AVOIDANCE

So my quest to be more creative and introspective in my attempt to get over my painful and abusive marriage has not really been that successful. It's been over a year, and, although there have been happy moments, I have still not managed to move on. My mom told me it's been long enough, and I need to snap out of it. My intellectual side agrees, but my emotional side tells me it needs more time to heal. I feel like I've reached rock bottom as I am now unemployed, broke, and moving in with the parents in the suburbs. I am hoping this time with no obligations will be a healing intermission, but a small part of me believes it is the end.

Expressing my feelings without the need to pretend to be happy for my loved ones, who worry about me, is difficult. So, I tried to express through poetry what I am actually feeling at this time. Hopefully, I can write more frequently, whether poetry or just thoughts or memories, and one day look back on this time as temporary. I'm no poet, but here it is:

RUNNING

How far can I run?
Can I run and hide from him?
Can I hide from all those previously held close, retreating to within? ‘Til they no longer know me, seeing only the false cloak.
Can I hide from myself, replacing sorrow with blankness? ‘Til I no longer know me, remembering nothing, feeling nothing.
I need to run. Run and hide. Stay in bed, cease contact, ‘til all have forgotten me. Forgotten the real me and forgotten the idea of me.
I need to run. Leave the scene. Leave the house that never became a home. The place of fear and shame and black and blue.
I need to run. Try to belong. Seek understanding from those who have no room. Another failed attempt at life.
I need to run. Move away. Remove myself from a script and cast to which I no longer belong. Forget the hopes and dreams I once had too.
I need to run. To a faraway place. Wrap myself in new perspectives and the lives of others. Do everything differently.
How far must I run to make a new life? Until I no longer look at every passerby, hoping it is not him. Until I hear a phone ring and think of something other than him. Until I feel safe. Until I feel whole despite the half I lost. Until I can feel happiness without envy. Until I rise beyond the ego of despair. Until I become someone new.
Run and hide, run and hide. ‘Til I reach the end of the road. Holding my own hand – for better or for worse. Keep running ‘til there’s nowhere left to hide.

Cattle Auction

So I really am almost off for my vacation. But I am trying to finish all my last minute work and packing and, despite all I have to do, cannot help but turn to the Internet for a little procrastination.

I'm writing to introduce big news: Tonight I joined Match.com. This may not really be big news because I'm guessing nothing will come of it. My problem with on-line dating is that it just feels too darn much like a cattle auction. Preferred body type? check a box. Hair color? check a box. Eye color? check a box. Religion? check a box. On and on and on and on.

One problem I have with the notion of "choosing the characteristics of your ideal date" is that it takes all the fun away from dating. That guy who struck up the most interesting conversation with you, the guy with whom you later fell in love, just might not meet all your theoretical "ideal traits in a mate." If you had looked for him on an Internet dating site, you never would have found him. Half the fun of falling in love is the surprise of it. And there's nothing more boring than perfection.

The bigger problem I have with on-line dating is that all the men in San Francisco seem to have such unattainable standards (for me). They all seem to be looking for girls with "athletic and toned" or "slender" body types. The "just average" box never seems to be checked, let alone the "few extra pounds," "curvy" or"full figured" boxes (by the way, can someone please tell me what the difference is between "curvy" and "big and beautiful" and "full figured"? I could barely even figure out how to honestly fill out my own profile .... geez!) Unless you work out more than 5 times a week, have a brilliant fashion sense, make six figures but still have the time to create gourmet meals and excel at numerous hobbies, it seems there are not many guys on match.com who are looking for you.

What's a girl to do?!

The Key to Proper Breathing

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the places and moments that take our breath away." (- ANONYMOUS)

I read this quote the other day, and it really spoke to me: It felt like I was reading my own previously-unspoken mantra. I've never wished for extreme longevity; rather, my true desire is to fully experience life from as many perspectives as possible. Gathering memories has always been more important to me than excercising caution. I am an obsessive observer, an ADD wanderer, a nomadic soul.

Those of you who share this particular personality quirk know exactly what I am talking about. We recognize each other immediately and embrace our shared spirit. We are the teenagers who obsessively planned the high school class trip and spring break getaways; the young adults who left home with backpacks full of tank tops and dollar bills, stowed away on trains, slept next to strangers at youth hostels, purchased only deck passage on 12 hour ferry rides, never made hotel reservations, washed our clothes in sinks, camped without tents, and always talked to strangers. We are the working professionals who plan a dream vacation once a year - just so we can have something to look forward to and get us through the rest of the year. We are the travel addicts.

This year my dream vacation is about to commence. And I can't believe it is really here. In three days, I am "leaving on a jet plane" to Brazil. A week in Juquehy, a beach town frequented by locals from nearby Sao Paulo ("Paolistas"), followed by three days in Rio, and three days up north in Salvador. This will be my first trip to South America after years of traveling Asia and Europe. I have no idea what to expect, I don't speak a word of the language, and I am ecstatically excited. Looking forward to this vacation has gotten me through some very tough months - and it is finally here.

I'm taking this trip with my dear friend, Laura (or "Lowra" as she is known by Brazilians). If there ever was a person with even more of a travel bug than me, it is Laura. The first time I met her I knew we would be friends. "I'm thinking about taking a trip to Peru one day," I randomly told her (a wished-for trip that never became reality). "Peru is great" she enthused in response, going on to tell me how she had trekked to Machu Picchu, partied like a rockstar in Lima, and eaten guinea pig in Cusco. I instantly recognized a kindred soul - the type of person who cares how "interesting" a travel destination is rather than how "luxurious" it is. And we did indeed become fast friends; we were already linked by a shared spirit of adventure.

When I look back on my most memorable life experiences - not many occurred at home. There was backpacking through Italy and Greece (making out with a hot Australian guy named Paulo by a fountain in Rome, showing up in the village of Riomaggiore and asking the locals for a place to stay ("my friend Mario's house"), sleeping on ferry decks hugging my bag close to me after watching thieves throw another's bag overboard, having my hair bleached to white blonde by the beaches in Greece, techno blaring on the beaches of Ios, classical music during sunsets at Santorini); my 21st birthday at Carnavale in Venice (missing curfew at the convent hostel and getting yelled at by nuns, finding my friend being carried away on a stretcher to the local red cross, having bottles and bottles and bottles of wine bought for me by strangers in honor of my reaching "the legal drinking age" (of America only, of course)); the trip to Ireland with my mom, grandma and a friend (getting kidnapped by an adorable Irishman who became a violent drunk, being proposed to by an even more adorable Irishman named "Kerry," kissing the blarney stone, gazing in awe at the political murals in Belfast); my post-college trip to India (clubbing with Bollywood stars in Bombay, having to reject the amorous advances of an extremely hot professional cricket player because I had a bf back home, drinking chai from dirty glasses in the home of a villager, hiking up the plateau at sunset to see the monkeys, daily morning yoga followed by spiced coffee); the best-forgotten, but still amazing honeymoon to Thailand and the Philippines (tuk tuks in Chiang Mai, a blessing from a monk at a hillside temple, riding an elephant through a river, the Jim Thompson store!, snorkeling and kayaking and scuba diving and fishing and a spontaneous karaoke party with new friends in Palawan). These are just a few of the moments in my life that" took my breath away."

Monotony is boredom, perspective is everything, travel is enlightenment. Because there is truth in every religion, sacred traditions in every culture, kindred spirits beyond borders. Here's to all the people who share these ideals with me! (you fit this bill if you plan your next vacation based on what country you have not yet traveled to) And here's to my soon-to-come vacation to Brazil! Hopefully, I will return with new memories, more exciting blog topics, a tan, and a heart that has mended just a little bit more (preferable accompanied by learning to sleep again). Finally, here's to 2009! As my friend Matt has been telling me, "everything will be fine in O Nine." And I believe him. Because every day my breathing (and my heart) returns a little closer to normal.

The Coolest Job Ever (and Perhaps My Soulmate)

Obama has a speechwriter who is 27-years old and writes at Starbucks. That has to be the best gig ever!

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/12/17/AR2008121703903.html?g=1

"He looks like he's in college and everybody calls him Favs, so you're like, 'This guy can't be for real, right?' " said Ben Rhodes, another Obama speechwriter. "But it doesn't take long to realize that he's totally synced up with Obama. . . . He has access to everything and everybody. There's a lot weighing on his shoulders."

Please hook me up with your job, Favs. I like coffee, and I really like Obama. I'm doubly qualified for that job ... I think.... well, maybe.

On another note, are you single, Favs? Everyone who knows me well will tell you we are extremely compatible based on this:

"He moves while he writes to avoid becoming stale -- from the Starbucks, to his windowless transition office, to his new, one-bedroom condo, where the only furniture in place is a blow-up mattress on the hardwood floor. He sometimes writes until 2 or 3 a.m., fueled by double espresso shots and Red Bull. When deadline nears, a speech consumes him until he works 16-hour days and forgets to call home, do his laundry or pay his bills. He calls it 'crashing.'"

That's me, exactly! (Except I have better furniture, which I'm willing to share). So Favs, how about it - a job maybe? or at least a date? Maybe we can do some laundry and pay our bills together .... super romantic. xxxooo Kim

P.S. Jeff - if Favs drops me a line, then we're definitely moving to D.C.
P.P.S. Sorry for not calling lately, Mom. I've just been "crashing." I promise I'll return the 4 voicemails you left me as soon as I can!

How I Love Thee, Let Me Count The Ways...

I'm starting to realize that life in San Francisco is not always easy. In fact, sometimes it's just downright hard. Don't get me wrong, it is unquestionably the most beautiful city in the world (or at least in the U.S.). The other day I was walking home from work and saw a sunset that literally took my breath away (or that might have been caused by the huge hill I had just walked up). The sky was streaked with orange and pink, the bay was just ahead of me, over the next hill. The guy walking in front of me exclaimed, "mmmm hmmmmm.....now that is one heck of a beautiful sunset!" And I couldn't help but smile.

We have a million restaurants to choose from, Napa is only an hour away, we can easily jet to Tahoe for a weekend of skiiing (or, in my case, hot tubbing and sitting by a fire watching snow and being thankful that I don't have to live in it), a multitude of museums are at our doorsteps, we hear French and Chinese and Spanish and Portuguese on a regular basis walking down any thoroughfare, the protest spirit is alive and well, the golden gate bridge and the bay and the coastline up highway 1 north are as beautiful as ever. The unexpected views at the top of each hill still take my breath away even after seven years of living here. Yes, San Francisco is a truly great city.

But it's also a city where $2000 a month gets you a one-bedroom apartment without parking rather than the mortgage for a 2000 square foot house of your own. That is, if you can even get an apartment after working to make your "housing resume" more impressive than the thirty other people who show up at the open house. The last time I tried to apply for a new apartment, the rental agent laughed at me, "we rented that five minutes after the open house....there were eight applicants immediately." (And that was to rent a 600 square feet one-bedroom in far away Diamond Heights for $2,500 per month.) Then, there was the "garden apartment" on Macondray Lane that canceled the open house after the first person to show up paid the $7000 security deposit on the spot. My friends Molly and James were rejected from an apartment despite having the salaries of two lawyers. They were not selected because they aren't a "couple," and the landlord preferred to lower the rent rather than rent to transitory singles. When they heard this, they wished they had thought to pantomime a fake love relationship. But it was too late. To directly quote the rental agent, the next apartment they looked at had a "lovely, romantic bathroom" with shockingly hot pink 80s style decor. (The next time I went apartment hunting, I begged my friend to pretend to be a lesbian couple with me in an attempt to avoid such a debacle.) And then there was the time I tried to get an apartment in Noe Valley, aka "Sesame Street." Every livable apartment my two roomies and I found was instantly snatched up by a yuppie couple with an adorable baby. "You can feel free to apply," the haughty rental agent told us, "but we're really looking for a nice family to live here." Oh, the injustices of apartment-living in San Francisco. Three-fourths of the owners will charge you your first born child to live there only to impose so many rules upon you that you feel like you're living in your parents' basement, an option that would be cost free: no parties, cover the floors with carpets, no waterbeds, no sex, no smoking even outdoors, no use of the laundry facilities after 9 pm (9 pm! I'm not even home from work by 9pm), the landlord may enter at any time (my building manager once showed up with two Asian businessmen when I was just out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel, and had the audacity to request that I show my apartment to the "new owners"!), etc. etc. etc. Most SF apartments were last remodeled sometime in the 1970s (if you're lucky). "This [ugly] tile is original to the building," the manager will tell you. Finding a dishwasher, parking and in-unit laundry is a completely lost cause, no matter how much you're willing to pay. What a racket! I count my lucky stars every day for my current adorable 700 square foot Russian Hill one-bedroom, thanking God that I (barely) won that battle in my divorce process.

Well, to make the money to pay the high rent (forget about buying a place unless you're a millionaire or moved to the city more than 10 years ago), we San Franciscanites are forced to work all the time. (Taking a non-profit job is a noble goal, but only if you are willing to live somewhere "across the bay bridge.") As a result, seeing your friends once a month is considered "frequent" because everyone is too busy working to have much free time. Work, work, work. But not much to show for it because all our money is quickly gobbled up by the expensive restaurants that are the usual night out, the costly spa treatments and weekend getaways necessary to "relieve our stress," the aforementioned huge rent that is money thrown down the drain, and the cost of convenience items like cleaning services and take-out food. The first question a San Francisco local will ask is "what do you do for a living?" Because none of us have anything else to talk about besides work.

It's also a city where there is no parking and having a car means $200 a month in parking tickets, making it more prudent to get rid of your car entirely, particularly after having to pay $600 to get your car out after it has been towed by the mafia-controlled city towing contractor (your cries of "I never saw any 'no parking' sign" will have no effect). A city without a fast subway city where the city buses take forever to get anywhere, and where riding the bus means being subjected to teenagers cussing and smoking marijuana in the back seats, the "dancing machine" (a crazy homeless guy) dancing, and another homeless man screaming about Bush's foreign policy debacles at the top of his lungs at 7:30 a.m., a time that is way too early for such verbal assaults. The latter was my most memorable San Francisco bus experience. I literally thought the bus was being hijacked as a rough looking man entered the bus screaming at the top of his lungs, "Attention everyone... George W. Bush is a terrorist!" On and on he screamed.... preaching to the choir as not a single person on a San Francisco public bus is a "Dubyah" supporter. In true San Francisco style, we all avoided eye contact, hoping the crazy homeless guy would leave us alone. Finally, a frustrated fellow passenger, a woman attired in business casual on her way to work replied, "Buddy, you think George Bush is a terrorist...well, you're terrorizing us!" This exchange took place on the Yuppie line, the Russian Hill to Financial District 45 Union - not a line where you would expect much action to take place. I won't even start to tell tales from my two years riding the 5 Fulton, Western Addition to the Tenderloin, line during law school. Those tales would fill a novel that I have no time to write.

The cost of living, lack of transportation, homeless people constantly pan handling or peeing in the middle of the street, fog, wind, earthquakes....the dot com crash, followed by the mortgage and investment bank crash, followed by layoffs left and right and six percent unemployment. Sometimes it is downright stressful living here.

So, you might ask, "why do you stay in San Fran? Why not just move?" The answer is simple - "I can't." San Francisco is as addictive as the most dangerous drug. The streets of the Tenderloin are not only full of crack: San Francisco is my crack. I am addicted. Without the culture and spirit and vistas and weather and hippies and protesters and diversity, I would suffer a withdrawal too extreme to ponder. So, stay I must.

To be honest, the bad things about living here do not often cross my mind. It's only lately, when I've become angst-ridden enough to write a blog, that I've begun pondering the purpose and quality of my life. I've thought about moving (see below posting about the Marina). I've begged my friends to move with me in a group exodus to another city where single, straight men are more plentiful and the cost of living more affordable. "We could move to D.C.," my friend Jeff suggested. "D.C. kind of sucks, Jeff," I replied (no offense to my friends living there). "No it's not - Georgetown is great," he urged. "What about the remaining 3/4s of the city?" I asked. No comment. NYC - too many single women; Chicago - too cold (for me); Phoenix - too hot (for me) and a red state to boot; the South - too scary (for me). The truth is each of these cities could be the most wonderful place on earth. But I can't move there. San Francisco is my drug of choice, and I'm as addicted as they come. How I love thee, let me count the ways....

But seriously, this posting started as a way to try to get me some free Zipcard dollars. Lately, I've been exploring ways to ease the burden of my "ever so difficult" life in the city (that was tongue in cheek - I've got it good, and I know it). Here are some of my new favs for making life just a little bit easier:

(1) Zipcar! I'm so happy I got rid of my car. I saved $400 per month for garaged parking, $200 per month in parking tix, an immeasurable amount of money for insurance and gas and gained one hour per day in time as I never have to look for parking. There is a Zipcar lot two blocks from my home and another right across the street from my work. Plus, I can try out every type of car imaginable, feel like I'm saving the environment, and can use Zipcar in tons of other U.S. cities when travelling. If you're not a member yet, click here so we can both get some free driving time:



(2) Crystal Cleaners (415.292.6889): The other day I found myself with literally five loads of laundry to do plus 3 suits that needed dry cleaning. I had zero time and zero quarters. They picked up my clothes at 6:30 pm and dropped them all off pristinely clean at 7:30 pm the next day. Heaven in a laundry bag!

(3) Aimee, Andrew & Co. Caterers (2238 Polk Street, Polk & Green): I walked by this place for literally two years before I finally went inside two night ago on my way home from work. Now, I am a convert. This place has tons of prepared foods that you take home and microwave or stick in the oven. You can choose an entree and two sides and they put it in a microwaveable or oven-proof container, you take it home, heat and voila! It's not as if the food is that good (I really don't know if it is yet). The important thing is that the place has a lot of healthy options. Two nights ago, I selected boneless, skinless jerk chicken with a side of broccoli and some roasted potatoes. Except for the potatoes (I should have forced myself to choose the brown rice), it was a very healthy meal, and the portions were generous enough that it provided me with dinner for two nights. I am going to try to make this one a habit for whenever I don't have time to cook. Better than the temptations of Chinese or pizza delivery!

(4) Safeway.com: No explanation needed. Groceries delivered.

(5) Yelp.com, Craigslist.org & Amazon.com: Find everything else.

I'm still looking for the "easy way" to find a date, but haven't had any luck so far. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, cheers to city living!

Why?

Why do men always want what they can't have? Why? It makes no sense to me.

There's Nothing More Relative Than Age

Have you ever noticed that, no matter what age you are, there are always times when you feel like you're still a child, whereas other times you feel "over the hill"? Intellectually, I know that I am still young - not even 30 yet. But there are times when I feel like my heyday has passed. For instance, watching my friends live milestones, like having their first child, that seem to have just passed me by. Or trying to find people to go out to bars with on a Saturday night, just to realize that most of my friends have outgrown my favorite pastime. On the other hand, put me in a room full of businessmen, and I suddenly feel unsophisticated and young. Or a family reunion - my grandmother still calls me one of the "kids" and makes me feel like I'm 12 again.

Last night, however, I felt depressingly old. My friend Mike from college was visiting, and he wanted to go out in the infamous "Marina," land of anorexic college students with died blonde hair and overgrown frat boys. I thought, "what the heck. I'm single now. Might as well go out and see if I can meet some people." Plus anything would be better than sitting on my couch wallowing in depression. So I agreed to give it a try.

The bar we ended up in was the typical Marina Bar. Generic atmosphere with nothing in the way of decor, except for 21 year old girls decked out in their skimpiest clothes. (Now, I am not making fun of these girls. I admit there was a time when I too would put on a mini-skirt and a backless tank top during 30 degree weather to hit the clubs. All I'm saying is that my time for that has long passed.) I walked past a row of guys having the average age of perhaps 24 at the most and sat myself on a bar stool in the corner, feeling like an old hag. Then, a man came towards me smiling. "He's almost my age," I thought as I ordered a drink. "What kind of Hangar do you recommend," I asked the only person in the bar who would speak to me. "The mandarin is really good with soda," he replied (and it was). "Great," I thought, "looks like I made a new friend." However, my new friend was actually the bartender. The person I was tipping was the only male in the place who gave me a second glance.

On the other hand, my friend Mike was instantly popular with the ladies. There's nothing more enticing to young 20-something girls than an attractive, successful 30 year old man. In contrast, the only thing on a 22 year old guy's mind is a younger girl (except for the odd guy with a "cougar" fetish, and I like to think I have not yet reached that status yet). Mike instantly engaged a waifishly thin 22 year old art student in conversation. She was hanging on his every word, looking like she won the Marina lottery. I was stuck in the corner, my only conversation consisting of small talk with my new friend the bartender about how good my mandarin Hangar and soda was and some chitchat from the college student sitting next to me (the deserted friend of the girl who was flirting with Mike). The latter conversation made me feel even older. It went something like this:

Kim: So what are the fun bars around here?
Marina girl: Oh, I don't really know. I'm not from here.
Kim: Where are you from?
Marina girl: Florida.
Kim: How long are you visiting for?
Marina girl: I'm not visiting. I go to school here. I go to the SF Art Institute.
Kim: [Thinks to herself, oops ... forgot that Marina girls are young enough to still be in college.] Ohhh ... that's fascinating [lying through my teeth]. I always wished I had artistic talent.
Marina girl: Actually, I study advertising.
Kim: Interesting [lying through my teeth again]. So what other bars do you like to go to? [I seriously could not think of anything to speak to a college student about except bars]
Marina girl: It really depends on the night. You never know where "the scene" will be on a particular night.
Kim: [is too old to really be looking for "scenes" anymore. Cannot think of anything else to say to a Marina college girl. Moment of silence ensues].
Marina girl: [Turns away to speak to the frat guy on the bar stool next to her who is oogling her].
Kim: [Sits in silence chugging her drink so she can leave faster].

Now does that sound like a fun evening or what? When I left the bar, I felt very, very old. Obviously too old to even attempt to hit on a guy at a Marina Bar (that is, if I wanted to). I went home and shed a few tears, feeling truly over the hill.

When I woke up, I was sober again (with a pounding headache, but sober nonetheless). I thought to myself, break out of this funk, Kim. I walked down Polk street to grab some coffee, looking at the 30-somethings frolicking around me. I realized again that I really was still young. In fact, my life has only really just begun, and I know I have lots to look forward to.

So, there are two morals to this sad tale. (1) Age is always relative. You can feel like a child again in some situations and "older than dirt" in others. (2) Don't go out in the Marina District of San Francisco if you want to feel young (unless you still require a fake ID, that is).