Possibly the Only Perk About Not Being Allowed to Play Roller Derby.

[scripty]
PAMIE
A quick impression of the lady who just gave me a pedicure. She was like, “OH.” Held up my foot. “Oh.”

JASON
That poor woman.

PAMIE
I know. She put on latex gloves. Nobody else was wearing gloves. It was embarrassing. She thought I had some kind of foot condition.

JASON
Did you tell her how you got those feet?

PAMIE
I just went, “Yes, please. I know. I’m sorry. It’s… it’s from sports.”

JASON
And then strapped on those gloves.

PAMIE
Yes. But look! Cute feet!

JASON
Cute feet. Pam, I don’t even recognize those feet.

PAMIE
I know.

JASON
Those look like someone else’s feet. Whose feet are those?

PAMIE
They’re mine!

JASON
You know, I’ve never seen you with cute feet.

PAMIE
Yeah, I guess that’s true.

JASON
It is true. I’m used to “Feet that belong to a Ukranian man who’s been working in the trenches.”

PAMIE
OKAY, I GET IT.
[/scripty]

Big Week, Big Day

1. Success! We hit over 200 donations for the Dewey Donation System!

2. The show I was working on over the winter, Romantically Challenged, starring Alyssa Milano, premieres tonight on ABC after Dancing With the Stars. I believe in the next month they’re airing four of the six episodes we shot.

3. Going in Circles comes out tomorrow! There was some Friday night silliness over it, when Dan and I went to the Grove to see what my friend meant when she texted, “I just saw your face at Barnes and Noble.” We got in trouble for taking pictures of the sign. “But that’s HER!” Dan kept saying to the security guard, who was having none of it. The third time he came over to tell us to stop, one of the store managers was with him. He gave me this bemused smirk like I was less-than-adorable. “That’s okay. I understand,” he said. “Is this your first novel?”

Which is when I had to say, “Um, no, sir. It’s my third.”

“Oh.”

Stayin’ classy, y’all.

on hospitals and aliens.

Dewey update: eighty donations to hospitals, detention centers, schools and library programs. It’s a rough time for fundraising, you guys. I know that I did this all quickly and on the sly, and you have all been fantastic at spreading the word, including some heavy twitter-hitters, but normally Dewey gets a few more books than this by now. Thank you so much for all the help. I’m going to wait until this afternoon before I put up another wishlist, because I think the C.A.U.S.E. program has received less than ten books.

[db]

Here’s a story I’ve been meaning to tell since Monday, when I listed the children’s hospitals. I mentioned that I’d had two mortifying experiences in children’s hospitals, the second-worst being the other week when I went to Monroe, Louisiana, on a red-eye in a leg brace to visit fourteen-year old Madeleine, who was suffering from a kidney infection. If you haven’t read Sarah’s account of it (Fancy new digs, Lady Bunting!), just know that it ended with four grown-ups and a teenager trapped in a hospital room as the specialist gave a ten-minute speech on how to clean and care for your vagina, with advice both helpful: Continue reading

a very quick play about my knee.

[scripty]
INTERIOR DOCTOR’S OFFICE — BEVERLY HILLS — AFTERNOON

DOCTOR
Okay, so how’s your knee?

PAMIE
Well, it feels really wonky. And after some consultations with Dr. Google, I think it might be my PCL.

DOCTOR
(instantly skeptical)
Uh-huh.

PAMIE
Look, I know. I know. But my knee was injured here, like this, with the kneepad, and that’s like a dashboard injury. And I just, in my defense, need to say that the last time I self-diagnosed, I had to go all the way to a specialist putting a camera inside my urethra before they would admit that perhaps I had been right the entire time that the marathon training had caused internal damage, and that people shouldn’t mock me when my research includes the Internet and the consultants on House.

DOCTOR
Then what do you need me for, right?

PAMIE
Alright. I get it. I’m sorry. Go ahead.

[MONTAGE OF QUICK PHYSICAL TESTS, MOST OF WHICH INVOLVE ME RESPONDING EITHER “I CAN’T” OR “OW”]

DOCTOR
Okay, well, let’s schedule your MRI for next week. I want to see exactly what we’re dealing with here. The good news is I don’t think you’ll have to have surgery. But I have to hand it to you. I think it’s your PCL.

PAMIE
Oh, really?

DOCTOR
If it is, I’m going to be impressed, because that’s not an easy thing to diagnose.

PAMIE
My dad would be so proud of me right now. Suck it, Med School!

DOCTOR
I bet that move looks more impressive when you have two working legs.

PAMIE
Not really.

END.
[/scripty]

(Hooray for probably no surgery!)

Weeeee! You I You Weeee Meeeee Meeee! Youuuuu! They You I Meeeeee They Us!

We all have those dreams where we think of the most brilliant joke or story and when we wake up we forget what it was. If we do remember the joke — usually in the shower or on the drive to work, when our brains go back to slumber-numb — it’s usually a letdown.

I had a dream I tweeted this joke. In the dream it was so important to me that I tweet this joke, that I interrupted a fancy dinner and I think even someone speaking at the front of the room. I had a dream that I was a total asshole, just so I could write a joke before I forgot it.

I even remember the joke.

Muse loves singing about pronouns. (see: “WE!” and “THEY!”) Muse loves pronouns so much that even their name is a mash-up of two pronouns.

Genius dream joke or too much grammar humor? I don’t care. Muse really does love to hit their pronouns.

Unsent Love Letters: It’s Different at Sixteen.

I have to admit I almost stopped after the last entry of my unsent love letters. Maybe it’s because I can see how awkward fifteen was, with the repeated unrequited love, and my completely obvious lack of experience. I was able to laugh at myself. But sixteen. I don’t know. I kind of still remember how it felt to be sixteen, and I still think maybe I had a point. Not a GOOD point. I know that. Sort of.

But I found this letter that… if you received this letter right now you could probably legally have me arrested.

His name has been erased to protect the innocent. Since some of you have told me the all-caps names can get confusing, I’ll just call him BOY. Since that’s probably the only word that was flashing in my head, a million times a second, every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every bi-monthly period of every quarter of every semester of every year. Continue reading

“When all you wanted was to be wanted…”

I’m sad/relieved to tell you that we are rounding out the end of my essays/letters/diary entries from my fifteenth year. Actually, there are a few I didn’t share with you, mostly because they are way too listy or factual. I found a twelve-page essay about the time my Gifted class went to the Houston Fine Arts Museum, but I’m thinking that’s interesting to exactly zero people.

Let me just say that it would be way safer for me to reprint the art museum essay because it is gloriously Fifteen. In it you can tell I’ve just discovered how to sound so “over” everyone else, mostly due to the fact that I’ve finally found some “cool” music. I’m both listening to Jane’s Addiction and wearing a Jane’s Addiction shirt, and so, you know, I’m totally the awesomest one going to see some art.

But that’s really not embarrassing. It’s just what it was like to be young and on a field trip. These things I’m about to reprint? These are pretty embarrassing. Continue reading

100 Bottles of Rain on My Soul, 100 Bottles of Rain! [5 Feb 91]

Someone recently asked me if I make up any portion of Little Pam’s letters. I told her that, sadly, I do not. The look of shock and pity on her face… I won’t forget that.

So it’s probably a good thing I’ve gotten you accustomed to what I was like at fifteen before I found this unsent letter.

Okay, I have to assume it’s unsent. I want to assume it’s unsent. I’m going to at least pretend it’s unsent, and ask you to do the same. Because the truth is it’s a print-out from a dot-matrix printer, which means I wrote it on my Atari ST, which means I probably printed it twice, and gave one to the intended recipient. And then kept one physical copy for myself, because apparently I didn’t trust my computer’s hard drive enough to keep it safe. I’m sure it’s not because I did something smart like delete it. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from several embarrassing situations with that computer is that I was the only person in the house who knew how to use it.

Behold what might be the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever found from my past. Continue reading

chapters

All this rehashing of my high school years might be undoing years of therapy. I think I can safely blame Facebook for part of it. I’m new to it. Look, I had a Geocities account, whippersnappers. And I made it safely through both the Friendster and MySpace Administrations. But Facebook, that’s where you all are. So here I am finding people I haven’t heard from in decades at the same time I’m finding things I wrote back then… and possibly I’m trying to find meaning out of coincidence, but I don’t really believe in coincidences.

You know, this started with me wondering why I’ve hoarded all of these letters and notes, and then through Facebook I get back in touch with friends from my freshman year Latin class (For those of you who have seen the Little Pam fanpage, that’s four of us (Latin was held in a Spanish classroom by a guest teacher)). So the other day I found a six-page print-out of our inside jokes from Latin class. Why is there a six-page list of Latin class inside jokes? Because I made one. I also have one from seventh-grade gifted class, and a two-year high-school relationship. I’m listy. I hoard memories, remember? Continue reading

Little Pam Gets Personal

Oh, man. I don’t know what was going on with me the winter of my fifteenth year, but I was wrestling with some serious hormones.

20, Jan., 1991

Look at me. Look into my eyes. Let me look into you. Let me look beyond that mask you wear into your real feelings — your real fears, your real worries, your real joys, your real sorrows, your real wounds, your real pride, your real goodness, your real honesty, your real gentleness, your real peace, your real turmoil.

I’m truly worried I’m writing to someone who doesn’t actually exist.

And look, I know Alanis Morrisette cornered the market on songs that are really just lists, but as you can see here, I was way ahead of her. Continue reading