Note to, well, EVERYONE:
Never, EVER, go through the Starbucks drive-thru at 8:15 am with a LIST. If you're buying snooty-ass coffee drinks for more than two people, GO INSIDE.
8.31.2006
8.30.2006
The little pep talk and the long week
It's been a long, crappy week at work already. So this morning I did deep breathing, ate a good breakfast, made the bed, put on a pretty blouse instead of a snide t-shirt, polished my nostril ring and otherwise girded my girl loins for the upcoming hell.
And before I left, I stopped in front of the mirror and stared into my own eyes. I gave myself the pep talk. I said, "It's Just Advertising."
Everyone will have their own special complaints about their chosen fields. This is mine: Advertising is a shitty business, with understandably high rates of alcholism, drug abuse and suicide. It's populated by asshats, dickweeds and douchebags. And, God help me, I'm one of them. I think I'm more of a douchebag than a dickweed or an asshat, though. Depends on the day.
This morning, I got to work and looked at the pile. This is the pile that haunted me all night long. Because yesterday, I slogged at the pile and because of various interruptions and sundry stupidity, I got absolutely nothing accomplished. Nothing. Nada. The TV casting I'd sent to client was received with outrage at our choices. The lines I'd written for a major hotel ad with major placement were received with silence. The New Year's Eve invitation I'd written suddenly had all-new information. The homebuilder direct mail that I thought I'd rid myself of last week came flying back, requiring a whole new direction by end of today. TV spot music I was having recorded came back for for my approval and wasn't even in the time zone of what I was hoping for. There was easily ten pounds of proofreading bowing my inbox. And by the way, where was I on those witty lines for those restaurant ads that I just found out about that morning even though the job had been open for three weeks?
It's Just Advertising, though.
Appropriately enough, I started the day with another change to something that was okay the first seven times everyone involved saw it. So I devised an addendum to the little pep talk. This, I put on a sticky note and hung on my computer: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Because that's my knee-jerk reaction. And it's not fair, because there could be a really good reason for the change. That wasn't the case this time, but it could be the case on another job.
Ten minutes and another change (to the same frickin' thing) later I amended the addendum: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Just Yours. Then an hour later, on an unrelated job, I was told by my Creative Director to just "push that witty headline button."
The "witty headline button." That must be the button that resides somewhere around my ass, right next to the "compelling copy button."
It's Just Advertising. It's Just Advertising. It's just the place I spend most of my waking time.
I've rarely written a full-bore complaint about my job. It seems ridiculous to complain when there are other jobs out there, and especially ridiculous when I consider that I can dress like a slob, have visible piercings and MAKE SHIT UP for a living.
Thing is, Advertising has simply ceased to feel like a creative job and more like data entry. I can't remember the last time I did something creative -- something that I was proud of. I don't have a portfolio of my work anymore, because I've been unable to update it. I just don't have anything new and good to add.
It's Just Not What It's Supposed To Be.
My friends are at other agencies all over town. They all have the same basic complaints: Clients are stupid, Account Executives are stupid, bosses are stupid.
Hah. Maybe we're stupid for banging our heads against this particular wall. They that give us pain don't change. Probably because being paid tons of money seems to be a sort of affirmation. Their formula is working for them. The formula doesn't apply to douchebags like me.
I have a plan, a little plan, to bust out of the formula.
When I can make it happen, I'll let you know.
In the meantime, I have three versions of a slot tournament invitation to write.
It's Just What I Do.
And before I left, I stopped in front of the mirror and stared into my own eyes. I gave myself the pep talk. I said, "It's Just Advertising."
Everyone will have their own special complaints about their chosen fields. This is mine: Advertising is a shitty business, with understandably high rates of alcholism, drug abuse and suicide. It's populated by asshats, dickweeds and douchebags. And, God help me, I'm one of them. I think I'm more of a douchebag than a dickweed or an asshat, though. Depends on the day.
This morning, I got to work and looked at the pile. This is the pile that haunted me all night long. Because yesterday, I slogged at the pile and because of various interruptions and sundry stupidity, I got absolutely nothing accomplished. Nothing. Nada. The TV casting I'd sent to client was received with outrage at our choices. The lines I'd written for a major hotel ad with major placement were received with silence. The New Year's Eve invitation I'd written suddenly had all-new information. The homebuilder direct mail that I thought I'd rid myself of last week came flying back, requiring a whole new direction by end of today. TV spot music I was having recorded came back for for my approval and wasn't even in the time zone of what I was hoping for. There was easily ten pounds of proofreading bowing my inbox. And by the way, where was I on those witty lines for those restaurant ads that I just found out about that morning even though the job had been open for three weeks?
It's Just Advertising, though.
