Workin' on my slapshot

I envy those people who go to work and do a job and at the end of the day have tangible results. Maybe it's receipts of items sold. Maybe it's a harvest. Maybe it's grades earned by students. Maybe it's patients cared for. Maybe it's widgets made.

When I go to work (and I'm not talking teaching here, I consider that one job, and I consider writing another job) and do my job I rarely have tangible results. I feel a little like what the philosophers must have felt like back in the day. If you watch The Big Bang Theory (and you really really should if you don't) you'll remember the sequence in this week's episode where Sheldon and Raj worked - basically they stood around and stared at equations for days on end. That's often what I do.

I've been working on my current screenplay since February. Technically, if you count the Final Draft document files, I'm on draft eight. But in reality, this draft is probably somewhere in the hundreds. I write and I change and I move and I rewrite. And then often I sit and stare. I did that for a good portion of today.

I have a good draft done. Angela thinks it's good. I think it's the best yet. People ask me when I'm going to send it out to producers and managers and anyone who'll accept an email attachment. And I stop dead in my tracks. It's not ready to go out yet. Not at all.

I'm not one of those people who thinks her work is precious. I know it is. It's precious to me. But I also know it's not sacred. I know that once I put it out into the world it is no longer my own. That begins when I show it to a friend or family member to read. That begins the second the words print out of the printer. Communication is as much about the receiver as it is the sender. It's not all about how I intend the message, it's about how you receive it.

So I have this draft. This draft that has taken almost eight months to come into being. This draft that changed quite a bit after a hard core plot session with Angela on Saturday afternoon. This draft that has jokes I love and is missing jokes I adore. This draft is good but not excellent.

So today I made a note card for every single scene in my film. I charted the entire plot. I wrote fifteen incantations of a logline before I came up with a simple sentence that defines my story. I went over notes from a whole year of study at UCLA. I went over notes from books and reels of movies stored in my mind.

And I realized two things. One, I have some work to do. But two, I can do it. Am I scared? Of course. Out of my mind. I cannot imagine sending someone my screenplay, these characters I have birthed, this world I have created, these words I have agonized over, and have them rip it to shreds. I cannot imagine having someone reject it as I know it will be. But I've also realized something else. I have to do this. I have to because it's my job. It's me.

I don't get paid to sit and stare at note cards for six hours on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. I don't get paid to come up with countless spec ideas for an episode of Bones. Yes, there are people who do get paid to do these things and I pray that one day, I will be among that group but guess what? I do it already, for free, because I have to. It's who I am. It's what I am.

Every time I think about giving up or wishing it was easier I think about athletes who spend countless hours training to get where they are. That's what I'm doing. I'm training. I'm trying to make my game the best it can be before I get in front of all those scouts. Because no one's going to pick me if I can't make free throws or get the puck to the net. And I really really really wanna be picked.

Blessings in no particular order

One of the nicest parts about my parents' retirement for me has been the opportunity to have conversations with them during the day. See, I work from home, so I have a flexible schedule. Sometimes this means I can take my sister's car into the garage for repairs (as I did today), volunteer at church (as I did Tuesday) or even work, as I do most days. But I also get to sneak in some quality phone time, something I've been doing lately with my parents who are back home in the eastern time zone.

And today as I was talking with my mom I realized something. I realized that I am blessed. I am so blessed. My whole family is really. But mostly me. I have parents who have loved and cared for me and still worry and care for me almost thirty-two years later. I have a host of people back home, and all around the world literally, who care for me. And I'm well. I can work. I can go out with friends. I have a house and food in the cupboards and heat and clothing and all that stuff one needs to live a normal life.

But mostly I am well. And I take that for granted too much of the time. Sure I've had a touch of the flu this week but who hasn't. And I thought about it as I was eating the eggs and toast Angela made me for dinner tonight as I laid on the couch. I'm okay. I'm going to be okay.

Because there are people who aren't. There are people in my life who might not be. And that breaks my heart. It breaks my heart to know that someone I love so dearly, someone who helped raise me, is hurting, isn't well. And I need to be thankful for what I have.

So here's my top ten list today. The things are I am thankful for on this Friday in October (in no particular order):
10. My parents and Angela.
9. My fingers that help connect what my brain says to the paper in front of me so I can do my job and write.
8. People who've known me only 365 days yet think I'm someone they should invest in. And that they went ahead and gave me a scholarship to prove it.
7. The Internet. It keeps me connected (sometimes, a little too frequently) to the outside world, to my family and friends, to people.
6. Warm blankets on my bed and windows that keep the wind out.
5. Legs and arms to carry me to the grocery store and lift all the packages that will sustain me through the week.
4. God. Even though we don't talk as often as we probably should, I know he listens when I whisper my pleas. I know he cares. And I know he loves me.
3. My hair. I really like my hair and I'm thankful it's full and pretty and getting long. Yeah, so what. I'm thankful for it.
2. My job. I make just enough to live on and that's really all I need, all anyone needs.
1. The past thirty-one years. For every single thing, event, person that's touched me. For all the good and the bad. It's brought me here, to this moment. And I wouldn't change a second of it.

Happy 96th Birthday Grandma

Today would have been my Great Grandma Ruth's 96th birthday. All month I've been looking at her name on my calendar. I'm a card sender and I kept feeling the need to send her card out. But I can't because she passed away in January. I also still have her number in my cell phone and I still remember the last time she called me. I loved that she called in the evening, late in Michigan but early here, because we'd be home. She'd tell me the same story about growing up in Yorba Linda, California and living just down the street from the boy who would become President Richard Nixon every single time we talked. She called more after I moved to California, I think she liked that I was here where she grew up.
These pictures are of a beautiful glass serving tray I bought in June. Grandma always gave presents on holidays, it didn't matter that she didn't have a lot of money, that she was the one who introduced us to government cheese when we were little, she liked to shop and it showed. And once I left home and got a place of my own my gifts changed from shirts and wallets to things for my house. I have a beautiful crystal bowl that I adore. A chip and dip server that comes in handy. Vases and candy dishes and just all sorts of things that are practical but really very nice. She had a sense of style about her.

This past fall grandma had to be moved permanently into a nursing home. She had lived alone for as long as I had known her, my great grandfather died the year I was born, and even though she didn't drive she managed to travel and go out to eat and was really never at home. She had wonderful friends and lived in a nice apartment steps from my grandparents' home. But she was getting older and had some health problems and it was time. So this was the first Christmas we spent without grandma at the table. But we went to visit her a lot over the few weeks I was in Michigan. We took her things for her room, Christmas gifts (she loved yogurt covered pretzels and crossword puzzles), and just sat and listened to her tell the same stories over and over again. But then the day before I was to fly back to California we noticed a change. She was agitated and didn't understand at all why she was there. She wanted to walk and couldn't and it wasn't going well. I left her that day with a hug, a kiss and a heavy heart.

Angela and I flew into LAX late on a Friday night. Saturday morning the phone rang before sunrise. Grandma had passed away. And as I moved through that day, that weekend, that week, very numb I thought about how it was really for the best. She was a free spirit. She missed her home and her life and what she'd been reduced to was not what she had wanted. So she went somewhere better. Someplace where she could be with her beloved Kenneth, have a kitten and gamble the day away.

This glass tray is what I bought with the money I got in my last Christmas card from grandma. I hemmed and hawed over the purchase for six months until Angela grew very aggravated with me. It was only ten dollars but to me it was so much more. I'd look for that perfect thing to spend the money on everywhere we went and I went back to Crate & Barrel several times to look at this piece. It wasn't until my parents visited this summer that we talked and I finally made the decision. It was also then when my mom brought the roses that sit on the tray. They're roses from the arrangement that we sent to grandma's funeral. The funeral I couldn't attend.

It broke my heart knowing I couldn't go back to the funeral. We'd literally just gotten home and the thousand dollars it would cost just wasn't there. But I took comfort in the fact that we'd spent so much time with her at Christmas. That I'd actually hugged and kissed her goodbye instead of just looking at a wooden box.

