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.

On the Other Side of a Saturday

I didn't post last night because... I was out! (GASP!... smattering of applause)

A bestie was in town to visit and nothing gets me out of the house like company. It was a magical weekend of laughing, incredible food, movies, and more laughing. Serendipitous timing at restaurants, minimal traffic, and decent parking contributed to make the weekend a quintessential LA Weekend Visit Miracle. (Seriously, I haven't had a better Saturday night out in too many months to count and not feel like a loser.)

And now? The blues.

For every Christmas morning there is crap-ass December 26. For every college Mardi Gras there is the hangover sponsored by Saltines and Pedia-lite. And for this weekend, I find the frigid quiet of a solitary Sunday night, giving way to the harsh glare of tomorrow's "reality."

I'm being dramatic. It's from all the estrogen. For three days I've been in the company of women. I spa'd. I talked about dreamy movie stars. I read girly magazines. I even watched 20 minutes of the movie "Valentine's Day"... and defended it. I choaked up several times during all 10 minutes I watched of the SAG awards. I'm not this girly in a full month. And now? It's over... (whine, lump, glisten)

It's hard for me to be girly. I hate shopping. HATE. I have minimal patience for children and cooking. I tolerate spa-type procedures like facials ONLY if I have a gift certificate I can't trade for something else. I hate (HATE!!!!!!!) chick lit and every chick flick made after Bridget Jones' Diary.

But when I'm around certain besties, I forget to judge- okay, that's a lie, but I'm game for the girly, and the 14 year-old boy inside me (Let's name him something... Boo?) partakes with open-minded curiosity. It's like we (Boo and I) get to hang out with the cool girls and we play along and get to learn and do all kinds of new stuff. They encourage us to try on the orange mini-dress.They read our horoscopes to us. They ask us about how we feel. Its the same reason, I imagine, that the boy who sat next to me all three years of middle school went through my purse on a weekly basis. It was tourquoise and had dancing bears on it, and it contained intimate secrets (read: period stuff). It's a different Purse World that he (and Boo and I) can only visit because it's not our nature.

This is a long digression from my post-party weekend blues, but I feel on the cusp of a personal discovery so bear with me.

These girly weekends free me somehow. Not like I'm free to be the girl I've always wanted to be, because I don't want to be different- I like me, Boo and all. It's more like, the love, sensitivity and thoughtfulness of my estrogen-heavy girly girlfriends encourages me to be more adventurous, tender, and accepting of myself. And I, in turn, stop analyzing and judging myself and the things around me and just enjoy living.

It just occured to me the above qualities have nothing to do with estrogen or sex but more to do with real friendship and intimacy. I just blew my own mind. (Heh.)

"Okay, so now what?" Boo wonders, growing increasingly impatient with all this emotion.

I don't know. I just know I have the best friends in the world to give me the gift of enjoying my life and my self. The next step is... what...? Being a better friend to myself so I don't have to wait for Girly Blowout Weekends to truly relax and have a time too fantastic to put into words?

Oh. I just blew my own mind again. (Heh, heh.)

Knot a Gnat Last Knight

I analyze. I belabor. I stress. I'm a perfectionist. But I rarely spell-check.

I woke up this morning to a text from Bestie: "Your gnat?"

I snicker at myself, but then Igor, my Ego, points his fat finger at my forehead, "Idiot!"

I lower my eyes, chastised. Grainy war-footage flashbacks run through my head of every instance I typed "knat" instead of "gnat" in my previous post, as well as ON FACEBOOK.

Holy Christ, I posted my new, tender baby blog on Facebook! WITH MISSPELLINGS?!

Igor is right. I'm an idiot. I look like an idiot. I have hundreds of Facebook friends who will see that I don't know how to spell GNAT.

I decide: I can fix this. It's Sunday morning! People are either at church or asleep! I can delete the FB post, go into Blogger, edit, re-publish, re-post and most importantly, save face.

But... I like knat. It makes more sense than gnat. WAY more words begin with kn than gn- I know, I googled it. Good ones, too: knackered (AMAZING), knife (Love!), knee (essential), knit (very good for stress, I hear).

What other words begin with gn? Probably weirdo D&D names and biology terms... Oh, hm.

Gnarl. That's actually one of my favorite words.
Gnash. Oooo, good descriptive verbs totally turn me on.
Gnaw! I LOVE to gnaw on stuff!
Gnome. Aww, gnot gnome! Gnothing beats gnome...

Okay, just disproved the superiority of kn or gn words. Know (ha!) what? I don't care.

It's knat. I'm sticking with knat. Knat's mine. My own species of tiny, drifty flying bug, closely related to its Parent Trap split-screen identical cousin, gnat.

Screw you, Igor. And get your finger out of my face before I knaw it off. Tee!

PS. I spellchecked this.

Let There Be Light

I'm in the midst of award-winning procrastination (cash prizes?? oh... sulk.) to keep from finishing the script revision I STAYED HOME ON A SATURDAY NIGHT to work on.

(I didn't fool you, did I? There's a reason this blog is called "Views From Saturday Night" and it has very little to do with leaving my apartment-hole.)

I know I already posted my Saturday view, but I can't not share. I have something to confess. Oh God, I've become a blogger. That was quick.

The first phase of Procrastination Mode is Eat. So I do. I eat everything I can get my hands on. I eat anything that will get me away from my computer and to the fridge/stove/microwave to slice/spoon/nuke so I can chomp/lick/slurp. In this particular instance, I was reheating some Campbell's Tomato Soup. Not super important to the story, but was super inportant to me at the time because I like soup.

