Saturday, November 7, 2009


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...

Thursday, November 5, 2009

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.

I'm a Deer in the Headlights

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 74 agents. 74. 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 query letter, and I guess, contact 74 more agents.

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 74 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.