Once Bitten, Twice Shy

It's official.  If the way I "mother" my dog is any indication, I'm going to be one of THOSE parents.  You know the kind - the one that's all about don't, can't, won't, what-ifs; the one that will shelter and protect her offspring at any cost from the cruel, evil world.  We all know you can't spell "SMOTHER" without "MOTHER."  My mom never let us ride our bicycles outside our driveway without a parental escort - for fear that a random tractor trailer may barrel down our little boulevard in suburbia and flatten us.  I thought of this a few weeks ago, when me and my "kid" JackHammer, had an incident at the dog park.  The "tractor trailer," however, came in the form of an angry German Shepherd.

My 5 year old mutt, JackHammer, is part manic Muppet, part shy skunk.  He dislkes the dog park, and would much rather be frolicking freely on the beach or strutting his stuff around the neighborhood, barking and marking his territory at every corner.  In the dog park, he is a shivering, squinting, anxiety-ridden coward.  Like mother, like mutt.

Usually, Jack gets into a scuffle or two at the park.  He patrols the border, quick to snap at anyone that sniffs his ass or comes too close to our "pack" - me, my big, goofy boyfriend and his big, goofier Labrador.  Now, for the Labrador the park is heaven - a blessed bonding ritual he shares with my boyfriend of Ball. Run. Fetch. Ball. Run. Fetch.  Which is why neither of them were quick to come to our rescue when the Jack Attack occurred.

There was my mutt, innocently watering a tree.  His back to the packs of various breeds of dog -- all of which he could be a smattering of: terriers, collies, shepherds, spaniels, retrievers.  As always, I was not more than a couple feet away from him, when I saw the German Shepherd charge.  One second, Jack was lifting his leg.  The next, he was being lifted in the air, tossed to and fro like a rag doll in the German Shepherd's jaws.  

There is no amount of screaming and flailing about that could have corrected the shock of this unfortunate situation.  Myself and other dog owners tried to kick the two apart, lunging at the Shepherd as he, in turn, continued to lunge at Jack's neck - over and over again.  I witnessed poor Jack being picked up by the throat, dragged by the ear.  It was like a horrific hybrid of Cujo meets K9 attack video.

Even the Shepherd's owner couldn't pull him off Jack, which, in my opinion, if you can't control your dog when it's trying to kill another living being, then who's got the fucked up parenting issues NOW?!

And it was in this moment when I thought, I was truly going to watch my dog die.  That after rescuing him literally off the streets, after coddling him and cuddling him and always walking two steps behind him, after saving him from a shelter and yet sheltering him myself, that there was nothing I could have done, planned for or worried about in advance, to prevent this from happening.  In that moment, it was up to my dog to get back up on his two (or four) feet.

But Jack did more than that.  HE.  FOUGHT.  BACK.  Here was a 20 pound mutt, pinned on his back to the ground by a beast over 5 times his weight.  Despite bite wounds to the ear and puncture marks in his neck, Jack kicked up a dust storm like the Tasmanian Devil.  He bared his little teeth, nipping and gnashing and thrashing about until he was free of the Jaws of Death.  At one point, I even saw Jack clinging by the mouth from the great furry gullet of the German Shepherd, hoping to exact some vigilante vengeance of his own, no doubt!

When the dust -- and the tempers (both canine and human) -- settled, the Shepherd's irresponsible owner admitted she had not been back to the park in over a year, since her dog "always attacks others."  Great.  She slinked out of the park, tail between her legs, dragging her Satan dog behind her.

And now, though Jack is literally scarred, I am the one suffering PTSD whenever we return to the dog park.  I want to pick him up and carry him around.  I want to scoop him up and take him out of there whenever any dog - especially a large one, especially a German Shepherd - approaches.  

My boyfriend sighs, "he's fine.  Look at him.  The only reason he knows nothing's fine is by your behavior.  Act calm, act normal.  He'll figure it out."  I think about the future.  Beyond dog parks, to playgrounds and sporting events and when my own children are riding their bikes, one day.  They learn how to ride and you let them go, in more ways than one.  If they fall, they get back up.  And if they get hurt, so be it.  All children get cuts, bumps, bruises, broken bones, injuries.  We all have scars to prove it.

Even my resilient little mutt, Jack Hammer.  After all, for him, the visit to the Vet was more traumatic than the German Shepherd attack itself.

If the Slipper Fits...

Cinderella.  Snow White.  Sleeping Beauty.  They always tell you that "someday, your prince will come,"  The One, the knight in shining armor on a white horse.  When, in fact, they never tell you, he's actually just a guy -- the right guy -- Mr. Nice Guy -- at the right time.

And that sometimes, the horse is actually a hairy Labrador that will slobber, shed, and drool all over everything you own and wear.  And that your "happily ever after" is a very different version of the Cinderella fairy tale you thought had finally come true.

The castle is actually a house too small for both your belongings and your literal and figurative baggage -- with a rent/mortgage as high as Rapunzel's Tower.  Wait.  Wrong Heroine.  Or princess.  I digress.

Back to Cinderella.  Yes, there are sweep-me-off-my-feet, may-I-have-this-dance, glass slipper moments.  But there are also just ... slipper moments.

After 2 years of living together, oftentimes I feel like the OTHER Cinderella.  The girl on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, kerchief on her head, waltzing with a mop, a broom, a Swiffer, doing the samba with the Roomba.  Except I don't "whistle while I work" or sing to fucking woodland creatures.  I grumble expletives under my breath as I scowl and scour ferociously, all the while sticking my head in the oven, appropos enough.

Why, God, why does he leave fresh skidmarks in the toilet when he knows I've scrubbed and plunged and brushed and buffed the porcelain to a fine sparkle just moments before?  Why does he shed his clothes on the floor in the corner like a lazy snake knowing full well I've washed, dried, folded and hung multiple loads of laundry??  Why does he rough-house with the dog and scratch up a storm of dander on the couch, on my side of the bed when he knows my allergy-prone sensitive-skinned ass has swept, Swiffered and Roomba'd tumbleweeds of dog hair all day every day???

*SIGH*  I am the Cinderella that realizes it's not only her furniture that's collecting dust -- it's her relationship.  Time passes -- and you realize your romance has rusted, a layer of dust covers everything: spontaneity, lust, passion.  Instead, your crotch grows crowded with cobwebs and what used to be "Do Me, Baby" becomes a "Honey Dew/Honey To Do" List.

After living together for two years, you don't go on dates -- you go on errands.  And the focus sadly tends to be on what you, in fact, do NOT do.

When the exact moment was I cannot pinpoint.  Where I went from being swept off my feet to both of us snapping at each other "don't you know how long I've been on my feet all day?!"

The Glass Slipper Myth morphs into The Slipper & Bathrobe Reality.  And dressing up or looking nice for each other is sweats or moreover, "Hey!  I showered for you today!  You better appreciate it!"'

What to do when your lover becomes your roomie?  It's going to take both of you to do the housework AND the relationship work.  Or else someone will end up resenting the other person.

Consider these random ramblings of relationship royalty: to expect treatment befitting of a Queen, I need to treasure/value my King as well.  Too quickly and too often, the crown is tarnished.  And just because I ACT like a princess, doesn't mean he'll treat me like one.

It's cliche but there's a reason why -- communication is truly key.  You must have conversations about all this; the constant communication will unlock the conflicts in a relationship.  Communication is too important, so important -- issues cannot be swept into a corner or under the carpet.  Communication should not be a daily chore, but a household obligation.

I love him too much to continue a collection of clutter, piling up the dustbunnies of disappointment when I fail to discuss my feelings with him.  I can complain all I want about "what a mess" the house is, but we've all got to assess ourselves as well, our "messes."  Both the messes we make -- and quite frankly, the messes we just are.

All the housework in the world doesn't matter, if you don't do some internal spring cleaning as well.  Selfwork, if you will.  Heart, soul, mind, matter, spirit, substance.  So, you see, a lot of "cleaning up" starts from within too -- and my boyfriend deserves a much neater (and much nicer) me.

Time to roll up my sleeves and get dirty.  See!  Things sound sexier already!

110% = One hundred ... and ten percent.

Today, I put on my grown-up producer panties and took a meeting with an agency.  I drove to the Gauntlet of Egos - that stretch of Wilshire Blvd. in Beverly Hills, where the most high-powered heavy-hitters work, play, and shop.  I'm no Pretty Woman, but I felt just as fish-out-of-sparkling-water as I tentatively tip-toed past the Reg Bev Wil to a monstrous agency whose structure looked like a shiny spaceship.

Now I say tip-toed past, because I chose to park my 10-year-old Honda Civic several blocks away, instead of valeting behind the Barneys, Bergdorf's, Burberry as instructed.  I was, after all, sans BMW or Benz.  And PS the dress I wore was older than my car, from Express no less, purchased for $39.99.  I bought it after I graduated college and headed into what I thought was "the real world"(pun intended), as opposed to "The Real World" AKA the "reality TV" world.  Everyone mistakes the dress for a DVF; and since appearance is everything, and the dress cost me practically nothing, it is my "go-to" get-up.  An inside joke with myself.

At the aforementioned agency, I literally met with a six pack of suits. (A gaggle of geese?  A pride of lions?)  These men were so chiseled and groomed and buffed and buff, I could almost see their six-packs thru their designer suits.  The only thing greasier than their gelled coifs was their aggressive approach.

"You think you know people in this town?  You don't.  We know people in this town. ... While you're busy in your bubble, producing your show, doing your job?  You wanna know what we'll be doing?  Our job, which is lining up your next several jobs -- making sure that you are working 24/7, 12 months a year ... We will be your mouth, we will be your muscle, we will be your bad cop. ...  You've gotta be smart, you've gotta be savvy, you've gotta make moves. ... What are you afraid of?  What's stopping you?  Is it the 10 percent?  Standard agency fee, as you know.  What's 10 percent, really?  We'll make you so much more money, you won't even miss the 10 percent."

Wow.  If only the men I dated wooed and courted me like these guys. Phone calls, e-mails, smiles and promises.  Charming and tempting, indeed.

It's a big decision to make.  Seeking representation or not.  Should I risk it all to roll with the big boys, chase the fame, power and money, to have that street cred ... or Boulevard cred?  OR should I opt for a smaller, boutique agency; but does that then mean reaping smaller opportunities and minimal profits?

Walking back to my Civic, which was parked practically in Beverly Hills adjacent, I thought, how symbolic -- I too, am adjacent to all this.  I'm not sure where I'll end up, which agency - if any - I'll choose.  I'm not sure exactly what my 1 year, 3 year, 5 year career goals are yet, but I know I need to decide these things soon.  I'm not sure how ready I am to give up that 10 percent, when I've pocketed every penny I've ever made over the past 10 years.

But, of this much, I'm sure...for now, I will continue to be myself and do what's best for myself -- one hundred AND ten percent.

UPDATE/NOTE:  Not long after writing this blog entry, I eventually chose to be represented by one of the agencies listed above.  Nearly a year later, I still don't regret my decision and think it was a necessary career move.  - MTG a/o Jan 23, 2011

MY HONDA CIVIC PARKED ON-SET
IN FRONT OF MY EXECUTIVE PRODUCER'S MASERATI

Dear Newman

Did our humans rescue us or did we rescue our humans?  They may feed us and walk us and bathe us but sometimes I feel like if we hadn't come into their lives, something really bad may have happened to them, too.  They come home to us and confide in us and cry to us and cuddle us.  In many ways, we are the most stable, committed and unconditional relationship they have ever had.  And thankfully, we're dogs.  So they can't ever become one of those "crazy cat ladies."  Interested in hearing your thoughts.  Come visit again soon.

Love, JackHammer

A Giant Stiletto Step for (Wo)mankind

On this, the night of the 82nd annual Academy Awards, two momentous milestones have occurred for women in the entertainment industry -- a) Kathryn Bigelow becomes the first female to win the Best Director Oscar and b) I have started a blog.  Ha.

Which is more unbelievable?  That Bigelow, she of "Point Break" fame (or infamy?), helmed such a hit as The Hurt Locker?  That Sandra Bullock (Speed, Miss Congeniality) won a Best Actress Oscar?  Impressive that Sandra can now boast she has won both a Razzie and an Academy Award, in the same season no less.

Or that, on behalf of women everywhere, Kathryn Bigelow got to stick it to her Ex!  Ah, to beat your ex-husband in front of millions of people, at a venue like the Academy Awards!  While Bigelow walked away with the lil' golden guy in hand, Cameron left hand-in-hand with his current wife, who looks more like a Golden Girl.

But it's not Bigelow's beauty that earned her this achievement.  Male, female, Navi - this director brought us a film that hit home even though its content was about our troops overseas.  The Hurt Locker was a film that had us all collectively holding our breath.  It caused us both to clench our eyes shut and yet force them open in shock and awe.  It triggered panic attacks in all of us as if we were in that bomb suit ourselves.  The Hurt Locker, quite frankly, hurt -- like a raw, exposed wound ripped bare.  And that's what made it so damn good.

On a night when so much is about materialism, commercialism, politics and superficial/exterior/appearances, on a night when women are fussed over for their fashion rather than their talent - hair, makeup, gowns, shoes, jewels, etc., it's inspirational and motivational that tonight, a woman was recognized for WHAT SHE DID -- such an ultimate achievement -- rather than WHO SHE WORE.

Bravo, Ms. Bigelow!  Here's to celebrating a woman who calls the shots -- literally.