Appropriately enough, I started the day with another change to something that was okay the first seven times everyone involved saw it. So I devised an addendum to the little pep talk. This, I put on a sticky note and hung on my computer: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Because that's my knee-jerk reaction. And it's not fair, because there could be a really good reason for the change. That wasn't the case this time, but it could be the case on another job.
Ten minutes and another change (to the same frickin' thing) later I amended the addendum: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Just Yours. Then an hour later, on an unrelated job, I was told by my Creative Director to just "push that witty headline button."
The "witty headline button." That must be the button that resides somewhere around my ass, right next to the "compelling copy button."
It's Just Advertising. It's Just Advertising. It's just the place I spend most of my waking time.
I've rarely written a full-bore complaint about my job. It seems ridiculous to complain when there are other jobs out there, and especially ridiculous when I consider that I can dress like a slob, have visible piercings and MAKE SHIT UP for a living.
Thing is, Advertising has simply ceased to feel like a creative job and more like data entry. I can't remember the last time I did something creative -- something that I was proud of. I don't have a portfolio of my work anymore, because I've been unable to update it. I just don't have anything new and good to add.
It's Just Not What It's Supposed To Be.
My friends are at other agencies all over town. They all have the same basic complaints: Clients are stupid, Account Executives are stupid, bosses are stupid.
Hah. Maybe we're stupid for banging our heads against this particular wall. They that give us pain don't change. Probably because being paid tons of money seems to be a sort of affirmation. Their formula is working for them. The formula doesn't apply to douchebags like me.
I have a plan, a little plan, to bust out of the formula.
When I can make it happen, I'll let you know.
In the meantime, I have three versions of a slot tournament invitation to write.
It's Just What I Do.
8.28.2006
Because Ken asked
A sweet meme from the wonderful Mr. Summers. One of music's greatest pleasures is that it can reveal who you are at any given time. Right now, these are my answers. But, like all people that love music, I understand that I may not have answered the same way yesterday. I may not answer the same way tomorrow.
Either way, it's a good thing I'm doing this on the same Mac that contains my music library.
Four songs that you could listen to over and over:
Neil Finn, "Turn And Run"
Bright Eyes, "Lover I Don't Have To Love"
Ani Di Franco, "The Poet Game"
Maria McKee, "Panic Beach"
Four songs that drive you up the friggin' wall:
No Doubt, "Don't Speak" (more like, "Don't Sing")
Berlin, "Take My Breath Away" (yours first)
Def Leppard, "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (pour sugar on you and plant you in a fire ant hill)
Madonna, "Live To Tell" (because of this)
Four songs that you're embarrassed (or should be) to admit you like:
Olivia Newton-John, "Magic"
Firefall, "Strange Way"
Eponine in Les Miserables, "On My Own"
Asia, "The Smile Has Left Your Eyes"
Four best driving songs:
U2, "Where The Streets Have No Name"
Chingon, "Malaguena Salerosa"
Brian Setzer, "Drive Like Lightning, Crash Like Thunder"
John Hiatt, "Tennessee Plates"
Four songs that make you cry:
Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg, "Paris Nocturne/Since You Asked"
The Beatles, "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight"
Crowded House, "Four Seasons In One Day"
Ithzak Perlman, "Remembrances"
Four best risqué songs:
Lovage, "Sex (I'm A)" (a deadly-hot cover of the classic)
Madeleine Peyroux, "Dance Me To The End Of Love"
Squeeze, "Tempted"
Ella Fitzgerald, "Bewitched"
Four best kid songs:
Trout Fishing In America, "The Window"
Justin Roberts, "My Brother Did It"
Veggie Tales, "Where Is My Hairbrush?"
Animaniacs, "The Presidents"
Four songs I love to sing on karaoke nights:
Carmen McRae, "Whatever Lola Wants"
Garbage, "Stupid Girl"
Linda Ronstadt, "Blue Bayou"
Carpenters, "Superstar"
And a tag to any visitors. Leave 'em in the comments.
Either way, it's a good thing I'm doing this on the same Mac that contains my music library.
Four songs that you could listen to over and over:
Neil Finn, "Turn And Run"
Bright Eyes, "Lover I Don't Have To Love"
Ani Di Franco, "The Poet Game"
Maria McKee, "Panic Beach"
Four songs that drive you up the friggin' wall:
No Doubt, "Don't Speak" (more like, "Don't Sing")
Berlin, "Take My Breath Away" (yours first)
Def Leppard, "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (pour sugar on you and plant you in a fire ant hill)
Madonna, "Live To Tell" (because of this)
Four songs that you're embarrassed (or should be) to admit you like:
Olivia Newton-John, "Magic"
Firefall, "Strange Way"
Eponine in Les Miserables, "On My Own"
Asia, "The Smile Has Left Your Eyes"
Four best driving songs:
U2, "Where The Streets Have No Name"
Chingon, "Malaguena Salerosa"
Brian Setzer, "Drive Like Lightning, Crash Like Thunder"
John Hiatt, "Tennessee Plates"
Four songs that make you cry:
Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg, "Paris Nocturne/Since You Asked"
The Beatles, "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight"
Crowded House, "Four Seasons In One Day"
Ithzak Perlman, "Remembrances"
Four best risqué songs:
Lovage, "Sex (I'm A)" (a deadly-hot cover of the classic)
Madeleine Peyroux, "Dance Me To The End Of Love"
Squeeze, "Tempted"
Ella Fitzgerald, "Bewitched"
Four best kid songs:
Trout Fishing In America, "The Window"
Justin Roberts, "My Brother Did It"
Veggie Tales, "Where Is My Hairbrush?"
Animaniacs, "The Presidents"
Four songs I love to sing on karaoke nights:
Carmen McRae, "Whatever Lola Wants"
Garbage, "Stupid Girl"
Linda Ronstadt, "Blue Bayou"
Carpenters, "Superstar"
And a tag to any visitors. Leave 'em in the comments.
Pleading ignorance
After one year, one thing that I keep hearing in all these Katrina retrospectives is that nobody knew she would be responsible for so much devastation.
So I'm going to repeat, in its entirety, my post from EXACTLY one year ago:
As I write this, Katrina hasn't made landfall. By the time I get up tomorrow, she will have done most of her damage to NOLA and the shores of Mississippi and Alabama.
This doesn't feel like it's going to turn out well. Especially since I've never EVER read a government weather report where the writer has so thoroughly lost his nut. They pulled it off the NOAA website, but Drudge still had the text:
Oh, my God.
Uninhabitable areas? Check.
Roof failure? Check.
Weeks of power outages? Widespread destruction? Human suffering incredible by modern standards?
Check, check and check.
In fact, you could argue that this guy was being conservative.
The only reason I dredge this up is because I'm TIRED of the blame game. Face it: the local governments failed. The state governments failed. The federal government failed. And, the damn people who were supposed to be responsible for themselves and their families FAILED.
Katrina was a bitch and nearly everyone, even though they had warning days before this little gem of a forecast, was taken by surprise. Here's the deal: if you are the head of a household, your first responsibility is to take care of you and all those depending on you. Not easy for some. Impossible for others. But if you're healthy, able, and have a couple of brain cells to spare for those around you, then be a frickin' grownup. You may need a plan. You may not get some "agency" to save you.
In the end, you may just have to do it yourself.
Revolutionary concept, I know.
And one I keep in mind every day -- if something happens, if my son needs me, will I buckle down and do what I need to do? I sure as hell hope so. Because, and this takes some perspective too, I know I'm the only one who really cares about us.
Agencies and governments can only "care" in the most abstract of terms. They don't know you personally. They don't know what you had for breakfast, where you like to hang out, or what kind of crap you keep in your junk drawer. So don't think for a second that when all hell breaks loose, they're going to come straight to your house in a helicopter and spirit you away to a soft, warm bed and some cocoa.
Am I being harsh? Maybe. Am I tired of the constant whining and sense of entitlement that seems to permeate our society? Definitely.
Mostly, though, I'm being real.
Katrina was a real threat. She did real, lasting damage. And a lot of people, no matter what title they held, no matter who they worked for, really screwed up. So either we learn or we don't. Either we go forward or we keep wallowing in what's past. Either we stand up or we keep falling down.
And the first step to doing the right thing is to stop pleading ignorance. Stop pointing fingers.
Start being accountable.
So I'm going to repeat, in its entirety, my post from EXACTLY one year ago:
As I write this, Katrina hasn't made landfall. By the time I get up tomorrow, she will have done most of her damage to NOLA and the shores of Mississippi and Alabama.
This doesn't feel like it's going to turn out well. Especially since I've never EVER read a government weather report where the writer has so thoroughly lost his nut. They pulled it off the NOAA website, but Drudge still had the text:
Urgent Weather Message from NWS New Orleans
DEVASTATING DAMAGE EXPECTED
HURRICANE KATRINA MOST POWERFUL HURRICANE WITH UNPRECEDENTED STRENGTH...RIVALING THE INTENSITY OF HURRICANE CAMILLE OF 1969. MOST OF THE AREA WILL BE UNINHABITABLE FOR WEEKS...PERHAPS LONGER. AT LEAST ONE HALF OF WELL CONSTRUCTED HOMES WILL HAVE ROOF AND WALL FAILURE. ALL GABLED ROOFS WILL FAIL...LEAVING THOSE HOMES SEVERELY DAMAGED OR DESTROYED.THE MAJORITY OF INDUSTRIAL BUILDINGS WILL BECOME NON FUNCTIONAL. PARTIAL TO COMPLETE WALL AND ROOF FAILURE IS EXPECTED. ALL WOOD FRAMED LOW RISING APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL BE DESTROYED.
CONCRETE BLOCK LOW RISE APARTMENTS WILL SUSTAIN MAJOR DAMAGE...INCLUDING SOME WALL AND ROOF FAILURE. HIGH RISE OFFICE AND APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL SWAY DANGEROUSLY...A FEW TO THE POINT OF TOTAL COLLAPSE. ALL WINDOWS WILL BLOW OUT. AIRBORNE DEBRIS WILL BE WIDESPREAD...AND MAY INCLUDE HEAVY ITEMS SUCH AS HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES AND EVEN LIGHT VEHICLES. SPORT UTILITY VEHICLES AND LIGHT TRUCKS WILL BE MOVED. THE BLOWN DEBRIS WILL CREATE ADDITIONAL DESTRUCTION.
PERSONS...PETS...AND LIVESTOCK EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL FACE CERTAIN DEATH IF STRUCK. POWER OUTAGES WILL LAST FOR WEEKS...AS MOST POWER POLES WILL BE DOWN AND TRANSFORMERS DESTROYED. WATER SHORTAGES WILL MAKE HUMAN SUFFERING INCREDIBLE BY MODERN STANDARDS.
THE VAST MAJORITY OF NATIVE TREES WILL BE SNAPPED OR UPROOTED. ONLY THE HEARTIEST WILL REMAIN STANDING...BUT BE TOTALLY DEFOLIATED. FEW CROPS WILL REMAIN. LIVESTOCK LEFT EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL BE KILLED.
AN INLAND HURRICANE WIND WARNING IS ISSUED WHEN SUSTAINED WINDS NEAR HURRICANE FORCE...OR FREQUENT GUSTS AT OR ABOVE HURRICANE FORCE...ARE CERTAIN WITHIN THE NEXT 12 TO 24 HOURS. ONCE TROPICAL STORM AND HURRICANE FORCE WINDS ONSET...DO NOT VENTURE OUTSIDE!
Oh, my God.
Uninhabitable areas? Check.
Roof failure? Check.
Weeks of power outages? Widespread destruction? Human suffering incredible by modern standards?
Check, check and check.
In fact, you could argue that this guy was being conservative.
The only reason I dredge this up is because I'm TIRED of the blame game. Face it: the local governments failed. The state governments failed. The federal government failed. And, the damn people who were supposed to be responsible for themselves and their families FAILED.
Katrina was a bitch and nearly everyone, even though they had warning days before this little gem of a forecast, was taken by surprise. Here's the deal: if you are the head of a household, your first responsibility is to take care of you and all those depending on you. Not easy for some. Impossible for others. But if you're healthy, able, and have a couple of brain cells to spare for those around you, then be a frickin' grownup. You may need a plan. You may not get some "agency" to save you.
In the end, you may just have to do it yourself.
Revolutionary concept, I know.
And one I keep in mind every day -- if something happens, if my son needs me, will I buckle down and do what I need to do? I sure as hell hope so. Because, and this takes some perspective too, I know I'm the only one who really cares about us.
Agencies and governments can only "care" in the most abstract of terms. They don't know you personally. They don't know what you had for breakfast, where you like to hang out, or what kind of crap you keep in your junk drawer. So don't think for a second that when all hell breaks loose, they're going to come straight to your house in a helicopter and spirit you away to a soft, warm bed and some cocoa.
Am I being harsh? Maybe. Am I tired of the constant whining and sense of entitlement that seems to permeate our society? Definitely.
Mostly, though, I'm being real.
Katrina was a real threat. She did real, lasting damage. And a lot of people, no matter what title they held, no matter who they worked for, really screwed up. So either we learn or we don't. Either we go forward or we keep wallowing in what's past. Either we stand up or we keep falling down.
And the first step to doing the right thing is to stop pleading ignorance. Stop pointing fingers.
Start being accountable.
8.24.2006
Oh My God.
No, Zod.
Finally, a candidate we can all stand -- or grovel -- behind.
My friend Andrea here at work is sporting his campaign buttons.
Finally, a candidate we can all stand -- or grovel -- behind.
My friend Andrea here at work is sporting his campaign buttons.
8.23.2006
Why I sometimes hate Pampered Chef products
They stay sharp. Really sharp.
For example, if you own the wonderful and mostly handy multi-slicer . . .
. . . please pay attention to how you remove it from the dishwasher. Hidden beneath the smooth cutting surface lie compartments to store the other blades. Like the grater.
The grater that sliced the pad off my left ring finger. Not completely off. Enough "off" to bleed through four cotton balls. Does anyone know, by the way, how much blood that is, in terms of volume? Just wondering.
Typing is fun today.
For example, if you own the wonderful and mostly handy multi-slicer . . .
. . . please pay attention to how you remove it from the dishwasher. Hidden beneath the smooth cutting surface lie compartments to store the other blades. Like the grater.
The grater that sliced the pad off my left ring finger. Not completely off. Enough "off" to bleed through four cotton balls. Does anyone know, by the way, how much blood that is, in terms of volume? Just wondering.
Typing is fun today.
8.22.2006
More on the shillelagh
Pronounced "shil-lay-lah."
My grandpa had one. We found it after he died. It was a stick of wonderfully weighted wood -- perfect for cracking the heads or kneecaps of ne'er-do-wells. The grip was smooth and slender, and when you whipped it forward, it had the most satisfying SNAP. This thing would have done a ton of damage, even in weak hands. I don't have weak hands at all. And I remember holding it and imagining an enemy in front of me. I imagined flicking my wrist and -- WHAP-PO! -- broken nose, cries of pain, and lots of begging for mercy.
At this point, I think I should disclose this: my greatest enemy at the time was my ex-husband.
Anyway, thinking about the shillelagh, I went to Wikipedia. The entry had my new favorite term: mêlée weapons.
What a gorgeous way to say "small portable things that, in close combat and with a minimum of brute force, can really mess a person up." A gun is not a mêlée weapon. The fabulous shillelagh and its club-by relations are.
So, scanning the Wiki article, I eventually came across this.
Suddenly, being enamored of Grandpa's shillelagh seemed quite disturbing. Look at the picture again. Go ahead, I'll wait.
It's terrifying in so many ways: the girl's rapt expression, Grandpa's grin, the way they're BOTH holding the thing. And, dear LORD, it looks like the cover of a frickin' children's book.
Yes, yes, yes -- in this case, the shillelagh in question is a walking stick, but still. Still. EW.
So. What's the point of all this? What's the moral of this story?
Don't touch Grandpa's shillelagh, even if he's not using it anymore. It's just too weird.
The shillelagh in question went to my uncle, eventually. Part of me wishes I had it, creepy connotations aside. I've had to settle for an entirely different home security system: a 36-ounce aluminum softball bat. I suspect that would make a dandy mêlée weapon, too.
My grandpa had one. We found it after he died. It was a stick of wonderfully weighted wood -- perfect for cracking the heads or kneecaps of ne'er-do-wells. The grip was smooth and slender, and when you whipped it forward, it had the most satisfying SNAP. This thing would have done a ton of damage, even in weak hands. I don't have weak hands at all. And I remember holding it and imagining an enemy in front of me. I imagined flicking my wrist and -- WHAP-PO! -- broken nose, cries of pain, and lots of begging for mercy.
At this point, I think I should disclose this: my greatest enemy at the time was my ex-husband.
Anyway, thinking about the shillelagh, I went to Wikipedia. The entry had my new favorite term: mêlée weapons.
What a gorgeous way to say "small portable things that, in close combat and with a minimum of brute force, can really mess a person up." A gun is not a mêlée weapon. The fabulous shillelagh and its club-by relations are.
So, scanning the Wiki article, I eventually came across this.
Suddenly, being enamored of Grandpa's shillelagh seemed quite disturbing. Look at the picture again. Go ahead, I'll wait.
It's terrifying in so many ways: the girl's rapt expression, Grandpa's grin, the way they're BOTH holding the thing. And, dear LORD, it looks like the cover of a frickin' children's book.
Yes, yes, yes -- in this case, the shillelagh in question is a walking stick, but still. Still. EW.
So. What's the point of all this? What's the moral of this story?
Don't touch Grandpa's shillelagh, even if he's not using it anymore. It's just too weird.
The shillelagh in question went to my uncle, eventually. Part of me wishes I had it, creepy connotations aside. I've had to settle for an entirely different home security system: a 36-ounce aluminum softball bat. I suspect that would make a dandy mêlée weapon, too.
They call me Shillelagh
Why? Because my headlines are blunt instruments, meant to bludgeon the reader with the message.
And that, my friends, is how the job is going.
And that, my friends, is how the job is going.
8.21.2006
Move over, you stupid motherf***in' snakes!
My Name Is Bruce is in post-production.
Why do I care? Why, a good friend of mine was toiling in the dark, leafy poison oak of an Oregon forest to SHOOT the thing. Support my buddy Kurt. Go see it.
Or rent it. I really have no idea if this thing is going straight to video or not.
Why do I care? Why, a good friend of mine was toiling in the dark, leafy poison oak of an Oregon forest to SHOOT the thing. Support my buddy Kurt. Go see it.
Or rent it. I really have no idea if this thing is going straight to video or not.
Since I'm not into lengthy explanations . . .
. . . I'll just say I'm back. Where was I?
Oh, various places.
For most of July, I was out of my ever-loving mind. That is not an exaggeration. I was detoxing from a hideous antidepressant called Effexor XR. They call it "discontinuation syndrome," but I prefer to call it "the worst mindfuck I've ever endured." While I was "discontinuing" or "mindfucking," I was constantly dizzy and nauseous. Concentration was impossible. My dreams were vivid and hideous, so I was afraid to sleep. Everything -- and I mean everything -- made we want to cry. When I didn't want to cry, I wanted to scream. Without triggers and without warning, my entire consciousness would go sideways, as if everything between my ears had been given a good shake. And then the hallucinations started. I saw bugs. Everywhere. I'd feel them drop onto my shoulders.
All this while trying to outwardly act like nothing was wrong. I went to work and tried to write. I went home and tried to parent. I went out and tried to smile.
The worst has passed. The physical side effects are gone. The only remaining problem is the unpredictable mood swings. Those, too, are becoming less frequent, though. Today, I'm on a nice, easy dose of Wellbutrin. I've mostly quit smoking already, I've been drinking a lot less, and I'm shaking the cobwebs off those dusty little corners of my life that had been forgotten.
Like this one.
I also went on vacation last week, which was more hectic than my day-to-day life. I will say that there were beautiful moments: times at Disneyland when Conor's face would radiate joy; digging in the sand at Newport Beach to create a fort for little plastic army men; looking up across the water and seeing a pod of dolphins making their way north -- just out of reach of the surfers.
Then on Thursday, my little boy (who's becoming less little all the time) turned 8. He'll start third grade next week. His school supplies are ready to go, and we have a meet-and-greet with his new teacher on Friday.
Oh. And I moved into my new house.
So, without going into the gorier details, that's it. Here I am.
Did I miss anything while I was gone?
Oh, various places.
For most of July, I was out of my ever-loving mind. That is not an exaggeration. I was detoxing from a hideous antidepressant called Effexor XR. They call it "discontinuation syndrome," but I prefer to call it "the worst mindfuck I've ever endured." While I was "discontinuing" or "mindfucking," I was constantly dizzy and nauseous. Concentration was impossible. My dreams were vivid and hideous, so I was afraid to sleep. Everything -- and I mean everything -- made we want to cry. When I didn't want to cry, I wanted to scream. Without triggers and without warning, my entire consciousness would go sideways, as if everything between my ears had been given a good shake. And then the hallucinations started. I saw bugs. Everywhere. I'd feel them drop onto my shoulders.
All this while trying to outwardly act like nothing was wrong. I went to work and tried to write. I went home and tried to parent. I went out and tried to smile.
The worst has passed. The physical side effects are gone. The only remaining problem is the unpredictable mood swings. Those, too, are becoming less frequent, though. Today, I'm on a nice, easy dose of Wellbutrin. I've mostly quit smoking already, I've been drinking a lot less, and I'm shaking the cobwebs off those dusty little corners of my life that had been forgotten.
Like this one.
I also went on vacation last week, which was more hectic than my day-to-day life. I will say that there were beautiful moments: times at Disneyland when Conor's face would radiate joy; digging in the sand at Newport Beach to create a fort for little plastic army men; looking up across the water and seeing a pod of dolphins making their way north -- just out of reach of the surfers.
Then on Thursday, my little boy (who's becoming less little all the time) turned 8. He'll start third grade next week. His school supplies are ready to go, and we have a meet-and-greet with his new teacher on Friday.
Oh. And I moved into my new house.
So, without going into the gorier details, that's it. Here I am.
Did I miss anything while I was gone?
7.31.2006
7.20.2006
7.12.2006
Hello, again.
The days of overnight shoots and overloaded work madness seem to be over for a while.
Now, on to the new madness: a new home. Yep, for those of you who know me, I'm moving again. Hopefully, though, this will be the last time for a while. It's a lovely place, and very close to Conor's school. I'm downsizing our lives . . . smaller, more-efficient car, single-story home, low-maintenance yard, and a lot less CRAP in the house.
How we accumulated two stories' worth of that much shit, I'll never know.
The world seems to have passed by in the meantime. Not just passed, I guess, but rocketed. And the more wild things are "out there," the more I want to hunker down with a supply of red wine and beef jerky. Every morning, I wake to the news. In those half-sleep, snooze-button excerpts I'll catch blurbs that, inevitably, I wish I hadn't heard.
This morning, for instance, the radio came on and the news of Hizbollah's kidnapping of Israeli soldiers was top story. I cracked an eye open and saw a stripe of livid orange sunlight on my bedroom wall. This wasn't a normal sunrise, because our valley has been blanketed with a smoky, burnt haze from the San Bernardino forest fires. So daylight here is extra-bright, extra-lurid, and terrifically unkind. This is the kind of sun you'd imagine over battlefields. I imagined that would be the same sun that's too familiar in other parts of the world -- sun that pounds through the smoke caused by gunfire and RPGs and roadside bombs and grenades.
It took three hours before I could shake that apocalyptic feeling.
There is something else going on with me, something physical, but I'm not sure I want to write about it. Maybe I will . . . but maybe that's just putting far too much of myself out there.
In the meantime, I look forward to our new home. There's something so exciting about making a fresh start. We'll be moved in just before the boy's 8th birthday. Just before he starts third grade. And I'll be that much further down the road, away from the things that are haunting me.
The better days are ahead, I know.
And thank you, those who visit here and encourage me. I'm trying to re-engage. Thank you for still being around.
Now, on to the new madness: a new home. Yep, for those of you who know me, I'm moving again. Hopefully, though, this will be the last time for a while. It's a lovely place, and very close to Conor's school. I'm downsizing our lives . . . smaller, more-efficient car, single-story home, low-maintenance yard, and a lot less CRAP in the house.
How we accumulated two stories' worth of that much shit, I'll never know.
The world seems to have passed by in the meantime. Not just passed, I guess, but rocketed. And the more wild things are "out there," the more I want to hunker down with a supply of red wine and beef jerky. Every morning, I wake to the news. In those half-sleep, snooze-button excerpts I'll catch blurbs that, inevitably, I wish I hadn't heard.
This morning, for instance, the radio came on and the news of Hizbollah's kidnapping of Israeli soldiers was top story. I cracked an eye open and saw a stripe of livid orange sunlight on my bedroom wall. This wasn't a normal sunrise, because our valley has been blanketed with a smoky, burnt haze from the San Bernardino forest fires. So daylight here is extra-bright, extra-lurid, and terrifically unkind. This is the kind of sun you'd imagine over battlefields. I imagined that would be the same sun that's too familiar in other parts of the world -- sun that pounds through the smoke caused by gunfire and RPGs and roadside bombs and grenades.
It took three hours before I could shake that apocalyptic feeling.
There is something else going on with me, something physical, but I'm not sure I want to write about it. Maybe I will . . . but maybe that's just putting far too much of myself out there.
In the meantime, I look forward to our new home. There's something so exciting about making a fresh start. We'll be moved in just before the boy's 8th birthday. Just before he starts third grade. And I'll be that much further down the road, away from the things that are haunting me.
The better days are ahead, I know.
And thank you, those who visit here and encourage me. I'm trying to re-engage. Thank you for still being around.
6.30.2006
Joining the Tribute
I'm meerkat-ing: popping my head up to let y'all know I'm alive. Work's been absolutely heinous.
Enough of that. I've put in my name at 2,996. I love this idea, and I can't wait to get started on the person they choose for me, God rest his or her soul.
Five years. I can't believe it'll be five years.
Enough of that. I've put in my name at 2,996. I love this idea, and I can't wait to get started on the person they choose for me, God rest his or her soul.
Five years. I can't believe it'll be five years.
6.13.2006
Fabulous insight at the World Cup
I actually heard this during this morning's game between France and Switzerland:
"The Swiss are very organized."
"The Swiss are very organized."
Now I'm really going
I've been slammed at work, getting ready for another TV shoot. I leave tonight for Portland.
So, even though I haven't been around, I'm not going to be around for about a week.
So, even though I haven't been around, I'm not going to be around for about a week.
6.06.2006
6.05.2006
Season's End
Tonight was my boy's last rookie baseball game. They took fourth place in the league.
It was an exciting, heartbreakingly adorable stretch in which the Sidewinders finished their regular season with only three losses, then won three playoff games to make it to this evening's semifinal.
In the last inning, the score was 8 - 7. We were losing. The first boy hit the ball harder than any of us thought possible - and it stuck right in the pitcher's glove. One out. Next, Conor came up, fought off two pitches, and got a hit. The next guy hit a double and there he was: Conor on third base with one out.
