Today I showered alone

This morning I stood in the bathtub and turned on the hot water. I let the water run over me and for a moment I luxuriated in the silence. The fact that I was alone. I was alone and I was showering and the blue lawn chair that is home to the mean ugly spider is back outside.

It has been three weeks to the day since I have showered standing up, alone in my house.

Three weeks ago today I found out I have blood clots in both of my legs. And yes, I am using the right tense. They are still here, in my body. I have been to the doctor. I have been to the emergency room. I have been to the hospital. I have been to the lab. I have been to another doctor. But what I found out is no amount of blood thinner can break up and dissolve the clots in my body. My body has to figure this one out on its own. It has to reabsorb the clots and heal itself. Sigh.

Three weeks ago today I woke up with leg pain. I'd gone to bed the night before with pain. Pain in my side from the strained abdominal wall I'd been diagnosed with. Pain in my right knee and right thigh that I figured was all a result of the couch rest I'd been on for said strained abdominal wall. My body had been revolting all week. I was tired and cranky and sore and my other leg had hurt for two days but felt better. I figured eventually, when I got to stretch and move again I'd feel better all around. So I got in the shower and I stood under the hot spray and I tried to stretch my right leg. I put pressure on it. I put all my weight on it, trying to work the kinks out. I really gave it a nice hot steam workout. Then I got out of the shower.

And I noticed the my right leg was incredibly red and swollen about twice the size of my other leg. Yeah. Kinks. Excellent.

I took some deep breaths. I took a photo of my legs and sent it to my amazing acupuncturist Trace. I waited. I fretted. I figured I was overreacting and I should make breakfast. But I didn't. I just worried. And then Trace called me. (We text. We send frog emojis back and forth. She only calls when something's wrong.) She told me to call Angela home from work and go to the doctor. She told me to promise her not to google anything but to tell the doctor we suspected a DVT. I promised her and called Angela.

Angela was home in approximately four minutes. I kid you not. Her lovely coworkers and bosses rallied and covered her classes and walked her to her car and she was collecting me within minutes. And we went to her doctor's office where a PA saw me immediately.

The PA was sure it was nothing but she called around and got me an ultrasound that afternoon. She was sure it wasn't a DVT because of my young age, my health, my lack of extreme pain, etc. But she got me an appointment. At Cedars-Sinai. Angela and I found a place to scarf down hamburgers on the way (thank god, we wouldn't eat again for a long long time) and before we knew it we were in the ultrasound suite at Cedars. The tech told me she couldn't give me my results, my doctor would do that but if she saw an issue she'd call my doctor. If not, I'd be on my way.

Less than thirty minutes later she called my doctor and a nice older man wheeled me through the hospital tunnel and into the emergency room. Where Angela and I proceeded to sit with a few hundred other patients and family members for two hours. Wearing surgical masks. Praying that A) we didn't catch any of what we saw all around us and B) my leg would not fall off before I saw a doctor.

We eventually got a room in the ER. I was put on a Heparin IV drip and they did a heart test. Seven and a half hours later I was transferred (via a call made by my new HMO) to Alahambra Hospital, east of downtown Los Angeles. I was taken by ambulance. It was the middle of the night. I was exhausted and terrified and not all that impressed with my lot in life at the moment. But then I arrived at the hospital and the nicest nurses in the world greeted me and admitted me and fed me and hooked me up to a heart monitor among other things and proceeded to make me feel like I would be okay. And guess what?

I was. I am.

Saturday's breakfast

It was a long couple of days. I learned that you really can get by without brushing your teeth or combing your hair or wearing a bra when you're worried about your heart stopping. I learned that hospital eggs and sausage taste amazing when you're deep down really physically hungry. I learned that I have amazing friends who would spend their Saturday traipsing all the way out to a town I'd barely heard of to bring me flowers and magazines and colorful pens and chocolate and plants and oranges and prayers and hugs. I learned that walking five feet to the bathroom and back again can feel like the biggest feat of your life. I learned that it's okay to ask for help. I learned that when you need people, they will come through for you.

Angela & I in my room at Alahambra Hospital

On Sunday morning I was told I'd be discharged later that afternoon. I'd spent two nights in Alahambra Hospital and I was grateful for my time there. I had mixed feelings about leaving. I was terrified of still having clots in my body but not being monitored to make sure they didn't travel to my heart or lungs (known as a pulmonary embolism, PE, which can be fatal). I was scared to go home because my heart rate was still high and no one knew why exactly. I was scared to go home because the pain in my leg had become intense. To the point I couldn't put much weight on it at all and it was so swollen it didn't really bend anymore.

Me leaving the hospital Sunday

But...I was ready for more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep. I was ready to be at home with my things and to eat my own food. I was ready to bathe (that wouldn't come for two more days but it eventually came!). I was ready to change my clothes. I was ready. But I wasn't ready to be alone. I couldn't really be alone. I couldn't get up without assistance and I could barely focus on a conversation let alone get my own food and remember to take my meds and all of that. Angela would take a few days off but she was exhausted and we decided we needed help. So we called my parents.

The fruit basket that Pauley sent

In about two hours they managed to buy plane tickets, pack their bags, and get to Detroit Metro Airport. By eight-thirty that night they were standing in my living room, just hours after I arrived home. For two weeks they shopped and cooked and cleaned and kept Angela and I going. And there are no words that can express the blessing that was to us both.

So now? So now I still have clots in my legs. Three weeks later. How do I know? Well, when my right leg is down or in use for more than a few minutes it gets red and blotchy and swells. Not nearly as bad as three weeks ago. And the pain is almost gone. I am still on blood thinners and will be for at least another five weeks. So I keep it elevated most of the day. I get up and walk religiously. I do stretches and exercises and massage it but I still keep it up.

The day after Mom & Dad arrived

And every day I do something new that I couldn't do the day before. I notice that the back of my knee is no longer swollen. I realize I haven't had a panic attack in three days and I think, maybe I won't die of a PE today. I walk outside and pull the trash can to the curb. I do chair yoga with a video I found on YouTube and try to pretend everyone in the video isn't ninety-seven. I take a shower when I'm home alone and though I have to sit on the side of the tub to shave my legs I thank god that I still have both legs to shave and that I am getting stronger every moment.

From Trace

I also deal with my HMO. I listen as the nurse at my primary care physician's office tells me they'll file a second appeal today to try and get me a referral to a hematologist, something that is being denied though no one understands why. I agree to go back down to Chinatown tomorrow at nine o'clock in the morning to give three more vials of blood because the seven they took last Saturday were apparently not quite enough. I go to acupuncture and trust that even though the drugs are working in my body, the needles and the massage and the love of friends will help too.

And I know that even though January 23rd has become a very unlucky (or lucky, if you're an optimist) day for me, it's the days that come after that matter more. The days of healing and survival and getting back to where I was, and then moving beyond there.

Mom & Dad at my doctor's office in Chinatown

(Funny tidbit -- as I lay in the ER on January 23rd, 2015, the RN said to me, oh, they already did blood tests. Angela and I both said, no, just ultrasound. She looked again. I'd had blood tests at Cedars on January 23rd, 2012, the day I'd been in the ER for my penicillin reaction. So yeah, January 23rd has a bit of a stigma attached to it now.)

