Dip Your Fork

“Nothing tastes as good as thin feels” Ahh…one of the many mantras doled out so easily-breasily by my “group leader”. I’m sitting in a small group of women (there are three of us this the present a week before Thanksgiving) listening to Sally, smartly dressed, in a tasteful but boring brown skirt, beige blouse and ethnic jewelry, you know, to “punch” it up.

I’ve been here before, too many times. Listening to the same tips and tricks to weight loss, as if hearing the dipping-your-fork-in-salad-dressing for the hundredth time will be magic key that unlocks the secret joyous world of happy, thin people. I am so sick of it.

This line, Nothing tastes as good as thin feels, makes me cringe. It makes me want to throw up the three-egg white omelet and two soy patties I had for breakfast. As much as I disdain these attempts to fuse these sayings into our psyches, I had to re-join the fold as I found it more and more difficult to keep avoiding all reflective surfaces and mirrors.

I had to commit to returning because being accountable to me just didn’t hold the same threat as it once did. I’ve put myself (intentionally) back in the OCD world of counting points, calories, glasses of water consumed, ounces, portions and trips to the bathroom. I’m glad, though. Really. It feels good to dip my big toe dipped into the pool again. The best part is feeling like I have a schmidgeon of control over my life while living in a place where I have no idea how I ended up. I feel like I just grabbed onto something comfortable and familiar amidst a swirling mass of confusion and it feels good.

It will be a few weeks yet for my body’s creakiness subsides…why this 36-year-old even has creakiness drives me nuts but it’s a truth that slaps me around every morning when I get out of bed. I feel like an old lady walking around but in the interest of keeping things positive, I’ll think of them as baby steps.

Yes, I Am. What's Your Point?

What is so bad about being Filipino? People are always cloaking their “Filipino-ness” with other asian stylings. I was watching the premiere of Medium the other night. As a side note, isn’t there something so endearing about big stars with bad teeth? I love it! It’s so humanizing. For those who are not fans of the show, Patricia Arquette plays a medium who has prophetic dreams and can see dead people. She’s also the Phoenix Police Department’s ace-in-the-hole for solving crimes. Oh, and she’s got crooked teeth.

The show opened with a naked Filipina girl, lounging in a bed talking to an unseen person. How do I know she was Filipino? Not only did she look Filipino with her almond-shaped eyes, brown skin and black hair, her speaking Tagalog pretty much gave it away. I know my knowledge of Tagalog is waning, but I do know it when I hear it. And this girl was speaking it. Yet—she was referring to being Indonesian, being in Indonesia, loving Indonesia. Okay, I got it…you’re Indonesian.

If you look Filipino, speak Tagalog, and quack like a duck…aren’t you a Filipino duck? I wonder if I am taking this too personally. On most days, my self-esteem already lingers on the basement level of Loehman’s. What are the producers of Medium trying to tell me? Is being Filipino something to be ashamed of? Would it be so horrible to set the scene in the Philippines rather than Indonesia? What is the big deal?

Squinty-Eyed and Ready

I feel squinty-eyed right now…like a rescued coal mining worker emerging from a tiny opening in the earth, after being trapped in a collapsed tunnel for 17 days. My body is sore, not from being cramped in a tiny, dark space but more from the inactivity of being chained to a desk (resulting in the dreaded “secretary spread”—those with desk jobs know what I mean). At this moment, I am bathed in the so-called “light at the end of tunnel” and although it blinds me a bit, I welcome the feeling with open arms. For the first time since I moved to Las Vegas in June, it’s not quite as hellish as it used to be.

“Hellish” is probably too strong a word—it seems insulting to those whose lives actually warrant that characterization. Nevertheless, I am still reeling from the move from Oakland, California to Las Vegas, away from my comfortable life, my good friends, my cheap rent—shouldn’t I be over it by now? As I write, inklings of my exit strategy are taking shape although it’ll be a few more months until I have solid action plan.

Not helping in my transition, my work life was swallowing me up whole. Do you remember Lily Tomlin in “The Incredible Shrinking Woman”? The image of tiny Lily trying to keep herself from being washed down the drain, swimming against the swirling current that wants to suck her into oblivion. I’m not sure if this was an actual scene in the movie or something I fabricated in my mind but I could relate to Lily on a visceral level. Work has not been the joy it used to be. I’ve been feeling exploited, like a sweat shop worker with a dental plan. I exaggerate again—I don’t mean to liken my work situation to that a third world garment worker, slumped over a sewing machine for 12 hours a day. My sewing machine was a Dell laptop and although I was slumped over it for literally days at a time, in the back of my mind I know I could walk away from the job and still be able to survive. Not so true for the millions who toil in sweat shops all around the world, I suspect.

Today, I did very little actual work work and I do not feel guilty at all. In my mind, it’s still not a fair trade for the life I sacrificed. Not to be melodramatic but life maintenance—my maintenance—took a backseat to work. I can’t help but wonder, Would my managers expect as much of a commitment from their married-with-kids workers? The single, female, no kids, no mortgage worker is my company’s favorite demographic. At sixteen months on the job, I am the second most senior employee in my department. The most senior employee started 2 months ahead of me. Do the words “burn out” mean anything?

I need to use this short respite to figure out what to do next, about me, about my life, about my future. Everything that was on hold has now been released from its stasis…and now I’m left to deal with the business of my life. I no longer have the distraction of work to keep me busy…from me. Yikes.

That New House Smell

I have a running sleep deficit that is surely taking its toll on me. So much so I now look eastward toward Las Vegas with a tempted eye. Not by the trappings you would expect. I am not lured by Vegas’ glamorous promise of excitement and cheap well drinks. I do, however, have a growing familiarity with the concept of getting something for nothing. And it is a doozy!

Real estate in the Bay Area has become the stuff of urban legend. My S.O. has a co-worker who has a friend who just bought an 800 square foot house in San Francisco for nearly six-hundred thousand dollars. Or maybe it was a 600 square foot house for eight-hundred thousand dollars. The truth of it hardly matters when the point is painfully clear. My dream of owning a house in the Bay Area is not just slightly out of my grasp—it is a mirage, a quivering, distant picture made only slightly clearer by squinting my eyes. It lasts for mere seconds before I shut my eyes tight, look away then look back with my eyes wide open, only to see my dream home completely missing from my sun-stroked gaze.

Through a series of events, completely engineered by someone other than myself, I have come to find myself the owner of a very large, newly built, beautifully, appointed house. In Las Vegas. For anyone who knows me, they know that this predicament is the ironic hell of my own creation. I’m an Alanis Morrisette song, a Far Side cartoon, a beautiful girl in a snout-faced, Twilight Zone world. Such a pickle.

I saw the house for the first time last weekend with my Mom, my S.O. and my sister. Walking up to the house, I am accosted by my new neighbor “Ron.” Hand outstretched, Ron introduces himself and his brooding teenage son and tells me he’s just bought the house next to umm…mine. I look around anxiously, waiting for lightning to strike.

