Michelle Mellon's Musings

The Politics of Crying

2008-11-05T06:59:00.001-08:00

I barely slept on Monday night. I woke up at 2:45 in the morning, wide awake, wondering if it was time to go vote yet. I got to the polling place 20 minutes early (6:40 AM) and was second in line. Voted and was on my way to work by 7:10. And the line wasn't all that long, which worried me.

An anxious day at work, with my wonderful coworkers who are intelligent, passionate people driving each other crazy with early polling results as we all prepared to leave for the day. And cry. Either way, we professed.

On my way home, the polling place was empty. 6 PM and two hours to go, and no long lines like on the news. Those bastards better have voted absentee, I thought.

At home I toggled between ABC and CNN. Widely disparate numbers for a while, then suddenly they came together and were declaring victory for Obama. At 8 PM?? I had prepared myself for a long, agonizing night, steeled against the devastating crash of the high hope I'd felt back in 2000 with Al Gore's "victory." I scrolled through every network. All saying the same thing. I scrolled through them again. Then I waited.

Even with McCain's concession, I was unbelieving. Then Obama spoke. Calmly, reassuringly, proudly. But it appeared that strong emotion was for another place, or another time.

I cried when they made the announcements. I cried when they showed the crowds. I cried when they showed Jesse Jackson crying. And I cried when they showed a sea of faces, young and old, mostly white, putting their hope, trust, and lives in the hands of this young black man.

But it wasn't the crying fit I had anticipated. It was a silent and steady and cleansing release. Because maybe now it's time for us to stop weeping over what's happening with this country. Maybe it's time for us to wipe our faces, dust ourselves off, and live again.

Death Becomes Her

2007-10-18T14:20:00.000-07:00

Few people know that I'm terrified of dying. Those who know are surprised; I mean, isn't that what horror writing is all about?

As a child, imbued with faith from regular church attendance, vacation Bible school, and the fervency of extended family, there was no doubt in my mind about the existence of God and heaven and life-ever-after.

Now, I'm just not sure. I certainly still believe in the concepts of good and evil; I mean, without them I'd have nothing to write about. I'd like to think that after I die there will be something to continue into, but I no longer have the faith that exists in the absence of proof.

And it's that thought--that after I go there will be nothing more--that scares me. I feel like I have so much more to learn and see and contribute, that I'm working against some invisible clock that's counting down to my own personal UN-eternity.

So maybe all of this is what drew me into horror, and continues to draw me to seek out information on the evil that people do, and the amazing complexity of the human body and spirit. And, of course, death.

Over the years I have drifted from obsessions with concepts in books, movies, and television on all of these topics. My most recent was the idea that as the warriors of God, angels are probably not always the white-light soft-winged vision of loveliness we depict them to be (in fact, I haven't given up this obsession, I'm planning a book of short stories around it). But now I've become interested in how we (and by "we" I mean you all, because I haven't run across many other people like me who aren't okay with the concept of dying) view death. I ordered the Six Feet Under series on Netflix and plowed through it, hoping for some epiphany that would make me realize "it happens, and it's okay."

Loved the series. No epiphany.

Now I'm loving Pushing Daisies, which approaches the idea from a much more lighthearted place, but is still witty and edgy about the whole thing.

Love the show. Still not okay with the dying thing.

But all of the fretting and research and self-examination at least has allowed me to explore my fear. Not just about death, but about other things that scare me, albeit to a lesser degree. And from some of that comes amazing inspiration for my writing.

So I guess it's not all that bad. In the end..

Welcome to 2007

2007-01-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

A new year means new promises and new possibilities. I'm not going to waste my first words of 2007 on skeptical musings on the likely outcome; for me, 2007 is a year of hope and potential and new beginnings. I hereby resolve:

1) To BE MORE POSITIVE. If I can change something that I don't like, I will change it. If I can't change it, I will find out who can. If there is nothing to be done, I will move on.

2) To WRITE. This means not letting the craziness of my day serve as an excuse. Writing is hard, but the results are worth it. A couple of years ago my resolution was to write a story a month and then shop them around for publication. My goal this year is less formal, but at the same time a bit more rigorous: by the end of the year, I will have my short story collection or a novel finished.

