Nothing new...and yet? Everything.

This morning at about one o'clock in the morning, I finished reading Rob Lowe's memoir "Stories I Only Tell My Friends". It's a book I bought for my mom for Christmas after I saw her thumbing through it at a bookstore this summer. I wasn't sure if she was just curious or really interested so I thought I'd surprise her. So this week I picked up the book to take a look at it myself and instantly I was hooked.

Hooked. I couldn't put it down. I finished it in less than two days. I was fascinated by his stories, the way he told them, the life he's had and all that I didn't know about his career, and even that which I did know. Basically I knew him as Sam Seaborn, and now as a character on my beloved Parks and Recreation. But it was so interesting to read about his experience, his path, his choices. And to hear him own them all and cherish them all.

As I turned the last page in the book early this morning I immediately wanted to put my fingers on the keyboard. I love when that happens. When I see a movie or watch an episode of television or read something that makes me want to write. To tell great stories too. And that's exactly what this book did. Inspire me.

As most of you know, my journey as a writer has not been short. And it has not been easy. I've been at it for a long time. And it's taken me so many places and taught me so much. And yet, there are times, when I find myself wanting to stop. Wanting to not so much quit writing as quit the pursuit of professional writing. I realize I am probably not alone in this. But I like to think I'm different because well, I don't quit. I can't. To me, there is not a Plan B. There is no other option.

A few weeks ago after a writers' group meeting I found myself surrounded by four fabulous friends and I burst into tears. We'd been talking about jobs and money and how to keep going, how to get that break, any break, that we all so desperately chase. And these were not people I had ever really cried in front of before (sans Angela, of course). I hadn't meant to cry. I hadn't meant to let it all out. But I did and I felt stupid and yet, comforted immediately. My friends smiled and hugged me and told me that it was all going to work out. And then they called me the next day and told me all the same things again (in fact, two friends called at the same time!).

And since that day a few weeks ago I've been trying to figure things out in my head. Trying to make a plan. Trying to decide what's next. But really? There's nothing new in the works for 2012. I have no grand scheme. I have no other options. This is it. I want to be in the show. I want to do this. So this is what I need to be doing. I will head home to Los Angeles in January and I will polish my portfolio and I will do this. Because this is all there is. And yet? While there's really nothing new, there's so much possibility. So very much. So much I can't even imagine it all. And that's freakin' awesome.

So thanks, Rob Lowe, for sharing your stories. Thanks for reminding me that it's all up to me to pursue my dreams. No one else will do this for me. No one else will push me like I will push me. And so, off I go...

Love at Christmastime

As I sit here typing I'm looking down at my right hand where there's a sparkly new diamond ring. Yes, on my right hand. The ring is gorgeous and fits me perfectly and yes, it's new to me. But technically it was new in 1941. It was a gift given to my Grandma MacDonald on her sixteenth birthday by her father. He died shortly after that. For as long as I can remember, the gold ring with the two diamonds set on a diagonal sat on her hand. And now it's on mine.

My mother gave Angela and I both one of Grandma's diamond rings. And to me, it means so much more than the weight of the precious metals and stones. To me it means she's with me. Her life and her stories and her smile are right here, close to my heart.

It's been a long year, missing Grandma. We celebrated our last Christmas with her on December 26, 2010. She was so sick for so long and then when she passed away in March it was a blessing for her but misery for those of us she left behind. I believe in Heaven, and I know she's up there with her husband and her son and her sister and her brother and her parents and all those who have gone before but it's still so hard.

Two days ago we, the grandkids and our parents, sorted through her Christmas ornaments. And I only teared up once (which is more than I can say happened during the writing of this blog). It was a joyous night being reminded of all the good times, all the laughs, all the happiness. And Grandma was right there with us. In the twinkle of the bulbs and the smile I'd see on my mom's or my aunt's face when they'd recount a story of Christmas long before most of us were around.

Losing someone is never easy. Remembering them never is either. But I am so thankful for those who remember her with me. For the ways in which she is with me every single day and will continue to be.

She loved Christmas. She loved holidays and everyone being together. And we loved her. So this Christmas has been the perfect celebration of all of that (she types, wiping tears off the keyboard).

Merry Christmas everyone. It's a celebration of love. One that goes on all year and all our lives.

Holding it together

The advent devotion I wrote for today that appears in the Hollywood United Methodist devotional booklet:  

Hebrews 1:1-4

Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being, and he sustains all things by his powerful word. When he had made purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high, having become as much superior to angels as the name he has inherited is more excellent than theirs.

Sometimes I feel like everything’s held together by that frosting you use on gingerbread houses. Yes, from the outside, it looks like cement. It holds on the red hots and the gumdrops and the M & Ms while keeping your cookie walls standing upright but add a little too much water or not enough powdered sugar and the whole bowl is lost and nothing will stay where it should. And sometimes I feel like life is that way.

Add a little (or a lot) of stress, a job change or loss, a strained friendship or broken relationship, money worries or even a feeling of separation from God and voila! the walls of the gingerbread house that is our life start to crumble and sag. But that’s where this reminder, this passage from Hebrews comes into play. “He holds everything together by what he says – powerful words!” (Hebrews, The Message)

God’s powerful words: he knows what to say to hold everything, including our lives, together. He created us, he created Jesus, he is the reason we celebrate Christmas and Easter and everything else in between. His words are why we are what we are and do what we do. We live to worship him and he will hold us together.

There’s this great book by Max Lucado, Cosmic Christmas, that I read over and over each year about this time. It’s a telling of the Christmas story from the angels’ point of view. But not just the Christmas story – the Christmas war. The fight that took place between good and evil that led, ultimately, to Jesus Christ’s birth. That story, that imagery of a war taking place, gives me hope. God’s words give me hope. Hope that life is worth living and love is worth taking a chance on. Hope that this advent season, as we all prepare for the remembrance of this little baby that God sent as a physical reminder of his love, we will remember not just the stories but the words. And how they are with us all year long, forever and ever, holding us together.

Dear Lord, please help us to hear your words this Christmas season and to be comforted and enriched by them. Amen.

Mom's devotion (guest blogger!)

This is the devotion my mom, Chris Knapp, wrote for the Down Home Devotional put out by Howell First United Methodist Church this advent season:

"The real meaning of Christmas through the eyes of a child"

Christmas was a busy time at our home, gifts to make, presents to wrap, cookies to bake, getting ready for the large group of relatives and friends who would share our holiday.

