One word: DISAPPEAR.

I've been spending a ridiculous amount of time on the internet these days. It's a habit I need to break, really.

It causes me to take notice of things. Things that bother me. And obsess about them.

Things like the stupid words people use in their internet speak or when trying to be "cool" in California. Words that drive me crazy. Not only do I refuse to give up proper grammar and punctuation in cyberspace, but I refuse -- REFUSE -- to use any of the following words in my internet banter. Or -- GOD FORBID -- in real life.

Because I've heard these words come out of people's mouths. I have.

The list of "WORDS THAT MUST GO TO THE LAKE OF FIRE:"

(and this of course is a work in progress)

• Meh
• Nom
• Staycation
• Hella (of course)
  
• Totes, Supes, or any other word shortened to end in "es" that HAS NO BUSINESS PRETENDING IT'S CUTER THAN IT IS!!!
  

I'll be adding to this periodically. I'm keeping a notepad entry on the CrackBerry. But, in honor of the presidential debate tonight, let me just throw in the obvious...

Yep: you guessed it.



Can't even say it. Type it. Whatever.

Mountainwoman!

Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain

- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

I love Eliot. I kept thinking about these lines during and after my outing to the Sierra Club's "Hiker's Hut" in Sam McDonald Park, in San Mateo County, this past weekend.

Which should really be called the Sierra Club's "Hut For Outdoor Geniuses Only." Because it's harder than hell to find, and if you're as dumb as I am, you might hike the wrong trail to get there.

KNOW THIS NOW: You're NOT supposed to hike a trail to get to the Hiker's Hut. I don't know WHAT I was thinking! You're supposed to hike the Fire Road.

I was told the hike was 1.5 miles. Well, it would have been. On the Fire Road. On the Heritage Trail -- not exactly. Probably more like 4 miles. I'm actually a pretty experienced hiker, and I'm VERY good at reading maps, and I made this mistake. I failed to see that the Heritage Trail couldn't possibly have been 1.5 miles. I failed to notice the elevation changes.

The grade of the hike, of course, being of the utmost importance. Because this was an overnighter, and I was carrying the following shit on my back...

You ready?

• Clothes for myself, including a sweatshirt, jacket, pair of jeans, and other sundry items (I was apparently trying to pack the HEAVIEST CLOTHES I COULD FIND)
  
• An extra pair of shoes
• A book on Fortifications of the Incas (yep); imagine it if you can
• Portable speakers for my iPod
• My medication
• A tin of dominoes -- REAL dominoes (those suckers are heavy)
• Food for both myself and Trent, for two days, including a deli sandwich, spring rolls, a bag of pretzels, granola bars, a bag of carrots, two bags of dried fruit, and a few other things...
  
• 3 liters of water
• A fifth of Jack Daniels

Yes, it's as absurd as it sounds. Not hard to imagine why, after about an hour of setting a brisk pace for our group, thinking we only had a half-hour hike in front of us, I collapsed into a thorny bush at the foot of a zig-zagging switchback, glaring up at the mountain, cursing it's mouth full of carrious teeth, cursing my own stupid ass, now full of brambles.

But -- I got there. I did. There were many, many adventures along the way -- I can't relate them all. But eventually, I stood on the deck of the Hiker's Hut and watched the sun go down.

Others tried to take away the weight of my pack, after I started nearly hyperventilating, and hallucinating that I saw the Hiker's Hut in front of me. But I insisted on being allowed to haul that shit up there.

For most of the second half of the hike, I couldn't feel my legs. The heat and exhaustion woke up my brain lesions, and I was teetering on an edge far more precarious than the Butano Ridge. I made myself symptomatic again.

But it would have been worse still to not finish. Because THAT would have struck a blow to my self-sufficiency, even if it had been fairly dealt by my own stupidity.

I promised myself that I would never, never, EVER let MS make me feel incapable. Even if it meant choosing my mind over my brain, which I did here.

I pushed myself. Hard. Harder than my doctors would have liked.

But damn, it felt good.



And also, I didn't want to spend the night out there...

London calling...

My company has a creative office in London. The sister office to the one I work in here, in San Francisco.

I'm thinking of inquiring into what it might take to transfer there...

Because...

Yep...



If the American people fall for this, I just can't take it anymore.

I realize that I, and my fellow San Franciscans, are in the minority. Because I grew up in Michigan, one of the most interesting states in the nation in our times. If you want to get a sense of America and its problems, make a trip to Michigan. You'll find it all.

