All About Women

This is a short comedy sketch we are working on for the Mosaic Women’s Brunch this Saturday:

All About Women

A young male professor enters with his remote and note cards. He tests the Microphone at the podium to make sure it’s on. He’s nervous.

Prof: I want to thank you all for coming. Today is an important day. My research team and I have made incredible strides in learning to decipher the female conversation. It’s widely known that women use, on average, twice as many words per day as their male counterparts. I myself have not spoken for 3 weeks so that I might present my findings in full.  So, lets get started. We have a lot to cover. As a part of my research, I’ve videotaped a sample of women’s conversations. I hypothesized that the main subject would be me. I mean, men in general and me specifically as my girlfriend of the past 6 years was my sample. This was not the case.

He clicks his remote towards the stage where 2 girls are seated at a café table with menus, in mid conversation.

Ann: You look great by the way.

Liz: Thanks.

Ann: That’s a pretty color on you.

Liz: Tiffany blue. My favorite. I love your skirt.

Ann: Target. 10 bucks.

Liz: No way. I love target. I go there just to hang out.

Ann: Me too! They have everything.

He hits the remote again and the girls freeze.

Prof: This part gets boring quick. Basically they spend the first 9 minutes talking about the color blue and their full devotion to a place called target. They make it sound like Disneyland. The happiest place on earth. I assure you, it’s not.

He hits the remote again and the girls come to life.

Liz: I’ve found the most amazing product. It’s like a nail file only you rub it really hard like this… (She mimics the motion on her leg and both of them laugh).

Ann: Does it get rid of cellulite?

Liz: No. Hair. You’ll never have to buy razors again.

Ann: Is it painful?

Liz: Well, yes. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. But, no more razors ever.

Ann: Where can I find one?

Liz: Target.

He hits the remote again and the girls pause.

Prof: It’s now 23.2 minutes into the conversation and they have not mentioned men once. They have also not ordered yet. But, they have analyzed their hair removal habits. I did learn something here. My girlfriend has her chin waxed. This new info leaves me feeling violated, lied to. The other thing I learned is that they can diagnose each others ailments. Keep in mind neither of these women holds an advanced degree. It’s fascinating. Take a look.

He it’s the remote again and the girls come to life.

Liz: See it right here?

She points to a spot on her neck and moves so that Ann can get a closer look.

Ann: That? It’s probably hormones. I wouldn’t worry about it. Are you drinking enough water?

Liz: You’re probably right. I’ve been so hormonal lately…

He hits the remote again, embarrassed. The girls freeze mid sentence.

Prof: I’ve been telling her not to worry about that spot on her neck for 3 weeks now. All her friend had to say was, drink more water and she’s over it. How is that possible? Honestly, I feel like Jane Goodall with the apes.

He hits the remote again. And the girls come to life.

Liz: How was your date last night?

Ann: It was alright. We had dinner and saw a movie. I don’t think he’s “the one”.

Liz: Why?

Ann: He has a shaved head.

Liz: Oh, I’m so sorry.

Ann: Are you still dating that professor?

Liz: Yes.

Ann: How’s it going?

Liz: He shaved his beard.

Ann: Finally.

Liz: I know. The only problem is, now, he looks like he’s 12. And the guys at the college have started calling him…

The Professor, increasingly embarrassed quickly, hits the remote again so as not to give away this embarrassing detail.

Prof: So they’ve moved to analyzing the hair removal rituals of their male counterparts. I can’t believe she thinks I look like a kid. Granted, the beard did age me a tiny bit but she told me that she loved my whole face. Ok. (refers to notes) So far we’ve seen that it generally goes from colors to fashion to target to hair removal to mens’ hair removal to this last part all before ordering lunch.

He hits the remote again and the girls come back to life.

Liz: What are you going to order?

Ann: I’m so hungry. Maybe the pasta.

Liz: That sounds good but I’m trying to avoid white flour.

Ann: Did you watch the biggest loser last night?

He hits the remote again and the girls pause.

Prof: For the record she does watch that show. Actually, she fast forwards to the end and then cries for half an hour. I just don’t get it.

The Professor presses the remote.

Liz: Here’s my question, why must guys always watch sports?

Ann: I don’t know, why?

Liz: No, I’m really asking. I mean even when we find something to watch together, he always has to hold the remote and at every commercial, he switches back to espn.

Ann: That is weird. Maybe he’s a little OCD.

Liz: Don’t I look capable of operating a remote?