Dang. Pangs of attachment start to form in the pit of my stomach. My sister slips the key in the front hole. It doesn’t work. Is it a sign? We’re able to open the garage door. Paint cans and equipment are staged in the corner. My sister leaves to get the right key and my S.O., Mom and I wander to the backyard. It’s a large lot, the third largest in the subdivision. Right now, it’s just a raw, open space. Behind the backyard, is a large trench. I hear they plan to transform it into green, lush walking trails. I see three amigos heads right outside the fence. They look like they’re cracking open pipes in the dirt. “What are you guys doing?” I ask. They look at me and say nothing. My S.O. breaks out in his limited Spanish and asks, “Tubas de agua?” “Si,” they answer back.

My sister returns with the right key and we make our way inside the house. At three thousand square feet, it is six times larger than my one-bedroom apartment in Oakland. It’s got that new house smell. I walk tentatively across the living room and into the enormous kitchen and family room. I feel like a surrogate mom, touring the nursery of the baby I’ll give up to some, other happy couple.

Overwhelmed and anxious, I’m a bundle of conflicting feelings. I want to magically transport it to back to Northern California, a place where you won’t find slot machines at grocery stores and where you still need your PIN code for the ATM machine. I wander into each empty room, reacting at first with an excited, “Ooooh!” but then quickly doing my Larry David-best to curb my enthusiasm at each turn.

I’m in a picture-taking frenzy. I need evidence, proof, of this house. The house I can’t believe I suddenly own. I secretly send telepathic messages to my S.O., Mom and sister, “Please, please don’t ask me if I want to pack up my life in Oakland, leave my friends and family and live in a casino-infested desert away from everything I know and love...don't ask me right now, not in this house…I might agree to anything at this moment…”

Before we pile back in the car, I take a few last pictures of the outside of house, unsure of how this will all turn out.

I'll Have Beef with a Side Order of Chicken & a Garnish of Pork

It’s the week before Thanksgiving and it’s a beautiful, warm November night in Oakland. I’m making my way down the hill to meet the girls (and their boys) for dinner at a Thai place I’ve never been to before—Bangkok Palace. I laugh out loud when I think of my S.O.’s never-ending quest for “The Perfect Thai Sausage” and wonder if this place will be a contender. With the exception of Margaret, who I see a few times at week at kickboxing class, my visits with these ladies have regrettably been less frequent in the last few months. Our regularly scheduled girls’ night out has, for at least this night, morphed into a girls, Significant Others and kids’ night out.

We order a slew of food—papaya salad, spring rolls, scallops with chilis, pad thai, a few vegetable and tofu dishes. Grilled chicken for the meat eaters (okay…for me) and brown rice. Brown rice? Man, I miss eating clean and healthy. Last night, my S.O. and I went out for Chinese and had two dishes that were that were so battered, deep-fried and sauced up, they were beyond identification. Cod nuggets and chicken were my guess but my S.O. thought he tasted bits of pork and catfish chunks. Lordy.

But tonight, I was in the company of ovo-lacto vegetarians, lacto vegetarians and a few who’ve even experimented with veganism. And then there was me...a life-long lover of swine and all manner of hooved and cloven creatures. If left to my own devices, I could survive in a cave, very happily, on a diet of low-fat cottage, strawberries and walnuts, provided you throw in an occasional pork rib or chicken leg, for good measure. I’m a carnivore to the bone, albeit a carnivore with ovo-lacto vegetarian tendencies. On one occasion, while speaking to my S.O. on subject of favorite foods, I discovered that his favorite food was meat.

“Meat?”
“Yes, meat.”
“What, you mean, like filet mignon or new york strip? Or a nice pork roast or barbecued ribs?”
“Uh…yes, yes, yes…and aawww yes.” Sheesh...I thought. He must have the hardest working colon in the business. The James Brown of the colon world.

As I was reaching for the last half of the tofu spring roll and spearing another perfectly sautéed forkful of green beans and cabbage, I suddenly realized how much I’ve missed the once prevalent presence of vegetables from my diet. Despite the fact that eggplant is utterly devoid of any nutritional value, I still loved its soft texture and smoky flavor, especially in tonight’s incarnation, accompanied with tofu and basil. Though the fish sauce and Thais chilis, in fact, everything that makes it Thai, was virtually nonexistent, the papaya salad, sweet and tangy and peanutty, actually woke up my mouth from its freshness! I am not lying.

No, there’ll be no Thai sausage on the dinner menu tonight…but I—and my colon—thank you.

A Warm Bottle and a Clean Diaper

The child hasn’t even been arrived yet and she has everything a baby girl could possibly want. Actually, don’t all newborns just want to be fed, warm, and poop-and-gas free? My friends Celeste and Ajit are having their first baby in a matter or months—a girl, Madeline. The nursery in their house is brimming with baby books, toys, stuffed animals, and clothes…tons of clothes. The entire inventory, acquired from the generosity of friends and friends of friends, freed from attics and boxes marked “Kids’ Clothes”, will enjoy a second life in the Monnette De Silva household. Celeste won’t have to buy clothes for Madeline until she’s eight.

Tomorrow is Madeline’s shower and I am 100 percent stumped as to what I am getting her. If I’m having this much trouble thinking of a gift for her in her pre-natal state, what’s it going to be like for the next twenty-or-so years of gift-giving? Oy gevalt, this Madeline is hard to shop for!

I should have taken that dog-eared issue of Parenting Magazine home with me from the gym. I know next-to-nothing about the latest in baby-gear innovation. Diaper Genie? That is so 2002.

If I had Sleeping Beauty fairy powers, I’d give Madeline the gift of being a sound sleeper. A new parent’s lament often involves sleep deprivation and colicky babies. May your child find bliss in a full night’s sleep! Now that would be something!

It’s Saturday afternoon, an hour before the shower. I’m at Babies “R” Us.

“Excuse me, can you show me where the Diaper Genie 3000 is located?”

Baby You Can Ride In My Car

I’m not sure if it’s a Bay Are thing or not but every weekday morning, I take my place in a queue of commuters under the I580 overpass at MacArthur Avenue in Oakland in what’s known ‘round these parts as the “casual carpool” line. I’m not sure if other urban communities have adopted this style of carpooling but in my opinion, every community should. Basically, certain centrally located points in surrounding suburban cities have been dedicated as casual carpool pickup points. Folks get in line and two at a time, hop into cars heading to San Francisco. The relationship, albeit fleeting, is a win-win for everybody. The driver avoids the $3 bridge toll (soon to jump another dollar) and the often thirty-minute approach to the City and the two passengers get a free, quick ride to downtown San Francisco via the carpool lane. It’s a simply brilliant way to get to work in the morning and it gives me chance to ride in cars I would never get a chance to ride in otherwise.