The ancien regime is dying there, under the weight of the past half-century's misfortunes, mishandlings, and misleaders. The American auto industry is breathing its last, and in the staunchly blue regions of what was once America's greatest industrial state, where the American dream reached its loftiest heights, Democrats are wandering, dazed and confused. And tense, because the only thing holding them together all these years was that industrial way of life: people of all different races, religions, and backgrounds. Regional cooperation otherwise is unknown to them.

And outside the manufacturing centers of Detroit, Dearborn, Flint... The counties glow as red as they do in the bible belt, fueling deep divisions in state legislation.

Michigan is starving for a new path, for an economic boost, for jobs, for young people... And it's been that way for a while now.

When I moved to the Bay Area, being a tried and true Ann Arbor liberal, proud of my days as a rally-girl for the Defend Affirmative Action Party in the 90s, when white red-county students were suing my beloved University of Michigan all the way to the Supreme Court for admitting black blue-county students ahead of them, I found that my politics were the same as most San Franciscans (maybe a little more to the left, even).

But I knew, and I know now, the rest of America is a much stickier, selfish place.

Okay -- let's just call it "more complicated."

And I've been on the Yelp talk threads all morning listening to educated, bleeding San Franciscan hearts saying things like...

"HELLO PRESIDENT OBAMA! He must be laughing right now, McCain is INSANE, he just cost himself the race."

And...

"McCain's camp is thinking that they will hold onto the soccer moms by picking a female running mate. I think he's 'misunderestimating' the fact that he may [come] off as superficial and misogynistic to the public..."

And...

"I'm listening to NPR right now, and they're being all cheeky about Sarah Palin. I love it."

McCain, insane? Yes, yes he is. This entire thing insane? Absolutely. A complete political ploy that insults the intelligence of thinking Americans everywhere? Um, YEAH.

But, Bay Area residents --

WAKE THE FXXX UP.

You do not represent the will and mindset of the American people.

Do you realize how the rest of the country sees YOU? They still think SUSHI IS GROSS. THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT "MISOGYNISTIC" MEANS!

OF COURSE THEY CAN FALL FOR THIS SHIT.

And, they don't listen to NPR, either.

I happened to get this news about Sarah Beauty Queen this morning just as I stepped off a redeye to Detroit, and sat down for breakfast in a diner with my mother. The TV was tuned to Fox News and every eye was glued to it.

Even though I'm in a blue state. Or what WAS a blue state. Jesus.

When I get back to San Francisco, the first thing I'm doing is volunteering for Obama's campaign. And I'm calling on every other Bay Area Democrat, liberal -- whoever believes in the big O -- to do the same.

This election is NOT OURS TO LOSE. We are the minority. We are the revolutionaries, in our tiny little radical city where gay marriage is legal and recycling is mandatory. Change comes through STRUGGLE. It will be hard won.

You're supposed to be in good shape, SF'ers. You know -- from riding your bikes everywhere and hiking and surfing and shit. So get off your asses and WORK!!!

Take Shelter...

I walked past this sign on a construction barricade on Mission Street the other day, just a few blocks from my house.

It was 9:00 AM on a Saturday, and I was running to the BART station. I was late to meet my college roommate, her husband, and six-month-old baby. The whole family was in town from Michigan, and we’d planned a “super San Francisco experience!” day. Only problem was I had a wicked hangover from a super San Francisco experience the night before, if you know what I mean…

So I was feeling less than sharp. In fact, my eyes were doing that thing where they don’t quite track right – that’s how hungover I was. I had to stop my shower, get out, and eat a nectarine to stop myself from barfing – THAT’S HOW HUNGOVER I WAS.

Man, I’m never having a “girl’s night” again.

Anyway…

What I’m trying to say is, I had one mission on Mission that morning: get to the BART, and don’t barf. Well, I guess that’s two missions… So for me to stop and take this picture means these words really struck a chord, somewhere in the depths of my alcohol-soaked soul. It took at least two minutes for me to get my camera out of my bag, people. I could have EASILY barfed on the street during that time. Like a lot of – dare I say? – homeless people do on Mission Street.

So that brings me to my point…

We’re not so different, are we? Those of us homeys, and those of us homeless? I thought this was an incredibly powerful statement. How true – since when did it become a crime to go without? Of course, some of the people on our streets here in San Francisco and elsewhere ARE criminals, but to believe they all are is… is…

WTF?