Inside my doctor's office in Chinatown

I am blessed. The blood clots were detected as a result of a whole slew of people caring about me, including me. The blood clots are going away. Soon I will be better. Soon I will be headed to Hawaii. Soon I will be back to regular life. But in the meantime, I'm so blessed to be taken care of, to be prayed over, to be loved. I am blessed.

Wednesday night at the urgent care is where it's at

I just couldn't stay away. I didn't go over the holidays but last night I found myself at an Urgent Care, waiting to get a chest x-ray. Fun stuff.

That pulled muscle from December? From the chest cold in November? Well, after it got better it got worse. And then this week, way worse. I saw my acupuncturist on Tuesday and she wasn't psyched about my progress. After my treatment, I felt better but then? Then yesterday I strapped on my fast runners and headed out...on a walk. Walking down the block and talking with Angela, I turned the corner, and bam! Lost my breath. Like had to stop talking, stop walking, and stand next to the apartment dumpster, next to the neighbors' gardeners, and try to breath. Hand on my side, hand on my chest. And silly me, once I caught my breath, I kept going.

We walked less than an hour. To Rite-Aid. We walked slowly but we walked up and down a teeny tiny incline which at the time seemed like Everest. We walked less than two miles but it seemed like an Iron Man adventure. I have never felt quite so out of breath. Well, that's not true. Remember the time I found out I was allergic to penicillin the hard way? That might have been worse. Less side pain but worse.

My acupuncturist/fabulous friend who loves me and takes awesome care of me texted shortly after and when I begrudgingly admitted to the walking episode she said it might be time for an x-ray. So I pulled out my shiny new Medi-Cal card and followed the directions for finding an urgent care. I made a call, was directed somewhere else, to a woman who seemed to be new at life, and then found out the urgent care Medi-Cal had directed me to didn't take Medi-Cal. They'll be hearing from me soon, trust me on this one.

So off we went to a private Urgent Care. In a shiny new-ish building that was clean and had a smiling receptionist and that got me seen, x-rayed, and headed home in less than two hours. For a very reasonable fee. The best news?

No punctured lung like we feared. No broken rib like we feared. No pneumonia or infection like we feared. The bad news?

A strained abdominal wall. And the discharge directions? Rest. Yeah. Fabulous.

So today I have moved slowly between my desk chair and the couch. Tomorrow I will do the same. I'll hold off exercising for a while. I'll take more steps around the house, gingerly. I'll will myself to heal. Pray myself to heal. Beg myself to heal.

But mostly? I'm grateful that in the scheme of things, this is just a little extra sprinkle of the bad and really, not horrible. I'll try to remember that in between pain pills. 

2015 - full of the good stuff already

It's a new year. It's actually been a new year for 12 days now. But for me, it really starts today. I am back in Los Angeles. Back behind my desk.

I had 24 days in Michigan. Almost a month that flew by in a blink of an eye. Christmas parties. Dinners with friends. Gifts and trees. Hugs and stories read. Jigsaw puzzles and games of euchre. Chocolates and wine. Sweatshirts and blankets. Snow. Just enough. Cold weather. Family. Saying goodbye to the year that was and hello to the year that will be.

We started some new family traditions. We had dinner with my dad's brother and his family, something we hadn't done at the holidays in years. We ordered pizza on Christmas Eve because no one could fathom cooking one more meal in between all of the mandatory family dinners. We celebrated New Years' Eve at 9:30pm with wonderful dear friends because the little ones and the big ones were tired. We cried. A lot.

It was another season of sadness. Every morning I got up thinking, I'll go to the cemetery. And each night I went to bed thinking, tomorrow. I'll go tomorrow. I never went. Instead I spent hours with Marilyn's son, my brother. Hours that we hadn't spent together in years. Instead I shared stories with my parents about my grandparents and Marilyn. My mom and I spent a Friday night drinking wine, painting pictures, getting drive-thru hamburgers, and crying in the car as we drove around looking at Christmas lights. It was sad and it was happy. It was life and it was glorious.

The new year has already brought with it surprises.

One? I am going to Hawaii in 74 days with my mom, dad and sister. My mom surprised us with a trip on New Years' Day. Seven nights at a resort in Waikiki over Angela's spring break. If you had asked me to predict what might happen over spring break that wouldn't have cracked the top 100 of my list. I cannot wait.

Two? I turned down a full-time job. It's one I applied for. It's one I have interviewed for. Several times. It's one I didn't really want but figured I needed. Being an adult person and all. But when push came to shove and the offer rolled in I knew deep down what the answer would be. The answer is I'm not done dreaming yet. I'm not done writing yet. I'm not done living this life I've created and am creating, every single day. So I did it. This morning. I said no to what was expected of me and said yes to hope, and faith. It helps that I have awesome, amazing people who love me and encourage me never to settle. Not even a little.

Three? I am still recovering from a nasty bending coughing incident. It happened in early December. I pulled something on the right side of my body. Coughing. [insert over the hill joke here] And I've had 5 chiropractor visits, countless hours on the couch with the heating pad and little electric stimulus thingy (thanks, brother!), laser treatments, and plenty of Vicodin to get me through it and it's still healing. And still painful. Tomorrow I'll start acupuncture on it. And the pain in my neck I now have to compliment my pain in my side. I'm thankful beyond belief that I didn't have to make my annual trip to Redi-Care while in Howell this holiday season but I'll tell you, this? This injury is on my last nerve. Here's to a less than 74 day recovery!

So what does the new year look like from my point of view? So far, not too shabby. It's been full of laughter and smiles and tears and sadness and anticipation and relaxation and we're less than 2 weeks in. I think that bodes well. Because frankly, I like to mix it up. Too much of a good thing, or a bad thing, isn't healthy for the soul. The soul needs to dance. To sing and cry and rejoice and mourn and most of all, dance.

Here's to a 2015 full of everything. With just a little extra sprinkle of good stuff.

Advent Devotion - Angela, Guest Blogger

Here is the devotion Angela wrote to celebrate advent with Hollywood UMC this year:
Luke 1:26-38

"The angel said to her, ‘Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David.’ "
- Luke 1:30-32

Your heart starts pounding, your hands get clammy, your stomach starts to churn, and your thoughts go to a deep dark place you usually push far, far away. You’re all alone, no one can understand what you are feeling, this is more than you can handle. We have all experienced it, we have all felt it in our own way. Fear. Fear of failure. Fear of losing someone. Fear of harm. Fear of making mistakes.
In this passage Luke is describing a frightful experience for Mary. Not only is she going to have a baby out of wedlock, but for millions of people he will be the most important person to ever walk the Earth. She faced losing her fiancé, exile from everything she knew, and so much more. 

The beauty of Mary being chosen by God to bring his Son into the world is in her reaction. She doesn’t react to the fear that has to be going through her body. She doesn’t flee, wail against the injustice of what could happen, or even voice her fears. She simply says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word". It’s as if Mary immediately understood what was being placed upon her shoulders and knew that her faith would sustain her. 