Don’t get me wrong, I have grown to love and treasure my 1988 red Acura with its “Bad Girl” decal my mother so generously “lent” me when I totaled my beloved ’95 Honda Civic not too long ago. It has served me well and faithfully. But what tickles me even more and what I tend to brag about to complete strangers is the fact that I don’t really even need to drive my car during the week. Between casual carpooling into the City every morning and taking the P line bus home every evening, I’m saving buckets of money, wear-and-tear on my car, and every now and again, get to hop into a Jaguar.

People often ask, “Aren’t you scared you’ll be getting into a car with an ax murderer?” or “Do you sign up for it ahead of time?” No and no. I have never encountered any ax murderer-types in my hundreds of times as a passenger into the City. And signing up ahead of time? Well, then, we wouldn’t be able to call it “casual” carpool at that point, now would we?

Of course, it’s not completely casual. You ride long enough and you’ll begin to see the same riders, the same drivers. There’s the burgundy Nova that shows up around 8:15 am. At all costs, I try and avoid this car. A youngish, Asian woman driver, she’s got a pair of magnetic-nosed teddy bears hanging from her rear-view mirror and Hello Kitty cozies for her headrests. She also listens to an all-talk Christian radio show that features old-school evangelists that have the peculiar speech affection that causes them to end all their words with “—aah” as in “Sin-aah no more-aah! Jesus-aah loves ya-aah!”

I love getting first-time drivers. I often take it upon myself to school them in the etiquette of casual carpooling. I got in to a car with a young woman, lured to Oakland from the City by the cheaper rents and plentiful parking. As I climbed up into her Toyota SUV, I could tell immediately she was a first-timer due to her proclivity to chat. She explained how she couldn’t find the pick up point and that she had driven up and down Grand Avenue for quite some time. I told her the Grand Avenue spot was popular as well as the Oakland Avenue and 41st Street by the Korean church. After a quick exchange of “Good mornings" most drivers and passengers remain silent, usually letting the all-talk chatter of NPR fill up the airspace on the fifteen-minute ride into the City. Not so with this lady. I learned all about her life, where she worked, where she and her husband lived. How she was lousy with car directions because all she ever used to do was ride her bike in the City and street signs and one-way roads be damned as she zipped in and out of traffic on her trusty ten-speed. So of course, I gave the inside scoop on carpool etiquette, lest some unscrupulous passenger tried to pass on mis-information in hopes of avoiding her twelve-block hike to work in the morning.

“Yes, most drivers take a left on Howard Street and let passengers out on the corner of Fremont and Howard, unless you’re crossing Market Street. In that case, most people will jump out on Market Street and walk to work from there.” She nodded her head, mentally taking notes for tomorrow’s carpool adventure. “You work at North Beach? Gosh, I work a block below Broadway. You’re going that way? You mind if you ride with you to there? That’s awfully nice of you. Just so you know, most drivers don’t offer door-to-door rides to their passengers…” I love it when the morning ride over works out that way.

Casual carpool is my favorite way to get to work. At cocktail parties (not that I go to many), it always paints a sheen of mystery about me. “Uh-huh…I do it everyday. Yes, strangers, every one…no, I’m never scared, really, it’s perfectly safe.” In reality, I’m just a cheap bastard, short on time and always ready to hop into a Mini, a Prius, a Lexus, a Jag…”

Memories of Me

I’m having one of those days where I’m walking around fully functional yet my eyes don’t quite feel completely awake. My body is craving sleep but when I try to nap, my eyes refuse to close. Do you remember those dolls when you were a kid, whose eyes shut when you laid her down horizontally, then popped open again when you stood her up? I feel like one of those dolls, but all fucked up. Lay me down and my eyes refuse to shut…stand me up and all I want to do is shut them.

It was another beautiful, sunny Saturday in Oakland today. This morning, my S.O. and I hit our usual coffee and muffin spot, Arizmendi, a co-op owned bakery a few blocks from where we live. It’s a little ritual we’ve developed over the course of our relationship and although I’m a highly ritualistic person by nature, I’m not quite sure I will ever get used to the rituals of my S.O.

It’s not quite August yet, but I already sense in him a mood swing that happens at the beginning of every month. Mr. Crankypants is coming for yet another visit. Oh, yay. Feelings of dissatisfaction, boredom, and regret envelop my S.O. every month like clockwork. And although he tells me he’s had mild depression his whole life, and even though he insists it’s him and not me…not us…there’s an annoying nudging in my side that won’t go away despite his reassurances.

The coffee thing at Arizmendi is our ritual, yes, but our weekends now mostly consist of his rituals. Hitting balls at the range, soccer games on Sunday, eating at his Vietnamese deli, playing 18 holes during Twilight hours on Sundays and me, always his trusty golf cart driver.

I used to have rituals of my own. Every Saturday, I enjoyed long solitary workouts at my gym, then ran to Peets for super-strong coffee and a fat-free vegan scone. I’d sit across the street, plant myself on a window ledge, usually next to a trio of Ethiopians enjoying their smokes, and people-watch. I used to make up stories as to why that middle-aged lady with the pink yoga mat had such a big grin on her face. Maybe her daughter who never called her, suddenly called her just to say hi. Or maybe her neighbor, whom she had her eye on, finally made the first move and now she’s meeting him for a latte after yoga. After a good hour or so, I’d go back to the gym and catch up with my friends in kickboxing class, which was always, always, my favorite Saturday activity.

But that was months ago. And this morning, as my S.O. and I were walking back to the car from our usual Saturday breakfast, I ran into Simin, who was standing behind the green newspaper racks, sipping a cup of coffee and enjoying the sunshine. Simin was a yoga instructor that I knew from my gym. Tall, thin and soft-spoken, she was the quintessential yoga instructor. I’d often run into her around the Lake or shopping at Whole Foods, but mostly at the gym. Her Saturday yoga class was from 12 to 1:30 pm. Our kickboxing class was the class right after hers. Every now and again, she and I would chat. As the yoga people rolled up their mats and put away their blocks and the kickboxers would begin quickly wrapping their hands, Simin and I would exchange compliments and tips on staying healthy and feeling good. She would comment on how tough she thought I looked in all my kickboxing gear and I would go on about how flexible and strong she seemed doing her yoga postures. It was a mutual admiration club for two.

She said she hadn’t seen me at the gym in a while and suddenly my already-sleepy eyes became heavier for different reasons. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t been to the gym in quite some time and all at once I felt sadness, shame, nostalgic and resentment. And anger. Anger mostly at myself for becoming the subject of countless magazine articles about women who “lose themselves” in their relationships. Oh brother. When did this happen? And how? And am I really one of those stupid, stupid women with whom I’m always getting angry?

The subject needs further investigation. All I know is, for now, I need to reinstitute some of my own rituals. Like bad habits, rituals never go away, they just get replaced by new ones.

A Minute in the Ring

I really need to start wearing a watch again. I got out of the habit after 2001, right around the time Paperloop.com laid me off. As an event planner, a watch is part of the uniform. But after 9/11, I and so many of my fellow planners across the country took off our watches, as we stuffed our pink slips in card board boxes and headed out the door.

