I Am A Shit Ton More Honest Than The Next Person

If I’m being honest, really truly honest, then I’m pissed off and angry. The kind of angry where I read something on facebook that goes something like, “Consider your allegiances and God will change you!” and it’s some note about some guy who I’m sure is a lovely person writing about how he’s had an amazing transformative weekend because he’s chosen to seek God in ALL areas of his life, and it’s come about because he had an epiphany about (simplifying here, but because) he learned to pray for other people and God changed his life.

And I’m like…really? Honestly and truly? What are you, 22? (He might very well be, I don’t even know him directly, an acquaintance of mine was commenting on his link and it showed up in my new facebook profile, blah blah blah.)

WELCOME TO THE CHRISTIAN LIFE, IDIOT! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO PRAY FOR OTHER PEOPLE, JACKASS!

Please, come talk to me after you’ve spent decades spending most of your prayer life praying for other people and noting how God moves speedily in answering your prayers for other people, but at a glacial pace in working in your own life. Come talk to me when you’ve spent decades talking to a God who rarely talks back to you, after you’ve spent decades listening for a single word from Him, only to be met with a thundering silence 99.9 percent of the time.

Come talk to me when your prayer life goes like this, “Fuck you, God, and Your plan for my life. Your plan sucks. I violently disagree with it. Go blow.”

Oh, I’m sorry. Was that too disrespectful? Too upsetting for your Virgin Christian ears? Was your first response, “Well of COURSE God’s not gonna answer you if that’s how you talk to Him.”

Oh, little one. Oh, dear dear dear hypothetical little one.

I don’t mean to burst anyone’s Happy Chipper Christian Bubble, but the dirty little secret of the Christian life is that YOU CAN TALK TO GOD HOWEVER YOU WANT TO, AND IT’S NOT GOING TO AFFECT HOW HE DEALS WITH YOU.

I have spent years being obedient and respectful. I have spent years being filthy and disrespectful. Guess what? I can be however I want to be in front of God my Savior, and He’s going to treat me exactly the same way. Because what He wants from me AND YOU more than anything else is to being fucking HONEST with Him.

If you can’t be fucking honest with God, who the FUCK do you think you’ll be honest with?

How I act does not change how God acts toward me. Wrap your Newbie Christian brain around that one.

Here, I’ll save you a trip. God loves you no matter what you say to him, and it’s only after you realize His massive massive love for you that you will be so consumed with guilt with your irreverence and disrespectfulness towards Him that you will immediately repent of your disrespectful ways, beg for forgiveness, and then be a Happy Chipper Little Christian until the next time you get pissed.

I’m so bummed there’s only one of me out here that’s got the balls to say that. Ah well.

The thing is, my current anger is actually NOT because of my dad’s cancer. I know it’s oh so tempting to draw an easy parallel to that. If it was a movie, it would be that. In fact, I know a bunch of you are sitting at the computer shaking your heads, thinking, “she’s in denial.”

But life is so much more messier, and my current anger is much more self centered. Dad’s doing okay, far as I know.

And whatever I’m going through in my own Amyland Bubble certainly can’t compare with my Dad’s cancer so quickly fuck me gently with a Heathers http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097493 chainsaw and my self absorbed anger over stupid meaningless shit like a busted internet router (so I’m sitting on the floor, tethered to a wall) and silly producers who don’t understand Excel, and the petty envy over dear friends who see God moving in blatantly obvious ways in their lives and the growing inability to sleep at night, which I’m pretty sure is a psychic connection with my dad, since HE’S not sleeping well at night, either.

I love sleep. I love sleep better than living. I never had issues sleeping until Dad’s cancer. Oh, yes, armchair shrinks, draw your obvious dime-store conclusions. You suck as much as God does. He knows I don’t like Him right now. He’s actually pleased that I’m honest about it. I’m probably more honest than you in that regard, so that’s gotta be good for an upgrade to Business Class on the plane trip to heaven, whenever that shows up.

Let’s look at pictures of PUPPIES!

I tried mightily to get shots of all three dogs at the Beagle House last week, and this was the best I could do.

Smiling Bella on the left, new dog Babs in the middle, and Bonnie sleeping in an apple box on the right.

Babs is a cocker spaniel, and I grew up with cocker spaniels, so I was immediately in love.

Babs is 12 years old, and as energetic as any puppy I’ve ever seen. She’s also the smallest cocker spaniel I’ve ever seen, half the size of the cockers I grew up with, a bonsai tree version of a cocker spaniel, and I found myself staring at her tiny face that fit in the palm of my hand. She wasn’t comfortable being picked up, which made me sad, because all I wanted to do was scoop her up and snort her up my nose like cocker spaniel cocaine. But she would sit by my feet and whine when she thought I wasn’t petting her enough, so believe me, she had it great.

Bella has had her face warts taken off, but regardless, she’s still the only dog I’ve ever known that actually smiles. And I tried mightily to get photographic proof of it:

This is not a smile:

THIS is almost there:

THIS is a smile.

SEE!?!?

Open Windows

I'm going back to the Beagle House starting tomorrow for another round with Bella (she got the growths on her face taken off!), Bonnie and new addition Babs, the liveliest 13 year old cocker spaniel I've ever seen. She's f'ing adorable, people. Just wait until I get pictures of them.

And when I was catching up with the human owner, and she was asking how things were, I found myself telling her about Great Stoic Wonder's Stage 4 cancer diagnosis. The human owner started crying. I was dry-eyed. It was a little weird.

When I was sending out the email to my friends about the Cancer Earthquake, I asked them not to ask me about it in person, as I feared I would lose it and break down. But as soon as I hit send, it was like a window opened, and I found myself able to talk about it in person. No tears.

It's like I leapfrogged over the other four stages of grief and landed directly on Acceptance, and now that I'm here, there doesn't seem to be much point in going backwards to, like, the Bargaining stage. Which I guess makes sense. One of the things that everyone knows about me is that above everything else, I am uber productive. Which means I can't sit on the couch and cry for days. That's not productive. I'm not even suppressing the depression. It's just not there. It's more of a melancholy thing tickling at the back of my brain.

Perhaps my Twin Superpowers of Denial and Distraction are coming into play here. Perhaps it's a cold analysis of I'm Not The One With Cancer, And Being Depressed About It Isn't Going To Help My Dad At All So Might As Well Get On With Living Life.

But I haven't gotten mad at God. I haven't shaken my fist angrily, I haven't asked Him why this is happening. I guess I know better than that. Or possibly because I know He's not gonna answer me, so asking Him why wouldn't be productive. I still pray every day. I still pray for a miracle and ask that Dad miraculously gets into remission somehow.

