Fahrenheit 519

Our Day Has Come

2012-01-03T16:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Grandma,

tomorrow is the day. There's a phone call I'm expecting at about 11:30 and let me tell you, that's one call I won't be dodging (God, how I loathe talking on the phone).

It's Jerry, my real estate agent, and he's bringing keys to me at work -the keys to my new house.

That I own.

It's mine. All mine (I know, I know, try skipping a mortgage payment and see how 'all yours' it is).

My own piece of earth. My own roof (that needs repairing). My own floors (hardwood, and very nice). My own fireplaces (not one, but two - count 'em).

Of course from your vantage point in heaven you know that the first meal I eat there will be the first bite of food in my forty-one-year life that I have ever eaten in a place that belonged to me. Not a family member. Not a friend. Not a landlord.

Me.

And it is all because of you, and I swear that I can feel you smiling at me, even as you tell me to gear up for some hard work and sacrifice.

It's not just because you left me a few bucks to help with the down payment (but you did, but you did, and I thank you).

It's because you taught me that I was allowed to have a dream. That I was allowed to believe I could be so much more than so many told me I could ever be. That I was a woman of substance, culture, intelligence, and sense.

It's because you were able to see that despite the thoughtlessness of my youth, I still deserved to have what I should have all along but never did.

It's because you believed in me, when it seemed no one else did, and you let me know that I could earn this and didn't need anyone else - my parents, a husband, whatever - to give it to me.

It's because you made me earn it, and didn't just hand it to me, that you helped make me a person who could do just that. And you still do, because this place needs love and money, and I have lots of one and not so much of the other but by God I will do it....because you allowed me to dream, you showed me that with enough focus it's almost spooky how I can manifest what I want.

I am a girl who grew up in rented houses. The roof over my head never belonged to my mother or father. I have been renting myself since I was 18, always answering to and forking over my hard-earned money to a stranger. This would be fine if I were a fleet-footed Sagittarian, but I am a home-obsessed Taurean. I was so afraid this day would never come, that I would remain rootless, landless, forever shut out of what I perceive to be autonomy, security, a future. What I I have longed for all my life was a home of my very own. And now you've given it to me.

I know you lost your home in your youth, too, and lived under roofs that weren't your own. I imagine how much your first home meant to you, and I know how much your last home meant to you. I know that you shied away from the stock market and put your faith in real estate, in earth, in tangible, touchable property, and that it was good to you, and I am if nothing else, my grandmother's granddaughter in all these ways.

This house is yours, Grandma. Your photograph (maybe the one in the coconut bra and grass skirt, maybe something more dignified) will hang by the front door so that I and everyone else can know who the spiritual mistress of this home is: Dorothea.

Today I had the impulse to go to your grave and tell you all about it and leave you flowers, not sad white ones but happy happy purple and pink ones. But you're so far away. You rest in the ground in Los Angeles and I can't go that far right now (with the move and all), but Ramon is coming to see you for me and he will leave the flowers and he will tell you how thankful I am. And soon, I'm hoping on what would have been your 95th birthday, I'm going to come see you with more flowers, and I'm going to take that key that Jerry is bringing me tomorrow and I'm going to dig a little hole over your grave and drop it in, because you are my home, Grandma. You always were and you always will be.

I promise I will make you proud, and I ask you, every day, to please help me be the person you always wanted me to be. I'm trying.

All my love,

Your Granddaughter

Strange Day

2011-12-28T08:41:00.000-08:00

It's a strange day when you realize you've got to kill a part of yourself - a soft and giving part - for your own good.

It's not quite as simple as 'kindness being mistaken for weakness.'

We all talk about how to overcome the dark parts of ourselves - the negative bits that can overshadow our otherwise good natures at times - but we almost never talk about having to push away the impulses to be sweet and kind in order to survive relatively unscathed in a world that is riddled with avarice, manipulation, and thoughtlessness, though this skill is just as necessary.

Even if we want to be wholly soft, gentle, and generous, this can, in some ways, be nearly as self-destructive as being hard, cruel, and selfish. Learning how to love and give in the right away is a difficult balancing act.....and I'm wobbling on the tightrope.

All Of Us With Wings

2011-12-17T19:49:00.000-08:00

"True leaders gone, of land and people/we choose no kin but adopted strangers/the family weakens by the length we travel...all of us with wings!" - Jane's Addiction, Three Days

I am no one's mother, no one's blood sister, and often have felt like no one's daughter. Being no one's mother is a conscious choice that I made, but the other two are simply circumstances of fate. But I am not without family. In addition to genetic family on my Dad's side that I am friendly with but not especially close to in a daily way, and my mother's relatives, whom I would have trouble recognizing on the street, I have my 'chosen family,' a network of friends that are so much more than that word can convey.

My grandmother and her daughter, my aunt, have sometimes had difficulty understanding my devotion and loyalty to my 'friends.' I think it's something very difficult to understand unless you grew up unconventionally or were by nature an outsider (gay, 'artistic,' rebellious, or somehow otherwise not like the rest of them) inside one's own gene pool. When one comes up this way, is exiled by one's family, or for whatever reason finds oneself outside the bosom of one's biological clan, one cobbles together a family unit out of what one has: friends, lovers, housemates, extended groups of social contacts of all kinds.

I have no brother, but my best friend and I are closer than many, if not most, brothers and sisters that I know. We squabble like siblings but would take a bullet for one another. I would give my life to save his, and he would do the same, I know. His mother has become my mother, through time, love, and withstanding life's tragedies together. I worry about his little brother like he was my own. And then there are others: friends who go back thirty years, or only seven. Or just a few. Some go, most stay, but there is a connection and depth of devotion that goes so far beyond the word 'friends' that the term is laughable. I learned Kurt Vonnegut's term karass from watching My So-Called Life back in 1994: loosely defined as a group of people somehow connected for the purpose of doing God's work, it comes the closest to capturing the essence of these interconnections.

There are many reasons biological families fall apart: distance comes to mind (the family weakens/by the lengths we travel...). Fueled by the influence of the automobile and fossil fuel on mobility, coupled with the American concept of Manifest Destiny and continual expansion, we are a nation of immigrants, not just from other countries, but from east to west, south to north, and every which way. Ideology. Religion. Our American adherence to 'rugged individuality,' in which the family takes second rung to our own personal agendas sometimes splits what we think of as traditional family units into disaparate, discrete entities. However, humans are nothing if not tribal, and I find that even if we exile ourselves from our families or origin, nearly all of us, in one way or another, are seeking unification with others in some form of familial structure.

Because I have no brothers or sisters, my friend Natasha's baby girl, Sydney, made me 'Auntie Soul' for the first time in my life, at 28. I took this title seriously, not just as a cutesy moniker, and have grown ever more serious about it as Sydney has grown from the infant asleep in my arms backstage at the Paradise Lounge while Mixmaster Mike rocked the mic into the willowy teenager with feet bigger than mine who now sends me essays via email and texts me with regularity.

Other little girls have followed Sydney and made me an Auntie: Savannah, sharp as a tack (like her mother), now ten, whom I promised I would raise should anything happen to her mom, my homegirl from growing up in Berkeley. Azara, the wild-eyed Indian doll born to my close friend Leila, now almost old enough to read. Lyra, the longed-for hippie baby of my North Coast farmer friends, who tried for years to have her. And most recently, Ellery Cleone, born two weeks ago to my 'brother' Choppy, another only child who found a 'sister' in a one-time stranger. Sydney, Savannah, Azara, Lyra, Ellery: daughters of my chosen family, future women who made me understand the joy of wild little girls, little ladies who made me someone's spiritual guardian and caretaker, whether close or far. I won't send my genes out into the world, but if there is anything resembling immortality for us sad little humans who naturally crave it, I hope that my influence on these girls will be mine.

I can't imagine who I would be without these individuals: people who know all about you and like you anyway. People who don't have to be your family, by virtue of blood of marriage, but are because you've both chosen to share your time in this plane together, to show up for one's highs and lows, rituals and undoings. We seek their acceptance, accept their criticism, criticize their bullshit, in one beautiful interwoven, neverending knot. All of us, with wings.

Notes From A White Girl

2011-12-16T14:40:00.000-08:00

Sixth grade. Berkeley. In the middle of one of the most horrible years of my life - the year I was eleven - I transferred back to Franklin Elementary, a shabby gulag of public education on the fringes of West Berkeley (read: 'the ghetto,' and not the Gourmet variety).

Franklin had several bilingual classes and I was assigned to the Spanish-English classroom of Mrs. Mock, a Panamanian matron some might describe as a benevolent matriarch but who showed me a very different side.

Like I said, it was a bad year. My attendance was spotty, my state of mind stressed, and my behavior probably subpar. So one day, she kept me after class, and that's when she dropped the bomb on me I'll never forget.

She started by saying to me, 'You know, I work very hard for my students of color. They have a lot problems and they really need the help. But you - you're white and your father drives a Mercedes. What kind of problems do you have?'

She couldn't know. She probably couldn't even conceive of my suffering - the absentee parents, the empty cupboards, the subcultural hippie trash that seemed to wash up on my Dad's couch with regularity. She couldn't know about the loneliness, the hunger, the confusion, and the dirty laundry with no way to wash it.

All she saw was my face, and it's color or lack thereof. She judged me, the way white people have judged those with darker faces for hundreds of years, the way people have judged other people somehow different from them since time immemorial. But here's the difference - she was an adult, while I was a child. Not only that, she was an educator, and I use the term with copious irony considering what it was that she taught me that day.

Hater Tuesday: Selling Out

2011-11-08T14:04:00.000-08:00

So I went to breakfast with my homegirl the other day for her birthday and we're sitting there eating our crab cakes and asparagus risotto and drinking our iced tea, looking at the ocean, it's all a pretty picture, and then she drops a bomb on me and my head basically explodes. What she told me was so hinky and unimaginable, such a betrayal of the 'American values' we've been raised on that one might even have trouble believing it. I know I did. So I got home and fell down the Wiki-hole and I'll be goddamned if isn't true, real, and coming your way.

Let me ask you this: are you a Republican, who thinks that if you only work hard enough and pull yourself up by your bootstraps you can achieve the American dream - a home, a retirement, hope for the future - without any help from the government in the form of entitlements? On the other hand, are you a Democrat who believes that the American way of life rests on a strong middle class, which is created by affordable educations, labor unions, and fair taxation that doesn't overburden the bourgeioisie? Well, guess what.

They're both trying to sell you out. And not to Chad the Futures Guy, formerly of Lehman Brothers. Oh no, sugar. They want to take that house next door to you that the Johnsons had to move out of last year when they got foreclosed on and sell it to a foreign national who has 500 G's to spend and - AND - give him or her a green card to boot! And why? Because two Senators, Democrat Charles Schumer of New York and Republican Mike Lee of Utah, think that it's a great idea to give moneyed foreign nationals permission to live here if they can afford a half-million dollar house. They don't have to have a job, they don't have to create jobs (unlike the current offer to come here and invest at least 500K and create at least ten jobs), they don't even have to live in the house full time - they just have to pony up the cash to to buy all those distressed properties that Jake from the auto plant, Sarah from the secretarial pool, Jane the registered nurse and in particular Susan the high school English teacher - can no longer pay the mortgage on because of the housing bubble.

Here's an idea: when your average working person cannot afford an average house (and yes, here in the Bay Area and in much of California, a half million dollars buys you a very average house, in some spots only a major fixer), something is fucking wrong with your country. And the housing market. And the finanancial system.

Can you just see it now: McMansions from Akron, Ohio to Bel Air, California, filled with the wealthy ruling class from Russia, China, Israel, Saudi Arabia (because you know the Canadians, Swedes, and French are not trying to live here). For perhaps six months of the year. These properties are being marketed as 'investment' and 'vacation' properties, so there's not even the assumption of community involvement, assimilation, or investment in the neighborhood.

THIS IS THE SALE OF UNITED STATES CITIZENSHIP, and nothing less. Doesn't that strike you as alarming? As for those foreign nationals who have lived here illegally for years and worked their asses off, contributing to the economy, did the shit work Americans don't want to do, what do they get? Bupkis, that's what. Jack shit. Fuck-all. Nothing.

So you can arrive here from whatever country, drop a bundle of cash on a home, with no attached expectations of building community, assimilation into the greater society, or putting down roots, and get a green card, carte blanche to live in the U.S. I'm all for serious diversity of all kinds and I believe people from overseas have every right to seek to live here and that it's a very good thing, but I don't think the ones who should be given priority are speculators in the housing market. I am looking for countrymen who want to invest their soul in America, not just their cash.

You have to ask yourself, in whose best interest is this? Certainly wealthy foreign nationals (now ask yourself: how did they get that money?). Real estate agents. Banks. And okay, it could shore up local tax bases and thus the schools and services. But what about the less quantifiable costs? Do you really want to live and pay taxes to a country that sells citizenship? Do you think it's a good thing to have a significant portion of the houses on your block owned by someone who doesn't intend to make their home there, wherever they come from? You don't think it's the hardworking middle class of any country that's going to be able to buy half million dollar properties here, do you? Particularly when our own can't. I don't especially think that what this country needs is more wealthy people, especially those who didn't and don't create their wealth here. I think that what this country needs is a strong middle and working class, with origins from anywhere in the world, and that isn't cultivated by offering green cards to basically anyone with a half million dollars to give us.

The theory is that this will stabilize the housing market and kick-start the economy. Is that the kind of 'kick start' we need? Do we want that at the cost of investors from anywhere who don't live here, don't work here, and don't create work here controlling our housing market and keeping prices artificially high for the American middle class? Really? I know I don't. Let the housing market crumble and deteriorate until it corrects itself organically to where it ought to be - reasonably affordable to our average working citizens - and the banks and investors realize that houses aren't cash cows, they're homes.

When is the day going to come when our Senators really put their back into solving the problems and addressing the concerns of the taxpaying citizens and residents who work all day, every day, running this joint, instead of the suits who are running this joint into the ground? When will hard work and integrity, as we've been taught, pay off, and when will avarice and speculation not have better access to the influence of elected representatives than those who gave it to them? When?

Here's a tip to Senators Schumer and Lee - instead of figuring out how to sell our country to the highest bidder, why not spend some time trying to figure out how to empower the middle class to be able to buy all those houses, create all those businesses, and enjoy the benefits of the United States citizenship they've already been born to or earned. Just an idea.

The Joke's On Us

2011-09-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

If you don't have days where you contemplate throwing yourself off a bridge or slitting your wrists and poetically bleeding out next to a pretty body of water, you're a goddamned liar. The desire to chuck it all in and check out is as universally human as the inherent desire to go on living anyway - go figure. The joke's on us.

Yesterday was one of those days for me. As a newly-sober Renton says in Trainspotting, 'You feel so fucking low, you'll want to fucking top yourself.' And even before I had the responsibilities I do today - four little dogs and a best friend who's like my gay husband, a darling Goddaughter and a shitload of stuff to say - I always came back to this: 'yeah, but if I die, I don't get to hear any of the new music that will come out, or see any of the movies, or feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, or see one more sunset.' And somehow, on those blessedly rare but dark days, that is enough to keep me going.

Silica Azul

2011-09-14T15:24:00.000-07:00

It arrived in a box bigger than God. Seriously, several illegal immigrants could have been smuggled into the country in this box - if they were skinny immigrants. It was nearly as tall as me and several times as wide (ahem) and it took everything I had not to dive on it with an Xacto knife like a fallen Upper East Side debutante into a pile of fine Peruvian flake.

But I dug deep. Deep, people. I held back my glee, or greed, or whatever it was, and patiently slit open the sides and, with a little help from my friend, gently lifted out the blue behemoth from beneath it's tomb of
biodegradable packing peanuts. I could see the sapphire glow emanating from within the multiple layers of bubble wrap, which I gingerly peeled off like an Egyptologist with a precious mummy. And finally, after a full fifteen minutes of extraction, my treasure emerged: Silica Azul, a mixed-media piece of azure gorgeousness, spread across almost ten square feet of canvas, created by my best friend's brother.

Chava doesn't just 'paint.' Like all of our kerasse, Chava has to do things the hard way: this work is made of, dig it: linen, stucco, steel powder, paper, and, oh yeah, acrylic paint. He makes art of out of things I barely knew existed (steel powder?). His works are three-dimensional, tactile, and have the unique properties of being both futuristic and primitive at the same time. I've been badgering him for years for one, and this summer the stars aligned and a set of circumstances led to God's Own Enormous Box on my front porch.

I had thought I might give my cross/crucifix collection a rest and put it above my fireplace, but apparently I'm not that spatially adept and didn't realize that 64" x 54" is way more inches of wall space than I've got. The only other unbroken wall space I have in my house is in a closed, dark hallway (no) and on the wall next to my bed (yes!), so that's where it went, with no small amount of sweating, cursing, and contorting myself to get it hung. But finally, there it was: glowing on my wall, receding and approaching, almost alive.

I lay there contemplating it and came to this: unlike a Celtic knot, one of my most personal and meaningful motifs, or the Labyrinth, equally compelling, Chava's painting contains interconnections in a much less obvious way. It looks, to me, like the blueprint of an individual life: large, dark pools of Source, renewal, emptiness, and despair, circumnavigated by pathways, roads, and inlets, moving all around in patterns. Some of those ways are long and constant, others short and staccato, just like our love affairs, friendships, endeavors, dreams, failures. In it I saw times and places: eras with one set of circumstances and then another, a path taken and then ending, followed by time in the deep pools of both dark and light and then re-emergent on the other side. Boxed in, set free: everything is everything, one of my mantras and the song that most signifies me to my very best friend.

Right now I exist in one of these pools: neither here nor there. I'm looking for a new home, one which will greatly shape the future for me and mine. This is the one thing in my life, that I, a unfailing control freak, have chosen to 'let go and let God,' so to speak: I ask my grandmother and other guardian spirits to guide me to the right home for right now so that my tomorrows can also be in the right place at the right time. There's a strong element of release and 'if it be your will' running through my blood right now, and in some way it seems fitting that Chava's painting is too large to fit in the most obvious spot of where I live now - a sorely-needed sanctuary that I've now outgrown - and has taken on a life of its own, demanding a place of honor in a home I haven't found yet, but is on its way.

Marriage, Inc.

2011-09-07T12:50:00.000-07:00

Even I'm not immune to wedding propaganda. I'll happily watch Four Weddings and Say Yes To The Dress, sitting there in stunned silence, mouth agape, oozing schadenfreude at the shrill shenanigans on Bridezillas. There are very few American women who aren't seduced to some degree by the whole white dress-fairy tale-belle-of-the-ball myth we're fed like candy from the time we're old enough to toddle. Every little girl wants to be a fairy princess and sooner or later that usually evolves into a near-bloodlust for things like pastel candy-covered almonds, ice sculptures, gold charger plates, and peach polyester napkins. Take even the most sensible woman and scratch the surface and chances are you're going to find a petulant princess who will go postal over aisle runners and cumberbunds. What very few women or men are obsessed with, however, is marriage itself. It's as though we're raised to view the wedding as the marriage. That's one piece of the puzzle, and the other big secret that no one is telling us as often or as loudly as they tell us that our worth as a woman is inherently hinged on a Vera Wang gown or a sparkly rock wrenched from the earth in some oppressed developing-world country: marriage is business deal.

This simple truth - that under our legal system marriage is not an expression of love or faith but is, in fact, a unique and binding legal contract that gives another individual an almost-bizarre and potentially-devastating access to one's resources - is the first thing we should be teaching people about marriage. Let the handmade lace and the Swarovski-crystal studded Cathedral veil come after that.

There is another popular myth that women benefit financially from marriage more than men do and often take their husbands to the cleaners in the event of divorce. Certainly most people do benefit financially from marriage - the combining of two incomes if both partners work, the health insurance that has lured more than a few folks down the aisle - but in my experience, when the house of cards falls and the marriage comes crashing down, often as not it's the woman left holding the bag.

A colleague of mine, ironically an attorney, came to me yesterday and told me of her afternoon at the divorce mediator. They essentially recommended that she, a full-time white-collar employee who moved into a two-bedroom apartment after her hard-drinking, underemployed, abusive husband made life in their 2,000-square foot Marin County home unbearable, remove her children from the parochial school they attend so that she can afford to pay him spousal support (otherwise known as alimony) - while he lives in their house and drinks away his job opportunities. He also wants half of her retirement account, paltry as it is.

Another friend of mine married her now ex-husband after a decade together. They met as housemates in a large Mission District flat in the early 90s and he was with her during her $7-an-hour-schlepping-bagels phase of life, and all through her years of grinding away at thankless, low-paying production assistant jobs and working her way up to being an executive producer - while he fiddled in his art studio and took up part-time (meaning: when he felt like it) massage therapy as a trade. She married him when a change in EU-citizenship laws forced them into a 'use it or lose it' situation and a few years later, when she realized that she didn't want to spend her life with a man who wouldn't even make her a bowl of soup while she was pulling 18-hour workdays and left him, he took her to the cleaners, claiming rights to everything from a share of her father's inheritance to her secondhand Honda. She walked away, leaving him with a house full of spanking new, quality furniture (to replace the shabby thrift store/art school aesthetic he'd been rocking) and felt lucky not to have been forced into paying him alimony.

My Grandma Dottie and Grandpa Charlie were married in 1939, in a time when prenups were unheard-of and divorce unthinkable, especially to an Irish Catholic. He came into the marriage with nothing but his good looks, considerable charisma, and ganas, whilst she had shrewd business skills and the crumbs – a single residential apartment building – of her family’s holdings, most of it lost in the Crash of 1929. They used this initial capital to invest in rehabbing homes, one after another, all over Los Angeles, capturing a tidy profit to supplement his earnings as a property master at a major studio. Twenty years later, when he left her for his secretary (so cliché as to be laughable), he walked away from his marriage, high-ranking job, and tens of thousands of dollars worth of construction contracts, a considerable sum in 1959, all to spite her. The judge in the case told him he was a sorry excuse for a man and threatened him with jail if he did not become gainfully employed tout de suite, so he hit up his buddy at the studio and asked for most menial, low-paying job available so as to avoid giving her any real money.

He then demanded that my grandmother sell the house she and their three children were living in – the family home that he’d left – and because California is a community property state (ironically, this is most common in states that were part of the Spanish empire and thus Catholic, and its intent was to protect deserted wives) there was little she could do, so she went back to work as a decorator, stuffing her worn-out shoes with newspaper, while he took off for the wilds of the Sierras to live his ‘mountain man’ lifestyle and left her to finish raising their kids. She happily remarried a man, my Grandpa Bob, who was measured, successful, and faithful, but she had been burned and would never forget it. As I grew up, she bred into me the principle of keeping your own money in your own name – especially when it comes to your house.

Years ago, my own ‘starter marriage’ disintegrated and I found myself holding the bag of a pretty-but-pricey Dolores Street flat in the middle of the dotcom boom. The departure of my estranged spouse left me solely responsible for the rent and necessitated the bringing-in of housemates, a phase of life I’d thought I’d left back in my twenties. I got very lucky and had a succession of very good friends stay with me until I found my own place nearly two years later, but I decided then that I’d never get myself hooked on a lifestyle or a home that I couldn’t afford on my own.

Perhaps this mindset sounds cynical or pessimistic, but what I do know is that my lifestyle will never depend on the earning power or largesse of another individual, and that’s just good business sense. I wouldn’t have my security and well-being depend on a business partner, and I won’t depend on a romantic partner either – and I find this simply sensible. Too often people see marriage as a step up the economic and social ladder, without realizing what it might cost if the ladder gives out from under them – via divorce, separation, or even just an unforeseen illness, disability, job loss, et cetera. I’ve seen friends stay in unhappy marriages because they have investments and/or a home together, and to leave the spouse that makes them miserable means giving up the comforts of their lifestyle. Both choices suck and arise because of our mass illusions regarding marriage, permanency, and security.

I’d like to see parents school their children, and we as a culture (with the myriad aspects of marriage being so hotly debated in public forums these days) acknowledge that legally speaking, marriage is the entering into not of a grand love story but a mutual business enterprise, and so to embark upon it accordingly – one might love another all day long, but if one wouldn’t start a carpet-cleaning business or open a restaurant with one’s beloved, one probably shouldn’t be walking down the aisle with them without attendant precautions, if at all.

If we paid as much attention to the harsher realities of marriage – the daily grind of dealing with the same person with the same habits and the same foibles day after day after day without stabbing them in the neck with a fork (you know you’ve been there, don’t lie), the challenge of coping with life’s curveballs with someone who might have a vastly different temperament or set of priorities than oneself, the grim reality of the possibility of a spouse descending into a nasty habit such as, say, gambling or internet porn or compulsive E-Baying or what have you, and cover our own asses accordingly, the bloodflow of divorce, financial instability, and family disintegration might be staunched a bit. If we were all taught to vet our potential spouses as rigorously as we do our babysitters, hairstylists, or brokers, if we were able to be honest about the sometimes-gory aftermath of those glitzy wedding receptions, if we raised our daughters and sons to love freely and generously but sensibly, and to always cultivate personal and financial responsibility for themselves first and foremost, perhaps we could change our obsession with glitzy ritual into a healthier cultural approach to what it is to be in love, to commit, and to build a life with another person.

Awesome Things My Grandmother Said

2011-08-10T12:59:00.000-07:00

“Wherever you are in life, whatever stage you’re at, you think it will always be like that. But the truth is that within one lifetime you have many lives.”

When I was a little girl, we were in church and I tugged on her sleeve to ask her something and she looked at me with something akin to rage at me interrupting her and said, ‘Honey! I’m talking to God!!!’

“Even if you get married, always make sure you keep your own things in your name.”

“I’ve always been lucky in parking and love.”

To her husband, when deciding where to move after retirement: “Bob, I’ll live in a tent, I just want an ocean view.” She got an unobstructable ocean view in San Clemente, where she spent 31 years.

“What’s wrong with a little peace and quiet?” I think this was in response to asking why she never played the car radio.

When I asked her how on earth she could drive in the pitch dark of night, with an infant in the car, from LA to the Bay Area to see her husband due to ship out the next day in WWII: “When you’re so focused on something, you’ve just got to get there, you just don’t think about all the stuff that can happen.”

When I asked her how she reconciled her Catholic faith with being pro-choice: “I believe this Church was created by Jesus Christ, and that’s good enough for me. All the priests and so on are just men interfering in other people’s lives.”