It’s been four years and although I’ve been gainfully employed for most of that time, I never took to wearing a watch again. There was always the computer clock, the clock on my cell phone, the VCR clock. It was a great way to practice talking to strangers, Hi, do you have the time?

All day at work, I was painfully mindful of the time. At my last job, I had left my $2.99 Target wall clock in my cube as a reminder to my office mates that “May Was Here.” I had yet to put a clock up in my new cube. As I exchanged short conversations with people throughout the day, I mentally logged minutes spent chatting and counted them down until the 5 o’clock hour hit.

I had to be at Fairtex gym by 5:20 pm. I had made an appointment for my $10 introductory session with Ken earlier in the week and I had been looking forward to it all day long. The trek from North Beach to Fairtex, in the SoMa district of the City, was about 15 blocks but if I sped-walked at an energetic clip, I would just make it. Fairtex was a muay thai kickboxing gym that had recently moved to its new location, at Hawthorne Lane and Harrison. A few months earlier, I visited my old office at 2nd and Harrison, in a futile attempt to become re-employed there. After a miserable interview and needing a caffeine, fat and sugar fix—coffee and a chocolate chip cookie—I walked around corner to what used to be Boudin Bakery. Serendipitously, what I found instead was Fairtex gym.

Ah! The bones of the front room were strikingly familiar. The mechanized platform for wheelchairs was still there. Thank you, ADA! The counter that used to sit above displays of cookies, sourdough and sweet baguettes and cheese Danish, now sat above handwraps, boxing gloves and an assortment of differently-sized shin guards. The poster-size prints of old San Francisco were replaced by pictures of muay thai champions in the requisite “fists up” pose. I stepped to the back of the café, half-expecting to see the same table my friend Jodie and I would eat our chowder-in-a-bread-bowl but there was no “corner” anymore. The room had been become a hallway that lead to a huge, cavernous warehouse, the center of which stood a regulation-size boxing ring. It was beautiful. To the left of the ring, the floor was a patchwork of blue mats, the squishy, soft kind that was more forgiving to bare feet that the hardwood my feet were used to. Large, black kicking and heavy bags lined the perimeter of the blue mats. In my mind, I could already picture my leg thwacking into that bag and making a dent right there…just below the Fairtex logo. To the right of ring were the jiu jitsu mats. The floor was red and smooth and just a little tacky. I wondered what it’d be like to grapple on that surface. I imagined some wicked floorburns.

My introductory session consisted of me training one-on-one with a Fairtex trainer. A private session for $10! Not a bad deal! I used to pay $40 a session with my old trainer every other week. A trainer named Pongsansan wrapped my hands. I recognized him from the picture on the T-shirts they were selling at the front desk. Yikes! This guy is a bad-ass! I told him I was a beginner. He guessed that I had been training two years. I lied and said yes even though it was probably more like four years. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of a Fairtex trainer and not be as good as a person should be who had been training for four years straight.

But it was Armand, not Pongsansan, who would train with me that evening. He was wiry, around 5’8” I guessed, and personable. We introduced ourselves and after I warmed up with a few minutes of skipping rope, he took me into the center ring to begin.

I had never stepped foot into a ring before. There was a time when I had considered training for a smoker, a series of matches put on by gyms every now and again. Lack of nerve and a desire not to be weighed publicly always kept me from making the commitment. I was shy to step inside. There’s no doubt, that at least for a few seconds, everyone’s eyes will glance your way and judge you. I know, because I give everyone I see in the ring the same once-over, as I would be subject to now.

The floor was surprisingly slippery, slightly powdery-feeling. I felt I could be knocked on my ass at the slightest misstep. Armand started to show me the basics, the boxer’s stance, how to throw a jab and a cross. My new job in the City and the growing difficulty I had in stealing time away, had prevented me from going to a regular kickboxing class in over a month. My conditioning had deteriorated. And muscle memory? Mine were suffering from amnesia. I prayed I wouldn’t re-injure my groin muscles again, as I winced trying to throw double-roundhouses in succession.

Armand sprinkled water on the mat to prevent me getting knocked on my butt. He held the pads from me and called out different combinations. Jab-cross-kick-kick. Cross-hook-step-knee. Sixty seconds later and my eyes started stinging from the sweat running down my forehead. Unbelievable! How do boxers go fifteen rounds?

After a few rounds in the ring, I felt fatigued but Armand wasn’t done with me yet. We stepped out of the ring and walked toward the kicking bags. The conditioning drills consisted of forty kicks with each leg then one hundred “knees”. (Kneeing your opponent’s torso is allowed and encouraged in muay thai.) After that, fifty pushups and fifty crunches. Exhausted, I thanked God Armand “cut it short” after forty minutes. I was tired, but wanted more. Kicking bags, the blue mats, the ring…I had never before complete access to this kind of equipment. I decided to observe the next kickboxing class and partake in a little cheap therapy of the kicking kind with that hanging black bag in the corner, the one with my name on it.

I haven’t been back since my introductory lesson. If my work schedule continues to eat up my free time, I doubt I’ll be able to kickbox regularly. But at least I would have had my time in the ring, even though it was just for forty minutes.

Expired Drugs Still Work

After three weeks on the new job, I had to call in sick yesterday. Not to worry, it was legit. I’m not surprised I caught a nasty head cold. All that exposure to new germs, my hands on strange doorknobs and bathroom stall doors, breathing in foreign air and the commingling of my familiar family of dust mites with theirs. It was just a matter of time before my body reacted.

I drifted in and out of sleep on the couch, the clear, cool beauty of the day wasted on me. Earlier, I woke up with my S.O. and promptly told him I felt sick. I had the feeling he thought I was faking it but my pounding head, scratchy throat and post-nasal drip made me the wiser.

The prospect of calling in sick for the first time made me a bit nervous. There was a procedure for calling in sick. Section 1, Subsection 3 of our beast of an Operations Manual detailed such proper procedure. Our department maintained and actually followed, a manual that each employee was issued upon their first day of work. It’s kept in a large, 5-in. ring binder and it detailed everything from what exactly to say on your outgoing voice mail message to how to negotiate contracts, from indemnification to force majeure. I would imagine, for the layman, a monster document like this would invoke fear and scorn. But for me and my control-freak sisters, it’s a thing of beauty; a guide for order, balance and uniformity in the small, chaotic universe, we often are forced to navigate.

But yesterday morning, I couldn’t remember exactly what Section 1, Subsection 3 described as the proper procedure for calling in sick. So I decided to play the new employee trump card and just left a voice mail for my manager. I wondered to myself how many times I could get away with playing that card.

Every time she visited, my college roommate, C, now a pharmacist, made it a point to rifle through my medicine cabinet and toss expired meds and anything else she didn’t deem fit to swallow. I silently thanked God she hadn’t visited in a while because Hallelujah! There, between the expired Claritin and the expired Cloraseptic, was some expired Walgreen’s cold medicine. Given the choice between taking old antihistamines and breathing like an asthmatic smoker, I took the former.