How many of us can say the same. That being faced with seemingly unbeatable odds we immediately remember that our faith will sustain us. God is with us, every moment of every day just as he was with Mary. We need not fear but have faith. 


Prayer for Today: Heavenly Father, be with us today and always to take the fear away. Help us to feel the peace Mary felt on that fateful day. In your name we pray, Amen.

A little Newsroom inspiration

It was The American President that first made me sit up and take notice. And then I found Sports Night and followed it as ABC moved it all over the schedule. And then...The West Wing. All before the era of DVRs or DVDs or watching TV on the internet. I watched every episode of WW live on Wednesday evenings. And then, back when Bravo played it over and over in repeats, I watched it until I could recite lines. I have the script books for the first two seasons. And I vowed to buy a DVD player when they put the WW out on DVD. And I did.

When people ask who my favorite writer is I'm honest. I have two. Aaron Sorkin and Anne Lamott. Because to me, screenwriting is writing. One of the toughest types of writing. And the type that so many people, if you do your job well as a screenwriter, never realize is there in the first place. Because your writing becomes the words of actors who bring to life the message you're sending. It's pretty heady stuff.

So when I got the email that the Writers Guild Foundation, the nonprofit arm of the screenwriters union, was hosting An Evening with Aaron Sorkin, I snatched up tickets. Not only would we get to hear from Sorkin himself for over an hour (I've heard him speak before but always as part of a panel and it's never enough) but we'd get to see the series finale of his HBO television show The Newsroom a week before it premiered on television. A. Maze. Zing.

So Monday evening Angela and I headed to a theater in Hollywood and settled in. I spotted familiar faces in the crowd with us, writing teachers I had at UCLA, fellow emerging screenwriters, even a few professional ones (Angela totally geeked out when Breckin Meyer sat down a few rows behind us with his popcorn, see -- celebrities, they really are just like us). They showed the series finale, I tried hard not to cry too much in that crowded theater, and it was amazing. As all of Aaron's work is.

Then he came out. And he sat down and he started talking. And he talked for over an hour. And he made us laugh. He elicited some gasps and some squeals of delight from the audience of mostly writers. But what struck me most was that it really was a conversation about writing. One writer to another. Yes he has Emmys and Oscars and presumably Brinks' trucks full of gold coins but that night? In that room filled with writers just like himself, Aaron was just one of us.

He talked about how sometimes getting dressed is an accomplishment for the day. How sometimes at the end of the day it's a win to say we made it through the day, finished it and we're moving on. Even if we've got nothing tangible to show for it. He talked about being on deadline and feeling as if that blank page would never be filled. He talked about anxiety and distress and fear. And I just kept nodding and smiling and thinking, he gets it. He gets what I've been feeling every day for over six years. Since I moved to Los Angeles. He gets it. That's exactly how I feel.

He's self deprecating and honest and funny and exactly how you hope your idols will be when you meet them in person. And most of all? He's a writer. Everything he said, he brought back to writing. It was never about producing or acting or directing. It was always about the writing. And I think that's what makes him Aaron Sorkin.

It was a lovely night. I left smiling and recharged and ready to take on Hollywood. I left thinking I shouldn't beat myself up when the page is as white at the end of the day as it was at the beginning of the day because that happens to Aaron too. And I left salivating just thinking about what he'll do next.

Thank you for The American President, Sports Night, The West Wing, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Moneyball, The Social Network, The Newsroom and everything else you've written that I've loved, Aaron. But mostly? Thank you for being an inspiration to this writer. To me.

Advent Devotion

Here is the devotion I wrote to celebrate advent with Hollywood UMC this year:

Isaiah 11:1-10

In the Message version of the Bible the section of this passage that discusses the wolf dwelling with the lamb is subtitled “A Living Knowledge of God”. The word living means not dead but it also means active or thriving or strong. There’s quite a chasm between the words not dead and active. And I think sometimes that’s where my knowledge of God, and my faith, lies. In that chasm.

I go to church on Sundays. I volunteer on Tuesdays. That’s about four or five hours a week when I’m actively living out my faith. When I’m practicing my spirituality or putting my beliefs into action. So what about those other 163 hours a week?

“The wolf will romp with the lamb, the leopard sleep with the kid. Calf and lion will eat from the same trough, and a little child will tend them.” – Isaiah 11:6 (The Message)

A little child will tend them. Will a little child also tend me and if so, how? During those hundreds of hours when I’m not consciously living out my faith, how will I be tended? And how can I help tend?

These are important questions. Not just for the advent season but for our lives 365 days a year. That little child, He is with me always. He is with me on Sunday mornings. He is with me at Tuesday lunches. But He is also with me in the dark of the night when I cry. Or in the early evening hours when I am cross. He is with me when I expect Him to be and when I least expect Him to be. He is with me always. He is tending my faith. He is tending me. Even when I am in that chasm.

That chasm may be disappointment or grief or disillusionment. It may be darker than we can ever fathom. It may be just light enough to fool us into thinking it’s not a chasm at all. Regardless of its depth or breadth, that chasm is there. And it’s our choice to determine to have a thriving, active, strong faith. Despite the chasm. Because that little child is tending to us. Tending to us always.

Prayer for today: Lord, help us to have a living knowledge of you and your love. Thank you for sending your son in the form of a child to remind us of that love during the Christmas season and every day of the year. Amen.

A week of Thanksgiving

Last week was a long one. And a short one. Isn't that how vacation weeks go? While not technically vacation for me, it was for Angela so I went along for the ride. Plus, I was still experiencing the cough from hell so really, not much was gonna get done at the desk. 

It was a long week because it was a holiday week and Angela and I weren't with our family. Yes, we have each other out here on the opposite coast but it's still tough. Knowing everyone's back home, together. But we pushed through. There were only a few moments of sadness on Thursday when we were racing home to eat a deli turkey sandwich after having spent a lovely morning at the zoo. Those moments are natural and I think it's okay to experience them. The sadness and longing makes the next time we are all together that much more special.

But the week was definitely a good one overall. We kicked it off with two plays -- KINKY BOOTS at the Pantages and HANDLE WITH CARE at the Colony. We spent time crafting with a friend. We bought over a hundred oranges to share with the homeless guests on Tuesday.

And on Wednesday we wound our way through the fashion district and downtown to the outskirts of the county where we found the L.A. Food Bank. And yes, my arms are still sore.

Thursday we did the zoo and chatted with some friends who turned us on to the idea. We also made Cuban food and watched a WEST WING marathon. We had pumpkin pie and talked to mom and dad and the day progressed like any other. It wasn't the same as Thanksgivings I've had in the past but my life isn't the same. And that's okay.

In less than two weeks I'll board my flight for the mitten (please have snow!) and enmesh myself in Christmas preparations and family activities. I'll wrap presents and bake cookies and spend time with old friends and new. I can't wait.

But, I'm still in Los Angeles. And I'm still in the midst of that week of Thanksgiving. We took Henry Huggins, our bear for the kids at the pediatric AIDS clinic, to church last Sunday. We dressed him in Angela's hand-knit scarf and put him down front in the sanctuary with all the other newly dressed bears. Angela likened it to the first day of school. Nervous to leave Henry with all the other kids, looking to see what everyone else is wearing. But most of all, those moments smiling at all the bears reminded me that the week of Thanksgiving can't end. Not yet. Not ever really.