This Cancer Earthquake hasn't shaken my faith. I can list a dozen people who've made it through much much worse circumstances. If my one friend can survive flying home to be by her mom's side in her final moments, only to have her dad meet her as she walked off the plane and take her home to pick out what her mom would be wearing in her coffin because the mom was already gone, I can make it through this. (That story ripped my guts out.)

This is our road to walk down. Everyone is going to die of something someday. My dad just happens to know what his order is. And, since I got most of my genetic quirks from him (doctors told him he was slightly anemic. I could've told him that, since I'm slightly anemic, and my blood didn't come up with that all on its own) it's probably what's going to take me out much much later down the road. I'll be going through my own colonoscopy, once I figure out if the Can't Deny Pre-Existing Conditions part of Obamacare is sticking or not.

Sandra Bullock's mom died of colon cancer, and Sandra tells a pretty funny story about how Sandra went through a colonoscopy and was so stoned from the drugs that she went shopping and bought ridiculous stuff. Maybe I'll do that. It may not be productive, but it would be funny. Which is productive in its own way, I suppose.

Earthquakes, Part 2

So, where were we?

Oh, that’s right, thank you, Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius. We were about ten steps of the canyon ledge and still thinking there was solid ground beneath us.

But let’s back up a bit. Let’s put Wile E. Coyote back on the cliff.

That would be July 26^th, 2011.

That was the day my sister Agatha and I got the email from My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much about the results of my Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder’s routine colonoscopy.

I knew the colonoscopy was happening, I talk to my parents every week, we knew it was happening, it was routine. My family is notorious for coming from a good genetic stock. We rarely get sick, we don’t get long term diseases, we rarely break bones (the last one was sister Agatha in high school, some twenty years ago.) We don’t get divorces, we don’t have miscarriages. Yeah, my mother the Phone Harpy had an issue with her vocal chords that meant she couldn’t sing on key, but frankly, she couldn’t sing on key anyway, so this just meant she had to tone down the volume (she would tell you this herself.) No big deal.

I am the last person in my line (if you’re not counting the cousins under 10) to not have any cavities (it’s really simple, people, just floss. I swear, it works.) We don’t even get food poisoning, unless it’s pesto, pine nuts, or leftover crab (I was watching the documentary “Waiting For Superman” that day. That was a bad bad bad day.)

The email of July 26^th, 2011 from My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much said that the my father, The Great Stoic Wonder’s routine colonoscopy turned up a cancerous lesion, and they had scheduled surgery to remove the part of the colon that contained the lesion on August 1, 2011. It certainly seemed scary, and prayers were offered up, but I remembered that my father, the Great Stoic Wonder, had had various skin lesions removed in the past, the result of playing golf in the sun for half your life. And I guess my brain chalked up the colon lesion up to those tiny no big deal skin cancer lesions. We had no reason to think any different.

August 1, 2011 – While I turn in my Golden Gecko Gymnast outline, my father has 8 to 12 inches of his colon removed. Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much calls to say that while they were mucking around in my Dad’s intestines, they saw something else to give them pause, more information later. Um…. Okay.

(Wile E. Coyote has just started his dash off the cliff, yet still is upright on faith alone.)

August 4^th, 2011 – My Dad is released from the hospital. I didn’t think they would call today, which is why I’m trying to munch a microwaved Smart Ones chicken and cheese quesadilla while they give me the news that they found cancer in eight of the surrounding eighteen lymph nodes. They’re scheduling a PET scan for August 25^th, results to be discussed August 29^th. Today is also Sister Agatha’s birthday, and the day ends with the email from the Creative Exec that the Golden Gecko Gymnast movie is on hold.

August 8^th, 2011 – I get the email that the Golden Gecko Gymnast movie is officially dead. However, my father the Great Stoic Wonder is still alive, and that’s more important in the grand scheme of things.

(Wile E. Coyote is still running his heart out, he can even see the other cliff waiting for him on the other side)

August 15^th, 2011 – I get a postcard in the mail from Pastor Home Church. He is indeed the pastor of my home church back in Alabama, the church that My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much faithfully attends, and the church that my father the Great Stoic Wonder attends on Christmas and Easter. On the postcard, Pastor Home Church says, “I just heard about your dad’s diagnosis with cancer,” For some reason, I was able to happily bop along in my Denial Bubble That Has Served Me Faithfully For So Long In So Many Ways, so that when I read this orange postcard (I’m sure the mailman also sends his regrets, since he can see it too) it finally hits me that this is real. Uh… okay. My Dad has cancer. Um… okay. But there’s no reason to panic yet, right? Right?

(Wile E. Coyote is gradually realizing that the ground may have left him.)

August 25^th, 2011 – Dad goes in for his PET scan, which will illuminate how far the cancer has spread, if at all. When I talk to him on the phone, he sounds fine, if somewhat subdued. He’s his usual stoic self, taking potshots at the Phone Harpy and her hoarding I-Can’t-Throw-Anything-Away-Including-These-Three-Pictures-Of-A-Mountain-In-Europe-That-I-Forgot-To-Label-When-I-Took-The-Picture-30-to-40-Years-Ago ways, which have been threatening for decades to consume our entire house. Business as usual.

August 29^th, 2011 – Sister Agatha and I get an email about the results of the PET scan. If it’s bad news, we get it via email, because the electronic buffer is safer. But Phone Harpy Mommy hasn’t cc-ed the right email address for sister Agatha, so I print out the email and run out of my office on the Unnamed Studio Lot, but there is no good private place to talk, so I land on a bench somewhere between the casting building and the costume museum, and trams of tourists are passing by as tears are streaming down my face as I tell my sister on the cell phone that our father has Stage IV colon cancer.

(And Wile E. Coyote begins his freefall.)

The cancer, which showed no outward symptoms, has spread to his liver and around the aorta. He’s scheduled to have a central port put in on August 31^st, with chemotherapy to start September 7^th.

August 30^th, 2011 – I call in sick. My face is swollen from crying, my eyelids are the size of Vienna sausages, and I only leave the house to shop for my parents’ anniversary card. They’re celebrating 50^th years of marriage on September 2^nd. We were all going to fly to St. John in the Bahamas in October to celebrate. It’s not happening anymore. I put together hooks in the wall to hang my stepstool on (shorty me needs a stepstool to reach shelves in the kitchenette) and a shoerack for my closet. I buy a basil plant. I am thwarted in putting another wall rack in the kitchenette because the wall has a sheet of aluminum on it, and I

don’t have a power drill, and the landlords and the Dalmatians Pepe and Pembleton are out of town. I cannot fix my father’s cancer, I can fix these things. Most of them, anyway.

