Breaking Bread with Breaking Bad

The Moroccan folding screen in my room has skirts, sweaters, beaded tops, and jeans draped all over it. I emptied my closet and dresser trying on everything I had that said, “I’m sophisticated, creative, intelligent and sexy,” or any combination thereof. I was going to dinner with a stranger who I wanted to impress. It took me forever to find the right combination, to be over or under dressed would be a nightmare. I finally decided on leggings, a short dress, a soft Eighties inspired jacket that matched the leopard print shoes I adore. I blew my hair dry. When I bother to whip out the dryer to give my hair volume, you know it is a momentous occasion.

I texted Sarah to tell her I was having dinner with Michelle MacLaren and Peter Gould of Breaking Bad. She wrote back, essentially, “I don’t know who they are or have any knowledge of that show.”

Well, even if Sarah doesn’t know who they are, I was still thrilled to have dinner with practitioners whose work I really admire. The dinner was a delight.


**(Random detail: The lights went out in the restaurant right before they arrived and I was a little bit sad when they came back on because the candles the owner put out had such an ambience and that story would have been fantastic.)

Deer in the Streetlight

Last night I got home late. After finally showering and changing my clothes (sickness had me living in the same pajamas for days), going grocery shopping with my mom and picking out a fragrant tree to set up in our living room, I went to dinner and a movie with a friend. Of all of the days I spent in Utah, I didn’t leave my house until Saturday night. I had a fantastic dinner, went to a delightful movie (Hugo was a sweet love letter to the film genre and I enjoyed it) and just when I thought the evening was perfect, I saw my ex driving home. My friend said he was engaged and all of a sudden I felt numb. Then I felt compelled to start rambling about how glad I was that we weren’t together anymore.

And I am. Film school would never have happened if we had become engaged. He didn’t see a benefit to going to more school and talked me out of applying the year we were dating. It was what I wanted and I let him make that decision for me. Gratitude for the lifted spell is something I express every time I think of that time in my life.

As my friend and I sat in the car under the cover of stars and streetlight, a deer sauntered from the blue-black of night into the lamp halo illuminating the street and I paused.

When I am away, I forget that deer just wander into our neighborhood and onto the campus of my alma mater as if they owned the place (which maybe they do). It is always a surprise to see an animal casually perambulating down the street on an evening constitutional.

He clopped down the street with his antlers bobbing and when he passed out of sight I leapt out of the car and chased him down to try and get a picture. So majestic. So fantastical. So otherworldly. I wanted to capture that moment. But when I rounded the corner he was gone. My friend followed and after about a block and a half we stopped and joked about how we thought we saw him on the roof. “Santa is real!” I whisper-yelled in an attempt to punctuate this ambiguous moment with laughter instead of the gloom that follows loss like a shadow. Even when that loss is inevitable.

Things that happened this week in no particular order:

Saw Hal Holbrook reminisce about his childhood and early years with the super villan Robert Patrick in an art gallery that contained the neon sign for The Brown Derby Wilshire.

Was an audience member for the new Chelsea Lately sitcom pilot. Danced like crazy with fun friends and got the crowd going- pretty rad. The fluffer thanked us later.

Met Chris Long in my directing class- very funny, cool guy of The Mentalist, Gilmore Girls and Lois and Clark fame.

My neighborhood got evacuated during the Emmys because there was some terrorist with a bomb (so he claimed) on a bus. So it took me an hour to get into my apartment because of all of the police blockades.

Met up with some lovely filmmaker friends from Utah.

Nearly got hit by a Mercedes SUV in the USC parking lot. She saw me trying to cross the road and sped up. I should have taken her license plate number down that entitled monster.


Attended the creative Emmys. Geeked out over celebrities within arms reach: Seth Meyers, Mo Rocca, Cloris Leachman, Paul Reubens, Alfre Woodard, Seth Green, Kristin Chenoweth, Rebecca Romijn, Julia Stiles, Gene Simmons, Priscilla Presley, and Mad Men folks (which made me very excited) Matthew Weiner... himself, Alison Brie, Rich Sommer and Kiernan Shipka) to name a few.

LA is turning out to be a pretty cool gig.

Fear

I live in a pretty rough neighborhood. Every day that I am home about 11 AM or so, one of my neighbors starts broadcasting vulgar rap. I will hear Snoop Dog and Warren G – some of the old school rappers which is tolerable and sometimes even pretty fun but in the mix is this poorly produced song that has wildly dirty lyrics and he is mutha’ f*@%ing this and mutha’ f*#$ing that. Blah blah blah. We are in tight quarters, so it sounds like he (or she) is playing it in my bedroom. (I am going to call him Mr. Rap Man for the sake of clarity recognizing that this could easily be a woman). When the volume goes up, that is the one and only time that I close the windows in my house including through the night. It is so hot in my apartment I would never dare suffer through the heat, except I cannot hear myself think when the windows are open. Not even my brave little fan can help me, so I suffer until Mr. Rap Man has had his fix mostly because I am not sure who is on the other end of that music. I might be a little afraid to tell them to turn it down.

Yesterday morning after walking my 6 lb. miniature, dachshund puppy there was a young black woman standing in my lobby. She offered to pay me a dollar to call someone to pick her up. She said she had locked her keys in a friend’s apartment in my building. They had all left at the same time and she realized she was locked out when she got home so she came back. “I’m still a bit faded if you know what I’m saying,” she told me as I offered her my phone. I am assuming that some substance abuse was involved as she continued. “I am never going to do anything like that shit again.” She kept explaining the mechanics of payphone calls, waving a dollar bill in my face and I kept nodding and smiling and telling her, “It’s no big deal.” She calls several people and hangs up without leaving a message. I start to wonder who now has my phone number. Finally she gets a hold of someone. She talks in an altered voice- a stressed out, pathetic baby-talk voice, “I’m on (she repeats my address). I locked my stuff in that apartment and I need someone to come pick me up.” As she is talking I start note more carefully the way she is dressed. She has a navy blue do-rag tying her hair back. She wears a wife-beater tank top that is tied in a knot in the back exposing her upper back and belly. She is not wearing a bra and although she seems young her breasts are laying on her stomach just barely contained within her shirt. The darkness of her skin makes her very thin tank seem even more transparent. “Okay… I’ll see you in a minute.” She immediately changes her manipulative voice back to the one she was using before and hands me the phone. “Thanks again.” “No problem.” I smile and walk from the lobby back to my apartment. I try not to worry that my attempt to be helpful to this now clearly, hung over/strung out woman would not come back to bite me.

