True story. As I sit at my kitchen table, right now, my phone is charging, my camera battery is charging, my ipod is charging and this very laptop is also charging. If your lights are flickering, it’s probably my fault. Have you ever had one of those days (weeks, months, years) when all you can do is sigh and say to yourself, “Give me a break!“

I’m tired to say the least. I don’t know anyone who isn’t. But Christmas is coming and there is no escaping it. I spent this weekend close to home… and leaning into it instead of trying to ignore it. I’m almost done with all the Christmas knitting projects that I undertook this year. To be honest I started back around Halloween and then the car accident gave me lots of laying on the couch time that I would not have had otherwise.

Yesterday, I went for a long walk in the cold and finished a knitted christmas gift and watched “Dan in Real Life.” It’s probably one of my favorite movies. Today, I went to church and afterwards had breakfast with the girls at Hamlet where we hatch plans to solve all the worlds problems. Then, we wandered around Williams-Sonoma and looked at all the things we would make if we didn’t have to work for a living and our kitchens could actually hold all these crazy gadgets.

I came home and turned on Pandora to Christmas music. Then I decided my small fireplace and mantle should be in a magazine. I guess this blog will have to do for now:

My version of building a fire.

Cranberries, Glitter, and Beads

It’s sort of minimalist but it’s mine. After that, I pulled out my nifty apple core-er and made an apple pie. Last time I did this I forgot to sugar the apples before putting it in the oven. I brought it to the Thanksgiving Potluck at work… It went over surprisingly well, although, somewhat sour. This time, I think I got it exactly right. Sugar and everything.

Apple pie is best for breakfast.

It’s cooling as I write. Yum.

So, that was my weekend. I am breathing easier now. And my trusty laptop is the only thing left recharging.

Maybe wielding a pairing knife over 8 granny smith apples forces you to be more in the moment… Maybe the smell of pie baking and warming the house helps me pay attention to myself… Maybe seeing the light at the end of a long list of projects makes me have more confidence in the other long lists I have yet to tackle… I think I will save that for Christmas Break, only two weeks away…

So this is the Statement of Purpose that I submitted to USC…

I was four steps into the crosswalk, on my way to deliver paperwork to the registrars’ office, when a car made a left turn and sent me flying. It happened so fast. What I remember is sort of cartoonish and fragmented. It comes to me in flashes and still frames. The first thing I saw was the grill of the Honda. Then, the hood of the small silver car coming closer to my face. From a distance I heard myself screaming and I actually had time to think, “Is that me? It sounds so girly and high pitched. I didn’t know I was capable of making a noise like that.” Blue Sky. Black asphalt. More Blue sky. My bare feet flying over my head. Later I realized that my shoes stayed planted exactly where I had been standing as I flipped through the air, bouncing twice before landing on my left hip and shoulder.

“Get down on the ground!” I had popped back up once I realized that the car had, in fact, stopped. “You were hit by a CAR! Get down on the ground!” Two witnesses came running toward me. I stood there, barefoot, shaking, and very certain that I would not be lying down in the middle of the street ever again. They sat me down on the curb, propping me up against a tree. Someone else went after my shoes and the paperwork that, only moments before, had been my job to deliver. The cops came quickly and took the driver aside while the Paramedics put me in a neck brace, strapped me to a backboard, and loaded me into the ambulance. Once inside the ambulance, the impossibly cute EMT did his job. He kept me talking.

“Can you tell me what happened? Is this where you work?” He was filling out his clipboard and watching me closely for signs of a concussion, “Is this your dream job? What would you do it you could do anything?”

“Are we really having a conversation about my hopes and dreams right now?” “Sure. Why not? What would you do?”

“I want to be a writer.”

“Really? Wow. This will certainly give you good stuff to write about tomorrow, won’t it? Maybe not tomorrow but soon.”

Once inside the emergency room, the Nurses scurried around me checking for signs of internal bleeding, brain swelling, and other fatal things I had not initially thought to worry about.

“Are you a registered organ donor?” the nurse with the clipboard asks.

“What?”

“On your driver’s license, do you have the little pink sticker that says ‘donor’?”

“Yes, why?”

“Do you have a will or living trust of any kind?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Next of kin?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who should we call in the event of your death?”

