Dreams

I am currently off my job for awhile. So I am diligently working on my best selling book. How do I know it will be a best seller? Trust me.
My mother lives with me. In all the memories I have of the way things went, my mother's life has sucked. If you ask her, she says she has been blessed 'abundantly' in her life.
I'm lying in bed the other night. I'm thinking about how I get to have this dream of being able to sit and write my book. Thanks to my husband who works constantly, he won't stop, I've tried. He had a heart attack, he stopped, for ten seconds. He is a 'worker' and he has been a 'worker' since the day I met him. John works. Period. A few days out of work and he flips his lid.
Can you imagine? I get to write my book. Good book or bad book, I actually get to sit at the desk and do it. Because of John.
So I lay in bed looking at the ceiling and think about my mom. You see, my dad was not a 'worker'. He just wasn't. He did the best he could I'm sure, but he was nothing like my husband. So I wondered if my mom had a dream. If there was something special she wanted to do in her life, but she couldn't because she wasn't married to someone who could carry her through.
The next day I ask her, "Hey, mom. In your life, was there ever anything you dreamed of doing? Like art, or singing or dancing?"
She said, "I dreamed a lot about having milk and bread."
I paused. I stared at her and she stared at me. That was it. I was hoping for this really rich story. Something amazing and interesting that I didn't know about my mother. All she ever wanted was milk and bread.



Back then, that's how it was. They didn't have Oprah. They didn't believe dreaming of something better could be enough momentum to make it happen. It was about lifting their heads above the struggle long enough to catch their breath and then going back under.
I sit at my computer, posting this and even now the constant guilt about not being at work consumes me. Not enough to pass up the chance to dream my dream, but still stressful.



My sister in law Valorie and her awesome hubby Alberto. They are Tango dancers. They have won numerous awards for the way the glide across the dance floor. Making it look so simple and natural. They have danced their way all over the world.
They teach Tango. There are probably a thousand people or more that can go and dance as people watch enviously as they do each twist and turn, because Valorie and Alberto taught them how to make it magic.
Valorie and Alberto are an example of awakening that place in your spirit where your dreams lay quiet, waiting. I don't even think they have considered what they do as 'living the dream'. I believe they are people that believe, that is the only way to live. There is no other way. They design, write, teach, dance. This is their life. A life that most people would fear. What about the 401k? What if we don't make enough money to buy the tuna? They are an example of embracing the gifts they've been given, therefore, the tuna gets to the table.
Every step, every turn, they live in an emotionally wide open space. Nothing is impossible. Dream your dream. Don't invest in fear. And that's not to say there aren't struggles within pursuing your dream. But the problems seem to be the same as people who are fearful of making that leap and work forty hours a week. Be smart, because of the tuna, but make sure the person that you came to the earth to be, and the gifts you've been given, don't get lost so far down in your heart that you can no longer pull them back up.


I think again about my mom. All she dreamed of was milk and bread. Then I think of Val and Alberto. I imagine them step by step, one beautiful movement, moving to another. Beautiful. Free. So I will write. And not live in fear. At least for today.

Visit the Vamp... Valorie At...
www.visualvamp.blogspot.com

The gays are trying to take over the world.

My beautiful daughter... She's here and she's queer.


A million years ago, someone coined that phrase. The Institution of Marriage. They also say, 'protect the union' of marriage.
I have been married twice. My first husband drug me through the house by the hair when I was seven months pregnant. He verbally battered me and had sex with every woman he met. Not exactly the spiritual experience I think of when people utter the phrase, 'the institution of marriage'.
Before my daughter came out as a gay person, she was married. Her husband relapsed on crack and ended up in prison. They dissolved the union.
There has been more times than I can count where a family member or friend has married a complete fucking terrorist. And the union can not be stopped. They love each other. I sit watching the legal joining of the man and woman and think, 'This should be illegal'.
Every single day you can pick up a newspaper and read about some man or woman with in the 'institution of marriage', stab the spouse to death as they sleep.
You can also read, daily, about husbands and wives walking out of the union to be with the person they have been having sex with for the last two years. And out of this affair, is a two year old that has been kept a secret because daddy is in a 'union' with someone else's mommy. This isn't something 'sacred' and hasn't been for seventy five years.
This is the million dollar question. What exactly are we 'protecting'. Why are people pretending that marriage is this spiritual unity that needs to be preserved? Some times it is. But most of the time, it's just NOT. You want to preserve something sacred? Go save a whale. Adopt a kid from an orphanage in South Africa. Focus on you and your life and the people you love. Because that is what God wants. He wants us to love one another with all of our heart. And if you love someone that is the same sex as you, love them with all of your heart.
This is what I say and it makes sense to me. It's all about your 'picker'. If you pick a serial killer to join you in the institution of marriage, you're going to get what you get. Pick an amazing person to spend your life with. Man or woman. The problem is your 'picker'. Not which part you pick. Let's preserve that idea.