And then we all watched his hopeful little face as he silently begged his teammates to hit him home and tie the game. I stood by the dugout, fixed on his nervous, puppy-ish frame . . . and sent every loving thought I had to him. I hoped he'd get to touch home safely.
The next boy struck out.
And the boy after that hit a ball right to first base. Three outs. Game over. Sidewinders lose.
Conor stood on third base for a moment longer, as if he couldn't believe he'd never get to score. Then, he took off his batting helmet and shuffled over, right through the middle of the other team's celebration. He ran to me, and I pulled him close to speak so only he'd hear.
"I'm proud of you, my Pumpkin. I love you so very much."
You see, you can't call a growing boy in a baseball uniform "Pumpkin" out loud. Such things aren't done. There are no Pumpkins in baseball.
But there is crying. Some little ones were that upset. Others wanted to assign blame before their parents could hush them. Mine kept his feelings to himself.
On the way home, I told him stories about my times playing softball in high school. He was very interested to hear that we never went to the playoffs. He sat up straighter in his booster seat when I told him his team was much better than the teams I played for. He begged to hear about times I personally did well, or times I messed up.
So I told him everything: about the tendonitis that would send me home in tears; about my 16th birthday, when I lost a ball in the sun and got smashed in the mouth - giving me a bloody lip and a swollen face; about the time my ex-boyfriend showed up to a game to rattle me, and I played like a friggin' pro; about the constant open wound on my left shin from sliding into second base; and I told him about the times we played games in the cold and wind against teams so much better than we were, making us wonder why we even tried.
But I told him we always tried our best, no matter what. And I told him that I was proud of him for doing his best, even though they didn't win the game.
At bedtime, he was clean and lying down and he looked up at me.
"I love you, Mommy."
My God, he breaks my heart.
"I love you too, my Pumpkin."
Minutes later, he was asleep. Sweet and small but more grown up than he was before tonight's game. Tonight, he learned that even though you try, you can still lose. But even knowing you can lose, you never stop trying.
Not only is that baseball, it's life.
It was an exciting, heartbreakingly adorable stretch in which the Sidewinders finished their regular season with only three losses, then won three playoff games to make it to this evening's semifinal.
In the last inning, the score was 8 - 7. We were losing. The first boy hit the ball harder than any of us thought possible - and it stuck right in the pitcher's glove. One out. Next, Conor came up, fought off two pitches, and got a hit. The next guy hit a double and there he was: Conor on third base with one out.
And then we all watched his hopeful little face as he silently begged his teammates to hit him home and tie the game. I stood by the dugout, fixed on his nervous, puppy-ish frame . . . and sent every loving thought I had to him. I hoped he'd get to touch home safely.
The next boy struck out.
And the boy after that hit a ball right to first base. Three outs. Game over. Sidewinders lose.
Conor stood on third base for a moment longer, as if he couldn't believe he'd never get to score. Then, he took off his batting helmet and shuffled over, right through the middle of the other team's celebration. He ran to me, and I pulled him close to speak so only he'd hear.
"I'm proud of you, my Pumpkin. I love you so very much."
You see, you can't call a growing boy in a baseball uniform "Pumpkin" out loud. Such things aren't done. There are no Pumpkins in baseball.
But there is crying. Some little ones were that upset. Others wanted to assign blame before their parents could hush them. Mine kept his feelings to himself.
On the way home, I told him stories about my times playing softball in high school. He was very interested to hear that we never went to the playoffs. He sat up straighter in his booster seat when I told him his team was much better than the teams I played for. He begged to hear about times I personally did well, or times I messed up.
So I told him everything: about the tendonitis that would send me home in tears; about my 16th birthday, when I lost a ball in the sun and got smashed in the mouth - giving me a bloody lip and a swollen face; about the time my ex-boyfriend showed up to a game to rattle me, and I played like a friggin' pro; about the constant open wound on my left shin from sliding into second base; and I told him about the times we played games in the cold and wind against teams so much better than we were, making us wonder why we even tried.
But I told him we always tried our best, no matter what. And I told him that I was proud of him for doing his best, even though they didn't win the game.
At bedtime, he was clean and lying down and he looked up at me.
"I love you, Mommy."
My God, he breaks my heart.
"I love you too, my Pumpkin."
Minutes later, he was asleep. Sweet and small but more grown up than he was before tonight's game. Tonight, he learned that even though you try, you can still lose. But even knowing you can lose, you never stop trying.
Not only is that baseball, it's life.
Things I Hate
In this precise order:
1) Work
2) Summer colds that turn into . . .
3) Sinus infections
Sniff. Koff. Gurgle. Bleah.
1) Work
2) Summer colds that turn into . . .
3) Sinus infections
Sniff. Koff. Gurgle. Bleah.
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