Professor hits the remote again and the girls freeze. He is flustered and trying hard to compose himself.

Prof: I AM NOT! That’s what remotes are for, ease of use when changing channels. And there is nothing wrong with sports. It’s healthy competition. It’s survival of the fittest. It’s what separates us from the animals. And while we’re at it, why is a female’s refrigerator filled with low fat diet food? Tofu, yogurt, non-fat mayonnaise… What is the point of living longer if you are forced to live on soybean substitutes and diet coke? (remembering his notes) At this point in my research, I’m not even sure that men and women can co-exist peacefully for more than a few hours at a time. And, perhaps, the richest source of data…

He presses the remote.

Ann: So, why are you still with him?

Liz: Oh, I don’t know… He did the funniest thing the other day.

Ann: What’s that?

Liz: He moved my car for me after we unloaded the groceries. We were out of yogurt. Anyway, he came in with this really concerned look on his face and said… Muffin.

Ann: He calls you, Muffin?

Liz: Only when no one’s around. He said, “Muffin, how long has the check engine light been on in your car?”

Ann: Well, that’s romantic.

Liz: It gets better. He proceeded to explain that when the oil light comes on you must stop the car immediately …

The Professor composes himself enough to hit the remote, pausing them mid thought.

Prof: You would think this sort of thing would be common knowledge! If you take care of your car, it’ll take care of you. And do you know what she said to me? “That’s what you’re here for!” Like I’m her personal auto-mechanic. In conclusion, while our findings aren’t complete, I’m fairly confident that ultimately we will discover that female conversations are undecipherable. Period.

He’s made his point and while shuffling his papers, he bumps or drops the remote to the floor. The girls come to life.

Liz: But then, the next day, he gave my car a complete check-up and washed it. It was so sweet of him. He doesn’t know it yet, but Thursday night I’m going to make him Pepperoni Calzones, his favorite, and watch a Mythbusters marathon with him. It’s so cute. He loves explaining the science to me. He’s a really, really smart guy.

Ann: Aww…

Prof stops the projector. He’s had an epiphany.

Prof: (Out loud but to himself) She totally gets me! (Then, realizing the audience is still there.) Perhaps, we will have to re-evaluate our data. I think there may be a few factors I have yet to consider.

Help Wanted

I’ve been reading through Julia Cameron’s book, “The Right to Write”.  One of the exercises is to list all the jobs you’ve held. I didn’t think this would be hard one until I actually started the list. I stopped at 30 thinking if I kept going, no one would believe me. Then, as I read back through the list, I was wondering if this list makes me look un-employable… or inept… or ridiculous. Julia says that it’s impossible to be boring and honest at the same time.

So, here it is.  A list of the Jobs I’ve held.  In no particular order.

1. Babysitter

2. Grocery bagger/ Checker

3. Coffee server/ egg poacher (cooking not stealing) /orange juice squeezer

4. Usher/ Ticket taker

5. Towel Girl/ Pool Cleaner/ Water Aerobics instuctor

6. Student

7. Customer Service Rep/ Catalog order processor

8. Hotel Audio Visual Supervisor/ Miracle worker/ McGuyver

9. Wedding Coordinator (still giving me nightmares)

10. Back ground Actor (ghost whisperer, Grey’s Anatomy, Gilmore Girls, Greys Anatomy…

11. House sitter

12. Closet Organizer

13. Casting Assistant/ Gopher/ Producers Assistant

14. Audio Book Producer/ Director

15. Camp Counselor

16. Wedding Photographer

17. Article Writer

18. Peer Counselor

19. Surf Jewelry Sales Rep

20. Salon Receptionist/ hair sweeper (gross, only lasted 2 weeks)

21. Card Printer

22. Youth Leader/ small group leader/ student government cabinet

23. Guidance Counselor

24. Staples copy center supervisor (it’s as bad as it sounds)

25. Restaurant Hostess

26. Nordstrom Stock Girl

27. Administrative assistant/ Professors assistant

28. Home movie editor

29. Knitting Instructor

30. Bridesmaid

Maybe I should find something I would actually stick with!