September 1^st, 2011 – I’m back at work, and there’s an earthquake. Not one that I dreamed about two months ago, this is real. It’s a shaker for about four seconds, long enough for me to shove off my headphones, turn the chair around, and grip the armrests, ready to bolt if it goes longer than four seconds. This is more movement than my co-workers do, by the way. They’re all frozen like deer in headlights.

I am not frozen. I am ready to move. But the earthquake is only four seconds long. And truthfully, there’s nowhere to go. Nothing to do, nowhere to go.

I can’t stop this earthquake, just like I can’t stop life. It began with a dream two months ago, it has led to this day, and it will go on for many many days more.

We are all falling with Wile E. Coyote, and all I can do at this point is grip the armrests of my chair and hold on for the ride. At least we’re finally in September. Because I don’t mind telling you, August 2011 officially goes down as The Worst Month Ever.

Earthquakes, Part 1

Around the end of June, I dreamed of an earthquake.  It was so violent, it literally shook me out of sleep.  I could've sworn I was lying on a bucking bronco of a bed, and I thought it was strange, because the Shaby Shack is situated on a granite hill that absorbs tremors.  (Totally true.  You all are gonna wanna come see me when the Big One hits.  We'll still be standing.)

I don't usually have intense dreams like that, unless I take a handful of Benedryl to knock out the allergies.  But here I am, gripping the mattress, staring at the ceiling, jumping on Facebook to see if anyone else is posting about a monster tremor.  Did this really happen?  Was it just me?

Turns out it wasn't real.  It was just me.  And it was an unfortunate omen of what was to come.

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My Golden Gecko Gymnast movie is gone.  The bright side is that it wasn’t my idea, it probably would’ve hurt so much more if it was.  The other bright side is that it wasn’t because of the work that I did that it died (like if I had turned in a really shitty outline.)  It is, quite honestly, not my fault. 

I went against my better nature, and told people this project was happening, because there was zero reason to think the rug was going to be pulled out from under me.  I had a contract.  I had a payment schedule.  I had notes from my creative exec that I incorporated into a second draft of the outline.  I turned in the outline.  I got paid for the outline.  There were meetings, and emails, and a company with a track record of animal movies, all of which I took as evidence that yes, yes, this is happening, and Amy is On Her Way.

I turned in the outline on August 1^st.  On August 4^th (sister Agatha’s birthday!), I got an email from the creative exec saying that everything is “sort of on hold.”  The creative exec went on to praise all the work I did, and how impressed she was with how quickly and thoroughly and seemingly effortlessly I was able to incorporate all her notes (that “effortlessly” was basically a 24/7 IV drip of Red Bull)  “I will get you produced one way or another, with this project or another one, so hang in there with me,” Creative Exec says, “I'll be in touch soon!”

Okay.  Okay, no problem.  I’ll just switch gears and go back to rewrite Red Llama, so I have something to work on until Golden Gecko revs back up again.  No problem.  None whatsoever.  I could use the break, really.  I’m not that big of a fan of Geckos.  Sure, I’ll write a gymnastic movie about them, but they’re kinda freaky looking, and I’m much more down with Llamas. 

The following Monday, August 8^th, I get another email saying the Gecko movie is officially dead.  Not my fault, it’s a matter of the Company Powers That Be not liking how much this movie is going to cost (I never got an idea of how much that was) versus what they thought their rate of return would be, and pulling the plug before we went any farther.  Much like how Universal has pulled the plug on several projects lately like The Dark Tower, and At The Mountains Of Madness.  The Geckos are apparently too expensive to train or something.  I honestly don’t know, and they wouldn’t tell me.  They just offered copious apologies.

It's basically like, I went walking in the jungle, a Golden Gecko jumped into my lap, I played with it for about a month, it gave me a small check, and ran back into the wild, never to be seen again.

Looking back now, from that Thursday to Monday, I feel a bit like Wile E Coyote, speeding off the cliff and remaining airborne for longer than normal, and in that five seconds before freefall, thinking everything was fine, not realizing the truth of the situation, that there’s about to be a terrifying fall and a painful splat.

In those blissful five seconds, you don’t know anything’s wrong at all.

At all.

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(Continued next week.)

Zen Doggie

To be honest, things are not great.  I know, I know, less than a month ago, they were awesome.  And now they are not.  And I have been forbidden to talk about why.  Which is awesome.  So I still have awesome in my life, heh.

Somewhere in my house back home, there is a postcard, or a coffee mug, or a calendar image for the month of June or something, and the motto is "When All Else Fails, Hug Your Teddy." It's not this image here, but along these lines:

 

And though we're not at the "All Else Is Failing" part, I increasingly find myself going to seek out Pepe the Dalmatian in the garage.  Because he is, most of the time, the most Zen dog I know.

If it's not first thing in the morning, when he wants to play ball, if it's not on a run, when he wants to fly like a bird, Pepe the Dalmatian is downright mellow.  His brother Pembleton is batshit crazy all the time, but Pepe is calm, cool collected.  And I can spend hours stroking his muzzlepouch, and staring into his eyes, and observing the blissful vibes he gives off.  

Everything will be fine.  Everything will be fine.  Everything will be okay.  Please scratch my chest, I can't reach it.  Everything will be fine.

I even got video of it tonight.  Ignore the little clicking crooning noises from behind the camera.  That's me.

But damned if you don't get a tiny sense of the awesomeness that is Pepe Zendoggie toward the end.

Patience, patience, whatever...

There are many things I love my friend Winifred for, but one of the best reasons was that she was the first one to introduce me to the Frantics' sketch "Boot To The Head" when we were in high school.

We were old school, so we just had it on audio tape, but now it's become a rite of passage for various karate clubs and high school drama teams to perform it as well.

This is probably the best one in terms of camera work and skill. Plus you get a slo mo version of Unchained Melody at the end.



One of my favorite quotes of all time, "Ed Gruberman, you must learn patience," "Yeah, yeah, yeah, patience, how long will that take?"

BWAH!

Basil Diva Dog's Turn At Bat

Here’s Basil Diva Dog, the ever aloof older brother who loved to laugh at Ginger Puppy whenever he could. He’s calmed down a lot now.

I would say these are Basil Diva Dog’s twilight years, except that brings to mind the awfully written books and movies. So let’s just say that every day is a Senior Day for Basil Diva Dog. He’s still got a pretty great life. He’s just old. Getting older. And older.

So while last year was the year of Ginger Puppy As Metaphor For You And God, it looks like this year might be Basil Diva Dog’s turn at bat. Let’s see if I can turn it out.

I and my upper body strength will once again be playing the role of God. Basil Diva Dog will be playing the role of Some Of You Some Of The Time, Or Someone You Know, Or Someone You Knew, or Someone You Once Were, Or Someone You Might Be Now And Don’t Wanna Tell Anyone. It’s all good.