I started to see stars, the kind you see when you shut your eyes tight, then opened them again. I succumbed to the lovely, lightedheadedness from the meds and took my place on the couch. I felt…globby. The prospect of going back to work and tackling the Operations Manual and all that it represented—the meticulousness, the extreme attention to detail required to be successful—made me think of trying to stuff a globby, oozy mass into a clear, plastic cube, clearly too small for its contents. I knew in my gut that in order to earn the respect at work I secretly craved, I would have to step up, increase my game, and goddamnit, make my oozy, globby self fit in that plastic cube. But for now, I just enjoyed my foggy haze, rolled over to avoid couch sores and decided it’d be best to worry about it tomorrow.

I Am Woman, See Me Work

I’m not working for the Man anymore. Well, not literally, anyway. I started a brand new job today in the City. It’s a small company, founded and owned by a woman. A youngish-woman, at that. The receptionist-slash-office administrator lead me and another newbie on the obligatory office tour, stopping at each cube. I met many people, whose names, I’m sorry to say, were completely forgettable. With the exception of “Jennifer”. There seems to be an inordinate amount of Jennifers at my new job.

Among the many introductions, the receptionist introduced me to Sarah, a pleasant woman in her early 40s. She wasn’t trendily dressed like most of the young women in the office, but nonetheless very stylish, with a black and grey crepe skirt, pieced together in loose strips. I gave her the same smile and handshake I gave to the fifty or so people I had met this morning. I wanted to kick myself when the receptionist said later, ”Oh, and Sarah’s the president of the company.” If I would have known that, I would have turned the internal wattage up and given her my extra-special smile and handshake. Sheesh.

I have returned to my industry of choice—the events business. I have been planning, coordinating and handling the operation of trade shows, conferences, meetings and special events since 1993. The ripple effect of 9/11 had done me in and consequently I was in and out of the events biz, well, right up until today. I haven’t felt this optimistic about work in a very long time and dagummit, I finally feel like I have something I can dig my heels into.

The building I work at looks like a holdover from the dotcom bust of the early ‘90s. Exposed brick walls and vents, extra high ceilings, black bean bags and space. Lots and lots of space. I imagined, in its hey-day, its halls were filled with artsy-trendy looking young people with tattoos, black plastic bracelets and unnaturally red hair, coasting down the aisles on those little scooters.

The events business, in general, is run by women; the executives, however, almost always are male. Not so at this company, the owner and most of the VPs are female. In fact, of about seventy or so employees, I only met around five men. And while some may see working with mostly women something akin to sorority life or being backstage at a beauty pageant, right now, this minute, I choose to see it as a positive. I will do my darndest not to have any “meetings in the ladies room”—unless provoked, that is.

Downtown Walnut Creek, a suburb of the City, was not the hippest, most happening place to work. Walking around downtown San Francisco, walking down my aisle to get to my cube, I was struck by the sheer number of beautiful people wandering around. I thought, Who are these people? And what are they doing without their entourages? I almost got stabbed several times by the pointy-shoes of A-line-floral-skirt-wearing-women in the office. I’m a healthy, straight, Filipino-American woman but I felt like the butchiest of bulldykes among the women in my office. I thought the embroidered flowers on my black shirt would be enough of a feminine touch, but I was way off base. I can’t compete with faux-fur trimmed jackets and open-toed pumps. Oh well...

It was only my first day…

Mother Inabsentia

I just recently decided it would be okay to start listening to my mother again. She had given me pretty good advice up until 1988 but after that it all went downhill. Since I was an irritatingly boring and well-behaved child, I have to say she had it easy. I didn’t hang out with a rough crowd, practiced the piano, suffered no unexpected pregnancies...

She wasn’t your stereotypical Asian mother. She didn’t really pressure me to do well in school (I already did, thank you very much). Curfews? ‘Eh...never broke them because I never stayed out late. Drug problem? Please! The hardest drug I did came dipped in hard-candy shell. She wasn’t the strict, oppressive Asian immigrant mother who felt her children’s success reflected her own success as a parent. Her own mother died when she was a young girl and she was raised by her aunt. Despite her aunt's best efforts, (and by my mother's own account) she was one baaad little kid. I saw a snapshot of her and my uncle once when they were young. My mom looked to be about twelve or thirteen and skinny as a Lucky Strike. Nine out of ten people polled would agree that she wore an afro. She stared stone-faced, her eyes looking straight into the camera and smiled the same no-teeth smile she uses today. She’s not giving anything away, that one.

As I saw it, my mother’s main child-rearing objectives were to feed, house and educate us. And keep us relatively happy. In 1979, we made the move from San Francisco to Vallejo, a suburb thirty miles north of the City. Since my sister AD was just too damn smart, she moved up a year, ending up in the same grade as my sister, AM. They were about to enter the eigth grade and rather than have them miss the chance to "graduate" with their class, my mother let them live on their own in small room, in a converted garage in someone’s house. Those kinds of studio conversions or "in-laws" were very popular in houses in the Sunset. My sisters, ages thirteen and fourteen, were living by themselves in the City, with nothing but the threat of my mother’s wrath to keep them in check.

So what if Social Services may have called that neglect? The Sunset neighborhood in 1979 was a different world back them and lucky for all of us, my sisters were big fish in their little pond, remarkably trustworthy and responsible kids. The sisters of the Holy Name of Jesus Elementary school stayed blissfully ignorant.

Over the years, she did the best she could, making decisions that would make today's parents mouths drop open. Oh, we suffered as we discovered Ponds cold cream had no sun-protective protective properties whatsoever and probably encouraged extra-wicked sunburns. And a prune or two would have helped things along, rather than ingesting those deceptively chocolaty-Ex-lax candies, my mother would feed us after a particularly heavy meal. When it came to my mother’s advice, I quickly developed a filter to sift away the sludge from the gold bits.

I suspect the hardest part my mother had to do was live apart from us, often finding work that took her to neighboring cities for weeks at a time. I stopped living with my mother at around fourteen. She was my "mother inabsentia". There, but not there.

She’s got her own way of doing things and while her methodology may seem crazy to some, the proof is in the proverbial pudding. My sisters and I didn’t grow up completely damage-free; between the five of us, we have a rack full of issues just waiting for us to leaf through. But, we grew up well-fed, with a roof over our heads, and college under our belts. And at the end of the day, I’d say that’s a job well-done.

Girl-About-Town Needs a Dayjob

Somebody please rip out my ovaries. Go on...I'll bite down on this wooden spoon while you do it. While folding my socks into tight little balls, and despite the "no-reality-shows" TV rule I've instituted in my household, I inadvertently happened upon a show called, Nanny 911. Playing on the Mary Poppins myth that British women make the best nannies, the show featured a nanny (complete with hat and carpet bag) who observed a family with four unruly children and the parents whose fault it was.

The kids were spitting, swearing, hitting, running and generally being bratty and disrespectful. Oy gevalt! The worst of the lot was the six-year-old who had never had a "time out" (though he surely deserved them) and his four-year old little sister who could string expletives together better than a truck driver who had just stubbed his toe.

