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.

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

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.

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

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.

Stop Wondering

There are people in the world who have the metaphorical Black Raincloud over their head all day long. These are the types of people for whom disaster strikes day after day, where bad things go wrong ALL the time. My former roomie Roomie Jekyll was such a person. Her laptop would break, the airline would lose her luggage, someone would hit her car and drive off. There would be bright sides in the form of insurance, luggage tags that eventually tracked down her luggage, etc. But it didn’t ever dispel the black rain cloud. If there was ever anyone I wanted to surround with a white sage cloud in the hopes of dispelling whatever bad mojo there was surrounding her, it was Roomie Jekyll. I never did, probably because she would spit venom at me. And then her clothes would accidentally catch on fire.

I like to think that I am not that type of black rain cloud person, and I work mighty hard at being uber productive to prove that I’m not. I am a fixer, I am resourceful, I can make anything work, I do not need to ask for help, I will solve these problems on my own.

I hate asking for help. If I ask for help, than I’m no better than my former Crazy Boss, the one who fired me because I couldn’t read her mind. She was another Black Raincloud Person, unable to figure out the simplest things, like how to turn on her daughter’s Ipod, and thus made me do everything for her. It’s not that hard to figure out how to turn on an Ipod, people, really it’s not. If you’re smart, you can figure it out. If you’re resourceful, you can solve problems all by yourself.

See my roses? Look at how great they’re doing. Pepe and Pembleton decided to repot them while I was dogsitting for Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy last week. Super sweet of them, sure, even though they confessed that they “couldn’t deal with the tacky Target pots” the roses used to be in. So they really repotted the roses because the Target pots were aesthetically offensive to them. BWAH!

My roses, after the struggle to move them, are doing great. And for me personally, things were so blissfully stable for like, at least a month and a half, the Running Of The Dalmatians not withstanding. I could incorporate that into my routine, because I am a fixer. I am resourceful. I can make anything work, I do not need to ask for help.

But then. A cop pulled me over for running a stop sign, when there was NO ONE around for miles, and I ran it at a whole whopping five miles an hour.

And then. I lost my cell phone. At a Halloween party where there was much merriment, and apparently too much fun.

And finally. My car died. After an oil change from EZ Lube. Suspicious? I think so.

I fixed the ticket by myself, since I hadn’t gotten a ticket in ten years, a trip to online traffic school took care of it.

I fixed the cell phone by myself, a trip to the local AT&T store and a cheapo $30 “gophone” took care of it (still the same number, Mom, don’t worry.)

Ah, but the car. The car. The car, is not something I can fix by myself. Because I am a chick. And Ethel is Ethel.

It took an entire village of people to help me with Ethel (and to everyone’s credit, everyone called her by her name. Nobody ever said, “Um, Amy, isn’t it a little weird to name your car Ethel?” Everyone just accepted the fact that Amy’s car is named Ethel, and that’s what we call her.)

Over a period of 48 hours, no less than 10 of my friends stepped up to help revive poor Ethel. Whether it was coming down to give her a jump, or loaning me a car, or driving me to the loaner car, or being on standby, or sending email prayers and assorted well wishes, everyone all lent a hand.

It turns out all that was wrong with Ethel was that her battery, recently taken out for inspection by the EZ Lube folk, was not put back correctly. That’s it. Tons of drama, two jumps, two tows, a million diagnoses of “it’s the alternator” and it all comes down to a STUPID EZ LUBE TECHNICIAN. DO NOT GO TO THE EZ LUBE IN BURBANK! THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING!

Throughout the madness, which reached a head on Sunday evening, as I was waiting for a pal to come pick me up at the EZ Lube to drive me to the loaner car, I noticed this store, situated right next to the EZ Lube. You can’t see it, but there’s also a giant Jesus on the cross next to the store, which is mildly disturbing.

And I’m staring at the sign, and I know I’m supposed to be thankful, and I know that I’m supposed to be feeling a warm wave of relief, that HERE God is in this situation, he’s a big green neon sign! Whooo hoooooo!

And all I’m feeling is numbness. Yay. God’s a green neon sign. That’s nice.

See, if I was younger, I’d be SO pissed off. Not just because of the car, but because God is SO not here in this situation, and that green neon sign is just mocking me! You want me to trust You? How bout cutting me a break and get my car working again! Raaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr!

But I’m not that way. Because I know now that God doesn’t work like that. God does not come down with the God wand and tap Ethel and shock her back to life. God works in the form of my ten friends helping me.

So much of the time, myself and the rest of the world say they want God’s help in a situation, when really what they want is for the situation to not exist anymore. And God doesn’t work like that.

