How to plant a Yes Garden:
Step 1: Say yes.
Step 2: Watch things grow.
That was until the young girl at the check out looked at my ID and said, “Wow, you don’t look 40.”
Then she went on to read the packaging for the Prilosec, “What does this stuff do?”
Me: “Keeps the wine from giving me heartburn.”
I shook my head and left feeling every bit 40.
We are all humans. Born with innate Imperfection, striving toward perfection. Born with sin. Sin in this case is imperfection, fallibility. Insert religious morality if you must.
There is nothing wrong with being a feminist, a humanist, a liberal, a republican, an atheist, a devout Christian, Buddhist, black, white, red, or brown. These are labels keeping us separate from our humanity and each other. Labels being tossed around like racial slurs have no real meaning other than to assert perceived power over another.
To shame others for being too comfortable or not comfortable enough in their humanity is a tool to control said humanity by inflicting fear and chaos. There is true evil and true enlightenment. Both sides of the coin contain a piece of the other. To separate light from dark is to cease understanding the light and becoming the dark. Fear is both light and dark. It tells us to be vigilant against predators. It also tells us lies that have no basis in reality. It manipulates our imperfection.
I have felt body shame and victim blame first hand. Mostly at the hands of myself. Being told over and over again that my body wasn’t this, wasn’t that, too much this, and too much that creates not only insecurity but a huge level of self-hatred. My body causes others to have emotions, desires, repulsion, made worse by me, the chief squasher of my humanity.
You ignore the hate. The hate within, the hate without. It’s not enough to ignore and suppress. You must begin to tell yourself stories of love. Not just love, but of absolute joy in your imperfection. Say something like, “Hey you, stretch marks, I think you look like ancient lay lines. That’s cool because ancient gods created you and you’re sacred. Maybe you are a site to be worshipped. A god. Thank you stretch marks, we’re gods!”
My body isn’t an invitation to harm, violate, humiliate. No matter how much or little I am wearing. I do not feel that I “should be grateful” that you desire me in any way. I will not remove or censor your emotions toward my body as long as it remains outwardly respectful and you do not act upon these harmful urges. That is what sets us apart from base animalistic impulses, our ability to recognize and control inappropriate responses to stimuli.
Fear mongering is an old and reliable method of conquering and controlling a population. It is seen in politics, religion, economics, cults, even the telling of historical events. To make us fear ourselves is a powerful tool to keep us from discovering our true power. Which is our humanity. We can not only make decisions based on free will, we can make them on intellect and intuition. Our being is more than physical, we have vast stores of knowledge we don’t even realize within our bodies and minds. Fear keeps us from accessing this power source. To make us fear our own power is the ultimate mind control.
One breath at a time.
Do not push fear away and hide it. Look at it in the eye, see its deception. See that is a construct with no form. It is very fragile and can be blown away with the wind if you just wish it. Its only power is the power you give it. If you give it to the wind it cannot find a place to root.
Judging others is how we reveal our inner demons to the world. What we fear internally is what we shame in others. An enlightened mind will recognize that the judgmental thoughts are directed toward the self. The primitive mind will fault others. Words have the power you give them. As an enlightened human you will realize that the words people speak to you are ultimately about themselves. If they are hurtful pray for the pain that person must be in to make such a judgment. Do not hold those words as a determination of your worth. Your worth is determined only by you.
By turning that word into a word of power. If words have power, reprogram the words to fuel your core source. Like electricity does not care if you plug in a toaster or a vacuum cleaner, it will always be electricity. So too is the energy of others. If they give it as harmful, accept it and use it as soul food. Words and our reaction to them can make us stronger. Magic is the resourceful use of energy, all energy. Like I said earlier, light and dark are equalizers not polarizers. And using the venom of other people’s opinions as fuel for enlightenment is true magic.
If you call me any of the following words I will most likely agree with you: artist, weirdo, freak, fat, crazy, feminist, femme fatale, slut, cunt, bitch, prude, whore, go getter, wallflower, independent, needy, empowered, crone, witch, woman, girl, broad, bird, chick, babe, ball buster, vixen, human. It’s true, I am all of these. I am a force of nature. I am everyone and no one.
Next week I turn 40. And that is magic.
8 more days! Help bring my #Alzheimers book, Every Minute is a New Day to life with love & laughter.
Thank you to everyone who has backed me so far. I love and appreciate every one of you. You are all rock stars. We still have time to spread the word and make my goal.
