Out of My Head

How I got Taft Hartleyed into SAG on my own project

2009-05-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

A lot of people have been asking me about how I got my SAG eligibility, so it made me realize that a blog post might be really useful for some people.

I'll tell you my story, but before I begin I'll tell you why it's interesting: I became eligible because of the work I did on the web series that I created.

I never imagined this would be one of the (many) benefits of creating my own project, but, low and behold, it was. I feel like I tapped into one of the best kept secrets in the industry. To be honest, it feels like I got away with something, and because of this I have been hesitant to tell anyone about my experience. I feared that SAG would hunt me down and strip me of my honor for letting their secret out!

But you know what, oh well! If they have a problem with this method, they can change it, right!? And maybe they will, but until then, if you have the drive and the resources, you too may be able to do what I did.

My Story

Last April I wrote a web series called "Leaving Bliss" so that I could have a project to act in. I was non-union, and we shot the first five episodes non-union, but several SAG actors were involved in the show because at the time SAG was lenient about its actors doing internet work.*

Several months later, after we released our first episode in January, my producing partner, Steve Yager, and I decided we wanted the project to be SAG because we were looking into a distribution site that only hosts web shows that have union status. I'm not WGA and Steve's not DGA, so we thought we could most easily register with SAG because we already had so many SAG actors in the project, not to mention we wanted to continue shooting episodes and using talented SAG actors. It just felt right (and long overdue) to register with the union.

Steve called SAG and asked about registering an internet project, and they transferred him to the right department. A very lovely woman named Maria helped Steve work through the process. He had to fill out some paperwork about the show, including information on budget, and he had to submit a copy of the script.

After Maria received this paperwork, we went down to the SAG office on Wilshire to meet with Maria and sign some paperwork. I gave her a list of all the SAG actors in the project, and she gave us a notebook outlining our responsibilities as a SAG signatory producer. We received time-sheets and copies of the SAG Internet agreement, which is fully negotiable.

At the end of the meeting, she handed us a Taft Hartley form and said that if we needed to, we could Taft Hartley principal actors. It is not necessary to do this under the agreement that we have with SAG, but if the actors would like it, then we can do it for them. I asked her if there was a fee associated with the process, and she said no. Steve and I played it cool, took our paperwork, thanked Maria for all her help, and were on our way. By the end of the 30 minute meeting, Steve was a SAG signatory producer, the show was union affiliated, and I had hope in my heart that I could soon get my own SAG membership.

The next day, we filled out the 2-page Taft Hartley form and sent it in to SAG along with my headshot and resume. After a few days they approved my application, and I was good to go!

My Advice to You

If you are a principal on a web series that has SAG status, ask your producers about the Taft Hartley process and ask if they are willing to do this for you. If so, all they have to do is give you the two pages of paperwork, which you need to fill out and send in with your headshot and resume. (Again, Steve and I are working under the SAG Internet Agreement, so if your producer has a different contract, I do not know if the process is any different/harder.)

If you are an actor who wants to create your own web series to try to get your SAG card, call the SAG office in your area and ask about setting up an Internet Agreement for your show. They will get you started on the process. If you want advice in general about starting your own web series, I am considering doing a post on that topic in the near future.

Best of luck in your endeavors! If you have any questions, let me know!

:)
Shanna
www.shannamicko.com
www.imdb.com/name/nm2060033/

*My understanding of things. I cannot say for certain if this was the case.

2009-03-10T08:49:00.000-07:00

Today I feel like talking about obsession.

No, not the "refreshing, oriental, woody fragrance" by Calvin Klein.

Rather, the arresting, dominating, persistent state-of-mind that occasionally consumes me.

I'm usually not a very obsessive person. In fact, I'm usually pretty aloof about most things. But I've been consumed recently, and I'm kind of embarrassed to admit what I'm obsessed about.

Sigh...

Here we go.

Youtube hits.

Yes, the number of times people watch my videos.

Oh god, it hurts to even write it. I suddenly feel like a 13-year-old with nothing better to do than slack off on homework and sit at the computer, checking again and again to see how my video is doing.

And it doesn't stop at video views! I'm obsessed about how many YT subscribers we have, how many YT friends we have, what the comments are, what the video responses are. Luckily, I stop short of doing math to determine the difference in hits from one day to the next.

But don't think it hasn't crossed my mind.

I've been living in a very strange virtual world lately. A lot of my life takes place online because of my web series. Almost all my emails anymore are from youtube or myspace. I communicate with people I've never met, who live halfway across the world. While it's cool to connect with new people like this, I'd have to say this obsession is drawing me away from my real life quite a bit. I don't get very many "real" emails these days. And it occurred to me yesterday that this is because I don't send very many anymore! Because I'm totally, ridiculously obsessed with this online world of hits and comments and pm's!

So, yeah. I'm gonna try to step back a bit from this obsession, because, honestly, it's not helping my video views increase any faster.

A moment for moustaches

2009-01-27T08:41:00.000-08:00

I should be getting ready for work, but I really feel I need to take a few moments to say something about moustaches.

I have a complex relationship with moustaches, a relationship that is deeply emotionally charged.

I always kind of knew the moustache was a thing for me, but only recently has it really come to the forefront of my consciousness.

And let me tell you what recent event brought the moustache issue to light for me: The US Airways plane crash on the Hudson River.

On the surface, this event and my revelation may seem disconnected. But a not much deeper look into the story reveals Captain C.B. Sully Sullenberger, the moustachioed hero who courageously made split second decisions that saved the lives of 150 innocent people.

This story choked me up like no other. I mean, I was teary eyed when I heard it on the radio, when I heard it on the news, when I read it online, and again when I read it in In Touch magazine. (Yeah, I read it there...)

Now I get that there is a certain emotional factor that is inherent in this story. I mean, it is a plane crashing after all. But I was surprised at how much my heart swelled every single time I thought about this Sully guy doing his job and landing that damn plane on the Hudson.

I mentioned this to Steve, who said, "Is it because he has a moustache?"

At first, I denied this. It was because he was a hero, right?

Right??

But then I thought of older guys at that I occasionally see eating alone at restaurants. It's always the ones with moustaches that make me want to sit down next to them just so they won't look so sad and sweet and lonely.

And I thought of my dad, who has been moustached since the day I met him (which was when I was born, btw).

Thinking about these other mustachioed non-heroes evoked similar emotions to those I felt when reading about Sully Sullenberger. Perhaps the lip hair really is the connection?

What is it about moustaches and the key to unlocking the emotions of my heart?!?

I think maybe it has something to do with this: in my eyes, a moustache makes a person more vulnerable.

I don't know why I think this. It probably has something to do with my dad having a stache, but if I attempt to get into the psychology of it right now, I will definitely be late for work. So I'm going to leave it at that.

But I absolutely must mention that NOT ALL MOUSTACHES MAKE ME FEEL THIS WAY!

That's where the complex relationship comes in.

I also HATE certain moustaches on certain people, and can actually feel physically repulsed by them.

I hardly ever have a neutral reaction to a moustache. How about you?

(I would just like to note that blogger really wanted me to spell moustache like this: mustache. I don't like that spelling as much. It takes away from the word a certain panache that I quite adore. I like looking at the word and sometimes hearing it in my head as 'moose-tash' instead of 'mus-tash.')

Things I'm Realizing

2008-06-15T10:14:00.000-07:00

Isn't it weird when the most obvious things strike you?