I know that. So I’m staring at this green neon sign and I’m not feeling relief., because the car’s still dead. I do still feel the lack of God’s presence, despite the green neon sign, but that’s just a given these days.

And as I continue to stare at the God store, aching for some kind of connection, some kind of thought, some kind of spark, any kind of thought, or reassuring groundedness, the only thing that comes to mind is:

You’re trying too hard.

Heh. I’m TRYING too hard. Constantly examining every situation, wondering where God is, why He’s allowing things to go this way, where are we going, where does He want me to go. I should just stop that.

Not that I’m walking away from God, but I need to stop wondering where He is. He’s there in the sign, see?

Ethel is back up and running, thanks to Wella, and a million other people. Because I asked for help from people. People respond. People respond, and God observes.

And I’m trying to stop wondering.

Except now, I wonder what’ll happen when I stop wondering. Paradox! Paradox! ACK!

Not much to say

And that is okay. After the months of upheaveal, after most of this year where wild wacky things happened, I am absolutely okay to say that not much is going on.

And I am okay with that.

It doesn't quite make for scintillating blog reading, but everyone deserves a break now and then. Even me. :)

Hopefully something will happen that I can write about next week. We'll see.

One Less Than Five, One More Than Three

My secret dream is that someday I sing a song with the Muppets on Sesame Street. It will never happen, since I'm not famous (nor do I have plans to be.) Maybe if I moved to New York, made friends with the crew, got a gig as a stand-in or something...no. Probably not.

(though honestly, if Sesame Street is strapped for cash, they could make a KILLING charging for just such an experience.)

Anyhoo, when I want to smile, I watch the below video. Yes, I know it's a year old. I don't care. I watch it, and then I dance around my place singing, "BWAK BA BA BWAK! BWAK BA BA BAWK! OhhhhhooooohhhhhOOOOOHHHHHHHHH! We're counting to FOOOOOUUUUUUUUUURRRR!"

I dare you to do it. You will smile at the end.

Shut Up And Trust

If I’m perfectly honest (and why not? Lying is so pedestrian.) I haven’t been feeling close to God these days, and it’s probably because I haven’t been sticking to my schedule of Bible reading.

There was no good excuse, I wasn’t lost in the wilderness of Isaiah, or down in the dumps with Ezekiel, or battling the never ending out of order poetry of Psalms. I had just finished Daniel. DANIEL, of all books. Daniel in the lion’s den! Daniel and the diet! Daniel the woo woo prophet! Who doesn’t love Daniel and want to keep going, right? Next up is Hosea. I’ve been DYING to read Hosea again! It’s the freakiest book in the Bible – God telling Hosea to marry a prostitute who continues to cheat on him and give his kids names that will get their asses kicked on the playground! What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I just stop typing right now and start reading Hosea?

It was the dogs. Pembleton and Pepe’s human pets came home yesterday, cutting their vacation short due to some unforeseen complications, so I am officially released from caring for them. Yes, I did indeed wake up every morning for over two weeks and run something close to a mile if not more every day with them. I got used to it, but I definitely did not enjoy it, and the morning routine of caring for the dogs and watering the hillside of plants usurped my Bible time. (It also usurped my evening writing time, so all things are equal in secular and non-secular pursuits.) Last night was the first night in over two weeks that my sleeptime wasn’t interrupted by a lonesome 1am bark, or a 3am scratch on the back door. (It’s a good thing I don’t scare easily like apparently the last tenant.) I woke up this morning on my own and I didn’t have to stumble outside in the dark to walk two crazy Dalmatians. I’ve never been happier.

So THAT’s why I didn’t get to Hosea sooner. I’m shooting for tomorrow. Hopefully.

I know all the rebuttals for why not reading my Bible shouldn’t give me guilt pangs – God doesn’t want your routines to become route, and there are other ways to get close to Him than reading His word, and He doesn’t want you to read it if you feel like you have to (and I haven’t figured out what He thinks about reading the Bible primarily as research for monologue collections), and it’s a good idea to shake things up once in awhile, so you don’t rely on the ritual instead of Him.

There’s more going on. I didn’t sign up for a small group through my church this year, I’ve missed my monthly prayer group for three months straight now, though I’m part of an informal group of awesome peeps that meet once every other week.

But I didn't like the aspect of small groups when we present a list of things to ask God for, because it feels like we’re reducing God to Genie In A Lamp time. And I didn’t feel good about that at all.

I’ve talked about this feeling before (I am aware when I start to repeat myself.) I don’t know how to talk to God. Just start talking, why don’tcha. Oh ho ho, very easy to say, when you’re the only one talking.