That night I go to bed with the windows open. The ally that is easily accessible from the street and that the only windows in my house face is mostly quiet. Some cats fight and pigeons scavenge for food in the dumpsters. I drift off. At about 2:30 in the morning my cell phone begins to buzz. It is a number I don’t recognize. I can hear someone in my alley right next to my windows. My mind begins to race. Who is this unknown caller in the middle of the night? Who is in the alley next to my house? I turn on the lights. Stillness comes. I go back to bed with the light on. I get another call from an unknown number at about 4:00 AM. Why did I choose an apartment on the first floor next to an alley? Was I freaking HIGH? What possessed me to hand my cell phone to a complete stranger who is obviously a drug-addict? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I lie in bed listening for footsteps. Nothing. I drift back to sleep. Eight o’clock rolls around and I listen to my messages. The two o’clock phone call, “Hi, this is Ericka, the girl who used your phone…. Click.” That is weird. Why did she hang up? The four o’clock call is a man with a smooth, deep voice, “Hi Heidi, this is Antoine. You called me on my phone and I was wondering what I could do for you.” …Nothing at four in the morning, yikes. I delete the messages. Well it turns out no good deed goes unpunished. Why these crazy-pants people are calling me in the middle of the night, I do not know but I genuinely hope that is the end of that.

So the other thing that scared me this week is that my father has been diagnosed with advanced stage cancer that has spread into his pelvis, spine and ribs. This went undiagnosed for a very long time and apparently he does not have much longer to live. My older brother died last month and now, with my father in such poor health, I may lose a second nuclear family member in a very short period of time. My childhood best friend died the week before my brother, so it feels a little bit like death is surrounding me. I still haven’t completely processed either loss so when it all hits me I am afraid I might lose it.

Fear of the unknown, fear of death, fear of dark alleys in LA.... fun, right?

Another Downer- You've Been Warned

Well, it’s cancer and it is advanced; that is the verdict. If I lose another close friend or family member before the end of the year I am going to freak out. Two in two weeks is plenty. I don’t know if that means I will cut off all of my hair and run naked through the street or start eating insects with my toes or run off to a third world country and not contact anyone for a year but it is probably going to be major. I am warning you in advance so you are not surprised when I disappear or get arrested.

Distress has become a permanent state of being. Between all of the death, illness, work crap and life in general, my skull harbors a sloshing stress-mess of gray matter. I went downtown to get my computer fixed and ran into a film crew. I almost freaked out there were so many people and so many trucks. Features are not new to me but I was never in charge of operations, I was some lowly peon making one hundred-fifty bucks a day. (Speaking of which, did you know how much even independent writers, producers and directors make? HOLY CRAP. Why was I painting for so many years?) Also the shows I have worked on were never multi-million dollar, on-location pictures closing down sections of Los Angeles.

School has started and all of a sudden I am terrified to commit anything to film. The pressure of being at a top school is getting to me. My classmates are still enjoying the high that only sort of allowed myself to feel when I got accepted. I had lunch with some of my classmates and the topic turned to the SCA (School of Cinematic Arts) swag we were given when we started. I was afraid to use any of it because I felt like I was being pretentious. My classmates thought it was fun and told me how excited their friends, family, peers and coworkers were for them. I felt like my parents and a few friends were happy for me but others (particularly the ones in the film world) downplayed it and I always felt like I should too. Who likes a braggart?

Well, with all of this stress in my life, I am glad I have my puppy, as inconvenient as she has turned out to be. She is beautiful and cuddly and she only wakes me up a few times a night. I think I should end on a positive note and that is it. Who doesn't like puppies? If you don't I don't trust you and you are not allowed to read my blog any more. The end.

First Day

Today was my first day of class and it felt like grade school again. I packed my backpack, picked my outfit and went to bed early the night before. Entering the big auditorium I sat by myself. A bulky guy with a couple of gray hairs walked down my row of seats; he was nervous too. Initially, he wanted to sit one seat away but that seat was numbered “13.” Looking around nervously he said, “I can’t sit there.” “You can sit next to me if you want,” I said. I indicated and he sat in seat number 14. A grey bearded man with circle glasses walked to the front and asked us all to move up to the front. We were in one of the selected rows, but my row-mate wanted to move to the first row. “Are you gonna come?” I wasn’t in a position to say no. I move to the front row, center.

The teacher asked me to go first in the introductions because of where I was sitting. In front of the class, I had to say my name, where I was from and talk about my journey to an MFA in film. I got nervous and made jokes and gestured wildly; the class chuckled. I felt more at ease.
After me, a Brazilian girl with blue hair, a Chinese kid who joked about how he looked 13 years old (he did), a man who had to be in his late 40s, at the youngest, who lived in Asia for years and married and aboriginal (northern Chinese) woman, an African American concert harpist from Detroit and a Ghanan football player who worked for Proctor and Gamble designing feminine hygiene products all got up and talked about themselves for a full minute.

We are all so different, but we were hand picked and brought together to tell our stories… weird as they may be. It is all rather daunting but I am excited, this is going to be great.

Perspective: A Juxtaposition

I wrote this last week:

I am back home. Relief sighed. Chicago and Philadelphia seem distant; carried away on a gentle lapping tide, farther and farther out to sea. Although mostly stressful, one day among those drifting into the horizon was that was gloriously perfect: a blend of challenges overcome, delicious food, great conversation, a beautiful city, smiling eyes and delicious laughter. To capture that wave of delight, contain it and carry it around with me to remind me that life has moments of utter bliss, would be wonderful but unfair. Life seems to be designed to keep you moving forward and only occasionally looking back to those days of wonder. The ecstasy would not be without the agony. Delight not perceived without the pain.

In the midst of the most stressful project of my life with a short timetable, high profiles, and a move to begin a new life at the end, I am surprised my body and brain have not yet shut down completely. Memory loss/absentmindedness seem to be the only side effects thus far. Particularly the loss of car keys; I need a better system. Magnetize my body? Could this work?

This is what I wrote tonight:

Somehow I’ve flown into the Bermuda Triangle of hell, vomit and death. When your childhood best friend dies, work throws you a huge curve ball, a family member is hauled in by the police, committed for instability, threatens you with physical violence, then disowns you, again…. All in one weekend, it makes sense that you would have to pull over every half an hour to empty the contents of your stomach on your way home from Idaho. Disregarding the life change on the horizon approximately one month from today and the mounds of unpacked stuff.

Just when you think you are headed for sunshine somehow you lose course and end up in the jaws of a raging storm with all of your gauges spinning. It is times like these that you start examining your life.


Maybe next week I will be ecstatic? Transcendent? Maybe I just need a little perspective.

Perspective

The phone rang. I nearly didn’t answer having worked so many hours in the last few weeks I could hardly sit up. For some reason, my hand reached out and I was surprised to see my childhood friend’s mother appear on the caller ID. “Hello?” Her voice was quiet. “Hi, how are you?” “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I ticked through all of the thoughts I have had about this friend in the last week who I haven’t spoken to since April. This very afternoon, the thought to call her crossed my mind but I put it away. Now her mother was on the phone telling me that she was on a ventilator, unable to breathe for herself and that she was dying.

All of my frivolous thoughts of my insane project and trying to find a place to live in California were immediately placed into perspective. Her two children will be left without a mother.

I hung up. I went outside. I rode my bike past mailboxes, gardens, couples walking dogs, children playing tennis, rusted wheelbarrows, rose bushes and antique trucks. The sky was coral and purple. The grass a vivid green.

I am alive. The world is beautiful. I wish my friend would wake up, but that might not happen.

