Tissue Box

For all my efforts in trying to keep this closet of a living space nice and clean and without clutter, I’m still occasionally misplacing things. Which drives me bonkers, because I really have no excuse now. This place is too small to misplace something. I can see where everything is the second I walk in the door, that’s how small it is.

But Ethel the car. Ohhhhhhhh, Ethel the car. I never misplace Ethel herself, but as she has grown older, all the little crevices where things can slip and fall have multiplied, like wrinkles on a grandmommy’s face or something.

Last Sunday, I lost a parking ticket to a hotel parking lot where I was visiting my mom and my dad as they were coming back through Los Angeles after their cruise. It was dark in the parking lot, and I had very little interior light to search the car with, and I promptly burst into tears, to which the disgusted parking attendant sternly told me to stop it, it’s okay, “Life too short!” he said with a frown as he opened the gate and let me go through without having to pay the $59 lost parking ticket fee.

I get so frustrated with myself because it feels like misplacing things is a sign of a life not in control, and we all know how I feel about getting my life under control. That’s one of the things I love about living by myself, everything is under control. Mostly. My purse, my wallet, tries to be free of clutter as much as possible, though there was the one time over New Year’s Weekend where I misplaced the Up In The Air tickets when Xavier and I were going to see the movie. I couldn’t believe I couldn’t find the tickets in my wallet where I put them, and nearly pitched a fit in front of Xavier, of all people, before finally locating them. But it’s just another lesson about how EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE NEAT AND ORDERLY AT ALL TIMES OR ELSE YOU ARE A DUMBASS.

Which is why I sagged in despair when I couldn’t find my emerald ring on Friday morning. When I take my rings off, I usually put them in my purse, on the off chance an earthquake hits and I don’t have a lot of time to grab stuff before hitting the door. The rings are safe in the purse, no earthquake would be big enough to knock them out of the purse. That’s the thinking, anyway.

So I get to work on Friday morning, and dig through my purse for my rings. The aquamarine one was there, but the emerald one wasn’t. I turned the purse upside down, once again berating myself for whatever junk, crumpled up tissues, receipts that should’ve been filed already, is in there that shouldn’t be

But the emerald is definitely not in the purse, not even when I force myself to wait five minutes and look again, knowing full well how panic can cloud my vision. I know I had the rings on yesterday, I always wear them every day. I even remember taking them off and putting them in the purse, because I wasn’t feeling well, exacerbated by cocktail hour with Pepe and Pembleton and their human owners.

But the ring is not here, and it hasn’t fallen out of the purse onto the floor of the office. I make one of the clenched jaw promises to not obsess about it until I get home, thinking it’s probably on the floor.

I get home after work, and carefully look around the table and carpet before trucking in my stuff, so as not to displace it further. But it’s not there. I carefully truck in my stuff, and make a thorough search of Ethel, it’s not there. I do find the hotel parking ticket from last week’s debacle, but that’s not what I’m looking for. And maybe that’s supposed to be some sign: things do turn up eventually, you’re just blind at night. But that thought doesn’t comfort me much either.

So I search the purse again, my closet apartment again. The car again. Where did it go? I would believe in the Void Of Lost Things except I just found the parking ticket from last week. So where’s my f’ing ring?

I don’t have the energy to get angry. The constant battle with the universe these past three months, whether it’s over lost tickets, lost rings, fighting plagiarist bloggers or fighting false insurance claims (someone claimed I hit their car on January 8th when I was eating sushi in Burbank and have the receipt to prove it. Case is closed, claim denied, thank you very much), is just wearing me down. Yes, I have fun times here and there, and it’s a Godsend to live alone, but it strangely doesn’t give me the recharging energy I need to fight the good fight. I wouldn’t be surprised if a bus hit me soon, I don’t have the energy to get out of the way.

I liked that ring. My parents gave it to me as a surprise when we were taking a family vacation in the Bahamas. It’s not too big, not too small. It’s just right, and I’ve been wearing it since I was 17 or something. Irresponsible people lose things like this. I am not irresponsible.

Because this is too much like the parable of the Woman and Her Coin. Let me go do a keyword search: ah, here we go, Luke 15 verse 8 – 10.

The Parable of the Lost Coin
8"Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? 9And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.' 10In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

Except that seems really arrogant – comparing my lost ring to a repentant sinner entering the Kingdom of God.

I’m not feeling great, so I sit back on the couch and send up a prayer to God please help me. Where is it? Where’s my ring?

I close my eyes, and the phrase hits me:

Tissue box.


I open my eyes, and the pink purple box of Puffs that sits on top of a magazine on the coffee table is right in front of me. See, look at how clean and uncluttered that table is? Do you see how annoyed I was that I couldn’t find the ring? It wasn’t buried in clutter because there WAS no clutter.

I grab the Puffs, and shake it around.

Rattle rattle.

Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?

I turn it upside down, and there’s the emerald ring.

Holy crap.

See, I don’t call it a tissue box. I call it Puffs, or box of Kleenex, or whatever. I DON’T call it a tissue box. But that’s the phrase that hit me. Which must mean it came from--

I instantly send up a Thank you God.

And because He’s obviously listening right now, I start asking him important questions. Will You heal my friend with cancer? Will You answer the prayers of my friends who’ve been trying for a baby for eight years? Will You take care of my friends who’re on the verge of bankruptcy because they haven’t sold a script in a year and are about to lose their house?

And no answer.

You’ll send a hint as to where my ring is, but You won’t tell me what You’re gonna do with my friends who have REAL issues? You can have the ring back if you’ll answer their prayers.

No answer.

Part of me wants to snark well THANKS! THAT’S JUST GREAT! Because I am a petulant ungrateful bitch.

I don’t understand how God works. All the prayers I lift up to Him, all the times I’m asking Him to please help me, help my friends, help us, help us all. I know He always hears me, but He rarely sends any kind of answer and THIS is the one time He chooses to say hello?

I don’t understand why God calls it a tissue box. Maybe he doesn’t wanna show partiality to a particular brand.

But I’m choosing to believe this is just the beginning of a miraculous string of prayers. Because now I’ve lost my voice, thanks to being sick. And He can TOTALLY have that, I will figure out how to hold down a job, I’ll do my best Holly Hunter walking around with a notepad around my f’ing neck in The Piano if He’ll just help my friends. Please. Please.

Wow, This Is Amazing

Awards season is over, finally. And for the second year in a row, I volunteered for an awards show that took place this week. No, not that one. The other one. The indie one. I shall not mention it by name, as I have no idea if I’m about to break some unknown code in relating the following story.

Last year, I was a newbie volunteer, and I didn’t mind doing crap jobs like taking tickets at the main gate, or guarding private tents. But I felt like I had paid my proverbial dues, and I wanted a bump up to a more interesting job. I wanted to be a stand-in.

Apparently, there are professional stand-ins out there who’re members of acting unions, and travel from ceremony to ceremony, standing in during camera rehearsals, they know everyone by name. But I think they were all booked for the Major Awards Show, which is why the indie awards show uses volunteers for their stand-ins.

So I made friends with the volunteer coordinator. And I asked. And sent in my headshot, and an acting resume. And lo and behold, they picked me, along with about 15 other people.

As a stand in, you’re there to help the camera crews rehearse camera angles, blocking, and timing. If you win (chosen ahead of time by the stage manager) you get to walk up to the stage and give a fake acceptance speech. And they do actually want you to give a speech, so they can rehearse timing, they want something that’s twenty to thirty seconds long, “Or about three sentences.”

I wanna do the walk. I wanna give a fake speech. I wanna fake win an award. This may be the only time in my life I DO get to give an acceptance speech, so I don’t really care if it’s fake or not.

We arrive for rehearsal the day before the show. The assistant stage manager hands out the flow chart of which category is being announced in what order, and who is standing in for which nominee. I’m standing in for people that I’ve never heard of before, for movies that I haven’t seen. And yes, I will be fake winning an award – a Producer’s Award and a grant for $25,000 given by a jewelry company.