Christmas Eve was what I remember most, we would go to church, the lit candles, the beautiful Christmas tree, and the organ music. My Grandfather sang in the choir, you better behave, listen, and sit very still or Grandpa would have a talk with you, this was very hard with the excitement of the day. Standing outside in the snow and cold to watch the live Nativity after our service.

We would end our service with Silent Night, my Dad's favorite song. He would say this song is the meaning of Christmas. Silent Night is my favorite Christmas song, reminds me of the days when our life was full of family, love and giving. When I hear or sing this song it reminds me of my Dad and always brings a few tears to my eyes. Think about the verses written below, this is our true meaning of Christmas. He came to save all who believe in him.

Bible Verse Luke 18:15-17

Sing all 4 verses of silent night.

Dear God, I ask that all our church family have peace, love and happiness as you share the true meaning of Christmas this year.

Chris Knapp

Los Angeles in December

Last night I hosted my writers' group's (FOS) last meeting of the year. I'll be heading to Michigan on Saturday (CHRISTMAS! YAY!) and we won't meet again as a whole group until the middle of January. So we decided (spurred by Angela's great idea, yes, she's a part of FOS, a very important part!) to have a little Christmas party potluck-style. And it turned out to be a fabulous evening.

The weather's cool enough to require heat here in L.A. this year (I've spent Decembers here when it's been in the 40s and when it's been in the 80s) which I love (though my checkbook does not) because it means I can light candles (and run the furnace - boo). I love candles. Especially peppermint ones. So last night I lit the candles and we had a wonderful evening. We ate (soup and rolls and chips and guacamole and cookies, too many cookies). We talked about life, about what's going on with our writing, about just everyday stuff. And that's what I love - FOS has become more than just a writers' group for me, they're my friends. I love that we can spend four hours on a Wednesday night talking and laughing and sharing stories, then jump right into a table read of a zombie script.

To me Christmas is all about spending time with the ones I love. The ones I hold most dear. I get to do that in Michigan each year. But now I get to do that in L.A. too. I get to spend time with writer friends, church friends, and all my other friends and to me, that's just freakin' cool.

So while I won't be doing much writing in the next few weeks, I will be doing a lot of living. A lot of listening and a lot of thinking. I'll be spending time relaxing and entertaining and just enjoying the heck out of life. Because, really, what could be better?

So "Merry Christmas" from Los Angeles. (It's only 57 degrees and threatening rain here today so don't hate us too much.) And Michigan? Bring on the snow!!!

O Christmas Tree

Yesterday I performed a spoken word piece at a fundraiser at Hollywood United Methodist Church. I was one of six performers (five other writers and a musician) asked to tell stories of Christmases past. Here's mine:

(And if you'd like to see the You Tube video of the first four performances, including mine which starts around minute 31, click here.)

My birthday is in the middle of October but every year as a child (and frankly, into adulthood as well), growing up in Michigan I would wish for one thing on my birthday: snow.

It didn’t matter if it had been 65 degrees and sunny for the entire fall or that a hayride and bonfire was planned for my birthday party. I wanted snow. You know why? Because it signified to me that Christmas was near. (We won’t talk about the occasional May snowstorms that most sane people in Michigan cursed.)

Christmas.

The golden season. The time of year when no matter what goes wrong or what is happening in the world, all seems perfect. Perfectly jolly and happy and merry.

Christmas.

And nothing symbolizes the Christmas season to me more than the Christmas tree. The green (or white or pink or blue or whatever) fir that adorns living rooms and shopping malls and sweatshirts (the one I wore in middle school that lit up? that tree on that sweatshirt tells you a lot about my fascination with the tannenbaum and a little something about how many friends I had in middle school). And for me, it’s always been the tree that holds a very special place in my heart. Whether it’s the tree of boys (more on that later) or the first tree I bought or the trees I wear continually on my ears all season long.

My obsession with the Christmas tree probably began long before I can remember; at least that’s what we’ll say for the sake of this story. Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, my father would drag the tree out of its box in the basement and he’d set to assembling it. Now mind you, as I got older, I was a big help but as a youngster, I think I was probably hurting more than helping. He’d assemble the tree, swear at the lights that never ever worked, go to the local hardware, buy some more, and try again. This is one of my favorite parts of Christmas and one of things I miss most living 2000 miles away from my family.

Once the tree was up, the ornaments would be unpacked. And in my house, it’s not just a handful of pretty bulbs and some candy canes. There are no less than five television boxes (these are from back when televisions were the size of a Prius) that are full of hundreds of tiny boxes holding the treasures that adorn the tree. And each has a special meaning or memory. To this day I can close my eyes and picture my parents’ tree and my favorite ornaments and tell you if they’re in the right place or not (this is a bone of contention in my family and as my mother proudly told me on the phone a few weeks ago, she didn’t move one single ornament this year because she heard me lamenting in her head about this, most likely ‘sarcastic me’).

My tree fixation continued on throughout my childhood as I was cast in a church pageant one year as ---wait for it ---yep, A TREE! Now, I like to think this is because I love what the Christmas tree stands for and the important role trees played in the story of Christmas (they did, I swear, that part was just edited out of the Bible to save on printing costs) but more than likely it was because I was (and still am) a horrible actor who, gun to my head, couldn’t remember and recite my name and birthday on command.

So here I was, a tree. My parents made me this great sandwich board that I am sure is still in their garage somewhere and glued cut up pieces of garland to it. And I killed as one of the three trees that year. I’m sure I did… Yes, yes. Very sure.

Anyway, when I moved away from home for college I realized that it was time to start my own traditions. My second year at school I lived in a house with three other girls and three guys. Yep, that meant the girls had control of the house because we outnumbered the guys. So that year we got the employees in the physical plant to bring us a fake tree that wasn’t being used in the cafeteria and we set to decorating it. But we were poor, very poor, college students who had no decorations, no lights, nothing (little aside: one of the guys in the house was so poor he kept his car running by keeping it plugged in all winter. He literally ran an extension cord through a window in the living room out to a heater on his engine block and no, we never thought about silly things like the college’s electricity bill.) And because we were so poor, we did what any sensible young college girls wanting to celebrate the season of Jesus’ birth would do.

We made a tree of boys.

Yep. We spent hours combing through magazines and cutting out pictures. We printed photos off the Internet in the computer lab. And we made hangers out of paperclips. And let me tell you, our house was a very popular one that year. We’d come home from classes to find new pictures added every day. Some from other residents of the house, some from students who’d heard the tale of our tree and found their way over, the door always unlocked, and taken it upon themselves to add to our masterpiece. And before you think we were scary stalkers, the boys were all celebrities and it was all in good fun. (At least that’s what we told the guys in the house when they objected. And if I remember correctly, they eventually got in on the fun too.)