When my Grandpa Bob, her second husband, proposed to her: “I don’t ever want to go camping again.” And she never did.

About Amy

2011-07-26T10:54:00.000-07:00

This time last week she probably put on some lipstick, hummed a song, maybe had a bite to eat. A cup of tea, a bath, a cigarette. A normal day in the life of a woman. Daddy’s Girl, a godmother, someone’s friend. A few days ago she danced around in a pair of jeans at a club in her neighborhood, clapping her hands and cheering on her protégé. Now those jeans are empty and the legs inside of them are, as we speak, being burned to ash.

She stopped breathing on Saturday, while we slept, while friends in England went to lunch, did the shopping, nursed a hangover. Just went to sleep and never woke up; the most blessed way to die, they say.

But I don't believe that, not for her, because I don't believe she was done yet. She had pieces to pick up, a life to sew back together, men to love, children to have, a mum and dad to make proud, songs to sing. She had music in her to make the world go round, but more importantly, she had a woman in the mirror to look at and love, friends to hold, a goddaughter to watch grow up and bloom.

And she’s gone. No more songs. No more cups of tea. No babies, no gray hair, no transformation into an elder stateswoman. Her clothes are empty of the frail body that filled them, her already-light weight now little but air, dust.

There are a thousand cautionary tales here; about fame, drink, addiction to drugs and bad boys, attraction to many shiny, sparkly, and very dangerous things, and those tales will be told again and again, I’m sure. But not today.

Today they took the tiny shell that once held her big, big soul, and they said prayers over it and they burned it. Her eyes are gone; her impossible hair, her tattoos, her tiny feet, her fingernails. Her voice is gone, her vision, the way she walked. We have only the holes in our hearts where her songs or her friendship once comforted us. We mourn for the words we’ll never get to hear, her company that we’ll never get to keep.

There can be no romance in her death; no glamor or redemption. Only the mourning for what has been lost, a rejection of the trite concept of closure, because this wound will never close – she was supposed to be here, but she isn’t. Something’s wrong, out of order.

The only thing to do is keep what we knew of her – her words, her songs, and both her sweetness and monstrousness – honest, because it seems she was always that, unfailingly. She made few apologies and wore few masks, walked through the world emotionally naked. She was both afraid and fearless. Now she is part of the story, the song, the history of us, our beauty and ugliness. Our Amy.

Emotionally Slutty

2011-07-19T14:52:00.000-07:00

My own capacity for emotional sluttiness frightens me. The historic ease with which I have given passion and devotion, and the perhaps even more sobering ease with which I have withdrawn it, leaves even me (to say nothing of my past loves) puzzled and reeling and not a little ashamed of myself.

A few years ago, with some amused clicks of the mouse, I found that OK Cupid pegged my 'dating persona' as 'The Sudden Departure,' and while at first glance it was funny, I found a lot of ugly truth in it: when I finally fall for someone, the connection is so visceral as to border on the animal; it gets deep and primal in a way that would frighten most mortals (but will be well understood by Scorpios, wink wink), but just as quickly it can plunge into Arctic temperatures and tundric emptiness, triggered perhaps by something as innocuous as the wrong shoes, a slight tic, an offhand confession that reveals their vulnerability and lack of human perfection (the nerve!) and when that happens, I'm out, as remote and unreachable as I was once present and involved.

Sometimes the division isn't so simple; there have been times when The Sudden Departure has been supplanted by The Irish Goodbye (this comes from the nickname I once gave the way the Irish wind it up at last call, which is to say, slowly, painfully, and with reluctance) and the exercise at couplehood goes on much longer than it ever should have, as does the associated emotional turmoil.

I remember sitting in a small, tidy room in County Donegal nine summers ago, talking to my then-husband's therapist while he sat next to me. I was asked to describe what it felt like to send him back to Ireland while I remained in the States and I told her 'it was like cutting off my hand to save my arm,' and burst into unexpected tears. The last time I saw him was in the Dublin airport on July 10, 2002, beneath the ironically titled 'Departures' sign. I hid my puffy eyes behind huge Bono sunglasses and wondered when, or if, I'd ever see him again (and I never have, in case you were wondering). I had loved him with all the fierceness and depth I had, which is to say, copiously and without reservation. Our love affair scaled heights and reached very dark depths and burned a layer off my skin and changed who I am permanently. When I left him, the pain was so intense it felt like drowning, or being unable to get air. I thought I'd never be the same again.

But I was. Well, maybe not the same, exactly, but just fine any way you slice it. The sun came up and it went down again and life went on, and now when I think of him I feel only a small, benign affection and a sense of puzzlement and having been so enmeshed in anyone or anything. I look at pictures on Facebook of him and his long-term girlfriend (adorable) and his daughter, now four, and I realize I don't know him at all - at this point I feel that I know his girlfriend better than I do him, and I wish nothing but great things for all of them, but honestly, after all that Sturm und Drang, I can’t see what I was so worked up about and I sense a little egg on my face.

And it's not just him; it's every boy (or girl, or cause or situation) I ever felt quite so heated (positively or negatively) about - it's all faded into the fabric of my experience and isn't even cause for the batting of an eyelash any longer. This is not to say I forget - I'm Irish, after all, and thus can hold a grudge for decades - but I have learned that no matter how poignant or wrenching a given relationship feels, usually once the initial agony of leaving/being left is over, it’s pretty much a cakewalk and I feel embarrassed at having been so bothered about the whole thing.

This is not to say it’s okay to pour it on and then bail because hey, time heals all wounds and it’s all good in the end anyway. There’s a larger lesson than here, one about remaining mindful of the currents of emotion and how swiftly and deeply they can sweep us along into dangerous waters if we aren’t firmly anchored in the richness of our experience and self-knowledge. I have learned about myself that (like God!) what I giveth I also sometimes quickly taketh away, and that I have the capacity for making myself look and feel like an ass and making other people cry while I’m at it. I’ve also learned that no matter how acute the angst or how desperate it all feels while in the thick of it, with time it will end up as nothing more than a chapter in my textbook, so to speak.

I have made promises I can’t keep, and told others I was someone I wasn’t – and those weren’t lies, they were just misrepresentations originating from a lack of self-awareness. My intention is to move forward at a more reasonable pace and depth and with the knowledge of self that I can be little loose with my emotions and the need to check that tendency. I see how I’ve wasted so much energy that could have been better directed elsewhere, and I want to remember to hold steady and feel the earth beneath my feet, even as my head gets lost in the clouds.

Hater Tuesdays #33: Not To Be Judgmental, But Damn

2011-06-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

I try very diligently not to be judgmental - and for someone with such a jaundiced eye, trust me when I tell you that's a challenging task at the best of times. I really make an attempt to avoid assumptions, give people the benefit of the doubt, and make liberal use of the 'different strokes' philosophy.

But sometimes, we come across someone so absolutely out there that we can't help but burst into a spasm of such primal judgmental condemnation that we'd make a room full of Inquisitors raise their eyebrows.

Yesterday that woman was a hyped-up blond trophy mom in the shoe store I occasionally hit on my lunch break. Ordinarily the atmosphere in there is hushed and serene, almost like a library, or dare I say, temple. The smell of good leather and the cutting-edge cleverly-engineered footwear marketed to your average relatively affluent and comfort-obsessed female Marinite enhances this atmosphere of reverence and tasteful consumerism.

But not homegirl. Oh no. She was bouncing off the walls, talking a mile a minute, ratcheting the vibe up with her frenetic fussing and squealing over the white four-and-a-half inch platforms that she wanted to buy for both herself........and her nine-year-old daughter.

These shoes were no joke. They were provocative enough on a grown-ass woman like myself, let alone a little girl who has never walked in heels. The mother's voice ascended an octave as she encouraged her daughter that of course she could learn to walk in high heels by the wedding on Saturday. When I heard that, all pretense at being nonjudgmental went right out the window and I camouflaged myself behind the Naya display to discreetly eavesdrop on them. Apparently they were to attend this wedding and Mom wanted them to match (like twinsies!). The girl even tried to pick less-intimidating shoes but Mom was having none of it. Eventually she let her daughter take the junior-hooker-in-training platforms off and asked the sales associate to put the two remaining white pairs, one in her daughter's size and one in her own, on hold, demurring with a coy, 'Well, I have to ask her Dad, who will be back tomorrow and is spending thousands of dollars on.......' and that's when I quit listening and began theorizing that perhaps she was filching her child's Adderal prescription, given her fidgeting, rate of speech, and manic energy. Or powdering her nose instead of eating. Or maybe that the peroxide had penetrated her frontal lobe and dissolved what little integrity and decision-making ability she might have once had. Then she left with her put-upon mini-me and her husband-controlled wallet, probably to go find matching white giant hoop earrings at Claire's for the two of them.

I joked politely with the saleswoman about the situation and both of us exchanged wordless looks as though we both knew the girl would be doomed to a lifetime of lousy relationships, passing out at frat parties and waking up five hours pregnant and with a tramp stamp on her back. Our glances said everything, except that which both of us really wanted to say: 'Can you believe she wanted to put her little kid in THOSE SHOES?'

By the way, I bought two pairs of them - one in brown and one in black.

How To Get Blog Hits

2011-06-25T20:02:00.000-07:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: it's the panties, man. Panties. Knickers. Cotton underwear. G-strings. Thongs. Bikinis. Lingerie. Boyshorts. T-backs. Drawers. Chonies.

Just mention women's underwear and ALL the boys will come to your yard. All the pearls I drop about the human condition, deep philosophical metaphysical expository essays all day long, and still: it's the panties.

The Smell of Rich Hippie

2011-06-24T06:47:00.000-07:00

Back in my salad days as a scrappy, bespectacled, sex-positive feminist Mills College undergrad, I dated an older man I call Mr. Big. During the week he was a Hollywood music-business attorney baller-about-town, but every other weekend he flew up north to fulfull his most important role - that of doting single Dad in pastoral Marin County. We shared LA nights eating steak at Morton's in LA, me in party clothes made of synthetic fabric (and not much of it) and him in nice suits, and sunny summer days barbecuing halibut for fish tacos next to the pool in the bucolic burg of Fairfax, me in my then-ubiquitous 90s-rave/grunge overalls and him in the Tevas and Dead t-shirts that belied his Bay Area Boomer roots. We drank wheatgrass shots at the Newsroom and scotch at the Redwood Room. They were the best of times.

I once sneered to him about 'Kiehl's-wearing' yuppies, unaware of the fact that I, too, would eventually succumb to the deceptively seductive, plain black-and-white packaging of the almost-clinical looking skin care line. I was by turns fascinated and slightly intimidated when he took me into Bristol Farms, the quaint precursor to Whole Foods which sits elegantly and unobtrustively on Sunset and Fairfax (no relation to the town of Fairfax) in West Hollywood. Accustomed to the flourescent hells of Safeway and Canned Foods (now reincarnated as Grocery Outlet) in dense urban neighborhoods, looking back I think it was the soft lighting that induced cognitive dissoance. Since Mr. Big was paying for my broke student ass, I was saved the sticker shock that always accompanies these charming, incandescently-lit bastions of all that is organic.

And some months later, as I stood in the clawfoot tub of his newly rented flat in Sausalito, showering beneath the sloped ceiling and its clever skylight, I dipped into his supply of toiletries and decided right then and there that lavender was the Official Smell of Rich Hippies. Sure, they may have all doused themselves with patchouli when young, unwashed, and skint, but as soon as they got a bit of a portfolio or a postage stamp of real estate, in comes the lavender, to stay. Now, I have been living in Marin County for nearly three years, and visiting it for much longer than that, so I know of what I speak. Southern Marin is the capital of Rich Hippies, the apex of anti-consumerist consumerism, the mecca of self-conscious conspicuous consumption, and the bastion of all that is organic, local, natural, and otherwise worthy of a tribe that, while largely rejecting such obvious excesses as Hummers and blood diamonds, still likes nice shit. Enter a cascade of ideologically pure, environmentally-friendly bath, body, and food products that will enrapture your senses and decimate your wallet.

And now that I'm two years older than Mr. Big was when he was dating me, I'll be goddamned if I didn't stop by Whole Foods last night for fresh bucatini and greens and if the aromatherapy spray on my office desk isn't..........lavender.

When You Leave

2011-06-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

This time I wasn't deep into The Ugly Cry before I even hit the freeway onramp out of the airport - I managed to save that until I was safely behind locked doors. This time there were just a couple of pretty tears as I piloted my car through the British fog that enveloped San Francisco, foot to the floor, aiming towards the deep heat of Marin. I kept it all at bay as I went shopping at World Market to cheer myself up - a few new votive holders, a bag of interesting-looking pasta, drawer liners. Anything to keep me from thinking of how you're gone now.

When you leave, the earth tilts beneath my feet and there's no compass here, no way to know which way is up. North, south, our eternal question (now that east and west has been solved). Straight forward or ass-backwards, it's hard to say. The fountain you set up this morning is gurgling away in a lovely melody, but all I hear is your absence. The rancho, this petite little treehouse in the middle of a place we'd never otherwise come if time and circumstance hadn't dropped me here on my head, is too big. The Arabic-looking bedspread is gone, stripped and sent to a better room, one with more life.

In these hours after you go back to your real life and I to mine, it's always the same. The quiet - not the kind I like and strive so hard for - the trail of pretty things you always leave, too much food in the fridge we didn't end up eating. Your bottled water on the counter, the ghost of Egyptian musk that will dissipate within hours.

Thank God for the dogs. They bark, bringing life to the house, and they require me to be present, to not slip into the miasma of self-pity and ennui that always follow your departure, to leave the tequila and the medicine cabinet alone. I'll go through the motions - feed them, water the garden, wash the dishes, get things ready for work tomorrow - all the while walking around with a ragged hole blown through me, since the other half of my soul has landed four hundred long miles away, alone in its own house, but not yet at home.

Hater Tuesdays #32: Solstice Blues

2011-06-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

Today, the longest day of the year, my best friend (who's up visiting from LA) and I decided to forego the charms of Oakland and head west, into the cool coastal air and wide open spaces of West Marin and West Sonoma counties. Along the way we picked up smashing jewelry, original art (an ethnically-dubious portrait on a drum top), a Cafe Cubano, and abalone trinkets for his Mami. All the while we spun CDs in the car from his collection and did more looking - at the hills, the sea, the roadkill - than we did talking, which might just be a first.

On impulse, we decided to pull over and have dinner at Nick's Cove, a semi-swanky seafood restaurant whose primary charm is its location over the water on Tomales Bay. It was still pretty hot and sunny when we were seated at six and for the next two hours we watched the fog creep over the hills and eat everything in its path until the island that was in the middle of the bay disappeared. We enjoyed ourselves so much we didn't even mind paying $12 for eight spears of asparagus.

He goes home tomorrow and there'll be another hole in my heart. I love these longest days of the year, when the hours past so fast you can't believe it's time for bed and it's still almost light out. I seem to always have a good day on this seasonal axis. Tomorrow won't be as good, and from here on out it's all downhill. Winter's on its way.

The Manifesto

2011-06-15T04:44:00.000-07:00

I am someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Someone's friend. But no one's mother.

I am the last leaf on my tree, the last stop on the line. I am the terminus. After me, no other.

No one will walk the earth looking through the same blue of my eyes, I will always be an odd branch on any spindly family tree. I am the alpha and omega, the beginning and end. The only of my kind.

My refusal to leave one after me is my gift to the world. I was here, but I will not leave another after me to prove it. There will be no daughter, son, or descendents to validate the eyeblink of time I walked these streets, these beaches, this earth.

Some have children so they can assuage the deep human desire to be immortal, to not fade and disappear from the face of the earth, be forgotten, for we as people want nothing so much as to be remembered, and we think that those who come after us, if they have our eyes, our name, our gestures, will remember. But they won't, and eventually they will be forgotten as well. It is inevitable and it is The Way.

I choose to create my immortality through the ripple effects of my actions. My choices are my children's blue eyes. My words are my descendent's names. When I am kind, when I extend an act of graciousness or consciousness, it changes the life of another, and he or she becomes different, and he or she in some way passes on my act, and so it continues, infinitely. In this way, I will never die. My time here on earth will have its legacy, the same as any grandmother. My name will be nameless, a wordless beautiful thought, a right choice, the wash of well-being over some unknown soul in the unknowable future, and this will be my bloodline.

Letters To Bug: Everyone's Good....Not.

2011-06-14T19:23:00.001-07:00

Dear Bug,

you're going to hear a lot of platitudes in your lifetime. This is because not only do the majority of people fail to think in any original way, preferring instead to simply repeat the memes programmed into them throughout their lives, but also because the essential tragedy of the human condition is that most people want very simple to answers to maddeningly complex questions. This is why we have things like penitentiaries and fad diets. In any case, a platitude is a nauseatingly trite saying that people use to comfort themselves and others in times of uncertainty, which is pretty much all of the time.

Humans are a fearful species. Almost everything we do is an attempt to exert some control over an environment that has proven time and time again to be uncontrollable. We cannot control the weather, our biological makeup, or death, and yet we try - and how. War, abuse of religion, patriarchy, and drug addiction are all outgrowths of fear and a pathetic attempt at rationalizing a largely frightening and irrational place - our world.

One of the lies you will hear is that 'people are all really good at heart.' Don't believe this. Most people are not intrinsically good. This is not to say that they are evil instead; rather, they are just selfish. You can't really blame them for it; with all our kind has been up against since we crawled out of the mud and started walking on the earth, you can certainly understand why we might be hard-wired to be self-serving. Survival is no joke. So, despite all our iPhones and four-wheel drives, essentially we are all still relatively helpless, very stressed individuals trying to secure our next meal or mate, and that means that what is really important to nearly everyone you know is their own agenda and what's good for them and theirs - not you and yours.

Lest I sound horribly cynical, I do want you to know, also, that while people are not particularly good, everyone has something good within them. You can say this about the worst of people. I hear Adolf Hitler was a good artist, and he was known to be charming. Likewise, there is darkness is everyone, even the very best - Jesus had a temper (moneychangers, temple, ask me later if you want). Mother Teresa was known to be a hustler. So we all have a light side and a shadow side, but as your Godmother I want to say to you that you'll save yourself, your Mom and Dad, and me a lot of heartache if you remember to be careful of the company you keep, and take your time getting to know and trust others. Never assume that people are who or what they say they are; watch and listen, and see if what they say is in line with what they do - if it is, you may have a winner. If not, you're dealing with someone who is failing to live an authentic life, and those people are poisonous to your well-being.

Bug, most people are asleep at the wheel. They don't look up at the sky, they don't ask a lot of questions, they don't see the infinite connections present in the web of existence. Instead they see only what's right in front of them and they accept simple answers, because it's easier and often it's all they know. You are not asleep. You are your mother's daughter, you are my Godchild, you are an inquisitive little Scorpio who even at your age believes in other dimensions and things that can't be seen. You are exceptional, and because you have the potential to see differently than others, that makes you different, and dare I say, better than them. Be humble, don't ever think that your stuff doesn't stink, but do realize that you have a way of being in and looking at the world that most people don't, a way that is a gift and a responsibility, and that means you need to be exceptionally careful about how you operate in the world.

You have many of the goodies in life coming to you: you are smart. You are already charming. You will be tall, blonde, and stacked. You will inherit jewels, money, property, and intellect. You are surrounded by forceful, conscious people who love you, would die for you, and will do anything in their power to see that you have the best you can. This already puts you ahead of the game and not everyone you meet is going to be happy for you.

They say that misery loves company and I have found this to be incredibly true. People may say that they want you to do well, but the truth is that many people will feel schadenfreude (one of my favorite words) when you fall on your face and will be only to happy to dissect your misfortune at length with you, but when you succeed, you may see their smiles but feel their claws. My best friend's late father, dying of cancer, explained it in terms of a pie: no one wants you to have a bigger piece than they do. Sometimes it's okay to have the same sized piece, but never bigger, so be very circumspect about your good fortune and let your jewels and abundance of love be your own very private business.

Now here's the part where the exception to the rule - because there always is one - comes in. Bug, if you are very fortunate in life, and very prepared and conscious, you will be able to surround yourself with a few people who are loyal, loving, and unequivocally invested in your success; they will see your achievements and abundance as their own; they will want you to have anything and everything and when you get it, they will respect it and value it. That is love. That is loyalty. And that is what you should spend the rest of your life working hard as a dog to cultivate. When you do this, you will be truly alive, not asleep at the wheel, not going through the motions, not living in negativity and self-serving mindlessness. You will be blooming with all that is good, and only in this way can you transcend the prison of the mind that most others live in.

Love,

Auntie S.

Hater Tuesdays #31 : Betrayal

2011-06-14T18:36:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of ugly emotions in this world: frustration is one that I find particularly vexing. Rage and envy are problematic enough to be two of the Seven Deadlies. We all know sadness. But the one I find the very ugliest and dirtiest is that of feeling betrayed, which is a complex stew of anger, resentment, chagrin, astonishment, shame, disbelief, and probably a pinch of salt (rubbed into the wound, of course).

Betrayal is the lowliest of offenses. To violate the trust of another is to pull the earth out from beneath their feet, to make their sky fall, to forcibly realign their center of gravity. Sometimes, when it all comes out in the wash, it's a blessing: it certainly helps you sort the wheat from the chaff and can provide the impetus for a seasonal shedding of unproductive relationships, but still, it hurts like hell while your skin is peeling off.

I like this definition: "Betrayal is the breaking or violation of a presumptive contract, trust, or confidence that produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship...someone who betrays others is commonly called a traitor or betrayer."

The first thing I notice about the feeling of betrayal is that, as with the experience of many victims of violent crime or domestic abuse, it prompts one to assume one is somehow at fault for being mistreated: how could I have been so blind? So gullible? So stupid? How could I have been fooled? I'm smarter than that.

But a betrayer is a creature of cunning. Sometimes he or she is deliberately evil and means to do you harm; but most times, he or she is just what I call a zombie - my term for a person asleep at the wheel of life, who through their own low-functioning behaviors says or does something that violates every contract you thought the two of you had: to keep confidences, to treat each other with respect, to not take what isn't yours, and so on. I have to admit that I have betrayed others before: I have let secrets slip, I have not done what I said I would, and when I make a mental catalog of my life's regrets, these are the sins that I am most loathe to revisit.

As I have aged and matured I have made very firm commitments to being a person of character and it has paid off: amongst my circle of friends and others I interact with, I am known for being 'good people,' a woman who can be relied upon and looked up to; a person you could trust with your kids, car, secrets, and heart. Although I subscribe to the belief of never taking anything personally, it is a point of pride (see 'Seven Deadlies,' above) that I have evolved into the kind of person people say kind things about and wish good things for.

This is why when I find myself, at this stage of the game, dealing with betrayal it feels so unspeakably filthy. Both my best friend and Tree Guy have, on occasion, cautioned me for my willingness to let others into my heart and home so readily, to befriend the underdog, to accept and tolerate less than I deserve. I've think I've even been called a Pollyanna, in a rather heated moment with my best friend, who has commented repeatedly through the years that I've put up with behavior in friends that he finds thoroughly unacceptable and that perhaps my sense of loyalty has the potential to be wasted on squandered on the unworthy. My therapist once said that I've got 'a high tolerance for dysfunction,' which I thought was quite a lovely and diplomatic way of putting that I can be a right doormat.

I used to answer these tirades with acid responses about their fearfulness or cynicism and lovely orations about living with 'an open heart' and being expansive and welcoming. Well, fuck that. I don't feel that way any more. Not that you can walk around assuming the worst about everyone, but the truth of the matter is that while all people may not be inherently evil, all of them are inherently selfish (yes, you and me too) and most of them will take what they can get from you if you let them, and they won't feel bad about it - in fact, they might even trick you into thinking it's your fault. It's only the very rare and very exceptional person who truly respects what you offer and what you have and doesn't feel entitled to use either for their own benefit, and that's the sad truth.

I know one thing: I'll be much more careful about the rapidity and degree of openness and loyalty I give to others. I will take more time to look deeply not at what people say but what they do, and when someone mistreats me the first time, I won't let it happen a second time. I will have as much compassion for myself as I do for others and I will be as loyal to my own well-being as I have been to that of others. When I see something that doesn't quite fit, that is incongruous or hinky in the slightest degree, I won't be extending the benefit of the doubt quite so freely. I'll see with open eyes, not just rose-tinted glasses.

I've worked hard to achieve peace in my life, and for a natural-born 'fighting Irish' girl like me, that's not easy. But I'll keep at it. I'm stubborn. And I am surrounded by people who truly love me, who are worthy of the jewels my love and company brings them.

Cheap Therapy

2011-06-09T11:27:00.000-07:00

My friend Erin is a banker's granddaughter and therefore has always been really good with money - mindful, frugal, and temperate. Me, on the other hand? Spendy Spenderton, though I've gotten a lot better these last few years. Erin eschews car ownership and often used to end up tagging along with me - an unrepentant motorist - to Trader Joe's for her baby greens and vodka. One day I was lingering over the enticing blooms they always have poised so strategically near the front door and she said to me that such buys were a waste of money. I turned to her and said, "Erin, you know what this is? Cheap therapy." I do believe she burst out laughing and went home with her own bouquet that day.

You know what else is inexpensive and highly therapeutic, and you don't even have to go shopping for? A good little (or big) cry. Yep. Some salty tears flowing down your face, along with a red nose and puffy eyes, can bring as much benefit as two torturous hour-long sessions deconstructing your monstrous childhood with any PhD, MFCC, or other qualified clinician.

I'm a crier. Sad, happy, and anywhere along the continuum, you'll find me weeping. Facebook dog rescue posts? Yep. SPCA commercials? Get me every time. A certain song, smell, angle of the daylight, and you might find me tearing up.

Yesterday I got the happy, unexpected news that a death row inmate, cousin of a friend of a friend, whom I'd signed a petition and said heartfelt prayers for, was granted clemency by the governor. Tears of relief. Today? I put on a pole dancing video on YouTube (I'm home with an awful reaction to migraine meds) and began to weep because it was so beautiful and it brought back memories of the many talented, amazing girls I've known who have at one time or another found their livelihood, spiritual work, or amusement on the pole. Last week I had this very strange dream that I was crying over being 40ish, but it wasn't because I wanted to be young again; it was because I knew I'd never feel that same sense of infinite expansion and possibility.

Tonight, who knows? The mournful yet soothing cooing of the doves who come visit my front garden at dusk? The orange roses I planted after my Gran died coming up with another bloom? A well-made commercial or distant memory that shoots to the surface? I believe if we as a culture supported the practice of crying more, and saw it as an act of empowerment and emotional honesty rather than one of irrationality or weakness, we'd have far less violence, depression, and pharmaceutical dependency to deal with. All I know is that though I might look a mess, I always feel better after some good waterworks. I am one of the strongest people I know and also one of the most resilient, and my ability to let go and shed a tear or two or fifty when needed has kept me able to release my deep emotions, move through them, and keep it moving forward, and you can't put a price on that.

The I'm NOT Having A Baby Shower

2011-06-06T18:36:00.000-07:00

At a recent visit to my OB-GYN, she peered at me pointedly over her wire-rims and made the observation that the sell-by date (10 years) on my IUD has come and gone and, in so many words, that I should figure it out already. I'm 41, so she was pretty much telling me that D (for decision)-Day is here. So it really boils down to three choices; take it out and start picking out nursery colors, simply replace it with a more current model, or upgrade to the power choice of Essure, a non-invasive method of female sterilization.

Now, I have nothing but the utmost respect for parenthood. I think it's the single most crucial decision one makes in one's life, and that may explain to you why I've chosen to pick the path of least Cheerios on the car floor - my womb has remained tenantless, and the rationale behind this is that I respect motherhood way too much to even attempt it.

It's not that I don't think I could do it - if I can avoid the perils of drug addiction and five figure consumer credit card debt (unlike most people in America), I can certainly raise a tiny human. And, probably, raise it well. But, like opening my own door and doing my own nails, I could do it but really prefer not to. Besides, I have four wonderful little girls in my life - my Goddaughter Bug, on the cusp of her teens, my childhood frenemy's 9-year-old MiniMe Savannah, my homegirl in LA's diva-in-the-making toddler Azara, and little Lyra, the almost-1 miracle baby of my crunchy granola friends in Mendocino. In addition, there's another one in the works amongst my coterie of friends, so let's just say I'm good and I have a ripe market for striped hoodies and staggeringly cute handmade leather baby booties.

The thing I find untenable about parenthood is that it's just relentless. Even having Bug - who is 12 and entirely capable of entertaining herself - here for 40 hours hammers it home, because it's always like, 'Where's the kid? Is she fed? Is she eating too much sugar? Who's she talking to? Is she dressed appropriately? Is she wearing socks? Am I warping her brain by allowing her to watch My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding? How can I tell her not to do drugs or have underage sex when I was so obviously a slutty stoner myself? And how long do we need to sit and deconstruct the word 'slut' anyway, which I hate?' I can't imagine the ceaseless grind of being almost solely responsible for a helpless creature's every need - food, shelter, cleanliness, amusement, moral guidance, character development, cell phones, skinny jeans, whole grains, organic produce, car insurance and college tuition, for starters. Christ, feeding and walking my dogs daily sometimes feels like domestic drudgery (but, echoing every parent throughout creation, of course they're worth it) - as I write this they keep trying to drape themselves all over me and I've had to shame one of them over to the window seat. Bad dog mom. See?

The gist of it is that I think the jig is up. I hear all my breeder girlfriends whispering in my ear, 'Oh, you have plenty of time!' Seriously? Get real. Do you really think I want to be the geriatric primipara on the maternity ward, not to mention negotiating both the loss of dermal elasticity and the mortifying horror of the middle school years simultaneously? I don't think so.

So, while I'm famous for shying away from commitment and keeping my options open, the other day I was giving the sterilization thing some serious thought. I mean, my IUD has been more than adequate - in fact, it's been my own mysterious mechanical superhero - and I'm a big believer in 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it,' but there seems something so romantically powerful about the personal and somehow political statement of packing in ye olde egge farme and letting it be known to both myself and everyone else that I won't ever be picking out nursery colors.

I ran it by my friend London over breakfast today and asked her if I went ahead and did the deed and then subsequently had a 'I'm NOT EVER Having A Baby' shower if she'd show up. This amused her almost as much as my comment, regarding the warranty and life expectancy of my new Eastern King Aireloom bed, that 'well, at least if I get a terminal illness, it will be the last bed I ever have to buy,' and she assured me she'd be among my guests.

After all the baby and wedding showers I've attended and dutifully brought presents to (with pleasure, don't get me wrong), I'm thinking that if I have the nerve to stop production in the plumbing department, I deserve to have this No-Baby Shower to celebrate my life choice. After all, what do us non-breeders get for our kind gesture towards the planet and other restaurant patrons? Bupkis, that's what.

Last year I endured both the baby shower of work colleague (inappropriate on two fronts; one, that said colleague was a man and wasn't even the pregnant one, and two, he's a kid who wants for nothing and is too young to be reproducing anyway) and the gleefully cruel 'Dirty Diaper Game' at Lyra's mom's shower, which involved being forced to sniff a variety of mushy baby foods scooped into diapers to resemble rainbow shades of baby shit and guess which was which (Plum? Carrot? Chicken? Really, I give up. No, really) - by the way, I was among the top three winners and went home with awesome bath salts, candles, and lip balm.

So at my shower, only gifts that are dangerous, fragile, expensive, delicate, or vulgar will be allowed - and if a gift that encompasses all of these characteristics (say, a top-of-the-line, kerosene-fueled exploding crystal silk-lined nail bomb/dildo?) is proffered, it will be doubly appreciated.

Instead of baby shoes, there will be Leboutin stilettos, since I'll never have to chase a toddler across the park. Rather than baby bottles, perhaps a lovely set of Baccarat champagne flutes from which to swill alcoholic bubbly at any hour of day or night. No burp cloths - just Abyss towels. In place of a Petunia Picklebottom diaper bag, maybe a nice Stihl chainsaw - with a starter gallon of chainsaw gas/oil mix! Soldering irons! Tiki torches! Kettles! Very sharp scissors and a new coffee table with lots of right angles! You get the picture.

I know one thing for sure: there's going to be a uterus piñata. Trust.

Conversation With The Godchild

2011-06-02T20:02:00.000-07:00

My baby goddaughter, who is careening towards thirteen at breakneck speed, is coming to spend the weekend with me. I just called her to firm up pickup times and we got onto this tangent:

Me: So, do you like salmon?
Godchild: Ugh...
Me: No, not so much?
Godchild: Nah. Why?
Me: Well I have some salmon and it's my favorite thing to make, but if you don't like it we certainly don't have to have it.
Godchild: I'm not really a fish person.
Me: What about shrimp?
Godchild: Ugh, no. No shellfish.
Me: You're such a good Jew!
Godchild: No, not really. The other day I had a pork burrito with sour cream and then I also had a burger with a Cobb salad with bleu cheese.
Me: Bleu cheese, huh? You know there's this kind of salad I like, some people like it and some don't, my best friend hates it, but it's like mixed greens with goat cheese and then some nuts like pecans, and then fruit, like dried cranberries or an apple.....
Godchild: Oh, yeah totally, I love those, I would eat that, I mean, goat cheese......
Me: Goat cheese? You like goat cheese?
Godchild: Oh yeah!
Me: Oh I'm so happy, your Mom hates it so I thought you might not like it.
Godchild: Oh no, I love it.
Me: Cool, okay, so we'll make one of those on Saturday, and I also heard a rumor that you like tacos.
Godchild: Tacos!!!
Me: Beef or chicken?
Godchild: Beef.
Me: Ground or shredded?
Godchild: Shredded. (ding ding ding! correct answer!)
Me: You like your tortillas steamed or fried?
Godchild: Fried! I like crispy tacos.
Me: OK, you're such an LA girl! So Sunday we'll make shredded beef crispy tacos! Yay!
Godchild: Yay!
Me: You know what's funny? On TV right now is a real estate show and they just showed a map of Sydney (her name). Isn't that a trip?
Godchild: Yeah, that's ironic.
Me: Yeah, it's totally ironic.

Conflict Resolution

2011-05-26T23:38:00.000-07:00

Dear Boss,

we've all put in a lot of hard work trying to bridge our differences and create a culture of mutual respect, consideration, and common goals here. To that end, we've attended weeks worth of group meetings, done 'small group' (my personal favorite) work, consulted with the consultant, taken about a thousand surveys, and done everything but open up a vein and bleed all over one another. Some days, if not most, it feels like I'm going to marriage counseling with thirty-two or so other individuals, few of whom, I assure you, share any of my common beliefs about how to get along and get work done (and I'll save you the workplace engagement literature and boil it down for you in two words: Be and Nice). By now we should be one big family, working together in mutual harmony for the Good of the Order.

Except that we're not.

Matter of fact, the mutual hatin', rank-pulling, dissing, double-dealing, under-the-bus throwing and plain old catty bitching is just about as vitriolic as it ever was, and all the encounter groups and consultants in the world will never succeed in beating into people's minds the value of please, thank you, you're welcome, and let's not forget, as we seem to do so often in a rather bizarre fashion, hello.

So. I have a suggestion. Let's save the dollars and the conference rooms full of fruit salad, tell the consultants to consult the Magic 8 Ball and let's give my method a try:

A biweekly intradepartmental Dance-Off.

That's right. I don't care how you want to structure it: Management vs. Line Staff, Old Timers vs. Young Turks, Boys vs. Girls, Nice People vs. Mean People, Those Who Get It vs. Those Who SO Don't, bitter old people or idealistic youth (okay, that comes from my favorite fridge magnet), however you want to do this, next time there's some breakroom grumbling about gee, ya think they coulda told me? or You know why she got that job, or whatever, tell everyone to just put a cork in it and save the steam for every other Tuesday, when we'll get to blow off that hate with an old-fashioned, proper dance-off.

Think of it. No more rumor mills. No silent resentments. No whispers. Just straight poppin', lockin', and gettin' served. Winner takes all.

I think it's worth at least a try.

Love,

Fahrenheit519

Sometimes

2011-05-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

I hate to make declarations, but I think a sea change may have taken place.

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on the back patio in the early evening, listening to the wind blowing in from the west and looking pensive, I guess, when Special Man Friend asked me, 'Do you miss the City?'

And for the first time since the day I left San Francisco (July 29th, 2008, if we're counting), instead of saying, 'Every day,' or 'All the time,' or 'With every breath,' I just said........................

'Sometimes.'

My Notes

2011-05-09T07:45:00.000-07:00

Pulling out of my driveway just after sunrise this morning, I was listening to this Atmosphere song and it made me think that every day I don't write something, it's like giving God's gifts a big middle finger. In short, a sin. I promise to be better.

Thick and Thin

2011-05-04T08:54:00.000-07:00

Some days my skin feels thick as a plank; no harsh words or sadness can penetrate. I'm bulletproof, on top of the world, ahead of the game, rolling with the punches and taking no prisoners. Other days the same skin feels as thin as that of those fetal chicks you see in science classes; so translucent you can see all the veins and other gristle beneath, ready to open up with the slightest touch of anything sharp - a knife, word, or photograph.

Yesterday was a thin day - in the morning it was a photograph of Obama's tense face as they took out bin Laden, making me think of all the needless suffering of 9/11 and it's aftermath all over the world; at night it was a Facebook post for a beautiful dog whose owner had been killed in a motorcycle accident and whom had been subsequently sequestered in a cell at a high-kill shelter in Georgia, with time quickly running out.

Powerless. Sad. Overwhelmed. This is why I keep tissues nearby at all times. I'm a soft touch; sentimental, overly empathic, easily touched........until tomorrow, when I'll have my armor back on and there won't be an arrow on earth that can pierce me.

Survivor

2011-03-30T10:13:00.001-07:00

Gang rape. I don't know how else to say it, and there's no way to sugarcoat it. Those have got to be the two most terrifying words in the English language to any woman. Rape itself is the bogeyman that follows us incessantly - into stairwells and dark parking lots, beneath bridges and subway platforms, across fields and down the streets of our own neighborhoods, keeping us from taking shortcuts, walking through the park at night, or wearing our headphones on an early-morning jog. Its specter requires our constant vigilance and perpetual awareness, robbing us of the ability to blithely go where and when we please. More than once I've presented this idea to my male friends and seen the look of horror as they realize, with a dawning consciousness, the privilege of movement they have of which they were previously unaware.

Add the word gang to it and you have every woman's very worst nightmare; an act so seemingly unspeakable that surely no one but monsters could commit it and no one but the least fortunate victim of fate could possibly experience and survive (because I believe there are only survivors, not victims) it - yet no less than four times this week, including on this morning's ABC broadcast, have I stumbled across news stories detailing how a young woman, sometimes still just a girl, has been gang raped by a group of young men. I don't think anyone local will soon forget the recent horrifying story of the 15-year-old Richmond girl who was assaulted by as many as 20 people for two hours outside of her high school's homecoming dance, some of whom used their cell phones to take photographs and text message others to come on down and join in. I know I won't.

Yesterday, having exhausted the news feeds on both the San Francisco Chronicle and the podunk Marin Independent Journal (boo, hiss), I checked in with the LA Times, and there, again, was history repeating itself - this time, almost three weeks ago, a teenage woman had lured an 11-year-old girl into a bathroom in a Moreno Valley park, where she was subsequently attacked by 7 or so young men, most of them minors, with one exception - a 19-year-old cat who eluded the police for two weeks until they picked him up the day before yesterday at someone's house.

Through the always-compelling reader's comments, I found a link to the guy's Facebook page. And then his girlfriend's Facebook page. And then her best friend's Facebook page. All of them are about eighteen or nineteen. All of them speak, in hideously annoying Texxt$pEakk, of 'rolling' with their 'posse,' being down for their crew, and of their 'wifeys,' 'husbands,' (though none legally married), baby daddys/mommas, and their pregnancies, whether already underway or hoped-for. The young man refers repeatedly to hating everyone in his family except his mom, 'getting money,' being hopeless and not giving a fuck. He posted several times on the day of the crime and one can see, in the days and weeks afterwards, a spiraling sense of panic and hopelessness (rightfully so). The girlfriend refers to doing community service and going to court, and her best friend writes of nothing but her 'husband,' to whom she is not married, and her expected baby, posting 3-D photos of the ultrasound. There's one photo of the girlfriend I found particularly sad - shirt stuffed with twenties, posing in front of the bathroom mirror like she's ballin' now, but reading through her posts one can surmise that she made the money selling candy bars with her little brother. Ballin', indeed. In the end, there are cell phone photos of the guy and his girl in a motel room, looking worried and sad, ostensibly on the run. And that's all she wrote. Now, his mug shot graces the LA Times.

And I'm not sorry for him. Fuck him. I hope by the grace of God that he one day is able to comprehend what he took from a girl; something that can never, ever be returned or replaced, and left her with a weight and baggage that will be with her all of her life. But I'm not holding my breath. In the meantime: lock. Key. Toss. Finis. No hopes, no plans, no babies, no wifey, no nothing but time. Existing (until prison justice takes its course, which I would expect is highly likely). The best he can hope for - sincere repentance, and the ability to keep breathing.

And it makes me think, as much as we cheer the progress of women and girls in our country, as many women outpace men in getting degrees and going to law and medical school, as furiously as we work to close the wage gap, as many diapers our men change, we still have such a long, terrible way to go.

Instead of worrying so much about Barry Bonds' nutsack or Obamacare, we need to stop and ask what creates these monstrous attacks. How diseased and disordered must our concepts of masculinity, manhood, ownership, and violence be in order for girls and women to be collectively raped by lost, powerless young men (because only the psychically powerless would use their cock as a weapon) on a daily basis? How far have we really come?

The thing about gang rape, in particular, is that it isn't at all about the woman herself, or even solely about power (though all rape is about power), but it's always been my perception, and it's shored up by research, that it's the very sickest way of male bonding. Disordered men seek to establish bonds with one another through the body of a woman or girl. She ceases to be a person and becomes a tool, the glue that seals a sick relationship - perhaps because these particular boys and men are completely unable to create ties to one another without fearing the taint of softness or femininity, or perhaps worst of all to them, anything smacking remotely of gayness. 'Committing' to one another through the body of a woman, within a dynamic of power, violence, secrecy, and perceived hypermasculinity, is their only way to say they're 'brothers.' They're that broken.

Think about it - the stereotypical frat party that 'gets out of hand,' college athletic teams accused of sexual assault, gang initiations - all ways in which young men with diseased concepts of what it is to be a man and how to connect with one another. You cannot convince me, for any amount of love or money, that in that Richmond rape, there wasn't an older man egging a younger man on by telling him to 'be a man.' And I wonder how many men are sitting in prison right now because they took that sick bait, too weak in their own sense of manhood to understand that these acts are the last thing any real man would commit.

I once asked a male friend of mine, who had in his teenage years been involved in group sexual encounters (several men with one willing female, or two couples in one room, etc.), whether the boys/men didn't feel awkward or embarrassed having sex in front of one another - you know, with all their junk hanging out, 'O faces' on display, and so forth. He told me quite the contrary - they were showing off for one another, and that it made them 'closer.' In his case, it certainly wasn't rape (hey, girls can be willing and freaky, too), but still, I thought it was a shame, because the subtext beneath all of it was still a false sense of connection, and the use of a woman as a thing, as something less than a whole person and a discrete entity. Her involvement and pleasure was secondary to their male-bonding exercise, and I'll bet that wasn't what she bargained for on her end (pardon the pun. A little black humor always starts my day off right.).

It saddens me because, far from hating men, I love them. I enjoy them, respect their gifts, and think that fully realized, authentic masculinity is pretty awe-inspiring. It sickens me that we as a culture are teaching boys and reinforcing to men (and girls and women) very, very warped ideas of masculinity, and that we all, from you to me to that 11-year-old survivor, continue to pay, as a people and as individuals, for the sin of refusing to look within and articulate what it really means to be a man.

Take A Chance On Me

2011-03-21T04:54:00.000-07:00

This morning I want to offer up a big thank you to anyone and everyone who ever took a chance on me.

To the Nicaraguan landlords who rented me a house back in the day on nothing but a handshake and a smile (you were a real gentleman, Sal - rest in peace).

To the MD/PhD who saw beyond the scrappy exterior to the 'executive potential' and gave me a real start in the legit career world. You will remain my personal hero all my days.

To the sister who smiled at me in that interview in a way that said, "I see you," and whom I know is the reason I have the job I do today.

To her boss, who hired me even though I wasn't her first choice (that being a mousy bun-wearing schoolmarm type) and recognized the potential for growth.

To the finance company that gave me a brand new car, even with a sullied credit report.

To my current landlord, best one ever, who almost pursued me, because she wanted to give me a break, just as she hoped someone else would give her own daughter, a survivor, a break.

To Mills College, who let me in even though I barely knew how to open a Word document.

To Stephanie the assistant bank manager, who held her hand out and lifted me from a life in the floating world to one firmly grounded in cold hard cash and numbers, a path that has continued to this day.

To every friend who saw beyond my initial bitchiness or sharp edges and saw the depth and sweetness beneath.

To every old friend who was able to put the past behind us and start anew.

To Rick and Joe, who instead of selling my Chihuahua Paloma to the highest bidder, gave her to me for free because I was Ramon's friend.

To my grandmother, who was sick with worry throughout my youth and was on the short end of my mistakes and thoughtlessness more times than I care to admit, yet who continued to believe in me and give me chance after chance to get it right.

To every friend, boss, landlord, finance company, crew leader, and other who held out a hand, gave a girl a boost, trusted my handshake instead of my paperwork, saw beyond the statistics or the hard luck story, and saw what maybe even I couldn't see at the time - this morning I just want to offer you a simple, and deeply sincere, thank you for your willingness to take a gamble on me. I won't let you down.

Free

2011-03-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

On the day when I'm able to finally internalize the belief that other people don't need to either think, behave, or be more like me, I'll be halfway to being truly free.

Hater Tuesdays # 30-Something: Just Shut The Fuck Up

2011-02-22T11:31:00.000-08:00

Preface: I'm of Irish descent. Thus, I swear like a sweaty sailor on shore leave in Naples. I'm also tired, brittle, and overcome with grief, so I'm not one to mince words today. If the F-bomb or any other 'classless' profanity offends you, back it the fuck up and click your way elsewhere. Thank you.

Justin Beiber, just shut the fuck up: did I hear correctly? Did this little tween idol actually express an opinion on abortion? Did he say it was 'like' killing a 'baby' (insert question mark, because the fine journalists at Rolling Stone, who have been practicing news-writing for forty-two fucking years, supposedly improperly punctuated his dimwit statement, thus giving a false impression of his staggering idiocy)?. But it's okay, because the always-reputable CelebJihad website has outed him (her?) for having his (her?) own secret procedure!

Everyone in my physical world, just shut the fuck up: Can't you see the flashing neon sign on my forehead that says 'my grandma just died!!!!!'? Don't you know this does, in fact, mean the world has come to a complete standstill? Stop asking me for shit: the time, spare change, where the lightbulb aisle is, et cetera. And to the lady who told me my sweater was on inside out at the crafts store last Sunday: you shut up, too.

Mother of mine, just shut the fuck up: maybe you know my grandmother (who wasn't your mom) died or maybe you don't, but your timing the day of her funeral to call and try to make me feel guilty for not returning your messages is uncanny, as is your consistency: you want something. What a surprise.

The Gentleman from New Jersey, just shut the fuck up: oh, but you don't need me to tell you that. My homegirl Jackie Speier, D-CA, already did, and how. She called you out with a brilliance I've never seen in any other legislator. So suck it, again and again:

Suckerpunched

2011-02-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

She's gone, she's gone, she's gone.

No matter how long I can go - a few minutes, an hour, never yet an entire day - walking around as if everything is all right - it comes back to me like a suckerpunch to the chest, a richochet behind my eyes - she's gone.

My grandmother, who was to me a champion, savior, force of nature, mythical figure, and an angel with an only slightly crooked halo, has stepped off this mortal coil and left us.

Her passing was just about as blessed as could be - her heart simply stopped as she was dozing in her beloved rocker - we all pray to 'die in our sleep,' and I think it's a beautiful karmic payback that this was her way to go.

It's been two and a half weeks. And counting. February 3rd. My grandmother had a superstition about everyone in her family dying in May. But no, it was February, just a quiet winter day.

I have been in survival mode since......in the final stages of a huge work project with no ability to take time off to just crawl under the covers and hide, I dug into my inner spiritual gangsta just get me through the last two weeks - saying goodbye to her, helping plan a funeral, compiling and synthesizing data, meeting with the family, grieving, presenting my project, washing black clothes and miles and miles of driving. Now her funeral is over and I have commenced to falling apart.

With very little familiarity with the geography of grief, I find myself okay at times - in the checkout line, wandering through the nursery looking for reindeer moss, buried deep in an esoteric spreadsheet - and then I look up, breathe in, and am shattered. I loved her so much, with a depth and breadth that I find still takes my breath away. I make coffee, read the paper, go out hunting for glass terrarium jars, throw in some laundry, and the next thing I know I'm on my knees, knocked down by a wave of grief so big and strong that I can barely breathe. This is the ultimate lesson in impermanence and accepting change and I'm trying to remember that, and all she taught me about rolling with the punches, dusting oneself off and keepin' it moving, but sometimes it's slow going.

I hadn't inteded to go view her body, but they told me I could witness her cremation the same day as the viewing. As it happened, a paperwork snafu prevented the cremation that day, and a series of events led me to a silent, elegant little chapel on the Peninsula, alone with the cardboard box that held my grandmother's body.

I didn't open it. But I stood over it and imagined her ridged, oval-shaped nails with narrow tips, the curve of her fingers, her white, white hair, her distinct little nose, and her beautiful blue eyes, mirrored with in my own face and that of my father, aunt, and most of my cousins.

It was a more intimate, holy moment than I could have imagined. I said many things to her, made many promises, and just as I was about to descend from 'pretty weeping' (my cousin Dana's lyrical phrase) into The Ugly Cry, a door behind the little altar opened up and a man stepped out. He didn't know I was there and I couldn't do anything but laugh. He gave me a quick history lesson on the columbarium - bonus. You have to take those little gems when they fall into your hands.

Every day since she passed has felt like three; usually time passes like a freight train gaining momentum, but these last weeks have not so much slowed down as expanded, lengthened, filled with ritual, insights, and maybe a little compulsive shopping (I went to the nursery looking for activated charcoal yesterday and came out with a stunning talavera sun to hang in the tree out front because it reminds me of her).

Everything, these days, these hours, reminds me of her. The purple irises coming up in my garden, lavender hydrangeas, seashells, rich tones of blue, crucifixes, all the Paddy's Day stuff flooding the stores, mud pie, champagne, straw hats. My eyes scan my home, the walls and shelves and furniture, noting all that were from her.

They asked us at the funeral to share stories of her, and I told one, which is the only one I'll include in this particular entry, becuase I know I'll be making March 'All About Dorothea Month.' Here it is:

As a young lady, my grandmother thought that the age of 27 was just the ultimate - the height of sophistication, glamor, fulfillment, all those things you believe are the payoff of being an adult. Well, 27 came and went, and then probably 37 came and went, and she said to me, when 27 was a decades-old nemory: "You know, honey, wherever you are in life, whatever stage you're at, that's how you think it's always going to be. But it isn't. There are so many lifetimes within one lifetime," and of all the things she taught me and told me, this I think is the most valuable. You can boil it down to Buddhist concepts of impermanence (which would have my staunch Roman Catholic granny rolling her eyes), change as the only constant, and so forth, but I like to take it as both a comfort and a call: however things are now, for better or worse, they won't always be that way.....and they will change, so be prepared to roll with the punches. I will, my beloved angel.

This Is My Dance To Friendship

2011-01-29T13:03:00.001-08:00

"The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but one of respect and joy in each other's life." - Richard Bach

Thirty-Seven Dollars

2011-01-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

The day the earth fell out from under me was the Wednesday after my junior year in high school ended. I was ironing a pair of pink pants (it was, after all, the 80s) when my mother came up to me with that serious-with-an-undertone-of-cruel-glee expression of hers and told me that she and my stepfather had bought me a one-way plane ticket back to San Francisco and that I was leaving on Saturday.

"No, I'm not," I told her.

"Yes, you are," she responded.

I screamed ('You don't care if I live on the street!') and so did they ('No, we don't!'). I cried harder than I ever had before or possibly since, brought to my knees by the anguish of the belief that I was unwanted, a mistake, without purpose or value. I remember curling up on the front lawn, sobbing and rocking back and forth, overcome by a terrible sense of helplessness.