You lose your job, you lose your home – okay, maybe you’re an alcoholic (I’m certainly not gonna judge you there) – and then before you know it, your house is gone, too. In this day and age, I think we all need to admit it’s not that hard to imagine. Every stupid morning news magazine is talking about the skyrocketing foreclosure rate in America.

And THEN – you’re somehow a criminal because of it. You’re doing something wrong by being on the street.

The point is, there are many, many paths that lead to the street. But we’re so quick to lump those people out there together into one category: BAD PEOPLE. And how funny: they’re bad, because we have more than they do. They should all go away. They should all get out of our neighborhoods because they’re scary and they drive the property values down and they must be about to rob us.

Even though yesterday they might have been our neighbors.

Does anyone else think this is nutso?

And, does anyone else think they intentionally papered this statement next to the poster for the band called ANIMOSITY?

Words.

Love ‘em.

I love seeing them combined like this, whether intentionally or not. They ARE just building blocks, after all… We use them for shelter as much as we do the roofs over our heads…

Summertime memories...

We don't really have a summer in San Francisco. Not like in the Midwest. No skeeters and crickets buzzing and chipring all night long... It's not hot and sticky... No dang humidity to leave you wiping the back of your neck after walking just a hundred feet... You just can't WAIT to leap in the lake and cool off...

The lake: where nothing will bite you. Ahh -- the Midwestern lake!

But know what we DO have in SF?

OTTER POPS!



I don't know what it is about these things, but they just never get old. NEVER!!!

Nothing but sugar and water. And PURE AMUSEMENT! A blue tongue is funny! FUNNY, I tell you! Whether you're 3, or 30.

(This pic is so ugly, but my tongue matches my tank top, so it had to be shared.)

I <3 summer.

You can pick your nose...

... but you can't pick your relatives.

My mother loves that saying. When it comes to family, I think she's always felt like a blip of sanity on a radar screen panning a sea of the insane. Her family, my dad's family, their greater unified family as a whole -- immigrant families are CRAZY. Especially when you put Polocks and Deigos together. They have nothing in common except they're both Catholic as hell (and they're all crazy, of course).

I always thought I was my father's (Polock) daughter, but the older I get, the more I realize I am very, very much my mother's (Deigo) daughter, too. I value her (fiery, no-fuss) wisdom and live by her mantras just as much as I do his (a calmer, more logical brand). And this little pearl of wisdom resonates with me a whole lot -- you just have to accept your family for who they are -- especially when it comes to my father's side.

Of course, my mother would never put it so genteel. I believe her words, after my long telephone lament, were, "Oh -- STUPID POLOCKS! Well, Lisa, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family!"

My aunt and uncle came out from Detroit to visit my younger cousin, who lives down in LA. She won a big award for her work at Universal Music and the company flew them out to attend a reception -- a really big deal. Nicole is a good kid. Aunt and uncle decided to tack on a two-week vacation and -- SURPRISE! -- drive up to SF to visit me. All three of them.

I got two days warning. They rolled into town with no directions, no plan, no hotel reservation.

It's summer. In San Francisco. One of the biggest tourist destinations in America. Apparently, my not-well-traveled family didn't realize this.

I found out about the no-plan-no-hotel-no-directions situation when they were about an hour away, on the 580. Through a series of panicked phone calls, I managed to get them one of three remaining hotel rooms in town (literally). I managed to navigate them, though they got lost several times, to my house. I rode with them to the hotel. I checked them in. And then it really got bad.

My uncle wasn't HAPPY with the hotel. It didn't have AIR CONDITIONING (no buildings in SF have air conditioning; it never exceeds 70 degrees here, though something did seem to be wrong with the climate control). It didn't have SCREENS on the window (we don't have bugs in SF either; too much wind). It didn't seem SAFE. It had STAINS on the carpet.

It was a perfectly adequate, though less than glamorous, motor inn in the safest neighborhood in town with free parking (the other two remaining hotels would have cost him $300 or $400 a night, which he was SHOCKED to find out, and this one was $130). BUT WHAT DO YOU EXPECT WHEN YOU DRIVE INTO TOWN WITH NO RESERVATION IN THE MIDDLE OF HIGH TOURIST SEASON?

He demanded to switch rooms, and somehow, he got his way. But I didn't even get a thank you for my efforts.

