Not that anyone ever would, but do not doubt for a second that I rock an executive assistant's desk like nobody else you know.
I have only been on the desk here in Business Affairs for a little over a week, and my two bosses wanted me to apply for the position full time. Never mind the fact that they were 99 percent settled on who they were planning on hiring before I showed up. I showed up, and suddenly all bets were off, and I became a last minute contender for this position.
So what's the problem?
The problem is I don't want this job.
Didn't you just leave your last job because they wouldn't hire you full time?
Yup.
Haven't you been trying to get hired full time for over a year now?
Yup yup.
Are you high right now?
No.
It's all going back to putting myself first. Most of the time, I put everyone else first, taking the Christian position to the extreme. Everyone goes first, I"ll bring up the rear.
This leads to me wasting way too much in jobs and/or relationships that I should've cut within six months. But I have an unfortunate habit of putting other people first, regardless of what happens to me.
If I took this job, I would make my two Type A bosses happy (I TOLD you people I was a Type A Pisces!) but my creative soul would shrivel up and die from lack of nourishment. There's nothing creative about this job. There aren't any scripts to read, cuts to watch, nothing that could help me with my own career, nothing that could show me this is how others have done it. This is the bar to which you have to beat. I might as well be working at a law firm, or a bank, or any other kind of job that has nothing to do with the industry.
The one good thing about this job is that it's based on a studio lot where they have sauteed shrimp on the salad bar.
If only that was enough.
Two things I've learned over time:
1. Never make decisions in the heat of emotion. (I'm still learning the art of telling people about decisions without the heat of emotion behind them.)
2. Never make decisions based out of fear.
I can't take this job that I know would make me unhappy just because I'm scared my dream job isn't out there after over a year of looking. Not when I just left a job because they wouldn't hire me. Even though 2010 has turned out to be such a shit year, I haven't been kicked around enough to roll over and give up. Ask me again next year, maybe then the answer will be different. I'm sure this job would still be available. These bosses have a tendency to run people out of the position.
My gut is telling me I just got free of something and the last thing thing in the world I should do is lock myself up, especially if it isn't 100 percent perfect. Or even 70 percent perfect.
I have to try. I have to risk it. I have to stick with my gut. I have to put my faith in God.
In the under two weeks that I've been here (that's right people, under two weeks and they still wanted to hire me) I've wondered if this situation is a test. Is God testing me? And if I passed it, I get a reward? A shower of blessings? Like when they told Solomon he could have wisdom or riches, and he chose wisdom so he was rewarded with both?
Seriously? Why would you think that? Why would God need to test you in this completely superficial way?
Because He wants to show me something about myself? That I shouldn't settle? That there is a better, or at the very least more interesting world out there? That I have to take a risk? Does God want that? Does God want his people to risk something?
Their lives for JAY-SUS!
My gut is telling me I have to be true to me. And even when the new hire comes in (and nobody seems to know when that will be) and off I go into the great unknown again, and if nothing comes up, it means I at least have more time to write. Or take a long long nap.
I'm also not discounting the fact that I'm a closet masochist, and hoping for more bad news so I can revel in it like my own mudpile.
Sure, go ahead and leave this job. Nothing's on the horizon for ya! Absolutely nothing! Bwah ha ha ha ha!
I told my bosses this morning that I didn't feel like it would be the right thing to do to apply for this job full time. I was a little nervous, because they're really intimidating people. And they stared at me with blank eyes, and said in an expressionless tone "That's really crushing because we thought you were the best candidate for the job."
I am the best candidate. For a different job. And I don't know what that job is, yet.
I'm trusting you, God. Every step of the way here.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Staircase, Part 2
People, don’t worry. I know last week was pretty mopey, absolutely, I get it. I have to be honest on this blog, and that’s what I was feeling then. But God provides in so many different ways, and while he doesn’t light up a huge THIS IS WHERE WE’RE GOING sign like I want Him to, the little things He’s sent me this week assured me that yes, maybe He’s still sitting on the couch, watching my life on TV and munching popcorn, but He hasn’t changed the channel yet.
I had exactly one day off. Obviously, I was prepared for a much longer unemployed stint. And there’s a significant part of me that sighs at being thrust into such similar circumstances as last year – here’s a gig working for mercurial people that have gone through a string of temps before you showed up and calmed them down with your mellow nature that actually disguises an I Don’t Care What You Think About Me mentality – that I’m having a hard time remembering what year it is. 2009? 2010? How can I tell them apart?
But on my one day off, I went to a Boot Camp class at my gym that I never get to go to because I’m usually at work when the class starts. I recognized the instructor as someone who had subbed at one of my 7am classes before, and he’s a pretty warm guy. My other Boot Camp instructors are usually military Yell At You Because It’s Boot Camp, or Icy Cool I Throw Down This Challenge, Can You Defy My Expectations Of You.
But this instructor is a Cool Cool Cat, and the class was smaller than normal, so he was going around encouraging people one by one. By the time he got to me, I was on the triceps station.
I hate triceps dips, because they hurt like a bitch. I can do biceps stuff all day long, my deltoids aren’t too shabby, and I kick out the jams when it comes to abs, but triceps are my evil arch enemy, like they are for any girl.
But in classic fashion, The Thing You Hate The Most Is The Thing You Need To Do The Most, and Mr. Cool Cool Cat comes over to supervise me just as I’ve decided that I’m gonna do the Triceps dips all hard core, with my legs straight out in front of me, as opposed to a table top bend in the legs.
The initial plan was to go Hard Core style for 45 seconds, and then wimp out and do Table Top style for the remaining 45 seconds. But now that Mr. Cool Cool Cat has come over to cheer me on, I can’t exactly quit halfway through.
So I struggle through a minute and a half of Hard Core Triceps Dips. For context, after 30 seconds, it feels like someone has squirted lighter fluid on the back of my arms and flicked a match. My arms are rapidly approaching noodle consistency, and there’s a good chance I won’t be able to raise them again for the rest of the day, which will make shampooing my hair pretty difficult after class.
I’m deep breathing like a champ, in the hopes the oxygen influx will take some of the burn away, and Mr. Cool Cool Cat is cheering me on, “You got this, you got this, keep going, keep going.”
“It HURTS!” I bite out through gritted teeth, desperate for someone to know that this is such a struggle, these past couple of weeks have HURT SO MUCH, and it’s all filtering down to a remaining 45 seconds, and if I puss out now, it wins.
What wins?
LIFE wins. Life - which has served me such a steaming pile of shit in the form of multiple people taking me for granted and abusing my I Treat Everyone How I Want To be Treated nature since the beginning of 2010 - is going to squash me like a bug and laugh at me as I curl up on the aerobic room floor with my broken arms, and cry, and wait for the rest of this terrible year to be over already.
“I know it hurts, but you got this, just stay with me, I’m counting you down, 15 more seconds, come on now, you got this,” Mr. Cool Cat says, and counts me down 15, 10, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and we’re done. It’s over.
My legs rocket back under me as my arms let go of the triceps station and I lean forward in a crouching position. I’m breathing hard, it hurts it hurts, I can barely focus in front of me. I made it through a minute and a half of Hard Core style triceps dips, and what does it matter, I still hurt, maybe more than before, hey, how am I gonna get home if I have to use my arms to drive? I hurt, I hurt, I can’t really see anything but what’s directly in front of me.
And what’s in front of me is an outstretched pair of hands.
“Good job, you did great.”
Mr. Cool Cool Cat is standing in front of me, offering his hands. His outstretched hands.
I don’t know how I did it, but my noodle arms grab his hands, seemingly operating independently of my brain. Well, if you’re not gonna click in and think here, we’ll handle this.
Mr. Cool Cool Cat pulls me up, and gives me a quick hug.
“Good job. Great job.”
Mr. Cool Cool Cat is now officially my favorite person of the year.
I made it through the rest of the class, I made it through the rest of the week, and I had unexpected drinks with Tricia, one of my favorite people of all time. We had started drinks at a local bar, then went back to her place, because our conversation was so extensive, and covered so many different topics, that a single hour just wasn’t enough.
But this means I get to see one of my favorite dogs ever, SIMON! SIMON THE DOG, people! He's made appearances on this blog here, here, and here. What an unexpected bonus! I couldn’t have planned on it, and yet here he is, and here I am, and here he is sitting on the couch next to me!
I also got a DOUBLE unexpected bonus in the form of The Staircase. Faithful Readers O The Blog will remember The Staircase entry , where little Iain didn’t wanna go to bed on New Year’s Eve, and I turned the memory of him trudging up the stairs into a patented religious metaphor O GOLD.
Here we are, over two years later, and there I am with Simon, World’s Greatest Dog, watching Iain, two years older, but no less obstinate, go up the stairs again.
What year is this? 2008? 2009? 2010?
Two years ago Iain said, “But Momma, I’m not tired.” Tonight, after a fun filled night of dinosaurs at the Staples Center and McDonald’s for dinner, he says, “I won’t do it!”
“I won’t do it!”
The hilarious part is that he’s still climbing the stairs as he’s saying it, “I won’t do it!” (climbing two more stairs) “I won’t do it, Momma!” (he keeps going.)
“We’re gonna have issues, then,” is Tricia’s reply, but she doesn’t get out of her chair. She doesn’t have to, because Iain can bitch all he wants to, but he’s still trudging up those stairs, hating life every second, but still obeying in his own obstinate way.
That is my journey.
I am tired. I’m tired, and I have noodle arms, and I am so very disappointed that despite all my actions, I cannot change or otherwise get off this dismal hamster wheel of life.
But I grabbed the outstretched hands. And I will continue to bitch all the way up these never ending stairs. But I keep going. Because I have no other choice. Because I know God won’t let me stop. Because my quads are awesome. ☺
David Bowie and his two toned eyes have nothing on Simon, World’s Greatest Dog, and Simon's Book Club Pick O The Month. We’ll see what happens.
I had exactly one day off. Obviously, I was prepared for a much longer unemployed stint. And there’s a significant part of me that sighs at being thrust into such similar circumstances as last year – here’s a gig working for mercurial people that have gone through a string of temps before you showed up and calmed them down with your mellow nature that actually disguises an I Don’t Care What You Think About Me mentality – that I’m having a hard time remembering what year it is. 2009? 2010? How can I tell them apart?
But on my one day off, I went to a Boot Camp class at my gym that I never get to go to because I’m usually at work when the class starts. I recognized the instructor as someone who had subbed at one of my 7am classes before, and he’s a pretty warm guy. My other Boot Camp instructors are usually military Yell At You Because It’s Boot Camp, or Icy Cool I Throw Down This Challenge, Can You Defy My Expectations Of You.
But this instructor is a Cool Cool Cat, and the class was smaller than normal, so he was going around encouraging people one by one. By the time he got to me, I was on the triceps station.
I hate triceps dips, because they hurt like a bitch. I can do biceps stuff all day long, my deltoids aren’t too shabby, and I kick out the jams when it comes to abs, but triceps are my evil arch enemy, like they are for any girl.
But in classic fashion, The Thing You Hate The Most Is The Thing You Need To Do The Most, and Mr. Cool Cool Cat comes over to supervise me just as I’ve decided that I’m gonna do the Triceps dips all hard core, with my legs straight out in front of me, as opposed to a table top bend in the legs.
The initial plan was to go Hard Core style for 45 seconds, and then wimp out and do Table Top style for the remaining 45 seconds. But now that Mr. Cool Cool Cat has come over to cheer me on, I can’t exactly quit halfway through.
So I struggle through a minute and a half of Hard Core Triceps Dips. For context, after 30 seconds, it feels like someone has squirted lighter fluid on the back of my arms and flicked a match. My arms are rapidly approaching noodle consistency, and there’s a good chance I won’t be able to raise them again for the rest of the day, which will make shampooing my hair pretty difficult after class.
I’m deep breathing like a champ, in the hopes the oxygen influx will take some of the burn away, and Mr. Cool Cool Cat is cheering me on, “You got this, you got this, keep going, keep going.”
“It HURTS!” I bite out through gritted teeth, desperate for someone to know that this is such a struggle, these past couple of weeks have HURT SO MUCH, and it’s all filtering down to a remaining 45 seconds, and if I puss out now, it wins.
What wins?
LIFE wins. Life - which has served me such a steaming pile of shit in the form of multiple people taking me for granted and abusing my I Treat Everyone How I Want To be Treated nature since the beginning of 2010 - is going to squash me like a bug and laugh at me as I curl up on the aerobic room floor with my broken arms, and cry, and wait for the rest of this terrible year to be over already.
“I know it hurts, but you got this, just stay with me, I’m counting you down, 15 more seconds, come on now, you got this,” Mr. Cool Cat says, and counts me down 15, 10, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and we’re done. It’s over.
My legs rocket back under me as my arms let go of the triceps station and I lean forward in a crouching position. I’m breathing hard, it hurts it hurts, I can barely focus in front of me. I made it through a minute and a half of Hard Core style triceps dips, and what does it matter, I still hurt, maybe more than before, hey, how am I gonna get home if I have to use my arms to drive? I hurt, I hurt, I can’t really see anything but what’s directly in front of me.
And what’s in front of me is an outstretched pair of hands.
“Good job, you did great.”
Mr. Cool Cool Cat is standing in front of me, offering his hands. His outstretched hands.
I don’t know how I did it, but my noodle arms grab his hands, seemingly operating independently of my brain. Well, if you’re not gonna click in and think here, we’ll handle this.
Mr. Cool Cool Cat pulls me up, and gives me a quick hug.
“Good job. Great job.”
Mr. Cool Cool Cat is now officially my favorite person of the year.
I made it through the rest of the class, I made it through the rest of the week, and I had unexpected drinks with Tricia, one of my favorite people of all time. We had started drinks at a local bar, then went back to her place, because our conversation was so extensive, and covered so many different topics, that a single hour just wasn’t enough.
But this means I get to see one of my favorite dogs ever, SIMON! SIMON THE DOG, people! He's made appearances on this blog here, here, and here. What an unexpected bonus! I couldn’t have planned on it, and yet here he is, and here I am, and here he is sitting on the couch next to me!
I also got a DOUBLE unexpected bonus in the form of The Staircase. Faithful Readers O The Blog will remember The Staircase entry , where little Iain didn’t wanna go to bed on New Year’s Eve, and I turned the memory of him trudging up the stairs into a patented religious metaphor O GOLD.Here we are, over two years later, and there I am with Simon, World’s Greatest Dog, watching Iain, two years older, but no less obstinate, go up the stairs again.
What year is this? 2008? 2009? 2010?
Two years ago Iain said, “But Momma, I’m not tired.” Tonight, after a fun filled night of dinosaurs at the Staples Center and McDonald’s for dinner, he says, “I won’t do it!”
“I won’t do it!”
The hilarious part is that he’s still climbing the stairs as he’s saying it, “I won’t do it!” (climbing two more stairs) “I won’t do it, Momma!” (he keeps going.)
“We’re gonna have issues, then,” is Tricia’s reply, but she doesn’t get out of her chair. She doesn’t have to, because Iain can bitch all he wants to, but he’s still trudging up those stairs, hating life every second, but still obeying in his own obstinate way.
That is my journey.
I am tired. I’m tired, and I have noodle arms, and I am so very disappointed that despite all my actions, I cannot change or otherwise get off this dismal hamster wheel of life.
But I grabbed the outstretched hands. And I will continue to bitch all the way up these never ending stairs. But I keep going. Because I have no other choice. Because I know God won’t let me stop. Because my quads are awesome. ☺
David Bowie and his two toned eyes have nothing on Simon, World’s Greatest Dog, and Simon's Book Club Pick O The Month. We’ll see what happens.
Monday, September 06, 2010
Perhaps You Should Wash Your Mouth Out With Soap
Perhaps leaving my job might have been a bigger deal than I thought.
How else to explain why I was sitting in church yesterday, tears streaming down my face, Merriweather falling asleep beside me, while there was at least ten people standing at the front of the auditorium, waiting for people to come down so they could pray for them.
And all I could think of was, well, two things:
#1 – I should’ve brought Kleenex.
#2 – Fuck them. I’m not going down there to pray.
