Very long mopey blog ahead (but hopefully will be the last mopey blog ever)

Warning: the following blog entry may be very goopy and self indulgent. I’m working through a moment here, people. With any luck, it’ll be the last time we all do this. And it’s very long.

I’m back at the housesitting house again, this time for a week while Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog’s Daddies are off on their honeymoon. (Yay California, where daddies can do that.)

And since the ceremony was here at the housesitting house, both Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog got baths for the occasion, so they smell pretty and no fleas anywhere, which makes them much nicer to deal with. Just look at the coquettish pose that Ginger Puppy strikes for the camera. You know she’s thinking, yeah, check it. I’m AWESOME, I am.

I know the blog entries have been on the mopey side, lately. I know this, I do. They can’t be fun to read.

So I decided to fix things my own way. Which currently involves tequila. It’s Patron, but it’s not Silver, it’s Patron Orange. They had ordered a bunch of Patron for the ceremony, but the guests are no dummies, and given the choice between Patron Silver and Patron Orange, everyone went for the Silver, so there’s a buttload of Patron Orange for me to swim my way through, except, well, what can you with Patron Orange? Everything’s so complicated to make with it, when all a girl wants is a simple margarita.

So I made one. A Patron Orange Margarita. It’s not the greatest. I wouldn’t make it for anyone else. But it’s doing its job. Which is to make me contemplatey, instead of mopey.

I think this will be the last time I talk about this. Not that it won’t still be an issue in my life, I will forever think that I’m God’s punching bag on this, but this will be the last time I talk about it here, in these blog entries.

Ever since things starting going right with every single other aspect of my life besides my heart, I haven’t really felt like I’m connecting to God. Yeah, it’s always been an issue, but I’d hate to think that I only feel near to Him when things are drop dead awful.

I think I came close in Blink And You’ll Miss It moments today. It was a long day at church for me. I got there super early because I’m orchestrating another Blood Drive, the second one this year for my church. I haven’t talked about it on the blog, because there weren’t any issues for me. I knew it wouldn’t be hard to get another one started, I knew it wouldn’t be hard to get people to sign up. Today during the service I interviewed a lovely member of our congregation about the time she needed three blood transfusions while giving birth, and I didn’t freak out that I was conducting a interview in front of 300 people. I just did it. Just like I knew I’d get sign ups. I’m already over 40 sign ups, when our goal was 33, and we’ve still got a week to go.

But because I was part of the service, I had to sit in the second row, close to the front. So no people to look at to split my focus. Just me, singing the songs when they came up. And we were singing one of my favorites, a really simple yet lovely one by Richard Swift, called “As I Go.” You can listen to it here

(The way the church band plays it is a lot more rockin’ though, a lot of drums and guitar.)

Somewhere, in the middle of this part, I think I felt a tiny spark of connection.

Everywhere I go,
Every page I turn,
I see your tender heart
I cannot earn your love
I cannot earn your love
You love me just the same

Halleju, I need to sing with all I have:
Halleju, I need to sing

If I falter, if I fade
You will hold me, still so close
And I need you, my good father,
To be with me, as I go.

As I go.

And once I get a tiny blip, I’m all on it like HEY! WHERE YA BEEN!? Which instantly chases it away, like, like, like a guy. Sigh.

My church did another one of their Relationship Series Talks, which I hung around after the service for. You could submit your questions anonymously and they tailored their talk around them.

And apparently, I do not have the problems the rest of the single people in this congregation have. Because all their questions were about how do I let this person know I like them? How do I know that the person I’m dating is the one I’m supposed to marry? What if I’m unequally yoked by dating a non-believer?

Nobody asked the question I’ve been waiting all my life to meet the one I thought You were preparing for me, but we’re hitting double digits on the waiting period, and I’m losing all hope that me meeting someone is in Your plan, but why do I have this ache that I think You put in me if You’re not planning on filling it? I don’t wanna be a missionary in Africa, by the way.

So I guess I’m the only one with that problem, then. Great.

I can’t say the talk was a complete loss, though. I came out of it with a clarity I hadn’t had before, that um, you’re not gonna meet your Future Husband in this church. I’m out of step with the majority of the congregation. It’s not bad, it doesn’t mean I have to look for a new church. It just means, I dunno, that I can stop looking at that one guy, and that other guy, and whatever.

Pastor Bernard did address the guys at one point to say (paraphrasing here), “You know, we think a lot of you guys are bozos because we see so many really great girls here that you all aren’t asking out.” To which every single girl, including myself, instantly thought, does he mean ME!?!?!

Nah, Pastor Bernard doesn’t mean me. He knows me pretty well, I’m too cranky, too cynical, too cussy, I don’t go on mission trips to Kenya, I take up less showy causes like blood drives, I’m too much of a loner, and I’m probably too old to be considered a viable romantic possibility at this church in general. Sigh.

So I took to the backyard tonight. I felt like there was something I needed to settle once and for all, and it felt like a dramatic backdrop was necessary.

Yay for me, it’s a full moon out tonight. So I turn off most of the outdoor lights, hop in the outdoor Jacuzzi, and let my eyes adjust to the moonlight.

So I hereby vow, to God, to all of you, that I’m not gonna talk about my heart in a romantic sense on this blog anymore. It’s self indulgent, mopey, and I suspect it causes my Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much, and my Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder, much agitation. I’m positive that for more than a few years, they suspected I was gay, when the sad truth was, no, no, just that nobody wanted to date me, not that I’m ugly, because I’m not, but because L.A. guys don’t know how to handle a woman that’s ambitious, talented, and disciplined enough to achieve all her career goals…

AHHHHHHHHH! See that? That right there? I’m stopping that.

I swear by God, and this moon. No, no, swear not by the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

I swear by God, represented by this really bright moon…









I swear by this strangely tasting Patron Orange margarita… (it's there, I promise you.)













I swear by this abstract bunny statue, which I’ve never quite figured out why it’s here…













I swear by this Ginger Puppy, never far away….












No no, I swear by THIS Ginger Puppy, as she has brought a squeaky naked bear as an offering…










I am not talking about my heart in a romantic sense on this blog again. Not saying I’m not talking to God about it, though I imagine He’s sick of hearing about it. But the rest of you don’t need to know about it.

I need to move on, is my very long winded way of saying. If I make this vow now, I’ll be forced to talk about other things on this blog and maybe I’ll discover something else that can monopolize my head space.

I’m in the Jacuzzi, the moon as my light, the Orange margarita as my drink, Ginger Puppy as my nearby companion (Basil Diva Dog is off sleeping in the cabana), and I’ve got my Ipod on. I’m singing songs in the backyard, up to the moon, there’s gotta be something that can really finalize this moment.

There’s Brand New’s “Jesus Christ”

Do you believe you're missing out
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
But with nobody in your bed
The night's hard to get through

And I will die all alone
And when I arrive I won't know anyone

Well, Jesus Christ, I'm alone again
So what did you do those three days you were dead?
Cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.

There’s Modest Mouse’s “Spitting Venom”

Cheer up baby
It wasn’t always quite so bad
For every venom then that came out
The antidote was had.

I sang that one for awhile, actually.

But then my Ipod flipped out a song I hadn’t heard in forever, a tiny little band nobody has ever heard of, called Common Children, and their song “Redemption.”

I had first heard them on some Itunes radio station, and in true Amy fashion, as soon as I figured out who they were, they promptly broke up. I got their album The Inbetween Time, on mail order for five bucks.

Here’s a link where you can hear the song (I hope they don’t yank it since I’ve linked to it.)

I hope you listen
To the songs the wounded sing
The sound of redemption
In this broken offering

Hallelujah Hallelujah Hallelujah

And somewhere in the middle of THAT song, I feel the tiniest of Connection Blips.

This is me. I’m singing this song, in a Jacuzzi that’s not mine, in a backyard that’s not mine, drinking alcohol that’s not mine, watching dogs that aren’t mine, under a full moon that belong to God. It’s a great life, if you happen to overlook the fact that there’s a hole in my chest where my heart should be, and I’d give everything up in a second for it to be filled.

I’m wounded. I’m broken. I’m singing this song up to You, God, my broken offering to You. And then I can hopefully, please, GOD, I can hopefully move on.

I will have Charley horses tonight, I can feel it already. I’ve been drinking water for two hours now, but it won’t make a difference. These dogs are not getting their 5am walk. I hope they’re okay with that.

Someday, I will write a script where the guy write a love letter to the object of his affection and he’ll say “I would rub out any Charley horses in your calves that wake you up in the middle of the night.”

Cause that would be awfully romantic to me.

You Keep Asking For It, But You're Never Getting It

So here’s Hazel the toddler. I guess we can’t really call her Baby Hazel. When they start walking, they’re not really babies anymore.









Hazel Toddler is now about a year and a half, that age where everything is super groovy cool, and if you fall down you don’t cry about it, because it wasn’t that far to fall anyway. But it’s about another six months before she formally enters the Terrible Twos, and then I shall be avoiding her house and backyard for awhile.

Things have settled down somewhat after a number of weeks, and I’m finally getting to breathe somewhat.

I guess I’ve progressed in my spiritual journey to the point where it’s not that I don’t think God’s listening, because I know He is. And it’s not that I don’t think He can’t handle my requests, because He’s God, and He’s the world’s original multi-tasker.

It’s just that I think He doesn’t want to. What’s the thing that the guy says in the Gospels? C’mon, I just finished those suckers two weeks ago. Ah hell, let me go look it up. ARGH! I know it’s in there somewhere. It’s a beggar, a leper, a cripple, or otherwise disenfranchised person…HA!

It’s the leper. Or, a leper. (I think there’s more than one hobbling around the Gospels) He’s in Matthew 8: 2 – 4; Mark 1: 40-44, and Luke 5,:12 – 13. NIV has him kneeling before Jesus and saying “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean." But The Message translates it as “"Master, if you want to, you can heal my body." Jesus says “I am willing” (“I want to”) and heals him.

“If you want to.” Acknowledging that Jesus knows the situation and has the power to, and He has the power to, because He’s the son of God.

God knows my situation, the dark corners in my head, the aches in my soul, the frustrations in my life that are meaningless, sure, of course, but don’t go away. God can absolutely do something about it, if He wanted to.

He just doesn’t want to. That’s what it feels like. He doesn’t wanna help. I’m not looking to anyone else to help me, just Him. Might as well go to the Guy who knows how everything’s gonna turn out.

But He just doesn’t want to. And He won’t tell me why. And He’s not providing other options, other avenues, other roads to go down. So I feel like I’m stuck, and I can’t get out.

There’s another quote from C.S. Lewis’s Grief Observed that’s stuck with me. I recognize that quoting C.S. Lewis makes me sound like a smarty pants, but I’m not. Grief Observed is only, like, 80 pages long. Everyone can read it and remember some part of it.

And it’s the same section where I last quoted him, the special sort of “no answer.” Before that, he’s asking God if he can meet his dead wife again “only if I learn to love you so much that I don’t care whether I meet her or not? Consider, Lord, how it looks to us. What would anyone think of me if I said to the boys, “No toffee now. But when you’ve grown up and don’t really want toffee you shall have as much of it as you choose.”

That’s what I feel like right now. That I’m supposed to ignore these ever present aches, love God with all my heart, and God will finally fill the ache when I don’t care about it anymore.

It’s an ACHE. It f’ing HURTS, okay? Not so easy to ignore. Not for years and years.

Whatever. God’s not gonna stop the ache, and He’s not gonna tell me why, and I’m supposed to grow up already and find joy in running missions in Africa, or helping nonprofits on Skid Row, or other noble efforts, and stop looking for My Future Husband Because You’re Not Getting One, So Knock It Off.

These past few weeks, in addition to wanting to pound a train spike through certain people’s heads, I feel like my life appears to be continually giving of myself, my time, my knowledge, my efforts, to help other people.

“I live to serve.” That’s what I used to snarkily say to my Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Still Love Very Very Much whenever she wanted me to do something. She had a knack for continually picking the wrong time to ask me to do things for her. I harbored theories that she couldn’t stand to see me watching T.V. when she was struggling to write her master’s thesis in City Planning, and so Amy, go clean the bathroom. It doesn’t help me write, but I’m so annoyed that I’m doing something and seeing you do nothing, that I demand you do something other than nothing RIGHT NOW.

So I live to serve. Rolling my eyes the entire way. Then and now.

Here’s the deal. I’m down with the whole loving your neighbor as yourself thing. I treat people exactly how I want to be treated.

The problem is that I want to be treated GREAT. So I treat others great, and I take their problems on as my own. You need temp agencies? You need a mechanic? You need a script read? You need someone to do last year's quarterly reports? You need a job? Okay! Let’s see what I can do, because I know I’d want other people to help me when I have problems.

So it leaves me exhausted and resentful, and the best part is, I DO have problems, but nobody else can solve them except for God. Awesome awesome irony.

Amy, you’re such an f’ing brat. Your car broke down last year, Wella fixed it. Mella lent you his car to drive. There. People help you. Stop being an ungrateful brat already and go clean the bathroom.

Right, right.

JOY! There’s JOY in them missions in Africa! JOY, I tell ya! More JOY than you can shake a stick at! Give up all your dreams and hop to it right NOW if you wanna jump on the JOY TRAIN!

Right, right.

I'm working on it

I have a super cute picture of Hazel the toddler I took yesterday that I'm trying to find an appropriate post to write around. Stay tuned.

It Could Be Worse, It Could Be A Bandana.

Okay, okay, I’m trying not to let the work situation bother me so much. I’m kinda dwelling in Kicked Puppy territory, since every day when I show up at work, there’s a 50 / 50 chance I’m gonna get yelled at for something that wasn’t my fault.

I know in the grand scheme of things, this won’t matter in like, a year from now. Possibly six months from now. Next week, maybe. Job situations, no matter how crazy they can get, usually look better in retrospect. One of the few things that do, come to think of it.

Back in the day, I worked for a certain corporation, hmm, I can’t remember if I signed a non-disclosure form, so how to phrase, how to phrase, how to say things that a google search wouldn’t get me in trouble for, hmmmmmmmm.

Okay! Back in the day, I worked for a certain corporation, and maybe it had a couple of theme parks. Or two. Or three. Or….a bunch.

I totally fell for the whole “Working at a theme park’s gonna be FUN!” theory. I like theme parks. I have fun at theme parks. Why wouldn’t WORKING there be fun too?

Well, because, simply put, you’re not the one on vacation. Plus, it helps if you like people, since you have to be happy and cheerful and smiling all the time.

And we all know how I feel about that. Heh.

Which is why I eventually succeeded in getting myself into the character department. My reasoning wasn’t that I could make a bunch of kids happy. My reasoning was, honest to God, if I’m wearing a character head, I don’t have to smile. I don’t have to talk to people. I don’t have to be cheerful. It’ll be great. My ultimate goal was to get into one of the stage shows, where I REALLY wouldn’t have to interact much with the crowds, but I didn’t get that far.

You have to attend about a week of character training, capped off by a final exam, where they throw you in a costume, throw you in an area of the park, and make sure you can do what you were supposed to do.

They threw me in a Rabbit costume (a particular rabbit, one in a classic children’s story who’s obsessed with time.) The fun part was that this costume was out of my size range, it was the next category up, you could wear it if you were 5’6 and above. I’m 5’3 ½, but every character in my category was checked out, so into the Rabbit I went.

Ker-flop, Ker-flop, Ker-flop, Ker-flop, Ker-flop. That is the sound of my Rabbit Feet going down the hall. They’re making us go to the part of the theme park that, um, looks a lot like a jungle? Jungleland! It’s pretty far away, and my Rabbit Feet are something like three feet long, I’m picking my legs up extra high to make it work, but the Rabbit Legs are low to the ground. But I’m thinking this is all part of the exam, so I’m gonna suck it up and Ker-flop my way to Jungleland.

Okay! Now I’m in Jungleland. Which is a perfectly appropriate place to find a Rabbit from classic children’s literature. Not. But the tourists don’t care, it’s a CHARACTER! GET THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK! GET THE CAMERA! GRAB THE KIDS! IT’S THE RABBIT!

I pose for the pictures. I sign the autograph books. I hippity hop as best I can in my Monster Rabbit Feet. And very slowly, inside my Rabbit Head, the bandana holding my hair back is starting to slip, slip, slip. Forward.

Uh-oh. Oh, this really isn’t going to happen to me is it? IS IT!? See, the Rabbit has a failsafe whenever he has to leave, all he has to do is point to his watch that’s the size of a frying pan on his belt and scoot along to the nearest backstage exit, and the parents will explain to the kids that the Rabbit’s gotta go, that’s his part of the story, you see.

But I am surrounded by a crowd, no, an OCEAN of people, something like four lines deep, because a Rabbit in Jungleland isn’t something you see every day. My teacher comes over, “Rabbit! Rabbit! You’re late!” Ah, my exit line!

And the ocean of people doesn’t move. This Bunny is going nowhere. They won’t let me. Teacher runs off, waiting to see how I’m gonna get out of this by myself.

Now the bandana’s on my forehead. It’s tied tightly enough to where it’s gonna be snug, instead of dropping to my chest, but loose enough to where it’s gonna be over my eyes in about a minute and a half. Aw hell.

How in the world am I gonna stop this? I can’t take my Rabbit head off, we’ve all heard the stories about how four year olds peeped backstage where they shouldn’t have, saw characters without their heads, and their parents sued for emotional damage and distress. The best I can do is ker-flop my Monster Bunny Feet over, moving the ocean of people four lines deep with me, and plant myself by a wall, to keep the crowd on three sides.

Half my vision is now blocked by the bandana. It’s red. I stole it from my sister Agatha. This is obviously divine retribution. I turn my head from side to side, trying to dislodge the bandana. The crowd sees the Rabbit shaking his head. “No, what?” a little girl says.

Where is my teacher? Hello? Anybody? Rabbit in distress! RABBIT IN DISTRESS! SOMEBODY HELP ME!

And then the bandana goes over my eyes. I’m officially blind. I turn this way, that way. Nope, nothing doing.

F THIS SHIT! If I’m gonna flunk, I’m gonna flunk.

I quickly turn around, facing the wall, my back to the crowd, I sneak a Rabbit paw inside my Rabbit head, and yank the bandana down, get the Rabbit paw out of the Rabbit head, and turn back around.

“Are you lost?’ the little girl says.

Heh.

I sign a few more autographs, and somehow ker-flopped the hell out of Jungleland. I do remember that it was by myself. Everyone was waiting for me backstage, wondering what on earth had happened. Maybe they thought I just LOOOOOOOVVVVVVED people.

I did pass, by the way. I went on to play a whole menagerie of critters and assorted small people. I did a few parades, almost passed out on a float in 100+ degree weather why are you people watching a parade when it’s 100+ degrees outside!? What’s WRONG with you?

I worked out of character costume as a character escort/bodyguard. I escorted/bodyguarded a Rabbit, a Bear, and a Fox from a classic Southern story to their river flume ride when the park opened, and we all stood at a spot with a few kids where we knew we’d get wet from the ride. Watching kids, a Rabbit, a Bear, and a Fox dance while getting sprayed with river flume ride water is hilarious.

I escorted/bodyguarded a Bear, a Tiger, and a Mopey Donkey during a character lunch. When we ran out of kids to take pictures and sign autographs with, we sat down in the restaurant foyer and played Duck Duck Goose. Watching a Mopey Donkey trying to run around a Duck Duck Goose circle is hilarious.

So I must remember, in the grand scheme of things, that the stressful times at work are not going to be the only times I have. That there will be, if not necessarily fun times, (because I’m not currently working at a theme park), better times. Or at least surreal times.

And I will never have to deal with a slipping bandana inside a Rabbit head ever again.

Amy has found a new word

Hello blog and God,

This week has been a nightmare mountain of stress, in ways that I can’t publicly express, because it would rip the Fiction Mask off The Miniature Golf Network and suddenly everyone in the industry would know exactly where I work. Which is sad because there is a lot to tell, and maybe I’ll be able to tell it six to eight months from now, because it is kinda funny and ironic in a God Sure Is One Funny Mothertrucker kind of way, but not now.

Perhaps I can draw a comparison. On Tuesday, I went to see a local band play a set at Key Club. I’ve seen them before, they’re interesting, if a bit whiny voiced, and I was looking forward to hanging out in the back in the dark and people watch, perhaps coming up with new script ideas, or bits of dialogue, or who knows what.

Because the day was so awful, I end up arriving halfway through the set. I got my drink, staked out a spot, making sure I didn’t block anyone’s view, and stood by a column which was pretty perfect to see the band. I did get to hear my favorite song so that was all good.

And then a pack of people, two guys, two girls, cross in front of me, see more people they know, and stop directly in front to talk to them, now blocking my view.

They’re seriously, like, two inches away from me, they elbow my boob as they go to hug each other, so they know they’re in my way. There’s a perfectly good empty spot if they just keep moving to the right, but no, they start blabbing away two inches in front of me.

“Uh, excuse me?” I say, gently pressing on the guy to move him away from me. They look at me, “You’re kinda in my way.” I say as politely as possible.

“Hey, it’s a club” the douchiest guy says. They take a half step away, ignore the perfectly good empty space to the right, and keep on being douches.

I want to tell this douchepack that they are douches. (Hey! A new word! Douchepack!) I want to tell the guy in his douche hat, who’s doing the whole I know every lyric to every song because I’m that big of a fan and I’m gonna dance douchily and point at the singer like we’re best buddies during the songs! that he’s a douche. I want to tell him that the two girls are not going home with him, because he’s a douche, and I can tell this after observing them for all of two seconds.

But I don’t do any of that. Because I’m not that big of a bitch. Not on the outside, anyway. But I am on the inside, and thus am convicted by my thoughts, I’m a sinner, a bitchy bitchy sinner, blah blah blah.

Instead, I’m the one that moves, and fifteen minutes later, the set’s over anyway. A lousy day made lousier, mitigated slightly by the fact I got to hear my favorite song live.

You know that douchepack wouldn’t have stopped in front of me if I had been a guy, or if I had a guy with me. But no, I’m alone.

And after the wreck of the day I’ve had, as I’m driving home alone, the aching Touchy Feely Amy need sweeps over me again. God, I’m a loser.

See, in stressful times like these, when I can’t dive into a pool of Patron because I have to be sober in the days ahead, the only thing I want is to be held in the arms of a Big Strong Guy. I don’t need the Big Strong Guy to solve my problems, because I already know he can’t, and the problems are going to work themselves out anyway. I don’t even need the big strong guy to murmur sweet nothings in my ear like, “It’s gonna be okay, you’re gonna be fine.” I know it will, I know I will.

I just need him to fucking hold me. Like, seriously, all I need is maybe 5 to 10 minutes. And no, I’m not saying I need to be held because then I need to be kissed, and then I need to do some other stuff. No, I’m way too stressed for all of that. Just me, Big Strong Guy, held, done.

God can’t hold me the way I want to be held. Sure, He can arrange my circumstances, and I personally think He’s laughing at me right now, but He can’t send a pair of disembodied arms down from heaven to wrap themselves around me. And I’m so freaked out these days that I would still take the Disembodied Arms Option, creepy as it would be.

If I’m not getting what I so desperately want, the obvious answer seems to be that God doesn’t want me to have it, or doesn’t think I need it, or thinks I don’t deserve it because I judged the Douchepack to be Douchy or is trying to teach me that Being Held By Big Strong Guy doesn’t compare to what God has for me.

Which is, um, what? Better Circumstance? Future Blessings? How does that help me now, in the car, as I’m driving home, and feeling another layer of numbness and despair forming around my heart (and my back, for some odd reason.)

I talk to God. He doesn’t answer. And on life goes. God help me. God help me all over.

Ugh

The tornadoes of life have consumed me. I'll try to post something this week,.

ugh ugh ugh

Cutting Out The Parentheses

(I'm a brattykins for the following entry, because I've spent the past two weeks at the housesitting house, in which I enjoyed sunrises and sunsets, so please dismiss the following as the whinings of one very ungrateful bitch. I know, I know, I know.)

Two things happened in recent days that were the perfect opposite of each other so my first thought was WHOOO HOOOO! I FINALLY HAVE SOMETHING TO BLOG ABOUT!

The annual Act One Alumni Barbeque was this past Friday and in addition to catching up with old friends, I was introduced to a small group of newbies still going through the writing program (they’re doing the Saturday program. They’ve given up their Saturdays for something like 7 to 8 months if not more. That truly boggles my mind.) I rambled and danced in my habitual You Can DO It pep talk that provokes stares that could be either awe or um, get away from me, you crazy person.

I know to these newbies and others, it looks like I’m super groovy cool these days. I sold a script (for little to no money.) That script got made into a movie (which may or may not go anywhere.) But I’m not really anybody. Nobody should truly listen to me. I don’t blame these newbies if they write me off as crazy. Who am I to tell anyone how to do it, when the majority of my body of work hasn’t sold. Yet.

If you’re gonna listen to anyone, listen to my buddy Donald. Donald is a heavy hitter, he’s sold scripts for gobs and gobs of money. What Donald said is that I’m not supposed to say the above paragraph with the parentheses parts (for little to no money.) (which may or may not go anywhere.) Donald says I should enjoy the good parts without adding the parentheses part, because there will ALWAYS be a parentheses part, do you wanna see the glass as half full or half empty, you have to be in control of your own spin, so make it positive, la l alaaaaa. Donald does the exact same thing as me with the parentheses parts, by the way, but he deals with it by telling me not to do it, ha ha.

Regardless, Donald was not there to talk to the newbies (he actually was at the barbeque, but had his hands full with his adorable daughter who kept singing a pirate song) so I was explaining to the newbies that if you want to be a writer, you have to be in it for the long haul. You have to keep writing, even if nobody wants to buy your stuff. You have to keep writing, you have to be a little bit crazy, obsessive, stirring a cauldron of arrogance, mania, yet humility not just to keep going, but to keep revising your own stuff. No, my stuff is good. No, my scripts WILL sell. They just haven’t yet. They’re good, they’re great, but I still have to keep working and working and rewriting until they sell. I’m not stopping, not until I become a professional screenwriter who’s sold enough stuff to buy a house of my own, a hybrid car, and a comfy chair. Even then, I’m not stopping, because I’m a writer, and this is what I do. I write. And then I rewrite. I write. I rewrite.

Then I got an email that a college buddy of mine, who I had gone through film school with, who I had worked on more than a few projects with, who had been out there in L.A. longer than I have, is moving back home. I don’t know the reasons why, maybe I’ll learn them later. And I get bummed out. He was trying to achieve something, (though I’m not sure what, let’s say a happy life in Los Angeles), and it didn’t happen for him. Not as though he didn’t give it his all. Not as though he didn’t work his ass off for it. It just didn’t happen for him.

The Olympics are on. I love the Summer Olympics. I was a gymnast and then a hurdler growing up, so I like watching those events. But I wasn’t top notch on either of them. I never won anything, the best I’d ever do would be to place fourth or fifth, and that sometimes would be enough to get a point or two that the team needed to win an overall competition. I trained my butt off, I was 90 pounds when I was a sophomore in high school because of it (and oh my GOD, the screeches, wails, and utter confusion that ensued when puberty along with its 15 pounds showed up.) But I never got any better. I worked and worked and worked and never got any better than an 8.15 on the vault, and fifth in the state championship of 100 meter hurdles. Some might say that’s good. But no athlete ever trains to win anything less than first place. Just like no writer ever writes to win anything less than a solid big money sale. A good story well told is good. A good story well told that earns its fair market value is even better.

So when I hear of someone else making a huge decision and moving home, I get a little skittish, a little melancholy, a little worried. It didn’t happen for them. And maybe, despite all my hard work, it might not happen for me. Maybe I won’t get better. Maybe what I think is merely downtime before the upswing of success is self delusion, and there is no upswing of success.

I wrote an exchange of dialogue recently, “You really have a lot of growing up to do.” “That’s too bad, because this is as big as I get.” Okay, it was a dog saying it, but still.

I read somewhere that worrying is just a way of praying for what you don’t want to happen. But with that in mind, it’s awful hard to be able to think of ANYTHING without sliding into Worryland and its parentheses parts. There’s a film that’s got “written by Amy The Writer” on it! (it won’t do anything, a mere blip of false hope), I’m writing a new play! (it won’t be as good as the last one.) I’m working on a kick ass high concept idea (that you had to go back to the drawing board on to do a new outline on, someone will write that kick ass idea and sell it before you.) and that’s not even counting the two boards I’m on for various groups and how annoying they are, the new Blood Drive I’m setting up for September, and the continuing fog that is my personal life.

I set my mind to be positive about these things, to cut away the parentheses parts. Am I being wonderfully determined in a way that will pay off spectacularly later? Or am I wonderfully lying to myself again?

Okay, I should send up a prayer here, be publicly accountable and crap. Everyone buckle up.

Dear God. HI! (insert spastic hand waving, in case He can’t see me.) Thank You that I get another day! A day in which, so far, nothing’s gone wrong, and I don’t think I’ve sinned majorly! Woot!

So God, I know very well the parts in the Bible where You command us not to worry, and Jesus’ talk that the flowers in the field don’t worry, and the birdies in the air don’t worry, and that’s all well and good except flowers don’t have brains, and human brains are bigger than birds and we’ve got more to do, and all the bird does is surf the wind currents anyway, but WHATEVER.

You don’t want me to worry. So MAKE IT STOP ALREADY! Oh, see, when I say, make it stop, I mean, give me the supernatural strength to turn my thoughts away from dwelling in paranoid fantasies about how people are plotting to either ignore me, or bamboozle me into doing all the work for them (it depends on the person.) Distract me with other things to do so I won’t remember to worry. Give me discipline to focus on writing, and to work on a good story well told, as opposed to worrying that other more well connected people are telling that good story faster than me.

And please be with my friends who have financial issues, health issues, job issues, heart issues, my friend who’s moving back home, my friends in Kenya on their mission trip, and the family who lost the recently born two-faced kitten.

Please change the people who annoy the shit out of me. No, wait, sorry, I’m supposed to pray for the strength to deal with those people, to see them as You see them, that they’re all uniquely children of You. Give me that strength. Give me that grace. Give me that peace. No wait, peace isn’t a gift, it’s a spiritual fruit that comes from a life that’s um, well, much more sane than mine.

I think if You give me strength, everything else will follow. And help me to feel that the strength is coming from You, as opposed to what I can do on my own. Because I know that I can’t do anything on my own, it all comes from You, but it still feels like I’m doing it on my own, because you didn’t give me these abs, I do 300 situps a day to get them, except I didn’t do them Saturday or Sunday, so that obviously means they’re flabby abs now.

Sigh. I need help, God. Honestly. Please send me some. Love, Amy The Writer.

Amy's Busy Writing

Ginger Puppy is busy guarding her feet.


The funniest line I heard all weekend was Stella, who came over with Wella, Norman, and Frances to cook out yesterday. I was telling Stella how I had been praying for her situation, then realized how instantly sappy that sounded, so I added, "Not that it matters, I don't think God's listening to me these days." Stella said something along the lines of, "God listens to you if for no other reason than you're one of the most entertaining Christians I know." Which made me laugh and laugh and laugh.

I keep getting the image of God going, "Yeah? Yeah? Uh-huh? Wow! Okay, so you want what? And what? And what? Great! Thanks for telling me. I'm glad we had this talk!" And off He walks away without doing anything about it.

Yes, I know it's not true, I do. But that's what it feels like these days. Heh.

Scattered Thoughts

The weird thing I’ve discovered is that when things are going reasonably okay, it’s harder to focus when I’m talking to God. When I’m Bad News Keening in the corner and two seconds away from snatching up the razors, oh yeah, THEN I’m laser focused. But in the absence of Bad News, it’s hard for me to concentrate.

My prayers are something along the lines of “thank You for my job, thank You for my car, thank You that there’s gas in the car, thank You I can afford my rent…I really like that Does It Offend You Yeah song “Dawn Of The Dead”…please bless my church financially…I wanna go see Dark Knight again, but I think I wanna see it in Imax…that means I’d have to go to Universal Citywalk…that place scares me…does that mean I’m old…I wouldn’t wanna go by myself, who can I get to go with me…I have to write today…I think my one character should be a photographer…I know he was a chef before, but a photographer makes more sense…if I can switch occupations on him that quickly, you know it’s a bad sign…please help so many of my friends (names not mentioned here because it’s a blog, but they know who they are) who are suffering from broken hearts, bad job situations, financial uncertainty, health concerns…I’m hungry…maybe I’ll try calorie counting, it’s easier to do at work when everything is prepackaged for you…

And then I get angry with myself. This is GOD you’re talking to! He’s, oh, I dunno, WORTHY OF RESPECT!? You wanna be still and know that He is God?

And again, when I try, my head spins off in a thousand different directions. Sigh. Are Focus and Concentration gifts from God, or are they skills that humans learn on their own? Well hey, that’s an interesting thought too, isn’t it. Are there any skills that humans learn on their own, or is it all God given? Well, potty training, maybe.

See, I’m doing it again. Sigh.

Touchy Feely Amy

Some of my friends think I don’t like to be hugged. Not true. Not true especially since everyone hugs me regardless. More than a few like to prove how much they like me by administering rib crushing hugs, literally sweeping me off my feet, the tips of my toes grazing the floor, while they heft me up in ways that their backs will be screaming about later.

It’s not that I don’t like to be hugged, just as it’s not that I didn’t get my fair share of parental affection growing up (though my sister Agatha, has never been much of a hugger no matter what age.) But these hugs from friends and family don’t fill a weird hole in me, the hole that craves physical affection that means something more.

I’m not talking about guys. Okay, I’m mostly talking about guys. I’d say I’m 70 percent talking about guys.

Very early on in my dating adventures, there was a guy in the late hours of the night that I did not have sex with, but we did kiss and make out for quite some time and as we were both settling down to sleep, I snuggled up next to him, there was nothing to indicate that that was a bad idea. He, in return, physically pushed me off of him rudely, without verbal explanation and rolled over, his back to me, and went to sleep. I went to sleep covered in shame, how dare I think I could rest my head against his shoulder, throw my arm across his chest, never mind the fact we were down to our underwear, and had engaged in a massive makeout session. I was good enough to kiss, I was good enough to make out with, I was not good enough to fall asleep with arms around each other. Maybe it was too weirdly intimate for him. Maybe he was an Anti-Cuddler. Who knows. He didn’t say anything about it the next day, nor did we ever kiss, touch, or otherwise make out ever again.

That shame of being rudely lifted, of literally being pushed aside, seared itself into my psyche, and warped me in such a way that to this day, I still approach any potential snuggling with a guy with a weird mixture of apprehension and yearning please let me touch you that’s highly embarrassing.

Most of the guys who’ve shared late night company with me don’t have a problem with it, think it’s cute and or funny that I need to be touching some part of them as we both drift off to sleep, but I still can’t shake off the apprehension, and the slobbering gratitude that comes with their assent ohthankyouohthankyouohthankyou.

Sometimes it’s as small as me touching the small of their back as we sleep. Sometimes it’s as big as me literally stretching out ON their back. One guy who never said no to anything, patiently endured me cuddling his side, then rolling onto his back, then rolling off to the other side. “Ahhh, Amy the human blanket” he joked. Another guy was battling a bug, so we didn’t do anything, just held hands while sleeping, which one of the more poignant things I’ve ever done in bed.

My mother the Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much is probably dismayed to be reading this far, but she’ll be pleased to know that those days are most likely behind me now. Every day I let go a little bit more of the dream that I will ever meet My Future Husband Or Otherwise Mutually Committed Relationship. It’s a little like coming to the gradual acceptance of an obvious fact, like yes, my eyes will always be the grey weak blue color of creek water. Sure, I could wear colored contacts if I wanted to, but I’d have to take them out eventually, and the creek water color would be staring at me in the mirror.

Because I’m letting go of the dream (and I’m turning comments off, because I don’t need a tidal wave of well intentioned comments saying he’s out there! Honest! Nobody knows how much it hurts to hear those things when the facts are so plainly against you.) the weird need in me to have Meaningful Contact manifests itself in bizarre ways.

There was the time at the class at the gym, where we were partnered up for stretching, and were instructed to get in a lunge stance and face away from each other, bracing our back feet together, then reach back with one arm, grab your partner’s hand, and lean. Stretching the shoulder muscles, I think. Looking forward, feeling the grip of the other person behind me, the tug, the pull, the reach, that has stayed with me for years now.

I recently went to a cookout and Baby Hazel was there. She’s walking now, her hair no longer stands straight up. She was the first one to see me coming through the door. She doesn’t remember me, she doesn’t know I used to sing 80s songs to get her to go to sleep, but in that One Year Old Happy To See Any New Person way, said, “HI!” “Hi Hazel” I said, “Can I get a hug?” And she instantly tottered forward with arms outstretched until she hit me full on, her head already turned to the side to settle in the notch of my shoulder.

I’m taking Salsa classes, because I love dancing and I’m good at following instructions, ho ho ho. Salsa is a touchy feely dance, and the girl does the majority of the spinning when spinning is required. The guy is supposed to be the guide, to make sure the girl doesn’t go spinning out of control, meaning a hand on the small of the back, a hand on the hip, little touches of direction, of guidance, stay here, stop here, move here, follow me.

I have this thing about how I always have to sit on the end of any aisle in church (I need the space to balance my notebook on the arm of the chair while I scribble notes on the sermon.) But when we have Communion, there’s the whole awkwardness of people in my row stepping over me to get back to their seats. A few weeks ago, I was praying, leaning forward, eyes closed, desperately trying to reach some sort of connection with God. And there was a gentle touch, a few fingers on my shoulder. Just a guy trying to get back to his seat, and I was blocking the aisle. But the gentle touch on my shoulder, me with my eyes closed, is something I remember.

Now sure, all you Do Gooders who’re in the process of sending me well intentioned emails that will make me scream in pain (seriously, don’t do it. Don’t even start the email saying “I know you didn’t want me to send this.” Just don’t send it at all.) are sitting here with well intentioned knowing smiles Oh, Amy, don’t you see? That’s God! That’s God, working through other people, giving you the touches you’re so desperately craving.

Maybe it is. Maybe it’s me overanalyzing it, because every cell in my body is screaming out for some kind of contact, more than just the hugs from friends and family, something that will once and for all burn away the shame I still carry from that asshole all those years ago, because I don’t know how to get rid of it, and God doesn’t seem to want to help me carry that particular burden (And I have a feeling it’s because He didn’t want me to be in bed with that asshole in the first place. Yes, I know it’s not true. Doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t still go that way.) All I know is that it hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts, it’s an ache I carry with me every damn day, and I wish I could find the thing or person or mindset that would make it stop.

OH HAPPY DAY!

Yippe skippie, guess what, folks!? I MADE IT THROUGH READING THE OLD TESTAMENT! Yep, yep, that’s right, I have made it through the wild wild wilderness of major and minor prophets, Biblical history, Leviticus and its many laws, Psalms and its many songs, and Isaiah with its many prophecies.

I don’t remember when I started reading the Bible straight through to be able to accurately say how long it’s taken me. I know there were more than a few Saturdays and Sundays when I woke up and thought to myself, “Mmmm, nope. The desire to read chapter 64 of Isaiah is just not in me today.” So it probably took me longer than it should have.

Sure, there’s been plenty of interesting things to read about, especially since I undertook this somewhat daunting task of reading the Bible with an editor’s eye, specifically looking for women in the Bible, as I’m planning on doing a monologue series of Women From The Bible (Jael from the book of Judges, who kills Sisera with a tent peg, anyone? The Witch Of Endor from 1 Samuel, anyone?) But there’s still been quirky little diamonds of details here and there.

It’s like when you’re reading Greek myths as a kid, and you think they’re fun and everything Dionysus was the God of Grapes! Grape juice for everyone! And then you get to high school and college and realize you got the very sanitized version of those myths as a kid.

So as a kid, you’re reading about Daniel in the lion’s den, and nobody ever mentions the part where God strikes Nebuchadnezzar with madness and he runs into the wilderness and eats grass like an animal. Or how David spotted Bathsheba not just “sunbathing,” but taking the ritual bath that a woman back then took after she was done with her period for the month. Because you have to prove that she wasn’t pregnant with Uriah’s kid so that when David sleeps with her, the child she bears is obviously his. Ewwwww, yes, but also, wow. Look at that attention to detail. Just like a screenwriter, heh heh.

I always liked what Bono said about the Old Testament, in his book back in 2005 :

I accept the Old Testament as more of an action movie: blood, car chases, evacuations, a lot of special effects, seas dividing, mass murder, adultery. The children of God are running amok, wayward. Maybe that's why they're so relatable. But the way we would see it, those of us who are trying to figure out our Christian conundrum, is that the God of the Old Testament is like the journey from stern father to friend. When you're a child, you need clear directions and some strict rules. But with Christ, we have access in a one-to-one relationship, for, as in the Old Testament, it was more one of worship and awe, a vertical relationship. The New Testament, on the other hand, we look across at a Jesus who looks familiar, horizontal. The combination is what makes the Cross.

So onward to the New Testament! Now I can read things like John 3:14 Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the desert, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life. And know what that’s referring to: (Numbers 21 8-9, where Moses made a bronze snake and hefted it up on a pole so everyone that was bitten by a snake and had faith was healed when they looked at it.)

I have a tiny ritual when I’m writing to where I try to plan just the right song to write the ending scene to whatever script I’m working on, the idea being that that’s the song we’d hear at the end of the movie if the script got made. And then I dance around my room in jubilation. Because I’m an awesome dancer as well as writer, hee hee hee.

So this song was the one I wrote the last scene to of the most recent script I was working on, but I liked it so much, that once I hit Malachi 4, verse 6, and the official end of the Old Testament. He will turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers; or else I will come and strike the land with a curse, I decided to make it the song I danced to for finishing the Old Testament. Because, honestly, that's not a really a cheery way to end the first half of the Bible.

But it is when you dance to this song! You have to scroll to something like 4:05 minutes before the part I like “Chinese Sleep Chant” kicks in. Enjoy!

Rock Band Rules

I have a confession. I am a Rock Band addict. The fact that I don’t own a gaming system of my own doesn’t stop me. (And, in truth, you can’t really play by yourself. It’s much more fun to play with other people.)

My first exposure to Rock Band was on New Year’s Eve, at a friend’s party (not the one where Tricia marched Iain up the staircase. This was after that.) It didn’t really sound fun, it sounded like a recipe for disaster, your have four people doing four different things (Drums, bass, guitar, microphone) and there’s a point system and you can get bounced off if you don’t do it right, and it just seemed HARD.

But it wasn’t. It was the most fun I’ve ever had at a New Year’s Eve party. Nobody’s really focused on how you’re doing, they’re all worried about how they’re doing. The spectators are just watching and laughing (and drinking, mostly.) I played drums my first time out, and then switched to microphone. I rang in the New Year singing “Don’t Fear The Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult, one of my favorite songs of all time, despite Will Ferrell and his blasted cowbell ruining it for most folks. If you’ve ever seen the opening credit sequence to Stephen King’s TV version of “The Stand,” it’s an awesome use of a song.

My small group at church loves Rock Band too, and we’d occasionally play it after our talks on Sunday nights. This is where I discovered that I can play bass pretty well (as long as it’s set on the “Easy” level, ha ha ha.) and we ended our last small group session before summer break jamming out to Paramore’s “Crush Crush Crush.” I hadn’t given the song too much thought before, but when we’re all pogoing with our respective instruments (I was bass that time) and we’re all singing “Crush….crush…crush…crush…crushTWOTHREEFOUR! Nothing compares to! A quiet evening at home! Just the one, two I was just counting on!” you really appreciate what monster riffs that song has.

I don’t know what you guys were doing last night, but it can’t compare to what me and my Pink Piggy crew were doing. Which was Rock Band. Me, the director, producers, significant others, fueled by tequila and barbeque, worked our way through at least three levels or so. One of the producers dared mock my statements that I KICK ASS at Rock Band, and I had to smack him down. I tore through versions of “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, “I Think I’m Paranoid” by Garbage (which my small group can attest to the fact that I can sing the hell out of that song), “When You Were Young” by the Killers, “Don’t Look Back In Anger” by Oasis, “Creep” by Radiohead, “Say It Aint So” by Weezer, and “Celebrity Skin” by Hole. My favorite line of the night: “You want a part of me. Well, I’m not selling cheap. No I’m not selling cheap.”

This is Lorraine the 1 year old Dachshund. She obviously had quite enough of us taking over her bedroom (also known as the living room) and burrowed into the towel for some piece and quiet. But no, we didn’t shut up, not till long past 2am.

I also did pretty well at playing drums on the Rolling Stones “Gimme Shelter” which is actually a fun song to play drums to. Said producer attempted to sing that song and OK Go’s “Here It Goes” and it sounded, like, well, dogs should’ve been howling up and down the neighborhood. (Lorraine didn’t do anything.) At one point, Humphry the director came out from the kitchen with the most bewildered expression on his face at the noise that was SUPPOSED to be lyrics, and went over to the TV and pointed out the lyrics crawl on the TV to help the producer out. It was the funniest thing I had seen in awhile.

And here’s me, singing The Police’s “Roxanne.” Which I sang AND avoided the camera for the entire song and STILL scored like a 97 percent. Points off for laughing, I’m sure.

Point being, it was a fabulous time, and should Pink Piggy hit the festival circuit, we are truly prepared to take on the crews of any other film in competition and STOMP ‘EM in several rounds of Rock Band. Everyone has been warned.

Gimme Yer Feet, I Have A Fear To Get Over

When my friend Winifred got married some years back, she and all us bridesmaids went to a mani/pedi place, so our fingers and toes could be painted the requisite Bride Approved color (not that it mattered, since she made us wear hose during the wedding. HOSE! IN OPEN TOED SANDALS! IN ALABAMA IN JULY! She hated us THAT MUCH! Ha ha ha.)

It was actually my first time at a mani/pedi place, as I consider that kind of thing a cost that takes away from the important things like rent, gas, and alcohol. So I had no idea that a foot and calf rub was also included with the price of admission. I promptly caught a fit of the Uncomfortables, which I covered with a gigglathon, and no, we can’t take Amy The Writer anywhere.

But yeah, I found it uncomfortable, that someone was kneeling in front of me, in a subservient pose, washing my feet. Dunno why. Guess I couldn’t handle the authority position of it all, like this issue of Cosmo and the article “15 Things To Turn Your Man On” is my royal scepter, and I’m saying Sand those toenails down, you servant! Sand ‘em DOWN!

So when my church announced about a month ago that they were gonna be staffing a footwashing booth for a Homeless Expo Day, I knew I had to do it.

It was Hollywood’s “Project Y!MBY Connect Day.” This essentially is an event for the homeless population of Los Angeles, held at the Music Box Theater in Hollywood. The homeless can get social services and referrals, everything from groceries to driver’s licenses, to getting your feet washed via my church’s booth. The idea of footwashing ANYONE’s feet, much less a homeless person's, filled me with the heebie jeebies, so of course I have to challenge my fear and go for it.

And yet, if it really was God putting a bug in my ear, there sure were a lot of obstacles to overcome to get there. For one thing, the event was being held on a Thursday, from 7am to 2pm. During work hours, and I can’t take off work yet, I haven’t accrued any vacation time. So the most I could do would be to get there at 6am and help them set up, then leave at 8am and hope that enough homeless people came through to where I could sufficiently challenge my fear and see what came out of it.

So I do. I showed up at 6am, and I was the very first person there from my church. I helped set up the booth, and I cut towels. I cut towels for close to an hour, resizing big body towels down to hand towels, just right for drying feet.

They’re expecting maybe 200 to 300 people, but something close to twice that are already lining the block outside the theater. And that’s just at the opening.

When they finally let the doors open, the homeless population is going to the more useful booth, like the social security one, where they can get social security cards. So by the time I have to leave at 8am, there’s exactly one homeless person at our footwashing booth, and she’s already been pounced on by something like five volunteers Footwashing!? Footwashing!? I’ll wash yer feet!

So I got pictures instead.

I cut towels. I feel like Baby in “Dirty Dancing. “I carried a watermelon.” Maybe next year. Maybe.

I needed to smile, this did it

Remember Matt The Dancing Guy?

He's at it again. And just just when I was thinking, "Eh, it's okay," and "I like the other song better" we hit 51 seconds into this clip.

And I love Matt The Dancing Guy all over again. Such a simply brilliant idea. I can't get over it. It makes me smile.


Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

The Staircase

So I don’t really bother with the questions of “Why God would allow this to happen.” I moved on from asking questions you’ll never get sufficient answers to a long time ago.

Why God would allow a child to be born, live for three years, and spend his ending moment in severe pain is not a question I’m going to ask, there will never be a sufficient answer. I know a lot of well meaning Christians would point out meaningfully that said child brought a lot of joy to his parents, his sister and inspired a lot of people. Is that worth the pain he went through? Not a question I’m going to ask, there will never be a sufficient answer.

I’m thinking the older you get, the less you’ll ever get sufficient answers to the Why questions you have. Why did that happen to Hudson? Why didn’t my script sell? Why is it triple digit temperatures?

On Wednesday night, in between the few tears I shed, I found myself not asking Why questions, but thinking about Dalton instead. There was a conversation I had with Dalton a few months before he passed. It sounded like a rehearsed moment that he had prepped and ready to go anytime someone asked him how was his treatment going, but I didn’t mind if he didn’t mind repeating it for the umpteenth time.

And here’s the part where my memory gets all weird, and I even called Tricia to try and confirm some details, and she was rightfully all like, “Huh?” But basically, what I remember is Dalton saying something like how he knew he was supposed to be gracious in his suffering, but he was still thinking, “Um, really would rather not.” Tricia rightly says she doubts Dalton would have thought he was supposed to be gracious in his suffering. Nobody thinks they’re supposed to be gracious in their suffering. Except me, in my dealings with Roomie Jekyll and Roomie Heckle. Heh.

The point being is that I know I heard Dalton say “Um, really would rather not” and it was a joking response to a typical Christianese theme of how we should bear our burdens and not complain about them, and it made both of us laugh, because we were both sarcastic people that had the same response to Happy Chipper Christians a lot of the time.

Then a more recent memory dropped in my head, back to this past New Year’s Eve. There were a few events that I hopscotched around to, and one of them was to Tricia’s house, where she was hosting a party. We all laughed, drank, walked down the street to look at the Rose Bowl Parade floats. And at a certain moment, I was sitting on the couch with Simon, the best dog ever, and Tricia had broken the news to little Iain that it was bedtime. Little Iain didn’t wanna go to bed, it wasn’t even midnight, there were still more Patron shots to do, but Tricia wouldn’t hear any of it, and marched him up the stairs.

To Iain’s credit, he didn’t pitch a fit, but trudged up the stairs, with Tricia behind him, and said, “But Momma, I’m not tired” over and over again in a voice that sounded exactly like Michael Darling in Disney’s Peter Pan: Momma, the buried treasure.

“But Momma, I’m not tired.” Iain says, as he climbs the stairs. “I know, honey,” Tricia says, climbing up after him, “I know.”

I feel like that all the time. I think we all do.

But God, I don’t wanna do this. I know, honey, I know. But God, I don’t wanna do this. I know, honey, I know. But God, I don’t wanna do this. I know, honey, I know.

And we keep going up the stairs, God right behind us. Always there, always following as we march on to do things we don’t wanna do. The calm quiet presence behind us.

Like my favorite line from C.S. Lewis’ “A Grief Observed” “When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of ‘No answer.’ It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, ‘Peace, child; you don’t understand.’”

Your answer is no answer. And still up we climb.

Oh fuck

Hudson's gone.

Please pray for his family: Jamie, Oliver, his sister Abella. They don't really know me, and I only met them once, they wouldn't remember me, and who cares what else I say now.

Sorry, it's a little hard to swallow. Literally.

gack.

A break for Nature.

This time of year brings out the Japanese Irises in full force. It's amazing how quick they come out, too. Thursday night, they weren't out, the next day, the whole fleet burst open to say hi.

They don't last too long either, and Roomie Jekyll takes particular pleasure in flicking off the dead buds, but the gestation period is about three weeks or so.

I can tell I'm getting older, because I'm noticing and appreciating Old People stuff more. Like the texture of petals. They way they look, the way they feel.

I'm off to go shotgun a beer now. I'm YOUNG, dammit!

I Am The Walrus (no wait, The Signpost!)

Right before Memorial Day I tried donating blood again for little Hudson with the brain tumor. He’s having an extremely rough go of it, and I wanted to help. It’s highly amusing to me that I get so jazzed about the possibility of needles, considering my dread fear of them. It’s not as though I’d be sticking needles in my arm for no reason. I’d only do it if it could help somebody.

So I sent out the email to my circle of friends asking for iron enriched well wishes, ate as big of a lunch as my stomach could muster, even including PROCESSED SUGAR, which is something I’ve been skipping lately and toodled off to Children’s Hospital. “Oh, Hudson needs blood again?” The nurse asks me as she’s looking at my paperwork. “He always needs blood is my understanding.” I say.

And off I go to face down the Red Machine O’ Hemoglobin DOOM, confident that if little Hudson is in dire need, than God’s gonna PUMP (clap) me up full o’ iron so I can bleed for the little guy.

And the machine comes back at 10.6. 12.5 is passing. Sigh. “Can we do it again?” I ask the technician, explaining that normally, it’s better to stick my arm rather than my fingers, as last time, we discovered something happens in my veins between the elbow and the fingers that waters the blood down. I’d like to think the forearm veins are doing tequila shots 24/7, ho ho ho.

So the techie sticks my arm and runs it through. 9.9. We’re going DOWN? We’re going the wrong way! We’re going the wrong way at the wrong point on the arm! The fingers are the ones having the party! No fair!

The techie runs another sample through the other machine. Now it’s 9.6. “That can’t be right,” I say, “Wouldn’t I be dead with those numbers?”

No, apparently I can walk and talk and be bitter with those numbers, but I can’t give blood. Sigh. They still give me the cookies and the orange juice, despite my protests that I don’t deserve them. “But you tried!” they tell me, “And you really wanted to do it! We don’t see a lot of that here.”

It’s very rare that you get rewarded for trying AND failing. But Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles will give you a cookie. They will even give you two, but I only took one.

So I grumble my way home and send out an update to my circle saying I’m an iron loser, whatever.

And then I get an email from Nadine. Nadine thinks it’s really cool that I give specifically for someone. Nadine has that very desirable blood type of O negative, and she wants to give blood to Hudson, even though she’s never met him.

So a few weeks later, Nadine is off to Children’s Hospital, where not only does she beat the Red Machine O’ Hemoglobin DOOM with flying colors, she skips the bloodletting and goes directly to the apheresis machine and does the TWO HOUR platelets process! I’m so jealous! I’ve been working up the nerve to do that one, but I’m a chickenshit, and don’t think I could handle the needle being in my arm for two hours.

But Nadine is a rock star, and did platelets for Hudson, a little boy she doesn’t even know. She gives me all the credit for introducing her to the concept of direct donations, and to Hudson in particular. But I give her credit for doing all that for someone she doesn’t even know.

I haven’t understood why my body has decided to turn down this Iron Depleted Route, which it’s basically done since last year, when there’s an actual need for me to give. You could form the argument that maybe I wasn’t supposed to give, I was supposed to be the signpost for OTHER people to give. Sure, that sounds like something a good little Christian would say.

I’ve never liked being an example. I’ve never liked people looking at me like I was some kind of superstar whatever. Those of you who know me know I can’t stand compliments. At least, not to my face. You can email them to me all the time, ha ha ha.

I guess the reason why is that if everyone thinks you’re great, you’re just gonna disappoint them the next time you f up. Which for me is every other minute, HA!

If everyone thinks I’m great, then I don’t get to be cranky. Maybe that’s what it is. I LIVE by my crankiness, people. Don’t make me give it up.

Anyhow, Nadine, who I’ve never known to be cranky, is a rock star.

12 in 12

Hey, is anyone else getting as sick of my Bible chronicling adventures as I am? Those blog entries aren’t really food for thought, nor are they particularly well written.

Methinks we need a break. And since I finally have a new camera to replace the one that was stolen by a yahoo Floridian tourist, I shall celebrate by doing one of those 12 in 12 thingies I have vaguely read about on other people’s blogs. The idea is that you take 12 pictures in 12 hours, one each hour, to document your day. This is how my Saturday went: (Warning! The spacing is all wonky! Resize your computer screen as much as possible and it will still be wonky! But you get the general idea!)

8:00am hour – I wake up to Spike. I either wake up to Spike or to the ceiling. I much prefer Spike.






9:00am hour – I see these flowers when I walk to and from the gym. I dig them because of the variety of colors. Check out that detail using the macro function! My camera’s better than I thought.

10am hour – Just another scintillating daily devotional, this time from Ezekiel 27: 1 – 25. Talking about all of Tyre’s glory as a trading country. I am bored. I don’t care if all Scripture is God breathed, and we need to understand how great a nation Tyre was to appreciate its upcoming destruction by God. I’m bored, and I want to get to the New Testament already, which, at this pace, won’t be happening for another two months.
















11am hour – The devotional has so thoroughly bored me that I go back to bed. Well, that, and the fact that the Step and Sculpt teacher at the gym was merciless this morning. Me achey already.












12pm hour – The tiny sushi place on La Brea that I like also features strange smoothies.










1pm hour – watching George Romero’s Diary Of The Dead. I give Blair Witch Project a pass. I give Cloverfield a pass. But here, when you’ve got TWO film school students “filming” their desperate attempt to survive a zombie apocalypse, you do NOT get a pass to stand there and film your friend impaling a zombie with an IV pole, PUT THE CAMERA DOWN AND HELP HIM, FOR F’S SAKE! What an idiotic movie, puffy with laughable self importance.

2pm hour – oh, okay, fine, NOW I’m settling down to write. I handwrite my script revisions, and it can get messy, but it all makes sense to me.
















3pm hour – When I need small breaks from brainstorming, I play Trouble, my guitar. I knew from the beginning that the first song I ever learned to play would probably be the only one I’d ever remember. Which is true. So if you ever need a chick to kinda play > Freedy Johnston’s “Bad Reputation,” I’m your chickadee.


4pm hour – Surprisingly, generic cereal is rather tasty (and less expensive!)












5pm hour – reading for a break. The Sookie Stackhouse series isn’t really well written, and it’s a little ridiculous how every vampire, werewhatever, and other assorted supernatural folk that Sookie comes into contact with is breathtakingly beautiful and always falls for Sookie, but whatever. Interestingly enough, I don’t have a problem that she’s a telepath, but could there EVER be a vampire she finds attractive who doesn’t like her?

6pm hour – driving to do box office for my theater company’s show. Wow, this camera doesn’t miss a thing, huh. Check out all that dust. Who has time to clean their car, right?








7pm hour – the coffeehouse only looks empty. But they make a tasty vanilla chai latte. I LURVE vanilla chai lattes.














8pm hour – While the show is going on upstairs, I guard the lobby, work some more on my script, and this is my view.














Not terribly exciting, I know. But better than summarizing Ezekiel. Because I am NOT doing that.

Jeremiah: Gloom And Doom

I decided I'd summarize the book of Jeremiah. I had a nagging feeling that I was missing something. So I read, and re-read, and cross referenced between two Bibles and a few websites, and here’s what I came up with:

Jeremiah’s chillin’ in a tiny town called Anathoth. God shows up and says, ‘Yo, Jeremiah, guess what!? I’m calling you to be a prophet! You’s a lucky boy, you sure is.”

“Um, thanks God, but um, er, uh, I don’t know what to say. (See?)”

“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, Jeremiah, I’ll tell you what to say! You won’t even need a brother, like Moses. I’ll put the words right on your lips. You’re gonna uproot and tear down and destroy and overthrow, and once all that is done, to built and plant.”

“No kidding. Can I take a pass?”

“Nope. And to make things extra fun, when you write all this stuff down years later, the editors aren’t gonna put ANYTHING in a logical chronological order! Won’t that be awesome!? So in 2008, certain writers named Amy are gonna tear their hair out having to flip back and forth like a Biblical Choose Your Own Adventure.”

“A Biblical what?”

“Never mind.”

So Jeremiah goes to prophesy. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. (deep breath) Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Turn away from your idols and go back to the Lord or else He’s gonna destroy you.

Jeremiah then goes to stand at the temple gate to bug people who go in to worship at the temple.

“You’re worshipping the wrong thing. You think God’s in the temple and if you get inside the temple, it’s Home Base during the world’s biggest game of hide and seek and nothing bad will ever happen to Judah. The only way you’re gonna feel security is if you put your faith in God, not a temple. God’s bigger than a temple.”

The priests and prophets get pissed and wanna kill him. Well, first they wanna hang him, then they’ll kill him. Then they wanna stomp him, then tattoo him, then hang him, then kill him. (Watch the clip and pretend Pee Wee is Jeremiah, and the scary bikers are the priests and prophets, and “I’m trying to use the PHONE!” is the call from God.) But some of the elders and Ahikam say, nah, let’s let him go , so they do, but say he can’t come inside the temple again.

No problem, Jeremiah obviously doesn’t need a temple to say what he has to say. So he gets his buddy Baruch to take dictation on a scroll: “Gloom and Doom is spelled G-L-O-O-M A-N-D D-O-O-M. Exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.”

Baruch goes to the temple to read it to the officials. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom.

The officials say, hmmmm, okay, we’ll take it from here. So they read the scroll to the King, who proceeds to cut off the scroll as they’re reading it and burn it. Scroll? What scroll? I don’t see a scroll. Jeremiah writes another, longer scroll.

Jeremiah occasionally gets arrested from time to time, and every now and then, he complains to God YOU WANNA GIVE ME SOMETHING ELSE TO SAY ALREADY!? I DON’T THINK GLOOM AND DOOM IS GETTING THROUGH TO THEM!

Or

GEEZE God! Why do wicked people get to win!? That aint no fair, it aint.

Or

Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, this sucks, God! You want me to preach Gloom And Doom, but you won’t let me pray for mercy! Why am I doing this!?

God answers Jeremiah directly, whoops, wait, this is God we’re talking about, no, He completely sidesteps the issue and says Dude, forget fair. What you REALLY need is patience. A lot of it. ‘Cause guess what’s coming? Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom.

Meanwhile, there’s an internal revolt in the army of the Bad Guy (King Nebuchadnezzar) giving people hope that the Bad Guy might go away. God sends Jeremiah to say nope, sorry, and to make sure Jeremiah gets the people’s attention, God has Jeremiah put on an ox harness. Look at me! I’m in a yoke! Like you’re in a yoke! The Yoke O’ SIN! But there’s also a false prophet Hananiah. If Jeremiah’s message is Gloom And Doom, Hananiah’s message is Not So Fast, Help Is Coming In, Um, Well, Let’s See, About Two Years! Jeremiah says If you’ve got two people saying they’re telling the truth, listen to the one you don’t wanna hear. Prepare for the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed. Hananiah gets fed up and breaks Jeremiah’s Yoke O’ Sin. See! I’m telling the truth! Jeremiah says, oh boy, you shouldn’t have done that, God’s gonna kill you this year. And so he did, Hananiah dies two months later.

Now that Jeremiah had burst the bubble of the people in Jerusalem, he turned to the Jews living in exile in Babylon. Hey, guess what!? You’re not coming home anytime soon! So build homes and settle down, ‘cause you’re in it for the long run, like seventy years or so!

But hey, anyone tired of the gloom and doom stuff? Need a break!? Lemme give you Chapters 29 – 31! In them is a tasty verse that a lot of modern day folk in 2008 and beyond will cling to: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Ch. 29 verse 11) Isn’t that a nifty life raft of a verse to hang on to!? It’s so cool that most people don’t notice the verse that comes right after it, “Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you, “declares the Lord, “and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.” (Ch. 29 verse 12 – 14) Meaning you gotta seek me, and learn about me, and write book reports on Jeremiah to get to know me, and maybe then I’ll be found by you, though really, getting to know me is a bit of a life’s work.

The Bad Guys take over, Jerusalem falls, and Jeremiah is captured. The Babylonians recognize him as hey, aren’t you the prophet who said we were gonna conquer Jerusalem?! You were right! Kudos to you, buddy! Nebuzaradan, commander of the imperial guard, tells Jeremiah to go hang out with Gedaliah, who’s been put in charge of the Jews who’ve been left behind in Jerusalem. Gedaliah gets a warning that a guy named Ishmael is coming to kill him. Oh no he’s not. Oh yes he is, and Gedaliah dies. So there. The Jews now look to a guy named Johanan to lead them, and they ask Jeremiah what they should do. Jeremiah says we should stay. Johanan and the people promptly decide we should go. And off they go to Egypt. Jeremiah travels with them, because if there’s anything we’ve learned about the guy so far, it’s that he’s a glutton for punishment, and Jeremiah ends up dying in Egypt. The end.

Now, did I get anything out of it, now that I’ve been back and forth through it multiple times?

Yeah, I got gloom and doom. Great.

Watermelon in labor

Psalms tried my patience. Isaiah tried my patience. And after struggling for two weeks to get through Jeremiah, a book I initially thought would be fun to read, in so much that there should be huge parts I can identify with, I’m ready to drop kick most of the Old Testament into my backyard, where it can rot with the shingles falling off the garage roof.

Seriously, it’s like I GET IT! I GET IT! GOD’S GONNA COME DOWN AND KICK ISRAEL AND JUDAH’S ASS! WOE UNTO YOU IF YOU DON’T BEHAVE YOURSELF AND STOP WORSHIPPING OTHER IDOLS!

I seriously think that, yoke around his neck be damned, the people of Jerusalem just tuned Jeremiah out after awhile, because it’s 52 chapters of the same monotony. Do you know that the phrase “Woman in labor” appears NINE times in Jeremiah? That’s more than any other book in the Bible. You know how you can trick your head into repeating a word over and over again until it becomes this strange thing from an alien language? Like watermelon? Watch:

Watermelon. Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon Watermelon.

What is this watermelon you speak of? “Woman in labor”? She lifts heavy bricks?

No, no, I know, it’s “Watermelon in labor”!!!

Jeremiah 4 verse31: I hear a cry as of a watermelon in labor, a groan as of one bearing her first child— the cry of the Daughter of Zion gasping for breath, stretching out her hands and saying, "Alas! I am fainting; my life is given over to murderers."

Jeremiah 6:23-25 23 They are armed with bow and spear; they are cruel and show no mercy. They sound like the roaring sea as they ride on their horses; they come like men in battle formation to attack you, O Daughter of Zion." 24 We have heard reports about them, and our hands hang limp. Anguish has gripped us, pain like that of a watermelon in labor.

Jeremiah 13:20-22 20 Lift up your eyes and see those who are coming from the north. Where is the flock that was entrusted to you, the sheep of which you boasted? 21 What will you say when the LORD sets over you those you cultivated as your special allies? Will not pain grip you like that of a watermelon in labor?

Heh.

I’m not giving up yet, I’m gonna go look up other supplemental readings to make sense of the book. But it’s kinda whacked that I can’t get it the first time around, cross referencing between two Bibles and all.

But I’m persistent. Or stubborn. I demand this book make sense to me!

Watermelons be dammed.