When my parents visited they not only brought the roses but several other mementos my mom had saved for us. Angela and I both got a cross necklace and a cat figurine (grandma loved cats but couldn't have one). There's a small dish for rings that sits on the kitchen sink window sill that reminds me of her every day and a wooden cross above a bookshelf that keeps watch over the house.

So happy birthday grandma, I know that today you're wearing one of your favorite sweatshirts, watching your programs, working on a crossword puzzle, sneaking a piece of chocolate and enjoying the freedom you deserve. I love you.

Turning on the TV within me

Last Tuesday I headed west again, onto UCLA's campus. Yes, I left early and no, there wasn't traffic so I ended up sitting in the classroom with a good forty minutes to spare before class started. But I didn't care. I was excited. I was ready. And I was terrified.

See this fall I'm taking a course on "Writing the One-Hour Television Drama". For the last year and change I've been studying feature film screenplays and using television for my escapism, purely for fun. I study every movie I watch for the three act breaks, the cute meet, the big gloom, the characters, the everything. I can't turn it off. I read screenplays so I know what happens in most movies before I pay to see them. I watch them over to understand how they work. And now I get to do that with TV.

It must be the same though, right? you say. A little bit so but then completely different. Four one thing TV has a whole extra act in it, and the thing at the beginning, the teaser. Also, each week (at least for most non-premium cable shows) you have to reintroduce the characters and the main idea of the show for the new viewers. Because you pray each week you have new viewers. So it's different.

What else? Oh, let's see, the fact that I have to write in someone else's voice. I have to use already well established characters and plot devices and settings. It's a little more like mimicry than actual creation. It's basically a whole new skill set.

So back to class. I found out that we'll be dissecting shows each week, writing our own beat sheets (detailed outlines) of them, and then working on our own spec scripts. A spec script is a TV writer's calling card. It's what's used to say, "Hey, I can write X on CBS just as well as their writers and I could do the same for you at NBC." A spec will never be read by the show it's written for but it'll hopefully be read by agents and others who could give me a job. So it needs to be good. And written as if it could be shot which means it has to sound just like a X script and has to be something they've never done. No small feat. Especially when some of the shows we're looking at specing are 80 shows in.

In class we've started breaking down The Mentalist. I've never seen it but don't worry, soon enough I'll be an expert in all things Simon Baker and company. Then we had to pick our show to spec from a list. I chose Bones for two reasons. One, I've seen every episode, many times over in repeats, and two, I like that it mixes comedy and relationships with the crime procedural format.

So what's next? Well, I've spent the last week brainstorming ideas. And this is where I start to freak out. What do I know about crimes and murder and forensic anthropology? Not much. And that I do know? I've learned from Bones and CSI and NCIS and all those other crime shows.

So yesterday Angela and I spent a few hours in Barnes & Noble pouring through the true crime and criminology section. (Patrons walking by were probably very scared, especially when I got all excited about what fire does to a person's cranium!) I made a lot of notes, things I hadn't heard of before, and started formulating ideas.

My teacher told the story last week about how he pitched over 100 ideas to two producers before getting his first writing assignment on a television show. Tomorrow night I have to pitch 4 and then pick one. Right now I have 2 very loose ideas. They're basically sentences. But they're mine. And they're what I've got so far so I'll forge ahead.

What I'm noticing already is how much I like the brainstorming process, the idea of learning about new things. I've always said I wanted to be a writer so I could do a million jobs: be a politician, a movie star, a lawyer, a cook, a parent, anything and everything. And right now I'm getting to be a forensic anthropologist and a special agent in the FBI.

Also, if you have any ideas you wouldn't mind me stealing, send away. By tomorrow at 6:30 nothing will seem to out there!

A very nice by-product

For the past four nights I've been out and about in Los Angeles. Three movies and last night a Dodgers game (my first Dodgers game mind you). I had a great time at each and every event. Tuesday Angela and I saw a free sneak preview of the movie The Informant! starring Matt Damon. Then on Wednesday I went to the Hollywood premiere of Jennifer's Body with a friend. This was something because it was my first time inside Graumman's Chinese Theater (which has hosted the Oscars and beautiful inside) and it was my first time see a horror movie in a theater. And frankly, I haven't seen many outside the theater either. And then on Thursday Angela and I went to a free sneak preview of the movie Love Happens starring Jennifer Aniston.

But you know what made each night, each event, much more enjoyable than I would have ever imagined? The people. The conversation. The fact that I had to slow down, step away from work and writing and life for a few minutes (in the case of the movies, a few hours) and just wait. And each time I got to wait with friends.

Angela and I met Daniela through our friend Emily, at the Big Bang Theory taping. She arranged for our tickets, got us to the front of the line, and got us awesome seats in the studio. Since then we've communicated via Twitter here and there. Then Tuesday who's right in front of us in line at the ArcLight but Daniela! It was great. See to get into these free movie screenings you have to stand in line. It's first come first serve. We've figured out if the movie starts at 7:30 we'd better be in line about 5:15. Sometimes Ang and I take a book or magazines but usually you're standing and moving and it's hard to concentrate. So it was great to run into Daniela, and her friend Eric, because now we had someone to talk to for 2+ hours! How fun!

Then on Wednesday was the horror movie that Angela refused to attend, frankly she's freaked out by the commercials for the movie. So I asked my friend Angela Garber to go with me. And the best part of the night (though the movie was really really good!) was getting to spend a big chunk of it talking with Angela. We've spent a lot of time together over the past year but we're usually in church, volunteering for this or that, or surrounded by our throng of mutual friends. And it was very cool to get to hang out with her one-on-one for a while and just chat.

Same goes for Thursday even though it was just Angela (my sister again, she was excited for this movie) and me. We ate dinner in line at the theater in Burbank and it was nice to hear all about her day and her week at school. A lot of the time we eat in front of the television but this was a nice change of pace.

And that brings me to yesterday, to Dodger Day.

We had fun, though it was a bit more stressful than I anticipated, going to a major league ball game by ourselves. We found the stadium fine but parking was a nightmare and we ended up on the opposite side of the stadium from our seats (and they won't let you in the wrong entrance) but we did eventually find out friends. And enjoyed talking and laughing for a while. Yes, I wore my Detroit Tigers hat but yes I cheered for the home team too. We watched some of our friends form a human red AIDS ribbon on the field (it was Strike Out AIDS night, thus the group discounts), we watched some ho-hum baseball (they were tied when we left, ended up losing), we watched our friend Pauley take picture after picture with fans and sign count autographs, and then we left early. But it was fun. And it was very cool to see the view from the parking lot: Los Angeles at night.

All in all, I have to say, the best part of the week was the by-product of each night's activity: the conversations. Sometimes, when I sit alone at my computer for hours and days on end, I forget that that's really what life's about.

Art class

Yesterday was Angela's first day back at work and since it was a non-student day, I went with her. We loaded up the car with the few boxes she had narrowed her stash to, and her laptop/projector cart and away we went. And of course, immediately, she found out she was required to attend the staff meeting at 8am. Had she been invited or informed of this before? No. So off she went. And there I was, car full of stuff. So I went in search of her new room.

It wasn't hard to find, it was directly across the hall from her old room. Once I got inside I stopped. It was overflowing with stuff. And it was dark and musty. And to top it all off, every visible surface was covered in rat poop. Not mice poop but big, gross rat terds.

But you know what? It didn't matter. It was Angela's new classroom. It was where she'd do her thing, teach her kids and spend a good potion of every school day for the foreseeable future. So I got to work. I found the head janitor and asked for all the trash bags he had and that he call the exterminator. (Mouse traps and ant traps are against LAUSD policy, go figure, rat poop and ants are apparently not.) I turned up the AC, opened all the blinds (she has a beautiful view of the skyline and palm trees) and went to work.

The art teacher before Angela retired in June. She didn't tell anyone she was going, just the principal on the last day I guess, and walked out. She left everything behind. Can you imagine doing this at your place of work? At a house you are vacating? It's insane but is apparently protocol for most teachers. Because every time Ang has moved into a new classroom we've had to clean it out. (Lucky for me I had only one classroom in my tenure as a seventh grade teacher and the teacher before me in there was Angela!)