While I wasn't with my family on the holiday last week, I was with people who love me. I wasn't alone. I wasn't homeless. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't diagnosed with HIV or cancer or something else that NyQuil can't cure.

I was loved. I was cared for. I was spoiled really. There were meals out in restaurants and movies and plays and Christmas presents bought. There was frozen yogurt and laughter and fun. There wasn't much bad at all.

I have to remember to have that sense of thanksgiving continually. To have that spirit with me in the valleys as well as the hills. I want to keep Thanksgiving with me this Christmas and beyond...

Slumber Party Sisters

A few week's ago I got a really cool invitation in my email. One of those Paperless Post invitations where you have to click the envelope open and the neat little paper invite flies out. I love getting these invites because they're usually from my friend Krista who throws the best soirees. And I knew this one would not disappoint. The invitation said come to a Women in Entertainment Slumber Party (but we wouldn't be spending the whole night, just like when you were too little to stay away from your own bed the whole night). It told us to wear our PJs, to be prepared to watch and talk and enjoy the night. And so off Angela and I went...

We headed to Beverly Hills Friday night in our modified PJs (yoga pants, long sleeved tees, etc.) and left our car with the very fancy (and free!) valet at the super secret screening room. We headed in and immediately I thought, "This is Hollywood."

Twenty five of the comfiest recliners stadium seating-style. Cup holders. Angela's feet didn't touch the ground. Swanky! And all donated by another awesome Woman in Entertainment. Soon the room started to fill, other ladies dressed down and excited to be on this Friday night. We chatted, met new people, exchanged stories and cards, and then quickly settled in. Of course our hostess with the mostess had thought to make goodie bags filled with candy and cozy socks and water bottles and hair ties and notebooks and pens. We giggled and laughed and unwrapped Starbursts and swapped cookies. And then the evening's entertainment began. Krista had invited all of us to submit short films, web series, standup routines, anything and everything we wanted to showcase. About half of the women in the room had something to contribute. (I didn't this time but fingers crossed for next time!) We settled in to watch and I have to say, I spent the entire night completely entertained. After each viewing Krista would ask the woman who's project it was to talk a little about it, and we asked some questions. It was all at once a very intimate portrait of the artists we all are in this circle of friends and also, a fascinating peek at what it means to produce said art.

Our three hours in the theater came and went quickly. We took the sock and group photos before leaving, realizing that although many of us were strangers before the night began, that we were leaving as friends in this crazy business and life we've chosen. It's nights like Friday that give me strength and hope, that prop me up and remind me that I'm not alone in this city, that I'm in fact, not all the different from so many. And I love that. I love that it only took a slumber party, and some shared Starbursts, to remind me that in everything I do, I need sisters. Slumber party sisters.

Through the crack

Angela came home Monday, splayed out on my bed across from me at my desk and said, "Your blog was sad."

I can't dispute that. It was sad. It was sad to write. It was sad to think about. The last few weeks have been incredibly sad. And so, my writing has been sad. (Side note: I'm writing a new half-hour pilot. A comedy. Work's been great lately, thanks for asking.)

So when my friend Krista asked if I wanted to go to a comedy show with her last night, I immediately said yes. Yes to getting out in the world. Yes to hopefully laughing. Yes to the funny.

And funny it was. We ended up at Largo at the Coronet, a theater 10 minutes from here I know well, at something called "Come to Papa Live! with Tom Papa & Friends". In the vein of an old-time radio show, it was 90 minutes of funny. Some moments funnier than others but overall, a very good 90 minutes.

The best? When Matt Damon came on stage and did his impression of Matthew McConaughey. There was a moment during the sketch, at the beginning, when I was like, um, yeah, this isn't going to work. And then? HE SOLD IT. It was hilarious. And I wish I could remember the woman's name who stood next to him and did an impression of Owen Wilson with a perfectly scrunched up face. She was gold.

We got a short set by Zach Galifianakis which was funny, and slightly uncomfortable, which really is the best that Zach Galifianakis is. There were sets by several other stand ups who I wasn't familiar with and don't really need to experience again, but hey, a laugh's a laugh. And then there was the middle set by comedian Nate Bargatze. I hadn't heard of him before last night but seriously? From second one, he had me and the entire audience rolling with laughter. Every single joke landed. Every story was perfect. At one point I was that sitcom cliche where I had to take off my glasses to wipe away the tears. I am not lying. I'll be watching for him to do something else soon.

There were little commercials and a few other famous guests (Nick Kroll was great) and then the evening was over. Perfectly perfect was the ending where they brought out a birthday cake and sang to the host, Tom Papa, with Matt Damon grabbing a mike and swearing to god that the singing gorilla they had ordered hadn't showed up. A great laugh to cap a great night.

So, all in all, a little laughter into my life turned out to be a good thing. A little light shining through the crack that has emerged despite all the sadness and disappointment of the last three months.  Here's hoping there's more of that to come.

I also smile...

This photo was taken on August 1st, 2009 at Scott Niblock's 40th birthday party. It was an amazing night filled with the best of friends laughing, dancing, telling stories, drinking, eating, there might even have been some cigars passed around. It was one of those summer nights that's perfectly warm and dark and filled with music and the sound of every person you love all around you. It was also the last night the world was okay.

This photo sits in a black frame on the bookshelf in my living room right at eye level where I can see it every day. It's one of my favorite pictures of these three. Mom #2, Dad, Mom #1. It's a picture of the best of friends. Of family. Of people enjoying the hell out of life surrounded by the people that make their worlds go round. Their childhood friends. Their children. All they needed in life was right there in that backyard.

This was just over five years ago. I can remember the night so vividly. And yet, the next day, even more so. The next day I sat on a couch in my parents' house and listened as my mom told us that Mom #2 had colon cancer. And I remember for days after that, feeling as if the world had suddenly gone blurry. As if nothing, and everything, made sense.

The diagnosis was 18 months. The reality was over five years. For that, I guess, you say you're grateful. For that you say, praise God. But in reality? No.

I sat in my living room in Los Angeles a couple of years ago and listened to my writers' group read aloud a script I'd written about a female arson investigator in Detroit. I listened as the story finished and they read the last two scenes and the lead character said the words I've written above, "That was the last day the world was okay." In that sense, I've tried to process this for years. I've tried praying and loving and caring and ignoring and screaming and crying and nothing works. Nothing prepares you for the idea that someone you love, someone who loved you, is now dead. Gone.

There are pictures all over the house of her. There are thoughts and smiles and happy memories. And then there are days like yesterday. It was All Saints Day in the Methodist Church. A day to honor those who have gone home before us in the past year. And as I woke yesterday I just knew I couldn't step foot into that sanctuary and light that candle. I couldn't say her name and be okay with it. Because it's not okay. It's just not.

It's life. I get that. Life goes on. I get that. But as I sat here at my desk this morning, thinking about that night five years ago, my heart broke all over again. And I don't know what to do with that. I don't know how to go on with the day. Except. I do. Except. I have to.

