Ain't Where You Was

"You might not be where you want to be, but you got to be glad you ain't where you was." - unknown

I'm not yet where I want to be (back in the Sunset, gazing out at the fog and the grey ocean from my large picture window), but I am damn glad I ain't where I was. I have more of what I want than I once did: a home of my own, a patch of earth, a job that, while still full of its petty indignities and irritations, pays the bills decently and allows me to buy fancy cheese on impulse. And I earned it: I've been working since I was 15 years old; hustling, climbing, clawing, earning, learning, mastering, and mustering up whatever it took to put in another day.

My gay husband (and best friend of 22 years) and I had a three-hour conversation the other night and he pressed me to remember all the mornings of getting up at dawn to take the 21 Hayes bus downtown to make $9 an hour taking messages in a security brokerage or putting in 11-hour days at a dotcom for none of the payoff promised; all the cleavage I flashed and booty I shook when working in the nighttime trades; the endless cheap sandwiches from Lee's eaten at ugly desks in windowless offices; all the freezing, endless waits at Muni stops and the profanity and creepy come-ons and space invasions thrown my way once I rushed into the warmth of the train; all the sexist requests to order cookies for meetings the men never cleaned up after; the narcissistic bosses and duplicitous coworkers; all the sighers, toe-tappers, loud eaters, pursed lips, raised eyebrows, and people who just can't do their fuckin' job without having their hand held or ego stroked. And don't even get me started on the ninth circle of hell that is the copy machine.

I lived in a flat with two girls for five years and the other (sleepless) night, I counted how many jobs I had in the those five years. The answer? Ten (and that's lumping all the freelance production assistant jobs as one): a bank, a veterinarian's office, a trophy wife's Pacific Heights estate, the brokerage, a law office, a university, various freelance production jobs, a music marketing company, a porn website, and a dotcom.

He also sharply reminded me to recall all the sacrifices I made in my accommodations in San Francisco, the most expensive city in the US outside New York (and I think that's debatable now); all the crazy, thieving housemates, the psychotic, manipulative landlords, the janky cheap fixes, the basement studios, the hauling my dirty drawers on my back several city blocks to the laundromat, the outrageous 'security deposits' that landlords considered signing bonuses and never returned, the refrigerator shelves and kitchen cabinets each designated to a housemate, the guests and crazy lovers and exes of said housemates, the disgusting carpets and the cave rooms with no light.

I know what it is to grind. I know what it is to pay my dues, to accept less than I want or deserve, and I recognize that half of success is just getting the fuck up, putting one's shoes on, and getting on bus or in the commuter lane. I am proud to look around at my succulent garden, my bottlebrush tree, my house with rooms I don't even use, my four plump little dogs, my swelling shoe collection, and feel something in me almost collapse and the tears rise up as I remember those endless cold mornings at the bus stop, on the bridge, in the gridlock, in the grey soulless glow of the Xerox machine, the unkind fluorescent lights, year after year after year, a girl alone in the world, just showing up, just grinding, just believing that someday I'd have something better to wake up to, to go to, to be proud of.

I'm still that girl. Now the trip to work is too hot rather than too cold - a result of both age and geography - and rather than shivering at a bus stop I dash through a scorching parking lot. I have a home bigger than I need and I spread my things throughout it and it's mine, though I look out the window at the green lawn and long for sand and sea instead and I tell myself, someday. 

And It Was Going So Well

Oh yeah, you THINK you're having a good day. You blaze through the MAC counter and grab a handful of new lipsticks, enjoy a nice sit-down lunch, hit the skincare section at Whole Foods and load up those little shopping carts they got with a whole product line of cruelty-free, vegan-approved, smells-like-Rich-Hippie cleansers and moisturizers and masques and exfoliants and the clerk tells you you have amazing eyebrows which expands into a deep conversation about genetics, and when you come out of the shop with your bag of expensive goo the firemen are outside doing a practice exercise in those sexy baggy pants with stripes at the bottom and the drive back through the state park overlooking the bay was just beautiful and you have grand plans of spending your evening slathering algae paste and Moroccan rosewater on your face and making some new mixtapes and then you come home and the dog has barfed on the bed and you have five layers of bed linen to wash and dry and refit. Yay.