3) To BE GENTLER. I can't take credit for this one; it's something my friend Kelly set as a goal for herself a few weeks ago. I actually wrote it on a Post-It note and put it in front of my computer to remind me to remind her, but found that just seeing and thinking about those words had a calming effect. Life is better when you take the time to appreciate yourself and those around you.

And that's it. Of course that doesn't mean there aren't other things I'm working on, like eating better and exercising more and keeping in better touch with my friends, but I think all of those daily things benefit from a more positive overall outlook, and that confidence comes from knowing that I'm making active strides toward being the person and writer I want to be.

WHC 2006, part 2

2006-05-16T18:34:00.000-07:00

Well, with a couple of long nights of sleep under my belt I'm on my way back to normal (or, as normal as I get). The rush from WHC this past weekend had me seeking out other conventions to "get my fix." Unfortunately, WorldCon (scifi) is during the exact days the L-Mates are coming to visit, and HorrorFind is that same month and would tax my already-generously-allocated vacation time for the summer.

Sigh.

I was relieved, however, to see that a) I was not as far behind in my screenplay as I had thought and b) I still liked it. My extra motivation to get it done by the June 23 fellowship deadline is that there are a couple of fiction submission deadlines at the end of June that I just might stress myself out by trying to meet.

What's life without a little drama, right?

One of the other wonderful gifts WHC has given me is a refreshed perspective. And it couldn't have come at a better time. As the people around me have been living in crisis mode for the past few weeks, I felt myself slowly succumbing to the unnecessary and tiring stress of it all. As I've wavered about what I want to do and how I want to divide my time between job and career (writing) and playing competitive ultimate and working on home & garden renovations, I've found myself too dispirited to tackle any of it.

Now that I realize what's important (it's just a day job, writing MUST come first; ultimate will always be around without having to sacrifice every weekend and some week days; and home/garden activities should be viewed on a project basis and not some overwhelming , immediate aesthetic), I can move on with my original goals.

Finish the screenplay and apply for the fellowship by 6/23.
Go back to work on the collection of short stories.
Go back to work on writing and submitting and submitting again while writing some more.

I'm not sure it gets much better than that.

WHC 2006, part 1

2006-05-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

It's Day Two of the 2006 World Horror Convention in San Francisco and I am exhausted. The good kind of exhausted, where your head spins with ideas and your mouth won't stop grinning on its own, and you're filled with the excitement of finding just a little bit of time to get to a keyboard.

If only you weren't too tired to write. :)

Actually, I can't believe the "weekend" is half over. I've met some wonderful, welcoming writers--people who are intelligent, talented, and with an acerbic sensibility. It makes me miss my writing group--the GGs--even more than usual (particularly since I'm in our old stomping grounds). Surrounding yourself with this kind of energy can only lead to more inspiration. I only hope I can carry some of it home with me and hold onto it long enough to re-ignite my passion and drive.

This is definitely where I want to be.

One X at a Time

2006-02-16T17:39:00.000-08:00

I have been in a major slump recently. No writing, no exercise, no good eating habits. You might call it a "minor" depression, you might call it a "major overload." I'd probably lean toward the latter.

I need a vacation.

Until that happens, however (May, for the World Horror Convention), I still have to live my life. My first tip for change came at a frisbee tournament recently, where some sage soul pointed out that you could only proceed "one point at a time." This wasn't like basketball or football where you could score numerous points in one attempt. One. Point. At. A. Time.

Just like life. Or my life, at least. I've been trying to go for five points in one fell swoop. Needless to say, it's not working.

I have a schedule, you see. Goals for the year, broken down by quarters, printed out by month, detailed by week, listed by day. Are you tired just thinking about it? Now you see the source of my (entirely self-imposed) burden. As I told my friend Kelly today, my new mantra is "unclench!"

I allowed myself guilt-free eating and sloth and TV-watching recently, but this week I got a little peek at my past discipline and craved more of it. Now I just need to move forward slowly. One step at a time. One day at a time. One accomplishment at a time.

I can already feel my muscles thanking me.

New Year, New Opportunities

2006-01-08T10:45:00.000-08:00

In the past I've been awful about keeping my New Year's resolutions. I suspect it had something to do with their unrealistic nature. Things like "lose 5 pounds" sound achievable until you examine the context:

Lose Five Pounds (while still eating what I want and exercising just a little and assuming that really wanting it will overcome genetics and eliminate my cellulite and cankles to leave me with a body like Janet Jackson [pre her recent bloating]).