When I started grad school, I moved into an apartment with my sister, Angela, and a friend. Our first Christmas there was a bit more traditional. We put up an old tree my parents’ delivered to us and bought some lights. Then we set to crafting. We found ornament templates online and colored them then laminated them. We took the rings of Mason jar lids and wound ribbon around them. We used glitter glue to write our names on cheap stockings and we spent hours studying around the tree. We didn’t need anything more.

But then when I moved to Arizona, Christmas lost some of its luster. It’s hard to get excited about the winter holiday season when it’s a 110 degrees outside. For the two years I lived in Arizona, there was no tree in my apartment. And for the first year here in Los Angeles, there wasn’t either. But then, I made a decision. I wanted my own Christmas tree. I wanted to start the season well before the day I’d make my way back to Michigan late in December each year. So Angela and I went to Walmart (I am sure Clark Griswold’s family wishes he’d known about Walmart back then) and found the perfect Christmas tree. And now we spend about an hour decorating and then several weeks sitting by it each night throughout the Christmas season.

So my obsession with Christmas trees is a long-standing one, and I’m okay with that. I have these awesome memories of staring at the lights night after night with family and friends (and if I don’t wear my glasses, the tree becomes this impressionist mosaic that’s really cool). I have these awesome memories of fighting over dead lights and broken icicles (you know, the glass kind, that break if you even sneeze in their direction; they adorn every inch of my parents tree and shards of glass cover the house for six months after the tree comes down and most of them are snapped in half). And I have these awesome memories of each and every tree that I have seen and worn and lovingly placed packages under.

I wore the tree pin on my shoe to the performance and my friend Pauley insisted on taking a picture of it!

And while I still have the tree pin I wore back in the ‘80s and I still wear the Christmas tree earrings my grandma gave me back in the ‘90s and I still have the first Christmas tree ornament I ever received (a mouse sleeping in a matchbox that was gifted to me at age two months by another two month old), the tree that I hold dearest and think most fondly of?

That tree of boys.

I mean really, if you can’t have George Clooney under your tree Christmas morning, the next best thing is to have him smiling at you from among the branches.

The storytellers: Chad Darnell, Jay Sowell, David Dean Bottrell, me, April Moore, and George Bellias

World AIDS Day

Angela and I with two of the Compassion Bears collected by Hollywood UMC during the Christmas season.

Today is World AIDS Day. According to the event's website, "World AIDS Day is held on 1 December each year and is an opportunity for people worldwide to unite in the fight against HIV, show their support for people living with HIV and to commemorate people who have died. World AIDS Day was the first ever global health day and the first one was held in 1988."

And while I do not personally know anyone who has died of AIDS, I know plenty of people who are HIV positive, some friends, some I've met at my work with 5p21 - the AIDS hospital in downtown Los Angeles. And I've met many kids at the children's AIDS hospital as well. Each year our church delivers teddy bears, aka Compassion Bears, that have been taken home and loved and prayed over and sometimes dressed up, to the children's hospital in December. We collect money and toys to take as well. Some of my best holiday memories of Los Angeles involve going to the hospital with a huge carload of presents and feeling like Santa Claus, carrying them up the three flights of stairs to the office where they'll be kept until they're delivered. No, we don't personally give the toys to the kids but that doesn't matter, it's still an awesome experience knowing that these children will get something extra special this year whether their families can afford something or not. 

I've been a member of the AIDS committee at my church since the first month I moved to Los Angeles. I was drafted, so to speak, after volunteering to make sandwiches one day. It's a small committee and I love everyone who serves on it. We have a great time making lunches once a month and passing out sticker ribbons a few times a year, the bears every advent season, and collecting the toys. Truly, I am so blessed by the opportunity I've had to help and to give and to learn. Before I moved to California I didn't know anyone who was HIV positive. I didn't know that it's okay to kiss and hug people with AIDS or to share meals with them or to do just about anything I'd do with any of my other friends. I was sheltered and uneducated but that quickly changed. There's stigma attached to all disease, I'm aware of that - whether it's cancer or AIDS or diabetes or migraines. But by reaching out, by praying, by loving, we can make a difference.

Brandon

This is Brandon. He's one of the first people I met when I moved to Los Angeles. We met at the Tuesday Homeless Lunch I went to every week. And more often than not, I found him joking around, smiling and talking nonstop, especially to his friend Pauley (that's her and him in the picture below).

Over the last couple of years I'd run into Brandon on Tuesdays, on Sundays when I was in Hollywood, and at other random times. I remember going to a dinner party at an Italian restaurant one night and hearing from several friends that Brandon was there. He came in, had a drink, and was on his way. He was just always there. And he was always talking about how he was getting things together, figuring things out.

This weekend I found out through Pauley that Brandon was hit by a car and killed. I cried. And then when Pauley talked about him in church Sunday, I cried again. He was a sweet guy, always ready for a smile. And now he's gone.

But he won't be forgotten. Not by me, not by anyone who came into contact with him at Tuesday Lunch or anywhere in Hollywood. And to honor his memory, I'm going to pull out a few more t-shirts from my drawer and pick up extra socks at Target and throw some crackers in my basket at the grocery store to donate. It's such a little thing I can do, something I do regularly, but something that now, will mean so much more.

It's the Christmas season. It's a season of love and joy and happiness and peace. For many of us. But for so many more it's a season of cold nights (whether you live in Los Angeles or Detroit) and long days and wondering how you'll make it until your next meal or if you'll get a shower soon, if ever. So this Christmas season, think of Brandon as you eat too much turkey or buy those last minute gifts. Think of Brandon as you sing the carols and eat another piece of candy. Think of Brandon as you snuggle in at night and paw through the closet full of clothes you own to find just the right outfit. Think of Brandon and think about what you can do to make this season a little merrier for everyone.

Happy Birthday Grandma

For my entire life this day, November 27th, has been a cause for celebration. It's the birthday of Barbara MacDonald, my mother's mother, my grandmother. Today she would have been 86 years old.

Grandma loved birthdays. She loved chocolate cake and presents and singing the Happy Birthday song. And as a family, we loved celebrating her day as well. It was always great fun because her birthday would fall either on Thanksgiving or the day or two after and the whole family would get together, share a meal and cake, and often, help her put up her Christmas tree.

Grandma's been gone now just over six months. There are times when I forget and I think about calling her or sending her a letter. There are times when I remember and I can't stop myself from crying. But mostly, I just think of all the time we spent together. All the birthdays, all the conversations, all the moments. I think about her all the time. I think about how much I miss her and how much she loved me, and how she showed she loved me. She was an amazing woman. And so today, I celebrate her birthday by celebrating her memory and her life because of how much she shaped mine. I love you, Grandma.