Poor Judgment

Confession: Just when you thought you knew me, the following happened…(I think it was mostly because of the conversation that preceded it). Here is a brief rundown:

P.A.: (as we drive past the “point of the mountain”) Want to eat at the prison?
Me: HaHa.
P.A.: No, really I hear there is a restaurant outside for visitors called something like, Behind Bars.
Me: Really? I SO want to go! We should find our next location first then come back.*

We kept driving. After finding the next location, we didn’t have time to go very far and the only two restaurants near us were fast food and this hybrid Mexican and Italian restaurant meaning they served both varieties in their blandest form. I should have known it would be terrible for the following reasons:

1. It had “MEXITALY” written on the window. This could have been fun and funky fusion food but I should have remembered that I live in Utah and we thrive on mediocrity. Food is no exception.

2. The catering trailer said it was, “Voted #1 in Utah.” Voted number one in what? Uninspired cuisine? Poor decorations? Best cat meat?

3. Excitement of locations or weird names messed up my judgment. *Refer to conversation above.

Experience: Wanted to spew it out of my mouth. Gross.

Lesson Learned: When in doubt, go to Wendy’s. “MexiItaly” cuisine is ALWAYS a mistake.

Roam

The hinges squeaked as I pressed the front door open and twilight spilled into the house and across my face. The door shut behind and I hardly noticed my own steps into the silhouette and shadow of suburbia. Fences, trees, abandoned play sets, were painted blue by evening’s brush. Quiet surrounded me, only broken from time to time by the hum of a dark contour with headlights. I could hardly stay in my skin so I pushed my feet in front of each other as the moon showed its partially masked face. I ran my fingers through my hair and held the back of my head, a character in some Antonioni picture, wandering.

Windows and streetlights revealed glimpses into the night. An empty kitchen and a couple talking in the room beyond. A child with a bulldog tugging toward the street. A glowing television with an invisible audience.

The energy of life coursed through my body and brain. I want to be close but push kindness to a safe arm’s length. When my circuitry feels broken sometimes a constitutional to no particular place at all is the only thing that can help create order.

Song of Tending Land

Yesterday I woke up early, slipped on my sandals and stepped out into the wet grass behind my house. The air was frosty. Flecks of light tripped over the mountains and through the oaks then hovered over my patch of dirt without touching it. An ancient shovel, a tool that had floated through every garage adjacent to every family home we have occupied, sat next to the plot. Stately, it stood as a symbol of simple strength having dug up a good section of lawn for the purpose of planting vegetables. The bit of earth represented hours ticked away and green leaves of paper traded for delicate leaves of flora.

Transfixed by the garden, my feet did not move but my mind began to dance. I stared at the soil, considering the potential for life and food before me.

The satisfaction of working in the ground is written in my bones. I imagine my ancestors trying to coax verdure out of dust and my chest is filled with respect for those persons that turned clay into loam and seeds into sustenance. If I were wearing a hat I would remove it and press it to my chest. Hand over my heart, listening to the gentle song of those tending the primitive land.

Loss and Squished Lemons

A coworker that I really like announced that she was leaving for another job today. The news was unwelcome. Do not mistake me, I am very happy for her but it just punctuated feelings of loss I continue to experience. My sister who is now married has moved away, one of my best friends is leaving for another state and although they say the only constant part of life is change, I hate it. Two different people tried to comfort me today by reminding me that I was about to leave for my own adventure but it was little consolation. Things shift. People grow. There is moving on for education, work, relationships and life but I somehow feel like that time lapse subject who stays stationary while the crowd shifts around her: still and silent, waiting for something as the world moves.

My sister teased me about not including her parties in my blog a few weeks ago. Although the gatherings were charming with good food, lovely friends and warm laughter all in attendance, I could not find the words to write about them. They symbolize the kind of bittersweet ends and beginnings that denial alone can tame.

So here I am again, with adaptation on the horizon, missing my close friends those both gone and those about to leave for new experiences. In this type of showdown, when pusillanimity often wins out over grit, it is time to choose courage over cowardice and love over fear. Things will work out. Thanks to advances in communication, friends are never that far. For now, the chin stays pointed toward the clouds and that pile of lemons gets squished and mixed with water and sugar.

this is 4 u U no who U R whaBAM

dear repeat offender pretend it is 2 am and the hood is silent in the berg called Awesometown and someone wrote a blog using no elevated vocabulary and avoided punctuation you would like it better right

this is a good blog number one USA OK go team ShaBAM

Keep 'em Guessing

I arrived home to a white catalog envelope with a clear window that makes that crinkley sound if you so much as look at it the wrong way. I didn't have to guess what was inside; in capital letters it shouted "WELCOME TO USC."

Such an envelope usually makes people jump all over their furniture and scream with delight, for me, it is the official symbol of change.

Change makes me nervous. I said it. Okay? I have a lot to do in the next few months and panic is settling over me like a twitch from two nights without sleep. There has to be a way that I can get my stuff together in time to go to California in the fall but right now all I can see is my life puzzle missing twenty-five percent of the pieces.

That said, I got an application for a fat scholarship from Lionsgate and I remember that this school is my portal to legitimacy. So I need to just calm down and map out the next few months of sleepless nights and ridiculous days.

............................................................................

On an unrelated note, one of my coworkers made a joke about having a hand transplant of a murderer and for some reason that triggered a feeling that I had seen it in a movie or read it in a book before. Of course I tried to Google it, "hands of a murderer transplant strangle," because that is what one types in, of course, when one is trying to find an obscure allusion to a great work of fiction or biography/documentary(?!?!?).

So I should have guessed it but that idea is everywhere. Some dude even wrote an article about the transplanted limb as a trope. It apparently goes back at least as far as the Brothers Grimm but probably farther. I think the reason it seemed fresh was that the Live Episode of 30 Rock did it with John Hamm. Although this diversion was informative, when an older co-worker and I were looking for resource images I opened the window with that search. "Oh, that's a weird thing to look up, huh?" was my response to the awkwardness and I just moved on to the next search.

I often feel like I have to explain myself. That confuses folks because I occasionally engage in weirdness. Well, it might be more accurate to say "regularly." My motto? Keep 'em guessing.

A List of Things that Happened Today in No Particular Order

Acted as a hand model for a project at work.

Was directed to the Police Beat section of the campus paper and the "How Many Five Year Olds Could you Take?" questionnaire. I have learned two important facts: first, co-eds on campus call the police for the most inane reasons (I had no idea) and two, the answer is 21.

Went on a hunt for earthworms today (they are more difficult to find than one might imagine) and when I found them proceeded to bring them in to work and put them in the fridge as if they were my lunch.

Prepped for interviews tomorrow as I am hiring two new employees. It is weird being the boss.

Was greeted by Jimmer Fredette this afternoon. My co-worker and I were talking about him and he walked through the door, smiled and said, “Hello.” My interest in sports is slim but that man is handsome with a capital “H” and consequently, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

Planted an Asian pear tree and Concord grape vine in the back yard with my niece. It makes me feel whole to dig in the dirt with one of my favorite people.

Texted my sister who now lives in Idaho. Gardening makes me think of her. Smiled and thought happy thoughts.

Crawled into bed completely exhausted after chasing a five year old for hours (it turns out 1 is enough to drain me) and chopping out another stump with an axe. I might be sore for a few days and my respect for logging laborers has greatly increased.

