Gettin' Saucy

White

2011-01-22T21:45:00.000-08:00

A childhood stolen far too soon.
I never asked to make these decisions
I never asked for the guilt
For the yelling
For the blame
For the hatred
For the depression
For the mania
For the anger
For the loneliness
For the sense of being so fucking alone
I didn’t chose any of this and still I can’t walk away

I wonder how I would feel if she were to succeed
If the blade cut through and I just watched instead of making the call
What if the cocktail worked or the pills kicked in or the rope dug just that much deeper.
What if I let her run, what if I just let her go.

I feel so much anger watching her peacefully sleep with her wrists wrapped in white.
And I wonder, when do I get mine?

Safe

2010-12-10T22:24:00.000-08:00

I don’t understand why they call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The P and the T and D make sense, but not the stress. Stress doesn’t begin to describe what I feel. It seemed like such a simple decision. I need shoes. Actually, I desperately need shoes. I would just leave work early and go to the mall and buy shoes.

As I stepped out of the office, the bus was waiting as if it knew my mission. And despite the typical crowdedness the Muni usually offers me, instead there was a seat. Not just any seat either, but a solo seat. So I sat, headphones on, as the bus slowly crawled down the hill toward Union Square. I looked out the window and away from the action inside the bus. I could hear the yelling, but still I ignored the altercation around me. I had a goal and a destination.

As I stepped off the bus, I expected the swarm of holiday shoppers. I breathed slowly and deeply as I pushed through the crowd, reminding myself of my errand. I made it all the way in to the store and up the escalator and then it hit. The rush of anxiety, the feeling of being totally overwhelmed and this was beyond stress. My hands began to clench and I wanted to leave. I forced myself to wander the floor, touching shoes. But I knew there would be no success. I couldn’t open my mouth. The tears were already forming and all I could feel was shame. There was Christmas everywhere: Red and green wherever I looked. I could feel the rush of warm begging me to remove my coat. And I knew as the warm began to turn into pools of sweat I had to go.

I flew out of the store and onto the street and began to walk. I wanted to wander aimlessly until I felt better but knew I had no choice but to walk down Market Street to the bus terminal or I would be forced to take the night bus, which drops me off blocks instead of feet from my car and there would be more anxiety. As I made the walk down Market, I tried to ignore the faces walking by, but in every face I saw him. He was here in San Francisco. He was walking behind me. He was walking towards me. I couldn’t stop seeing him. My heart raced as the fear became paralyzing. I slowly let my gaze become unfocused as I continued walking, so I could no longer see anyone.

The sweat began to dry and my feet reminded me the shoes I was currently wearing needed to be retired. And I was desperate for home, the isolated sanctuary that protected me like a soft cocoon. How I wished I could metamorphose into a butterfly. There were months to go before my wings would develop and I could fly under the soft rays of the spring sun. But for now it’s tears. Not stress, just tears. Just like the deep drops of a winter rain, my tears flowed from the same dark place from within. And as I stepped inside my fortress of solitude the tears rolled down my cheeks as if to create a moat to protect me inside. And for now I am safe.

Little White Pill

2010-06-29T10:57:00.000-07:00

I knew my mother’s offer of a treadmill was another thinly veiled attempt to let me know she thinks I am fat. It’s pathetic that there is no ability for her to offer me such a generous gift. Those niceties never really existed for me anyway. I suppose it was nice of her to give me a journal at 9 years old and a calorie counting book to help me track the number of calories I was eating per day. But the gift of a lifetime battle with an eating disorder was more than I thought I was receiving at that time. And now, I no longer looked forward to her gifts.

Unfortunately the timing of this gift offer coincided with a week of uncontrolled anxiety. And the more anxious I was becoming the more difficult it was to spend time with the man I love. I was embarrassed for him to see me like this. Leaving the house this morning I knew it was a question of minutes before the panic attack set in. Thank god he didn’t see me as I struggled to breath and my hands clenching ever so tightly. The mantras, the breathing, none of it working. I hate the shame I feel over my inability to take control over myself. I suppose I even blame myself for not controlling my nerves and letting them rule my body. And now I had a witness. Over a decade of secluding myself from others allowed me to escape the shame I felt having anxiety. Yes, I need to medicate. Who wants to admit that? The only way I can feel “normal” is by taking treatment. Realistically though, it works. It’s a relief to feel my heart begin a regular pace and my breathing no longer labored. And I don’t know how to be around him now as I work towards getting better… again.

I didn’t even know how to be better with the changes happening all around me. The Viking and I decided to take the plunge toward cohabitation. And now I had a real choice; I could choose to live with him or I could choose to live with my anxiety. At the moment I am leaning towards the anxiety because having him see me like this is too difficult for me to stomach. The fears of rejection, of him not accepting me, of him seeing me as difficult and ultimately of him abandoning me were too much to bear. Still I long for the partnership he offers and try to remind myself the concerns floating in my head were the result of my anxiety and not based in reality. I was too afraid to ask him for the truth since ultimately it would require a vulnerability I wasn’t comfortable with. I suppose for him to love me, to really love me meant he would have to know all of me. Even this… the stuff I didn’t even want to know or acknowledge about myself. The part of me I see as hopelessly broken if not for the little white pill. Yes, the little white pill. And with one quick drink of water I am soon on my way toward clarity once again.

$50,000 Angel

2010-06-25T17:13:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the Gulf. Perhaps it was the drone of the news playing in the background this morning that had me thinking how ineffectual I felt. The word I like to use is impotent. I feel impotent. And I felt far away. The Gulf feels far. The floods in Tennessee feel far. And I feel removed. And truth is I am. I suppose I began to feel guilty that I haven’t taken these causes under my wing. I simply hear about them and feel powerless and yet do nothing. Even as I made my way to work, my reality of my profession couldn’t seem to pull me out of this sense of not doing enough. Preventing and treating breast cancer wasn’t enough; Nor were my other “causes du jour.” Years of volunteering with animal rescue couldn’t seem to console this sense of powerlessness I felt nor the fundraiser I began to help an injured friend. I can’t seem to do enough in a world that is seemingly falling apart.

Now I promise I am not getting “emo” on everyone here. But as I looked around me, there does seem to be injustices happening. Besides the injustices that are happening on a global scale, as I shrink my world to just that, my world, I couldn’t help but notice what hits so close to home. From the murder of my mentor by a single shot in the back, to the accidental injury that changed my friends life, to the termination of employment experienced by another for simply doing what she loves (burlesque),and to the extreme health decline of another. How could I do enough? There just is so much.

Perhaps my sense of impotence was stemming from the anger I feel as I sit with the awareness that there are people out there taking advantage of the kindness of our community. Yes, I am mad as I learned about the defrauding of my community through the solicitation of funds for a cause based in fantasy rather than reality. I jokingly said I was selfish that this situation was distracting people from donating to what I deemed a more worthy cause, my friends’ medical expenses. But was I being judgmental? So what if this other party skewed the facts of their situation for financial gain and empathy? Would those who would have donated to my little cause turn their attention away to assist in a personal vendetta in the form of a legal action? Did it really matter who was suing who? Why do I care that they are putting their hand out to line the pockets of their personal cause?

Sitting on Muni, I began to think that perhaps it’s my thinking that is flawed. Of course I am not enough. As I constantly turn to my own community asking for support, I know this. “Be the bra people” has been my tagline for years. So maybe I need to look outside myself to understand how through these 6 degrees of separation my community is making a difference in the world. We are able to look outside ourselves and practice what is known to me as “Tikkun Olam,” repairing the world. Ironically the first person that came to mind is a biker I know and a former skinhead. And while his facebook posts tend to predominantly reflect his punk rock values of “fuck everyone” he never ceases to surprise me with a government official’s address or phone number or most recently BP and a suggestion to be proactive. Or the daily facebook posts from a Little Darling I was fortunate enough to cross paths with as she continues her crusade to save pitbulls, one bullie at a time. Or my curly sister in New Orleans who was forever changed after Katrina. She moved from California to Louisiana just to be part of the solution, one child at a time. I am not enough.

I suppose as I go about my Wednesday, I am simply looking for the comfort that I impact a greater world through the actions of those around me. Or maybe this is a call to action. Doing nothing is not enough. I remember years ago backstage with The Fixx (a story for another time), I made one of the band member’s cry. I didn’t mean to and I am quite sure alcohol fueled the response. But he asked me what I did for a living. My answer was “saving the world one convict at a time.” I was running a literacy and creative writing program for parolees that I had started in San Francisco. My goal was to reduce recidivism by creating healthy options for those leaving the correctional system and to reunite families. He lamented he never did anything for anyone. My response was to put my hand out. I reminded him that I couldn’t do my work alone. For everyone on the ground, there’s an angel dropping a dollar in my pocket to keep the work going. He was a 50 thousand dollar angel.

And yes, I am looking for that $50k angel today just to make a dent in my tiny community, my community of friends. But I would settle for just encouraging everyone around me to take a moment to just do something. Write an email for a cause or write a check or play with the puppies at Animal Control. Or even add my cause of the day, the Whit’s Knee Fund. Just do something. Because it is all overwhelming when we wonder what we as individuals can do. But looking at what we all do, there’s a comfort there, so I hope people will comment and share.

Managing

2010-05-05T16:36:00.000-07:00

As quickly as this little being came into my life, it was just gone. It seemed so unfair that I was allowed to hold on to hope, but for only a few short weeks. I felt pathetic looking at the blurred images on my refrigerator as if they were anything more than pulsating cells. And all I had to show for it now was 6 extra pounds that felt like 100 under the emotional weight I feel.

I suppose I should feel grateful I had this moment of hope. For these several weeks, I was happy with this parasite growing inside of me. Too early on to call it anything else, it came to be known amongst friends as the sesame seed. It even got to evolve into the blueberry. And I became so superstitious. As if having the fear of losing the blueberry would bring on its demise. I even kept the picture of my deceased cat on my cell phone because for some strange reason I rationalized that deleting the picture would somehow delete the moment I was having. And I was full. Full of hope, full of dreams, full of future. The woman who lived her life in the present, who stopped looking ahead was actually living life with a calendar marked months in advance.

I started to imagine family. My own family. Family had become synonymous to my friends, not the people who I was related to by blood. The growing being inside of me would fit all conventional definitions of family though: we’d be stuck together, blood related and unlike my own, I planned to not abandon the little berry. This was the dream I never allowed myself to have. And now I am wondering what the point was in having this glimpse of a dream dangled in front of me, only to be snatched away.

And I hated the word for it; “miscarriage.” I didn’t miscarry anything, because if I was really carrying this precious being, I would have taken every precaution imaginable. The last image we saw of the blueberry, it looked squished, as if someone stepped on it. It sort of reminded me of the time my dad’s turtle laid an egg and the male turtle just walked right over it and it was no longer round but flatly oval. The blueberry was squashed.

In between the moments of sadness, I just feel angry. I had gone on my whole life never imagining this moment. Realistically, this was not meant to be at all. I remember the words of the emergency room doctor when I was just 17 as he told me I wouldn’t be able to have children. Of course what I heard and took with me was that I was broken. And I feel broken now still. My friends called it a miracle, while I felt that there was some other force at work. It just seemed beyond coincidental I could conceive the day my beloved cat had died. And still, I can’t see my own role in this still seeing myself as the broken girl.

And now I am the broken girl with the broken heart. For months I have been in my head with secrets. The secret of a pregnancy, the secret of a miscarriage, and now the secret that something in me just feels broke. The words of 12-step echoing in my head, “you are only as sick as your secrets.” And I do feel sick hoping to be on the mend. I suppose there is no way to truly mend this. I am hoping simply to add this to my list of experiences with the words of Mother Theresa to comfort me… “God never gives you more than you can manage.” I guess the better response when I am asked how I am doing, is that I am managing. Day by day, I am managing.

Thoughts on Paper

2010-04-06T09:10:00.001-07:00

Both my writing and my reality have become this secret world I dare not share. I feel stuck as if I am in some cocoon waiting to emerge. Not knowing if I will arrive as a butterfly or simply a moth. Or perhaps I won't emerge at all. Even writing now in this free form style without thought is almost liberating. And the lies continue on a daily basis, hiding myself and my secret from everyone. The stress of it all is starting to wear on me and even as I scroll through online services just to find one person like me, I want my support in person. Cyber hugs just won't do. And my inner voice yearns for a mother I have never known. There is no consoling me at this time. I am truly alone.

It's merely days now before the anniversary of my birth. The thought of celebrating is so distant, when my mood is despondent and bleak. Every morning I wake up quietly hoping that my reality feels less a nightmare and more a fantasy. My childhood dreams had not prepared me for this. I am finding myself slipping daily into some abyss when I know as time goes on, there is a light at the end of this tunnel. Maybe tunnel isn't actually accurate, perhaps it's best described as a door. Because doors provide option even though at the moment I feel encased in my situation, alone in my head, solo in my journey and empty of choice.

I have come to rely on the kindness of those few I have allowed into my narrow world. I am exhausted by my own words and have turned to this medium to express myself, insecure with the thought that I may indeed be taxing those around me. I feel a desperation to find support and have come up empty handed. I am aware I am drowning and actually want to be preserved. And again, it's time I need, but like a junkie I want the instant gratification of truly knowing I am going to be just fine. Each morning is that reminder of my uncertainty. And all the blood, there is just so much of it. I crave a morning without reminders, I would embrace a day that creates no memory, just the humdrum of existence.

And some mornings I just wake up angry. My body is a complete stranger to me. I don't understand any of it's pains. Today I took the prophylactic deciding that I didn't need to know how I felt. I knew to feel pain only affected my mood for the day. And how much I yearned for movement, for intimacy, to feel independent. Damn I hated to ask for help. Last night I found myself sweeping my dirty home, crying through the pain because I was just to stubborn to ask anyone to help me. This morning I gave in and wrote the only person who was watching me bang my head over and over. I despised turning to him feeling no confidence that he truly didn't mind lending a hand.

Since when had I become this independent? Had I become my own fair weather friend? Only wanting to see my reflection when I felt my best. The word's of my mother echoing in my head, "no one cares about your problems, so keep them to yourself." But like an illness, my disease of secrecy only made me sicker by the minute. And I knew as I looked at the image of her surgically sculpted face that behind every peel and cut of the knife, she was sicker than me.