After several years of that type of ridiculousness, I gave up completely on the resolution thing. Doesn't work, sets you up for disappointment, worse off than you started, etc.

Until I found something I really wanted to achieve. Something I was actually willing to work for, even with some amount of sacrifice.

At the beginning of 2004, I resolved to write a story a month. I made this resolution to my writing group (so they'd help keep me honest), and to myself, because how else was I going to determine whether or not I could cut it? Whether this was the right thing to do and how I handled facing the screen when uninspired or empty of ideas?

I ended the year with 10 new stories, a couple of essays, and a couple of articles. As I finished stories I sent them out for publication. When they got rejected, I sent them out again. And again. And again. I set up a database to track my submissions. The "no's" didn't matter; I was doing it, and I was having fun, and in most cases, I was getting feedback that I could use to make my writing better.

Last year that persistence paid off. My stories were being published, I was writing stories that were not being rejected (don't get me wrong, I still faced "no's" last year), and I was feeling that urge that one of the former members of my writing group had told me about a couple of years ago. That urge that hits that makes you turn off the TV or put down a book or turn down a social invitation because you need to write.

I had finally arrived.

But toward the end of the year I was getting lazy. Holidays, sure. But I had set up a plan for myself that was overly ambitious and so when I found myself failing I just ignore it completely. The ideas keep coming and drabs of writing made their way onto my computer, but not with the same motivating force of two years ago.

In the fall I took a screenwriting class to see if it was something I might be interested in. More accurately, I wanted to see if it was something I could do. Was it possible for me to take a story from my head and put it down on paper as barebones as possible, for someone else to take up and apply his/her vision to it?

I found that I could do it. It was fun. A diversion from setting up a world with words. Not better, just different. And in a recent conversation with a friend about priorities and doing the day job, I came to a decision. I wanted to do as much as possible when it came to writing, and I needed to do it now. I needed to get off my ass and finish the short story collection manuscript, and I needed to get off my ass and finish the screenplay I've started to submit for the Disney fellowship I've followed for three years but never made a move toward.

Resolutions? Yes. Achievable? Certainly. But now it's all up to me--there's no writing group supporting me in my madness. There are the expectations of others, sure. But if I fail to produce, there's always the next thing for them to focus on. For me, there's nothing else. And I live with that for the rest of my life.

Now's the time. Get ready for the ride..

LA LA Land

2005-10-16T13:39:00.000-07:00

I have solved the mystery of L.A. traffic. It's..[SPOILER ALERT] People.

Not sane, rational people like you and me.

It's the others. The ones that drive around with one ear and their full attention glued to their cellphones in conversations so fascinating and important that the real world and its life and death concerns must be placed on hold. It's also those people who, once again in a world of their own making, drive around in a daze. Perhaps they're imagining themselves winning an Emmy or an Oscar. Maybe they've set their sights lower--just a lead role in something, anything to get them noticed and on their way. I suspect some think Charlize Theron or Halle Berry have just dumped their men and are cruising the highways of L.A. looking for some rebound action. Maybe these two goddesses are even carpooling, and while out and about in some high-end convertible, they're testing the wind resistant properties of Victoria's Secret IPEX bra (demi-cup, of course).

Again, I can only guess this is what's going on, because at any given moment on any day in L.A., there's some yahoo driving well below the speed limit in every single lane of every highway. Hence the traffic.

For anyone who's never driven in L.A., you're probably questioning the "sane" and "rational" statement I made above. You are understandably confused by our assertion that there is no one rush hour here, and that traffic just appears out of nowhere at the most inexplicable times. You'll just have to believe us until you can experience the phenomenon for yourself.

In the meantime, for those of us too apprehensive about the characters hanging around the usual bus stops and too appalled by the inefficiency of the new orange bus line to use an alternative to driving, there are a few things we can remember in order to cope.

1) Normal traffic rules do not apply. In the land of freeways, you can not (safely) afford to be too far away from your exit lane. Pass on the right. Just do it. I know it's against your driver's ed training and your sense of what's just, but remember that it's you against the yahoos. They will not speed up and they will not move over (they can't, they're too busy gesticulating with no hands on the wheel).

2) If it starts raining, call in sick. Trust me, this one becomes painfully obvious pretty quickly. It's like a highway full of Chicken Littles in wet weather season.