In the end, I took my ceramic Mexican piggy bank over to the house of the guy I was carrying on with at the time, who incidentally was a 'family friend' ten years older than I. I took it out on his roof and shattered it with a hammer and counted out thirty-seven dollars in change. There on the tarpaper roof, I sat with the shattered shards of my pig and the river of coins, toasted warm by the indifferent San Diego sunshine, and I never went home again.

That's Me

2011-01-26T07:29:00.000-08:00

Yes, that was me last night. The 40-year-old suburban bureaucrat bumping old Eminem in the Safeway parking lot ('.........if I had one wish/I would ask for a big enough ass for the whole world to kiss.........') right about dinner time.

We all have a thousand faces. Sometimes you have to be that polished professional, other times a joyful toddler in the sandbox, and other days, an angry, bratty sixteen-year-old in baggy pants. I gotta be me.

Vow To My Animals

2011-01-21T14:31:00.000-08:00

Dear Animal of Mine,

today I have found you, whether on the street, from a rescue or shelter, or (don't tell anyone) a breeder. Today I have made the choice to make you a part of my family. I want to promise you the following:

1. I will never leave you. If I move, you're coming with me. Even if I lost my home, I'd rather be homeless on the street with you than in housing without you. If I go overseas, I'll do everything I can to get you a 'pet passport' so you don't have to sit in quarantine, and even if you, I'll visit you every day. If I move, I won't even look at housing that isn't pet-friendly. If a landlord or an HOA tells me I can't have you there, I will tell him, her, or them to kiss my Irish ass and I'll take my money somewhere where your status as family member is appreciated.

2. I will feed you decent quality food so that your organs don't deteriorate from all that crap they put in cheap stuff. If I'm really good, I'll even cook for you.

3. I will take you to the vet regularly, even if I have to go without to do so. If you get sick, I'll sell my writing/labor/household goods/plasma/sperm-ova/internal organs to scrape up the money to heal you. And yes, that includes stooping to selling drugs, my ass, or multi-level marketing, too.

4. When you are old and you aren't as spunky/healthy/chipper as you used to be, I won't dump you at a shelter/park/field. I will grow old right beside you, and I will clean up your puke/poop/pee. However, if you are too sick to enjoy life any more, I will get over my own selfishness and walk you into the next life in a peaceful, humane, ultimately gentle way - and I won't walk away and let the vet do the dirty business; I'll hold you in my arms until you drift off.

5. I will never hit you, shake you, toss you, confine you, chain you, scream at you, or make you the misplaced target of my rage.

6. I will never leave you alone overnight. You will always have a sitter to check on you if I have to leave home for a bit.

7. I will never make you sleep outside or let you spend your days anywhere that isn't warm, dry, safe, and loving.

8. I will never mistake you for a fashion statement, symbol of prestige, substitute child, or whipping post.

9. I will socialize you early and often so that you don't end up the Unabomber of the dog (or insert other species here) world. I will take you out to PLAY, and run, and make friends.

10. I will never tie you up outside a store.

11. If I ever have children, I will not get rid of you. My spawn will just think of you as a short, furry brother or sister with a speech impediment.

12. If any of my friends or relatives express dislike for you, they'll go immediately into the 'infrequent rotation' pile. And if a person doesn't like animals in general, well, I just don't trust 'em.

13. Whatever trauma you suffered before I found you, I'll work every day to help you forget it. I hope that someday you won't remember anything except being loved.

14. I will stand up for your species and call out a fool I see mistreating one of your compadres.

15. If I meet a man/woman who is Mr./Ms. Right but he or she is allergic/doesn't like animals, I'll politely ask him or her to commit to a lifetime of allergy meds or move it into the Friend Zone, stat.

16. I will see you in heaven, provided I get there.

Spare Change

2010-12-07T16:02:00.000-08:00

Quite often, I like to leave my pennies or nickels where they fall. I like to think some kid will come along and think it's THE BEST THING EVER and they're THE LUCKIEST KID EVER and they'll be over the moon for a little bit. For a minute there I thought it was disrespectful to the spirit of prosperity, but my 'what comes around goes around' philosophy won out and I like to imagine the children of strangers all over the Bay Area jiggling their found treasures around in their tiny pockets.

Letters to Bug and Other Young People: Money (#1)

2010-12-04T10:59:00.000-08:00

Dear Bug,

I know I'll have too much to say to you about money to fit into just one letter - since this is such an intense topic, I see a series of them - but I want this to be the first one.

You are like your Auntie - a spender. When I took you to the County Fair this year, you were less interested in the rides and games than in shopping the myriad booths of goodies - and I get that. I was right there with you, egging you on a little bit and teaching you how to make choices and discern the right way in which to blow your twenty dollar bill, and I approved of your decisions, feeling that you bought items you would value for a long time.

Your mother is a natural-born earner, as am I, although she's much more the bold, risk-taking entrepreneurial type and I'm more the safe-and-steady-paycheck type. I hope that you will be an earner, too - I think it's something you're born with or you're not.

I can't tell you the amount of money I've squandered over the years on baubles and bullshit, but this isn't a letter about spending, so I'll save that for another time. What I wish I'd known twenty-eight years ago, when I was your age, is this: that the very best thing about making and/or having money is what you can do for others with it.

The most important thing about making a living is that you do something you enjoy; however, in reality, this can be a tall order, and most of us don't really love what we do, but have made peace with it. My wish for you is that you grow up to find a way to earn a living that is enjoyable to you, righteous in character, and that never feels like work - but no matter what your career, or careers, turn out to be, I hope it will enable you to effect change in your life and the lives of others and leave a legacy on this earth that will go on long after you're gone.

I think many of us grew up believing it nobler to adopt a career in some kind of magnanimous service - social work and teaching for example, professions that are both enormously rewarding and low-paying - than to choose one involved primarily in making money - a broker, financier, industrialist, etc. What I didn't realize back then is that when one chooses a job with less obvious social value but the potential for very high earnings is that one can make just as big of a difference with their money as with their time. It's taken me until I'm 40 to say that an investment banker can do as much good for the world through her work as a kindergarten teacher, but it's true.

I love nice things and nice meals, but I find, Bug, that what makes me the very happiest to spend money on is helping others. Whether it's throwing in a mere $5 to help pay a random dog's vet bills, sponsoring an unknown foster child, or buying a broke friend dinner, an airline ticket, or tuition, I hope you will find the satisfaction of giving to equal or surpass that of spending on yourself.

I know that you, like both your mother and I, like beautiful things, and I want you to have everything you could ever want, and you will be a woman who deserves silk, diamonds, and cashmere. But I also want you to make wise decisions about what you really want versus things you only want right now and whose pleasure will be fleeting. This is the difference between a passing amusement and an investment, and it is a lesson I've learned the hard way and hope you never have to. I also want you to enjoy the pleasure in giving and more than anything to realize the power you have, with your intelligence, integrity, and skills, to earn the kind of money, if you want to, to create true change in the world.

When I die, my legacy will probably consist of a vast collection of beautiful and useless things, many of which will become yours. There will also be dozens and dozens of journals and letters throughout the world filled with the most valuable thing I ever had to give - my words. It took me a long time - fourteen years of money-related jobs, from bank teller to budget manager - to realize that I have just as good of a head for business as I do for art, and I wish I'd recognized and capitalized on that many years ago. As it is, I think I will probably never be able to have a library named after me or donate a million dollars to dog rescues that really need it, and knowing that I probably could have, but didn't, is my own shortcoming to make peace with.

Again, Bug, what I want for you so much is to find a calling in this world that brings you peace and happiness, be that as a cashier at Trader Joe's, a photographer, journalist, investment banker, attorney, entertainment mogul, waitress, teacher, secretary, mid-level bureaucrat like your Auntie, or a performance artist - whatever. But it won't hurt if whatever you choose makes big bank and you can someday put your children, friends, or friend's children though college, fund a scholarship, or save a bunch of animals. Remember that there are many ways to use money and many ways to create change, and you will always have the ability to make the choices that please you most. Keep in mind that the power you have is not just limited to making money or pleasing yourself - though you should take care of yourself first, always - but to profoundly change the lives of others for the better.

With Love,

Auntie S.

Mosaic Meme

2010-12-01T12:53:00.000-08:00

Coz Im a true sucker for these things!

Use any photo site you like (Flickr/Picasa/photobucket etc..) and type the answer to the questions into the search bar.Take the image you like best from the FIRST results page and make a shit cool mosaic out of them at http://bighugelabs.com/mosaic.php.... and GO!!

Preguntas:

1. A thing you cannot live without (excluding partners, children, pets, friends)
Lip balm

2. Best piece of advice you were ever given?
Never miss a good opportunity to shut up.

3. Favorite Restaurant of all time?
There are just to many to choose from, for different reasons, but I’ll go with La Luz del Dia on Olvera Street in LA.

4. Favorite mode of transport
Train

5. Dream Vacation
Greek Islands

6. Best Halloween costume you ever had
Frida Kahlo

7. What cheers you up when you are down
Tupac

8. Favorite meal to cook at home?
Mashed potatoes

9. Best place ever travelled to?
Costa Rica

10. Dream Job?
Detective

11.what actor would play you?
Christina Ricci

12. Favorite author?

Nicola Monaghan

13. If you could be a book character who would you be?

Bella from The Dirty Weekend by Helen Zahavi

14 If you got 100,000 Euros today what’s the first thing you’d spend it on?

A home

15. What are you most afraid of?
Homelessness

16. One thing people don’t know about you?
I’m a Mayflower descendent.

This Is How We Do....

2010-11-26T11:32:00.000-08:00

.........when our hearts are breaking.

We climb stairs. We write and write. We play R&B real loud out the windows. We sweep up sand. We cry while we wash dishes. We laugh real loud. We talk on the phone to our mates. We sleep. We take very hot showers. We move our hips. We walk and walk up and down the streets, the shoreline. We get all hard inside, and then go soft. We let strangers flirt with us. We put on coconut lip balm and use expensive shampoo and make lists of shit we need to do. We say what's up to the neighbors. We stay far, far away from bottles or pills and we hit the mute button and listen to the beautiful silence.

Both Ways

2010-11-17T06:32:00.000-08:00

I call her my 'sister in exile' - my homegirl Susan, who used to live around the corner from me in the Lower Haight around the turn of the milennia and who left five and a half years ago to start over in her semi-native hometown, Philadelphia. Every Boxing Day for the last few years we've met up, during her Christmas visits to family in the Bay Area, and set out an Annual Wander, picking a neighborhood - or two or three - and spending a day walking around, browsing, catching up, reminiscing, comparing notes, and egging each other on to a fever pitch of bittersweet longing for our first love, the one that got away - the City. Last year we sat over cannolis and tiramisu in North Beach and pined over our near-forcible exiles from our past home even as we waxed rhapsodic over the respective ease of our suburban tree-lined streets and parking spots, hers on the Main Line and mine in the near-hinterlands of Marin County.

At the time I was still coping with the (very extended) hangover of the culture shock of my move from the wintry, windswept edge of the Sunset District some twenty miles north into an alien, beautiful place that was much more like the rest of California. I felt like I'd been holding my breath for a year and a half and was fairly certain I was going back when my lease expired. By the time it did, I'd started to plant a garden and painted a bathroom and had the best landlord ever, and figured I wasn't going anywhere, especially while the housing stock in the city remains so ridiculously shoddy and expensive. I somehow made a truce between myself and this green hell, or Eden, depending on how I feel on a given day. I revel in the greenery and absence of billboards (reason enough to live in Marin), the warm nights and stars and the crickets, yet I mourn for the cozy cafes and Amoeba and Green Apple, and the warm river of people, lights, and fog.

After the last game of the National League championship, in which my town's team whupped her town's team, I sent her an email saying I knew she'd secretly been rooting for San Francisco the whole time and she wrote back to tell me I was mistaken about that and then said, "By the way, I went to the city to live and I feel renewed........ yet, when I come in from a rough night of parking, and I look around my crumbly, antiquated apartment, and hear the pack of college kids above me, I wonder why we can't have it both ways:)."

This has been rolling around in my brain for days now. I can see her in my mind's eye, manning her car around the dark, narrow streets, stalking a parking spot with all the strategy she learned in her decade-plus here. I picture her in a tasteful coat and dark tights walking beneath those huge East Coast trees, wearing a jaunty black hat. I know the murmur of density that becomes a song and I played the What If Game for a while, falling down the interweb real estate hole and looking at houses from Petaluma to Albany, Pacifica and San Francisco. So many of them were beautiful, and seemed to offer a variety of different lives from which to choose - a faux-Eichler in Terra Linda, a petite Craftsman cottage in North Berkeley, a rustic ranch in Nicasio, a tiny gingerbread toy box on Twin Peaks, a midcentury ranch in the fog above Pedro Point, my beloved Sunset Doelger homes - all equally beautiful and completely different. I wanted them all.

And I know just what she means - both ways. I want the crickets and the cafes. The driveway and the cheap, exotic eateries. The washing machine in the kitchen and the landmark building on the corner. Mellow but happening. Safe but exciting. Bucolic but buzzing. I always think of New Yorkers, who more often than not eventually move out of Manhattan, and to Brooklyn or suburbs further down the road - Connecticut, New Jersey, Long Island. I think they must feel the same longing that I feel, that Susan feels, because once the City is in your blood, it never really leaves. I wonder how many women stand at their windows in the towns along the train lines, watching the leaves turning red and missing hot chestnuts from Central Park, the way I look out at my beautiful sycamore tree and still miss the fog of my hometown, the way it wrapped everything in a gossamer hush, the way I imagine snow must when winter comes.

Hater Tuesdays #29: Swan Killer

2010-11-16T12:24:00.000-08:00

Dear Swan Killer,

I hope you're ~~happy~~ miserable. Actually, I assume you must be, because only someone in state of spiritual anguish could lay their hands on something as beautiful and peaceful as a swan and snap its neck, leaving it floating for its caretaker to forlornly fish it out of the only home its ever known.

You weren't even hungry, douchebag. You didn't eat the swan, you just killed it and threw it back in the water like garbage, and left its sister swan to now live a solitary life as the lone swan in the lake of the Palace of Fine Arts.

I wonder about you, just like I wonder about the sick soul that killed Pogo the pit bull. I wonder what possessed you to do what you did, what sociopathic faulty wiring in your brain would let you snatch a huge bird, twist its neck, and end its life while you sat there drinking a beer. I wonder if you ran from the scene, or if you cracked a fresh one and proudly surveyed your damage.

What happened to you? Who was cruel to you? Where does your pain come from? Who battered you with their hands, or their horrible words, to make your heart capable of such darkness?

Are you a runaway who feels like cast-off trash? A vet with PTSD? An alcohol-addled transient? Or worst of all, some little punk brat trying to impress his friends?

Whoever you are, I hope you're sorry. I hope you're remorseful. I doubt it, but I hope it. And I hope you get caught.

Yours truly,

Fahrenheit519

Memo To America

2010-11-02T15:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Middle, Working, and Underclasses of America,

how are things? We just wanted to drop a line to say hello and offer our thanks - you guys have been so busy being at each other's throats - as you have time and time again throughout the ages - that you haven't had time to notice how we're ass-reaming you blind! The ease with which you bend over and proffer your ripe and exploitable butt cheeks to us while you blame one another for the current dismal state of the economy is greatly appreciated. It gives us immense pleasure to sit back with a nice single malt and have a laugh at our P&L statements while you exert all your energy excoriating illegal immigrants, Unions, public servants, felons (present company excepted, of course), atheists, Muslims, brown people, yellow people, China, India, Africa, Canada, journalists, rappers, and/or feminists for ruining this country.

Middle Class, we have a special soft spot for you - we're grateful for the way you buy the Horatio Alger myth we sell you (at significant markup) and how you wake up in the dark for work, put in long hours, barely make enough to cover your expenses (but pay more taxes on your wages than we do on our capital gains) and then blame Javier the migrant farmworker or Joe the bus driver for why you're paying 30% of your gross for medical insurance - but you never point your fingers at us, and we love you for that! We love how you're willing to indebt yourselves to your eyeballs just to get a baseline education and standard housing and we particularly want to pat you on the back for all that charming noble ambition and tireless striving that keep funding the public aid (so we don't have to) that you're too proud to accept (and we don't need).

Working Class, bless your little blue collar hearts - even though you often have to work two jobs to make ends meet, you help the middle class feel just superior enough to keep them in line and grinding out the goods. Keep it up, and yes, we'd like fries with that.

Underclass, dear little underclass, to you perhaps we owe the most of all - you are the visible symbols of the lowest-common-denominator fear-mongering that keeps the whole circus performing. You're the living example of 'things could always be worse' that allows your brethren just a rung or two up the economic ladder from you to feel a surge of gratitude for the slender pieces of pie we slice off once in a while. We couldn't do it without you.

Thanks again, everyone!

With love,

The Ruling Class

p.s. Don't forget to vote!

Blessings

2010-10-21T11:59:00.001-07:00

I've taken to pouring milk for the morning coffee into this brightly colored little talavera cow I bought on Olvera Street last year. This morning I turned it over to look for artist's name - quite often pieces of talavera, no matter how humble, are signed - and was disappointed to find none. I wondered who had made it, and where, and how their life was going, and said a little blessing for them - all of this in the space of about two seconds and almost reflexively, without explicit consciousness (it takes me a long time to wake up).

I read somewhere - and have never been able to find mention of this again - that in certain parts of Japan, there is ceremony to honor household objects - teapots, brooms, and the like - when they're finally retired - a sort of thank you for years of faithful service. I found that irresistibly charming. I tend to get sentimentally attached to, well, most things, and I remember the mourning I felt when I had to discard the little alarm clock I'd had for fifteen years. Or the wastebasket I'd dragged along from house to house on my journeys. I always thank the little object for its service and feel like I'm walking away from a family member or something.

I often wonder about where things come from - who made them, what were they thinking about at the time, what were their worries, what they had to eat that morning, and so on - and I sometimes, though not often enough, offer up my little prayer to bless the person whose hands and/or labor made whatever it is I'm using at the time. In my idea of heaven, there is an 'absolute knowledge,' the gift of being almost-human, like walking through one's day as a living person does, but looking at a window and asking, 'Who lives in there? What country was her great-great-great grandmother from? Did that ancestor come on a ship? What's her worst fear? When did she lose her virginity?' and so on. It's the ability to regard something and know about its entire net of existence.

I wonder if there are others who have these thoughts - there must be, somewhere, another person who thinks like me. Tree Guy calls this my 'beautiful mind,' and it's a compliment in the following proportions: 99% 'The way you think is stunning and amazing,' and 1%, 'You, my friend, are completely batshit crazy.' I laugh. Maybe so. But I like the way I think - and I want to believe that those wide rings of thought and blessings reach out across the time, miles, oceans, and impossibility and find their intended target.

Letters To Bug and Other Young People: Be The Light

2010-10-20T14:03:00.000-07:00

~Second in a series of letters addressed to my quasi-Goddaughter but good for all younguns~

Dearest Bug,

today many people are wearing purple in memory of several young gay people who have committed suicide recently, as well as in support of the untold thousands upon thousands of gay youths who endure harassment and bullying every day. Although the fact that such harassment, and such personal despair, still exists is pretty depressing and means we have a long way to go, it does give me hope that there's even dialogue about it. When I was your age - twenty-eight years ago - it would have remained unaddressed, unspoken, and the bodies would have continued to pile up.

My best friend is gay. He came out when we were nineteen. I appreciated then and appreciate more even now, so many years later, the bravery and deep personal integrity this took - and still takes. The idea that anyone would ever hate on this individual that I consider the near-pinnacle of human creation because he's gay is nearly unfathomable. But the truth is that, given the chance, there are many ignorant, fearful people who absolutely would have taken him from me and snuffed out his light - and to imagine my life without him is like contemplating a world without color or song. I am luckier than most to have found a true anam cara - a 'soul friend' - and the horrible idea of being without him because of another human being's hatred moves me to tears (or the desire for blows, all depending).

So I want to say this to you - one of the most important things we as informed, compassionate people must do is reject hate towards others and work constantly, in whatever ways available to us, to spread any little bit of light, wisdom, insight, and perspective that we can into the corners of darkness that still make some people feel ashamed, less than, worthless, or damned.

It's not just about being gay. It's about fear, and bullying, and shame. You'll be twelve next week and I know there isn't a sixth-grader alive who doesn't know about these things - and it's the same no matter what the conflict is: Catholic and Protestant, black and white, gay and straight - and I also know you know better. You are such a lucky girl to be born to parents who turn away from bias and have hearts open to pretty much everyone, and a lucky girl to be born where and when you were - so we need you to be our special agent, to carry that message forward to children and young people born in your own time.

Be the change. Respect and value everyone until they prove to you as individuals that they don't deserve it. Don't tolerate shitty jokes from any of your friends - about gays, 'sluts' or 'whores,' fat kids, black kids, poor kids, or whoever happens to be on the list that day. You were chosen to be born to and nurtured by a community of really awesome, loving people, and part of the reason you were was so that you could spread that love and acceptance wherever you go.

When you see someone who has been the object of derision - an outsider of any kind - and is feeling low and sad and all those other things bullies want them to feel - tell them you see them, and you believe they're just fine the way they are. You have no idea how redemptive even the most fleeting or anonymous gestures of compassion or solidarity can be, Bug.

When you hear someone hating, call them out on it. Be prepared to engage in dialogue with them, preferably without judgment, and to set an example. Don't ever take the easy way out and stay quiet (unless your health and safety are in jeopardy) - say it. Tell it. You never know, you might be saving someone's life.

Respect the beliefs of others without betraying your own. Consider yourself a voice for those who can't speak or are afraid to. Sometimes that's not easy to do - but like your Mom, you're no shrinking violet, and you have the twin gifts of chutzpah and charm that mark true leaders and those able to influence others. Know that you have the power to change hearts, and that your actions, however small or large, will ripple in outward waves much further than you can imagine, and that you are, without a doubt, able to change the world.

Love,

Auntie S.

Hater Tuesdays #28: Some Days

2010-10-12T16:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get so tired.

Of rising above. Of turning the other cheek. Of being the bigger person. Making lemonade, doing the right thing, fighting the good fight.

When do I get to sink below? Be the smaller person? Do the wrong thing?

When do I get to be a flaccid or inept or ineffective or just plain mean employee, a walking tort who gets to take home a six figure paycheck no matter how poorly I treat others? When do I get to choose to not have to work and get to have someone else attend to all of my financial needs (and feel that I rightfully deserve it)? When do I get to walk around with a negative attitude, believing that the world revolves around me? When do I get to be acid, lazy, spoiled, ignorant, and unconscious? When do I get something for nothing?

Sometimes I think I'm just, as Henry Hill says in Goodfellas, a sucker. A gullible girl who bought the Horatio Alger myth and did all the right things - went to school, avoided scrapes with the law, never had children out of wedlock, patiently worked my way up the ladder - when I might as well have just blown off school and either parlayed my uterus into some sort of material security or become a criminal genius, traveled on borrowed money and declared bankruptcy and waited that out in a rent controlled apartment, stuck it to subletters and lived rent-free during the dotcom boom, backstabbed colleagues and subordinates, stolen their ideas, looked out always for #1?

What use is there, I sometimes wonder, in trying to be better than? Better than what? My parents, my relatives, my neighbors, my landlords, my colleagues and coworkers, my shadow side? Or, when do I get to stop being the example? Of the girl from the broken home who turned out just fine, considering. Of what focus and hard work and persistence can get you. Of how someone with moxie, grit, spunk, whatever you want to call it, can carve a life out of nothing and make it something?

Some days, days like today, I get tired of counting my blessings. Of remembering to be grateful for everything. Of taking the path of least resistance. Just for one day, one hour, I want to get away with being mean, ineffective, petty, pampered, and predatory. I want to fail to meet everyone's needs: my boss, my work colleagues, my friends, even my dogs. I want to take the halo off and throw the gauntlet down. I want to complain, I want to show up late, I want to come unprepared, not return calls, let requests for information die a slow, quiet death. I want to have a baby without figuring out how to afford it, I want to blow off my bills, I want to rest easy at night knowing that if I don't earn my own keep, someone else will pay my way. I want to get brutally honest and singe the psyche of others for years with well-chosen word bombs. I want to drive right over roadkill without feeling sad. Just for a minute, I want to see what it feels like to walk around cocooned in entitlement and unconsciousness...........just to see how it feels.

Halloween Things

2010-09-30T13:16:00.000-07:00

A list of Halloween costumes I've worn or want to someday:

Bumble Bee - I love a stripe, even if the horizontal ones are scary. This comes from a man friend commenting on my being a 'busy bee' all the time.

Greek Goddess - I'd pretty much wear flowing sunddresses and sandals every single day if I could, so this will be for one of those hectic, no-brainer years.

~~Frida Kahlo~~ - Halloween 2004 - Best. Costume. Ever. It was the first and only time I've partyhopped and had the best costume at the party. All of them.

~~Cat~~ - Halloween 1993, 1994, and God knows when else. the old, tired standby. Thanks to Kira's leftover leopard print cuffs from 1993. I guess I was always a manx, though, because I don't recall ever having a tail.

~~Witch~~ - Halloween 1991 and 2009 (at work); done it, but want to do it again. Who doesn't love a really good witch?

Medusa - it's attaching the snakes into the hair that'll really make this one.

~~Forest Sprite~~ - Halloween 2002. Long green dress and I made this huge, incredibly uncomfortable headpiece and 'scarf' of baby roses. With thorns. Ouch.

Yemaya - long white or blue white gown, simple crown of shells, sea creatures sewn to the dress, blue and white beads.

Cow - I must be the only woman who wants to dress up as a cow, but c'mon, they're sooooooooo cute.

~~Edie Sedgwick~~ - Halloween 1990, first one in San Francisco. Short bobbed hair slicked back, chandelier earrings, white lipstick, and a leopard coat.

~~Fire~~ - Halloween 95 or was that 96? It was a duo costume with my housemate, who was a forest. Forest fire. Get it?

Virgen de Guadalupe- this year's costume. Pinky-red sacky dress, blue mantle, crown, black sash, but how the hell do I figure out how to stand on a crescent moon?

Sea Hag - painted blue-green, shells in my hair and glued to my skin, glittery scales, fishing net.

~~Angel~~ - Halloween 2009. I was so excited, and it was pretty neat - a long white dress, white boots, wings, satin elbow gloves, a halo, glittler makeup, white boa, and all - but somehow it still all felt kind of anticlimactic.

Dead Pageant Queen - big dress, big hair, dead roses, sash that reads Miss Anthrope.

Day of the Dead Bride - Halloween 2008. I decided to replicate my Frida Kahlo costume, but since I'd just moved, I couldn't find the flower crown I'd made, so I made a whole new one. After all that work, it turned out that my hair was just a touch too short to pull it off, so at the last minute I ran to RiteAid at 9pm to buy vampire makeup and 'bloody gauze' for a veil and voila! Did a sugar skull face and was ready to go. It started to rain at around midnight and by the time Danielle and I had walked the mile or so from the party site (in a field) half my face was gone - which made it even creepier.

Wendesday Addams - because if I have to hear one more time how much I look like her, I'll throw the baby out the window.

~~Snow Queen~~ - I'm pale, I look good in white. Natch.

~~Devil~~ - Halloween 2000. I'm pale, and I look fucking fantastic in red. Natch.

Cheshire Cat - because you only live once.

Hater Tuesdays #27: Hater Haikus

2010-09-28T12:24:00.001-07:00

Learn to merge, dumbass

Your pathetic driving skills

Cause ten car pileups

Shut up, coworker

Your loud voice booms down the hall

Shattering all thought

Tuesday’s here again

Packed with meetings and dipshits

Most hateful of days

Ninety two degrees

Stuck inside looking out there

Quick! Break a window!

Attention all soccer moms

Your luxury SUVs

Soon to meet my key

Paloma the dog

Snores like a drunk truck driver

Making angel wings

Chihuahua kisses

Feather my face at daybreak

Best way to wake up

Dear Baby Boomers

Just die already, will you?

The 60s are gone

Hot pants, belly shirts

Birkenstocks, skinny jeans, Crocs -

Fashion criminals!

Oh hateful Xerox

Your black magic like voodoo

You rule this office

Generation X

Loyalty to no boss man

Get ours on our own

Baby Lyra Jade

Many long years we waited

You’re here! Sweetest joy!

Things About The Suburbs That Don't Suck

2010-09-16T15:18:00.000-07:00

1. The weather up here is phenomenal. I can leave home without a sweater! You put something in the ground and water it and the next thing you know you have gargantuan zucchinis or, get this, hibiscus. Like it's Hawai'i or something.

2. There is parking. Everywhere.

3. Crickets chirping. It reminds me of my Grandmother's home in San Clemente and instantly makes me feel like a kid again.

4. Big box stores. I fucking love Target. So sue me.

5. Seasons. Instead of cold and colder, as I got in San Francisco, I get a really springy spring and a really wintry winter. Granted, summer was mild this year, but since I'm a coastal girl, it was more than warm enough for me. Two weekends ago my stepsister and I sat in my living room and watched the red leaves fall from the camphor tree in the front garden in swirly paths, like rain.

6. Horse kisses. If you leave my front door and turn right at the second corner, in about three minutes you're walking up a road that feels like it's in the country. At the end of that road are horse ranches and a few cows, and on the way is a glassy pond and several secluded homes. If you drive ten minutes west, you're out in what feels like the middle of nowhere, even though it isn't. And there are cows, lots of cows. And more horses.

7. Halloween. People go OFF around here. I thought here in Familyland that Christmas would be the big deal, and to be fair, it is, but people go absolutely apeshit over Halloween. There are front yard setups that must cost thousands and involve enormous animated creatures, fog machines, and possibly multiple broken bones from trying to string lights, fake spider webs, and ghoulish mannequins from the eaves. Last year my BFF from work took me trick-or-treating with her kids in the neighborhood that replaced the former naval base and it was like a block party, only way, way, way bigger. I'm talking epic.

8. Birds. There's this one moment in the early morning when it's completely silent all around and then within the space of about a minute all the birds start carrying on like it's the ninth inning of the last game of the World Series. There are so many that I can't even begin to identify them all. I have bluejays regularly bathing in my makeshift birdbath in the front yard, and am trying to lure the mourning doves into roosting in my garden. The crows are as ubiquitous as they were in the City, and it's no rarity to see quail and turkey vultures. Even the freak seagull can be heard now and again.

9. Space between the houses. For 18 years I lived in row houses, most of the time multi-unit dwellings. In San Francisco, even if you have a back yard, it's generally pretty hard to get to unless you go over the roof, though the basement, or over your neighbor's fence. You get to hear not just the folks above and below you but often beside you, as well - at my last home at the beach I could hear the elderly Korean war veteran's television while sitting peacefully on my sofa reading. Now, there are fences. And side yards. And not only back yards but real front lawns. A moment, please.

10. A lack of smugness. Okay, it's still Marin, so there's still a hint of it, but up here in the northern bit of the county, we keep it pretty real. I saw the dotcom boom roll over San Francisco like an enormous steamroller, squeezing out the working families, regular Joe everymen, kids just starting out in the world, and longtime residents and what popped up after them was an army of white and Asian elitist sourpusses with raging entitlement complexes (if this also sounds a little bit like southern Marin, well......) and a screaming lack of social skills (I'm talking, unable to say hello when passing a stranger on the street). No one at a concert is actually dancing any more - they're too cool for that, arms crossed over their chests as they judge the band, eachother, themselves. At least here I feel free to be silly - I make nativity scenes out of old wine corks. I paint baby onesies for my expectant friends. I garden and am proud of it. I drag out my Styrofoam tombstones and plastic bats and go apeshit over Halloween just like everyone else.

Letters To Bug and Other Young People: Qualities

2010-09-15T15:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Bug (My Darling Unofficial Goddaughter),

as I write this you are on the cusp of twelve, officially a skeptical tween - I see the disaffected teenageriness you wear like your cool-kid black and white clothes and skull jewelery, the no paparazzi please pouting for photos, and the rolled eyes. Yet I'm comforted by the fact that when offered a choice between seeing The Runaways and How To Train Your Dragon, you chose the kid flick - and then put your head on my shoulder the whole way though the movie. You're still a little girl in many ways, even as your feet have grown bigger than mine and you'll be towering over your Mom in short order.

Ever since you were a baby I've scanned your face to try to imagine what you'll look like as a grownup. In the same way, I've watched you turn into a polite, funny, creative young woman and though I'm in no hurry, I look forward to knowing the adult you. I look for signs - the way I once watched your fine baby hair turn curly and golden, I now listen to your questions and thoughts just as hawkishly, trying to predict and influence who you might be.

When I was coming up, I think most of the adults in my world had the best of intentions but most abysmal of executions (excuse the pun) - looking back I liken it to paddling upsteam in a leaky canoe with one broken oar. Probably most of your Mom's friends will tell you similar stories, and for that reason perhaps we've turned into a culture of overly-attentive, protective parents and guardians, intent on saving you from dogpaddling without a lifejacket through the rough waters of adolescence and young adulthood. So far I know I've nothing to worry about; you are remarkably well-adjusted and vibrant, and you certainly have a lot of people gunning for you; but still, some things you need an Auntie/Pseudo-Godmom for.

I can no longer change your diapers or walk you across the street - you've grown up and you have parents, grandparents, and a circle of family who will take care of all your needs. So I get the gravy - passing on to you some of the things I've learned, in the hopes that some of it, at some time, will bring you happiness or wisdom.

I think back on the person I was and am now, both for better or worse, and on the people I've crossed paths with in life - housemates, people I've dated, coworkers, family members, friends both long and short term, party pals, lovers, and so on. I think there are several fundamental qualities that are intrinsic to being a good person and happy with yourself and I want you to remember to try to always be:

1. Grateful: first and foremost, remember that you are lucky to be alive, no matter what Morrissey's songs say. Being born as a female in America puts you ahead of the game in many ways, and as long as you have limbs that work, your health, and a robust sense of self, you can sort out the rest. Remember, my darling girl, that the best way to start and end each day is with a big thank you to the universe, cold and empty as it might seem at times, for all you've been given. Try to focus on what you have, never what you lack, and remember, when you sometimes feel you'll never get yours, that you have so much - food in the fridge, a closet stuffed with clothes, electricity, water, and a gang of people who love you. Everything else is a bonus.

2. Self-Reliant: Always know that it comes down to you. You are perfectly capable of packing your own moving boxes, earning your own living, making your own bed, and buying your own diamonds. True, you may prefer to let someone else do these thing for you at times, but to be a whole person you must know that you can do any and all of this for yourself, and more.

3. Curious: Although it may have annoyed your parents when you were a toddler, the question 'why?' is a good one to keep asking. It will lead you down roads of inquiry that will teach you to be a critical thinker, an individualist, and nobody's fool. If you see a movie about a fascinating figure from the past, go check out a library book on him or her (I will settle for Wikipedia'ing). Ask, ask, ask. Connect the dots. Find out. Go look. Look harder. Follow the motivation, follow the money, follow the line of reasoning. To be trite, the truth shall set you free.

4. Physical: know and love your body. Find out what it can do, respect it, and develop a relationship with it. Sadly, you are growing up in a culture that would love to make you believe that your body is an enemy, or a thing - like a sweater on a sale rack - that belongs to the whole word. It's not. It's yours, and it's the most powerful tool, outside of your brain, that you'll ever have. Run, jump, kick, swim, learn to punch even if you never have to, climb up hills, listen to your body and treat it like a friend.

5. Temperant: while there's some truth to Blake's axiom that 'the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,' I think there's even more in the saying 'it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.' You'd be hard-pressed to find a single person in this country who hasn't been affected by addiction - either their own or someone else's. And I don't just mean alcohol or drugs - addiction comes in many forms; intoxicants, food, exercise, shopping, gambling, love, sex, basically anything can be abused - so please remember that while it's okay to indulge your desires, it should always be done appropriately and with mindfulness. Developing an addiction is pretty much the same thing as handing over your freedom to an invisible, elusive enemy, and it really doesn't lead to palaces of wisdom.

6. Accountable: If you say you're going to be somewhere or do something, do it. If it's your job to know, make, or do something, follow up, preferably ahead of time. I err on the side of naturally flaky and it's taken a lot of discipline to grow into a person who generally does what they say they will, and I damn sure am 100% accountable at my job (why I have higher standards at work than home I don't know, but the same rule applies to my housekeeping). If you do what you say you will, you will be ahead of 90% of the folks out there.

7. Trustworthy: Which is kind of related to accountable, but what I mean is, please keep secrets. Don't be that girl who gossiped and put another person's trauma on Front Street; it's the fastest road to hell. I swear.

8. Compassionate: Try as hard as you can to reserve judgment until you absolutely have to - some folks make bad first impressions but can turn out to be super cool. I hardly need to tell you this, but always look out for animals. Remember that there are many living things out there that are voiceless and are counting on you to speak for them. Never be afraid to step in and help out a child, dog, person, whatever, so long as you can reasonably expect to remain safe. Also, remember to have compassion for yourself - you deserve it just as much as anyone else.

9. Self-Advocating: take care of you first. You'll hear a lot of cultural hot air about putting others first and not being selfish, but you have to take care of yourself first before you can help anyone else - kind of like putting on an oxygen mask if a plane's cabin pressure falls. Ask for what you need, and demand it if you must. If someone closes a door in your face, go around the back, in through a window, or dig a tunnel. There is a way!

10. Polite: you already are, but I'm just saying. It might shock you to know that in the world of grown-ups, there's not nearly enough please, thank you, and excuse me. Or it might not shock you. In any case, you'd be surprised how much these three simple phrases, coupled with giving the benefit of the doubt and showing respect to everyone from the janitor to the president of your company in equal measure, will serve you in life. It's just as easy to be nice as it is to be nasty, and it goes a long, long way.

11. Generosity: Tip well. Do not quibble over dinner bills - just pay your half or even portion (unless someone's trying to get cute and drink excessively on your dime - in that case, separate checks!). Get rid of things you don't need or love. Give as much time and money as you can afford. Even when I've been broke, I always stick a dollar or quarter or nickel in the tip jar and know that it will come back to me tenfold.

12. Observant: Jon Blaufarb said to me once that, 'Sometimes the smartest thing to do is just shut up and listen.' Even while you are self-advocating and fighting the good fight, sit back to look, listen, and learn as much as you can. Think about where people are coming from, why they say what they say and do what they do, where their interests lie. Also, pay keen attention to your surroundings and the people in them. Notice details. You can never be too aware of what's around you.

13. Resilient: this is probably the most important thing of all. This is what makes the difference between two people who have both gone through hell, yet one has turned out to be a survivor while the other is a perpetual victim. I do believe this is mostly an inborn quality, but also that it can be cultivated. One of the most valuable skills in life is the ability to resist the temptation to feel sorry for oneself and cop out on taking responsibility for oneself. Being able to bounce back after setbacks - which are inevitable and as much a part of human life as oxygen - is key to getting anything done and to being able to face your reflection in the mirror. Don't ever be a victim, Bug - own your life, your mistakes, your personal challenges and raw deals, and determine to rise above all of it.

So that's a start. We've still got a lot to hammer out, and of course, like I said, since you're practically a teenager now, you already know everything. Just in case, though, keep this handy.

All My Love,

Auntie S.

Best Facebook Thread Ever

2010-09-01T06:07:00.000-07:00

F519 If there's anything better than a sweet western breeze on a hot summer night, I don't know what it is.

Homegirl One

I really agree! Its about 85 here rt now.

Wednesday at 9:57pm ·

F519

It's probably in the high 60s right now but was mid 80s midday. I was floating in the pool & feelin irie! Wish u were here.

Wednesday at 10:00pm ·

Homegirl Two

theres nothing better.

Wednesday at 10:22pm ·

Homegirl Three

um that breeze wafting thru the window cooling my sex sweaty skin as my boy toy feeds me grapes and fans me me with a palm frond??? It that better?

Wednesday at 10:22pm ·

Homegirl Two

ok wait. i may have changed my mind.

Wednesday at 10:34pm ·

Homegirl Four

Getting an hour foot massage under a full moon, while hearing the waves crash.

Wednesday at 10:37pm ·

F519

Omfg Homegirl Three. I think I just shot Coke through my nose!!!

Wednesday at 10:37pm ·

Homegirl Three

yeah, i'm good like that baaaaaaybeeeee!! When are we gonna get together and make some boys glad they're men??? Lets go show off and get smashed!!! Just like the old days,, oh wait that was me getting smashed, you laughing at me....yeah, lets go do that!!!

Wednesday at 10:39pm ·

Homegirl Three

OMG, you get to drink COKE????? wow, i'm so freakin jealous....

Wednesday at 10:40pm ·

Homeboy One

When that breeze whispers in your ear...

Wednesday at 11:23pm ·

Homegirl One

Y'all are some sexy bitches!

Wednesday at 11:34pm ·

Homegirl Three

and he's whispering sexy stuff like, I cleaned the bathroom and did the laundry....uuummmmm YES YES YES!!! LIKE THAT!!!

Yesterday at 12:16am ·

F519

‎"Yeah baby, I mopped your floors.....you like it like that? Damn girl, you know what else..............I unloaded the dishwasher and washed your car while you were out.........say my name........."

23 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

Oh, and baby, when I loaded the dishwasher, I did it just like you like it....Not the way I usually do it....and when I was done doing all that sexy cleaning, I PUT THE CLEANING STUFF AWAY, LIKE THE BROOM....you like that don't you girl....uh huh....

23 hours ago ·

F519

‎".........ooooo yeah, and I put the silverware back properly, you know, baby, with the salad forks and coffee spoons separate from the dinner forks and large spoons........who's your Daddy, huh?"

23 hours ago ·

Homeboy Two

he he he he, Good comments written here. It's like foreplay for Ladies...[Love is all we need]

22 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

Hey sexy, remember how you asked me to clean the garage a few years back? Well I did it, and I didn't bring any of that crap of mine that you told me couldn't go in our house when we got together back IN the house on the sly.....Yeah, everything i do, i do it for yooooooooouuuuuuu!!!!!

22 hours ago ·

Homegirl One

ooooh yeah, and when you bleached the grout in the tub tile, i was like....ooo weeee baby! and after that you sizzled that chicken milanesa in the pan till it was justttt right!

21 hours ago ·

F519

LADIES, do you note that it is interesting that none of us are talking about expensive jewelry or cars, big dicks, or flowers? MEN, take note: what we really want? Is for you to HELP A SISTA OUT!!!!!!!!

21 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

And help me the WAY I ask you too!! Don't do a crappy half ass job, that I have to re-do! And don't be mad because I tell you HOW to do what I want done. No I don't think I'm always right, ok, yeah I do...But when YOU ask how can you help me....It's only helping if you do it the way I want it done....If you truly wanna help me, you'll do it like I asked!

21 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

Oh and THEN you can give me flowers, jewelry and a roll in the sack with your big......lol

21 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

and YES, I am that big of a BIT*H!!! LMAO

21 hours ago ·

F519

Yes, but first things first.........brother, can you bleach some grout? Can you dig a hole for a fence post? Can you mix cement? Can you load a dishwasher? YES? Okay. Now, let's talk..............

21 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

STOP IT!!! You are getting me all excited!!! LOL

21 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

You know this all started out with you enjoying the breeze, right...You firebrand you!! Can't even talk about the weather without some serious man/woman interpersonal relationship research and discovery goin on! Yeah, that's my girl!!! =0)

21 hours ago ·

F519

It's what I do best. God bless Mills College. LOL.

21 hours ago ·

Homegirl Three

God Bless YOU! =0)

20 hours ago ·

F519

Aw shucks!

20 hours ago ·

Homeboy One

Hmmmm!

19 hours ago ·

Homegirl One

Wow I missed a lot of action but apparently I need to meet Homegirl Three too. Bitches CAN love!

15 hours ago ·

Homegirl Five

This was some good shit!

11 hours ago ·

Homeboy One

Is this where someone lights one up?

9 hours ago ·

Hater Tuesdays #26: Family

2010-08-31T12:23:00.000-07:00

There's 'family planning,' 'family-friendly,' and of course the nauseating expression 'family values.' Since when did the word 'family' become a substitute for the word 'children?' Think about it: family friendly = tolerant of the hijinks and behavioral peccadilloes of children. Family planning = trying like hell not to produce children before being damn good and ready. Family values = right-wing hatefulness disguised as being for the good of the children.

Two very dear friends of mine expanded their family last week with the birth of a beautiful baby girl...but they were already a family before that (boy, girl, ball-obsessed dog, ancient farm cat). It irritates me to hear a couple say, 'We want to have a family,' when in fact as two people they already are a family and what they want is to have children. If one is to swallow this presumption unthinkingly, then it negates every other version of a family: two individuals, one individual and his or her assorted familiars, several individuals, and so on. I consider a man and his dog a family. Two grown adults without kids, still a family. Even a college student and her goldfish, sure, a family (although I'll admit we're stretching it a bit here; but what does the litmus test for 'family member' have to be - a sentient being? mammalian? bipedal? Do friendly ghost cats count?).

As a Generation X coastal Californian, I've seen more permutations of family than I care to count - communes, great huge extended black communities where everyone is one's 'cousin,' divorced and blended families, emancipated children and their siblings, and so on. Even in my own case it boggles the mind; three stepsisters on my Mom's side (no longer steps since our parents got divorced), another stepsister on my Dad's side (but not really, because they never got married, and one gets tired of saying 'my Dad's longtime girlfriend's daughter'), a stiff muy guera biological set of relatives on my Dad's side, a sprawling mix of Latino Jehovah's Witnesses, absentee Yankee, and desert white trash on my Mom's side (who ironically can trace their roots back to the - wait for it, wait for it - Mayflower), an extended circle of the tightest of tight friends, most based in Los Angeles, a best friend who is as close to me or closer than most brothers, and an endless array of critters.

Children don't make a family. They add to it, shore it up, expand it, flip it, and can anchor it, but it's love that makes a family. And any love between two or more individuals - now that's a real family.

Growing Up Rich

2010-08-20T13:02:00.000-07:00

It was the picture of my ex-boyfriend that did me in. Of course it's near two decades old, from a time when we took our rolls of film to the developer and waited breathlessly for the prints, always promising to order extras from the negatives for friends and family (but rarely doing so). All those photographs have ended up in the countless sticky albums, storage boxes, and random drawers belonging to those of us who grew up before the miracle of digital cameras, and these days we download clever apps like Hipstamatic and The Little Orange Box onto our iPhones and Droids to replicate the hazy, slightly under- or overexposed charm of our childhood pictures.

This was the real deal - a photo of my post-high school boyfriend, whom I suppose I must grudgingly acknowledge as my first love, who in the nine short months before I turned 18 convinced me to abandon my comfortable quasi-foster home with family friends and move into his tiny duplex, fed me LSD, turned me onto Bauhaus and the Cocteau Twins, knocked me up, attempted to control my dress and associations, and taught me a very valuable lesson about never letting anyone verbally abuse me again. I knew it was over when one afternoon at Tower Records I saw an old fling from high school and, catching the exchange of knowing looks between us, he berated me in the car on the way home. Having very recently found myself just slightly pregnant and inclined to exercise my feminist-ingrained prerogative to free myself from being an unwed, uneducated teenage mother, he spat at me, "I can't believe that a child of mine is a womb so polluted - it would probably die anyway!" I called the abortion clinic the minute I walked through the door and I spent my eighteenth birthday moving all my shit out of his ratty little kip on Georgia Court.

I knew he'd had a propensity for impregnating his girlfriends - at least one before me, during high school, and possibly two. He was clearly eager to be a young father, though whether this came from a desire to prove his virility, nurture a new little soul, or just sheer naivete I don't know, but eventually he got his wish and early in '94, or pushing about six years after I'd moved out of his place, he dug my address out of the trash from a Christmas card I'd sent his mother and emailed me a photograph of his two-year-old son - the spitting image, all white hair, dour expression, and psycho blue eyes - along with a letter in his typical faux-Jim Morrison, would-be shaman style. Long recovered from the heartache, I laughed at its pretentiousness and threw it out, though the photo of his kid seemed to linger in my piles of pictures for years afterward, for no apparent reason other than the sort of illogical reverence we all seemed to have for anything printed on expensive photographic paper.

Now, of course, we're Facebook friends. We've exchanged email pleasantries over the years and his path has been as predictable as his letter had been: his high school mod years were followed by his late teen Goth years were followed by his state-college Deadhead years were followed by his suburban soccer Dad years. After an extended period living in gloomy Humboldt County, wearing the long hair, shaggy beard, and atrocious natural-fiber clothing of a stone-cold hippie and driving the de rigeur VW bus while having a multiplicity of towheaded babies and pursuing an advanced degree in drama (riddle me that), he likely found the job market for dilettante cineastes wanting and hightailed it back to suburban San Diego to work for his wealthy father's company, though this is largely conjecture (but probably not far off the mark).

The photograph that brought all of this to mind is a glowy, slightly blurry image of him holding his infant son on the porch of a ramshackle lean-to with a dog's butt, some chicken wire, and milk crates in the foreground. In the same online album there's also a picture of his young wife proudly holding the baby against the backdrop of Humboldt's ubiquitous forest. Both of these are an interesting juxtaposition to a picture from the same time of the three of them posed in front of his father's SoCal McMansion, the special gold light of San Diego framing the happy young family - baby nonplussed, young mom tired but happy, and young dad hand on hip, visibly if unconsciously smug.

And this the thing about people that grow up with money that I marvel at and on some level envy - the baseline certainty they walk around with, the blithe reassurance that no matter what they do - attend university to study performance art, elope with a card dealer, have a baby before they finish their education, run up their credit cards buying rims, snort cocaine openly in popular nightclubs, make amateur porn videos, or attempt to smuggle narcotics out of an Islamic country - they will be okay. There's a quiet confidence - and sometimes a rash foolhardiness - that comes from growing up rich that I both deride and covet.

I decided long ago, after a high school experience spent eyeballing the material abundance of my cohorts, that it is useless to hate rich people per se - they deserve a chance to prove themselves of good character like anyone else - and I can tell you that I'd sooner move to Palos Verdes or Tiburon than West Richmond or the Tenderloin (I mean, look at where I live now - though Novato is considered the redheaded stepchild of the county, it's still Marin), though I'd likely find the vibe noticeably chilly. I'm not trying to prove how down I am with the masses by setting up shop in the hood. But that's because I've lived there. I know what it is to grow up with the specter of hunger, neglect, need, and exploitation lingering in every shadow. Kids who come from want are sometimes spiritually and mentally destroyed by deprivation and abuse, but so are some kids who want for nothing. Spiritual brokenness is an equal opportunity motherfucker.

What I observe people who have been reared in privation have is a sense of caution and relational awareness that I often don't see in the children of money. It can manifest as fear and sense of permanent lack, perhaps, or, conversely, as grit and motivation, a but always there is an undercurrent of knowing that if one doesn't take care of business, one is ass-out, out of luck, fucked. Knowing that you have to do it yourself or sink under the waves can be either negative or positive, I suppose, birthing a punk rock, DIY, get-yours ethic of radical self-reliance or a crippled state of perceived permanent hardship. I believe resiliency or the lack thereof, as well as a natural orientation towards optimism or pessimism, is largely inborn, but in those who grew up without is always an undertone of seriousness one doesn't find elsewhere.

As a young woman I remember reading someone's musings on the differences in the way the rich and poor grocery shop: the rich casually tossing a few choice items into their petite baskets while the poor roll trolleys laden to bursting with food down the aisles. This ran counter to my perceptions at the time; that the rich would buy mounds of food because they could afford whatever they liked, whereas the poor would have to be selective and skimpy for lack of money. The theory was that the rich could buy so little because they knew they could come back when they needed to for anything they desired, whereas the broke knew their window of food security opportunity was finite and were stockpiling against the terror of hunger. And it is like this, I think, for many of us - those haunted by lack operate as though at war, arming ourselves against whatever it is we think we may not have enough of, while others have the mixed blessing of being able to walk through life as if protected by an invisible shield from worry, safe in their knowledge that no matter what risks they take, there will always be a net to catch them.

Hater Tuesdays #25: Marriage

2010-08-10T10:38:00.000-07:00

Actual Conversation

Me: I can't believe I married that guy............I had no business and to this day I feel guilty about it.

Best Friend: Awww.........but you really, really loved him.

Me: That's never a good enough reason to get married.

Good Fridays #4: Mad Respect

2010-07-30T09:16:00.000-07:00

You know who I have crazy, unbridled respect for? The lucky gentlemen who have the plum job of driving a massive cargo truck up and down San Francisco's teensy eensy beentsy maddeningly skinny and sharp little streets. Without taking out buildings, stoplights, clueless pedestrians or those ubiquitous, self-righteous cyclists who fail to honor traffic laws. Seriously, these guys are expected to drive vehicles carrying multiple tons up and down ridiculous hills that would make most Americans turn white with fear just taking it on in a Toyota.

Because I am big on the road trips, I know what it is to scream up and down California's major arterial highways (how I love you, Mighty 101, my gorgeous ribbon of freedom), blowing through the valleys that grow the food that feeds us on our lacy coastal edges, our little dollhouse cities, far from the blood smell of the slaughterhouses that dot the I-5's trajectory or the heady brew of slurry and other fertilizers applied to our crops. It's so easy to forget where food comes from, to believe it magically appears in sexy pyramids on those artfully-lit, oft-misted produce bins in one's neighborhood supermarket. But between the front door of the farm and the back door of Safeway, it's got to get here, and that's where the truckers come in.

On the flat, hypnotic plain that is the 5, trucks rule the landscape. They own the right lane and don't you forget it. Onramps and offramps are graceful and wide and lack sharp turns, built for the monster vehicles that support the region's livelihood. I've accompanied trucks on these long, lonely roads, then moved in closer to them as the highways approach urban density, and then prayed for them as they attempt to snake their way through our Lilliputan streets.

So if no one's ever told you, truckers of Calfornia, I praise your mad skills, your patience, your care, and your crazy crazy talent at being able to maneuver those beasts through this town and make sure your arugula ends up on my plate. You are loved, Big Guys.

The Guilty Omnivore

2010-07-29T12:32:00.000-07:00

When I was sixteen and living with my friend Sheryl-Lyn's parents (who took me in after my mom and stepdad booted me out of the house the day after my junior year ended) I declared one evening that I was now a vegetarian. Her Dad flew into a rage of apocolyptic proportions and I distinctly remember him shouting, 'No child living in this house is going to go without meat!' Okaaaaayyyyyy, then. Once this nascent effort at being a vegetarian was quashed, I never really entertained it again, though I did always blanch at any reading or visual material having to do with animal slaughter and deeply admired my vegetarian friends and acquaintances for their discipline, ideals, and moral backbone.

I've remained picky about meat. I won't eat lamb at all, aside from being cajoled into at least tasting it a couple of times, which only confirmed that in addition to my aversion to consuming adorable, fluffy baby animals, I found their flesh soft and gamey and totally unappealing. I've also never wanted to eat veal, goat, mutton, or any poultry other than your very basic chicken and turkey (white meat only, at that). I'm particular about seafood as well - crustaceans are okay, but mollusks I find revolting (a pity, really, since I live near one of the world's prime oyster spots).

Pork I've always been quite wary of and other than bacon, which hardly counts as meat (I've seen vegans eat it - raw, and every vegetarian I know says it's the one thing they miss) and is more of candy for grownups, really, or Italian dry salami, a lifelong weakness, I can completely go without it. You'll never find a pork chop, loin, roast, or rib on my plate, which led to a good many mealtime challenges in Ireland. Like all historically poor Catholic countries, Ireland is pork happy - every meal my ex's Mum cooked was gammon steak, sausages, or some pig part fried on the cooker. I'd politely decline and eat more than my fair share of potatoes (ubiquitous at every Irish meal, even lasagna) and then quietly head down the road to the town chipper and have a burger after dinner, because when all else fails, I love beef. Always have. Burgers, steaks, strips, shredded in Southern California tacos (like ropa vieja), grilled carne asada in Northern California tacos, any way you want to give it to me, I'll take it. Mad cow didn't stop me and neither did my occasional stabs of guilt at eating an animal as darling as a bovine (plus; I'm a Taurus - doesn't that make it a little cannibalistic?). I would have periodic crises of consciousness and then get past them with the sort of anomie that allows me to also purchase cheap Chinese goods despite being too smart not to know where and from what sort of circumstances they originate - the same type of nihilism that allows people to walk past a stray dog or homeless person or dying deer without wanting to tear their own eyeballs out.

I've always admired vegetarians and respected them greatly. It's no bother for me to modify a meal or dish to accommodate them, and I've even tried to cultivate 'veggie days' in my own life, when I refrain from meat for the day, but I've never been able to make that leap, and don't think I ever will. Animals are tasty. It's horrible and sad but it's true, and I've never been a strong, ethical, or disciplined enough person to banish meat from my plate, no matter how guilty I've felt. I have crazy respect for my stepsister, who gave up meat a couple of years ago, and my homie Susan, who refused to eat any it from the age of eight onwards. I just don't think I'll ever have their backbones.

For a few years now I've entertained the idea of only eating higher-quality meats - grass fed, organic, yadda yadda. A couple of attempts at doing so gave me severe sticker shock and sent me scurrying back to the ValuPaks of chicken breasts. Halal and kosher meats are seriously hard to come by in Marin, which I find just plain annoying. So the whole idea ended up on a back burner, where it has remained.

The other day, however, I had reason to end up in the library, skimming the 'new nonfiction' section, where I stumbled upon a 'young reader's' version of The Omnivore's Dilemma, in which writer Michael Pollan eats and dissects the supply-chain origin of four meals. Now, I'm not in any way a food snob, foodie, eco-warrior, or passionate advocate of organics. My palate is unabashedly pedestrian, but allowing myself to read his account of well, where it all comes from, was really sobering. Then I fell down the Google hole and ended up on a Wiki page with a photograph of a cow pinned into some ghastly contraption they put them before they stun them. And then I'd had enough and made a decision.

I didn't go to college and put myself in debt for it, or claw my way up the career ladder, or make a geographical leap (small as it may have been, it was psychologically massive) or refrain from having children, so that I could continue to live, and eat, as if I were in poverty. When I say to eat as if in poverty, I don't mean skimpy portions and subsisting on rice, beans, and ramen - I mean a scarcity mentality that leads to the purchase of Valu-Paks or heavier foods that signify a certain 'satisfaction' or freedom from fear of hunger or never 'having enough (probably a behavioral hangover from my days of childhood hunger as an aspect of a deeply dysfunctional family life)'. I've never been a bottom-of-the-barrel shopper, but I've been pretty mainstream and I'm beginning to think that at this point in my life, I can do better (and maybe someday the 'mainstream' will be of better quality) for myself and others. I've made certain choices - not all of them easy - so that I could have other choices in life - where I could live, how I could live, and now that I've got that sorted, perhaps how I can eat.

I live in Marin County, which is lousy with some of the finest farms and ranches one could ever hope to find. I'm not trapped on a Midwestern prairie somewhere, forced to buy food from a superstore, so why have I acted like it? A couple of Saturdays ago, just after payday, I went on an afternoon shop at the newly-opened Whole Foods nearby and felt strangely giddy over what I mentally called my 'sexiest basket of groceries ever' - organic strawberries and whipped cream, milk from the Straus Family Creamery in nearby Point Reyes, an experimental bottle of white wine (one glass gave me a headache and I threw it out), a little tub of marinated feta, and so on. I felt in some strange way as if I had arrived - and that's the illusion that Whole Foods sells. I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that a lot of their products are trucked in from far away, so I have to ask, why go for that when there are farms a stone's throw away where the lettuce grows under the same sun my own garden tomatoes do?

The answer, of course, is both money and convenience. Money's always an issue - even for a stable-job person like me, living single in the Bay Area is never easy and some months it seems like robbing Peter to pay Paul, for sure. I'm paying down my debts and it hurts like hell. I have the dogs and myself to provide for and some days it does feel like the bills never stop pouring in. At the same time, I keep it in perspective and have learned to love my little middle-class problems.

So, small changes. One thing at a time. Maybe a vegetable delivery service from a local farm (until I thoroughly learn how to grow my own). A commitment to buying that Straus milk because, after all, it's just for my coffee and cereal and I don't have a herd of kids draining it on a daily basis. And here's going to be the hardest one: there's a tri-tip from Target (I'm so ashamed) marinating in my fridge right now. After it's grilled up and eaten tonight, that's the last mainstream beef I'm buying except in case of emergency. If that means that now I can only afford to eat beef once a week, so be it. I'll try to learn to love tofu (whose charm has thus far escaped me) and I see a lot of pasta in my future. But I know I deserve better than what I've been eating, and so do the animals I've been eating. I doubt I'll ever be able to go fully vegetarian, but at least I can do this. I think.

Hater Tuesdays #24: It's Viral

2010-07-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

The weekend of the 4th, I had my little goddaughter - who made it clear that she prefers to be called my niece - up for the weekend. We hit the County Fair (you'd think she was mine the way that kid can shop), had tacos for breakfast, and spent a great deal of time in my white trash above-ground pool, floating around in the lounger. Though pushing 12, she insisted on sleeping with me, although she woke up in the night feeling stuffy and asking if I had nasal spray. I should have known right then and there.

A few days later, the light cough began and by the weekend I was feeling fatigued. By yesterday, Monday, when my new boss arrived for her first day of work, I was hacking like an elderly pipefitter with a pack-a-day habit, and the coughing hurt. I left work early and today I took the day off to see the doctor. She gave me codeine cough syrup, which I must say works swimmingly. I haven't coughed hard in over an hour. However, I'm still gripped by an overall malaise which is not helped by the dogs, who are sulking petulantly at having missed Walkies. Twice.

I have figured out that there is such a thing as too much Home & Garden TV - I never thought I'd get bored of back-to-back episodes of House Hunters International and Color Splash, but I have. I'm eyeballing an embarassingly large stack of library books over in the corner that I seem to lack the attention span for. It's not that I've been totally useless - I've managed to water gardens both front & back, organize my paperwork, do some dishes, and straighten up - but a sustained effort at anything other than Facebooking is proving difficult. And as for Facebook, I alternate between feeling loving and magnanimous ("I wish you all the very best in life!") to snarky and dark ("Gee, I see from your Photo Albums that no matter what role in life you've been playing, you've always had just the right props."). I've texted. I've updated. Now I've blogged.

Now, about those books.....

Hater Tuesdays #23: We Can't Make A Decent..........

2010-06-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

As a species, humans have been able to do amazing things. We've created vaccines and the internal combustion engine, built cathedrals, suspension bridges, and skyscrapers, and launched satellites and sent men to the moon (well, they say so, anyway), but you know what it seems we can't do?

Create a decent personal coffeemaker.

Seriously; have you ever bought a coffeemaker for your home that didn't spill water, leak, short circuit, let the coffee go cold, or generally let you down in the cruelest way ever? Have you? Because if you have, please let me know about it and where I can buy it.

All throughout my twenties and early thirties I never owned a coffeemaker because I was a cafe slut who would knock over old ladies just to get my favorite table in whatever neighborhood cafe had become my second home. I basically earned my degree sitting in the window of the Fillmore Grind, but best of all was the late, great Last Laugh, three doors down from my flat on Dolores - stumbling distance.

As time passed, though, it became clear that for various reasons it was time to go into domestic production of the Sweet Elixir of Life, and so in 2004 I bought myself a Melitta Mill & Brew, the low-rent cousin of the Cuisinart Grind & Brew, and that little trooper served me happily for over four years. True, after a couple of years the grinding blades were stripped and no good, so I had to revert to purchasing ground beans (the horror!), the clock eventually gave out (so no presetting in order to have coffee ready when I crawled out of bed) and once I broke the carafe in the porcelain sink and had to order a new one online and use a French press for a week, but that machine made good, hot coffee for many, many years.

Right after I moved to Stepford I decided I should get a coffeemaker with a thermal pot because while I do drink a lot of coffee, I drink it slowly, and I find very little as loathsome as lukewarm coffee or, worse, microwaved coffee, which tends to turn a hideous shade of grey (no idea why - anyone? Bueller?). So I got one and bundled my trusty little workhorse Melitta off to my Office BFF, who was in desperate need of one. The thermal number was OK, but it seemed a touch......lukewarm, and I wasn't getting that piping hotness I had anticipated. I worked with it until I moved house, into a place that takes the vintage in 'vintage kitchen' seriously - the cupboards are original to the 1940 construction and they're low - too low for a coffeemaker where you have to pour the water in from the top (which means all of them - more on this later). I decided to take a lesson from my Gran and fork out for a Black & Decker Spacesaver coffeemaker.

My Grandmother is serious about the Elixir (she drinks it black) and her B&D workhorse lasted, well, I'd say decades. It's design was great - fill up the square water carafe, slide it in, hit START, and it would transfer the water from the tank to the pot. In all the years from my childhood through my thirties, I never saw it spill or generate any kind of havoc at all, and as recently as three years ago (the last time I visited her house before she rented it out) it was still chugging away, so I took that as the best sort of recommendation.

So I happily skipped over to Target, bought one, and had the Man Friend install it. It was the 'new and updated' model and although I found the 'flat' water tank a bit bizarre, I figured it had to be okay - surely they wouldn't fix what wasn't broken, right? For the first month or so, it was great. It had the crucial feature I value most - the automatic timer, allowing me to wake up to a fresh pot of coffee without the agony of measuring out coffee and water whilst still functionally asleep. But then one day, after filling the awkward flat, handle-less water tank up, it dropped from my hands and to the counter, a couple of inches below. This somehow started a tiny crack that led to a leak whenever the water was full. This grew exponentially and now it's routine to have to put two glasses beneath the water tank when making coffee, and forget about trying to preset it - that is, unless you want to wake up to 12 cups of water all over your counters. I've thrown up my hands, cried Uncle, and come to terms with the fact that I need to go back to countertop - mostly because having coffee already done when I wake up is more important than having it suspended in midair.

There are thousands of coffee makers out there, many of them quite reputable, but all with one fatal design flaw - one must fill the water tank from the top. Surely I can't be the only person with cabinets low enough to preclude this, and I just find it a little hard to believe that there are millions of spoiled Americans who tolerate sliding their appliances around the counters every morning in order to load up.

Apparently, DeLonghi has answers to my questions, and has come out with the Front Load Drip Coffee Maker, which allows one to - surprise! - load up from the front. I've vacillated on whether or not to purchase this for months; mostly because I'm bitter about having to purchase a new third coffeemaker in the space of two years when the little gem I had before that lasted me four years (and, I had already passed along the thermal one to my Office BFF after the little gem truly died). And I know, I just know, that the minute I do, and the minute after that, which is when I surrender 16 square inches of premium countertop real estate to this beast, Black & Decker will issue a new model of Spacesaver with the old-school square tank, and once again, I'll be screwed.

It's enough to make a girl give up and start drinking tea.

Good Fridays #3: Tchotchkes

2010-06-25T20:17:00.000-07:00

I've been ensnared in a summer feng shui fit nonpareil and have been obsessing about wood grains, paint colors for the sitting room (apple green? caramel glazed? - is this dinner or decorating, anyway?), and console tables. This is, of course, taking place all in my head, because contemplating how to find the energy, cash, or ability to make any kind of decision is pretty much beyond me. I've been checking out design books from the library nearly every day and scouring them for ideas (there are plenty) and guidelines (there are none, really). The one common denominator is a dearth of tchotchkes and so I've been very concerned about my propensity for collecting, well, collections.

I've never once had anyone come in and accuse me of being a hoarder, pack rat, or slob - far from it. Most often I get ooohs and aaahs and compliments on a style that, if had to be pinpointed, would probably fall into the 'global eclectic' camp. I have a lot of little things and I try to keep them pretty controlled and appropriate but I tell you, all these glossy surfaces with one artful vase holding a single stem that I keep seeing in design books are giving me major anxiety.

My crazy Aunt Susan once told me she was a 'surface abuser,' and my tendency is the same. I can't bear an empty tabletop and as my friend Tremell said, 'You know Latinos can't stand a blank wall!' So, while my house doesn't quite look like a riotous Mexican restaurant that Elvis threw up in, it will never, ever be one of those antiseptic spaces with 'clean lines' that dull would-be buyers (the same ones who covet granite countertops and stainless steel appliances) are always pursuing on HouseHunters.

I adore my tchotchkes - almost each and every one of them has a story behind it - the tiny clay 'Chanchinto' pig that was gift from my ex-husband, the Waterford crystal bowls given to me by a friend who went away to rehab, and of course the birthday octopus from my father. Little things with stories give a home soul, history, and context - none of which can be purchased at Pottery Barn - so while I swear to be ruthless about purging and refining, you'll have to pry my blown-glass pumpkins, wall crosses, and Dia de los Muertos painted skulls from my cold, dead hands. So there.

I Want It: Flamenco Shower Curtain

2010-06-23T18:04:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows me & my girl Leila are total bitches for the color turquoise. We both have copious garments, jewelry, and household goods in varying shades of the hue and are always trolling for more. So imagine my delight to come across not one but two blogs dedicated to my favorite shade: House of Turquoise and Everything Turquoise. I can sit and stare for hours at the curtains, lamps, plates, aprons, mixers, barrettes, and pretty much just about everything you can imagine in more variations of turquoise than I ever thought possible.

Now, I must tell you that for a San Franciscan I've had an unusual dearth of need for shower curtains. In my cute little one-bedroom on Haight & Fillmore, circa 1993-1995, I had a lovely, huge porcelain tub (let's not discuss the roaches that lounged there with regularity, probably due to the 'Lo-Cost Meat Market' whose freezers hummed ominously beneath my floors) and a traditional shower curtain rod. I went out to Z Gallerie and purchased a darling cream woven number and used it happily for my two years there. Then I moved to the Fell House, and I swear to God, from 1995 to 2004, I lived in a succession of glass-shower-door bathrooms but refused to let go of my curtain and kept it in storage. When I moved over to Grove Street in 2004 I hustled over to Bed Bath & Beyond and bought myself a white linen cutie with embroidered dragonflies and bequeathed my old cream curtain to my friend London.

Last February I had an apeshit feng shui fit and painted my dull off-white bathroom a vibrant shade of mango (reminiscent of my famous apricot bedroom on Fell). Somehow the white dragonflies just weren't working, so I washed the curtain, folded it up, stowed it away, and promptly went out and bought a very loud, busy, multicolored nylon one from Ross - for $5! Five dollars, people. I knew it wouldn't be permanent but it seemed it would do the trick until I could make some kind of decision.

And then, last week, I was whoring around on one of the turquoise sites and OMG what do you think I saw? This:

You'll either love it or you'll hate it, but it took my breath away. So......oceanic........so......unique......so.....girly. And I think I can get it to work with the mango walls. But.......did you catch that price tag? $118? For a shower curtain? My grandmother would slap me silly. I just can't. So I dream. I scheme. I vaguely consider the only-slightly-less obscenely priced (only $78? What a bargain!), monotone version from Urban Outfitters, and ultimately I just sigh, frown, and look at my $5 nylon number from Ross like a wife who was hot and got fat and sloppy after having kids. I mourn that I can't sew, but at least if I can't have it, I can dream about it..............le sigh.

p.s. A shout out to one of other favorite colors: orange!

Hater Tuesdays #22: Things I Hate That I Don't Know How To Do

2010-06-22T16:48:00.000-07:00

1. Paint. This should be in my blood, like writing. My mom was a splendid painter. I'm rather good at most artwork. But I tried to take a 'Painting 101' class two nights a week this spring and failed dismally. I lasted a few weeks (granted, it was a horrendous time of year at work, I should've known better). It's a lot harder than it looks, and to this day, trying to suss out how to paint a cloud makes me break out in a cold sweat.

2. Sew. Ah, yes. The one womanly art I'm a total failure at. I can cook, clean, wash, decorate, and do the hoochie-coochie, but I can't sew to save my life. I mean, maybe a simple whip-stitch or a button, but beyond that, I suck. Which is odd, because I used to embroider in my teens and with my mom's guidance I once sewed two pencil skirts. And then promptly forgot everything I knew. I will learn to do this someday. I will.

3. Use power tools. Aside from my power drill, they scurr me. And I truly do need to learn to use a sander, because I'm getting more and more interested in dinking around with furniture.

4. Fix my own car. When I was little, I always said I never wanted to be one of those women to whom a car was just a wheel, a few pedals, and a gearshift. Guess what - I am that woman (hey, at least I can drive stick).

5. Sail. I love the ocean. And I used to be my mom's first mate on her Hobie - manning the jib during tacks and everything. Again, do you think I remember any of it? I do not.

6. Speak multiple languages. I grew up in California and my best friend is a Chicano Spanish-speaker. But do you think I speak Spanish? I do not. Also, I took French in high school and ended up with a better accent and the teacher, and it still comes more easily to me than Spanish. But beyond moi aussi, je ne sais pas (pronounced j'nsaypah, by the way, not jeh neh say pazz) and mais oui, it's a struggle. Particularly bitter about this one.

7. Surf. Again, childhood summers and high school in San Diego. I went to Point Loma High. I mean, WTF?

8. Write books. I can both tell and write a good story. So why do I have a book block? Just kill me now.

My First Dahlia

2010-06-19T10:30:00.000-07:00

I'm so proud! I've always loved dahlias, but they seemed so mysterious and delicate to me. A few months ago I optimistically planted bulbs and for the last week or so have been waiting for the bud to open, and - voila! Look what I have created (with some help!)!

Good Fridays #2: A Horse, Of Course

2010-06-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

I'm not a horsey gal. I grew up decidedly urban, despite the semirural summers with my mother, who was an accomplished horsewoman. There are photos of her in her diapers and nothing else perched comfortably - solo, mind you - atop her first Arabian. Her father, too, was quite the rider. Me, I take after my Dad's mom - beachy, citified, and generally averse to camping, discomfort, and dusty things in general.

One of my most shameful childhood memories is of being put on a horse in Tilden Park and when it began to trot - not on a trail, oh no, but in a totally confined ring where there was zero chance of it making a break for it and running off with me seated helplessly upon its renegade back - I screamed. Bloody murder. I was rapidly removed from the horse and, I am sure, subsequently dispatched from the pony ride forthwith. Oh, the shame. I am truly not my mother's daughter.

In college I gamely signed up for equestrian classes and then characteristically flaked. And flaked again. I got about as close to a horse at Mills as I did to a three-toed sloth (though I generally imitated one quite effectively. Sophomore year was not my best.). Incidentally, somehow I still managed to the get the quarter-credit for that class, which allowed me to graduate, without the registrar being any the wiser. To this day I have nightmares that they track me down, rescind my degree, and I find myself trying to make up that diabolical quarter-credit.

But as I've gotten older and more and more time has passed since the last time I talked to my mother (post-9/11), horses have started to bring her to mind. I have only lately realized how diverse her interests and talents were - sailing, sewing, painting - but always, her first love was horses. As an adult, even after moving from semirural North County to San Diego proper, she continued to paint horse after horse after horse. Eventually she began moving east, first to Lakeside, then to New Mexico, then to Texas (where she briefly married a jockey) and eventually back to Arizona, where she spent her childhood. As soon as she was free of the city she started being around horses, working with horses, and eventually getting a horse - and that's the last I heard.

Recently I've started taking long walks though my neighborhood, and have discovered that only a few hundred feet from my own suburban front porch you can hang a right and tromp uphill and around a bend and find all manner of fauna - deer, quail, a few cows (!), and......horses. Apparently Novato is a hotbed of horse ranching and the few square miles to the south of my house are lousy with equines. The other evening a friend and I took a walk and in addition the half-dozen or so ponies (I got to explain what piebald means, which always makes me giggle) that lounge by a pond up there, there was this one chocolate brown number with a white star on its face that emanated a faint aura of approachability, but it was feeding time, just before sunset, and we didn't want to be seen worrying the rancher's livestock, so we kept on and ooohed over the few cattle and then headed for home.

This morning I took a long walk back up the road and came upon the flirty chocolate horse again and she walked right up to the fence and let me stroke her nose, scratch her behind the ears and along her flanks, and in general got very familiar with me. I cooed sweet nothings to her and when I started to leave, she threw her head up and pawed the fence with her hoof. So I stayed. For a while. Then I had to leave, as I was determined to climb up to the summit before 7am (me!), but promised I'd come back. And I did.

We had another little love session and I promised her I'd bring her a snack next time. I asked my Office BFF, Hot Mom, who had a horsey childhood, what to bring that would be healthy and not piss off the rancher. Apples, she said, and carrots, and you can leave the sugar cubes at home. So tonight I'm going apple and carrot hunting so that I have something to bring my new friend. Maybe there's hope for me after all.

Things I Maybe Coulda Been, Totally Shoulda Been, & Maybe Will Be, 'Cause You Never Know Right?

2010-06-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

1. Interior decorator: not designer, decorator, because that's what my Grandma, who was one for decades in midcentury LA, calls it. Ever since I was a very young girl I've been obsessed with my space, and sometimes I've worried that my futzing is a bit on the compulsive side, so it was with some relief that today I encountered the mantra 'the only constant is change,' as it relates to interior design/decorating.

2. Enforcer: FBI agent, Homicide Detective, Skip Tracer, whatever. I will understand you, I will find you, and I will get you.

3. DJ. I was always really good and putting beats together and making mixtapes and so on, and when I was in audio class I could cut tape with the best of them. Why I didn't pursue this and end up making five figures a night in Ibiza I'll never know. Dumbass.

4. Real Estate matchmaker. I walk into homes, ruins, dilapidated shithole, whatever, and sense the soul of the place. I think I'd be exceptional at matching a family or individual with the home they need - except, I hate sales. So there's that.

5. Personal Shopper/Buyer. Why didn't I ever think of getting paid for what I do on my off hours? Genius! The trophy wife and other people I've worked for have often marveled at my knack for finding the most interesting things - the Elvis impersonator with the giant papier-mache head to promote a Wonder Stuff album? Brilliant. The translucent globe with the 4-foot diameter for a Cisco meeting? Smashing. A delicate necklace of gold that looks like tiny branches, found beneath the ironic, iconic Buddha at Gump's? Too cool. If you want me to find a flying toaster in a shade of dusty aqua, you can bet your ass I will locate and procure it.

6. Mother Hen. In an alternate universe I ended up married and living in a large farmhouse with six kids. And four dogs. A few chickens, maybe, and a sheep, just for the hell of it. And I ran that family like a Fortune 500 company.

7. Speechwriter. Wow.......creating gossamer bullshit for the masses eight hours a day. Where do I sign up?

8. Broker. I always thought I was really, really bad at math. Then I went to work for a summer as a receptionist in a securities firm and was surprised to find out I understood the stock market! They offered me a job as an SA (Sales Assistant, first step on the ladder), I took mock Series 7 exams just for the fun of it, and I ended up turning them down to finish my senior year at college. And then ended up in series of money jobs. Oh, the irony.

9. Cafe Proprietor. See #5, above.

10. Writer. Duh.

Feng Shui Fit: Hello, I'm Fahrenheit 519 & I'm A Chairaholic

2010-06-16T07:10:00.000-07:00

I am periodically plagued with a domestic restlessness that manifests itself in what I've come to call feng shui fits: days or weeks when I first critically gaze and then compulsively contemplate, analyze, organize, list-make and then upheave the contents of a cabinet, room, or even entire house and then rearrange it into a more pleasing state of affairs.

My man friend has become so used to these fits that he will take one quick look at me standing there, scanning the room with that particular wild look in my eye and simply say, 'Feng shui fit?' (response: "Yes, dear. I'll be needing your well-developed upper body strength in the near future, but for now, put a cork in it - I know you'd be all too happy if I used milk crates for tables."). I don't know if it's my Grandmother's Hollywood-interior-decorator blood, my mother's colorful rambling-gypsy blood, or my own short attention span and Gemini-cusp design schizophrenia which finds that everything could benefit from a little change, but whatever the case, I'm always looking to do some shifting.

One real bone of contention is the knack I seem to have for attracting chairs. Seriously. Chairs just seem to appear in my house out of nowhere, breeding in dark little corners like the rabbits of the furniture world. For the last ten years I seem to always be negotiating a surplus of the them - armchairs, easy chairs, dining chairs, patio chairs, Captain's chairs, what have you. When my girlfriend Leila left for Europe in the summer of 1998, I bought a huge wicker armchair with overstuffed cushions from her - to this day I giggle about the two of us queenly bitches with our impaired spatial analysis deficit trying to finagle the thing through her narrow Oakland apartment door - somehow we got ourselves stuck and began to panic and for a moment we may have even contemplated availing ourselves of 911. Luckily we finally maneuvered it out and I had that damn chair - which was cute as hell but always a little awkward - until late 2008, when the shredded cushions were simply beyond repair and it was just time. I Freecyled it and I hope someone somewhere is enjoying it right now.

There always seems to be something just slightly off about my chairs - the back is too stiff, the leg is wonky, the seat is too deep. Recently it's a fly set of chairs I inherited when my Grandmother moved out of her house - interestingly carved, almost gothic Spanish looking - cool, right? Except that somehow someone thought putting black velvety-corduroy seats with a grid pattern on them would be a fantastic idea. In reality, not so much. And so, they languish until I can get it together to either have seats made or get crafty and figure out how to make them myself. Don't hold your breath.

In my last place, at the beach, my crazy quasi-aunt-batshit-insane master tenant/landlord gave me a perfectly overstuffed yet lightweight, cuddly yet modern, off-white chair. It sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the dogs relished it, basking in the afternoon sunshine in between barking fits. At the new place up here in Stepford, it graces the living room near the rear window that looks onto the back garden, and the man friend has taken to tucking Paloma's favorite blankie (never mind that I bought it for me - it's now the dog's blanket and I can't even get hear it) into the pillows for her canine comfort. Paloma loves to look out the window. Fabulous. But the chair's maybe getting just a little worse for wear and if I dare cast that feng shui look toward the chair in the presence of the man friend, I get an emphatic, 'No WAY, that's PALOMA'S chair (yes, that may be, but it's Mommy's house!),' and that's a particular battle I know I've already lost. So the chair stays.

Except.....lately......I've been having grand mal feng shui fits, and a great renovation is underway. I have a gorgeous, handpainted teak dining room table from Bali, the only one of it's kind, and I can't bear to part with it - but it's just too big. Someday I know I'll have the right space for it but this is not that place, so it's being relegated to the guest room/dressing room/'kite' room (so named for the fanciful kites I seem to be suddenly collecting) as an 'art table.' A very large, fancy, and expensive art table. It's being replaced in the sitting room this weekend with a cute, compact, and unassuming round wicker table and - hold your breath - two chairs, which are more in keeping with the airiness of the room.

The sourcing of the table has led me to fervently contemplate what else needs to be done, and as I look around things are feeling a little dark - I have a lot of dark wood - I'm no expert at which wood is what (aside from the very obvious horrid oak and delightful pine) but I know that most of it ranges from dark, dark brown (an antique table of my Grandmother's) to dark brown (my coffee table and a Moroccan trunk) to medium brown (said teak table, another side table) to reddish brown (another side table) to - are you ready for this - a pine bookcase that my Dad gave me in 1992 and which I love for its solidity and utility but which he stained black. And then there's my TV cart - an erstwhile kitchen cart in a very light, pale, cheery pine.

So you see. I have some issues.

So today I went to the place one always goes to be abused by anonymous would-be design stars - the Craigslist 'design & decor' forum - and posted my question, and then Googled 'mixing wood tones.' Up popped a page from Apartment Therapy San Francisco, and the following response had me howling:

Do all the pine trees live in one section of the forest, and the oak trees in another?

Is it forbidden to mix stripes with solids or reds with blues in the clothing that you wear?

Do all the whales live in different oceans from the salmon, the oysters and the crabs?

That's how ridiculous it is to say that woods cannot be mixed.

Amen to you, unknown design star. So lest I worry about the purity and uniformity of my sitting room woods, I now feel safe and secure with engaging in furniture miscegenation. Now, if I could just find a solution to that little chair problem...........

Hater Tuesdays #21: Miserable Rich People

2010-06-15T06:47:00.000-07:00

No one's unhappier than someone with money. Seriously. Marin is the richest county in California and you've never heard so much whining, carping, and kvetching as you do here amongst the glorious redwoods, breathtaking beaches, and majestic vistas of Mount Tam. You've got to wonder what people have to bitch about amongst so much prosperity and beauty. Apparently the answer is: everything.

Local buzz last week was the commencement of a discrimination trial by a spoiled San Francisco lawyer's wife against the monolithic Lucasfilm - she was offered a job and then had it rescinded either because she was pregnant, as she contends, or because she was narcissistic and self-centered, as Lucas' personal assistant, her potential boss, counters. This is of less interest to me than said personal assistant's quote that: "People in this neighborhood operate in a mode of unbelievable anger. I routinely have to listen to them yell at me, with the spit flying out of their mouths at me."

I believe her entirely. I've spent enough time working with and for and living around the rich to say with certainty that she's totally on point. You'd think that sprawling, well-appointed houses, gourmet food, international travel, and $300 La Mer face creams would make anyone positively over the moon, wouldn't you? But you'd be wrong. I've never met such a bunch of dissatisfied, perpetually indignant crankypants.

Why? Because, as they say, the rich are not like you and me. I think it's like this: the more money (or privilege, or power - the three are often related and intertwined, but not always - think brilliant graduate students making a Federal stipend) one makes, the more one descends into a soft cocoon of apartness, a sense of extreme specialness that renders one, in one's own perception, not subject to the rules that govern the hoi polloi and somehow deserving of an immunity to the petty irritations - waiting in line, public transportation, taxes - that the rest of us must endure, and when they're brought down to earth and forced to contend with circumstances that don't conform to their personal expectations of this specialness, hell hath no fury.

I know of what I speak. In college I worked for four months as the assistant to the assistant of a Pacific Heights trophy wife, whose husband was one of the wealthiest investment bankers in San Francisco. This gig was such an education and deserves its own discrete addressing, but suffice to say that I learned many things that autumn in the sage green mini-mansion: money buys you insulation - from supermarkets, door to door salesmen, and taxis. But not, apparently, from self-loathing, loneliness, or perpetual indignation.

The assistant to the PHTW told me that one morning, emerging from the limo, the wife went into a bagel shop on Chestnut Street to purchase a nosh for herself (a lithe 32-year-old horsey blonde) and her husband (24 years her senior and described kindly as 'formidable,' though he was always pleasant to me - somehow I seem to disarm moody, frightening older dudes, but I digress). She brought him the wrong kind of bagel and he threw it at her. In public. I swear.

She once sent me to Costco to buy cases of Coca-Cola to have shipped to their Telluride house (they froze and burst going over the mountains, by the way - I guess she thought she was immune to the laws of physics, too). They wouldn't sell anything to me because it was her name on the Costco card, so she descended from her perch on Pacific Street and came down to mix with the great unwashed of big box bulk shopping. I'll never forget how she directed me to get in line and then attempted to finagle her shipping dolly full of Coke in front of the guy behind me. He loudly began to dress her down and she looked up at him with her blue eyes and blinked them repeatedly in that weird way Madonna does when you can tell she's uncomfortable and said I don't know what you're talking about to him flintily and I swear to God I (who prides myself on good citizenry in checkout lines) wanted to die.

But this is all Pattycake compared to what the elite pull in Marin. Also of note lately is the battle between several Larkspur property owners and a neighbor with a stand of eucalyptus trees she refuses to cut down, despite court order. She brought it to the California Supreme Court recently and they quickly declined to review it. I don't know who's worse - the hysterical woman who won't cut down some of her eucalyptuses (the douchebags of the tree world, apparently) or the neighbors who are whining about trees that existed before they ever bought their property. Seriously, people, the Gulf of Mexico is a giant oil slick and you're bitching about trees?

Best of all, though, are the NIMBY folks like this guy, who are all for liberal causes but fears affordable housing near his home as the beginning of the end. He (and more particularly, the online commentators to the article) puts forth a particular, very routine argument that unfailingly causes me to gnash my teeth and basically translates into: "I worked hard to get where I am, so why should I have to share my (wealth, neighborhood, privilege, golf course, oxygen) with people who didn't work as hard as I have," entirely ignorant of the fact that his gardener/nanny/mechanic, etc., has probably worked just as hard as he has, if not harder (I know plenty of janitors and teachers with two jobs, but no attorneys, Assistant Executive Directors, or oral surgeons who do). Marin, like many wealthy communities, is surreal. A populace that votes unfailingly liberal but creates ghettos for its servant class, goes red-faced and spittle-spewing over treelines and driveways, and purports to support equality and egalitarianism unless it detracts from the view.

I'm not saying money can't buy happiness (because I think, to a certain degree, it can - or can at least keep abject anxiety over one's physical well-being at bay) or suggesting that all wealthy people are miserable (I think misery is a human condition that has more to do with one's disposition than one's portfolio), but it does seem to encourage an unreasonably high expectation of the world to smooth it's rough edges out so that one is immune to life's endless parade of annoyances as well as to render one less intolerant of any sort of challenge to one's desires, even when one lives in the lap of beauty and splendor - which all adds up to a hell of a lot of hand-wringing and garment-rending here in Paradise.

Good Fridays #1: Older

2010-06-11T14:25:00.000-07:00

Because I haven't been recalcitrant enough about keeping up with Hater Tuesdays, I'm now starting Good Fridays, mostly because - to be entirely candid - I'm having a harder and harder time mustering up impotent cyber-rage without being, well, repetitive, but an easier and easier time singing the praises of things that I like, love, and appreciate. Maybe I'm just mellowing with age or it's the nice weather or I've just listened to the one Lady Gaga song I can stomach one too many times or something, but I'm feeling pretty smug and sated and psyched about turning 40. Here's what's good today:

1. Water Off A Duck's Back. Was a day when all the world was a stage and everything that happn'd upon it (sorry, I've been watching a lot of The Tudors in my post-op convalescence) seemed deeply crucial, but now? I seem to have internalized the fact that everything from the annoying to the hurtful to the offensive
flows away like dirty water (in an ever more rapid and easy process) and that an 'all good' equilibrium is soon to return. I love that. Things that would've made me apoplectic at 21 and caused me to sit up nights writing in dragon's blood ink on parchment by candlelight can barely generate a lifted eyebrow now. And that ain't being jaded, it's being internally peaceful. Word.

2. Idealism Ain't All It's Cracked Up To Be. It's easier now to discern what I should wring my hands over (cruelty to animals, corrupt cops, homophobia, the double standard) and what to let someone else twist their panties over (Israel & Palestine, immunization, gun control). My indignity and rage is a little more selective now.....I'm pretty much one with the fact that religious zealots will always brutalize one another over theology and land, people will always profiteer off the earth, the weak and disenfranchised, and war; and that people generally just want to be told what to do.

3. Recognize. A bitch iz a bitch (big ups to NWA) - or, to put it more delicately, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, in the words of Freud. I've always been very good at extending the benefit of the doubt and seeing the best in people. Too good at it, actually. As I've gotten older I've realized that generally, people show you who they are in short order and that one would be well-advised to recognize what one is shown. To borrow a wise sentiment from Maya Angelou, 'when people tell you who they are, believe them.' Sure, once in a while a person really may be a deeply misunderstood figure with a heart of gold or a tragic heroine wronged by a villainous arch-nemesis or devilish circumstances, but most often you'll find they're really sociopathic prisoners of their own ego-driven internal music videos or plain and simply silly bitches who never tire of exploring the interior of their deeply ordinary minds. It's true that everyone has a story worth listening to - but usually just once. Everything else is just a replay.

4. Respect. Sure, I miss the flawless porcelain skin of my 20s, but you know what I love? Now I could pass for someone's mom, and the hisses on the street have given way to doors being held open without leers, and when compliments are given, they feel more genuine and less skeezy. It's nice to walk down the street without being driven to state of rage by animals wearing the skin of men who consider you a thing, not a person. Of course it doesn't do much to subvert the underlying misogynistic paradigm, but Rome didn't fall in a day, either.

5. Simple Pleasures. The other morning I ate the first strawberry I grew this year in a pot on my back porch. Last night as I was tidying up my garden a mourning dove perched on my fence and observed me for actual moments, rendering me giddy as a toddler at an ice cream-and-pony party. I recently bought sidewalk chalk for my newly-revealed patio and plan to use it. I actually squeeze the juice out of the lemons from my tree and freeze it into ice cubes for use in recipes. The other night I turned down the crime show I was watching to listen to a particularly vocal bird outside. I have no idea who's on the top of the Billboard charts but now I know what a dipladenia is. A bud on a stem tickles me the way a fistful of cash used to and getting the birds to visit my garden makes me feel as triumphant as dancing all night in nothing but silver body paint and a G-string once did. I never saw myself with a green thumb or capable of animal husbandry, but I love as how you go through life you learn you're good at things you never imagined yourself capable of.

6. Self-Reliance. I think one of my secret fears well into my late twenties was that I'd never have a stable job and be able to make my rent; a holdover from a semi-peripatetic childhood, I suppose. I was chilled by the example of my manipulative mother, always looking for a man to take care of her needs, and afraid I'd never be able to stand on my own two feet. Well, now I know I can stand alone like a motherfucker and be just fine. I'm not saying I don't need help now and again - four hands are better than two when it comes to certain things - but the peace of mind I enjoy knowing that I am dependent upon no one for the roof over my head or the lifestyle I enjoy is beyond words to a tatty little hippie spawn like me.

7. Not Being A Slave To The Dick. My God, how boy-obsessed most of us were......my old housemate once read me her diary from when she was 16 and it was painful to hear the litany of boy's names and how her moods ebbed and flowed according to their attention. I can't say I was noticeably different, if perhaps a bit darker. I always liked sex - a lot - and was accordingly socially punished for it (again, a topic for another day) - and was concerned with my access to it. The search for love, good sex, communion, communication, validation, and appreciation were all wrapped up into one sticky mess, and even now, were I masochistic enough to contemplate which was what and why I did what I did and didn't do it would be difficult to suss out, and I don't bother. But it's good to know that I know how to discern between all those now and that good dick (do you hear me, girls?) isn't a scarce commodity.

8. Girlfriends. Women in their tweens, teens, and twenties can be generally awful to one another. There is nothing more vicious in this world than a pack of ten-year-old girls. Trust me on that. But after a certain time that changes, and girlfriends become your most valuable allies. My girls and I have gone from being high school Goths to hipster underground sex bunnies to career women, artists, and mothers to I guess, someday, wizened crones giggling about back in the day. I believe I've been very lucky - the quality of my girlfriends, even in those shark-infested earlier years, has generally been high - I've never had another woman try to steal my man or job or ideas, and if she came even close to it, she was deep-sixed tout suite. Having girlfriends I've known now for 31 (Julia), 29 (Michelle), 24 (Sheryl-Lyn), 18 (Michele), 16 (Leila), 14 (Natasha), 12 (Orla), or even just 2 (Erica) years is the most magical, special thing, and I'm deeply grateful for these long-term connections.

9. Old Friends, Period. My best friend and I have known each other since we were skinny, smooth-skinned 18-year-olds. For twenty-two years now we've seen each other move through homes, cities, relationships, jobs, adventures, sorrows, deaths, and rebirths. Most of my inner circle of friends are people I've known for years and years, and there is something so deeply joyous about that. I love the thrill of a new friend, but even more I enjoy the way time burnishes our bond into something that feels treasured, valuable, and cultivated - like pearls.

Sad Little Frozen Lunch For One

2010-06-10T14:12:00.000-07:00

Look around. You know you've got one. Every office has got one: the middle-aged female coworker who religiously cooks up her Lean Cuisine lunch in the office microwave and eats it at her desk or the breakroom table. You could set your watch by her Sad Little Frozen Lunch for One (SLFL41).

I'm female. And I guess (heavy sigh) I'm middle-aged, having recently - very recently, mind you - hit the cusp of 40. But let me tell you something - unless I am broke beyond belief (having spent every dime on hibiscus bushes, MAC lipstick, or turquoise mules) and being forced to resort to the back of the emergency freezer for sustenance, you will never, ever see me chowing down on a SLFL41.

It's not that I find the scintillating variety a problem: there's enough Thai Lime Chicken, Tomato-Herbed Manicotti, and Steakhouse Ranch Flatbread Melt flavors to pique my interest, and I swear to God, some of the stuff smells heavenly when the little ladies cook it up, but it's the whole pathetic symbology of it all: it seems so cowardly. So old. And so defeatist. A surrender of some sort. Not just of a tasty lunch, but of life itself.

To cave in and be the timid office primrose in a dirndl skirt and cardigan, delicately pecking away at Swedish Meatballs at precisely 12:35 every afternoon, seems to me the equivalent of giving up hope, abandoning any lust for life and just calling it a day. Perhaps this is why I and my Office BFF, a vibrant Hot Mom of three, make it a point to have the best of midday meals when we both can: we take ourselves out for sushi and bento boxes, messy barbecue, and lately, the outrageously good Puerto Rican place downtown.

Also, neither of us would be caught dead actually sitting and eating in the dreaded breakroom: a dull purgatory of office supplies, Xerox machines, outdated magazines, and abandoned plants which also serves as a corridor from the front of the house where reception is to the Factory back here, where we make the laws and sausages. And really, do you know why? Because not only is an aesthetically offensive place to be, but it's chit-chat central, and I'd sooner poke my eyes out with hot spoons. So we treat our lunch hours like mini vacations to the tropics - or at least to Japan and the Deep South. Every day that we blow this taco stand and leave this estrogen-laden, bluehaired office, we are determined to live, to lust, and to lunch like Real Women.

Some Things I Have Learned From Boyfriends I Have Had

2010-06-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

1. Chef boyfriend, you taught me that the less you do with fish, the better. Just salt, pepper, and butter is really all you need. Also, how to let bread stand so it gets chewy and then cover it with avocado and salt.

2. Arabic-Italian boyfriend, you taught me how to make hummus. It's so easy - garbanzo beans with juice saved from the can, tahini, lemon juice, salt, and the all-important olive oil on top (if you want to get buckwild, you can sprinkle on some paprika or parsley, but you didn't do that bit). Also how to caulk a hole to keep the ants from taking over the bathroom.

3. Piano playing boyfriend, you taught me about salami and cream cheese sandwiches, and Doritos dipped in sour cream.

4. Tall Irish boyfriend from Kildare, you taught me how to sand plaster.

5. Lanky Irish ginger boyfriend from Galway, you taught me how to chill beer in a B&B sink and how to get properly pissed in a seaside pub.

6. Bald bad boy Irish boyfriend from Offaly, you taught me that sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

7. Innocent Irish boyfriend from Donegal, you taught me the Hail Mary and how to play 'soldiers' with reeds picked from the fields.

8. Mad scientist boyfriend, you taught me how to write Java code.

9. Lovely artist boyfriend, you taught me how to paint my walls with casein.

8. Erudite attorney boyfriend, you taught me how to shut the fuck up. Well, sorta.

10. Psycho post-high school boyfriend, you taught me how that wax can be swept up and also, how to never date anyone crazy and controlling like you again.

11. Eccentric musician boyfriend, you taught me how to mix drinks.

12. Blue eyed tree-climbing surfer boyfriend, you taught me how to break up the roots of plants before repotting or planting, how to prune a bush, how to slash my car registration sticker so no one else can steal it, how to connect the evil landlord's portable washing machine, how to dig a hole, how to fill one, and how to sprout seeds. Also how to identify some trees, especially oaks, which I now have a love affair with.

The First Berry

2010-06-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

Behold...........look what I have created (with a little help from Mother Nature, of course)! This is the first strawberry I've ever grown........and it was delicious!

Hater Tuesdays #20: Election Season

2010-06-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

I love my country. I do. Not in a xenophobic, chest-beating, imperialistic sort of way, but in a last-stop-for-dreamers, 'give me your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,' big melting-pot sort of way. And I love democracy (that is, if we really had it - but that's another blog for another day), but I hate election season:

1. The Bullshit. Oh, spare me. Every last one of you 'candidates' has one thing on your mind: power. You didn't go to law school to make the world a better place, and if you did, chances are by the time you'd passed the bar you were a cynical, ladderclimbing twat with a dirty nose. You got into politics to swing your dick around (whether you're a boy or a girl) and Be Important. So save me the story of how you're going to Save Us. You're going to walk around in an ether of privilege and if we're lucky you'll pass legislation that won't send us spinning even closer to being a Third World country and rendering us the laughingstock of the industrial world any more than we already are.

2. The Vilification. You are a saint who shits sugar and kisses babies and puppies and your opponent is not only Satan but a babykilling Communist who runs over kittens. That's so deep. Oh, and to Whitman and Poizner: that 'just another Sacramento liberal' stuff is hysterical. You're both deeply frightening and I shudder to think of either of you representing The People.

3. The Death of Forests. Every freaking day for the past two weeks my mailbox has been stuffed full of glossy, high-quality election literature, every single piece of which I've recycled because who is stupid enough to make their voting decisions based on flyers? You know what? One shouldn't be allowed to vote unless one has thorougly read the Voter Guide, reviewed who's paid for the Pro & Con sides of every proposition and preferably read the text of the proposed legislation as well (though I'll let that slide, since the stuff is seriously written to cure insomnia).

4. Wearing Your Politics On Your Sleeve/Car/Lawn: Why on earth would you advertise which side you're on? Don't you realize you're only inviting being keyed/toilet papered by kooks on the other side who can't stand disagreement? Save the buttons, bumper stickers, and lawn placards. Vote your conscience, and shut up about it.

5. Non-Voters. I get that you feel disenfranchised. I do too. But like ya Mama tole ya, that's no excuse. Get your lazy, apathetic ass out there and vote. Punk.

(Birthday) Email from A Mom (And Homegirl) #3: Cucumbers & Long Long Letters

2010-05-21T09:02:00.000-07:00

dearest s~

40 years old! ha.
i can't even imagine it...
where does the time go? abyss. vortex. life.
i remember when you were such a wee one.
when i met you. dark hair white skin blue eyes. beauty...
i can close my eyes and recall your house on haight street.
the smell, taste and feel.
cucumber scented. chicken fingers, caesar salad and porn.

i remember when you moved into the fell house...
warm coral walls. soft inviting bed. that wicker chair.
your books and things. black crowes and the sacred joint.
life.
bong hits galore. boyfriends and mayhem. irish. jewish.
laughter and love. mills. la cookaracha.
life.
it was a sweet time in life and one i am glad we got to share.

so many things remind me of you...
smells. paper. ink. mustard. cucumbers. feta. shoes. painted toes.
open mind. open heart. red. warmth. letter. words. lipstick. earrings. sex toys. porno. fell house. mexico. long long letters.
quick smile. intelligence. warm soul...O so many more but the boy just woke up and i gotta go...

happy birthday!!!!!!!!!!

with ooodles of love,
m
(wife)

Hater Tuesdays #19: My Thirties

2010-05-18T16:11:00.000-07:00

I was born on a Tuesday. Ironic, innit? For a girl who complains ad nauseum about the most arduous day of the week, it seems somehow fitting. Tomorrow will mark forty years since I appeared on that Tuesday evening in May, which means today is the very last day of my thirties. I'm not tripping, though - I'm happy to say goodbye to my thirties, because in a lot of ways, they totally sucked.

I just sat here and tried to rail about my thirties and what was so hard about them and in many ways they blew. I moved eight times. My hips got a lot bigger (bonus: so did my cleavage). I got married and unmarried, leaving my now ex-husband in the Dublin airport as I sobbed behind dark glasses. I walked through inexpressible sorrows and loss. I did dumb shit. I spent too much money. I didn't always keep my promises. I have dicey taste in boys (Choppy says my 'picker is broken') and it's taken me a lot longer to stop rescuing others than it should have. I still haven't learned Spanish. I lost some friends, ideals, and dreams. I probably should have traveled more and bought less shoes. I spent too much time thinking and not enough time doing, and I didn't hear the clock ticking all the while.

But when I sit here and try to list out what was so hateful about my thirties, I keep coming back to what has been good about them and what I've done right: I rescued my priceless little devil dogs. I've been to New York and Ireland and Mexico. I was finally able to stop living with housemates. I bought my first new car. I realized that I cannot tolerate a white wall and must, simply must, paint it a vibrant color. I stopped believing I had to come off as sexy or tough to be appealing and realized it was okay to be soft and even better to just be very, very real. I am slowly learning to let go of my worship of urban bustle and embrace the rhythms of a more pastoral life. I grew exponentially more able to let go - of stuff, ideas, people, self-image. I've made more friends than I've lost. I've laughed so much. I have saved lives, soothed souls, and helped others think about things in new ways. I've stood beside my best friend while we buried his father and I've held my friend's new babies. My goddaughter is approaching womanhood and I must be some kind of decent person because she loves me even when she hasn't seen me in ages, and I promise that from here on out I'll never let her go without me for more than a matter of weeks or a couple of months at a time.

I also get better at the things I do - I'm a much better cook now, and have gone from killing houseplants to nursing a whole garden. I've only had three employers in ten years (and one of those for just the first six months of my thirties) - as opposed to my chronic twenties job-hopping and freelancing - and I've more than doubled my salary. I've acquired mad 'hard skills' and don't even have to pad my resume any more 'cause I really am legit (who would have ever thought). I've written thousands upon thousands of words, and started a blog and have kept at it, more or less, for four years now. I am more patient now, and have so much more integrity. I am better at keeping confidences, doing what I say I will, and just showing up.

There is still so much to do. I know I still need to think less and do more. It's sometimes still a challenge for me to find that internal barometer that leads me to the right decision (to my Gemini-cusp mind, all options are appealing to some degree). I want to buy my own home so that I can stop having someone else tell me what color I can paint the walls or what kind of animals can live with me (and keep in mind, I live in the wealthiest county in California and the fifth-richest in the States, so this goal is a lofty one. Cross your fingers for me). I want my goddaughter to really know me and know that I'm completely accessible to her. Like everyone, I want to love, care, and be accepted by a worthy partner and return all that in kind. I must travel more, and I hope to never spend another night at home without a dog.

And of course, I hope to keep hating (in a good way) and keeping it real. I hope I will soon hold my friend Aaron's baby - they tried for years - and witness my best friend's lifetime commitment to his man. I want to hear more new music and read all the wonderful books that haven't been written yet. I want to handle my Grandmother's passing with grace and have minimal drama with the bio-fam in the aftermath. I want my friendships to grow deeper, richer, and more precious than they already are. I want to dip my toes in blue water and wake up in strong arms, and I want to look at myself in the mirror and see a woman of integrity, depth, and humor looking back at me (who's easy on the eyes, while we're at it). So, goodbye thirties - I rang you in with Cosmos at a Welsh bar in the City and the company of a hot 24-year-old Irishman, and I'll be ringing you out with less noise, booze, and strange booty, but with no less joy. Thank you.

The Cherry Tree

2010-05-12T08:59:00.000-07:00

Things happened in a whirlwind and I went from living in my Lower Haight flat of five years with long-term housemates to having my own freestanding house with what I thought was the man of my dreams. There was an occupied in-law downstairs and dreadful wall-to-wall carpeting, but there was a terraced garden with good bones and I was over the moon about it.

We moved in in late January, winter, when the trees were bare. Undaunted, and because we were in San Francisco's 'Banana Belt' - one of the few neighborhoods with consistently warm, sunny weather - I bought a large hammock and enjoyed having my own garden for the first time in my life. I was 30.

The garden was pretty basic - cracked cement on the top terrace, but the grass was good and it backed up to the hillside of an urban jungle, so there was a fair amount of privacy. There was a red rosebush outside the bedroom window, and a little palm tree oddly placed right in the middle of one of the patches of grass.

That house on Kansas Street was the first time I'd ever dug a hole in the dirt (to plant sunflowers) or relocated a plant. An actual plant. As in, in the ground - not a pot. It was the palm and I remember being shocked how stubborn its roots were. It was the first time I had ever weeded - and also a period of great sorrow, having suffered two pregnancy losses in quick succession - and I remember very clearly being out in the garden weeding and being struck by the metaphor of an unsuitable specimen being torn out to make room for something more healthy and beautiful and productive.

There was a tree on the top terrace and I watched it morph from being bare black branches to having tiny buds to full green leaves and then one day it was covered with cherries - cherries! - which I'd only ever seen in a bin at the grocer's. I didn't pick them and so the birds got quite a treat and I was happy for them.

That tree was the first time I had ever paid attention to the cycle of a plant - dormancy, budding, fruit - and I was amazed by it. I laughed at my own urban-girl ignorance - 30 years of growing up oblivious to the life around me.

Things at that house went sour fast - the wannabe gangsta teenager in the in-law with his hard-luck Dad made things unbearable - and six months later we moved over to Dolores Street, into a truly darling flat that was my happy home for a few years and in fact outlasted my quaint starter marriage by almost two years. The new flat had a garden with tomatoes in it, another fascinating novelty.

I never got to see my sunflowers grow, know if the palm lived, or watch the cherry tree drop it's leaves, but from then on I've grown ever-more attuned to the natural world around me. Leaving San Francisco for Marin nearly two years ago, I was thrust from a largely man-made environment into a significantly more natural one. My first year up here was pure hell, and my greatest comfort was definitely the natural beauty.

A year ago, I found my little dream rental. It has not one but two gardens - front and back. Last summer was pretty rough & ready, still getting organized and not doing much with either garden - just enjoying what the previous tenant had done. Summer was hot and seemed to cling to us well into fall, true coolness not coming until November. Autumn had that stunning display of red and orange leaves one always hears east coast natives speak of (at least, as best as I can understand it). Winter was magnificent - all white skies and skeletal tree limbs, rain and smoke from fireplaces and my blessed fog that I miss like a long-lost brother. I dreaded the onset of spring because I knew another searing summer would be on its heels, but when the cherry and plum blossoms started to bloom - that fragile little window in February - I began to get a little excited. With help, I optimistically planted some bulbs. Then I had one purple iris appear in my back garden. Then I started to notice little buds on the previously bare trees and the next thing you know, my camellia tree in front burst into hundreds of hot pink flowers so plentiful they weighed the branches down.

It's mid-May now and in the last month things have just exploded. The bulbs are sending green shoots up and the rose bushes I put in have actually produced a rose (just one so far). Even the poor sycamore tree that the low-rent arborists butchered last fall is sending out leaves again and might provide some shade after all. What last fall was a barren yard destroyed by those tree butchers and made me so depressed I couldn't look outside for months has now regenerated into what's becoming a lush, peaceful landscape.

This past weekend we tore the decade-old (at least), rusted, rotting shed down and doubled the size of the patio. It's still looking a bit raw, but in my mind's eye I can see how it will look - my own little oasis. I never knew I would take so much joy in seeing plants grow, in witnessing the bees buzzing around the lemon blossoms outside my kitchen window, or in the blue jays coming round to unearth the grubs and other critters that have been exposed by the demolition. I take a sort of nerdy pride in it, a sort of old-lady, birdwatching, you kids get offa my lawn, I'm so uncool and I don't give a damn sorta love of the earth that was long overdue and which I owe all to that one little cherry tree on Kansas Street.

Hater Tuesdays #18: Children Are A Lifestyle Choice

2010-05-11T15:10:00.000-07:00

Call me crazy, but I always thought you should have children only when you can afford them, both literally and metaphorically. Since I've never felt I had either the financial means or extended support system (stand-up partner, large family, tight-knit community, etc.) necessary for optimum child-rearing (and, let's face it, the idea of giving up my leisurely Sunday morning crosswords to slog to a volleyball match makes me physically nauseous), I chose not to have any, because I believe if you're going to do something, you should do it right.

I believe that children are a gift (or a thoughtful re-gift) and a grave responsibility and that it's a privilege to have the opportunity to raise one up, and so you'd better damn well do your best. But apparently, some people missed the memo and have been led to believe that children are tickets to all sorts of perks, freebies, and bonuses.

Take the child tax credit, for example. Now, in this day and age of reliable birth control, unless you have the intelligence of a turnip, you know how to keep from getting or getting someone else pregnant, am I right? And even if you do get pregnant, in this country we (arguably) have freedom of choice, do we not (and don't carp to me about your religious views, they don't absolve you of the required pre-parenthood solvency)? Since we have established that, let us now posit that childbearing is no longer a near-compulsory condition of adulthood but rather an act of free will and choice. So you had a baby. Congratulations. Yet the governments wants to give you a tax credit for your reproductive efforts. Excuse me? Where is my tax credit for not having a child? Seriously. I'm doing the single most environmentally friendly thing one can do - better than buying a Prius, installing EnergyStar appliances, or recycling eight bazillion glass bottles - but Jane Doe with four children in public school gets a tax credit? Fuck me running.

Today I'm reading the online newspaper and the citizenry, of course, are howling about the latest excesses of local government leaders. An indignant public employee posted about how fat should be cut from the top (agreed), but that it won't be (agreed), and that she, a single mom, will end up losing her job via layoff. And I ask you, what does being a single mom have to do with it? Why does your lifestyle choice render your imminent layoff as any more horrifying than that of a childless person? If she had said she was: line staff, rank and file, 'the little guy,' etc., I'd have been far more sympathetic, but don't throw up your child (again - your gift and privilege that you freely agreed to accept) as a bargaining chip. It's cheap and it tarnishes you as a mother.

Last week I saw a flyer for a local organization that offers subsidized employment for those with at least one minor child in the household. But those with grown children or no children? Bupkis. And one local housing authority regularly sends me alerts for BMR (below market rate) housing opportunities - 90% of which are not open to families of one (note: this does not happen in the City of San Francisco). This annoyed me and when I wrote to them to ask why, I was told that they're looking out for the interests of our 'most vulnerable citizens - the elderly and families,' which made me apoplectic.

So the message I'm getting here is: if one chooses not to have children because one feels incapable of providing for a child's needs (whether materially, emotionally, morally, or otherwise), one's got nothing coming, but if one chooses to have a child because one just feels like it - despite a lack of resources - one moves to the front of the line in terms of accessing resources. What's wrong with this picture?

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a child-hater or parent-hater - on the contrary, I find well-behaved, interesting children very charming and responsible parents laudable - but choosing to have kids when you can't take care of them wins no prizes in my world, and those who are smart and responsible enough to not have the kids they can't properly care for deserve recognition and props, too - fair's fair. And if you are blessed enough to have the privilege of raising a child who looks to you for its needs and desires, don't cheapen your role and treat him or her like free pass for anything - be the Mom or Dad your kid thinks you are.

Hater Tuesdays #17: BBWM's

2010-04-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

Have you heard me kvetch about Baby Boomer white males (BBWMs) on this blog before? You must have, because I can't stand them. Talk about the most entitled, self-righteous, line-cutting, lane-crossing, interrupting blowhards to walk the planet. I know of what I speak: I am related to three of them, and they're all insufferable in their own unique ways. Here's my theory: these lads were born and raised during the Postwar period, when the White (American) Man was, in effect, The King Of The World, led to believe they were the Second Coming....and oh, how it shows. Just about every time someone tries to sneakily cut in line at the cafe (inevitably to order a sissy coffee), claim more MUNI seat space than they're entitled to, fails to let me merge on a nasty onramp, or complains loudly because they're being made to wait, you can bet it's a BBWM.

The women are often no prize, either - back in the day when my girls and I were production assistants on film sets, we dreaded working for these middle aged bitches (who's middle aged now? heh!) who seemed determined to make sure we suffered just as much as they had back when they were coming up. You can't really blame them though - hell, if I'd had to date their obnoxious male age cohorts and deal with smashing the glass ceiling and coping with 70s-era contraception, I'd be a little cranky, too.

To add insult to injury, these Boomers just will not - will not will not will not - retire!!! Come on! Get out of here! Make room for someone who actually needs the money! Seriously, guys - your kids are grown (unless you're one of those have-it-all types who waited til 45 to get pregnant, paid a King's ransom for IVF, and is now paying a nanny to raise their kids because they won't retire, see above), the mortgage is paid, you have 1980s era pensions, now please. Leave.

And? Your communication skills, Boomers. ~sigh~

Memo
To: Boomers
From: Gen X
Re: Phone calls
Dear Boomers, when you call me instead of emailing me, you're wasting my time. Love, Gen X

Seriously. We hate phones. We're the most phone-phobic generation ever, which is rather ironic when you think about it, given the ubiquity of phones these days - in the car, in the purse, up your ass - you know, everywhere. But I eye a ringing phone with dread and suspicion, and I know I'm not the only one. Plus, you all were so busy finding yourselves that we were raised as latchkey kids with TV as babysitters and as a result we have short (look! a dragonfly!) attention spans - thus, if you try to talk to me about business on the phone, it's going to go in one ear and out the other - so, I prefer that you send me an email. Also, that way I have a paper trail to call you out when you try to blindside me. Just. Retire. Seriously.

Also - the Sixties are over. Patchouli stinks, you're not hip any more, and no matter how much acid you dropped at Woodstock, you wear wool socks with sandals now. Go away.

My Grave

2010-04-21T15:56:00.001-07:00

I don't even want to be buried (I'm claustrophobic), but I like the idea of some kinda marker, so I do want some of my ashes buried and I want a headstone that reads:

Fahrenheit519
1970 -

Writer
Lover
Friend
Soul Sister
Dog Mom

"The Night Is Long, But Our Dream Is Longer"

p.s. And a bench at the beach!!! Got it? Seriously, I want a bench at Ocean Beach!

Hater Tuesdays #16: Working Late

2010-04-06T18:40:00.000-07:00

1. I've worked an 11 hour day so far and I'm not even close to wrapping up. I hate that. I just ate a piece of marble bread from Peet's for dinner. At my desk. Also hate that. I am jacked up on Peet's coffee. Don't hate that.

The Newspaper Mafia

2010-04-04T10:20:00.000-07:00

I live in a house. Behind my house is a back house, as is often the case in Marin.

I am a San Franciscan (no matter where I'm living), so I order the San Francisco Chronicle. My neighbor in the back house is not, so he orders the Marin Independent Journal, which is what passes for a newspaper in this bizarre little podunk cowtown-meets-nouveau riche county.

This means we often end up with two newspapers at the end of the driveway. Apparently the fashion now is for the carrier to leave your newspaper on the sidewalk in front of your house - not in your driveway, yard, or heaven forbid, front porch. I'm usually up pretty early, so I go collect mine in the pale light of dawn, and if I feel like it, put the neighbor's in his mailbox. But I don't always feel like it.

Which explains, I suppose, how I came home two nights ago and found the Marin IJ on my front steps. I thought it odd but figured maybe the neighbor got an extra copy and was being thoughtful. But then yesterday, there I was, happy as a lark, futzing around my house, dusting and whatnot, and through my front window I see an older gentleman whom I do not know from Adam walking up my driveway, into my garden, and placing the damn IJ on my steps again. As you may have surmised from my previous writings, I am the survivor of violent crime and I do not like strangers anywhere near my home - I don't care if they're Mormons, kids selling newspapers, or Girl Scouts - if you're not here because you were either invited or are bringing me a package of retail awesomeness, get the hell off my property.

But it gets better. Several hours later, I'd progressed to chill mode and was laid up with The Itis on my couch watching reruns of Project Runway while my man friend was tooling around the house, fixing something. The doorbell rings, which immediately makes all my hair stand up on end. Man friend opens the door and it's that bloody Avon Lady - yes, people an Avon Lady - again, hand-delivering the newspaper along with an Avon catalog. Now, what you should know about the Avon Lady is that she has verbally accosted my man friend several times when seeing him in the front yard, gardening. She has left notes scrawled on her catalogs for me wanting to know about my 'St. Francis' statue (which is clearly a Virgin Mary) and when I cautiously emailed her to answer she asked if I wanted to go for walks together and be friends. WTF?

Listen. I may be coming to terms with leaving my beloved metropolis and living the life I've been given up here in Stepford, but let's just get something straight: I don't want to go walking with weird Avon Ladies I've never met, I don't want perfect strangers doing me the 'courtesy' of delivering a newspaper that isn't mine, and in short, if I don't know you, stay the hell off my lawn! Thanks very much.

The Godchild

2010-03-31T09:44:00.000-07:00

There was in incident involving the unloading of a dishwasher and several months later, while I was holed up with a red-headed, green-eyed film editor in Galway, a little girl was born in San Francisco to two very close friends of mine. I bought her a tiny Aran sweater on Inis Mor and met her six weeks later, when I returned home, penniless and heartbroken but thrilled from my first taste of globetrotting. My Dad drove me down to meet her and she promptly threw up on him. For she and I, it was love at first sight.

That New Year's Eve - 1999 - I held her in my arms backstage at the Paradise Lounge while Mix Master Mike rocked the house. I gave her her very first midnight New Year's kiss and I was her designated sitter for most of her first year of life. She was the most well-tended baby I have ever met, scrupulously clean and fashionably adorned - diamond earrings for her first birthday, jingly Thai anklets from her globetrotting Auntie M, and a parade of outfits to die for. And she was a nice kid - though she had her Terrible Twos like all the rest, most of the time she was beside herself to see me and easy to make happy. Pasta with butter and bedtime cuddles usually did the trick.

She was there at my 29th birthday party - dressed in khaki and pink, to match her Mom - and during her toddler years I was married and he was great with her, as Irish blokes usually are. He'd run up and down the jungle gym with her while I sat nearby, drinking coffee and doing crossword puzzles. She became more challenging to mind, especially for the world's most impatient person - me. And then one day when she was four, she and I were walking back to my house from the park and I looked at her skipping down the street just ahead of me, golden curls bobbing, and I had a striking moment of clarity - I realized that this little girl was going through it, just like I was - both of our households were falling apart and she was a little girl being rocked on the swells of familial disintegration, like I had been when I was her age, and a wave of loyalty and protectiveness descended over me. I felt a physical warmth spread through me and I swore to the sky that I'd always be a harbor for her. I think at that moment I truly became her Godmother.

At 8, she came over one night and danced around to Nirvana in my bedroom, wearing a baby T she'd pulled out of my dresser with 'New York Fuckin' City,' on it ('what's this word?' she asked. I quickly changed the subject). Around the same time, she arrived one night fully absorbed in her Gameboy. It was a night that became my Cleverest Godmother Moment Ever: Rather than be the bitchy adult demanding that she put it away, I sat down next to her and pulled out an atlas and began slowly flipping through it. Though she kept pinging away at her contraption, she began to steal glances at the book. 'Wow, Hawaii.......didn't you go to Hawaii?' I asked, 'Do you want to see what it looks like from the sky?' Then I told her there was a city in Australia named after her and asked if she would be interested in seeing what that looked like. 'Wait a minute,' she said, 'let me just turn this off.' My heart soared.

Then for several years, involving reasons as diverse as geography, divorce, and general borderline-insanity, I didn't see my girl. Last summer I showed up at her Mom's house for a party. I parked down the block and when I came walking up the hill she caught sight of me and her whole face lit up and she ran towards me. I was, in her eyes, a complete rock star. She begged to spend the night, and shortly thereafter we spent a couple of days on Clement Street and she stayed at my house for Halloween, dressing up as Alice In Wonderland ('not too much makeup,' she asked as I brushed on pale blue eyeshadow). Her legs have grown long and willowy, like her mother's, and she's riding that fine line between girl and young lady.

Last week she called me out of the blue, telling me about a car wash at her school and asking did I maybe want to come? Saturday I drove the hour south to her beautiful little beach town, had Chinese with her Mom, told her she'd spent more time complaining about emptying the dishwasher (I'm sensing a theme, here) than it would take to actually just do it, and then took her out for dinner and a movie. It's the best date I've had in ages. She loves salads and eats bread like a champ, I learned, and if I was worried about her careening towards womanhood, her choice of How To Train Your Dragon over the R-rated The Runaways (which I'm dying to see) soothed my godmotherly concerns and reassured me that she is fundamentally still a little girl. But as we sat in the dark with our goofy 3-D glasses on, oohing and aahing over Vikings and dragons, I wondered how much longer she'll still want to lean her head on my shoulder or curl up beneath my arm. Probably not too much, I'm afraid, and I steel myself for the inevitable teenage disassociation and coolness complex.

There are so many things I miss about living by the ocean in San Francisco, and though I seem to be making a tentative peace with Marin County, one of them remains my distance from her. If I still lived in the Avenues, I'd be fifteen minutes from her. Close enough for short-notice weeknight dinners. Close enough for school plays. Close enough for movies just because. But I realize now, in a way I never did before, the girl I love so much is fast becoming the woman I know I will love just as much, but I don't want to miss any more of her transformation. The 37 miles between us be damned, I will have this kid growing up knowing her Godmother has her back and is at her beck and call. She'll inherit my jewelry and anything else of value I happen to have when the time comes, but what I most want to leave her with is my love and the knowledge that she was the most specialist special girl in my life and that it's faster to empty the dishwasher than to whine about it. That's plenty, I think.

Hater Tuesdays #15: Dear Coworkers

2010-03-30T06:17:00.000-07:00

Dear People I Work With,

really, you are a lovely lot. Having worked with sleazy nightclub owners and socially retarded laboratory freaks, I can speak to this. In general, you are pretty bearable as a group, and some individuals are actually endearing. However, let's get a few things straight:

1. You are inappropriately noisy. If I can hear you sing, hum, tap your feet, clink your spoon against your bowl, slurp your soup, or make 20-minute personal calls, you are a savage who does not deserve to be amongst the civilized. Also? Talking loudly about your work and stomping around to let me know how important you are does not, in fact, make you important.

2. Enough with the old-ladyisms. Yes, I know we are a rather mature work force here, and rather heavy on the estrogen. But discussing your health problems ad nauseum really, really, really makes you look like an old biddy. And? I don't care. And? HIPAA. Just stop. I get this crap from my Dad, I don't need to hear it when I'm trying to work.

3. Stop fronting. In front of others, you eat salads, drink water, and climb the four flights of stairs to the office. Don't hate on me when you see me keeping it real - you know, drinking a Coke with lots of ice and taking the elevator two floors up. I wear heels. High ones. And I probably have a headache, as I do half the time. And I know when no one's looking you're gorging on the free cake that seems to show up every other week. So have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up.

4. What is with all the meetings? My God. I refer to Dave Barry's Rule #2 of '16 Things It Took Me 50 Years To Learn:' If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved and will never achieve its full potential, that one word would be "meetings."

5. Don't hate me because my office is luxurious. You know, we all got the same basic setup: desks, shelves, file cabinets, in the same bland shades of beige. The reason why my office looks like a pimped-out tropical resort and yours looks like, well, a sloppy, boring office is because you just might be, my friend, sloppy and boring - and at best, apathetic. My office is super dope because I actually give a damn about the aesthetics of the room I spend 45+ hours a week in. So take it all in - the African carvings and succulents in talavera pottery, the humming fish tank, the lucky bamboo and embroidered Palestinian pillows, and slink back to your own dull-as-dishwater day cell. And lest you think my fabulousness has come at the expense of my efficiency, behold my brilliantly designed workflow systems, my paperless desktop, and my folders and binders where I organize the shit out of my work. And I always get my work done before deadline - do you?

6. What are you, the Queen of England? This is not Wall Street. Or Google. Or Microsoft. The Big Kahuna of this place makes a salary that would cause your average securities broker to giggle. Yet you put on airs as if we worked in the NYC Mayor's Office. Or for Donald Trump or something. The fact is, we all earn a decent but in no way extravagant salary and in the whole great big grand scheme of this world if ours, we are all little working stiffs just puttin' in a day's work. Please refrain from sticking your nose in the air like you are Princess Diana. Appreciated.

7. A time and a place. Ladies, don't talk shop with me in the ladies' room. That's just nasty. Say hello if you must and let it die. Ladies and gentlemen, please don't attempt to talk shop with me when you see me out for lunch, skulking through the hallways, or worst of all, walking to or from my car in the parking lot. That's my time. Your time is when you see me in my office or at a meeting. Any time my ass is not planted in a chair is off-limits to discussing work. And if you want to avoid a serious mood protest, do not, for the love of God, ever sidle up to me in the parking lot in the morning and make small talk while we climb the hill to our building. That is an official mourning period; the last five minutes of my day when I can daydream, contemplate my next shoe purchase, or enjoy fresh air before I shut the door and sequester myself in my office - I don't want to share it with you. Just wave and keep it moving, son.

8. And now, an old favorite from my high school biology teacher: she had a poster on her classroom wall that read 'A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.' I read it, I learned it, I lived it, I loved it. That is why I get my projects done weeks in advance. I love having things tied up, put to bed, in the can. The hard part is when I need feedback or info from you and you wait until the very last minute to give it to me, thus forcing me to rush and adopt a sense of urgency where there really shouldn't have been any. I know they pay me to do what needs to be done, but seriously, guys, let's think from the end and sew it up ASAP. Capisce?

Light Sleeper

2010-03-24T08:40:00.000-07:00

There was a knock on the door and the next thing I knew two men were storming through the tiny living room, waving guns and telling everyone to get on the floor. There were four or five of us there and we all did, pressing our faces into the rough Persian rug as they ransacked the house.

I was the only child there, a few months this side of thirteen, but that didn't stop them. When they couldn't find what they were looking for, they got more agitated and turned their attention to the bodies lined up on the floor.

'You've got a pretty daughter,' one said to my father, and then told me that was a very nice gold chain I was wearing as he stuck his fingers through it, grazing the back of my neck. Through tears and a fear so all-compassing that it seemed to make my whole body vibrate, I told him to take it....anything, anything to get him away from me.

He didn't take the chain, but he cocked his gun with the tiniest click and put it against the back of my head and told my father to tell him where the money was or he'd kill me, and then the fear turned ragged and whole and I seemed to be falling down the rabbit hole right into its red embrace. I heard him counting backwards from three and I was screaming, 'Daddy, tell him, Daddy!' and I was thirteen years old and had not called my father Daddy in many years. And when he reached 'one,' and he was going to do what he said he would and I heard a sound like an ocean wave rise up from somewhere inside and this thought came through me, not from me but through me, and it said, 'I am not going to die without a fight,' thirteen years old and I'm lying on the floor of my house in Berkeley, California, thinking I'm not going to let someone just take my life and something somewhere pushed my hand and I reached up and grabbed at his wrist.

He jumped back from me like I was on fire and then he and the other one left as quickly as they had come. I began crying inconsolably and screamed that I wasn't going to stay there that night and what I didn't know is that I'd never sleep deeply ever again. From that night on I became a light sleeper.

My father was pretty sure he knew who set him up; a woman (isn't it always, sounds the jailhouse chorus) associate. Two weeks later she tried it again, this time with three other guys as she stood on the porch in the shadows. Thankfully the women of the house were out and when we came back from dinner in Emeryville and rounded the corner the street was full of squad cars and flashing red and blue lights and there was my father coming out of the front door, hands up, in a police spotlight, and the snarling neighbor who always hated us because of the booming bass, screaming, 'That's the man! That's him!' like out of a movie.

One had died in the driveway two doors down. The other died on the operating table after the ambulance collected him, and the third was paralyzed. Fibers from the woman's coat were found in a bullet hole in the doorway. She escaped with her life by a few inches and I heard, years later, she'd cleaned her act up. None of them knew my Dad was a marksman in the Army, and to this day I'd like to tell her that every time I hear the doorbell unexpectedly I still jump out of my skin.