I've got the soup dregs in my Wonder Woman coffee cup ("As lovely as Aphrodite, As wise as Athena"... oh, sister, I KNOW.), I open the microwave - Lights on, inside! - and slip the cup in. I'm about to close the microwave door- I see a knat flying around inside the microwave...

I don't so much pause as I do register the following thoughts, "hey-knat-where-did-you-come-from-what-are-you-doing-in-there-I-wonder-what-would-"

SLAM! The door shuts and my evil scientist hand punches 20 secs on high.

My conscience eeks out, "reeeeally...?" as I watch the knat fly around my Wonder Woman cup, almost energized by the radiation I'm subjecting it to. Ironically, I have this thought with about 5 seconds to go: "I'm standing awfully close to the microwave. This can't be good." The knat inside gives me the finger.

DING! My soup is done and the knat must be, too. 20 seconds on high took my 2 tablespoons of soup from cold to boiling. The knat couldn't possibly...

Oh, but she did. Wonder Woman, indeed. I pop open the micro door and out lilts my little Frankenstein monster. My conscience is still whining, "I can't believe we did thaaaat! We teach yogaaaa!" My evil scientist hand considers shutting the Franken-knat in again to see what a minute would do.

My conscience wins and I eat my soup. I comfort my conscience with the fact that payback is a bitch, and I've likely strengthened this knat's DNA with so much radiation that she will catapult up the evolutionary ladder. I expect the clouds of Franken-babies to descend on my kitchen in a couple days.

Evil in Pastels

In the last week I tried to figure out what the hell I was going to blog about. Specifically. Yes, I have a grand plan of developing this voice that generally fails me, but that's not sexy. Know what's sexy? Fear.
My business is fear- I write horror/thrillers. But really, who's business isn't fear? Take the evening news, for example. Ominous news teasers haunt you: "What five things in your freezer could KILL YOUR CHILDREN?!"
We're a society run by advertising. Advertisers capitalize on your deepest fears to get you to buy what they want. Afraid you won't fit in? Buy these shoes... Afraid you're getting old? Buy this erectile disfunction pill... Afraid you'll be alone forever? Buy this self-help book...
Fuck self-help books. Let me be more specific: Fuck self-help books that target women's insecurities and make them think they aren't good enough. Which is about 98% of the self-help book shelf.
I'm self aware, so I have perspective. I teach pole dancing, so I'm empowered. I pay my own bills, clean my own place, and cut my own cat's nails, so I'm independent. But I'm also a single commitment-phobe with self worth issues so SOMETIMES I get weak and SOMETIMES I will page through whatever goddamned book my girlfriends are lately raving about.
I cave, I read, I feel worse, I remember I'm awesome, I quit reading, I throw the book on the floor, and I rant and rave.
This happened recently. Smart girlfriends recommended this book- not by name, but by subject: the roles of masculine and feminine in a relationship. I was intriged. My girlfriend would leave it at work for me.
I picked up the pastel on pastel book. "I DO!" is in the title. Flanked by wedding bands. And a chaste white flower.
I should have put down the book. A co-worker saw the look on my face. "Oh, I read this! It's great." Another endorsement from a smart, empowered woman. Despite my gut reaction, I took the book on vacation with me to read on the plane. The following is a rough sketch of how that went...
Pages 1-20. I start with an open-ish mind. The thinking is old fashioned, but I recognize myself in some of the things the author says.
Pg 21. She describes me exactly. Omigod.
Pgs 22-30 Maybe I've found the secret I've needed all along to achieve intimacy with another human, make a commitment and raise healthy children! All I need to do is CHANGE!
Pg 35. Wait, what? What the hell is this lady talking about?
Pg 36. THIS lady is a DOCTOR? Where did she go to school...?
Pg 37-272. I pick pages at random and read the following...
"Love yourself first" followed quickly with "you have to make changes".
"Flirt" and "Be pretty, look your best always" because "you never know when you'll meet Mr. Right!"
"Trying to have it all is just narcissism. Decide- are you masculine or feminine?"
And finally my personal favorite: "no sex without a firm commitment".
I jam the damn book into my backpack. Then I curse the upcoming hours of plane time with nothing to read. Stupid book... it almost got to me.
It wasn't until a few days later that I experienced the real evil of this book:
I had to leave my apartment-hole to get groceries mid-day. Wearing my uniform of pajama pants and a sweater, I passed my full length mirror on the way out- Oh, dear. I looked so homeless people would think I was famous. The thought flashed through my brain, "look your best always."
What? Where did that come from?
"You never know when you'll meet Mr. Right!"
Holy, mantra... The book got to me!, I thought as I changed into jeans and put on some lip gloss.
I drove to Trader Joe's and realized the way I'd been beating myself up in the last few days about the narcissistic tendencies that ruined my last relationship, about my stubborn fantasy that I could have the best of all worlds, and about my hopelessness at effectively flirting.
These were not my real thoughts! I was torturing myself based on thirty-something pages of a crappy self help book that reinforced my greatest fears and insecurities.
Here's the truth:
I didn't ruin my last relationship. He just wasn't right for me. That's all.
Its no fantasy. I CAN have the best of all worlds. The key is how I define those worlds, not how anyone else sees them.
I am pretty bad at flirting. I'm shy. Most people (people, not just men) think I hate them until they get to know me. That is, unless I meet the right person. With the right people, I forget to have a shell to hide in.
So, back to my earlier point, fuck self-help books.
You want to help yourself? Don't buy what other people tell you about you. They have no idea.