Nice

I’ve been doing some writing about the culture shock of Los Angeles. This is the true story of my 2nd day as a Los Angeles resident:

 

On my 2nd day as a resident of Los Angeles I was told that I would never make it as a writer in Hollywood. His reasoning: “You’re too nice. People like you, writers like you, never last in a place like this.” He nearly choked on the word “nice”, his gravely voice unaccustomed to positive words. According this guy, “nice” was a negative, a weakness, something that should be surgically removed like a gal bladder, not necessary and sometimes fatal. In his thinking, “nice” negated talent and drive and made any sort of contractual negotiations impossible, which is a death sentence for writers who wanted to avoid becoming homeless. His speech was heavily peppered with expletives, euphemisms, football metaphors and huge vocabulary words that proved his Ph.D. in Linguistics. I had always wondered what an advanced degree in linguistics would get you. There he was, burnt out Hollywood screenwriter, teaching undergrad English for the health insurance and the promise of a steady paycheck, after years of living hard in the fast lane.

He never missed an opportunity to rant about his disdain for Los Angeles, the traffic and air quality, the Hollywood system itself, his tasteless agent and ungrateful sons and an alarmingly long list of ex-wives. He took pleasure in reminding the class that Los Angeles is not only the movie capital of the world, it’s also the porn capital of the world. For this reason alone, we should all go back to where ever it is we came from before Los Angeles can do anymore damage than it already had.

Within the first 15 minutes of meeting him, he asked us to leave, run for our lives while we are all still relatively “normal”. This was my welcome to Los Angeles. I was told it would be best if I left.

After turning in my first assignment, he collected our homework and shuffled through the pile, digging out mine. He read it out loud to the whole class and proceeded to ridicule every single line. Those sitting closest to me started shrinking away from me, thankful it was happening to someone else and fearful because I had looked promisingly competent when I walked in and sat down among them. What would he do to theirs when the time came? By the time he had finished ripping me a new one, I had realized two things. First, I would not be making any lifelong friends in this class. He had single handedly taken care of that for me. Secondly, in his own way, he was criticizing a piece of writing that he felt was worth spending time on. It was just hard to hear over all the cursing and insults. The assignment had been to write a page, introducing ourselves to him. How could there possibly be a wrong answer? In that moment, I decided that I would not, could not, take this lying down. He scribbled something on my paper and handed it back. I took it like I was being dealt a serious hand of poker. He was waiting to see if I would react, to see if I would give up and go home. I glanced quickly at the “A” at the top of my homework and back at him. He cackled and moved to the paper at the top of the pile continuing his bitter diatribe but the class was over and everyone was racing for the door.

The next class, I came in and sat down in the middle of the room. Not one person sat next to me. I’m not kidding. Everyone sat hugging the walls and avoiding eye contact with me. I had become the outcast, the leper. As I left that night, I turned to him and said, “See you next week.” And then added quickly, “I’m not afraid of you.” I moved quickly toward the door because we both knew that I was, in fact, terrified. I’m really not much of an actor. His laugh followed me out into the dark parking lot.

Two weeks later, he still thought I was far too nice for Hollywood and I was enduring his speeches because I needed the grade in order to graduate. It was a Tuesday afternoon, leaving work to sit in traffic to make it to class on time. He called me on my cell phone. He was in the hospital and wanted me to collect the homework and cancel class that week. His voice was different, slightly less gravely, slightly weaker, slightly stoned. I agreed. He thanked me. Maybe that was the difference in his voice, he sounded grateful… and stoned.

I remember thinking, as I hung up, “Please God, don’t let him die before he can give me a final grade. I really need to be done with school.” Not my proudest moment. Especially when I found out that congestive heart failure is what put him in the hospital.

He returned to class a week later, same old grouch. This time he fished my paper out of the stack and read it quickly to himself before saying, “Don’t waste my time with your first paragraph or the last for that matter. I may not have that much time left. Just get to the (Insert expletive here) point already. Do us all a favor and spit it out so we can get on with our lives.”

I chose to take this as his way of saying, “Nicely done.” As I left that night, still friendless, he asked if I had ever read “Dandelion Wine” by Ray Bradbury. I hadn’t. He said that my writing was sort of reminiscent of Bradbury’s memoir before launching into the story of how he and Bradbury had become friends long ago. He described Bradbury as a saint that he prayed to, hoping for some sort of redemption. He described himself as a loathsome sinner in comparison that only his Grandmother, “God rest her soul”, could love.

“Does this explain the trail of ex-wives?”

He laughed and praised his Grandmother for her faith in God and unfailing love for him. He may have been waiting for me to tell him things would be all right and ward off death for another night. I really wanted to hear more about Ray Bradbury.

“Really? You and Bradbury?”