BUT! This particular award is one of three where the nominees are such nobodies that they don’t get a camera shot – they’re all gathered backstage, and the winner walks out from backstage. No walk. I don’t get to walk? You fake win an award. But I don’t get to walk? Okay. Okay fine. This is still going to be fun. Fine.

So we start rehearsing, and the stand ins hop from table to table depending on what category is up. The irony is that I’m standing in for categories I was desperately hoping Pink Piggy would get a nomination for. I managed to get myself to the awards ceremony, and my film didn’t. It’s almost like I made a deal with a genie - I wanna go to the awards show! And the genie says POOF! Sure, no problem! As a STAND IN! That’s what you get for not specifying, nyah nyah nyah.

So here I am, standing in for a nominee in a category I wish I had been nominated in. And the host comes out. The real host, not a stand in. He’s a British comedian, popular in indie circles. Winifred, my friend from home, especially loves him. His particular shtick is free form associating comedy with a healthy dollop of history. I’ve seen some of his shows before, and have found him very funny.

So our BCH (British Comic Host) comes out, riffing on whatever his brain thinks of. The show writer is busy scribbling notes, which they will then later plug into the teleprompter, to remind BCH of what he said in what order during the actual show.

But within seconds of taking the stage, this is what he says:

“Welcome to tonight’s (awards show.) Before we start, I’d like to announce: There Is No God.”

Thunk goes my internal organs. He didn’t really just say that, did he? Oh yes he did, and now he’s riffing on it.

“There is no God, I know you’ve been praying to him for awhile, but he’s not there. I’m an atheist, that means I believe in Athe.”

I know he’s an equal opportunity offender, but it rankles me. To make that your opening line. And it makes me want to say something in my fake speech, the one I do fake win, the Producers’ Award.

Something like Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.

Could I say that? Should I say that?

I mull it over as BCH continues to run around onstage, making jokes about how Ben Franklin made the first independent film, and it was all about porn.

Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.

Can I do it? Should I do it? Or will everyone hear it as the dig back at BCH that I want it to be? And then will I be blackballed from being a stand in ever again? This is supposed to be fun. I would like to do this again. I would like to attend as a nominee one day, but barring that, I’d like to do this again.

BCH starts over with his opening monologue. I look back at the teleprompter, which now says NO GOD in big letters. Ah man.

BCH’s allowed to say what if he wants to, so if he wants to say that, who am I to slam him back? He’s allowed to say what he wants, and so are you, in your fake speech. It’s not like any of the real winners don’t also thank God in their speeches. The front runner for Best Supporting Actress has made a habit of ending most of her thank you speeches this awards season with “God bless us all.” And she’s fairly terrifying.

I stand in for one of the Best First Film nominee and don’t win. I stand in for one of the Best Film Made Under A Certain Dollar Amount nominee and don’t win. The camera crew assigned to cover my close up crack that they’re on the Loser Team. It’s kind of funny. Just like my obsessing over what to say in my FAKE acceptance speech is.

My speech is FAKE. It’s not supposed to be life changing. It’s not supposed to make a statement. It’s NOT REAL. It DOESN’T COUNT. All the other stand ins are going up there and thanking their moms, their cast and crew, their pets, their cameramen covering their angles. Every one of them says pretty much the same opening line, “Wow, this is amazing.” I must try to say something different.

Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity.

I’m making a stand with this? A fake acceptance speech that will impress no one and quite possibly rankle some important people? Is it really that necessary to say?

And here’s the thing: Do I want to say it because I really would thank God if I won a real award or do I want to say it because I want to slam BCH. Because if it’s the latter half of that sentence, that’s not the right reason.

I report to backstage to wait for the Producer’s Award winner to be announced. They announce a fake winner, and the stage manager gives me my cue to walk onstage.

It’s kinda crazy. The tent is set up to hold something like 1800 people. And even with nobody sitting in the chairs, the scene is overwhelming. My brain is blown with the surrealness of it all. And I KNOW I’m fake winning. I can’t imagine what it’s gonna be like for the real winner.

The stand in presenters hand me the award and I step up to my mark by the microphone.

First thing out of my mouth “Wow, this is amazing.” It’s true, people. You really can’t think of anything else to say.

I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. I thank the awards organization. I see BCH about halfway back in the audience. I thank the show director, and the assistant stage manager, “And thank you God. Good night.” BCH is too far away to note any specific reaction.

I head offstage, wondering Was that enough of a declaration? Or did I play it too safe?

And the follow up thoughts: Who are you saying any of this for, Amy? Because if it’s supposed to be for God, He would have heard you regardless of what you did or didn’t say.

I would think that would be the end of it, and if I had fake won any other category, it would have been. BUT. The celebrity presenter of my category shows up, an indie iconoclastic director. He wants to rehearse his patter. Which means I get to fake win AGAIN. And AGAIN.

Again I walk out onstage. Again I accept the award, this time from the indie iconoclastic director (I wish I was a bigger fan of his to make the moment mean more.) Again I step up to the microphone.

I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. “My Mom told me I didn’t have to pass Algebra 2 as long as I could balance my checkbook, which really came in handy for this award.” I thank the show director, the assistant stage manager, and say good night.

I’m a big old coward. No. I refuse to believe that God gave me another chance to fake win because He wants me to proclaim that he is King at the end of my fake speech. I just don’t believe that. There’s a time and place for everything, and I don’t think this is the time for that. It doesn’t feel like I’d be doing it for the right reasons. It just doesn’t.

We rehearse it a third time. I walk out, I accept the award, I step up to the microphone. I thank the usual suspects, I ask the jewelry company to throw in a watch along with the $25,000 check. And I say goodnight.

The next day is the dress rehearsal. All of us only fake win once.

I’m an old pro by now: I thank the jewelry company for supporting independent film. I thank my cast and crew. I thank my Mom and Dad. And quickly, I say, “I’d like to thank God. He’s important,” and just in case that lands on anyone’s radar, I finish with “and last but not least, none of this would be possible without (the stage manager), who is truly Mr. Wonderful. Thank you.” I think I hear the stage manager backstage whooping it up.

No one says anything to me about anything I said. During the live show, I go to my new duties in the press tent, which include getting all the winners to autograph a poster (they all oblige.)

BCH goes on to open the live show with “Welcome to tonight’s (awards show.) Before we start, I’d like to announce: There Is No God. I know you’ve been praying to him for awhile, but he’s not there.”

It goes over like a dead fish. Nobody in the room laughs. BCH comments “thank you for that stunned silence” five seconds later. He never gets the room back on his side for the rest of the evening, and reviews the next day trash his performance as host.

But I had a wonderful time. I may not have gotten to walk, but I got to fake win four times. The real winner only won once!

I did thank God. Maybe it wasn’t Some of us do believe in God, and I thank Him for this opportunity. But I’d like to thank God. He’s important still works. Because He is more than capable of taking care of the rest.

And above everything else, I learned to thank your stage manager. That’s probably the most valuable lesson learned. Heh.

In The Right Nest

My mother, The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much and my dad, The Great Stoic Wonder blew through L.A. for a few days on their way to a Tahitian cruise. They wanted to see the new place and so we spent all of Friday together.

Though I’m far too old for them to be worried about such things, I knew they wanted to see the place in the daytime, to assuage any fears they might have of their little girl living in a safe place.

And their fears were pretty much blown out of the water. Here’s the Phone Harpy herself, in all her Shorty Glory, checking out the front yard. Which is on a hill above L.A. So any tsunamis will not get me. Cross that one off the list.

They saw the front yard, the gate I live behind. They saw the back yard, and the fence around the pool. They met Pepe and Pembleton, the Dalmatian landlords, and their human owners.

And we all squeezed into the Shabby Shack, to which they said “it might seem cramped, but the rest of the stuff that you get with it makes it worth it.”

Which is true.

The Shabby Shack is actually coming along these days. Wella and Augustus came over last weekend to mount the flatscreen on the wall and the blinds over the back window, and with the straightening and last minute aesthetic details I threw into place to make the place seem organized to my folks (the 99 cent store is a GODSEND, people!) the place does seem bigger than before.