Some Ideas for Lent

I'm a terrible, terrible Catholic, especially considering that I went through the not-insignificant hassle of formally converting in 2006 for a variety of reasons both banal and complex and ranging from architecture to emigration. I've barely been to Mass since I moved to Marin, but there's one aspect of Catholicism that, most years anyway, I manage to participate in - Ash Wednesday and Lent.

Ash Wednesday reminds us that our brief material existence ain't shit and to quit being so self-important (dust thou art, son), and Lent compels us to make a sacrifice of some kind. Usually people give up a bad habit - sugar, cigarettes, kicking puppies, whatever - but I think it's equally important to try to establish a good habit. My own efforts have had mixed results, which is not surprising given that I'm about the world's most inconsistent, scatterbrained, random individual with the self-discipline of a tweaking woodchuck.

There was the year I tried to give up bread (as in, you know, garlic or sandwich), only to be chastised by a cranky, caffeine-abstaining friend that the waffle I sent him a photo of, was, indeed, leavened bread. That was a horrible year, and a horrible sacrifice, and I don't think I succeeded very well.

On the other hand, back in the spring of 2008, which was the relatively peaceful season that preceded the near-complete implosion of my world, I made the sacrifice that I would blog every day. And, I believe, I did just that. My rationale was that at least one interesting thing worth writing about must happen every day, right? Right. And it did. And five years later I recall that Lenten season with pride.

So, D-Day (or perhaps I should call it A-Day) is fast approaching and I've come up with the following ideas:

1. Blog every day. Something worth noting - touching, funny, absurd, rage-inducing - must come across my radar every day. Right? Right.

2. At least once a week, make a point of writing something that is so truthful it may hurt. Me. Or someone else. But one thing I struggle with as a writer is telling the truth as I know it, for the sake of saving face, not making making waves, or opening my mouth and causing the world to cave in. Fuck it. Tell it. That's what makes for interesting, worthwhile reading, anyway.

3. Giving up red meat. I hate that I'm an omnivore, and I hate even more that I love beef. I spend more time than I probably should helping rescue dogs, and then I turn around and eat something with big, soft brown eyes that was killed in pain and suffering so that I could enjoy a tasty meal. Chicken and fish, though? Sorry, guys. Let's not get crazy.

4. No unnecessary spending. This strikes terror into my heart. I don't know if I can do it. And just imagine the Easter post-Lenten consumer orgy..............

Payback

Dear Breeder Friends,

Remember those to-die-for handmade organic booties I brought to your baby shower that cost more than my own shoes? I do. 

And do you recall how I suffered with a smile through the hours of The Diaper Game (for the uninitiated, this is where interesting varieties of baby food, from apples and pears to chicken and beef, and deposited into the ground-zero area of a baby diaper and passed around so that guests can stick their noses into it and take a stab at that substance they're smelling)? I know I'll never forget. 

You will, of course, bring to mind all the cute, clever, and fabulous gifts that I, the 'cool auntie,' have produced for your children's Big Days - birthdays, baptisms, Bar Mitzvahs, Christmases, kindergarten graduations - year after year. After year. 

And you know you've gotten off light - you've never had to pony up for a Petunia Picklebottom diaper bag or Peg Perego stroller for my baby shower because, well, I chose not to have kids and somehow new rescue dogs just don't engender the same womanly insanity and retail orgy that a howling, furless, helpless infants do. But that's OK. I love you, and I love your children, and I love finding just the right gift, so it's all good. 

But there's something you should know - the jig is up. 

Sure, I gave your kid all that amazing stuff out of goodness of my heart, but not without an agenda, and here it is. 

The day your child turns 13, and I mean before the confetti from the Bat Mitzvah is vacuumed up, said child will be farmed out to me, by you, to solve all of my software and technology problems. 

Remember the hand-made lace Christening booties from Ireland? That warrants a software upgrade and file backup. 

The awesome Red Flyer wagon? Now we're talking iPhone setup and optimization. 

And you'll recall, I'm sure, how your little sprite begged and pleaded for an iPad and I came up with one? That's worth a home theater setup, no doubt. 

Right this very moment you probably have a surly teenager taking up space in your house and polluting the atmosphere of your home with her stomping, moping, and bleatings of boredom. It's time to put that child to good use, and remember, those Baby Einstein gyms didn't come cheap, sister, so pack up that bundle of emotional fraughtness and drop her off at my house. 

I'll have her back by dinner. It takes a village. 

Love, Auntie Fahrenheit 

Everyday Hero

I don't know why I so rarely, if ever, write about dog rescue. I have four - four - rescue dogs; two ('The OG's') who came though the 'friend of a friend' Chihuahua Underground Railroad nearly a decade ago, and two more ('The Twins') who came through the dog rescue-Facebook-shelter-transport network last year.

If you don't already know this, animal rescue work is many things: it is intense (and made more so by the number of women engaged in it), emotionally and financially draining, heartbreaking, filthy, smelly, uncomfortable, and incredibly rewarding.

My role in dog rescue is very small: for many years of my life, lost animals seemed to find their way to me - a kitten meowing out of a car engine, a puppy running loose in the street - and then, in 2002, I became a first-time 'dog mom.' About two years ago, via Facebook, I became reacquainted with an old friend and the next thing I knew I was knee-deep in needy dog posts, and was silly enough to think I could possibly 'foster' a very sick little Chihuahua that nearly died in the Bakersfield animal shelter. I knew within a few weeks there was no 'fostering' going on and that she - and her brother, whose Native American name is 'Bonus With Purchase' - were home for good. Four is the maximum capacity allowed for the safety and security of this institution, and so we are full up. But I still 'share' needy dogs on Facebook and although I find myself crying at my desk over the heinousness of the way human beings treat animals more than is probably good for me, just as often I'm smiling over an amazing happy ending......a rescue, an adoption, a successfully found foster home (the weakest link in the rescue chain).


A few days ago I stumbled across the following story about a man in a lousy area of LA who noticed an abandoned dog in the yard of a deserted house and who made it his business to care, bringing it food and water and eventually spreading the word and pleading for help. When Annie, a rescuer from the Bill Foundation, found out about the dog and was determined to go there late at night to get him, Mr. Keith Allison insisted on meeting the rescuer there since it's a tough neighborhood. The two of them were, after much effort, able to successfully rescue the white Lab, now called Caleb, who is receiving medical care and for whom the future is now much brighter (I mean, look at that silly smile!). Here's the story as Annie tells it It:

"PORTRAIT OF A HERO: Three weeks ago, Keith Allison found Caleb abandoned in a yard. His owners were gone and no one was doing anything to care for him. Keith began visiting Caleb daily, providing him with food and fresh water. He tried for h

ours each day to show Caleb it was ok to trust him and allow himself to be touched, but Caleb was too frightened to let him in.

Keith searched far and wide for someone to help rescue Caleb and he refused to give up. 

When I received the plea from a rescue networker on Sunday, I contacted Keith immediately. I told him I was going to go right away, even though it was late and raining. He insisted on helping, because the neighborhood isn't safe at night and because he was so concerned about Caleb's well-being. He stayed with me until the early hours of the morning, keeping guard and insuring I was safe. When I failed to capture Caleb, he agreed to come back and help me try again. We met 14 hours later and together we safely caught Caleb in a large trap.
Keith has remained in constant contact with me since the rescue to check on Caleb's progress and today we met at the vet for a visit. For the first time in over three weeks, Keith was able to touch Caleb and show him what true love felt like, and Caleb gladly accepted. ♥ ♥ ♥

We discussed everything that happened to make this rescue possible and Keith said he is forever changed because of Caleb. I reminded Keith that Caleb will be forever happy and safe simply because of him.
Keith Allison is a true hero. An ordinary guy, who did an extraordinary thing to save a dog... and he is an a inspiration to us all." 

I read this on my iPhone, standing outside of work at night waiting to be picked up. As with many things these days (I've been a little fragile lately), it made me teary-eyed and, since I can't 'share' on Facebook from my phone, made a mental note to check in the next day when actually at a real computer. When I did, I was surprised to see that the hero himself needed help. The Bill Foundation had found out that, like so many of us these days, Keith is unemployed and struggling to take care of his family. What he desperately needs is a car so that he can work, and if he can procure one, Bill Foundation will have work for him as a rescuer and transporter. It occurs to me that this man may have found his calling and a great life purpose though a chance encounter with this one abandoned dog - which brings us to the eternal dog-rescue chicken-and-egg question, 'Who rescued who?' 

I have never used my blog to stump for any particular cause or solicit donations. I don't know that anyone will ever read this or be touched by it, but I want very much to be a part of this man's story and what he may be able to accomplish in the future. What I write about all the time on this blog is the human condition - how we are products of it, trapped by it, achieve liberation from it, or simply cope with it - some days well, some days abysmally. The story of Keith and Caleb is a part of this; our human condition, and how this one unassuming man chose to not look the other way, to not assume someone else would solve a problem in front of his nose, to be accountable for the welfare of an innocent and voiceless being that came across his path. That, my friends, is of great interest to me.

Please, if you read this in time and have a dollar (or more) to give, give it. If you think this story is cool or moving or full of it, say so (I love comments). If you think someone you know will be touched by this or can learn from this, please pass it along.

I leave you with Bill Foundation's story of our hero Keith and what he has given and needs in at this special time:

"A HERO NEEDS OUR HELP!!!

Every great story has a hero. As we grow up, each of us are told stories about handsome princes that save the day and go on to live happily ever after.

But the truth is, it is harder to recognize true heroism than

 it is in a bedtime story, and even harder to achieve it. In this life there are gigantic questions and problems, and seemingly insurmountable heartache that face each of us on a daily basis.

I think secretly, from time to time, we all wish a hero could save us. Which is what makes it so rewarding when we see, or read, or even hear about a real person who commits a true act of heroism in everyday life.

Myself and Bill Foundation met a hero the other day, in the form of Keith Allison. He helped me save Caleb. This is a man who took it upon himself to care, when no one asked, where no one would. After three weeks of looking after Caleb and searching for help, Keith protected me late into the rainy night, in a bad neighborhood, while I tried to rescue Caleb. Keith’s actions saved a dog from certain death, and he did so with no fan fair and no applause. He just stepped up because it was the right thing to do. That’s a TRUE HERO.

That being said, like many American’s these days, Keith has been out of work for quite some time, without a car and without much hope. He has a family and beloved pets that he struggles to support, making the days quite dark and difficult for him. But with a simple act of courage and faith, he found a purpose. A soul needed Keith, and he moved mountains for him. Sometimes all it takes is for a person to feel needed to recognize what they are supposed to do with their life.

Rescuing Caleb forever changed Keith, but it didn’t fix his situation. He still needs a way to feed his family. However, with a little help and four wheels to get him around, Keith would have the chance to get back on his feet and start working… And because of the magical experience Keith had rescuing Caleb, his wish is to join our community and work with rescues. I, for one, truly hope he is able to do so.

Over the past several days, many of our villagers have left comments stating that they wanted to find a way to help Keith. And today, I was notified that a villager took it upon themselves and started a Chipin for him. The hope being that enough funds are raised so that Keith can get a car and start working again. And I will GLADLY be the first to hire him to help us transport and rescue :-)

So, here I am… encouraging you to take part in a rescue of a different kind...
A HERO NEEDS OUR HELP.

If ever there was a post worth sharing, this is it. Let’s band together and help enable Keith to discover his purpose and ultimately help animal rescues save more lives. Please cross post far and wide, and tell the story about how Keith gave all of himself to save Caleb:http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=376461425779441&set=a.235172999908285.52539.235158409909744&type=1&theater

Chipin:
http://aheroneedsourhelpkeith.chipin.com/a-hero-needs-our-help-keith-allison

The above link is to a chipin that has been setup by a villager independently from Bill Foundation. All funds will go directly to Keith Allison’s family PayPal account, for which Keith intends to use towards purchasing a vehicle to help actualize his dream of continuing to give back to the rescue community.

The High Spots

Back in the day, in the Soviet-bloc-like research lab where I used to work, my Jewish boss was joking with one of our Chinese-American postdocs about his family going out for Chinese food on Christmas. For those of you who aren't close to either Jewish or Chinese communities, there is an inexplicable cultural meshing between the two that happens at the table, particularly on Christmas, that has been the subject of academic papers, media articles, and much casual chatter. We were batting around hypotheticals about why this is and I said, 'The thing that really strikes me about the Jews and Chinese is that both cultures believe that life is suffering and that happiness is a bonus, not a guarantee,' which stopped them both in their tracks. My boss, a neurologist prominent the world over, a man feared by many for his volatile moods but beloved by me for exactly that reason (we recognized our mutual mercurial storminess in our initial meeting and formed a permanent bond based on this shared character flaw), cocked his head and broke into a huge grin and said, 'I never thought about it that way, but you're absolutely right.'  

To posit that life is suffering, that a degree of malaise or ennui is the natural state of mankind, runs antithetical to our American values. What other country do you  know of that has the right to the pursuit of happiness ensconced in its most essential national document? This cultural value of happiness is so pervasive and so wholly woven into our lives that we almost never stop to question it - to do so would be almost unpatriotic. It would also render one a downer, a wet blanket, a killjoy or buzzkill, a real stick-in-the-mud, and no one wants to be the one who brings others down. A quick look through one's Facebook newsfeed proves that we are a population hellbent on the projection of satisfaction: big smiles, cheesy grins, and declarations of success send the message that we're all dizzyingly, astoundingly happy - our jobs rewarding, our children delightful, our homes peaceful, our finances in order, our faith intact.  

Or so we'd like everyone to think. 

To admit unhappiness in America is tantamount to cultural treason, and should you have the temerity to admit to perhaps not feeling so rosy about things, your fellow citizens will immediately set about attempting to diagnose what ails you, for your unhappiness is perceived as a disorder, a disease, a symptom of something grievously wrong that can be righted by some combination of medicines both literal and figurative: antidepressants and mood stabilizers, diets and cleanses, pop psychology books, life coaches, God and his #1 son, inspirational affirmation-a-day calendars, yoga, or a nice vacation. 

In our time and place, unhappiness is seen not as a natural and inevitable point at one end of the emotional spectrum that balances with the giddy joy we experience on the other; rather, it is perceived as a punishment for our failure to succeed at our Constitutionally-protected right to pursue happiness and thus as a personal shortcoming. If you are unhappy, it's not because being blue is part of the human experience, it's because you've dropped the ball somehow. Your gloom is an illness in search of a cure. It has a cause, and others will be only too happy to help identify and  eradicate it so that you can turn that frown upside down and do your duty as an American by joining the rest of the exultant masses with their ear-to-ear hyena grins. After all, what nearly everyone says they want when asked is, just to be happy. 

Except that to believe one can live in a state of  bliss nearly all of the time is antipodal to nature's fine balancing act. As every child is told, what comes up must go down, and all things have cycles - the ebb and flow of the tide, the wax and wane of the moon, the heat of summer and cold of winter. To think we as humans are an exception to this universal law is just wishful thinking, at best, and bold hubris at worst. We, too, expand and contract according to innate rhythms much older than our nation's optimistic founding documents. The sooner we comprehend and internalize that - and we could learn a thing or two about that from the Chinese and Jews - the closer we'll be to a more organic, less synthetic state of happiness.

This is not to dismiss a profound or clinical depression as simply a natural part of life - to be too often experiencing the low end of the emotional spectrum is an indication that something is out of order and needs to be ameliorated. I'm all for better living through chemistry or people doing whatever they need to in order to restore their mental and emotional equilibrium. That said, I have always believed that in our culture, quite often depression is a logical reaction to living in an insane society - mass murderers and DMV lines, the double standard and Horatio Alger myths, institutionalized racism and corporate personhood - and there's no shame in that. Of course, unless we fancy solitary homesteading on an Arctic ice floe, we do have to somehow learn to live within this insane society,  but blaming ourselves for being out of sorts when we live in a world that often makes little sense is helpful to no one.

Personally speaking, I have been through a challenging year. I've never felt so tired. My best friend and I are both at the stage where we're taking stock of our lives and what we've done - and not done - with them, and like everyone we spend some time taking a bath in the 'coulda woulda shoulda' pool, which never ends well. I am disgusted with myself when I stand on the deck of the large house that I own in a peaceful neighborhood in a beautiful area - all symbols of a happiness I longed for and strove towards for years - and have the nerve to feel somehow dissatisfied with my life.  I have my double-door fridge with an icemaker, the freedom of quiet, childfree Sunday mornings with hot Peet's coffee and crossword puzzles, a comfotable job with a hands-off boss and a killer office, a relatively healthy body and four darling rescue dogs and I have the nerve - the nerve! - to feel that something's lacking? Because I haven't saved the world or become the Voice Of A Generation (yet!)? I feel like Benedict Arnold, indeed. In these moments I sometimes forget that my existential angst is as inborn as my respiration and I wouldn't be human if I didn't sometimes take a step back and ask, 'Is this all there is?'  It's a maddening circle and it was only by chance that I stumbled onto the following quote that has allowed me, to some small degree, to step off of the mental carousel in my head. It comes from the notorious writer Hunter S. Thompson and I have found this more soothing and assuring than any words from Buddha, the Bible, or the self-help section of the bookstore:

"I have learned to live, as it were, with the idea that I will never find peace and happiness, either. But as long as I know there's a pretty good chance I can get my hands on either one of them every once in a whole, I do the best I can between high spots." 

In reading it, I felt absolved from the cultural mandate to be happy, goddamn it. I felt unchained. You mean, I don't have to be happy all the time? I don't have to feel at peace every waking moment? It is really enough that I carry on in a state that is sometimes joyous, other times bellicose, and quite often seems banal and futile, disappointing and ultimately Sisyphean? Are you telling me, Hunter, that I am not a failure after all, that I am not required to wear a smile and smug satisfaction like a cloak? That it's acceptable that I feel what I understand to be 'happy' only at times and not all the time? What a revelation.

And here's where the Jews and Chinese have us beat, hands down: they already know, and have known for centuries, what we spend our whole lives trying to deny - life is inherently painful and difficult. It is full of suffering and disappointment. Whether this comes from Buddha's enlightenment or the millennias-old hangover of wandering the desert and being kicked out of every nascent homeland, I neither know nor care; I am only grateful for the permission from my Abrahamic and Sino-Confucian brothers and sisters to stop banging my head against the wall and wondering why I'm not over the moon 24/7.

This is not a license to give up striving for happiness or listening exclusively to the ironically-named Joy Division. It's no excuse to cop out and go nihlist, declare that nothing matters, and abscond responsibility for creating some measure of contentment in one's life. If I have learned one thing about myself it's that I'm incontrovertibly American: I am fond of road trips and am solutions-oriented; I am mobile, ambitious, and maybe just slightly aggressive. My raison d'etre, like any of my countrymen, is the pursuit of my own happiness, and I don't think that will change; I mean, who doesn't want to be happy? But at last now I can give myself and others a bit of a break and not treat with derision and suspicion my lack of boundless bonhomie on any given day. I can revel in the dark as well as the light while remembering always that the wheel is always turning and that it's enough to just to the best I can between high spots. 

The World Would Split Open

That's just what the poet Muriel Rukeyser said would happen if one woman told the truth about her life, and these days, when I spend perhaps an inordinate amount of time contemplating authenticity and the success or failure of either myself or others at attaining it - or even caring to attain it - her quote comes back to me again and again, truer each time I repeat it inside my own head.

We pay a lot of lip service to being truthful, but the truth is - ironically - that we, and the worlds we build for ourselves, are constructed largely upon if not outright lies, then at least diplomatic omissions, graceful falsehoods, or soothing illusions. We rely upon one another to tow the line, play the game, respect the lie, make nice, keep the world from splitting open, and for those of us who do tell the truth - a little or a lot - the price is high.

I want to have the courage the pay that price. I want to be able to sit down at this keyboard and let exactly what I saw, what I know to be true, what happened to me, what I know you did, or she did, or they did, be told. I'm not that brave yet.

Yet.

They say in the recovery community that 'You're only as sick as your secrets,' and sometimes I do feel almost physically, and certainly spiritually, unwell due to keeping bottled within me and unsaid the things I know to be true.

If I told the things I know - the things I saw - what would the cost be?

How warm does the truth keep you at night? Or, for that matter, the lie?