“Oh yeah, our boys used to play together in the yard while he and I sat in his studio reading each other’s work. He still lives in the same house off Pico Avenue…”

I was no longer afraid of him. I could see that clearly, he was afraid of dying. He was facing his own mortality for the first time and when his life was on the line, his relationships were the only thing of real value. He knew from my writing that I believed in an all powerful, all knowing, all loving God who came to save us from ourselves. This guy believed these things were certainly real for me, “the new to L.A., nice girl” but not for him.

“No one is out of God’s reach, even you. It’s one of God’s main characteristics.” is all I could think to say.

Now he was ending his classes with a remark about how he might be dead before our next class meeting. This never happened. God does answer prayer, even my selfish ones from time to time. After every class we would end up talking about his life. I began asking him questions. I’d moved on from Bradbury. He had been on the set of “Goonies”, wrote “the Mask” the one with Cher not Jim Carrey. He and Nick Nolte used to be drinking buddies and he met with Jimmy Stewart just before he died. Jimmy Stewart. This was far more exciting.

He described himself as someone who lived hard, had too much fun and was currently paying the price. He described himself as someone who was used up and had very little to show for it, a couple ungrateful sons, a money grubbing tasteless agent, a trail of ex-wives whose houses he was still paying for and a body that was falling apart.

“You still have enough to rip apart my work.”

He laughed, “Your work is sharp.”

“I know.”

On the night of the final exam, still friendless except for the professor with congestive heart failure, I turned in my essay and collected my things to leave and he followed me outside. He shook my hand.

“It’s been a pleasure.” He said as he lit a cigarette, “You are one of a kind. It’s just so rare to meet women like you in this hell-hole. And I wanted to thank you for being in this class and for helping when I was on my deathbed…” Just as I was starting to get embarrassed and trying not to breathe his smoke, he continued, “I still think you should leave. Los Angeles is no place for you. Los Angeles eats people like you, artists like you, for breakfast.”

“Godspeed to you, too.”

I walked to my car and sat in traffic all the way home, clutching an “A” in my hot little hands and I realized something bizarre. The professor with congestive heart failure did more for my writing in an intersession course than all the years of English teachers who handed back my paper with a “nice job”. He asked more from me than I thought I was capable of giving creatively and he never let me skate through. He questioned every word I wrote and I fought hard for every sentence. He made me a stronger, more confident writer. I never expected it from a guy who started the first night of class with, “get the hell out of Los Angeles while we still had a shred of talent and or decency”. Sometimes, nice girls do finish first.

A Girl’s got to start somewhere

Last Month I participated in an open mic night with the rest of my creative writing class. I already posted the article… Just after the War with Indians. But today, I got an email with a review of each of our articles from the editor of the San Gabriel Poetry Quarterly.

 

Here it is:

 

Third, Amy bared her soul in her composition “Just After The War With The Indians”, an analysis of her maternal heritage featuring historical quotation “people traveled on foot”, incredulous discovery of an old gravestone depicting her grandmother as a “capable wife” and her own self-revelation “I have never in my life made pancakes”…there is indeed “no map for this!”

 

I didn’t feel like I was bearing my soul but it was kinda fun. And it’s always nice when a complete stranger notices, right? I guess I’ll keep writing.

I can’t believe I’m posting about the Bachelor

The Bachelor meets Bonnie Hunt

After the War with the Indians

The following is the essay I wrote in the creative writing class I just finished:

Personally, I’ve found maps to be problematic for a few reasons. First, once unfolded they are difficult to refold and fit back in the glove box for future use. Secondly, maps assume that I am planning on staying within the lines. A map can only describe the landscape to a certain extent. The rest must be discovered, unearthed with our own small hands. There is a certain story I’ve been told ever since I was very young about a man and a woman, children and wagon trains… the family I come from and the maps they drew for themselves.

It was just after the war with the Indians. Virinda said “Yes” to James. She took his hand. Together they led a wagon train, built the first wagon road around Mt. Rainer, built the first hotel at the hot springs where they settled and raised eleven children. More than 150 years later, I’m told that people traveled many miles on foot, horseback and wagon for her excellent pancakes. Her picture captures her, sturdy and efficient in her calico apron. She looks like she needs a manicure and volumizing conditioner. She looks like she’s had eleven children.

Her family grew and established a life in Yelm Prairie, Washington. James and their sons built the hotel and named it Longmire Hot Springs. The writer in me can’t seem to let this one go. If I were there I might have tried to think of something more original… longmireville… longmireopolis? The men became guides to the surrounding trails which they also named. The very first cabin they built still stands today. A tourist website advertises that every August a group of locals perform a “Settler’s Re-enactment” where they dress up like James and Virinda and act out what life must have been like all those years ago. Nearby, her gravestone stands as sturdy as her picture. It reads: “Charitable Neighbor, Devout Christian, Loving Mother, Capable Wife.”