Thinking like a slut

2009-11-01T00:38:00.000-07:00

So I recently received an email in which my suitor let me know that he likes a girl that thinks "slutty". I think on first reading this, I had that knee-jerk reaction of reading it as him calling me slutty. But apparently I wasn't actually being accused of being slutty, just thinking that way. I found myself feeling perplexed by this, afterall what was it about my profile and writing that would lead this dude to write that I “think slutty”?

Slutty is such a loaded term inherent with lots of judgment. So, I am actually struggling to see slutty as a compliment. I also began to wonder what it actually means to think slutty. Does it have to do with the amount of times someone thinks about sex? According to the Kinsey Institute as well as every man I know, a guy thinks about sex just about every 2 minutes. Does it seem that I think about sex more than the average male and that defines slutty? Using that logic than why don’t we hear of more men being told they think slutty? This is one of those great double standards. It’s not only considered “normal” for a guy to think about sex, but it’s just as normal if he thinks about it even more often than every 2 minutes. But somehow if a woman is thinking about sex every 2 minutes, she thinks slutty? Or was there something about my profile that would suggest I think about sex more often and that somehow I have crossed the line into the realm of “thinking slutty?” While I do think about sex, I would say that I probably think about it far less than the average male. Certainly if I am getting ready for a rendez-vous, I am thinking about sex every second as I get ready, but while at work, not so much. Realistically, I work in a pretty gnarly neighborhood and usually have to walk over passed-out people with their bagged bottles still in their hand on the way to work. So not much eye candy. I am thinking that defining thinking slutty by time, I wouldn’t qualify.

Or perhaps it’s because I have written about about casual encounters, so therefore I have slutty thoughts. This hypothesis is more difficult for me to understand. So writing about “casual encounters” and looking for that type of companionship must mean that I think slutty? Is wanting to meet someone for the sole purpose of sex, thinking slutty? Or is this perhaps one of those little double standard situations? It’s not often we hear of a guy being accused of thinking slutty because he is going to go meet a woman for the specific purpose of fornication. Frankly I am happy when any of my friends have that going for them. Good for them… they are about to get laid. Slutty doesn’t seem appropriate as a descriptive term for what they are thinking and what is about to happen. And realistically, all I have to show for my “thinking slutty” is a blog.

Is the mere fact that I actually have had a casual encounter enough to qualify as thinking slutty? Or is there another threshold I am not aware of? I felt compelled to look up the word “slut” and actually found that it literally means “a woman considered sexually promiscuous.” Hmmm… so that explains why we don’t hear about men being called sluts. But it doesn’t help me to understand why dude thinks that telling me I think slutty is somehow a compliment.

Cross-Trainers

2009-11-01T00:23:00.000-07:00

I was starting to wonder if these were simply delusions. It had been so long since someone had taken me by the hand, but perhaps that’s my mind playing tricks on me as I reached out and felt his warm calloused hand in mine. I remember as a child waiting for my father to pick me up from pre-school. He never came. I remember telling the teacher he would arrive, after all, he had promised. But there I stood on the curb refusing to return to the warmth of the classroom. I truly believed he would show. Even as the lady with the lipstick on her teeth arrived and told me I would have to go with her. I sat on the curb and began to cry. What would he think if I wasn’t where he told me to wait?

She gripped my wrist hard and dragged me away. I knew if I were gone he wouldn’t know where to look. Somehow it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t look anyhow. And as I sat in the back of her car, I was sure I saw him and yelled for her to stop. She slowed the vehicle while looking back at me and curtly said, “he’s not there and he is not coming.”

I found myself questioning my reality today, so unsure of my inner voice since it had betrayed me before. Actually that’s not entirely true either. I had hand-selected all of them, as if I needed to replicate all that I had known. I instinctively was drawn to the ones in the cross-trainers. First there was the beautiful boy who kissed me sweetly with one foot in another bed. How naïve I was to think I needed to change. Then there was the angry man from the east who had promised to never let me go even as he kissed me goodbye on his way to work with his suitcase neatly packed in the car. I called no one as I waited day after day with no hint as to where to find him. Then there was the monkey man who didn’t run but rather shoved. Even as I clung to him after tripping and falling, he smacked my hands away leaving me to fall even harder and giving him a bigger headstart. And now I wondered as I felt the warmth of the Viking’s skin against my palm how long would it be before he made the same promise to return even as he let go and walked away.

I found myself whispering this morning unable to find my voice. I sometimes wondered if the in-between time created the distance or perhaps it was the time together that pulled him away. What else could I think when left with my own assumptions? I experimented last week with words I had not spoken before in years. I was perplexed by how much the silence hurt. This was no longer grade school, so I couldn’t ask anyone to pass him a note in class. Remember those notes, the ones with the check boxes with names and questions such as “who do you have a crush on” or “will you go steady with me.” I was always passing those notes for others secretly hoping one of them would be for me. But there was no note, just a change in topic.

I began to look at my note, the email that I had written weeks before sitting patiently as a draft. I stopped myself as the cursor rested on send. I had always clicked send in the past and found myself much like the same little girl in the back of the sedan driving away from my nursery school. The difference is that I knew he wouldn’t be coming if I pushed send. There would be no tears, no betrayal, or abandonment. Just like the rest, I could give him the out I had convinced myself he needed just as I had imagined my father felt watching me being taken away.

Drowning

2009-10-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

My mother abandoned me at the sound of my first cry. When asked, she described me as colicky and inconsolable. She would pass by my crib yelling at me to hush. I asked my grandmother about this recently over dinner. She reached across the table and grabbed my hand and softly said that I was a vivacious little girl. Her eyes glimmered as she described how independent I always was. After saying the word independent, she corrected herself and added, “fearless.” She reminded me that after the exhaustion set-in, I always returned to the comfort of her arms or nestled comfortably in her husbands lap for a nap. She described me like a kitten climbing up the curtains to the point of collapse. Then like my cross-eyed beauty, I would settle close to her nearly purring with content.

She loves to tell the tale of me climbing up the highest structure at the children’s playground and sitting there while she pleaded for me to come down. She’d even plod my older brother to climb up to get me but he was too scared. Eventually a stranger would have to get me. And after touching the ground I would rush to my grandmother and hold her tight. I loved her smell of ivory soap and schmaltz. And she would hold me so tight and quietly plead with me to never leave her like that again. She always reminded me I was loved.

Now as an adult, I no longer climb walls. Rather I have built them up like some impenetrable fortress, complete with a moat. Like a bad Disney tale, I am the king with a moat around my kingdom and I can’t swim. And worse, is I have only grown more afraid of the water as I got older. I wonder what happened to the fearless girl unafraid of climbing the highest peak. The little explorer who would stay out past sunset just to catch air one more time on her skateboard. I suppose too many times I ventured out into the cold dark water never to find the shore. Or perhaps the times I had looked for a hand to reach out to me, it never showed.

I found myself drowning today in a sea of bad memories and moments in time that I realized I don’t ever want to relive. And as I cried on the phone from the bathroom in the diner, the voice on the other end gently advised me that it is the walls that needed to go, but the moat could continue to stay.

Morning Fog

2009-10-22T10:36:00.000-07:00

The roar of his engine came sooner than I had expected. It seemed like forever as I waited for him to knock on my door. I had held my breakdown for hours now. The nightmares had started weeks ago and I was operating on little sleep. My sense of security gone, I found myself reaching in strange places for comfort. Was it really just a year ago I was sitting in front of a body of strangers giving testimony? The word testimony seems so strange. In reality it was my life. I wasn’t reading a fictional tale from a book. I was reciting details of my life, while these five people sat across from me taking notes. I still find it perplexing that I can describe precisely what I smelled while it happened as if the smell still lingered on me like stale cigarette smoke from a bar. As I think about that day 20 years ago, I can still feel the restraint around my wrists and the tightening of my chest as I struggled to breathe.

The knock is harder now as I quicken my pace to the door. I open the door and he barely makes it inside as I collapse in his arms like a child exhausted by my own inner tantrum. I sob in his arms on my floor for what seems like hours but was really only minutes. And he just rocks us back and forth while quietly soothing me. The moment interrupted as he offers to get me a tissue. He lends me a hand to help me up as he makes his way down my hall toward my bathroom and I crawl on my couch only to have the cross-eyed beauty jump up and gently scratch at my lap. She nestles on my legs with her head pushed up against my stomach as if to hug me. And he returns with a roll of toilet paper that he hands me as he takes his seat next to me. I knew what he would ask me next. It’s the same question I get asked every year: “have you thought about seeing someone?”

Truth is I have. Off and on for years, I have sat across from strangers and recounted my story. I began to feel as if I had no other tale to tell and a few years ago, I decided to take a new approach to this time of year; denial. It came in the form of being too busy. I could excuse the exhaustion, because I could relate it to all that I was doing. This year is no different as I find myself racing to performances and social engagements. But the memory of the hearing almost seemed too fresh to deny. I could still see the face of the man that changed my world years ago and the smirk on his face. And I could still hear his mother’s voice as she yelled at me for ruining his life. I was unable to muster a word then as I wanted to tell her about how many times I had contemplated ending my own. I wondered how she could imagine I was really living after what her own flesh and blood had done to me. I almost felt jealous of her ability to deny, it was so much more deep-seeded then my own.

I had come to some terms at this point with my experience. I wasn’t a teenage girl anymore, although at times late at night, I still feel like that child; alone and terrified. Ironically, my angel must have known what was happening as my phone rang late night last night. I was relieved to see her name pop up on my caller ID. And the first thing she said was that she just felt compelled to call and check on me. I never understood how she always seemed to know those exact moments when a friend was all I needed. I hadn’t thought to call her myself, rather I had left a cryptic text for the Viking to find, still unable to clearly tell him what I needed. I guess I was just afraid of reaching out and learning that he wouldn’t want to be there for me. I wouldn’t have to wait for him to abandon me if I never set him up to be around.

I somehow managed to make it into my office, even with the bags clearly visible under my eyes. As I felt the cool air on my face as we rode his Harley across the Bay, I relaxed. For the moment I felt safe, knowing my angel was looking out for me and that he would be waiting for me outside my office to take me home. At last, there could be relief that there were no more trials or hearings, just memories that I could finally allow to drift away like the morning fog.

Cleaning

2009-10-10T20:20:00.000-07:00

I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs as I watched him ride away. It was that time of year once again when the anxiety takes over and I forget how to sleep. And I was afraid for him to see. This is the part when I can hear my own voice telling me I am broken. Shattered pieces of porcelain that can never quite be put back together again, I was perpetually imperfect. And it was almost funny how I would try to create a façade of perfection by working constantly to craft a “perfect” home.

I clean. I literally am constantly cleaning. And just in case I haven’t emphasized this enough, I will not lay down in bed until my entire kitchen is spotless. I don’t know if I am seeing imaginary dust or make-believe dirt, but my house can’t seem to be clean enough. Today I ignored the tears as I cleaned my home from top to bottom never quite seeing it as clean. My fingers cracking from solvents, while I resisted wearing gloves. And minutes later I am on a chair vacuuming the ceiling because I just can’t stop. I ignore the commitments I have made, because I have to keep going.

I jokingly call this OCD, but really it’s not. I am not sure what to call this, since it’s not really nesting either. I am still cleaning as if no one will notice my personal imperfections in such a clean house. And I wonder if I should tell the Viking as he notices the overpowering smell of Windex upon entering my house. I have created an illusion of cleanliness when really I am just crazy. And all the while secretly hoping someone will compliment how clean my home is. It’s actually all quite pathetic, this desperation to be noticed even though there is no one here.

I wonder if my mother cleans for the same reason. While visiting an old friend yesterday he described my mother’s home as looking staged by a realtor. No sense of warmth or comfort, just everything neat and tidy and put exactly in the “right” place. Her house is immaculate. I remember as a child she used to sweep and mop the kitchen every night while my father watched television. She couldn’t stop either.

How did we get this way? Did she also yearn to have her parents tell her that she was loved, even just once? Just a week ago I listened as the Viking told his father he loved him while on the phone. I turned my head away afraid he would see my tears and then found myself absentmindedly picking imaginary lint off of my pants.

Fall

2009-09-27T23:28:00.000-07:00

The orange radiance of the harvest moon illuminated my room like the glow of a lighthouse.
Lights and mirrors warning ships in the night
And it’s fall and I am waiting
Impatient for the shoe to drop
Too many years of chaos taught me nothing different
And I am restless

After all I am the girl who disappears in the middle of the night
The child on the buses going nowhere just so I wouldn’t have to be home
The young one hoping to be remembered
In the ruins of all that was destroyed
I forgot how to trust

And as I stared up at the brilliance above I couldn’t help but pray I wouldn’t run
Images never seen don’t need to be erased
And they never really were gone
Like little slivers on my skin there were still marks
Or sometimes they lingered like the feeling of a shiver, as the colors of the sky grow dark

Most of the time I just pretended
Under guarded smiles and a muted tongue
I thought the world conspired with me
Allowing me to hide my head under veils thankful to not be seen
But it was me that was hurting all along

After all a tree falling in the forest does make a sound
And even under the comfort of your skin I can forget how to breathe
Or perhaps it's just I am holding the air still inside
Listening for the sound of the other shoe to drop

Felony

2009-09-27T18:18:00.000-07:00

The Viking was right, it was just a simple task: just write. And yet here I find myself unable to find the words as if they are lost somewhere like the keys to my house. The sadness is indescribable. My body feeling as if I had gained 20 pounds over night, I was unable to move under my own weight. My life has been marked my so much loss and here I was facing the loss of my friend for the last 12 years and I just break. I almost feel embarrassed to feel so much grief. Here she is laying in my lap quietly purring and content. And here I am asking myself if I am doing the right thing by letting her go. We have shared so much but I never thought we’d be sharing a diagnosis of cancer. Mine in remission and hers inoperable. I almost wished it were me instead because I could understand and I had no way of explaining to her what was going on. I still don’t speak tabby.

She was just a little grey ball of fur the day she entered my life. After a visit to a vet and a bath, I discovered she was white. Nicknamed by a friend in grad school, she came to be known as “the cross-eyed beauty.” And although she shared her first 8 years with a 120-pound shepherd, she knew she was bigger. And she was. She was my comfort in times of pain and she was the first to hear the good news of the day. She is the first to greet me in the early hours as the sun begins its ascent. And she is my melody at night as the rumble of her purr soothes me to sleep.