3) Wear sunglasses. It's the law. Probably. Anyway, it helps you feel better about doing things you might not normally do (it's not you, it's your alter ego). Besides, it appears to work for everyone else on the road. Another plus is you can't see that guy flicking you off when you pass on the right.

If all else fails, you should try to enjoy yourself while you're stuck in traffic for several hours. Carry a collection of signs around with you. Things like "I'm on the line with your agent--we're working out a killer deal for you!" or "Do you need representation? I've done all I can for Matt D." or "Party tonight at Cameron and Justin's--call me for the details--555-ULOSE"

Ah, the symphony of screeching tires and crunching fender benders that will ensue. Remember rule #1 and you can probably avoid the worst of the resulting backup.

Just be careful in your antics. Some of the loonies carry guns.

In the Line of Fire

2005-09-29T19:31:00.000-07:00

I'm on the near-edge of my first California disaster experience. I mean, I've been living here five years and there have been earthquakes, but I never felt them. There's been flooding, but never in the places I lived. Now, as a true introduction of sorts to the southern California living experience, there is FIRE.

There's something about the power of fire you can't deny. Call it the animal inside or instinct or racial memory or what have you, but there's something about the beauty and devastation of fire that makes you want to weep; both in awe and fear.

Last night I was driving home and the horizon was a line of dark hills lit up with, what looked like, hundreds of bonfires. It was one of the most beautiful and terrifying things I've ever seen. And it seems safe to say that because, to date, only one home has been lost and one person injured.

Today, the fire has moved from a vicarious 8-9 miles away to an uncomfortable 3-5 miles away. The 4 PM sky was overcast. The sun glowed red through a blanket of gray. Smoke rose in wide columns from the surrounding hills. And as my husband and I watered down the vegetation surrounding our house, ash was falling from the sky.

We've offered up our homes to friends & colleagues who are more directly in danger. Feeling a bit safer and more smug that we were tempted by the isolated life of the hills, but thought better of it. In reality, our budget had a bigger say in that decision. But these people are sticking it out, like many others. Unlike the victims of Hurricane Katrina, money is not an issue for these folks. If they lose it all, they can rebuild, and rebuild quickly. So why risk themselves and their families to take a chance on something unpredictable?

Because they're human. When it comes down to it, no matter how much money we have or don't have, how much melanin we have or don't have, people are the same. We always have the sense that, at the top of the animal heap, we control nature and she rarely controls us. When she proves us foolish, we pick up the pieces and move on. But when we've made a life for ourselves, whether in the bayou or in a multimillion dollar estate in a California canyon, we're reluctant to just give up on it and enter the unknown.

That's the thing we need to recognize and remember about ourselves and each other. None of us should stand in judgment of each other's decisions in crisis, because we may very well find ourselves in a similar situation in no time at all. And just like the earthquake, flood, hurricane, tornado, fire, or other disaster that may come our way, the outcome is always unpredictable..

Getting Away From Them All

2005-08-19T19:13:00.000-07:00

Even though my husband and I have been living in our new home for less than a year, the other day we started daydreaming about our ideal home "if we had no constraints." Like, jobs that required us to be in populated areas.

Anyone who reads or watches the news knows where we're coming from. People are very scary. I couldn't even write things half as horrific as real life. We do unspeakable things to our children, to each other, to our planet.

Recently in Campbell, CA a man was caught on surveillance tape running over a pack of tame ducks at a car wash, and then getting out of his car to kill some by hand. There's really nothing you can say about that. No words describe the loathing I feel for such an inhumane act, and there is no justification. In fact, there's no justification for a lot of things people do.

So our dream home was away from it all. "It" being mainly people. A secluded beach, a mountain lake home, a small island. Our visits to civilization would be few (staple groceries, doctor, vet), and with any luck we could avoid brushing up against the ugly side of being human.

Would that mean losing some of my inspiration/muse? Definitely a sacrifice worth making. Unforunately, I think there's enough darkness that's already been perpetrated to consume a lifetime of writing...

What's In A Name?

2005-06-28T09:14:00.000-07:00

The other half of my writerly "awakening" this weekend was a book release and book signing party on Friday night. My story "Crawlspace" is one of thirteen in an anthology of Scary Stories and the publisher threw a bash at a club in Hollywood.