But this teacher had been around for a hundred years or so and was a hoarder. No, she didn't just keep a few old papers and mementos. She could qualify for an Oprah exclusive. Stacks of paper and posterboard five foot high, never been used. Gallons of rubber cement. Eleven staplers, most not in working order. About forty rolls of masking tape. Hundreds of pencils. Boxes of brand new colored pencils, crayons, pastels. More sticky notes and paper clips and razor blades and compasses than Staples has in stock. And that was just some of the good stuff.

We filled up two boxes and a bag and set on down the hall like Santa Claus. We shared the wealth and then took the rest to the school office's supply closet. It was ridiculous. But then there was the cupboard of fabric that was home to some of the lovely rats. Angela bravely pulled on gloves and went to work in there. And remember -- this was all for sub pay. Several teachers stopped to gawk throughout the day and some even cautioned her not to do too much as she might have to move classrooms and she wasn't being treated fairly. To that we continually reminded people that rat poop is gross and unhealthy. Who wants to work in a place like that for even a day? Who wants to see kids sit amidst that?

So we kept cleaning. I doused everything in 409 and we filled the hallway with trash. And more trash. And more. That teacher had never thrown out a used eraser or greeting card. But amidst the trash we found something cool: art supplies. We found almost everything on Ang's list, including hundreds of pipe cleaners in every color for the mobiles. Felt and construction paper for the collages. Trays for the water colors. Charcoal for the sketches. It was fantastic. The sad part is that past art students didn't get to use any of the supplies (from what I could tell - they mostly did word searches. I tossed thousands of copies of word searches, literally). The exciting part is Ang's students are gonna use them all up!

When we left last night after nine hours the room looked good. We'd moved tables around, collected chairs (her biggest class has 48 students!), laid out supplies for this week, and things weren't sparkling but they were certainly better. And today, as she left for her sixth first day of seventh grade, she said she was excited not nervous. And I think that's gotta count for something!

Because it's what she does

When we came home from Michigan this summer Angela made the decision to go empty out her classroom. She's been assured by her principal at the end of the school year in June that this wasn't necessary. She'd have a job come September. Well, August was here and she hadn't heard a peep. She hadn't heard from the principal or her union or anyone. The secretary at the school said that it looked like she'd be hired as a permanent substitute teacher but as much as we both adore the secretary at her school, she's not the one who signs contracts or makes decisions. So she went to pack up.

So she went. She wasn't there twenty minutes when she called me in tears. Then she came home for lunch that day and hemmed and hawed and didn't go back. And didn't go back. And cried again. And then I asked her if she needed me to go back with her and she did. So I went. We packed and cleaned and admired the newly waxed floors she wouldn't be walking come fall. I sang songs, loudly, as I carried stuff to my car -- songs I made up about how LAUSD stinks and songs about unemployment and respect. I had a good blues ditty going for a minute.

These pictures are just snapshots of what makes Angela one of the best teachers I have ever known. And I know a lot. Working in different public schools for over four years, having gone through public school as a student, and college, and grad school and now teaching college myself for seven years I know a thing or two about good teachers. Angela is one of them.

This is a box of books that won't get read this year. It'll sit in our garage, in a nice expensive tub we bought to ward off moisture, in the hopes that maybe next year they'll get used. Here's what LAUSD has decided instead:

They have an awesome teacher. A teacher who has a full teaching credential in Michigan (preschool through eighth grade, yep, she went to college a semester longer to get her early childhood endorsement so she'd be extra prepared, extra smart), and in Arizona, and a provisional credential in California for several more years. A teacher who spent a lot of money, time and effort last year to go through the National Board process to become nationally certified. To become nationally certified means you have a full credential in 48 states. It's a big freakin' deal. She had to take tests, create a portfolio, go to classes, etc. It was like grad school hopped up on speed.

So they have this very qualified language arts teacher. And apparently, because of some rules we still don't understand though plenty of people in HR have tried to explain them (not very well), she's still not qualified ENOUGH. She has to have a master's degree to get rehired. A master's degree in teaching middle school language arts? Nah, not necessary -- just any old master's in anything related to teaching is fine. A master's degree from a fancy school? Nah, any old online degree will do. As long as you have one more piece of paper, that's fine.

Now don't get me wrong. I am a huge proponent of higher education. I went to college. I have a master's degree. I have a second degree from UCLA I got just this year. I'm going back to UCLA in the fall to start studying television writing. But for me, I need the practical knowledge. I need the experience, not the piece of paper. Angela has plenty of experience but not the right piece of paper. It's ridiculous.

So here's what LAUSD is going to do. They're going to hire Angela back, oh, how generous you say! But no -- there's a catch. They're going to hire her back to be a teacher. To do everything she did last year. To be in charge of over 180 children throughout the day. To educate said children. But not in language arts, her specialty. They're going to hire her back to teach art. Yep, art. A subject she has never studied. A subject she does not have a credential for. A subject she has little affinity for. Isn't that just inspired?

But wait, there's more -- they're going to hire her back to be a teacher. To do teacherly things like keep attendance records, grade work, submit grades, participate in parent-teacher conferences, write lesson plans (because of course there's no set curriculum, that would be too easy!), etc. And they're going to pay her LESS. They're going to pay her quite a bit less. They're going to pay her as a substitute teacher. Yes, she'll get health care benefits (technically she'll pay for them just like any employee) but nothing else. No sick time, no retirement, no payment for non-student days, etc. Isn't that just fantastic?
So why, you might ask, is she going to do it? Why will she go to her school on Wednesday and teach art and be paid as a substitute teacher for her time? Because of these boxes. Because of all this stuff. Because she's a teacher. Because she cares enough to buy books and supplies and plan and worry and read and not get paid what she should. Because she's one of the best teachers I've ever met. And because no one else is hiring teachers. And don't tell me that you'd expect a neurosurgeon who's been downsized to just go out and get any other regular old job. Neurosurgeons are neurosurgeons. Teachers are teachers. There are brains that need fixing. There are kids that need educating.

BIG

I have a Life's Little Instruction calendar on my desktop and occasionally the message really hits home. Sometimes they're things like: Never turn down a chance to participate in a small-town parade. (I don't - I even found proof when I was home a few weeks ago, a thank you note from Republican Congresswoman (I think she won once, not sure) Susan Grimes Munsell and a picture of me in my t-shirt!) But sometimes they're things like:

Think big. Plan big. Announce big. Timid, feeble dreams don't excite anyone.

I've stuck that one up on my whiteboard so it's staring me down. It's reminding me that everyone knows why I moved to Los Angeles. That every time I go home, I get asked how my writing's going. I get asked if I've sold anything or gotten a job writing. It's a little like peer pressure. But it's more than that. It's me pressure.

So today I'm digging back in. I'm refocusing. I had a great vacation at home. I read some books. I slept. I ate too much. But now I'm back. As I type a draft of Operation Gold Digger is being printed. I've gone back through all my notes from UCLA and made a rewriting checklist. I'm going in.

Because before the end of September I'm going to send my script to two managers and a production company executive -- all of whom have promised to read it. So here goes nothing!

Everyone needs an Angela in their life

In my lifetime I've had a lot of friends. And I've had school friends, work friends, church friends, etc. And some are still a part of my life. But many aren't. And yet, there's always been one constant in my life. One friend who is always there. Always by my side. Always a phone call or a shout away.

My little sister Angela.

Growing up it was just the two of us and it was never just Angela or Sarah, it was always The Knapp Girls. Even in college and even now. And you know what, I love it. I love that I am so blessed, so lucky, to have this person in my life who supports me no matter what. Who makes awesome pancakes. Who cleans the house. Who goes grocery shopping when I am sick (this may not sound like a lot but if you knew Angela you'd know that grocery shopping is one of her least favorite activities in life).