For instance, it just recently struck me that I'm a messy person. I've always regarded myself as a clean person, but I'm not, really. Ever since I was young, I've been leaving clothes all over the bedroom floor, dropping my belongings randomly throughout the house, detesting dishes and chores, etc. But for some reason, I've always held the notion that I'm neat (not neat as in awesome, although that's true too, but neat as in clean).

So, a lot of tension builds up inside when I see the state of my kitchen, bedroom, office, living room, bathroom.... Not only because the mess is gross, but also because the mess goes against my sense of identity. Let me explain this in math terms:

The belief "I'm a neat person." + The reality "I'm surrounded by clutter and grime." = The breakdown "My universes doesn't make sense anymore! There's uneasiness in my chest! Oh god!"

This same thing happens to me in terms of wealth.

I have this notion that I possess more wealth than I really do. Again, in math terms:

The belief "I'm a wealthy person with big desires." + The reality "I live in a crapass apartment, drive an old car, wear the same clothes, many of which are years old, cringe when spending more than $30 at Target, panic every month when my check is a couple days late." = The breakdown "Oh god! I'm seriously poor! I'm never gonna have the house that I want, the vacations I want, the experiences I want!"

So, as you can see, this non-acceptance of reality creates quite the inner turmoil.

But, GOOD NEWS! Now that I'm getting old, I'm waking up. Woo! I'm learning to accept that I'm messy. I'm learning to accept that I'm poor.

But you're like, "Shanna! Don't be all passively accepting things in your life. That's lame! That's what people who spend all their free time watching prime-time (and/or daytime) TV do! That's what people who never do anything great with their lives because they are too busy sitting on their Laz-E-Boys eating Cheez-Its and raw cookie dough while ignoring the fact their their terriers have been licking the same spot on their shins for 45 minutes do!" .

Well, let me assure you, I am NOT becoming passive. I can still strive to be neat and wealthy (the true American dream!), but the inner acceptance of my current state really helps my sense of peace now.

This acceptance is kind of a hard thing to wrap my head around because it feels deeper than words, but hopefully another math term will help.

The belief "Yeah, so I'm kinda poor right now. It's okay." + The reality "I don't have stuff as nice as that older rich lady, darnit." = The inner peace "You know what, she's at a different place in life than me. That's cool."

That's cool.

Getting things in order

2008-06-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

I'm slowly, one step at a time, getting things in order for my acting career. Sometimes I feel frustrated that I'm not further along in the process (i.e., already a successful actor), so I have to remind myself to just relax and accept that I'm a beginner.

Granted, there's still a lot I need to do, BUT, look what all I've accomplished in a year!

-Graduated from I.O. West
-Got into Howard Fine's master class
-Got some great headshots
-Created my website
-Got some awesome business cards
-Have shot some sketches with the Elders
-Have written a webseries
-Got cast in a kickass industry showcase
-Have gotten a bunch of bad auditions under my belt (and a few good ones too!)

My next goal is to get a manager and commercial agent. Wish me luck!!

Bar-Beeeeeee-Que!

2008-06-08T21:10:00.000-07:00

Oh god, since becoming a meat eater again, I have discovered lots of yummy things. Yummy meaty things. Like lil smokies. And chicken salad. And PULLED PORK! Aiyaiyai, I freaking love pulled pork.

Pulled pork. And a glass of beer. And some fries, or baked beans, or potato salad... the side doesn't really matter. There's just something totally awesome about this meal.

Steve and I just got back from Ribs USA in Burbank where we had some pulled pork and Fat Tire and watched the Lakers / Celtics game. I totally stuffed my face, but not really. I mean, I didn't even eat the bun from my sandwich, and my stomach still feels all stretched and tight. But in a good way.

I always feel really happy when I eat BBQ. I think it's because the activity is surrounded by a sense of fun and relaxation. It reminds me of eating at Bones Roadhouse in Gualala, where I first had pulled pork last summer on our vacation to Sea Ranch. Also, there were about 9 years of my life in which I didn't eat meat, so now, having an overwhelmingly meaty dish feels a bit rebellious, which is exciting. Yaaaaa!!!! I never had much of a rebellious phase when I was younger, so I'm living it now, baby!

Okay, that makes me sound like a big dork.

Anyway, if you like BBQ and cheap pitchers of decent beer, you should go to Ribs USA. This restaurant rocks!

Blogging sounds fun again

2007-04-06T11:20:00.000-07:00

For some reason I feel like writing stuff and putting it on the internet again. Yay!!!!

To kick things back off, here's a nugget from the past. This is a blog I wrote over a year ago and completely forgot about. I'm posting it now.

_________________________________________

Steve and I popped into the mall today to get an iced tea from Coffee Bean. We decided to walk around a bit because he has a $50 American Express gift card leftover from Christmas and he's interested in getting some new shorts.

First of all, I love malls. I know a lot of people have contempt for malls because they represent the superficial, commercial, money hungry side of American culture. Not me. Being in a bright, clean mall, ripe with the promise of owning a cute new outfit or delicious smelling new lotion, brings me a mix of comfort and thrill.

Comfort, I think, because I used to love going to the mall when I was little. In retrospect, the mall near our house was kind of small and junky, but as a kid it was fun and exciting.

My most vivid memory of Metro Center mall is the one corner that had the Sears, Kay-B Toy store, Walgreens, and the piano store. Often, I would pop into the piano store and pluck out some Fur Elise on a baby grand. It was awesome.

Thrill, I think, because I dream about how fun it would be to be able to afford all the super cute clothes that I see.

I love clothes.

Love them.

I just can't afford them right now. So I think about the day when I'll have more money and I can buy whatever I want. It will be so fun!

Childish, I know. Don't judge!

Second of all, what baffles me about malls, is the amount of people that I see there that actually CAN spend a lot of money. In the middle of the day. In the middle of week.

Who ARE these people in Los Angeles wandering around Macy's at 11:00 a.m. on a Tuesday or Wednesday, browsing the Coach bags, parking their Mercedes in two spots instead of one?

Los Angeles is full of people who seemingly don't work but can afford luxuries. It's a phenomenon that I've kind of gotten used to, but not completely. The concept of wealth itself eludes me.

Love the Process

2007-04-01T22:02:00.000-07:00

I wrote a song!

Steve helped me.

It's not finished yet; as you can hear, it doesn't have an ending.

It was so much fun doing this with my Sweet Cheeks Snuggle Face MacSneezleby Snee.

Working on the song was fun because I wasn't all worried about making it perfect and crap. I'd never done anything like this before, so I had no expecatations. I was just having fun. The time flew by, and it reminded me what I love about creating--finding those luscious pockets of existence in which I'm fully engaged.

I want my goal in creating (writing, painting, acting, making cards, whatever) to be to experience the kind of complete engagement that makes me feel happy and alive.

I keep thinking the most important thing about my writing is the end result. But that's not true. The process can be very rewarding if I let it be.

Thinking back on my relationship with creativity, I feel disappointed. Like I never dove deep enough, never found a way to hold on to and reproduce the euphoria.

My history reflects the following artistic cycle:

Take up new creative art.
Love it.
Immerse myself into it easily.
Find out I've got some natural talent.
Keep doing it.
Acquire some skill.
Generate incredibly high expectations for myself.
Find it hard to meet the expectations.
Feel bad that I can't meet the expectations.
Tell myself I have no business doing this stuff.
Yadda yadda yadda.
Am paralyzed and can't create.

