Pamela Ribon's Blog: the latest from pamie.com, page 14

Goodbye, sweet kitty.

From the best I can tell, the only reason a girl turns thirty-five is so the cat she's had since college can pass away. It's happened to too many friends of mine this year, and now I guess it's my turn.

Taylor was a fighter until the end, living what would appear to be a very, very long time (sixteen years!) for a cat who needed twice daily insulin injections for over five years (in addition to his struggles with acne, anxiety, and OCD.). He was a lover of Pounce, carpet-munching, tuna juice, laser pointers, and not much else. He hated wind, singing, parties, people, and Radiohead. While he was a popular guest host on pamie.com, he mostly spent his days attempting to tolerate Cal. He had perfected his webcam face, his sexy pose and his "get away from me" face.

I will miss his French-Canadian frustration, his need to watch me shower, his insatiable desire for Chinese food shrimp, and how he always came to my side when I was crying. And I appreciate how you guys had him in your lives. I had completely forgotten he used to have an advice column on pamie.com. And how -- so many, many years ago! -- when this site was first named "Squishy," it was because that was one of his nicknames.

The place seems bigger and odd without him. Mornings will never be the same. Writing at my computer feels like I'm missing a vital part of the process without him bumping his fuzzy forehead against my shin. For thirteen years he came to the front door every time I walked through it. I know he wasn't the nicest cat to most who met him, but the curmudgeons would all bond with him. For everyone else, there's Cal.

Taylor was a very good, very silly, wonderful kitty made of thirteen triangles and lots of hate. I will miss him every day.

Guatemala Bound

Heading out in just a couple of hours. I'm supposed to possibly have Internet service, and I'll try to tweet from my phone just to show I'm totally still alive.

Actually, the only thing now that I'm thinking about is how I'm supposed to keep my eyes slammed shut in the shower so I don't get amoebas. This, by the way, is all anyone does when you tell them you're going to Guatemala. They tell you the worst horror story they know about the region, and then in their next breath they tell you you're going to have a great time. It was like that when I ran the marathon, too. Wait. No. Nobody ever told me I'd have a good time at the marathon. And they were right. So there's hope that this will be a good time. I was recently told that Guatemala is known as the land of eterna primavera. Eternal Spring. That sounds lovely. Eterna primavera... y banditos... y amiba en tus ojos.

scariness update: possibly fewer banditos in my future!

Have been told we have security and alternate routes. Fingers crossed! Adventure!

Taylor update: he's eating, but he gets waves of hunger and then either gets distracted (which then he'll eat again the second you put food under his face and go, "You were eating." And then he's all, "Oh, yes! Thank you.") or he will follow me around like, "That was okay, but do you have anything fishier?"

He refuses the vet-suggested cat food like it's a pile of flames. He will eat turkey baby food, some weird cheap meow mix goo, pounce, canned tuna juice and salmon. Right now there are so many little plates of stinky food piles on the floor of my kitchen, it looks like I run a tapas joint for cats. Life right now is a little disgusting. The good news is once I get to Guatemala, I might finally be far enough away from this apartment that I cannot smell it.

It's Supposed to be Not That Scary... Right?

My plane is taking off tomorrow night for Guatemala. Last night I found the Guatemalan US Embassy's just-issued warning that says the road we need to get to the area where we're staying is closed for the rest of the year.

The US Embassy in Guatemala City has learned that the road from the Department of Solola down to Panajachel (Lake Atitlan) will be closed from now until the end of the year in order to permit dynamiting and the construction of a new road.

Other routes to Panajachel either by road or boat involve taking unnecessary risk due to banditry lack of infrastructure and cell phone coverage, and hazard prone stretches.

The US Embassy strongly recommends that visits to the lake be deferred until construction of the new road is completed. Travelers should limit non-essential travel to the lake during the holiday season due to the likelihood of increased criminality.

This is not how you want to start a Friday night with nothing but you and the Internet in front of you.

I've sent a number of emails, one phone call, and a near all-caps text message to my travel companions, but nobody has responded yet. I've gone through many stages of freaking out since last night, ultimately reaching the point where I'm just going to have to hope someone contacts me back, and if not I make sure that I remember the info on this website, and periodically remind myself that the people taking me on this trip have gone to Haiti and Afghanistan and all kinds of places that are way more dangerous than this one. I have to assume they've read the news and figured, "It's just a closed road."

But I was alone with the Internet, and did a good job freaking myself out. Today I'm a bit calmer about it, even though I haven't heard from anyone. Or at least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Hopefully I'll hear from someone soon, and they will let me know that the office in Guatemala already knew all about this and that's why we've got a plan firmly in place. Those are the words I'd like to hear before I get on a plane tomorrow night.