I love living by myself (or as much by myself with my Dalmatian landlords next door as I can be.) And though I will continue to argue with God to my dying day that yes, I do need a bathtub. Happy for the shower, but a bathtub is something I want and need. I will concede Him the point about the mini fridge being big enough, and the new toaster oven baking as well as a full sized oven.

Living by myself combined with stepping down from the various non-profit boards I was on has been jaw dropping. Look at all this free time I have to write!

And this is the metaphor I came up with. People have 100 % reserve of energy to get through each day. And various things require x amount of energy to deal with, like work, traffic, laundry, meeting writing deadlines, etc.

But living with Roomie Heckle and Roomie Jekyll, I was leaking unconscious energy and didn’t know it. Every day that I came through the door and Roomie Heckle was on the couch, where he’d been for four hours, sucking up TV time, drained energy out of me. Every day that a simple “How was your day” question to Roomie Jekyll sucked away 30 minutes of my life while she vented about how much she hated her job drained energy from me. Waking up in the morning and listening for the sound of other stirring souls, trying to calculate how much free time I had left before someone else’s girlfriend got into the bathroom drained energy out of me.

All of that is gone now. Dare I say I’m...content?

Sure, there are things missing in my life, like a man, like a full time writing career. But I have more energy, and I have the Shabby Shack, and amazing views, and Dalmatians for landlords and they can be awfully cute.

It’s not me busting out all over with puppies and rainbows. It’s just me feeling like, finally, finally, I’m on the path I’m supposed to be on. Or at the very least, I’m in the right nest. Maybe.

Snoopy Brunch! (Part 2)

We weren’t expecting the protestors outside the Snoopy Institution, which may have seemed naïve, but I drive past the building all the time and I couldn’t remember when I had saw them last.

But there they were, and honestly, they didn’t look that threatening. A group of maybe 10 or 12, wearing the masks, holding the signs saying Snoopyology is a fraud, brainwashing, one of them is even dressed like Woodstock, the fabled alien that Snoopyology is rumored to be based on. They’re being interviewed by a camera crew, and more people across the street have cameras, and whether those guys are tourists, more protesters, or, as the protesters will tell you, secret Snoopy police documenting the protesters so they can ruin their lives later, is unclear.

Flora, Fauna, Rosalyn and myself had agreed to drive separately, and to park far away from the Snoopy Institute and walk, just in case they were writing down our license plate info for whatever reason. We also agreed to bring cash, so they wouldn’t have our credit card information. And we had all agreed on our fake names, and knew better than to sign anything with our mailing address, our phone numbers, or our email addresses.

But with the protesters outside, we were caught in a unique crossfire – the Snoopyologists might suspect us of being undercover protesters, and the protesters might suspect us of being Snoopyologists. When really, we’re just curious Christians.

I knew the protesters would scare Fauna and Rosalyn, maybe Flora too. I ended up being the first one there, and I quickly walked past the protestors on the corner, making sure to turn my head, so they couldn’t catch me on camera. They were worried about their identities as well, the closest one to me was wearing a doctor’s mask and holding a little dog, who wasn’t wearing a mask. Burn him! Burn him at the stake!

A security guard meets me as I walk up the driveway, apologizing for the noise and the rumpus. I thank God I had made a reservation ahead of time with my fake name, I’m not sure they would’ve let us in otherwise. But I should wait for Flora, Fauna, and Rosalyn, and boom, they call me on the cell, “We’re across the street, we’re kinda scared.” I assure them that I’m already here, in the driveway, so don’t you dare flake out on me now and I go back down the driveway to wave at them and they walk to me.

Then we’re all escorted to the restaurant. The security guard didn’t seem creepy, nor does our escort to the restaurant. And once you’re inside, the grounds are very nice looking. It’s like its own quiet oasis or something. You can’t hear the chants of the protesters from here (and I think their chanting is really just mocking the music the Snoopy Institute is blasting out), for what that’s worth.

The restaurant is very nice, but not at all crowded. Once we’re seated, we count maybe three other occupied tables in a place that holds at least 40 tables. It’s eerie to be seated, you wonder why more people wouldn’t be here. The protesters scared them away?

The buffet itself is much more modest than I had anticipated. The food’s good, but it’s only two small tables lining a part of the restaurant. But still, it’s a buffet, and I’m SUCH a sucker for buffets, so we all load up on salad, brie, fruit, waffles, home fries, salmon, eggs benedict, and dessert.

There’s a small band, and some poor woman who’s dressed in a red satin outfit, dress, elbow length gloves, and stilettos are doing twenty minute sets of standards. We’re all a little puzzled when she sings I Can’t Make You Love Me, an odd choice for Valentine’s Day, ho ho ho.

But despite the empty surroundings, nobody bugs us about Snoopyology. We don’t see anything out of the ordinary. We just do a girl chat over food, talking about boys and jobs and la la la, as though we were anywhere else.

If anything, the service was kinda slow, all things considered.

After the meal, Fauna bows out of the tour, as she’s gotta go meet her dad in Santa Barbara, so Flora, Rosalyn and myself head down the hall where we’re sure it’ll only take seconds before a Snoopyologist swoops down on us.

And WHOOSH, one does so, a pleasant smiling woman with a thick accent who asks if we’re interested in a tour. Do we?! Of COURSE! She hands us off to another guy with a different but still thick accent, who proceeds to take us on a tour of the grounds, telling us the history behind the building, the history behind the area, how the pavilion on the grounds can be rented out for events, though if you’re doing a fashion show, no lingerie or swimsuits please, “because we’re a church.”

Once we’re done with the grounds, here come the Snoopy details! And he asks us more than once what we’ve heard about Snoopyology. “Have you guys heard things like aliens and stuff?” uh oh, I think he may be on to the protesters outside. Heh.

We claim we don’t know that much. But it’s interesting how they will bring it up first, as a defensive measure, we know you’ve heard this wacky stuff and here we are to explain to you how all it’s all one silly misunderstanding.

He’s unfailingly polite, though, not coming across as creepy at all. They don’t have the crazy, they seem like any cast member you’d run into at Disneyworld.

He ushers us to a section of the main floor devoted to Snoopy’s Waterbowl. You’ve seen it, it’s a machine that measures “brain activity.” And with all the hullabaloo you’ve heard about it, how it’s completely bunk, it’s a little strange to see it displayed so prominently, with a giant info board right next to it with a photo of a woman in one of those Waterbowl sessions, with a somewhat zombie smile on her face.

So we all go a round with Snoopy’s Waterbowl, grabbing the metal pylon things (which feel surprisingly flimsy and insubstantial.) He gets us to think of different things, then points out when the needle jumps that “there! You were thinking of someone specific, weren’t you.” And how where the needle is determines whether our thoughts are positive or negative feelings for. Of course the whole thing feels pretty arbitrary. Reminds me of the time we went up to Griffith Observatory and jumped up and down next to the seismograph to simulate an earthquake. It felt like if you blew on this machine, you could get the needle to move.

Then we’re asked if we want to see a short film about what Snoopyology is about. Do we!? OF COURSE!

The first film looks like it was shot fairly recently, like within the past five years, and yet, it’s kinda disturbing, showing all these situations of angry people – arguments, parents pushing their kids, food poisoning. And they’re trying to show you how stress affects you and brings you down, and Snoopyology is all about getting rid of that, so you can approach stressful situations without letting it affect you, or something like that. But the beginning is so over the top, making it seem like the world is nothing but one argument after another.

The next film they show is much longer, and was shot in the nineties, and when they take us into the various classrooms and talk to the various staffers, everything is obviously staged and unreal, that it’s really hard to believe this film was even produced, that there wasn’t some quality control committee who said, “um, let’s try again.”

They bury us in mind numbing details about how world governments have continually upheld Snoopyology’s right to be a religion, and how when the IRS audited them, found them to be compliant with the law. We never had any questions about that, again, they’re strangely going on the defensive you maybe have heard about how we’re not a religion, the courts say we are! You might have heard that we were audited, we passed!

I don’t really care about the internal organization of Snoopyology. I don’t care about their internal justice system (which strikes me as creepy anyway) I wanted to hear people talking about how Snoopyology helped them. Aren’t we gonna see anything scary?

I finally get my wish at the very end of the film. Our narrator with the brown plastic hair walks slowly towards the camera as he’s summing up everything:

(The next part is verbatim, because they actually have these films uploaded onto youtube, you can go check it out for yourself.)

You are at the threshold of your next trillion years…..you will live it in shivering agonized darkness, or you will live it in the light. The choice is yours, not ours.

If you this minute say I will for better or worse go on in Snoopyology, you will open the door to your own future. If you say otherwise, you slam tomorrow shut in your own face. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it really is. We are not making any claims for Snoopyology It is you, when you have experienced what can be, are the one will be the one that will make the claims. What is true, is true for you.

If you leave this room after seeing this film, and never mention Snoopyology again, you are perfectly free to do so. It would be stupid, but you could do it. You could also dive off a bridge or blow your brains out. That is your choice.

It’s here that I burst out laughing. Oh my GOD, are you serious? You’re going to scare us into signing up? Bully us? Equate not going on to learn more about Snoopyology with “blowing your brains out?”

Half of me is concerned that they have hidden cameras in the screening room, so they can see that it’s the chick in black who’s snorting derisively at their recruiting film. But I’m certainly strong enough to assert myself if they ask me anything directly.

They ask us to fill out surveys about what we thought of the film, and I answer honestly, I write down that the film was too long, too boring, and too on the nose. Nothing that I wouldn’t say to their face.

As it turns out, when we get out of the theater, we’re met by yet a third chick, who reads our surveys in front of us (kinda uncomfortable), and asks us if we have any other questions.

We’ve been asking questions all along the way, I asked inside the screening room about where do Snoopyologists believe they’re going when they die. I got a vague answer back about how this isn’t their only lifetime, and though they never say the word “reincarnation” they mention things like reliving cycles, and how Snoopyology tries to help you ‘rise above” that cycle. That the goal of this current lifetime is to reach maximum knowledge and insight, and Snoopyology wants to help you do that.

They do say that you can believe in other religions and still practice Snoopyology, that the two can co-exist with each other, though they keep mentioning the key phrase “what’s true for you is true for you.” Which is practically cousin to “you have your truth, and I have my truth” which is how most “Spiritual, but not religious” wrongly view religion anyway.

The newest staffer who’s reading our surveys says that she was raised Baptist, then Methodist, and that’s the most interesting personal thing I’ve heard any staffer say today, and if I weren’t already so tired from the brunch, and the mind numbing details about the locations of their headquarters around the world, I would’ve liked to ask her more about it.

But yes, we’re all tired of it at this point, and decline their offer for us to purchase Snoopyology books, and thank them for showing us around, but we’re going to go.

So they show us the best way to the parking lot and thank us for coming. They don’t stop us. They don’t do anything negative.

The protestors outside were scarier than anything we encountered inside. And by the time we get outside, they’re all gone too.

We all agree that we’re really glad we did this, to find out for ourselves what it was about, “Everyone who thinks this is scary is a bunch of pussies” Flora declares.

And it’s like anything. You think a new thing is scary or intimidating, until you actually experience it for yourself and realize that it’s definitely not scary or intimidating. I’m not going to be buying any books, and I do halfway wish I could go back and talk to that one woman some more, but I know if I did, she’d just put the pressure on for me to take a course or something, and I have no interest in doing it.

The whole thing strikes me as very sad. The Snoopyologists are sad, the protesters, itchin’ for a quarrel that they can record on their cameras and plaster on the internet, are sad. Anyone who falls for what Snoopyology says is sad. Snoopy’s Waterbowl is sad. The buffet was sad. The red satin singer was sad. I’m sad for not taking the chance and asking tougher questions like “Don’t you believe in one universal truth?”

But at the end of the day, we got out more than alive, but with a new experience under our belts that few people have the balls to do.

Two things to close with:

1. Should I finally die in the car wreck that I’ve long suspected will be the thing that takes me out, please know that those Snoopyology DVDs in my bookcases were freebies, and I am not a Snoopyologist.

2. The Smokehouse Sunday Brunch is about the same price, has much more food, free champagne and mimosas, and is a better Sunday Brunch overall. But no protesters outside. Heh.

Snoopy Brunch! (Part 1)

(Opening note! Snoopy, and anything else Snoopy related in the following entry is CODE!)

(Second opening note! I’ve always have a stat counter on this blog, so I see when people arrive here via googling certain phrases. Should the googlebots report back that people are getting here via very loaded phrases, I’ll take this down in a heartbeat. Let’s see what happens.)

Okay! Even though I’m an internally cranky cynical bitch, I believe the following:

1. People are, at their core, inherently decent people. Sure, they get twisted up in culture, dysfunctional upbringings, or their own neuroses, but every baby that comes out does so pre-loaded with an intrinsic sense of right and wrong. Pretty sure, anyway.

2. If you’re an organization, any absence of information from you will be filled with a storm of half truths and lies by people with their own agendas, so…

3. If you really want to learn, you gotta go to the source, and not take someone’s word for it.

This is how I found myself at the mysterious Snoopy brunch yesterday.

Most of you have heard about the Snoopy organization. Certain famous faces are members, they’ve pissed a lot of people off, there’s organized protests against them, there are many stories that once you become a member, suddenly you’re spending a lot of money, and it’s pretty impossible to leave. Is it truth? Is it propaganda? The absence of information filled with a storm of bullshit by disgruntled ex-members? Nobody knows.

I have never personally met a Snoopyologist, which has always intrigued me. I know plenty of Christians, Jews, I’ve talked to agnostics, atheists, quasi Wiccans, I even shaved the head of a student Buddhist monk at his request before he went back up the mountain. But I’ve never ever met a Snoopyologist.

I drive past their buildings all the time, you can’t live in Los Angeles and not do so, and there must be Snoopyologists in there, but I don’t work with any of them, I’ve never drank with any of them, they’re conspicuously absent from everyday life.

And I always wondered what went on in those big historic Snoopy buildings. You hear whispers and rumors and you have no idea what’s true and what’s not.

I remember hearing early on that the Snoopy institution near me had a Sunday brunch that was to die for. But I thought you had to be invited by a Snoopyologist, and since I didn’t know any of them, I thought I’d never get there.

But one day, I was bored, and despite vague warnings I had heard that they track everyone’s IP address if you click on their website, and suddenly you’ll start getting mail, and phone calls, and people will follow you everywhere, I went to their website, and discovered that all you have to do to go to the Snoopy Sunday Brunch is…make a reservation. If you print out the page from the website, you get ten bucks off!

Oh boy! Oh boy! Oh boy!

My goal for 2010 was to go on one big adventure per month. Last month, I went to the Magic Castle, which was awesome. This month, I was determined to get to the Snoopy Brunch. Because like point number three above, I don’t wanna take someone’s vague “A friend of a friend took a class and then they wouldn’t leave them alone for years” as what the institution is really like. I wanna find out for myself.

Now, there is zero danger of me becoming a Snoopy convert. I am 100 percent Christian, and nothing anyone can offer me would shake that. I may not be able to win a theological debate with an angry atheist, I may whine and be a brat about how I haven’t heard God lately, but I know within my internal cranky bitchy Amy-core that God absolutely exists, and so did Jesus, and all the rest that goes with being a metaphorical card carrying occasional F bomb dropping Christian.

Because I’ve got rock solid faith, I’ve got no problem whatsoever about investigating other institutions and what they believe. It’s not about going there and picking a fight, screaming they’re wrong, I’m right, and why do you make your people buy thousands of dollars of books and coursework, you could go to my church for FREE. That would be rude. It’s more of a fact-finding mission. I wanna hear from the source what they believe.

In addition to realizing anyone and their mother can go to the Snoopy brunch if they make a reservation, I realized my friends would want to go with me.

In the past year, I’ve made three really awesome friends. We all met in different small groups at church, and we keep each other accountable, drink often, and jump in the hottub when I’m housesitting at Basil and Ginger Puppy’s house. Let’s call them Flora, Fauna, and Merriweather.

Merriweather said instantly that she didn’t wanna go to the Snoopy brunch, not because she believed the negative hype, but because she simply didn’t have an interest in learning more about Snoopyology, which is totally fine. I have no interest in learning about tax-reform law, so if she invited me to a lecture on that, I would totally pass too.

But Flora and Fauna were game enough, for the same reasons as me. Fauna’s friend Rosalyn was with us when I was talking about it on New Year’s Eve, and wanted to join the fun, so now we were an Inquisitive Gang O’ Four.

Once I started the scheduling email chain, and mentioned to various acquaintances that this was something I was going to do, the reactions were interesting.

Most of the time, the reaction is “why would you wanna do THAT?” To which I say, why WOULDN’T I? It’ll be fun to put us in the line of somewhat shadowy folks! If we go in there unafraid to say what we believe, to ask questions when appropriate, and take steps to make sure they don’t follow us, what’s the big deal? What do you think they’re gonna do, kidnap us? Not let us leave? Brainwash us if we drink the orange juice?

Why would I take the vague friend of a friend stories as gospel? If I want to know, why wouldn’t I find out for myself?

I did get an occasional story from someone who had taken a class once, or had worked with a P.A. who was one once. Never did anyone say, “Yeah, that Snoopyologist was cooler than I’d thought they be, and we became friends.” It was always that they were slightly off, the introductory class had some interesting self help things, but you were expected to pay a bunch of money to get to the next level of classes, and blah blah blah.

I remember there was a small group once where we got sidetracked talking about Snoopyologists, and how weird they are. I pointed out the central principle of the Christian faith is that we believe a guy performed miracles, died for our sins and came back to life three days later. Jesus is the original zombie. Tell me THAT’S not weird.

The only time in my life that anyone has ever attempted to block me from leaving a building was the Crazy Koo Koo Church from years back. The service was running late, I had to be somewhere, I head up the aisle, and they physically stand in front of the door and gesture that I should sit back down. I look them dead in the eye and say, “Your service is too long, and I’m running late. Get out of my way.” And they do. (I never went back after that.)

The only time in my life that any religious group asked me point blank for my phone number within five minutes of meeting me was a Young Life group on my college campus. I gave them a fake number and never heard from them again.

I still get emails from various Los Angeles theater and arts groups who refuse to take me off their mailing lists.

My point being is that every story I’ve ever heard accusing the Snoopy institution of weird behavior, I’ve experienced through other groups first.

But I made the reservation for this past Sunday, for a very curious party of four. We laughed and joked that since we’re expecting the absolute worst, what would most likely happen would be a big fat nothing. We’d go, stuff ourselves at a buffet, poke around, maybe take a tour, ask questions, and find out what exactly people were so afraid of.

We were expecting the worst. We were expecting nothing. We were not expecting the protesters outside.

TO BE CONTINUED.

(part two is HERE )

Be Respectful, Polite, And Don't Piss Me Off

The following post may seem like old news to about half of you. Very sorry, many apologies, go watch the Puppy Bowl.

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I learned last week, through the magic of Google Alerts, that I had a copier. A plagiarist. A college freshman had come to see Polka Dotted Platypus last year. She hated it, and decided she was going to rewrite it herself and publish it on her blog under the same title, and include a coda explaining what she was doing, and how she was going to do this brilliant (her word) idea better justice than I did. She even posted the trailer we had made for Polka Dotted Platypus on her blog, so people could compare.

My first thought was thank GOD for Google alerts! My second thought was...well...

Okay, see, I’m trying really hard not to disparage her online. This blog is public, though if you’re not a friend of mine already, my last name is not known, and my work goes under pseudonyms here. So if she sets her own Google alerts, this blog wouldn’t be popping up.

And though she had no problem saying I was an inferior writer, and if I was her age, I’d be ALL about trashing her, her writing, and the wisdom of her actions (or lack thereof.)

But I’m not her age. When I first starting reading her post, thinking hey, wait a minute and um, I wrote this idea already and wow, is she ripping me off? and she IS ripping me off. I didn’t get that STRUM.

Okay, okay let me back up.

You know that feeling when you get bad news? When your boss calls you into the office to tell you you’re being let go? When you have that awful conversation that includes the phrase, “I don’t think we should see each other any more?” When you get into a car wreck, or a ticket, or just barely avoid hitting something?

I call it the STRUM. Like there’s twenty thousand guitar strings knotting up your insides and someone just windmilled them for twenty minutes. It’s like a searing pain diagonally across your midsection. It’s like all your internal organs dropped a few feet, and are bouncing around below your belly button.

That’s the STRUM. But I didn’t get it when I read her blog. I had every right to, I’M BEING MALIGNED!

But instead I just sat at the computer and went. Huh. Wow, she’s not really (Amy struggles to find the right word that doesn’t disparage her) thinking clearly, is she?

Instead of pitching a fit, I thought about next steps. I want to address this. I need to address this. It took me about forty five seconds of googling to find an email address for her. (again with the not thinking clearly part for her.)

And then I waited. Went and did some other stuff, including the rewrite of Polka Dotted Platypus that I ironically happen to be working on anyway. Came back an hour later to see if I still had the desire to contact her.

Yes, the desire is still there. But a separate desire is coming into play and that is if I do contact her, I want to be respectful and polite. A-HA! A CHALLENGE!

Can I contact a wayward blogger, bite my tongue from all the things I really wanna say, and respectfully, politely tell her to stop ripping me off and take her post down? Would she even do it? Am I even right in asking? Where does God stand on copyright, anyway?

I thought about it some more. I prayed about it some more. I emailed friends and asked for their advice. Half of them told me to leave it alone. “She’s nobody” , “She could be crazy!” She could refuse to take the post down, and instead post about how I contacted her and make fun of me. And then what would my next steps be?

It was walking a line between what’s right and my pride. What I think is right in this situation may not be right to God. You could make a case that if you want to get all Ten Commandments about it, this falls under Thou Shall Not Steal. But there’s also an element of MINE MINE MINE, this idea in the fixed form of this play is MINE, NOT YOURS, and that feels distinctly un-Christian like too.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that God honestly didn’t give a toss about this little puddle of a problem. Seriously, Amy? THIS is what you’re bringing to me?

You’ve got friends with real problems, friends who are grieving, friends in bad job situations, friends with broken hearts, oh hey, did you hear about what happened down in Haiti? And THIS is what you want me to pay attention to? Honestly?

Look, do what you want, just don’t embarrass me, okay? ‘Cause that would piss me off.

Ultimately, it came down to could I live with myself if I didn’t do anything? And the answer was no. No, I could not. She needed to know what she did was wrong, and yes, she got caught. I’m sure the last thing she was thinking was that the original writer would find her. She needs to know that yes, that writer would. So don’t do it again.

I drafted the world’s most polite, respectful yet firm email, sent it out to my trusted friends’ circle for approval, and, with a bunch more prayers that I imagined were met with a colossal holy shrug, yawn, and I’m busy getting aid to Haiti sent the email out.

She took the post down within two hours. She also sent a highly formal-to-the-point-of-rigidity email back, with an apology and a thank you for the warning.

I’m pleased that there was a happy ending. But I think I’m more stoked that I was able to meet the challenge of Ask For What You Want But Be Respectful, Polite, and Don’t Embarrass Me. ‘Cause we all know I can be one cranky loudmouthed bitch, heh.

Pets Go To Heaven (Because I Say So)

It’s been a sad week here at the Shabby Shack, as my sister’s Agatha’s beagle, Princess Rolo has crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge and is now merrily running around heaven, her little beagle brain blown by the fact that she’s got no fences to limit where she can romp around.

Princess Rolo has made appearances on this blog before: here and here. She’s maybe a strange metaphor I can point to between God and me – Princess Rolo was a brat in the beginning, but I grew to love her lots. I’m still a brat, but God loves me lots.

Additionally, one of my friends had to put her cat down two weeks, ago, and I just got word tonight that Winston, a dog I housesat back in October 08, also followed Princess Rolo across the bridge, so it’s been quite the sad month for pet lovers.

There are certain things I absolutely know for sure, regardless of zero Biblical evidence for them. Most of them are controversial, and now’s not the time to quote them, but I absolutely do believe that our pets go to heaven. Yes they do. Of course they do. Because it would make no sense that God would give us furry companions who touch our hearts, make us smile, sit on our feet while we work at the computer, or watch TV, never demand anything in return except food, water, shelter, tummy rubs and ear scratches and then NOT be there with us in heaven. That makes no sense. God wouldn’t do that.

(and yes, I’m well aware of that photo series between the Catholic Church and the Presbyterian church with their dueling signs debating the topic. You know that wasn’t real, right? Right? See, look : )

I used to think heaven was one endless church service, where we’d all sing hymns for eternity. That didn’t sound like fun, but then, life down here is not exactly tequila and lime chips 24/7 either, so when I did think about it, I reasoned that just because it didn’t sound like fun didn’t mean it wasn’t fun, and that when I do finally shuffle upstairs, I must change enough to where I DO want to sing my most hated hymn of all time, “Open The Eyes Of My Heart.” I seriously hate that hymn. (I also hate “Jesus Is King” and OH, was the worship leader at church today chagrined to hear that. Heh.)

Then I used to think heaven was just some amorphous white blob of light and energy that we dissolve into when we die, forever existing in a state of bliss but not existing as separate entities, which explains why dead people don’t come back to tell loved ones what it’s like up there, and that anyone’s near death experience can be reasoned away as brain synapses going haywire, as the brain thinks this is the Last Exit.

But I don’t like that idea either, as it still doesn’t sound like much fun.

I’ve heard it said that there’s levels of heaven, which I think is dumb. (I once did a verbal smackdown in a small group saying, “If it’s heaven, it’s all gonna be great, who cares WHAT level you’re on? Besides, if there’s no negative emotions, I’m not gonna be jealous, envious, or resentful of what you got in heaven that I didn’t get. Just the fact that I got there’s enough for me. Don’t need the heaven equivalent of American Express Points to enhance the experience. Now excuse me while I go snort some coke and knock over a bank and repent later! Thanks!” (okay, I didn’t say or do that last part. Thanks for believing in me.) )

Maybe God gives us the small pleasures in life – dogs, Griffith Park, sunsets at Santa Monica Pier, laughing with friends, the genius who invented ice cream with candy pre-mixed inside – to get us through this life, but also to give us a taste of what heaven will be like – a huge open bar, massive buffet, ocean views, and all the dogs you grew up with cuddling with you as you watch all your favorite movies. And none of the dogs will want to eat off your plate. Or pee on the rug. Or have bad breath.

I like that idea. I’m sticking with it.

Here’s Eugene O’Neil’s poem, “The Last Will And Testament Of An Extremely Distinguished Dog” which he wrote for his wife in the 1940s when their Dalmatian Blemie passed away. It’s a little high falutin’, but still pretty nice.

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THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
OF AN EXTREMELY DISTINGUISHED DOG

by Eugene O'Neill

I, SILVERDENE EMBLEM O'NEILL (familiarly known to my family, friends, and acquaintances as Blemie), because the burden of my years and infirmities is heavy upon me, and I realize the end of my life is near, do hereby bury my last will and testament in the mind of my Master. He will not know it is there until after I am dead. Then, remembering me in his loneliness, he will suddenly know of this testament, and I ask him then to inscribe it as a memorial to me.

I have little in the way of material things to leave. Dogs are wiser than men. They do not set great store upon things. They do not waste their days hoarding property. They do not ruin their sleep worrying about how to keep the objects they have, and to obtain the objects they have not. There is nothing of value I have to bequeath except my love and my faith. These I leave to all those who have loved me, to my Master and Mistress, who I know will mourn me most, to Freeman who has been so good to me, to Cyn and Roy and Willie and Naomi and -- But if I should list all those who have loved me, it would force my Master to write a book. Perhaps it is vain of me to boast when I am so near death, which returns all beasts and vanities to dust, but I have always been an extremely lovable dog.

I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort to them in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. Let them remember that while no dog has ever had a happier life (and this I owe to their love and care for me), now that I have grown blind and deaf and lame, and even my sense of smell fails me so that a rabbit could be right under my nose and I might not know, my pride has sunk to a sick, bewildered humiliation. I feel life is taunting me with having over-lingered my welcome. It is time I said good-bye, before I become too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me. It will be sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die. Dogs do not fear death as men do. We accept it as part of life, not as something alien and terrible which destroys life. What may come after death, who knows? I would like to believe with those my fellow Dalmatians who are devote Mohammedans, that there is a Paradise where one is always young and full-bladdered; where all the day one dillies and dallies with an amorous multitude of houris [lovely nymphs], beautifully spotted; where jack rabbits that run fast but not too fast (like the houris) are as the sands of the desert; where each blissful hour is mealtime; where in long evenings there are a million fireplaces with logs forever burning, and one curls oneself up and blinks into the flames and nods and dreams, remembering the old brave days on earth, and the love of one's Master and Mistress.

I am afraid this is too much for even such a dog as I am to expect. But peace, at least, is certain. Peace and long rest for weary old heart and head and limbs, and eternal sleep in the earth I have loved so well. Perhaps, after all, this is best.

One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, "When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one." Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again. What I would like to feel is that, having once had me in the family, now she cannot live without a dog! I have never had a narrow jealous spirit. I have always held that most dogs are good (and one cat, the black one I have permitted to share the living room rug during the evenings, whose affection I have tolerated in a kindly spirit, and in rare sentimental moods, even reciprocated a trifle). Some dogs, of course, are better than others. Dalmatians, naturally, as everyone knows, are best. So I suggest a Dalmatian as my successor. He can hardly be as well bred or as well mannered or as distinguished and handsome as I was in my prime. My Master and Mistress must not ask the impossible. But he will do his best, I am sure, and even his inevitable defects will help by comparison to keep my memory green. To him I bequeath my collar and leash and my overcoat and raincoat, made to order in 1929 at Hermes in Paris. He can never wear them with the distinction I did, walking around the Place Vendome, or later along Park Avenue, all eyes fixed on me in admiration; but again I am sure he will do his utmost not to appear a mere gauche provincial dog. Here on the ranch, he may prove himself quite worthy of comparison, in some respects. He will, I presume, come closer to jack rabbits than I have been able to in recent years.

And for all his faults, I hereby wish him the happiness I know will be his in my old home.

One last word of farewell, Dear Master and Mistress. Whenever you visit my grave, say to yourselves with regret but also with happiness in your hearts at the remembrance of my long happy life with you: "Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved". No matter how deep my sleep I shall hear you, and not all the power of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.

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Goodbye for now, Princess Rolo, Sadie The Cat, and Winston. It's not forever.

No Stunning Commentary Here.

Well, there was a post I was working on, but it was incredibly mopey, stupid, and incoherent and I shall not subject you to it.

But as promised, here's Ginger Puppy mauling her latest stuffed animal, Mr. Natural Bear, Enjoy!

Don’t Forget To Charge Your Batteries

Here’s a list of the things I missed getting a picture of because my camera batteries weren’t charged:

1.The rain yesterday. I’m housesitting Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy, and Ginger Puppy does not like the sound of rain, and squarely situated herself under the desk alcove by my feet for most of the day.

Until the power went out! For five hours! That idea to wait to heat the left over pizza is looking pretty stupid now!

Drains were flooded, water was collecting on the garage roof, and trying to find a waterproof jacket and boots to go stomping out there to clean things up, all without the benefit of flashlights (which I couldn’t find because, hello, really dark inside the house) was amusing. I text Albert and Abbot the situation, and they call me from on top of a mountain in Aspen to tell me where the flashlights are, and that the gardener is coming to help unclog the drains. The fact that I’m taking this call while outside IN the rain, dressed in a puffy rainjacket that makes me look like the Michelin man, in boots that are way too big for me, is hilarious. I did manage to unclog two drains all by myself, and got quickly back inside and into dry clothes before my health is compromised. Yay me! Amy The Unclogger Of Drains! Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy didn’t even bat an eye. I think they prefer it when it’s cold, heh.

2. My Coldstone Creamery ice cream! I got it today, at the one near work! Guy behind the counter took the Red Cross coupon and didn’t bat an eye! I think he upgraded me to the larger size for free, too!

3. Ginger Puppy mauling her new stuffed teddy bear toy. It’s hilarious to see the stuffed teddy bear’s smiling face when it’s scrunched in her jaws.

The camera batteries are merrily charging away. The drains are cleaned, and survived the second bout of rain today. And the bear is not all the way mauled, so I will attempt to get a picture for next time.

Short and sweet

I went to my monthly prayer group tonight, and the dinner was from Panda Express. So there's a huge vat of fortune cookies, which cracks me up if you consider the context: We believe in God, but here's a fortune in your cookie, just in case it might have more bearing on your life than the Almighty.

So of course I grab one, and it says GOOD THINGS ARE BEING SAID ABOUT YOU.

Yay! Thanks God In A Fortune Cookie.

Then, because there's a huge vat of them, I grab another one, just for kicks.

It says DO NOT RUSH THROUGH LIFE. PAUSE AND ENJOY IT.

Hmmmmm, God? Whatchoo doing in my fortune cookie?

Heh.

Calm Change Right Before Your Eyes

After all that hype, I didn’t make it to the Santa Monica Pier for my annual Amy’s Yearly Plan Of World Domination That God Promptly Laughs At. My time this weekend was spent trying to find a screening of Up In The Air that wasn’t sold out, it took me three tries before I could finally do it. Plus I was gifted a very large bottle of Don Julio tequila for Christmas, and when you have that much good quality tequila, it seems kinda dumb to go pay for it elsewhere. The weather’s been nice at night, so maybe I can craft my plan at the house looking at the city views this week sometime. We shall see.

Normally, I spend my New Year’s at Native Chick’s place, as she does a time capsule thing that’s kinda nifty. But she didn’t have it this year, and just as I was thinking it was too bad, because I would’ve liked to have what my time capsule sheet was for 2009, I run across it in one of the boxes I still haven’t unpacked. I took it with me last New Year’s and didn’t even remember it. Funny how that works.

Native Chick usually had all sorts of stickers of fun things that you could decorate your sheet with, but for some reason last year, all that was left were word stickers like the word art scramble that you sometimes see on people’s refrigerators. Which made my 2009 sheet look a bit like a ransom note. Heh.

It’s called “Promises for 2009” and divided into categories of Promise: Career ; Promise: Romance ; Promise: Spirit ; Promise: Art.

I had written down in the Spirit category that “I will do my best to get to know God to know God, not to know me.” And while it’s grammatically suspect (it was written after several New Year’s Eve drinks) the intent was admirable, which is that I wanted to know God for who He was, not for what He could do for me.

I don’t think I achieved that in 2009 (though I did make it through the Old Testament for the second time, yay me), so it’ll just carry over for 2010.

In the Art category, I wrote “Everything I write will be entertaining and accessible to the widest amount of people possible. And if it sparks conversation afterwards, the more the better.” I neglected to mention that it would be QUALITY stuff I was writing. Because you could look at that promise and say, wow, you wrote Transformers 2. Heh.

But in the Romance category, the ransom note stickers I put up there were “Calm” , “Change” , “Right Before Your Eyes.” And I wrote down, “I will not force it. I will not invent it. I will not ignore it.”

And while I’m not about to get into my personal life here (nor do I think I ever will. It’s a lose lose situation.) I like that as my motto:

I will not force it. I will not invent it. I will not ignore it.

I am absurdly optimistic about 2010. I have gotten myself out of commitments and entanglements that were distracting me from my true focus. I’ve spent most of the holidays rewriting the Christmas monologues with the hopes of finding a publisher. I know it’s not going to be easy. There may even be a few of you reading who are smiling at your computer screen going just you wait, chickie. It aint that easy. There’s a few blogs out there from wannabe screenwriters that I do the exact same thing to, so it’s all fair at the end of the “publish post” button.

I think I was hopeful at the beginning of 2009, as it looked like some things were going to blow up that didn’t take off as far as we hoped. So I have every reason to be bitter, angry, despondent.

And yet I’m not. It’s the weirdest thing. It could be that I’m getting too old to really let bitterness take over my life (and I know that sentence doesn’t make sense either.)

But to be bitter strikes me as one of those, been there, done that things. It doesn’t improve your situation. I’ve improved my situation by divesting myself of distractions. All systems are go to make 2010 The Year Amy Wrote Her Ass Off.

So I think I’m gonna add on to the 2009 Promise:

I will not force it. I will not invent it. I will not ignore it.

I will go for it.

Let’s see what happens.

Follow The Bouncing Ball

Last week of the year. My yearly jaunt to the Santa Monica Pier should be coming up soon. Maybe Saturday, if I can make it happen.

Pepe and Pembleton’s human pets have left again, and my quads are screaming in pain at resuming the Running Of The Dalmatians routine, though it’s only for a few more days.

Pepe has a ball and loves to play Ball. Pembleton is older, crankier, and may not really understand what’s going on a lot of the time, but Pepe has a ball and wants to play Ball. A lot. For the rest of your life, if you’d let him.

How Pepe plays Ball is that he waits at the top of the stairs. After you’re finished watering the ten thousand plants on the first tier of the steep hillside (so steep the pathway is cut switchbackstyle) and you’re huffing and puffing it up the stairs, you will suddenly hear it.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.










And a mottled gray tennis ball that used to be yellow until somedoggie chewed off all of its fluzz will come bouncing down the stairs to you.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

You catch it. You throw it. Pepe bounds after it, and you start the second tier of watering. Until you hear it again.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

And you turn around. You catch it. You throw it. Pepe goes after it. Repeat about ten thousand times until you’re done watering or have had enough. Pepe will never get enough.


It’s kinda cute. It’s kinda endearing to watch Pepe push the ball with his nose. The first time.













Today I’m watching the ball bouncing towards me. Like that red ball in the Duran Duran video “Is There Something I Should Know.”

It could be the future. But I don’t know what it is yet. I’d like to think something big is coming. I’d like to think something, ANYTHING is coming. But I don’t know yet.



I hope there’s something more meaningful than a Dalmatian behind it, though.

My New Christmas Tradition

I was sitting with a group of people last week and the question was posed: “What is your favorite Christmas tradition.”

Most everyone else at the table had an answer, whether it was opening presents on Christmas Eve, or decorating the tree, or cooking stuff, or something.

I passed on the question. My tradition used to be Ihop breakfast with my former roomies Heckle and Jekyll. But I don’t think there’s ever been one over-reaching tradition that has stayed with me from little girl to semi-grown up. My new place isn’t big enough to host a tree, and if I really wanted to go look at one, I’d go down to the Grove, or the Americana, because you know they’re gonna have massively huge decorated trees that you don’t have to help tear down after the holidays.

But this week I decided that I was gonna start a new tradition, and I’m ignoring the fact that you can still call it a “tradition” even if it’s the first time out.

So my new tradition is that I’m going to give blood the Sunday before Christmas from now on until the end of time. Because I like the idea of giving that kind of gift. I didn’t have to spend money, I didn’t have to sign up for the Amazon Prime trial membership in order to get free shipping to make sure Agatha, Mr, Agatha and Bug’s presents get to Orlando in time (and then I’ll be canceling that trial membership next week, ho ho ho.) I don’t need to know who it’s going to, but I do know that it will be greatly appreciated by whoever gets it.

For someone who badgers her church relentlessly to host blood drives, this was not my best year in terms of giving blood myself. If I count today’s adventure, I’ve given twice this year. You can give a maximum of six times a year. So I’ve got some ground to cover in 2010.