The first Sunday of Advent

The advent devotion I wrote for today that appears in the Howell First United Methodist devotional booklet: 

“There were sheepherders camping in the neighborhood. They had set night watches over their sheep. Suddenly, God’s angel stood among them and God’s glory blazed around them. They were terrified. The angel said, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to announce a great and joyful event that is meant for everybody, worldwide: A Savior has just been born in David’s town, a Savior who is Messiah and Master. This is what you’re to look for: a baby wrapped in a blanket and lying in a manger.” (from Luke 2, The Message)

One of the parts of this story that has always struck me is the fact that the angel went to the sheepherders first. And in this passage alone the sheep get several more mentions. These animals seem to be such an important part of the Christmas story. In fact, they and the other stable animals are an integral part of each retelling of Jesus’ birth.

I have this little nativity set that’s porcelain, that I’ve had since I was maybe five years old, and it’s still my favorite. It’s four simple pieces: Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, and a lamb. No sheepherders, no wise men, not even the nativity-staple barn, just mom, dad, baby and a lamb.

I always envision that little lamb watching over the family, making sure the baby Jesus is warm and safe and smiling, even offering his warm fur if the need should arise. As a child I thought this was his only purpose in the nativity scene. But today, as an adult, I see it’s much more than that. Jesus is referred to in the Bible as the Lamb of God and I now know what that little lamb represents to the world: safety, comfort, warmth and love. And I guess, that childlike version of the lamb isn’t that different from my adult version, and for that I’m thankful. For the lamb is unconditional love – in all versions of the Christmas story.

Pretzel rolls!

So this morning I decided to make rolls. Specifically, pretzel rolls. I found this recipe online and I love trying new things in the kitchen so last week I went searching for all the ingredients (bread flour was surprisingly difficult to find in my neck of the woods). We have an abundance of leftover turkey and I'm making turkey soup tonight so I thought today would be a good day to try them. See the thing is, I've never made rolls from scratch before.

When I lived in Kalamazoo, in my first apartment, we'd bake bread and rolls but after buying that frozen bread dough at the grocery store. Good stuff, but not quite homemade. And my mom doesn't make rolls. She makes just about everything else but rolls are not her thing. She tries, God bless her, but she's never happy with the result (though Dad, Angela and I are always content to eat them).

I was a little nervous this morning because it seems like a thing you can screw up, making rolls. So much can happen. The yeast might not rise, you might add just not enough or too much of something. I'm a better cook than a baker. Cooking is not an exact science, baking is much more so.

I also realized early on we might not have the right equipment but my mom said that Angela's mixer with the handy dandy dough hook we've never used would take the place of the called for food processor. And it did, splendidly.

I was also a little skeptical that the recipe called for me to punch and knead the dough for five whole minutes. A) Five minutes is a long time. B) When my mom bakes, usually the less you touch the dough, the better - cookies and plunkett get tough when you need the dough too much.

While the recipe was a bit more complicated than what I'm used to (it's from Bon Appetit magazine), it wasn't really hard and it was kind cool seeing the ingredients transform.

And I even referred to the boiling of the rolls as my science experiment - until the science experiment went awry. The recipe called for me to add 1 and 1/4 cups of baking soda to a pot of boiling water. It did not mention to do this slowly or not all at once. So I plopped the soda in and BOOM! Big frothy explosion of water everywhere. I had three burners going (cooking down the turkey carcass for soup on two) and the oven and of course, there went the pilot lights. So once we cleaned up that mess...

We were back on track. I had enlisted Angela in helping and I was glad to have the extra set of hands.

 And here are the rolls as they went in to the oven.

And when they came out!

Beautiful (though I did say I'll have to work on the sizing a bit).

And tasty! The outside was crunchy like a soft pretzel, the inside tasted faintly of celery seed and overall, a big success. This recipe's definitely a keeper and I can't wait to make them for Mom and Dad in Michigan!

So incredibly blessed

I am thankful for the fall season. For crunchy leaves, even in Los Angeles, for early darkness (even though I complain about it the first few days), for cooler temperatures and for the holidays. This year I have so much to be thankful for. I'm alive. I'm a generally happy person. I have a roof over my head, I have a turkey in the fridge, I am doing work I love, I have family and friends who support and love me more than I can ever fully realize or appreciate. So much to be grateful for.

Am I a little sad that I won't be having a traditional Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow with a big group of people who laugh and cry and argue lovingly? Yes. Of course I am. Am I a little excited that Angela and I are going to see a double feature at the movies tomorrow? Yes. I am. I baked a pie and roasted a turkey today. We had a lovely dinner that left us satisfied and not stuffed. There is turkey to eat for the rest of the week and then soup to be made for the week after. It's been a crazy year, a long few months, a busy week so we're looking forward to a quiet long weekend. We both get to be away from school for a few days, away from the stresses of work and we get to eat leftovers. We get to float away into the world of vampires and werewolves and be transported into a land of puppets and songs. We are thankful.

But most of all I am thankful that I get to travel home to Michigan in December. Every year my parents gift us with the plane tickets to fly home at Christmas and that's what gets me through Thanksgiving, knowing that my family and I will be together again soon. I'm so thankful for that gift, for the feeling of anticipation of something great that's to come, for the joy to be had.

Tomorrow will be a good day. We'll talk to friends and family. We'll relax and take a walk. We'll eat some turkey and watch some movies. We'll remember that because of where we live and what we have we are so blessed. So incredibly blessed.

Angela is National Board Certified!

When Angela and I moved to Los Angeles in August of 2008 she began teaching for the Los Angeles Unified School District and she began a process that we didn't know at the time would take four years and one month to complete. But she's done now and I am so proud of her and so amazed, daily, by her commitment to her profession, to her job and most of all, to teaching children.

Angela is now a National Board Certified Teacher. It took four years, three sets of exams, one beyond extensive portfolio, countless late nights and early mornings and weekends but she did it. She passed. And I cannot tell you how happy we were on Sunday morning at 12:30am when the scores were released.

Being Nationally Board Certified is something most teachers do not ever achieve, or even strive for. In the middle school where Angela currently works there are over a hundred teachers and only one, besides her, is a NBC Teacher. Holding this advanced credential tells the teaching community that she is committed to her profession. It also means she doesn't have to jump through any school district hoops when she changes jobs or even states. She has a "clear credential" and she is done with their tests and their requirements. For ten years and then she can renew her certification.