The whole experience was exciting and otherworldly. I held a book in my hands with my story and my name attached to it. We writers milled around to meet each other, thinking we might be in the company of a Next Great Author. When it came time to sign each other's copies, it was no big deal--like passing a note to a friend or sending a memo to colleague (well, a bit more exciting than that!)

When it came time to sign my story for other people, though, it felt..WEIRD. I mean, there was my name, like I signed it on my checks to pay my bills, except that it was in this book that this person was going to take home and read. It was like some part of me was leaving for good, leaving to go home with this perfect stranger who'd be reading my words and seeing my name and thinking "I met her."

I wondered if I should add a flourish to my signature, or think of a catch phrase to tack on to every signing. When I encountered someone who actually wanted me to sign his copy "To XXX" I was completely flustered.

Who do you people think I am?? I wanted to cry out.

But I thought about it, thought about all of the times I got an autograph from a writer or actor or musician to take home with me and say "I met him/her." Some little piece of that person that made me feel connected.

And that's what writing and the creative arts are all about: making a connection.

So I don't need to change how I sign my name, or write some original bon mot--that would distance me from the reader and from my writing and from my true self. And I'm doing this to make that connection, and making connections can be tough.

So with each book I sign (and I hope there are more to come), I can only hope to become more comfortable with giving away a little piece of me. After all, the story's already out there...

Finding Your True Self

2005-06-26T15:55:00.000-07:00

I'm not even sure where to begin.

This weekend I attended the Horror Writers Association annual conference and Bram Stoker Awards banquet. I volunteered for the event, even though I'm just barely eligible to be a member, because I wanted to see if I was on the right path--to see what these people were all about in person.

I loved them.

Even the slightly disillusioned or downright bitter ones. The oddly upbeat ones, the Goths, the ones that in sci fi circles might be viewed as head geeks. Because we share something that is bigger than anything the world can throw at us or hold against us--

the need to delve into the darkness and bring part of it with us back into the light.

There's nothing more gratifying than being around a group of people as talented and self-deprecating as the company I kept this weekend. I felt at home; like these people understood and accepted me, and I them. More so than any other writing gathering I've attended, I felt these people got it, and they weren't going to look askance at me for talking about the love I have for all that is slightly weird, somewhat off, or downright grotesque. I hadn't read most of their writings, they certainly hadn't read mine, but there was a level of mutual respect that transcended resumes, credits, and titles on business cards.

I spent so much time socializing and helping behind the scenes I only attended a few sessions. But David Morrell's writing seminar gave me two great gems with which to roll forward:

1) Understanding the nature of me. We talked specifically about the Meyers-Briggs personality "test" and how Introvert vs. Extrovert are defined. When I last took the test I was borderline Introvert/Extrovert, favoring the Introvert side. But I can talk and socialize with the best of them, so I didn't quite see how that was right, until we talked about personal preferences and how social interactions make you feel. And then it all became clear.

I do loathe the phone. I do hate interruptions when I'm in the middle of inspiration. I do find better energy in being alone, and feel drained at the end of lengthy social interactions. And although occasionally I feel the need to get out and make contact with the real world, I feel most comfortable in the world I create around me and in my head.

2) Exploring the other side of daydreams. Morrell said those fantasies we have about sitting on the beach sipping frosty beverages may point to where we'd like to be, but what we need to explore are those places we don't want to go--those darker daydreams/thoughts/what if?
scenarios we may be tempted to squelch or try to dispel with a shake our heads, hoping they fall off or drain away and leave us normal and whole again.

So today I'm spending time with me. I think about returning to these people next year, ready to share more of me and my writing. And I've sketched out a story based on an odd incident that happened this morning--a dark daydream/what if scenario.

I believe I've found my comort zone and my kin. I look forward to forging a strong path through the rest of what so far has been my groundbreaking year.

The Vagaries of Viagra, or, What Won't Men Do for Sex?

2005-05-27T09:51:00.000-07:00

So it's come to this. Having sex is more important to men than being able to see.

I exaggerate.

For now.

The FDA is looking into some rare reports of blindness in users of Viagra and Cialis, two of the three male impotence drugs. The drug companies, to their credit, already had posted warnings about possible visual side effects because many of the men taking these drugs did so because their impotence was caused by other, high-risk conditions. Blurry or blue-tinged vision, however, is not the same as not being able to see at all.

Viagra certainly doesn't need any more problems in the wake of revelations that it has had Medicaid paying for prescriptions for sex offenders. What I want to know is: who are the doctors who prescribed these drugs in the first place?? And if they're not to blame, why don't we have some safeguards in place so that men who have done serious damage when they do get it up, aren't aided in potentially doing so again?

While I'm digressing, let's talk about the irony of a society so testerone-charged that sex is used to sell everything, but it's still considered "wrong," "dirty," or "over-the-top" to see a man nude. I'm not talking about an ass cheek here or there; I'm talking Full Frontal.

What's the big deal, guys? I'll admit the female form is generally more pleasing to look at, but what have you got to hide? You're so obssessed with looking good that you've got steroids, "male enhancement" drugs, hair coloring and hair restorers, and designer lines of skin care products just for men. The funny thing is, it's an accepted part of our society that men grow "distinguished" as they grow older. Paul Newman and Sean Connery are still considered sexy. When was the last time anyone said the same of Elizabeth Taylor or Zsa Zsa Gabor?

So what is it you're afraid of, guys? That when it comes down to it, your sex is all you have to offer? Come on, quit hiding.

I mean, you're using Viagra, right?

Character Assassination? More Like the Slow Death of Character by Slovenliness and Greed

2005-05-24T10:35:00.000-07:00

In an oddly related way to my last post, I have to ask: what the hell is the matter with people? Do they have no sense of decency and responsibility?

We have been in our house for just over three months and have had a problem with most of the major systems. I have not-so-jokingly suggested that the previous owners simply moved from room to room as things broke down, then when too many things weren't working, they decided to sell the house.

And yes, we had a home inspection, but the sheer multitude of things needing attention (and the major distractions of the need to tent the house for termites, then tent and disassemble the kitchen for mold remediation) only point out to us how much we really, really, like this house to be able to grit our teeth, shrug, and move on in anctipation of the next minor disaster.

We would be livid rather than annoyed if the previous owners hadn't shown their one spark of humanity by getting a home warranty for the house. We've called the home warranty company so many times I'm sure they look at their caller ID and think, "oh god, it's the Mellons again."

We didn't have this much trouble with either of our previous (and both much older) homes. So is it a matter of those homes being built better, or being maintained better?

Perhaps it was our fault for making assumptions. First, assuming that people living in a house on the border of an upper middle class neighborhood would have been working to "keep up with the Joneses." Second, assuming that someone who worked in the real estate industry would actually appreciate the multiple values of owning a house. Finally, assuming that other people were interested in living in a home instead of a stepping stone to the next bigger box.

It comes down to this: Own Your Shit. If something breaks, fix it. If you don't use it and don't want to fix it, get rid of it. I have my own clutter to clean up and deal with. I don't need to pay for somebody else's lazy ass ways. And if all of this is just too much for you to deal with, then do the rest of us a favor: RENT until you're mature enough to handle the responsibility.

Do I sound angry? I am, and not just for my own, selfish reasons. There are many people out there busting their asses to live the American dream, provide for their families, buy a home. Then you have people who have the means to do all of this easily and take it all for granted. Disposable income apparently means everything's disposable: houses included. I'd love for those people to spend some time in the strugglers' shoes. Maybe then they'd better appreciate what they have.

Or maybe then we'd learn that power and money don't necessarily corrupt; poor moral charater does.

When Did Good Service Go Down the Drain?

2005-05-05T08:46:00.000-07:00

When did it go out of style to provide good service? I'm not even talking about service with a smile--I gave up on that years ago. But good service. In fact, these days, any service would be nice.

When we moved into our house there was a mold problem that required removing everything along a critical wall of the kitchen: the wall containing the sink. The dishwasher, which is adjacent to this now-empty wall, was also disconnected. Nearly three months later, I am still washing dishes in the sink of the half bath. Why?

We advertised on Craigslist for someone to come and re-build us cabinets along the blank wall, install a new countertop along that stretch (something to complement, but certainly not try to match, the patterned granite in the rest of the kitchen), patch a large hole in the drywall between the kitchen and the living room, and reconnect the sink, garbage disposal, and dishwasher. Several people responded, we picked three and set up appointments.

One never showed.

One showed, enthusiastically gave us suggestions (good ones) and promised to have an estimate by the end of the day.

One showed the next day, not-so-subtly let us know that he had so many jobs he couldn't remember which one this was, and said he'd get back to us.