Yuck.

I don't like that cycle. I'm tired of repeating it.

I'm going to meditate on the good feelings I got from making my song and "Secret" myself some more positive, engaging, fulfilling creative experiences.

I prefer wine, thank you

2007-03-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

On a whim, Steve and I bought our first bottle of Johnnie Walker Black.

We were checking out at Trader Joe's, buying pizza ingredients, when Steve glanced up at the liquor shelves and read the words, "Johnnie Walker Black."

So I walked over and grabbed the box and added it to our basket. I don't know why. It seemed fun, I guess.

It cost $36.

I'm drinking some right now, and I have to say, I don't really like it. I don't see the appeal. It kind of makes me gag a little bit when I swallow. I feel a little bit like an old man drinking it.

Scotch lovers out there, help me appreciate this pricey liquid.

New Blog

2007-03-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

I started a new blog. It's about my writing.

In Moon Valley

Intoxication Train

2007-03-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

My favorite type of party is.......

The DINNER PARTY.

I love it. Love, love, love it. I love having dinner parties and I love going to them.

I was thinking about why I like the dinner party so much, and I think I figured it out. There are a few reasons, and surprisingly none of them involve food.

1) You get to start early in the evening.

I am not much of a night person. I hate to admit this because being a night person is a tremendously romantic notion. Truth be told, I prefer to get up early, do stuff when the sun is out, and go to bed after prime time TV.

If a gathering starts at ten pm or later, my chances of making it are slim to none. That's why I love parties that start at, say, six pm. I'm still wide awake and eager to eat and drink. A six pm start time gives me a good five to seven hours of socializing before my biological clock kicks in and starts giving me the yawns.

2) People pretty much show up on time.

I understand being fashionaly late. That doesn't mean I like it. Especially when I am having a party.

I become a nervous wreck if I tell people to arrive at a party at nine, and by ten o'clock there is maybe one person that I don't know well sitting awkwardly in my living room. I spend that hour worrying that no one likes me and is thus ditching my party.

A dinner party is different because people are more motivated to show up on time if a meal is involved. Not only that, often times you have a few select friends volunteer to show up EARLY and help cook! I love it!

3) Everyone is on the same drinking timeline.

If everyone arrives at six and starts drinking at six, we're all on the same intoxication train. By eight we're all pleasantly buzzed, by nine, we're all getting a little silly, by ten we've arrived in Drunkville.

You don't have to worry about the fashionably late couple who arrives at 9:30 stone cold sober and makes those buzzkill "tsk tsk" eyes at the rest of us just because we're at the point in the evening where jello shots and games of "I Never" are appropriate.

That being said, I had a dinner party last night. Yay!

I invited over the members of my new improv group. Here we are, indelibly captured in digital data.

In the back row, we have Commodore and Jason. In the middle row, we have Daniel, Ro, Maria, Me, and Sarah. There's Todd, in front.

I can't think of anything more interesting to say about the evening than, "we had a super fun time, eating and drinking and getting to know each other!"

Obviously, there were many interesting and unusual aspects of the evening, but for some reason it doesn't feel right to try to capture them in words. So, I'll leave it at this: Our next group social is going to be a bonfire at the beach. Whee!

The culprit

2007-03-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

As you may know, I've been having headaches almost daily since July.

"Oh no!" you say.

And I thank you for your sympathy. BUT, I just want you to know I'm not the type of person to wallow in this kind of suffering. I actually dislike the word "suffering" and it gives me the willies to even use it in reference to myself.

I still do everything I normally do even if I have a headache. Work, write, exercise, socialize, improv classes. I have to. I mean, what am I going to do, lie down in the dark and stop living because my head throbs? No.

That's not to say the headaches don't make me irascible. They do. They piss me off beyond belief, and I have to give major kudos to Steve for being unfalteringly loving and supportive throughout this "ordeal" (another willies word).

Needless to say I have been extremely motivated to eliminate the headaches from my life. Mostly because once I have one of these headaches, it is very difficult to get it to subside. They are impervious to OTC painkillers, an experience I find terribly frustrating.

Back in the beginning, my general practitioner, Dr. P, suggested I get an MRI and an MRA after talking with me about my headaches for three minutes. I couldn't afford the tests, but I did them anyway because I was freaked out. Thank you to Mom and Dad for helping me out with that.

The tests were fine, which was a relief, and then my doctor gave me some sample migraine pills to take when I got a bad headache.

Long story short, I was not interested in taking pills to make my headaches go away. I wanted to understand WHY I was getting headaches and STOP them altogether. Dr. P was little help in this department, so I read about all sorts of things that give people migraines, and I tried cutting them out.

Red wine

Aged cheese

Processed soy products

Salt

Deli meat

That process went on for months, and I was still getting headaches. I made an appointment with a neurologist for two months down the line.

In a moment of desperation, I called my GP and asked for a prescription for the migraine medicine, which I was appalled to find out cost $120 for SIX pills. Six! I told the pharmacist no thank you through tears and seriously decided I HAD to figure out what the hell was going on with me. I was growing more irritable and fatigued and just depressed. I still did everything I normally do, but under a dark cloud.

The neurologist appointment was approaching, and I wanted to go but I didn't because I have crappy insurance and not a lot of money right now and I was scared at possibly having to pay out of pocket for the battery of tests he might perform on me.

Then. Then, then, then... I had an epiphany.

It came in the form of low sodium microwave popcorn.

Steve and I bought low sodium microwave popcorn. I ate it. Immediately I got a headache. This had happened a couple months earlier, but it was a batch of popcorn I had loaded with salt, so I had attributed my problem to salt. This time, I attributed my problem to corn.

That's right. Corn.

It was then that I remembered my mom telling me that when I got an allergy scratch test when I was little I tested positive for being allergic to corn.

The scratch test, I believe, tests mostly for inhalant allergies, so it was assumed that I was allergic to the corn plant. I guess if I had spent any time in a cornstalk maze I would asphyxiate, but my mom was told I could eat corn.

And I did for many years. But weird things happen when you get older, and you can develop an intolerance or allergy you never had before. For instance, I discovered two years ago I can't eat bananas because they make my stomach hurt, my head hurt and my throat constrict. I also discovered I can't eat avocados because they give me the worst stomach aches in the world. (Which is sad because I love guacamole.)

So I had a very serious corn hypothesis in the works.

I cut out corn products as best I could for a few days and was feeling good. Then I went to work and absentmindedly grabbed a Jolly Rancher from the front desk. Within the hour I had a headache. I couldn't understand why, until I remembered having eaten the Jolly Rancher. I checked the ingredients, and the first one is corn syrup. ONE little Jolly Rancher triggered a headache! Can you believe that?

The event strengthened my hypothesis.

So, for the last few weeks, I've been vigilant about cutting out corn products, which isn't easy because there are corn products in SO MANY things.

I feel like myself again: light, unburdened, energetic.

Yesterday and today, however, I woke up with the "corn symptoms": headache, fatigue, irritability, difficulty seeing and focusing. I was bummed because as far as I knew, I had eliminated corn. I worried that maybe my hypothesis was ill-founded and there was some other mysterious thing going on that I would now have to figure out.

But then I looked at the ingredients of the Tobelerone chocolate I've eaten the last two days, and one of the ingredients is glucose syrup. Glucose syrup is essentially another way of saying corn syrup.