Marriage, Career, Graveyard, Sweats- A Nautral Progression

Nuptials transpired this week. One groom, a friend of many years; we went out from time to time but serious, it was not. Timing, attraction, temperaments never lined up. He found a fantastic woman. They are good together. Stamp of approval. The other groom: a whisper thin dream of a possibility. I cannot help but wish them well and let the deserved happiness abound.

The dark questions, however, lurk in the eaves above the scenes of tranquility and bliss. Why not us? What is the difference between, “It’s a ‘go’ for eternity” and a “Thanks for playing, better luck next time”? The answer seems obvious. The fates have proclaimed it was never meant to be.

Doors seem to be gently closing all around but it isn’t terrifying, as I thought it would be.

Two close friends asked me on separate occasions, just today, if I were planning on just staying in L.A. and working in “the business” if I never got married and had children. Alarms went off in my head. I had never considered this probability. The assumption that I would have a spouse and progeny always began the equation, but examining my life pragmatically, without the hope of divine intervention, would easily point a rational person to the conclusion that I will be married to my work and that my offspring will be my art.

I am acquainted with a number of very strong, beautiful, talented women who are in the same position. Some talk of settling and others have resigned themselves to a steady, single life. I am still leaning against the fence looking on at a field of headstones. It is still unclear in which graveyard I will begin to dig the repository for my lost hope. Maybe it is just a symptom of my procrastination but I haven’t pulled out my sweats and tossed all of my makeup just yet. So I lift my spade in the air and yell, “Next year in L.A.!” I think that is a better place to die than Provo, UT; at least there is more eye candy to feast upon when I give in to a more comfortable waistband.

Slacker?

I might have watched too much this weekend.

Movies:

The Conspirator- 2011- slow pacing but overall pretty solid- cool tilt shot at the end
Temple Grandin- 2010- maybe I am overly emotional right now, but like Jane Eyre, I cried through the last 10th of the thing; inspirational without trying too hard (much appreciated)
Girls Just Want to Have Fun- 1985- Mainly stupid. On the plus side, the costumes rocked in that painful 80s way.
A Town Called Panic- 2009- random. hilarious. randomly hilarious.
Hairspray- 1988- the John Waters version; not as cuddly as the musical, some funny moments but mostly indulgent and boring
Mary and Max- 2009- dark and somewhat crass yet sweet and human- surprising amount of animation

TV:

Arrested Development- last part of season 2- delightful and clever as always
Psych- 4 episodes of season 5- silly but fun and witty dialogue

I still had time to see the beloved brother-in-law graduate, help he and my sister pack their truck, clean their apartment, and move to Idaho, spend the day with my niece gardening, chop the snot out of a stump in the yard like a freaking amazing lumberjack (or lumberjill?), celebrate a friend’s birthday, arrange flowers for church, have an Easter egg hunt, play Ticket to Ride five times and do two loads of laundry.

I might be tired.

Lost Battle with an Unlikely Opponent

At the time of the incident, I was leaving work to meet someone for lunch. My ballet flats shuffled toward the south door of my building as I dug around in my Mary Poppins bag for car keys (the floor lamp and the bird cage kept knocking around inside and obscuring my view). Just when I thought I had found them, a gruff and cracking voice distracted me from my search.

“Do you work here?” My eyes moved from my purse down the hall to find a wrinkled man with silver hair in a wheelchair. The second floor receptionist, the one who normally sits near the exit I had planned to use, was missing. Do I lie? Do I walk past? Why did this grumpy guy have to be in a wheelchair? Only crappy people don’t help people in wheelchairs. Am I lousy human? Do I want to admit that to myself? Crap. I force a half smile. “Yes, I do. Can I help you?” “Where is insert boss’s name that I cannot type or a Google Alert will attract attack dogs to my blog’s office?” I point to the third floor in the opposite, adjacent corner. “Oh, it is upstairs in that corner of the building but you need to sign in at the front desk on the first floor and they will let him know you are here.” “Oh he knows I am supposed to be here. I am taking a tour.” “Oh, well, I am pretty sure that he will meet you at the front desk. Let’s go this direction….”

I start walking toward the north elevator but he had already pushed the button on the south elevator and was wheeling himself into it before I could stop him. “I’m going to go up this one. It is the third floor, you say?” “Yes. But you need a key card for access. If we use this other…” The doors close and I hop in before they shut completely. He begins to press the button for the top floor but it doesn’t light up. “Why isn’t this working?” “Well, you need a card to get to that floor on this elevator. Let me call the front desk to see if your party is down there.” “He said come to his office.”

Attempting to use my global directory to look up a number in an elevator proves fruitless. I lose my will to keep this man from getting to his former student turned CEO’s office. I swipe my card and we go to the third floor. He has to maneuver through a tangle of cubicles and narrow spaces to get to the office because we came the BACK WAY. He sighs on the second or third turn. I offer to push. He grunts at me. "Now turn left here," I say as I walk behind him. He wheels himself straight. Who is this guy?

After some wandering, we make it to the desk of the CEO’s assistant; I am happy to turn him over. “Hello, sir,” she smiles. “He is here for the tour. He thought he was supposed to come to the office,” I say. “Oh, well they are in the lobby.” I bolt back downstairs and off to my engagement, thinking about how I just got bullied by an eighty-year old man in a wheelchair.

The most amusing part about this whole story is that I never would have taken that from an ambulant visitor. I would have marched them to the front desk and told them to wait like everyone else but something about that confinement to a chair makes me a complete pushover. Which led me to a few important life truths that I have been exploring this week. Some are related and some are just general observations:

1. Old people do whatever they want. They are old and they might as well, right? (Handicapped people could do a bit of damage with this principle as well, if they were so inclined.)

2. Most people are really lousy listeners and could save themselves a lot of trouble if they would just be quiet and pay attention to other people.

3. No matter how often I correct her, my mom will always call Chinese dumplings, “potsuckers.”

4. Despite all logic people will post embarrassing and incriminating things on the internet.

5. Life is never boring. Just when you think you have everything under control a flying jackal will appear and attempt to sell you a set of knives or try and set you up with his brother who loves hockey.

Duality of Pain

Passover begins next week and guess who went to a Seder dinner on Friday? Yep. Me.

If you have been to one before, you know about the highly ritualistic meal including “bitter herbs.” Official translation = ground horseradish. This root is not a part of my normal diet because, to be frank, spicy food tastes like garbage to me. Why would I try to burn the inside of my mouth, nose or other tender membranes? Foolishness. But this was for the sake of cultural understanding and so after I had my parsley dipped in salt water and a few traditional readings, the bitter herbs were passed to me. At my table there was a bit of a contest regarding who would consume the most in one bite. So those of us who bend to such foolish competition heaped our utensils full and on cue the entire room of 100+ people put the spoon full of hate into our mouths. Approximately half a second passed before the entirety of my nose, throat, mouth, chest and brain began to burn with a sensation that can only be described as complete and utter agony. My friend across the table turned the color of a turnip, the one next to me began to cough and seize up. In a panic I reached for my water and consumed it as quickly as I could. Death was upon us.