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

This is you, Basil Diva Dog. This is you, and this is you a lot of the time. Sleeping.

I remember, BDD, when I first met you, years and years ago. It wasn’t this house. There wasn’t a youngun named Ginger Puppy running around either. It was just you, and your house, and I entered your life for two and a half weeks and you really weren’t sure about me. I wanted nothing more than to take care of you, to feed you, to pet you, to love you. And you didn’t want any of it. Except food. You were okay with being fed.

You didn’t want my love. You didn’t wanna sit in the living room and watch rom coms either. It’s okay, Notting Hill kinda sucks. I swear I was only watching it for research. Roger Dodger, though. I liked that one.

I would sit in the backyard and work on my storytelling. You would keep your distance, choosing to lie down in a spot that was far enough away for you to still keep tabs on me, but not close enough where I could pet you.

All I wanted to do was love you. I’m such a huge dog person (if I’m playing God, I have to say I love all creatures great and small, but you know what I mean.) I just wanted to make you happy. And what made you happy was me keeping my distance.

After two and a half weeks, your owners came back, I left, and maybe you thought you had gotten rid of me for good. Too bad for you that I got on so well with your owners and this whole idea of dogsitting that I soon became your permanent guardian for when your owners were away.

So I would come back. I would again want to love you and brush your fur and feed you. You again rejected everything but kibble. That was okay.

Changes were afoot. A move to a bigger house. There was that first Thanksgiving in the new house where you would snooze in a patch of sun on the living room rug because the furniture hadn’t gotten there yet (I need to scan that photo in.) The foyer was full of scaffolding that both you and I would have to duck through in order to get upstairs. You got through it quicker than I did. That was okay.

Then you got a sister! You got a sister! Man, you thought you hated me? You hated your sister SO much more. I was only there some of the time. Your sister was there ALL the time, nothing but a bucket o’love to you, and you really would’ve killed her if you could’ve. Instead, you settled for bullying her most days, and humping her other days, to where she’d flee under the desk by my feet for protection. You really were a mean sonofabitch, Basil, you really really were.

And yet I never stopped loving you. You were mean, you were aloof, if I came home and greeted Ginger Puppy before you, then you’d race back outside and not come back in. I’d have to go out there with a flashlight, through underbrush and overgrowth, tripping over loose stones and fossilized poop just to grab you and bring you back in.

But I always went after you. Because I loved you.

I grew to know you better. I know you like your ears rubbed. I know you like your cheekbones scratched. I know you hate tummy rubs (again, a first for me.), I know you hate being picked up and carried anywhere. I know you’re an independent dog, and the only person you show open affection for is your dad. Your first dad, because your first dad bought you before he got married to your other dad.

There was that one day where I wasn’t working, I was eating my lunch, and you came up to me. One look on your face and I KNEW something was wrong. That’s how well I know you, Basil Diva Dog. I scooped you up and off we went to the vet in Pasadena, where your daddies already had the foresight to put me on the family contact card in case of such an emergency. The vet was showing 101 Dalmatians in the lobby, which cracked me up. An hour later, and a diagnosis of severe constipation with a med remedy, and you were somewhat okay. I think you were more pained that you had to come to me for help. You were probably embarrassed that you were all backed up, and there was nobody but me, ME, the one you DON’T LIKE, to help.

But I helped you. I always would help you, Basil Diva Dog. Because I love you.

You have had cases of Nasty Butt. I have had to put you in the tub and clean up your backside. It’s not a picnic. There are fewer things less pleasant than Nasty Butt and the smell of wet fur. Sometimes I can’t eat for the rest of the day.

But I do it for you. Because I love you, Basil Diva Dog. Occasional Nasty Butt and all.

And now here you are. In your senior years. In the month since I last saw you, you have significantly slowed down. If I see you in another month, I’m sure you’ll be slower.

Because you are old, you sometimes have trouble walking. Our walks of years ago, where we’d hike all the way up to the Griffith Park Observatory are long behind us. Last month, I could take you on a ten minute walk. Now, Ginger Puppy and I walk when you’re still sleeping in the morning. You sleep a lot.

You’ll do the standard dog shake, slip and fall down. The wood floors are not your friend anymore. The inside stairs, even without scaffolding of years ago, are no more for you. The outside stairs are sorta okay. I carry you out to the Official Pee Spot Under The Magnolia Tree in the backyard, then leave you alone. Your daddies, currently in Israel, have emailed me to say you can make it back inside on your own, so I leave you alone… but I’ve seen you on them like this… So hesitant. So tentative. But yes, you do make it the rest of the way.

I will carry you up and down this house of stairs. Last year, I carried your much heavier sister after her leg surgeries while you laughed at her. Now I’m carrying you. Your sister isn’t laughing at you, though she has every right to. She’s leaving you alone to do your own thing.

I’ve also watched you stop and look around, kinda like this. I think you forget where you are, that this is your house, that you used to romp through these rooms unabated, full of aloof energy, which I didn’t think was possible until you showed me what it looked like. Now I carry you, showing you the same rooms you used to romp through on your own. I tell you what each room is, we look at all the nice furnishings, we take our time. Maybe you understand. Maybe you don’t.

In the past, when I would hang in the backyard and write, you’d wait until I opened the cabana, so you could go inside and snooze away, far from me. These days, you can’t make it up to that top level. Flora and Fauna showed up on Saturday for pool time. We brought your crate up to the cabana (technically, I carried you under one arm, and held your crate with the other arm, because I am God and I have amazing upper body strength), and got you settled in. You went into your crate and slept for the rest of the afternoon while Flora, Fauna and God had martinis in the pool.

I will carry you around. I will make sure you are included, that you are not left out, even though there are no martinis for you.

You are old now, Basil Diva Dog. You, who used to hate being picked up and being carried around, are now nestling onto the back of my shoulder whenever I pick you up. (this isn’t the greatest picture, it’s a self portrait. It looks like I have no right arm, but then again, I’m GOD! I don’t NEED two arms! HA!) Maybe you feel like you’ve given up. Maybe you feel like there’s no point in resisting. Maybe you simply don’t understand what’s going on. That’s all possible.

But I am here for you, Basil Diva Dog. I was always here for you, even when you didn’t want me. I loved you, even when you didn’t love me. I took care of you, I fed you, I walked you, I washed your Nasty Butt. I watch over you now. I still feed you now. I carry you now. I clean away your eye crusts, I rub your ears, I scratch your cheekbones. You will never want a tummy rub, and I think that’s weird for a dog, but that’s okay. I do all these things for you even though your feelings for me never rose above Bare Tolerance. I love you now.

I loved you then. I love you now.

Maybe you don’t want me. Maybe you do want me. Maybe you do want me and you don’t know how to show it. Maybe you don’t remember who I am. It’s all okay.

I never left you. I will never leave you.

Because I love you, Basil Diva Dog. I really truly do.

Dogs Rule

Ahhhhh, I am back. Back with my favorite dogsitting dogs. Back for a GOOD LONG TIME with Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog.

There are many reasons why I love these dogs the most. They don’t eat things that aren’t already in their kibble bowl. They don’t smell like pee, nor do they pee in the house. They are content to watch movies with me in the media room.

But I think I love these dogs the most because Ginger Puppy likes to sit by my feet while I write on my laptop. Looks like this:

Her owners say she’ll go under that desk when she’s scared of loud noises. Yet she’s there curled around my tootsies when there’s not any loud noises. Like tonight. Nothing going on outside but the errant helicopter making it drop off and pick ups from Children’s Hospital down below. This may be a case of Your Dogs Act Differently With Me Than They Do With You.

I can’t tell you how comforting it is to have a dog by your feet. I read Rick Springfield’s memoir this weekend, and a large part of his book talks about the dogs in his life. He brings them into the studio when he’s recording, he had them running around backstage when he did the EFX show in Vegas for two years.

If I had to take a stab about why it’s nice to have a furball at your feet that you must be mindful of when you try to move your rolling chair closer to the desk, I think it’s about comfort and acceptance. This dog is simply content to be at my feet. Ginger Puppy doesn’t care what I’m writing. She’s a dog, she’ll never learn to read, so she’ll never judge the quality of my writing. If I hit my writing deadline or not, she’ll be happy either way. Because she’s with me. And I am happy that she’s with me.

Dogs rule.

The Magic Phone Call

I think I may have said this before, but what sucks for Christians and screenwriters and Christians who are screenwriters is that we spend an inordinate amount of headspace anticipating that magic phone call.

Maybe the call’s from God, inspiring us with a vision of what we’re supposed to do with the rest of our lives (go build schools in Africa, go work as a bank teller in Florida, go wrangle blood drives at your church), or giving us an answer to a particularly thorny problem (what do I do with the guy? What do I do with the crazy boss? What do I do with the friend who needs help?)

Or maybe the call’s from a creative executive wanting to take a meeting and shoot around some ideas, or the call’s an email from an exec responding to one of your loglines.

In either scenario, it sucks because you can’t sit around and wait your whole life for the call. You gotta go out and live your life, try out different roads, freeways, on and off ramps. You gotta sit down and write some stuff.

It’s a tricky line to walk between doing your part, and looking to God, hoping He’ll meet you where you’re walking. Because when you don’t get any call, you’re wondering if you’re supposed to keep going, because it’s now learning to persevere in faith, or whether no call means you’re not on the right road to begin with.

So in the middle of Damien’s Reign Of Terror a few weeks ago, I got the call. Except I didn’t know it was the call. In fact, I grabbed the ringing phone off the counter as I was chasing Damien around the first floor, because he had an oven mitt in his mouth in another one of his misperceptions of Catch Me! Catch Me! Catch Me If You Can! Because This Is A GAME! I answered the phone completely distracted, literally on the run, because my number one priority was Get The Oven Mitt Out Of Damien’s Mouth.

The assistant on the other end of the phone was talking a mile a minute, probably because it was nine p.m. and he desperately wanted to go home, and I think my call was the very last on his list of priorities.

But his mission was to set up a breakfast between me and his boss. I didn’t know why, I didn’t ask. The executive and I had been trading emails about a potential project, so I assumed the breakfast would be about that. I quickly checked my calendar, said what date worked for me, and that was that. We hung up, I wrestled the oven mitt out of Damien’s mouth, and life went on for another week.

I prepped my notes on the project, I prepped my list o’ other ideas in case she wanted to hear what else I had in my bag of tricks. I didn’t bother to stress, because I still didn’t really know what the meeting was about, and I was too embarrassed to call and ask the assistant a week after the fact, when I should’ve asked him when I had him on the phone the first time had I not been dealing with Demon German Shepherd jaws.

So I go to breakfast all cheery and ready with my iphone notes app, and pens and a pad o’ paper just in case we’re kicking it old school. The creative exec shows up, all laid back and cheery, and proceeds to pitch ME an idea. That she wants ME to write. And they will pay ME money to do so. All I have to do is say yes.

This is not how I was imagining this meeting was going to go. AT ALL.

Turns out that harried assistant was supposed to send me a pitch document before the meeting. Oops. BUT! It just so happens that the idea is about…

(I CAN’T REALLY SAY WHAT THE IDEA IS ABOUT BECAUSE OF CONFIDENTIALLY STUFF SO EVERYTHING I SAY NEXT IS CODE CODE CODE!!)

… a Golden Gecko who does Gymnastics.



And while I didn’t have the pitch document in my hot little hands, while I didn’t have a WEEK to prepare my responses, one thing I DID know is gymnastics. Because I was a gymnast as a kid. And if your main character is a Golden Gecko who enters the crazy world of competitive gymnastics, then yes, I can totally relate. YES I CAN.

So I talk to the exec about how I think the story would go. About how this little Gecko already has the deck stacked against it because while this Gecko isn’t flexible at all, this Gecko has no fear. Which is totally how I was as a gymnast, and it was surprising how far courage could outweigh an inability to do the splits.

As I’m talking to her about how your choice of music to do your floor routine to can reveal so much about your personality (my routine was mostly to the non-speaking parts of New Order’s “Shellshock.” Totally true. Just take a listen: It was impossible to keep up that pace.)



… And I see the light bulb go off in the Creative Executive’s eyes. It’s the look you want to see the person on the other side of the table get. Because that lightbulb, that look is the person on the other side of the table seeing what you’re saying playing out on a screen. And liking what they’re seeing.

Even so, I thought it would go poof, as so many other opportunities have. There have been many people who have come alongside me, promising this, that, and the other thing, and then blip out of existence without so much as an explanation for why they went poof. They just went poof. Poof is a part of life here in Los Angeles. You learn to live with it, and even though you saw a lightbulb go off across the table, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She pays for breakfast, she tells me not to start writing on anything until we sign a contract. Oh, okay. No problem. I’ve got a bunch of other things I’m working on anyway.

Then a month goes by. And just as I’m about to chalk it up to Poofery, a contract comes through the email. For me. With a writing schedule and a payment schedule, in four steps. And an email from the Creative Exec wanting another meeting, where we nail down a few story details about the Golden Gecko.

That meeting happened. The contract is signed. And my outline, the first step, is due on Friday. I am officially a professional writer who’s getting paid for writing.