See how tricky this is!?! I have to read labels on everything now! It's difficult, but at the same time I kind of like it because it's forcing me to eat even more naturally than I was before because processed food is the biggest culprit when it comes to hidden corn products.

I wanted more time to test my hypothesis before going to the neurologist, so I rescheduled my appointment for a few weeks down the road, and if at that time I'm still experiencing headaches, I will go and let him test away on me.

But as of now, it's been eight months since the onset of the headaches, and with no help from the medical community, I think I may have figured out the cause of my problem. Woohoo! Thanks for listening to my saga and cross your fingers my hypothesis is right!

Love, Shanna

I'm back

2007-03-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm coming out of hiding. Breaking my three month blog hiatus. Emerging from the writerly dolldrums to talk about the following:

The Cottonelle dog.

The mother fucking cuddly cutie Cottonelle dog.

Every time I see this dog on TV, no matter what I'm doing, I stop and watch him bound across the screen and do his toilet paper shenanigans. Something deep within me says, "Awwwwwww," and I dream for about 60 seconds about owning that dog and cuddling up with it and having it look me in the face with his sweet little puppy eyes.

So frickin adorable.

A couple thoughts arose, though, as I watched the most recent Cottonelle commercial.

1. I've been adoring this puppy for a long time, ever since I first saw him on TV. It hit me that the puppy I watched just yesterday can't possibly be the same puppy that I adored the first time I watched one of these commericials, right?

That puppy is probably now a dog, and I don't care for dogs unless they are really small and look like puppies.

This made me kind of sad.

2. It weirds me out that Cottonelle pretends like its the same puppy. I went to the Cottonelle website, and the puppy has his own little section of website. In the "ads" section, there is a quote from him saying, "Look, I'm famous!" and underneath three of his commercials are displayed. I think those are probably different dogs in those ads because don't dogs like him grow fast? Unless they shot all those commercials within a week or two, those are different dogs, yet, the website leads us to believe they are the same dog.

This toilet paper company acts like there is this ONE puppy out there in the world that has defied the laws of nature and lives in perpetual puppyhood.

THE Cottonelle Puppy.

But it's not THE Cottonelle Puppy, its a lot of different ones that they have to find every time they need to do a photo or commercial shoot.

Why can't there just be lots of Cottonelle puppies? It would be way more realistic.

3. I've always naturally assumed the Cottonelle puppy is a boy.

Maybe some have been boys, and some have been girls. Who knows? The Cottonelle Puppy persona, though, is definitely intended to be male.

4. At the end of the Cottonelle commercial I saw the other day, the pup was posed, sitting next to some rolls of toilet paper, adorably pimping a product you rub on your anus, and I realized that the dog was carefully POSED by ad execs so that his PAW would cover his PENIS.

I really wish I had a picture to illustrate this.

The paw looked like it was in an unnatural position. It looked awkward. That's why my attention was drawn to it.

Okay, this picture kind of demonstrates what I'm talking about:

I'm not saying we all need to see puppy peepee every time we watch TV, but it was just so sickeningly tasteful that it made me laugh to think that some prudish execs sat around discussing puppy privates.

I bet they wouldn't do that in Europe.

2007-03-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

TIME FOR A NEW POST!!!!

Just reminding myself...

Improvalicious

2006-12-17T15:57:00.000-08:00

Last night I performed in an improv show. There were four people in the audience. Whoop whoop!! They were the four people in the group going up after us.

Eh, I didn't care. It was fun just to perform. I played a wild west gunslinger whose long standing rivalry with arch nemesis "Rascal" played out on the carnival grounds in a cutthroat game of "shoot water into the clown's mouth until the balloon explodes".

Fun times!

I just finished Level 3 at Improv Olympic and am excited about starting Level 4 in January. A year ago today I would have never thought I'd be doing this and loving it. Thanks to Katie for encouraging me to try it out!

Seasonal Icons

2006-12-14T23:21:00.000-08:00

Okay, so in honor of Jesus Day, I have decided to go with the snowman pic.

What the heck is the origin of Frosty the Snowman, anyway? And why is he associated with Christmas? Yeah, yeah, he's made of snow, which is associated with winter, which is around the holidays. But it's a cheap shot, if you ask me. Him piggybacking on Jesus and all.

Wait. Have you ever noticed this?

Winter has Frosty.

Spring has the Easter Bunny and chicks.

Autumn has Turkeys.

Summer has....

Exactly. Nothing.

Why hasn't anyone created a legend or something about a dancing, loveable air conditioner? Or an animated egg frying on the sidewalk?

(If I had more time, I'd sketch up these friendly creatures and post them on this site. Maybe I'll get around to that.)

I'm just saying, summer gets gipped.

Thought vs. Behavior

2006-12-11T10:45:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of things I want to do. I have an incredible fantasy going on in my head that I'm working diligently on my novel, that I'm writing a marketable screenplay, that I'm making a decent living teaching college classes, that I'm painting fabulous pictures in my free time, and that I'm exercising super hard every day.

In reality, things don't quite measure up.

Needless to say, I'm often disappointed in myself.

I always want to be doing and accomplishing so much more than I am.

Yes, I need to learn to step back and appreciate what I do have more often, but honestly, a lot of these things would be quite possible if I got off my butt and did them. Know what I mean?

I spend too much time thinking and not enough time doing. It's a spiritual law or something: Action is the only thing that manifests dreams.

But what happens is I get all overwhelmed at the thought of ALL these things I want to accomplish. And I say to myself, "Holy crap, that's a lot of stuff you want to accomplish. Too much! It's impossible to accomplish ALL that stuff!" So I don't do any of it.

See, when I feel overwhelmed, I retreat. I watch TV even though I have an internal voice that constantly says, "You should be writing you should be writing you should be writing."

This makes me all frustrated because I can't ever enjoy relaxing. Relaxation is always tinged with guilt and disappointment because I haven't done enough to deserve to relax.

Point being, I need to do stuff that contributes to the realization of my fantasy life. Fiddling around on Myspace and crap doesn't cut it!

The action I'm going to take today is this: I will (I'm tempted to list about ten things, but I know that will overwhelm me, so...) write for two hours.

Yes!

******

PS - Which new pic do you think I should put up on my myspace??

Oh Christmas Tree...

2006-12-11T10:23:00.000-08:00

Steve and I got a Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving.

It is so dry now that the needles snap in half when I touch them.

I gave it water, but it hasn't been drinking it. I don't know why it's resisting. It's like trying to feed a fussy baby. Except that babies spit out unwanted food. And their limbs don't dry up and snap.

Cacophony and Earthquakes

2006-12-04T19:22:00.000-08:00

The dryers downstairs have recently been serviced. Well, actually the wall of the laundry room was serviced because the lint exhaust tube was blowing into the wall instead of out into the parking lot.

All the moist lint (or whatever it is that comes out of those tubes) has been building up inside the wall for years. Eventually, part of the wall crumbled. So, someone came in and rebuilt the wall.

Apparently, in doing so, the workers gave voice to the dryer tubes which had been stifled for years.

Meaning, now there is a high pitched ringing that pierces the air every time people are drying their clothes.

It drives me crazy.

I can't block it out even if I close my windows.

It doesn't help that I've been having migraines all the time and am sensitive to light and sounds.