About five minutes later we were all sorry to have been so bold and foolish. It tainted the rest of the meal. Around the table were murmurs. “I understand the idea of empathizing with the pain of the Hebrew nation but I wish they had just ‘tased’ me, instead” and “My hubris was my downfall.”

Speaking of pain, last night I went to the MMA Showdown. That’s right. If ever you were looking to find a gaggle of sweetbros and women in six-inch heels, that is the place to go. That place was SWARMING. In the tradition of going to places out of my comfort zone, I went to a mixed martial arts competition and watched dudes with tattoos and pink hair beat the snot out of each other in “The Octagon.” Now you might not believe it, but in my coral dress appropriate for a Sabbath day mixer, limited makeup and brown kitten heels, I didn’t really fit in. Apparently I missed the memo that I was to dress like I was vying for the “ring girl” position. What a disappointment! What self respecting girl wouldn’t want to wear a black sparkly tank top that was cut to reveal she was wearing a thong? What better job than to walk around the ring holding up a sign that said “Round 1,” a mere four feet above an assembly of lecherous men looking upward?

That said, aside from the women perpetuating the idea that they are objects to be used and disposed of, I actually had a reasonably good time. Sometimes it is nice to watch the rawness of humanity. Should I appreciate that? Probably not, but I can’t help myself; I just can’t look away.

So pain, of the religious and mundane, the personal and removed, and the academic and the low brow varieties were all a part of my weekend. Strange but refreshing. I should at this point draw some sort of insightful conclusion about the variety of pain in the world and how sometimes it surprises us and other times we approach it and ask it to punch us in the face. Is that stupidity? Bravery? Should we bother to label it? Do we wait to be caught or face it head on? Who knows. Maybe both are the correct choice.

Weird Day.

Weird day.

It was book ended by white model building; something I haven’t done in more than a year. Up late and had a morning meeting. Panicked trying to get dressed with no clean laundry; consequently, threw together an outfit that appeared to be sponsored by a homeless Cyndi Lauper fan club- grey and black hound’s tooth leggings, lacy black skirt, purple undershirt, asymmetrical hemline gathered purple tank with a loose low collar and a black shrug that fit strangely when buttoned but exposed my shoulders when unbuttoned. Let’s not talk about my crazy hair. Normal outfit FAIL.

Work dragged on. Caused stress about the future. Felt annoyed by Boy Wonder.

Went to lunch with a friend. Ran into an acquaintance who knew said friend. Acquaintance asked if I was friend’s wife- slightly awkward considering our history- I proceeded to try to be playful and make jokes that fell flat. Very confused about why they thought I was the awkward party. Proceeded to eat El Salvadorian food. Ate pancakes filled with beans and cheese and pork and some weird flower bud that tasted like honey and perfume. Then proceeded to eat fried plantain with whipped cream (no sugar) and refried beans. Very odd, although not bad. Would eat stuffed pancakes (papoosas?) again.

Failed to meet up with good friend for dinner. Felt exhausted and bad for bailing. Then went to work to build more models. Now up late typing blog with unusual syntax.

Back to Life/ Back to Reality

Tomorrow I am on my way back to the scattered thunderstorms, 50-degree weather, non-disclosure agreements, contracts of indentured servitude and the feral cat circus. Am I excited to go back to Utah? Go ahead, speculate.

This trip wasn’t perfect but I did visit the following:

Nethercutt Museum- They possess a freaking amazing collection of antique and classic cars. I didn’t realize I was such a fan but I ADORED it!

Galco’s Old Fashioned Grocery- I purchased blueberry, cucumber,
and three different kinds of cream soda including one with milk! (I never drink soda but it is Galco’s so an exception has been made. The place is filled wall to wall with hundreds of the most random sodas you have ever seen.) Amazing!

Disneyland/California Adventure- In theory, being a fan of Baudrillard, this should be a place of evil… BUT I LOVE IT! It makes me happy to see little kids running around, enjoying the bright colors and characters. The park is clean (which is more than I can say for most of LA) and the animatronics/effects stimulate my designer brain. The details make all the difference for example, that crab on the beach in Pirates of the Caribbean that pinches it's claws together, so random but so delightful! How funny is it that when Disneyland was built political correctness was not even on the map? Have you been on the Jungle Cruise as an adult? Soooo not right but kind of hilarious because of it!

Six Flags- Epinephrine rushes abound… although dirty, the rides were more thrilling and dangerous. It made me feel all bad-to-the-bone.

USC- My future alma mater. Hooray!

Back to my current life tomorrow; I will try to make the best of it for the next few months. In the meantime, I will be thinking about the temperate climate that awaits me!

California Love

Yesterday I visited the campus of USC and I am pleased to report I had a completely different experience than my last school visit (the Southern one). In fact, it was the exact opposite. They showed an impressive film history reel about the school including interviews from famous alumni and student films from each era. After that, the dean talked about how it is more difficult to get into USC than Harvard Law (take that, Ivy Leaguers!) and that they have more applicants this year than they have had in the history of the school. She also confirmed the rumors of the USC Mafia- that when you’re in you are family and you will be taken care of (in the good way… not the swimming with the fishes way) which made me laugh. I loved the faculty, the campus, the students and the collaborative attitude. The most memorable bit about it was the faculty saying, “We know you have other options, please come to our school. We want you.” I almost cried. It was a relief to know this is the right place. My reservations about moving to LA have been overcome by an assurance that this is the ideal setting to begin my career in the major leagues. Halleluiah!

As I drove back to the hotel that song by 2Pac featuring Dr. Dre, came on the radio – the one I haven’t heard in years.

Throw it up y'all, throw it up, Throw it up
Let's show these fools how we do this on that west side
Cause you and I know it's the best side

Yeah, that's right
West coast, west coast
Uh, California Love

California Love

Sleep, Drugs and Ghosts

Sleep is my drug of choice. You might ask yourself, why would you want drugs in the first place? My answer without even thinking: they feel amazing and produce vivid, altered experiences. Drawbacks? Addiction, physical and spiritual damage, lost money and relationships, etc. You get the drift. This is why sleep is a great alternative! All the benefits without any of the jail time.

And seriously, who needs hallucinogens when you have a whacked out brain like mine? I can “trip” just about any time I am sleepy- which means, all the freaking time. Consequently, I consider myself lucky. Most of my dreams are pleasant and all around fun. Having learned to control some experiences within my dreams they become the most absurd choose-your-own-adventure story imaginable. Think Wonderland, times ten: vast, plastic, landscapes that shift in shape and texture, filled with friends, strangers and bizarre animals. When I am in charge I can do what I like, whether it is commencing an epic quest or roaming the terrain and edifices of my brain to just try new things. Amusement abounds. There is one drawback, however… nightmares.

That’s right, these are the trips that remind you why drugs are bad. Fear keeps me from controlling the outcomes and they can become bizarrely terrifying in an instant. Yesterday afternoon I fell asleep and found myself among hooligans who had this funny water balloon trick. They would place these clear balloons filled with some sort of explosive liquid in parking garages and wait for cars hit them and fly into pieces. Somehow I found myself in a car attempting to leave said garage and trying not to die while avoiding latex grenades.