Adventure!

Some friendly traveling tips from Lydia.

My housekeeper Lydia (not just my housekeeper, but this morning mine) uses my parking space when she comes over, which means I have to be out of the apartment by a certain hour. This was the kind of morning where I thought I had everything ready to go until the very last second, when I saw I still had trash to take down, needed to grab some notes I'd be working on today, and then I forgot my phone.

When I drove back I parked sloppily at the end of the curb so that I could run in and grab the phone. This was when Lydia arrived. I explained to her the Taylor situation. He's now on day three of refusing food. He drinks a little water and sniffs at all of his favorite foods but ultimately refuses to eat. He sits, he wanders, he rubs his head against my leg. His new thing is the bathtub. He jumps in there and looks around like, "This place is AMAZING! Is this were you go every day? I cannot believe you do not sit in here all day, too. Look how cool this is. And it's so close to water!"

Lydia and I patted Taylor's skinny head and talked about how nice cats can be and how it's amazing I've had this cat since I was in college. I told her that next week I'd be in Guatemala.

"Have you ever been?" I ask her.

"No, no," Lydia says. "Never. But I hear it's beautiful."

"That's what they say."

I tell her why I'm going.

"Oh, okay," she says, looking relieved. "So you are not going alone."

"No. Not alone."

She waits a second. "How many people are going with you?"

"I'm not sure. At least three, but I think more."

"Okay, okay. That is good then. Because never, ever, ever, ever be alone. Do not be alone at all. And make sure that you are especially not alone at night. Sometimes there are places that are really bad. ... But it is beautiful there. It really is. They say. And it's not as dangerous as other places. I know a girl who goes there all the time; she's still alive. She goes and comes back just fine."

"Okay."

"Yes, it's beautiful. But make sure you bring repellant, because the mosquitos are very bad. And do not drink the water, only bottled. But also you might want to bring your own food. Go to Trader Joe's and get bags of food. That's what the girl does, she only eats her own food. When I go visit home, I get sick when I eat the food, every time! And I'm from there! I mean, it's nice to get so skinny, but you don't want to be sick when you are there. If you do have to eat, don't eat much. Your stomach isn't used to it. The oils, or something. But I hear everybody is nice down there. Very nice. But listen, make sure you aren't wearing any jewelry or any fancy clothes. And make sure you're only in nice comfortable shoes, okay? Because when you run? You have to run. It's serious. You don't want to be trying to run for safety in those shoes you're always wearing. Just wear some jeans and good running shoes. You will have a lovely time. I hear it is so beautiful there. I don't think they have the gangs like in the other places, with guns and drugs. But don't go anywhere alone, that's important. Bring sunscreen. You will love it. I'm sure."

This is being echoed other places, I should mention. People like to warn me about possible danger. Even the people booking this trip were like, "It's mostly safe."

"Mostly?"

"I mean, it's not a fancy hotel you'll be in."

"It's not the accommodations I'm worried about. I just want to make sure someone isn't going to bust open the door and rob me."

"Probably not."

"You said 'Probably'!"

"That's why we're having everybody two to a room."

"Oh, man."

I was thinking about this when I suddenly remembered: "I'm illegally parked!"

Lydia looked out the window: "They're giving you a ticket right now! Go!"

I ran down the stairs in my heels, just like Lydia had warned me could happen, and I slippy-stepped over to my car shouting, "I'm going! I'm going! I was just-- I had to--!" and I know the parking enforcement lady mumbled something like "Too late," but I got in my car and drove off.

I'm sure a ticket is on its way to my mailbox. And because of that, I'm going to remember that no matter how scary someone can make Guatemala sound, staying inside my apartment for too long can also be rather dangerous.

for my next adventure: the girl who's never even been camping goes big.

Over the years I've thought about doing a continuing series on this site called It's Not That Scary. Because sometimes I end up doing things that some people consider daunting or frightening. Like jump out of an airplane. Eat a bug in Thailand. Buy a house. (Okay, that last one I still consider rather horrible even though I barely had to do anything and had lots of help, but I'm still kind of scarred and unsure when I'll attempt homeownership again.)

But I like new adventures, and travel is good for you. So here's my newest It's Not That Scary, even though I think I can't really call it that until it's over and I can prove that it's not that scary.

I'm going to Guatemala.

I like to start with the big sentence like that, and then go back to explain. Dramatic!

Last week an email came in from a friend who was looking for a writer for a non-profit organization that had an upcoming week-long project in Guatemala. I know this friend through roller derby. This once again proves the theory that anything huge in my life has happened either because of pamie.com or roller derby. Or, in this case, both. Anyway, I clicked and threw my hat into the ring before I even had a chance to think, "Isn't this normally the opening scene of a girl-killed-in-remote-jungle story? Or, once again, is your life mirroring the opening fifteen minutes of Romancing the Stone?"

The details of the job, at first, were vague. My friend said they were a great non-profit with nice people and it's a week of volunteering in Guatemala and she'd let them know I was interested. The next day I went to their office for an interview where I was invited to go and an hour after that I had a plane ticket. I'm a big fan of the rule "Always Take the Meeting," but I don't think I've ever experienced anything happen this quickly before. This was three days ago.

They've asked me to come along write about

You guys. Listen. You know what this means?

I'm the Ashley Judd of cookstoves.

Good Neighbors: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Vimeo

AFF -- A fat fatty when you come back from Austin. Please Send Salt Lick I Want More Food.

I went to Austin for five days and gained four pounds. This is why I can't live there anymore.

It's just so much meat and beer, you guys. And I am powerless to resist it.

I found a way to make any trip to Austin seem to last twice as long -- spend half of your waking hours with your "Have another drink; now eat this meat" friends, and the other half at a "Have another drink; now eat this meat" film festival. I got to spend quality time with quality people, and the best part is ever since I got back I've been writing every day with much more productivity than I've been inspired to do in a long time. I'm very grateful for that.

Now, the sitting around writing isn't helping my "four pounds in five days" situation, but luckily I don't have immediate access to incredible brisket in my apartment. I've been doing a lot of home cooking instead. Of fish. And some chicken. But mostly fish. So I'm back down to pre-fun me, right at that frustrating part where I want to eat everything in Austin once again.

The nice thing about Austin Film Festival is that it's a conference for writers about writing. It's not so much a showcase for this film or that directing process or what's being picked up by whom. It's about the scripts, the business of working as a writer, creating stories and characters that are exciting and interesting and makes you simultaneously want to be a better writer and think you'll never amount to anything. I like that kind of inspiration. Because it's always fun to work when you're trying to beat the odds.

I spoke on a number of panels, and I think they mostly went well. I went to a lot of parties and made it through several nights in questionable footwear. I blew out my voice, most likely kick-started by Karaoke on the first night. I got to lead a pack of non-locals down Sixth Street. One night I went to dinner at a barbecue joint with a large group of writers and ended up being seated next to John August. I'm quite proud of myself that no matter what I never, ever, ever teased him for eating salad. Never. Not once. ...until now. I noticed it because it was the only green thing on the entire table. But still. Salad. At a barbecue joint. SALAD!

This time I barely got to Eat Through Austin. In fact, the closest I got to the list was goodbye lunch at Shady Grove.

This is where I got mercilessly teased for using a fork to eat a messy chicken wing.

"OH! In Los Angeles we eat messy things with FORKS!"

"OH! My MANICURE! This food is too FOOD-LIKE! I simply MUST use my FORK!"

"OH! Waiter! I'm so sorry, but I USE FORKS NOW because I'm so FANCY!"

Jerks. I got shamed into eating with my fingers. And this is why I'm glad I didn't tease John August about his salad.

Besides, I'd have immediately have dorked it up anyway.

"HA HA YOU ARE EATING SALAD and you write good movies-- You wrote Big Fish -- you know that, though, haha sorry -- but also: and you wrote things that Johnny Depp was in and -- OH WAIT! Tell Johnny Depp anytime here's a key you just give it to him I have to go now, sorry I just spilled my beer on your salad I FELL DOWN TOO STOP LOOKING AT ME bye."

....but still.

Salad.

... It only just now occurs to me that maybe he's some kind of vegetarian, but in Texas that's when you eat potato salad and beans.

Mmm. Potato salad. I miss Austin.

I am gonna go curl up around my fancy fork and cry.

thinking good thoughts for the angriest cat in the world.

Any morning where you wake up to find your cat in hypoglycemic shock is a bad morning.

I immediately knew something was wrong when I woke up late. Taylor doesn't let the sunrise pass without yelping for his food. He was under the writing desk, quite stiff and getting colder by the second.

I rubbed Karo syrup all over his mouth, and then threw on clothes only appropriate for a woman in her thirties taking her elderly, clearly dying cat to the vet -- sweatpants that are too big, a shirt that isn't mine, a cardigan that was in the laundry basket and shoes I haven't worn in probably a year but they were the first ones I grabbed from the closet. I turned to find Jason at the door, wearing a button-down, jacket and jeans.

"How did you do that?" I asked him. "You look normal and I look crazy."

He tucked his head, like it was no big deal. Then came the lesson. "Pam, it's important to always be able to get out of any situation in under thirty seconds."

He can be smug all he wants. I saw he wasn't wearing any socks.

Taylor is a trooper, and by the time they got some fluids and sugar in him they said he was instantly wolfing down food. I kissed his head before I left the ER, where they've got him under warming blankets and stuck with catheters and generally looking like the Most Important Cat in the World.

I had to admit there was a moment when I found him this morning, right before anything happened, when I wondered, "Is now when it's time for him to go? Should we all just sit here and pet him until he's gone?" He's sixteen and been on insulin for so long. He was absolutely fine yesterday, trying to snag both my breakfast cereal milk and the salmon I had for dinner, but this morning he was headed toward a coma.

But then Jason said, "We gotta go," and Taylor was in my arms with his tail wagging just a bit and I figured, "We got through this the last time; we can do it again."

It's ten years this weekend that I moved from Austin to Los Angeles, and the only things I still have from that time are these two cats. Taylor has been a regular part of pamie.com, of my books, and even a couple of sitcoms. I'm sitting here now and it's very different not having him between my feet as I type, as various clouds of god-awful stink randomly rise from his skinny, diabetic body. It's weird here without him, and I hope he's going to be okay.

I have to call the vet in a few minutes for a status update, and later on tonight I pick him up and take him to the overnight clinic. He's not out of the woods just yet, but he is certainly doing better than he was this morning. They're running tests to find out why this would happen, how suddenly the insulin would be too much when it has been fine all this time. Maybe he has an infection, maybe he wasn't eating enough. Maybe he's just a million years old and this is when he's getting ready to die. But the angriest cat in the world is still kicking it, and I'll know he's better if the vet calls to say, "Can you come get Taylor? He's really pissed off and wants to come home."

Austin! See you soon!

There's still time to purchase Conference Badges for the Austin Film Festival kicking off this week.

And here's where you can find me:

10/21 The AFF Conference: How to Work it, Driskill Hotel, Ballroom (1:00pm-2:15pm)

10/22 Roundtable: Screenwriters, St. David's Church, Sumners Hall (1:45pm-3:00pm)

10/23 The Business of Writing for Television, Driskill Hotel, Ballroom (10:45am-12:00pm)

10/23 Austin Pitch #8, The Hideout (2:15pm-3:30pm)

10/24 Writing for Kids, Driskill Hotel, Hogg Room (11:30am-12:45pm)

If you're looking for me at any other time, I'm probably in the Driskill lobby, drinking something.



Now if you show up pantsless there to see me, I cannot guarantee you won't get in trouble. I also might pretend I don't know you, which is what I had to do the last time I went to this conference, when my "friends" invented a game called "Driskticles." I do not want to explain how it works. Just know that even if I wanted to play it -- WHICH I DON'T -- I cannot, as I do not have ... something that ends with "--esticles."

On the Neon, Neon Side of Town.

So the last time I had a chance to update I was in Athens, GA, closing out the book tour for Going in Circles. The book reading was a complete blast. The place was packed with both pamie.com (well, TelevisionWithoutPity.com) fans and derby girls, and it was one of those events that makes me miss being able to get up on a stage five or so times a week.

Here's me, obviously going for some sort of award.

Everybody was fun and funny and Allison snapped a photo of what it looks like when people hear Little Pam in real time.

Look at all the squinting and wincing!

Hanging out with the wonderful people of Classic City Roller Girls (including the incomparable Sweet Willy T-Bag and Fresh Meat/journalist Bianca Mocha) reminded me of everything I miss about being submerged in the world of roller derby. The friendships, the triumphs, the underdogs, the dreamers, the creatives, the bruises, the bruisers, and the complete freedom that comes with knowing you have absolutely no hang-ups about being out in public without any pants.

Like this girl.

I wonder if any other author had as many pantsless people at his or her book tour this year.

My knee is healing up well. I can run. I can jump. I can squat and leap. I cannot, however, crawl. The other weekend I jumped up onto the kitchen counter and balanced on my knees to get a bowl from the top shelf (I am short!). I got the bowl and then... I was stuck. I couldn't do anything but stay kneeling on top of the kitchen counter for some time, until I figured out how to get down using only my arms.

This means I'm still not able to do the number one thing that happens to you in roller derby: fall onto your knees and get back up.

I'm still upset that I have damaged what used to be my one special skill. It was the only thing I did exceptionally well and now I might never do it again! This is terrible!

But anyway, back to Athens, where I found this wig, which changed my life.

And that's how the Classic City Roller Girls and me went from this on a Friday night in a bookstore:

To this on a Saturday night in "Just Kicked Your Assville.":

(All photos by Allison Lowe-Huff except for CCRG team photo, taken by Nelson Rajo)