When they were finally settled, we decided to go out for dinner, and lucky me was charged with the task of choosing a restaurant. Before I could even make a recommendation, I was barraged with --

"No Mexican." -- Uncle

"No sushi. I just tried sushi and I didn't like it." -- Cousin

"How about pizza?" -- Me

"I don't like pizza." -- Uncle

WHO DOESN'T LIKE PIZZA? Did I fail to notice in the past 30 years that my uncle is from OUTER SPACE?

"Do you just have like an Applebee's or a Friday's or something? -- Aunt

Oh my god. Who are these people? These are the people who give Midwesterners a bad name. These are the people that Sacha Baron Cohen was mocking with Borat. These people are unwilling to try anything new or experience the very things they're there to experience. WHY DID YOU EVEN COME TO SAN FRANCISCO?

"No, we don't have Applebee's or Friday's."

Tears were welling in my eyes as I looked at my boyfriend and confessed that I really couldn't think of anywhere to take them. Finally, we decided on Magnolia Brewery, which I knew at least had burgers and fish and chips. And we made it through dinner, even as my uncle tormented the waitress, insisting that he'd rather eat "endangered cod" than "unendangered cod" (their menu touts their total adherence to sustainable food).

But upon returning to the hotel, we discovered that although parking was free, it was NOT unlimited. Thus began a search for a parking space, with me driving, amidst the bitching and moaning of my uncle...

"Why don't they just build a damn parking structure?!"

BECAUSE IN CASE YOU HADN'T NOTICED, THERE ARE BUILDINGS EVERYWHERE ALREADY. This is a CITY, not a SUBURB.

Meters were insufficient, because that would require him to wake up and relocate by 9:00 AM (it was Friday night, and meters operate on Saturday).

"I'm sleeping in tomorrow!"

Finally, I found them a legal spot four blocks away. FOUR. BLOCKS. AWAY.

And my aunt had to ask if we could take a bus back. While we were in sight of the hotel sign.

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but there was a whole second day of antics that were as excruciating for Trent and I as that one was. During which my uncle left us with such gems as "why the hell don't they just build some damn parking in this state!" and "seen one tree, seen 'em all" while we were at Muir Woods (to the parking question, I should have asked, "and how do you suggest they do that, BY CUTTING DOWN THE TREES?").

At the end of it all, I found a charge for $725.04 on my credit card. A little parting gift from my family.

I had used my credit card to make the hotel reservation for them. They were unsatisfied and checked out of the hotel Saturday morning (of course), and moved to DOWNTOWN OAKLAND, which was the nearest place they could find a room. Their credit card, however, ended up being declined, and the hotel charged mine as the guarantee for the room (though they shouldn't have charged them for the full stay -- that was their bad). So now I'm looking at days -- if not weeks -- of fighting to get that taken care of with the whole cast of characters.

Looking back on this, it's hard not to say, "I hate my family." But I think I'm just going to stick with my mother's mantra of "You can pick your nose..." (in my mind, it IS preceded by STUPID POLOCKS, though).

You see, I think for many years, they've been thinking the same thing about me. Little bleeding heart liberal child who went off to school in Ann Arbor and lived with her boyfriend before marriage and voted for Clinton and ran off to San Francisco and was always into art and weird music.

They've never gotten me as much as I've never gotten them. But they loved me and put up with me (even though "putting up" with me was NOTHING like putting up with them).

We're different. Very, very different. They want to live their life insulated in the suburbs where they can drive and park everywhere and always eat fried food at Applebee's. Fine. I don't get it, but fine. I will graciously give them that. I've always been gracious to them and I will continue to be.

But they do owe me $725.04. Or they need to get it off my damn card.

And after this one, I'm going to respectfully suggest that we all just stay on our own sides of the country and pick our noses.

See if you can guess who I'm talking about here... Who are the Polocks? Deigos?

Cut short...

My sister was in town this weekend. For my 30th birthday, I asked for both her and my mom to come visit me in San Francisco. That's all I wanted.

So come she did. I had all kinds of fun things planned for her, and she was all excited. I was going to outdo the good times I showed her last summer, on her first-ever trip to SF.

And the trip started off great -- birthday parties, good food, convertible rides up Highway 1 in glorious weather, splashing in the waves on the beach at Point Reyes, eating oysters by the docks, colorful SF neighborhoods and SF nightlife...