And she's a trooper, she really is. She has had a medical condition her entire life that causes her pain on a daily, hourly basis and she rarely lets on. She has spent more time in doctors offices, hospitals and clinics than you or I may ever experience. She graduated college with an education degree just as the demand for teachers in Michigan was declining but she never quit. She just moved herself across the country, to the border of Mexico, to teach underprivileged gangster kids. And can I just tell you, this was no small adventure for someone with an anxiety disorder. But she did it. And she was awesome at it. To see her with her kids, she's simply remarkable.

And then, when I decided to move to Los Angeles and become a screenwriter, what did she do? She decided to move away from the place she'd made home and support me. Seriously. Who does that? Angela.

We have a running joke that Angela will always live with me. I like to tell her I'll make sure I always have a garage apartment for her. My mom says maybe she can live down the street. But one thing I know for sure, anyone, and I mean anyone, would be changed for life to have Angela in his or her life. I know I have been and I am so thankful that I get to continue my life with her.

Happy 29th Birthday little sister. I love you.

God loves everyone

When I decided to move to Los Angeles one of the first things I vowed to do was find a church. And did I. One of the first things that caught my attention about Hollywood United Methodist Church last July (aside from the awesome building and awesome people) was that they were in the middle of a Crossflix sermon series, the pastors were preaching on different movies each Sunday of the summer. And when I visited that Sunday one of the movies scheduled to be preached on in a few weeks was Dogma by Kevin Smith.

I'm a huge Kevin Smith fan, which I know, might throw some of you for a loop. But I am. I remember back in college some friends went to see Dogma and when I asked them what it was about one girl said, "Religion but you wouldn't like it, they cuss a lot and there are lots of dirty jokes". And that intrigued me. I had a reputation for being a conservative Christian but in truth, I was just a Christian. The conservative assumption came from the belief by some in college that if I went to church ( I did, twice a week, and I was a youth group leader), I must be conservative.

But guess what? I'm not. And I now own Dogma and every other Kevin Smith movie pre-2009 (don't get me started on Zack and Miri Make a Porno, that's a whole other blog, the movie just wasn't that funny....). And when I saw that they were going to do a sermon on a Kevin Smith movie I vowed to be back in Los Angeles in time to hear it. And I was. And it was pretty cool.

But today was even cooler. We've had some great sermons in this summer's Crossflix series but today's was on Milk and I knew it would be intense given our church's activism. And when we snuck in late and sat behind our friend Pauley I wondered what was up. She seemed really excited about something. And then she whispered, "That's Dustin Lance Black" and pointed down the pew. Yep, the man who won an Oscar in January for best original screenplay of the movie Milk was sitting not five feet from me. So cool. And then I got to introduce myself and shake his hand.

Pauley had gotten word to him about the sermon and he showed up. She was shocked because she doesn't know him personally and because she was participating in the sermon, talking about his Oscar acceptance speech in which he announced to the whole world that God really does love everyone. Yeah. Pauley was excited. And so was I.

Dustin got a standing ovation after they showed a clip from his speech, and he was mobbed after church but as I stood back and watched it all I thought about the scripture Pauley had read:

Micah 6:8
"And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

And I thought about how the spirit of that scripture was exactly what had brought me to Hollywood UMC, about how it had brought me back and kept me there, how it had showed me that God really does love everyone. He loves the television actress, he loves the Oscar-winning screenwriter, he loves the gay fathers and their little girl who walk into the sanctuary 15 minutes every single Sunday, he loves the homeless man who sat behind me and smelled so badly, he loves the crazy man who condems single mothers, he loves the drag queens and the ministers and the Kevin Smith fan. He loves us all. And I think that's pretty freaking cool.

10 things I have done in the last week

1. I finished another quarter at the University of Phoenix and started another, within 24 hours.
2. I spent two and a half hours in the world of Harry Potter and wished it had lasted another two and a half more.
3. I saw the movie "Adam" which is a very sweet romantic comedy, which we saw for free at a sneak preview!
4. I started scrapbooking again after almost a year sabbatical. I've made it through the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas '07 trips with my parents. I'm getting there.
5. I've discovered the delightful television show "Chuck" and watched almost two seasons. In fact I spent most of my graduation itunes card downloading an entire season that's not yet available on DVD.
6. I've figured out how to survive, and thrive, on less food, no caffeine, and no air conditioning in the middle of a heat wave in Los Angeles in July.
7. I have finished another draft of my script which is now entitled "Operation Gold Digger" and sent it out to several trusted screenwriting peers for feedback.
8. I saw the movie "Funny People" after standing in line for 2 hours outside to get in. I can't say anything about it because I signed a legal document and had to go through a metal detector to get in. But I can tell you it was free!
9. I went to a sneak preview of the movie "The Ugly Truth" (see a trend here, I'm finding ways to enjoy free AC) and enjoyed it way more than I thought it would.
10. I ate homemade hummus that Angela made and it was fabulous!

Hmmm...

Remember my post about me getting fed? And how I'd invited one of my Tuesday friends to come to church? Well, he came. It took two weeks of reminders and invites but he showed up yesterday and I was pretty excited. Not because I'd gotten him to come but because he was there. Because he decided he wanted to give church another try.

I have a hard time imagining what it would be like to have never gone to church since I've been going my entire life. But seeing Michael yesterday gave me a little peek into that world. He was nervous and thought we'd tricked him into coming to a Catholic church (our church building does look cathedral-like). But he stayed and he said he was glad he'd come.

More and more I think about my life on a small scale. I think about how my actions affect others, how others actions affect mine. I think about what I can do today, what I can do tomorrow. I think about life and the end and how different things might have been or could be.

It's a lot of thinking but as a writer that's what I spend most of my time doing. I'm in the rewriting stages of a script right now and that involves me spending most of my waking time, whether I'm watching a movie (ooh, that's the point of entry - is that a good idea to copy somehow?) or washing dishes (the opening scene needs to be funnier, that's all, just funnier. Ugh.) or waking up (I think that the wedding should be televised, internationally, yeah, that'd up the stakes). So thinking for me never stops.

What do you think about?

Musical thoughts

I don't remember where I was the first time I heard a Michael Jackson song. (I do remember where I was the first time I heard the Bon Jovi record "Slippery When Wet" though! And yes, it was an actual record. And it came all the way from Puerto Rico as I recall, a gift from a friend's grandmother.) I remember some older friends introducing me to his music because in the 80s I was still pretty little and I thought the music from the 50s, 60s, and 70s was current. I thought the Monkees were the latest thing. I thought my parents music WAS the music of the time. I had no idea there was this whole other culture out there.

To me Michael Jackson wasn't a music god like he apparently was to some people. To me he was a singer, a dancer, an entertainer. Granted, a very good one. And he was a part of my childhood. Until these last few weeks I had no idea that I knew the words to so many of his songs. I didn't know the impact they'd had on me. The memories they brought back.

Music does that for me. It reminds me of where I was at the time, what was going on. I remember very distinctly sitting in the portable at Northwest Elementary, in what was maybe third or fourth grade, passing the worn notebook paper that held the lyrics to Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach". I remember dancing around the backyard, grass beneath my bare feet, singing my heart out with Tiffany. I remember how those New Kids on the Block songs make me think of so many dance routines I put on in the Roxberry's cool basement on hot summer days. I remember singing The Fat Boys "Wipe Out" over and over again on the way home from school, and I wonder now what my dad thought back then!

Music is amazing. It stays with me. It colors my day. There are some days I want peace and I'll put in a slow, mellow CD, maybe Joshua Kadison or Yo-Yo Ma. There are days when only Eminem or Kanye West can help me express what I'm feeling. But I often turn to music, even if it's just a song or a melody. And I sing. I sing with all my heart. And today, as I watched the memorial service for Michael Jackson, I thought about what he'd done, with his gift of music. How he'd brought so many people together. How he'd brought so much joy to so many. And to me, that's pretty extraordinary.

ER

Fifteen years ago I remember watching a videotape of a show I'd recorded off NBC. I remember watching it and falling in love with the characters, the stories, the whole thing. It was a little show called ER.

Last night I watched the series finale (yes, a few months after the fact) and was saddened to think that something I've been watching for half my life is over. I grew up with those characters. And they affected me in so many different ways.

I remember that fall it premiered, I was still in high school, wandering the stacks of the Howell Library, looking for books. Not just any books. MCAT books, books on medical careers. I was going to be an emergency room physician I decided. I read and read. And then I finally realized I didn't have the right type of intellect (I can't memorize to save my soul, and that's pretty important in med school I hear). But I soaked up the information and research anyway, I was fascinated. (The Practice made me want to be a lawyer, The West Wing made me want to move to Washington D.C., Alias made me apply to the CIA, you sense a trend right -- hopefully writer will get me "into" all these careers someday!)

In grad school I took a course in health communication and we did a study on how health information was dispersed through television and movies. We used ER as an example several times. Finally, all my TV watching was paying off!

But more than that, ER showed me, every week, what good writing looks like. How it is quick and interesting and funny and serious and makes you cry and laugh and think all at once. And the finale did just that. I love television, and for me, ER will live forever as a part of my life.

I got fed

Today I went to Homeless Lunch at church, I haven't been since March maybe, it's been a while, and it had been on my mind lately. But there had been work and my internship and appointments and just life. I'd been dropping off supplies but I knew it wasn't enough. So today I left the work behind and headed on over. And I'm so glad I did.

It was hectic today -- there were about 10 extra volunteers, youth group kids and their 2 leaders in town on a mission trip, and lots of regular volunteers. There was a line part way down the block of people waiting for lunches, and all the usual business involved in getting ready to serve 100+ people. And I had reservations, I thought I might just sneak out because there was help but for some reason I stayed. I quickly found out why.

First off I talked to Michael, one of our regular guests. He told me he was glad to see me, that I'd been away a while. As he tried on shoes and pulled the laces out (he has a thing about laces) he asked if I went to church there. I told him I did, and so did most of the other volunteers. He told me about going to church in Pasadena once, and never going back, because people looked at him weird because he had a backpack. I told him no one would even notice here, we'd love to have him come to worship. We talked for a few more minutes and he said maybe and left. I called out that he could sit by me if he came on Sunday. Yep, God had a plan.

For the rest of the two hours I got constant "welcome backs", "hi sweeties", "good to see you Sarahs", etc. I got hugs and handshakes and lots and lots of thank yous. I got a hug from the youth group leader who I met an hour before. I got called gorgeous and intelligent and told I have a beautiful smile (yes, external validation can do a lot for the soul, I won't lie). Simply put, I got fed.

And as I watched the youth group kids helping out I realized what a mission trip always taught me, always reminded me: that whenever I go to serve, I am served. Whenever I go to feed others, I am fed. Whenever I love, I am loved.

Today was a good day. God is good. All the time.

Look before you pee

I read an interview with Kevin Smith this week, he's one of my all-time favorite filmmakers, and he said he keeps directing movies just for the stories to tell at his Q&As. I nodded to myself and thought, I completely understand.

That's the reason I stay in this house. Just for the stories.

Today was a day of errands and laundry and normal stuff. A step away from the sightseeing and business we've been up to lately. My mom and I made a picnic dinner that we all enjoyed, along with some key lime wine smoothies that were fabulous!, and then we settled in for a long night with our favorite superhero, Jack Bauer. We started the most recent season's DVDs on Saturday and we're down to the last disc. The Knapp family loves 24!

Things were going well, and after one episode Angela took a bathroom break. And then there were screams. Screams that wouldn't quit.

I was sure it was a spider. A big spider. I killed a medium-size one last night and we've been on alert. But no, I asked, loudly, and she just kept screaming. Finally she got out that it was a mouse. In the toilet.

Yep. A live mouse. In the toilet bowl. Swimming, trying to get out. And he wasn't tiny. (Why are all mice "he" in my mind?) And he was probably upset since he'd just been peed on. (I used my mouse voice when I regaled this thought to Angela, telling her he was probably like, "what the heck, where's this toxic rain coming from?!?!?")

I shut the lid and immediately called the landlord. Angela kept screaming. The landlord said to call the plumbers and just tell them there was a problem with our toilet but that would sound stupid I thought, especially once they got here and saw the mouse. But I called, and told them the truth, and they said to flush, and stay on the line in case it overflowed and they'd need to come over.

So I flushed. Once. Twice. Three times.

And the mouse was gone.

But not the hysterics.

So we've been flushing the toilet all night. Angela's attempted to pee without sitting and contemplated the bathtub. Tomorrow I'll call the exterminator. Our landlord and the plumber assure us a mouse couldn't swim in through the toilet pipes but I have strong doubts that he waltzed into the toilet bowl on his own. But who knows. Maybe he has some help from those friends of his, the rats, who allegedly marched through the front door a few months ago.

Because of him

My dad taught me what empathy was at a very early age. No, he didn't pull out the dictionary and explain the word to me, he taught me through example. He taught me by crying when I cried or laughing when I laughed or being happy when I was happy. He taught me by being himself.

My dad is the guy who flew out to Arizona and slept on the floor of my apartment to help me move to Los Angeles. My dad is the guy who cried at every awards ceremony I was ever honored at. My dad is the guy who drove hours in the rain to surprise me at my final college golf match. My dad is the guy who stood in the clothing store for hours on end, holding purses, looking for other sizes, commenting on outfits because he lives with three girls. My dad is, simply put, awesome.

I've been trying to write this blog for twenty-four hours and I keep starting and restarting and having a hard time getting what I want to convey through. I've been thinking about all the things I've done with my dad over the past thirty one years. All the golf games, all the board games, all the nights of homework (endless nights especially in eleventh grade, during AP U.S. History), all the hard times, all the good times, all the normal time.

When I think about my dad I think about him making tuna and noodles for dinner or scrambled eggs for breakfast. I think about him chaperoning all the field trips in elementary school, I think about him burying my fish in the backyard, my rabbit in the field, and holding my hand as we said goodbye to Brownie. I think about him playing basketball with me in the driveway and croquet in the front yard, I think about him putting up the Christmas tree and building the props for Trim-A-Tree every year.

I think about him picking Angela and Ben and Liz and I up from school every day and laughing as we played The Fat Boys' Wipe Out over and over in his Ford Tempo. I think about him calling me from work and talking for hours. I think about him driving me to and from college every weekend. I think about him and his big hugs. I think about him scrapbooking and writing for the church newsletter. I think about him making me laugh over and over again. I think about him being a part of my life, a part of everything, a part of me.

He taught me how to be funny. He taught me to golf. He taught me to use tools and change the oil in my car. He taught me to drive. He taught me to talk to people. He taught me to be nice. He taught me when to bite my tongue. He taught me to forgive. He taught me to forget. He taught me to love.

I love that I got to spend today with my dad. That I got to sit next to him in church and at lunch and that I get to hang out watching the U.S. Open with him. I love that he gets me, that he reads my novel and my screenplays and that he has never once, not ever, stopped encouraging me from doing anything and everything. Every single day he is behind me 200%. Every single minute. He is the glue that holds our family together. Just ask any of us. Without him, none of us would be the same. Or laugh quite so much.

Dad -- today and always, I love you and I love because of you.

My own brand of magic

On Tuesday night I graduated from UCLA's professional screenwriting program. I have a nifty certificate to add to the other nifty certificates already in frames and leaning up against the wall (thanks mom and dad for bringing these westward, they'll be hung soon!). But more than that I have a much stronger belief in myself. I have a year of professional training behind me. I have a year of study (I watched 67 movies). I have a year of listening. I have a year of reading (I read 59 scripts). I have a year of work. I have a year of writing.

On the very first night I sat in the lecture hall at UCLA I listened to several of the same men who spoke at graduation. One of them instructed us to let ourselves be a part of our own adventures and to have a plan but be open to where it would take us, to let ourselves be surprised. And surprised I am. A year ago I never dreamed I'd have two screenplays written by now. I never thought I'd write an R-rated comedy in the Apatow vein that people would laugh out loud during. I never thought I'd write a dramedy about a woman who falls in love with an undertaker after she opens a funeral home in her house. These things just never crossed my mind. But how often does that happen to us? How often do we let it happen to us?

I have naysayers in my life. People who think I should pack it in and move back to Michigan (and they are probably not reading this blog so don't worry -- it's none of you). I have people in my life who've told me how hard this career path will be. That it's like trying to get into the NBA. I have people who tell me it's a horrible time to be a writer, no one's making movies right now, blah blah blah. Here's where I say stop (sometimes verbally, sometimes in my mind, I am a polite girl after all). Stop. Don't tell me I can't. Don't tell me I won't. Tell me to try. Tell me to do it. Tell me to not only go to the NBA tryouts but to show them my stuff and wow the socks right off them. Tell me that I can do this. I will do this. Because there's no Plan B. This is it. This is my life. I believe in myself. And I chose to share my life with those who believe in me too. I'm lucky that that circle is so, so big.

At the beginning of this program Hal Ackerman told us we should have one goal: Become a better writer. I have met that goal. I have succeeded. And I'm moving on to the next one, to become an even better writer than I was last week. And there's only one way I can do that, to continue doing exactly what I'm doing. Writing. Living. Being here. Being me. My question to the naysayers (real and imagined, yes, there are a few of them taking up residence in my brain) is why would you not? Why would you not want to experience something you've always wondered about? Always dreamed about? Or never dreamed about? This weekend I touched a sting ray and it was so cool. I never dreamed I'd touched a sting ray (in fact, before this weekend I was pretty scared of them) but it was awesome. I felt like a little kid. And I think that's what life is all about. Doing those things that are interesting, different, cool, exciting, normal, whatever. It's about doing. It's not about talking or simply existing. It's about going out there and jumping in. Feet first, head first, elbow first. However it happens, it's about the happening.

At the graduation ceremony Hal read this poem by John Updike which I loved:

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death

is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,

which took a whole life to develop and market -

the quips, the witticisms, the slant

adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest

the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched

in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,

their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,

their response and your performance twinned.

The jokes over the phone. The memories packed

in the rapid-access file. The whole act.

Who will do it again? That's it; no one;

imitators and descendants aren't the same.

This poem blew me away. And I instantly thought, how true. We each have our own brand of magic. And this, screenwriting, is a part of mine. It's not all of me, not even most of me, but it's certainly a piece of me.

So I will continue to write. I will rewrite. I will join my classmates in forming a writer's group so we can keep encouraging one another and helping one another. That's one of the coolest things about UCLA's program -- how they encourage you to work together. Writing is such a solitary experience that I find I need, I crave, that interpersonal interaction, especially when it comes to talking about my writing. And it's something other writer's get. Not everyone does, and I understand that. I probably don't get your job or passion the same way that you do.

So I graduated. Once again. And finally, after seven years of school, I feel adequately prepared to enter a profession. I feel ready to do this, because, in fact, I already am. I'm writing. Every day. It's my own brand of magic. And I intend to sprinkle it all over the world.

Top 10 Reasons Why Disney is the Happiest Place on Earth

10. For the entire duration of your stay at Disneyland (or Disneyworld) you get to think only about Disney. Just what's next. What ice cream treat to buy. What ride has the shortest Fast Pass line. What route around the park will get you to the parade the quickest (or away from the parade as in our case). You enter a sort of Disney-survival mode wherein you only think about what's happening at that very moment. E-mails and life issues and everything else falls by the wayside.

9. The Tiki Room reminds you what life was like before computers and the craziness of modern technology. As I sat back and sang along with the birds, I thought for a bit about how glad I was to see all the kids there enjoying this. Experiencing it. Not on a screen or in their living room but outside in the real (Disneyfied of course) world, wearing sunscreen and fanny packs and eating apple slices out of Ziplocs and reading maps!

8. The customer service. We ate in sit-down restaurants for each meal (trying to get heatlhier fare) and we had excellent service. Also, people at the gates were wonderful and on all the rides. Really, Disney knows how to treat its' guests right. And I love that we're called guests!

7. The rides are interesting and a little exciting without being terrifying. There are twists and turns and your blood pressure goes up a little but nothing extreme (never was a huge fan of Cedar Point, I know, being from Michigan and all that's heresy...). Indiana Jones was fun, and so was Star Wars even though I've never seen the film. And it's all about the experience at Disney. You don't have to know about the movie, they tell you. In fact, I really enjoyed just walking through the Castle, reading about Princess Aurora (Sleeping Beauty) on the storybook pages. There wasn't a ride, just stairs but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

6. I think the photography system at Disney is genius. We've done it each time we've been to the parks but they've modernized it now with a website and keycard. How many vacations do you go on where your whole family isn't in the picture because someone has to be taking it??? Not true at Disney. In just one day we got 15 pics of the 4 of us. We ended up choosing only 1 to purchase but we have the option to order more or none at all, and we can even email them to friends and family for free. Free souvenirs (albeit virtual)?!?!? Cool.

5. Waiting time. I didn't even mind the longish lines when we happened upon them. I left my cell phone at home and just watched people, talked to my family, and observed. To simply be in the moment, that made me happy.

4. Mickey mouse-shaped ice cream dipped in Dove chocolate.

3. Giant boquets of colorful balloons and cotton candy sprinkled down Main Street.

2. Napping in the air conditioned darkened theater in the afternoon during the Muppets 3-D movie. I enjoyed the movie and I've seen it before and I liked shutting my eyes for 5 minutes.

1. How can you not smile when you see a little kid run up to a princess or Mr. Incredible and do a high-five or give them a tiny hug? I mean really. That's worth the price of admission right there.

The need to blog...

I have this nagging need to blog but I don't know exactly what to write about. I finished classes at UCLA last week and turned in my screenplay. And came home and instantly thought of a much better climax/ending for the thing. Figures. But I have a conference with my professor about it tomorrow so I'll talk it over with him and then move onto the next draft. The life of the writer...

My parents got into town on Thursday and it's been a whirlwind of sightseeing, looking at pictures of their trip (they drove from Michigan through Yellowstone, stopped at Mount Rushmore, Salt Lake City, and Las Vegas), and just living life as a family unit again.

Other than that, I'd like to report that my neck is better. I went to the chiropractor three times last week and finally felt some relief, no more jaw pain thank the Lord. And after much loving and caring pestering from my friend Pauley, I am going to see an acupuncturist for the first time tomorrow! I'll report back on that. I'm not scared really, more curious and hopeful that it'll be a positive experience.

Work is going much better this semester, I'm in a groove and keeping on top of grading and my students seem good. I'm still looking for other employment but who in Hollywood and the country isn't, right? And I'm supposed to start a new screenplay today. Hmmm....maybe today will be one of those "invisible labor" days Victor Hugo referred to.

Oh, I also finished my internship with Gold Circle Films on Thursday! It was a great experience, I worked for some great people, and it was an awesome last day. I wrote coverage on one script and since the new interns were starting that day as I was finishing, our boss decided to screen one of the company's upcoming releases for us -- "The Fourth Kind". I'd read the script when I first started working there, it's about alien abductions, and thought it was interesting. But the movie was great. I'm not kidding, and I don't like alien movies. But it was intense, suspenseful, and really well done. And I thought it was very cool that I got to see it before it opened! (They're releasing it sometime this fall most likely.)

The Vomit Draft

That's what my latest screenwriting professor calls the first draft of any screenplay: the vomit draft. He says it's the draft where we just have to get it onto the page, and we can't take the time to make it look pretty, that's what the second through forty-seventh drafts are for. This draft, this first semblance of a story, is just the slightest hint of the skeleton that will become our script. The good news? Mine is done.

Yep. Done. At 4:30pm today. About eight weeks after I started writing it. Eight long weeks of vomiting. Eight long weeks of writing pages, reading pages, rewriting pages, throwing pages in the recycle bin, starting new versions, changing opening scenes, writing jokes that weren't funny, writing jokes that were funny, writing jokes that crossed the line, writing jokes that even I didn't get. Eight long weeks of sitting in the chair, staring at the wall, looking at the notes on my board above my computer:

• Think about dilemma, subtext, context, progressive complications, and stakes.
  
• What is the moment about? the scene about? the sequence about? the act about? the movie about?
• "Each minute of procrastination robs you of a minute of accomplishment." (Damn you Jewel Quest!)
• Have an attitude of expectancy.
  
• What is the simple, emotional journey?
• Comedy constants: be specific, remember the rule of threes, etc.
• Summer 2011
• Screenplay by Sarah Knapp
• Directed by Sarah Knapp

And now I get to start on the list sitting next to my mousepad. The items I need to address/to fix/to change/to improve that I was not allowed to go back to until I finished the draft. The stuff I am dying to work on. The character I need to develop. The jokes I wrote "FUNNIER" next to. The hilarious scene that played so well in my mind and so badly on the page.

One hundred and five pages. And then I got to write those three little words that are glorious to any screenwriter: Fade to black. I wasn't sure it was gonna get done there for a while last week, when I was on page forty-seven. When I had no idea what the climax was going to be or how to get the main character to end up with the right girl. When I thought, and had written, the entire second act and part of the third in Hawaii and then decided to move it to Los Angeles and Vegas. But it happened. It got done. Deadlines are great motivators.

I'll let it sit tonight and part of tomorrow. I'll read a friend's screenplay, do some laundry, grade some papers. And then I'll dig back in. I'll see if the jokes are any good. I'll read the dialogue aloud and figure out if that's how these characters really talk to their best friends. I'll color in some of the blank spots and throw a few wrenches in for good measure. And next Tuesday, come hell or high water, I'll have a second draft. Because that's what us NBA players do. We bring it.

Our bodies

This is a picture of my friend Pauley. On Sunday, during the BBQ at my house we were discussing aches and pains. Something happened a week ago today and my neck started to hurt. Wait, hurt isn't the right word. I experienced pain. And not just any pain. Pain that shot through my shoulders up my neck to my jaw and straight through the top of my head. When I bent over I thought I might pass out. I was sure I had some terrible disease or aneurysm or something though I wouldn't admit this to anyone. Come to find out, I have tension in my neck. Well, at least that's what the masseuse told me.

But back to this crazy picture. Pauley has neck and shoulder pain too and she was very concerned about me. One of our friends is a masseuse (which I didn't know until she told me to sit down and started rubbing my neck) and she told me I likely pulled something and am exhibiting symptoms of TMJ. I don't have TMJ, most likely just the symptoms. I am grateful for that diagnosis seeing how 1) it calms my fears about the aneurysm and 2) it was free (if ever there was a time I wished I lived in Canada...). Pauley explained to me that she's had her neck issues for years now and gets acupuncture, etc. to help. I was intrigued because acupuncture's helping Angela but it's still too pricey for me.

But Pauley's pain got worse over the weekend and she went to the doctor and the above picture is a result of what they did to her. It's called cupping. I was terrified when I saw the photo, it looks painful (she says it is) and I wondered how it could help (it supposed to, we'll see). But the more I think about all this physical pain, the more I think about our bodies. Mine in particular but in general, how we treat our bodies, and how they are so mistreated on a regular basis.

I went back for another massage today and asked that the massuese focus on my neck. She did but then she worked on every other part of my body as well and after a few minutes I was grateful for this. I spend hours in front of the computer and that doesn't just affect my neck. It affects my hands and my legs and my back and my eyes and it's amazing I'm still functioning. It's amazing any of us are. To think about God creating these physical beings we live in. Deciding what functions as what, what we look like, what needs to perform and how. It boggles my mind.

I was talking about weight loss with some friends the other day and the issue of self-esteem was raised. I was thinking about how I have conciously been trying to be more positive about my own body image. I've been walking regularly for months now (even through the neck pain) and I've yet to lose a single pound but people keep telling me I look good, better, thinner, healthier. I'm not so sure but I've really been focused on accepting the compliments, saying thank you, and trying not to downplay my efforts. I realize that this is the body God provided me with, for better or worse, for my entire life on this earth and it's all I've got.

Today I saw one of those TV commercials for body sculpting. They offered payment plans with zero interest. I immediately thought, ooh - just my upper arms. If I got those done I'd be content. I flashed back to this morning when I tried on three different outfits before heading off to my internship. They all revolved around not letting my arms show too much. And then I thought about how much I enjoyed getting my massage today. How much I enjoyed walking in the sun today, along the street, looking up at the blue sky. How much I enjoyed writing with my fingers on the keyboard and singing along to the John Mayer CD I've just discovered and fallen in love with.

I often take my body for granted. Sometimes it reminds me that I have to be more careful, more cautious, more loving of it. Those are the times when I put on extra sunscreen or get a massage or take an Advil or put the fancy eye cream all around my eyes. I really do want to be more intention in preserving what God's given me. I want to use it and work it and have it work for me.

On Monday as I watched all those runners in the marathon I teared up on more than one occassion. To see what they were putting their bodies through, to see what they did for their bodies, was pretty awe-inspiring. I will never be a runner, I don't have the knees for it, but I did find myself sprinting a few times on my walk home that morning. I found myself taking an extra moment to brush my teeth better, to rub lotion into my neck and arms, to stretch every 30 minutes as I worked at my computer.

Our bodies. It's crazy what we do to them. It's crazy what they do to us. They're beautiful creations, gifts, from God. Most of all they're the only ones we get. I need to remember that more often.

This Old House

This is a picture of one of two outlets in our kitchen on Abbey Place. It's true. Two outlets in one modern kitchen. Some of you may say, what? That's plenty. But you're wrong. Very wrong.
This is a picture of the second outlet in our kitchen. This means we have a total of four plugs. One is constantly taken up by the refrigerator (I suggested unplugging it for a few minutes today, that suggestion was not taken under consideration). So in reality we have three plugs. And the ones in the first picture are in a completely useless place. (We plug in the radio, sometimes the Hot Shot water heater, that's all.)
Here is Angela beating the egg whites IN THE DINING ROOM. Yep, where there's carpet and a plug that's not even near the table (thus, the chair/counter space). She couldn't use the second plug in the kitchen because the waffle maker's plugged into it, heating.
And just so you know, she only got a little off the foamy stuff out of the bowl. Overall, she did a good job, even using her body, wrapping it around the bowl at one point, as a human shield against egg whites. She deserves a Michelin star just for that.

So yes, we live in an old house. There's a cabinet door in the kitchen that has never closed. In fact, it is always completely open unless I shut it very carefully, tiptoe away, and then it stays semi-closed for a good five seconds. Maybe ten if it's not humid.

But I love this house. And we're getting it all spruced up. This week we got a new roof on the garage and part of the house so we've managed to get everything back outside into storage. That means we won't be able to go golfing or sleep on our air mattress at a moment's notice because those things have been stored in the trunk of Ang's car but we're happy to have a non-leaky roof. (I really want it to rain so we can see if it's waterproof. Come on Southern California, just a shower or two?!?!?!)

Also, the exterminator came this week, twice, and is helping us with our ant problem (only 7 ants in the last few hours, such an improvement over the last week!) which is very exciting. And the plumber comes tomorrow to fix the broken toilet. Oh how I love this Money Pit, I mean our wonderful old house. Really. I love it. And I'm going to love the homemade waffles Ang is making in the dining room!

P.S. -- Here are the waffles. So good! And I found a little bit of Cool Whip left in the fridge (which never happens) so they look like they came from IHOP!!!

She's mine

A lot of times parents make the mistake of trying to be a child's friend and not their parent. This doesn't work. I've seen it with my friends, my family members, my students, it simply doesn't work. Children needs rules, they need to be taught, they need to be shown the way. Children need parents. And I am so blessed because my mom has always been a parent first, and then a friend. What I love most of all is she is both.

My mom taught me a lot of what has made me successful. She taught me to be respectful, to keep my mouth closed at certain moments, to look in the mirror before leaving the house, how to stretch a dollar, and how to feed myself and others. She taught me that a lot of times life isn't fair but it can still be okay. She taught me to love God and love my neighbor, even if the smile I had to plaster on would be fake. She taught me to go out and try everything. She taught me to live my life, regardless of what anyone else thinks.