I can honestly say that Golden Gecko Gymnasts are the last thing I thought I would be writing about. And I’m not quite sure why God wants me to write about them. But this has unfolded in such a bizarre manner, that it can’t possibly be anything but God pulling the strings behind the scenes.

I just hope He likes what I come up with.

Things are Afoot!

There are at least two things I wanna talk about, good and bad, but I have to wait until the dust settles in order to have the full picture. But needless to say, both the good news and the annoying observations prompt the following reaction:



Stay tuned...

Hickory, Dickory, Dock

These are two of my three newest dogsitting clients. Let’s call them Hickory, Dickory and Dock. In this photo is Dickory and Dock. Yes, they do have eyes, and no, they don’t bump into walls. Dock, the white one, also the youngest, and you can see his eyes pretty easily. He’s also a SuperSnuggler, and sleeps on the bed next to me, which would be lovely if he didn’t think that 4:30am is the perfect time to get up, and if he didn’t smell faintly of pee. They all small faintly of pee, thanks to their dreadlocked fur that drags along the ground, picking up dirt, twigs, and errant pee drops.

Initially, I was gonna post picture of the house, and all the stranger than strange Southwestern deco, including a life-sized Mexican mannequin and a life-sized cowboy statue at the top of the stairs. But then Paranoid Brain took over and fears that someone out there is going to recognize the creepy life sized Mexican mannequin sitting in a rocking chair across from the life sized wolf statue across the room from the authentic Indian ponchos and then the jig is up. For all I know, going this far incurs some Navajo Indian protector ghost, but that would actually be kinda nifty, so bring it on, Navajo Skinwalkers! I ain’t afraid of YOU!

So the dogs smell, the décor also smells, (I’ve been existing on allergy drugs for the past five days.), the washer and dryer are on the far side of the garage, and it’s a little difficult to make your way past two cars to get to it, but this tour of duty ends with them tomorrow, (though I’m back with them next week for another few days.)

This is the part where my Dad, the Great Stoic Wonder, bellows, “Why are you doing this if it’s so miserable!?” (I’ve never understood why half the advice my Dad gives me is to quit when facing an uncomfortable situation. But the other half of his advice are good stock tips, so it all comes out in the wash)

But in facing this uncomfortable situation, some things become clear - while Dickory is a total yapper of a dog, especially when you get home from work, I discovered a HUGE ASS bottle of Patron tequila in a drawer next to a wine refrigerator. Patron tequila makes everything easier. These dogs are fine snoozing on the floor while I type on the computer. And if you really wanna get down to it, I’m getting paid to be inconvenienced first, and taking care of faintly-pee-smelling dogs second. Which is reason enough for me.

This is Hickory. She’s the only girl in the group, she’s the eldest, and she’s the one whose eyes I have not been able to locate on her face, because she won’t stay still long enough to lift up the dreadlocks to see them. I’ve found her ears, right where they’re supposed to be. But no eyes.


I did find the tag on her collar that says this:

I have no idea how useful a therapy dog she could be. She’s pretty aloof. Not a snuggler, not a comforter. Not a leader, not a follower. The only notable thing I’ve seen her doing is patiently suffering as her brothers take turn humping her. And I don’t think that’s advice that would be considered useful in any situation.

But, regardless of what my Great Stoic Wonder Dad says, no situation is as bad as you think it is. In this case, it’s that none of these dogs are a two year old 110 pound German Shepherd named Damien.

ThankyouGodthankyou. ThankyouGodthankyou. ThankyouGodthankyou. ThankyouGodthankyou.

I can survive anything that’s not that.

Proof That I Am Not A Kid-Hating Monster

Check it out people!

This is me with Stella and Wella's little girl Mirabella. Wella produced a short I wrote and we shot all day Saturday. As a writer, I like to be on set, not to peer over the director's shoulder and hiss "They're not saying the lines right!" (they said the lines fine) but so I can be an extra set of hands wherever they're needed, since everyone's a volunteer, everyone needs help, here I am to help, la la la.

So I went on Starbucks runs, I made watermelon water (pureed watermelon, water, and lime), I cleaned dishes, I started to make the director her special strawberry smoothie but she came down on a break and was horrified that the writer was making her smoothie and took over. I guess she was embarrassed at the perception that I was a lackey, but I didn't really care. I take the attitude of "I'm a servant" on these things. Sometimes to my detriment, but Saturday was fine.

Towards the end of the night, when all the dishes were washed and they were still shooting, I joined Stella in trying to cajole Mirabella to go to sleep. All my usual remedies did NOT work, not crooning 80's music, not crooning Disney tunes. Any steps toward a dark room to prompt Sleepy Eyes were met with howls and yowls.

Finally I busted out what had to be the best remedy for Awake Baby - reading to her recipes from a cookbook that happened to be on the coffee table. We went over the different ways to make creme brulee - butane blowtorch or iron salamander. Mirabella did not have a preference on how to make creme brulee, nor did she go to sleep upon the crooning recitation on how to do so. I finally gave up and handed her back to Stella, but I would like to point out that yes, I tried, I failed, but when I left around midnight, she still wasn't sleeping, and she was soundly in her mother's arms.

A lot of the time, when people hear you don't want children, they assume you must hate them. Not true, not true. No, I do not want to be a mother, I don't think I would make a good one BUT that doesn't mean I can't hold a cute kid and try several ways to get it to go to sleep.

(as far as I know, Mirabella is still up. Let's pray for her mom, Stella, shall we?)

World's Shortest Post

So if you wanna truly be shamed about how you’re praying, someone will usually come along and say something to be the equivalent of “Stop praying for stuff. Spend time with God and get to know Him more.”

Get to know God more, that’s always a sentence you can throw out that nobody can argue with. Because nobody REALLY knows God. That’s the Catch 22. By definition, God is unknowable, but you’re supposed to make your life’s pursuit spending time with Him and getting to know Him, even though you’ll never TRULY know Him, but you gotta try. Rather than ask Him for things like a new car. Or even a used car.

I think as humans, our knee jerk response to the phrase, “Get to know God” translates into “Get to know God more so you’ll understand why He’s not giving you the stuff you’re asking Him to give you.”

How can you know the unknowable? I think a lot of the time, the church will send you off with a cheerio, “Go read the Bible! He’s in there! You’ll learn all sorts of things about Him if you read your Bible and spend time in prayer.” Spend time in prayer getting to know Him, the unknowable.

I’m still working on it myself.

I'm Not A Mom, I'm An Alpha Dog

I’m on the verge of being sick, and it’s pretty much Damien’s fault. This dog is intent on destroying me, whether by allergy attacks to his my-owners-say-I-don’t-shed-but-I-waited-until-they-were-gone-to-unleash-my-fur-attack! Or from flat out exhaustion trying to wrangle him – stopping him from eating everything in the house, using all my arm strength to stop him from pulling me on walks. Or maybe depression – I have two more days of a two week gig, and this has been a truly miserable experience, made bearable only by the money I earn, and the fact that I’m close to the end.

