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.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

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.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Pudding... from my book Everything I Never Wanted To Be

If someone said to you, if you use drugs you will loose your family, your job, all your money and your dignity but your legs will feel like pudding. Do you have any idea how many people would choose the pudding? Most of the people I know.
To a normal person this isn't even something to think about. But with addicts, we could go back and forth for hours. 'My family'. 'Pudding'. Hum. What do I do here. Our minds become consumed with figuring it out. At the end of the day, there we are. With legs that feel like pudding.

I know my brain is wired for pudding so I have to focus on everything I do or I'll end up behind a dumpster. For me it could happen so easily. I would go see my pharmacist 'Julio' at his office that is actually located on a sidewalk downtown. I'd try using some small talk with him, "Hi Julio. And how's your family?" Julio would just get angry, "I said give me the money, I'll give you the pills, then you walk away. Don't fucking talk to me." What happened to good 'customer service'?.
Drug addiction is only funny if your a drug addict or alcoholic. It's like if your a particular race, you can talk about and say funny things about that race. Addicts and alcoholics can make fun of each other as long as you're in recovery. I have a friend who said to one of my family members, "Hey! I hardly recognised you without the ski mask!" This family member got the idea one night, legs like pudding, he went to the grocery store, got a bottle of expensive vodka, put a ski mask on and ran out.
God knows I'm not one to talk about bad behavior. When the kids were small I woke up one morning and found that my car was gone. You know, this is typical for alcoholics, you call friends and try and find your car. So I call a friend and she says that I gave my car away at a house party. What? She said I went out to the glove box of my car and came in with the title and signed it away to some stranger. I said that I would never do that. She said she tried to stop me but I told her the guy was real sweet and he was having trouble getting back and forth to school. Apparently it was more important that the stranger got to school than it was for me to care for my two small daughters as a single mom.

I eventually got my car back but do you know how I got to that place of giving my car away at a house party? One thought. 'My family'. 'Pudding'. All the chaos and bullshit in the entire world begins with people who have legs that feel like pudding.