By 8:55 pm, everybody had learned how to respect each other and the parents figured out how everything was their fault, but really, they knew better now. Mom, Dad and the kids waved and cried as the Nanny slipped out the front door, another family saved from themselves.

Until today, I was enjoying my time off between jobs. Playing house, doing domestic things like grocery shoppping and laundry, picking up drycleaning, watching reruns of Buffy and Angel on the WB. It's been kind of fun, I have to say; it's been so easy to let my mind wander and wonder what'd it be like to pop out a few kids and call myself a "stay-at-home" mom.

Well, that little domestic fantasy of mine just went the way of Tab and Fen-Fen. I was suddenly reminded of how miserably predictable I am when I got angry at my S.O. for coming home after 9 pm from the driving range. I had a big pot of resentment simmering on the stove and it was about to boil over if I didn't watch it. I had spent the entire day doing homey things. Foodtv.com, Epicurious.com, the "Beef. It's What's for Dinner" people--I searched online in vain for a simple recipe for a top round roast that HE bought last Sunday (with no intention of cooking it himself). I separated lights, darks and delicates and laundered sheets and towels. I fought the masses at an unusually-crowded-for-a-Monday Berkeley Bowl (buying his cooking papaya) and spent twenty-minutes convincing myself that no one will die if don't buy the low-carb pasta at Trader Joe's.

Then He comes home, eats his leftover Chinese and bolts to the driving range. I spent the evening whacked out, more angry at myself than at him. How did this happen? I used to be independent..a girl-about-town, coming and going as I please and you can go to hell if you didn't like it. Resentment, anger, feelings of being underappreciated and taken for granted...guess you don't have to actually BE married to feel like you're married. With kids in the picture, I imagine those feelings would only increase exponentially. I've seen the future--and I'm backing the truck out slowly.

Oh, I have no intention of breaking up with the S.O. anytime soon. I have a wedding to go to in a month, for Chrissakes. I will, however, remember that as much as I love not punching that clock every morning for the Man, working for the Wo-Man, namely me, means more than watching Starting Over and Ellen everyday. I'll have to keep challenged, keep writing and learn how to keep a dayjob.

My Pops, the Music Man

My father is sixty-eight years old and owns a pair of leather pants. I suspect he gets a lot of use from them when he goes clubbing in Las Vegas. Oh, it’s not as seedy as you might think. He frequents karaoke clubs and fancies himself quite a singer. Did you know there are forty-two verses in “My Way”? In true Celine Dion fashion, that man can wring the life out of note till it’s going, going, gone.

I always suspected that my father had a “secret” life. Again, nothing illicit or in the least bit pulpy. He and my mother are the permanent stars of a little passion play I like to call, “Everything You Do Irritates Me, But I’d Die If You Were Gone”. And there are no understudies in that production. He’s just always been a night owl. He used to work the swing shift so his internal clock kicks into overdrive right around dusk. He has a penchant for maintaining an air of mystery. But I suspect that if I were to follow him around on one of his nighttime excursions, I’d find him chatting with Sam, his buddy the barber, at the all-night donut shop run by a couple of older Filipino ladies.

On the nights where he’s not “gallivanting” over a few dozen donut holes, he’s most likely in the queue, waiting to sing at one of his regular karaoke clubs. With his chest puffing out just a bit, he’d recount how the patrons of the club begged him to sing “just one more song”. The volume of his voice would inexplicably increase as he would describe how people would ask to shake his hand after a particularly moving set of Filipino folk song favorites. Make no mistake, my father’s not a one-trick pony. He’s a musician, too, through to the skin.

Walk into my parents’ house and the first thing you’ll see is a drum set in the living room. A small, electric keyboard is off to the right, next to the silk flower arrangement. Across from the keyboard are a couple of guitars, one electric and one acoustic. A small amplifier is attached securely to a metal luggage wheely-thing with bungee cords. On some weekends, he loads up his blue Toyota Corolla, packs his guitars and his amplifiers, his mics and mic stand and wheels himself off to “gigs”, maybe church or association functions. He enjoys making music and entertaining people.

He’s a good “play” Dad, my father. If I want to know about what mutual funds I should invest in, I’ll call Charles Schwab. If I start to hear a funny pinging sound in my engine, I’ll give the good folks at Art’s Automotive a call. If I want to know about how the new Bay Bridge construction is spiraling out of control, I’ll read the Matier & Ross column in the Chron.

But when I need guitar accompaniment and help on how to put my own special spin on Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man”, my Pops is the only man I’d call.

The Next Filipino Serena Williams

Yesterday, I held a tennis racket in my hand for the first time in seventeen years. The last time I “played” tennis was when I was eight years old in a park by my cousin’s house near the Cow Palace in the City. If you consider hitting a tennis ball against a wall and actually making contact with it twenty-five percent of the time, playing…then I played. In my little eight-year-old delusional mind, I was the next Filipino Chris Everett. In reality, I was just thwacking balls and I spent most of the time chasing after them, swearing like an eight-year-old truck driver (“Fudge! Shoot, dog! Stupid, mother-scrubbin’ball!”).

Perhaps it’s my poor vision but I think it would help my tennis game if the balls were bigger. They’re just too small to see properly, let alone hit. The bright green color helps but if they were the size of say, a bocci ball, I think I’d stand a chance of hitting them. I feel the same way about most sports with small objects as targets—golf, hockey, baseball. Make that ball or puck the size of a small cantaloupe and I might gain proficiency in this lifetime. Watching the games (or matches, tournaments, what have you) on television would certainly be easier for me to follow if I could locate that puck on the ice as easy and as often as a hockey player swings his stick at another player’s head.

My S.O. and I caught the last hour or so of daylight at the courts at Laney College in Oakland. There were two main areas, each area housing five or six courts. The “smoother” courts, the newer ones without cracks in the ground, were occupied. The older courts had a long crack running across them and were obviously less desirable. Balls would invariably hit them and fly off at funny angles (as I would soon discover).

Less prone to fantasy than my younger self and a bit more (but not much more) grounded in reality, I had no desire to embarrass myself with my lack of tennis acumen. In kickboxing class, I often have to look away from beginners still learning, who flail their arms and kick their legs in funky, jerky ways. I lack a good teacher’s patience, one who is willing to slog through an ear-splitting, chalk-board-scratching version of a novice violinist’s “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. As much as I know the learning process is often the richest part of any journey, yesterday, I just wanted to skip it and get to the good stuff already.

I relegated myself to playing on the “Siberian” courts, lest someone view my tennis playing as unforgivingly as I viewed a beginner’s kickboxing. My goals were simple (“See the ball. Hit the ball.”). But increased in complexity (“Hit the ball, over the net”) and specificity (“Hit the ball, over the net, in the court you’re playing on!”).