But today’s blood drive was over at The Laugh Factory on Sunset Blvd. How can you NOT go, right? Though I was really hoping for warm up comics to entertain us either in person or on a TV screen, there was no such thing, just Jingle, my nurse. Yep. Her name is honestly Jingle, and she had a beautiful smile, and an unexpected sense of humor: after doing the pinprick stick on my finger for the initial sample, she kept squeezing and wiping, squeezing and wiping, and then saying, “Oops, we gotta do it again. Just kidding!”

And though my heart seized up for two seconds when the first round with the Red Hemoglobin Machine O Death apparently didn’t go well, to the point where Jingle wouldn’t tell me what the reading was, we did it again, and it came back a 13.1. Yep, my blood pressure is low, my pulse rate is low, I’m two degrees below normal in body temperature, and this was my lowest passing score yet on the Red Hemoglobin Machine O Death but I can STILL beat it. And I’m not dead. I have to say that for the benefit of my Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much, because she will look at the above paragraph and only see the words “death” , “low” , “lowest” , “below normal” and assume that I am a walking corpse.

So as I’m filling up the bag (takes me 6 minutes and 38 seconds, not my fastest time, but oh well) I chatted with Jingle the nurse, giving her ideas about what to get her nephews for Christmas, I say hello to Kyra the nurse, who remembered me from my blood drive in September, possibly because I’m the only one taking pictures with the camera, I chat with the organizers about when my church is going to hold their blood drive for 2010...

AND!

I get my coupon for my free Coldstone Creamery ice cream. And I would be lying if I didn’t say that was the FIRST thing I zeroed in on when the Red Cross sent me the pleading email to donate before the holidays. Sure, I spun it to the idea of This Is My New Christmas Tradition, and isn’t it cool and nifty and great. But chiefly, I wanted my free Coldstone Creamery ice cream. I wanted it more than the two free Laugh Factory tickets to a future show (though I got those anyway.)

The plan was to stop by the one on my way home, pick up cake batter ice cream, or maybe that new chocolate Jell-o pudding flavored ice cream, with an add in of chopped up Twix bars, take it home and eat it while watching the documentary Every Little Step, which I have on Netflix DVD.

I was so excited, I was so happy, I started my new tradition, I helped people who I will never meet, I met a nurse with the cutest name I’ve ever heard of, I was going to get my free Coldstone Ice Cream!

But apparently, the one Coldstone Creamery store closest to my house is not honoring the Red Cross coupon DESPITE THE FACT IT SAYS ON THE BACK THAT IT’S VALID AT ALL SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA LOCATIONS.

It doesn’t say “valid at all participating Southern California locations.” It says ALL.

So don’t anyone ever visit the Coldstone Creamery location on 5455 Hollywood Blvd., LA CA 90027, because despite what their corporate parents say, it is my opinion that they don’t want to reward folks who give blood, and that makes them not very nice people.

I will be getting my Coldstone eventually, once I can locate a convenient location. But I’m sticking with my new tradition, regardless of what free stuff I get in the future.

Then Maui Happened

So yeah, I was in Maui last week. It’s a little embarrassing to admit it, as this makes the third vacation this year. I was feeling kinda guilty about going, until my friends pointed out that the other two trips this year were with family members, which doesn’t quite make them vacations. The last true vacation I had without family was my birthday in 2007 , and then a trip to New Orleans in 1999 with my then boyfriend who got mugged in the Quarter when he stupidly decided to go out by himself after dark because I fell asleep.

Nothing like that happened here, though. Just five days of sun, sunsets, snorkeling, ziplining, mai tais galore, and sleeping with the screen door open to the sound of the ocean crashing on the waves. It was glorious.

It was so glorious, that I immediately fell into a deep depression once I got off the plane and entered the Los Angeles rainstorm. It’s enough to make me never want to go on vacation again, I got the blues so bad.

My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much and my Dad The Great Stoic Wonder don’t know what ziplining is. Let’s attempt to freak them out:

Ziplining is where it’s you attached to a harness and you ride (i.e. “zip”) your way across a very thin cable to the other side of a valley, like this. (Except that’s not me. That’s Xavier. Yes, he came with me. No, I will not answer questions about him. What, you wanna scare him off? That aint cool.)










This is me. I quickly developed a signature style of zipping, a cross between Peter Pan and a superhero coming in for a landing, “Here I am to save the daaaaaaaaaay!” The guides thought it was especially graceful: “It’s the shoes!” they joked (I’m the only one of our group wearing black tennis shoes, I had read about the red dust ahead of time.)

I had forgotten how much I like being up in the air. I think it might be part of the reason I stuck with gymnastics as a kid for so long despite the fact that I had zero flexibility. I had no fear, and gaily launched myself over the vault, around the bars, off the beam, anything to put me in the air. In college, I took a circus class (hey, they offered it) and learned a Spanish web routine where I was spun around and around high up in the air, and it was awesome (I have video of that somewhere around here.)

We also went snorkeling, and didn’t take an underwater camera with us, but this is what it looked like from above before we jumped in. We were on the outside of the Molokini crater, where not a lot of boats go, and fish were everywhere. They gave me one of those snorkel shirts because I knew I’d be a wimp about the water. An unexpected bonus of the shirt was that it kept me afloat in the water. While Xavier dived down and swam with the fishies, I floated up top and watched him (and swam with the fishies that came my way. They were seriously not afraid of people. It was awesome.) This may not sound like a lot of fun except for the fact that I don’t float on my own in water. Never have. I sink like a rock and it’s always annoyed me. So I spread out my arms and floated in the water amongst the fishies and the bubbles from the scuba divers way down below, and felt like I was flying again.

I had planned on dreaming big on this vacation. I had big things to think about, big plans to concoct about how I was going to spend 2010, what I was going to write, what I was going to write first, logical steps to achieve my goals.

And I did none of that. I did no thinking on this trip. No plotting, no planning. No writing on the plane (we watched Wall-E on the computer. Much more endearing of a movie than I expected.) All that potential time wasted. I wrote on both of the cruises this year. I wrote during the 2007 birthday trip. I did nothing here.

I suppose it’s not that big of a deal. It wasn’t like I was bored. I was always engaged in doing something. Just not writing, plotting or planning.

I am rudderless, sprawled out in the ocean, floating in the yellow snorkel shirt, watching Xavier and the fishies swim beneath me.

I am senseless, watching a sun set over a table full of Mai Tais, and not being inspired to do anything other than watch the sunset.

I am flying, floating over a Hawaiian valley, looking out at the ocean and not concerned at all that my life is attached to a harness and a thin cable line.

There will be time to write, think, plan and plot later. The New Year is coming up, and my annual trip down to the Santa Monica Pier to have margaritas is supposed to be where I do all of that anyway.

It was a vacation. And now I’m back, and desperately trying to get re-energized again.

Soon. Hopefully soon.

The Blog Is Still Late

Because I've been in Maui for the past couple of days. Which is its own entry in itself.

There's a lot to catch up on, and I promise you I will get back to a regular routine of posting (attempting to going back to posting on Sundays.)

I just wanted to apologize for my absence, and to thank you regular readers who've been wondering where I've been.

A picture for everyone: Clementine the hat in Maui, getting blasting on Mai Tais during Happy Hour.

The Post, She Is Late

I've been working on this totally awesome post: A Guide To Your Minor Prophets (Possibly In Flow Chart Format!) and had planned on getting it finished yesterday, but finishing up a grant for my theater company came first, and well, Zechariah is Zechariah.

Have you guys tried to make it through Zechariah? It's all about prophesy and lampstands and women in pots with lead covers, and white, black and dappled horses running through the earth, and THE RED HORSE! WHAT HAPPENED TO THE RED HORSE!?!

So. Hopefully I'll have something ready later tonight. Hopefully.

:)

Thankful

I'm thankful for a lot of things, especially in the later half of 2009, which is without a doubt the fastest year I've ever lived through.

And while I could do the proverbial List O Things I'm Thankful For, I think I'm going to let the pictures do the talking:

Behold - the views from my front porch:



















Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.