And then Sunday morning, as we were getting ready to walk out the door to go to Zeitgeist, her favorite bar, where a crew of my friends were assembled to spend the day reveling in the sunshine with pitchers of beer and tamales, all at her request...

Her phone rang.

Her friend Sean, back home in Detroit, was dead. He'd died in his sleep the night before, while we were partying at the 500 Club on Guerrero. He was 27 years old.

She stayed for 2 more days, and had her bittersweet Zeitgeist Sunday, and went to Alcatraz on Monday, before I put her on a redeye a day early so she could make his funeral. I know this boy was special to her. But still, I couldn't help but feel...

Jealous.

I really wanted my sister this week. I really wanted to do all the things I wanted to do. I tried really hard to banish my ludicrous jealous thoughts, while I told Sarah it was totally okay, I understood why she wanted to go home early... And yet I still couldn't help but silently scoff, "How could this kid go and die right now? Couldn't he wait just four days? Seriously? I've been struggling with starting my life over, living with MS, a million miles away from my family, for the last 2 years, and I don't get ANY TIME with my sister, and NOW THIS? What ARE the odds?"

Does this make me a bad person? I think it does.

Because today she told me they got the results of his autopsy. He died of a massive heart attack. He apparently had a heart condition his entire life and never knew about it. One of his arteries was completely blocked. He was a walking dead man from day one.

There was no waiting.

Sean, I only met you once, but I owe you an apology.

Rest in peace, brother.

And just like that...

I'm over it.

Him:

Andrew.

Andrew emailed me back today, to apologize for not telling me himself that he was getting married.

But I don't care.

I don't care that he said he was sorry. He's sorry for passing off that most sensitive of duties to Anna. He's sorry he was too late, because I'd already heard it through the grapevine. He's so sorry it hurt me -- he never meant to hurt me. He's not trying to forget me, or make me disappear. He will always care about me.

So what. It's over Andrew. I'm done now.

You did me a favor. For the first time in years, I truly feel free of you. I'm 30 years old, and I now can have my own life.

It doesn't matter if Andrew's sorry. It only matters that I'm okay.

But he'll never know. Because I deleted his email. I deleted all my sent mail. I emptied my trash. And then I REALLY did it:

I deleted the "Never Over Andrew" playlist in my iTunes.

I mean it, people.

And just like that...



He was gone.

Nothing lasts forever...

My ex of ten years is getting married.

I would be happy for him (as much as the ex can be in this situation). Our story is complicated. I've never harbored animosity toward Andrew.

But I can't be, because I heard about it through a friend's boyfriend.

Of course there are other reasons it hurts, but I think that makes it just about as shitty as it can get.

I just wrote him an email. I pretty much called him a chickenshit. I told him he made it harder for me than it had to be. Thanks a lot...

You know what would have made it all easier? If you'd just told me yourself. If you'd just broken your "silence" and talked to me about it in a way that made me believe you cared. You cared that it hurt me. And you know why it hurts -- that's the very reason you avoided doing it.

When an actual good friend called me last night to tell me for what he and she actually believed would be the first time (ha!), she told me he "couldn't do it." He asked her to.

I say...

Fuck you.

Or more precisely, I said...

I don't know why, after everything we had together -- which is more than you've had with this woman -- you couldn't give me that one last thing. Spared me that one little bit of pain. Why am I not worth that? Why couldn't you suck it up and just sacrifice that much for me?


Do I sound selfish? Well, I don't care. No one knows this relationship but him and me. And all I'm asking for is one last thing.

One last thing for the women he spent ten years with, whom he claimed he couldn't live without, whom he professed he would love forever...

Except nothing lasts forever.

Not him, not me, not us.

Welcome back Saturn?

This year! What a crazy year.

The last week in April, I went home to Detroit. It was the best trip home I've made since moving to San Francisco over two years ago now.

I took my boyfriend with me. I introduced him to my family and friends. I'd been kind of worried about doing that. My mother, after all, has a habit of forming attachments to the men in my life (hell -- not just the men: EVERYONE in my life). I knew she still missed my ex badly enough after two years, and I was about to supply her with a fresh target.

But there were no glitches in the introductions. Everyone welcomed him with open arms -- from my immediate family to family friends and neighbors, from old high school pals to former coworkers.