Which obviously means I’m not getting blessed, right? Oh SURE. Come on, now. Amy Was So Stubborn That She Couldn’t Put Aside Her Pride To Go Down The Aisle And Get Prayer And That Is Why Her Life Is So Irretrievably Fucked Right Now.
If ONLY She Had Gone Down The Aisle So Everyone Could See The Blubbering Mess She Is, ONLY THEN Will She Have Officially Hit Rock Bottom, And Everyone Can See And Only THEN Can God Work His Woo Woo Magic And Fix Everything. Because Apparently There Needs To Be An Element Of Public Humiliation To Restoration.
This is why I have never liked an All Call To Prayer. I’ve seen it done in so many churches. I hate it whenever I see it for this very reason: in order to get “Blessed” the way they’re talking about, you have to publicly admit it. If you can’t walk down the aisle in front of everyone, then you’re not really admitting you have a problem and you don’t get prayer, not really, not the way they’re talking about. They’re always right, you’re always wrong.
Because the church will say:
Um, Amy, you didn’t have to go down the aisle. If that was too public for you, you could’ve grabbed someone off to the side. They even opened two new prayer rooms by the elevator in the lobby
To which I say...We have an elevator in the lobby? Since when!?
No really, to which I say – you could have shuffled everyone off to the sides, and have had nobody standing in front. I bet then you wouldn’t have had six to eight people standing in front of the auditorium with nothing to do. Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t wanna publicly admit they need prayer. You have six to eight people wanting to pray staring at a good thirty to forty people in the audience who don’t wanna get up, and don’t wanna leave, what do you think needed to be changed?
It's SO not hard, church. Shuffle everyone off to the sides. Honestly.
You know, before I even got to church yesterday morning, I was in prayer.
But it was more me slumped against the side of my bed, my head resting on my arms resting on the mattress, trying desperately to feel a sense of comfort of some sort, as if I was crying in God’s lap, and as if He was stroking my hair. Kinda like this:
Except God wasn’t there, and neither was a Fairy Godmother. And while A Dream May Be A Wish Your Heart Makes, there’s zero truth to No Matter How Your Heart Keeps Dreaming, If You Keep On Believing, The Dream That You Wish Will Come True.
Because there’s work involved. On both sides. Yours and God’s.
Do you remember what Cinderella’s dialogue is just before the Fairy Godmother shows up and decides the mice and horse and dog are collateral damage in granting Cinderella’s wish to get to the ball?
Cinderella’s sobbing, and she says this:
“It’s just no use...there’s nothing left to believe in. Nothing.”
I’m pretty sure the reason why I’m currently hopeless is because I don’t have a plan.
I don’t do well without plans. I’m a Type A Pisces. I’m dreamy AND organized to a T. There’s not a lot of Type A Pisces out there, which is why you need to treasure us when you find us. We’re extremely rare, we are.
And there is nothing worse than a Type A Pisces Without A Plan. Because we will tell you EXACTLY why our plans have failed in the past, and why it’s kinda silly to make a plan for the future. And then we cry and stare at the sunset for awhile.
I left my job. On my terms. My boss couldn’t make a decision (most men can’t), so I made it for him. Yay for my professional integrity! Boo for the future!
I turned in a new draft of Striped Tiger to my producer! Another producer took Purple Monkey in to a network! None of it matters! Because nothing will come of it! Because nothing has! Been working on both these projects for over five years now! Nothing has changed in the past! Nothing will change in the future!
It’s exactly a year later – I’m working on the same exact projects, I have bounced out of a job I thought I might be hired in, and I’m back to temping. I am in the exact same hamster wheel! Stella and I coined the term last month: Failure To Progress.
I have Failed To Progress. Yaaaaaayyyyyyyyy!
And the church will say:
Um, Amy. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Because God couldn’t work with you until you hit rock bottom. Welcome to rock bottom. Now God can do something with you now. And by the way, get your ass down that aisle and fucking pray with the fucking elders at the front of the auditorium. Your fucking pride is meaningless.
Oh really? Really, God, really? Last year wasn’t rock bottom? Because we’ve Failed To Progress, see. How could this year be worse than last year? Why didn’t You act last year? Why would You wait to act this year?
Because I STILL didn’t go down the aisle. I left.
And the second I left the auditorium and hit the sunshine on Hollywood Blvd, I felt worlds better. Maybe I don’t have a plan. But I got away from that strange cesspool of pressure and guilt and stares and that automatically made my day better.
Dear Church: Pressured Prayer Is Meaningless. Please Go Back To The Drawing Board. Feel Free To Ask Me For Suggestions. I’ve Got Nothing But Time.
Love,
Amy The Writer
How else to explain why I was sitting in church yesterday, tears streaming down my face, Merriweather falling asleep beside me, while there was at least ten people standing at the front of the auditorium, waiting for people to come down so they could pray for them.
And all I could think of was, well, two things:
#1 – I should’ve brought Kleenex.
#2 – Fuck them. I’m not going down there to pray.
Which obviously means I’m not getting blessed, right? Oh SURE. Come on, now. Amy Was So Stubborn That She Couldn’t Put Aside Her Pride To Go Down The Aisle And Get Prayer And That Is Why Her Life Is So Irretrievably Fucked Right Now.
If ONLY She Had Gone Down The Aisle So Everyone Could See The Blubbering Mess She Is, ONLY THEN Will She Have Officially Hit Rock Bottom, And Everyone Can See And Only THEN Can God Work His Woo Woo Magic And Fix Everything. Because Apparently There Needs To Be An Element Of Public Humiliation To Restoration.
This is why I have never liked an All Call To Prayer. I’ve seen it done in so many churches. I hate it whenever I see it for this very reason: in order to get “Blessed” the way they’re talking about, you have to publicly admit it. If you can’t walk down the aisle in front of everyone, then you’re not really admitting you have a problem and you don’t get prayer, not really, not the way they’re talking about. They’re always right, you’re always wrong.
Because the church will say:
Um, Amy, you didn’t have to go down the aisle. If that was too public for you, you could’ve grabbed someone off to the side. They even opened two new prayer rooms by the elevator in the lobby
To which I say...We have an elevator in the lobby? Since when!?
No really, to which I say – you could have shuffled everyone off to the sides, and have had nobody standing in front. I bet then you wouldn’t have had six to eight people standing in front of the auditorium with nothing to do. Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t wanna publicly admit they need prayer. You have six to eight people wanting to pray staring at a good thirty to forty people in the audience who don’t wanna get up, and don’t wanna leave, what do you think needed to be changed?
It's SO not hard, church. Shuffle everyone off to the sides. Honestly.
You know, before I even got to church yesterday morning, I was in prayer.
But it was more me slumped against the side of my bed, my head resting on my arms resting on the mattress, trying desperately to feel a sense of comfort of some sort, as if I was crying in God’s lap, and as if He was stroking my hair. Kinda like this:
Except God wasn’t there, and neither was a Fairy Godmother. And while A Dream May Be A Wish Your Heart Makes, there’s zero truth to No Matter How Your Heart Keeps Dreaming, If You Keep On Believing, The Dream That You Wish Will Come True.
Because there’s work involved. On both sides. Yours and God’s.
Do you remember what Cinderella’s dialogue is just before the Fairy Godmother shows up and decides the mice and horse and dog are collateral damage in granting Cinderella’s wish to get to the ball?
Cinderella’s sobbing, and she says this:
“It’s just no use...there’s nothing left to believe in. Nothing.”
I’m pretty sure the reason why I’m currently hopeless is because I don’t have a plan.
I don’t do well without plans. I’m a Type A Pisces. I’m dreamy AND organized to a T. There’s not a lot of Type A Pisces out there, which is why you need to treasure us when you find us. We’re extremely rare, we are.
And there is nothing worse than a Type A Pisces Without A Plan. Because we will tell you EXACTLY why our plans have failed in the past, and why it’s kinda silly to make a plan for the future. And then we cry and stare at the sunset for awhile.
I left my job. On my terms. My boss couldn’t make a decision (most men can’t), so I made it for him. Yay for my professional integrity! Boo for the future!
I turned in a new draft of Striped Tiger to my producer! Another producer took Purple Monkey in to a network! None of it matters! Because nothing will come of it! Because nothing has! Been working on both these projects for over five years now! Nothing has changed in the past! Nothing will change in the future!
It’s exactly a year later – I’m working on the same exact projects, I have bounced out of a job I thought I might be hired in, and I’m back to temping. I am in the exact same hamster wheel! Stella and I coined the term last month: Failure To Progress.
I have Failed To Progress. Yaaaaaayyyyyyyyy!
And the church will say:
Um, Amy. You are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Because God couldn’t work with you until you hit rock bottom. Welcome to rock bottom. Now God can do something with you now. And by the way, get your ass down that aisle and fucking pray with the fucking elders at the front of the auditorium. Your fucking pride is meaningless.
Oh really? Really, God, really? Last year wasn’t rock bottom? Because we’ve Failed To Progress, see. How could this year be worse than last year? Why didn’t You act last year? Why would You wait to act this year?
Because I STILL didn’t go down the aisle. I left.
And the second I left the auditorium and hit the sunshine on Hollywood Blvd, I felt worlds better. Maybe I don’t have a plan. But I got away from that strange cesspool of pressure and guilt and stares and that automatically made my day better.
Dear Church: Pressured Prayer Is Meaningless. Please Go Back To The Drawing Board. Feel Free To Ask Me For Suggestions. I’ve Got Nothing But Time.
Love,
Amy The Writer
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Someone's Gonna Be Offended Anyway
I hope I don’t offend anyone with this one, and it’s not that I’m talking about it because I know someone who’s died lately, but this phrase has always bothered me.
“He/She went to be with the Lord.”
It sounds so passive to me. Almost absent minded or belatedly. Like there’s no thought, no effort behind it.
I went to be with the Lord.
I went to heaven.
I went to be with my mom.
I went to Barstow, California.
I went to the grocery store.
I have no plans to die anytime soon, but if/when I do go, please don’t chronicle it that way. I’m gonna throw myself wholeheartedly into the act of passing, I am.
Amy skipped joyfully to meet her Father in heaven, where they’re currently knocking back tequila shots and laughing as the best parts of her life play up on a movie screen in heaven.
Hmmm, still sounds passive.
Amy launched herself at God, and He caught her.
God grabbed Amy’s outstretched hand and yanked her upstairs.
Amy shotputted full tilt into God’s arms and now they’re dancing to Kid Cudi’s “Up Up & Away” Yes, it’s a song about marijuana. It doesn’t matter, because it’s damn catchy. So Amy and God are dancing to it. Flowery meadows and angels with harps might be there too. MIGHT.
I like that one, heh.
This lyrically is sooooooooooooo NSFW (that’s Not Safe For Work, Mom. Meaning it has a few words you’re not gonna like AT ALL.)
“He/She went to be with the Lord.”
It sounds so passive to me. Almost absent minded or belatedly. Like there’s no thought, no effort behind it.
I went to be with the Lord.
I went to heaven.
I went to be with my mom.
I went to Barstow, California.
I went to the grocery store.
I have no plans to die anytime soon, but if/when I do go, please don’t chronicle it that way. I’m gonna throw myself wholeheartedly into the act of passing, I am.
Amy skipped joyfully to meet her Father in heaven, where they’re currently knocking back tequila shots and laughing as the best parts of her life play up on a movie screen in heaven.
Hmmm, still sounds passive.
Amy launched herself at God, and He caught her.
God grabbed Amy’s outstretched hand and yanked her upstairs.
Amy shotputted full tilt into God’s arms and now they’re dancing to Kid Cudi’s “Up Up & Away” Yes, it’s a song about marijuana. It doesn’t matter, because it’s damn catchy. So Amy and God are dancing to it. Flowery meadows and angels with harps might be there too. MIGHT.
I like that one, heh.
This lyrically is sooooooooooooo NSFW (that’s Not Safe For Work, Mom. Meaning it has a few words you’re not gonna like AT ALL.)
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
It’s Not As Dramatic As It Sounds.
Today I gave my boss two weeks notice. I’m walking away from a job that he wants me to stay at. Granted, it’s a job I’m TEMPING at. I wanted him to hire me. He says he hasn’t had enough time to make a reasoned decision. I’ve been there over eight months, how much more time does he need? I told him if I wasn’t hired by the end of the month, I would have to move on.
So I’m moving on.
There no dramaworks with this one, though one could reason I have every right to turn on the tears. For every sign I get that it’s a crummy job market out there, I get another sign that says the jobs are out there, if you have the right connections, the right skills, the right amount of luck. I can honestly say I have not had any luck this year. I’m not saying I’m not blessed, I absolutely am. But I’m enjoying blessings that were given to me last year, the year before, many years before. I’m again thinking God is the benevolent grandparent who shows up once a year to shower me with stuff and then leaves on, I dunno, an around-the-world cruise or something, but He hopped off in Thailand to help stop sex trafficking or something and isn’t gonna be back for a longer than thought while.
Ungrateful brat. Who says God has to bless you every year, huh? Shut up and stop being dramatic. You’ll probably land another temp assignment instantly.
Part of me semi perks up at the thought of going on a new adventure. Who knows what temp assignment I will land next! It could be awesome! It could be amazing!
And yet I’ve done this so many times before, and this year alone has been filled with so many potential opportunities, and none of them blossomed into anything, that there’s no energy to hope for anything. I feel like an anonymous worker bee. I’m here. I work. I write. Repeat ten thousand times.
Interestingly enough, Aarti’s blog from last year has been rattling around my head a lot.
Around this time last year, Aarti was at the end of her rope. A year later, she’s the winner of The Next Food Network Star. That’s a huge life change. Sure, she’ll still have problems and issues, because that’s the way the world works, but her life is officially totally different.
I can’t do what Aarti does, and she worked her ass off to get where she is. I don’t envy her winning, but I do envy how her life has totally changed.
I want a total life change. I leave this job, I go temp again, it will be the same circle again. I work my ass off on my writing. I try, try, try, but I can't seem to affect any kind of change. And there is no urge, no pull, nothing tugging me in one direction or another.
I need an f’ing break is what I need. Heh.
So I’m moving on.
There no dramaworks with this one, though one could reason I have every right to turn on the tears. For every sign I get that it’s a crummy job market out there, I get another sign that says the jobs are out there, if you have the right connections, the right skills, the right amount of luck. I can honestly say I have not had any luck this year. I’m not saying I’m not blessed, I absolutely am. But I’m enjoying blessings that were given to me last year, the year before, many years before. I’m again thinking God is the benevolent grandparent who shows up once a year to shower me with stuff and then leaves on, I dunno, an around-the-world cruise or something, but He hopped off in Thailand to help stop sex trafficking or something and isn’t gonna be back for a longer than thought while.
Ungrateful brat. Who says God has to bless you every year, huh? Shut up and stop being dramatic. You’ll probably land another temp assignment instantly.
Part of me semi perks up at the thought of going on a new adventure. Who knows what temp assignment I will land next! It could be awesome! It could be amazing!
And yet I’ve done this so many times before, and this year alone has been filled with so many potential opportunities, and none of them blossomed into anything, that there’s no energy to hope for anything. I feel like an anonymous worker bee. I’m here. I work. I write. Repeat ten thousand times.
Interestingly enough, Aarti’s blog from last year has been rattling around my head a lot.
Around this time last year, Aarti was at the end of her rope. A year later, she’s the winner of The Next Food Network Star. That’s a huge life change. Sure, she’ll still have problems and issues, because that’s the way the world works, but her life is officially totally different.
I can’t do what Aarti does, and she worked her ass off to get where she is. I don’t envy her winning, but I do envy how her life has totally changed.
I want a total life change. I leave this job, I go temp again, it will be the same circle again. I work my ass off on my writing. I try, try, try, but I can't seem to affect any kind of change. And there is no urge, no pull, nothing tugging me in one direction or another.
I need an f’ing break is what I need. Heh.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
I Get In Love
Is it weird if I say that I think my bikini waxer is one of the most interesting people to listen to? Let the wincing begin (in more ways than one!)
She’s a middle aged Russian lady with stylish coiffed blonde hair, working out of a suite of offices in Beverly Hills with very reasonable rates.
Some people say she can come across a bit like a military commander, barking out orders, and if you’re not used to it, I could see how it would be a little off putting “Slide more to me!” “Turn over!” “You done!”