I escaped, but I wasn’t myself, meaning that somehow I had switched out an X chromosome for a Y. My escape from the teenage bombers was short lived. They found me later and shoved me into an oversized stringed bass case. My brain said, Don’t worry, this is just a film. They will let you out in a minute after they have got the shot they need. But when I heard the dirt dropping on my makeshift casket and I felt my spirit separating from my body, as the oxygen was converted to carbon dioxide, I knew I might be in trouble. I floated up into a high contrast world where all of the colors one might expect to see were inverted. Another spirit, a young woman with long, curly hair, was weeping nearby. I tried to comfort her but she had been murdered too. In an instant she went from weeping to screaming and began to chase me, wailing and clawing at my back.

I woke up sweating and breathing heavily.

Let me tell you, there is nothing that I hate more than trying to comfort a ghost, having them turn nasty and start chasing what is left of you. So rude. That is the last time I try to commiserate with an apparition. They have very poor manners, indeed.

Good Idea/Bad Idea Recap of Last Friday Night

It was hot but not so hot that I felt uncomfortable in a long sleeved blouse and jeans. Before stepping outside, I had changed my shirt into something a little dressier but not sexy. I tied a bow around my waist, put in some dangly earrings, touched up my eye makeup, slipped on some flats and left my room find some dinner at a restaurant a few blocks away.

Lit only by a few streetlights I passed a church, some government buildings, a dark café and another church. As I approached the shadowy rear of the public library I hear a cough and a low voice. The street was empty and the next light provided by the city of Tallahassee was a block away.

I like to think of myself as a rational person, not prone to panic but I heard the cough again and could not see the cougher. In this moment I immediately regretted all of the crime shows I had watched about serial killers and social deviants, by which, I am sickly fascinated. Attempting to banish the images of bodies abandoned along the side of the highway and (ironically) trying to protect myself from harm, I stepped away from the bushes and toward the street. Apparently this sudden movement alarmed an oncoming driver because they honked but I was more afraid of the person that sounded like they were inside the giant waste bin I was passing than the approaching SUV.

After that, I walked a little bit faster and was relieved to see two frat boys that smiled at me as I walked past. At least they could do some damage to creepy dumpster man. When I arrived in a plaza filled with light and co-eds, I was relieved to be with humans that looked safer than mystery monsters from Planet Dumpville.

I found the seafood restaurant recommended by the hotel and was told by the hostess that it would be a thirty-minute wait for a table. She recommended the bar, which is not really my style, but the idea of waiting around for a table seemed impractical. I sidled up to the bar, ordered my water with lime and asked for a menu.

Because I wasn’t completely wasted and falling out of my clothes, it took me some time to get the bartender to take my order. Granted, it was a Friday night, I was by myself, not drinking and sitting at a bar, not dressed like a prostitute and so I must have seemed like a low priority. When I finally got the barkeep (yep, I am a nerd, I just said that) to take my order he talked me into the Cajun jambalaya. It is the South, right? Who visits this region without tasting local cuisine? It turned out to be a dumb idea; it was greasy (I should have guessed it being famous local cuisine) and my body was not happy with me for even eating half of it. Feeling heavy and slow, I walked back to the hotel on a street with more illumination.

Let’s talk about “good ideas” and “bad ideas.”

(Seemingly) Good Ideas: finding food when you are hungry, exploring a new town, walking instead of driving, being seated faster, asking for recommendations, sampling local cuisine, not dressing as if you are looking for evening clients, taking a new route home to see the sights

Bad Ideas: walking alone at night through unknown neighborhoods or down unlit streets, walking into oncoming traffic to protect yourself from a cough, watching crime shows if you are a wimp with an overly active imagination, not showing some skin or drinking if you want attention from a bartender, eating a dish with three kinds of fatty meat late at night

Most of the ideas that seemed to be good at the time, turned out to be what we call, “experiences.” I guess that is life: trying new stuff and making mistakes- maybe a lot of them- but taking your chances that you don’t die while trying something different.

This Weird Morning was Brought to You by the Word: Stress

As a general rule, hair ties are very useful when you have long hair and serious work to do. They can be practical or give you the right, let's-get-down-to-business prop. I find it to be an asset. So before I left the house this morning, I went looking for such an article and found one sitting on the floor next to my bed. I picked it up, put it on my wrist and left for work.

On the brief drive over, I followed a white minivan for a few blocks. I was surprised when it pulled over and picked someone up off of the sidewalk. The second time it stopped and picked up an additional pedestrian a block and a half from the first person, I shrugged my shoulders and kept driving. Sometime during this interaction, I looked down at my wrist and noticed that I had two hair rubber bands, instead of just one. The time between finding one in my house and leaving was very short and I didn’t recall finding another one in the car. Somehow one had turned into two. I wrote it off as a weird morning; considering I was following behind the random, unmarked minivan bus.

When I walked into work, I put my purse away began to organize a pile of receipts that resembled the dimensions of the Sears tower. (This was a busy month.) As I looked down at the stack of papers my hands were sorting through, out of the corner of my eye I noticed something beyond comprehension: three elastic hair bands.

Sometimes it feels like I am watching a bad edit of my life where the script supervisor wasn't paying attention and there are continuity problems all over the place. Recently, I told a friend that I have lapses of memory. For example, I will be sure that I haven’t filed a report and I will remind myself repeatedly to get it done only to find out I have already done it. Or I will swear I clocked-out only to find that I need to make a correction to my time card. My friend was nice but responded with something like, “Oh dear, that’s bad.” Which, although delivered kindly, made me feel worse.

Right now I am attributing all of this weirdness to stress and not to a brain tumor.
At least I hope that is what the problem turns out to be... the stress not the cancer.

Full Moon over the Water

Every time I look out the window of an airplane, I feel like a kid. Flashbacks of “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” come to mind as I see the cars and buildings pass below me. To those around me, I must look like a newbie to the flying scene, staring intently as we make the final descent. This time it was dark outside and Tallahassee and the outlying towns were just clusters of light broken up by marshland reflecting the most romantic full moon I have ever witnessed.

There is something quiet and small-town about Tallahassee even though it is the capital city. As I was driving from the airport into the downtown area, I began to expect familiar sights, a strange sensation, feeling like I had come home but not recognizing any neighborhoods or buildings. My mind was registering that this was North Carolina and that I should be seeing the Beltroute if I would just drive a bit farther.

But it wasn’t home. I checked into my hotel, had some dinner and went to sleep.

Today I ate lunch in what is labeled “Old City Cemetery” on the map. It sits behind a Baptist church and is full of wrought iron gates, palm trees and squirrels. I walked past the graves of a husband and wife. One inscription read, “Forever with the Wind and the Sea,” and the other, “She made the Earth more Beautiful.”

I passed by the graves of children and then that of Thomas Baltzell, Jr. An obelisk sitting alone surrounded by a rusting gate was carved with, “Born March 19th, 1832. Died Oct. 30th 1858. He was drowned in the Harbor of Apalachicola in the endeavour to rescue a child. Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God.” I don’t recall wild daisies growing anywhere else in the cemetery but on his grave. Maybe it was Nature’s subtle way of honoring this young man on his birthday.