The landlord looked into the problem and promptly determined there is nothing that can be done about it. So, the plan is to close the laundry room from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. I appreciate her coming up with some semblance of a solution, but I'm not sure why I bothered to agree with it seeing as I sleep with earplugs in, so I wouldn't hear it between those hours anyway, and really, who wants to the be the tenant responsible for limiting the laundry room?

I really think I need to start looking for a new apartment.

I don't think I can live with this continual irritation.

Not to mention the fact that I have no faith that this ill-maintained second story apartment will hold up in the event of a major earthquake. I mean seriously, a crumbly wall? Did I mention the wall is below our apartment? There are only a few walls holding us up here!

Sometimes I imagine where I would end up if there were an earthquake this very moment and our apartment collapsed. Frequently, I envision ending up in the dumpster because it's below the bathroom and that's often where I ponder life, death, and disaster. (There's not much else to do while brushing one's teeth.)

I'm not eager to move, though, because there is no guarantee in finding a place that is annoyance free. Just because I would get away from the dryer, the guy who hacks up mucus every morning, the woman who sings along with her R&B cds at top volume, and the child who screams as if his hair is being torn out, does not mean that I won't have to endure other oddities.

*****

(In looking for pictures online, I've discovered people like to take pictures of their children in dryers.)

How I've Grown!

2006-12-03T18:51:00.000-08:00

I've been cleaning my apartment all day today. One reason this takes so long is because I easily get caught up in rediscovering things I forgot I had. Like old journals.

Today I came across the journal I was keeping around November 2003. I was working for an event planning company and had just decided to apply to grad school. I was living alone in a studio apartment in Mar Vista. It was a period of time in my life that doesn't seem to have existed. When I recollect where I've been and what I've done in my 28 years, 2003 doesn't even come to mind.

Here's a little excerpt from my journal at that time: Life in LA has been weird. I don't really like it, aside from being with Steve and playing softball. I just feel so lost. Like something major is missing from my life. I don't know what will fix that... I want to act... I want to make enough money that I don't have to worry about the necessities and can afford some extras. I want to get back in shape. I want friends. I want to have more fun.

A lot was missing from my life then. I felt lonely and on the wrong path. But, as I read those words now, I feel very proud of myself because in the past three years, I've trusted my desires and followed them and have thus brought back many missing pieces.

I have so many wonderful friends in LA now.

I have a job that I enjoy.

I have gotten back in shape.

I have moved to a more pleasant part of town.

I'm performing again.

I had the courage to dump a crappy job and pursue my creativity.

I don't mean to toot my own horn here; it's just not that often that I honor who I am, where I've come from, and what I've accomplished. :)

Dishwater

2006-10-07T22:10:00.000-07:00

Will someone please tell me where the phrase "dishwater blonde" comes from?

It is an insulting comparison.

Seriously.

Chestnut brown. Jet black. DISHWATER blonde?

How about we just say "soggy soaked meatloaf with hints of disintegrated pot pie and bits of Cheerios" blonde?

No wonder us former tow-heads are now indentured to the costly and soul sucking practice of dying our hair.

Scared of Schedules

2006-09-05T22:11:00.000-07:00

I have a VERY difficult time structuring my time and being productive.

This tends to be problematic since, as an aspiring writer, I have no boss and no obligation to anyone but myself.

My friend Jen and I both struggle with this issue, and we've discussed the possibility of using each other for schedule enforcement. She says she's very good at being authoritative when it comes to making sure someone else sticks to schedule. I imagine I could do the same.

Here is a copy of email I just sent to Jen:

***

Sergeant McCreary,

Okay, so I came up with a very ambitious schedule for myself. I'm going to
try it out this week.

Here's what it looks like:
(exercise is scheduled for 9:30-11:00 every day)

Monday: 7-9am write; 9:30-11:00 exercise; 1-4pm write; 7-10pm improv class

Tuesday: 7-9am write; exercise; 1-6:30 work at Elite

Wednesday: 7-9am write; exercise; 1-6:30 Elite

Thursday: 7-9am write; exercise; 1-6:30 Elite

Friday: 7-9am write; exercise; 1-4pm write

Saturday: 11:30-4pm Elite

Sunday: 7-9am write; 1-4pm write

In the evenings I plan to READ, since I'm not very well read. I'm thinking
50 pages a night...

What do you think?

I'm totally scared to commit to such a regimented schedule. It kind of
gives me the willies: a natural reaction to commitment. But I know I won't
flourish without it. It has to be done.

Private M----

***

Am I the only person who's terrified of schedules? What's up with that?

Why can't I just grow up and buckle down?

Child Birth

2006-09-03T18:11:00.000-07:00

I watched a camel give birth the other day.

It reminded me of how distressed I am about the idea of childbirth. More pointedly, how distressed I am about the idea of ME giving birth to a human.

The camel strained quite a bit to push out the long legged, knobby kneed, hard hooved colt. And then the mother essentially went into post-partum depression and rejected her child. It was a serious reflection on human creation.

Boom! My boyfren's dead SEXY

2006-08-28T08:25:00.000-07:00

Steve and I went to Big Bear Lake last week.

We went jet skiing and hiking, and we hit balls at the Moonridge Golf Course driving range.

The town is small, designed for skiers and wealthy summer vacationers who, apparently, like to go to bed at 9 p.m. We had a hard time finding things to do at night because the town was dead. We played pool and darts at Chad's Saloon three nights in a row, and the busiest it ever got there was us and about five other people.

The best hike was this trail called Castle Rock. We had to scramble up HUGE boulders to reach the summit, which gave us a 360 view of Big Bear Lake and the surrounding mountains. It was amazing. The air was so clear, and the views so beautiful.

Our trip was AWESOME!

Daisy and Delilah (and Coke)

2006-08-27T10:10:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what to do with my life right now.

See, I've got a bit of a split personality - perhaps it's a Gemini thing - that causes me to feel pulled in opposite directions a lot of the time.

Personality A - Let's call her Daisy - knows for sure that she wants to write books and paint pictures and perform on stage. She doesn't give a crap if these things generate zero wealth. She wants to play and be happy and take the risk of pursuing such delightful artistic endeavors.

I love Daisy. I've been trying to follow her heart for about 10 years now. But I'm always several steps behind her, trying to grasp at her heels, begging her to just fill me with the confidence I need to do these things. But she's whimsical. Hard to grasp. Difficult to fully embody.

I think this is because aside from Daisy, I also have Personality B - Let's call her Delilah.

Delilah is smart and conscientious and focused. She's also tremendously practical. She wants to live in a house and drive a new car and live a structured, stable life. She forces me to scour the employment ads every day and apply for positions I know I will hate. She has insufferable anxiety attacks when she thinks about paying back student loans or being almost 30 years old and still living below poverty.

How in the world am I supposed to get these two sides of myself to coexist, to work together to make me a true DYNAMO of a woman?

The struggle has got to stop.

***

By the way, not only do I believe I have a split personality, as a child I had an imaginary friend named Coke.

Coke.

You judge for yourself the soundness of my mind.

Mango Leaves My Mouth Unsatisfied

2006-08-04T14:19:00.000-07:00

I tend to think that mango tastes like a fragrance instead of an actual flavor.

It's like a partial flavor.

It would be just as well if someone sprayed the inside of my mouth with a fruity body mist.

I don't understand the mango hype. Give me a Rainier cherry over a slice of mango any day. Rainier cherry....

Now that's a fruit.

I've only ever had one good piece of mango.