I have to get dressed and fire up the screenwriting program. Send the emails and put the mail out. Eat an egg and thumb through the paper. Open the door and let the sunshine's warmth touch the house.

I have to. I know I do. But I also know that the world is not okay. That my world is forever different. That my mom's world and my dad's world and my sister's world is forever different. And Lord, don't get me started on sister #2 and brother. My heart beats so loudly it will surely cave in on the sound of itself.

The photograph will sustain me. There is nothing in the world that can hold me up more than the thought, the remembrance, of those times we spent together. It wasn't time yet to light a candle. Not for me. It wasn't time yet for me to be able to do so without oceans and oceans of tears. Those needed to be rolled out at home yesterday, in bed, silently. And that's okay. I know that. Because frankly, it has to be.

Grief is horrible and terrible and soul sucking and lonely. It is also beautiful and uplifting and enlightening and the best and the worst reminder that we are not alone in this life. Never.

Today I grieve. But I also laugh. I cry. But I also smile. God gave me an amazing family. An amazing life. For that, and for every single moment, I am grateful. Even if the moments are cut short.

The weekend is over

We do birthdays up right in my family. When we were little it was a huge family affair, dinner and cake and neighbors stopping in to join the fun. We continue those traditions to this day, when we're in Michigan usually. Where ever else Angela and I are, birthdays aren't quite the same. We compensate by doing a birthday week or a birthday month, by claiming every trip somewhere to do something is exciting and special because, well it is. It's a good life we all live here and it's important to celebrate that life.

This weekend though, this birthday weekend of mine, was a little different. I didn't feel like celebrating. I didn't feel like doing much really. I was lost. Sad. Heart broken. Marilyn passed away on Tuesday and each day before and after that was a mess of tears, burned brownies, forgotten tasks, long phone calls home, and usually more tears or broken sobs.

The funeral was Saturday. We made the choice not to go home. So many factors played into this and I know it was not right or wrong but the choice we made. We wanted to be there. But we were not. Saturday was also my birthday. For the first time in years I wasn't looking forward to waking up that morning and celebrating.

Friday night we had a group of friends, new and old, from Angela's school over. It was a festive evening of food, drink, laughter, BBQing, and they surprised me with a lovely fruit tart at the end of the night.

Saturday I opened some gifts early and then Angela and I headed out of town. We had to get away from it all for a bit. So we traveled an hour or so north to Simi Valley and toured the Ronald Reagan Presidential Museum. It was something we'd been talking about doing since we moved to California. And so we did it.

We looked at the artifacts and watched the videos and learned a bit more about history. The coolest part by far was boarding and touring an actual Air Force One plane and a Marine One helicopter. That alone was worth the trip up there.

We ate lunch outside overlooking the beautiful gardens and valleys of the library and then slowly made our way back to the city. It was a very nice respite from the hustle and sad bustle of the week. And afterwards? We settled in for some pizza and some escape to Stars Hollow thanks to Netflix and The Gilmore Girls.

The weekend is over. Today it's back to regularly scheduled life. But the grieving doesn't stop. The celebrating doesn't stop. There are still texts and lunch dates and the goings-on of the every day. And yet? The grieving doesn't stop. I know all too well from my short time on this earth that it never does. And so? We can't stop either. To live with that grief every day is to live. To love. To know that I was loved in return. And so I'll do that today. And tomorrow. Through smiles and through tears. I won't stop.

Memories of Marilyn

One of my mom's tributes to her best friend of over 60 years who passed away less than a week ago. 

This reminds me of my best friend since 1st grade. Rest in peace, Marilyn. 
 
“Only once in your life, I truly believe, you find someone who can completely turn your world around. You tell them things that you’ve never shared with another soul and they absorb everything you say and actually want to hear more. You share hopes for the future, dreams that will never come true, goals that were never achieved and the many disappointments life has thrown at you.

When something wonderful happens, you can’t wait to tell them about it, knowing they will share in your excitement. They are not embarrassed to cry with you when you are hurting or laugh with you when you make a fool of yourself. Never do they hurt your feelings or make you feel like you are not good enough, but rather they build you up and show you the things about yourself that make you special and even beautiful.

There is never any pressure, jealousy or competition but only a quiet calmness when they are around. You can be yourself and not worry about what they will think of you because they love you for who you are.

The things that seem insignificant to most people such as a note, song or walk become invaluable treasures kept safe in your heart to cherish forever. Memories of your childhood come back and are so clear and vivid it’s like being young again. Colors seem brighter and more brilliant. Laughter seems part of daily life where before it was infrequent or didn’t exist at all.

A phone call or two during the day helps to get you through a long day’s work and always brings a smile to your face. In their presence, there’s no need for continuous conversation, but you find you’re quite content in just having them nearby. Things that never interested you before become fascinating because you know they are important to this person who is so special to you.

You think of this person on every occasion and in everything you do. Simple things bring them to mind like a pale blue sky, gentle wind or even a storm cloud on the horizon.

You open your heart knowing that there’s a chance it may be broken one day and in opening your heart, you experience a love and joy that you never dreamed possible. You find that being vulnerable is the only way to allow your heart to feel true pleasure that’s so real it scares you.

You find strength in knowing you have a true friend and possibly a soul mate who will remain loyal to the end. Life seems completely different, exciting and worthwhile. Your only hope and security is in knowing that they are a part of your life." -- Bob Marley 

And one from Angela.

The past year has been a difficult one for us Knapps, our family and our friends. We have suffered great loss and broken hearts. Sarah summed it up perfectly today when she said through tears, "I'm tired of being sad". It truly is exhausting. That being said, our support systems is amazing. Flower deliveries, extra long hugs (thank you Heidi and Laura ), kind words, and silent prayers have sustained us. I'm not done with my tears or my grieving just yet but happier times will come. The sun will shine and the darkness will recede.

New Life for the Pilot

The other night I sat in a bar just a mile from my home, sipped whiskey with fig-something or other in it (I told the waiter I trusted him implicitly) and listened as the wonderful producing duo I've been working with all year pitched me on what's next for me, my script, and possibly my career.

The takeaway?

My script, the one we've been re-developing since June, isn't dead. Far from it.

I learned why the network we'd been working with didn't buy our pilot (or any of the pilots they'd been developing) and was reassured, again, that it was definitely a situation all about them and not about me or my work. That helped. Well, that and the whiskey.

The producers came armed with a plan. A list of networks and studios to approach. A list of contacts at each. A solid "to do" list. And today? Before noon, the script went out out to several people at the first set of networks.

No, still no guarantees. Still no new news to report. But? Hope. Faith. Belief that eventually hard work will pay off and we'll find our way to the perfect studio to partner with so we can have some fun and make a TV show.

And again, I wait. I write. I keep at it. Because, as the quote above my desk reminds me "Hollywood has high walls but there are gates."

My heart. Broken again.

This morning I laced up my shoes in the dark and headed off for a shortened, early version of my daily walk. About three-quarters of the way through I noticed a woman up ahead, a hoodie wrapped around her, two dogs on leashes. I didn't catch up to her until the stoplight and when I did, I noticed the ensignia on her sweatshirt: the Revlon Walk for Women, the cancer walk that Angela and I have participated in several times over the last few years.

