic girl should. I wonder if it’s the machine, heh.
I was sad. The nurses even recognized me from my numerous appearances at other blood drives, and they were sad for me.
I’m nothing to be in awe of. I would’ve told that woman outside, but she was gone when I got back outside.
Lest we end the post on a downer note, here are some flower pics!
My roses are on another blooming binge.
There’s all sorts of wisteria and jasmine around the main house, and they’re really pretty, and smell nice,
though I usually sneeze right after. Heh.
Does everyone remember when I was getting hassled by homeless people wanting money here and here? I got accosted again as soon as I stepped out of my car on Tuesday night.
I was going to the Target on La Brea, and not two seconds after I’ve stepped out of my car, a guy comes up to me, claiming that he’s lost his wallet and he needs $4.50 to get on the bus to get back to Venice. He’s carrying target bags, he seems appropriately shocked that his wallet is gone. He says the last three people he asked didn’t speak English, the person before that gave him a penny. The story is going on so long that it’s verging on being fake. But I’ll feel like a cold heartless bitch, if I listen to him for this long and not give him anything. So I give him $4.50, though that seems a bit pricy for a bus trip, but maybe he’s gotta change lines or something.
I watch him walk away thinking to myself I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do. I want to believe this guy really is heading towards the bus stop, that he’s not going to head into the Starbucks and get a latte.
I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do.
Just then, another guy comes up to me, asking me for money. “Sorry, I gave my money to that guy,” “I know, I saw.” He says grinning. Part of me wants to say why do you think I’d give you money, dumbass? But I don’t, I just walk away from him.
I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do.
As I’m going through the Target aisles, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the dumbass, because I fell for the sob story. I should’ve tailed the guy, and if it turns out he did just go to Starbucks, I would’ve shamed the hell out of him. But what good does that do? Shaming someone? You can’t inflict shame on someone, it’s something that they have feel on their own.
After I’m done at Target, I swing by the Starbucks, he’s not there. He’s not at the bus stop either. Maybe he got on the bus already. I’ll never see that guy again, and I’ll never know if he was conning me or not.
I want to believe in the goodness of people. I do. I do.
I wish they’d stop asking me for money, though.
I went to give blood at a Red Cross Blood Drive today, and as I was waiting for my turn, I had a woman sitting next to me. She says she got bounced because of low iron, and is waiting for her husband. She asks me why I’m donating, and I give my standard spiel about how I’ve not had personal experience, like I was in an accident and needed blood, but I do it because it’s ridiculously easy, there’s a serious need for it, and I have no good reason not to do it. She says that’s really admirable, as she does it because she’s one of those mothers who lost a lot of blood in childbirth, needed a transfusion, and now wants to pass it on. She seems to be in awe that I do it just because.
It’s nothing to be in awe of, though. It’s ridiculously easy. It’d be something to be in awe of if you had to run a marathon first, or solve Algebra problems first. But you don’t, all you have to do is lie back and bleed. It requires ZERO skill, ZERO energy. More people need to do it.
What it does require, though, is an iron count of 12.5. Which sadly, I did not reach today. 11.1 in one hand, 11.7 in another. I got bounced. Annoying, since I ate a mountain of broccoli yesterday, and have been taking iron pills like a good little slightly anemic girl should. I wonder if it’s the machine, heh.
I was sad. The nurses even recognized me from my numerous appearances at other blood drives, and they were sad for me.
I’m nothing to be in awe of. I would’ve told that woman outside, but she was gone when I got back outside.
Lest we end the post on a downer note, here are some flower pics!
My roses are on another blooming binge. 
There’s all sorts of wisteria and jasmine around the main house, and they’re really pretty, and smell nice, 
though I usually sneeze right after. Heh.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Tissue Box
For all my efforts in trying to keep this closet of a living space nice and clean and without clutter, I’m still occasionally misplacing things. Which drives me bonkers, because I really have no excuse now. This place is too small to misplace something. I can see where everything is the second I walk in the door, that’s how small it is.
But Ethel the car. Ohhhhhhhh, Ethel the car. I never misplace Ethel herself, but as she has grown older, all the little crevices where things can slip and fall have multiplied, like wrinkles on a grandmommy’s face or something.