It was last week, and Steve gave it to me out of his mango tub from Trader Joe's.

It was actually pretty succulent, which surprised me. It made me realize that maybe I've based my fragrance-taste theory on nothing more than a series of unripe mango slices.

It disurbs me when my reality gets all discombobluated like this.

There are a couple reasons why.

First, because I have to admit I was wrong about something.

Or, secondly, because I am forced to realize I don't understand life as well as I thought I did.

For instance, when I was seven, I believed in wishing on a falling star. This, most likely, was the result of recently watching Pinnochio and being convinced by Jiminy Cricket that star-wishing miracles were possible. In any case, I truly thought my wish would come true if I were lucky enough to spot one dazzling star streaking across the city-bright night sky.

One evening, after spending a week visiting my ailing Grammy in Florida, I saw my shooting star in the Phoenix sky. I was in my Dad's arms, and together we stared in awe at the beautiful sight. Knowing this was my chance, I closed my eyes and wished my Grammy wouldn't die.

I wasn't religious, so I suppose you could say I placed my faith in the cosmos.

It didn't work, though.

My Grammy passed away a few days later.

Sad and indignant, I realized there was no such thing as wishing on a star.

I've never done it since.

Hey,

Have you ever noticed that non-cartoon images of Homer Simpson are just plain creepy?

Katie's Alphabet Game

2006-08-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of "Songwriter's Notebook".

argentina baboon courtesy dog elephant fairfax gargantuan hello icecream juxtaposition kilometer lobster marine nanosecond octopus period question rockstar steve utopia valentine water xylophone yes zebra

***

don't question my utopia
who cares it's my life
if i choose to live with
elephants or octopusses
it's my life
period

***

gargantuan bowl of icecream
mint chocolate
a baboon's dream
to roam free in argentina
playing xylophone with the claws of a lobster
eating a gargantuan
bowl of mint chocolate
ice cream

Street Urchins and Tasty Leaves

2006-08-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking back to the first play I ever did. It was called "Roar of the Greasepaint, Smell of the Crowd."

I was 13 years old. It was a summer workshop type thing for high school kids, and my friend Heather and I were the youngest cast members.

I played a random street urchin. A chimney sweep, to be exact. Heather played a prostitue. She wore a low cut, slutty outfit befitting of a cockney whore. She was also 13.

That seems a little young to be playing a prostitute. Of course, I didn't think of it at the time.

Heather's mother did the makeup for the show. I recall the mother accentuating her 13-year-old daughter's bosom by contouring it with dark and light makeup.

Weird.

Isn't it weird how sometimes things aren't weird to you until you look on them in retrospect?

For instance, only in looking back do I realize that picking leaves from the bougainvillea in my family's backyard, putting them in my mouth and pretending they are sandwiches is odd.

It seemed normal when I was ten.

Bougainvillea Leaf:

Sandwich:

E to the N to the F to the P

2006-07-27T13:22:00.000-07:00

I took the Myers Briggs personality assessment recently and discovered that I am an "ENFP".

For some reason, this guy's picture comes up when I image search 'ENFP'.

So does this:

I love personality assessments.

I love to learn about myself. Even if the results offer no new information, I still enjoy reading them. I tend to experience some satisfaction in having myself summed up in a few paragraphs.

I often feel awe and excitement when reading the results because of how accurate the information is.

For example, I read the following passage:

"An ENFP needs to focus on following through with their projects."

And I thought, "My god! That's me. That's totally ME! It's uncanny how accurate these personality assessments are."

And then I felt motivated to focus and follow through on my goals becasue the assessment also said I have great potential to succeed.

The following fictional characters are also ENFPs:

Amy Wong From Futurama

Ariel From Disney’s The Little Mermaid

Kramer From Seinfeld

Lucy From I Love Lucy

Phoebe From Friends

Pinnochio

Pippen From The Lord of the Rings

Pippi Longstocking

Ron Weasley From The Harry Potter Books

Spongebob Squarepants

The Genie From Disney’s Aladdin

Winnie the Pooh

I don't know who the hell Amy Wong from Futurama is, but I can safely say that at some point I have adored the other characters on this list.

I even dressed like Pippi Longstocking once for Halloween.

My friend Skim can attest to this.

It was for her 3rd grade Halloween party that I dressed as Miss Longstocking.

I won the apple dunking contest at her party even though I had braids sticking sideways out of my head like chopper blades.

I won because I had great determination to do so. While the other children were languorously munching on their candy corn, I was FOCUSED on my goal.

See, it IS in my ENFP nature to focus and succeed.

If only I could combine the results of personality tests with the insights derived from looking back on childhood more often...

I'd have myself all figured out.

Essentially I'm an animal

2006-07-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

I have improv class today. It's my fourth class, but I still get really nervous.

I feel like this guy here.

I don't have the luxury of hiding behind a podium, though.

I get a liitle worried about what will come out of my mouth when I'm improvising. The whole uncensored thing is unnerving. The reason I say this is because I think maybe, just maybe, I have some repressed aggression.

And it wants to be expressed.

I think it wants to slip out when I'm not looking, so to speak.

It's not like I'm a psycho or anything.

I just don't know what to do with that feeling that arises when I'm in traffic and some cavalier ass purposely cuts me off and causes me to nearly rear end a four door sedan.

So I neatly fold up the feeling and store it away in my aggression trunk, which looks like this:

And I pretend all is good and well and happy and pretty. And I try hard, hard, hard to wish love and a million dollar lotto winning upon my offender.

I imagine the trunk must be filling up.

Lately, I've asked myself the same question that Cee-lo asks of himself:

"Essentially, I'm an animal, so just what do I do with all the aggression?"

I don't know the answer. It's not like we can viciously pounce on critters or roar with might.

Well, I guess some people can roar with might, but they would be considered abusive, and no one likes them. Which supports my point. Aggression is meant to be tucked away in a frilly princess closet with an iron lock.

This is probably why I'm a generally sarcastic person.

The intensity of real feelings is too much to bear.

Seafood and Sailors

2006-07-14T08:43:00.000-07:00

I consider myself a pescatarian.

The term "pescatarian" is used to describe "those who abstain from eating all meat and animal flesh with the exception of fish."

I happen to love seafood. I always have.

When I first ate crab legs when I was two-years-old, I was in nirvana.

I had weird tastes when I was a child. I not only loved crab legs, but also spinach and lima beans.

Spaghetti-O's were cool too, but I really went bananas when I knew we were having canned spinach with dinner.

I think it was because Popeye the Sailor Man had an affinity for spinach. It made him strong.

It made him capable of impressive feats like conquering the beanstalk giant who was hoarding supplies needed for the war effort.

For some reason, I was enthralled with Popeye when I was little.

This Popeye cartoon from 1942 was banned because of it's racist nature.

It never occurred to me before how odd it is that, as a five-year-old girl, I was interested in the affairs of a mumbling, 40-something, pipe smoking, tattoo bearing sailor man.

Pagans at the Village Inn

2006-07-09T11:03:00.000-07:00

My Mom went to Village Inn Restaurant with a group of Pagans.

Mom

Village Inn

Pagans

This struck me as an interesting combination.

The Pagan group was having its weekly meeting, and my Mom tagged along with a couple of her friends.

In case you're unaware, Village Inn is a family restaurant a la Denny's. But Village Inn is a little creepier than Denny's, in that it doesn't draw that "hip" late night crowd of teenagers that sits in a booth for hours drinking coffee.

I imagine the Village Inn clientele consists mostly of slow moving retirees who don't expect to have to chew their food too many times.

According to my mom, the food at the Village Inn was atrocious. The gravy was the consistency of congealed mucus, and the key lime pie was bitter enough to make your face shrivel.

I asked her if the pie tasted like bathroom cleaner.

She said, "No." But I was skeptical. I truly believe a terrible slice of key lime pie would taste like the chemical liquid you use to scrub a toilet.

Bathroom cleaner is one of those things I can imagine the taste of based solely on how it smells.

Poop is another.

My mom said the pagans were nice and normal. She didn't mention what they talked about or anything. She was very hung up on the piss poor food; thus she made that the emphasis of her story.

I, however, am most interested in the pagans. I know nothing about them or their beliefs.

According to Spiralgoddess.com:

"A Pagan is a person who believes that everything has a soul or spirit. This is called Animism, and all Pagan religions share this belief. Rivers, animals, rocks, trees, land are all filled with there own unique spirits for people who are Pagans. Traditionally, Christians believe that only humans have souls or spirits. Many environmentally conscious Christians today share the belief with Pagans that all forms of life have a soul. Pagans see the divine spirit in all life, as do some members of other religions."

I tend to believe that everything has a spirit. In this diverse universe, why would humans be the only creatures with souls?

When I hike or walk in a park, I receive a ton of energy from the nature.

I love hiking. I miss it. When I lived in Flagstaff, I hiked quite a bit. It was one of my favorite pasttimes.

I hiked to the top of Mount Humphrey, which is Arizona's hightest peak at 12,633 feet.

I also hiked to the Havasupai Falls in the Grand Canyon.

I love trees, plants, flowers, little critters, big critters with friendly eyes, streams, lakes, trails, billowing clouds that move in over a hot sun. I don't get enough of this stuff in LA.

Apparently, Paganism encompasses a broad range of groups, including Wiccans, Druids, Shamans, Heathens, etc.

It's a kind of blanket term for those people who do not practice Christianity or Judiasm.

Unfortunately, Pagans have been the targets of persecution and misrepresentation, so that people often assume they are associated with sexual deviance, devil worship and black magic.

To set the record straight, I never thought that.

I just wouldn't expect them to have their weekly meeting at the Village Inn.

My experience with nature leads me to believe in animism.

The Spiralgoddess website says that you'll know in your heart if you're a Pagan.

I think maybe I am.

Drinking While Taking the SAT

2006-07-07T22:32:00.000-07:00

Do you know what's wrong with this sentence?

"Most of the hypotheses that Kepler developed to explain physical forces were later rejected as inconsistent to Newtonian theory."

This is question number 26 from Secton 6 of an actual SAT test.

Once a week, I take the Writing section of an SAT practice test so I can help students understand what they did wrong. Usually I miss one or two problems myself.

Sometimes I get them all right. I prefer when this happens because it makes me feel smart, despite the fact it's a test aimed at 11th graders.

Tonight, I missed the above problem.

Maybe because I found a lone beer leftover from my birthday fiesta in the back of my fridge, and I popped it open before administering the test to myself.

Not to mention, I took the test from the comfort of my living room, sprawled out on my couch, enjoying the air conditioner's crsip breeze upon my brow.

I thought the problem with the above question was the word "as".

No.

The problem is with the phrase "inconsistent to".

It should be "inconsistent with".

At least on a scale of 1 to 5 of difficulty, that one was a 5.

I don't recall anyone arriving at my party with Miller Lite. Whoever it was must have consumed five Miller Lites that night.

I had five mojitos that night.

Five mojitos is too much for me. I went a little haywire.

In case you didn't know, Garfield and I share the same birthday: June 19, 1978. The comic strip debuted on this day, but it is also considered Garfield's birthday.

This delighted me to no end when I was younger.

I felt a special connection to Garfield. So much so that I collected every conceivable Garfield trinket you can imagine.

Garfield stuffed animals. Garfield pencils. Garfield erasers. Garfield bookmarks. Garfield books.

I drew Garfield constantly. One time, I won a free meal at Garcia's restaurant in Phoenix for drawing a great picture on the kids' menu. The picture was of Garfield.

I'm sure it was better than this. It did WIN after all.

Every year, for years, my mom would snip out the Garfield strip from the newspaper on "our" birthday.

According to Wikipedia, "this comic strip pokes fun at pet owners and their relationship with their pets—often portraying the pet as the true master of the home. Garfield also struggles with human problems, such as diets, loathing of Mondays, apathy, boredom, and so on."

I had no way of relating to such issues because I was a ten year old girl who had never owned a pet, and who had never felt the plight of the Monday blues.

Still, I recall laughing hysterically at the fat cat and his antics.

I've since lost touch with my passion for this feline.

I simply refuse to see the Garfield movies, though, because the Garfield lover that's buried inside could never subject myself to such a horrific mutilation of a...... childhood soulmate.

I wonder what good ol' Garfield did for his 28th?

Self-Discipline

2006-07-02T15:46:00.000-07:00

I simply cannot do things that take self-discipline.

It's almost impossible.

If I have a chunk of free time (anywhere from an hour up to several months), and I have work I should be doing, I will instead wile away the hours doing the most indulgent and sometimes innane activities.

For example:

If I have to do something, even if it's a relatively enjoyable task like writing a chapter for my novel, it's a surefire guarantee that when sit down to do the work, I will experience deep and virulent animosity boiling within.

I am not sure why it's so difficult to just complete something, but I'm starting to think this is a terrible malady for someone who wants to finish writing a novel.

Novels are big.

They take a crap load of work.

I'm concerned that I am a seriously lazy person.

Some people seem to have an abundance of spirit and passion for things.

People like this take iniative, start projects and finish them with no external pressure.

I thrive on external pressure.

If I am given a deadline, I will work hard. But if left to my own devices, it seems I would rather relax and avoid responsibility of any kind.

I say all this because I just squandered my last two days off. I can't even remember what I've done these last couple days. I can tell you what I was supposed to do though.

1. Start my novel rewrite
2. Grade student essays
3. Write a book curriculum
4. Do laundry
5. Clean my room, living room, bathroom
6. Read lots of useful literature that will help improve my writing

This is distressing me.

The fire monster of aversion is more or less eviscerating me.

I can't just relax and FEEL relaxed. I relax and feel extreme guilt for not doing something productive.

I think I need more structure in my life!

Structure, baby! STRUCTURE.

How do I go about doing this?

Divine Intervention

2006-06-30T19:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know exactly where I stand on the whole issue of God and religion. I never went to church when I was a child, but I did get a moderate dose of negative input regarding the Catholic church from my mom. It kind of soured me to organized religion. I assumed that if it made my mom miserable, it would make me miserable too. So I stayed away.

But I tend to feel like I'm a spiritual person. I don't know why exactly. It's just a feeling. A "knowing." A new age sense of godliness that dwells in my soul.

I don't know exactly what to do to feed this godliness. Meditating seems like a good idea, and I've tried it before, but I don't know exactly what I'm doing or why. I'm not 100% sure what it is I'm trying to access. Meditation makes me feel relaxed and "spiritual," but I'm in the dark as to whether or not it truly enhances my connection to the divine.

It seems that consciously, I don't know squat about spirituality and religion.

But on an intuitive level, I know a few things.

