It’s Always Time To Pop The Champagne

It is once again hot in the evenings, which means a return of my allergies and red nosed-ness. Nobody is looking more forward to October and the whispered rumors of cool weather more than me. It is God’ chronic joke that an avowed albino such as myself has to be in sunny Los Angeles to pursue her dreams, but whatever.

Polka Dotted Platypus is closed. Finally. We ran for nine long weeks, plus six weeks of rehearsal before that. It’s not that we don’t love each other, because this cast RAWKED, but we were all ready for it to be over, for sure. At the cast party, they gave me a bottle of my favorite tequila Don Julio, so all my copious hint dropping worked! Hurray! Copious Hint Dropping Is Awesome When It Gets You What You Want! Heh.

And when I got home, I put the tequila on the shelf, like I usually do. It’s special, I said to myself, It’s my favorite tequila. I shall save it for a special occasion.

And then I stopped. That top shelf that I put Don Julio on has several thousands bottles of wine already on there, as Albert and Abbot usually give me a bottle everytime I come over to housesit Basil and Ginger Puppy (perhaps it’s considered liquid strength to deal with them? Who knows.) Also on the shelf is some leftover Sauza tequila. Even a never opened bottle of cognac. Basically, there shouldn’t be a party in the next two years that I have to buy alcohol for, just grab one off the shelf and I’m good to go.

And then I looked around my tiny tiny nest. (We need to come up with a name for it. Amy The Writer’s Hidey Hole? The whole place is perched on a bluff. Could we call it Amy The Writer’s Beauteous Bluff? Bountiful Bluff? That could conjure up inappropriate images if you were, say, twelve. Hmmmm.)

The one benefit about living in a small place is that it forces you to be neat, because clutter makes the place look ten times smaller. No, that stack of un-filed bills cannot stay on the table, the jewelry has to go STRAIGHT into the jewelry box, the dishes have to be put away as soon as they’re dry (takes about ten seconds in this heat.)

I’m still slowly unpacking stuff, but finally tackled the bathroom the other day. And was stunned at the amount of body lotion, shampoo and conditioner that I had pilfered from this, that, or the other hotel (or cruise), really nice stuff that I had kept for YEARS, for a “special occasion.”

Now what, I ask you, what kind of special occasion has to happen in order for me to bust into my stash of “special” shampoo? It’s dumb. Just just dumb. My mentality is something like I have to wait to use it, I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to grab it again. But now I have a whole plastic crate of special shampoo, I think I’ll be fine for awhile (the conditioner on the other hand, hmmm. It weighs down my hair.)

I am reminded of a long ago boss, (and now I’m starting to worry I’ve already shared this anecdote before. Please remind me if I have.) This Bossman was batshit crazy in a number of ways, but ultimately was a kind person, and someone who’s turned out to be an unexpected champion of my writing, and taught me everything I know about organization, which is definitely helpful here in Amy The Writer’s Tiny Teepee of Torrential Tale Telling (Yes? No?)

Bossman arranged the offices in such a way that I was staring at his back all day long, and was able to hear his end of several thousands phone conversations. And one day he was talking to a writer about how the next step of her writing deal had kinda closed, but the studio still needed her to do a lot of work. And she must’ve said something to the effect of “Is it time to pop the champagne?” Because Bossman replied, “It’s always time to pop the champagne.” And went on to explain that you have to celebrate every step of the journey, because you don’t know if it might be your last step, but the fact that you’ve taken ANY Forward Step on this rocky road of screenwriting is cause for celebration.

Which was such an optimistic thing for Bossman to say, it always stuck with me.

There was indeed champagne at the cast party for Polka Dotted Platypus, and we drank copiously. And I was telling Xaiver, Nick and Nora about how this year has twisted and buckled in such a strange fashion for me. “At the beginning of the year, I had a job.” I started, then we all busted out laughing.

Yeah, I had a job, I had a house I was sharing with two slobs, Pink Piggy, my first produced written feature, made its debut at Film Festival C (and I pilfered all the shampoo from that hotel), and plans were in place for Polka Dotted Platypus to debut in July. I took two cruises, (stole the shampoo from there, too) and those was the first vacations since New Orleans in 1999. I looked liked I was the shit. I looked like I was on my way.

Twisty, twisty, buckle buckle, toil and trouble and now we’re here: Scrambling to thread temp jobs together, Pink Piggy seems to be dying on the film festival vine, Polka Dotted Platypus came and went to okay but not rapturous reviews, and now I live in Amy The Writer’s Shabby Shack of Storyspinning (Yes? No?)

But I am here. I am perhaps not on my way (or I am, and simply can’t see the bigger picture), but enjoyed a ride that may be lurching to an end.

I am wanting too much. Okay reviews are better than bad reviews. Temp jobs are better than no jobs. There’s nothing to say that Pink Piggy couldn’t be revived when the right person sees it. And a Shabby Shack is better than the muck of the Slobborium that I left (and those roses BETTER appreciate me!)

Whether a Solid Standing, Refusing To Bow Down Or Turn Around Stance carries as much weight as a Forward Step is yet to be seen.

But I’m popping the Don Julio anyway. And busting into the Special Occasion Shampoo. Unapologetically. Because, if nothing else, it creates more room. HA!

The World's Most Sappy Metaphor

This is my new screensaver on my computer. You like? It’s Clementine the hat, on Serenity Bay, on Disney’s private island, which is one of the stops we made on the 3 Day Cruise over this past weekend.

Yes, it was a Disney cruise. You Cruise Purists who sniff your nose at a Disney cruise can suck it. We were in a stateroom with a balcony on a three-day cruise for $99, and you CAN’T do better than that anywhere in the world.

I was a total dork and took pictures of everything, the big puffy Orlando clouds, the few times it rained (which I totally loved), even the food, which perplexed sister Agatha. I can’t help it. I don’t know when I’ll be on a cruise next, and I have figured out that I LOVE cruising. Actually, I think I dig the experience of not having to pay for anything in the restaurants. If I could find an all-inclusive resort on a Mexico beach somewhere, I’m sure that would work too.

And even though I was in much less stressful circumstances than the first cruise earlier this year., I still didn’t have any breakthrough realizations about my life. Certainly, there was plenty of space to. That big expanse of water that Clementine the hat is staring at? I went out in there, almost out to that pink buoy thing you see. And I didn’t think a single thought other than this is nice. And a couple of thank You God, thank You.

I think there’s something about gazing at natural beauty that just makes my mind go blank. And there’s something very useful about it, because God knows at every other point in my life, there’s a chorus o’ crazies shouting in triplicate inside my brain. So to not think about anything for awhile was very nice, if unexpected.

But then I got home. See, after I picked up my car, my next stop was back to my old house, to rescue the Super Roses. They were already brown and withered because my old roommates were not about to water them because they hate nature. KIDDING. I was the only one who watered anything at the house, and though I can’t do anything about the roses in the ground in the backyard, I can save the Super Roses, because they’re in pots. And My Mother The Phone Harpy, wants me to. She’s already mentioned it several thousand times in the few phone conversations we’ve had, “Are you going to bring the roses to the new place with you? Are you going to bring the roses? What about the roses? WHAT ABOUT THE ROSES, AMY!? SAVE THE ROSES! YOU’RE THEIR ONLY HOPE AMY-WAN!”

I knew I was going to have to cut the roses way back to get them into my car, and since they were brown and withered anyway, there wasn’t going to be any loss there.

But the funny thing about the Super Roses. They didn’t wanna go. They’re Super Roses, which means they’re Super Thorny, and as I clipped and clipped and clipped, they attacked my arms and hands (through gloves) and even my neck. My NECK, people! I PULLED A THORN OUT OF MY NECK! MILIMETERS FROM MY JUGULAR! All these year, I didn’t know the Super Roses were vampiric, it doesn’t make sense, they LURVE their sunshine.

But they didn’t wanna go, and did their very very best to make sure that if they HAD to go, they were gonna scratch the ever’ lovin’ shit out of me, and tear holes in the fabric roof of Ethel the car, lowering her value to about two cents now (she’s not happy with them either.)