She ended 2008 on a diet and began 2009 unable to hold on to her weight. Despite her condition she still rules the roost. She has the energy to remind her sister that the bed is only big enough for her. And she still slaps me in the calf beckoning me to play a game of chase. She guards the house unaware of her size. Greeting strangers at the door and meowing at friends. While rehearsing and vacuuming she will stand her ground. And despite her crossed eyes, no bug has ever been safe.

And now I am faced with saying goodbye. Unlike her sister, I can plan for pictures and I can hold her one last time. And I can keep telling myself tomorrow and silently pray that the day will never come.

Cutting

2009-06-10T22:51:00.000-07:00

The security of the Tenderloin has changed from the subtle reminder of the dangers of depression and a bottle to a world of temptation for a girl looking for an escape. Even as I stood today facing the peckerwood with the blade screaming his racist rant while his “old lady” reminded him we shared color in common, I found myself too numb to muster a sense of fear. It almost scared me how much I wanted to feel his blade. Desperate for emotions that don’t come easy, I spent my day faking a smile to every face I thought looked kindred in a crowd. I began to think about the last time I had longed to feel and absentmindedly began to touch the scars on my leg.

Fiending to cut is much like craving booze or drugs. I would desperately yearn for the euphoric feeling as I dragged a razor blade across my thigh. For many years, it was the only way I could cry. The first time I cut, I was only 12. Oddly, I remember the day I did it as if it happened yesterday. On a day that began as “normal,” I was alone in my room surrounded by my childhood friends of Barbie’s and stuffed animals. A latchkey kid since I was 5, my afternoons were typically filled with conversations with my fuzzy friends about my day. I couldn’t tell time yet nor did I know my home phone number, but I knew to put the key in the door and to find my after-school snack of oranges and peanut butter sandwiches in the refrigerator.

I had formed a semi-circle of blonde bodacious beauties as well as lobsters, bears, and dinosaurs around myself. There really weren’t any favorites, but only the big brown bear slept in my bed with me at night. I still have no clue what compelled me to leave my room and walk the narrow hallway back to the kitchen. I have no idea why I walked directly over the beige patterned linoleum floor to the silverware drawer. Instinctively I grabbed the metal butter knife and returned to my room as if I had done this before. After returning to my room I closed my door and sat on the carpet directly in the middle of the semicircle of my toys. I ran my finger up and down the blade pressing harder with each turn. Eventually my skin grew rough and began to peel revealing some of its layers. Next I ran the knife against my wrists. It wasn’t suicide I was after. I am not even sure I knew what suicide was. I just wanted to rub the knife against my wrists until I would see blood. My only witnesses from that day long gone after years of living in boxes turned their fur musty.

I remember finding it strange that the knife didn’t hurt. I also remember finding it curious I couldn’t cut into my wrists. That first time there was no blood. I couldn’t seem to drag the knife in deep enough, being too naïve to understand the dullness of the blade was conspiring against me. I continued this ritual for years trying different knives and different parts of my body. I slowly began to comprehend that my sick secret could only be kept if I opted for less obvious places. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the conspicuousness that led to my propensity for my thighs. My sensitiveness of my thighs finally allowed for me to feel the pain and the sight of the red seemed to bring relief.

And this was my ritual for more years than I care to confess. Nestled deep in my clothing drawer was my kit. I graduated from knives to razors. Disposable were my favorites as I took them apart and was left with 3 thin sheaths. Sometimes I couldn’t wait to get home from school just so I could reopen the wound I had just created the day before. It was years later before the wounds allowed me to cry. Finally I had the relief I was after marked by the color red and the salt of my tears.

And here I am years’ later yearning for this dope-fiend to participate in my ritual I had left behind long ago. As I felt the spray of his words of anger and could smell his own desperation, I recognized it was me who would be his co-conspirator in his crime. And the relief that I was after was not in the tip of his weapon, but rather in the knowledge that soon I would be walking away from all of this. Today I will mark my countdown to feel. My security no longer held in the hands of strangers or in the blocks of cement nor the graffiti on the walls in this land of the forgotten and suffering. I am still the latchkey kid opening my door to the semi-circle of fur. Now I have the cross-eyed beauty and her large loud friend greeting me as I make my meal. And there is comfort here nestled in my lap as the sound of a purr brings calm to the day.

Pacing

2009-05-25T00:13:00.000-07:00

I can’t remember the last time I have felt this lost. Pacing for days, crawling out of my skin and no comfort to be found. Redefining myself with no luxury of time, overwhelmed at the thought that all that I have built was so quickly stripped away with a signature on the dotted line. Committed to compassion in a cold industry no different than any other bureaucracy. The thought of saying goodbye to my oldest friend is breaking me. Without the genuineness of the stripped down existence I have come to know as a second home. I no longer know where I belong. And truth is I am scared.

I am the child who disappeared before I was grown and the girl on the skateboard just to out roll the boys. I was the teen who died handcuffed to a door and the woman who sat besides men with no souls. Perhaps not having anything before made it easier to ignore the fear.

Too tired to really write, I feel unable to even catch the thoughts that race through my mind like particles of dust being swept up by the wave of a hot breeze. My anger displayed in alone moments in my car as I curse those around me. Even the exhaustion from the day that began at dawn has not lulled me to sleep. For a moment today as the rain fell upon my head as I stood in the silence of the trees and the hills, I could breath deeply as the flitters through the trees harmonized with nature’s songs. My world colored in grays and greens since Friday brightened by the sight of the yellow of an enormous slug. I think about the red of the Viking, which has always brought calm and I long for just a moment in his arms. And now that night has fallen, I feel the urge to crawl on my floor like the accused awaiting trial familiar with the routines behind the gate. I recognize the panic like waves lapping at the shore, as the clouds above turn dark. And I repeat to myself, “I am strong, I am strong.”

Firefly

2009-05-19T12:02:00.000-07:00

I found myself wandering from room to room to room looking for any trace of him having been there. I knew it was silly of me to want to hold on to some forgotten item, but it was the closest thing I could have to holding him near. I almost giggled at my reaction to his toothbrush no longer glistening from use. For some reason, the house seemed emptier, quieter than before. And I kept wandering, finally plopping down at the kitchen counter staring into my kitchen. It seemed like hours passed before I took a breath. I couldn’t sit still, my brain firing thoughts so rapidly and me crawling out of my skin. And it was late. I began to write and erase and write and erase until my body hurt from sitting as each muscle beckoned me to simply go to sleep.

I wanted to find his sent on my pillow as I crawled onto my bed, while allowing myself to feel the sadness. The night air was warm as my exhaustion betrayed me with no ability to sleep. And even the rumble of the cross-eyed beauty’s purr provided no comfort. I was confused by the sorrow as the lump grew in my throat. And I longed to feel him tender and warm even while recognizing I was fooling myself.

Ultimately he was just a stranger to me with his impenetrable walls contradicting his inviting arms. Perhaps it was that. Maybe we were no different than two fireflies in the night, sending out signals no one else understood. I am not even sure we understood as we found ourselves attracted to one anothers’ light. And we did glow, even if it were for just a little while. And like the little flies shimmering in the night, I soon found myself alone glimmering with the possibility that he and I could radiate as an us. But now here I am wandering from room to room to room looking for his light that no longer shines.

Ah Nicotine...

2009-05-12T11:05:00.001-07:00

It's the crack of dawn as the caffeine slowly makes it way through my veins. Nicotine cravings remind me of the years I spent cigarette in one hand coffee in the other. I think about how often I used to deny being a smoker even while I was taking a drag. The smell would still be lingering on my fingers and my hair. I was convinced there was no evidence; no smell on my clothes or in my hair. But yet, I can always detect that distinctive smell on everyone else. Funny how invisible I felt I was.

I remember years ago, the way I used to walk down Market Street, almost as if I was tiptoeing past the bodies wrapped in blankets and boxes. The air would be still as the city began to wake and no one would notice the curly-girl with the coffee and the smoke. I would walk past the shop owners who would be slowly opening up their metal gates and begin the process of hosing down the evidence that too many people have no where to live. And I truly felt I belonged as I made my way to Boedecker Park before they built the fences. Just like every nowhere man the suits would step over and never even notice, they'd look right through me as we crossed paths. I nod hello to the girls done with working for the night. I wonder if I look as tired as they do and whether the bruises on their legs will ever go away.

I contemplate the comfort of my bed but I'm now on the clock handing out these sticky smelly rubber sheaths that will never be used by the men grabbing them. They linger and speak to me grabbing handfuls of Trojans, Durex and Kimonos. And even though they all know I am here every week, they grab more and more. I ignore the comments they make as they size-me-up from head to toe. I smile at the compliments as the hungry and the toothless offer to take care of me. I am only 22 years old and I don't try to pretend I understand the life anyone here has lived. There's the guy with one-dread who enters the park shuffling his feet and mumbling. I never say hello or he'll yell at me all morning. I never understand who he thinks I am. Then there's the super-tall guy, last week he was a famous lawyer, this week he is a surgeon. He stops by my table to tell me about the patient waiting for him at the unnamed hospital he works at while his 5th of gin peaks out from his pants pocket. Then there are the girls. They stop by to tell me where they will go to get their surgery once they have the money saved. I compliment their dresses and hair and ignore their 5 o'clock shadows and hormone-induced breasts. Of course, what they really want is a cigarette and truthfully there's a brand new pack in my pocket I hope no one notices. I am convinced no one does, even as I reach for one and light it.

A View from the 'Loin

2009-05-07T19:55:00.001-07:00

I am sure it was the narcotic stupor that brought on the flood of memories of a time that was much like Boston in the dead of winter. It’s funny to think of the Tenderloin as this dark place when really it’s quite plain with indistinct buildings and sporadic gated parks that are stripped of all character. And many of the residents are even less evident due to their nocturnal nature. During the day, the Tenderloin is much like a bog in both its smell and stillness. And as the darkness of night creeps through its streets, the tenor changes. Like a sleeping animal, the neighborhood begins to stir. And yet, it’s still not quite dark. Perhaps the word I am looking for is shady.

It’s a thieves market filled with the forgotten ones who traded their souls for a rock.
It’s strange how I find myself longing for the ‘loin I once knew filled with the drunk and crack addicted.

Instead the speed-fueled shells bounce from corner to corner to corner. I stopped in my tracks as I watched this young punk digging deeply in a rare patch of dirt. Elbow deep with his hands muddy and worn, he had located the roots of the tree but not the solution to his waning high. How long would he dig?

I found myself feeling heavy with thoughts of my past even though the faces were no longer familiar. I no longer knew the streets to take nor the sides to avoid. I held my breath as I passed the dope man hoping he wouldn’t be annoyed at me passing through his deal. How green I must have seemed when really this was my turf or so I thought?

How strange it must have been to see me at 20 marching along these same streets. How naïve I must have been to feel immune to what was transpiring around me. And even as I watched death daily, I still kept the smile on my face. I remember the tongueless man who always said hello and as soon as he caught my gaze continued to speak. I never had a clue what he said but simply nodded and grinned politely as I walked away. I remember the man with one ear with the scary tale of losing it in his homeland faraway. His punishment for a crime he would not confess. And then there was the man in the wheelchair who would walk himself into the middle of the street then sit back down. As the cars honked he held out his hand. I wondered if he ever was hit since now he can’t get up from his seat.

I remember the days trooping into residential hotels to visit my clients. Never once did I think of the danger even as I witnessed it first hand. My friends recount my tales of being held by gunpoint or watching the police shoot a man just feet away from me or the time I was slapped in the face by a transgender prostitute who was sure I was having an affair with her “husband”. And even now, I feel disconnected to these events as if I had simply read about them in a book. Truth is I have read about these stories in the pages of my own journal, but somehow it doesn’t quite sink in that this was once my life.

I was the converse-wearing “condom lady,” chain smoking as I walked and noticing nothing along the way. I remember the shouts of “hey condom-lady” or “hey, leave her alone. That’s my social worker.” I somehow felt safe wrapped in the fog of where I was. But now here I am, with my distinguished gait leading me instinctively through these streets, which the forgotten call home.

Blue-Eyed Boy

2009-04-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

And I remember the days walking through the Tenderloin looking at the scattered bodies on the street
The calls from a friend having seen him nodded out and my dog vigilantly standing guard
And each time I swore it would be the last
I always knew where to look, even if it were only to confirm he was still alive

It seemed like forever ago we sat in our sunny kitchen making art and laughing
And I cried too, sometimes for me

Hopeful to wake from the nightmare and to discover he was no longer a zombie
Instead he was a slave to the needles I would sometimes find hidden in the bathroom or tucked neatly away in wooden boxes from places we had once visited when he was alive with promise

What happened to the blue-eyed boy who cried in the store overwhelmed in the aisles?
The skeleton, who once could hold me with his strong arms brightly colored by mementos that held meaning
What happened to the man who brought me flowers in threes and sketched drawings of our future with kittens and trees?

I remember the day I slipped the keys in the door, only to be greeted by our pup, red stains upon her paws and the trail leading from the kitchen
There he was, lying still in a pool
And as I stood over his body so blue, I held my breath feeling shame over wishing it was over
I waited to make the call, knowing the presence of others would remind me this was really happening
Thoughtlessly I removed the tie from his arm and collected the balloon and the spoon
And I watched as they took him away leaving me the stains on the kitchen floor

A Good Day for IT?

2009-04-23T13:50:00.000-07:00

I suppose I could declare yesterday a good day for IT. After injuring my back last month I now dedicate a few breaks a day to laying on an ice pack on my office floor. My routine includes closing my door, grabbing my Ipod and propping my legs up in a 90 degree angle on a chair. I perform this ritual thoughtlessly while tapping my feet to the beat of my music. And while my staff isn't privy to my closed-door activity, I found myself "exposed" far beyond my usual inappropriate disclosures when my IT person strolled right into my office.

Now i really don't mind people walking in and I am usually clad in a favorite pair of jeans, but yesterday was anything but typical. Dressed for the heat in a floral skirt, I was relieved I had at least chosen to wear underwear when the computer tech strolled in only to catch me on the floor with my skirt poured down on my stomach. I probably could blame the painkillers for my lack of attention in locking my door and my slow response time in covering myself. I am not quite sure what was more appalling; the sight of me exposed on the floor or the little bit of drool that tends to accumulate in the corner of my mouth while i am in my narcotic-induced stupor.