For example, I believe in divine intervention.

Maybe it's divine intervention, maybe it's intuition... Call it what you will, I'm sure there's something somewhere helping me out along the way.

Take for example an incident that happened this afternoon in my apartment.

I boiled a pot of water and then placed it on top of a towel on the counter. Notice in the picture below how the towel is connected to the handle of the drawer.

I put several tea bags in the water because I was preparing a pitcher of iced green tea.

I needed a spoon in order to fully submerge my tea bags, so I mindlessly whipped open this drawer. I instantly knew I had made a mistake and I jumped back, but it was too late. The towel and the pot flew off the counter, and boiling hot water went flying through the air.

A good portion of it landed on my right leg, which, luckily, was fully clothed.

This is where divine intervention comes in.

Allow me to explain.

See, it's been sweltering in our apartment lately because we don't have central air and it's in the 100s in Shoaks. I generally wear shorts around the house. Small shorts. Shorts that would have provided zero protection against scalding water.

I had on a pair of pants from when I had gone out earlier that day to fetch tea. I lounged around the apartment all afternoon in these pants, and it crossed my mind several times to change into my shorts. In fact, this thought had occurred to me just minutes before the accident. But, instead of following a typical course of action (putting on shorts), for some reason I kept the pants on.

Okay? Do you see where I'm going? Why else would I have kept the pants on?

Something informed me that I needed to stay in the pants in order to protect myself.

I'm telling you, if that water would have landed on me directly, I would be in serious pain. But, as a result, my skin is safe and cool.

I have other examples of such supernatural knowledge, but I'm not going to talk about them right now.

Instead, I'm going to talk briefly about Super Mario Brothers for the original NES.

I beat the game today. Yeah, I got the 99 lives. I warped my way to World 8. I beat Bowser as Little Mario.

I want to say it was awesome, but it kind of wasn't. There's something different about beating the game as a 28 year old woman as opposed to a 10 year old girl, which is the age at which I first saved the Princess.

Steve got me the Nintendo for my birthday, along with a spa session at Burke Williams, so don't think he's all losery for getting me just an old game system. In fact, I thought it was pretty incredible that he got me the Nintendo because he knows that I tend to hate video games these days. I have often talked wistfully about my childhood days playing cute and colorful games such as Mario, Tetris, Bubble Bobble and Marble Madness on my original NES.

I don't like these violent, blood and guts, testosterone driven games they make today.

First of all, they aren't really colorful enough for me. I prefer lots of blues and pinks and greens.

Now that's what I'm talking about.

Shaping today's youth

2006-06-25T18:17:00.000-07:00

This week summer school started at the SAT prep school.

As a teacher, I help young students with enormous drive and ambition to prepare not only for the Standardized Achievement Test, but also for bright futures as doctors and lawyers.

I don't know how exactly I am qualified to have this type of influence on today's youth. I think it has something to do with this:

I think it impressed a few people who are high on the old food chain at Elite that I attended one of southern California's noteworthy schools. It's a credential they can toss out to domineering parents who want to make sure they get the best for their children. Little do these parents know I've spent the last two years writing stories and trying to live an artist's life. Hehehe...

Three weeks ago I had a father come into my classroom inquiring about his son's quiz score, and I had to inform him that his son's score was below average. The father looked confused and angry for a moment and then pretended to hit his son in the ear. I think if I weren't standing there, he would have.

I am subjected to a double edged sword of sorts.

I am fortunate because my students are bright and hardworking. This makes me happy. But at the same time, I am saddened to know the immense pressure they are under.

I really wanted to clock that dad in his ear.

But naturally I couldn't.

I didn't know how exactly to react. So I kind of laughed a little.

I should have at least looked at him in horror.

I fell in love with this Parrot at the party store last week. But I wasn't sure if I really wanted to spend the ten bucks on it just so it could hang in the living room during my birthday fiesta. So I didn't buy him.

Luckily, Steve and Katie sensed my connection to the parrot and went back to the store while I was at work and bought him for me. Indeed, he did hang in the living room during my fiesta.

I knew for sure I didn't want my friends to bust this little guy open.

There's something depressing about buying a cute little parrot with big eyes just so people can take a bat to it's skull.

Pinatas should resemble things we wouldn't mind shattering.

Like a giant hard boiled egg.

Friday Night

2006-06-24T09:45:00.000-07:00

Last night, Steve and got dressed up in some new clothes and went out for an Italian meal at a little place called Zach's Italian Cafe in Studio City.

The place has a huge patio out front which I like to sit on if it's warm enough. Last night they didn't seem to have their outdoor heaters on, though, so we opted to sit inside.

I happen to love outdoor heaters. I think they are one of the best inventions ever, next to glasses.

Without glasses I would be a mere invalid in this world. My vision is terrible. I have an astigmatism that tends to make opthamologists' jaws drop. My eye is shaped more like a football than a basketball.

Without my glasses or contacts it is virtually impossible for me to tell how many fingers you are holding up unless I squint my eyes. For some reason, squinting improves people's vision. I'm not sure why this is. I wonder if before glasses were invented, people with bad eyesight just walked around with skinny, squinty eyes all the time.

Speaking of which, our waiter last night at Zach's Italian Cafe was a spitting image of French Stewart.

Except this guy, the waiter, was slow and mellow. It was as if he'd taken a few muscle relaxers before punching in that night. French Stewart, on the other hand, strikes me as someone who should be on Ritilan. Our waiter just might be French's identical twin, the one who's had a harder life because of some mishap in the delivery room.

Poor waiter.

On a brighter note, Steve and I discovered a gem in Shoaks!

It's a place called Cafe Cordiale and it's within walking distance of our apartment.

From the outside, you may think it's merely a gathering spot for all the old, white retirees that dwell south of Ventura.

Not so! As it turns out, it's a legitimate music venue with live R&B and jazz four nights a week.

Within walking distance to our apartment!

I love Shoaks!

Dogs

2006-06-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

Generally, I am afraid of big dogs. I think it's because when I was about 7 I had to walk to school via an alley behind my house, and there was a huge Great Dane or some other frightening creature that lived in one of the yards I had to walk past.

It would bark ferociously and stick its nose in any gap in the fence, and there were a lot of gaps because it was one of those old wooden fences that were found in most lower middle class Phoenix homes in the 80s.

Horrified that the dog was going to bust the fence and attack me, I would scamper like a terrified mouse down this stretch of the alley every day.

One time, after months of clawing at the rotting wood in an attempt to attack and eat me, the dog did break through the fence and chase me down the alley. Luckily I was with my friend Preston, who had a bike.

I hopped on the seat of the bike, and Preston stood up and pedaled as fast as he could. I was crying. I was sure I was going to die. Preston was not afraid.

We made it to the gate to my neighborhood, and the dog must have lost interest in us or something because I don't remember getting ripped open by the beast. I just remember being damn scared. I remember declaring big dogs the enemy.

That's why when several years later my family opted to get a dog, it was a small creature. A shih tzu named Domino that we adopted from some family that lived off of Greenway Ave. I think Domino may have been a little "slow" because we bought him at an affordable rate and he took a liking to chasing laser beams into the fence and eating his own excrement.

We shaved his long hair down to his skin because it was easier to maintain.

Sometimes I cry when I think about or talk about Domino because I feel he should have been treated better.

Ever since childhood, I've been slow to warm up to dogs. Especially big ones.