But all I do is ask her questions, just so I can listen to that gloriously thick Russian accent roll off her tongue. I’ve listened to her vent about how she hates clients who are late, how she has people who come up from Orange County who grab the early appointments on a Friday morning because they’re continuing on to Vegas and wanna be poolside ready,
and how the Maui poster plastered to the ceiling was something her daughter sent her.
She had closed the office for a few weeks while she went on vacation so when I arrived for my appointment yesterday morning, I wanted to hear all about where she went.
Turns out she had taken one of those two week Viking river cruises that I know more than a few people have done. And she eagerly dug the cruise book out of the drawer and gave to me to page through while she worked.
She went to Paris, Italy, Germany and Prague, among other places, and she was all “Ech” about Paris. It’s not the same anymore as when she was there twenty years ago, I guess it’s too gentrified for her now. Though she didn’t say the word gentrified, she said, “Ech” which, coming from her, rolled up from the back of her throat and swirled around for at least five seconds.
But she loved Prague. LOVED Prague. “Everyone there speak English. English like you, not like me.” She showed me pictures on her Iphone of the architecture, of the flowers, of the farmer’s market, “Nothing frozen there. Everything fresh. Fresh meat, fresh vegetables.”
The wax is cooling on my inner thigh, but I don’t care because it’s a kick to hear her clucking about the churches and cathedrals. She’s trying to express how magnificent they are, how the pictures she took with her Iphone look exactly the same as in the guidebook I’m holding, and she ends up with, “Prague...I get in love.”
She’s trying to say, “I fell in love.” But that’s what came out.
“I get in love.”
I love the imagery that comes from that.
Sure everyone knows “I fell in love.” We all understand what that looks like, being taken off guard, unaware, hey, I was just walking here and I tripped over what I thought was a root in the ground and I fell in love. I wasn’t trying. It just happened.
But.
I get in love.
Like a pool of water. I dipped a toe in. I tested it out. It was alright. Something I could handle. Maybe I thought the water would be too cold. Maybe it’s the hotub at Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy’s house, and I think it’s gonna be too hot.
But it’s fine. So I get in.
I get in love.
I relax in it, I let it swirl around me, I let it lift my body up, I let it support me. I float weightlessness in it. I stare up at the sky and I close my eyes. And I’m transported, if only for a moment, maybe more, maybe less, to something bigger than me.
I’m beginning to think more and more that love is a choice. When you’re younger you’re powerless against the rush of emotions, of hormones, you’re swept away by feelings, you do irrational things in the rush of the moment.
But I don’t think that’s love. I think that’s lust. When you’re young, you don’t know the difference. When you first experience it, you have no idea what it is, but what culture, movies and the songs tell you is that it’s love, so that’s what you think love is.
Now that I’m (slightly) older, I value my time far too much to waste it. I recognize that rush of emotion, the yearning to be swept away and carried off to the land of irrationality can turn on you in an instant and cut you to the bone.
So I think love is a choice. Not tripping. Not falling. Not helpless against it.
You check it. You feel it out. You weigh your options (do I get in the hotub, or do I go watch a movie.) You make the choice to get in it. And then you let yourself be submerged and surrounded in it.
Does that sound too rational? Too guarded? Too coldly dispassionate? The least romantic thing in the world? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love, believe it or not. I’ve been swept away by lust I couldn’t control, and I’ve been cut to the bone. I know every jagged despairing edge of the Slow Fadeout, which is the Modern Man’s Cowardly Goodbye Of Choice.
But one day, it’s going to happen. I’m gonna get in love.
Someday.
She’s a middle aged Russian lady with stylish coiffed blonde hair, working out of a suite of offices in Beverly Hills with very reasonable rates.
Some people say she can come across a bit like a military commander, barking out orders, and if you’re not used to it, I could see how it would be a little off putting “Slide more to me!” “Turn over!” “You done!”
But all I do is ask her questions, just so I can listen to that gloriously thick Russian accent roll off her tongue. I’ve listened to her vent about how she hates clients who are late, how she has people who come up from Orange County who grab the early appointments on a Friday morning because they’re continuing on to Vegas and wanna be poolside ready,
and how the Maui poster plastered to the ceiling was something her daughter sent her.She had closed the office for a few weeks while she went on vacation so when I arrived for my appointment yesterday morning, I wanted to hear all about where she went.
Turns out she had taken one of those two week Viking river cruises that I know more than a few people have done. And she eagerly dug the cruise book out of the drawer and gave to me to page through while she worked.
She went to Paris, Italy, Germany and Prague, among other places, and she was all “Ech” about Paris. It’s not the same anymore as when she was there twenty years ago, I guess it’s too gentrified for her now. Though she didn’t say the word gentrified, she said, “Ech” which, coming from her, rolled up from the back of her throat and swirled around for at least five seconds.
But she loved Prague. LOVED Prague. “Everyone there speak English. English like you, not like me.” She showed me pictures on her Iphone of the architecture, of the flowers, of the farmer’s market, “Nothing frozen there. Everything fresh. Fresh meat, fresh vegetables.”
The wax is cooling on my inner thigh, but I don’t care because it’s a kick to hear her clucking about the churches and cathedrals. She’s trying to express how magnificent they are, how the pictures she took with her Iphone look exactly the same as in the guidebook I’m holding, and she ends up with, “Prague...I get in love.”
She’s trying to say, “I fell in love.” But that’s what came out.
“I get in love.”
I love the imagery that comes from that.
Sure everyone knows “I fell in love.” We all understand what that looks like, being taken off guard, unaware, hey, I was just walking here and I tripped over what I thought was a root in the ground and I fell in love. I wasn’t trying. It just happened.
But.
I get in love.
Like a pool of water. I dipped a toe in. I tested it out. It was alright. Something I could handle. Maybe I thought the water would be too cold. Maybe it’s the hotub at Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy’s house, and I think it’s gonna be too hot.
But it’s fine. So I get in.
I get in love.
I relax in it, I let it swirl around me, I let it lift my body up, I let it support me. I float weightlessness in it. I stare up at the sky and I close my eyes. And I’m transported, if only for a moment, maybe more, maybe less, to something bigger than me.
I’m beginning to think more and more that love is a choice. When you’re younger you’re powerless against the rush of emotions, of hormones, you’re swept away by feelings, you do irrational things in the rush of the moment.
But I don’t think that’s love. I think that’s lust. When you’re young, you don’t know the difference. When you first experience it, you have no idea what it is, but what culture, movies and the songs tell you is that it’s love, so that’s what you think love is.
Now that I’m (slightly) older, I value my time far too much to waste it. I recognize that rush of emotion, the yearning to be swept away and carried off to the land of irrationality can turn on you in an instant and cut you to the bone.
So I think love is a choice. Not tripping. Not falling. Not helpless against it.
You check it. You feel it out. You weigh your options (do I get in the hotub, or do I go watch a movie.) You make the choice to get in it. And then you let yourself be submerged and surrounded in it.
Does that sound too rational? Too guarded? Too coldly dispassionate? The least romantic thing in the world? I don’t know. I’ve never been in love, believe it or not. I’ve been swept away by lust I couldn’t control, and I’ve been cut to the bone. I know every jagged despairing edge of the Slow Fadeout, which is the Modern Man’s Cowardly Goodbye Of Choice.
But one day, it’s going to happen. I’m gonna get in love.
Someday.
Monday, August 09, 2010
If You Fall, I Will Pick You Up
A few years ago, an elderly couple fell in front of my car. I was at the intersection of Wilshire and Fairfax, waiting for the light to change so I could continue east.
The couple was elderly and tentative. I remember thinking that they must not be from around here, since the traffic was scaring them. Who knows what landmark they were trying to get to (The Petersen Auto Museum?), they were cautiously edging their way south on Fairfax, arm in arm, leaning into each other. They weren’t familiar with the timed signals, so by the time the flashing hand stopped flashing and was a red solid GET YOUR ASS ACROSS THE STREET NOW hand, they had only made it halfway across.
They were scared and tried to move faster, though at this point nobody was going to run them over, even when the light turned. But they didn’t know that, their feet shuffled, and whether she tripped on something on the road, or whether she tripped on him, I don’t know.
But the woman went down. In a very dramatic fashion. Turning as she fell to reach back for her husband. It was pretty awful to watch, I can still see the whole thing happening clearly – her arms reaching out to him, him being unable to grab back, unable to stop her, the worst near miss ever.
Amazingly enough, she didn’t hurt herself too badly. Didn’t land straight back, or on her head or anything. Her husband somehow got her up and they trotted the rest of the way to the other side of the street.
The whole thing took five seconds. So fast that I was frozen at the wheel, not able to move. The guy in the car in the right lane beside me got out of his car, but didn’t move further, since the elderly husband already had his wife up and going. There was nothing else for anyone to do, except move forward, because now the light had changed.
So off we all went, and I couldn’t see the elderly couple in my rearview mirror, didn’t know if they stopped at the bus bench to take stock of any injuries, didn’t know if they made it to their destination, though I knew they had made it across. I tried to take comfort in that fact, as opposed to the awful image of her arms reaching out, and him not being able to catch her, and me frozen behind the wheel, not being able to do anything at all.
-------------
Yesterday was the fourth blood drive I hosted at my church. It’s so standard procedure at this point that I didn’t bother taking any pictures. Once again, people thanked me for hosting it, but it’s not something that requires thanks. The Red Cross does all the work, provides all the materials. All I do is browbeat my church into letting us hold it once a year. I don’t even have to browbeat people anymore into signing up, they’re all doing it willingly. For every person that was a no show, there was a walk in.
I finally managed to wiggle in to donate myself in the 2pm hour, and soundly beat the Red Hemoglobin Machine O’ Death with a personal best of 14.7 (12.5 is passing.) The nurse had no problem at all finding a vein, and had no problem getting the needle in the vein, which the staff at Children’s Hospital could take a few tips from, since I’ve been bounced three times there in the past two months when I’ve tried to donate platelets.
I chatted with the nurse while I filled up the bag, and we both sang along to Lady Antelbellum’s “Need You Now” because that’s fun to do while you’re lying on your back with a needle in your arm.
And my iron count is gangbusters. A pint of my blood is now helping other people in the Southern California area, and we collected 28 other usable pints for our fourth blood drive for a total of 29 units.
But that’s not why I think that blood drive happened yesterday.
-------------
I had decided that my reward for a successful blood drive and giving a pint of my own blood would be that I would grab a late lunch at Birds on Franklin Boulevard. I like their Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wraps, and I hadn’t been there in forever. I had sent the Bloodmobile on its merry way at 3:40pm, and I’d have enough time to do a leisurely lunch and be home in time to watch Friend O The Blog Aarti kick some more ass on The Next Food Network Star at 6pm (I get the east coast feed for some reason.)
So I’m walking back up the sidewalk on Wilcox to my car in the parking lot, pretty happy with myself for a successful blood drive, and looking forward to the Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wrap, and I hope parking isn’t a hassle, it should be kinda low key right about now—
And then I hear something. A whump? A thud? A muted cry? I turn around, and about fifty yards away is a woman on her back, her legs and arms flailing in the air, looking to the world like an overstuffed human turtle.
She’s fallen.
I think there were people farther down the street, but they were walking away from her, and after casting a look behind them to see her, kept on going.
But I can’t.
“Are you okay?” I shout to her, as I run back down the sidewalk to her. She’s now sitting up, very shaky. It appears she’s tripped on the uneven sidewalk. She thinks she’s busted her leg. “Do you want me to call 911?” She says no. She’s all shaky from the shock of it all, I guess. One of the arms on her eyeglasses have snapped, and there’s a scratch on the corner of her eye, and her palm is scraped. I tell her I have some tissues in the car, hang on, I’ll run get them.
So I run to the car to grab the emergency tissues for allergies, and come back to her. She’s sitting on the sidewalk, and people are ignoring her completely as they walk around her. She looks as though she COULD be mentally ill, but she’s not, she’s just one of those sorta downtrodden types, with the grey dried out long hair, puffy body, not great complexion, and a green fanny pack strapped around her waist bulging with a bunch of stuff.
So I sit on the sidewalk with her. “I’m Amy.” “I don’t usually meet people like this.” Is her shaky reply. She doesn’t tell me her name. She doesn’t think anything’s broken anymore. We clean up the scraped parts.
“Where were you headed?” I ask. She was going to take the bus to see her husband, who’s holed up at Kindred Hospital, on Slauson. I vaguely know where Slauson is (south of the 10), and it’s in the opposite direction of where my Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wrap is by a good thirty minutes. One way.
But I’m not annoyed, or put upon. As weird as it is, it feels like God is saying you have time to help this person out. And I respond not by saying whhhhhhyyyyyyyyy. But okay. Sure. No problem. Which is not my usual reaction. Whining is my usual reaction.
“Do you need a ride?” I say, “My car’s parked right over there.” She gingerly says okay, and I help her up, and lead her to my car.
Her name, she tells me finally, is Barbara. Her husband’s name is Ben, and a lot of people know them as “The Bs.” They go to a church over in Granada Hills, but ironically, they’ve visited my church on occasion. They really liked one of the pastors, but they haven’t attended as much since he left, and then her husband has had his health woes. He’s been at this hospital for three weeks, has another three weeks to go, and then will be transferred to a physical therapy place for a few more weeks before coming home.
She was gonna take the bus to get to the hospital. The bus takes an hour, and sometimes she has to wait for it for another hour, so by the time she makes it to the hospital, she has enough time to say hi and bye, before taking the bus back home. She visits him five days a week.
Eventually, we turn onto Slauson, and she points out the Kindred Hospital, and I pull up to the entrance. She says thanks, gets out of the car, and goes on her way. I honestly think she may have been more embarrassed about the whole thing than anything else.
I turn the car around and head back up La Cienega. I don’t know that I’ll have time for Birds now. It’s 4:40pm, I don’t have Tivo, and I really don’t wanna miss Aarti, it’s the Iron Chef America challenge for the episode today, really high stakes.
But I’m talking to God, saying Now what? Are we off on another grand adventure? Is this the start of some really weird stuff? Was this whole encounter really as simple as You telling me to get this woman off the sidewalk and give her a ride to her husband’s hospital? That’s all You want? Because, here I am, already in Obedient Mode. I hosted a blood drive. I gave blood. I picked a woman who fell up off the sidewalk and dropped her off at her husband’s hospital. Anything else?
Maybe I’ll have time to stop by Arby’s. I could get cheesesticks. Not quite the same thing as a Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wrap, but still a bit of a reward.
Hey, a reward. Now I start to wonder do I get a reward for being obedient!? Was this a test!? And now that I’ve passed it, something amazing will happen? Like how in the fairy tales, you help someone, they turn out to be a magic fish who grants you three wishes? Or Baucis and Philemon, entertaining strangers who turned out to be Zeus and Hermes, who then saved them in a Greek myth that bears more than a faint resemblance to Noah and the Ark?
While it’s human nature to wish for and hope that I be rewarded for doing good, the truth of the matter, of my life, and what being a Christian is about, is obedience without expecting a reward, or blessings or whatever. Life will simply go on the same way it would have had I not stopped to help. The only thing different is that there’s no huge guilt trip for NOT stopping to help. I didn’t help the elderly couple all those years ago. I helped a woman today. Maybe I’ve erased a cosmic debt I didn’t even know I had.
This life is about obeying and continuing. Obeying and continuing. If it sounds dreary, that is my cynicism creeping in. It’s not been a great year so far.
Another way to look at it is that I treated someone the way I would want to be treated. If I fall down in front of you, you’d BETTER stop and help me. You’d BETTER offer me a ride, because you’re just a dick if you don’t.
When I was telling my co-worker the story today, she stopped me, “You didn’t really let her in your car, did you?” “Of course I did, why wouldn’t I?” “I dunno, the way I was raised, it was never to let a strange person in your car.”
I wanted to say back, “I dunno, the way I was raised, I help someone if they need it.” But that would be snarky and then I see that elderly couple falling on Wilshire and Fairfax, and me frozen behind the wheel and I dunno. Maybe I'll carry that cosmic debt forever. I dunno.