I am not quite sure who was redder yesterday given both our overuse of the word "sorry". But I am quite sure that today we are both feeling quite akward toward one another despite my return to denim.

Mmmm coffee...

2009-03-31T16:07:00.000-07:00

As I was hanging at my favorite local coffee spot, I was having this conversation with a fellow patron about tea. When he asked me if I drank tea, I responded that tea isn't my thing. I will drink tea and I actually can enjoy a nice cup of tea. But my relationship to coffee really leaves little room for tea. Who has time for tea if you are drinking 8 cups a coffee a day? I not only love coffee but I, in fact, need coffee. Yes, in that totally codependent, "there-are-groups-for-that" kind of way.

As I began to think about it, coffee has really become my life-partner. I started drinking coffee when I was about 8 (no that is not a typo). My Grandparents called coffee "dessert" when i was a kid. They used to put that powder creamer and a boat-load of sugar in coffee and serve it to my brothers and I as an after dinner treat. I am sure you can imagine what the evening was like. After bouncing off the walls until about midnight, my brothers and I would finally pass out and sleep in until 10 am. I have a feeling that the 10 am part was the ulterior motive, but I digress. More serious coffee drinking began in high school. I would have a cup in the morning before school along with the cigarette I would have stolen from my Dad's pack. Best breakfast ever. The years after high school solidified my habit. I started drinking coffee in pots as opposed to cups.

The only thing that has changed is what goes into the coffee. I spent years drinking coffee black and smoking Camel straights. Kind of went with the whole wearing all black thing and the mohawk. Also kind of mirrored the guys I dated as well - strong, acidic and left stains. Around my mid-20s i began to put a little teaspoon of sugar in the coffee and also entered my first long-term relationship. And just like my coffee, he was strong, a little sweet, and being in love, i felt like i couldn't live without either him or the coffee. All three of us shared a love of Parliament's as well. We lived happily in a small studio for years in San Francisco and then moved to Los Angeles.

Now being a local Bay Area girl, I was raised on Peet's and had developed a bit of snobbery around my coffee. There was no Peet's in LA. I felt like I was leaving my real lover behind and having multiple affairs as I tried coffee at different coffee shops. All of them leaving me feeling empty and disappointed. I had an affair for a while at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, but it wasn't the same. I decided it was time to go back to Northern California. I missed Peet's.

I left my coffee affair, my boyfriend and Parliament's in LA. And also changed what went into my coffee. This time it was just cream. I was back buying bean's at Peet's and splashing a dash of cream. I was also single for the first time in 10 years and was feeling like I needed to take care of the ulcer I had grown while living in LA. Coffee and my life was looking nice and light.

It was at this time I rediscovered a local coffee spot that brews a great cup of coffee and has great beans. In high school it was known to me as the pick-up spot for Bears. Now i think of it as my spot... I grab my cup, I meet up there with my friends or I find my quiet corner to write there. Don't get me wrong, I still love Peet's but I never hung out at any Peets. Once I made the move to the local spot, I began to splash a little sugar in with my cream.

I still drink the strongest coffee you have ever tried at home and am known for sending my friends to the bathroom within minutes of drinking my brew. But recent years have marked a lighter, sweeter blend of coffee, cream and sugar. I guess some of my edge wore off, same can be said of the guys too. They also seem to be sweeter, lighter (as in the size of the baggage they carried), and better quality like my beans.

Heartbroken

2009-03-22T01:16:00.000-07:00

I could feel the tears slowly gliding down my cheeks as he rode away. The side of me he will not see. How would I continue my stoic façade if I wore my emotions like raindrops on a window? I couldn’t decide between the two of us who was more afraid of the vulnerability of where we were. I guess truth is we are nowhere. That indescribable place in which there is no definition, like one of those crayons in the box with a name like burnt magenta. Is magenta even flammable? I had almost forgot what it was like when the sadness creeps in and soon the tears just flow. How is it we get to this place where the walls are so thick we lose the determination to tear them down? I find myself struggling with my own narrative after spending years in this place of self-discovery, finally to be exposed at four in the morning by the Viking in my bed.

I guess I should feel relieved that someone saw me after protecting myself with shields of outrageous tales that have come to define my character when they were simply stories of events rather than the colors of my character. He saw me as the color pink like the first blush I wore after a stolen kiss in the aisles of Safeway; the assigned color of passion. And the pink of the sky in summer as the sun begins to duck behind the sea casting its hue upon the clouds while the air continues to be warm. And for that moment he saw me as the “real deal” and in that moment he let me go.

I could feel his hands as they slowly loosened their grip and soon I began to slide away. I didn’t reach out nor did he try to regain his hold. He let me go and I let him. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the hour or maybe it’s just that I didn’t have the strength to protest. Confused by words uttered sweetly while wearing armor. The steel too difficult to hold and too cold to the touch, I guess I had no choice but to let him go.

I have taken flight before so the path is familiar as I glided to the ground. Needing to catch my breath once again before spreading my wings. With no destination or time constraints, I know I will remain grounded for a while with the hopes a distraction will pull me up once again. Or perhaps it’s the warm current I am waiting for that will pull me up to the sky to see again the beauty of what’s around me. But today it’s grey as I listen to the sound of the rain pouring down drowning the sounds of my tears dropping upon my keyboard. I am heartbroken.

Indecent Exposure

2009-03-06T22:39:00.000-08:00

Since when can't a girl pull down her jeans in a parking lot and show her best friend her new cute panties? Really, doesn't Oakland Police have some "real" criminals to look for. And why did i have to be lectured in front of my home after they followed me from the parking lot? I swear I should have asked them if they liked the view, except my panties are too cute to sit in a holding cell.

Gentle

2009-03-05T22:55:00.000-08:00

Be gentle with me new love
There have been others before you who didn’t understand
that there is comfort in the space
and shades of purple encircling old wounds are like crisp leaves fading in the fall
And there is really nothing to be afraid of
even raging fires have a path

The cinder cone has been building since the first tear
and it’s still just a shell
And like the vintage ponies going round and round
paint and wood and the timbre of the music
You can hear the laughter
even when the Wurlitzer long since played

The furtive glance betrays my distance
And there is nothing to fear
The warmth of your hand as it guides me back
Like the content cat finding its ray
It comforts like a car sitting in the sun in early spring

Be gentle with me new love
There have been others before you who didn’t understand
that there is no white on the canvass
even as it burns to the touch

And the award goes to...

2009-03-01T23:06:00.000-08:00

I had a history of ditching dates. Not one of my better habits and yes, therapy worked wonders. Anyway, I thought I would start with the story that wins the award for “Largest Quantity Of Date Ditching In The Same Location.” This all occurred in a local bar here in Oakland that I was 86ed from (until recently). I think due to the fact that the bartender and I probably both want to forget this whole series of events, I am going to keep the bar name anonymous.

This bar is the perfect blind date spot. It’s a bar I wouldn’t normally go to so chances were low I would run into anyone I knew. It had a fair amount of regulars, so someone might notice if anything should happen to me. Especially since I had decided to make this my regular “blind date bar.” And probably the greatest reason I loved this spot, it had a window in the bathroom. All I had to do was stand on the toilet, push the screen out, pull myself up, hop out the window and put the screen back. Simple.

Truthfully, I didn’t decide to go there with the express purpose of jumping out the window. The first few times I went there I actually left out the front door. But there was the first time. It was one of those dates you either wanted to charge $120/hour for your time while listening to his “my daddy never loved me story” or in my case you jump out the window. I remember excusing myself to the bathroom after my date had launched into his story about his father serving time in San Quentin. I got into the bathroom and as I sat there contemplating how the hell I was ever going to leave; I noticed the window. I wiggled the screen and found it freed quite easily. I had myself pulled up and out in moments. I was free.

As I walked to my car, I began to think of the email I would send to my date explaining what happened. What do you say after ditching your date out a window? There really isn’t a great explanation.

I think after that first time, I got a little hooked. Honestly, I did reserve this for particularly bad dates, but I was also going through a tremendous string of bad luck with dating. All in all I ditched about 17 dates there. I remember the last one was a guy who took my Craigslist ad about liking scrabble a bit too literally. He showed up on the date with a frame pack on. You know the kind you use when you are trekking in Alaska for one month. I was concerned. He then pulled out Scrabble. Okay, cute. Then he pulled out the official Scrabble Dictionary. Okay, that makes sense. Then he pulled out a Webster’s Dictionary. This was getting me a bit concerned. And then he pulled out an Unabridged Dictionary. You know those enormous dictionary’s you find in the library on its own bookstand that is supposed to have all the words known to humankind. The backpack now made sense and I now had the heebie-jeebies.

But not thinking this was a window-worthy situation; I played Scrabble. This changed rather quickly. I remember his first word was mayhem. And then the next word he laid out was death. Then came blood. I had no choice. This was exactly why this bathroom was designed with a window. And sure enough I was out the window within moments of entering the stall.

Technically this was the last date I ditched. The next time I came in, the bartender pulled me aside. He tells me that after each time I climb out the window, my dates apparently go up to the bartender asking if he had seen me leave and each time he has lied and said yes. He had quickly figured out I had climbed out the window from the get go. Years of tending bar had taught him the look of a woman who desperately wanted to get away from her date. And I wasn’t the first woman to have done it. I just had carried this on the longest. He was tired of being the one to let these guys know I wasn’t interested. And then having to buy a few of them a shot because they seemed genuinely bummed. I apologized and offered to buy the bartender a drink. He told me I just needed to go before my date got there and that I wasn’t welcome back.

The Gap

2009-02-20T12:05:00.000-08:00

So finding myself put to the task by the man who likens himself to a relative, I had no arousing tales of port-o-potties. And I wondered how rays of light could be so erotic and surmised it was the thought of my bare ass against cotton that could put a smile on his face. Or was it the handprint left behind along with the sting?

So this one is for the ninja who has kept me company in the sun while letting me take drags of his smoke so I can still claim I am not a smoker…

I used to love the Gap. Yes, that uber-trendy store that has proliferated like Starbucks. And it’s not because of the cotton twill cargo pants or the fleece hoodies that last but one season. No, it was never about the clothes or the ads featuring celebrities who haven’t stepped inside the store. And it wasn’t because Sharon Stone wore a Gap turtle neck to the Oscars.

For nearly a year I got to love the Gap until I was banned. Technically I think the term is 86ed. I am not sure it’s all Gaps but it certainly includes one particular store in which I was told never to return. I discovered the Gap in the heat of a lustful affair. He lived with his parents and I lived with too many roommates. And he wore Gap clothing. It all started innocently enough with a simple trip to a simple store to buy “the basics”. As we perused the store, I felt conspicuous in my motorcycle boots and pink hair. And we clashed as he pulled out jeans and shirts that looked exactly like the clothing he was wearing. Not wanting to be left alone in what felt like a page from 1984, I followed him into the dressing room. I had assumed I would wait near the entrance of the dressing room area when he motioned for me to follow him inside.

The four walled room was complete with a 3-way mirror and a door to the floor along with a neon-colored button to summon for assistance. I am not sure if it was the fluorescent lighting or the whiny voice keeping time to the beats that attempted to be known as music that got me so charged up. But as I watched the khaki cargos slump to the floor, I found myself pulling him close. Sitting on the rejected items, I found the bench to be the perfect height as I cautioned him to keep his voice down.

We began to have a weekly rendezvous at the Gap. And with each meeting we became more and more adventurous in the little room now filled with wool as the weather changed. I often wondered if the cameras caught our little secret and if anyone ever watched.

Then it all came to an abrupt stop. Perhaps we were being too inconsiderate, it was the holiday season after all and people actually needed a dressing room. The knock was loud and the voice even louder as we were asked if we needed any assistance. I remember my friend breathlessly answering, “No, we are fine”. The staff person knocked again, but this time told us we needed to vacate the dressing room. We dressed and then opened the cardboard door only to find ourselves face-to-face with one of the salespersons and what I assumed to be the manager. The manager looked disapprovingly at the both of us and told us she knew what we were doing and that we should be ashamed of ourselves. I turned reflexively away so she didn’t see my smile or hear my giggle. She then asked me if I thought this was funny. Truth was, it was funny, so I responded, “yes”. The manager turned even redder and told us to leave. She emphasized the fact that we were no longer welcome in the store and that we were not to return.

Unfortunately, without the Gap, we really had nothing in common. It’s now been years since I have entered this American clothing staple. I often wonder if the store still holds the same titillating power and whether my picture is located near every cash register under the word “86”.

Warm

2009-02-17T22:51:00.000-08:00

I woke from the crack of the sun peeking through my shade. As I opened my eyes I couldn’t help but feel betrayed by the dawn. His breath was barely audible through the sound of the rain and the wind. And I watched as the cross-eyed beauty gingerly tiptoed across the bed hopeful I would fill her bowl once again as he slowly turns on his side gracing his hand across my stomach then gripping me and pulling me close. Perhaps it was the tickle of her whiskers or maybe it was the rumble of her purr that momentarily stirred his slumber.

And for this moment it’s warm and I feel his breath against my neck and I smile.

And for this moment, there is only still. And even as minutes pass, the warm air emanating from the radiator is only occasionally rippled by the click of the metal. My blue-eyed girl now nestled in the crook of his knees. And as I lay here in this nest of cotton and feathers and fur, I can’t help but think of the sun as the mistress who will soon entice my lover away.

But for now we are here in the warmth of my room now awash in shades of pink. Our cheeks now kissed by the rays peering through the window as they begin to shine upon us. I hold my breath as if to hold time immobile hoping to have this last just a little bit longer.

And for this moment it’s tender as I feel his breath against my neck and I smile.

Blow Job

2009-02-14T12:37:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not I was a late bloomer. I was painfully shy with guys I liked and tended to put myself in the role of “one of the guys”. I was a tomboy complete with a skateboard and my Van’s. I remember one of my first crushes was on Joe Lopes. I had met him in the pages of Thrasher magazine. And in my 6th grade mind, he was totally “dreamy” – a rough and tumble skater guy who was old enough to drive. Really it was his board that I had a crush on, but nonetheless, I considered him my first crush. I used to take my Joe Lopes skateboard everywhere. I was 12 and didn’t really know how to ride. But I had saved up all my babysitting money just to buy the board. I would meet “the guys” down at the park near my house and we would ride together.

