The Promise of a New Year

Okay, so I paraphrased a Sting song, which makes me officially uncool, but I'm unnaturally optimistic about 2008. For some reason, even-numbered years are always better for me. I should get a t-shirt that reads: "I survived 2007 and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." But instead of dwelling on the negatives...divorce, broken heart, a baby that was not meant to be, and unemployment -- a sense of elation sweeps over me when I contemplate the positives: my great friends, job, new adventures, health, and family. The chance to start over and fly like an eagle. Still, I gladly bid this year adieu, grateful for the character and wisdom its granted me, but hoping for a more serene 2008.

Giving Thanks

Another day of gorging on food that so many dare to dream of, the self-flagellating for going off the wagon on our diets, another American paradox of gluttony and excess. Yet a guest of my sister-in-law's mentioned this was her favorite holiday because it is about showing gratitude in the purest of terms, devoid of religion, cultural, or class bias. Why shouldn' t we give thanks everyday, not because some religious exiles from England landed on Plymoth Rock and supposedly feasted with the indigenous peoples, a story debunked as an urban legend.

As my strangest year is coming to an end, I realize that I am incredibly blessed. We all are blessed. For the air we breathe, the ground we walk on. When you get down to the mechanics of it, the human body is an amazing, self-regulating machine. And I should be grateful when I wake up and take a breath, even in a body that is a bit older, slower, or heavier.

In an odd way, this rollercoaster of 2007 has been a journey for me to discover my true self, away from the distractions of a relationship. I may be without a mate, but I'm certainly not alone. In addition to making new friends and reconnecting with old ones, I've re-discovered and enjoyed my own company, away from the agendas of others. It's given me renewed appreciation for my oldest friends and seek the company of those who nourish and nuture, rather than deplete me. I've learned that I still have a ways to go in learning to live for myself. Old habits die hard -- they took years to build, and will take years to undo. But the human spirit is dynamic, versatile, and capable of evolution at any age.

As I'm about to embark on a journey, I face the New Year with fear and excitement, both emotions built on energy, not depression or lethargy. I may be living alone in a new city for the first time in my life, and it's the opportunity of a lifetime, for me to continue development, to individuate, to explore. It's like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff and I can choose to either a) be pushed off, b) let it slowly erode over time and crumble, or c) take a swan dive and soar.

You chose "C" too, didn't you?

My Birthday Week!

Being in summer, I view my birthday as a halfway point. And let me tell you, I took quite a beating the first half of '07. Nothing disastrous, but personal and financial matters. But if my birthday week is any future indicator, I'm looking forward to my better half of 2007!

*I get an email stating I've been made Yelp Elite. For all you non-Yelpers, I'll explain. Like being made part of the cool kids club, or making partner at your law firm.

*My review of Zeitgeist gets Yelp "Review of the Day"! You're basically queen for a day, get lots of cheers from fellow Yelpers, etc.

*After an awesome, albeit grueling daylong interview with Gilead Sciences, they offer me the position of Scientific Communications Manager. Oh, and because I seemed to have pulled the wool over my eyes, they offer me $15,000 more than I ask for!

*Lovely dinners with friends, old and new. Nice group dinner with the girls. J took me out to dinner to celebrate my bday, job, and watching Kali. It means the world to me that he's speaking to me again.

Looking forward to the new gig. May go to LA for a few days to see old friends. Have been out a few times with T, so far, so good. Feeling very, very lucky.

RIP to a Good Man

Today marks the 14th anniversary of my father's passing. We lost him suddenly, too young, without warning. A brilliant, sensitive, "nice guy." Yes, we had our disagreements and didn't see eye to eye, but I could tell we were created from the same cloth. I miss him.

Taking a Bite of the Big Apple

Ah, New York... Magestic, magical Gotham, open 24-7, a hubub of manic activity. I love your subways and streets, your bridges, your taxis, your opinionated peeps who speak their mind and dare to utter words that PC-bound San Franciscans shudder to think. I just returned from a whirlwind trip to the Big Apple and am spellbound. When I visit NYC, I typically shun the tourist traps: Statue of Liberty, Empire State, Ellis Island. I prefer to walk its streets, ride its subways, while away the day in its numerous parks, drinking in its essence . Never have I felt that a place "got" me. People are always surprised when I cite NY as my favorite city. "But you're so mellow and meek." Exactly, so I travel to ESCAPE my rather dreary self. Forget long walks on the beach, I crave stimulation, intensity, excitement. I love its extremes. Ninety degree weather and thunderstorms. Back in SF, it's 60 and foggy. In NY you can be yourself. You can ride the subway with a vexed look on your face, considered criminal in sunny CA and subject to a fine by the happy police. I love dancing the night away until 4 am with tranny burlesque dancers on the lower East Side. Flirting with 22-year-old hipster boys in Williamsburg. Eating Polish for brunch in Greenpoint and Egyptian for dinner in Queens. Attribute it to my childhood in Oakland but I thrive in chaos and quiet unsettles me. If cities were like men, New York would be the irresistible bad boy: gritty, a bit unreliable, and full of surprises.

Today I Found Myself

I'm about 8 oz, 4 gigabytes, and 700 hours of 15 years of memories. Of course, I'm talking about my precious I-pod, MIA since November and presumed lost to me forever. Oh the power I've bestowed on such a little device. When I moved from Los Angeles last year, I downloaded ALL my music to this contraption and unloaded my CDs for $100 at Ameoba. No, computer geeks, I did not back up. You give me too much credit for presence of mind and technical savvy.

As many of you know, I've had quite a ride this year. A painful separation ending a relationship of 8 years, living on my own, a tumultuous new relationship that ended in heartbreak, and being laid off. I've never felt so naked, babe-in-the-woods, lamb who's lost her way, since well, I was pulled kicking and screaming from the womb on a hot July day thirtysome-odd years ago. Alone for the first time in years, no prospects, no job. Being separated from my ipod was just another cruel technicality. All my memories stored in songs that could take me back to my senior prom 1989, Boston 2002, or Los Angeles 2004.

So today I was washing my car, one of my errands in preparation for a heavily anticipated trip to New York. I'm embarrassed to say what a rare and monumentous event (the car washing) is, but it has not been the first time in 8 months. And I had scoured, turned my car, apartments, bags upside down for it. But it was in my car, under the seat the entire time. Like my soul and identity it's always been with me, but it took me awhile to find.

Sick as a Dawg

Last night I was up with fever and chills until 5 am. This is not a pity party, or an attempt to elicit sympathy. To be honest, I don't mind. Of course, it couldn't happen during a worse week, as I've got two client deadlines pending. But I rarely get sick. Not since a head cold in 2005.

I view it as an internal cleansing, as my body's way of telling me to slow down, and shed the poison from my system. The past 6 weeks has been a flurry of events, trying to get my mind off a certain someone, and prove that I'm a tough ass and don't "need him." My therapist pointed out that I've been trying to skip steps in the mourning phase, and I need to properly grieve. Maybe it's my body's way of grieving since my mind won't let me. And fever, chills, sore throat feels a thousand times better than psychic pain.

Am I a Cougar?

Recently, it has come to my attention that I may qualify as a "cougar." For the uninformed, the eponymous site celebrating the cougar lifestyle, defines it as "it's a sophisticated species of female who seeks the pleasure of younger males. " In "sophisticated" they mean "over 35" and "pleasure" they mean "bow chicka bow," then maybe I am a cougar, an identity I do not proudly epouse. Yes I am 35*, a divorcee, and currently dating a younger man. However, I am a young 35. Typical of most San Franciscans, I suffer from arrested development. While I have never attending Burning Man, I can still discern between trance, garage, breaks, and downtempo. My bank balance hovers under $100 between the first of the month (when my rent is paid) and mid-month (when rent comes in). I still get carded at Trader Joe's and Zeitgeist. They call me "honey" or "sweetheart" at the doctor's office and bank.

I found further relief from my distress of being a cougar when interviewing several of my friends on the subject. They assured me that while regional definitions do vary, the concept of "cougar" embodies more of a Mrs. Robinson-type, 40ish divorcee, spending her ex-husband's alimony on Botox, tanning salons, and Lexus SUVs while she cruises the college bars for young studs. She may find her conquests in more familiar terms such as her tennis instructor or her son's fraternity brothers.

While I don't picture myself quite in this niche, as a woman closer to 40 than 25, I applaud the growing acceptance of May-December romances, positioning the female as the "December." (Thank you Demi Moore.) Woman my age look damn good. None of my friends over 30 looks her age. All are beautiful, sexy, luscious, and fun. And confident of themselves and accomplished. Maybe younger men are starting to appreciate this now. Hopefully their older counterparts can catch up. Grrr!!

*Postscript: Apparently, my status as an under-40 classifies me in the "puma" category.*

Why My Day Sucks

1) Wake up after 5 hours of sleep to hear a ladder being hoisted onto my window and two workmen looking right at me. Scraping paint; spend an extra 30 minutes trying to calm (ie, drug) the cat with alternating applications of catnip and Rescue Remedy.

2) Stinky passengers between Duboce and Civic Center -- shouldn't a bathing requirement be enacted on MUNI?

3) Finally acquire a seat and rest my head against the window to steal a few minutes of extra slumber. Jostled awake by Crazy Ranting Woman who tells me that "I'm on the wrong highway...white people are going to lose the war." More bemused than pissed to bite her head off for disrupting my shut eye.

4) Stomach is killing me -- peptic acid is eating me alive.

Maya Angelou's Wisdom

ON THE PULSE OF MORNING
Maya Angelou


A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers--desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning

Recited at the inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton, that beautiful January morning in 1993. We were so full of hope at the promise of the new day and regime.

We Democrats finally have the power to take back our country. Let's hope we don't blow it.

My Goodbye Present from LA

My car got tagged this week. A going away present from the SilverLake 13.

Apparently, the gang bangers decided that my "ride" needing "pimping." How considerate and thoughtful. They really shouldn't have though. Does that mean they want a piece of me? Have I been initiated?

Fortunately they only tagged my windows, not the panels. You would have seen the looks I got driving my wacked out ride to the Home Depot for a can of graffiti-off. Or the reaction from the cashier. "Such a pretty girl..why do you do graffiti? Why you run with gangs?" "No, I had to explain, I need to clean it off." That's just how we roll in S-town....

Worth Getting Out of Bed For

Trader Joe's Strawberry O's
Cheerios with chunks of strawberry yogurt goodness. Mornings were made for this.

It's Getting Old, and So Am I

I just returned from my dermatologist's office, a fancy-schmancy oasis on Wilshire Boulevard where they offer Botox and laser wrinkle removal. (Before you jump to conclusions, I was undergoing a most unglamorous procedure of getting my moles checked). Going to my doctor's office is almost a treat. Her staff are friendly and professional, and they are clearly trying to cultivate a spa atmosphere complete with glossy magazines and complimentary mineral water. So enjoyable is my time in the waiting room, they have to peel me from my chair. (It doesn't help that I'm usually having something icky done, like having a mole cut out or burned off my forehead.)

My gripe involves a trend that is growing more disturbing by the day. Each of her staff members, from the scheduler to the nurse, calls me "hon," "kiddo" or "sweetie". It's not done in a patronizing way, they are quite sincere. The thing is, I'm probably older than half of these well-intended, yet misguided women. Do they really think I'm in college? Don't they see my charts stating I was born in the early 70s? Unless they can't do the math, which clearly, albeit painfully states I'm 35. I want to say, "Look I'm paying with my own credit card. I'm using my own health insurance which is provided by my grown-up job."

I briefly attributed it to the way I dress, but in a town that so desperately covets youth, even the grannies shop at Forever 21. Compared to these exhibitionists, I might as well be a Victorian.

When I was 21 and looked 16 everyone told me I'd appreciate it when I got older. I know, I should be so lucky. To be terminally cute, ha ha. Well let me tell you something. Cute does not age well. Cute is cute at 21, less endearing at 35, and downright ridiculous at 40. Even if 40 is the new 30, it ain't the new 15. Not just yet anyway.

Gym Euphoria

I'm not a gym rat, I swear. Believe you me, it takes all I can to drag my sorry butt to work out, and I treat it like a trip to the dentist in that I bring everything I can to possibly distract myself: ipod, books, magazines -- heck I'd bring food if I could. But somewhere after 30 minutes on the torture device known as the elliptical, the endorphins kick in. Delirious from exhaustion, I go into the "zone" and an amazing sense of clarity emerges. My creativity reaches new heights as I come up with new book ideas, inventions, philosophies of life. Dripping with sweat, I shed my insecurities, apathy, and limitations, and metamorphisize into a new, actualized being. On my drive back, I vow to implement my new ideas and change my life as soon as I get home. Of course, once I set foot in the door, the couch beckons...

Schadenfreude

Admit it. Everyone derives a bit of satisfaction from the misfortunes of the rich and famous. I'd like to say I'm bigger than that, but sadly I'm no different. In my case, it's the story of Kaavya Viswanathan, the disgraced 19-year-old Harvard student who admitted to plagarizing passages of her book "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life." Or now it should be titled "How Overachieving Teenager Got into Harvard, Landed a six-figure Book Deal, and Got Herself Subsequently Ostracized from the Literary Community." Initially her book publisher stood by her story of the deed being "unconscious and unintentional." Now things are looking a bit dim for Ms. Viswanathan. Today, Little, Brown announced they were pulling her books from all carriers. Needless to say, her second of her 2-book deal is now in jeopardy and DreamWorks has ixnayed its optioning of the film rights.

My fascination deviates between pleasure in her pain and sincere pity. After all, she is surrounded by pressure on all sides -- her parents, school, and the media goldfish bowl. It's uncertain whether she'll return to Harvard. She has undoubtedly pushed herself hard for her achievements. But for whose ambitions? It was her parents who hired a $30,000 coach to strategize Ivy League admission. The same coach who referred Viswanathan to her book agent.

Maybe I'm a bit pissy because on my family's annual income, which was little more than the cost of Ms Viswanathan's "consultant", I didn't get a fancy coach or expensive college prep education. (Bring out the violins...) I'm a product of California public schools for better or worse. My parents scrimped and saved so that I wouldn't be saddled with student loans after graduating from the University of California, freeing me up to take the first minimum-wage, entry-level publishing job I could find. Maybe I'm pissy because my last submission to "Jane" magazine was rejected. (They did send a nice letter though.)

Don't get me wrong. Life is good. My path of medical writing has been lucrative and afforded me a comfortable standard of living. I'm no longer in debt. We eat out regularly. Of course, I give into flights of fancy about landing that book deal that will take me out of the rat race, and give me my first house.

But right now I'm going to bed.

A Bit of Calcutta in SilverLake

So yesterday around 4 we hear a gush of water emitting from below the deck of our bungalow. "Oh the gardeners must be out," I muse. Jeremy looks out the window to investigate. He sticks it back in. "Jeeezus, there's raw seewage flowing down the steps [we live next to this here public walkway: ]."

Mmm, desentery delight. Something is backed up in the drainage system, causing a leak in the septic system. Yay! Fun times for a Saturday night. Three hours and four LA city workers later, we can turn our water back on. Remind me to stock up on bottled water. Not even Britta can filter that.

A Cat in Waiting

Poor Kali. She's a bit, er, backed up at the moment. I mean, how much does that suck? She can't exactly add a little fiber to her diet or take ex-lax. Oatmeal and coffee works wonders for me, but its effects on the feline gastrointestinal tract are unknown. Anyways, she has to wait for mommy (me) to get a clue when I notice she's been in her box for a long time or when she'll ask me for the New Yorker.

Unfortunately, she doesn't make things easy. Kali's penchant for being finicky is off the charts, even in catland. So she'll totally know if I try and pull a fast one, like add metamucil to her food. And forget about pumpkin -- a tried and true remedy. Finally, her preference for dry food over tender vittles isn't helping anyone.

So the people at the holistic petstore suggested flax seed oil. Since she hates pills, it's something I easily smear on her paw and have her lick it off. I'll let you know if that works. No doubt, you're on the edge of your seat

Return from Exile

Geez, has it been 4 whole months? Not much has happened since my last post. No trips to write about. So you'll just be subjected to my musings. Read at your own risk.

Roma, The Eternal City
Unfortunately all good things must come to and end, and Rome was where the curtain would fall on our Grand Italian Tour. Initially, I was a bit unenthused, as I'd been to Rome at age 18 and in the summer, where it is wicked crowded, and my memories were limited to being chased around by Italian lotharios on scooters (fortunately, they were more interested in my fair-haired companions). However, I was pleasantly surprised. Rome is a thriving, pulsating modern city with the trappings of ancient relics plopped in the midst of its core. While a large metropolis, Rome is surprisingly easy to navigate, as most of the landmarks are within walking distance of each other. Our hotel was also in a great location -- near the Trevi Fountain and within a 10-minute walk of the Spanish Steps. True, the latter is a congregation for clusters of crowds, Italian teenagers, and con artists; nevertheless it's still a great sight and quintessential Roma.



As night began to fall, we headed to the Villa Borghese, Rome's version of Central Park. Merry go-rounds, crazy kids on go-carts, joggers, a lake, and pizza vendors were all out in full force that Sunday evening. It's great to see quality family time spent outdoors walking instead of by the tv. I've said it once, and I'll say it again, the Italians really know how to live.

We spent our first full day exploring the ancient sites: The Colosseum (we bought our tickets ahead of time at the Palatine Hill, avoiding an enormous line -- thanks Rick Steves), The Forum, Mammertine Prison, and Palatine Hill. The latter is believed to be the site of Rome's first established settlement, and had cool ancient ruins and a great museum of artifacts. The hill is lush, cool, breezy, and relatively uncrowded. We saw a lot of sculptures like this:



The Colosseum was amazing. While the events it was constructed for were unquestionably barbaric, you have to tip your hat in tribute to the astounding feats of civil engineering and architecture. Considering too, that this is the blueprint for modern stadium design, it's pretty remarkable.

Other notable sights included the Pantheon, Cappucin Crypt (either designs comprised of monk bones), and the view of Rome from one of it's seven hills in Trastevere. We had lunch with Jeremy's friend Cesare, a Neopolitan who took us out for the best pizza in town and directed us to the best Sicilian gelato ever.

Sadly it all came to an end. Arrivederci Italia, I shall return. It was the trip of a lifetime, and I'm grateful for having the forum in which to relive our memories.

Ciao!

Orvieto Day Trip

Orvieto is so underrated! Rick Steves, Guru of Budget Travel, only devotes a page to it, so we figured it was only worth a day trip. This was a decision we immediately regreted as we emerged from the train station and into the funicular transporting us to the top of the town. While small, Orvieto packs a punch, with something for everyone: ceramics, Etruscan caves, and Classico wine. It's a gorgeous little town with incredible views of the Umbrian countryside. This shot below of an Umbrian monastary was one of the many landscapes viewed from the town. This is where I want to live. Right here:



We had lunch at this place called Enoteca Tozzi. It's a one-man operation, a myriad of meats, cheeses, wines, and a carving board. We walked in as he was in the midst of creating a picnic box of delectable delights for another couple. When it was my turn I just said "Anche' come qui per noi," which sort of translates to "Also, one like that for us." He prepared our lunch in a very old-world manner: slowly, carefully, and lovingly. Nothing automated. Our feast consisted of prociutto parma, crudo, mozzarella, romano, porchetta (suckling pig), and bread.

After lunch, we waddled over to the Parco delle Grotte for our underground tour of the Etruscan and medieval caves that honeycomb the city. Our guide was adorably Italian and very knowledgable. She told us that most everyone in Orvieto has a cave, but will not admit to it since doing so would incur taxation. How Italian!

Their duomo also rivals those of Siena and Florence. Orvieto was catapulted into medieval importance, hence justifying the comisssion of their duomo, by the miracle of Bolsena. Lake Bolsena is a nearby town, whose claim to fame is a 13th century priest who doubted the transubstantiation of the host. His skepticism was quickly negated, however, during one mass as the wafer began to drip blood onto a cloth. This cloth was quickly transported to Orvieto, and a cathedral built around it. The cathedral is pretty spectacular, featuring black and white striped stonework, and a colorful facade divided by four pillars.

We wandered around, then caught the funicular back as the sun was setting on the pastoral land and on our trip. The ticket machines were down at the train station, and I didn't want to bother speaking broken Italian hence I jumble things up, so I asked the ticket agent if he spoke English. "Yeah, toootally" in a valley girl accent was his reply. A sense of humor often devoid in some of the big cities!

Our train ride back was less than charmed as it was rife with delays. We finally made it back to Assisi, only to miss the bus, so we splurged on a cab to drive us back to town. Dined at Osteria Pozzo della Mensa, which graciously took us at 9:45 despite closing in 45 minutes and being packed. You can tell who reads Rick Steves here. Ordered a some small plates to share, such as Umbrian sausages, mixed green vegetables, and pate on crostini. Poor congested Jeremy was deprived of his taste buds, but he still seemed to enjoy his meal.