They were little bitches about going. And I cursed at them every step of the way, because yes, they are plants and therefore alive, “You have to go! They won’t water you! Do you wanna die here!? I’m trying to help you! Why are you hurting me when I’m trying to help you! YOU HAVE TO GO BECAUSE I CAN’T HANDLE THE GUILT FROM MY MOTHER THE PHONE HARPY IF SHE FIGURES OUT I DIDN’T SAVE YOU!”

And then it hit me. My realization about my life. The one I thought I was gonna get on the boat.

Me versus the Super Roses is God versus Me. Me wrestling the Super Roses, who are fighting me every step of the way, is God wrestling me to this new place in my life.

Me assuring the Super Roses that no, no, we’re not staying here, I know it sucks, and yes, it’s going to hurt, and I’m gonna clip the dead parts off you, and you’re not gonna like it, but you gotta trust me when I say that we’re going someplace better.

That’s the same conversation that God silently had with me, as He wrestled with my anxiety and bewilderment and What, We’re Moving and How Am I Gonna Move All This Stuff, and Where Are We Going, and Why Are We Going Here and How’s It Gonna Work When I Have No Couch as He moved me to this new place. I’m trying to help you. You gotta trust me when I say that we’re going someplace better.

I would like to state that I am better than the Super Roses, because I did not stick any metaphorical thorns in God’s neck. That I know of.

I wonder who God’s Phone Harpy is. The Virgin Mary? Heh.

At any rate, the Super Roses, in all their bare and spindly thorny glory are now outside my front door. Pepe and Pembleton kinda stared at them, and I know they’re thinking something along the lines of, “You’re sure they’re roses?”

But I drowned them in plant food, and they’re getting regularly watered, and if they don’t showing some progress in a few weeks, I have no compunction at all in dumping them, for all the grief they gave me.

Hopefully, God is more merciful.

Oh, and I got my couch yesterday. Isn’t it pretty? It’s got STORAGE!

Oh, and per Agatha’s request, here’s Mr. Agatha and Bug, in half of his Halloween costume. He’s going as Gene Simmons from Kiss. BWAH!

Almost There

I’m currently three hours ahead of most of you as I’m at my sister’s house in Orlando. There is no caffeine here. I am in pain.

I could snag the last Kahlua mudslide in the fridge, but I accidentally drank far too much yesterday night. I was back at the new place packing, and landlords Pembleton and Pepe announced it was cocktail hour, and made me tequila sunrises. I then finished packing drunk off my butt, and woke up this morning with strange puffy spots under my eyes.

Surprisingly, I think everything made it inside the suitcase, and the suitcase made it on the plane as a carry on, and I made it to Orlando in a caffeine-less house.

Tomorrow is the cruise. I cannot wait. I have EARNED this cruise. I didn’t necessarily earn the first one in January, that was more of a Hey We’re Doing This Thing As A Whole Family So Come Along With Us.

But I have earned this time off, oh hell yes I have. I had made a list of Things I Had To Get Through Before Going On The Cruise about three months ago, and it stacked up this way chronologically:

1. Get Through My Theatre Company’s Fundraiser
2. Open My Show
3. Host My Blood Drive
4. Survive My Parents Visit
5. Go On CRUUUUUUUISE!!!

But at the end of the day, the list turned out to be this instead:

1. Get Through My Theatre Company’s Fundraiser
2. Open My Show
3. Get Through The Co-Producing Theatre Company’s Fundraiser
4. Survive The Sewer Line Collapsing
5. Sneeze My Way Through House Painting
6. Housesit for Basil and Ginger Puppy
7. Host My Blood Drive
8. Housesit for Basil and Ginger Puppy Again
9. Survive My Parents Visit
10. MOVE ALL MY STUFF TO A NEW PLACE!
11. Survive My Car Breaking Down and Stella and Wella Fixing It In One Day!
12. Housesit for Basil and Ginger Puppy Part 3!
13. Manage Ginger Puppy’s Ear Getting Nipped By Her Crazed Brother!
14. Pack Your Suitcase While Drunk!
15. Go On CRUUUUUUUISE!!!


Yes, I have earned this cruise. I have earned the right to be Blotto For Three Days On A Disney Boat. The Disney Boat will have caffeine too. I will be happy.

Every day I still say “Lead on, God, lead on. Whatever happens today, Lead on.” And almost instantly, the Bumps In The Road happen as a response. Seriously, number 13 happened less than two minutes after I said that sentence (Basil nipped Ginger Puppy’s ear because a nearby dog was unleashed, and they both went bonkers. Blood, hydrogen peroxide, and angry words at Unleashed Dog’s Owner followed.)

But with every bump that comes, I don’t panic. I just deal. Even on #11, when the gear shift was flapping uselessly like a dead fish, I managed to ride third gear into the parking lot of a McDonald’s. And there was no panic. Just a solid sense of this will be fine. And it was, as Wella called me back within five minutes of my text “HELP! CAR BROKE!” And following that, a solid sense of Wella will fix the car. This will be fine. I had no guarantee that Wella could fix it, could jerry rig a solution in under two hours (it actually took longer for the tow truck to pick me up and tow me to Wella’s house than it did for Wella to fix the car.)

Maybe that’s God. So often, I think that God’s presence is supposed to feel like some angelic light bathing me in pearls, or some supernatural strong tug pulling me off my feet and hey, I’m FLYING.

But instead, it’s more like a strong solid feeling in my gut. This will be fine.

And it is. Except that I currently have no caffeine in my system.

Here’s Bug, my niece, so happy about her Mac and Cheese and Broccoli. I double checked with my sister Agatha, and she is not throwing some gang symbol known only to seven year olds. That’s just her being goofy.

As I will be, starting tomorrow.

Transition

Yeah. The original plan was that I would move yesterday, September 1st. Which makes sense, it being the new month and all. But then I got the call that the new landlords wanted me to move in the Saturday before instead, because they were going out of town Sunday through Wednesday. Um, yeah.

So the Pink Padded Mallet continues to whack away, and I continue to roll with it as best I can. It's not a heart seizing panic. It's not Grit Your Teeth From The Pain either. It's a resigned Squaring Of The Shoulders and trudging through.

Trudging through picking up a U-Haul on the busiest day of the month (thank God I have no problem being at the U-Haul place at 7am.) Also the day the Station Fires started, making the day beastly hot and hard to breathe, and that was after I already dove into a dusty, rat droppings filled garage to lug boxes of my stuff out.

Trudging through driving the truck back up to the new place, trudging through getting all the stuff unloaded. I have the best friends in the world, let me me tell you, and they don't take advantage of me enough, considering what they had to do in loading and unloading all my stuff with the truck (though I did have a relatively easy unloading, since the garage is mere steps from my door.)

Trudging my way through boxes in the tiny new space. Bolstering myself up by saying at least it's MY tiny new space. "A new place small and all to yourself," Nadine said as she handed me box after box of my stuff into the attic. (YES! I have an attic!)

It's probably bigger than I think. I have a huge problem with spatial measurements, which is why Stella and Wella came by yesterday to shepherd me through Ikea, and plot out my room's measurements. If I was doing this by myself, I would've taken two steps in, gotten overwhelmed, grabbed the nearest cheapest LACK Table, and high tailed it to the Swedish Meatballs. Stella made a very persuasive argument about how there's a reason that table's only $8, look at it: the thing's gonna break in a year, and you said from the beginning that you couldn't buy anything unless it had storage in it, so pony up for this decent table with oodles of storage, Missy. (I didn't get to the Swedish Meatballs, though. Next time!)

We came out of Ikea with a coffee table with storage, and a kitchen counter with storage. No sofa yet (I have one picked out with...storage!), but I have a blue beach chair to sit in, which is where I watched the season finale of Rescue Me last night, after burning my first batch of popcorn in the microwave that came with the place.

And yes, despite being three inches off the floor and surrounded by boxes (the age old dilemma of I can't move the boxes until there's somewhere to put them vs. I can't find places to put them until the boxes are out of the way!) , it was nice to watch something in my own place, without random roommates walking through and muttering their own unsolicited commentary.

I have carted more of my stuff to the Goodwill than would be seem humanly possible. I have thrown out more drafts of old projects around town, to where various recycle workers must think that Amy The Writer is the Worst Writer In The World, since so many scripts written by her are in the trash.

My Mother The Phone Harpy loves to save stuff. So did Roomie Jekyll. I had prided myself on not being like them at ALL, and then I had to move, and realized that I had saved my class notebooks from Film School. I'm sure there's a good reason....NOT.

No, I know what it is. It's me proving my existence to myself. How can I know where I've been unless I have evidence, in the form of cable bills from the first place I ever lived?

For every useless thing that I chucked in the trash (plastic silverware from college dorm days, Burger King Gulp Cups) I found something that WAS useful (a Christmas present from my boss's wife, two dish towels wrapped in flowery soap. I need dishtowels. I HAVE THEM NOW.)

Here are my new landlords. Should we call them Perdy and Pongo? Is that too obvious? Let's try Pembleton and Pepe, see how long that lasts.








That's Pepe in the window. They like to check in on me, they're just next door, dontcha know.

And though I still haven't felt a distinct presence of God, not even when I look at my view (and yes, I'm well aware it's spectacular, and will probably hit me later when I'm not exhausted and when the smoke from the fires clear. I just point the camera and take the picture. I will be overwhelmed later.) I know that this was without a doubt all His doing.

And how He's continuing to provide for me in crafty crafty ways, like swinging me a temp gig at the last minute for today, because we received word this afternoon that Unnamed Studio would be closed on Friday, which is when my next assignment was. I would've lost a day of work. But now I didn't.

That's pretty sneaky, God. Which is pretty awesome, too.

This place is small, but it is all to myself, and the boxes will gradually disappear, and things will find their places. Including me.

Upheaval

The last three weeks have been a lesson in learning to exist in the middle of chaos. And it's surprisingly not as frantic as I imagine it would be, or how it's been in previous chaos of my youth, where it seemed like the only way to deal with stress was screaming at people, yelling in traffic, sobbing my eyes out, listening to a bunch of vintage Nine Inch Nails, a beer bender, or showing up on some guy's doorstep. Because the world is OVER. OVER, I TELL YOU! And I have to make it as bad as possible! I'll kick my own sand castle down! Might as well, I'm already at rock bottom, so let me pile on multiple ways to feel bad about myself, so I get it over with all at once. (again, youth.)

For the past few months, I always told God to "Lead on, God, lead on. Where are we going? I dunno. I'm looking at you to lead me the way you want me to go."

And I guess when I say that phrase, I'm half imagining feeling some supernatural force grabbing my hand and yanking me down some path. THIS WAY! WE'RE GOING OVER HERE!

Three weeks ago, we were dealing with the sewer issue, which rendered the toilet in my house unusable for a few days. I luckily was housesitting for Nick and Nora the first night, and the second night, Xavier let me crash at his place. At a late night dinner with Xavier, I was cackling at the recent events, and I felt like Julian Sands in that awful movie Warlock, where he's shaking his fist at the sky and screaming at God, "IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO!?" (Xavier countered with Forrest Gump's Lieutenant Dan lashed to the boat in the storm screaming at God to bring it on.)

Regardless, I cackled because it felt like the best response to a sewer problem, especially when the plumbers hit tar when they dug up the front yard when trying to fix the sewer line, adding on more days for an unusable toilet.

Xavier might have said something about how maybe I shouldn't dare God like that, who knows what would happen next. And I might have said something like "Bring It On." Because the masochistic part of me prefers to be kicked when down, rather than wobble up only to get smacked again. Much easier to curl up on the floor and continue to absorb the blows. Less effort.

I've said over and over again that God doesn't act instantly or quickly when it comes to my life. He moves about 2 percent the way over something like four months at a time. Like a producer who takes four months to read your script before getting back to you.

But over the past three weeks, God has arranged circumstances in such a mind blowing speedy fashion, it feels like I'm getting clobbered by a loving Deity wielding a pink padded mallet that smells like Stargazer Lillies. It still hurts like hell, but at least there's a slight element of pleasantness about it.

After the Stupendous Sewer Experience, came the House Painters From Hell. Our landlord is putting our house on the market, see, and nobody would buy the place with all the cracks in the walls. (Why anyone would want to buy the place anyway, considering it would probably fall down with the next earthquake over 5.0, is beyond me.)

So here come the House Painters From Hell, who are going to slowly worm their way through our house over the next two weeks, filling in the cracks, painting the walls, moving all our furniture into the middle of the room, hiding our bathroom towels, breaking our curtain rods, unscrewing drawer handles, and covering most everything with a fine layer of paint dust.

The clock has officially begun to tick on this residence, and it's only a matter of time before we're all going to have to move. The two worst things you have to do in Los Angeles are trying to find a place to live, and trying to find a job. I'm currently temping, and now I will most likely have to move on top of that unstable foundation.

But God wielded his Pink Puffy Mallet and KA-BOOM. Stella and Wella call me, completely unaware of the Wormy House Painters From Hell, wondering if I'm interested in moving anytime soon. Because they know someone who's looking for a dogsitter to rent their guest house in Los Feliz, the owners are gone a lot, and want someone onsite to take care of their Dalmatians.

KA-BOOM KA-BOOM KA-BOOM! WE'RE GOING THIS WAY!

I go check the place out that weekend. Compromises will have to be made. It’s small. It’s a shower, not a tub. It’s a stove, not an oven. It’s a half fridge, the freezer’s in the garage.

But it’s utilities included, with cable and internet thrown in there. Access to their washer and dryer (and oven, if I feel a baking fit coming on.) There’s a pool and a view. It’s a gated property, so nobody breaking into my car or house. The Dalmatians are lovable.

And I’d be living by myself again. No more annoying roommates who kick on the door to get you to open it because they’re loaded down with bags. Who have their girlfriends crash with you for over a month freeloading on the rent. Who leave dishes in the sink, shoes and socks in the living room, and veg on the couch watching TV all day.

It’s not ideal, but I’m thinking nobody gets ideal anymore. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than what I have now.

So now as I’m pulling all the stuff off the walls, all the notecards to various outlines, and Panda Express Fortunes that made me smile (“Buy The Red Car”? Seriously?), and pulling my furniture into the middle of the room for the Wormy House Painters, I’m also putting things in boxes, and making multiple trips to the Goodwill, carting half my CD collection to Amoba ($65 in store credit! Whoo hoo!) and making arrangements to rent a U-Haul.

I haven’t moved in years. I’m horrified at the amount of useless crap that I’ve left piled up over the years. It’s literally me shaking off half my possessions, and there’s a certain freedom in realizing that I don’t need this stuff.

It’s a rebirth. A redefining of me and what my living environment will look like and what my life will look like now.

Which will be very different.

KA-BOOM KA-BOOM KA-BOOM! WE'RE GOING THIS WAY!

Here comes the Red Cross Blood drive! Is it any wonder I filled up that bag in six minutes? I'm stressed out of my mind, my blood's just ITCHIN' to come out like a crimson geyser of loveliness.

KA-BOOM KA-BOOM KA-BOOM! WE'RE GOING THIS WAY!

Here come my parents for a visit! Yaaaaaaay! They hate Los Angeles. I don't blame them, necessarily. I've just learned to live with it. Of course, the littlest thing that goes wrong only re-confirms their opinion that L.A. is the worst place on earth to live. TRAFFIC ON LA CIENEGA BLVD!! THE SIGNS ARE IN KOREAN ON WESTERN BLVD! PEOPLE CUT IN FRONT OF YOU ON THE ROAD! SERVICE AT MOST RESTAURANTS IS SLOW! HOW CAN YOU LIVE IN A CITY LIKE THIS!? ONLY BARBARIANS CAN LIVE HERE!

The best part was when we were walking to church and turned the corner to see a dead squirrel on the sidewalk. I have never seen a dead squirrel in my life, let alone in Los Angeles. I'm sure that they do die, but I assume it's under a bush, in someone's back yard, etc. but here is one, smack dab in our path, eyes still open. It's not mangled, it's not twitching. It's as if it had a heart attack and died right in front of us.

Now Mom and Dad think that dead squirrels on the sidewalk are a regular part of life in Barbaric Los Angeles.

But God arranged circumstances to where I got the call to housesit Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog over the last two weekends, which removed me from the Wormy House Painter Chaos for some of the time, and provided Mom and Dad with an unexpected idyllic retreat for one of the days of their visit.

And throughout all the clobberings, throughout every new layer of complexity (temp gigs! Changing over my address! My play's still running! Another Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy gig over Labor Day Weekend!) throughout every new wrinkle that I don't question anymore because there's usually a reason behind it, I have not yelled. I have not gone on a beer bender (I'm waiting for the sister cruise with Agatha!) I have not stamped my foot and shaken my fist at God.

I've just sorta kept going. Trudging, maybe, but forward. muttering thank yous every step of the way. Perhaps that's progress.

I still whisper every morning, “Lead on, God, lead on.” Because I’m a masochist, and I wanna see what fresh-new-hell-that-will-ultimately-be-good-for-me will happen next. But I know better than to think a supernatural force is pulling me. It’s more like a parting of a curtain, revealing some kind of stormy sea. You gotta navigate it on your own, using your own strength, wits, and skill. But there’s a beacon on the other side, so at least you know which way to go.

That last metaphor may be horribly mangled. My apologies. I’m in the midst of a monster sneezing fit, which started as soon as I stepped into the house tonight. Damn paint dust. You could say "Bless you." But I think it's clear that a certain Pink Puffy Mallet Wielding Deity already has. Heh.

A Pause For Positive Bleeding

In the midst of swirling chaos that I still can’t talk about, (but boy howdy, does it still suck the very life out of me.) let’s pause for a moment to talk about my third Blood Drive.

Because I went from 8 people to 34 sign ups by the time the Blood Drive happened this past Sunday. Filter out the no shows, the bounceouts, add in the walk ups, and the Red Cross collected 31 useable units. We beat last September’s Blood Drive by 1 unit.

And guess who that 1 unit was?

Guess who beat the evil Hemoglobin Machine of Death with a resounding 13.8?

Guess who filled up the pint bag of blood in a record time of 6 minutes flat?

Guess who made all the nurses laugh with her unmatched enthusiasm for puncturing veins and bleeding into bags, all in the name of Christian Love For Those Who Need Blood More Than Me While Challenging My Fear Of Needles At The Same Time?

ME! ME! ME! ME!
ME! ME! ME! ME!
ME! ME! ME! ME!

Of course I crashed hard a few hours later, and had to leave my show at intermission to get some much needed sleep. But let’s focus on the positive side.

Six minutes, people. Some folks were on that table with a needle in their arm for twenty minutes, and I bounced in and out in six minutes.

THAT’S how much I hate needles, ha ha ha.

On The Verge Of Something

I would like to point out that two hours after I posted my last entry, my sewer line collapsed at my house. They came to snake the drain, and the whole thing went down.

But the journalists were freed from North Korea!

And my Blood Drive sign ups are okay!

And I sobbed like an overcaffeinated baby in the lobby of my church while I was praying with Tricia because of the monumental stress of the past month and a half!

There's something coming on the horizon. It hasn't happened yet, and I've already talked about it with others to the point where I fear I might have jinxed it already into not happening (which is common with my life.)

But it's going to change my circumstances severely.

(no, it's not selling a script.)

(no, it's not a new job.)

So forgive the brevity of this post. My head is not focused to write pithy stuff, not when I don't know what the future holds.

But I know it will be very very different.

Please Stop Kicking Me Around

I told God yesterday that I'm not asking for anything anymore, because whatever I ask for I don't get, or I do get and wish I hadn't gotten.

So I told God to not listen to me anymore, that He should just give me what He thinks I need.

So then God gave my house plumbing issues. And bad reviews for Polka Dotted Platypus. (people have told me they like the show, but the ones that didn't like it are the ones posting online.)

Very few people said goodbye to me at my dream job yesterday, as if it was a ghost doing my job for the past two months. My new temp gig was supposed to start today, but now it's not until tomorrow, so I lose a day of work.

My Blood Drive sign ups are below where they should be, even though we've expanded into a bigger location.

God thinks I need to be kicked. THANKS GOD! THANKS A BUNCH! COULDN'T BE SUPER HAPPIER ABOUT THIS!

blegh

Still Standing (Barely.)

Man oh man, I’ve been trying to write this blog entry for at least three days now. But other things kept getting in the way. Like copious amounts of drinking with the cast of my play Polka Dotted Platypus. I’ve dropped enough hints about my love for tequila that they’ve set me up nicely with Patron shots. And sleep. I have never been so excited about six hours of sleep before (I’ve been averaging five and a half for awhile now.)

So it’s pretty safe to say that, after the 4th of July, this month has been fairly rough. Awful. Would I say awful? It doesn’t look awful.

Here’s a perfect example of how my life goes lately. I got a notification that a audience review on Polka Dotted Platypus posted to the web. So I go open it up, I go open it up, and read this:

This play was just absurd.

I blink, and read it again.

This play was just superb.

It turns out to be a very glowing, complimentary review, that wasn’t from My Mother The Phone Harpy, because she hasn’t seen the play yet. But this audience reviewer has, and not only loved it, but is making arrangements to come see it again. A repeat viewer.

And while I breathe and slowly smile, my superior at work at my dream job walks into the room and tells me that my last day will be Monday.

Okay, okay, that’s a little dramatic.

I mean, yes, that’s exactly how that scene went down, but I knew they weren’t hiring me full time. I learned that little piece of info about two and a half weeks ago, around the same time we had to replace a cast member who sent me long emails designed to make me feel guilty, around the same time a woman passed over for a spot on my theater company’s board also sent an email designed to make me feel bad.

So yeah, this month hasn’t been great.

I’m being rejected by my dream job. In truth, there was nothing I could do. They had already chosen who they wanted to fill this position before I even started temping there. For awhile, it looked like maybe they would hire me if their first choice didn’t work out, but then it did. Second place doesn’t count for much when it comes to employment.

I had a conversation with my friend Winston about it.

Me – This was my dream job. This will be the job that I measure all other future jobs by.

Winston – It’ll be okay.


Me – No, it won’t. It’s like, like, like, what it must be like to have sex with Bradley Cooper. Once you’ve done that, you’ll be measuring every guy against Bradley Cooper.

Winston – (silence)

Me – What?

Winston – You just admitted that girls are secretly measuring guys against other guys in bed.

Me – It’s a metaphor!

Winston – You just admitted that you’ll be judging all guys against Bradley Cooper.

Me – I will never have sex with Bradley Cooper.

Winston – I’ll never be able to go to bed with a girl again. She could be measuring me against Bradley Cooper.

Me – Winston! (Dramatic pause) YOU could be someone’s Bradley Cooper.

Winston – (pause) Okay.

I loved this job so much. A writer, working in the story department of a New Unnamed Movie Studio. Like a bookworm working as a librarian. Like a vampire working at a blood bank. Like a crystal methhead hooking up with a cop who monitors the evidence room and misplaces the keys.

I loved every single detail. I loved that I got out at 6pm, to beat traffic. I loved that my lunch was at 12pm, which surprisingly worked great with my metabolism. I loved that there was so much walking around, delivering scripts. I loved being on a lot again. I loved being surrounded by scripts, scripts, scripts. I didn’t even mind that there wasn’t any overtime, I loved this job so much.

I have an extremely hard time trying to wrap my head around the idea that God has in mind something better than this job for me. This really will be the job I measure all other jobs to.

The only thing that could possibly be better than this job is a spec sale big enough to afford a down payment on my own condo, where I can FINALLY get my Comfy Chair (shout out to Stella and Wella!) and live by myself in a clean kitchen and clean bathroom and no roommates anywhere who don’t ask permission before their girlfriends move back into the house for weeks.

But I don’t see that on the horizon.

And if there’s anything that the past two months of highs and lows has taught me, is that I. Can’t. Trust. Anything.

If I think I can celebrate a good review, I’m smacked with the news that my last day is in less than a week. If I think, yes, the boy and I are talking again, he doesn’t call. If I think my new play is opening, and won’t it be fantastic, then I realize where I’ve come from, and how much hasn’t happened since the last play in 2005.

The opening of Disney’s Peter Pan starts with a narrator, and he says: All this has happened before. And all this will happen again. But tonight it happened in London. On a quiet street in Bloomsbury.

All this has happened before. I had an amazing play in 2005. Critical and commercial success. I was re-reading those journals last week, trying to compare if tech week back then was better or worse than the tech week hell I’m experiencing now, and it was exactly the same. Different factors coming from different places, but exactly the same.

You can certainly look at the circumstances and think I’m on the threshold of a grand adventure that I don’t even see coming. That there’s a huge important lesson I’m about to learn.

And I wish that were true, but I’m pretty sure I know better. Polka Dotted Platapus versus the play four years ago. Still stressed. Still unemployed (soon to be, anyway.) Still single. The only thing that’s different are the words said onstage.

It’s disheartening to me, as it feels like MORE should be different in the four years that have gone by. I appear to be stuck in a rut, when the beginning of the year with Pink Piggy’s film festival was such a surge of YES! THIS YEAR IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT! IT’S GOING TO BE FANTASTIC! IT’S GOING TO BE LIFE CHANGING!

False hope is so so uncool.

Maybe God is teaching me to live in the moment. This moment sucks. Thanks, God.

Nah, that was just an obvious joke, it’s not that bad.

I wouldn’t trade the Pink Piggy experiences for anything. I’m not sad or sorry that this play is happening. And yet, it doesn’t appear to be changing my life in ways I would think they would.

So what is it? Is it that you can enjoy these experiences, but don’t look to them for clues about how your future is going to go? Don’t. Trust. Anything. Your film may get into a festival, but don’t get cocky, because you won’t get picked up for distribution. Your play may open, but don’t get cocky, because it will do nothing for your career. You land a dream job, but don’t get cocky, it’s being yanked away from you in two month.

Are you not allowed to plan for the future? That seems dumb. I’ve even heard sermons that it’s not about sitting back and letting God do all the work.

Where’s the balance? That’s the question, always, isn’t it.

If it’s now established that I can’t trust the present circumstances to give me an idea of what I should do about the future, I’m flummoxed about what I AM allowed to do or think or trust. Because the usual obviousness of Jesus loves You. Trust God. Insert Insipid Phrase Here And Immediately Smack Yourself For Taking God’s Love For Granted doesn’t appear to work right now.

Ugh. Blog is already far too long. I shall close with this:

I trust God. Remember how I found my Super Smarty Pants Favorite Bible verse?

2nd Chronicles Ch 20, verse 12 (the last part.):

“We do not know what to do, but our eyes are upon you.”

These days, I’m feeling more like saying,

"I don't know what You're doing, but my eyes are on you. But seriously, what are You doing, huh? It makes no sense to me. I know I can’t see the big picture, but can you just send some insight down? Please?”

I trust God. Absolutely. Because I have no other choice, I’d rather throw in with the Guy Who Knows All The Answers Anyway.

But it looks like this: This is from The Lost Boys. Mom is accepting the hand of the Head Vampire, agreeing to become a vampire to save her kids. This is also how I feel, trusting God right now. I trust Him, sure. I'm also wincing my face off as I trust Him, thinking I'm going to get smacked.

(Also, God would probably not have that kind of thumbnail. But still.)

Look at the time post

I just got back from helping my costumer for my play. Our dress rehearsal is tonight. We're not ready.

There will be a post someday. Just don't know when.

If you love me, you will buy me chocolate, tequila, or find a big strong guy to carry me around and hold me until I fall asleep.

The Downward Spiral Is A Solo Ride.

It’s been a long long week, with plenty of drama and it’s not quite over yet.

I know to expect drama in the weeks ramping up to Opening Night (14 days from now. I think I just internally puked again.) And yet, since it’s been four long years since my last play, I approach the drama with a dead eyed sense of inevitability. There’s a huge metaphorical car wreck coming straight at me, and I’m too tired to drag myself out of the way. I just watch it hurtling towards me and say more weight no, I say hurry up, and get it over with.

Here are a random assortment of excuses I’ve heard in the past few weeks or so:

I had food poisoning
My Mom booked me the wrong day to come home
I have to work
I left it at home
I don’t have any money
I have a screening
I have houseguests
I’m out of town
I couldn’t switch shifts
My cell wasn’t working
I didn’t get your email
My brain hurts
My back hurts
I’m on Valium
My car broke down
I wrote down the wrong day
I got stuck in traffic
I forgot I was supposed to call you
I cannot do this anymore (no, that last one was not said by me.)

I move heaven and earth to make this play happen. That’s expected of me, because I’m the playwright / producer and that’s what I should do. I go above and beyond the call of duty, everything from writing actor bios in the proper format to sock puppet surgery, to paper mache mask making (that one is currently in my living room freaking out my roommates) because it’s easier to do it myself than to berating others into doing it right.

I understand and accept that. People are people, and more often than not don’t have their eye on the bigger picture like I do.

But yesterday I realized that people take me for granted. CONGRATULATIONS! WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF JAW DROPPING REALIZATIONS.

That my giving of my standard 120 percent is not just accepted by others, but EXPECTED. Who’s gonna clean up this mess? Amy The Writer’ll do it, she does everything. Mikey likes everything, Amy The Writer’ll take over and steer the ship, because I don’t feel like helping, or gosh, darn it, I WANT to help, but I just went in for surgery.

I don’t go in for surgery. I don’t get stuck in traffic either, because I’m the Queen of Side Streets. I don’t go out of town, I don’t forget things, I don’t get sick, I move whatever commitments I have around in order to pull my weight, which invariably becomes three times my weight because someone else has to take that extra shift at work because they don’t have any money in their bank account.

I’m pulling three times my weight while simultaneously holding down a temp job that I’m desperately trying to make permanent, and not letting one interfere with the other. I lost my cell phone, got a replacement within a week, and still managed to keep in touch with everyone. I don’t wanna hear about how your sewing machine is missing a bobbin, I want you to pull your fucking weight, and find a way to sew some costumes.

This is turning into ugly venting. I haven’t even mentioned anything remotely having to do with God (that will be coming in a later post.) Of course everything will work itself out, it always does. Of course I will over-extend myself, and eventually, the Facial Tension That Has Frozen My Face will melt away.

And everyone will pat me on the shoulder and say Good Job and Great Work! And Aren’t You Proud? And Isn’t It Worth It?

And I can’t answer that last one.

So here’s a random sampling of the things that are getting me through these difficult days:

Mountain Dew.







Rivers and Rivers of the stuff.










The Gym. I could kick your ass before this Downward Spiral started. I can kick your ass in half the time now. Seriously. None of you have anything on my abs. My abs crunch everyone else in my Bodyworks class and spits them out before 8am.










H2O Plus Sea Marine Revitalizing Shampoo and Conditioner.

This stuff is the absolute bomb. I found it on the Disney Cruise I took back in February (where I discovered my other secret love, Don Julio Tequila.) I squirreled it away in my suitcase and demanded that the porter give me brand new bottles every day. Awesome Sister Agatha got me more of it for my birthday in March, as well as a gift pack of other H2O products that I need to make a more concentrated effort to use. But this stuff works great with my hair, and really does smell marine like, which make me remember the cruise.



Ahhhhh, the cruise. I miss the cruise right now.

Agatha and I are going on a three day cruise in September after the play closes. I dream about that future cruise, I really do. A potential booze soaked sister bonding fest. She doesn’t like tequila. Just means more for me.

If I can ever get there.

Seriously, can I just order one Big Strong Guy to hold me, for like, two hours or something? Please? Pretty please?

There Is A Reason I Wasn't Blogging in 2005

Because you can't maintain a weekly blog while you're in the middle of producing a play you wrote (the last play I did was in 2005.) It's impossible. I'm juggling ten thousand things right now, and trying not to lash out at anyone.

So if you see me in person over the next three weeks, please be extra nice to me, and buy me chocolate or tequila or french fries or something.

I can't say when the next post of any merit will go up. I'm shooting for Friday, but I honestly can't tell.

Sorry gang.

Blah.

More than a few times over the course of the past couple of days, I've felt a lot of optimism leave me. And yet I gotta keep going, and put on a happy face despite the grueling schedule, and the steady stream of people letting me down for this, that, and the other reason.

Everyone has up days and down days. These are blah days. Hoping they'll be better this weekend, as I'm housesitting again. Sitting poolside can't be all bad, right? Naaaaaaaaaah.

A Quick Experiment

This is a quick one because I’m swallowed by rehearsals for Polka Dotted Platypus.

After church this past Sunday, I was walking across the parking lot and closed my eyes. Then I decided to see how far I could make it walking with my eyes closed. I wasn’t going to hit anything in the immediate vicinity.

So I walked about 10 steps, opened my eyes briefly (while still walking) to check on my progress and make sure no cars were coming, and closed my eyes again to walk another ten steps with my eyes closed. Another peek on progress, and again walking with closed eyed.

Amazing how solid the ground feels when you do that. And what a silly thought – of course the ground is solid. The ground is not going to turn to jello just because I closed my eyes. But there’s something strange about walking with your eyes closed for more than four steps that suddenly makes you think that.

And it suddenly hit me that this is an obvious metaphor for life – you’re literally walking in the dark, and only occasionally do you get a flash of the direction you’re going. You just get a tiny peek, and then it’s back to the darkness again. But the peek is supposed to be enough to tell you #1 – This is the way you’re going. #2 – This is the way you’re SUPPOSED to be going. #3 – You’re not going to hit anything. So just trust me enough to keep walking this way without seeing.

Seriously everyone, if you can find some parking lot or other wide open space where you can take ten steps with your eyes closed, it’s a pretty weird/interesting thing.

Oh, and I got a replacement cell phone so I'm back up and running! Yay!

Annoyed

I lost my cell phone on Saturday. Upsetting for a few reasons. Number one, I don’t lose things anymore. I really don’t. I misplace them, meaning I recognize they’re missing, I don’t worry about it because I know they’ll turn up, and then they do. I made a very conscious decision back in 2005 to be more organized about my stuff, and it’s pretty much worked. I don’t remember the last thing I lost. I ALWAYS find it.

But this was different. When I realized it was missing, there was no sense of Oh, it must be back at the house. Instead there was a creeping dread of it’s gone, SUCKA! I tried to put it out of my head and go on about my evening activity, which was attending an acquaintances’ play, but I couldn’t shake the creeping dread, and I ended up leaving at intermission (it was a really bad play, that influenced the decision as well.)

I get home, use my land line to call my cell, nothing. I search the car with a flashlight, nothing. I recall the last time I used it was back at the other theater that will become my home away from home for the next two months, as we’re in pre-production on Polka Dotted Platypus, my new play. It must be at the theater. I bet it’s not.

I spent the rest of the weekend in a severe state of annoyance. Number one, because I’m now chained to my computer at home where the land line is because I have to be available via phone for some graphic design issues surrounding Polka Dotted Platypus, number two, I use my cell phone as my alarm clock, and now I don’t have an alarm clock and number three, I DON’T LOSE ANYTHING. Except my mind.

I get word last night that they checked the theater, and no cell phone. The only thing I think could’ve happened is that it fell out my car, purse, pocket, whatever, and is lying in the street or it got run over by a car somewhere. I change the outgoing message on the cell to reflect that you’d better email me or call my land line if you want to reach me, and I arranged to get another phone this morning, it should arrive sometime this week.

In a fit of weirdness, last month I had typed all my contacts from my cell phone into a Word document, in case something like this ever happened, so there’s no loss there.

But there were more than a few text messages I had saved over the years that are now gone. Some of them I saved to mark certain periods in my life. Some of them were quietly meaningful, and proof that at one point, some men found me attractive. Others were flat out blackmail material in case the wrong person crossed me. Some people keep scrapbooks, I kept old text messages.

The thought then becomes that this must be God telling me to move the f on, and not hold on to such reminders. But can reminders be bad? After all, you don’t see anyone losing photo albums from their wedding because it’s BAD to mark/remember and/or cherish things like that.

Does God really want us to walk around with an empty text message cache in our cell phones? Interesting to ponder, maybe.

Anyhow, if any of you texted me this weekend, I’m not ignoring you, I just didn’t get it. I should be back up and running by the end of the week, fingers crossed.

And I backed up my computer just to be safe.

And Then Everything Changed. Again.

Life is changing again. Naturally, I’m freaked out.

Tomorrow I start a new temp gig in the story department of a New Unnamed Movie Studio. It’s totally low man on the totem pole, but in a department I’ve always wanted to be in. So many of my temp gigs land me in places I would never willingly go on my own, but that’s where the assignment funnels me to. This one was one I spotted, called in a few favors, and wrangled on my own to wiggle in there. My temp agency is stunned that I brought them my own gig, especially given the current economic climate (apparently, not a lot of temp gigs out there.)

I think the speed of which it came together (three days tops) unnerved me. Also the realization that my life will again change drastically from what I’ve been used to lately. No more 9:45am Bodyworks class on Tuesdays, no more afternoon power naps. No more creative cooking experiments for lunch. I doubt I’ll be able to hit five days at the gym anymore, though I’ll certainly try.

This is all idiotic whining, of course. The greater good is that I have a temp gig in a place I want to be in. So who cares if I don’t get to write four hours a day anymore.

I’m never ready for change, so it might as well snatch me up even if I think I’m not ready and carry me along until I get used to it.

‘Cause I was getting bored. You know it’s bad when you’re drinking tequila four nights straight (but I write much more funnier dialogue with it!) And I know I prayed somewhere in the past two weeks Um, God? Am I supposed to be doing this? If there’s somewhere else you want me to be, would you, you know, move me?

I think I was referring to writing my Purple Monkey script. But this appears to be God’s answer anyway.

I’m buckling up. Wincing, but hoping this leads to something pretty awesome. It probably won’t, it may not even last a month. But here’s hoping anyway.

Do You Feel Wanted

This week, I took a nap on a couch with a guy. That’s not a metaphor for something more physical, it was an honest to God nap. It wasn’t planned, it just kinda happened.

And I’m very sorry to say, it was f’ing wonderful. I had a stressful week on a number of fronts, and I needed some kind of escape, some kind of wish fulfillment granted, SOMETHING that went right.

And this went right. The couch was a tad wider than a standard couch, so it could accommodate both of us, but required snuggling of the first degree. And we all know how much of a sucker I am for an honest to God snuggle. I’m a snuggleslut. I’m a chick, I make no apologies for it, but knowing that snuggling is such an Achilles heel of mine, and knowing that most guys endure snuggling rather than enjoy it, means that I’m hypersensitive to the guy, if he moves, does that mean he’s annoyed, have I become a clingy wimp, is he uncomfortable, is it too much for him, am I destroying all chances of a second snuggle encounter.

But there was none of that here, because we were both exhausted (No, Mom, not like that. All clothes remained on.) Arms went around each other and stayed that way. I heard the steady thump of his heart through his chest, felt his chin on top of my head, heard the occasional snore (we all make compromises, ha ha ha.)

This is the feeling I chase 24/7. Even the last dogsitting gig with Howardina filled it in a small way. This is why I’m always insanely jealous of anyone who’s got a significant other. Because you have access to this feeling, and I have to hold my breath for MONTHS for an opportunity. If I go too long without a cuddle, my guy friends are doomed as I force my hugs on them, my heads on their shoulders, my arm linked through theirs, and they’re all going, “Um….what’s up?”

I want to be held. It feels safe. I feel protected. I feel…wanted. In a very basic sense. His arms are around me. They don’t let go. If he didn’t want me, he’d move. He’d push me away, like that one guy early in my dating career that traumatized me forever.

This is exactly the feeling I DON’T get from God.

Maybe it’s the question that everything boils down to. Do you want me? I think John Eldridge defines it for women as “Am I pretty?” and that feels a little superficial. You can still want a person without them being attractive. (I’m sure my friends who have several Eldridge books will be sending me emails saying exactly what the question is.)

But seriously. Have I ever felt like God wanted me? Sure, I read the Bible ever damn day (Proverbs isn’t doing it for me currently) and I can read the verses that say I’m a Daughter of God, and Be Good And He’ll Bless You, and I can go to church every damn week and hear over and over again the theory that God Wants A Relationship With You, God Wants To Be In Communion With You. But do I feel WANTED by God?

And honestly, no. No I don’t. I feel like I live my life as a series of tests and challenges to be good to an All Powerful Being who only cares if I pass. Like a teacher in a classroom, monitoring things, watching out to see who’s gonna act up, to make sure everyone stays in line. That’s about order. God wants a relationship with me because he wants me to obey him. It’s not about desire. It’s not about want.

Can you make the conclusion that God Blesses Me Because He Wants Me? It’s not logical. It’s like the teacher analogy again. If You Finish Your Homework, You’re Blessed With A Gold Star. Your teacher wants you to do well so you’ll excel in life. But that doesn’t mean your teacher wants YOU.

God blesses me. God wants me to succeed, probably in an Advancing His Kingdom kind of way. But does God want ME. Does God WANT me? And how do I know, how can I tell, what does it feel like? I know what being wanted by men, or people, I know what that looks like, what that feels like. But what does it look like in a God way? It’s more than Order and Obedience and Blessings, isn’t it?

If God is ever offended that I chase human interaction instead of going home and meditating on His Good Word, THIS is why. I can FEEL a cuddle. I can’t feel God.

I’m sure God’s pissed off now. I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t get an opportunity to cuddle with a dude for like, three YEARS now.

I just had to note for the record that I did feel wanted. For a few hours.

And so this doesn’t turn into the mopiest blog every, check it out. The slides computer at church was having problems, so we had to run the slides program for today’s service on my personal laptop. This meant that everyone was slave to my Itunes in terms of pre and post service music. And though I really wanted to be contrary and blast NIN, I was pretty good, though I did sneak in my favorite Schoolhouse Rock song ever: Rufus Xavier Sarsparilla. Which is about pronouns, and could be construed in a somewhat God like manner:



There’s a chance I have to run the slides again from my computer next week. Everyone better watch out, heh.

Howardina

I’ve been housesitting this holiday. A new dog, a referral. She’s adorable, even if she likes to bark at everything passing by the house. She’s a terrier mutt, they tell me, and when she tilts her head back to look at you, her ears spread out to make her look like an airplane, so let’s call her Howardina, after Mr. Hughes himself, the original Aviator.

Howardina has a very strict regime (so thank goodness I don’t currently have a day job.) She gets walks three times a day, sliced turkey and lamb with her kibble, baby wipes on paws and mouth before bedtime.

She also sleeps on the bed with me, which is wonderful, until 5:30am rolls around. As soon as the early morning light hits her, she thinks it’s time for her walk. I’ve managed to train her in the short time I’ve been here that I’m not moving until the cell phone alarm goes off. But as soon as it does, she is literally standing on top of me, licking my face until I roll out of bed to take her on her walk. I actually got a picture of us this morning.

This is what I wake up to. Yes, she’s got adorable sleepy eyes, she’s also directly on my chest. Ooof.

The thing about dogs I housesit is that they are sooooooooo happy when they get to go on their walks. I wanted to try and take a picture of Ginger Puppy’s happy face the last time I was up there, but I didn’t get a chance to.

But here’s Howardina’s happy face. She KNOWS she’s going on a walk. There’s nothing better for her in the whole wide world.

And the thing that cracks me up about her is that when we go on the walk, she smells everything as though it’s the first time she’s smelling it. Which isn’t the case at all, it’s the same route every day. But to her, it’s all GRASS!? WHAT IS THIS THING CALLED GRASS!? HAVE YOU SMELLED THIS STUFF CALLED GRASS!? IT’S FANTASTIC!

Makes it a little difficult to walk her, though. She lunges after every squirrel she sees. She doesn’t get the concept that the squirrels are gonna win every time.

To look at everything like it’s new, to be so excited about nothing more than the promise of a walk (regardless of the fact you have your own dog door and go to the backyard any old time.), to be so dumb as to think you can catch that squirrel even though you never have and never will…well. You can draw your own real life parallels, heh.

But these were some pretty flowers I saw in the backyard as well. So there. Beauty is duly noted for the record.

Round 2 With The Homeless Population

So it happened again, and I’m trying not to be annoyed.

First it was the homeless woman blocking me in the soda aisle at Ralphs. This time it was the homeless guy at the Arco gas station.

You can tell if you’ve lived in Los Angeles too long if you just smirked at that sentence. Because the Arco gas stations here attract more than their fair share of homeless people. I try to fill up at hours when I think they won’t be there and certainly, at 2pm on a Wednesday, you’d think I’d be safe as opposed to say, 8pm any night of the week, when they’re out in full force with the spray bottles and windshield wipers and no chance of escape.

I saw this guy before he saw me. I was inside the convenience store section trying to explain to the attendant that he had to reset my gas pump because it said it was in use when it clearly wasn’t. I glanced out the window and saw a politely dressed guy talking to a minivan owner in a way that made it clear that they weren’t together. Uh-oh.

My car’s in front of the minivan. I know I’m next. I’m doomed. Just doomed.

I maintain that it’s much easier to be a Christian anywhere in the film industry than it is to be a Christian and blow off a homeless person asking for a handout. It’s easier to defend my faith to my co-workers than to tell the person in front of the Rite Aid, the guy holding a Vietnam vet sign at the corner of San Vincente and La Cienega, the woman at the Laurel Canyon off ramp of the 101, the couple hanging around outside the Subway at Sunset and Crescent Heights that, “Sorry, I don’t have anything.”

But it’s a slippery slope. You give to one, you feel bad if you don’t give to them all. And you CAN’T give to them all, there’s too many of them. They should mobilize themselves into a ragtag army and take over the Cheesecake Factory at the Grove or something.

And yet Jesus said to Peter, “Feed my sheep.” Did he mean, “No, that guy with the Vietnam vet sign is a big liar, so no, you don’t have to give him anything. The other guy is probably gonna buy booze, that woman is just lazy, if they really wanted to improve their situation they’d ask for a ride to a social services place, blah blah blah.”

There are ways around it. You can make yourself feel better by volunteering at different places. I’ve sorted food donations at the L.A. Food Bank, I’ve served pizza to homeless people on Skid Row, I’ve counted the homeless population as a part of a PATH project, I’ve helped out with footwashing, I organize Red Cross Blood Drives, I plan to be a part of my church’s Project Hollywood day in June.

But none of it stops the guilt with every homeless person I walk by and not help. Which is frustrating, and I kick myself all the time. Why DON’T I empty my wallet, why DON’T I take this smelly person for a sit down meal and hear their whole story, why DON’T I take a personal interest in every single f’ing homeless person I see and FIX THEM ALL! ISN’T THAT WHAT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO DO AS CHRISTIANS!? FIX HOMELESS PEOPLE?!

Ugh.

Back to the gas station, I get the pump working and sure enough, here comes Mr. Nicely Dressed But Still Homeless Guy. He’s got a simple button down shirt and clean jeans. He’s in his early 20s. He says that he’s trying to get to San Diego. He’s got family there, he was staying with some cousins up here, but his living situation fell through, so now he’s trying to get home. He wants to tell me his poem that he’s composed, and then I can pay him whatever I feel his poem is worth. I ask him how much he has, he says $40. I ask him how much he needs, he says $70.

“You’re very beautiful,” he says, “You’re not wearing any makeup, you don’t need it.” I wanna tell him stop it with the cheap salesman pitch. He was doing okay with the specifics of his request, and the uniqueness of the delivery method.

(Incidentally, the only people that ever tell me I’m beautiful are homeless people, married guys, guys with girlfriends, and straight women. Like I can do anything with any of that.)

He introduces the poem by saying it’s long, and it’s meaningful, “it’s about the world.” I don’t remember any of it, it’s so long.

The words are leaving this guy’s mouth and vanishing into the air between us, never landing in my memory, but I WANT them to be memorable, I WANT this to be a good experience, something that turns my cynical nature around.

But they don’t. The poem’s something about general positivism in the universe, our experiences form us into stronger people, shooting stars, dreams in your hand, we’re all connected by energy, that kind of thing.

It’s the type of poem you hear in a Lifetime movie, where the spunky teacher turns around the inner city English class, and this is the former thug who’s just learned to read and now he’s delivering the commencement speech at his graduation. It’s generic. I want to believe it’s more, I want to believe in him, because HE believes it’s more, but at the end of the day, it’s generic.

He winds down to a close and smiles big at me. He means well, I can believe in that much. I honestly do believe he’s trying to make it back to San Diego. If that makes me a sucker, than I’m a sucker.

I give him $5, he thanks me profusely as I get into my car, “God bless you!” I think he says as I shut the door.

You give money to homeless people, why, because Jesus told us to feed his sheep? You can’t get them all. To assuage guilt? It never really goes away. To convince yourself you’re a worthy person, you’re an okay person, you deserve God’s love? You can’t earn God’s love, it’s already there. To demonstrate how much you love God? Possibly, though I think He would prefer something without the irritation or cynicism that came with the demonstration.

I dunno. I really don’t.

The Determined Lemon Tree Will Not Be Denied

There used to be a very sturdy lemon tree in our backyard. Our happy home has been privy to a one time tar pit and SuperRoses in the front yard, but the lemon tree was in the back. It grew next to Ex Roomie Cackle’s bedroom, and when it was Fourth Of July we’d climb it to the roof and watch the fireworks happening all around Los Angeles, from Dodger Stadium to Downtown to Santa Monica.

One day the sturdy lemon tree up and died on us. We didn’t do anything, it just happened. The gardeners came and cut it down and the only thing left was a gnarly twisted rooty stump, and we couldn’t climb up to the roof to watch any fireworks ever again.








But the sturdy lemon tree was not to be denied. And somewhere around a year and a half ago, it came back up, a scant two feet away from where it used to be. It’s a very determined lemon tree, you see. Nothing is going to stop it.

It grows so many lemons that I can’t use them all, and the branches are all weighed down. I pawn them off on friends, I make as many lemon icebox pies as I can (another one is coming this weekend.) Roomie Jeykll uses them in her Diet Coke, I had a get together with Basil, Ginger Puppy, and a bunch of my friends where we made lemon drop martinis with great success. I use them by the sink sometimes for my hands after cleaning, one time I got really resourceful and made literal lemonade.

I’m doing everything I can to help that poor lemon tree, and I still can’t get to them all. Fruit is rotting on that tree because I haven’t used it yet.

I hope the tree isn’t a metaphor for my future. Sometimes, I worry that it is. But I really really hope not.

Back to culling the opportunities. Before they rot.

The Butterfly, The No Neck Guy And God

It was 2007, and the guy had no neck.

We had chatted on the phone a few times, but I’m the kind of girl that #1 – hates the phone. #2 - prefers to meet in person as soon as possible, because you know as soon as you see him if this guy is going to be someone you want to see again.

And I knew as soon as I saw him that he was not someone I wanted to see again. Because he had no neck. Like seriously, his chin would have hit his shoulder if he had turned his head. I’m sure he knew it. I’m sure he was self conscious about it.

But come on, give the guy a chance. If he’s someone special, if he’s someone quality, then no neck is something I can get over, right?

So I give him a chance. For three hours. He sounded nice on the phone, but in person is coming across as a cocky slickster hustler, talking a lot about buying companies, firing his last girlfriend who worked at his company, la la la. He was more than willing to reveal a lot of personal information that only people in Los Angeles seem to think is appropriate icebreaker conversation (for the record, how long you last in bed is not an appropriate icebreaker conversation, even if you’re sharing it to prove that you can be vulnerable, since by your own admission you don’t last that long.) He kept throwing out compliments about how beautiful I was, I’m one of the most interesting and intriguing women he’s ever met, in a way that approached Greasy Car Salesman mode.

The drinks keep coming, he gets more animated, more arrogant, I think he knows he’s blown it with me, and he knows I’m waiting for an appropriate time to say, “Thank you. It was nice to meet you, but I need to be going home now.”

Because he starts saying that I’m probably not going to get anywhere with my writing career. Given how long I’ve been in Los Angeles, how old I am, “Look. If it hasn’t happened by now, than it’s probably not going to, right?” He’s guessing that I’m bitter because it hasn’t happened yet, and that bitterness is only going to repel whatever meager chances I might scrabble together. And he knows this because he’s directed one short, and one feature, and nobody’s ever heard of them. But yet, he’s on his way up, and I’m going nowhere.

But I do go somewhere. I thank him for his time, and walk out the door. He sends me an email the next day wondering what he did wrong, would I please give him another chance, he’s inviting me to a screening please don’t say no immediately, just give it some thought. I reply back, saying chemistry is funny, you can’t force it, you can only give it a chance, so I’m glad we tried, but it wasn’t there for me.

And I wouldn’t be surprised if it was that encounter that may have been the jinx that oomped itself into finally getting Pink Piggy made last year. The butterfly flaps its wings in China and causes a hurricane in Brazil. A no neck guy says I’m never going to make it as a writer, and a year and a half later, last Tuesday night, I’m sitting at the premiere of Pink Piggy, in a theater of three hundred people, in a dress I found at H&M for $34, my hair all poofy, wearing a necklace my six year old niece gave me last year for my birthday, the three alcohol and sugar pounds successfully shaken off, having posed for photographers on a pink carpet, listening to a huge roar in the crowd when my name comes up on the screen under “Written By” and thinking I wish I could go back to myself in 2007 and say yes you will. Yes you will make it as a writer. Forget everything this asshole is saying. You’re gonna be fine just fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

But ultimately I know it’s not a jinx. I know it’s not a metaphorical butterfly in the form of a no neck guy.

It’s God. It’s God, plain and simple and I haven’t a clue why He’s choosing to work this way, allowing the story of one drunken decision in 2001 to blossom into a film that people are now clapping and cheering. For most of my writing career, I was so sure that God wouldn’t be happy unless I was writing really awful on the nose Christian movies. But all I did was write the stories I wanted to write, and God is showing through anyway, guiding me towards meeting the right people, steering the boat towards the right opportunities in the right timing, it’s just...just...incomprehensible and amazing.

These are some wonderfully strange days I’m living in, folks, and I haven’t even told you half of what else is brewing. Every day brings another unexpected phone call, every day brings another unexpected opportunity. These days aren’t gonna last forever, they may not even last through next week. I’m as busy as I’ve ever been, but the feeling isn’t going away.

You’re gonna be fine just fine. Everything’s going to be fine.

Thank You God, Thank You, Thank You God, Thank You, Thank You God, Thank You.

Hey, will this picture turn out? It’s the necklace that Bug gave me for my birthday last year. She actually wouldn’t hand it over for two days because she wanted to wear it. It went awesome with the dress. ☺