But most of all what it means is that she rocks. She is the best teacher I have ever met. She is beyond committed. She is who you want teaching your kids and the future generations. And I don't say that just because I'm her sister. Now she has the certification to prove it.

Imagining the joy

Today I cried. I cried over a man who passed away who I haven't seen since I was probably in middle school. A man who was 30 but who I remember as a kid. A man who fought a terrible disease, got a double lung transplant just weeks ago, threw a clot, and had to be taken off life support on Tuesday.

I cried over Jeremy. I cried for Jeremy. For his wife, for his sister, for his parents. I cried because I remember spending time with him and his family when we were little. We went to church together, we went camping together. I remember one trip in particular where we spent many hours playing games inside a small pop up tent when we could have been playing outside. But it didn't matter or maybe we didn't notice. Jeremy had to stay in the tent because he wasn't feeling well and I remember playing cards and making up silly nonsense game, laughing and teasing. I remember that was a very good day. I remember that moment. I remember that person.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about death, I suppose that happens when someone you are close to passes away. I've been thinking about how unfair it is, to those of us left behind. I've been thinking about what might happen when we get to heaven. But mostly I've been thinking about how much I miss that person.

I'm so glad for that moment in the tent. For the memory of that moment. For the amazing reality that one person, so far removed, can still impact my life in such a profound way. I am better for that moment. It's part of who I am. Just as everyone who's gone before me is.

I cannot imagine the grief of burying a son or a husband or a brother. But I can imagine the joy in having that person in your life for even just a tiny moment. And I'm going to hold on to that joy. Tightly.

Veteran's Day

My dad is a veteran. He served in the Air Force for several years before I was born. He lived in Greece and Taiwan and has some pretty cool pictures and stories to tell. But the coolest thing of all? He volunteered, when he was just a teenager, to serve his country. To join the military at a time when the country was at war, and to go wherever they sent him. Do whatever they asked of him. And for that, and for the service he gave, I can never thank him enough.  


I am constantly amazed at the sacrifice that these men and women who join the military make. What they endure, what they accomplish, what they give up, what they provide. There simply are not enough words to express how grateful I am for what they give us. We live in a country where we can walk down the street without fear of suicide bombers or terrorist attacks and I generally feel safe. Too many people in our world cannot say that. And a large part of that safety is a direct result of the work put in by the women and men who serve us. 


I come from a long line of military family members. Along with my dad, two of my grandfathers and my grandmother served. Countless friends and other relatives have put on uniforms and taken orders, leaving those of us at home to do the only thing we can: pray. And today, for all the veterans and for all those currently serving, I do just that. I pray and I say thank you. Thank you, for what you left there, for what you brought back, and for what you continue to give to us today.

Clowin' around

Last Monday a box arrived in the mail from my parents. My birthday had passed and I wasn't expecting anything so I ripped it open with much curiosity. And inside I found a little piece of my family's history -- the clown costumes you see above and below.

My mom made these costumes back around 1979, and they've been worn by countless members of my family and peer group ever since. First by my parents and myself and most recently by Angela and I at our Halloween party Saturday night. But what was even more exciting than receiving the costumes in the mail was the memories they brought flooding back.

Halloween was always done right in my house. Each year we'd have a sloppy joe supper with the Roxberry family and then we'd bundle up and go out trick or treating. We'd hit Grandma MacDonald's house, Grandma and Grandpa Boutell's house, and Grandma Eileen's house for sure, and whatever else we ran into in between. There were years when no one saw our costumes because it was so cold we had to wear coats and hats and mittens. There were years it poured rain all night. Years we could barely fit in the Astro van doors (the year Angela and I went as a pair of dice) and years we wore elaborately homemade costumes lovingly sewed by our moms. Regardless, each year -- Halloween was special. And I love that. I love that it meant family time - even when I was older, I'd always volunteer to pass out candy and hang out watching the holiday specials on TV with whoever else stuck around. Halloween wasn't about the candy or the costumes as much as it was about the experience, the being together, the laughter and the fun. And it still is.

We had a wonderful party Saturday night with friends from all over Los Angeles - friends who'd never met each other before that night but who chatted and ate and laughed and enjoyed themselves. And yes, we clowned around. So thanks, Mom and Dad. I love that you shared these costumes with us. I love that I get to carry on the tradition. And I love that I have the picture above to remind me of those very first clowns! Happy Halloween everyone!

Learning about the world

For the past six weeks the Bible study I help to lead at Hollywood United Methodist Church has been going through a study guide entitled "Building Bridges of Understanding: An Interfaith Response to September 11". It was created by the California Council on Churches (which includes HUMC's pastor) back in 2003 and includes studies on Hunduism, Judaism, Buddhism, Christianity, Islam and Sikhism. And boy, can I just say? It's been an eye-opening six weeks. 

Before I started this study I thought of myself as a fairly knowledgeable person when it comes to spirituality and current events. I read the newspaper daily, I read weekly news magazines, I watch The Daily Show, I follow what's going on in the world. But until last week I apparently had no idea what the religion of Islam really was all about. And I'm shocked by what little I knew about so much else. 

It was an interesting study and one I hope is only just beginning. I feel like I am so much more knowledgeable now but I know there is still so much more to learn. And I feel like this is a responsibility I have as a citizen of the world, as a Christian, as a writer. I'm sad to say most of what I knew about Muslims prior to this was from news organizations and television shows, with an occasional movie thrown in for good measure. But guess what? NCIS: Los Angeles and CNN have a narrow handle on what Muslims stand for, how they practice their religion and what they actually believe (did you know the Qur'an contains the New Testament teachings of Jesus? or that jihad has two basic meanings: to struggle in defense of the faith; the spiritual struggle to become a better Muslim - and that it does not mean "holy war"???)

So it's been a good six weeks, and next we're studying the book of Romans. But I'm not going to stop with my own study of world religions because for every fact we learned, we raised another question and I intend to find answers. 

October 18th

I was born on October 18th, 1977 at five a.m. My guess is my mom wasn't looking at the clock so I have no idea if it was five oh-one or five twelve and it doesn't really matter. Apparently I was always an early riser. To this day I feel a bit like my day's wasted if I don't get up before 9am. (It used to be 8am but I'm working on some of my issues, it's important to have priorities.)

I don't remember many of my early birthdays, frankly those who do kinda freak me out. And they really make me feel like a slacker. But I remember happy pictures of my pregnant mom in a yellow t-shirt with a chick on the front. I remember pictures of the baby birthday cake she made for all the first year celebrations back then, a tiny teddy bear that she'd frost in stars and that was all yours. I bet it was good.