By the end of it, I hadn’t done as badly as I had anticipated. At least I made racket-to-ball contact, more times than I had when I was eight, anyway. I secretly declared it a worthy sport in my mind and one I wouldn’t mind trying out again despite the fact that I have absolutely no hope of being the next Filipino Serena Williams.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - BETH

What Should I Wear Today?

I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’ve always wondered how that expression, came to be. My sleeve is sometimes long with large cuffs, sometimes blue, sometimes has dry ink or wet snot running down it. Perhaps a stain the dry cleaners (what is Martinizing anyway and can someone PLEASE explain why it costs three times as much to dry clean my slacks as it does the same slacks as a man?) cannot remove and if so, I get a little, colorful sticker placed around the hanger, announcing the inability to remove said stain.

My sleeves can be cotton, silk, spandex and linen, etc. When I wear linen, can you see that my heart worries about the fine lines appearing around my eyes? For example, can a stranger tell what’s in my heart at that moment and I fear aging? Or do they just see a wrinkled, linen sleeve? Do women who wear cotton sleeves have or had (once or twice) the opportunity to use them to absorb semen dribbling down their thighs after making love on a swing set at 2 am in the park? Thank God it’s dark at 2 am and hopefully there is no one around except yourself and your lover to read the emotions on that sleeve.

Occasionally I roll my sleeves up to the elbow. Does that mean I only want you to know half of my heart and I am hiding the precarious part which folds up my deepest secrets? Sometimes I have no sleeves, does that mean I have no heart or does it simply mean for today, I am going to make a brave attempt to let as little emotion be revealed as possible? I think I will try this: sleeveless vs. sleeve – heartless vs. heart – emotionless vs. emotion, as an experiment, yes, a secret experiment. Oops, too late, I’ve just “sleeved” myself and divulged my plan.

It would never work anyway as my girlfriends know my heart. Nice try they would say, but your sleeve is snagged on your ex-boyfriends heart. But don’t worry, once we pull the red thread, it will unravel itself, not only until the snag is gone, but as women together, we continue to gently pull, and the thread un-loops itself enough times that your sleeve will no longer be caught, causing the same rippling and damage as the last blouse you loved so dearly did. The only piece left will be the red fluff reminding you that once you’ve cut the damaged sleeves off (and your best seamstress girlfriend sows the seams together), spring is here and you’re fucking glad that snag was there to begin with (even though you thought you could fix it by yourself, silly girl) because going sleeveless in spring is as wonderful and necessary as wearing sleeves again in the fall!

I’ve decided to ask the cleaners if they can sell me the white, protective pieces of paper they drape over the metal coat hangers. Do you think they will safeguard my heart as well as my sleeves? Alas, those knowledgeable Martinizers will probably secure safety pinned notes (to each piece of tissue paper) stating, “I am sorry, we’ve tried and tried to remove the stain from your garment but have been unsuccessful.” Thank God there are more dry cleaners!

Speaking Softly

Tomorrow I get am getting down with my culture. No, it’s not Pistahan 2005 at the Yerba Buena Gardens. No, I’m not taking a conversational Tagalog class at the local adult school (though it is one of my life’s Must Do list). A Filipino “guru” teaches a kali class by the bird estuary at Lake Merritt. He charges $20 a class and M and I have been looking forward to it all week. Kali is a Filipino, pre-colonial martial art in which you wield a 28-in heat-treated bamboo stick as a weapon. Supposedly, a blind princess invented it and you learn to read a person’s energy to detect their next move before making your own.

It’s quite beautiful to watch, not as violent-looking as you might think. Twirling the stick once, twice, three times, then striking! Wow. If the only thing I learn to do is that, I’d be happy. M’s only taken one class but she already moves through the twelve basic strikes like a pro. She came back from her first kali class, her eyes wide and her head slowly nodding up and down, “It’s fun, May…” As if to say, Uh-oh, I feel a new obsession coming on…After our regular kickboxing class, we duck into the service hall of the gym where they store equipment, hoping we don’t trip the alarm when we bust through the door. I make M stand in front of me so I can ape her movements as she strikes her imaginary enemy’s left shoulder and slices diagonally through his torso. That’s the “one” strike. There are twelve basic strikes, the last ending with a strike that looks similar to a matador’s strike to a bull, stick in one hand, knife in the other, lunging forward with clean stabs to temple and eyes.

Practicing these moves, my body’s tempo slows down and I feel as though I’m moving through molasses. Kali requires me to call upon a different energy. It’s calmer, more controlled, rationed out slowly, like the steady drip of an IV. When I kickbox, my head bobs and weaves, I’m shifting constantly on the balls of my feet; my body’s locomotion fueled by frenetic energy and adrenalin. Four years of practicing muay thai kickboxing and my natural defensive position is to stand left foot in front of right, feet slightly shoulder width apart, shoulders hunched forward. In kali, I’m upright and my shoulders are squared up. My feet inch closer together, for better pivoting. I strike my imaginary opponent’s ankle, then knee (strike nine), pivot, then their other ankle and knee (strike ten), pivot again, then across both knees (strike eleven). The guru says the stick should become an extension of your body and suddenly, miraculously, I feel my arm’s reach become four feet long.

During class, I watch the guru as he and a student perfrom a drill where he follows the student from behind, checks his strike then counterstrikes with a series of blows to the shoulders, knees, and ankles. Muay Thai movements, in comparison, can be so flashy, so over-the-top, with face-crushing knees to the head, flying roundhouses, and bony elbows intent on breaking noses. The guru’s strikes are small, barely perceptible and lightning fast; faster than any jab-cross-hook combination one could ever throw. I am struck by the fluidity and grace of his movements; his body best expressing the art of kali. I observe in silent anticipation, and wonder when I will be become fluent in the same language.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - MARGARET

Dear Readers, Get ready for another treat! It's contagious, no? One's desire to express oneself...It's the little moments I find so interesting. Margaret paid attention to a "little moment" on Saturday and had to share it. And I'm so glad she did! Enjoy.

GUEST CONTRIBUTOR - MARGARET

What I Think About When I Should Be Working

I've had a series of interesting experiences of late. It started with a conversation with Andre which brought into focus the question regarding whether people were inherently good or evil. Why can't we be inherently both? Is Hannah Arendt right when she pondered the "banality of evil"? Evil doesn't have to be on a grand scale, but more importantly it doesn't have to be the choice we make. The conversation reminded me of a story about Wilma Mankiller, the leader of the Cherokee Nation. She was giving a talk and on this occasion she wore a beautiful, ornate choker decorated with two wolves' heads made out of abalone shells. At one point in the evening, a member of the audience asked her what the wolves' heads represented and she said, "One represents good and the other evil." The man then asked, "Which one is winning?" Wilma Mankiller paused and thought for a moment and then replied, "Whichever one I feed the most." Whichever one I feed the most.

Yesterday I was given the opportunity to witness a handful of teenagers chose selflessness over their own desires (or perhaps selflessness was their desire) and it was a humbling experience. It was an invigorating experience. I supervised a donation drive the students organized as part of their Senior Project graduation requirement. Months of preparation went into this event. Numerous little touches from homemade brownies to specially made CDs and a slide show were in place to greet the generous spirits who were to arrive bearing their offerings. However, excited anticipation was in danger of dissolving into disappointment as time ticked by and no crowd showed. Yet the students resisted giving in to such a hopeless emotion. Every new face was met with enthusiasm and gratitude as people trickled in now and again. Between "drop-offs" the students wandered in and out of the school cafeteria where the drive was being held, simply enjoying each other's company.

About an hour and a half into the drive, I found myself looking out the double doors of the cafeteria at the gorgeous day and began wishing I could be outside...especially since we've had so many dreary days recently...how silly...I would simply be inside at KB...but I was giving up my "social hour" I told myself...although I had just seen people earlier that day and knew I was going to see friends Sunday morning...OK then, at least I could have brought papers to grade instead of wasting my time mindlessly waiting for the minutes to tick by.

And then it happened. The kids came back inside and began kicking the balloons that had been scattered about the floor as decoration. The song on the CD changed. It was louder, more upbeat. The kids began running and jumping about...alternating between trying to "nail" each other with the balloons and just trying to keep the balloons from hitting the ground...don't let it touch...now only use your feet...then only heads...the beat of the music kept pace. They leapt and twirled, giggled and screamed with sheer delight. It was contagious. As adults walked in they could not help but smile as they watched the soon-to-be adults behave like the children they still are...and I realized, standing there with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, that by choosing to focus on what I "thought" I was "missing" I almost missed what I actually received that day.

I was once told that the Chinese characters for "mindfulness" actually translate "presence of heart." That is what I witnessed Saturday. We tell our children that they can make a difference if only they act on their good intentions...but what are we, what am I, doing to make a difference? I was not "losing my Saturday," I was sharing theirs. They allowed me to be a part of their day of giving. How foolish I was to bemoan my "lost time." What better way to spend my time?

Po' Folk Like Me

Friday, March 11, 2005 is my last official day at the Company. Monday, March 14, I will be unemployed. Again. It’s my own decision. This time, I can’t blame the Company for laying me off or re-orging me out of a job. This time, I left because the job was not a good fit for me. There were many other compelling reasons, I assure you, but I’ll leave it at that. Being a child of this economy and unfamiliar with the 10, 20, 30-year career employees of yesteryear, I have never considered it a blot on someone’s resume if they have had, shall we say, a dynamic, work history. Of course, a prospective employer may not hold the same opinion.

The prospect of being unemployed does not petrify me, as much as it does most people, I think. I have no outstanding debt or loans, very low rent, no car note, no children, good teeth, good health, good credit and if worse comes to worse, I can survive on baked tofu, cottage cheese, fruit and nuts. And chocolate. Schargenberger chocolate. I know I’ll never be homeless (Hi Mom!) and I know what the state of unemployment feels like. I’ve been there. I’ve lived there. Pretty comfortably, too, all things considered.

First off, there’s no room for pride when you’re on a budget. SBC runs a program called the Universal Lifeline Program. It exists so that low-income residents (po’ folk) can get a significant discount off their phone service. Chanel, a very personable and pleasant service rep, signed me up for it today. She was waaay nicer than I ever was with my customers at the Company. I think I’ll be paying something ridiculous like $2.50 a month. And of course, once you go DSL, you can’t go back to Dial-Up for your Internet access. Two phone calls later, I managed to cut my telecom and Internet budget to warrant a $420 savings by the end of the year. Hey, that’s the price of plane ticket to Machu Picchu!

Second, erase any images of yourself tooling around town in your brand new silver Mini Cooper. Temporarily. I am currently without wheels and for about a minute, entertained the idea of getting a zippy little car that could whisk me and my S.O. away for weekends in the Napa Valley. For now, if I get a jones for a nice bottle of red, I’ll hop into my Mom’s ten-year old Acura and jet on over to my local BevMo. A good trick is to start off with a decent bottle, then work your way down to the Two-Buck-Chuck wines at Trader Joe’s. I’ve found there’s no discernable difference in buzz factor, after four or five glasses.

Third, accept that you’ll have to hustle to make ends meet but enjoy the time off from a “real” job. I’m fortunate that the sweet ladies at Ascot Temporary Services have labeled me a “good” temp. I’ll get assignments here and there, be able to pay rent, and I’ll never take it personally that they’ll never bother to learn my name. Short-term gigs are task-driven and since most temp jobs border on mindless-monkey jobs, you’re free to use that precious surplus brain power to think of that million-dollar idea that will bankroll your retirement. Right now, I’m knocking around an idea that involves me, a webcam and a credit card machine.

Despite the fact that I will be without a regular paycheck indefinitely, I’m not tripping. I may feel like I’m free-falling but I know this is a temporary state. Life can turn on a dime. Just ask me how, the next time you see my chilling on my front stoop with a pocketful of change.

Courtesy Shuttle to Harrah's

How have I managed to go eighteen years without learning how to drive a stick? I have been trolling Craig’s List for the past few days, searching for a replacement for my trusty Honda, and am discovering that, goddamnit, my choices are severely limited when my only option is an automatic. Or as I like to call them, the multi-taskers.

Growing up, we owned several family-type cars, mostly station wagons and vans. Made with the family in mind, our cars were not for the single-girl-or-guy-about-town commercials often showed, zipping down curvy highways, smiling and laughing, all the while shifting smoothly into high gear.

Instead, our cars were marketed for fathers who needed an occasional hand to yank a kid back into the car as they stuck half their body out the window, pretending to be a dog. Or, moms who’d chuck mini-juice boxes behind her with one hand, shove a Chicken McNugget into the mouth of a picky five-year old with the other while still managing to make that next left, turning the wheel with her knee.

When I was growing up, we owned a commercial van, pre-mini-van era. It was a white, very plain, no-nonsense van, not the mini-vans you see today, decked out with luxury features like individual video screens and audio jacks, and (oooh!) cup holders. This van could easily seat fifteen adults or my entire sixth grade volleyball team. When my whole family traveled in it, I imagine we looked like orphaned Asian girls, sponsored by a Christian group, on our way to Disneyland with money raised from charitable donations and bake sales. Once, on a family outing to Reno (“The Biggest Little City in the World”), looking a little older and a little less “Save-the-Children”, a woman stopped us at a red light and asked if we were the courtesy shuttle to Harrah’s.

Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely advantages to driving an automatic. It’s perfect for a lazy driver (like me) who’d rather devote her higher functioning skills to programming radio stations or eating a salad versus worrying about that extra pedal down there, the clutch, I think. My friends with stick shifts swear by them! They would often say their cars are “so much fun to drive!” immediately after making a vroom-vroom sound with their mouths and miming kickin' it into high gear.

Sadly, I can’t relate. My trusty Honda was fuel-efficient, solid, very reliable, but never fun. And I could use a little fun right now. So, I have two action items on the docket in the next few weeks. One: Buy a car. And two: Learn how to drive it.