I can’t help but be offended by the word “capable”. Is that really what all her work adds up to? Excellent pancakes, eleven children, living out of a wagon with the very real risk of wild animals, inclement weather and thieves, establishing a town where there once was only wilderness and she gets the word “Capable” carved in stone? This is a stark contrast to her husbands’ epitaph. James has eleven lines describing his accomplishments. Apparently he was a naturalist, humanitarian, explorer and peace keeper. He was a Lieutenant in the war with the Indians and held a seat in the State Legislature.

I understand that they lived in a different time. When I Google her name, I only find that she stood beside James, made great pancakes and named a nearby valley, “Paradise” because she thought the wild flowers were heavenly. When she said yes to James and began their journey west, after the war with the Indians, what where they setting out to find? I can’t help but wonder if there were days that she wanted to turn around and go home to Indiana. Were there days that took her breath away? Were there days that she held it together so that the 30 wagons following them would not leave them alone out there? After months in that wagon, were there days that she resented James and this crazy pursuit? Were there days that she held James together and reminded him what all this work was for? I wonder if she thought she was capable enough. Did she write home to her Mama, “Don’t worry about us, we’re fine. Luckier than most. This rain just pours and the kids are growing like weeds and this place could bring us to our knees. There is no map for this. By the way, thanks for the pancake recipe. It’s a big hit out here in these uncharted territories.”

I had always hoped that I had descended from graceful, gorgeous women. Is that wrong? In reality, I descended from a very long line of adventurers and exaggerators. Every time my father tells this story, it gets bigger. There is an account of James and Virinda spending a night in an ice cave with only the steam from the Hot Springs to keep them from freezing to death. These stories tend to up the ante on any “when I was your age we walked to school barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways” stories.

Now, I can add capable to this list. Adventurous, exaggerating and capable. Honestly, I will never be responsible for exploring an as yet uncharted piece of earth from the business end of a team of oxen. I have no fear of Indians but I must confess I have never in my life made pancakes. When I am faced with risk or change or danger and on the days when I fear that I am not capable enough, I begin to wonder if my life would be different if I actually learned the art of perfect pancakes or survival in an ice cave. It’s probably not about pancakes at all. She was survived by her story. She lived to tell her story to her children. They lived to tell it to their children. Down the generations, through history, I am capable of standing to tell her story again and make her history my own. I will probably exaggerate. I will probably start with, “Just after the war with the Indians…”

Welcome to the future

Something struck me about Obama’s inauguration speech… The part about people remembering us more for what we built than what we destroyed. I’m looking forward to what tomorrow might bring.

My Not So Secret Recipes

My favorite thing about the holidays is the gift giving. Really it’s the gift making. This year I made boxes filled with hand made soap and hand knit washclothes. I also made teddy bears for my niece and nephew.

 

This site has way too many ideas. It’s also the place where I got the recipe for homemade soap. Crafts | Gift Ideas | DIY Projects – Welcome to Craftbits.com!

Finally, the wash clothes came from my very favorite knitting blog: the purl bee. These are a great gift for any occasion.

This site is where I got the Bear pattern. Benji Bear When I googled teddy bear pattern, some crazy things came up. People take their bears very seriously. But this is a fairly simple pattern that actually turns into a cute little teddy bear. 

 

Happy Giving in 2009!

From Mom

This afternoon, my Mom emailed this to me:

It’s a New Year

I keep playing that Death Cab for Cutie song… It’s a new year… Here in Pasadena, we mark the new year with a little parade you may have heard of. That’s right, it’s the Rose Parade. This was my Third New Years in Pasadena. I moved in December 30th, 2006. 

The Parade presents a logistical nightmare for the residents in Old Town… parking, traffic, crazy pedestrians. Did I mention the noise? I could hear the drumming start at 7:30 on New Years Day. There are news helecopters covering the scene from the air and the Good Year Blimp even shows up. Colorado blvd. becomes a stadium starting at noon on new years eve. Can you imagine?

I sound like I’m complaining. I should rephrase. It’s pretty crazy around here this weekend. But New Years here in Pasadena marks another sort of anniversary for me. Amie’s Big Move. What comes next? I guess we’ll have to stay tuned.

For now, Rose Parade pictures are on my facebook page… but here are a few: