Wired
One of the nice things about an untraceable journal read only by strangers, virtual strangers, or real-life friends who know you and know you aren't a drama queen is that you can revert to your inner high schooler and write things like the following sentence: I am in the grip of a near-crippling depression right now. Scratch that. It isn't crippling, just very palpable and very inconvenient. No, I am not suicidal, nor am I being self-destructive. I realize it is all hormonal, all chemical, and that nothing (save my brain) is really wrong. I'm just having a hard time right now, and I think it's time to have some compassion for myself and to get back on the medication I apparently need in order to function. The funny thing is that everything outside my brain and in my life is beautiful. I love lots of people and they love me. My husband is lovable and supportive and wonderful. I love my job, my new apartment, etc etc etc. I miss my over-working husband and it feels like I haven't seen him in weeks, but mostly the extrinsic stuff is awesome. It's just my wiring that's a bit off. Yoga isn't helping, walking isn't helping, acupuncture isn't helping. Eating tons of leftover chocolate frosting from the man's birthday sure as hell isn't helping. So drugs, it seems, is what I have to do.
**
This weekend while celebrating the man's real birthday, we went for a walk in Golden Gate Park. We neared Stow Lake for a bit of canoodling and duck-feeding when we heard some twanging electric guitar that seemed oddly out of place, coming , it seemed, from the Japanese tea Garden. We puzzled for a while over whether they now offered live music with their tea and sesame cookies, but as we got closer it seemed clear that the tea place wasn't the source of the twang. I said (hopefully no offense to anyone reading who may like this sort of thing), "It's probably just some loser doing solo guitar covers of Grateful Dead songs for change." But as we walked deeper into the park and the source of the noise became clearer, we began to hear not only a full band but also the cheers of a metric butt-ton of hippies. Because, that's right, folks: it was Earth Day in the Park, starring none other than Bob Weir.
It was a loser paying Grateful Dead covers! Sometimes my sensory powers amaze even me.
Now, I have nothing against Earth Day. I love this planet and I like to think I do my part from causing it undue harm. I also support smiling,dancing, happy, tripped-out people, god love 'em. They're part of what makes my City great. I just don't like the Dead. They don't do it for me and their fans, alas, don't really do it for me either.
Exhibit A: In the short time I sat and listened to an extended jam version of "Dear Prudence" I counted not one, not three, but FIVE un-neutered dogs. That's ten little doggie testes, for you Joe Bob Briggs fans who are counting out there. Ten testes, six of them on large pitbulls. I don't know. I see a doggie who hasn't been fixed and I immediately stamp the owner irresonsible. If that doggie is a pitbull, then doubly so. Yes, I'm a judgmental bastard. My formative punk rock roots run deep. So shoot me.
Exhibit B: A close relative who used to have a drug problem had a medium-term back-stage "affair" with the Grateful Dead member in question and if that isn't enough to give me the jeebs when I see him then I don't know what is.
***
Kitchen :
A baby pigeon has hatched on my back landing. The mother still flies away every time I open the door to take out the garbage. She eyes me warily whenever I poke my head up to look through the window at her and her brood of one. Even after I put out a saucer of sesame seeds for her, she hates me. I know she's got a bird brain and she's wired for mistrust, but I'd hoped the feast would make her feel a bit more at ease. Delusional, yes. But I'll never give up my dream of being Snow White trilling a gay tune while surrounded by a bunch of mangey urban creatures.
Speaking of mangey, the kim chee I have been fermenting on my counter for the last ten days is now, according to the recipe, good to go. I hope so. I love kim chee and I'd like the yucky kitchen stank to have been worth the trouble.
***
And so it goes. We saw Air last night at the Masonic Auditorium and they rocked the tight white jeans as only two Frenchmen can do. I'm off to do more of the dreaded unpacking and cleaning and perhaps a new duvet for my little empty nest.
**
This weekend while celebrating the man's real birthday, we went for a walk in Golden Gate Park. We neared Stow Lake for a bit of canoodling and duck-feeding when we heard some twanging electric guitar that seemed oddly out of place, coming , it seemed, from the Japanese tea Garden. We puzzled for a while over whether they now offered live music with their tea and sesame cookies, but as we got closer it seemed clear that the tea place wasn't the source of the twang. I said (hopefully no offense to anyone reading who may like this sort of thing), "It's probably just some loser doing solo guitar covers of Grateful Dead songs for change." But as we walked deeper into the park and the source of the noise became clearer, we began to hear not only a full band but also the cheers of a metric butt-ton of hippies. Because, that's right, folks: it was Earth Day in the Park, starring none other than Bob Weir.
It was a loser paying Grateful Dead covers! Sometimes my sensory powers amaze even me.
Now, I have nothing against Earth Day. I love this planet and I like to think I do my part from causing it undue harm. I also support smiling,dancing, happy, tripped-out people, god love 'em. They're part of what makes my City great. I just don't like the Dead. They don't do it for me and their fans, alas, don't really do it for me either.
Exhibit A: In the short time I sat and listened to an extended jam version of "Dear Prudence" I counted not one, not three, but FIVE un-neutered dogs. That's ten little doggie testes, for you Joe Bob Briggs fans who are counting out there. Ten testes, six of them on large pitbulls. I don't know. I see a doggie who hasn't been fixed and I immediately stamp the owner irresonsible. If that doggie is a pitbull, then doubly so. Yes, I'm a judgmental bastard. My formative punk rock roots run deep. So shoot me.
Exhibit B: A close relative who used to have a drug problem had a medium-term back-stage "affair" with the Grateful Dead member in question and if that isn't enough to give me the jeebs when I see him then I don't know what is.
***
Kitchen :
A baby pigeon has hatched on my back landing. The mother still flies away every time I open the door to take out the garbage. She eyes me warily whenever I poke my head up to look through the window at her and her brood of one. Even after I put out a saucer of sesame seeds for her, she hates me. I know she's got a bird brain and she's wired for mistrust, but I'd hoped the feast would make her feel a bit more at ease. Delusional, yes. But I'll never give up my dream of being Snow White trilling a gay tune while surrounded by a bunch of mangey urban creatures.
Speaking of mangey, the kim chee I have been fermenting on my counter for the last ten days is now, according to the recipe, good to go. I hope so. I love kim chee and I'd like the yucky kitchen stank to have been worth the trouble.
***
And so it goes. We saw Air last night at the Masonic Auditorium and they rocked the tight white jeans as only two Frenchmen can do. I'm off to do more of the dreaded unpacking and cleaning and perhaps a new duvet for my little empty nest.