I munched on my gyro and looked at the marker then I drove to the beach, stuck my foot in the harbor of Apalachicola, climbed to the top of an adjacent lighthouse and looked over the water lit again by the fullest moon I have ever seen and drove home.

Capital "E" for Experience

Bobsledding has been described to me as "being strapped into a garbage can and kicked off a cliff;" having experienced this for myself this week, I would say that is a pretty accurate description.

Thursday morning, I arrived at Olympic Park and signed a waiver saying that I would excuse their organization from any liability including “DEATH.” (It was in bold capital letters on the document in the case that you think I am being overdramatic.)

When the time to sled came, I was put in what looked like a motorcycle helmet, told to keep my feet flat in the sled, shrug my shoulders to keep my neck from bobbing around, hold my back up straight to let the 3-4 Gs of force to stack my spinal column instead of push it so that I wouldn’t slip a disc. They told me to hold onto the ropes inside of this enormous fiberglass shell and then they pushed me down 40 stories of ice.

At first it felt manageable. I was keeping my spine stacked and my shoulders shrugged and I thought I was going to make it but as the speed picked up I began to feel this pressure on my back that I could not fight. It was as if someone was pushing my body flat in the sled. I kept hitting my head on the person in front of me and eventually on the sides of the fiberglass can as we got whipped around curves. I remember thinking, When is this going to be over? Death is probably around the next bend.

Upon arrival at the bottom I had vertigo and when the sled operators told me to put my arms in the air and stand, I could hardly tell which direction was up. My brain may have been a wee bit jostled. I was grateful that there was no food in my stomach as anything in my belly would have been on the ice after that ride.

When I tell people that I went bobsledding, they are jealous and say, “That must have been so much fun!” The consensus among those who also rode with me, including those who sat in the fourth position like me, was that it wasn’t fun but more of an Experience, with a capital E.

Water with a Lime, Please?

This week I spent some time in a tiny town, shooting a segment for the show I am production managing. To describe this place I would say, “Imagine the middle of nowhere and then think of a place twice as remote.” And there we were, after hours of driving through winding canyons and past billowing smokestacks, we arrived at the local high school and introduced ourselves to the principal. He was delighted to walk us around the school and show us the trophy cases that gleamed with impressive athletic awards including several state championship trophies and an Olympic torch. We were led into the new gym and I swear it was like stepping into the 1950s. Twinkle lights, columns, painted stars and tulle framed the entire junior class as they learned their dance for the promenade.

Do not do a double take. You did read that last sentence correctly; the class was learning a synchronized dance for the PROM. The whole scene was so charming I got my face stuck with the corners of my mouth lifted for the rest of the day.

After shooting in the high school we went to the only non-chain restaurant in town. The parking lot was filled with potholes and the sign outside advertising soup and ribs also read “Big Mamas.” We walked past the counter behind which you could see the grubby kitchen, then the “salad bar.” We sat down an were approached by a waitress. I ordered water with a lime and the woman looked up at me from her notepad, cocked her head, nodded and walked away. Tony said, “Well, any hope of blending in was just destroyed.” Paul raised the pitch of his voice and said, “Can I have a water….. with a lime?” Then he looked at me and laughed. I punched him in the shoulder.

When the waitress returned, balanced on the edge of my glass were two wedges of what could hardly pass as a lime. The peel looked like the skin of a dying iguana: brown, rough and spotted. I have quite a bit of experience with limes and I am pretty sure they have to sit out for six months before they could even hope to look as sickly as these did. “Sailors used to pack limes on ships prevent scurvy. Those things had to be on the ships for months, right?” More mockery ensued and continued for the rest of the afternoon. I folded the limes up in several napkins so I didn’t have to look at their rotting skin. The waitress must have noticed because she glared at me the rest of the time. She took our orders, “Would you like a salad or fries with that?” I said, “The salad please.” “You can go up and help yourself whenever you like.” Remembering the aforementioned salad bar in quotation marks, I quickly changed my order, “Maybe I will have the fries after all.”

When we walked up to the front to pay the bill (it took me a long time to figure out I had to walk to the counter to pay… it has been so long since I have been in a restaurant where that is the custom) the girl huffed and puffed as I asked her to write me an itemized receipt. So, by this time I had made myself into a public nuisance.

I used to love the idea of living in a remote place. The serenity of small town life and the beauty of the open sky always enchanted me. However, visiting a town 100 miles past Nowhere this week, reminded me that I have become more fond of civilization than the wild countryside. I think I am okay with that, mostly because sometimes a girl just wants a fresh lime with her water.

Guess Who Said Yes?

Sometimes possibilities don't come in the way that you expect but are often a better fit than you planned. We'll see what the future holds, but USC said "yes." Do I feel like I have been marked with a big fat validation stamp? You bet.

A Merry Celebration of Un-Birthday... Joy.

To say that strange people gravitate toward me is a minimization. The frequency at which I find some stranger wanting to tell me something bizarre has grown at a rate that can be only described as alarming. Sometimes I feel like I have fallen down a hole and found myself lost in a world of madness.

Today, I stopped at a nearby grocery-type store near where I work. My mood was somewhat tense; I was trying to manage three things at once and I hadn’t eaten all day. As I stood in line with my fruit and ice cream cone lunch (yes, I have turned to frozen treats as a way to cope with stress) I heard a high pitched, gargling voice announce, “Yes, this should tide me over until the end of the conference.” There was a strange force to this voice, loud and declarative, like he was talking to everyone in the room but no one was interested. The volume and intensity of the voice suggested that he was directing these comments to me. I was hesitant to turn and look. “Yep. This should be good.” Damn it. Some idiot is trying to get my attention. My head turned slightly to reveal a pimple-faced, twenty something with a bag of gummy worms and a Styrofoam basin of chicken fingers. “There is a conference next door.” “Hmm,” I replied. Apparently he missed my disinterest because he kept on going. “Yeah, it is a science fiction conference. Are you a student here?” “Uh, no. I work next door.” “Oh, well if you were a student you could go for free. But there are all sorts of workshops and lectures. It is really amazing.” “Cool.” I nod my head and try to get the cashier’s attention. “Let me show you.” He balances his food on the display next to us and reaches into his bag to pull out a schedule. Glancing at the schedule I see a lectures like, Bella as a Mother: The Fantasy and Danger of Vampire Offspring and Wizards, Unicorns and You. I nodded and paid for my indulgent lunch, walking away without a word. I guess I should be grateful. It is not every day you run into a walking stereotype. The problem is that this wasn’t the first time some very odd stranger approached me.