One thing that I’ve heard said from multiple pastors at church is “Talk to God about (whatever you don’t wanna talk about.) He’s a big boy. He can handle it.”

How do you talk to God?

1. You ask Him for stuff. DING, you’re doing it wrong. He’s God, not your personal Santa Claus.

2. You thank Him for stuff. I actually do this a lot of the time, perhaps more than asking Him for stuff, since that leaves a bad taste in my mouth currently. I’m the master of Thank You God, Thank You. I can breathe it 24/7.

I was at Disneyland on Sunday. It was super awesome for a number of reasons: Agatha and Mr. Agatha had sent me free tickets, I was with fun people who don’t mind goofing for pictures, I had done my Fast Pass research on how to get through the most popular rides with minimal wait time, and there’s a store on Main Street that sells the most yummers Cinnamon Tea Latte IN THE WORLD for under three bucks.

All through the day, I breathed Thank You God, Thank You. Thank You God, Thank You. Thank You for this company. Thank You that this Fast Pass strategy is working. Thank You that my friends didn’t get sick on Space Mountain, though it was a close call. Thank You for the Cinnamon Tea Latte. Thank You for It’s A Small World (yes, nobody else likes it, but it brings up very vivid memories of me when I was five or so, and flipping through the book that came with the song.)

True, I can get snarky with my Thank You God, like yesterday when Pembleton and Pepe’s human pets’ car wouldn’t start: Thank you God, for giving me the most AWESOME reason in the world to trust You to give me the tools I need to fix this situation. (those tools came in the form of the human pet’s handyman and his jumper cables.)

But there’s gotta be more to the conversation than me groveling with gratitude. Maybe He doesn’t get tired of hearing Thanks, but it can make for a little one sided conversation, like you know He’s thinking, Enough already! You’re welcome! What else is going on!?

3. You tell him what you’re thinking. That usually veers into dissatisfaction (I don’t have x,y,z, if only I had x,y,z in my life, I’d be so much happier,) DING, you’re doing it wrong, because you’re blaming God for your circumstance, which He has placed you in for purposes of His own, mainly to teach you something, like maybe STOP WHINING.

4. You ask Him where we’re going. Again veering into dissatisfaction. (Where are we going? Am I really temping for the rest of my life? Really!? You know I wanted to do a, b, and c, oh shit, is that the whole Here Are My Plans, Please Bless Them rather than Here’s What I Was Thinking About Doing Please Tell Me If You Want Me To Do Something Else. Oh shit, did I say shit? Aw hell. You’re really not gonna talk to me now, are You. If only I was Angel Mouthed. Fuck.)

5. You go to Here’s What I Was Thinking About Doing Please Tell Me If You Want Me To Do Something Else. And...silence.

I can’t talk to God if I’m continually hearing the Ding You’re Doing it Wrong bell in my head. Let’s start there.

Hi God, it’s me, Amy, The Foul Mouthed Writer. S’up? Oh, is that too irreverent? Are You shaking Your almighty head in dismay, that I didn’t approach You with the respect that You command, because You are God of the universe?

Hi God, it’s me, Amy, the Writer Who Sometimes Drinks While Writing. I am appropriately bowing in Your general direction, which is, um, Up? Thank You that Pembleton and Pepe’s human pets came back. I am sooooooooo stoked that I don’t have to run anymore. I rediscovered that I can roll with whatever punches anyone throws at me, but no, I do not like running, I never have, I never will, thanks for that reinforcement. Thank You that I live by myself, thank You that I have the World’s Most Boring Temp Job (but working with really nice people.) It’s a job which means money, so thank You that I can pay my bills. Thank You for Benedryl, my best defense against this wacked out weather and winds. Thank You for Rolling Rock, the sponsor of tonight’s blog entry.

So, God. You know I don’t wanna ask You for stuff, because that seems distasteful. I think we both know each other better than that. I am curious, though. I’m Here. I want to be Over There. I think I could get Over There if I did a, b, and c. What do You think? Yay? Nay? You wanna throw d, e, and f my way? I can roll with whatever letters you throw at me, we both know that.

Hello? Hello, God? You wanna say something? You wanna show me something? Is it wrong of me to ask? Was I supposed to shut up and trust?

Hmmmmm.

Not Feeling Especially Writerly

Because Pembleton and Pepe think if they scratch on the back door at 3am and 4am in the morning, I will somehow open it.

I won't, and I have done nothing to reinforce that I will, but that doesn't stop them from scratching at the back door. Did I mention the 3am and 4am part. For the past week?

I generally like dogs. But not when they do this. Harumph.