It's my party and I can cry if I want to.

This is Mark Twain. He was a genius.
My frustration level is rising. Please join me at my poor me party. You are invited.
I wrote a book. It has taken two years. I have contacted 64 agents. 64. That's a relatively high number. What I got back was many great responses. 'Love it, but not for me', 'you are hysterical, but not what we are looking for', 'Your style of writing is amazing and unique, but...' I could go on. I really could. There were about twenty of those. Every one just short of 'I will be your agent'. All the responses felt like they were saying, 'I'm sorry, but I just want to be friends. It's not you, it's me'.
So I settle back in to the chair and re write the entire thing. Now it is better than it was which I didn't think was possible. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying.
Here is the core of my frustration. Last night driving home from the grocery store after spending 200 dollars, I remembered that years ago, I was a 'finalist' in some sort of Disney Fellowships for a television pilot I wrote. I'm driving and I thought, 'Oh yeah! I forgot about that!' I forgot about that because since then, I have become the Susan Luchi of 'finalists'.
I was a finalist for America's Funniest Mom, not once, but twice. Finalist. No tamale, but still a finalist. I was a finalist at a comedy thing for one of two people from the west coast to compete against two people from the east coast. West coast! Didn't win, but was a finalist. I should be excited and grateful that most things I enter, I am usually a finalist. I have entered stupid things, finalist. If I am sitting at a baseball game and a fly ball comes directly at me, it will hit the tip of my finger and fall right in to the hands of the drunk guy behind me. If you win something by being the hundredth person, I am number 99.
This doesn't include the number of contests (usually writing contests) that I want to enter but guess what? The entry deadline was YESTERDAY. Not last month! YESTERDAY! Well, yesterday isn't today, is it. Fucking, fuck, fuck, mother fucking fuck. Don't shake your head at me, you know you think that a few times a day.
Okay, so I'm kicking around the house yesterday, irritated, frustrated, swimming in my sadness. My youngest daughter Carly asks what's wrong. I say, "I've queried 64 agents. I've re written the thing a thousand times, my proposal sucks, my book is stupid. I'm tired and I'm thinking I should just self publish the piece of shit so I can get it off my desk and move on to something new." See how fun I am?
Carly sat silent for a moment and then said, "Mom. Don't quit right before the miracle happens." I think this kid can really turn the juice on when she wants to.
But then I think about it. I think she's right. I like my book. I think other people will like my book. And one day, I'll walk in the bookstore and it will be on a shelf and I'll say, "I did that."





So, today, I will re write my shitty proposal, and I guess, contact 64 more agents. By the way, the poor me party is over. You have to leave. I don't know where you're going... but you can't stay here! (That was for my bar people)
PS... Yes. I do have to say fuck that much.




Okay, I'm back. I've had a few Redbulls. I've decided that I'm not only going to get a better attitude, I'm going to write the living shit out of this book and all 64 agents from NY to LA are going to buzz around their offices and say, 'We didn't pass on that, did we?' Yes, you did my fancy friend and now heads are going to roll. I'm going to re write my crappy proposal with such passion that it's going to make 'The Passion of Christ' look like 'Spongebob Square Pants' And trust me! I have no idea what that even means! So save up! My book will be on the book store shelf, hardback, and it will cost 27 dollars and be worth every dime! And it will be on the NY Times best seller list, probably in the number two spot, but I'm fine with that! I just want everyone to know, the wheels are turning, and you know what happens when the wheels turn? Agents from all across America will have tire marks on their expensive jackets! (I hope agents don't read this) There will be so much paper involved in the printing of my book that loggers will have to work overtime. Their bosses will say, "They need more paper because of that lady's book! We have to cut down more tree's!" The logger will say, "But I have to get home to my wife and kids!" The boss will say, "Your wife and kids can go straight to hell! This book has to be on the shelf next week! They need more paper!" The logger hangs his head and begins climbing the tree with his chainsaw and he wonders. When will they have enough paper? You get the idea. And one more thing. Redbull is the new black.