Last night I was standing in the fabric store looking at buttons. I swear, I was minding my own business when this lady with a wobbly voice and a shock of white hair to me announced, “I finally found it!” I thought she was talking to herself so I continued looking through the vintage reproduction buttons. “This will be perfect.” She said it a little bit louder, as if to get someone’s attention. I looked in the opposite direction and the past her, down the aisle. Crap. I am the only one here. Smiling, I said, “Oh, what did you find?” She showed me an iron on pattern book with a line drawing of clothes hanging on a line. “I am organizing a reunion and the theme is: Things I Remember About My Mother.” “Oh, how nice.” “My sister and I used to put these things together but she just died.” Tears begin to well in her eyes. “I am so sorry to hear that.” “I bought some fabric for a table cloth. My mother used to hang our clothes out on the line. I wanted to put this image on that cloth.” “What a lovely thought, fabric blowing in the breeze.” “Yes. We used to have chickens. She would chop their heads off and hang them from the line, too. I think I am going to add that to the picture.” “Oh.” She thanked me for talking to her. I told her it was my pleasure. Now I can’t get the image of bloody chicken heads hanging from a clothes line out of my mind.

The third story is a little less detailed. The names and particulars have been withheld to protect the idiots. Let’s just say that earlier this week somebody told me that they loved me in the romantic, I-Can’t-Get-You-Off-My-Mind Way and I became incensed. Not a normal response to a declaration of love, right? Well, it is a pretty complicated situation but one of the things that annoyed me about this pronouncement was that they don’t know me AT ALL.

And that brings us to the thesis question of this blog: Why do the denizens of Crazytown know my address and invite themselves over for a tea party? Is there an invitation on my back to an un-birthday engagment in their honor? Is it the way I look? Is it the way I carry myself? I don’t think I am encouraging these people. If you have the answer, perhaps in the form of an “Eat Me” or “Drink Me” potion, I would be much obliged. I miss my cat.

This Week= Potential for Baldness

Let’s amble down the lane of memories to that day when I decided to forgo applying to UT Austin and Stanford because I didn’t want to take the GRE. There was no point, right? Only a few programs required that test. Why bother? Blissfully I filled out my applications, relieved that although I was spending hours and hours in front of a computer writing essays and treatments, I would not have to spend 4 and a half more taking some inane examination.

Last Monday, my dreams were smashed to bits.

Guess where I am going to be Wednesday morning? That is right: sitting in front of a computer, pretending like I know the definitions of parsimonious and dilettante and that I can remember if the hypotenuse of a right triangle is twice the length of one of the sides then it is a 30-60-90 triangle with the third side equaling s√3. Easy, right? Shut up English and math majors… that question was sardonic and rhetorical.

So, wish me luck as I prepare for this test and work another 56 hour week prepping for two different shoots this weekend. Why do I have to have three shows in production? I am going to lose all of my freaking hair. Guys are into bald chicks, right?

Warning: This is a procrastination blog. It may very well contain nothing of substance.

Here I am again, in the middle of the night, putting off the assignment that needs to be accomplished before the morning. If I were an adjective, I would be “exhausted.” Before you go and think that I am whining without a good reason, consider the forty hours I have put in this week and it is only Wednesday. Well, technically, NOW it is Thursday. Picky, picky.

We start our shoot for my next big show in fewer than eight hours. Will I sleep? Will I shower before my 12-hour day? Who can say? All I can do is report the good news for this week:

1. Emotional wellness plant = purchased, thriving and living in a frog-shaped
pot.
2. Overtime pay- it is days like this that I am grateful that I am not a
salaried employee or contractor. There aren’t very many but today is one of
those days.
3. Discovered I have the ability to crochet fish net stockings and creepy
lingerie. When I told Heather this fact, she reminded me that I owe her that
coconut bra I promised her when she got married. She is right; I totally do.
4. I am finally catching up with my laundry. This sounds like a stupid thing
but I assure you, it has been a long time coming and everyone is grateful.

Okay, I am tired. Maybe a two hour nap and then on to the budget? Wish me luck.

Now the Ramblings...

Once upon a time there was a girl who wouldn’t go to bed despite her early morning meeting. This behavior was completely senseless considering how exhausted she would be when the light of morning snuck through the blinds. Could this girl be saved from herself? Would this girl make it to bed without kicking, screaming and doing a little crocheting to calm her down? Probably not. What does this say about her character? What will become of this sleepy twit? Who knows… but I bet whatever it is, the results are not going to be good. This blog? Case in point.

Good News!

Guess who got her first grad school interview invitation? You know it! What am I going to do next, you ask? I am going to Disney World!

Seeing the Good

From July of 2010 until about now, I have kept myself busy with a project with the working title of "Be the Good." Eventually the project was divided into two groups, Human Kind and Ripple Effect. Despite its obstacles that seemed insurmountable and its untimely demise, it has been one of the most rewarding projects I have ever completed. The people I met and worked with were jaw-droppingly awesome. I would find myself excited to go to work, make new acquaintances and learn all of the ways people created goodness all around them. Here are links to some of my favorites including the piece about Maria Fano, which I directed.

Maria Fano
Jayson Edwards
Jeff Sanford
Michael Padeken
Charlie Sigler
Roi Maufus
Ben Dubin-Thaler
Caroline Eckhert
Larry Wang
The Jacksons

There are so many others that I love... if you have the interest and the time, there are several pages of Human Kind and Ripple Effect pieces.

Body in a Trunk

This post sounds like it could take a turn for the macabre but don't worry, I got it all out in my last entry.

As I was driving to work the other day, I pulled into a parking lot and discovered a parked car with an open trunk. From the opening, I could see two legs, from the knee down, hanging out and twitching. My first thought was, I don't know what's going on, but I love it. The second, I hope this person is okay. That looks extremely uncomfortable. I then callously returned to, Hurt or not, that is hilarious. My soul might be lost at this point... I am waiting for karma to hit me like a speeding freight train.

The good news is, for those concerned readers, that a perfectly healthy, pimple-faced eighteen year old boy dressed in a what I have come to learn is a "Baja Hoodie" or a "Mexican Sweater" popular with frat boys during the late '80s, emerged completely intact. In his hand were art supplies that must have fallen through a vortex connected directly from the trunk to Eastern Asia or a perhaps more likely scenario, Tijuana. It seemed from his demeanor that he was in perfect health with the exception of his injured fashion sense; on reflection, I have become convinced that it was broken before he got stuck in the back of a Buick.

And now it is time for the "Lessons Learned" segment of this blog. Number one: college boys are nothing if not goal oriented... even if it takes them to the nether regions of questionable places. Number two: Men in ponchos are not to be trusted. Number three: I know what kind of car to drive the next time I have to dispose of several bodies at once.

Pieces of the People We Love

“Grief is not linear,” that is what one of my friends told me this week when I got blind-sided by some unwelcome news. Sorrow certainly cannot be mapped out on a chart or fit into a curve. It may have some general trends but unforeseen events can spike one back into the red zone.

Human emotion tends to be like natural disasters: unpredictable. The fault line forms a connection between plates pushing together or scraping apart. It is that meandering flaw that takes its time before it finally delineates the break- the disaster. It is a place where fools build homes. They live in peace for a short time, forgetting the imminent danger until the (un)expected event occurs.

Some plates pushed together at a time when I felt safe and a forgotten surge of emotion pushed forward. It can’t be taken back; what is done is done but the energy has been expended and exhaustion is left.

I must admit, however, that feeling this way has made me feel safe again. I think I will open up my blog, the threat seems to have past.