I thought about her sweatshirt as I pounded the pavement for several more blocks. And when we ended up at a stoplight a while later, and then crossed, I found myself waiting for her and her pups. I took off my earbuds and turned around.

"I just saw your sweatshirt and I wanted to say thank you, " I said.
"Oh, yeah, I walk for my grandma," she smiled back.
"My sister and I walked for our mom's best friend. She died yesterday of colon cancer and just seeing that on your shirt, it made me smile," I said.

She gave me her condolences and I hurried off, not wanting to burden her with my tears. I kept my earbuds out the rest of the way home, focused primarily on seeing my way through the tears.

Yesterday the world changed.

Marilyn. Mom #2. My mother's best friend. My touchstone. My heart. Broken again.

Right now there aren't too many words. Only tears. There aren't too many thoughts. Only tears. I'm sure I'll come up with some later. I'm sure I'll look at the photographs scattered around the house and recall the grand stories behind them. But not today. Today I mourn. Today I sit in stunned silence. Not really feeling fully what has transpired. Shock.

She fought. So long and so hard and with everything she could. She fought. We all saw it, even when she didn't want us too. We all knew the end would eventually come and while we're glad it wasn't five years ago like the doctors said it would be, we still all know it came too soon.

Dear Mom #2,

I love you. I still have a bunch of Hallmark cards to send to you. It's not fair. But then again, as you often said, that's tough shit.

I will always love you,

Sarah

Mom#2, Mom#1 & Me - Christmas 2013

A little piece of Paris on the walls of Abbey Place

The art on the walls at Abbey Place tells a story, each and every piece. The canvases above the couch are of pictures I took of my favorite places in Michigan. The black and white photographs framing the dining room window were taken by one of my college roommates and show off some very cool places of the Olivet campus. The black and white photographs across the room were found by my parents at an estate sale and show off some of the natural beauty of the mitten state. I could go on and on...

So it only seems fitting that Angela and I add some of our Paris story to the walls. And that we did this weekend finally. We made a trek with our little paper bag we'd protected all the way from the banks of the Seine to the framing store and procured just the right frames. Then we headed home and held the art up against all of the walls in the house until we found just the right place: next to the front door in the living room. Where we can see it all the time.

These pieces of art aren't just prints we got in a souvenir shop in Paris. They're actual paintings created by an artist we saw working on our last day in France. We were exploring the neighborhood around our hotel, enjoying our last hours of sun near the river, listening to the sounds of the music fest all around us, when we happened upon PondyaKunik Ruslane. He was set up just across from Notre Dame, on the banks of the Seine, painting. And as he finished the cityscape and it was still wet, we purchased it. And the other painting. To me, there is nothing more French than this.

We didn't bring home a lot of souvenirs from Europe. A lot of gifts, a lot of treats to share, but mostly just a few really special things we found along our way. A candle holder from Giverny for me. A tiny red wooden ring box from Versailles for Angela. A bracelet of the Eiffel Tower from this really cool art gallery for both of us. A few small things to remember our days by. But most of all, photos. And so many memories. And I'm excited that these paintings will help us remember our days in Europe every day here.

The Sidewalk Squirrel

Almost every weekday morning I walk the same route with Angela to school and then I leave her in the parking lot and continue on. I walk about ninety minutes each morning and pass by the same houses, the same streets, the same gardeners, sometimes even the same other people exercising, each day.

I also pass by the same dead squirrel. Every single day.

A few weeks ago this squirrel met it's fate on the side of the road. I assume it was run over by a car but I'm really not sure because it was on the curb. (Side Note: I've also seen two dead crows on my walks this fall, though in different neighborhoods, and way too many smashed snails.) I momentarily considered how sad this was but kept moving. I assumed someone would take care of it, most likely the homeowner. But no.

Each day the squirrel becomes less of a squirrel and more of the earth. If you didn't know there was a dead squirrel in this part of the dirt near the big tree roots that protrude up from the sidewalk on Sixth Street, you wouldn't notice it. What was once a carcass is now becoming part of the earth it came from. This morning I noted that there's a bit of the tail still there but not much else.

I'm not bothered by this poor, dead squirrel. I imagine, to make myself feel better, it had a full long life and met it's fate doing what it loved to do, running. The carcass doesn't smell and it's not a gory bloody site. It never was. It's simply something that was once living and no longer is. It's simply an empty shell now. Fibers and organic material that's becoming something else.

What I'm bothered by is the idea that this squirrel is gone and no one will remember it. Yes, it's a squirrel, I get that. But I'm thinking larger now. I'm thinking about the most important thing to me -- me.

Because that's really the fear I have. That one day I will be gone and no one will remember I was here. I get that feeling when I think about all of the people I've lost in my life. When I think about the fact that as of today, I have no descendents. I have no spouse. I have not even a plot of land I can claim as my own.

Is it morbid? Yes. Is it terrifying? Yes. Is my birthday coming up again soon? Yes.

But it's also something every single person on this earth faces on a regular basis. The idea that we want to be something, someone, who is cared for, loved, thought of, remembered. And I see it in the people in my life.

This Tuesday I headed off to Hollywood as I do most Tuesday mornings and I set about with the business of handing out lunches and clothing and hygiene products to our guests. And I thought about this while I was there too. These people, standing in line for a sack lunch, for a washed but clearly used new to them tee-shirt, must feel what I feel. They must want to connect on such a basic level that the starvation of such connection can be life-threatening, just as it can be for me. I was reminded of this mostly by the lovely interactions I had with my friends as the morning wore on.

"Detroit, you aren't crying? I was sure you'd be crying!" came the voice of James, one of my favorite friends at lunch.

He smiled shyly at me and I knew immediately what he meant.

"No, I had to dry my tears yesterday. One day of crying was enough."

He was teasing me about the Detroit Tigers. I often wear a Tigers tee or hat or bracelet to lunch and James has taken to calling me Detroit. Usually quietly, as he says hello or thanks me for something. He always knows the score of the game from the day before or in this week's case, the fact that the Tigers had been knocked out of the playoffs. He's not from Michigan, he's not even a big baseball fan but he's taken it upon himself to find a way to connect with me. With another human being.

As some of the other guys in line joined in the conversation, teasing me for hating on L.A. teams and sticking to my hometown alliances, I considered for a moment that we weren't talking about lunch or toothbrushes or what size shirts they wore. We were interacting as human beings, on an interpersonal level. Something I needed sorely that morning. More than even I knew.

I spend so much time alone, at a desk, as many of us do, that I have to remember to exert energy on what really matters. To take the time to focus on the bigger picture. On what that little squirrel on the curb, or rather now part of the curb, means.

I don't want to disappear. I don't want to fade away. And after a month of not hearing back from the television network, a month of not hearing back about the faculty job I obviously did not get, a month of "high anxiety" as we call it here on Abbey Place, I'm finally starting to remember that there are other things worth focusing my attention on as well. No, I'm not abandoning the desk. I'm likely not even going to spend fewer hours here behind the keyboard. But I am going to be conscious about leaving a mark. Leaving a legacy. Even if it's just through a simple smile or a kind conversation with another of God's children. Just as that squirrel left me with something to remember, I hope to leave the people in my life with something to remember as well.