The book will be published no matter what happens, just on a more limited scope. Please help me make this a global message of love.
Don’t forget that I am a tenacious force of womanhood, I won’t let anything get in the way of my passion. Healing the world one patient at a time is my passion.
In response to a few questions lately about wanting me to detail the plan for the publishing funds and an attempt to remain transparent in this whole process, here is an outline of my publishing and marketing plan:
There are more features that I am pursuing in the publishing process. But this is what I am aiming to accomplish with kickstarter funds.
“Hope is a force as fragile as it is enduring. Hope and fear are forever entwined, not always on opposite sides of the spectrum. Hope can fuel fear and fear can fuel hope.” -Every Minute is A New Day.
17 days left to help fund the book.
Tell your friends, tell you mom. Let’s make this happen. Be a part of this message of hope.
Click here to help fund the book. As little as the cost of a latte can help.
Happy new year.
Today or tomorrow, instead of buying a Latte Ginormousa, back my book project, Every Minute is a New Day: The Language of Dementia.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
It has been a while since I’ve posted. There is a great reason. I have been working on my Alzheimer’s book Every Minute is a New Day. And the Kickstarter is now live and ready to support. Please take a moment and help spread the word, back the project, or do an interpretive dance to say how much you love it. I love you all.
“Be the change you want to see in the world.” -Mahatma Gandhi.
What is life without a little madness? What is there to take so seriously that we lose our sense of curiosity and wonder?
Life has been a bit topsy-turvy as of late. I have begun work on the Nurse Bitterpill book. Which as been more challenging than expected. I have stepped down from a director position to be a nurse again. There have been some medical issues as well. The lesson truly is, people are my passion. Namely, people with Dementia/Alzheimer’s Disease. What I love is making my residents happy and fulfilled.
With this passion come my love of madness. Not clinical insanity, per se. But true fun-loving madness that comes from enjoying life to its fullest. A person no matter what their struggle, be it dementia or just a case of the Monday’s deserves to be happy and engaged. I have made it my mission to bring this kind of joy to as many people as I can. To make at least 10 people smile every day.
Working in the world of Alzheimer’s has also given me the gift of never taking something like reality too seriously. I gladly enter the world of make-believe. Their’s or mine. Too much of society is dedicated to squashing out imagination and forcing conformity. Being labeled as eccentric or creative is as good as wearing a scarlet letter damning you for independent thought. I embrace this part of myself and I encourage it in my patients.
I’m proud to be called the Patch Adams of Nurses. And I challenge everyone to do the same. Make it a goal to put a smile on at least 10 faces each day. Tell their stories to another 10 people. And the world will find it’s spark of madness again.
So, today I discovered my first crow’s feet. At first it struck a nerve about looking old. Then the more I contemplated it, and I did contemplate it for hours, the more I realized that those little lines are a gateway to becoming that amazing woman that I envisioned myself being by the time I turned 40. (Which is only a few months away at this point.)
So much emphasis is put on looking smaller, younger, and more like everyone else’s version of perfection. Age is seen as a failure rather than an achievement. This has been a subject I’ve had on my mind for a while now. So much pressure is put on us, citizens of the targeted advertising culture, that our minds are not even our own any longer. We are animatronic drones doing and buying what we are told to by a calculating few. Women and men have an equal amount of pressure in different areas: women to look as perfectly landscaped as an 8 year old prepubescent child with the physique of one that just happens to have D cup breasts, and men to be as manly as a lumberjack eating 20lbs. of steak while wrestling a polar bear shirtless. The polar bear is obviously shirtless too. It’s a constant mental struggle to accept what we truly are as compared to the images we are bombarded with on a continual basis.
I’ve always been open and honest about my struggles with weight, body image, body hair, and depression. But being honest with you, a blog reader, is not necessarily being honest with myself. And until now (ok possibly up to a few years from now) I have been lying to myself about the image I see when I look at my reflection in the mirror. Yes, it’s imperfect according to societal standards. But it is what I am. I am shaped like Gimli, as hairy as Chewbacca, and as neurotic as Lucy Ricardo. Which makes me so much more interesting than our culture gives credit for, honestly. It’s the difference between the A.D.H.D style of a tabloid magazine and the texture of a book by Douglas Adams.
