The Sea of Samsara

Years ago I worked for a nice Jewish doctor. His wife was an Irish-American Buddhist and so his Judaism, and his science, were both greatly colored by her spiritual discipline. One day we got to talking and laughing, with one of our Chinese-American grad students, about the affinity that the Jews and Chinese seem to feel for one another.

“It’s simple,” I said, “both are cultures that assume life is suffering and that happiness is not a right or a given.” His big Ph.D., smartypants-neuroscientist eyes opened wide and he bellowed a great laugh.

Ask your random person on the street what they want out of life and I'll bet you twenty bucks the answer is something along the lines of, ‘I just want to be happy.’ I can't think of anything more antithetical to the American experience than to not just desire, but to feel entitled, to happiness. It's enshrined in our Declaration of Independence as a right - what other nation can say that?

I thought about this at 6 a.m. today as I walked through my bucolic suburban neighborhood in a deep blue funk. My best friend called me in breakdown mode a few nights ago and said everyone he knows is ‘in their own hell,’ and that goes for the two of us, too. So it's ironic - here we all are banging our heads into the wall trying to achieve some amorphous state of happiness yet running up against the essential truth of the human condition - dissatisfaction, ennui, alienation, and disappointment (just for starters), all of which are unavoidable and comin' at ya like a Mack truck just by virtue of being a breathing human being.

It's as though if we fail to float through our day with a sense of well-being, achievement, and satisfaction, we are failures as people and as Americans. How are you supposed to feel when you've done all those things you've been led to believe will bring you happiness - made the money, bought the house, traveled the world, had the kids, driven the German-engineered car, whittled the waist, written the book, whatever (not to mention if you haven't) - and you're still being eaten away by a vague sense of is that all there is? Think about it; all that pressure from our not-just-a-right-but-almost-a-duty to pursue happiness cultural ethos - where does that leave one when finding oneself adrift on a sea of samsara, trolling the inevitable lows that accompany the equally-reliable highs? It's almost unpatriotic to be bummed in this land of milk and honey.

We beat ourselves up for not being 'happy,' and 'happiness' seems to elude us no matter our station or achievements (or lack thereof). Who doesn't feel like a jerk when mooning about what's missing when we're obviously so blessed - but who can help it? It's in our nature. Perhaps the only true peace we can seem to find is knowing that along with the ebb comes the flow and that the unavoidable dark hours we walk through are just as much our birthright as the bright spikes of joy that relieve it.

The Scariest Show(s) On Earth

Night of the Living Dead? Pshaw. The Exorcist? Ha! Jason, Freddy, Candyman? Please.

When I want to get spooked, I mean have real terror struck into my heart so I can't sleep without the lights on, I turn on the scariest of American reality TV: Wife Swap. Trading Spouses. Supernanny. The Real Housewives of Wherever (I know they branched out to NYC, Jersey, and Atlanta, but after an afternoon of seeing the original OC bitches, I could not take another minute. Not even a New York one). There's nothing more gory and bone-chilling than seeing the deep twistedness that seems to lurk behind the windowpanes of your average American home.

Let's start with Wife Swap and Trading Spouses, shows in which the mother of a given family 'trades places' with the matriarch in some other godforsaken burg. The tired but apparently profitable formula inevitably switches out neatniks with slobs, exercise junkies with couch potatoes, cowtown hicks with urban sophistocates, put-upon oppressed housefraus with spoiled-brat trophy spouses, and best of all, Bible-thumping Stepford wives from the heartland forced to switch shoes with Birkenstock-wearing Wiccans and would-be modern-day pirates (no, really. arrrrrrrrrrrr.) who curiously seem to conjugate in the Pacific Northwest.

But the best part isn't the women. No, my friend - even the most flintiest of gym bunnies and the hardest-ass of Church Ladies usually form a bond with the children of her 'new' family and manage to find the silver lining in the black cloud that is other people's day-to-day. The real horror show is the men. If I were not inclined to think so prior to the advent of these shows, I am now positive that most American men have the emotional maturity of a hungry, tired, badly-disciplined three-year-old - complete with the yelling, name calling, foot stamping, and temper tantrums their own ten-year-olds know are out of line. When did American men lose the ability to deal with challenge, to look at another's point of view, to have a bit of, you know, decorum? Because I swear they go batshit fucking crazy, across all race, gender, and economic lines, if they feel their AU-TOR-I-TAY in their little castle is being at all degraded. It is a trip.