Losing is a feeling, not an event.

I see a little boy, six or seven, wearing a baseball uniform. I ask if he played a game. He said yes. I asked if he won. He said, "We don't have winners or losers." I thought, oh yes you do sweetie. Your parents are lying to you.
I look up at his father and he says, "They just have fun playing the game without all the completion." What?
When I was a kid, we had winners and we had losers. Period. Sometimes you won. Sometimes you lost. The key is finding the thing that you win at the most. Wondering if you would win or loose WAS the fun of the game.
Mentally handling 'winning' was easy. You smile and coast through your sweet life until the next challenge. If you were deemed a 'loser', your brain went into automatic 'wait until we meet again, I will annihilate you if it kills me'. It's called competition and it is something we face every single day of our lives. You may be six or you may be sixty, we all crave that feeling of winning.
When I was in the ninth grade I was a gymnast. There was another girl on the team named Andrea. We were in constant competition to beat one another. I could not miss one day of school because Andrea might learn a great stunt while I was out. One day Andrea said to me, "Your socks are inside out." This provoked me into channeling Nadia Comanichi and becoming the greatest gymnast that cafeteria has ever seen. Shortly after that, still in ninth grade, I was pregnant with my first child and quit school which a another story. But who really won? Andrea? I think she went on to college and got a law degree. Big deal Andrea. Your Donna Karen dress is inside out.
My point is that it's wrong to try and shield the kids from any sad emotion.
They don't have winners or losers?
You can not function in the world without knowing how to respond to losing. It's the same as hearing the word 'no'. It's everyday of our life, it's a part of our life, it is life.



A sports guy said, and I quote, "Show me a good loser and I'll show you a loser." You know who had this attitude? Nadia Comanichi. All the greats! Michael Phelps! Robert Downey Jr! Bea Arthur! They all wanted to win! And they did! Michael Phelps didn't say, "I just have fun flipping around in the water in my speedo." Are you kidding? He said, "I will win."
So let's get out there! Get that parking spot! (In a courteous way) Take your place in the grocery store line! (If it is truly your turn) Whiten your teeth and smile at everyone! Never allow your husband to win an argument! Wake him up and remind him you won the argument! Let's get out there and kick some ass! Because guess what! There are winners! And there are losers! And unless I have to paint a picture or make something out of clay or balance a checkbook, I am a winner! I won! How do you like that Andrea!

Vearing off course

The truth is a gray area. There are a million different things that take place before you say the one sentence that sums up the truth. The truth is mixed in with laughter, tears, trauma, rain, snow and heat. Then there is the truth. I face the truth about me, that one sentence, that I confess to myself and only myself, I think about other people who have the one sentence that defines them. He robbed a bank. He's a heroin addict. She's a prostitute. There were a million things that took place before these people became that one sentence that is their truth. That doesn't forgive that moment where we jump the tracks. But it reminds us of what it was like before we made that leap and became that statement of the truth that defines us. And it all makes perfect sense.

Dale and Misty

Celebrity breakups are always announced the same way. 'So and so are divorcing but they still care deeply for one another and have enormous respect for each other'.
White trash breakups usually end with hostages and hunting rifles.
Divorcing is an expensive venture. Even for poor people. By the time a poor couple decides to divorce, somw shit is going to burn down. The relationship has to get so bad that the in the end one of the two are going to jail.
A couple of years ago I heard a story about a woman that had told her husband she wanted a divorce. So he put sedatives in her tea and tried to put her lifeless body through a wood chipper. A FUCKING WOOD CHIPPER! How pissed off could you be to want to put someone in a WOOD CHIPPER! Apparently she woke up because of the noise of the wood chipper and rolled off the belt and escaped. Here's the fantastic part of the story. They reconciled. They worked it out. Are you kidding with me?
Okay. He had an affair. He doesn't keep a job. He wears women clothes on occasion. All of these events you can somehow talk yourself into thinking, okay, well, I guess I can let it go. But try to put me through a wood chipper?
And what happened when this woman staggered through the front door and hubby realised she didn't actually go through the wood chipper? I see a cop car parked on the dirt in front of the trailer with a bullhorn yelling, "Dale! Come on out of there with your hands up! Common Dale! Let Misty and the babies go!"
Dale screams out of the window, "I ain't comin' out until Misty says she loves me!"
Misty screams, "I ain't gonna say it Dale! You trying to put me through that wood chipper was the last straw!"
"I said I was sorry, Misty! Ain't you never made a mistake!"
"I never put you in a fucking wood chipper Dale!"