I remember a Dukes of Hazard cake sometime in the early eighties. It was the General Lee, of course. And I had Daisy Duke pajamas (a nightgown out of that horrible synthetic material my dad loathed with a silk screened picture of short shorts and a plaid shirt tied up high). I remember going to Ponderosa for several birthdays. I remember one when my grandparents were there but my dad wasn't, I think he had a college class that night.

I remember always wishing for snow. I still do (I live near Hollywood now, anything's possible). Some years I'd get flurries and I'd be ecstatic. Some years I'd get warm weather. Most years? Rain. That's what Michigan's good for in the fall and spring. 

I remember big celebrations with family from all over the state and friends. Birthdays were (and still are) a big deal in my family. Parties with sloppy joes and huge cakes, five quart buckets of ice cream and hours of sitting around and talking.

I remember my sixteenth birthday party. I had a new smart pant suit (don't ask, it was the early nineties) and I went with my Grandma MacDonald somewhere after church, I think to a reception at the local newspaper. I remember meeting a reporter, and it seemed very grown up and cool. I also remember the ring that I had picked out as a gift from my Grandma and my parents. It was a birthstone ring (that I wear daily still, eighteen years later) that I chose rather than having a class ring (I later got my Grandma's class ring which is way cooler than mine would have ever been). Sitting on the floor (there were never enough chairs) I opened the ring box in front of all these people and it was a fake. It was a huge gaudy thing my mom had a friend's daughter craft for her. My mom loves surprises - you've been warned.

I remember the year I got my varsity jacket for my birthday my sophomore year of high school. I'd gotten my varsity letter my freshman year which was pretty awesome. I remember not taking it off the whole day.

I remember going to get my driver's license on the day I turned sixteen. I wore these big earrings that had come from the south, from my grandparents who traveled all the time. They were wooden and painted bright colors and they were the shape of a cow's head. Yep, that was my driver's license photo until I turned twenty-one.

I remember turning twenty-one on a Sunday and they announced it during church. I was the youth group leader at the time and the kids surprised me at the meeting that night with a cake, ice cream and presents. 

The next year I lived on campus at Olivet College and my housemates made me a spaghetti

 dinner which was quite impressive as we rarely cooked at our house. There were gifts and cupcakes and everyone just hung out together that night.

I remember the year in grad school when Angela and our roommate Noelle took me to Bill Knapp's for lunch and they made me wear an over the hill hat. That was the same year I was the youth group leader at a different church and those kids toilet papered my car (and covered it in animal crackers). The other leaders had a surprise party for me that night too. 

One year I went to the apple orchard with Angela and my friend Betsy and I remember thinking fall was the perfect time for birthdays. Everything's starting over (I will perpetually be in a school-calendar mindset) and you have so much to look forward to. 

The year I turned twenty-five my parents surprised me twice. They showed up at my apartment in Kalamazoo after saying they weren't going to make the two hour trip and then they gave me a plane ticket to D.C. to visit a friend. Also, the clown at TGI Friday's made me wear a monkey hat the whole meal. Everyone loved it. Looking back, I did too.

One year Angela threw me a surprise dance party which was amazing. She held it at the Wesley Foundation on campus at WMU and they rented lights and put up sound equipment and we danced for hours and hours. Better than any bar birthday I could have ever had.

The year I woke up at the Bellagio on my birthday was pretty good too. We had lunch by the pool, sat in the hot tub, got free drinks from some guys at a very nice Italian restaurant (I remember the fact that the waitress gave us another set of free drinks in to-go cups as we left most vividly), did jello shots at one end of the strip and played poker at another end. That was a fun birthday. 

The year Angela managed to get frosting all over our Abbey Place kitchen (including the ceiling) was memorable as well, for another reason last year when I had to go to the clinic for bronchitis was also memorable. 

This year I've already celebrated so much. I have an awesome new bed that my parents gifted me with (I moved from a twin to a queen!). My writers' group had a cake and sang for me Sunday. Angela is preparing meatloaf (one of my favorites!) for tonight. I am blessed. Not just for today and for the birthday wishes but for all the memories. For all the people that have crossed my path, made my days brighter and lifted my spirits continuously. I am far away from so many of you today but it doesn't feel that way because I carry you all in my heart.

Believing in what's next

I've been working with a literary management company for the entire year. And as most of you know, I've been pretty quiet on the subject. In Los Angeles people aren't really sure what managers do. They know what agents do (get you jobs/sell your work) and they really know what lawyers do. But managers are a new entity in the marketplace and one that hasn't been fully defined. Some are simply creative people wanting to help writers/actors/directors/producers become better at their craft. Some are producers who are looking for their next big project. I have friends who have managers and lawyers. Friends who have agents and lawyers. Friends who have just managers. It really depends on where you are in your career, who you like working with, etc. It's very individual.

And as I said, I've been working with this management company for a while now. And it's been an education and an interesting ride. And I've learned a lot, mostly about myself as a writer and as a professional. And I a couple of weeks ago they offered me a contract. I knew it was coming, they're a new company and they've been preparing me for this day. However, I didn't know exactly how I'd react.

I took a week to think about it. I talked with friends (some of whom are working with the managers as well, some who aren't). I talked with a lawyer. I had daydreams about possibilities. I had nightmares about possibilities. I worried, I cried, I made lists, I prayed. And I realized, with the help of some friends and my family, that ultimately if the company and I weren't a good fit, we just weren't a good fit.

So I made the first big decision of my professional writing career: not to sign with the management company. It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. Mostly because I knew what I was going to do from moment one but didn't want to admit it, to myself. I'm terrified of what will come next. I'm more terrified that nothing will come next. But I'm also confident in my abilities and in my perseverance.

The future is always uncertain, for every single one of us. We don't know if we'll get a tomorrow or a next year or a fifty years from now. We don't know if we'll find that perfect job, meet that perfect mate or end up with something completely different than what we envisioned. But for now, I take solace in the fact that I made a choice. I made a decision and I believe in it. I have faith that what's next will be awesome. What's next will be better because I am a better person for having gone through this experience. I'm moving on, toward the next big thing. Who's going with me? 

French braids and loving parents

Yes, this is a picture of the back of my head. It's the best I could do alone in my bedroom, both with the picture and with the braid. See, this past spring, I taught myself to French braid. At thirty-three years old. Better late than never, right? 

I've always had long hair, more so when I was younger but occasionally now as an adult I'll let it grow. I chopped it all off in June (well, I didn't, our favorite hair stylist Tony did) and I liked it. It felt nice not to have all that hair hanging around all summer. But then I started to miss it. Mostly I missed putting it into a ponytail and putting it up when I was working out. So I haven't had a haircut since June. And now...it's just barely long enough for this very messy braid. Tomorrow I'll visit Tony again, just for a trim and for him to thin it out. But I think I'm going long (-ish) again. 

So why does this deserve a blog? Because it brought back memories of a class my mom took me to when I was young. I think it was through the Rec Center, which is basically the city of Howell. When I was little, and maybe they still do, they'd put on classes and events that kids and adults could attend - basically community ed. We didn't do a lot of them but once in a while an event would spark interest and we'd take part. And I specifically remember one winter going with my mom to the local middle school for a class.

I remember arriving and noticing it was all women and girls. And all the girls had long hair. The class was about learning to French braid. My mom had brought me here to learn how to do it. I remember being excited at first but then I remember it not going so well. Needless to say, we never went back (it might have been a one-night deal, maybe my mom will comment if she remembers!) and I never had my hair French braided by my mom again. 

Instead, she spent hours putting my hair in tiny little regular braids so I'd wake up for school with the ever popular kinky look (until my other mother, Marilyn bought me a crimper!). She spent hours putting my hair in those spongy pink rollers so I'd wake up with really pretty curls, usually on Sunday mornings. She'd go through cases of detangler and spend hours combing through the mess that was my long hair. I still remember her saying she cried when I was very little and my dad brought me home from getting all my long hair cut off (that was the beginning of my little orphan Annie-curls stage) because she couldn't help me take care of it because she was very sick. 

I never realized until recently how much my mom actually did for me when it came time to getting me ready to go out into the world. I don't want to forget my dad in all of this either. He was always the one designated to take the pink curlers out of my hair when my mom was getting ready for church. And this was no easy task. After having rolled around on them in my bed for eight to ten hours, they were often matted together and more than once I remember yelling when he had to pull really hard.

I am often amazed at how we children become responsible, presentable, mature adults. And it's mostly due to our families: the people who took out the curlers, the people who made sure we were wearing underwear (I always had it on, Angela? well...), the people who put us in clean clothes and washed our faces when if left to our own devices, we never would do any of it alone.

I am blessed beyond anything I could ever imagine every single day by my family. By my parents who tell me all about their days and encourage me to tell them all about my days and regal me with tales new and old. By the childhood I had which allows me to be the adult I am today. By the love that I experience. See what conclusion braiding my hair brought me to? A reminder about how I was and am loved. Oh so loved. 

Giving thanks to the little ones

Last week was the beginning of yet another school year. This was something like my seventeenth year to be starting September in a public school. But this was only my second time to start the year in kindergarten and the first was when I was four, so it's a little different this go around.

I'm a learning consultant at a school in a neighboring city and I really like what I do. I work with the kids in a kindergarten classroom three hours of every school day. It gets me out of the house, and more importantly, out of my head for a good portion of every workday. For writers, I think sometimes there's nothing more valuable than living life in order to then write about life.

I've learned a lot about wee ones in my two weeks at school and I've learned some things about myself. I've figured out that maybe I really could try my hand at improv since I've been doing it every day in front of a very live(ly) audience. Not to put you on the spot or anything but can you recite the Pledge of Allegiance right now? While simultaneously teaching children their right from their left hand? While telling a child to stand up and another to be quiet and yet another to please stop crying? While watching to make sure the parents get the lunch card in the right container? While making sure no one runs away to find find mommy? While also thinking about how to fill the next five very very long minutes before the teacher comes back? And that's just in the first two minutes of the day.

I am constantly amazed by the teachers I work with. To do what they do, every day for way more hours than I am there, for years and years, takes a very special talent and skill set. To be perfectly at ease with food coloring and Karo syrup in front of little ones, to be just as comfortable conversing with parents as with toddlers. To be calm enough to go with the flow no matter what yet completely organized within an inch of their lives. It's a gift they have.

I'm having fun. I'm getting hugs and little hands weaved into mine every day. I'm getting to give and receive smiles, to wipe away tears, to laugh and to learn, to sing and to dance and to stretch and to sit on the floor. I'm getting to live life as only a five year old can, only thinking about the moment. Only thinking about the immediate future. And for that, for all kindergarten is giving me, I am so thankful.

Ten years ago...

I've been thinking all week about this day. How can you not? It's all over the news, the papers, everyone's talking about it and for the most part, I try to ignore the coverage. That's not unAmerican, really, it's anything but in my eyes.

Ten years ago today I was a grad student living with two other students in an apartment in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I didn't have Tuesday morning classes so I was home studying. I was alone but that didn't last long. By the end of the afternoon my apartment was full of friends. That's one thing I remember so well, how connected I felt after all of it happened. So close to others. We made tacos and ate together, watching television. We watched way too much television that September.

I remember an email I received shortly after the towers fell, from a cousin in Canada. She'd tried calling and couldn't get through to any of the family here in the states. So she emailed and said she was thinking of us and loved us all. I remember being more scared after getting that email than I was after learning what had happened. Someone couldn't call me, because of the attacks. It was hard to process that.

I remember driving to Office Max to tell my roommate what was going on, that her dad was being evacuated from a building in Chicago. I remember long hours on that brown couch in our living room. I remember classes being canceled and no one really noticing.

But even more so I remember what happened after that day.

We gathered at the Wesley Foundation on campus in droves; to pray, to worship, but mostly to try and make sense of it all. We had a wonderful pastor who not only counseled us but educated us, helping us to understand that this was not the act of a people of faith but an act of madmen. I will be forever grateful for learning the difference.

We talked about what had and was happening in our classes. I was teaching undergraduate communication at the time and I remember running into one of my favorite professors in the hall on September 12th, before classes started up again. We looked at each other and I asked him what to do, how to teach in this environment. He said he had no idea. For a moment, we were equals, we were colleagues who just needed to get through the day and get back to our families and our couches and our televisions.

And then something happened. The calendar turned a few pages and it was Saturday, just four short days later. And just as planned months before, my parents and some members of my extended family arrived in town. We toured campus, we went out to lunch, and then we watched a performance of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" at Miller auditorium. And that was when I knew, despite everything that had transpired, and everything that was to come, somehow it would all be okay.

I still believe that today. Our country is at war, yes, but we've been at war for much of our history. Our country is as secure as the wonderful people who protect us can make it. I sleep in a bed at night, and though I do frequently hear helicopters in my lovely L.A. neighborhood, I don't hear fighting and bombing and I am not afraid for my life. I am thankful. I am thankful that I remember, that I can pray for our country's people and the people of the world, and I am thankful I can go out and live my life. And that is exactly what I will do today.

Hope and a haircut

Two years ago today I got a tearful phone call from my mom. From my mom who doesn't really cry, not much anyway. The call was to tell me that her best friend, my "other mother" had been diagnosed with colon cancer, that the cancer had spread throughout her body, and that the doctors were giving her two years to live. This was incomprehensible. This was simply something I didn't know how to process.

I had no idea what a world without Marilyn looked like. This is a woman who has been in my life since the day I was born. Who has been with us at all the big events and all the small moments. Who has been just as much a part of the creation of my life as anyone else. There was nothing to do at that moment, during that call, except pray and cry. We cried a lot that day.

But I'm not crying today. In fact, today I am celebrating -- I've been thinking of her all day long. I've been thinking about that day, two years ago, and how hopeless I felt. How hopeless we all felt. But today -- two years to the day, Marilyn is doing well. There's been chemo and clinical trials and so much I cannot even fathom. She's been so strong. And I've seen my mom be strong too and it's so encouraging to me. What people can go through. What they can survive.

This week Marilyn got a haircut, which was a pretty exciting day as I hear it. She had to get a haircut because her hair had grown back after the latest round of chemo. If a haircut isn't cause for hope, I don't know what is.

Here's to many, many more years...not just two!

Thelma & Louise

I was only thirteen when the movie "Thelma & Louise" came out in theaters. Much too young to see an R-rated movie (thank you, Mom and Dad -- I think too many kids see too much way too early) and frankly, I have no recollection of the film except for the title characters names and how our family quickly turned those names into nicknames for my grandmother and her cousin.

My Grandma MacDonald loved movies. She took us grandkids as often as she could sneak us away and I loved that about her. She and her friends went often I remember, she saw way more movies than I did growing up. And I remember her going with her cousin Elaine, from Canada, to see this particular film. And shortly after, they earned the nicknames because of all of their traveling. Those two traveled all over together. I love thinking of their stories and looking back at their photographs...

So when the opportunity came up to attend a screening of the 20th anniversary print of the movie, I jumped. Angela had never seen it so I bought two tickets ($3 and free parking - a steal in this town) and off we went. And had a great time. The screening took place at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences theater on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. And I have to tell you - it was quite something to watch a movie, surrounded by so many movie lovers and craftspeople - and to have two giant gold Oscar statues at either end of the screen. Very cool in deed!

There were a number of filmmakers and actors in the audience, some who'd worked on the film, others who were just there to enjoy I assume (Tate Donovan was directly in front of us!) which was pretty cool too.

All in all, a good night. The screening was followed by a Q & A with Geena Davis (actress), Mimi Polk Gitlin (the producer) and Callie Khouri (the Oscar-winning screenwriter) which was enlightening as well -- they talked a lot about how Hollywood needs more films made by and aimed at women. I agree. And I'm trying...

My day on "Dexter"

Last week I got a call from Central Casting, the company that supplies extras to most of the movies and television shows filming in California. I'd applied with them last summer, called in a few times, hadn't been a good fit for anything filming, and given up on the dream of some easy cash for standing around. The call I got was that they needed a tall woman to be an extra on the Showtime television show "Dexter". This woman needed to block Dexter, the vigilante serial killer played by Michael C. Hall, from getting through a crowd as he followed a presumably bad guy played by Colin Hanks. Having only been on a few sets before I jumped at the chance to see things work up close.

And see them up close I did. Last Friday, dressed in my brightest "Miami garb" appropriate for a flea market (the show's set in Florida so we were told to dress accordingly) I drove to Long Beach (about an hour's drive from my house) and found base camp with the help of the SLICE signs (see above). I took two other outfits, complete with jewelry and bags as I was instructed but apparently my pink tee and white capris fit the bill. I was herded through several lines to get paperwork and get looked over by assistant directors and wardrobe people and then sent with the fifty others working the scene to set.

The set was amazing. The crew had transformed a small area between two apartment buildings and several businesses into a biergarten and flea market. And they hadn't just made it look like those things - they actually put hot dogs on to roast, carted in hundreds of cases of beer, set up wares in booths, etc. The time and attention to detail was simply amazing. Once I got there I was escorted off to the side with the other tall woman they'd called in for the part, Ruby who had a few years and a few inches on me. Ruby was dressed head to toe (even her fingernails and toenails) in day-glow orange. She looked awesome. And she'll likely be in more shots that any of us because she knew how to look "Miami"!

Ruby and I were given sides to read (industry-speak for script pages) and I quickly took note of the episode number (6 - entitled "Just Let Go" - it's scheduled to air November 6) and read all that I could. It was fun to get to see the scene in print that we were working on and to realize that what we'd spend eight hours shooting that day was less than two pages of the script. Two pages with barely any dialogue. And the dialogue we would hear would be only one side of a cell phone conversation.

After that we stood around for quite some time. Then we were moved into place and were given many, many directions over the course of several hours. Basically it was one giant crowd scene that they split into three parts. They filmed so many angels and my job? To walk like I knew where I was going. To walk past Colin Hanks and past Michael C. Hall and try to get in their way, just a little bit. After that, we moved into the biergarten and were instructed to do the same thing. And then again, in the flea market. There I got to pretend to look at t-shirts and camping gear and candy in different booths. But mostly my job was to look like a "real person" but stay out of the way of the cameras while blending seemlessly into the background. Here's hoping...

It was exciting to be on a set, to see the actors and the directors and all the crew working up close. To be a part of it. It really was. But it was also a very long day. It was hot, so hot and we were all in the sun, for hours on end, me and my big purse that I thought looked good but was really just heavy. And by the end of the eight hours or so I just couldn't wait to go home.

Today I got my paycheck, which includes mileage, a big perk for extras I hear. A whopping $67.15. Was it worth it? For the experience? Yes? For the money? Well, for an underemployed writer and teacher? Yes. But is it something I want to do every day? No. I am not an actor. I know which side of the camera I belong on.

Will you be able to see me in the episode? I have no idea. I brushed past both actors more times than I can count. I physically touched the title character time and time again. At one point, in character, he had to say "sorry" to my "character" for running into me. But I have no idea what the editors will do once they get the film. You might see a pink splash or you might see all of me. Or maybe just Ruby. Either way? It was fun. Very fun! And basically, my five minutes of fame. Glad that's done with, back to sitting behind the computer screen.

UPDATE:
My episode aired as scheduled in November and I was in a surprising number of scenes in the first minute of the show. Here are some still shots I took off the television: