St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Unlike all my single girlfriends, I adore Valentine's Day. Relationship status and marketing manipulations be damned, I love hearts, glitter, lace, candy and the color red. They are, in fact, my favorite things in existence (not including certain people, certain animals, certain natural wonders, and Friday Night Lights) so Valentine's Day is actually one of my favorite days of the year.

BUT.

There is something about mid-February that screams death to me. Maybe it's because things I love tend to die about now. Here's an example: Roland the-evil-yet-amazing Fish.

Roland has been at death's door a number of times. In fact, about a year ago I bought the smallest container of fish food (1 oz.), certain he wasn't long for this world. But he's a fighter, dammit, and I was forced to upgrade to the 3.52 oz canister of Tetrafin. Just last Thursday, I threw caution to the wind and bought the 7.06 oz canister- and with that probably signed Roland's death certificate.

Yesterday he became very drifty. Within an hour, he was stuck to the filter, too weak to swim free. In a flash of genius (?), I stuck a knife into the tank and nudged him off the filter, imagining scaring the hell out of him with a sharp cleaver as equivalent to defibrillation. I was supposed to be in the car on my way to Grandma's House, but I couldn't leave him. I watched the life float out of him, float back in, and float out again. Over and over. For a very long time.

Unable to bear it, and dying to beat traffic, I packed my dying friend into a Tupperware, packed his VERY HEAVY tank with all it's extra crap into my car, grabbed the cat and got on the road.

I'm a believer in euthanasia. Pull the plug, spare the pain, and lets start healing. But all that changes when you're forced with the decision and you have a life in your hands. I could have flushed him at home, and I considered it- even if he fought his way back to life, he'd probably like the sewer. I imagined the pollution and excrement serving Roland well, and that he'd come out the other side ten times as big and singing Disney songs. But I couldn't do anything but what I did, which was to take him on a 90-minute road trip and sing showtunes to him from "Wicked," because even though he was ready to leave, I couldn't let go.

Did I call my father sobbing? Yes.
Did my neighbor come knocking on my door because I was crying so loudly as I packed him up? Maybe.
Did I overeact? No.

See, it's my fault. Roland had parasites. I was lazy about getting him treatment. He'd lived with them for so long before I knew what they were, I didn't imagine they could kill him. He was scrappy, tough, a badass- he was a sourvivor. Still deep down, I must heard the clock ticking because I finally bought the correct parasite medicine online 2 days before he died. I was anxious to get them and start proper treatment. I thought I had so much more time with him, and I was wrong.

As I coasted into my grandma's driveway, "For Good" came on my iPod. I uncovered Roland's Tupperware casket still hoping beyond hope that it wasn't my jerking the container that was moving him, but that he'd found the strength to overcome my neglect. I was wrong. I set Maggie in her travel case next to Roland and we had a quiet moment as a family. I cried again, as Glinda and Elphaba honored Roland better than I ever could as they sang to each other, "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

Am I still talking about a fish? Yes.


Maggie hunts Roland (the smudge by the filter)

ROLAND the Evil FISH

Swim in Peace, 8/07 - 2/14/11

"Have you tried Harry Krishna?"

I broke my New Year's Resolution today for the first time.

For one month and eleven days I succeeded in journaling and meditating every morning, and not half-assing it either. So today when I found myself ready to kick anyone who annoyed me (everyone) in the face, I surmised it was because I missed meditating.

My day wasn't bad: pole class, chocolate, CostCo, teaching, bestie dinner, and The Muppet Movie (ga-gong, ga-gong, my heart speaks Muppet).

But somewhere past CostCo I developed a pissy, restlessness that felt (feels) like someone's rubbing sandpaper on the back of my neck. My joints are wound tight, aching to karate chop a bitch. A grubby little storm cloud hovers over my third eye. That "somewhere" was Salon.com.

As I fixed lunch, I checked my twitter feed to find this tagline: "I was at the height of my screenwriting career. Too bad I was nearly fifty—and a woman." I knew the story was going to piss me off from the Debbie Downer teaser, but I couldn't help myself. I'm a woman, I'm a writer, and I'm a glutton for getting my buttons pushed. So I read.

The article is an except from a book by Tracey Jackson called "Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty," and is essentially a one-page bitchfest from what I presume is a 300+ page bitchfest coming out Feb 15 from HarperCollins. I haven't read the book, so I can't judge it, but I did read the except and I'm DYING to judge it.

Let me start by saying that witnessing someone play the victim is MY BIGGEST EFFING PET PEEVE. I have no sympathy when anyone points to their circumstances for no constructive reason other than to bitch/wallow/whine. Jackson's excerpt does just this.

She begins by qualifying herself with her career track as a female comedy feature writer (yes, very hard job, I certainly wouldn't want to do it). She lists a couple high-profile projects she got replaced on by younger writers until she couldn't get another job and had to resort to pitching BS guys movies and kid stuff. Jackson never indicates anything that motivates her beyond wealth, fame, and recognition.

As I read Jackson's declarations of ageism and sexism, all that kept running through my mind was, "It doesn't have to be." I'm not deluded. Ageism, fine. Sexism, sure. Its the way the world works. Favoritism, nepotism, classism - they are all facts of the business, always have been, always will be. They work in your favor until they don't. My point is, if you buy into the bullshit, you're just as guilty in perpetuating the bullshit. Rise above the status quo and make your own way.

Rather than kowtow in desperation to every whim of the business (3D! Vampires! Matthew McConaughey romcoms!) do something you're passionate about. At least then you can enjoy your work because it means something more than its prospective outcome. What you spend your time on has to amount to more than wealth, fame or recognition, because these qualities are so transitory they barely exist.

I know I'm talking about Hollywood where surface rules, but you know what? I refuse that- if I don't, I'm as bad as Tracey Jackson. I refuse to give up passion. I refuse to give up integrity. If that makes me naive and stupid, good. I hope I stay naive and stupid forever. At least then I'll still play the game my way, instead of buying into the same old bullshit.

It seems Tracey Jackson may have discovered this in some form or fashion, as well: she couldn't get hired to write what she wanted to, she got passionate enough to write a book about her experience, and now, whoop-dee-doo, she's a published author.

If you don't like the rules, make up your own. If you're tired of the game, find a new one. Just don't play the victim. We're so much more powerful than that.

Super Sunday

I sat, rapt, and just absorbed. I made an eye contact/smile connection with one of them- thank you, 2nd row seats. I almost talked to him afterward, but I couldn't think of anything to say. They made me giddy, they inspired me, they made me forget about everything but what I love - writing.

I just got home from a panel of this year's Oscar nominated writers. Two hours of moderator-lead discussion about their inspiration, their challenges, their triumphs, and their art. Basically two hours of heaven for me.

Writing has moved from being a dream of mine to determining my life. If I write, it's a good day. If I don't write, I feel broken and wrong. It's actually not a comfortable space to inhabit; honestly its a pain in the ass- like a nagging itch I can't reach or that tapeworm feeling of being hungry all the time. The urge is impossible to satisfy unless I'm physically typing words. The feeling is so volatile I'm afraid it's just a crush. I remember how devoted I was to Kirk Cameron and the color lavender when I was in fifth grade, and now I wouldn't touch either with gloves on. The passion I felt for Kirk and pastels is similar to the way I feel about writing, except times a billion.

That's why it was especially magical to sit and listen to some of my present heros talk about their craft. Aaron Sorkin on how Mark Zuckerburg's original blog post propelled him. David Seidler on writing The King's Speech as a play because he was having trouble with his second act. I just rewatched Toy Story 3 last weekend and sobbed- Michael Arndt sat directly in front of me. I wanted to thank him for moving me to tears, but it seemed so trite and yet as I lingered after the panel I heard other audience members speak the words I was thinking. Why don't I speak up?, I thought. It's already been said, Igor informs me.

The best part of the evening was the proximity. Not just that we scored VIP seats (foreshadowing), but the feeling that the working writers in front of me weren't any different than I am. It's like that feeling you have when you're a high school freshman. You see the seniors with their letter jackets and their cars and their college applications and you know someday you'll be right where they are.