I do manage to make it to Birds after all. And if I only eat half of the Mexican Caesar Shrimp wrap, hassle the waiter to bring me the check in a hurry and take the rest home, I can make it home in time to watch Aarti win her challenge. Hilariously, the secret ingredient she has to work with is shrimp.
-------------
So no, we didn’t have that blood drive so we could collect blood. We didn’t have it so I could beat the hemoglobin machine. And we didn’t have it so I could sing Lady Antebellum with the nurse.
All of that effort was so I could be in the right place at the right time so I could be there when a woman fell, so I could pick her up and drive her to visit her husband in a hospital thirty minutes away.
God can be really weird sometimes.
The couple was elderly and tentative. I remember thinking that they must not be from around here, since the traffic was scaring them. Who knows what landmark they were trying to get to (The Petersen Auto Museum?), they were cautiously edging their way south on Fairfax, arm in arm, leaning into each other. They weren’t familiar with the timed signals, so by the time the flashing hand stopped flashing and was a red solid GET YOUR ASS ACROSS THE STREET NOW hand, they had only made it halfway across.
They were scared and tried to move faster, though at this point nobody was going to run them over, even when the light turned. But they didn’t know that, their feet shuffled, and whether she tripped on something on the road, or whether she tripped on him, I don’t know.
But the woman went down. In a very dramatic fashion. Turning as she fell to reach back for her husband. It was pretty awful to watch, I can still see the whole thing happening clearly – her arms reaching out to him, him being unable to grab back, unable to stop her, the worst near miss ever.
Amazingly enough, she didn’t hurt herself too badly. Didn’t land straight back, or on her head or anything. Her husband somehow got her up and they trotted the rest of the way to the other side of the street.
The whole thing took five seconds. So fast that I was frozen at the wheel, not able to move. The guy in the car in the right lane beside me got out of his car, but didn’t move further, since the elderly husband already had his wife up and going. There was nothing else for anyone to do, except move forward, because now the light had changed.
So off we all went, and I couldn’t see the elderly couple in my rearview mirror, didn’t know if they stopped at the bus bench to take stock of any injuries, didn’t know if they made it to their destination, though I knew they had made it across. I tried to take comfort in that fact, as opposed to the awful image of her arms reaching out, and him not being able to catch her, and me frozen behind the wheel, not being able to do anything at all.
-------------
Yesterday was the fourth blood drive I hosted at my church. It’s so standard procedure at this point that I didn’t bother taking any pictures. Once again, people thanked me for hosting it, but it’s not something that requires thanks. The Red Cross does all the work, provides all the materials. All I do is browbeat my church into letting us hold it once a year. I don’t even have to browbeat people anymore into signing up, they’re all doing it willingly. For every person that was a no show, there was a walk in.
I finally managed to wiggle in to donate myself in the 2pm hour, and soundly beat the Red Hemoglobin Machine O’ Death with a personal best of 14.7 (12.5 is passing.) The nurse had no problem at all finding a vein, and had no problem getting the needle in the vein, which the staff at Children’s Hospital could take a few tips from, since I’ve been bounced three times there in the past two months when I’ve tried to donate platelets.
I chatted with the nurse while I filled up the bag, and we both sang along to Lady Antelbellum’s “Need You Now” because that’s fun to do while you’re lying on your back with a needle in your arm.
And my iron count is gangbusters. A pint of my blood is now helping other people in the Southern California area, and we collected 28 other usable pints for our fourth blood drive for a total of 29 units.
But that’s not why I think that blood drive happened yesterday.
-------------
I had decided that my reward for a successful blood drive and giving a pint of my own blood would be that I would grab a late lunch at Birds on Franklin Boulevard. I like their Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wraps, and I hadn’t been there in forever. I had sent the Bloodmobile on its merry way at 3:40pm, and I’d have enough time to do a leisurely lunch and be home in time to watch Friend O The Blog Aarti kick some more ass on The Next Food Network Star at 6pm (I get the east coast feed for some reason.)
So I’m walking back up the sidewalk on Wilcox to my car in the parking lot, pretty happy with myself for a successful blood drive, and looking forward to the Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wrap, and I hope parking isn’t a hassle, it should be kinda low key right about now—
And then I hear something. A whump? A thud? A muted cry? I turn around, and about fifty yards away is a woman on her back, her legs and arms flailing in the air, looking to the world like an overstuffed human turtle.
She’s fallen.
I think there were people farther down the street, but they were walking away from her, and after casting a look behind them to see her, kept on going.
But I can’t.
“Are you okay?” I shout to her, as I run back down the sidewalk to her. She’s now sitting up, very shaky. It appears she’s tripped on the uneven sidewalk. She thinks she’s busted her leg. “Do you want me to call 911?” She says no. She’s all shaky from the shock of it all, I guess. One of the arms on her eyeglasses have snapped, and there’s a scratch on the corner of her eye, and her palm is scraped. I tell her I have some tissues in the car, hang on, I’ll run get them.
So I run to the car to grab the emergency tissues for allergies, and come back to her. She’s sitting on the sidewalk, and people are ignoring her completely as they walk around her. She looks as though she COULD be mentally ill, but she’s not, she’s just one of those sorta downtrodden types, with the grey dried out long hair, puffy body, not great complexion, and a green fanny pack strapped around her waist bulging with a bunch of stuff.
So I sit on the sidewalk with her. “I’m Amy.” “I don’t usually meet people like this.” Is her shaky reply. She doesn’t tell me her name. She doesn’t think anything’s broken anymore. We clean up the scraped parts.
“Where were you headed?” I ask. She was going to take the bus to see her husband, who’s holed up at Kindred Hospital, on Slauson. I vaguely know where Slauson is (south of the 10), and it’s in the opposite direction of where my Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wrap is by a good thirty minutes. One way.
But I’m not annoyed, or put upon. As weird as it is, it feels like God is saying you have time to help this person out. And I respond not by saying whhhhhhyyyyyyyyy. But okay. Sure. No problem. Which is not my usual reaction. Whining is my usual reaction.
“Do you need a ride?” I say, “My car’s parked right over there.” She gingerly says okay, and I help her up, and lead her to my car.
Her name, she tells me finally, is Barbara. Her husband’s name is Ben, and a lot of people know them as “The Bs.” They go to a church over in Granada Hills, but ironically, they’ve visited my church on occasion. They really liked one of the pastors, but they haven’t attended as much since he left, and then her husband has had his health woes. He’s been at this hospital for three weeks, has another three weeks to go, and then will be transferred to a physical therapy place for a few more weeks before coming home.
She was gonna take the bus to get to the hospital. The bus takes an hour, and sometimes she has to wait for it for another hour, so by the time she makes it to the hospital, she has enough time to say hi and bye, before taking the bus back home. She visits him five days a week.
Eventually, we turn onto Slauson, and she points out the Kindred Hospital, and I pull up to the entrance. She says thanks, gets out of the car, and goes on her way. I honestly think she may have been more embarrassed about the whole thing than anything else.
I turn the car around and head back up La Cienega. I don’t know that I’ll have time for Birds now. It’s 4:40pm, I don’t have Tivo, and I really don’t wanna miss Aarti, it’s the Iron Chef America challenge for the episode today, really high stakes.
But I’m talking to God, saying Now what? Are we off on another grand adventure? Is this the start of some really weird stuff? Was this whole encounter really as simple as You telling me to get this woman off the sidewalk and give her a ride to her husband’s hospital? That’s all You want? Because, here I am, already in Obedient Mode. I hosted a blood drive. I gave blood. I picked a woman who fell up off the sidewalk and dropped her off at her husband’s hospital. Anything else?
Maybe I’ll have time to stop by Arby’s. I could get cheesesticks. Not quite the same thing as a Mexican Caesar Shrimp Wrap, but still a bit of a reward.
Hey, a reward. Now I start to wonder do I get a reward for being obedient!? Was this a test!? And now that I’ve passed it, something amazing will happen? Like how in the fairy tales, you help someone, they turn out to be a magic fish who grants you three wishes? Or Baucis and Philemon, entertaining strangers who turned out to be Zeus and Hermes, who then saved them in a Greek myth that bears more than a faint resemblance to Noah and the Ark?
While it’s human nature to wish for and hope that I be rewarded for doing good, the truth of the matter, of my life, and what being a Christian is about, is obedience without expecting a reward, or blessings or whatever. Life will simply go on the same way it would have had I not stopped to help. The only thing different is that there’s no huge guilt trip for NOT stopping to help. I didn’t help the elderly couple all those years ago. I helped a woman today. Maybe I’ve erased a cosmic debt I didn’t even know I had.
This life is about obeying and continuing. Obeying and continuing. If it sounds dreary, that is my cynicism creeping in. It’s not been a great year so far.
Another way to look at it is that I treated someone the way I would want to be treated. If I fall down in front of you, you’d BETTER stop and help me. You’d BETTER offer me a ride, because you’re just a dick if you don’t.
When I was telling my co-worker the story today, she stopped me, “You didn’t really let her in your car, did you?” “Of course I did, why wouldn’t I?” “I dunno, the way I was raised, it was never to let a strange person in your car.”
I wanted to say back, “I dunno, the way I was raised, I help someone if they need it.” But that would be snarky and then I see that elderly couple falling on Wilshire and Fairfax, and me frozen behind the wheel and I dunno. Maybe I'll carry that cosmic debt forever. I dunno.
I do manage to make it to Birds after all. And if I only eat half of the Mexican Caesar Shrimp wrap, hassle the waiter to bring me the check in a hurry and take the rest home, I can make it home in time to watch Aarti win her challenge. Hilariously, the secret ingredient she has to work with is shrimp.
-------------
So no, we didn’t have that blood drive so we could collect blood. We didn’t have it so I could beat the hemoglobin machine. And we didn’t have it so I could sing Lady Antebellum with the nurse.
All of that effort was so I could be in the right place at the right time so I could be there when a woman fell, so I could pick her up and drive her to visit her husband in a hospital thirty minutes away.
God can be really weird sometimes.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
In Which Amy Struggles To Understand ANOTHER Famous Bible Verse!
I TOLD you I’d bring it back around to religion eventually!
July sucked on a number of levels, none of which I shall talk about here because My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much is a faithful reader of the blog, and she doesn’t need to know those particular details. Not when I can curl her hair with stories of things that happened YEARS AGO! YAHOOOOOOOOO! HOLD ON MOM! THIS ONE’S GONNA SUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
While MMTPHWILVVM and Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder were in the dark about July, my faithful friends were not, because I asked them all to pray a bunch. And a bunch more. And a BUNCH more. And things still went south. (“FOR NOW. IT WILL GET BETTER” my faithful friends, who are way more optimistic than I am, remind me.)
To which my friend Nellie sent me the good old standby verse of Romans 8: verses 26 – 27.
26In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. 27And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.
I love Nellie. ADORE Nellie. But that verse pissed me off. Because I simply don’t believe it. Heresy, I know.
But if we believe that we have the Holy Spirit inside us, to me that means the Holy Spirit is the voice in my head that tells me right from wrong – don’t rob that bank, don’t hit that person, don’t drink that beer. I know what that feels like.
When I am in the midst of my sorrow, of my pain, of my frustration and bitter tears, I am alone in that emotion. Which makes me feel much much worse. I don’t feel the presence of ANYONE there. Where are you then, Holy Spirit, huh?
So I think that Paul, writer of Romans, was employing a bit of poetic license that has simply gotten out of hand through the thousand of years, and offers cold comfort to cranky bitches like me now.
Yesterday was a visit to Stella and Wella. Wella, one of my two honorary big brothers, was doing some check up work on Ethel the car, and Stella is the one who escorted me through the real explanation of Matthew 6:27-29 two weeks ago. Since she was so insightful about that one, surely she could offer some illumination on Romans 8: v: 26 – 27, right? Right?
Aw HELL YEAH, she did. A master class in Romans 8, it took an hour and a half, and every bit of it was fascinating. We went over Romans 1 – 7 - this is the context, this is who Paul is talking to, this is why what he was saying was controversial, he’s a lawyer, this is why he’s talking this way, when he uses this word, it means this for his audience, this is the Greek translation of the word groaning (Stenazo!, which I think you should say as a superhero word, like Shazam!), and where else it occurs in the Bible (when Jesus heals the deaf guy) and what type of groaning it means (the unique pain of childbirth, of literally being squeezed by the birth canal) and how we extrapolate it to their real world circumstance (for a semi misogynist, Paul is using an example of childbirth, which is ironic) and thus our real world circumstance (when we’re so much in pain, we can’t see our way out of it, but other people and Holy Spirit can.)
Stella then went on to relate a hilarious story about a friend of hers giving birth sixteen years ago, how refusing an epidural is a really bad idea, and the punchline to everything was “THERE’S NO BWOKING IN THIS ROOM!”
It really is a funny story, and if you know Stella, you should get her to tell it to you sometime. You should also convince her to start teaching How To Understand This Bible Verse classes, because she did all of the above while sick and looking like death. Because she is my very patient patient friend. (I should also mention that in explaining the verse to me, she stumbled over a profound truth to relate to her life, so it wasn’t like I was the only one who got something out of it.)
However, this is my blog, and it would seem silly if I told stories secondhand.
We all know that I don’t have kids, and there are zero plans for them in the future. I was not in the delivery room with Sister Agatha when Bug was born, though I do remember her describing the pain (Stenazo!) as “Nothing like you’ve ever felt in your life.” Sister Agatha did get the epidural, though, four or five hours after arriving at the hospital. But in talking to her today, she clarifies to say the pain (Stenazo!) wasn’t unbearable “Because I’m still here.”
Hey! We’re sisters! We take things SO LITERALLY!
So trying to relate to the pain of childbirth, which is what Stenazo! Is and the key to understanding Romans 8 V26 - 27 begs a bigger question: What is the most awful physical pain I’ve ever been in?
Huh. Hmmmm. Well, there’s a bunch of answers I could give if we were talking emotional pain. Emotional pain haunted me every single day of July. Wheeeeeee!
But in pursuing the Physical Pain option, I realized that ummm, uhhhhh, wow. I’ve not been in physical pain much at all in my life. Even the whole Flinch episode, where I could feel the needle rooting around in my arm, wasn’t too bad, because I knew the end would come as soon as Idiot Nurse got the needle out of my arm. Any pain I feel at the gym is more of the Chasing The Burn variety, not the same thing.
You know what this means, of course. Realizing I’ve not been in physical pain much in my life means the Fateful Car Wreck I’ve Always Suspected Will Take Me Out must be JUST around the corner! I’d better hurry up and tell this story!
SO! Some years ago, I underwent a LEEP procedure. I had a militant gynecologist who found some potentially pre-cancerous cells: on a scale of 1 to 5, it was a 2. She was super scary about the prognosis, and spooked me enough to agree to the procedure, even though I probably could’ve just taken folate pills for ten months and it would’ve solved itself. I know that NOW. Ugh.
The day of the procedure was quite possibly the second worst day of my life (the first was hitting the dog. )
One friend drove me to the outpatient clinic, but couldn’t stay during the procedure or take me home because she had to work. I called another friend from the clinic for a ride, but he was too afraid of his boss to say the very simple sentence of “I have to go drive my friend home from the hospital.”
My boyfriend at the time refused to stay with me, flying off to a film festival in Alabama where nobody asked him questions at the Q&A of his movie afterwards, and told me that if I had really wanted him there, I would’ve rescheduled the procedure for a day that he could be available.
I wasn’t allowed to take a cab home, so two of the nurses took pity on me and drove me home on their way to happy hour at Tom Bergin’s.
Ever wonder where my trust issues come from? THIS FUCKING DAY.
So the only thing I had to keep me company through the thick of things on the second most awful day of my life was this gal. Recognize her? She’s the beanie baby version of the dragon that Maleficient turned into in Sleeping Beauty. I was so scared, so frightened, and so worried that my militant gynecologist could be making a lot of fuss over nothing, and as the hours ticked by, that one thought NONE OF THIS IS NECESSARY AND YOU ARE BEING STUPID got louder and louder, with no friends around to talk to, only Maleficient Beanie Baby staring back at me, as I dug my nails over and over again into her stomach.