Put the cork back in the champagne

Be careful what you wish for.

I've been lamenting that the waiting is hard. The waiting and the stewing and the dreaming and the hoping and the wishing. All of it. Very hard.

And POOF! Just like that, you're not waiting any more.

Yesterday I got an email that confirmed what my heart already knew. The television network that I've been working with since June passed on my pilot. They decided that our script, our TV show, didn't match their target audience. An it's not you, it's me speech if I've ever heard one.

Now, I'm not alone in this experience. Hundreds of writers all over this town will get their hopes and dreams dashed this month and next. That's pilot season for ya. However, this is new to me. This thing called hope, it was new when it came to television writing for me.

I've never had anyone so interested in my work. I've never had someone put so much time and effort and energy into my work. And lord, it was wonderful. And then it wasn't. I kind of knew it was going to happen. In this town they say love is shown with a check. I hadn't received one yet. And there wasn't talk of one. So I knew. But it still hurts. A lot.

But...it's also time to move on. I've done some grieving of this experience, I'll likely do some more over the next little while, but as one of the best people I know told me last week, us good Christian girls know how to handle things like this. There's no 'this is the end', there's only what's to come.

The producers I've been working with, who actually got me the pitch in the first place, are still with me. They are excited to keep moving forward, to shop this pilot and others of mine to networks all around town. We'll meet this week to devise a plan. I'm so excited about that. So excited to not have been completely laid aside. Because once you get a little hope, you only want to add to it.

So...in the words of my favorite fictional president (frankly, just my favorite president, fictional or otherwise) Jed Bartlett (and his muse Aaron Sorkin), I put my hands in my pockets and say,

"What's next?"

Inspired cooking

One of the best movies I've seen this year was Jon Favreau's CHEF. And I was so excited when I heard there was going to be a cooking class inspired by the food in the film, Cuban food truck food. Food that looked amazing on screen. Food that looked like nothing I'd really eaten before. Food that I really really just wanted to taste.

And taste I did. Wednesday. After I cooked it. Yep, me. I cooked some of the amazing food you see in the film and had an amazing time doing it!

Because yesterday was the kickoff of Birthday month (yep, comes around this time every year!), Angela decided I should go to the cooking class so she signed me up and off I went to Sur La Tab, the cooking store at The Grove. And that's where me and nine others spent two and a half hours learning proper cooking techniques, learning how to make tostones with chile vinegar, cubanos with mojo-marinated pork shoulder, yucca fries with banana ketchup and french quarter beignets.

The class was taught by a real chef, with real chefs assisting him, and it felt like a real kitchen. The atmosphere was professional and fun and oddly enough, just the perfect mix of people who would chat enough and people who were really serious about learning to make this food.

We began by making a marinade for the pork. We chopped and diced and zested and worked in teams of three to get the job done. I worked with two very nice women and we were all super polite in letting each other take a turn which was really nice. We tasted the marinade then tossed it as the class's pork was already cooking. But that was just the beginning.

Next we moved on to making tostones out of green plantains (not brown plantains, which are sweeter) and the accompanying bright green chile vinegar. The tostones had several steps, peeling, slicing using the mandolin (which scared me but we had these really cool no-cut gloves and it was easy-peasy!), blanching then smashing then frying and salting. The green chile vinegar was simpler, just put everything in a bowl and use the immersion blender. Simple. Until you took a breath. A kitchen full of fumes from three different kinds of chilies left us all coughing and running for air. And then we had to taste it. It was HOT. And amazing. And while I'm not usually one for hot things, or trying new things so so quickly, in that environment I was completely open. This was something I'd made. Watching being made. Of course I was going to try it. Of course I was going to add salt when we determined it needed more and then try it again. And? It was actually very good, and yes, very spicy.

After prepping the plantains we moved on to the yucca fries and banana ketchup. This was something
I'd been curious about when I signed up. I had never had yucca before, a brown root vegetable that when cut, looks like potato. But we started chopping and blanching and then moved on to the ketchup. In went bananas, in went onions, in went pickled jalapenos, in went garlic, in went ginger, in went basil. And out came something AMAZING. Seriously. I love ketchup. Love it. And this stuff? With bananas which really, I'd be okay never having again in my life? So so good. It did not taste like bananas. It tasted like just the sweetest, spiciest, best sauce I've ever had. Honestly, could not get enough with the yucca fries.

We made the beignet dough as a group as well. There wasn't much to it, some yeast, some flour, some sugar, egg and milk. And then we fried everything up at the same time. The tostones, which we then proceeded to smash and fry again. The yucca fries which were blanched then fried, and the beignets. The frying scared me a bit too. There were just these big pans of canola oil heating away on the stove and we were to slide (away from us, always away) our food into the pans. We took turns again, and surprisingly no one was hurt, nothing splattered, and everything came out crispy golden brown. The green chile sauce went right on the tostones, the beignets were covered in immense amounts of powdered sugar, and everything was plated, ready to be tasted. And tasted we did.

Everything was really, just so good. And to know each little ingredient that went in to each sauce and each dish was just really interesting. To know how methodically and how intentionally each item had been selected and prepared. To hear the chef say we were using jalapenos because the Fresno chilies didn't seem just right this morning at the market, all of it was fascinating. I know it's nothing like working in a real restaurant kitchen but it certainly was made to feel that way.

After we snacked on our first course, and dessert (we voted as a class to fry the beignet's in the same pan as everything else, so we could do it at home without the assist of a deep fryer and a few of the beignets did not get cooked through; however, that did not stop any of us from indulging in them). We moved on to the pork shoulder and the cubanos.
Chef showed us the proper way to slice the meat, how to remove the casing, and how to fry it in the fry pan if it wasn't quite cooked through in the
middle. Then he laid out everything for the sandwiches and had each group assemble their own. The sandwiches were then slathered with butter (just like in the movie) and pressed to heat on the cast iron pans. Sliced in thirds. Then handed over to us. And honestly?

Maybe the best sandwich I've ever had in my life. The french bread. The mustard. The ham. The swiss cheese. The pork. The pickles.

And I don't even like pickles. But I liked these pickles.

As we stood around the kitchen, mouths full, eating our sandwiches, we all just kind of looked at each other. I smiled at the guy across the table who hadn't shown much emotion the whole day and who I hadn't heard speak at all, and he smiled back like, "yeah, exactly". Perfection.

All in all, an amazing afternoon. Class went almost 45 minutes long and not one of us minded. We left with coupons, a DVD of the movie, and most of all, a new-found respect for this culture, this food, and the art of creating it. Mostly? I can't wait to make it all in my own kitchen.

The waiting makes it worth it, I believe

It's late September. It's the last week of regular season baseball. It's premier week for most network television shows. It's well into the start of the traditional school year. I have yet another cold (I've lost count on how many this makes this year). I am wrapping up the semester with my students. I had an interview for a full-time job I wasn't sure I wanted two weeks ago. It started today so I'm guessing I didn't get it. And, most of all, I haven't heard anything about the pilot.

It was three weeks last Friday since we turned it into the network. And now we wait.