Self-doubt is a constant companion. But it is enhanced by this need to fit into this unachievable societal mold. So, let’s all breathe in an acceptance of who we are right now and then blow away those paper dolls that make us feel inadequate. They are pretty to look at but have no staying power in the presence of a gorgeously fabulous self-accepting mature* woman.
I HAVE CROW’S FEET AND THEY MAKE MY EYES LOOK ABSOLUTELY STUNNING.*I mean, mostly mature.
By Amy Moloney
I am having an out of dream experience
The world does not meet expectation but exceeds hope
A familiar voice whispers from a remembered dream
Not quite here but always there
The sweetest notes sing from that voice beyond the limits outside the dream
I am having an out of dream experience
Where space is limitless and time is running out
I bend a familiar page that I read once in the darkness
Folded over space where the light reminds me to fade away
Freedom only takes form when there is a letting go
I am having an out of dream experience
Where fire burns its hottest after winter’s bite
The seasons blend into a blurred landscape of monotony
Familiarity with the unknown leaves nothing to surprise
But the voice continues to whisper from sleep’s lost film
I am having an out of dream experience
Colors become slightly muted when the dream ceases to roll
Witch doctors dance in the greyscale of shadow
Conjuring the strength to walk the out of dream day
Nothing will ever be the same yet the world will never change
A young messenger boy looks for me. His name was Luca. He finds me inside a marble building where I am studying ways to face karma with a man, my soul partner, twin soul. The teacher asked Luca to lie on the table. Young Luca does as he is asked, looking at me for reassurance. I am unsure, but nodded to go ahead and comply. I trusted teacher. Teacher said he would demonstrate how to pull the face from a man with one grasp. This would reveal his true soul.
My partner has large manly hands and places one of his big hands above a different prone body. My small hand reaches for Luca. At the same time my partner and I said to teacher, “We cannot do this.”
I look at teacher and ask, “How can I look into a soul if have first caused it harm? I will not do this to another being just because I can.” My partner nodded his agreement.
I pulled Luca up from the table and told him to run, run fast. He did. Then turned to me and said, “We all know the truth, soon we’ll accept it.”
The teacher laughed, clapped his hands together and said, “Well, that was a lesson well learned. Time for lesson number two.” He led us to the shore of a misty lake. The sand was soft and the water had a thick, dark surface. A boat arrived at the shore and my partner got in. The teacher held me back saying, “No. He needs to face his first.”
My partner set off in his boat alone. I watched from a terrace kitchen above the lake and busied myself with making dinner for his return. The teacher told me, “Your partner will find a great flying fish above his boat. He must look into its gaping mouth and see truth within himself before he can return to shore. I hope you are prepared to save this dinner for a while.”
I could see the silhouette of the boat in the blanket of mist. The sun was nearly set. From the water a great fish jumped toward my partner, hovered just above him. My partner began to row his boat backward, away from the fish.
I screamed to him, “NO. Face him. See what you need to see. Go back.”
My partner turned his boat around and rowed away. I ran to the shore only to see his boat disappear in the other direction, the fish flying behind him and another more menacing fish ahead of him.
The teacher appeared beside me, “It’s your turn to travel the lake of Karma. Only it won’t be a fish you encounter. It will be your partner and he will not know you until he has entered the mouth of the great spirit. To face your karma, you must face his.”
I get into the boat and teacher removes his face and places it inside with me. The face spoke, “The more alone you feel, the less alone you’ll be. Go save your soul.”
I began to row. I encountered nothing until I reached the middle of the lake. It was just before sunrise, the color of the mist transformed into a golden glow like that of sunlight through drops of water. Rain began to pour and a lone dragonfly hovered over the boat. It landed inside and waited for me to turn in the direction it came from.
“He’s that way, isn’t he?” I asked the dragonfly. I didn’t wait for an answer, I proceeded in the direction I was being drawn. I found myself rowing into an inlet where trees on the shore hung low over the water. Moss created a curtain. Behind the curtain I could see my partner’s boat. I pulled back the mossy curtain and found him lying in his boat with a young woman, a mermaid. She had golden skin and he was beneath her with his eyes closed.
“Are you the great fish he is to look into?” I asked the mermaid.
“Yes. But he chooses to take comfort in my embrace rather than looking too deeply within. It is his choice. You should go.” The mermaid said.
“I’m here to help him. You can’t have him unless you can prove you are only here to nourish his soul with happiness.” I respond defiantly.
“I make him happy. See.” She illuminated his sleeping face with her gentle golden hand.
“He’s content, not happy. What will he be when he wakes?” I ask her.
“Why would he ever want to wake?” She asks.
“To fulfill his destiny, our karma, our souls have a purpose. You must let him go.” I demand.
“I accept your challenge.” The mermaid rises to hover above his body.
At that the dragonfly roes before the mermaid and grew to a full sized dragon, green and gold. “Now my young sister, you must look into her mouth and decipher truth from untruth. When you see the untruth you must crush it in your hand then feed me the ashes. I will take it away to leave you free. Only when she holds nothing but truth will she release this man’s soul and allow him to face himself.”
I look at the golden mermaid, “Open your mouth, temptress. Let me for our soul. His soul and mine are the same.”
“As you wish.” She opens her mouth
I look into the mouth of the great fish and see myself as a child, a teenager, then as a young adult. That is when I notice the untruth. The word “unworthy” flutters around my memories. I reach out trying to catch the untruth. It skitters out of my grasp again and again. I hear the mermaid’s laughter echo through my mind.
“You are unworthy of his soul.” She cackles.
“No I am not, you bitch.” I scream back at her.
The next time the word flutters by, near enough to grab, I catch it, crush it. Then I feed it to my dragon friend.
My partner’s eyes begin to open. I pull him into my boat and row away from the mermaid-fish. He wakes.
“Who are you?” He asks me.
“Just a friend. I’ll get you home safely, I promise.” I tell him.
“Thank you, friend.” He smiles up at me.
I row back to an empty shore.
As we walk toward the road my partner asks, “Can we go fishing again tomorrow?”
Let’s go back a few weeks to Saturday the 14th. That was the day I learned that I owe Harry Manfredini* a fuck-ton of money for torturing my sister at bedtime when we were kids. I think he said it was a nickle for every Ah ah ah ah Ch ch ch ch I have ever uttered, totaling, as I said, a fuck-ton. I also learned that I would be terrible at scoring a film.
Then I ate fried catfish later that day and watched Les Blank films about Mardi Gras. And forgot all about how much money I owed people for being a smart-ass kid.
Throughout the day I made new friends and became more than just a face in the crowd at AFS events. I was reignited with the passion that brought me to Austin in the first place.
The next week was filled with work and woe. Alzheimer’s never rests. After a jam packed work week I hopped a plane and flew home for some much needed family time. It was the recharge that my heart-battery was needing. The hugs from my nieces fit just right.
Upon returning to Austin I realized for the first time that Austin feels more like home than Cincinnati does.
Last Friday I attended an event where four veteran stuntmen** sat around telling stories. I don’t think I stopped smiling for three days. I think my favorite story of the night was Chuck Bail’s telling of frog rustling in South America. Or maybe it was Bud Cardos telling us about this weird, scrawny guy named Charles Manson who came over to fix a car and ended up getting thrown off the set for being a jackass.
These men are true superheroes and their stories are pure gold. All of them are more than stuntmen, actors and directors who have worked with some of film’s most notorious personalities, beautiful starlets, and the toughest cowboys ever on the big screen. Again, I used it as learning tool to become a better storyteller and screenwriter. It was an honor to have been witness to a dying breed of movie men. There will always be a need for stunts in movies, but men of this era are slipping away from us. The stoic cowboys of old Hollywood are becoming a thing of the past. And I am one of the lucky ones to have touched history, if even for a brief evening with these danger gods.
Tom Savini is a legend, period. I had the privilege of meeting him on Monday night at a moviemaker dialogue hosted by AFS. He is warm, funny, and a total bad ass.
I hadn’t intended on giving him one of my zombie toes. For whatever reason it did not occur to me that he would appreciate my weird hobby that gets me through writer’s block. During the dialogue he mentioned something that has always been a peeve of mine in the movies, the lack of realistic anatomical portrayals of death. I am a nurse, I see death a lot. It doesn’t look like what you see in the movies or on TV. Which made me think of my zombie toes, that I happened to have in my purse. I purposely do not put any red blood on them because zombies are dead flesh, therefore would not have oxygenated blood coming from inside. Tom made me feel vindicated in my choice to keep with physiological correctness over sensationalized gore. So I walked up and handed him a toe. Told him that I make them with as much realism as you can get from a clay rendering of a fictional dead thing. He loved it. So much so that he told me he was going to wear it to the Machete Kills screening the next night. And he did wear it. Unfortunately, the chain I had on it didn’t fit around his bad-ass neck, so he wore it dangling from his belt the whole night. This, my friends, is my proudest zombie toe achievement. Robert Rodriguez may have one of the first ones ever made, but he doesn’t come close to having the zombie-cred that Tom Savini sports. This awesomeness came close to rivaling the eating of chocolate from Neil Gaiman’s pocket. I want all of my encounters with talented people to be this bizarre and wonderful.
And now for the amazing night of Machete. Yes, you’ve heard me ramble on about Robert Rodriguez in many posts last year when I was struck by the creative firestorm that he ignited at El Mariachi. Which in many ways was the impetus for my moving to Austin. Not for him, the creative part. Perverts.
Anyway, back to Machete Kills. All I’m going to say about the movie is it lives up to the craziness of the first Machete movie. Honestly, it was so full of disjointed fun that it was a bit like watching one of my dreams on screen. (Look up at least one of my dreams in my Public Dream Journal for reference.)
Don’t forget that Savini was wearing my zombie toe dangling from his pants this whole night. My mind is still blown.
After the movie I headed over to the after party. Where I had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Rodriguez a bit more. In fact, he took a picture of my chest. Well, the El Rey Pulpo I was wearing that I made just for the event (pictured at the top of this post). I loved how he was more interested in the artistic process of making it than anything else. He barely noticed that the throwing knives looked like lobster claws. Which he better put into a movie. Deadly, silver lobster claws would be an amazingly unexpected weapon. Very James Bond villain. Screw that, I’m going to put the damn lobster claws in my own movie. If I ever figure out how to make one, that is.
I gave away a few more zombie toes to awesome people who lit up when I mentioned zombies and toes. Making people happy for no reason is what I live for. And tonight my mission was accomplished.
*Harry Manfredini is the amazingly vivacious film composer who scored Friday the 13th and about a million other films and television shows.
Just in case you forgot, because I sure did, I still believe in magic.
Don’t be alarmed, I’m mostly harmless and incredibly fabulous. Being an oaf does not have to hold you back from being amazing and sexy. In fact, there are many men who find awkward clumsy women quite alluring. We provide hours of entertainment, even with our clothes on.
Let go of these things called dignity and grace. You have no need to retain these attributes. It will only inhibit your awesomosity. When you are constantly breaking things by merely being near them it will tend to diminish your sense of graceful dignity on a daily basis. So it’s best to just check this shit at the door.
There is no regret in the world of the fabulous idiot. Regret does no one any good. Yesterday is gone and cannot be changed. Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, therefore doesn’t’ exist. There is no sense in living in any other place than the present. Each bruise is a symbol of living in the moment, awkward Zen.
Let your dumbass shine. Get out there on that dance floor and run into the support beams like a champion. Step on toes, and keep on dancing. And when the pictures show up on facebook say, “That’s right, I’m a fabulous dancing fool.”
Follow your bliss
Playing the fool is a glorious state of never-ending wonder. You have no idea how many ways there are to break your big toe until it’s practically impossible to wear fashionable shoes.
Know your strength
Know the strength that you’ve amassed. The infinite universe shows itself every day in situations that would make other, more graceful people run screaming. You have built an armor of strength from every misstep and bungle. You know how to fall and rise again. There is power in getting back up.
Get in touch with your klutz’s intuition. I know that every time I make a complete ass of myself in front of someone, that someone is important. That someday my shame will be a beacon of light for that person. This is how I make friends.
Break the ice
Somewhere down the line that first impression of you walking into a closed glass door will break the ice and help put others at ease in your presence. They will know that you are not afraid to be yourself wholly and completely. It earns respect and also a nice bubble of personal space. Mostly because they don’t want to go tumbling down the stairs with you if they are standing too close.
That is what makes you fabulous in spite of all of the broken things in your wake. Even if you think no one else does, I love you just the way you are.
I am going to talk about things most people are afraid to mention in so-called polite company. It’s a shame, too. Humans should not fear the female body. I certainly don’t fear my body: functions, imperfections, size, needs, the weird shape that my hips make when I wear a pleated skirt. I am a woman. A beautiful, sexy, voluptuous woman. My body may not work perfectly, but it still reminds me of my femininity once a month. It reminds me with intense pain and ridiculous cravings for bare-chested men and ice cream. Preferably at the same time.
For a while I’ve been making movie lists in my mind to remind me of what it is I love about film. So today I thought I’d combine those lists with my PMS. You are so very welcome.
This is not a list for film nerds; this list is based solely on my period. My current period. When the butterfly is in the sky (Yep, that’s my code for riding the “bleeding rainbow.” Just try not to sing it to yourself. You can’t. It’s stuck. I’m probably going to be sued by Levar Burton.) I like to traverse the peaks and valleys of my emotional spectrum by curling up under a freshly slain animal hide in obnoxiously pink flannel pants and watching whatever the fuck I want. This isn’t about female empowerment, it is about release. The screams, the tears, the laughter, and most importantly letting go of the loneliness this time of the month can bring.
Highlander Because it is my favorite movie and sometimes I feel the need for beheading assholes that do not respect my obsession with Scottish accents and kilt-clad men wielding swords. Sean Connery pretending to be a stag, that’s pretty hot. Sexy Scottish nostrils.
Grosse Point Blank Murder for hire seems so more civilized than staking my jerkface neighbors with sharp pointy sticks torn from the trellis outside my door. In fact, there is a plethora of weaponry outside my door tempting me to scare the holy crap out of those fuck-weasels who play their guitar turned up to 11 at 3am. YOU DON’T NEED TO PLUG INTO YOUR AMP TO PLAY FUCKING SCALES.
Doctor Detroit This is my safe place. When all is going wrong in my world I retreat inside my head and attend the Players Ball wearing a sequined ball gown made for a hooker queen. Not a pleated ball gown, my hips would look terrible.
Detroit Rock City Because Doctor Detroit made me think of all the other Detroit movies on my shelf. Also, KISS. Pretty much any music movie makes me cry like a mother-daughter bonding moment in a tampon commercial on the beach.
Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers SEX NOSTRILS. Seriously, when I am PMSing I oscillate between wanting to hide away under the weight of the entire earth to wanting to rage fuck everyone in my path. And the men of Middle Earth have the flareyest, most sex filled nostrils ever amassed on one screen.
Spaceballs Basically to channel the Schwartz and heal my wounded uterus. Dudes, I’m bleeding out. I could die unless I get a can of liquid Schwartz. And I’m craving a little good helmet. Dark Helmet is kind of hot. Don’t judge me.
Stardust I’m a romantic that needs more DiNero in drag. Also, romance. Why the fuck is romance so hard to find? Why can’t I have a whoopsie lightning pirate help me fall in love? Will you be my DiNero? Let’s cuddle. Just for 10 minutes.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail It’s only a flesh wound. I just keep telling myself that it’s only a flesh wound. It’s not so bad. The horror will eventually stop. Come back here, I’ll bite your ankles. Fight me, damn you. I mean, this is a really funny movie.
Random Xena episodes Every menstruating woman has 90’s era pseudo-lesbian tendencies and wants to watch Xena. It’s a scientific fact. Or maybe it’s the swords. And flarey nostrils from New Zealand, again. SEX NOSTRILS.
Let me take a moment to answer a few of your frequently asked questions.
Well you see, I fuck up a lot. That means I’m actually smarter than people who never fuck up. Because I learn more life lessons I’m practically a walking encyclopedia of what not to do. You’re welcome.
Really fucking big. If you want to know how fucking big I suggest you read Douglas Adams. He explains it a hell of a lot better than I can. He explains most things a hell of a lot better than I can. He’s also a much better writer than I am. So do yourself a favor, quit reading my blog and pick up a copy of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.
Trick question, nerdos. I am a fan of both. But if you must know, I love Star Trek a wee bit more, TNG to be exact. In fact, I always wanted to name my first born Jean Luc. Alas, I am barren and there will be no captains spawned from my womb. My desolate, empty womb. Dammit, why do you assholes ask such emotional questions.
These two questions always come to me together. First, Skippy is my amazingly handsome imaginary lover who has been visiting me in my dreams for years. Sometimes he shows up with his children, other times he shows up with David Bowie. He is also known as The Dragon Man. He’s perfect because he lives inside my head. Which of course makes me perfectly sane. There. Now you have your answers.
This is a DUH question. Frank Zappa is a god. He created things beyond the imagining of anyone else of his time. And it is not obsession; it is extreme reverence for the music that Frank has gifted the world. How many times have you been able to deter a street thug from selling you used drugs out of his pocket with Justin Bieber lyrics? Exactly, Frank is the only man with lyrics bizarre enough to keep you safe from greasy, murdering, hoodlums.
I first suspected my goddesshood at a young age. But I really did not embrace it until after my divorce in 1998. That is when I began studying kung fu. That’s right, Bruce Lee released my inner goddess. He was once very proud of me. I think he’s pissed at me now. But that is another question for another time. Suffice it to say, never piss off your dead heroes.
Nurse Bitterpill is me and I am Nurse Bitterpill. She found me while I was toiling away in nursing school looking for a cynical old bitch to make it all seem worth it. And you know, Agnes Bitterpill and I have grown into quite the pair of cynical yet funny old bitches together.
No. I pretty much stick with writing shit. Once in a while something good emerges, but I try very hard to suppress any talent that may be lurking beneath the surface. There is plenty more terrible poetry to come.
That is a good question. If you are someone who publishes shit and want an old lady to write stories about magical grandmothers for you, give me a shout. Until then, it’s terrible poetry and poorly edited short stories for this blog. Nothing’s too haphazard for my beautiful readers.
If you remember correctly, it wasn’t Neil’s pocket I was eating. It was his pocket chocolate. And it was delicious dark melted chocolate from his breast pocket. Next time you see him, ask if he has any sweet confections melting in his pockets, I’m sure he’ll share. He’s that sweet of a guy.
Whoa, slow down hotshots. I really do hope so. That was one of the best dreams I ever had. He was like an Amy whisperer. Danny knew how to yell at me just right to get me to almost behave properly in a tense crime situation. And if I do get to stake out banana cream pies with Danny Trejo I will certainly let you know the moment it is happening. I bet he knows where all the best pies are kept.
It’s a tightrope for sure. But I stay sexy because I am sexy. Fucking sexy is a state of mind. Being a complete dumbass is just an added bonus for your viewing pleasure.
I admit it; I’ve been off my game lately. You, my pretties, have been suffering months of blog silence here on amymoloney[dot]com. It’s tragic really. For a while I almost thought I lost my funny. Have no fear, the funny is not gone, it’s just having a few bad hair months.
Moving to Austin was supposed to supercharge my creativity. And in some ways it has. But it also has put it back into a holding pattern. I am at a very important juncture in my life career-wise. My nursing career has taken center stage. Which is a good thing. I love being a nurse, especially to my beautiful Alzheimer’s patients. I have found a place where I can blossom and truly be important to the work I do. But it has left me with very little time to focus on blossoming into the other career I want to have, writing. Granted, I do write every day. Most of the daily writing is only bits and pieces on notecards for various projects that are far from completion. I am at least trudging forward to where I need to be. And my nursing career and writing career are colliding in a promising way.
I saw a movie. And I am feeling like I may be back in the game. At least one big toe and possibly my right elbow are feeling some game.
It’s a good sign when a movie carries with it the ability to inspire and motivate you long after leaving the theater. A good film sends ideas buzzing through your mind, encouraging you to continue projects that are already taking shape on paper. Lending fire to that little voice inside your head telling you that you are on the right track. And without even knowing it, other creative people are cheering you on with the work they are doing.
That is what happened at the movie theater tonight.
I went to a screening of In a World, a movie written and directed by Lake Bell. It was, to put it simply, a wonderfully fun movie filled with painfully real interactions. The film was well written and had an incredibly true sense of what life is like for those of us who fly just under the radar. I found it delightfully uncomfortable to watch at times, mainly because it very much mirrored my own sexy awkwardness. (Yes, sexy awkwardness. It’s making a comeback. And I am brushing up for those fall on my face moments that will seduce and mystify you.)
I have to admit that I was not fully aware of who Lake Bell was until a few weeks ago when I decided to do some research on the woman. After all, I had just finished reserving my ticket to her movie. The premise of the movie is what attracted me. Mainly because of a dream I had earlier this year. Voice work has been a thing rattling around in my mind for a while. I’m not saying I’d be good at it. But I have been making up voices and characters since childhood. It was one of the things that made everyone think I was weird. So I related to the character (well, many of the characters) in the film. I also related to the woman who made the film.
Lake Bell was in attendance at the screening and she is adorable, funny, awkward, and charming. All the things that make her film work. She should be proud of her first film.
Overall, it was a night filled with everything that makes me happy: movies, beautifully bold women, and making a fool of myself in public.
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