The very very sad part is that I’ve already signed up for another tour of duty with this guy, a five day gig that happens NEXT week. So I really only get a week off from this madness.

And part of me knew it would be madness and thought from a clinical perspective that it would be an interesting challenge – Try and retain your marbles in the midst of insanity. I haven’t done that in quite some time. I think the last time I thought I was losing my mind was 2009 with Polka Dotta Platypus running for so long. How will I know I have my Marble Retaining Ability if I haven’t exercised that Marble Retaining Muscle!? Remember how to mentally stretch your arms and center yourself when things are demanding your attention at every angle!

We all know that I don’t want kids. Every now and then well intentioned someone will ask, “Are you sure you don’t wanna have kids?” Like I could somehow grow a biological clock. Am I sure I don’t wanna have kids? Well, are you sure you’re whatever sexual orientation you are? I mean, after all, couldn’t you just change your mind!? That’s basically the thought pattern behind that question – you could just change your mind and want to have them, couldn’t you?

That’s so not how it works, people. You have the biological clock, or you don’t. You like guys, or you like girls. It’s not a choice. It’s how God made you.

And I’m pretty sure God made me without a biological clock because He knew I would make a horrible mother (I think I would make an awesome mentor to a troubled gay youth, though), and these two weeks of terror with Damien proves it.

Damien is two years old and 110 pounds. He has the attention span of a gnat. He is as stubborn as a Texas beauty queen who wants access to her trust fund. And his piles o’ poop are towering monuments to excrement.

I am not used to any of this. Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog are well behaved. They sit by my feet when I write. They come when they’re called. They heel on walks. And their poop piles are as dainty as teacups.

Damien is not used to a dogsitter. He ran the last one off, she got a job as an editor with really long hours, and when she came home, Damien wouldn’t let her sleep.

Let’s repeat that. THE DOG WOULDN’T LET HER SLEEP! He would jump on her in bed and pull the covers off and then go chomp some pillows to get attention, and she ran screaming down the driveway, never to be seen again. I think.





Now I’m up at bat. And I’m determined not to lose. Not to an f’ing DOG. “I’M the Alpha Dog!” I tell Damien when he doesn’t wanna go on his walk, “I’M IN CHARGE!” I yell through the bathroom door when he’s whining and scratching on the door because I won’t let him come in when I’m on the toilet. “I’m doing something for me right now, I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU WANT,” as he’s trying to get my hands off the keyboard and on his head, see?




(p.s., don’t even think that he’s acting this way because I don’t play with him. I run circles around the damn house playing Keep Away with him. The issue isn’t that I don’t play. The issue is that he doesn’t STOP playing.)

This has strangely brought up all sorts of childhood memories. There were two running themes to my childhood: 1. You Don’t Really Need That (And I Will Make You Feel Guilty If You Make Me Give It To You) 2. I Don’t Care What You Want, You’re Doing What I Say.

I didn’t want to go to Gymnastics? TOO BAD! I signed you up for those classes, and we’re not wasting the money. I don’t wanna run a mile around the track!? TOO BAD! We’re not leaving until you do, I have the keys to the car and you’re not old enough to drive yet. I want to stay home for the summer? TOO BAD! You’re going to camp in another state for six weeks.

Now, my parents actually did the right thing (with the exception of not listening to me when I said I wasn’t a long distance runner) I don’t have to be a parent to know that you don’t give in to your child, especially if the child is saying, “But I don’t wanna.” It’s because my parents made me go to gymnastics class and made me go to six week camp in another state that I had a pretty damn robust childhood. I learned how to shoot rifles, work a bow and arrow, did time on a pottery wheel, placed fourth in a horse riding competition even though I had only met that horse twenty minutes before the competition started.

Your child does not know better. You know better.

Damien does not know better. I know better.

So I deny Damien a lot. I don’t let him do a lot of things, like eat the sofa. He does not get my hands scratching his ears 24/7. He is learning, whether he wants to or not, that he is not the most important thing in this room. That would be the computer. ☺

While some would argue this does INDEED make me a good parental figure, it does not. Because I don’t want a dog of my own, and I don’t really want Damien, I’m merely enduring him. There is no love for Damien here. Instead, I’m a cranky exhausted sneezy person who has not lost her marbles yet, but is very much looking forward to Wednesday night and beyond, especially because I get a weekend gig with my favorites Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog, and the most incredible bed in the universe.

And I almost wanna walk Ginger Puppy and Basil Diva Dog past Damien’s house and scream, “SEE!? SEE!? THESE ARE WHAT WELL BEHAVED DOGS LOOK LIKE! THESE ARE MY FAVORITES!!! YOU ARE NOT MY FAVORITE AND YOU PROBABLY WON’T EVER BE!”

That is why I would not make a good mother.

Damien and Facing Your Fears

Everyone say hello to Damien. Okay, fine. He’s not REALLY the devil. He’s just sapping my will to live is all. OH I KNOW.

Sure, sure, you look at that face and you think Amy! How on earth could a face like that harbor any kind of horribleness? Look at that face!? He’s a sweetheart!

Damien is a new dog client, a referral I got from Pepe and Pembleton. And Damien lives about five minutes away from my house, so everything’s convenient.

And I’m sure he is a sweetheart. Or actually, I’m sure he will be. In about five years. See, Damien is a sixty pound two-year-old German Shepherd dog they got from a shelter. It’s wonderful that they rescued him, yes yes yes of course. Save a dog’s life, wonderful, you’re going to heaven, yes, yes, of course. But Damien is TWO YEARS OLD. The last dogsitter washed out because she got an editing gig with a lot of late hours. There were rumors that she was scared of Damien. I doubt all of that. I bet that the truth is simply that Damien wore her out.

Damien is exhausting. I started this gig on Friday, and I’ve got two and a half weeks with him. Of course the first few days are exhausting as dog and dogsitter get used to each other. It is my secret hope that he calms down really soon. Maybe bitching about him in this blog will be the reverse jinx that makes him finally go to sleep (I gave him a few owner-approved natural doggie Calm Down Aids an hour ago. HE’S STILL GOING, FOLKS!)

All Damien wants to do is play Tug Of War. 24/7. His little dog brain has no concept of time, and given the chance, he’d play Tug Of War forever.

I’m fine playing with dogs for a little while. But not ALL DAY LONG. I’ve got work to do. I’ve got stuff to write. It’s the weekend, I’ve got naps to take.