I would not be who I am or where I am if it weren't for her. She has encouraged me every single step of the way. And she hasn't always been ecstatic about it, I know. She'd like to not have to borrow the neighbor's kids when she wants to spend time with her grandchildren, she'd like to see us more often, she'd like for us to be more financially stable -- and those are not unreasonable thoughts. I'd like them too. Regardless, she's been my cheerleader, 150%, the entire way. She's the one who sends me cards telling me to believe in everything. She's the one who writes 'the worst words you ever write are better than the best words you never write' on a scrap of paper so that I will keep going. She's the one who answers the phone at 1:30am when I call to tell her I had a great table read. (Note: she was on vacation and told me it was okay to call, I normally do not call at this time because she taught me that's not polite!)

Last month my mom got to retire. She's already traveled for weeks down south, visiting friends, walking through lighthouses, having lunch on the Daytona pier. And I'm so excited for her and this new chapter in her story. I'm so excited that after half her lifetime, slaving away in a not so great job that she always wore a smile to, she gets to do what she wants to do. She gets to go where she wants to go. She deserves it. And so much more.

I'm not at home today -- I wish I was. There's a family lunch at grandma's and then the stop at the other grandma's. There was church and I know she got a card from us. But we'll celebrate her when she gets to California in less than a month. We'll do Mother's Day 2009 up big time.

But most of all, I want her to know today that I am grateful, beyond words, that I had a mother. I had someone who taught me what I needed to know, who took care of me, who loved me so fiercely that she always did and always has put my needs first. She is amazing. And I'm lucky she's mine.

My new card

I have lived in Los Angeles since August. I have lived approximately three blocks from a public library for over nine months. I didn't have a library card -- until today!

I'm pretty excited. I walk by the library on Olympic and Muirfield almost every single day. And when I don't walk by it, I drive by it. It's this beautiful old brick building with moss growing on the sides and a playground/park out front. I like watching the little kids play on the swings when I walk by. But until today I'd never ventured in.

I did a mid-day run to Angela's school a few minutes ago, her migraine's back full force and she is having a crappy day. Kids out of uniform, parents showing up unannounced to complain that - gasp! - their kids have homework, etc. And she told me when I went out to prune the money tree in the backyard, if I found a frozen yogurt pond to bring her some. So I did the next best thing, I kidnapped her and took her to Yogurtland just down the block from her school. We ate some yogurt (mine had blueberries and raspberries! Yum!) and then she got a dish for the school secretary and we went back - 20 minutes door to door. So on the way home I drove past the library again and thought, "STOP!" You have nothing pressing that needs to be done right this minute. You have been trying to figure out how to get more audiobooks without paying the ridiculous itunes fees, go to the library! So I did...

I went in and was immediately greeted by a friendly staff member who took my drivers' licence, asked for a signature and gave me a card. Easy as that! And then I got to do my favorite thing - browse.

I grew up going to the library, sometimes several times a week. We'd go for story hour, we'd go for books, we'd go to watch the Saturday afternoon movie. When I got a little older Angela and I went by ourselves. I think I read every single book in the Young Adult section several times over. We did the summer reading programs, we went for homework, we rented movies there. I loved the library.

And then I moved to Kalamazoo. They have an awesome library there - it was recently rebuilt and had won awards. I loved that library and I knew it well. I went every week for research when I worked for the Kalamazoo Gazette. I checked out audiobooks by the suitcase when I was commuting from Jackson to Kalamazoo. And they had the coolest children's room - complete with a castle on the wall.

Needless to say I'm excited about my new library card. I'm excited about the three audiobooks I checked out today and the novel I've been wanting to read for a year. I almost bought it last week at the bookstore but knew I couldn't afford it so didn't. And it was one of the first books I saw today! And I'm excited because there were people in there, reading, researching, enjoying books. And to me, as a reader and as a writer, that's a pretty cool thing to see.

Priceless

You know how sometimes life just hands you gold? And by gold I mean comedy gold of course. (We learned about this in Monday night's lecture and I've been mining for it ever since.) How you can be engaged in a conversation or something can be happening around you and you just think to yourself - I've got a story here.

That happened to my yesterday. And I was so excited.

Yep. Comedy gold folks. That's what this is.

Now that I've set the bar way too high....here's my story.

Tuesday I went to Homeless Lunch as I do most Tuesdays. I went and I carried boxes, I unpacked clothes, I spread out books, I bagged saltines, I put everything out just so on the tables and carts. And then we opened the gates.

Now let me just explain for a minute, what it's like on a hot Tuesday at 11:01am in Hollywood, California when you're handing out free food and water. It's crazy. There are people who've been in line for several hours, scoping out the tennis shoes and flannel shirts and they get mad when people cut in front of them. Or they want to sneak out of the food line where I have to make them sign in and where I regulate the flow of people into our small area and grab that orange t-shirt they've been eyeing. Or they want a lunch for their friend who's in the park (a big no-no). Well this week I wasn't having any of it and I started laying down the law. A sample of my shouts:

"TWO ITEMS ONLY!"

"Um, do you want a lunch?"

"Excuse me!"

And so it goes. But I have been a teacher for nine years and so I also know how to be bi-polar when the moment requires it. I can scream and rant and vent and then I can turn around, put on my biggest, brightest smile and ask you about your day or your new haircut. And that's what I was doing Tuesday. Being my best selves. Tough and mean, sweet and helpful. All rolled into one.

Now onto the good stuff!

So my friend Jim and I were busy for the first 45 minutes or so handing out food when this couple comes up the line. They're a husband and wife, probably younger than me but look 10 years older, and they're regulars. I know they live on the street (some of our folks don't) and a few weeks ago they brought by their pet rat to show off. It was in a Build-A-Bear box. I kid you not.

So they come up the line and they both are just smiling and holding hands and looking so happy. I smiled back and got their lunches and the woman tells me about how she's going to start school that afternoon at a local community college. I told her how great that was (she'd seen my UCLA t-shirt and was excited we'd both be in school) and asked her if she wanted tuna or salmon for lunch. Her husband told her to get chicken and as he did so I couldn't help but notice he looked like the cat that got the canary. He was grinning from ear to ear and prodded her to tell me why she couldn't eat fish. By this point I was in on the secret. She was pregnant.

So she stands there and starts emptying her pockets, she says she has to "show" me her surprise. That they just found out a few hours ago. And can I just say, it was really sweet. I know they're homeless, and she's missing her two front teeth and they have a pet rat and no clothes, but they were just so excited. As she's emptying her pockets I look at what comes out: a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a pouch of chewing tobacco. And then I stopped looking quickly.

And finally she finds it. The pregnancy test. She holds it out to me and I look, yep, there's the plus sign. And she's so excited. I smile and tell her congratulations and reinforce how great it is she's going to school and making things better for their family. And then Jim steps up to the conversation. She wants to show him too, as he hasn't been listening, and she does. And he's confused. He doesn't know what it is. And this part happened all so fast all I could do was stand there and grin along with them. Because I knew exactly what was happening.

Jim looks at her hands and thinks she's found something in her lunch bag: a needle, something that shouldn't be there maybe. So he takes the stick from her and puts it up close to his face to examine it. And I just laughed. And so did the couple. And finally I say, she's pregnant, it's a pregnancy test.

"Oh," is his response and he drops it quickly back into her hands. And they go on their way.

Jim and I both go to wash our hands and I can't help but bust a gut. It's funny. It's funny in that way that you know it'll get funnier the more you tell it. And I try to explain this to him. And he's still a little confused. He explains to me that as a man, and a gay man at that, he's never seen a pregnancy test before. Which made me laugh even harder. And again when I started telling the story - comedy gold I tell you, comedy gold.

Also, he wanted to know where that stick had been. When I explained that she'd peed on it he washed again and then announced he was going home to shower. Priceless.

So that's the story. That's the little nugget that will get tucked away in my brain and saved for a script some day. And that's what I love about life. Sometimes you get a gold in the form of a pee stick.