They let me hang on to Maleficient Beanie Baby as I was wheeled into the operating room (I thought it was gonna be a stirrup contraption like back in my militant gynecologist’s offices, but no, I’m being wheeled in, everyone’s wearing surgical masks, there’s an anesthesiologist with an indecipherable accent putting electrodes on me, this is way more serious than I ever had imagined.) And when I wake up later, all pre-cancerous cells scraped out of my cervix, the first thing I see is Maleficient Beanie Baby, sitting on top of the heart monitor, looking at me.
But let’s talk about the physical pain (Stenazo!) Oh my God, it’s awful. So so awful, because it’s internal, I can’t reach it, an itch I can’t scratch. It’s reverberating around my insides, thud thud thud. I rock back and forth, my knees pulled up to my chest, they give me a Percocet, it’s so not working. If I stay still, the thuds take over my whole body, and it feels like anyone looking at me could see me vibrating with the pain. Thud Thud Thud.
The nurses drive me home in a Jaguar, and my thoughts are: 1. How does a nurse afford a Jaguar and 2. I can’t puke in a Jaguar. So if I’m gonna puke, I’ll have to wait until I get home.
There was no puking, thank God. There is no sleeping, because the pain is so bad. A friend stops by briefly to drop off dinner, then is gone again. No one is staying with me through the pain. It’s me, the pain, and the Maleficient Beanie Baby.
Stella’s delivery room story and the explanation of Romans 8 v.26 - 27 was ultimately about how the Holy Spirit is there to nod understandingly while you scream and shout illogical things because you don’t think there’s an end to this pain (Stenazo!)
But the difference is, Stella’s friend had a roomful of people who nodded and understood her screaming illogical things. I had a Maleficient Beanie Baby. The Maleficient Beanie Baby didn’t stretch her Beanie Baby Arms around me and massage my lower back through the pain, or stroke my hair, or hold me through the long painful night. Maleficient Beanie Baby sat and watched me. I experienced horrific pain on my own, and I got through it on my own. Yes, friends stopped by, yes I spoke to Mommy Phone Harpy and Great Stoic Wonder Dad on the phone, but for the majority of the time, and during the worst parts of it, I was physically alone.
I was in church today, trying so hard to connect with God. There are further questions and issues that I’m laying before Him I’m thinking about doing this. What do you think? Yay? Nay?
My eyes are closed, I’m listening to the hymn as people are singing it, I’m focusing on connecting, please, please, this hurts, I hurt be there for me? It’s not the same kind of hurt that Stenazo! Is, but man, it blows anyway. Please give me a sign that You are there, that You’re not some distant remote God that shows up once or twice a year, that You honestly do care about what’s happening to me and that You have an opinion, if not a plan.
And I feel a quick squeeze of my shoulders. Wha-huh? Who? Huh? My eyes rocket open. It’s Flora. Flora, the most sunny dispositioned friend I know, who possesses the most beautiful bald head from the chemotherapy that is almost almost over, and we will all celebrate her victory soon soon.
Flora knows pain, pain like none of us has ever known. She has an amazing support network, she’s not been alone in any stage of her fight. And her happy nature has never dimmed one second. When she smiles, it’s like the fucking sun is breaking over you, it’s unreal.
And this happy happy Flora is smiling at me, because all she’s trying to do is get back into her seat, because it’s Communion Sunday, and I’m blocking the aisle.
Some people get a roomful of people that will nod understandingly when you’re screaming in pain because you’re only dilated three centimeters and you refused the epidural.
Some people get a support network of friends and family flying in from Texas for every new round of chemotherapy.
I got a Maleficient Beanie Baby, and then I graduated to a split second of a shoulder squeeze.
And.
And.
And.
I will learn to be happy with that.
July sucked on a number of levels, none of which I shall talk about here because My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much is a faithful reader of the blog, and she doesn’t need to know those particular details. Not when I can curl her hair with stories of things that happened YEARS AGO! YAHOOOOOOOOO! HOLD ON MOM! THIS ONE’S GONNA SUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
While MMTPHWILVVM and Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder were in the dark about July, my faithful friends were not, because I asked them all to pray a bunch. And a bunch more. And a BUNCH more. And things still went south. (“FOR NOW. IT WILL GET BETTER” my faithful friends, who are way more optimistic than I am, remind me.)
To which my friend Nellie sent me the good old standby verse of Romans 8: verses 26 – 27.
26In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. 27And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.
I love Nellie. ADORE Nellie. But that verse pissed me off. Because I simply don’t believe it. Heresy, I know.
But if we believe that we have the Holy Spirit inside us, to me that means the Holy Spirit is the voice in my head that tells me right from wrong – don’t rob that bank, don’t hit that person, don’t drink that beer. I know what that feels like.
When I am in the midst of my sorrow, of my pain, of my frustration and bitter tears, I am alone in that emotion. Which makes me feel much much worse. I don’t feel the presence of ANYONE there. Where are you then, Holy Spirit, huh?
So I think that Paul, writer of Romans, was employing a bit of poetic license that has simply gotten out of hand through the thousand of years, and offers cold comfort to cranky bitches like me now.
Yesterday was a visit to Stella and Wella. Wella, one of my two honorary big brothers, was doing some check up work on Ethel the car, and Stella is the one who escorted me through the real explanation of Matthew 6:27-29 two weeks ago. Since she was so insightful about that one, surely she could offer some illumination on Romans 8: v: 26 – 27, right? Right?
Aw HELL YEAH, she did. A master class in Romans 8, it took an hour and a half, and every bit of it was fascinating. We went over Romans 1 – 7 - this is the context, this is who Paul is talking to, this is why what he was saying was controversial, he’s a lawyer, this is why he’s talking this way, when he uses this word, it means this for his audience, this is the Greek translation of the word groaning (Stenazo!, which I think you should say as a superhero word, like Shazam!), and where else it occurs in the Bible (when Jesus heals the deaf guy) and what type of groaning it means (the unique pain of childbirth, of literally being squeezed by the birth canal) and how we extrapolate it to their real world circumstance (for a semi misogynist, Paul is using an example of childbirth, which is ironic) and thus our real world circumstance (when we’re so much in pain, we can’t see our way out of it, but other people and Holy Spirit can.)
Stella then went on to relate a hilarious story about a friend of hers giving birth sixteen years ago, how refusing an epidural is a really bad idea, and the punchline to everything was “THERE’S NO BWOKING IN THIS ROOM!”
It really is a funny story, and if you know Stella, you should get her to tell it to you sometime. You should also convince her to start teaching How To Understand This Bible Verse classes, because she did all of the above while sick and looking like death. Because she is my very patient patient friend. (I should also mention that in explaining the verse to me, she stumbled over a profound truth to relate to her life, so it wasn’t like I was the only one who got something out of it.)
However, this is my blog, and it would seem silly if I told stories secondhand.
We all know that I don’t have kids, and there are zero plans for them in the future. I was not in the delivery room with Sister Agatha when Bug was born, though I do remember her describing the pain (Stenazo!) as “Nothing like you’ve ever felt in your life.” Sister Agatha did get the epidural, though, four or five hours after arriving at the hospital. But in talking to her today, she clarifies to say the pain (Stenazo!) wasn’t unbearable “Because I’m still here.”
Hey! We’re sisters! We take things SO LITERALLY!
So trying to relate to the pain of childbirth, which is what Stenazo! Is and the key to understanding Romans 8 V26 - 27 begs a bigger question: What is the most awful physical pain I’ve ever been in?
Huh. Hmmmm. Well, there’s a bunch of answers I could give if we were talking emotional pain. Emotional pain haunted me every single day of July. Wheeeeeee!
But in pursuing the Physical Pain option, I realized that ummm, uhhhhh, wow. I’ve not been in physical pain much at all in my life. Even the whole Flinch episode, where I could feel the needle rooting around in my arm, wasn’t too bad, because I knew the end would come as soon as Idiot Nurse got the needle out of my arm. Any pain I feel at the gym is more of the Chasing The Burn variety, not the same thing.
You know what this means, of course. Realizing I’ve not been in physical pain much in my life means the Fateful Car Wreck I’ve Always Suspected Will Take Me Out must be JUST around the corner! I’d better hurry up and tell this story!
SO! Some years ago, I underwent a LEEP procedure. I had a militant gynecologist who found some potentially pre-cancerous cells: on a scale of 1 to 5, it was a 2. She was super scary about the prognosis, and spooked me enough to agree to the procedure, even though I probably could’ve just taken folate pills for ten months and it would’ve solved itself. I know that NOW. Ugh.
The day of the procedure was quite possibly the second worst day of my life (the first was hitting the dog. )
One friend drove me to the outpatient clinic, but couldn’t stay during the procedure or take me home because she had to work. I called another friend from the clinic for a ride, but he was too afraid of his boss to say the very simple sentence of “I have to go drive my friend home from the hospital.”
My boyfriend at the time refused to stay with me, flying off to a film festival in Alabama where nobody asked him questions at the Q&A of his movie afterwards, and told me that if I had really wanted him there, I would’ve rescheduled the procedure for a day that he could be available.
I wasn’t allowed to take a cab home, so two of the nurses took pity on me and drove me home on their way to happy hour at Tom Bergin’s.
Ever wonder where my trust issues come from? THIS FUCKING DAY.
So the only thing I had to keep me company through the thick of things on the second most awful day of my life was this gal. Recognize her? She’s the beanie baby version of the dragon that Maleficient turned into in Sleeping Beauty. I was so scared, so frightened, and so worried that my militant gynecologist could be making a lot of fuss over nothing, and as the hours ticked by, that one thought NONE OF THIS IS NECESSARY AND YOU ARE BEING STUPID got louder and louder, with no friends around to talk to, only Maleficient Beanie Baby staring back at me, as I dug my nails over and over again into her stomach.They let me hang on to Maleficient Beanie Baby as I was wheeled into the operating room (I thought it was gonna be a stirrup contraption like back in my militant gynecologist’s offices, but no, I’m being wheeled in, everyone’s wearing surgical masks, there’s an anesthesiologist with an indecipherable accent putting electrodes on me, this is way more serious than I ever had imagined.) And when I wake up later, all pre-cancerous cells scraped out of my cervix, the first thing I see is Maleficient Beanie Baby, sitting on top of the heart monitor, looking at me.
But let’s talk about the physical pain (Stenazo!) Oh my God, it’s awful. So so awful, because it’s internal, I can’t reach it, an itch I can’t scratch. It’s reverberating around my insides, thud thud thud. I rock back and forth, my knees pulled up to my chest, they give me a Percocet, it’s so not working. If I stay still, the thuds take over my whole body, and it feels like anyone looking at me could see me vibrating with the pain. Thud Thud Thud.
The nurses drive me home in a Jaguar, and my thoughts are: 1. How does a nurse afford a Jaguar and 2. I can’t puke in a Jaguar. So if I’m gonna puke, I’ll have to wait until I get home.
There was no puking, thank God. There is no sleeping, because the pain is so bad. A friend stops by briefly to drop off dinner, then is gone again. No one is staying with me through the pain. It’s me, the pain, and the Maleficient Beanie Baby.
Stella’s delivery room story and the explanation of Romans 8 v.26 - 27 was ultimately about how the Holy Spirit is there to nod understandingly while you scream and shout illogical things because you don’t think there’s an end to this pain (Stenazo!)
But the difference is, Stella’s friend had a roomful of people who nodded and understood her screaming illogical things. I had a Maleficient Beanie Baby. The Maleficient Beanie Baby didn’t stretch her Beanie Baby Arms around me and massage my lower back through the pain, or stroke my hair, or hold me through the long painful night. Maleficient Beanie Baby sat and watched me. I experienced horrific pain on my own, and I got through it on my own. Yes, friends stopped by, yes I spoke to Mommy Phone Harpy and Great Stoic Wonder Dad on the phone, but for the majority of the time, and during the worst parts of it, I was physically alone.
I was in church today, trying so hard to connect with God. There are further questions and issues that I’m laying before Him I’m thinking about doing this. What do you think? Yay? Nay?
My eyes are closed, I’m listening to the hymn as people are singing it, I’m focusing on connecting, please, please, this hurts, I hurt be there for me? It’s not the same kind of hurt that Stenazo! Is, but man, it blows anyway. Please give me a sign that You are there, that You’re not some distant remote God that shows up once or twice a year, that You honestly do care about what’s happening to me and that You have an opinion, if not a plan.
And I feel a quick squeeze of my shoulders. Wha-huh? Who? Huh? My eyes rocket open. It’s Flora. Flora, the most sunny dispositioned friend I know, who possesses the most beautiful bald head from the chemotherapy that is almost almost over, and we will all celebrate her victory soon soon.
Flora knows pain, pain like none of us has ever known. She has an amazing support network, she’s not been alone in any stage of her fight. And her happy nature has never dimmed one second. When she smiles, it’s like the fucking sun is breaking over you, it’s unreal.
And this happy happy Flora is smiling at me, because all she’s trying to do is get back into her seat, because it’s Communion Sunday, and I’m blocking the aisle.
Some people get a roomful of people that will nod understandingly when you’re screaming in pain because you’re only dilated three centimeters and you refused the epidural.
Some people get a support network of friends and family flying in from Texas for every new round of chemotherapy.
I got a Maleficient Beanie Baby, and then I graduated to a split second of a shoulder squeeze.
And.
And.
And.
I will learn to be happy with that.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
In Which Amy Potentially Misunderstands A Famous Bible Passage
I think one of my peculiar strengths is how willing I am to be such a public blogger dumbass. This is different than being a dumbass in person. I like to think I’m okay in person – if I don’t 100 percent know the answer to something in person, I usually don’t say anything, which is why more than a few people think I’m quiet and reserved, which cracks my friends who really know me and my sister Agatha up.
Besides, if you just wait awhile, you don’t have to say anything, someone else will explain exactly what the five dream levels are in Inception
(because God knows I still don’t get it. Except that I would like very much to have Joseph Gordon-Levitt in charge of my survival in a zero G dreamscape. Yes please and thank you.)
But online, especially here on this blog, I have zero problem talking about stuff I don’t truly understand. What’s the difference? Well, this blog is SUPPOSED to be about God, Jesus, spirituality, that sort of thing. And anytime anyone waltzes in with The Answer To Everything when it comes to religion is just begging God to smack them down. Repeatedly.
And if you have the Dumbasses like me to pose the questions that you may or may not already know, you either #1 – Get the smug benefit of thinking you’re smarter than me because you already knew that answer (but watch out, you’re begging for a smackdown) or #2 – Secretly thank me for asking a question you always wanted to, but didn’t because you didn’t want people to think you were a dumbass too.
I proudly admit my dumbass status when it comes to God, Jesus, spirituality, that sort of thing. I AM A DUMBASS! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY!
But I’m trying.
So here’s the latest example. It’s a very famous passage, and I’m sure you’ve heard of it, even if you don’t go to church:
Matthew 6:27-29
27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life[a]?
28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.
It’s so nice, Luke said it twice!
Luke 12:27-28
27"Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 28If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith!
Wella’s Stella (she is her own person, but I think it’s funny how it rhymes) and I had been emailing back and forth last week about a few things, and in trying to bolster my courage, Stella had said there was an amazing NPR story by Garrison Keillor about that verse and she signed off with “You are a lily.”
To which I thought, that’s nice in one of those crunchy granola Christian-ese whenever-you-wanna-talk-about-God’s-beauty-and-grace-you-tie-it-to-one-of-those-environmental-examples-like-flowers-sunsets-walking-in-woods-kinda-things-but-I’m-not-really-a-lilly-because-I’m-kinda-bloated-right-now things.
Even though Stella had no knowledge of my thought process, she followed up with the link to the Garrison Keillor story, his beloved News From Lake Wobegone segment (YOU GUYS! This will make My Mother The Phone Harpy and my Dad The Great Stoic Wonder SO HAPPY). It’s segment four, if you wanna hear it for yourself, the story about Bob, an aging dancer who invites his parents to New York City to watch him dance in what might be his final performance.
Here’s the most important part, in case you don’t have time to listen –
"The Arts is a life of faith. It's pure faith. People preach about faith who have no idea what faith is, but artists know. Artists are the lilies of the field that Jesus talked about in the Sermon on the Mount. 'Consider the lilies - don't worry about what you're gonna eat or what you're gonna wear; consider the lilies. They toil not and they spin not, and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.' The life of the artist is pure, pure faith."
So when Stella sent me the link, I dutifully listened, was dutifully moved in the dutiful manner, and dutifully emailed her back:
Yes, I believe that The Arts is a life of pure faith
(…)
With the lilies in the field example, I always think about the lilies past the bloom. The ones who are dying, or half dead on the vine. Not all the flowers in the field are shining examples of beauty. What about the really ugly mottled flowers of the field. What about that awful flower (I meant the Corpse Flower!)
in the Huntington Gardens that has the most unbearable stench when it blooms every ten years or so. What happens to all those flowers, huh? I suspect I may be the Stinky One. Heh.
Because that’s what’s always bugged me about the Lilies In The Field example. I’m sorry, but we’re not all lilies, okay? Oh God, I’m going to hell just by saying that.
No, we’re not all Lilies In The Field, because some of us, perhaps a great many of us, create art that is frankly, not good. I include myself in this grouping. There are BUNCHES of times where I’m not happy with what I’ve written. I know I can do better. My friends know I can do better, but they’re not telling me because they’re concerned I’ll beat them up, because they know I go to Boot Camp twice a week in addition to my regular gym schedule, and my guns are awesome.
They don’t have to be concerned, because I am my own worst critic. It’s very rare that I write anything to the degree that I think approaches Lily In The Field Status. I think it’s happened maybe once or twice. Out of twenty plus things I’ve written, I can say I honestly like Zig Zagged Ostrich. I adore Muppet Midsummer Night’s Dream so much that I don’t give it an assumed name. (but I wrote it! I wrote it! It’s mine! Come find me by googling it!) The rest are okay. Not great, just okay.
I haven’t been a Lily In The Field since 2005. And even then, you can’t rest on your Lily status forever, because we all know Lilies aren’t forever, like anything, they wither, they fade, they die.
Which is why I never really bought the Lilies In The Field parable.
And Stella, who has SO much more patience than I do, emailed back.
I got the feeling it was about taking it one day at a time.
(…)
This is where taking it day by day comes in for you. In the middle of the day, you're in bloom. I think God's saying to you that you're in the mid-day - maybe even in the morning. It's early, yet...even though it feels like sunset (or midnight) sometimes.
(…)
(Amy The Writer says) “What about that awful flower in the Huntington Gardens that has the most unbearable stench when it blooms every ten years or so. What happens to all those flowers, huh?”
They become very, very famous. For 10 days every decade.
(Amy The Writer says) “I suspect I may be the Stinky One. Heh.”
Doubt it. But I'll come smell you if you like.
This is why Stella is awesome and I am a Dumbass. Not because she’ll come and smell me (but that is awesome in and of itself.) But because I thought the Lilies Of The Field example was about the Quality Of Your Art. And instead (I THINK), it’s about Be Patient And Take It One Day At A Time.
It’s not (I THINK) that the Lily is beautiful. But that the Lily exists in that very moment. The Lily doesn’t know when the end comes. The Lily (I THINK) doesn’t know there is an end. The Lily just Is.
In whatever state, whether budding and about to burst, or full bloom, or faded, or withered and dying at the edges and nobody looks at it like I am afraid I am. The Lily Just Is.
And just to prove that I am a total dumbass, I make these official declarative statements:
1. The Lily takes it one day at a time.
2. Stella is an awesome friend and you can’t have her. She has her hands full with me. HA!
3. I do not smell like the Corpse Flower. I would love to smell like Stargazer Lillies. But I actually smell like Vanilla.
☺
Besides, if you just wait awhile, you don’t have to say anything, someone else will explain exactly what the five dream levels are in Inception
(because God knows I still don’t get it. Except that I would like very much to have Joseph Gordon-Levitt in charge of my survival in a zero G dreamscape. Yes please and thank you.)But online, especially here on this blog, I have zero problem talking about stuff I don’t truly understand. What’s the difference? Well, this blog is SUPPOSED to be about God, Jesus, spirituality, that sort of thing. And anytime anyone waltzes in with The Answer To Everything when it comes to religion is just begging God to smack them down. Repeatedly.
And if you have the Dumbasses like me to pose the questions that you may or may not already know, you either #1 – Get the smug benefit of thinking you’re smarter than me because you already knew that answer (but watch out, you’re begging for a smackdown) or #2 – Secretly thank me for asking a question you always wanted to, but didn’t because you didn’t want people to think you were a dumbass too.
I proudly admit my dumbass status when it comes to God, Jesus, spirituality, that sort of thing. I AM A DUMBASS! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY!
But I’m trying.
So here’s the latest example. It’s a very famous passage, and I’m sure you’ve heard of it, even if you don’t go to church:
Matthew 6:27-29
27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life[a]?
28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.
It’s so nice, Luke said it twice!
Luke 12:27-28
27"Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 28If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith!
Wella’s Stella (she is her own person, but I think it’s funny how it rhymes) and I had been emailing back and forth last week about a few things, and in trying to bolster my courage, Stella had said there was an amazing NPR story by Garrison Keillor about that verse and she signed off with “You are a lily.”
To which I thought, that’s nice in one of those crunchy granola Christian-ese whenever-you-wanna-talk-about-God’s-beauty-and-grace-you-tie-it-to-one-of-those-environmental-examples-like-flowers-sunsets-walking-in-woods-kinda-things-but-I’m-not-really-a-lilly-because-I’m-kinda-bloated-right-now things.
Even though Stella had no knowledge of my thought process, she followed up with the link to the Garrison Keillor story, his beloved News From Lake Wobegone segment (YOU GUYS! This will make My Mother The Phone Harpy and my Dad The Great Stoic Wonder SO HAPPY). It’s segment four, if you wanna hear it for yourself, the story about Bob, an aging dancer who invites his parents to New York City to watch him dance in what might be his final performance.
Here’s the most important part, in case you don’t have time to listen –
"The Arts is a life of faith. It's pure faith. People preach about faith who have no idea what faith is, but artists know. Artists are the lilies of the field that Jesus talked about in the Sermon on the Mount. 'Consider the lilies - don't worry about what you're gonna eat or what you're gonna wear; consider the lilies. They toil not and they spin not, and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.' The life of the artist is pure, pure faith."
So when Stella sent me the link, I dutifully listened, was dutifully moved in the dutiful manner, and dutifully emailed her back:
Yes, I believe that The Arts is a life of pure faith
(…)
With the lilies in the field example, I always think about the lilies past the bloom. The ones who are dying, or half dead on the vine. Not all the flowers in the field are shining examples of beauty. What about the really ugly mottled flowers of the field. What about that awful flower (I meant the Corpse Flower!)
in the Huntington Gardens that has the most unbearable stench when it blooms every ten years or so. What happens to all those flowers, huh? I suspect I may be the Stinky One. Heh. Because that’s what’s always bugged me about the Lilies In The Field example. I’m sorry, but we’re not all lilies, okay? Oh God, I’m going to hell just by saying that.
No, we’re not all Lilies In The Field, because some of us, perhaps a great many of us, create art that is frankly, not good. I include myself in this grouping. There are BUNCHES of times where I’m not happy with what I’ve written. I know I can do better. My friends know I can do better, but they’re not telling me because they’re concerned I’ll beat them up, because they know I go to Boot Camp twice a week in addition to my regular gym schedule, and my guns are awesome.
They don’t have to be concerned, because I am my own worst critic. It’s very rare that I write anything to the degree that I think approaches Lily In The Field Status. I think it’s happened maybe once or twice. Out of twenty plus things I’ve written, I can say I honestly like Zig Zagged Ostrich. I adore Muppet Midsummer Night’s Dream so much that I don’t give it an assumed name. (but I wrote it! I wrote it! It’s mine! Come find me by googling it!) The rest are okay. Not great, just okay.
I haven’t been a Lily In The Field since 2005. And even then, you can’t rest on your Lily status forever, because we all know Lilies aren’t forever, like anything, they wither, they fade, they die.
Which is why I never really bought the Lilies In The Field parable.
And Stella, who has SO much more patience than I do, emailed back.
I got the feeling it was about taking it one day at a time.
(…)
This is where taking it day by day comes in for you. In the middle of the day, you're in bloom. I think God's saying to you that you're in the mid-day - maybe even in the morning. It's early, yet...even though it feels like sunset (or midnight) sometimes.
(…)
(Amy The Writer says) “What about that awful flower in the Huntington Gardens that has the most unbearable stench when it blooms every ten years or so. What happens to all those flowers, huh?”
They become very, very famous. For 10 days every decade.
(Amy The Writer says) “I suspect I may be the Stinky One. Heh.”
Doubt it. But I'll come smell you if you like.
This is why Stella is awesome and I am a Dumbass. Not because she’ll come and smell me (but that is awesome in and of itself.) But because I thought the Lilies Of The Field example was about the Quality Of Your Art. And instead (I THINK), it’s about Be Patient And Take It One Day At A Time.
It’s not (I THINK) that the Lily is beautiful. But that the Lily exists in that very moment. The Lily doesn’t know when the end comes. The Lily (I THINK) doesn’t know there is an end. The Lily just Is.
In whatever state, whether budding and about to burst, or full bloom, or faded, or withered and dying at the edges and nobody looks at it like I am afraid I am. The Lily Just Is.
And just to prove that I am a total dumbass, I make these official declarative statements:
1. The Lily takes it one day at a time.
2. Stella is an awesome friend and you can’t have her. She has her hands full with me. HA!
3. I do not smell like the Corpse Flower. I would love to smell like Stargazer Lillies. But I actually smell like Vanilla.
☺
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Binklebo Has No Toes
I can’t draw. This is why I write. Heh.
I can’t draw, I never could, and it bums me out, because that means I have to depend on someone else to draw storyboards for me. If I could draw my own storyboards, I probably would’ve directed a short like, five years ago. And if I could get people to listen to me. That would help. ☺
My buddy Norman offered a metaphor a few weeks ago. We were discussing that old sawhorse Macro God vs. Micro God, otherwise known as Does God Care About What Kind Of Job I Have?
And Norman said something along the lines of how God gives you a blank piece of butcher block paper and crayons and says, “Whatever you wanna draw.” And then you draw.
Except I can’t draw. This is the only thing I can draw.
His name is Binklebo. I drew him in the sixth grade when the assignment was to create our own character and write a story about him. I think Binklebo’s story was “Binklebo and His Toes” or something like that. (ironic because from the picture, he doesn’t have toes.) I only know how to draw him this way, if you want him walking, jumping, climbing, or even looking to the left, you’re out of luck, I don’t know how to do that.
So if I’m supposed to draw, and I can’t draw, how do I know what I’m drawing is what I’m supposed to be drawing? Better yet, how do I know I’m drawing it right? And how do I know that my version of “right” matches up with God’s version of “right”?
If you wanna get all high and mighty and say, “Oh Amy The Writer, if you can’t draw, then God wants you to write all over that butcher block paper” then my response is how do I know that what I’m writing is what God wants me to write? How do I know that I’m writing it to God’s definition of Right?
I mentioned I’m working on a new project, Red Llama. It’s an idea about religion and sex that shines a light on questions that some Christians don’t wanna ask themselves. So the secular world says, Yes! Yes! Write that idea and expose those damn hypocritical Christians! The Christian world would probably say You’re not a Christian! You’re selling out your Christian community because it’s the only way you can get attention with your writing!
Except what’s fueling me to write this is not the desire to expose hypocritical Christians. This is an idea I can absolutely write, that I can uniquely write, one might say my entire sexual career has led to this point: to write this idea (at least then it all would’ve meant something besides new ways to break my heart and stomp my self esteem.)
The problem is that some hypocritical Christians may get exposed anyway. I usually go for a scorched earth policy with my writing. Pink Piggy examined stupid people of both genders. With Red Llama, I’m examining hypocrites of every stripe, both secular and Christian. But I think the Christians are gonna cry foul the loudest.
Which makes me wonder if this is the idea that God wants me to write, or if it’s my own ego urging me on.
If you’re drawing the wrong thing or if you’re writing the wrong thing, how will you know? Because people won’t like it. Because people will like it, but not for the right reasons. Because it won’t sell. Because it will sell, but it won’t make you happy. Because it won’t FEEL right. Because it’ll feel right for the WRONG reasons.
Oh, now that sounds like sex. Heh.
I can’t draw, I never could, and it bums me out, because that means I have to depend on someone else to draw storyboards for me. If I could draw my own storyboards, I probably would’ve directed a short like, five years ago. And if I could get people to listen to me. That would help. ☺
My buddy Norman offered a metaphor a few weeks ago. We were discussing that old sawhorse Macro God vs. Micro God, otherwise known as Does God Care About What Kind Of Job I Have?
And Norman said something along the lines of how God gives you a blank piece of butcher block paper and crayons and says, “Whatever you wanna draw.” And then you draw.
Except I can’t draw. This is the only thing I can draw.
His name is Binklebo. I drew him in the sixth grade when the assignment was to create our own character and write a story about him. I think Binklebo’s story was “Binklebo and His Toes” or something like that. (ironic because from the picture, he doesn’t have toes.) I only know how to draw him this way, if you want him walking, jumping, climbing, or even looking to the left, you’re out of luck, I don’t know how to do that.So if I’m supposed to draw, and I can’t draw, how do I know what I’m drawing is what I’m supposed to be drawing? Better yet, how do I know I’m drawing it right? And how do I know that my version of “right” matches up with God’s version of “right”?
If you wanna get all high and mighty and say, “Oh Amy The Writer, if you can’t draw, then God wants you to write all over that butcher block paper” then my response is how do I know that what I’m writing is what God wants me to write? How do I know that I’m writing it to God’s definition of Right?
I mentioned I’m working on a new project, Red Llama. It’s an idea about religion and sex that shines a light on questions that some Christians don’t wanna ask themselves. So the secular world says, Yes! Yes! Write that idea and expose those damn hypocritical Christians! The Christian world would probably say You’re not a Christian! You’re selling out your Christian community because it’s the only way you can get attention with your writing!
Except what’s fueling me to write this is not the desire to expose hypocritical Christians. This is an idea I can absolutely write, that I can uniquely write, one might say my entire sexual career has led to this point: to write this idea (at least then it all would’ve meant something besides new ways to break my heart and stomp my self esteem.)
The problem is that some hypocritical Christians may get exposed anyway. I usually go for a scorched earth policy with my writing. Pink Piggy examined stupid people of both genders. With Red Llama, I’m examining hypocrites of every stripe, both secular and Christian. But I think the Christians are gonna cry foul the loudest.
Which makes me wonder if this is the idea that God wants me to write, or if it’s my own ego urging me on.
If you’re drawing the wrong thing or if you’re writing the wrong thing, how will you know? Because people won’t like it. Because people will like it, but not for the right reasons. Because it won’t sell. Because it will sell, but it won’t make you happy. Because it won’t FEEL right. Because it’ll feel right for the WRONG reasons.
Oh, now that sounds like sex. Heh.
Monday, July 05, 2010
Um, Oobleck, anyone?
I went to a 4th of July party yesterday at Sylvia’s house, and it featured a deep fryer. When you have a deep fryer at a party, everyone reverts to a frat guy mentality hey, what happens if we throw THIS in there!?
At a previous deep fryer party (Sylvia loves her deep fryer), I brought pop tarts (recommended by a co-worker), which went over exceedingly well. This time, I brought onion rings (obvious), Zingers (the grocery store’s contract was with Hostess, and not the Little Debbie brand of my youth) and a few candy bars, because I keep hearing about deep fried Snickers that you can buy at the State Fair. I don’t like Snickers (no peanuts in my dessert, please), but I like Three Musketeers and Milky Ways, so I brought those too.
But something wasn’t working. I wouldn’t classify it as Horribly Awry, nothing alien-like emerged from the deep fryer and took over lower Los Angeles. But any dessert stuff we threw in there wasn’t working. I suspect it had something to do with either the temperature of the batter, of the temperature of the dessert. Maybe both needed to be cold, maybe just one of them needed to be cold, not the other. Sylvia promptly blamed her hubby for not reading the directions to her properly as she was preparing the batter.
But no matter what dessert we submerged in the batter – candy bars, pop tarts, apple fritters, brownie bites – the batter wouldn’t stick on it when it went into the deep fryer.
The batter itself looked like Oobleck, as most batters do...
What, you guys don’t know what Oobleck is? Wha-huh?
Oobleck is the stuff that coats The Kingdom of Didd in Dr. Seuss’s book Bartholomew and the Oobleck
Synopsis – King Derwin of Didd wants something different to happen with the weather, and his court magicians then make Oobleck, a green vicious substance that gets all over the kingdom and mucks everything up. Everything’s going to hell, until Bartholomew, the page, suggests to King Didd to say “I’m sorry” to break the court magicians spell. Once he does, the sun comes out and melts the Oobleck away.
I have very vivid memories of me and sister Agatha in the kitchen, mixing the pancake batter from scratch, according to my Mother The Phone Harpy’s directions. We’d lift the mixer up from the bowl, and watch the batter drip off the beaters in long plaster of Paris type drips, and we’d chant “Oobleck, Oobleck, OOBLECK! YAAAAARRRRRRR! OOOOOOOBBBBBBBLLLLLEEEEEEEECCCCCCKKKKK!”
Yeah. We were weird.
I mention this because I was thinking about Disappointment. No, no, nothing specific. CALM DOWN MOM!
Everyone’s got disappointment in their lives right? Sure, you do. Doesn’t matter how successful you are, there’s always that nitpicky something you didn’t get.
It’s midway through the calendar year, and time for an assessment, accompanied by alcohol of course. My writing goals are exactly on track, I finished new drafts of Striped Tiger and Polka Dotted Platypus. I’m embarking on writing my first TV pilot, we’ll call it Red Llama, we’ll see how that goes.
But there’s always disappointment. It’s nothing new. Disappointment in people who don’t respect you, disappointment in people who let you down, people who continue to take advantage of you, disappointment in doors that have closed on opportunities that didn’t work out for you, disappointment in deep fryers. This is life. Get used to disappointment.
But as I’m watching a random Ho Ho bob to the surface of the batter bowl, and as I’m watching the batter stretch thin and tear, forming gaping holes where chocolate Ho Ho spots are peeking through, this oh so brilliant thought occurs to me:
Disappointment doesn’t stop me. It only coats me.
I’ve been doing this too long to stop. Writing, living in Los Angeles, breathing, existing, whatever you want to call it. There is no other option than to continue forward.
My Boot Camp instructor was telling us about his experience running the L.A. Marathon this year. He said something to the extent that “You feel like you’re dying. You’re running and dying. But then you realize it’s mile twenty, and there’s only six more miles to go, so what the hell, might as well hang in there.”
I’ve been in Los Angeles long enough to say what the hell, might as well hang in there.
So no, disappointment doesn’t stop me. But it sure as hell coats me. Like Bartholomew’s Oobleck, it coats me, it cakes layer after layer of cynicism, of resigned sighs, of exhaustion, of once again lifting up my head and choosing hope. Ministers love to say that choosing hope is a revolutionary act. Not when you’ve been doing it as long as I have.
To believe, against all odds, that someday, some positive result will come from all the work you’ve been putting in for years and years. Hope isn’t revolutionary to me. It’s a given. A knee jerk given, the bastion of the weary who continue to trudge forward, with layers and layers of disappointment oobleck on them. Hope feels more like an afterthought. If you’ve got a checklist to go down, Hope comes somewhere after Sharpening Your Skill Set, Setting Forth An Achievable Plan, and Strength For The Journey. Successful people believe in Hope because it’s easy for them. They’ve already got the momentum.
All it takes is one honking piece of GREAT NEWS to shatter the calcified layers and to get me going faster.
So once again, I lift my head up. And trudge on. And on.
At a previous deep fryer party (Sylvia loves her deep fryer), I brought pop tarts (recommended by a co-worker), which went over exceedingly well. This time, I brought onion rings (obvious), Zingers (the grocery store’s contract was with Hostess, and not the Little Debbie brand of my youth) and a few candy bars, because I keep hearing about deep fried Snickers that you can buy at the State Fair. I don’t like Snickers (no peanuts in my dessert, please), but I like Three Musketeers and Milky Ways, so I brought those too.
But something wasn’t working. I wouldn’t classify it as Horribly Awry, nothing alien-like emerged from the deep fryer and took over lower Los Angeles. But any dessert stuff we threw in there wasn’t working. I suspect it had something to do with either the temperature of the batter, of the temperature of the dessert. Maybe both needed to be cold, maybe just one of them needed to be cold, not the other. Sylvia promptly blamed her hubby for not reading the directions to her properly as she was preparing the batter.
But no matter what dessert we submerged in the batter – candy bars, pop tarts, apple fritters, brownie bites – the batter wouldn’t stick on it when it went into the deep fryer.
The batter itself looked like Oobleck, as most batters do...
What, you guys don’t know what Oobleck is? Wha-huh?
Oobleck is the stuff that coats The Kingdom of Didd in Dr. Seuss’s book Bartholomew and the Oobleck Synopsis – King Derwin of Didd wants something different to happen with the weather, and his court magicians then make Oobleck, a green vicious substance that gets all over the kingdom and mucks everything up. Everything’s going to hell, until Bartholomew, the page, suggests to King Didd to say “I’m sorry” to break the court magicians spell. Once he does, the sun comes out and melts the Oobleck away.
I have very vivid memories of me and sister Agatha in the kitchen, mixing the pancake batter from scratch, according to my Mother The Phone Harpy’s directions. We’d lift the mixer up from the bowl, and watch the batter drip off the beaters in long plaster of Paris type drips, and we’d chant “Oobleck, Oobleck, OOBLECK! YAAAAARRRRRRR! OOOOOOOBBBBBBBLLLLLEEEEEEEECCCCCCKKKKK!”
Yeah. We were weird.
I mention this because I was thinking about Disappointment. No, no, nothing specific. CALM DOWN MOM!
Everyone’s got disappointment in their lives right? Sure, you do. Doesn’t matter how successful you are, there’s always that nitpicky something you didn’t get.
It’s midway through the calendar year, and time for an assessment, accompanied by alcohol of course. My writing goals are exactly on track, I finished new drafts of Striped Tiger and Polka Dotted Platypus. I’m embarking on writing my first TV pilot, we’ll call it Red Llama, we’ll see how that goes.
But there’s always disappointment. It’s nothing new. Disappointment in people who don’t respect you, disappointment in people who let you down, people who continue to take advantage of you, disappointment in doors that have closed on opportunities that didn’t work out for you, disappointment in deep fryers. This is life. Get used to disappointment.
But as I’m watching a random Ho Ho bob to the surface of the batter bowl, and as I’m watching the batter stretch thin and tear, forming gaping holes where chocolate Ho Ho spots are peeking through, this oh so brilliant thought occurs to me:
Disappointment doesn’t stop me. It only coats me.
I’ve been doing this too long to stop. Writing, living in Los Angeles, breathing, existing, whatever you want to call it. There is no other option than to continue forward.
My Boot Camp instructor was telling us about his experience running the L.A. Marathon this year. He said something to the extent that “You feel like you’re dying. You’re running and dying. But then you realize it’s mile twenty, and there’s only six more miles to go, so what the hell, might as well hang in there.”
I’ve been in Los Angeles long enough to say what the hell, might as well hang in there.
So no, disappointment doesn’t stop me. But it sure as hell coats me. Like Bartholomew’s Oobleck, it coats me, it cakes layer after layer of cynicism, of resigned sighs, of exhaustion, of once again lifting up my head and choosing hope. Ministers love to say that choosing hope is a revolutionary act. Not when you’ve been doing it as long as I have.
To believe, against all odds, that someday, some positive result will come from all the work you’ve been putting in for years and years. Hope isn’t revolutionary to me. It’s a given. A knee jerk given, the bastion of the weary who continue to trudge forward, with layers and layers of disappointment oobleck on them. Hope feels more like an afterthought. If you’ve got a checklist to go down, Hope comes somewhere after Sharpening Your Skill Set, Setting Forth An Achievable Plan, and Strength For The Journey. Successful people believe in Hope because it’s easy for them. They’ve already got the momentum.
All it takes is one honking piece of GREAT NEWS to shatter the calcified layers and to get me going faster.
So once again, I lift my head up. And trudge on. And on.
Monday, June 28, 2010
If you want to smile...
UPDATE! Cute Overload featured this exact same video on July 2nd, a full FOUR DAYS AFTER I did. You know what this means? WE'RE AHEAD OF THE CURVE, PEOPLE! YA-WOOOOOO! (and Susan Isaacs is even more ahead of the curve than we are.)
Then you watch this. Repeatedly.
It's ridiculous, because it's the worst Beatles impersonation in the world, but I love it.
Hat tip to Susan Isaacs at Gray Matter , she found it first. :)
Then you watch this. Repeatedly.
It's ridiculous, because it's the worst Beatles impersonation in the world, but I love it.
Hat tip to Susan Isaacs at Gray Matter , she found it first. :)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Surprised Laughter
A couple of weeks ago I went on an impromptu trip to Disneyland. Sister Agatha and Mr. Agatha had given me passes for my birthday, and they expired in the first week of June, so I had to hustle. And while some of my friends have annual passes, most of them couldn’t go because of this, that, and the other thing (mainly rehearsals for a play.)
You can’t just take anyone to Disneyland, people. Well, maybe you can if you’re in a big group, but if it’s gonna be just you and someone else, as it ultimately came down to be, you’d better get along with that person, because everyone knows a trip to Disneyland involves a lot of line standing. If that person isn’t down with lines, with walking, with dealing with noisy children, or if that person doesn’t appreciate the Disneyland experience in general, with all of its childhood nostalgia, adult perspective, and jacked up prices on food and beverage, that person is not the person you wanna go with.
Luckily, I pleaded and cajoled and got Dewey to come with me. Dewey has an annual pass of his own, and loves Disneyland as much as I do, he loves just walking around the park, appreciating the attention to detail that Disneyland still retains (though the cast members could be friendlier.)
Both my pass and his annual pass allowed us to park hop between Disneyland and California Adventure, so we started in California Adventure because last October, we had spent all of the day in Disneyland. And though Dewey had been to both parks plenty of times, he had somehow never made it onto Soarin’ Over California, which is one of my favorite rides.
I tried to describe it to Dewey what it was like, and got as far as “simulated hang glider thingie” before I gave up, and said, “Just trust me, you’re gonna love it.”
So Dewey trusted me, as everyone should do when it comes to all things Disney. We got our Fast Passes so we could come back later with no wait, I told the person putting us in rows that we wanted the top row, so nobody’s feet would be dangling in our sightline. Dewey didn’t understand what that meant, though I’m saying things like “kinda like Back To The Future at Universal Studios, but waaaaaaay better.”
So then we get onto the ride, and the people sitting next to Dewey realize, from all the questions he’s asking me, that this is his first time riding Soarin’. “This is going to be your favorite ride from now on,” they tell him, “Cause it’s our favorite ride.”
Then the ride starts, and we’re lifted high into the air and the movie starts.
And Dewey laughs. The most beautifully surprised laughter I’ve heard in a long time. Kind of a hey, what’s going on...oh my GOD! This is amazing! And he keeps laughing and chuckling all the way through the ride as we soar and swoop and sniff our way through all sorts of California landscapes.
I think I like Soarin’ not just because it takes you up in the air, so you feel like you’re flying, but also because it’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is. It’s not built around a specific Disney movie, it’s not simulating a storyline where something goes horribly awry. You’re flying through the state of California. Boom. Done.
We get back down when the ride’s done and Dewey’s still laughing, but also applauding enthusiastically. And though we do plenty of other things that day, including inadvertently stumbling into the best place to watch the fireworks in Disneyland (by It’s A Small World), it’s Dewey’s laughter that has stayed with me weeks later.
When’s the last time I laughed in that surprised laughter kind of way? I can’t remember. Sure, I laugh, who doesn’t, but it spans the gamut of rueful chuckling to laughter forced from you by a TV show or a movie that’s working REALLY HARD to get you to laugh.
Surprised laughter. It sounded almost like joy.
You can’t just take anyone to Disneyland, people. Well, maybe you can if you’re in a big group, but if it’s gonna be just you and someone else, as it ultimately came down to be, you’d better get along with that person, because everyone knows a trip to Disneyland involves a lot of line standing. If that person isn’t down with lines, with walking, with dealing with noisy children, or if that person doesn’t appreciate the Disneyland experience in general, with all of its childhood nostalgia, adult perspective, and jacked up prices on food and beverage, that person is not the person you wanna go with.
Luckily, I pleaded and cajoled and got Dewey to come with me. Dewey has an annual pass of his own, and loves Disneyland as much as I do, he loves just walking around the park, appreciating the attention to detail that Disneyland still retains (though the cast members could be friendlier.)
Both my pass and his annual pass allowed us to park hop between Disneyland and California Adventure, so we started in California Adventure because last October, we had spent all of the day in Disneyland. And though Dewey had been to both parks plenty of times, he had somehow never made it onto Soarin’ Over California, which is one of my favorite rides.
I tried to describe it to Dewey what it was like, and got as far as “simulated hang glider thingie” before I gave up, and said, “Just trust me, you’re gonna love it.”
So Dewey trusted me, as everyone should do when it comes to all things Disney. We got our Fast Passes so we could come back later with no wait, I told the person putting us in rows that we wanted the top row, so nobody’s feet would be dangling in our sightline. Dewey didn’t understand what that meant, though I’m saying things like “kinda like Back To The Future at Universal Studios, but waaaaaaay better.”So then we get onto the ride, and the people sitting next to Dewey realize, from all the questions he’s asking me, that this is his first time riding Soarin’. “This is going to be your favorite ride from now on,” they tell him, “Cause it’s our favorite ride.”
Then the ride starts, and we’re lifted high into the air and the movie starts.
And Dewey laughs. The most beautifully surprised laughter I’ve heard in a long time. Kind of a hey, what’s going on...oh my GOD! This is amazing! And he keeps laughing and chuckling all the way through the ride as we soar and swoop and sniff our way through all sorts of California landscapes.
I think I like Soarin’ not just because it takes you up in the air, so you feel like you’re flying, but also because it’s not pretending to be anything other than what it is. It’s not built around a specific Disney movie, it’s not simulating a storyline where something goes horribly awry. You’re flying through the state of California. Boom. Done.
We get back down when the ride’s done and Dewey’s still laughing, but also applauding enthusiastically. And though we do plenty of other things that day, including inadvertently stumbling into the best place to watch the fireworks in Disneyland (by It’s A Small World), it’s Dewey’s laughter that has stayed with me weeks later.
When’s the last time I laughed in that surprised laughter kind of way? I can’t remember. Sure, I laugh, who doesn’t, but it spans the gamut of rueful chuckling to laughter forced from you by a TV show or a movie that’s working REALLY HARD to get you to laugh.
Surprised laughter. It sounded almost like joy.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
How Did You Treat Them?
I made a horrible horrible oversight last week in not giving proper credit for one of my song discoveries. The Arcade Fire song, “The Suburbs” was something I discovered on my awesome friend Fauna’s blog, http://laisthenewny.com/ You all need to go there every Friday to check it out, because she’s super awesome and has impeccable taste (and no, she did not demand an apology, I’m a dumbass with a monster guilt complex. ☺ )
Speaking of shoutouts, are you all watching Friend O’ The Blog Aarti kicking ass on tonight’s episode of The Next Food Network Star? I couldn’t be happier for her, and fyi, how NICE is it when you can be genuinely happy for someone’s success? Instead of that twinge of why the hell aren’t I getting the opportunities they’re getting? I can’t say enough nice things about Aarti, y’all. If you notice, it’s only episode 2, and everyone that’s coming into contact with her are all saying the same thing – that she’s so warm and bubbly and inviting. IT’S ALL TRUE. She’s adorable, and that’s exactly what she radiates when you meet her. And no, she's not paying me for the endorsement, either.
I have the most incredible friends in the world, I really really do. There’s nothing better than watching someone do what they love, whether it’s recommend good music, or cook good food, or stare down a fight with cancer, and KICK ASS at it.
So I know this here bloggy has kinda gotten away from its original purpose of chronicling Amy’s Quest For Communication With God. Haven’t really been kicking ass with that, lately, have I. Well, the other way to look at it is, if I was successful at communicating with God, the blog wouldn’t have anything to say, because communication with God is so personal, I couldn’t tell you what worked for me and have it work for you.
Just like how Jesus never healed a person the same way, God speaks to us in different ways, and even when it does work, there’s no guarantee you can make it happen the same way. Just because I hiked in Griffith Park and stood on a very high hill and begged God for help, and thought I heard rescue is coming, the unfortunate part of that is that I think it was 98 percent me answering as though I was God, because that sounds like something God would say. Eventually.
The point is, there’s no guarantee that I should hike up that very same high high hill and expect Him to be there. Because that reduces God to the proverbial genie in the lamp, and He will pop out to do your bidding when you rub that f’ing lamp, and I’m pretty sure He doesn’t work like that.
Right now, it appears that God is acting like the benevolent grandparent who drops by every eight months or so to shower some blessings and then is off again. He showed up last fall to get me into a new place, a new job, and poof, off again, probably to go down to the Gulf and weep copiously at how man is destroying his creation.
But that’s okay, I can shamble along okay, even though He’s not HERE here, it doesn’t mean I can’t pretend like He’s talking to me anyway.
I was running slides today, and we’re hitting the extra controversial stuff in 1 Peter, where they say things like, “Husbands, in the same way, be considerate as you live with your wives, and treat them with respect as the weaker partner.”
THAT’S IT! I’M NEVER COMING BACK TO THIS CHURCH AGAIN!
Ha ha ha. Man, context truly is everything, isn’t it.
The pastor...oh boy. I haven’t given him a name yet. He needs a name, huh. Well, his joke is that every week, he gives himself a different middle name. He’s a WILD MAN, our pastor is. Last week, his middle name was Diet Slice, so even though it’s gonna change this week, he will forever be known on this blog as Pastor Diet Slice.
So Pastor Diet Slice was talking about why men need to value their wives, and why wives need to value their husbands, and why single men need to treat single women with respect, and why single woman need to treat single men with respect, and he said this phrase:
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
I’ve heard different variations of this, like, “You will have to give an accounting for every blessing you didn’t take advantage of” or something like that. Whether it’s what did we right, what we did wrong, how we used our talents (Matthew 25), la la laaaaaaa, we’re gonna have to talk to God when we die about what we did.
I can’t WAIT for this conversation, fyi. I hope it’s over tequila. I bet they have GREAT tequila in heaven.
But I love this idea: that we need to treat everyone as though they’re a son or daughter of God. Because basically, they are. I mean, in all honesty, in our day to day lives, do we REALLY have enemies? Of course we don’t. We have people we disagree with, people who aren’t doing what we want them to, or people who want us to do things we’re not doing, but nobody’s trying to kill us. Nobody is actively working for our personal destruction. The United States Of America, yeah probably. Amy The Writer? Not so much.
When you realize that, you figure out that most everyone is worthy of politeness, of respect, of being treated like a human being. As much of a misanthrope as I can be, I find it surprisingly easy to be polite to people. Especially people I would rather aim a flamethrower at. Because when you’re polite and nice to them, it totally throws them off their game. That kinda makes everything worthwhile.
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
That one might be going over the computer as a reminder.
Speaking of shoutouts, are you all watching Friend O’ The Blog Aarti kicking ass on tonight’s episode of The Next Food Network Star? I couldn’t be happier for her, and fyi, how NICE is it when you can be genuinely happy for someone’s success? Instead of that twinge of why the hell aren’t I getting the opportunities they’re getting? I can’t say enough nice things about Aarti, y’all. If you notice, it’s only episode 2, and everyone that’s coming into contact with her are all saying the same thing – that she’s so warm and bubbly and inviting. IT’S ALL TRUE. She’s adorable, and that’s exactly what she radiates when you meet her. And no, she's not paying me for the endorsement, either.
I have the most incredible friends in the world, I really really do. There’s nothing better than watching someone do what they love, whether it’s recommend good music, or cook good food, or stare down a fight with cancer, and KICK ASS at it.
So I know this here bloggy has kinda gotten away from its original purpose of chronicling Amy’s Quest For Communication With God. Haven’t really been kicking ass with that, lately, have I. Well, the other way to look at it is, if I was successful at communicating with God, the blog wouldn’t have anything to say, because communication with God is so personal, I couldn’t tell you what worked for me and have it work for you.
Just like how Jesus never healed a person the same way, God speaks to us in different ways, and even when it does work, there’s no guarantee you can make it happen the same way. Just because I hiked in Griffith Park and stood on a very high hill and begged God for help, and thought I heard rescue is coming, the unfortunate part of that is that I think it was 98 percent me answering as though I was God, because that sounds like something God would say. Eventually.
The point is, there’s no guarantee that I should hike up that very same high high hill and expect Him to be there. Because that reduces God to the proverbial genie in the lamp, and He will pop out to do your bidding when you rub that f’ing lamp, and I’m pretty sure He doesn’t work like that.
Right now, it appears that God is acting like the benevolent grandparent who drops by every eight months or so to shower some blessings and then is off again. He showed up last fall to get me into a new place, a new job, and poof, off again, probably to go down to the Gulf and weep copiously at how man is destroying his creation.
But that’s okay, I can shamble along okay, even though He’s not HERE here, it doesn’t mean I can’t pretend like He’s talking to me anyway.
I was running slides today, and we’re hitting the extra controversial stuff in 1 Peter, where they say things like, “Husbands, in the same way, be considerate as you live with your wives, and treat them with respect as the weaker partner.”
THAT’S IT! I’M NEVER COMING BACK TO THIS CHURCH AGAIN!
Ha ha ha. Man, context truly is everything, isn’t it.
The pastor...oh boy. I haven’t given him a name yet. He needs a name, huh. Well, his joke is that every week, he gives himself a different middle name. He’s a WILD MAN, our pastor is. Last week, his middle name was Diet Slice, so even though it’s gonna change this week, he will forever be known on this blog as Pastor Diet Slice.
So Pastor Diet Slice was talking about why men need to value their wives, and why wives need to value their husbands, and why single men need to treat single women with respect, and why single woman need to treat single men with respect, and he said this phrase:
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
I’ve heard different variations of this, like, “You will have to give an accounting for every blessing you didn’t take advantage of” or something like that. Whether it’s what did we right, what we did wrong, how we used our talents (Matthew 25), la la laaaaaaa, we’re gonna have to talk to God when we die about what we did.
I can’t WAIT for this conversation, fyi. I hope it’s over tequila. I bet they have GREAT tequila in heaven.
But I love this idea: that we need to treat everyone as though they’re a son or daughter of God. Because basically, they are. I mean, in all honesty, in our day to day lives, do we REALLY have enemies? Of course we don’t. We have people we disagree with, people who aren’t doing what we want them to, or people who want us to do things we’re not doing, but nobody’s trying to kill us. Nobody is actively working for our personal destruction. The United States Of America, yeah probably. Amy The Writer? Not so much.
When you realize that, you figure out that most everyone is worthy of politeness, of respect, of being treated like a human being. As much of a misanthrope as I can be, I find it surprisingly easy to be polite to people. Especially people I would rather aim a flamethrower at. Because when you’re polite and nice to them, it totally throws them off their game. That kinda makes everything worthwhile.
“You will have to answer before God how you treated His son or His daughter.”
That one might be going over the computer as a reminder.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Join Amy’s Dance Party Part 2
When I got nothing to say...I dance.
(or in reality, if I have nothing constructive to say except bitching and whining...I dance.)
And I'm a moody little beeyotch, so here's some moody songs for you to mope and sway to:
The Submarines "Brightest Hour (Morgan Page Remix.)"
Yeah, I heard this one on an episode of The Vampire Diaries, so WHAT. If you make fun of me, I'll totally cut you. :)
Arcade Fire's new one "The Suburbs." You get to this end of this one, with the repeated lyrics "We're still screaming" and it's another song that would play over the end credits of a movie I will one day write (or maybe I already have, and will one day be produced.)
An oldie but goodie: Mew's "Comforting Sounds." I saw a comment, "It's worth it if you're patient." HEE! They mean specifically 4:22 minutes in. Totally worth it if you start there and listen to the build. Another song to make life changing decisions to (but only if you keep with the build.)
And finally, one for friend o' the blog, Spunkieselkie: Michael Hutchence's "Rooms For The Memory." Love ya, Spunkie!
(or in reality, if I have nothing constructive to say except bitching and whining...I dance.)
And I'm a moody little beeyotch, so here's some moody songs for you to mope and sway to:
The Submarines "Brightest Hour (Morgan Page Remix.)"
Yeah, I heard this one on an episode of The Vampire Diaries, so WHAT. If you make fun of me, I'll totally cut you. :)
Arcade Fire's new one "The Suburbs." You get to this end of this one, with the repeated lyrics "We're still screaming" and it's another song that would play over the end credits of a movie I will one day write (or maybe I already have, and will one day be produced.)
An oldie but goodie: Mew's "Comforting Sounds." I saw a comment, "It's worth it if you're patient." HEE! They mean specifically 4:22 minutes in. Totally worth it if you start there and listen to the build. Another song to make life changing decisions to (but only if you keep with the build.)
And finally, one for friend o' the blog, Spunkieselkie: Michael Hutchence's "Rooms For The Memory." Love ya, Spunkie!
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
doitagaindoitagaindoitagain
Let’s check in with everyone’s favorite Chickenlegger, Ginger Puppy! How goes it Ginger Puppy?
Uh-huh...uh-huh...mmmmm...well at least they trimmed you down to match the hair growing in on your chickenleg (which we can’t see because you’re still kinda leaning on it) and you can walk the stairs on your own, as opposed to God carrying you around, so that’s good, right? Right? And…lovely flowers you’re sitting next to, right? Right? Hair still in the face, I see, ha ha ha.
Ginger Puppy, Basil Diva Dog and I spent a very lovely Memorial Day Weekend lounging around by the pool. I got a new outline underway while we all enjoyed the sunshine, and even Nadine came up one day to drink the afternoon away.
It was very peaceful and the tranquility was only marred occasionally by a plane going overhead.
I would be angry about that except #1 – that’s a stupid thing to get angry about and #2 – my friend Beatrice and her new hubby Beauregard invited me to go flying in Beauregard’s plane yesterday.
Beauregard is my second Honorary Big Brother (Wella is my first), and these are the guys I call on when my car breaks down, or furniture needs to be transported or assembled, and they’re the ones that’re gonna have to give their approval to any guy who wants to date me, ha ha ha.
Even though I knew Beauregard had a plane, I had never been in it before, and I had determined that him taking me up in his plane was going to be my May Adventure, so thank God he agreed to it, ha ha, ha.
Here’s Beatrice and Beauregard, pulling the plane out of the hangar in Hawthorne. In all the pictures I took, I neglected to get a picture of the full plane, but it’s a Meyers 200D, it seats four people and its name is Gracie.
Beatrice goes flying with Beauregard all the time, so they let me sit in the front seat. Beauregard was very nice and detailed all the safety features and explained what all the dials were, and how turning this thing turned that flap that way and la la la. He told me several times that if at ANY point I felt scared, nauseous, or unsafe, to let him know and he’d take us back to the airport instantly.
HA! Little did Beauregard know that I LOVE flying! I LOVE turbulence! I love turbulence, I love roller coasters, I love cruises in high swell seas, I LOVE danger, it’s just pain I don’t like so much.
But there was no pain here. Nope, no pain, no danger, because Beauregard is an expert pilot, and up up up we go!
Beauregard apologized for the marine layer (like it was his fault, heh) that prevented us from seeing out to the ocean, but he took us past Long Beach harbor, then up to downtown, and turned the plane so I could get crazy angles of downtown Los Angeles.
We continued on and somewhere around the Hollywood Sign, Beauregard said the most incredible thing any man has said to me in recent memory:
“Ever experienced 0 gs before?”
NO!?!? CAN WE DO THAT!?!?
WE CAN! WE CAN AND WE DID!
Oh my GOSH, you guys it was so much fun!! He dips the plane sharp enough to where we’re all floating weightless! Sure, it’s only for two or three seconds, but we’re WEIGHTLESS! WEIGHTLESS AND FLYING!
Sure, I initially scream, but then I laugh and laugh and laugh and say, “doitagaindoitagaindoitagain!” So Beauregard cheerfully obliges, because he is my Honorary Big Brother and loves me bunches and bunches.
All together, it was three times of us floating weightless. The last one was the best one, EVERYTHING went flying, including my unzipped purse in the back seat. If ONLY I had had the foresight to get a picture of that, heh.
We then landed and went to an awesome tequila bar in Hawthorne, because, as Beatrice pointed out, you wanna drink AFTER you get off the plane, not before.
So the next time I’m sitting in the backyard and a plane flies overhead, I’m gonna remember the day that I was up there, screaming, laughing and floating above our fair city. It was an awesome awesome moment.
Uh-huh...uh-huh...mmmmm...well at least they trimmed you down to match the hair growing in on your chickenleg (which we can’t see because you’re still kinda leaning on it) and you can walk the stairs on your own, as opposed to God carrying you around, so that’s good, right? Right? And…lovely flowers you’re sitting next to, right? Right? Hair still in the face, I see, ha ha ha.Ginger Puppy, Basil Diva Dog and I spent a very lovely Memorial Day Weekend lounging around by the pool. I got a new outline underway while we all enjoyed the sunshine, and even Nadine came up one day to drink the afternoon away.
It was very peaceful and the tranquility was only marred occasionally by a plane going overhead.
I would be angry about that except #1 – that’s a stupid thing to get angry about and #2 – my friend Beatrice and her new hubby Beauregard invited me to go flying in Beauregard’s plane yesterday.
Beauregard is my second Honorary Big Brother (Wella is my first), and these are the guys I call on when my car breaks down, or furniture needs to be transported or assembled, and they’re the ones that’re gonna have to give their approval to any guy who wants to date me, ha ha ha.
Even though I knew Beauregard had a plane, I had never been in it before, and I had determined that him taking me up in his plane was going to be my May Adventure, so thank God he agreed to it, ha ha, ha.
Here’s Beatrice and Beauregard, pulling the plane out of the hangar in Hawthorne. In all the pictures I took, I neglected to get a picture of the full plane, but it’s a Meyers 200D, it seats four people and its name is Gracie.
Beatrice goes flying with Beauregard all the time, so they let me sit in the front seat. Beauregard was very nice and detailed all the safety features and explained what all the dials were, and how turning this thing turned that flap that way and la la la. He told me several times that if at ANY point I felt scared, nauseous, or unsafe, to let him know and he’d take us back to the airport instantly.HA! Little did Beauregard know that I LOVE flying! I LOVE turbulence! I love turbulence, I love roller coasters, I love cruises in high swell seas, I LOVE danger, it’s just pain I don’t like so much.
But there was no pain here. Nope, no pain, no danger, because Beauregard is an expert pilot, and up up up we go!
Beauregard apologized for the marine layer (like it was his fault, heh) that prevented us from seeing out to the ocean, but he took us past Long Beach harbor, then up to downtown, and turned the plane so I could get crazy angles of downtown Los Angeles.
We continued on and somewhere around the Hollywood Sign, Beauregard said the most incredible thing any man has said to me in recent memory:“Ever experienced 0 gs before?”
NO!?!? CAN WE DO THAT!?!?
WE CAN! WE CAN AND WE DID!
Oh my GOSH, you guys it was so much fun!! He dips the plane sharp enough to where we’re all floating weightless! Sure, it’s only for two or three seconds, but we’re WEIGHTLESS! WEIGHTLESS AND FLYING!
Sure, I initially scream, but then I laugh and laugh and laugh and say, “doitagaindoitagaindoitagain!” So Beauregard cheerfully obliges, because he is my Honorary Big Brother and loves me bunches and bunches.
All together, it was three times of us floating weightless. The last one was the best one, EVERYTHING went flying, including my unzipped purse in the back seat. If ONLY I had had the foresight to get a picture of that, heh.
We then landed and went to an awesome tequila bar in Hawthorne, because, as Beatrice pointed out, you wanna drink AFTER you get off the plane, not before.
So the next time I’m sitting in the backyard and a plane flies overhead, I’m gonna remember the day that I was up there, screaming, laughing and floating above our fair city. It was an awesome awesome moment.
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