I was worried that he wouldn't quite "get" the Midwest, full of classic rock lovers and people who've never had real Mexican food, where everyone cares more about professional sports than progressive music and they still smoke in bars. AND restaurants. He couldn't get it because he's from California. And people from the West Coast don't get us people from the heartland. Even if I'm in love with them. Sorry -- they just never really can.

But he got it. And he liked it. So much that he nicknamed Michigan "Mittenshark" (it's a mitten, after all, topped by a shark) and kept asking when we could go back as soon as we got home to San Francisco.



He drank cheap macrobrew beer in a smoky bar with my friends...



And danced to a band at my friend's wedding covering Bon Jovi...



And urban spelunked in an abandoned factory on the riverfront...



And... Coached the photographer taking our family photos and drove through a UAW strike and honked for the strikers even though he didn't know what they were striking about and drank beer with a lineman on Michigan Avenue in Corktown.

This person that I thought could never understand the place I came from became the reason I actually understood it better than I had in years. He made me experience Detroit with my eyes open wider than ever before.

So I came back to San Francisco and the homesickness and general out-of-sorts-ness I'd been feeling lately was just gone. I was cured. I no longer had anything to feel sorry or wonky about, because here I was: I had a beautiful new home, and a beautiful old home, and I could travel between them and be happy in either place. And my problems from the old home and the old life wouldn't follow me to the new one, but they hadn't poisoned the old one so much so that I couldn't go back there and enjoy it anymore, either. It didn't have to be dead to me.

I was still Lisa from Detroit, with friends and a family there and places to go to that I loved and a past I could treasure and revisit. But I was not doing it or them any disrespect by loving the life I'd worked for here.

And so I started the month of May -- the last month of my 20s -- feeling very empowered. Feeling like I knew who I was, where I belonged, and what I wanted. I righted some difficult situations at my workplace and racked up some accolades. I cut off my hair. I crossed a lot of things off my to-do list. And then, as the month closed, I...

Turned 30.

Something I'd always worried about in the past, but when it arrived, it just arrived. I was just fine. It just washed over me, and I went from a 20-something to a 30-something. I had a moment, lying there in bed on the morning of June 2, thinking back to my 20th birthday and realizing I couldn't remember it, and I began to feel a little overwhelmed by the quantity of my life, but more so than that, I just felt proud at all I had accomplished.

You know -- statistics. Like...

I've lived in two countries and three states...
I've traveled to 13 countries...
I've loved three excellent men...
I've buried one parent and two grandparents...
I've beat the diagnosis of a life-altering illness...
I've been financially self-sustaining since I was 18 years old...
I've been the first to create work in my field to critical acclaim...

All things that have amounted to a lot of life experience.

All before the age of 30.

And I got up and out of bed and walked three miles to Chinatown for lunch at my favorite vegan restaurant.

So, for my 30s, I've decided to go easier on myself. I think this is the end of my Saturn Return, and so far, I anticipate smooth sailing ahead...

The Saturn return is a regular astronomical occurrence relevant to the practice of astrology which occurs in a person's life at approximately 27–30 years of age and again around the age of 58–60, with the third and usually final occurrence around 86-88. The planet Saturn takes approximately 29.5 years to orbit the Sun; when it returns to the exact degree along the ecliptic it occupied at the time of a person's birth this is referred to as their "Saturn Return".


Saturn is symbolically/astrologically associated with time, challenge, fear, doubt, confusion, difficulty, seriousness, heaviness, unwanted burdens and hard lessons, among other more positive things such as structure, significance, accomplishment, reflection, power, prestige, maturity, responsibility and order – this is why astrologers believe that the thirtieth birthday is such a major rite of passage and is considered by many astrologers to mark the "true beginning" of adulthood, self-evaluation, independence, responsibility, ambition, and full maturation."



You got me at 27, Saturn, giving me MS on my birthday. But I have to admit, so far, my 30th year looks like a pretty good make-up call...

A Tale of Utensils

I’ve had a lot going on lately.

For starters, I moved. Into my own place. My very first “own place.” Ever, in my entire 30 years.

That was a week ago. And then immediately after vomiting my belongings into my perfect little carriage house apartment on my sunny little Mission street, I went on vacation for six days. Back home, to Detroit. With my boyfriend. To introduce him to my family.

So, needless to say, I’ll be pontificating a lot in the coming days about home and family and whatnot. I’m getting there. But first, I have one profound thought about moving that I just have to get out. It can’t wait any longer…

It’s really, really amazing the way silverware distributes itself in this world.

As I was packing up my stuff in my pal Jeremy’s house on Bartlett Street, I came across one last stray knife on the coffee table that belonged to my set of silverware. Now, I LOVE that I own a complete set of silverware. That’s a rarity, it seems, for someone in my position in life. And I’d already packed that baby up. So I immediately grabbed that knife, washed it, opened up my kitchen box and was ready to throw it back in, when I realized…

Jeremy and Sandy need it more than me. Because every house in San Francisco needs silverware. It takes many, many roommates, passing through a house over years, leaving a piece behind here and there after many, many move-outs, to make for a complete “house set.” So I tossed it back on the coffee table where I found it (hey; at least it was clean now!).

And I went and took a look at what they had, just for kicks. There were pieces in the silverware drawer from at least eight different sets. Where did they all come from? Who did they all belong to originally? How long had they been in circulation?

I’d like to trace the provenance of the full set at 119A Bartlett – its utensil lineage – and determine how many hands had handled it all through the years. How many drawers each piece had resided in before coming to rest there in that musty old Victorian.

I can now say that at least one knife started out in Muskegon, Michigan, at the home of Robert and Jane Andersen, grandparents of my ex of ten years, Andrew Blair. It lived there for god knows how many years until the deaths of both, when it was packed up with the rest of its set by their daughter, Kathryn, and gifted to Andrew and I. It then moved with us to four different apartments in Detroit, Michigan. Andrew eventually reluctantly gifted the set to me in our pseudo-divorce, in exchange for some other household goods that he needed more. But the grandparents’ silverware was the one item that we actually fought about. The ONLY item. He said that silverware reminded him of eating dinner with his family when he was young. It had sentimental value.

I don’t think he’d like the fact that a piece of it is now left behind at 119A Bartlett with Jeremy and Sandy, but somehow, to me, it feels right…

Cruel Irony?

Ironic or not ironic; that is the question...

When I lived in the Midwest, where EVERYONE gets married, buys a house, and starts a family before 30, I never had any desire to do anything of the sort.

And I was CONSTANTLY badgered about it. By EVERYONE. My friends, my family, the friends and family of my very worthy partner of almost ten years (who I'm pretty sure ALSO wanted those things, but was too tolerant of my "principles" to push me).

I just didn't want them. I never felt the "urge," and I felt pretty strongly that unless you really felt you couldn't be happy without one -- a family, that is -- you shouldn't have one. I thought it was simple enough, but man -- no one else really got me.

Then, when I was 28, I moved to San Francisco. And I discovered that it's not a universal truth -- people everywhere don't get married before they're 30. All women don't instantly turn into baby factories at 25. Some people live life single into their 30s, focused on their careers, enjoying other pursuits like travel. I thought, "My God, I've found it -- I've found them. The sane ones. This is my paradise."

Boy, was I wrong.

I don't know what I've found, but I don't feel like I fit in here, either. Not all the time, at least. Because all of a sudden, as I neared 30, my f@#!ing biological clock starting ticking like a jackjammer on concrete.

Now these people seem crazy to me.

At least, I want to blame my biological clock. That it was just "off," and then it turned "on" because I'm getting older, closing out my prime baby-making years, and the timing was all just very inopportune with respect to the social climate of my surroundings. But this morning I looked through some old photo albums, and came across some very unnerving evidence...













And I think maybe I've been kidding myself all along. Maybe I just like to be different. Maybe I just like to argue, to play devil's advocate. I need to shut up and start looking for the real me.

The real me...

Who was raised in the Midwest.

By a stay-at-home mom.

Who taught kids piano for many years.

Who taught kids about art in museums and public schools.

Who leads childrens' tours at the aquarium.

And who has an awful lot of photos of her smooching her friends' babies.

Hrmph.

Street Weed

What does it mean when the universe pushes drugs on you?

For the second time in approximately one month, I stumbled on a large bag of very high-quality marijuana. While out in the world, just living my life, minding my own business.

No, I'm not kidding.

The first time this happened, Trent and I were walking down my street with our arms around each other, under an umbrella, trying to stay dry in the rain. We both stopped, right in time, a few paces short of my front porch. We both saw it. It looked like............

A piece of dog doo in a plastic baggy that someone had carelessly dropped on the sidewalk.

But we knew better. We picked it up, and YES! It was indeed a great big bud. All by its lonesome in the concrete sea.

Now, today, the exact same thing happened, only this time I spotted it in the grass (grass in the grass; I know, right?), walking up the hill into my office this morning.

Is the universe trying to tell me to chill out? Seriously -- what? I don't know anyone else who's found weed on the street ONCE, let alone twice...

I am either damn lucky, or I am damn well not getting the point.

Or perhaps it's just San Francisco. Perhaps there's just too much in circulation here, too much for people to keep track of. I mean, I've lived in some pretty weedy towns, but this one very well might take the cake.

In which case, I better go do my part to dispose of this surplus.

World's. Best. Commute.

My cousins, John and Gloria Minando, came to visit this week.



I drove them up Conzelman Road in the Marin Headlands to get "THE" view of the Golden Gate. They loved it, of course. But lucky me -- I get this view every day. This is the road to my office, in Fort Cronkhite, on Rodeo Beach, at the far tip of the Headlands.

Am I "over it" yet? Nope. Sometimes I feel as though I might be over it, after two years. But nah -- not really. How can you look at this and NOT be awed?



I mean, I'm obviously not over it, because I've taken a million different versions of that same photo now. But that was the first one (right up there, above), and I'm still just as excited every time I pull out the camera. It's still just as awesome.

I still get the tingles when I drive over the bridge in the morning, even when I'm on my way into what's sure to be a crappy day at the office. I still wish I could whip out the trusty Canon Powershot and capture this...



(But then I remind myself I'm lucky I didn't get in an accident the first time.)

And I don't HAVE to take everyone who comes to visit me up Conzelman Road. I don't HAVE to spend my free time there -- I spend my work days there.

But I do, anyway.

I'm just not quite sure where the boundary is between work and pleasure, in this life, out here...

My mother, summer 2006...



Andrew Blair, September 2006...



Becki and Masanori Tokumoto, September 2006...



Madeleine Winslow, October 2006...



John McMahon, July 2007...



Laurie Peluso, August 2007...

To build a home...

There is a house built out of stone

Wooden floors, walls and window sills



Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust



This is a place where I don't feel alone



This is a place where I feel at home...



Cause I built a home

For you...

For me...

Get off my porch...

Know what this is?



It's a mural on the side of the Revolution Cafe, at 22nd and Bartlett Street, approximately 32 steps from my current residence, in San Francisco's Mission district.

It's also my war cry. I'm about to call upon the spirit of this neighborhood -- the bohemians and the intellectuals and the activists...

To get the freaks off my porch.

Seriously. I know there are some people living in this neighborhood cooking up some pretty grand schemes for how to save this country and the world. They spout some pretty grand rhetoric about what's wrong with us all and what we should feel bad about and what we need to do differently.

How about we start with our own damn 'hood?

Since I moved to San Francisco, every time I tell people I'm from Detroit, I get the "I'm sorry" response.

Really? Why?

I can honestly say that in ALL the time I lived in Detroit, my car never got broken into.

I can honestly say that in ALL the time I lived in Detroit, I never found a creepy dude MASTURBATING ON MY FRONT PORCH.

I can honestly say that in ALL the time I lived in Detroit, I was never attacked by a drunk, creepy dude lurking in my driveway when I went out to buy soup at 7:30 on a Thursday, while 50 people were seated 32 steps away from me on the sidewalk at the Revolution Cafe, talking about how to make the world a better place.

Wake up, San Francisco. Like Michael Jackson said, "I'm starting with the man in the mirror."

Ow!

The becoming...

In the spirit of "every cloud has a silver lining," I decided to start blogging for real today.

Because I'm sick.

I'm going to go pick up some spicy soup from the Chinese place on the corner that I can never remember the name of, curl up in my bed, and play on the internet. Chief among my tasks in cyberspace will be getting this blog in some sort of presentable state. I'm going to take advantage of my body screaming at me to lay low and do something I've been meaning to do for a while. I need an outlet for all the gobbeldygook in my head.

And believe me -- there's a lot of it.

After that, I think I'll put on Elizabeth: The Golden Age and try not to fall asleep this time. Man, I guess it's true what they say: the "becoming" always makes a better story than the "being."

Or is it the other way around?

Either way, I was somehow far more entertained by her becoming queen than actually being queen.

Except don't worry, Obama, baby. I'm sure that won't be the case for you...

And I'm sure that won't be the case for this blog, either. I promise this half-ass starter post is not a sign of things to come.