Can we just talk about money for a minute? Now, I'll admit to a little spurious 90210 and Less Than Zero-watching in my teens, but the wholesale worship of material excess that is being fed to our kids 24/7 is worse than all the OC housewives, Texan man-boys, and cheerleader murders in the world combined. Ten minutes of Cribs sends me hurling to the loo, and I once accidentally clicked on The Hills and was so mystified and confused and disgusted that I had to medicate myself. I keep hearing about this show Gossip Girls and so I Wiki'd it today and now I'm just mad. What the hell do 99% of American teenagers have to do with the circus of amorality that is the Upper East Side and its adolescent drifters (I hung out with rich kids in San Diego. Trust me. I know.)? Are they supposed to care about these vapid nobodies with limitless credit cards? Are they supposed to relate to that? Are they supposed to think that's normal?

How can we be so asleep at the wheel? Is this what the American family is really about - men who are mentally still in junior high, women who are either ballbusters or doormats, and kids who are being taught that how much money one has (and exhibits) is a measure of one's worth? I want to bust into a production meeting at MTV and open fire, folks. I really do.

Twiturrender

I gave in. After holding out like a 1200 kpbs modem (remember?!), like a vinyl album, or like a dual-cassette tape player - in short, like a 20th century relic - I've surrendered and joined Twitter. I Tweet. I'm a twit. Find me. Fahrenheit519: https://twitter.com/Fahrenheit519. Follow me, baby.

I promise to Tweet (why do I want to say 'twit,' as a verb, so very, very much?) about more than just couches. Or traffic. I know all you want to read about is 'sex camps' and 'serial killers' anyway. You sick bastards.

So THERE, Mr. Utah - Obscenity DOES Pay Off!

OK people, I got my dream couch (see photo!). Coupla days after I posted that ad, a very nice lady from South San Jose (read: a long fucking way) wrote to me - the clincher was, 'I'm 5'10" and my husband's 6'4" and we cuddle on it with no problems," because between the hounds and Himself, I'm tired of fighting for real estate for my ass. She and her husband dropped off the couch and damn, were they an adorable couple - I thanked her, sent them off with directions to Point Reyes (they'd never even heard of it - WTF?), and have since been reclining upon said couch with glee. It's enormous. And green. And plush. It's got one massive cushion so it's like a twin bed, almost. I love it. So you see, Mr. Offended, Mr. Shake-Your-Finger-At-Me-Through-The-Internet, obscenity really does pay. So THERE.

p.s. I moved. For the third time in a year. Am over the moon about it and hope to not need to move again for a long, long time. Am settling in and hope to feel human again sometime soon.

Couch Of My Dreams

OK, I need a couch. Desperately. Since I moved to the sticks I've been making do with this rattan number that's probably really an outdoor piece. It makes my ass hurt (and I have a fair amount of ass, so that's saying something). So last night I wrote this ad and posted it to Craigslist:

"Once upon a time (many years ago) I posted an ad on CL for a Z Gallerie couch and lo, the heavens parted and a very nice man living in the ghastly purple apartment building on Lincoln & 2nd wrote to me and had one for sale. I bought it and was very happy. Now I'm hoping for the same experience (a girl can dream, after all).

Here's what I'm looking for:
- I work wicked hard and when I get back to the ranch at night I want to sink into it, sigh, and say, "It's like buttah."
- A Z Gallerie/Pottery Barn/Ikea Ektorp style sofa (see photo below for very rough idea).
- Green, cream, light brown, etc. Light colors (I have a Chihuahua who sheds like a goddamned Husky. No joke.) unless leather. No black, purple, dark blue, stripes, tapestry flowers, or God forbid plaid, check, or zebra prints. Thanks.
- Cotton, velvet, chenille, soft canvas, or perhaps leather.
- Not interested in anything even vaguely Eames-ish or otherwise 'modern' (read: looks like it belongs in an airport). Generally I find vintage couches to be hellishly uncomfortable, but if it's a really sweet one in crushed orange velvet, get at me, please.
- I am not morally opposed to a cute sectional, but I realize in my price range I might not just be dreaming, I might be delusional. Just sayin.
- Don't even think about selling me a black leather couch, you bachelor you. I like to watch Scarface and snort cocaine (I'm JUST KIDDING) as much as the next gal, but save that landfill for the frat house, please.
- A real couch - not a loveseat or stray piece of sectional. My SO and I are both rather tall and are total space hogs, and if we're fighting over cushion space, someone damn well might get stabbed. And I just signed a lease so I'm not in a position to do time.
- Great condition. No stains, kitty cat scratches, or other funkiness.
- Fluffy pillows to sit on. My booty thanks you in advance.
- In the neighborhood of $300. I'm moving and on a serious budget. And I hate limits, I really do. But I gotta be realistic about this one.
- You are in the North Bay (woot!), the City, or the east bay. The south bay's just gonna cost me too much in having it hauled up here to Cowtown.

Many thanks!

- Couch Dreamer"

......so this morning I wake up and as I check my email while the coffee's (o sweet elixir of life) brewing, I see a couple of responses. I'm like, yay! Maybe someone has my couch! I open this email from Sam and if I were drinking coffee I'd have shot it out my nose:

Do you have to swear in your post? Really? Would you want to hear that from a little kid or a sweet old lady or something? The post was amusing and well-written - why smear it with language like that? While I don't mind hearing it in someone's living room or whatever, it should not be broadcast or published on a site like CL (well, maybe in the Adult category since it makes you click to quote-on-quote "confirm" you are 18 or over). What is the POINT?!? Maybe the world would be nicer if language such as that wasn't so accepted and commonplace. It didn't used to be 'in my day', and I'm 32, not 82...

And I thought, what? Is this cat from Utah? Or something? So I had to write Sam back:

Emmmm.........if 'goddamn' and 'damn' offend you, then Craigslist (and really, the internet as a whole) is not the right place for you. If I had used the F word, the C word, or even the B word, I might - and that's a slim might - understand your point, but for those mild 'swear' words, I don't. And the question about would I want to hear it from a kid or 'sweet old lady' (?) is irrelevant - I am neither. I am saucy, spicy, funny, perhaps a touch profane, and in need of a couch. Thinking that a 'wanted' ad should be adult (have you BEEN there? ugh) because of 'damn' is, well, a touch laughable. I get your point and respect your opinion, and you're certainly entitled to it, but let's keep it it perspective here. - Couch dreamer

I mean, put a cork in it, Rhett. The nerve!

p.s. Dear God, please let the cyber-angels send me a couch today. My ass still hurts, and not just because Mr. Utah was a pain in it!

Things I've Learned

Four days of driving up and down California and turning 39 get a girl to thinking. On this latest road trip, I discovered some things about myself:

1. Bars and clubs bore me to tears.
2. But no matter where I am, if my friends are there, I'm having a good time. My best friend and I can have a rockin' party for two just standing in line at the DMV.
3. I don't need the sexual attention of men to feel good about myself.
4. I'm so glad I didn't marry the wrong guy and have kids just because I was 'supposed to' and all my friends were doing it.
5. You never really know what people are getting up to.
6. There are three things critical in a home for me: cute, comfortable, and practical.
7. I'm too old to sleep on floors.
8. It's time to rediscover red lipstick and white rice (Dominican style).
9. It's better to spend money on a nice hotel than attempt to drive nine hours in one day.
10. Set boundaries, and people will respect them.
11. Freedom is life's most precious gift.
12. After love, that is.

Being 39 rocks. So far.

Leave No Trace

Last week I drove a thousand miles, to LA and back, stopping in Avila Beach and San Luis Obispo. On the way down I had my girl Leila, but on the way back I was alone. Drive time is 'thinky time' time for me and I was contemplating how people often speak of having children to 'leave something behind,' which is a sweet if self-centered sentiment. Like every human being, I have had those black moments of existential despair that go something like: "I'll live, I'll die, there won't be anything to mark me, I'll be forgotten," and that is, of course, terrifying to a human - the most egotistical of earth's species.

Perhaps as an offshoot of my strong feelings about The Virus, I like the idea of 'leave no trace' - I will leave no descendants, disseminate no genetic fronds in the vast DNA soup of the world, and unless I end up published and remembered as a writer (ah, perchance to dream), when I go, I will vanish, as though I were never here. There is a strange sort of peace in that. Besides a carbon footprint, I will have been just a quick visitor, a ghost, a ripple on the surface of the ocean reabsorbed into the endless waves.

Upon telling my best friend about this, he said, congrats on your ego break. Which I thought was funny, and maybe just a little bit true. Road trips are good for the soul.