Hi, I love you.

Okay, hi. Hi there. How're ya? Ya good?

See, I know it's been a very long time. And I actually have a lot to say to you, my sweet Interwebs, but things have been so so so so so busy lately, that I haven't been able to sit and organize any thoughts (let alone the photos, oy the photos!) to send your direction. I will try, I will. Very soon.

When? After I'm done packing for our move to the giant house this weekend, and have finished the 2500 word article I have to write for one class, and written and practiced the 10 minute story I will be presenting orally (snicker) for another class, and have trained the new girl at the Wellness center, and read three loooooong books for school, and workshopped 7 articles for the first class and read some Flannery O'Connor for the second, and previewed tons of good/bad/heinous submissions for the Portland literary magazine I've committed my eyeballs and exceptional discernment (ha) services to each week, and organized the next meeting for my writing group (that I've COMPLETELY dropped the ball on, you guys, I'm sorry - I'll make it up to you with fancy drinks and an extra large deck on which to smoke your wicked writerly cigarettes), and cleaned my old small pretty apartment, and cleaned my new giant weird house, and phone banked at least once more and hosted my awesome Obamania brother for a post-election decompression, and hopefully having thrown the celebration of the century after the Election in a few weeks. THEN I will sit and put it all down here for posterity. For myself. Because I'm old and I have started to forget things. And for the five of you who might be curious as to what's been happening all up in these here Northwest parts.

So I will tell you about the new house, and my Facebook addiction, and Josh's birthday, and the weird coincidences that have been happening lately, and the dream I had about Jojo giving birth to twins (actually a very fun dream, all things and strange subject matter considered), and perhaps I will have more interesting stories to tell you. For the moment, all my words have been reserved for the classes I impetuously signed up for a few weeks ago.

In the meantime, lacking anything of substance, please watch the following, compliments of Z The Wonder Volunteer, who keeps me well liquored in the lubricating grease of campaign and peripheral greatness:



I know you won't judge me when I confess to thinking these two too skinny Ruskies are hot. Especially not after you hear the "I love you" at the end. I love Al Gore, or whoever invented the internet. I don't know how I lived a life before it came to be.

This One's For You (NSFW).

Someone is turning in the following cover art (um, "art") for a final project today:

The assignment, I am told, was to create a magazine cover and related topical content (headlines, not actual content, thank you Jesus, although there really is a "How To" article to be included titled: "How to Steal Another Woman's Man and Suffer No Guilt").

It came down to a choice between this, The Journal Of Inappropriate Humor (featuring AR ad* campaigns, of course), Evil Overlording Weekly or the controversial Self-Hating Jew (a magazine for Jews questioning the policies of Israel's current government).

But Whoring Monthly, that's A + right? Especially since the students are to submit a document that demonstrates their own grade in one format or another. This student chose a Press Release, highlighting the simultaneous win of both the Nobel Peace Prize and the Nobel Prize for Literature, featuring the factoid that she (or he, you know, the anonymous student) received a BA from Cal, an A in Dangerous Words, and will be donating the proceeds of the unprecedented prize win to her (or his) International charity, Bitterroots.

*If you don't already know what this is, I'm pretty sure you don't want to, so please don't ask.

Ignore Travolta and his "Hair" - Watch the Rest.

You probably saw this on Sunday. But I think it's worth seeing again. And again. Hence I'm putting it on my blog so I will watch it again. And again. And probably a few more agains after that.



The only thing missing from this, is after Glen speaks, Jon Stewart says something to the effect of "God that guy is so arrogant!" Nyaw, love you Mr. Leibowitz.

My screenwriting professor is IN LOVE with the movie Once. Juno too. Can't get enough. He joked that if Once had been made in Hollywood, they would have lived happily ever after immediately, and it would have been called Forever. (Side note: Read further down in his blog, he's kvelling about three excellent finished scripts. None of those are mine. Here, though, where he's talking about one-on-one emails with the slower of the bunch? Totally me. Sigh.)

It's a great class - very straightforward, very practical, and I love how simple storytelling is when it's all about what happens next. Let the actors detail the emotional layers, let the director "describe" the expressions, the scenery, heighten the drama, let the art director flesh out the pretties and the uglies, alls I gots to do is say who and where, make them say interesting multi-dimensional things, and move it the hell along with some punch. Sweet, dude. So different than fiction. Freeing, and yet informative for all formats, really: Because of this class, I might finally be able to tell an anecdote in proper order, without accidentally blowing all the tension and interesting bits at the beginning. Well worth the exorbitant tuition, I think.

Why write?

I neglected to explain the random writing piece from a while back, "The Application." Perhaps I should.

I wrote it for a class, called (strangely) "Dangerous Words" and the prompt was to write a letter of application. The professor is pretty funny in the way he "assigns" things, and this was the first assignment (he calls them "5 finger exercises, as we're not supposed to spend a ton of time on them, and they should be short enough to read aloud in class). He basically said:

"Write a letter of application. For the class. As if I were going to select you based on the letter to be in the class. Which I won't, of course. But I will. So it's a letter of application. But you've made a mistake of some kind. In your letter, you are applying to something else. Like to be a slave working on the pyramids. Or something. So you've made a mistake. And you are applying. Okay?"

Ooookay.

So I came up with the idea of applying to be a scapegoat because I had recently dreamed a really wretched but cathartic dream about being made a scapegoat by my lovely and charming parental units (Portland contingent). It was originally much longer, with specific examples of my stellar skills as a bleeting heart (bwah ha ha, sorry, couldn't resist).

Anyway, that's what that's all about.

Now here's another assignment. Dashed off and unedited. In list format (we talk a lot about formats... this could have been an obituary or a letter to god, or Dear Abbey, or a want ad or any one of a million methods of delivery).

Why be a writer? Why write?

Top 10 Reasons To Write:

10) For truth. To get to the bottom of things, peel back the layers, find the ugly and the pretty. Or the nothingness, if that's what yields.

9) To lie. There's usually a nicer looking truth out there somewhere, an alternate ending.

8) To mortify and/or make proud a family of narcissists*, whose crowded stages scarcely leave room to register a speaking part, let alone a punchline.

7) For closure. To bury the myriad hatchets that have been slugged around for decades.

6) For revenge. Against those hatchet-throwers whose bloodied blades will never be granted burial.

5) For freedom. Free to embrace crazy like an accessory, instead of an illness, and live a stimulating life of euphoric highs and cavernous lows in the constant peaks and troughs of The Artist's thought waves.

4) To make trouble. As truth-tellers so often seem to. IF they are at all good at what they do.

3) To get better and better (hopefully) instead of just older and older.

2) To matter. Because we will all die one day.

1) To self-satisfy. Because it feels good to write. A singular, self-directed, pleasurable activity. Like masturbation. Or yoga.

And of course the follow up to this, again from the Prof: What do we avoid by writing, being a writer? (He said it a little fancier than that, and with a more ominous tone).

Top 10 Things to Avoid by Choosing Writing as a Career:

10) Mind-numbing day jobs and slippery corporate ladders.

9) The wretched and painful requirements that come along with having to answer to a higher-up boss type person on a daily basis.

8) Having to get dressed everyday.

7) Legitimacy in society as a "productive member" of same.

6) The boredom of a steady paycheck.

5) Health insurance and any illusion of security.

4) Predictability and the ability to plan for anything, ever.

3) Responsibilities of so-called "adulthood."

2) Expectation.

1) Human interaction.

Next up: How do I want to die?

Not looking forward to that one, I must admit.

Very truly yours,
Ass-in-Chair Amby

*No, not YOU. Of course not you.

The Application.

Dear Sir or Madam,

Though you have not yet advertised a current opening for the very important position that I am proposing to fill, I am certain that you will eventually have need of someone in this timeless role. I would like you to consider that – as history has proven - it is better to have but not need someone in this capacity, than to find yourself in need and not have a stand-in readily available.

I'm sure we can agree that it is terribly inconvenient to find yourself with acute blame on your hands. Perhaps for some action (or possibly inaction as often happens to be the case) that could have been avoided with better tools, or forethought, but lacking these, responsibility seems - quite unexpectedly - to be heading squarely for your shoulders. I must tell you: There is no need for you to accept blame or responsibility for any of your actions (or inactions) under any circumstances, ever. Even if it was your very finger on the proverbial button that brought everything crashing down around you, this was surely not your intended outcome. Therefor, why should you jeopardize your reputation, your standing in the community, your own self-conception of who you are and what you are about, in order to bear the burden of the resulting consequence? It is never truly your fault, it must never be so -- and that is where I come in.

I am strong: I can hold at least ten times my weight in the heavy, the irksome, the burdensome responsibility of bad choices and missteps (that, of course, you never intended to make) and I can do so without breaking a sweat, as I am in no way an insubstantial girl. Plus, I used to swim, and not to boast, but Atlas has nothing on these shoulders.

I am loyal - to a fault, perhaps - compassionate, idealistic, hopeful. No matter how many times betrayed, I am able to survive, dragging along with me the certainty that absolutely nothing that has occurred is anyone's fault but my own, and that next time, next time the outcome will most certainly be different. Some say I am naive, but I know I am fierce, tenacious, unfaltering.

I would carry your mistakes, your lies, your ropes of broken promises, to my very grave. I am to blame. Period. It is a truth I know in my heart of hearts, always. I would die again and again, never letting go, to see my commitment through, to carry your troubles to the bitterest of ends. I don't know the meaning of the word quit and I don't have the sense God gave me to shrink back from pain, to protect myself...

Look no further, I am your perfect Scapegoat.

Not only am I strong and thick-skinned, I am Jewish and as you may know, my people invented the very concept of strapping all the guilt, the blame, the terrible sins of the community to a lowly goat and sending it off into the wilderness or over a cliff in a ritual renewal during Yom Kippur (but why wait for atonement, absolution, until the High Holy Days, I say?). Also, I was born to a teenage mother, conceived, she once said, in order to save her life. So let me be very clear: you will not find a candidate for this job more bound to others and to this earth by the twin leather straps of guilt and responsibility, anywhere on the planet.

I would consider it an honor to bear your grievances, carry your burdens as my own, walk through each day wrapped in conflicts not of my creation. I hope you will see that I am an excellent candidate and I urge you to consider me for the position. You will not regret it (nor anything else, ever again).

Whats I Beens Doin?

Since December, when last I typed a peep*, this is what I've been up to (in general order of life appearance):

1) Heard this on the radio and cried for an hour in my car.

2) As a form of recovery from the above song-listening and crying, spent WAY too much time on this site, laughing hardest over the following in particular: Bacon, Emo (because it reminds me of a certain singing friend from the nineties), Balloon, and Devil Cat. I must admit that I am not laughing nearly as hard now as I was in December when looking at these initially, but Bacon still gets me every time. Also, someone told me that the bible is being translated into this language, the LOLCATS speak, so to speak. I didn't believe them. I was wrong.

3) Missed family at the holidays, but enjoyed a nice quiet time here in Portland. Kicked it with the Watsons. It was cool. Literally:



4) Tried to keep Christmas shenanigans to a minimum, and almost managed to succeed, until Joosh went out and spoiled the bejesus out of me with this:

(It's a giant Timbuk2 bag, the size and beautiful colors of which you likely are not able to discern from this hideous photo. It is big enough for all my schoolbooks, a laptop and most of my torso and shoulders, should I ever need to haul those around in a satchel).

And this:

(A keen-eyed rememberer of clothing named Jojo might be able to place the fabric from the quilt patch on the sewing machine. The flowery stuff. It was a hippie skirt. There may have been two tinkly bells on the tie at the waist, which I am not willing to admit to just now. It was a senior year thrift store find. I loved it long time. The black stuff is from a silk robe purchased in Chinatown, in college. Good times.)

So, me, I was very much spoiled. And I, in turn, got him a box full of foreign beers and a hand-made Shop Class metal arts type project craftily using wedding favor candy tins and rolls of self-adhesive cut-out magnet material (please. don't. ask). And pajamas, whoopee. So someone needs to get a real job and give someone else a nice Christmas in July, or something redeeming like that. Yeah.

5) Received several lovely items from AC, to whom I have still not sent my thank you note. Three items were for Joosh, and I have taken over all but one.

6) Started seeing an Acupuncturist, to discover that I suffer from "Dampness." Ooookay, then. At least it's not called "Moistness" since, as some of you know, I despise that word (yes, even when describing cake). Actually, the treatments, herbs and diet adjustments have been pretty miracle-working. I'm okay with not eating sugar (most of the time) but the bread, booze and fried stuff was not so easy to give up. When I partake of the above, however, I am So. Pissed. afterward. My traitorous belly punishes me severely, and I re-learn the lesson anew every time. Goddammit.

***Updated to say that Chinese Medicine is good for people and puppies, too. (Warning to women of childbearing age: clicking this link may cause spontaneous ovulation and/or immaculate conception from the cuteness of the wee child leading the post. The cheeks, holy, god, the CHEEKS. And the eyes. And the faces. And and and... Obviously I am completely smitten). But back to the canine family member in the Lalaland household: Best wishes for a speedy recovery to Lulu the super dog.***

7) Spent lots of time with these folks:


8) Had some excellent times (chats, fun, laughs, near-peeing-self-on-couch-misses, meals and entire host of other things we miss by living far apart from each other) with this gal.

9) Enrolled in two writing classes at this school. Began writing A LOT.

10) Waited impatiently for this little lady to arrive:


11) Attempted to try out for this but was foiled at the pre-tryout clinic by my Britney Spears Sketcher Skates (Damn you, Britney! Why you gotta put a weenie back stopper on your stupid skates?) and when offered a pair of replacements from a Breakneck Bettie (which smelled really bad, but were otherwise awesome - the skates, not the Bettie), I totally bailed out waiting for the second run of a sprint thing that involved running five steps on the toestops (front ones, BritBrit, duh) then full tilt boogie skating supa fast, then spinning and stopping short, again on the toe stops. Notice my words here: I bailed WAITING for the second run. I kicked ass on the first run. Then, while waiting in line for the second run, I totally toppled over just standing there, not even moving. Bottom line, I totally f'ed up my ankle on the Saturday before try-outs and was hobbling around like a dweeb with an ace bandage for days.

12) Was delighted by aforementioned ankle troubles when forced to miss out on actual trials, as I watched from the stands and subsequently understood them to involve thirty laps of fast skating BEFORE any of the timed trials, relays, etc. Had I not been hobbled, I would have killed at this, and then died, and then returned home after 3 hours completely deadxhausted, only to shower and turn around to head to the Watsons for Sarah's birth march. Okay, not a march, but it was in no way a fast experience. And there was some slow walking, almost a march, maybe sorta kinda a little. I kid: It was amazing. And I would have been suffering terribly and in no way able to provide any kind of support to Mama and Papa had I just been beaten down by all the bashing babes on blades. Er, skates.

13) Experienced the miracle of all miracles with Ms. Watson's birth. I swear I am STILL high from the whole thing. Jess was amazing, Mark was terrific, the baby is perfect. The entire event was totally mind-blowingly insane and scary and miraculous and great.

14) Continued to write lots more. Including a "please excuse my absence from class" paper about the fact that I was away giving birth. I'm sure that sounds bizarre, but we have to write these one page make-up papers about why we missed class, and they can't be true. So I borrowed heavily from what I had been witnessing whilst having to miss said class. My classmates responded well to the piece, though one gal felt the need to tell us all about how one thing "they" never tell you is that there is lots of poop involved in birth. (There was not in this birth, let me just clear that up right now). I told her, and thus the class full of people, that I had a lovely book, The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth (from the 90's, written by music producer Jimmy Iovine's sarcastic and not entirely unmean wife) which did indeed warn us all about the poop possibilities. The men in the room, with the exception of the one who wrote a fantastic "Dear John" letter to his masculinity** (I love him), were not super excited about our side conversation.

15) Decided to apply to this program at the above mentioned school (in spite of the fecal related feedback of my potential peers).

16) Did so, with the procurement of some very lovely last minute letters of recommendation and the crazy scramble to write/edit 30+ pages of material for submission (and an unquantifiable amount of constant patient support from my man - he's a saint or a masochist, I haven't decided). I don't know what he's doing in this photo.

So, yeah. Turned in app on 2/1/08.

Started to wait.

Am still waiting.

Will continue to wait.

17) Due to above decision, chose to skip a lovely Bay Area visit with the Davis girls in order to make a dent in the 30 pages, but did get to see this gal again briefly, which is always good.

18) Took this harder than I would have expected.

19) Fell suddenly and pretty hard for this guy. And this only added fuel to the fire (of my political support AND my wretched crush on young ScarJo, because I am a dirty old lady).

20) Got excited that my kid brother got himself a job (and tried not to think about the fact that he's starting at $4 an hour MORE than I was making as an emotional toilet bowl at my last job - not including commissions and non-existant bonuses, of course, BUT STILL). Congrats, moneybags.

And now, internets, I think we are relatively up to date. I have lots more to tell you about terribly unimportant things, but this will have to do for now.

Good luck to Grandma and her eye surgery tomorrow morning.

Happy Ash Wednesday to the rest of you. No sinning for 40 days (right? isn't that how it works?). Can you deal? No? Then come on over here and sit by me.

*The unforeseen stoppage in writage was due to the information that my mother has been alerted to this portal in the blogosphere by one or more of my careless brothers who left it in the browser of her computer "by mistake". Dork(s). It wasn't some big secret, just nothing I had planned to advertise until there was a delicious pile of baby or something equally splendid to advertise on these pages. Until then, I'd hoped not to think too much about the audience (future job offer prospects and the egos of people I still care about in life not withstanding). Oh well. Hi, Mom. Hope you got over that nasty flu by now.

**Oh my God, this guy is so funny. His piece was a total break up letter, to his masculinity, with the whole "it's not you, it's me" and "I hope we can still be friends" and it ended with "You know you're still my favorite to fart and shotgun beers with." So totally great. Unfortunately, as I was trying to give some feedback about the format, I said something to the effect of liking the whole "It's not me, it's you" bit, and how we could all relate to that and suddenly the class started laughing. It took me a minute to realize what I'd said. I started to correct myself, but then decided that, no, my slip was actually more apropos to any of my possible Dear Johns or many other interpersonal troubles: It's not me, it's you.