Finally, in 8th grade, one of the skater boys invited me to his place to skate on his half-pipe in his backyard. We actually never got around to skating. As soon as we got to his place, he kissed me. It was my first. I remember the look on his face as he pressed his lips against mine. As we stood there lip-to-lip, I had my eyes open until he stuck his tongue on my mouth. My eyes then shut and I could feel my toes curling and my heart beating against my chest. I was “in love” at least for the next hour.

I remember floating down his driveway after I realized I was late for dinner and rushing to get home, so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Oddly, I stuck my thumb out thinking that hitchhiking a ride home would the best solution for getting home closer to on time. And of course, the first car to pull up was the police. Yes, being arrested for hitchhiking after my first kiss may have contributed to my hesitance in getting involved with boys. If a kiss could get me arrested, than what next?

It wasn’t until high school when I would kiss a boy again. The first week of my freshmen year in high school, I invited my friend to spend the night. The plan was to sneak out to meet a couple other freshmen boys at the park. We snuck out the window and started to walk down the street toward the public park. I remember the rumble of the engine of the Mustang that pulled up along side of us. It was two senior boys. They asked us if we wanted to go for a ride. Being young and very naïve, we said yes. They took us to the local public pool and we hopped the fence to go skinny-dipping. One of the boys held my hand and this is when I had my second kiss. This time I wasn’t floating so much. I was nervous with this older “man”. We kissed for a while until he placed my hand between his legs. I could feel him getting harder, but I really had no clue what to do. He then unzipped his pants and pulled himself out. I remember just staring. I was now looking at his dick and then looking up at him. Then he whispered, “Give me a blow job” as he pointed down at himself.

Not wanting to come across as inexperienced, I naturally did what seemed the most logical thing to do. I puckered my lips and brought them close to the head of his dick and then I lightly blew. Nothing happened. I then blew a little harder but this time I blew up and down the entire shaft. Still nothing happened. I was perplexed. So I took in another deep breath and blew a bit harder. This time he asked me “what the fuck are you doing?” I responded, “um, giving you a blow job.” He then stated, “you are supposed to put my dick in your mouth.” I remember thinking that there was no way that thing was going in my mouth. And I think the only sound I could mutter was “oh”. I think my lack of enthusiasm over this prompted him to take my hand and stroke him up and down. Eventually he “popped” and I washed my hands off in the public pool. We climbed back over the fence and I hugged him goodbye. My friend and I walked back to my house as I told her about stroking him, purposefully leaving out the part about blowing on him.

The next day at school someone had written “slut” on my locker. Apparently, between leaving him at the pool and arriving at school the next morning, it was now rumored that I had lost my virginity to both him and his friend during the course of the evening. And not wanting to out myself as totally inexperienced by revealing the actual events of the night, I let the ink stay for the week. I never did date any guys from my high school from that point forward.

Ye Olde Hut

2009-02-01T00:22:00.000-08:00

I have decided that the only thing that is predictable about the Hut is its unpredictability. Although it seems predictable that I have now gone to this bar a total of 4 times and each time a perfect track record for attracting crazy. But what is unpredictable is who else seems to be at this place. I had originally wrote about the Hut in a blog about Carmen. It took me a while to go back to the Hut, since my meeting with her included an ambulance and a temporary leave from Johnny Cash. When I finally returned to the Hut with a bunch of friends as well as my younger bro and his wife close to a year later, I was again finding myself face-to-face with crazy. That night would be remembered by the presence of Hung. Hung was exceptionally drunk and would not leave our table alone until I told him he really needed to go.

Last night, thinking I would run into nobody I knew I decided to meet a blind date at the Hut. Seriously, I had quizzed several friends for a bar recommendation that included the caveat that the bar needed to be frequented by no one I knew, have no cover and have more then beer. As I approached the bar to order a drink, I realized I knew many of the patrons crowded around the bar. Hoping they wouldn’t notice, I order my usual, Maker’s neat. The unknown men sitting against the bar loudly commented only drawing attention to my drink and me as well as the attention of the acquaintances I knew from my local coffee hangout. After getting my whiskey a space at the end of the bar opened up and I sat myself down awaiting my date. He arrived and sat himself besides me and we began that long arduous process of getting to know each other, otherwise known to me as the “interview”. Within moments an older bearded man dressed in a sailor suit sat within centimeters of my date. Any closer, he would have been in my date’s lap. I must have been staring as I watched him sidle up to my date as close as possible. I was waiting for my date to say something, but instead the guy yelled across my date, “can I buy you a drink?” I said no thanks and asked him if he normally sat that close to people. I felt uncomfortable for my date who seemed to lack the ability to mark his own space. The drunk dude looked at the guy next to me and didn’t seem to care that he was nearly sharing a barstool. He then stated, “no one wants to sit near me because I am drunk”. To which I responded, “well no one likes a super drunk dude”. My date shot me a glance as if to say, “I can’t believe you just said that”. Thankfully the drunk dude went away.

Shortly after, a biker I knew from coffee shop walked up to me and blew in my ear. I just giggled, knowing I could care less what the date thought, since it was not as if I would see him again. If he hadn’t cock blocked me, I would have cock blocked myself anyhow. I finally told my date I needed to go and also let him know I wanted to wish him the best of luck. I didn’t feel a connection.

Tonight it was another homeless drunk dude. This time I was with my best friend, Monkeyman. Monkeyman not only encourages my sassy behavior, but has come to expect it,. He was well aware of my previous experiences at the Hut and we both had pondered whether my crazy magnetism would be in effect tonight. True to form, a homeless guy entered the bar dressed in an oversized down coat and immediately bee-lined towards me. Frankly, I hadn’t really even noticed him enter the bar, my attention toward Monkeyman as we chatted away. The homeless guy first asked if we had any spare change to which we answered, we had none. He then mentioned that we could buy him food. To which we said no thanks. He looked at us both as if to say, why aren’t you giving me anything. We waited for him to go away and then giggled to one another over my perfect track record. But the evening wasn’t over. He returned. This time with a patron of the bar.

I watched as the man who originally asked us for spare change was now offering it to the patron to feed the pool table. The homeless guy then began to accuse Monkeyman of talking. In reality Monkeyman and I were simply watching this guy dig through his pockets for change. Monkeyman responded that he had said nothing, to which the homeless guy said if you don’t make a move on her, as he pointed to me, than he would. I then chimed in, “do I have a say in this?” To which he responded, “no”. He then returned to his game as Monkeyman and I shared a laugh. Monkeyman and I decided it was time to go as the homeless guy reminded us that he had 3 more minutes to make a move on me before he would step in. I giggled as I said, “is that so?” Rather than anticipate what the homeless guy was going to do, we chose to down our shots instead and make our way to the next drinking hole. It may be another long while before I go to the Hut again.

Broken Down

2009-01-22T21:58:00.000-08:00

I have come undone. I have watched for the last year as my colleagues have packed their bags and said goodbye. And I was the grim reaper as I set the date and signed and sealed their fate. Friday I sat in the bathroom of my office as my best friend reminded me how to breathe. I watched as my hands tightened into these perfect right angles and yet I couldn’t shed a tear even as my heart pounded against my chest. I could have sworn I could see the pulse through my sweater. And as I lay in my panic stricken state, my colleague and friend questioned his relevance and began the process of ending his life.

I have sat through meeting after meeting all week long fully composed. The only difference is my usual attire of jeans and boots was replaced with blouses and heels. I think I thought I could mask my own inner turmoil in Donna Karan. Even under the brim of my vintage fedora I felt blinded by the weeks events. While I had planned to say goodbye to the latest round of casualties, I had no room for more.

I couldn’t seem to utilize my usual escape of total distraction through the company of friends’ as I stayed holed up in my home. It seems almost impossible that I came home each night after work. I reached out too in my usual way through cryptic emails asking for company yet never really saying what I really want. And as quickly as I made plans, I found excuses to negate them.

I am running. It’s in my dream and it’s the same street. Every night I am running down Market Street. It’s early morning and there are the suits and the cars and the buses and the cabs and I am just running by everyone. I don’t know where I am running to and I never seem to stop until the buzz of my alarm reminds me I am still in bed. And as I actually walk down Market each morning on my way to work, I can feel my legs burning. Begging me to just run. I look at the faces and begin to wonder what it would look like to just see me run in all my work clothes and my backpack bouncing up and down against my back.

In reality, I know exactly where I would go and how long it would take me to get there. It’s the same walk I used to take when I lived in San Francisco years before. I remember the first day it happened. I left work in the Tenderloin and hours later found myself on Ocean Beach. By the time I got there I felt calm and at ease. The day was behind me and I could finally breath.

The Naughty Drawer

2009-01-19T23:06:00.001-08:00

Aww the naughty drawer…. Doesn’t everyone have one?

While having dinner with a friend she mentioned to me that she always hides the contents of her “naughty drawer” before bringing a “date” over. It kind of perplexed me that she would choose to hide anything. After all, don’t you want your date to know what’s available bedside? The last guy to see the contents of my naughty drawer simply smiled and said, “you got to love a girl who keeps her naughty drawer well stocked with batteries and condoms”. And as I was blushing, I couldn’t help but think I hadn’t even realized what someone else would see when that drawer was open wide.

I began to think about what make up the key ingredients of a well-stocked naughty drawer. Certainly sex and the singleton requires that every basic bedside cabinetry have condoms and lube. I think I first began the mantra that “lube is everyone’s best friend” back in college when I did presentations to other students on making safer sex fun. I remember once having a paramour who seemed nearly upset over the suggestion of lube and literally refused to entertain the incorporation of lube in the bedroom. I also remember leaving shortly after he made his opinion known.

I suspect that most women also have some sort of battery-operated device if not more than one. I remember the day the Sex and the City episode aired regarding the “rabbit”. I remember having dinner with friends and talking about the device and underlying all our thoughts was do any of us have one. Sure enough one of my friends did and the next bottle of wine was spent asking each other about our favorite toys and why we loved them. And having dated my share of douche bags, I also recall a conversation in which my date let me know in no uncertain terms, toys were tantamount to cheating. That was another short lasting meal.

I also would guess that most men and women have some sort of “porn”. Well I guess it’s called porn when it’s in the form of pictures and “erotica” when it’s some overtly descriptive book or anthology of stories. The internet may have changed this though. Most guys I know will freely discuss their favorite sites and have even been kind enough to share links with me with images and comments. This of course opens the Pandora’s box in the naughty drawer and can even become the “deal breaker” in dating.

Then there are the contents that don’t fit inside of the drawer. Suitcases of rope, a closet with handcuffs and a ball gag, the wall of whips and my personal fav, only due to the shock value, was the couple that had the metal-spiked gloves on their wall above their bed. Bless them for letting their entire birthday party know as we set our jackets down and noticed their wall o-fun, that this was one kinky couple.

Ghost

2008-12-29T23:07:00.000-08:00

I am realizing that I am actually nervous. I am leaving for Los Angeles in just 2 days. It’s strange; it used to be home. Seems like a lifetime ago. And for the first time since I left, I am going to spend time with the people who were part of my everyday life. I left that life in 2000 and never looked back.

They knew me as a “we”. They never knew me outside of this definition. And when I lived in Los Angeles, I was a grad student; buried in books and working a full-time job. And on the surface, it all looked fine. I kept everyone at an arm’s length because just like the proverbial impressionist painting, my life looked fine from afar. But if you got really close you would see how fucked up it really was.

I guess the most difficult part of seeing these guys is that they did really know. They really saw all of it. And just like me, they were powerless. We all watched him slowly killing himself. Well, they watched. As for me; this was my life. I think I spent much of it with my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them I would see a different picture. It was my sick secret. As long as I never spoke about it, it wasn’t real.

I remember the day I left. I just walked out the door, got in my car and drove. I knew then I would not be coming back. I was done with Los Angeles. I never told anyone I was leaving. I just left. I remember the ride up the Grapevine. I remember pulling over because I was crying so hard I could barely breath. And I remember going down into the central valley as the music was blaring on my stereo and thinking I had escaped.

Quote of the Day...

2008-12-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

Thank you random homeless guy for screaming this. I still can't figure out what it means.

"He's a muffdiver driving a single bed on a double wide"

X-mas Tales from a Tenderloin Stripclub

2008-12-17T14:47:00.000-08:00

So it's that time of year again when you start thinking about how you will be spending your holidays. I couldn't help but think about how I spent last Christmas...

Jim Beam, St. Ides and I had a wonderful time slipping ones down the g-strings of toothless "exotic dancers" in my favorite neck of the woods. Now, my intention was to have an evening of x-mas cheer visiting friends. And my night even began that way. An old friend and I decided to bust out the skateboards and toodle door to door and say hello to friends bearing gifts of home-made marmelade and lemon bars. And while back in the day i was a pretty good boarder, I was now equipped with a helmet and pads. I felt at home with the comforting smells of x-mas, St. Ides and weed. Now bear in mind I had not celebrated the holidays with Jim before and I am not sure I will again. He turned out to be not such a good influence. Or perhaps it was the rush of the oh so "cheerful memories" that shifted the tides for me.

Either way, happy holidays to the Aborigine who played pool worse than me and remembered me from a bar brawl in Indonesia and happy holidays to my new friend from Chicago who told me that she was looking forward to living in SF so she could have an ass as tight as mine. And happy holidays to my favorite heavy-metal skater for kickin' it with me in between screamin' calls with his ex. I was thrilled to be a part of your holiday love for one another last year. And I am sure she was thrilled to know we ran out of ones. I hope this holiday brings lots of love and throat lozenges.

And thank you to Peaches, Cheri, and Loqueesha (sorry if mispelled). I truly appreciated the pole dancing lesson and dating advice. I truly hoped you ladies had a wonderful holiday. And while at the moment I am not planning to make it down to the club, if I do, I know you will let me take a turn on the pole in my bike helmet and knee pads.

Free

2008-12-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

The knock came earlier than I expected. I could hear my coffee pot gurgle as the last of the coffee brewed into its carafe. The two of them stood out on my doorstep dressed in mostly black. The slight peak of their badges became apparent to me as I opened the door. As I let them in I noticed the unmarked vehicle in front of my house. I had expected them last week.

The last time they had showed at my doorstep was in 1997. I was living in San Francisco then with my first love. It was my birthday and we were late to meet my parents for dinner. It was to be the first time he met my family. I naively told the men in black I had to go, that people were waiting for me. To which they let me know I was detained. The last time I had heard the word detention was in high school and similarly, I had no rights. I had to stay. I remember excusing myself to call the restaurant. My parents were waiting. This was before cell phones when you had to rely on the kindness of a stranger on the other end of the phone. I spoke slowly to my father telling him I would not be able to make the meal. I asked him not to come: I had no rights to an attorney. I had no rights at all. The taller man in black stood over me as I explained to my father who the men in black were and what they wanted. I was instructed to hang up.

I remember sitting on my bed since I lived in a studio as small as a closet. I reached for my partner’s hand as the questions began. Hours went by. I grew hungry and tired yet my answers remained the same. I couldn’t help them. The questions turned into accusations and I still couldn’t help them. Then came the threats; loss of home and freedom. I was numb. They grew tired. I remember their last words as they left, that I would be watched and that my world was no longer my own.

The next day on the news they caught the man in the dress in a Denny’s in San Diego. It was barely daylight as he stole a restaurants’ sense of security. He did not survive the arrest. I noticed the unmarked car go away, only to return now, 12 years later. My answers remained the same, I couldn’t help them. This time was different though. There is no one to hold my hand. There is no one waiting for me and there is no delusion of rights. I began to wonder if I were to be taken in, who would know I was gone and how long would I be gone for? They paced through my home as I sat on my couch. They asked me about my painting by a man who had achieved freedom after 40 years. The one with the darker eyes reached out to pet my cat. I did not reveal her name as she lay like a puddle on the couch.

After several hours of questions came an offer to drive me to work, I was late. I declined. I closed the door behind them as they made their way to the black car out front. This time I wasn’t numb. I waited at the window watching the car slowly pull away. I knew that this would be the last time I would see the men in mostly black. I also knew that for the first time in 20 years, I was truly free.

Something in between

2008-12-07T00:49:00.000-08:00

I couldn’t help but think about the bitter man who ran away. I was never sure what he thought he’d find in a town as cold as the one he left so many years ago. As I walked on the beach in Boipeba over a month ago, I came upon a dachshund playing in the sand. I couldn’t help but think that I had never seen a happy wiener dog before. I watched as he buried his snout in the sand trying to capture the elusive crabs. The sideways walkers teased the pup by darting in and out of their homes and all the while the dachshund let out little barks. I called for the dog as he came running to me with sand on his nose. I giggled as I watched the skip in his step. As he came closer, the wave lightly licked at the shore and the dog was distracted as he chased the sea.

I remembered my days on the train in the same dark town. Sent away in the hopes I would change. And I did. As I sipped red wine and coke in darkened bars with the boys with the long hair, I learned that the beauty of the night was caught in the naked trees as the seasons began to change. I heard it in the whispers of the wind as the branches gently swayed. I no longer knew where I was after late night train rides to stone cities on the outskirts of that same cold town. I changed. As I sat on cobblestone walls and looked out into the night, I cherished the in between time. It was summer turning to fall, as the moon grew tired and color started to return to the sky. And I was in between, still a girl. I was too tired to sleep. My mind awake with thoughts like puzzle pieces, waiting to find their place.

I wondered if it was me as I read the words on the screen and blushed with uncertainty. Perhaps I simply wished they were. Or maybe I just wanted to believe like the sun warming the little dachshund running in the sand, memories of me would sweeten the taste of a sour town.

Knock Knock

2008-12-06T22:32:00.000-08:00

For years and years, I would come home and within minutes there would be a knock at my door. Did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? For a long time, I would politely say no. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no issues with anyone’s freedom to practice religion. I just prefer that others keep their religion to themselves. I have yet to knock on anyone’s door asking them if they want to hear about Agnosticism and my worship of caffeine.

All this knocking would remind me of being a teenager attending a high school with tons of Mormons. I remember being the Jewish kid and being asked to attend church services. Knocks and notes on my locker daily. For a long time I didn’t understand why I was getting so much attention until I learned that Mormons get some special star in the sky for converting a Jew. While I was friends’ with some kids that were practicing Latter-day Saints, I never did go to temple with them.

I don't know if it is my proximity to the Mormon Temple, I actually have a splendid view of the place I affectionately call Disneyland North, but the knocks were happening at least once a week and some weeks, daily. My patience with the boys in suits grew thin. I went from polite, “no thanks” to curt “no”. And the very next day the knock would happen again. I started to contemplate how I could make this incessant knocking cease. At first I ignored the knocks, thinking that perhaps if I just didn’t answer the door, they would stop coming around. This didn’t seem to help. I even tried reasoning with the guys, letting them know I would never be interested and that they don’t ever need to return. The very next day, a new set of guys would show. I was done; it was time to make this stop.

Just like clockwork, a got home from work and then came the knock. As usual, the question was posed, “did I want to hear about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?” This time I answered, “Yes, if you want to hear about anal sex?” The young man at the door looked at me and said, “What makes you think we don’t learn about anal sex.” So I answered that I really had no clue what they learned about. He responded that he knew all about anal sex and would be happy to share the churches perspective on this. Damn, foiled by the Mormon! I had no witty response and told him I wasn’t interested. And, of course, a couple days later, the knocks continued.

I had to try something far more extreme. I really didn’t know what I could do. It’s not as if there is a “do not knock” list for Mormons. I was angry and this time when the knock happened, it was a lone, attractive man in the suit and tie. I invited him in to teach me all about Jesus in exchange to listening to my presentation on safer sex. We sat very close to one another as I spoke about sex. The tension between us was palpable. As we got closer and closer, I began to think about how he gets star status for converting me. I started to wonder what I would get if I had sex with a Mormon. Apparently I get peace and quiet. I don’t know what happened to my friend in the suit and tie, but I do know that it has been great; I haven’t had a knock in years.

Genocide on Thanksgiving

2008-11-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

If it wasn’t bad enough that I just spent the last several hours with strangers over a holiday meal, I also spent several more annihilating an entire population of ants. True, I am actually related to them (the strangers that is), but when the only “safe” topics of discussion include pets and the latest viral videos, you may as well be strangers. But I digress… my house was crawling, literally. After opening my front door I immediately noticed the black trails. Yes, the plural is intentional. There were multiple trails of ants. As I located the destinations of each trail, I was beyond bummed to discover the ants had nested in my electronics.

First, was my boom box. I guess calling it a boom box is like calling Chihuahua a dog. It’s my $9.99 Walgreen’s CD player that I have had for years. So all the knobs have fallen off and it kind of makes a squeaking noise when the discs rotate, but it still is the only music-playing device I have. The ants had taken over. They were now living in the battery compartment and had even brought all their eggs. I have to confess that a wave of nausea came over me after opening up the battery case and seeing all these little crawling creatures.

Second, was my phone – the landline actually. Remember those “old school” devices kind of like cell phones but plug into walls and have answering machines attached? Well the phone had now become an ant condominium complex. The entire phone and machine were filled with ants and eggs.

Third, was the dust-buster. I was almost embarrassed that ants had moved in to a cleaning apparatus. It was perhaps a sign I needed to use it, but for now, it was functioning as ant track housing.

After deciphering the nest locations I began to spray everything with Orange Guard – a pet friendly ant killing spray. I guess for those of us that grew up with ant farms, this is kind of an oxymoron. But anyway, I found the Buddhist in me a bit traumatized by this act of killing hundreds of ants. And I found myself even more upset with destroying the eggs. The simple truth is I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spray the eggs. I know, they are ants, but it just seemed wrong.

I ended up taking all the new ant homes and putting them outside and shutting the door. I was torn. I didn’t want to lose my phone, my dust buster and definitely not the boom box. But killing the ant eggs was also not a great option for me either. As I debated what to do, I began to hope it wouldn’t rain. My only hope to postpone decision-making was based on weather. I didn’t have to make any choices so long as it stayed dry. The weather seemed to be cooperative at this point.

I have to admit being perplexed with my inability to destroy the ant eggs. I began to surmise that this is really the fault with Disney. I was ruined with images of talking, thinking, feeling ants. I couldn’t kill their eggs. This really made no sense, but yet somehow, I still couldn’t kill. Then I decided this was really about Thanksgiving. While my family is quite new to this country and certainly did not participate in the first Thanksgiving Day meal, it still seemed inappropriate to contribute to the dark history of this holiday.

The tryptophan finally had kicked in while I pondered what to do. I woke up the next morning on my couch still fully dressed. I looked outside and there was my boom box, phone/answering machine and dust buster and that was all. There were no ants. They had completely vacated taking all their home décor and eggs with them. It was impressive really. As I put back all my electronics I began to seriously consider being a vegetarian. My thoughts of a meatless life were soon halted upon the ringing of my now plugged in phone. The first words out of my brother’s mouth were “bacon.” And that’s all it took.

Happy Hour...

2008-11-26T13:24:00.000-08:00

Comfort comes in different shapes and sizes. As I walk in I see all the eager faces. There are the ones barking for my attention and the others drooling with excitement. And then there are the more shy and reserve who I catch glancing at me out of the corner of their eyes.

As I take a sip of my drink, it is Cisco who catches my eye. I am immediately attracted to his disinterested stare and his beautiful two-toned eyes. He is gorgeous in that unconventional sort of way; perfect in his imperfections. There is the obvious scar on the side of his nose and his expressive thick eyebrows. He is flirting with me from across the room. His eyes beckoning me to walk over to him. I do.

As I get closer, he sits up. He is bigger and huskier than I had originally thought. I notice the touches of gray that hint of his life experience. He smiles sweetly and I feel my heart in my chest. Today, he is the one. I am impatient waiting to leave. I want him all to myself, to feel him close, so close I feel his breath against my face.

I wait for him outside. As he approaches me, I notice the confidence in his gait and the huge grin on his face. I can’t help but smile, giving away my own excitement. We begin to walk in silence and enter the park. Upon the sound of the latch closing on the gate, we speak for the first time. I ask Cisco if he wants to play and he lets out this huge bark. We both move hurriedly with anticipation through the park, also known to me as my sanctuary.

This is where I can be found during those bad days in which I just want to feel good, even if it’s just for a short while. I am never quite sure who I will choose to spend my time with. Sometimes it’s the big older guys, sometimes it’s the youngsters with no manners and sometimes the lady in the uniform behind the counter will introduce me to my new best friend for the day. I can’t help but to have a smile on my face whenever I come here.

Today it’s Cisco with his long black coat and shepherd features. We take to one another immediately and for a moment I wonder if I could just take him home and make it work. I remember I can’t with my long hours at work and the other hours taken over by performing. We will have to just meet here.

His endurance is incredible and the way his body moves is amazing. He is quiet with the exception of his panting. His tongue grows longer as minutes turn to hours. He finally finishes, laying down next to his toy just far enough away I can’t reach. I sit down and he quickly runs over and lays his head in my lap. It’s time to say goodbye.

We walk back into the building as the lady asks me how he was. Out of breath, I answer, “amazing.” I can’t help but fall in love a little. I say goodbye to Cisco as she asks me if I will be back next week. I remind her it’s the holidays, so I will be here more often. This place always cheers me up.

I know that one day I will get a dog, but for now there is always the Oakland Animal Shelter.

Waiting

2008-11-25T11:43:00.000-08:00

It’s 3 am as I wake to the sound of light snoring. I quietly tiptoe out of bed and grab the remnants of what I had been wearing. As I bend to kiss her on her forehead, I notice her arm peeking out from her covers. Instinctively I trace the numbers branded on her arm with my finger. I think about the strength of her arms wrapped around me just hours earlier as she rocked me to sleep. The power of her words as I struggled to make sense of this day. I am waiting for my justice.

Twenty years have passed marked by silent pain and a memory I dare not tell. Only one week ago I shared my story to a room full of strangers amidst cement walls and iron gates. Questions I could barely answer as the words froze on my tongue. I glanced at the pictures, my face not even recognizable to myself, but yet I remember every smell and sound.

I think back to the first time I sat on a couch barely able to tell my story. No eye contact as I watched my feet and the words leave my mouth. And even while I watched the letters escape, I felt a disconnect. The person in the story wasn’t me. It was someone else I used to know. I like who she is now.

I asked my grandmother how she has always been able to tell her story. She smiled as she moved the curl from my face. “Because” she says, “it’s a story about survival”. She reminded me of the time I climbed the jungle gym in school. I was only 5 as my older brother sat under the structure crying, unable to face his fear. She laughed as she recalled that she had to ask a stranger to get me down. She couldn’t climb it either.

Once home, I sit down to the glowing box to reread the long distance ego boost I received days before. I wondered how warm beer and spaetzle could trigger thoughts of me. I think about my friend the monkey man wishing he were up to share maker’s with me and the latest viral videos so I could laugh. And I remember a line from an Eddie Murphy movie as I think about the brand on her arm, “I’m a karate man, I bruise on the inside.”

Last week I was judge and jury. My ruling told, my sentence stated. But today I am waiting.

A Prayer for the Accused...

2008-11-24T10:51:00.000-08:00

I prayer every day you get to hear the sound of locking metal gates and cold cement under your feet.
That the steel against your wrists feels stiff and tight and the warmth of the breath in your ear brings terror instead of delight.
The laughter that echoes is never your own.
And the mattress under your tired body, brings torment instead of comfort.

I pray when you wake from the sound of screaming you realize the voice is your own.
And that the emptiness you feel inside is from your starvation and hunger.
The salty taste in your mouth is your tears, your blood and your sweat.
And the pillow against your mouth creates panic as you try to catch a breath.

I pray you cease to recognize your own face and that every day as you look in the mirror, every scar reminds you of horror and fear.
I pray you feel no relief, no trust and no refuge. You never have a moment to close your eyes and escape.

I pray that the wind in your hair steals your breath as you begin to run. And that as you run, your body stings. And that while you ache, you know you have to keep on running.

I pray that you share no kindred faces only glances of pity as you silently pray that no one knows. That you feel transparent and vulnerable wherever you go.

I pray that time marches slowly as years turn into decades. That you feel a chill when it’s warm and sweat in the cold. That the stiffness in your joints grows worse and the surgeries never cease.

I pray that as you hear the sound of my voice you know you didn’t win.
I pray you know now the fighter I am. The strength of my words and the power of what’s now healed. That you know that there are no looks and no words that could break me as you try. And you keep trying.

I pray you hear the sound of my voice as the gate slams shut. The echo of my laughter and the sour taste of your sin forever be with you.

Brazil Part IV: Beachside Burlesque

2008-10-30T16:03:00.000-07:00

We were now in Itacare, a beautiful hippie surf town. Joined by a friend, we found ourselves staying in a Pousada completely occupied by Dutch tourists. In fact the whole town seemed to be filled with local Brazilians or the Dutch. My first night, I cruised the main street looking for a place to grab a drink and write. After making one pass down the street, I decided on an outdoor bar that blasted old school reggae. I sipped on my tropical beverage and began to write while Jimmy Cliff was singing. I was soon approached by one of the guests in my Pousada who asked if he could join me. I pointed at the chair next to me and remarked that my friend would be arriving soon as well. We ordered a round of Caipirinhas and spoke of our lives back at home.

After several rounds, the tempo had changed to Cypress Hill. We decided to locate a party we had heard of at the beach. Stumbling over the cobblestones, we made our way down the road to the beach. As we got closer, it was clear there was no party. All we heard were the bats, the night birds and the sounds of the sea. The water was aglow with the reflection of the near full moon and the twinkling of stars. In an attempt to break the silence, my friend exclaimed that I am a burlesque performer to our new Dutch friend. He turned to me and asked “what is burlesque?” I began to give my usual discourse which includes the history of burlesque and the rise of the neo-burlesque movement. Before getting to the 1900s, I paused. I am not sure if it was the alcohol or the site of the calm water that inspired me, but I suggested that rather than run through my verbiage I would coach him through a striptease. Before he responded, I also suggested that my friend would also take the “course” with him. My friend shot me a look while giggling nervously and before she could respond, he said yes.

The three of us were now standing on the beach. I began to explain the importance of movement and connection to the audience. We ran through a series of movements which included belt removal, pants removal, and shirt removal. Laughing through this process we redressed and repeated each step. My friend complained she couldn’t take off her pants since she was going “commando” that night. And Dutchboy began to complain, that he was looking like a “sissy”, so I suggested he should demonstrate what he learned for us and add his own “macho” touches. He whined that there was no music, to which I responded I would hum “the big strip” for him.

My friend and I sat down on the sand and debated over whether we should sing Sir Mixalot’s “Baby Got Back” or the more traditional “Big Strip”. And although we both knew the lyrics, Dutchboy preferred the more traditional striptease song. As I began to sing, he whipped off his belt and slapped it against his thigh. The subsequent wince gave away the fact he had just injured himself. He slowly unbuttoned the top of his shorts and dropped them down to his ankles. He stopped and posed and then began to pull of his shirt. When his shirt had barely made it over his head, I stopped singing. I told him he needed to redress and start over. He was not connecting to his “audience”. My friend nodded enthusiastically emphasizing the words “no connection”. He redressed and began once my humming resumed. He tripped taking off his shorts, so I made him start again. I began to giggle after the 4th attempt. I was amused by my ability to get this man to take off his clothes and redress. He started to catch on and demanded that someone else needs to take a turn. My friend looked at me and reminded us she wasn’t wearing any underwear, she couldn’t possibly strip. As they became more engaged with deciding how she could do a striptease without revealing “too much” I had already taken off everything and jumped in the ocean.

Brazil, Part III: Sunday Bloody Sunday

2008-10-23T17:05:00.000-07:00

I felt I was ready to explore the city of Salvador beyond the little beach area where I was staying. The travel guides all recommended a day trip to the historic center, the Pelourinho. Feeling slightly more confident speaking “Portu-Span-Glish” I opted to take the local bus into town. The bus wound along the beach front and then inland. We made our way past nicely manicured high-rise apartments and museums. About 10 minutes into the ride, the street changed. The landscaped pavement gave way to street vendors, crowded streets, traffic and condemned buildings. I was now in the Brazilian equivalent to the Tenderloin (TL).

Similar to the TL, there were the junkie zombies whose eyes were barely open as they nodded while they asked for just about anything; money, food, water, etc. There were the young men on the corners all dressed alike playing some sort of gambling game. On the opposite corners were the working ladies, dressed in next to nothing. Many of the buildings were boarded up and oddly there were tons of stores selling musical instruments. My Portuguese was still too limited to determine if these were pawn shops or whether I just happened to be in the musical instrument sales area.

I was determined to see at least one “historical site” before I left the area, so I made my way to a palace in the center of the Pelourinho. While the palace hadn’t been cleaned in a while, it certainly had been restored at some point. As I perused the museum now in the palace, I came to realize the area I was standing in was utilized for slave auction. I came to learn that the slaves were whipped in the square and sold. I began to think about how I am unaware of any sites in the United States similar to this that remind us of our atrocious history. While I was uncomfortable and could feel the intensity of the history of this area, I stopped to take in the environment. I remembered the last time I felt this way was years ago visiting Bergen-Belsen.

I became distracted by drum beats, so I decided to make my way up the street to see if I could find the drum circle. As I approached the drum circle, two men were running towards me followed by two more. All four of them were shouting and when they crossed to the same side of the street that I was standing on, they began to fight. I crossed the street to get away from the fight and started to head back toward the area where the bus had originally dropped me off. After turning to walk, 6 police officers were running toward me with their guns drawn. I do believe this marked the first time in my life I had 6 guns pointed at me at the same time. The weapons ranged from hand guns to rifles. My pace quickened as I walked away from the scene. I kept repeating to myself, “don’t turn around”.

As I heard the blare and pop of the guns, I couldn’t help myself… I turned around.

Brazil, Part II: Okay I'm an asshole

2008-10-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

The Pousada was set back from the street with hibiscus in shades of pinks, corals, and reds growing all around the patio. There was hammocks strung along the right side of the building shaded by tropical plants, I only knew as indoor plants. Here fed by the moisture and heat, the plants appeared to be on steroids, larger and more colorful. As I stepped across the tiled grounds I was greeted by a petite man. Upon hearing I was American declared, “Bon Jovi”. To which I sang back in response with raised fist in the air, “shot through the heart and you’re to blame, you give love a bad name”. He joined me on “you give love a bad name”. We had bonded.

I asked in my pathetic attempt at Portuguese where the exchange (cambio) was since I had no Brazilian dollars (reals). He pulled out a map and showed me that I needed to walk to the mall. Although I was exhausted after flying all night, I knew that I needed reals as soon as possible so I could grab food and water. Understanding his directions I flashed him an “okay” sign with my fingers. This was my first lesson in Brazilian culture. His smile turned and he glared. I looked down upon my okay sign and looked back toward him confused. He grabbed my fingers and closed my hand into a fist while shaking his head. He spoke quickly in Portuguese. I knew that tone. It’s that tone you hear in childhood in which you knew you were being admonished. He made the sign and then pointed directly at his ass. I shook my head in horror as I came to understand I had just called him an asshole. In his broken English, I came to understand I needed to adopt my inner Fonzi and give the thumbs up instead. This event would prove to be a foreshadowing of my entire trip. While I am not one to typically use the okay signal, I couldn’t seem to stop throughout the trip. It was as if my subconscious held onto this hand signal like a bad case of the hiccups. I couldn’t stop. This led to the first word I practiced to perfection in Portuguese “desculpe” – sorry. After apologizing profusely, I began the walk to the mall.

The streets were busy with locals walking although I had no sense of to where. It was still early in the day, the sun was bright, and the weather was amazing. I had expected heat and humidity and instead was greeted with warmth and a light ocean breeze. The cobblestone serene street the pousada was located on gave way to a busy intersection. I had no clue how to cross this busy street. I could see hear the phone call to my family now, she had been in brazil less than 4 hours and was hit by a car on the first street she tried to cross.

I finally manage to run across the street during a lull in traffic and make it to the mall. It was strange to be in a Brazilian mall; frankly it’s strange for me to be in any mall. Six layers of stores and not one I recognized. I wandered through the floors and finally asked a gentleman in a security uniform for the cambio. He spoke at length in Portuguese and I nodded my head listening carefully. I understood nothing but the pointing of his fingers demonstrating straight and then right. I flash him a smile and a thumb’s up.

I made it to the cambio and then got out of the mall as quickly as possible. I made my way back to the pousada stopping briefly at a little grocery store. I have a bit of an obsession with grocery stores in foreign countries. I love to walk the aisles looking at all the foods, wondering if the items I am looking at are even edible and if so how they are prepared. The best is the meat sections. I love wondering what animal is hanging on the hooks and what part of it I am looking at. This grocery store in particular felt like the “Whole Foods” of Brazil. The store was clean and bright with fruits and vegetables displayed impeccably by color. Drawn to the sweet smell and color of the mangoes, I grabbed one and then made my way to find water.

Buying water is always an amusing task. I look carefully at the labels, understanding nothing. For all I know, I am buying Brazil’s best in tap water. So I choose my water, much like I choose my wine. The bottle with the prettiest label wins. Water, mango, bread, cheese, and turkey in hand I purchase my items and return back to the pousada. While sitting on my little veranda to eat my day’s purchase, I notice a family of monkeys walk across the gate. Following one after the other, with their striped tails pointing skyward, I couldn’t help but think that this sight was certainly a reminder that I was no longer home.

Brazil, Part I

2008-10-18T10:07:00.000-07:00

In just 2 short weeks, I fell in love. That deep love that writers and poets struggle to capture in words, that painters and sculptors attempt to provide us a lasting image of. Brazil is not the backdrop of this story, it is the story. A land so beautiful it emanates through its people, through its architecture and through its landscape.

Just like a first date, I found myself anxious as I made my way to the airport. It has been a long time since I have traveled to a place as far away as Brazil. And it has been a longer time since I have immersed myself in a land in which I did not speak the language, at all. Like every love before, I was unprepared; I was not looking for love. Preparations for Brazil were scattered in the wake of a death amidst whispers that it was a murder. My best friend appearing lost on my doorstep at the crack of dawn. I knew he hurt and I was leaving. My life has been a whirlwind of burlesque performances, dancer dramas, disappearing men and steering the sinking ship of my day job. I found myself with no ability to even muster a level of excitement in leaving. No time for nerves over flying, no time to process the fact I was going and for brief moments waiting in line at the airport to check-in I felt panic. My breath and heart stopped as anxiety took over and as quickly as it would come on, it would go away. Perhaps it was this that contributed to the surprise I was about to experience as I stepped off of the plane in Salvador after nearly 20 hours of flying.

My first glance of my blind date happened in Sao Paulo as I looked out the plane window and saw the largest concrete jungle I have ever set eyes on. It was overwhelming and intimidating. Touching ground meant a change of planes. No English to be heard as I struggled turning the pages of my phrasebook. I was approached by a young woman in her 20s who grabbed me by the hand and walked me through customs. While few words were spoken, I knew by sign language and her energy I was in good hands. After customs, she motioned to see my ticket and pointed the way for my next flight. It was then I knew that the rest of my trip would include countless moments of kindness and generosity. I came to understand that she represented the soul of the beauty of the Brazilian people.

After several more hours of flying, I was in Salvador, one of the oldest cities in Brazil. Exhausted I took a cab to my temporary place of stay, since my goal was to exit the big city in search of a quieter and more relaxed sanctuary. As the cab wove through the city of Salvador, I noticed subtle reminders of home: fast food chains and Sam’s Club. The city was an artist’s playground as graffiti popped from any potentially blank canvas. Unlike our graffiti, the artist vision was honored left as it’s own individual statement, no competitive paint, no cover-up.

As we wound our way through concrete high-rises, the asphalt gave way to cobblestone, the buildings were stunted in growth and the air seemed less thick with the smell of car exhaust. We had arrived.

30 Dates in 30 Days

2008-09-16T13:19:00.000-07:00

About 7 years ago one of my friends dared me to go on 30 dates in 30 days. I didn’t originally agree to the dare. I really hadn’t dated in the true sense of going out on dates. I was scared. I had spent the last 10 years in a relationship; 8 actually being in the relationship and 2 getting over it. I agreed to the dare because I really believed that if I was going to start dating again, then this would be the way to do it. This was like diving into the deep end of the pool and I am not the “dip a toe in” kind of girl.

I knew that in order to be able to stack the odds in my favor that I actually could rack up enough guys to participate in this, there was only one option… craigslist. I was a newbie to dating, so I had limited perspective. I began looking at the Men seeking Women. I remember reading the posts and being totally freaked out. Who were these guys that posted? What does this guy even look like? And how do I respond?. “Hi, I’m a 30 year old bay area native who likes to hike and do yoga.” I had no idea what I was looking for or really how to describe myself. I started to hate the idea of “selling” myself.

Then I read the women seeking men posts. I was more freaked. I was snarky as I read post after post of women seeking their prince. Except these princes drove a BMW, worked in finance, and were ready to procreate immediately. I was more scared now. I wasn’t one of them, but at the same time I was. We shared at least one thing in common: we wanted a date. So I began to craft the profile. I remember it simply said, “I just want to meet for a drink. You’ll let me beat you at pool even though I am the worst player ever and know what whiskey to order. You know a dive from a hotspot. You are the kind of guy who is known for being funny, the drier the better.” And then I included some basic facts about me, the age, location kind of stuff. Then I clicked “Post”.

The next morning I was overwhelmed. I had to go through all these responses. I think the first group I eliminated was the “dirty bird” group. These were the guys who sent the nude pics or outrageous descriptions of what they were going to do to me. I think my favorite of the bunch was the picture of the cowboy in chaps and nothing else. Next to go were the guys who sent what I termed the “form responses”. You knew, just like the dirty birds, the form response guys didn’t read anything you wrote and probably copy pasted the same reply to ever women seeking men post on craigslist. I figured if they didn’t bother reading the post, then drinks would probably not be very fun. I would end up listening to some stranger talk about himself endlessly until I could finally figure out some way to end the evening. And I think last to go were the guys I deemed age/location incompatible.

Of course, I also viewed this as an opportunity to meet all kinds of men. My selection ran the gamut from computer tech types to surgeons to carpenters to students and even one bounty hunter. Actually it turned out he wasn’t really a bounty hunter. He had been on disability for 5 years and I didn’t get to hear any good bounty hunting stories, which was very disappointing. But I digress.

30 dates in 30 days was exhausting. There were days I had to book morning and evening shifts, due to scheduling. There were the countless nights of staying out too late. And then even the dates that ended early still included giggling with girlfriends over the phone talking about it. The worst date ended with me climbing out a bathroom window of a dive bar and the best included a couple friends I still have. Not much has changed since I posted back then. I still drink whiskey, I still love a great dive, and I still am terrible at pool. I think the only thing that has changed is my selection process.

Oaksterdam U!

2008-09-05T11:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know I was half awake when I heard the ad… Oaksterdam University. Yes, that’s right, my hometown now offers the finest in higher education in the form of Oaksterdam University.

Last night in my dream like state I started to think about the curriculum they would offer. I would assume the basic general education: math, economics, science, history, etc. But this was such a creative opportunity for a school with a common theme of cannabis.

I started to think about the actual classes:

Art 140: Depictions of cannabis in film: from Reefer Madness to Pineapple Express

Art 160: Fashion: From Tie-Dye to Marley Shirts

Art 180: The death of Lasarium

Business 101: Selling by the dime or selling by the pound

History 101: Were cavemen smoking dude?

Legal Studies 101: Stay away from Nevada

Math 101: How many 8ths in a QP?

Macroeconomics 110: The effects of cannabis on world markets

Microeconomics 101: Oreo’s or gummy worms?

Music 103: The impact of cannabis on rock and roll: What else would explain Little Richard?

Philosophy 160: Bong, joint, pipe, or vaporizer?

Political Science 103: Bill inhaled: the political impact of cannabis use

Political Science 178: Towlie: Wanna get high?

Psychology 110: The art of manipulating munchies

Psychology 120: Paranoia: yes, they’re tapping your phone and here’s why

Psychology 200: Things to think about to curb inappropriately timed giggles

Science 105: Things you can safely blow up in your microwave

Science 110: Weed, Keef or Hash, what gets you higher?

Science 120: Why can’t I remember where I left the keys?

Science 200: Saliva Production

Sociology 101: Deadheads vs. Phish fans

20 Diseases

2008-08-21T09:51:00.000-07:00

One of my fondest memories of childhood is playing 20 diseases in the car with my dad. It’s this game he made up for when we were on road trips. You know those god-awful trips with the entire family in which you are forced to go to a rock quarry somewhere in the middle of Oregon to look for geodes. Anyway, we had one of those super cool station wagons with the wood panels, except ours were just the doors painted to look like wood panels. It would be my two brothers and I crammed in the backseat with my folks upfront and the dog in the way back.

So the game went something like this… My dad would say I am thinking of a disease and then we would ask questions just like the game 20 questions. The person who got to 20 diseases won. So our questions would range from, “is one of the symptoms a rash?” Or “does it give you diarrhea?” Or “is it fatal?” Now this might seem like an easy game if my dad would have thought of diseases such as influenza or the common cold. But my dad is kind of a rare disease expert. So our questions would also include, “is it a kind of hemorrhagic disease?” Or “what type of contact does it spread through?” Or “is it hereditary?” We learned about all kinds of diseases; Hantavirus, Ebola, Creutzfeldt - Jakob disease. And the best part of this game, as far as he was concerned, was that no one ever got to 20. I don’t even think my brothers and I would have even known where to look to learn about diseases. We were young kids.

Typically he’d give us a few easy ones like Elephantitis or Lyme disease. Then we would spend the next few hours on the more difficult ones. My brothers and I would begin all these trips determined to win and then inevitably hate the game after losing round after round; My Dad taking bizarre pleasure in keeping us engaged and frustrated at the same time. I actually became pretty decent at this game predicting his pattern of going from dermatological disorders to diseases of the gastro-intestinal variety.

As an adult, I find that very few of my friends are interested in playing the game 20 diseases. I don’t have to miss the game though, since the game has morphed into something else. It has taken on a new premise and is usually it’s based on conversations that begin with, “I had unprotected sex with him 2 weeks ago and now I have a strange itch.” Or “there was a hard bump with a white pustule on his scrotum, what do you think it was.” Unfortunately with the adult version the only thing you typically win is a trip to Planned Parenthood and a prescription for antibiotics.

In the Pink...

2008-08-11T15:21:00.000-07:00

Getting a bikini wax is quite a bonding experience. Not only do you end up bonding with the woman ripping hair off in between your legs, but it does seem to be a topic of conversation between women friends. As i was going in for my monthly manicure i couldn't help but think that this woman holding up my left leg up in the the air while shmearing a warm green goo on my nether-regions has a more intimate view of me than most guys I date. Seriously, a good brazillian takes at least 20 minutes. That is quite a chunk of time. Think about the last time you were downtown and how long you took? Frankly i have known her for a good 10 years and while she is ripping, we are rapping. I ask about her kids, she asks about dance. We talk about restaurants and movies and sometimes even dating. This is probably one of the most intimate relationships i have ever had.

In addition to knowing about my life - she has a perspective of me that I just don't have. I guess I could take the time to look, but still haven't got around to it at least not for a full 20 minutes. I have profound respect for her sense of professionalism as she pulls out her tweasers to make sure everything is even. This is one of those moments as she is completely between my legs I begin to think about how strange this would be on a date. I actually haven't had the experience of some guy telling me i am uneven. But her - she cares. She would notice. I appreciate this level of TLC.

As for my girlfriends - we spend inordinate amounts of time discussing this topic - who do you go to? Does it hurt? Do you go for the brazillian? How often do you go? How does it feel to be bald? And of course, there is always a virgin waxer in the crew. Being old-school (i have a lot of wax cred), I tend to be the "go to" for wax advice. I love these moments discussing skin sensitivity, ingrowns, and the best underwear to show off your new do. My friends and i have a great sense of humor about all this. We come up with new "hairstyle" ideas and sometimes even show them off.

Unfortunately, I find my waxer doesn't really have the same sense of humor. I did once make the mistake of calling the brazillian the pedophile special - that didn't go over too well and is probably the biggest near dealbreaker in my lasting relationships at the bikini wax shop. Hair ripping is serious business and I almost sabotaged one of my oldest relationships. We have since made up but i was quite concerned I'd have to date for a while until i found my new perfect wax relationship.

A Lap Dance for Jesus

2008-08-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

On a typical Friday night I am usually kicking it with my best friend James at some dive. Since we have known each other since before I was old enough to drive I am sure you can imagine how many years of this we have clocked in together. We usually meet up at one of two dives in the financial district in San Francisco and then slowly make our way to the "better" dives of Oakland. For many years, Smitty’s was the bar of choice. Decent juke box, cheap shots, pool table and a great cast of characters. Recently James initiated a change of venue. I was skeptical about this new place until I met Jesus.

There were a few of us gathered around the pool table enjoying our beverages and playing rounds of pool. Then Jesus walked in; a fairly tall, thin white guy with a beard and long straight brown hair. He was the white archetype of Jesus in his white toga and hemp sandals. We were intrigued. I was first to notice and quickly pointed out to James that Jesus was drinking PBR. I was a bit surprised by his beer choice. For some reason I had always thought the son of God would have chosen a better tasting brew, but perhaps he was used to wine and didn’t have a palette for ale. Jesus then sat himself next to the pool table on a bench seat alone directly across from my little posse. We all agreed… Jesus looked sad. Certainly given the state of our planet we could all surmise why Jesus would be sad, and we all felt something needed to be done.

We ruled out buying Jesus a drink since he had just obtained one and buying Jesus PBR in a can seemed a bit sacrilegious. Then my friend Erin began rifling through her purse and pulled out $2, turns to me and says, “you need to give Jesus a lap dance!” And before I could answer, James slaps another $2 on top of Erin’s and says you should do it for $4. Now, just so everyone is clear, I have actually never given a lap dance, but even given my lack of experience I felt I was worth a bit more than 4 bucks. I say no way, minimum is $20. But my friends know me all too well and count on the fact that I can’t say no to any challenge, especially one such as this. How many opportunities in this lifetime do we have to give Jesus a lap dance? I decide I am still worth more than four and let them know that for four dollars I can make Jesus genuinely smile and for $20 I will surprise him by shaking my ass on his lap. And while my friends know me, I also know my friends and I knew they would rather spend their money on more booze than on a dare.

They went for the smile. So I strolled over to Jesus and plopped myself down right next to him. I turn and smile and say, “Jesus, my friends and I were concerned that you seem really sad and thought it might make you happy if I give you a lap dance.” Jesus lets out a little smile as I continue, “they even offered me $4 to do it although between you and I, despite my lack of experience, I think I am worth at least $20.” At this point Jesus begins to point and says, “see that girl in the toga over there?” I nod yes. “She’s my girlfriend, so I will give you $10 if you don’t.” I say deal and take his $10, we are both smiling as I stroll over and grab the 4 bucks from the table. Not bad for a typical Friday night.

A Shade of White

2008-08-05T14:44:00.000-07:00

There are moments in life we realize how strong we are. Sometimes it’s in the physical sense such as lifting the sofa bed on moving day. Other times it’s when we realize that as life brings us obstacles, we handle them with dignity and grace. It’s these moments I find myself stuck in my head. I don’t share them. I quietly write about them. Letting myself have that alone time to just be in my head and feel all that I need to feel. I used to be so afraid of my feelings that the only emotion I could really allow myself was anger. I couldn’t imagine ever having any other sense of the world but anger. Dressed in black with my hair some various shade of purple or pink while referring to my Doc Martins as my sole mates. They were, afterall, the only shoes I owned at that time. It’s funny now, I can’t remember the last time I was really angry. Anger gave out long ago to the pity parties I used to throw myself which eventually gave way to the strength I aspire to maintain.

Today I wandered down the same hospital hallway I have grown to know since childhood. Today was different though. There was only paperwork to be signed and other family members to console while I breathed deeply reminding myself to be strong. There were the doctors doing their best to sound professional and optimistic when all of us knew the truth. We had all met here before. We knew the sterile smells, the sound of the nurses voice paging above and even some of the patients. But today was different.

I didn’t speak a word as I listened to all the questions barely audible through the choking back of tears. I looked from face to face to face as the words rallied back and forth. My mind began to drift. I thought about my third birthday. I remembered the Raggedy Ann cake and the banging on the front door. It was the bomb squad. We were to be evacuated. They had discovered 26 sticks of dynamite under the house and now we had to go. My mother refused, screaming that I hadn’t blown out the candles on my cake. I had to make a wish before we left. I remember the men dressed in white as they stood around singing. She had her way… with one exception. There was a giant flashlight lit up in the middle of the cake. And after I made my wish and blew my young breath against the metal, the light was switched off.

Panties and a Shave

2008-08-04T13:07:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to think that shaving my legs before a date has become a jinx. For many women, including myself, shaving legs before a date can be ritual. But perhaps it is this very ritual that jinxes any possibility of taking the date home or even wanting to see this date again. On those occasions I don't have time to shave nor put on those perfectly cute panties, the chemistry is just right and then I am faced with some poor guy rubbing stubble and finding me in granny panties. (sorry for the heterosexist rant - but I can only speak from my own experience). I try to think to myself that no dude even cares if he finds stubble and briefs, after all I am naked and they are about to get laid. Maybe this is what the lesson needs to be for all dates - if you find stubble and ill-fitting panties it's simply because taking you home was exactly the plan.

And what is the male equivalent? Do guys think about their stubble? Do they think about which boxers or briefs to wear? I don't know of any woman that has been completely bummed after taking a guy home and finding that he is commando. Smell yes, tightie-whities, no. But none of us are happy to find stink, so that doesn't really count. I guess I could ask all those ball-shavers - do they think about their stubble. Do they give themselves a nut wax before going out? But then how many woman really care about stubble on scrotum? I haven't heard of any tongue injury's due to "stubble that could kill" on balls before. Although that term is definitely used about legs and facial hair. I am guessing that if i lament about male facial stubble i could possibly get censored, so i will leave that to everyone's imagination.

I do have to wonder though, if there was an impact on women when the 5 o'clock shadow was in style. I wonder if there was an increase in visits to the doctor for stubble burn. I can only imagine those visits to the doctor - "what we have here is a terrible abrasion. I will be prescribing you some antibiotic cream. The gillette razors are for your male partner which can be picked up in the pharmacy".

Cluster Fucked

2008-07-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

Why is it that whenever you need something fixed that you end up in this cluster fuck between two companies? It's like when you were a kid and something broke and suddenly everyone in the room is declaring "i didn't do it". I have been up since 1 am and coffee isn't cutting it. And now, just waiting for the phone guy. Since when did a window become anytime between 9 am until 9 pm? At what point is it called an open-door? Of course, when i asked At&t this, they just didn't think that was funny.

My favorite conversation today happened at 3 am with ADT alarm service. As my alarm was blaring and i was desperately attempting to sound coherent over the phone, i come to learn from ADT that due to my phone being out for over a week, i also had no alarm. So I ask them, what is the point of paying them to monitor my system, if i had to call and tell them the system is not working. Shouldn't they pay me? It seems that i am doing a much better job monitoring my system than they are. So they tell me i am paying for monitoring, but that they can't monitor when the system is down. Logically i ask them, "isn't it their responsibility to monitor when the system is down and then let me know rather than the other way around"? They answer yes, but only when they do their once a month monitoring check. So i say, "let me get this straight. If i were to burglarize someone's home, i just need to cut their phone off, since you people wouldn't be aware of this for another month. And that is what you call monitoring?"I was beginning to feel that ADT was not quite grasping the definition of monitoring.

Maybe the lack of sleep has impacted my ability to comprehend the definition of monitoring something, but i was always under the impression that it meant something other than a once a month check. I offered to read the definition out of the dictionary. I even offered ADT a solution to this unfortunate misrepresentation of monitoring; they could call it "occasional monitoring" or "sporadic monitoring" or "once-a-month monitoring". I told ADT if they wanted to pay me, I could come up with all kinds of new slogans for them since i just missed a day of work, i could now use the income. "ADT, we're here if you call and let us know" or "ADT we've got your back on the first Monday of the Month" or "ADT, stopping crime one hour out of the month".

So after being transferred to the supervisor's supervisor, my system should be fixed sometime between now and 9 pm. They are even adding some new features such as a monitoring system that monitors the monitoring system. I am just happy i have a baseball bat and a knife. The last time i used the bat, prior to getting the alarm, it monitored my house much better than ADT ever has. I am sure that my burglar will never be able to grip his own nuts after the bashing i did to his hands through my door. Perhaps that should be the slogan and free gift with every system they sell, "ADT and Louisiana Slugger, keeping your home safe all year long".