But Damien wants to play Tug Of War. And if you won’t play with his red rubber spiral thing for as long as he wants, he will go chomp on the nearest thing made of fabric and flaunt his naughtiness in front of you. This includes:

The computer chair padded armrest
The bed comforter
Pillows
Blankets
Stovemitts
Kitchen Seat Cushions
My shoes

When you shout “NO!” or “DROP IT!” or “THOSE ARE MY LEATHER BOOTS!” he doesn’t drop them, but instead runs laps around the dining room table while you frantically try to get the thing out of his mouth before he pokes holes in them. To his credit, he hasn’t poked holes in anything, he’s just trying to get your attention so you’ll play with him for another hour. He also hasn’t knocked anything off any tables either, and this place is filled with all sorts of crystal and porcelain bric-a-brac, so he’s super conscientious of anything that’s not already in his mouth.

And I get it. He’s two. He’s a rescue dog. He’s spoiled by his two retired Stay At Home Senior Citizen Daddies Who Play With Him All Day Long.

But when it’s midnight, and I’m desperately trying to get some sleep and I hear chomp chomp chomp is that a RIP?! down at the bottom of the bed, I wonder how I’m gonna make it through two more weeks of this.

At first, I thought Damien was going to be a perfect metaphor for Facing Your Fears. Because let’s face it, he’s a sixty pound German Shepherd, and those things are intimidating at first sight. The first time I met Damien, he was barking at me through my the dutch door at my own house, because he was over for a playdate with Pepe and Pembleton. I opened the half door and WHOOSH! ROWRORWROWROWRWOWOWOWOW!

A normal person rears back in the face of such aggression (And thinks something along the lines of DUDE! THIS IS MY HOUSE!), which only incites Damien ah-HA! She’s scared of me! She’s automatically guilty of something! GET HER GET HER GET HER!

I quickly shut the Dutch door after that and thought it was the end of it.

But the summer months are prime months for dogsitters, and Damien’s previous dogsitter washed out and well, why not? Why not face down a metaphor for fear? What else will I blog about this week? Nothing else is going on.

So I got a walkthrough with Damien last Sunday, got his feeding and walking routines, he sniffed me long enough to where we all thought he’d know who I was when I showed up on Friday morning.

So when I step out of the car into the driveway and see him losing his mind barking at me through the gate, my thoughts go something like this:

Show No Fear
I Need The Money
God, Please Don’t Let This Dog Bite Me.
“Damien! It’s me, Amy! You know who I am!”
ROWRORWROWROWRWOWOWOWOW!
“Damien! I’m not leaving, so you’re just gonna have to get used to this!”
ROWRORWROWROWRWOWOWOWOW!
God, Please Don’t Let This Dog Bite Me.
God, Please Don’t Let This Dog Bite Me.
God, Please Don’t Let This Dog Bite Me.
Oh yeah, Show No Fear.

I open the door, and go up the stairs to the closed door. God, if this dog bites me, I’m totally gonna… well, I don’t know what I’m gonna do, because the owners are already off on their river cruise in Europe, so I can’t just default on this, but I am NOT going to be happy. Please, do not let this dog bite me.

God had no response, so I open the door, and here comes Damien, loping down the hall towards me.

Show No Fear. Show No Fear.

Damien skids on the floor…. leaps into the air…. And tries to knock me down with his two-year-old-excitement. I stand firm, and hold the secret weapon of jerky treats out for Damien. He promptly gobbles them up, and then brings me the rubber red spiral toy to play tug of war with. And he has yet to stop.

I guess the metaphor there is Face Your Fears Even When God Doesn’t Respond. Probably Because God Knows You Can Handle Things Even If You Don’t Think You Can. Because You Have Jerky Treats In Your Hand. You Can Take On The World With That.

Here’s hoping.

Rahab, The Coloring Book

Hey everybody!

It’s been awhile since we’ve discussed anything Biblical, I know, I know.

BUT!

I have been working on a series of monologues based on women in the Bible. The idea is that the monologues would be contemporary updated versions of women found in the Bible. Because anyone who says women aren’t a vital part of the Bible frankly hasn’t read it. Because they’re ALL over the place. You just have to read the damn thing to find them.

And it’s been a lot of fun to make a list of Bible’s Greatest Women and to figure out what a contemporary version would be. Not gonna give everything away right now, but I will say that one of them is Rahab, the prostitute found mainly in the book of Joshua Chapter 2 and 6.

In a nutshell, she hides Joshua’s spies from the King of Jericho’s army in return for a promise that they will save her and her family when Joshua’s army invades. And they promise, so she hides them, and the army eventually invades, and her family’s saved, and there’s an interesting discussion to be had about faith versus works, which is mentioned in Hebrews (she’s justified through faith in her works) and James (she’s justified through works demonstrating faith).

Now, when I’m doing my research on these Women Of The Bible I invariably run across really well meaning church videos. Let me reiterate that most drama performed in churches today SUCK SUCK SUCK AN AMAZING MOUNTAIN OF SUCKITUDE! To a lot of churches in America, to perform a monologue of a woman in the Bible means you have a woman up in front of the congregation, sometimes in modern day dress, sometimes in “Biblical Gear” of a shapeless shift and headdress, but the monologue is almost always the same, and that’s that it’s basically a first person narrative of what you could simply read in Joshua 2 and 6. To these churches, it somehow means more to have a person “acting it out” rather than you reading it in your Bible.

This sucks from an imagination perspective. Because there is no imagination in that.

Because I’m trying to be a nicer person, I will not post an example of such sucky monologues. But do a simple google search on “Rahab” and hit the video tab, and you’ll find them. You’ll also find a Sarah Silverman monologue about Cheese REHAB, which means someone cannot spell.

BUT! I will post this video, because I believe that higherpraisetube.com is somewhat in in on the joke.

One reason (among many, I know) I don’t think they’re completely in on the joke is because they also offer a study guide which includes a coloring book picture of Rahab (she’s got the Disney Princess eyes going)

Did you guys ever read Greek Myths as a kid? I did, except I got the sanitized version, D’aulaire’s Book Of Greek Myths. It’s because of that book that I grew up thinking Dionysus was really Jesus, because of this picture:

(okay, it’s copyrighted, I’m not gonna post it, but click here - then hit LOOK INSIDE, and go to page 67. )

I see a guy with a beard, what looks like thorns on his head, and grapes all around, and my second grade self thinks Dionysus = Jesus turning water into wine.

It’s not until much later that I realize Dionysus is pretty much the antithesis of Jesus with the madness, the ecstasy, the music and the orgies. OOOOOPS! SORRY JESUS!

So I really feel for the kids that watch this video and color this picture of Rahab and think she’s a cool action adventure spy smuggling chick who runs a hotel.

The truth, whoring warts and all, is so much more interesting