I have no idea what will come next. Less than none. My mind runs with the possibility and the fear and the excitement and the disappointment. So, I don't let my mind run too much.

I'm a patient person. Far more than many of you will ever know. I waited a long time to move to California. I'm still waiting for some of those things I believe God promises to each of His children. I wait and I wait and I wait. And it's not easy. And I'm no saint. I'm not a happy patient person. Not by a long shot. And I don't think I'm very good at waiting. I complain a lot. Just ask my friends and family.

But this morning as I was baking eggs for the week and making muffins for Angela's new teachers' meeting and doing laundry, all in an effort to focus my mind on something, anything, other than the waiting, I was listening to an episode of one of my favorite podcasts, Marc Maron's WTF. He was interviewing Billy Gardell, Mike from Mike and Molly. And Gardell was talking about what I was thinking about, waiting.

Now, it's not just sitting in an apartment somewhere hoping for something this waiting that we do. He was talking about the classes he took, the years he spent on the road as a standup, honing his craft. An active waiting, the farthest from the passive act we usually associate with patience. And then when he told the story about auditioning for Mike and Molly and ultimately getting the part, I cried. Right there in the kitchen, sweating as I put together egg sandwiches. I cried these happy tears for this man I have never met but enjoy on television 22 weeks a year. I cried because he waited and he made it. He finally finally made it. With $4.71 or how much ever he had in his bank account.

I cried mostly because it gave me a renewed sense of hope. That renewal I need daily. That renewal I get from the oddest places at times. From an email from someone I've never met who knows a friend of a friend who tells me "positive energy moves mountains" and that he knows I'm a good writer. From friends who check in weekly, daily, to see what I've heard or what I'm working on now. From a hug and an encouraging smile from people at church. From a favorite quote above my desk. From a bright pink rose peeking through the fence as I walk early in the morning. From the belief that I have to have to keep going.

This week I will hold true to the belief that no news is good news. I will continue to smile and answer the calls and the texts and the questions. I will grade final drafts and wrap up my class. I will cheer on my beloved Tigers and pray for a postseason run. I will make more food to wrap up and send across the country to those I hold close in my heart. I will send bright funny cards and little packages that can only make me feel a little lighter. I will splurge on Coke Zero and late night yoga and stay in bed a little later to sleep this cold away. I will know, deep down, past my heart into my soul, that the waiting makes it worth it. So worth it. No matter what it is. Because I have to believe. There's nothing else.

My Gratitude Experience

It's day five, the last day, of my gratitude challenge and I really want to thank my mom for nominating me to this challenge. Like a lot of things on Facebook, this could have been scrolled by quickly and ignored or laughed off. But since Mom tagged me, I decided to take it seriously. For the past four days here is what I have been thankful for:

Day 1
1) my very own bed, toothbrush, & refrigerator. I do not take any of that for granted. 2) Decades of memories & photos to jar them. 3) Baseball.

Day 2
1) teachers who do amazing jobs & are not respected nearly enough, 2) my awesome sister & parents who never once said maybe you can't be a professional writer, and 3) vegetables.

Day 3
1) first responders who do a job I can't fathom doing on a daily basis, 2) my family that extends far and wide, people I'm related to by blood and by choice, people who live with me in my heart every day, and 3) ice cream.

Day 4
1) I am grateful for the 2 amazing women who live next too and across from my house. They came to visit yesterday, Mary brought flowers & we shared our Europe pictures with them. A lovely afternoon. 2) I am grateful for a body that moves. Today I start another three month workout challenge & I'm so thankful my body is up to it! 3) The person who invented fans. Ours have been on nonstop for a month now and while I wish everyday for central air conditioning, I am grateful for what I do have.

So today, Day 5, seems a bit anticlimactic.  I've been listing all the people in my life and all the things I have and that's well and good but today I was trying to figure out what else to be grateful for. And then I went to volunteer at the Homeless Lunch at my church, just like I do most Tuesdays. And I realized that basically, I have to be grateful to God for everything I've listed above and thought about all week. Because without Him, there is nothing. But most of all, without Him, I am nothing. And I realize that in the grand scheme of things I am really so unbelievably blessed that it's kind of hard to fathom. Yes, I complain, a lot at times. Yesterday I was almost in tears because it was so hot in our house all afternoon. It's really getting to me. And then I had to do a gut check and remember, hey, you have a fan. You have a house. You have a mattress. You have a car to take you to places where it's not so hot. And I get that. I also get that at times I have to open the valve and let out the steam. But mostly, I have to remember, every minute of every day, how much I have to be thankful for. So thank you, Mom, for reminding me of that five days ago. Here goes...
 
Day 5
1) The fruit in my fridge. I was able to buy cut up melon and pineapple and strawberries and grapes this week. I have had a huge fruit salad twice a day for the entire weekend. And today I had to ask people in the lunch line if they wanted one banana or one box of raisins or one cup of applesauce. Just one. Maybe for the whole week until next Tuesday. (Side Note: If you ask me for an extra fruit, I will likely give it to you, especially if you aren't wearing any shoes.) I bet I throw out more fruit in a week than they eat. I have to remember this. Every day. Especially on days I want to skip the banana and go for the bagel.
2) Money in my bank account. There isn't much this month. Hardly any because it's right before Angela gets paid. But there's a little. Yes, there are bills waiting to be paid but they'll get their due. But right now? I have more than enough. I was able to go to the mall this weekend and buy fancy lotion at Bath and Body Works for Angela, myself, and one of my Homeless Lunch friends. We were able to eat more than one meal out in the past week. We bought hundreds of dollars worth of groceries in the past few weeks. We have television and Internet and fancy phones and new clothes and so much more than we could ever possibly need. And yet? I worry about money all the time. All. The. Time. And I shouldn't. God will provide, as He has for every single day of my life and will continue to do until the day I die. I am so grateful for that. (And for Justin for reminding me of that in his FB post today.)
3) Hallmark. No seriously. I mean I am the girl who listed baseball in her first day's list (I almost put baseball pants - I should have!). Saturday Angela and I missed the movie we'd intended to see at the mall because I took a shortcut driving and it didn't work out. And so we wandered through the air conditioned mall for several hours, not buying much (see lotion above) but laughing and window shopping and dreaming. However, we did spend the money we would have spent on movie tickets in Hallmark buying cards for friends and family members. And today I mailed five of them out. We bought silly cards and birthday cards and just because cards. We laughed and shared them with one another and then picked our favorites to bring home. And mostly? Hallmark reminded me to stay in touch this week, to brighten up a friend's day or to comfort a family member who might need it. I can't be there to give hugs in person but my hugs often come wrapped in a bright colored envelope and delivered by a federal employee.

So my official gratitude challenge is finished. But I won't stop. I'll keep it going, unofficially. I'll keep being thankful for what I have, working for what I want, and trying, just a little bit each day, to make the world brighter.

P.S. - If you have cable TV, check out the 15-minute show SOULPANCAKE on Pivot. It's a crazy little montage of interviews with people like Mindy Kaling and Russell Brand and stories from homeless people and reminders to be happy. I love it. I am grateful for it. Yep, I always like to do the extra credit.