Needless to say, neither did. Nor did they respond to our follow-up efforts.

So we turned to the pros. The first guy was such a turn-off we lost all hope. He ignored everything we said and wrote up an estimate based on replacing all of the countertops and some other unwanted work. We screened from the Yellow Pages and the Internet after that, and were told (finally, honestly) by one guy that the job sounded too small.

We revamped our plan to meet what seemed like a minimum threshold of work and have set up appointments to meet with folks and get estimates. In the meantime, tired of breaking and almost breaking things in the bathroom sink, we decided to pay the price for a plumber to hook up the dishwasher since the remodel will likely be another month away (minimum).

I called several "urgent appointment" companies from the Yellow Pages, only to find that if I was having a real emergency they wouldn't be able to see me until the next day anyway. I ended up setting up an appointment with Rapid Plumbing, who had several phone numbers for locations around the valley. I explained that I had a new job and I didn't know my husband's schedule, so it would need to be before 9am. We set it for 8:00 and they said they'd call before leaving.

8:00 came and went. No plumber.
8:15 I handed phone duty over to my husband and got ready for work.
8:30 they called and said the plumber was on his way. I left 10 minutes later, with a check on the countyer for my husband to sign.
9:15 I called from work to check in. No plumber, and my husband had to leave for work at 9:45.
10:00 they called and said the plumber was there--was anyone home?

You have GOT to be kidding me! I coldly reminded them that the appointment was for 8:00 and it was now 10:00. Amazingly, they then asked if we wanted to reschedule (!!!)

I was raised with the idea that you provided service in return for what you were lucky enough to enjoy. I started volunteering before I could drive, and I continue to volunteer today. It's not a burden, and it's not something I do half-assed because I'm not getting paid for it. Apparently the idea of providing excellent service no matter what is an antequated idea(l). But someday, those of us who still care enough to do the very best, will be too old, too jaded, or too dead to make a difference.

And then what happens?

First Day Jitters

2005-04-25T09:31:00.000-07:00

Today I start my new job. I'll be working part-time as an Admin. Asst. at a psychology graduate school/family counseling center. The people seem nice, the benefits are great for a part-time job, I have a minimal commute, and the everyday stress should be low.

So why am I so nervous?

Last night I had dream after dream about not being able to sleep (!). Then I had a nightmare about missing my appointed time to go in and fill out HR paperwork.

What's the deal?

The first, and overwhelming explanation is my Type A personality. I like to know things and how to do things. I like to be of service to people. I like to know I'm making things better. I hate feeling stupid or embarrassed. Hard to avoid *all* of these when you're entering an environment with new people, new procedures, and new skill sets, though, isn't it?

The other reason is related, but has only begun to rear its ugly head recently. That one can best be described as the pre-midlife crisis. I think it hits all of us at some time in our 30's, when we wonder what we've done up to this point, where we want to be, and how we're going to get there. I hate the thought that in 5 - 10 years I might look back on my attempts to survive financially and work on my writing career as "wasted." Either because I was working at the wrong things to feed my creative flow, or because the writing thing won't pan out and I could have been working harder at some other career and gained satisfaction that way.

All of that self doubt comes full circle to the type of person I am. Hardest on myself, with unreasonable expectations of what I can do and in what timeframe. Don't get me wrong; drive is good. But driving myself and those around me insane is not.

Perhaps the new job can help me deal with some of those issues..

Fashion Foibles

2005-04-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

Few things plague us big-bottomed women as much as the Visible Panty Line. We grow artful over the years at finding subtle ways of hiding/transforming our asses into something more akin to what we see shaking on TV commercials, magazine ads, etc. Most of us have friends who know our woes and, despite the idea that we're all out to get each other because of the paucity of men, we do help each other out when we can.

So it was distressing to me to see a woman in line ahead of me at a restaurant with not just a big VPL, but the Mother of All VPLs. She was not by herself; she had a friend (female) with her. She was wearing black vinyl-type pants (and I could go on and on about how that in itself is a no-no for the rear-endowed) and the panty line was so severe that it separated her cheeks in half. Every time she moved, you were mesmerized by the unfortunate jiggle of her two lower ass quarters.

Clearly her friend was no friend. Or she didn't look at this woman's ass and warn her. Or perhaps she did, and the woman was in denial. But clearly this woman didn't follow rule number one: turn around and check yourself out in the mirror (this includes walking to and from the mirror to see movement).

Women everywhere already know the clothing industry is against us (all of us). The sizes are arbitrary and if you're shopping for pants, there are too many "fits" to mention (or comprehend, or have time to try on). Lingerie is ridiculously expensive, and it's taken all of these decades for someone to finally decide to work on panties that don't leave an unsightly line?? Diaper technology has advanced more quickly! Why are women always last?!

And don't mention thongs. If you think a VPL is bad, wait until you can make out the dimples and folds of a big, bare bottom through fabric. Ugh.

It's time for all of us ladies with "back" to get ours. Stores should get out the measuring tapes and give away VPL-less panties to all women who do not fit the current supermodel mold/measurements. I guarantee there'd be some rethinking then..

Short Stories on Film

2005-04-04T07:34:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to an indie film fest and watched a friend's short film as part of a set of other short films. It was interesting to see how different people envisioned the path to telling a short story. All but one were pretty dark, and my husband commented that with such a small amount of time it might be easier to explore the pathos side of drama.

At the end of the session we were supposed to take our "voting" cards and rank each movie on a scale from "Poor" to "Great." I had a tough time. Not because I felt any artistic loyalties to these strangers (except for my friend Frankie, although for the others I can appreciate how difficult it is to have someone sit and rank your vision), but because I would have ranked them differently in different categories: visuals, innovation, acting, storytelling.

Seeing those ideas on screen made me realize how important the story is to making an impact in a short amount of time. Film is different, of course, because you might have a visual that sticks with you long after the gist of the tale has flown, but what if your goal as a writer was to do both? To come up with a tale that could be retold, but also craft such strong scenes that they jump off the page and lodge in the mind's eye of your reader?

Thinking now of my favorite short stories and books, that would seem to be the key. Seems a simple and obvious enough concept, but the thing to remember is that it doesn't work for everyone. One of the movies I thought of as a no-brainer "Great," my husband didn't feel as strongly about. We talked about its flaws and strengths and I realized it really is what each viewer/reader brings to the art that makes the difference. I can't write for you and your enjoyment--I don't know you. I have to write for me and what amuses or scares me.

But I hope you enjoy the ride..

Garden as Muse

2005-03-30T11:16:00.000-08:00

I have not written a word of fiction in about a week. Even at that, it's been little hiccups of ideas that I wanted to get down on paper before they disappeared entirely. I haven't written anything substantial since the end of last year.

Before I beat myself up too badly, it's true that I've moved in the past month and I'm looking for work and dealing with the after-effects of mold remediation on our new house, but STILL.

So yesterday I spent some time working out in the yard; moving planters around and filling them with flowers. I came back inside feeling revived (and this southern California sun doesn't hurt, either!). I'm getting ready to go back outside and do it again.

Avoidance, you ask? Creative procrastination? Thankfully no. When I procrastinate it's with more "practical" things like cleaning the house, paying the bills, or doing the laundry. There's a profound sense of satisfaction I get from feeling dirt on my hands and arranging flowers in festive patterns. If nothing else, it's a way to get me off my butt and breathing fresh (well, as fresh as L.A. gets) air, and escape those dark thoughts and/or doubts. Working outside is similar to the high I get when I'm able to take words and use them to accurately paint the image in my head or capture the voices whispering in my ear. All of my anxiety about when/whether the phone will ring with job offers means nothing. It's all about the act of creating something from nothing.

Just like writing.

So when I come back inside, dirty and sweaty and sun-baked, I will feel a sense of accomplishment. And for me, that always rolls over into sitting down at my computer and taking that creative confidence and channeling it into my writing.

Who knows what will bloom?..

Iron Stomach..or not

2005-03-29T08:18:00.000-08:00

I'm usually a pretty healthy person, and when I do get sick, boredom and sheer will usually drive me out of bed and back into the real world. But this weekend I came down with food poisoning, and no amount of stubborness was able to convince me I was all right. I actually ended up calling 911 to get myself in the hands of professionals. It's three days later and I'm still feeling the effects.

Traveling through Santa Cruz, CA and craving Chinese food? Stay away from China Station on Mission Street. Too late (like, at the end of our meal), we saw bugs crawling across the floor in the dining area. I'm the only one of our group who got sick. Most likely it was the pork in the House Chow (not-so) Fun...