“Am I going to die today?”

“It’s a formality. I’m following procedure.”

The Doctor hurried in and was briefed by the nurse with the clipboard about my accident. He looked down at me, as I was still immobilized, and said, “Gosh, someone was really looking out for you today. This could’ve ended very differently for you. Do you understand how lucky you are?”

“Well, I’m not finished yet.” Was all I could think to say. I never had any doubts about whether or not I would be able to walk out of the hospital that day blissfully unaware of the pain I would experience in the weeks and months to come. More often than not, it takes facing the risk of life and death to point me in the direction of the things I’ve always wanted but am too afraid to ask for.

I am particularly interested in the integration of faith and storytelling. The way we talk about our lives directly correlates to the size and shape of our lives. I believe that boring stories lead to boring lives and the other way around. My other interest is women’s issues and relationships. More than anything, women love to talk. Stories about what makes us tick as individuals are riveting and undeniably stranger than fiction. My plan for Graduate School is two-fold. I want to write, within the Creative Non-Fiction genre, about the power of storytelling as it relates to finding our identity as individuals and teach others how valuable this sort of self-expression is.

If I were to write a book today, I would title it, “The Art of Exaggeration, How Writing Saved My Life.” Exaggerating is considered a gift in my family. It has always been a prerequisite at the dinner table. Every night, we were expected to tell a story. Not just any story. It had to be a great one. It had to make us all laugh or cry or see the world differently. Laughing was the most fun and actually the hardest part to achieve. My family is one of the toughest audiences I’ve ever encountered. Over the years, I’ve developed a gift for communicating concepts and bringing “High Art” down to earth. Sharing about my own journey as well as the craft of writing and helping others tell the story of their life is the most rewarding kind of life I can think of. Even when my life is on the line and I’m told I can choose anything.

It’s been a while. Studying for and then taking the GRE was more all consuming than I had anticipated. But, It’s finally over. I did live through it. Now that the application has been sent, it’s out of my hands. I hate waiting. I feel like I’ve been waiting a lot lately. Last week I spent a whole day waiting for the Gas Company. Today, I will be on jury duty… waiting for my turn to go home. I know, I know it’s my civic duty… but you know what I’m talking about when you got that summons in the mail.

Actually, the admissions essay really had me stumped for a while. The question was purposely vague. It turned out to be a good exercise. It’s actually 2 different questions that had to be double spaced and fit within 3 to 4 pages. Most writers write whole books about the subject. After much writing and deleting, I came up with a rough draft. Really rough. After sending it off to friends who are smarter and have much better grammer than I, we came up with something that sounded more like me and less like I was trying too hard. Thank you, editors!

Well, here it is:

Describe your development as a writer and as a person of faith:

“Hi, I’m Amie, the wedding coordinator here. Today’s your big day. Congratulations. I’m just going to clip this microphone on you. It goes up high, just under the knot of the tie like so.” I clip the microphone in place and quickly slip the rest of the microphones battery pack into the groom’s breast pocket. “We can hide the rest right in here. It is on, but muted. I am the only one with control of that button. This means you do not need to touch it, just forget it’s there. Please don’t touch it. Only the parts of the ceremony where you are expected to speak will be amplified for everyone to hear.  I promise. I’ll be standing right here the entire time. As soon as it’s over and you walk back down the aisle, I’ll come take this off so that it won’t be in all the pictures. Ok? Any questions?” In two years as a wedding coordinator, I gave this speech to more than four hundred grooms. It sounds like I’m exaggerating. I’m not.

I find one of two things when sliding my hand inside a grooms’ breast pocket. Either it’s hot like a sauna and his heart is thumping like a rabbit or, it’s freezing inside and there is almost no movement at all, which leaves me wanting to check for a pulse while I’m in there.

After giving this speech to one groom in particular, on a hot July afternoon, his face went white. He was one of the cold grooms. As his groomsmen were toasting him with flasks and joking about his last few minutes of freedom he looked down at me and whispered, “This thing doesn’t record thoughts, does it?”

“Of course not. It amplifies them,” I shot back. Maybe it was the extreme heat or the intense stress to get this couple married on time, either way, I had temporarily lost my filter, my patience and this groom looked like he might lose his lunch.

“That was a joke. Obviously it wasn’t funny. Not funny at all. I’m sorry. Why don’t you have a seat,” I waved the minister over and checked my watch. “Would you sit with our groom for a minute while I get him some water? He looks like he might pass out.” I hurried toward the kitchen for a bottle of water and a minute to myself. I reached in the fridge, took a few deep breaths and grabbed the water for our faint groom. As I hesitated to leave the air conditioning for the heat of the lawn where the guests were taking their seats, I asked God a loaded question, “Every groom acts like his wedding is a big surprise, like he was tricked into doing this by a woman who needs this marriage more than him. Are you this nervous about me?”

My faith came at an early age. My mother became a Christian in the delivery room, waiting for me to be revived. We were both given life that day. My father followed suit a few months later and as a child of five, I prayed the sinners’ prayer from my bunk bed. Secretly, I’ve always associated salvation with the smell of clean sheets. As a wedding coordinator, the concept of the Church as the Bride of Christ was not lost on me. My problem was I hated weddings. After four hundred nervous grooms, my concept of God was considerably smaller than I’d care to admit.

A few minutes later, I took my place at the audio board, the ceremony began, the bride walked down the aisle and the guests stood up to watch. I kept my eyes on the groom. I watched his pale face flush pink as he realized that she was there for him alone. Somewhere in the middle of “The Wedding March,” I heard God’s voice rushing in like wind in the trees, “I am never nervous. I want this more than you can know. I always have.” If salvation smells like clean sheets, redemption sounds like the “Wedding March” and this is why I write.

I’ve been writing ever since I could wield a crayon. It’s how I make sense of my funny little world. Writing reminds me that the earth is round and I am on it, not the center of it. As a child, writing was my escape, a way of using big words when my own small voice didn’t feel like enough. As an adolescent, writing allowed me the space to ask those angry questions of God and search for His answers. Now, as an adult, writing is my way of recording the faithfulness of God and giving others the space and vocabulary to tell their own stories. The Bible tells us that our language has the power to give life or take it away. In either case, the ways we choose to express ourselves have the power to change the world. I plan on being a part of that change for a long time.

So, here I am. I climb up mountains. I run down sidewalks. I walk to work. I sit in traffic. I knit. I take pictures. I plan girls’ nights and art days. I cook, although cooking is used loosely, it’s more like inventing. I instigate the fun at church, at work, at home with friends. I email. I blog. I pray. I paint furniture. I sweep the floors. I lock my doors. I speak. I listen. I read. I write everything down. I make myself at home. I’m learning to love. I have issues. I am a work in progress. I continually try to do more than two things at once. Sometimes this is calamitous. Sometimes it’s genius. Always, it’s an adventure.

This adventure has not come without a fight. Balancing out what I understood to be God’s call on my life, my love of storytelling, with what the church recognized as ladylike behavior has been a dangerous and sometimes lonely road. Over the years, one thing has remained constant and clear, God’s love for his people is not an exaggeration. A few years back, I wrote down this prayer. I find myself returning to it again and again.

“Father, the business of living out my faith is a call to action, not to mention, a gift. And you are taken with this chase. You pursue me, hem me in and there is nothing in me dark enough that you aren’t already intimately acquainted with. Even when I fall on my face and learn my lessons the ‘Karate Kid’ way: I say, ‘Make me strong’ and you say, ‘Gee, my car needs waxing. Here’s how I like it, Wax on, wax off…’

Even when I stop sleeping and proceed to wonder why I’m so exhausted. Even when I ask too many questions and don’t listen to your answers. Even when I start thinking that you can’t possibly be right about me. Even when I expect the whole wide world from everyone, including myself, and nothing from you. Still you are unchanging. Still you are wooing me over miles and miles of unpaved roads and where it all leads, only you know. And yet, against all common sense, I’m still breathing and fully aware that even my breath is a gift from you. In you, I have been given everything I could possibly need. Like the Psalm says, ‘nothing is beyond you.’ Even me.”

I’m not exaggerating.

The following is the promo video for this year’s SHE Retreat weekend. This is sort of a working draft, but I think it captures the theme. After all the fires here in Los Angeles, Catch Your Breath takes on a whole new meaning.

I was sitting in Chapel yesterday when they read from Isaiah who says over and over again, Do not be afraid, I am with you and I will never let you go. That’s my own paraphrase. I took a deep breath after I heard those words. I may not feel like I have much control, if any, of the things that come my way, but I know WHO does.

ENJOY

I was doing an image search today for a project but got completely sidetracked when I came across these:

This one made me literally laugh out loud:

I can’t seem to figure out why it’s showing up twice. But no wonder it never feels like there are enough hours in the day and there are always 200 projects on my plate. It dawned on me, We (females)  MAKE IT LOOK TOO EASY!

Lately I’ve been listening to Patty Griffin. Her voice is velvet when she sings of leaving and returning home.

Today I opened all the windows in my tiny home and made a mess in my ongoing attempt to refurbish an old dresser. I sat on the floor, set my hands to work and remembered how the smell of paste wax and saw dust takes me home. Always. My strongest memories of that old house we grew up in, on the top of that hill, was under construction, being repaired or getting a new coat of paint. The house was always growing and changing. I guess we all were.

I have this recurring dream that I wake up in the morning and walk down the hall only to find a door that I had never noticed before. I turn the knob to find a completely empty new room. I love this dream. Other dreams, not so much. I’ve been finding that some of my dreams race out past my own life span. This is problematic. It’s really hard to fathom a world that we can never be a part of. I hope I’m not the only one who thinks these sorts of thoughts.  Did Amelia Earhart understand the legacy her passion and drive would leave? How could she have a spare moment to think such a thought, what with all her travel planning…  Wasn’t it Eleanore Roosevelt that said, “Well behaved women rarely make history”? In the movies, these women are portrayed with wild, short hair and a strong jaw. Usually, the focus of the story is how many men are telling her that she can’t, and just before the credits role, she does. To everyone’s astonishment, she does.

I went to see Julie & Julia yesterday. It’s comforting to think that maybe the reason Julia Child took up cooking in the first place is that she loved it and she needed something to do- something to bring meaning to her days.

I have these little meetings with myself. I take minutes and pass motions and vote about the action items. I always seem to get my way. This works out well for me.

For example: What color to paint the dresser?

What bills get paid with this paycheck?

What will my next knitting project be?

What will I be when I grow up?

The truth is, I’ve known the answer to that last one for quite some time. Maybe all my life, at least as long as I’ve been able to hold a crayon. I will tell stories.

The trouble is, I keep bringing back the question just to make sure. This question always leads to clarifying questions: Don’t writers, um, write alone? If I say yes to writing, am I committing myself to a life of solitary confinement? Why would I say yes to that? And, there is something I’ve been noticing: it’s not enough to write ABOUT life… you actually have to GET a life. I have trouble balancing the two. I’ve been noticing, I really only work at 2 different speeds. A full tilt breathless gallup and a restless sleep. I seem to be lacking a cruising altitude.

On the bright side, Patty Griffin is promising to “stay by me when it don’t come easy.”

Thanks Patty.

I know, I know… It’s been a very long time. I forgot I wrote this one a while back. It’s a work in progress

I’m not making any promises but I’m pretty sure there is more where this came from.

S.O.B.

One day, out of the blue, in the middle of my run I started having a terrible time breathing. Terrible enough to make me stop and walk myself home. I took a shower and the hot steam helped momentarily but I felt like my chest was filling up, like I was coming down with a cold. My roommate gave me a decongestant and I went to bed. I woke up three times that night, gasping for breath. I was having dreams that I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. When my alarm went off in the morning I was exhausted and my chest still hurt but I got myself to work. I had trouble breathing all day long. I noticed in Chapel, I couldn’t stand and sing at the same time. I called my doctor who couldn’t fit me in until the next morning. Honestly I wasn’t all that worried until the girls at work started speculating about what it could be. One of them called her husband, A med student at USC, he was concerned about the chest pain and suggested that I go to the emergency room. I wasn’t convinced. I went home and called my friend, Stephanie, the nurse, she heard my voice and made me promise that I would go to urgent care: Immediately! She told me it was probably a collapsed lung.

“It’s easy to fix,” she explained, “they just re-inflate it”.

Now, I was freaked. I called my Mom to let her know that I was going to Urgent Care. She offered to come over but she lives 2 hours away. The emergency room is less than a quarter of a mile from my house. It didn’t seem worth the 2 hours through LA traffic. I promised to call soon. I checked in and told them breathlessly the whole story. The nurse promised to have a doctor see me next because of my obvious not breathing problem. Meanwhile, my phone was ringing, friends calling to check on me and make sure I was still breathing. An hour and a half later, I was still in the waiting room, still on the phone, still trying with all my might to breathe like a normal human being. Finally, I was called by a doctor. We spoke for a moment and he used his good bedside manner voice. He listened to my chest and kept telling me that he thought my lungs sounded really clear. I was nearly hyperventilating at this point. He scribbled on my chart before standing again to check my sinuses. This is when I got a good look at my chart.

In big, bold letters he had written: S.O.B. I couldn’t help but be offended.

Then he was asking if maybe this could be anxiety since I seemed to be in perfect health. I was doing my best to breathe and remain calm. I was not successful at this. I see that know. But I managed to explain that this is not normal, it’s also not anxiety. Then I let him know that he needed to come up with a more viable diagnosis because I could not go home like this. I needed him to fix this. Quickly. He agreed to give me a chest x-ray. I felt a little better about this. But, when the x-ray came back clear, I felt worse. He explained that a clear x-ray was good news. Again he tried to tell me this was anxiety and that I should go home and sleep it off. Again, I pleaded with him in my breathless way, to fix me and that I knew what anxiety was and this was not it. I didn’t tell him how unprofessional this comment on my chart was. Shouldn’t charts be used for the facts about the case and what should be done in response? Not the frustration you are experiencing towards me as a person, even if you are missing LOST because of me.

By now it’s 8pm and I have been here for 3 hours. I’m worse than when I came in and he’s telling there’s nothing wrong with me. I go on about how my chest hurts and he decided to give me an EKG. The technician comes in and straps me down and plugs me in and leaves me to put my clothes back on. The doctor comes back. He shows me the EKG printout and the “blip” that shouldn’t be there. This time, he said that he wanted to keep me here for a while, take some blood and run more tests to rule out any cardiac episodes. He used the words, “Cardiac Episode” on me. I’d never heard that word except on Television. All because of a “funny” EKG. He wasn’t laughing. Suddenly the SOB on my chart was the last thing on my mind. My entire life was flashing before my eyes as I put on the hospital gown and was helped onto the gurney and they strapped heart monitors and IV’s on me.

I’m not a parent but I would imagine there are certain text messages a parent would not want to receive, especially from their children. Children who live 2 hours away. For example: “Mom- my ekg looks funny. They are keeping me for more tests.” The nurse drew the first round of blood and my friend Debbie came to sit with me, together we waited for the results. Debbie updating her facebook status with news about my breathing,

Now it’s 10pm and I’ve been there for 5 hours and I still can’t breathe. They still don’t know what’s wrong with me. Around 11 pm, the Doctor returns to tell me that the first round of tests came back normal and that I probably did not have a heart attack. I see Debbie updating the facebook world, meanwhile I’m watching the numbers rise and fall on the heart monitor, terrible television and worse commercials and still struggling to breathe. A little while later, the doctor comes back and tells me that he wants me to try a breathing treatment. He couched it with phrases like, “It probably won’t work”. I had very little confidence in him at this point. The SOB remark was returning to my memory. The nurse entered with a device that looked like a humidifier/ bong and I was made to breathe deeply into it for 15 minutes. Within 5 minutes, I was breathing easier. Debbie had been keeping a close eye on me from the hard plastic chair beside my bed, between facebook updates and phone calls I hear her say, “Amie, you’re breathing!” The second set of tests didn’t come back until 2 am. Meanwhile the facebook world had become my web MD, texting in all the things they thought it could be. Sweet, sure. Helpful? No. My favorite: It could be a sack of fluid around her heart. What am I supposed to do with that info? I was finally released, given an inhaler and told to follow up with my primary care doctor and that I did not have a heart condition but I might be allergic to something.

It took 8 hours in urgent care for me to learn 2 things. First, Los Angeles had given me asthma. Second, S.O.B. also stands for shortness of breath.

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.

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!

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.