Don't Forget To Breathe

Another weekend with Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy. It was very low key and lovely, though it’s true that Basil Diva Dog is getting older and slowing down quicker than one would suspect.

While he’ll still greet me on first arrival with a wagging tail, he chooses to forgo our morning and late afternoon walks. And while he still does endless circles around the first floor of the house to make sure everything is where he last saw it three seconds ago, most of the time he wedges himself into the back of his crate and doesn’t really come out for much.

Which puts me in the position not unlike Shirley McClaine in the opening scenes of Terms Of Endearment. The one where she’s a new mom, and she thinks there’s something wrong with the baby since the baby isn’t making any noise, so she goes over to the crib and jiggles the baby until it starts crying and then she leaves, satisfied that everything is okay.

So while I’m not pulling Basil’s tail to get him to woof and prove to me he hasn’t died in his crate, I have started to make it a habit of reaching my hand in there (waaaaaaaaaaay in there, since he’s wedged himself into the very back of the crate, the below picture is deceiving, he can flatten himself against the back of the crate when he wants to), and resting my hand on his back or side, waiting to feel him inhaling and exhaling.

I can’t see in there when I do this, so I really am relying on nothing more than the sense of touch, waiting for him to take a breath. And since he’s old, and usually deep in sleep 80 percent of the time, it can take him a little longer than normal to breathe. And I’m crouching by the crate, not being able to see anything, stretching into the void, finally making contact with his furry side, and waiting, waiting, thinking… breathe. Please please breathe.

And he does.

I wonder if that’s another snapshot of God. We’re just spinning around in our stupid little circles and cycles, and we don’t know what’s going on, and sometimes we’re asleep, sometimes we’re asleep when we’re awake, and we don’t feel the Hand Of God on us, resting there on our heads or something. God probably doesn’t need to check on us to make sure we’re still breathing, since He knows everything anyway. But He’s there anyway, even if we don’t know it, can’t feel it, or can’t see it.

Which makes me feel somewhat better.

Laugh, Don't Scream

Okay, so when I meant “soon” I meant “a week later.” So what. I claim Birthday Excuse, I get to use it once a year, right?

I’ve been panicking that we’re three months into 2011, and I have no major adventures to my credit. For example, by this time last year, I had battled a plagiarist, encountered Snoopyologists, and worked as a stand-in for an awards show. There’s plenty of writing stuff swirling behind the scene that I can’t talk about right now, lest I jinx everything, but regardless, stuff needs to start happening.

So it seemed perfectly logical that I should take trapeze lessons as a birthday present to me this year.

Though I was willing to do this alone, my friend Beatrice immediately said she was in (and confided that she had wanted to do something like this for awhile, but wanted to have someone to do it with her. Our circle of friends appear to be huge chickens when it comes to heights.) Since one of my favorite adventures from last year involved Beatrice and zero gravity , I knew she would be the perfect partner for this.

So off we went to Hollywood Aerial Arts. It’s pretty unassuming from the outside, and inside you can take lessons on things like the Spanish web, tissue, hoops, standing trapeze…

But we want the SWINGING trapeze. Hell YEAH, we do! And that’s in the back. It’s thirty feet up in the air. We’ve got three instructors, a class size of about 6 people, three newbies, three regulars. And it really doesn’t matter what your skill level is, the newbies learn things from the regulars, and the regulars learn things from the newbies.

We have a really happy guy as our main instructor. He rivals Dr. Chuckles, my dentist, as the Happiest Professional I’ve ever come across, so let’s call him the Flyin’ Optimist. He’s on the ground, calling the shots, and holding our safety ropes connected to the harness around our waist. Up on the ledge thirty feet in the air to help us grab onto the trapeze are two really laid back guys, Zen Guy 1 and Zen Guy 2. They do this all day, every day, and they are far from bored, they just greet every terrified girl that scales the ladder with a blissed out, “Heeeeeeeeey. You’ll be fine.”

It is true, that I have been on the trapeze before. First time, I was 14 or 15, and on a family vacation to one of those Club Meds in the Caribbean, and they featured a lot of circus activities, including a show at the end of the week featuring the staff, and guests, and I was part of a standing (not swinging) trapeze act that worked WITHOUT AN F’ING NET and to this day I can’t believe some of the tricks I did WITHOUT AN F’ING NET AND WITHOUT AN F’ING HARNESS! I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad have blocked the whole thing out, but we have photographic proof, people. Sadly, no video.

It is also true that I was a gymnast for my high school years. Because of my family’s notorious history of physical inflexibility, I was not a great one, but I was renown for my lack of fear. No, I cannot do the splits, but tell me to do a roundoff back handspring off the balance beam, and I’ll TOTALLY do it. Regardless if I land slightly on my head (which happened once) or not.

And yeah, I took a circus class at college, and can do a Spanish web routine with no problem (and that was without a harness too, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?), but the point is I am not a ringer. I simply have no fear. There is a difference.

And maybe that’s why I settled on this as my adventure. I wanted to put myself in situations where fear was a totally reasonable option, stare it down, and kick it in the ass. Flyin’ Optimist said that’s why a lot of people take these classes. It’s less about the physical ability, than about challenging your mental fears. To literally leap off a ledge thirty feet in the air, holding on to nothing but a trapeze bar. And then maybe do some tricks on top of it.

Flyin’ Optimist gives us about maybe five minutes of instruction before sending us up the ladder to the ledge, “I can talk your ear off about physics, and pendulum swings, but nothing is going to be as helpful as just getting up there and doing it!” Flyin’ Optimist like to talk in sentences that end in exclamation points. He really is a happy happy guy, and even though he met you only five minutes ago, he is convinced you can get up that ladder, swing out on the trapeze, and then do a back flip, and by the middle of class, hook your legs back onto the trapeze, and even do a catch by the end of the class. He is convinced that you can do this, because by mere virtue of the fact that you’re here proves that you want to TRY. Which puts you heads and shoulders about the rest of the population that maybe thought about it, but never went through the motions of signing up for it.

And this is why he’s a really happy guy. “I love my job!” he says. Because he loves meeting people that want to TRY. He loves coaching people who want to overcome their fears and are actively working toward it. And when he puts it like that, you really do think that he has a great job. There aren’t a lot of whiners here, just people who wanna stare fear in the face and fight it.

And you wanna prove that his enthusiasm in your as yet untested ability is warranted.

Climbing the ladder was maybe the second most uncomfortable part. Especially since the safety ropes weren’t connected to your harness yet. They had the utmost faith that you could scale a ladder thirty feet into the air without falling off. You’re carrying your safety ropes over your arm and when you get to the ledge, Zen Guy 1 would attach them to your safety belt around your waist, and pull the trapeze to you to grab with one hand, while you’re holding onto the ledge bars with the other hand.

That trapeze bar is heavy. Flyin’ Optimist had told us this ahead of time, but words are not the same as trying to hold a twenty pound bar with one hand. It’s f-ing hard people. (also, from this angle, thirty feet up in the air, EVERYONE'S thighs look fat. It's not just me. Even though that is me in this picture.)

Zen Guy #2 is standing behind you, holding your safety belt so you can lean out far enough without falling to grab the trapeze bar. and when Flyin’ Optimist gives you your verbal cues, “Ready…. Set… Go!” you go.

Ready = mentally prepare yourself to go.

Set = bend your knees to prepare to jump for takeoff.

Go = jump.

What happened to all of us, at least once, was this:

Ready = Yep, yep, I’m gonna swing out on this bar.

Set = I know I’m supposed to bend my knees but…

Go = I don’t wanna.

Here is every girl’s biggest fear, the one they wouldn’t say to Flyin’ Optimist on the ground who wants to know why we’re not swinging in the air after he’s cued us to do so.

It’s a uniquely female fear, and it trumps the whole I’m Too Heavy and My Body Weight Will Drag My Hands Off This Bar, and also the I’m Going To Fly Off, Burst Through The Net And Smack Into A Bloody Puddle On The Pavement.

And the fear is this:

My Butt Is So Big It’s Going To Smack The Ledge As I Jump Off And Wreck My Swing. In Fact, My Big Butt Will Hit The Ledge, I’ll Let Go Of The Trapeze Bar, It Will Smack Me In The Forehead, And I Will Tumble To The Net In Pain And Embarrassment.

EVERY girl thought it. Regardless of butt size. Here's Beatrice swinging off and this is EXACTLY what she's thinking, she told me so afterwards.

It’s totally not true, and if you see video of yourself on the trapeze, you see the laws of physics and geometry of swinging that prove it’s not true, but that was the horrible Fear whispering in every girl’s ear.

Sidebar. I like my laugh. It’s distinctive, it’s nice to listen to, my actor friends always know when I’m in the audience because they recognize my laugh.

So I’m a big fan of my laugh. My screaming, not so much. I have the world’s girlish scream. It’s embarrassing. It’s not throaty, it’s not worldly, it doesn’t build from the bottom of my toes. It starts at the top of my head and suddenly, I’m a fluttering pin-curl girl from the 40s, all skirt rustles and wide eyes and hand clutching the throat. My scream, quite, frankly, is dumb-sounding.

(When I went to visit Agatha, Mr. Agatha and Bug last October, Mr. Agatha and I went on the Incredible Hulk roller coaster. And after we got off, Agatha asked how it went. Mr. Agatha chuckles and says, “Amy was screaming half the time and then laughing the other half.”)

So I do let out a small scream as I jump off the ledge. All the newbies let out some form of verbal terror the first time. But none of our butts hit the ledge, and we’re off on swinging. We work on building momentum by kicking back when cued to, kicking forward when cued to, feeling the momentum of the swing and the natural rhythm that comes from it. My hands instantly flash back to high school gymnastics, oh GAWD! Are we doing this again? Back to the days of forming calluses that rip open, and then your parents chase you around the house with Vitamin E that you never wanted to put on your palms, because it wouldn’t absorb and then you had gooky hands with Vitamin E everywhere... ARE WE GOING BACK TO THOSE DAYS!? SERIOUSLY!?

I discover quite quickly that it’s simply easier to listen to Flyin’ Optimist on the ground and do what he tells you do, rather than hear what he’s telling you, weigh the possible outcomes (death, pain, dismemberment), wonder how what he’s telling you is possibly going to work, and THEN do it.

Nope, nope, just easier to perform when commanded. Easier to trust the Flyin’ Optimst who loves his job and does this all day long. Easier to believe he knows what he’s doing, than to listen to the armada of voices in your head that are more concerned with High School Calluses Days and Your Scream Sounds Dumb And Your Butt is Big.

Feel free to insert your own religious metaphor here. God = Flyin’ Optimist on the ground. Trust God, take the leap into the unknown, God’s got your safety ropes, blah blah blah.

Yep, it’s all there, just waiting for you to pick it up and be all smug about it.

If only God actually called out to me. I have no doubt He’s got my safety ropes. I have no problem trusting Him. You never jump off the ledge until Flyin’ Optimist tells you to. And I’m still waiting for God to call out, to say Hey! You’re gonna do a back flip this time! You’re gonna hook your knees over the bar and then let go with your hands! It’s gonna be awesome! You can totally do it!

But then we run into a roadblock. For the life of me, I cannot pull my legs through and hook them over the bar. It’s baffling. I have the ab power to pull them in, but there’s no room between my torso and the bar to hook them over. I used to do this all the time when I was six. What, when I grew up, my arms grew shorter? Is the safety belt in the way? Is the safety belt and the three layers I’m wearing because it’s kinda cold outside in the way? Dunno. But this is something that my lack of fear cannot help me with. The only thing that’s gonna work is practice practice practice. Beatrice wants to sign up for a package of classes. And I just might do that with her. We’ll see.

Here’s video of me doing the only trick I could master, the back flip into the net. I got pretty good at this one, to the point where I was laughing all the way down. which is better than screaming.

Soon, soon, people. Soon

I have a post, and yet no time to write it.

In the meantime, my birthday is tomorrow. Please send me well wishes and tequila. :)

This is my life right now

I thought things would slow down last week. Not so.



The capper is the scream the poor Muppet lets out at the very end.

That's me this week, so hopefully I'll return next week with a lovely thoughtful post.

Bleeders and Fakers

Gaaaaaaaah, people. Just gaaaaaaaah. The past two weeks have been insane. I have been sick, I got over being sick, but my voice stubbornly refused to come back for awhile. I dogsat for Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog, I took another interview for a potential new dogsitting client, then scrambled to make an introduction to a referral when the new dogsitting client wanted someone to be at the house during the day (in other words, a freelancer.)

I’ve been researching travel details for my family’s trip in October to St. John to celebrate My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much and My Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder’s 50th anniversary. It involves flights, ferries, cost comparing taxi cab companies, all SORTS of fun!

I’ve gone to career groups, I’ve met with people on potential new projects, I’ve emailed with people on other potential new projects, I’ve introduced people to the wonders of zombie movies, I’ve gone to dinner with other friends who desperately need to stay out of their house for personal reasons, and I’m currently dogsitting Pepe and Pembleton, the crazy Dalmatians, who look very cute as they’re sleeping next to my desk, if only they would cut out the dog farts. One more of those, and I’m kicking them both out.

The Twin Whammies were another blood drive last weekend, and another stint as a stand-in for the Nameless Award Ceremony this past weekend. If I could just survive those things, I could go get a massage. I desperately need a massage.

I ran a blood drive at my church last week, even though my voice was more Muppet like than anything else (I was fine physically.) I ushered in 31 people onto that Bloodmobile, and 24 units o’ red stuff was collected, which isn’t our best number, but it was MY personal best. Because even though I barely beat the Red Hemoglobin Machine O Death by two tenths of a point, I filled up the pint bag in my fastest time ever, five minutes and 3 seconds. FIVE MINUTES AND THREE SECONDS, PEOPLE! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A PERSON BE A SPEEDY BLEEDER LIKE THAT!?

Seriously, all the nurses were stunned. Even the bloodmobile driver came up to take a look, “Miss AMY!” he said, “How did you DO that?” “You guys wanna go home, right?” I said, “I aim to please.” But in all honesty, the secret is caffeine. Drink a can of soda about thirty minutes before you go in and you too can bleed like a stuck piggy and save lives in the process. Wheeeeeeeeeeee!

One Whammy down, on to Whammy #2! I once again signed up to volunteer at the Nameless Award Ceremony this weekend. I had such a blast as a stand-in last year, I had very high hopes for this year. I was working with a lot of the same folks, including the assistant stage manager, and the camera crews, so there’s a common shorthand among us all.

Last year, I fake won once, and had to approach from backstage. This time, I fake won THREE times, and got to walk through the football field sized tent THREE times to collect my award that’s not mine.

But this year, the awards I fake won for were GROUP awards. Meaning I had an entourage of other stand-ins representing actors, producers, casting directors marching up behind me, and standing behind me on stage while I stepped up to the microphone to deliver my fake speech.

So if that’s the situation, you’re kinda limited in what you can say in your fake speech. You can’t really make it all about you, your parents, your dreams, your jokes, when you’ve got four other people behind you that helped you fake win this award that’s not yours. I can’t even thank God, suppose somebody in my fake crew is an atheist? Or an agnostic, or a Jew or a Buddhist? The possibilities of who I could offend with my fake speech ARE ENDLESS.

It’s kinda hilarious, actually.

So I kept looking at my fake family that was certainly acting the part by hugging each other arm in arm with big grins behind me, “Thanks guys! I couldn’t have done this without you,” was my stock opening line. Then I went on to thank the voting body that gave us the award, and some inspirational lines about original voices translating to original stories, and how important it is to keep that alive, so thanks very much.

The few times I let loose was after we suffered through hurricane winds and rains and the tent started leaking in several parts, including the stage. After several mops, hastily put down carpet, and several admonitions from the director to take our time getting to the stage because it’s slippery, I get my crew of six people up the stairs and the first thing I say into the microphone is “Nobody tripped on the stairs! YAY US!”

Then there was the time I had three women behind me. I look at them and crack, “It’s all chicks up here! Women in film ROCK!” which we do, except that’s not the organization giving the award. HA HA HA! Nobody called me on it, though, so it’s all good.

And in all honesty, my benchmark was my camera crew. If I could make them laugh behind the camera, even when I wasn’t winning, I knew I was doing good.

Which is how a mock fit that I pitched at my table when I didn’t win Best First Screenplay ended up being bumper footage leading out to a commercial break later on in the rehearsal. I mock screamed silently. I mock picked up invisible things at the table and chucked them at the winner walking up to the stage. I mock wailed at the injustice of it all, that all this hard fake work I did on this Best First Screenplay that I didn’t write didn’t win.

And the only people that noticed were my camera crew and the guy who made the decision to use that footage as the bumper later in the rehearsal. It’s the little things, people.

I think I deserve my massage now. A real one, thank you very much. :)

Berlin The Griffith Park Bear

This is Berlin, the Griffith Park Bear. Doesn’t he look so sporty and jaunty?

His mother city donated the statue to the city of Los Angeles at some point in the past (internet research strangely cannot determine an exact date.) And he stands by the Fern Dell entrance to Griffith Park.

I drive past him most every day, and since the beginning of the year, a mystery group has taken it upon themselves to crochet him a new outfit every few weeks or so. This is what he’s been sporting for Valentine’s Day, and other people have been adding details to it, like his sparkly heart necklace.

It’s the kind of thing that renews your faith in the simple quirky details of life. That not all Los Angelos are bitter, manipulative, tragically hip and/or Chronic Users Of People.

Some of them just wanna dress up a bear statue. Because it’s adorable.

I can’t wait to see him dolled up for St. Patrick’s Day and Easter.

There’s a website devoted to his sartorial choices here:

Change Your Heart

Last night was my monthly prayer meeting and since I seem to be in an extended season of Nothing Going On I requested prayer that God would help me not be so cranky, since, by and large, I don’t like people. I quickly followed that up with, “You all (in the room) are okay,” “Thanks!” chirped Nellie (and very very technically, I didn’t mean everyone in the room, only half of them, I thought I’d be polite.)

(I like Nellie. I like her Norman, her husband, and I like Donald, also in our group.)

Why don’t I like people? Um, well, most people like to complain about their lives and yet don’t do anything about it. They don’t try, they don’t make decisions, they don’t change. Yes, I’m saying that Nothing Going On with my life, but I have a monster writing calendar with goals and deadlines, and I also have goals this year like Take Surfing Lessons and Possible Karoke and Go See A Bob Baker Marionette Show I’m working, I’m writing, I’m setting goals and reaching them.

I hate to be around complaining people who aren’t trying to change. And yet I complain all the time about how I hate people and I don’t seem to change towards liking them any more than I do. The closest I get is being more polite towards them. If I’m exceedingly nice to you, it probably means I hate you inside. KIDDING.

I remember when Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind came out in the theaters, and I went to see it with a college buddy of mine and it looked like a date even though it wasn’t a date because we were just friends, bantering about roommates, Cold Mountain, Down And Dirty Pictures, and I don’t think either of us realized what a date movie ESOTPM ultimately turned out to be. Yes, a mind bending whacked out date movie, but a poignantly imaginative rumination on love, pain and memory. Still one of my favorite movies of all time.

(I like my college buddy.)

I distinctly remember sitting through the end credits, and in MY memory, there were animated little diamonds or something that faded in and out as the credits rolled, but I just checked my DVD copy, and there are no such thing, just a black screen with credits on the right hand side. Not sure why my brain would conjure up something like that, but regardless of what I did or didn’t see, what was definitely HEARD over the end credits was Beck’s cover of The Korgis’ “Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime”



Change your heart
Look around you
Change your heart
It will astound you
I need your lovin'
Like the sunshine

Everybody's gotta learn sometime

I bumped into Eugenia at my gym a few weeks ago. Eugenia goes to my church, and we were chatting about a third person who also attends, but who I do not like at all (And don’t bother asking me who it is, I will never tell. Just assume it’s you. KIDDING.)

(I like Eugenia.)

I was confiding to Eugenia about how I’m such a cranky bitch because I do not like this other person, and I wish I didn’t have to interact with them, and Eugenia just smiled and said something to the effect of how “God hasn’t changed your heart about them yet.”

Which is something I instantly loved. Because then it takes the pressure, the burden, the guilt I feel for not embracing this person off of me. IT’S GOD’S FAULT! HE HASN’T CHANGED ME! BOO-YAH!

Well, that does mean you need to pray for God to change your heart. You know that, don’t you?

It certainly seems like a prayer of “God, please change my heart so I like this person, that person, ANYBODY ELSE more” would be something He’d grant INSTANTLY. I mean, why wouldn’t He? It has nothing do to with my career, it has nothing to do with my personal life, it has everything to do with my heart, and if there’s something that pastors love to stomp in your brain over and over again is JESUS WANTS A RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU! HE WANTS YOUR HEART!

(I like Jesus. I guess. There’s no real reason to dislike him, honestly.)

So I started incorporating that into my daily prayers, “God, please change my heart so I’m not such a cranky person and so I like (third party) more.”

What does God do? Separates us. I haven’t had to interact with this person in close to a month. It couldn’t be just coincidence, could it?

And yet I’m still cranky?

And now that I’ve acknowledged it, God will slam us together again? Uh-oh.

:)

The Hammer Monologue

My friend Native Chick had her birthday party on Friday night, and she wanted to do something different, so she had a Talking Circle. All 12 or so of us sat in a circle, and passed around a seashell, (only the person holding the seashell could talk) and shared stories about beginnings, endings and fond memories of Native Chick.

It was pretty amazing to be a part of, even though it sounds sappy. And yes, there were more than a few tears shed, more than a few hugs, and Native Chick really does have some amazing friends who are very willing to be open, honest, and vulnerable about their past, about their fears, about their hopes and dreams, and I felt really honored to be included.

I did my fair share of sharing (hee!) but since I’m me, I can’t let things go on too long without trying to make people laugh, so I shared my favorite memory of Native Chick, which is The Hammer Monologue. Everyone liked it and laughed, and a few people said they wanted to steal some of it for their own auditions, and even if that was a joke in and of itself, it was a lovely thing to say, and so I’m sharing it here, for them, and for Native Chick, because she is a super super awesome friend.

Really devoted readers o’ the blog might remember the Katrina Mission Trip that Native Chick and I did together in 2006. And this entry here is where the hammer went down.

So this is the monologue, based on true events, my favorite memory of Native Chick.

--------------

The first thing they told us at our mission trip orientation was “Whatever you do, do NOT throw a hammer at anyone.” Which we thought was pretty odd.

We were down there a year after Hurricane Katrina had ripped through New Orleans. We were staying in the Chalmette High School gymnasium with a relief organization and assigned to do gut outs of houses in the Gentilly district.

But why would we throw a hammer at anyone? All the other things they were telling us made sense. Don’t open a toxic refrigerator that hadn’t been opened since 2005, because everything inside would have congealed into a toxic orange goo that would practically eat through your arm. Always wear your respirator and helmet, as you’re gonna be ripping out insulation and plaster.

But why would we throw a hammer at someone?

We’re working for 5 days. Five days of brute manual labor. Reducing two houses to the studs, hammering through walls, poking through ceilings, carting the debris out to the sidewalk.

I have never been so physically exhausted in my life, have never had my body rebel so much at the thought of ham sandwiches in 90 degree heat, have never felt like I was doing so much and so little all at once, as I did on this mission trip.

On Day 5, Native Chick and I are in charge of tearing down a disgusting bathroom. Which is half tile. Roaches in the corners of the walls. Baby frogs hopping endlessly in the bathtub. They give us a sledgehammer and tell us to go for it. And though the thought of getting my inner drunken frat boy on SOUNDS like a great idea, we are so tired that we have to trade off after every two whacks. Whack 1, Whack 2, pass the sledgehammer to Amy. Whack 1, Whack 2, pass the sledgehammer to Native Chick.

We are so tired. Five days of this. Whack 1, Whack 2, pass the sledgehammer to Amy. Whack 1, Whack 2, pass the sledgehammer to Native Chick. Rivers of sweat under our Pyrex suits. Sounding like Kenny from South Park in our respirators masks. Seeing so many roaches that after hour 2 on the first day we didn’t care anymore. Our only saving grace is that we haven’t encountered a toxic refrigerator.

Whack 1, Whack 2, pass the sledgehammer to Amy. Whack 1, Whack 2, pass the sledgehammer to Native Chick.

Somehow, all that tile comes down. To the point where we missed how the baby frogs got out. I hope they got out. I’m pretty sure they did.

But here we are, pulling out nails at the top of the wall near the ceiling. I’m on the ladder on top, Native Chick is pulling out the nails on the baseboards.

And I have a hammer in my hand.

I am so tired. She is so tired. This is our last day of work.

And I have a hammer in my hand. And as I’m working on a rusty stubborn nail, it finally flies out with a pop…

And the hammer flies out of my hand.

I yelp. And then I hear a CLUNK that sounds a lot like a helmet. And a tiny “aaaahhhhh!”

I am mortified. I have become a cliché. I have become a cautionary tale. I have thrown a hammer at someone. Something I scoffed at a mere five days ago, I have officially embodied.

The good news is that it was more of a glancing blow, the hammer was not especially large, and Native Chick was wearing her helmet. And she promptly busts out laughing. And I bust out laughing.

You really know who your friends are when you can throw hammers at them and laugh about it. If you ever have to throw a hammer at anyone, you could do no better than Native Chick. Because she is that cool.

☺

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Sarcasm In The Bible – Example #4: Job And His Doofus Friends

Poor Job. You think you have it bad, Job’s got you beat.

As if Job doesn’t have enough going wrong for him (oxen and donkeys stolen by Sabeans, fire burning up sheep and servants, Chaldeans stealing camels and killing servants, house falling on sons and daughters, painful sores on his body, you and your suffering is merely a pawn on a bet between God and the Devil.) he’s also got spectacularly unhelpful friends.

Job’s friends are Eliphaz the Temanite (I keep wanting to type Termanite), Bildad the Shulhite, Zophar the Naamathite, and Elihu the “I Showed Up Out Of Nowhere For My Speech in 32 - 37” Buzite. And they start off okay, sitting for a week on the ground with Job, not saying anything, just being physically present there, strong Friend Shoulders to cry on. Except for Elihu, since he’s not there, he’s apparently he’s not THAT great of a friend, heh.

But then they open their mouths and it’s all over.

The jist of their advice is “What’d you do to bring this on yourself? Come on, you can tell us. Better yet, tell God, confess what you did and repent. Because there’s no way all this would happen to someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Spectacularly unhelpful. Judgmental doofuses. The modern day equivalent would be something like, “It’s my Christian duty to tell you you’re dressing like a whore.”

(Have to give Stella credit for that one, she said it first. Not that I was dressing like a whore, we were totally talking about something else, ha ha ha.)

So they go around and around until God shows up in Chapter 38. God does a few chapters of neatly dodging the obvious question of Why Is This Shit Happening To Me by talking about I’m The Creator And The Point Is Not About Asking Why Because Life Is Complicated And Not About Easy Answers, The Point Is How Will You Respond When The Shit Rolls Down Because If You’re Gonna Abandon Your Faith Over This, Is Wasn’t Really Faith To Begin With. Faith Is About Staying Strong In Good Times AND Bad.

Now, what’s interesting is that a lot of websites like to say Job Chapter 38, verse 4 is sarcasm. God is asking Job “Where were you when laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me if you understand.” (verse 4)

It’s my belief that that’s actually not sarcasm, that’s a genuine question God wants to know, because He knows that Job’s answer has to be “I wasn’t there. Oops.” And then will realize that Job’s got no business demanding answers from his Creator.

Chapter 38, verse 5 is a bit more snarky, “Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!”

But quite honestly, I’m not comfortable with a sarcastic God. Are you? It makes me uneasy. I mean, just look at the Old Testament to see what an angry God looks like. It aint pretty. So a sarcastic God kinda scares me. I’m pretty sure this is the only place in the Bible where He gets His sarcasm on.

So I look at this line as God demanding answers. "Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!" "Um, well, uh, you, did, God."

It's possible you think I'm stretching. However, what IS sarcasm is back in Job 12, verse 2, snapping at Zophar, “Doubtless you are the people, and wisdom will die with you!”

At the end, Job apologizes for questioning God, and takes back all the questions he asked before. And God yells at the Doofus friends, and tells them they’ve gotta go make burnt offerings, and “My servant Job will pray for you, and I will accept his prayer and not deal with you according to your folly. You have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has.” (Chapter 42 v.8)

So ultimately, the moral of this Sarcastic Lesson is #1 – Sarcasm is an effective weapon against Doofus Friends, #2 – if you ARE going to be a Doofus Friend, be a Elihu, because he totally disappears from the narrative when God shows up, and thus escapes God’s lecture and potential wrath.

☺

This concludes our Sarcasm In The Bible series. I SO hope you enjoyed it. Really. I mean, I hope the joy just FLOWS out of your eyeballs and puddles onto your computer keyboard when you're reading this.

:):):)

Sarcasm In The Bible – Example #3 – The Whiny Israelites

(this series is going on all month, so if you’re not digging it and want me to go back to whining about my life, please rejoin us in February. )

It’s true, the Old Testament has way more examples of sarcasm than the New Testament (Paul’s writing notwithstanding.) They were so angry in the Old Testament, plagues, wars, sacrificing animals, sacrificing kids if God told you to (JUST KIDDING ABRAHAM!) It’s a wonder God loved us enough after all of it to send Jesus, that He didn’t just smite us all for being a planet of thoroughly bratty kids.

And the Israelites in Exodus are no exception. Seriously, thank God they’re the chosen people, because who’d wanna save THIS bunch.

Having made it through the 10 plagues that God through Moses and Aaron inflicted on Pharaoh and Egypt (Exodus 7 -10, and incidentally, my favorite plague is the plague of frogs, because unlike the plagues of gnats, flies, and locusts that simply flew away when they were done swarming, when the plague of frogs is over, the frogs die where they are, meaning dead frogs everywhere “… they were piled into heaps, and the land reeked of them” (Exodus 8:14) You know they’re all pointing fingers at each other saying WHO’S GONNA CLEAN UP THESE FROGS!?!) Pharaoh has allowed the Israelites to leave.

It’s not immediately clear how many days have passed since they’ve left Egypt, so we don’t know if the Israelites are basking in the feeling of triumph, jubilation, security, and We Are The Champions when Pharaoh changes his mind and decides to get his pack o’ slaves back.

But bitchy they get, charging Moses with “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us out to the desert to die?” (Exodus 14 v.12)

Awesome bitchy use of sarcasm.

Never mind the fact that God has been with them all this time, literally appearing in a pillar of cloud during the day and in a pillar of fire by night to lead the way (Exodus 13: 21 -22) and one would think that a God that would care enough to do that, a God who rescued them from bugs, boils, and hailstone bumps, among other plagues, probably isn’t going to be bitchy back and say “YEP! I BROUGHT YOU GUYS OUT OF EGYPT TO KILL YOU ALL! THANKS FOR THE ANIMAL SACRIFICES AND THE WORSHIP SONGS! KISS YOUR BUTTS GOODBYE!”

Nope, God instead parts the Red Sea for them, lets them go through so they can hit the Universal Studios gift shop on the other side, and then drowns the Egyptians when they follow.

One would think this would shut the Israelites up enough to where they would learn to trust God, and know that He’s not gonna let them die. But nope. Because the Israelites are a whiny whiny bunch, and they complain a lot more.

Exodus 16 – The Israelites complain that they don’t have enough food, so God rains down manna and quail on them.

Exodus 17 – The Israelites complain that they don’t have any water, so God tells Moses to hit a rock and water comes out.

Exodus 32 – The Israelites complain that Moses isn’t coming down from the mountain where he’s getting the 10 commandments anytime soon, so Aaron, make us a golden calf that we can worship. That doesn’t go well.

And here’s where God’s had enough of them, and tells Moses he’s gonna kill them, and it’s only by Moses’ intervention, pleading and praying that God says okay, fine, but MAN, I’m pissed off at them, so I’m not going with them to the Promised Land “…because you are a stiff-necked people. If I were to go with you even for a moment, I might destroy you” (Exodus 33:5), and it’s only by Moses’ intervention, pleading and praying that God says okay, fine, I’ll go with you but you guys are a bunch of whiny brats. I still love you, but SERIOUSLY, MAN UP ALREADY.

So ultimately, the moral of this Sarcastic Lesson is #1 – Sarcasm is what shell-shocked people fall back on when confronted with impending death and #2 – TRUST GOD ALREADY.

Seriously. These whiny Israelites don’t know how good they had it.

☺

Sarcasm In The Bible – Example #2 – Elijah and Fire Fire Fire!

Hey! We’re going all OT up in here! Ya-wooooooo!

We’re in 1st Kings, Chapter 18. Elijah is a prophet and his backstory up until this time (which is basically Chapter 17) is that he’s predicted a famine in Israel, then went and hid in a ravine because God told him to, and was fed by ravens while everyone else starved. (Yeah, I know.) Then God tells him to leave the ravens in the ravine and go hang with a widow in Zarephath, who I personally love for this response when Elijah asks her for a bit of food, “I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for myself and my son, that we may eat it – and die.” So! Dinner, then death. LOVE IT!

Needless to say, God provides for the widow, her son and Elijah, and even brings her son back to life when the son dies, and then tell Elijah to go present himself to Ahab (not the guy after the whale), the tenth king of Israel, whose wife Jezebel (not the Bette Davis movie) is out running around killing God’s prophets.

It’s right around this time that the old song, “Children, Go Where I Send Thee” pops into my head. Did you guys ever used to sing that one? We would speed it up and sing it as fast as possible to get through all twelve verses. This is the fastest I could find on Youtube (and even they don’t go through all twelve verses.)



Elijah must’ve been thinking at some point, “God, I’m kinda tired. Can we knock off the whole send me here, there, and everywhere.” Though it’s quite possible that Elijah was so stoked that he was getting direct communiqués from God that he was like, “Sure, no problem.”

Anyhow, God’s told Elijah to challenge Ahab’s prophets to a bake-off, where Elijah will face 850 of Ahab and Jezebel’s prophets on Mount Carmel. They’ll built competing altars, sacrifice competing bulls, and call on the name of their respective gods to light the altar and consume the sacrifice. “…the god who answers by fire – he is God.” (v24.)

So the 850 prophets go to it, build the altar, sacrifice the bull, and call on the name of their God, Baal to light the fire. They call, they dance, no dice.

So Ellijah makes like a good man of God and taunts them “’Shout louder!’ he said, ‘Surely he is a god! Perhaps he is deep in thought, or busy, or traveling. Maybe he is sleeping and must be awakened.” (v27)

Awesome awesome use of sarcasm.

So the Baal Bad Guys keep at it, and like a tortured high schooler, cut themselves while they’re calling and dancing but still no dice.

When it’s Elijah’s turn, he preens a bit by dumping three jugs of water on the altar just to make sure everyone knows it’s gonna take a miracle to light this now soggy wood, calls on God, who promptly sends down fire to consume the sacrifice, the altar, and the water around it.

So everyone then knows whose God kicks ass.

Elijah then makes like a good man of God and orders the slaughter of those 850 prophets in the Kishon Valley. Yeah. I know. That’s how they do things in the OT.

So ultimately, the moral of this Sarcastic Lesson is #1 If you happen to be so lucky as to have God talking to you, go where He tells you because #2 It could involve slaughtering of bulls or idolatrous prophets and #3 You get to be right about it.

☺

Sarcasm In The Bible – Example #1 - The Blind Guy

I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m much less of a sarcastic person now than I used to be. In person, that is. (Writing is allowed to be sarcastic, reading a sarcastic sentence doesn’t have the same kind of cutting pain to it than if you said that same sentence in person to someone. For example, “Well, you’re just on the cutting edge of brilliant, aren’t you.” Trust me, you don’t want me to say that to your face.)

But oh MAN was I a little sarcastic twit growing up. When I moved to L.A. and got freaked out at just how hard it was going to be to achieve my goals. So I toned it down. Also got tired of the relentless cynicism necessary to fuel the sarcastic drive. So now it’s all internal, and I come across as a somewhat quiet chick who must be thinking deep thoughts, when really I’m laughing at your nose or something.

KIDDING.

Frederick William Faber once said, “No one was ever corrected by a sarcasm—crushed, perhaps, if the sarcasm was clever enough, but drawn nearer to God, never.”

(which probably isn’t true when you look at the yards and yards of sarcasm that Paul used in 1st Corinthians, upbraiding the church to get them to come closer to God. Take THAT Frederick!)

But I’m always tickled pink when sarcasm’s used in the Bible. God will meet you where you’re at, and if you’re a sarcastic twit on the outside or inside, then here ya go – Biblical proof that sarcasm was used back then.

It’s the story of Jesus healing the blind guy; John Ch. 9. There’s actually a bunch of hilarious things running around in here – how Blind Guy’s neighbor’s supposedly don’t recognize the dude when he’s healed, though he looks exactly the same (v8), Blind Guy’s parents passing the buck about how their son was healed because they don’t wanna get kicked out of the synagogue (v20-23), the hysterical yet completely appropriate response of Blind Guy to the Pharisees when asked where Jesus was, “I don’t know (dude, I was BLIND! I couldn’t SEE him to SEE WHERE HE WENT!)” (v8-12)

But these are Pharisees we’re talking about, and when Pharisees are involved, SOMEBODY is getting their ass kicked. Much like when you call the LAPD on a domestic dispute call, SOMEBODY’s going to the station.

So the Pharisees question Blind Guy (He’s Healed Now) again, trying to get him to say Jesus is an imposter. And when they ask Blind Guy (He’s Healed Now) how was he healed, Blind Guy (He’s Healed Now) says, “I have told you already, and you did not listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you want to become his disciples, too?” (V27)

Awesome, awesome use of sarcasm in the face of impending ass kicking.

There’s another swipe, where Blind Guy (He’s Healed Now) points out that Jesus has to be from God, because who else would’ve given him the power to heal the blind, but the Pharisees have had it, and start the ass kicking, and they kick him out of the synagogue. (V30-34) I can’t help but picture his parents breathing a sigh of relief Whew! At least it wasn’t us!

Chapter 9 ends with Jesus finding the Blind Guy (He’s Healed Now), so he can see what Jesus looks like, and even Jesus takes a swipe at some nearby Pharisees, "If you were really blind, you would be blameless, but since you claim to see everything so well, you're accountable for every fault and failure." (v41, Message translation)

So ultimately, the moral of this Sarcastic Lesson is – God thinks it’s okay for you to be sarcastic if you’re #1 – right about your answer and #2 – giving glory to God about it and #3 – have less than supportive parents more concerned with social synagogue standing then standing up for their child.

KIDDING.

☺

Toasting The Sun With Tequila At The End Of The Year

So since my weak ass blood meant I wasn’t able to continue my Christmas tradition of giving blood in December, I was able to do my OTHER Christmas tradition of hitting the Santa Monica Pier and toasting the sunset with tequila. If I can’t do one, I can do the other.

I was off work this week, so I went on a weekday. Happy to see my secret about where to park for free is still intact. It was kinda windy, which meant I had room to myself, and I sat with the sun for a long time and thought about the year and all the other things you’re supposed to think about when you’re approaching the end of the year.

Everybody hated this year, it wasn’t just me. Although I realize that it’s pretty much the party line - to say how much you hated the year as you approach the end of the year. I heard in a sermon some weeks back that said something to the effect of truly desperate people live much more in hope than happy people do, because desperate people know that there’s gotta be something much better than where they are currently. And that reminds me of the classic quote from Damage (The Jeremy Irons feature film based on the Jopsehine Hart book, not the Glenn Close TV series.) “Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.”

No point in dwelling on the crap, feel free to look through the past year to get an inkling yourself if you want. And when I was shuffling through the mental memories to come up with something that would sum up the year in an oh-so-poetic way, my brain suddenly flashed to the Halloween trip I took to visit sister Agatha, Mr. Agatha, and Bug.

We had gone to Typhoon Lagoon on the last day it was open before it went down for rehab, and it was still in the mid 70s, so not too cold. And at one point, we all went on the Lazy River. You know the drill, you grab an inner tube and float at will all the way around the park, and get off when you want to. So there were four of us, in four different inner tubes, and in order to stay together, we all grabbed each other’s tubes and hung on as casually as possible. Sometimes a hand was on a handle, sometimes an ankle was hooked onto another tube. It wasn’t that difficult, and luckily it wasn’t that crowded, to where we weren’t blocking other people who wanted to get around us.

It occurs to me that that’s what life is: you hook yourself up to someone else’s inner tube, and they grab onto someone else’s inner tube, and you form your own community in your family, in your church, at your job, in your circle of friends, they’re all just inner tubes that you’ve locked together to float down the River O’Life. It gets bumpy, and sometimes the water gets filled with leaves, twigs and crap. Sometimes you wanna get off at a certain point, and maybe you do, or maybe you stick it out longer than you should. But ultimately life is meant to be lived together with other people. Whoever they are.

Following this metaphor, it means that God is the bored Disney Lifeguard who’s watching everyone to make sure they don’t drown, but really would rather be at home playing something on the X-Box. HA!

But I like this picture the best. This is Bug taking a flying leap for the photographer standing in front of her during Picture Day at Thanksgiving in Orlando. I wasn’t there, but I saw the pictures, and this is my favorite one.

I like it because even though we don’t see Bug’s face, you KNOW that there’s a gigantic grin on there. Just look at this shot. The outstretched feet, the arms in the air. Hell, it even looks like her HAIR is smiling. (candidly, I do have the picture that was taken from the front angle. Yes, she is grinning, but I like this shot more.)

This is a shot that says I’m Gleefully Jumping Into The New Year (Even Though This Picture Was Taken At Thanksgiving.) If only I had some kind of photoshop skills, I’d cut her out and put her up against some dramatic cliff or something, so it looks like she’s gleefully jumping into the abyss, but she wouldn’t go down, she’d go up. Or over. Her optimism bearing her safely to where ever she lands.

I must be friend with someone who has those kind of mad photoshop skills, right? Somebody in my Inner Tube circle could do that for me?

Hmmmmmmm.

My Mother The Atonal Phone Harpy

I’ve been in Alabama for the past few days, and it’s been snowing here. SNOW, PEOPLE! IN ALABAMA! We’re in Northern Alabama, so it’s not completely unheard of, my childhood has more than a few memories of bucolic sledding down neighborhood hills with borrowed sleds, but I haven’t seen snow since 2005, and I think that was in Pittsburgh in February or something.

It started snowing on Christmas morning, and the first thing most people do when there’s a decent snow (these pictures were taken when it first started snowing) is to build snowmen in yards. It’s a knee jerk reaction. Whenever we’ve gone out in the car over the past 48 hours, we’ve slowed down to pay respects to every snowman we see. That’s what they’re there for, of course. They’re decorated with hats, scarves, twigs for arms. And carrots for noses. There’s ALWAYS a carrot for a nose.

Even my baby snowman, no more than a foot high, had a little carrot nubbin for a nose. He was supposed to have M&Ms for eyes, but they wouldn’t stay put. (It was icy snow, rather than sticky snow), and they’d fall off when we tried to put the head on, so he’s not quite fully assembled here.

People get all bent out of shape over snow here in Alabama. They even canceled local church services, for fear of slippery roads. The roads were fine to my eye, and I was thoroughly bummed to miss a good old Southern church service.

But we did make it to Christmas Eve service, so not all was lost. The church has gone under some renovations, I THINK these are the same pews I grew up in, though they appear to be canted at more of an angle than I remember. The front stage has been enlarged, the massive cross has come off the wall and is now suspended by wires over the choir section, which led to visions of something snapping and something horrible happening dancing in my head (nothing did.)

This is the church I grew up in. I once shot golf balls off the back balcony towards a golf hole at the front of the church altar in a church-sanctioned putt-putt course that went all throughout the building. I don’t think you could do that now, because you’d most likely hit the now-suspended massive cross in front. I was there for the good years, heh.

This is the church I grew up in, and though it’s got some fancy bells and whistles on it, some things never change. Our Christmas Eve service will always be scripture readings of the Christmas story, interspersed with traditional carols (the Korean translation of the songs were new, apparently a small Korean church rents out the Fellowship Hall for their Sunday services.) There will always be a church candle lighting done to Joy To The World.

And My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much will always be horribly off key.

I grew up in this church, and I grew up standing next to MMTPHWILVVM and her atonal warbling in Sunday services for years and years. I remember it being something like yowling cats. Howling knives on chalkboards? I love her very very much.

I never thought much of it at the time. This is MMTPHWILVVM, and this is how she sings. I’m sure your moms did something throughout your childhood that later on in life, you look back and cringe at. Picking you up at elementary school in an embarrassing car? Maybe unfortunate footwear? Blowing up the kitchen with an ill-advised cooking experiment? We’ve all got something.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that I could sing on key. I escaped the genetic punishment of Off Key, and I was On Key. I LURVE singing. One of my goals for 2011 is to sing Smokey Robinson’s “More Love” at a Karaoke Night To Be Determined.

How is it I can sing, MMTPHWILVVM can’t, and I’m related to her? I dunno.

She sung falsetto for years and years, until some throat nodes some years ago knocked that out of her, and now she’s humming down on an alto level. Which is where she was this past Christmas Eve. She’s tackling faithful standards such as “Angels We Have Heard On High” and “Away In A Manger” (for which there is no Korean translation for “Round Yon Virgin” HA!), and she’s off every third or fourth note. I wonder if that’s why Dad put me firmly in the middle between them in the pew, to act as a literal sound barrier. Nah, she’s not that bad.

I mean, it’s definitely noticeable. I’ve been battling a mild congestion case, putting my own voice down at Lauren Bacall levels, and I’m more on key than she is. The guy behind us is over 60, and he’s got a beautiful voice, I can hear him clearly. I can only imagine what the people are thinking in front of us. Nobody’s turning around horrified.

And yet.

This is the church I grew up in. This is the church my Mom attends regularly. We’re surrounded by regular attenders of all kinds – people who’ve called this church home for 1 year, 5 years, 10 years, 20 years. Mom’s a veteran, over 30 years at least.

And this is our church family. The stuff inside may move around – pews, massive crosses, new additions out the back – but this church still stands. And the people still stand inside it. They even add to it, thank you Korean congregation.

So I smiled, realizing that My Mother The Phone Harpy, Whom I Love Very Very Much and her atonal pipes have GOT to be an institution by now. Everybody who’s been going here for any length of time totally knows what they’re getting into when they sit in her pew. She’s here. She loves God and Jesus. And she’s gloriously off-key.

And we all love her for it.

Happy Holidays, everybody.

Heading Home...

tomorrow for Christmas for the first time in two years! Will Alabama be ready? Will I be ready!? I hear it's FREEZING over there!

Remember how I said I wasn't sure if I could handle not writing at all in December? Guess what?! HAVEN'T BEEN WRITING! Too much other crap to do, with it being the silly season and all...

Though I do not doubt that there will be plenty of time to write on the plane. Heh.

Oh, and I got bounced again by the Red Cross when I tried to do my Hopefully Annual Tradition of Giving Blood in December. Stupid red hemoglobin machine of DEATH!

Seriously. there's not a thing else I can add that I haven't already said before.

So I'm off to bed, it's gonna be a long day tomorrow.

Who Says Los Angeles Doesn't Have Seasons?

Because these trees in my neighborhood think it's fall:















Isn't the color LOVELY! It was over eighty degrees yesterday and today, but who cares!? (especially since I don't have to rake them when they fall down. It's not even in front of my house!)







But the absolute best tree is the one that came today to my office, courtesy of sister Agatha, Mr. Agatha, and Bug.

My very own mini Christmas tree! Fits the Shabby Shack perfectly, a tiny tree for a tiny place!

I basically threw the lights and mini ornaments on, because I'm on a blogging deadline, people!







Needless to say, plenty of thoughts came to mind, like You're stringing the lights wrong, you're not placing the ornaments the right way, there's no extension cord, can't you quickly come up with some kind of religious metaphor for the tiny snowmen ornaments made in China, blah blah blah. That will all come later. I'm just enjoying the trees right now.

My new mantra

You know, when I signed up for Facebook, I had to quickly put up some kind of personal info about me, which everyone knows I'm not eager to do. So my opening sentence was

"I write things that make people laugh. And I am kind to animals."

I still stand by that.

But the backup singers on Adele's new one have an awesome mantra:



You're gonna wish you. Never Had Met Me.

That's so awesome. I'm not planning personal revenge on anyone currently, but it smacks of such brassy I'm Awesome And You're Stupid that I adore it to pieces.

Go on, sing along. It's damn catchy.

Basil Diva Dog

I’ve been at Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy’s house all week for Thanksgiving. Ginger Puppy’s fur has grown back significantly, which we’re all pretty happy about, though she can sometimes be reluctant to take the stairs.

Meanwhile, Basil Diva Dog has been doing his own weird pacing routine, and that sometimes includes refusing to take the stairs as well. There’s a couple of different explanations – old age affecting his mobility and/or memory recall – was I just in this room? I can’t remember. I’d better go through it again. And it’s quite possible he’s manipulating me into giving him the same kind of treatment he sees his younger sister getting. But joke’s on him – he’s may be bigger than Ginger Puppy, but he’s lighter, so I don’t mind carting him around all day.

We’ve gotten some rain on a few days, and tonight the wind was kicking up, which sent Basil Diva Dog into his pacing circles on the first floor. This drives me batty, because his old age also means he’s given to pee on imported rugs if I don’t keep my eye on him and The Walking Dead was about to start, so I simply picked him up, and made soothing sounds while I slowly carried him through each room to show him that yes, indeed, we’re all safe and sound, the only bad guys are the zombies on TV, and they’re not real.

So I settled down on the floor in the TV room still holding him, just to see what he’d do. Turns out he decided to take a nap, half in my lap, half in my arms. (Ginger Puppy was holding court on her own towel underneath the TV.)

He never does this. This is Basil Diva Dog we’re talking about. Mr. Aloof. Mr. You’re Only Here To Feed Me And Open The Door So I Can Go Outside. Mr. Don’t You Dare Touch Me.

There’s been a few moments in the years where he gets spooked and wants to be reassured. But those usually involve thunderstorms, fireworks, or construction equipment outside.

Tonight was just the wind, which seriously wasn’t that bad, and the zombies on the TV, which weren’t too bad either (I can’t take them seriously, they’re Slow Shuffling Zombies, not Jackrabbit Zombies. It’s the Jackrabbit Zombies that you have to be afraid of. You can easily outrun or get in a car and drive away from Slow Shuffling Zombies.)

This might be Basil Diva Dog’s final spiral, which I don’t like to think too much about. But in my experience, dogs will start doing things they normally don’t do, like a Doggie Bucket List of sorts, when they sense their time is near. Except where humans will put things on the list like cruises, or trips to Africa, dogs seem to do things like sleep in places they don’t normally sleep.

The weeks before my first dog Taffy passed away, I found her sleeping in chairs in the living room she never would jump on before (we didn’t even think she could jump on them.) “Whatcha doing in here?” I’d ask her. And she’d raise her head and just do her version of a smile, which, since she was a cocker spaniel, still looked pretty damn anxious. But I knew when she was happy. I have to think it was worth it for her. And I very much admire the scaled down version of a dog Bucket List.

I cannot imagine that sleeping in my lap and arms is on Basil Diva Dog’s list. He is the most independent and aloof dog I’ve ever met.

But damned if I didn’t move a muscle all throughout the episode, because I didn’t want to wake him up. My left leg went completely to sleep, which rendered me much like a Slow Shuffling Zombie when I tried to get up afterwards. THAT’s what’s wrong with them! They’re not zombies! Their left legs are just asleep!

No, I don’t think I’m on Basil Diva Dog’s Bucket List. But for whatever reason, he felt comfortable enough to be comforted. And everyone needs that. Even Basil Diva Dogs.

And here he is, in all his shaggy glory. He’s once again sitting in my lap, albeit briefly. Because if the choice is my lap or his crate, it’s no contest. The crate wins every time.

The Next Big Thing

One of the most glaring things about temping in and around the industry is your lack of access. Sure, you’ll see the emails about employee screenings, about wellness seminars, about discounts at the company store and all their affiliates, but you can’t take part in them unless you’re a full time employee with one of those ID cards. I did crash an on-lot premiere party for a studio’s release one weekend, but those opportunities are few and far between. And all things considered, I wish I had been able to see the movie more than drink at the party.

When you’re a temp, it’s like you’re a ghost. You’re there, but you don’t count. You do the work, you don’t get the perks. You’re needed, but not appreciated. Not unless they hire you full time.

Nowhere is lack of access more annoying than trying to get onto your lot to report for work every morning. The full time employees buzz through the employee lane, the security guards scan their IDs, the parking gate arm raises up and off they go. Meanwhile, you’re left in the dust trying in vain to persuade the security guard that yes, you’re trying to get to work, no, you’re not trying to blow up the lot, and no, you don’t know why there’s not a pass for you in the system.

Nine times out of ten, the security guard will try to call your boss to clear you, not understanding that nobody will pick up the phone, because the person that picks up your boss’s phone is YOU, and you are not on the other side of the parking gate arm.

There are some really annoying security guards like that out there, and someday, maybe five years from now, I will list them all. And to be fair, for every really annoying security guard, especially the one that was the bane of my existence for a month, his compatriot right across the street at the other building I landed a two week gig at was an absolute sweetheart, and would let me in without batting an eye. He told me he worked for twenty years in customer service at an insurance company, that may have a lot to do with it, heh.

But it’s about access. It’s about the lowered parking gate arm. The symbol of how you don’t count. You’re half a person. You gotta wait.

I’ve been temping for a little shy of two years now. It’s grueling and debilitating stuff, especially when your boss claims he can’t hire you because, despite the eight or nine months you put into the gig, he hasn’t interviewed enough people to be able to make a decision. And you in turn have to tell that story in every subsequent interview you go on, because they wanna know why you’ve been temping for a little shy of two years. Don’t you want a full time gig? (Yes) Aren’t you good enough to hire full time? (Not according to that loser.)

The lowered parking gate arm.

That boss will get his in time, I have no doubt. You don’t yank someone around like that without incurring massive amounts of bad karma. And there were good things about that gig – I made a lot of great friends, who helped me take advantage of what perks I could (barbeque lunches during the summer.)

But temping for a little shy of two years is grueling and debilitating stuff. Especially when you’re turning down full time offers that you absolutely know would be the wrong place for you. And the thoughts that haunt you: Aren’t you good enough to hire? (Yes) Don’t you want a full time gig? (Not here, I don’t.)

The lowered parking gate arm.

Today was orientation day of my new full time position. It’s at one of the huge media conglomerates (one with a studio lot. Heh, THAT narrows it down, doesn’t it!?), and most of the day was spent exploring all the different perks and benefits available to us. If I’m understanding things correctly, I could take Spanish classes online. For free. Learning Spanish is on my Bucket List, right after Learning To Surf, Trip To Napa Valley, and Cruising On The New Disney Cruise Ship (my Bucket List is stupidly achievable.)

Even though this job will officially end my days o’ temping, I’m a little wary of what will happen next, for a variety of reasons that I may not be fully able to talk about in a public forum (because I signed one of those I Have Read The Standards Of Business Conduct things without actually reading it yet.)

But as I was trying to talk myself through it at the lunch paid for by Human Resources, I realized that the last two full time positions I’ve had have been temp to perm positions. Meaning I knew what the job was about. Here, I’ve been hired without knowing what the job is really like. Sure, I interviewed, and sure, I saw the place, and met my fellow co-workers, but you never know. Things could go horribly awry. The pros and cons list are running equal right now. Which is better than negative, but not as good as positive.

I love this picture. I’ve used it on the blog before, but it SO perfectly encapsulates my mood when embarking on any new life change. Thanks God! But please don’t let this suck!!!!

First thing they did when I reported for orientation today was take a picture of me for my ID card. These never go well, it’s hard to take a good picture of me in natural light, much less under florescent lighting with a pixilated camera.

And when we went downstairs for lunch and to hit the studio store for the studio tour, we had to go through the security clearances. I wondered if my ID had been activated to let me in, or if I was gonna have to plead with the security guard to buzz me through. I’ve pleaded with enough security guards to know how to make my case, and the ones here are amiable folks.

But I dug out the ID card and passed it over the card reader. The red X changed to a green arrow, and the plastic turnstiles retracted to allow me through.

I have access now. I officially count now. Lead on, God, lead on.

Pondering

This blog entry is 1,053 words. That would be 1,053 words that could've gone to the novel I'm writing for NaNoWriMo, but I am determined to keep up all my commitments, even if it kills me.

And we may be approaching that. The issue isn't that I'm behind on the word count, I am, but not by too much (24,932 words right now, I should be 25,005.) But for whatever reason, last week and now most of this week has me at a different evening commitment every night. Even the weekends. And that's just not cool to me. I'm going to have to start turning people down, and it seems like a ridiculous thing to do, to turn down dinner with someone just so I can putter around in the Shabby Shack, chained to my computer.

Hilariously, I have plenty of time to write at work. This newest temp gig is a cakewalk, and I can easily get to 2,000 words every day Monday through Friday because nothing more is required of me than to answer a hardly ringing phone and manage a very laid back exec's calendar. It's wonderful, blissful, even, and I appreciate it so much. I'd like to say God is looking out for me by providing me with a rough six hours of writing time every day Monday through Friday (I do have to work some.)

But then I turn into a greedy brat and want my evenings to be free as well, so I can read. It makes sense, I'm writing a novel, I want to be reading novels, just so I can continue in that mindset. I have a whole stack of them on the coffee table just waiting for me to dive in. But there's a meeting tonight, a dinner the other night, a party there, a concert tomorrow (You guys! Greg Dulli is playing at the Troubadour! Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!) and pretty soon I'm just coming home to sleep for six and half hours before waking up and getting on the hamster wheel all over again.

Ironically, we were discussing learning how to be in God's rest for the class I'm taking after church on Sundays. I took it so seriously, I ended up falling asleep during the class. Luckily, it was during the DVD portion of it, so I didn't stick out too much. I don't snore, see. It helps a lot.

But when we broke out into small groups I came clean about the snoozing and asked the group what I missed about God's rest. To me, the classic definition is ye olde Be Still And Know That I Am God. Stop what you're doing, go sit in a meadow with wildflowers and be with God. Don't even talk to Him. Hear what He has to say to you. My small group informed me that it’s not exactly about stopping what you’re doing so much as letting go of your anxiety and “rest in the peace that Jesus will take care of everything.” I didn’t have the strength to say out loud what was my immediate Crankypants reaction, which was…

“Jesus isn’t gonna write 50,000 words in 30 days.”

I knew one of the benefits of living by myself was going to be increased productivity. And this year alone, I’ve written a new draft of Polka Dotted Platypus, a new draft of Striped Tiger, a first draft of a new pilot, Red Llama, and now this book, which also needs an animal name, let’s call it Black Plaid Salamander. (also a small rewrite on a four page sketch for friends that swear they’re still gonna film it someday.)

My Ex-Roomie Jekyll once said that we all carry a certain amount of pain (whether she was talking physical or emotional is irrelevant) to the point where we don’t even notice it anymore.

I think I’ve been carrying around the feeling of being burnt out on writing, and just not noticing it, due to the wonderful productivity of it all.

Writing is a wonderful denial tool. On Sunday, Augustus and I were writing at a restaurant, trying to get the word count in for the day, and the waiter immediately pegged us as doing the NaNoWriMo thing. Excited to meet fellow participants, he then shared that he was up to 35,000 words, and in the same breath said he started two days late because he had to put his cat down on November 1st. It’s obvious that Overproductive Waiter is using the NaNoWriMo thing as a denial tool, so he doesn’t have to get to the business of grieving about his cat right away.


And I’ve been using NaNoWriMo as a denial tool, to avoid thinking or dealing with the wreck of my life. Things are shaking themselves in a certain direction that I’m not talking about, because we’re not there yet. But after sharing with a new acquaintance over dinner what this year’s been like, she pointed out that I need to take a break. That I need to breathe. That maybe I need to deal with the pain of this year.

Pain? What pain? Leaving the job pain? Disappointment pain that Pink Piggy died on the film distribution vine? Disillusionment pain that I’m this old and my life looks this way and no clear cut way to change it has occurred to me?

If I’m still standing, then the pain simply isn’t that bad. It SOUNDS bad, sure. But I can carry it. I always have.

When I’m in my Boot Camp class, and the instructors are going around and explaining the different stations, I always make it a point to do the worst station first (it’s usually sprints, or running the stairs, or planks and mountain climbers. God, I hate those), to get it out of the way. Do the thing you don’t want to, and get it out of the way.

If I don’t want to take a break from writing, if the thought of say, not writing for all of December scares me, then it’s exactly the thing I need to do. I know this.

If this theme of Not Writing is coming from more than one quarter, than it definitely sounds like God is attempting to get my attention.

Maybe I’d just write half the words I usually write? Compromise?