So they work things out. Ten years later at a family event Dale says to Misty, "Hey baby! Remember when we went to Disneyland and you wet your pants on Space mountain!" The family erupts in laughter. "That was hysterical! Or what about the time we were in church and you decided to take the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior and you start walking up and you trip and fell in the isle! Man, I've never laughed so hard!" Misty says, "What about that time you drugged me and put me in a wood chipper?" They all die laughing as Misty continues, "I'm there on that conveyor belt like, hey! Where am I! Holy crap! Dale's tryin' to put me in a wood chipper!"
But things are bad for Dale and Misty. Misty is continually bringing up the past. The wood chipper. Every argument Misty brings up the wood chipper. Dale rolls his eyes, "Why do you always have to throw the wood chipper in my face?"
"It could be because, you put me in a FUCKING WOOD CHIPPER DALE!"
I don't have accurate information as to the end of this story. I don't know if Dale and Misty are still married. But if they divorced, I'm sure they didn't tell family that they care deeply for one another and still respect each other.
I can only wish for a great ending. That Misty eventually said, "Dale. I put sixteen Xanax in the Budweiser you just drank. There's a grain elevator with your name on it."
It's not what happened I don't think. But it would be a tight, put a bow on it sort of ending to a breakup story that started with a girl and a wood chipper.

Hey, God. Spread it around.

Who made this table? I'll give you a hint. NOT DENISE!!!






John and I went to visit Carly in rehab this weekend. Great weekend. Got in touch, got spiritual, got honest, yada, yada, yada.
When we go to Tucson we are so fortunate to be able to stay in our dear friends guest house way up in the hills. It's freeking beautiful and peaceful and I would like to never leave. John and I have known these people for twenty years.
Okay, so, the wife, Denise. Denise is as gorgeous as she was twenty years ago. I know people always say that, but in her case, it's actually true. She drinks a lot of wine so we're thinking she's actually pickled. I on the other hand I have aged like a normal human.
Denise is one of those women that doesn't really know how beautiful she is so that makes her more beautiful.


So that should be enough, don't you think? Beauty? Who needs more? Denise cooks all our meals when we stay with them. I don't mean grill cheese. I mean 'chicken a la red wine marsala' with basil and tomatoes that she's hand picked from some hill in Spain. Then she makes the salad dressing. 'Tomato a la burberry, something, something'. She prepares a different dish each evening. I say, "What can I help with?" She says, "Oh, nothing. This dish is so simple. You relax."
Okay. So she's beautiful and she can cook. They own a comedy club and we walk through the doors and I notice since my last visit there is beautiful art work covering the walls. I said, "Wow. This looks amazing!" Denise proceeds to explain how she painted each piece of art in the garage and how painting isn't really her thing but they needed something on the walls so, I guess give her a paintbrush. What?
We go back to the hills and I demand that I am doing the dishes without question. I'm washing and I see this wildy fantastic ceramic bowl. I'm carefully washing it thinking it was probably expensive and I don't want to break it. I carefully turn it over and written on the bottom of the dish it says by Denise B. At this point I hang my head and turn to her and moan, "You make your own dishes?"
The point I'm making is could God spread it around a little? Why heap all the beauty and talent on a few people. If someone is short, make them really funny. If someone is bald, give them lots of money. On the other hand, if someone is beautuful, give them a constant toothache. Or if a person is a gifted artist, maybe they could smell bad.


It seems like God is in the people making factory and Jennifer Aniston comes down the belt and he takes his bucket of beauty and talent and dumps a shit load on her. Then Danny Devito rolls by and God walks away to check his facebook.
I'm just saying that God could spread the magic sauce a little more evenly.
John and I are about to leave Tucson and I set my drink on a table. After I set it on the table I ask for a coaster because in my head this order makes sense. Denise says, "Oh, please. That table is so old. I made it when we lived in Germany." I laughed and said, "Of course you did. We all made a table or two. In Germany. Sure."