Last Sunday, I lost a parking ticket to a hotel parking lot where I was visiting my mom and my dad as they were coming back through Los Angeles after their cruise. It was dark in the parking lot, and I had very little interior light to search the car with, and I promptly burst into tears, to which the disgusted parking attendant sternly told me to stop it, it’s okay, “Life too short!” he said with a frown as he opened the gate and let me go through without having to pay the $59 lost parking ticket fee.
I get so frustrated with myself because it feels like misplacing things is a sign of a life not in control, and we all know how I feel about getting my life under control. That’s one of the things I love about living by myself, everything is under control. Mostly. My purse, my wallet, tries to be free of clutter as much as possible, though there was the one time over New Year’s Weekend where I misplaced the Up In The Air tickets when Xavier and I were going to see the movie. I couldn’t believe I couldn’t find the tickets in my wallet where I put them, and nearly pitched a fit in front of Xavier, of all people, before finally locating them. But it’s just another lesson about how EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE NEAT AND ORDERLY AT ALL TIMES OR ELSE YOU ARE A DUMBASS.
Which is why I sagged in despair when I couldn’t find my emerald ring on Friday morning. When I take my rings off, I usually put them in my purse, on the off chance an earthquake hits and I don’t have a lot of time to grab stuff before hitting the door. The rings are safe in the purse, no earthquake would be big enough to knock them out of the purse. That’s the thinking, anyway.
So I get to work on Friday morning, and dig through my purse for my rings. The aquamarine one was there, but the emerald one wasn’t. I turned the purse upside down, once again berating myself for whatever junk, crumpled up tissues, receipts that should’ve been filed already, is in there that shouldn’t be
But the emerald is definitely not in the purse, not even when I force myself to wait five minutes and look again, knowing full well how panic can cloud my vision. I know I had the rings on yesterday, I always wear them every day. I even remember taking them off and putting them in the purse, because I wasn’t feeling well, exacerbated by cocktail hour with Pepe and Pembleton and their human owners.
But the ring is not here, and it hasn’t fallen out of the purse onto the floor of the office. I make one of the clenched jaw promises to not obsess about it until I get home, thinking it’s probably on the floor.
I get home after work, and carefully look around the table and carpet before trucking in my stuff, so as not to displace it further. But it’s not there. I carefully truck in my stuff, and make a thorough search of Ethel, it’s not there. I do find the hotel parking ticket from last week’s debacle, but that’s not what I’m looking for. And maybe that’s supposed to be some sign: things do turn up eventually, you’re just blind at night. But that thought doesn’t comfort me much either.
So I search the purse again, my closet apartment again. The car again. Where did it go? I would believe in the Void Of Lost Things except I just found the parking ticket from last week. So where’s my f’ing ring?
I don’t have the energy to get angry. The constant battle with the universe these past three months, whether it’s over lost tickets, lost rings, fighting plagiarist bloggers or fighting false insurance claims (someone claimed I hit their car on January 8th when I was eating sushi in Burbank and have the receipt to prove it. Case is closed, claim denied, thank you very much), is just wearing me down. Yes, I have fun times here and there, and it’s a Godsend to live alone, but it strangely doesn’t give me the recharging energy I need to fight the good fight. I wouldn’t be surprised if a bus hit me soon, I don’t have the energy to get out of the way.
I liked that ring. My parents gave it to me as a surprise when we were taking a family vacation in the Bahamas. It’s not too big, not too small. It’s just right, and I’ve been wearing it since I was 17 or something. Irresponsible people lose things like this. I am not irresponsible.
Because this is too much like the parable of the Woman and Her Coin. Let me go do a keyword search: ah, here we go, Luke 15 verse 8 – 10.
The Parable of the Lost Coin
8"Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? 9And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.' 10In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."
Except that seems really arrogant – comparing my lost ring to a repentant sinner entering the Kingdom of God.
I’m not feeling great, so I sit back on the couch and send up a prayer to God please help me. Where is it? Where’s my ring?
I close my eyes, and the phrase hits me:
Tissue box.
I open my eyes, and the pink purple box of Puffs that sits on top of a magazine on the coffee table is right in front of me. See, look at how clean and uncluttered that table is? Do you see how annoyed I was that I couldn’t find the ring? It wasn’t buried in clutter because there WAS no clutter.
I grab the Puffs, and shake it around.
Rattle rattle.
Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?
I turn it upside down, and there’s the emerald ring.
Holy crap.
See, I don’t call it a tissue box. I call it Puffs, or box of Kleenex, or whatever. I DON’T call it a tissue box. But that’s the phrase that hit me. Which must mean it came from--
I instantly send up a Thank you God.
And because He’s obviously listening right now, I start asking him important questions. Will You heal my friend with cancer? Will You answer the prayers of my friends who’ve been trying for a baby for eight years? Will You take care of my friends who’re on the verge of bankruptcy because they haven’t sold a script in a year and are about to lose their house?
And no answer.
You’ll send a hint as to where my ring is, but You won’t tell me what You’re gonna do with my friends who have REAL issues? You can have the ring back if you’ll answer their prayers.
No answer.
Part of me wants to snark well THANKS! THAT’S JUST GREAT! Because I am a petulant ungrateful bitch.
I don’t understand how God works. All the prayers I lift up to Him, all the times I’m asking Him to please help me, help my friends, help us, help us all. I know He always hears me, but He rarely sends any kind of answer and THIS is the one time He chooses to say hello?
I don’t understand why God calls it a tissue box. Maybe he doesn’t wanna show partiality to a particular brand.
But I’m choosing to believe this is just the beginning of a miraculous string of prayers. Because now I’ve lost my voice, thanks to being sick. And He can TOTALLY have that, I will figure out how to hold down a job, I’ll do my best Holly Hunter walking around with a notepad around my f’ing neck in The Piano if He’ll just help my friends. Please. Please.
But Ethel the car. Ohhhhhhhh, Ethel the car. I never misplace Ethel herself, but as she has grown older, all the little crevices where things can slip and fall have multiplied, like wrinkles on a grandmommy’s face or something.
Last Sunday, I lost a parking ticket to a hotel parking lot where I was visiting my mom and my dad as they were coming back through Los Angeles after their cruise. It was dark in the parking lot, and I had very little interior light to search the car with, and I promptly burst into tears, to which the disgusted parking attendant sternly told me to stop it, it’s okay, “Life too short!” he said with a frown as he opened the gate and let me go through without having to pay the $59 lost parking ticket fee.
I get so frustrated with myself because it feels like misplacing things is a sign of a life not in control, and we all know how I feel about getting my life under control. That’s one of the things I love about living by myself, everything is under control. Mostly. My purse, my wallet, tries to be free of clutter as much as possible, though there was the one time over New Year’s Weekend where I misplaced the Up In The Air tickets when Xavier and I were going to see the movie. I couldn’t believe I couldn’t find the tickets in my wallet where I put them, and nearly pitched a fit in front of Xavier, of all people, before finally locating them. But it’s just another lesson about how EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE NEAT AND ORDERLY AT ALL TIMES OR ELSE YOU ARE A DUMBASS.
Which is why I sagged in despair when I couldn’t find my emerald ring on Friday morning. When I take my rings off, I usually put them in my purse, on the off chance an earthquake hits and I don’t have a lot of time to grab stuff before hitting the door. The rings are safe in the purse, no earthquake would be big enough to knock them out of the purse. That’s the thinking, anyway.
So I get to work on Friday morning, and dig through my purse for my rings. The aquamarine one was there, but the emerald one wasn’t. I turned the purse upside down, once again berating myself for whatever junk, crumpled up tissues, receipts that should’ve been filed already, is in there that shouldn’t be
But the emerald is definitely not in the purse, not even when I force myself to wait five minutes and look again, knowing full well how panic can cloud my vision. I know I had the rings on yesterday, I always wear them every day. I even remember taking them off and putting them in the purse, because I wasn’t feeling well, exacerbated by cocktail hour with Pepe and Pembleton and their human owners.
But the ring is not here, and it hasn’t fallen out of the purse onto the floor of the office. I make one of the clenched jaw promises to not obsess about it until I get home, thinking it’s probably on the floor.
I get home after work, and carefully look around the table and carpet before trucking in my stuff, so as not to displace it further. But it’s not there. I carefully truck in my stuff, and make a thorough search of Ethel, it’s not there. I do find the hotel parking ticket from last week’s debacle, but that’s not what I’m looking for. And maybe that’s supposed to be some sign: things do turn up eventually, you’re just blind at night. But that thought doesn’t comfort me much either.
So I search the purse again, my closet apartment again. The car again. Where did it go? I would believe in the Void Of Lost Things except I just found the parking ticket from last week. So where’s my f’ing ring?
I don’t have the energy to get angry. The constant battle with the universe these past three months, whether it’s over lost tickets, lost rings, fighting plagiarist bloggers or fighting false insurance claims (someone claimed I hit their car on January 8th when I was eating sushi in Burbank and have the receipt to prove it. Case is closed, claim denied, thank you very much), is just wearing me down. Yes, I have fun times here and there, and it’s a Godsend to live alone, but it strangely doesn’t give me the recharging energy I need to fight the good fight. I wouldn’t be surprised if a bus hit me soon, I don’t have the energy to get out of the way.
I liked that ring. My parents gave it to me as a surprise when we were taking a family vacation in the Bahamas. It’s not too big, not too small. It’s just right, and I’ve been wearing it since I was 17 or something. Irresponsible people lose things like this. I am not irresponsible. Because this is too much like the parable of the Woman and Her Coin. Let me go do a keyword search: ah, here we go, Luke 15 verse 8 – 10.
The Parable of the Lost Coin
8"Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? 9And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.' 10In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."
Except that seems really arrogant – comparing my lost ring to a repentant sinner entering the Kingdom of God.
I’m not feeling great, so I sit back on the couch and send up a prayer to God please help me. Where is it? Where’s my ring?
I close my eyes, and the phrase hits me:
Tissue box.
I open my eyes, and the pink purple box of Puffs that sits on top of a magazine on the coffee table is right in front of me. See, look at how clean and uncluttered that table is? Do you see how annoyed I was that I couldn’t find the ring? It wasn’t buried in clutter because there WAS no clutter.I grab the Puffs, and shake it around.
Rattle rattle.
Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?
I turn it upside down, and there’s the emerald ring.
Holy crap.
See, I don’t call it a tissue box. I call it Puffs, or box of Kleenex, or whatever. I DON’T call it a tissue box. But that’s the phrase that hit me. Which must mean it came from--
I instantly send up a Thank you God.
And because He’s obviously listening right now, I start asking him important questions. Will You heal my friend with cancer? Will You answer the prayers of my friends who’ve been trying for a baby for eight years? Will You take care of my friends who’re on the verge of bankruptcy because they haven’t sold a script in a year and are about to lose their house?
And no answer.
You’ll send a hint as to where my ring is, but You won’t tell me what You’re gonna do with my friends who have REAL issues? You can have the ring back if you’ll answer their prayers.
No answer.
Part of me wants to snark well THANKS! THAT’S JUST GREAT! Because I am a petulant ungrateful bitch.
I don’t understand how God works. All the prayers I lift up to Him, all the times I’m asking Him to please help me, help my friends, help us, help us all. I know He always hears me, but He rarely sends any kind of answer and THIS is the one time He chooses to say hello?
I don’t understand why God calls it a tissue box. Maybe he doesn’t wanna show partiality to a particular brand.
But I’m choosing to believe this is just the beginning of a miraculous string of prayers. Because now I’ve lost my voice, thanks to being sick. And He can TOTALLY have that, I will figure out how to hold down a job, I’ll do my best Holly Hunter walking around with a notepad around my f’ing neck in The Piano if He’ll just help my friends. Please. Please.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Wow, This Is Amazing
Awards season is over, finally. And for the second year in a row, I volunteered for an awards show that took place this week. No, not that one. The other one. The indie one. I shall not mention it by name, as I have no idea if I’m about to break some unknown code in relating the following story.
Last year, I was a newbie volunteer, and I didn’t mind doing crap jobs like taking tickets at the main gate, or guarding private tents. But I felt like I had paid my proverbial dues, and I wanted a bump up to a more interesting job. I wanted to be a stand-in.
Apparently, there are professional stand-ins out there who’re members of acting unions, and travel from ceremony to ceremony, standing in during camera rehearsals, they know everyone by name. But I think they were all booked for the Major Awards Show, which is why the indie awards show uses volunteers for their stand-ins.
So I made friends with the volunteer coordinator. And I asked. And sent in my headshot, and an acting resume. And lo and behold, they picked me, along with about 15 other people.
As a stand in, you’re there to help the camera crews rehearse camera angles, blocking, and timing. If you win (chosen ahead of time by the stage manager) you get to walk up to the stage and give a fake acceptance speech. And they do actually want you to give a speech, so they can rehearse timing, they want something that’s twenty to thirty seconds long, “Or about three sentences.”
I wanna do the walk. I wanna give a fake speech. I wanna fake win an award. This may be the only time in my life I DO get to give an acceptance speech, so I don’t really care if it’s fake or not.
We arrive for rehearsal the day before the show. The assistant stage manager hands out the flow chart of which category is being announced in what order, and who is standing in for which nominee. I’m standing in for people that I’ve never heard of before, for movies that I haven’t seen. And yes, I will be fake winning an award – a Producer’s Award and a grant for $25,000 given by a jewelry company.
BUT! This particular award is one of three where the nominees are such nobodies that they don’t get a camera shot – they’re all gathered backstage, and the winner walks out from backstage. No walk. I don’t get to walk? You fake win an award. But I don’t get to walk? Okay. Okay fine. This is still going to be fun. Fine.
So we start rehearsing, and the stand ins hop from table to table depending on what category is up. The irony is that I’m standing in for categories I was desperately hoping Pink Piggy would get a nomination for. I managed to get myself to the awards ceremony, and my film didn’t. It’s almost like I made a deal with a genie - I wanna go to the awards show! And the genie says POOF! Sure, no problem! As a STAND IN! That’s what you get for not specifying, nyah nyah nyah.
So here I am, standing in for a nominee in a category I wish I had been nominated in. And the host comes out. The real host, not a stand in. He’s a British comedian, popular in indie circles. Winifred, my friend from home, especially loves him. His particular shtick is free form associating comedy with a healthy dollop of history. I’ve seen some of his shows before, and have found him very funny.
So our BCH (British Comic Host) comes out, riffing on whatever his brain thinks of. The show writer is busy scribbling notes, which they will then later plug into the teleprompter, to remind BCH of what he said in what order during the actual show.
But within seconds of taking the stage, this is what he says:
“Welcome to tonight’s (awards show.) Before we start, I’d like to announce: There Is No God.”
Thunk goes my internal organs. He didn’t really just say that, did he? Oh yes he did, and now he’s riffing on it.
“There is no God, I know you’ve been praying to him for awhile, but he’s not there. I’m an atheist, that means I believe in Athe.”
I know he’s an equal opportunity offender, but it rankles me. To make that your opening line. And it makes me want to say something in my fake speech, the one I do fake win, the Producers’ Award.
Something like Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.
Could I say that? Should I say that?
I mull it over as BCH continues to run around onstage, making jokes about how Ben Franklin made the first independent film, and it was all about porn.
Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.
Can I do it? Should I do it? Or will everyone hear it as the dig back at BCH that I want it to be? And then will I be blackballed from being a stand in ever again? This is supposed to be fun. I would like to do this again. I would like to attend as a nominee one day, but barring that, I’d like to do this again.
BCH starts over with his opening monologue. I look back at the teleprompter, which now says NO GOD in big letters. Ah man.
BCH’s allowed to say what if he wants to, so if he wants to say that, who am I to slam him back? He’s allowed to say what he wants, and so are you, in your fake speech. It’s not like any of the real winners don’t also thank God in their speeches. The front runner for Best Supporting Actress has made a habit of ending most of her thank you speeches this awards season with “God bless us all.” And she’s fairly terrifying.
I stand in for one of the Best First Film nominee and don’t win. I stand in for one of the Best Film Made Under A Certain Dollar Amount nominee and don’t win. The camera crew assigned to cover my close up crack that they’re on the Loser Team. It’s kind of funny. Just like my obsessing over what to say in my FAKE acceptance speech is.
My speech is FAKE. It’s not supposed to be life changing. It’s not supposed to make a statement. It’s NOT REAL. It DOESN’T COUNT. All the other stand ins are going up there and thanking their moms, their cast and crew, their pets, their cameramen covering their angles. Every one of them says pretty much the same opening line, “Wow, this is amazing.” I must try to say something different.
Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.
I’m making a stand with this? A fake acceptance speech that will impress no one and quite possibly rankle some important people? Is it really that necessary to say?
And here’s the thing: Do I want to say it because I really would thank God if I won a real award or do I want to say it because I want to slam BCH. Because if it’s the latter half of that sentence, that’s not the right reason.
I report to backstage to wait for the Producer’s Award winner to be announced. They announce a fake winner, and the stage manager gives me my cue to walk onstage.
It’s kinda crazy. The tent is set up to hold something like 1800 people. And even with nobody sitting in the chairs, the scene is overwhelming. My brain is blown with the surrealness of it all. And I KNOW I’m fake winning. I can’t imagine what it’s gonna be like for the real winner.
The stand in presenters hand me the award and I step up to my mark by the microphone.
First thing out of my mouth “Wow, this is amazing.” It’s true, people. You really can’t think of anything else to say.
I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. I thank the awards organization. I see BCH about halfway back in the audience. I thank the show director, and the assistant stage manager, “And thank you God. Good night.” BCH is too far away to note any specific reaction.
I head offstage, wondering Was that enough of a declaration? Or did I play it too safe?
And the follow up thoughts: Who are you saying any of this for, Amy? Because if it’s supposed to be for God, He would have heard you regardless of what you did or didn’t say.
I would think that would be the end of it, and if I had fake won any other category, it would have been. BUT. The celebrity presenter of my category shows up, an indie iconoclastic director. He wants to rehearse his patter. Which means I get to fake win AGAIN. And AGAIN.
Again I walk out onstage. Again I accept the award, this time from the indie iconoclastic director (I wish I was a bigger fan of his to make the moment mean more.) Again I step up to the microphone.
I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. “My Mom told me I didn’t have to pass Algebra 2 as long as I could balance my checkbook, which really came in handy for this award.” I thank the show director, the assistant stage manager, and say good night.
I’m a big old coward. No. I refuse to believe that God gave me another chance to fake win because He wants me to proclaim that he is King at the end of my fake speech. I just don’t believe that. There’s a time and place for everything, and I don’t think this is the time for that. It doesn’t feel like I’d be doing it for the right reasons. It just doesn’t.
We rehearse it a third time. I walk out, I accept the award, I step up to the microphone. I thank the usual suspects, I ask the jewelry company to throw in a watch along with the $25,000 check. And I say goodnight.
The next day is the dress rehearsal. All of us only fake win once.
I’m an old pro by now: I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. And quickly, I say, “I’d like to thank God. He’s important,” and just in case that lands on anyone’s radar, I finish with “and last but not least, none of this would be possible without (the stage manager), who is truly Mr. Wonderful. Thank you.” I think I hear the stage manager backstage whooping it up.
No one says anything to me about anything I said. During the live show, I go to my new duties in the press tent, which include getting all the winners to autograph a poster (they all oblige.)
BCH goes on to open the live show with “Welcome to tonight’s (awards show.) Before we start, I’d like to announce: There Is No God. I know you’ve been praying to him for awhile, but he’s not there.”
It goes over like a dead fish. Nobody in the room laughs. BCH comments “thank you for that stunned silence” five seconds later. He never gets the room back on his side for the rest of the evening, and reviews the next day trash his performance as host.
But I had a wonderful time. I may not have gotten to walk, but I got to fake win four times. The real winner only won once!
I did thank God. Maybe it wasn’t Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity. But I’d like to thank God. He’s important still works. Because He is more than capable of taking care of the rest.
And above everything else, I learned to thank your stage manager. That’s probably the most valuable lesson learned. Heh.
Last year, I was a newbie volunteer, and I didn’t mind doing crap jobs like taking tickets at the main gate, or guarding private tents. But I felt like I had paid my proverbial dues, and I wanted a bump up to a more interesting job. I wanted to be a stand-in.
Apparently, there are professional stand-ins out there who’re members of acting unions, and travel from ceremony to ceremony, standing in during camera rehearsals, they know everyone by name. But I think they were all booked for the Major Awards Show, which is why the indie awards show uses volunteers for their stand-ins.
So I made friends with the volunteer coordinator. And I asked. And sent in my headshot, and an acting resume. And lo and behold, they picked me, along with about 15 other people.
As a stand in, you’re there to help the camera crews rehearse camera angles, blocking, and timing. If you win (chosen ahead of time by the stage manager) you get to walk up to the stage and give a fake acceptance speech. And they do actually want you to give a speech, so they can rehearse timing, they want something that’s twenty to thirty seconds long, “Or about three sentences.”
I wanna do the walk. I wanna give a fake speech. I wanna fake win an award. This may be the only time in my life I DO get to give an acceptance speech, so I don’t really care if it’s fake or not.
We arrive for rehearsal the day before the show. The assistant stage manager hands out the flow chart of which category is being announced in what order, and who is standing in for which nominee. I’m standing in for people that I’ve never heard of before, for movies that I haven’t seen. And yes, I will be fake winning an award – a Producer’s Award and a grant for $25,000 given by a jewelry company.
BUT! This particular award is one of three where the nominees are such nobodies that they don’t get a camera shot – they’re all gathered backstage, and the winner walks out from backstage. No walk. I don’t get to walk? You fake win an award. But I don’t get to walk? Okay. Okay fine. This is still going to be fun. Fine.
So we start rehearsing, and the stand ins hop from table to table depending on what category is up. The irony is that I’m standing in for categories I was desperately hoping Pink Piggy would get a nomination for. I managed to get myself to the awards ceremony, and my film didn’t. It’s almost like I made a deal with a genie - I wanna go to the awards show! And the genie says POOF! Sure, no problem! As a STAND IN! That’s what you get for not specifying, nyah nyah nyah.
So here I am, standing in for a nominee in a category I wish I had been nominated in. And the host comes out. The real host, not a stand in. He’s a British comedian, popular in indie circles. Winifred, my friend from home, especially loves him. His particular shtick is free form associating comedy with a healthy dollop of history. I’ve seen some of his shows before, and have found him very funny.
So our BCH (British Comic Host) comes out, riffing on whatever his brain thinks of. The show writer is busy scribbling notes, which they will then later plug into the teleprompter, to remind BCH of what he said in what order during the actual show.
But within seconds of taking the stage, this is what he says:
“Welcome to tonight’s (awards show.) Before we start, I’d like to announce: There Is No God.”
Thunk goes my internal organs. He didn’t really just say that, did he? Oh yes he did, and now he’s riffing on it.
“There is no God, I know you’ve been praying to him for awhile, but he’s not there. I’m an atheist, that means I believe in Athe.”
I know he’s an equal opportunity offender, but it rankles me. To make that your opening line. And it makes me want to say something in my fake speech, the one I do fake win, the Producers’ Award.
Something like Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.
Could I say that? Should I say that?
I mull it over as BCH continues to run around onstage, making jokes about how Ben Franklin made the first independent film, and it was all about porn.
Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.
Can I do it? Should I do it? Or will everyone hear it as the dig back at BCH that I want it to be? And then will I be blackballed from being a stand in ever again? This is supposed to be fun. I would like to do this again. I would like to attend as a nominee one day, but barring that, I’d like to do this again.
BCH starts over with his opening monologue. I look back at the teleprompter, which now says NO GOD in big letters. Ah man.
BCH’s allowed to say what if he wants to, so if he wants to say that, who am I to slam him back? He’s allowed to say what he wants, and so are you, in your fake speech. It’s not like any of the real winners don’t also thank God in their speeches. The front runner for Best Supporting Actress has made a habit of ending most of her thank you speeches this awards season with “God bless us all.” And she’s fairly terrifying.
I stand in for one of the Best First Film nominee and don’t win. I stand in for one of the Best Film Made Under A Certain Dollar Amount nominee and don’t win. The camera crew assigned to cover my close up crack that they’re on the Loser Team. It’s kind of funny. Just like my obsessing over what to say in my FAKE acceptance speech is.
My speech is FAKE. It’s not supposed to be life changing. It’s not supposed to make a statement. It’s NOT REAL. It DOESN’T COUNT. All the other stand ins are going up there and thanking their moms, their cast and crew, their pets, their cameramen covering their angles. Every one of them says pretty much the same opening line, “Wow, this is amazing.” I must try to say something different.
Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.
I’m making a stand with this? A fake acceptance speech that will impress no one and quite possibly rankle some important people? Is it really that necessary to say?
And here’s the thing: Do I want to say it because I really would thank God if I won a real award or do I want to say it because I want to slam BCH. Because if it’s the latter half of that sentence, that’s not the right reason.
I report to backstage to wait for the Producer’s Award winner to be announced. They announce a fake winner, and the stage manager gives me my cue to walk onstage.
It’s kinda crazy. The tent is set up to hold something like 1800 people. And even with nobody sitting in the chairs, the scene is overwhelming. My brain is blown with the surrealness of it all. And I KNOW I’m fake winning. I can’t imagine what it’s gonna be like for the real winner.
The stand in presenters hand me the award and I step up to my mark by the microphone.
First thing out of my mouth “Wow, this is amazing.” It’s true, people. You really can’t think of anything else to say.
I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. I thank the awards organization. I see BCH about halfway back in the audience. I thank the show director, and the assistant stage manager, “And thank you God. Good night.” BCH is too far away to note any specific reaction.
I head offstage, wondering Was that enough of a declaration? Or did I play it too safe?
And the follow up thoughts: Who are you saying any of this for, Amy? Because if it’s supposed to be for God, He would have heard you regardless of what you did or didn’t say.
I would think that would be the end of it, and if I had fake won any other category, it would have been. BUT. The celebrity presenter of my category shows up, an indie iconoclastic director. He wants to rehearse his patter. Which means I get to fake win AGAIN. And AGAIN.
Again I walk out onstage. Again I accept the award, this time from the indie iconoclastic director (I wish I was a bigger fan of his to make the moment mean more.) Again I step up to the microphone.
I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. “My Mom told me I didn’t have to pass Algebra 2 as long as I could balance my checkbook, which really came in handy for this award.” I thank the show director, the assistant stage manager, and say good night.
I’m a big old coward. No. I refuse to believe that God gave me another chance to fake win because He wants me to proclaim that he is King at the end of my fake speech. I just don’t believe that. There’s a time and place for everything, and I don’t think this is the time for that. It doesn’t feel like I’d be doing it for the right reasons. It just doesn’t.
We rehearse it a third time. I walk out, I accept the award, I step up to the microphone. I thank the usual suspects, I ask the jewelry company to throw in a watch along with the $25,000 check. And I say goodnight.
The next day is the dress rehearsal. All of us only fake win once.
I’m an old pro by now: I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. And quickly, I say, “I’d like to thank God. He’s important,” and just in case that lands on anyone’s radar, I finish with “and last but not least, none of this would be possible without (the stage manager), who is truly Mr. Wonderful. Thank you.” I think I hear the stage manager backstage whooping it up.
No one says anything to me about anything I said. During the live show, I go to my new duties in the press tent, which include getting all the winners to autograph a poster (they all oblige.)
BCH goes on to open the live show with “Welcome to tonight’s (awards show.) Before we start, I’d like to announce: There Is No God. I know you’ve been praying to him for awhile, but he’s not there.”
It goes over like a dead fish. Nobody in the room laughs. BCH comments “thank you for that stunned silence” five seconds later. He never gets the room back on his side for the rest of the evening, and reviews the next day trash his performance as host.
But I had a wonderful time. I may not have gotten to walk, but I got to fake win four times. The real winner only won once!
I did thank God. Maybe it wasn’t Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity. But I’d like to thank God. He’s important still works. Because He is more than capable of taking care of the rest.
And above everything else, I learned to thank your stage manager. That’s probably the most valuable lesson learned. Heh.
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