Not as Bitchin' As You Think You Are (Part 1 of Many)

Walk a mile

My feet hurt.  Both of them.  Every day.  It’s because I wear heels 9 hours a day, five days a week.  Maybe more accurately, I choose to wear heels 9 hours a day, five days a week.  There’s nothing in my job description that says I MUST wear heels every day.  There’s nobody out there who will tell me my shoes aren’t within regulation.  There’s no rule that says I have to wear suntanned colored panty hose instead of nude or taupe or black with my heels.  My boss will never come to me and say, “Hey, I’m not sure those heels are 2 and ¼ inch high.  Can you change them?”  There is no policy dictating my choice in footwear.  I choose to wear them.  Professionalism.   Desire.  Image.  There’s a lot of reasons.  But all of those reasons are by choice. 

Judgment

I’m very aware of my shoes.  That’s why I insist that people compliment them at the beginning of every conversation.  Basically, it translates to “like my shoes, or you aren’t getting shit from me.” But let’s be honest, my shoes are marginal, at best.  But, in my twisted perspective, if you acknowledge my shoes, you acknowledge my journey.  People who know me the best, know that’s what I want.  That and really good shoes.  Since I can’t afford really good shoes, I’ll accept meaningless compliments about the one’s I can afford.  That’s also true for my life.  I can’t afford a really good one, so at least acknowledge the one I’ve made with what I’ve got.  It’s symbolic of the metaphor  “walk a mile in my shoes.” 

And if, in the off chance, you don’t feel obligated enough to compliment my shoes, judgment always slips in.  I really want people to admire my shoes.  I want others to walk down my path.  I want people to acknowledge my journey.  But when other people want to share their experiences with me, I get real ambivalent.  Oh, you’re trying to save money to ensure a better future for your family?  Take your six figure income and move on.  Or, maybe, you’re having a hard time with your child?  Try to do it by yourself.  And, my favorite, you hate a job you only have to put in a solid 10 hours in a week at?  Huh.  My deepest condolences.  I get real critical when people want to tell me about their struggles.  But for the love of God, those people better respect mine. 

Humility

Then, sometimes, shit gets real.  Sometimes, real people with real troubles cross my path.  When I meet those people, I am humbled immediately.  These are the people who make me eat every word I’ve ever uttered. These are the people who have been dealt a really ugly hand, and still, come up all aces.  Like my friend Albie who first walked into my life almost four years ago.  And the first day I met him, I hated him.  He said “I need to see a doctor.”  I looked at the fins in the wings he wore on his uniform, and I said “in two weeks.”  I don’t like rescue swimmers.  They are arrogant and entitled and real demanding.  I looked at the wings on his left chest and I got real indignant.  I actually said to Albie in one of our first encounters “You can’t walk because you spent 20 years jumping out of helicopters.”  As if, by choosing to be a hero, he deserved to sacrifice his body and his lifestyle.  Like the 20 years he spent jumping out of helicopters in to frigid and hostile waters, to save the lives of people he had never met before, or would never meet again, warranted the 20 surgeries that will guarantee lifelong disability. 

Shoes

There were many before Albie.  There have been many since Albie.  There are MANY people who remind me that the shoes we wear are not important, but the road we travel in those shoes is what’s important.  The six-year old girl, with the bald head and an elbow implant.  The family orphaned by a terminal father.  The young man who’s hand I held steady while he wrote his name on the top of a duty status chit.  The man who I had expected to be my boss one day, paralyzed in a random accident , who’s fate was conveyed to me in a late night text message from the hospital:  “you might want to start grooming a new boss.”  The kid with pilot’s wings, who didn’t even look old enough to drive a car, much less an aircraft, who walked through the door with a career ending injury and an honest laugh.  Those are the people who remind me about shoes.  Their shoes are the biggest shoes to fill. 

Anyway, back to Albie.  After I got over my stigma about swimmers.  After I stopped judging him because of the stereotype.  After I stopped expecting him to be a dick as a result of his trade, we became friends.  One day, at lunch, I asked him “How do you cope with all of this?“  He looked at me and confessed:  “My dad used to tell me when I was growing up ‘You aren’t as bitchin’ as you think you are.’  He was right.”  And my world stopped.  I thought to myself “Whaaaatttttt??????”  So let me get this straight.  Other people have walked in my shoes.  Other people have traveled my journey?  I’m not the ONLY person to ever feel pain or beat adversity or have fought the good fight?  (whatever the fuck that means.)  But most importantly, I thought “I’m not as bitchin as I think I am.”  And neither are my shoes. 

-Inner Peas

Today

Yesterday, I woke up and I felt good.  For the first time in a long time, I woke up in the morning and I wasn’t afraid for my feet to touch the floor.  It sounds silly to most people, but I hate the mornings a lot.  And I’m scared of what is going to happen after my feet touch the floor.  Because as soon as my feet  feel the carpet under my bed, shit gets real.  First I have to get into the shower and I brush my teeth and wash my hair. Then, when I’m done with the incidentals, I let the water rush over me.   I think about what the day will bring.  I think about the things I need to get accomplished.  I think about the people I will have to encounter.  That’s when panic takes over  my consciousness.  I don’t remember a time that I have woken up, gotten into the shower, and then realized that the anxiety wasn’t so fierce, it made me puke.  Every day.  That’s how I wake up.  Then, after I find the strength to stop heaving, towel off, get dressed and I crawl into bed with Radley and I talk and sing to him, in the hopes that he’ll wake up without argument.  Those few minutes with my son, in the breaking daylight, calm me before the anxiety starts again.  Because as soon as we are out of bed, and making our way down the hallway, I know I’m just seconds away from fighting more battles.  Wash your face.  Brush your teeth.  Get dressed.  The same arguments.  Every morning.  the anxiety builds.  My mind is already exhausted by the time I back out of my driveway at 6:35.  That’s how I wake up every day. 

Anyway, back to yesterday. Yesterday, I woke up and I felt different.  I felt good.  No looming fear.  No dismal outlook on the day.  I woke up and I wasn’t afraid to get out of bed.  So, I did that.  I got out of bed and I was going to do things.  I was going to do the dishes.  I was going to get groceries.  I was going to fold laundry.  I was going to stop loving people who will never love me back.  I was going to go to mailbox and get the bills.  I wasn’t going to be afraid of paying the bills.  I was going to go to a party with many people I love.  At 7:AM yesterday morning, I believed I could do it.  All of it.  And as a reward for all of this motivation and positive energy, I was going to get a massage.  I think that may have been a mistake.  After I got some chores done in the morning, and I got my costume ready for the party, and I walked down to get my massage.  I was real excited.  I don’t get my hair done.  I don’t get my toes did.  I squeeze every last drop out of my makeup.  I don’t splurge.  So, a massage is pretty lavish.  I was gonna own it. 

Still real excited, I undressed and got under the sheet.  I laid face down.  Bambi, my masseuse, told me “relax and don’t think about anything.”  What the fuck?  Are you massage people messing with me?  Did you tell me to not think about anything?  Really?  Clearly, your brain doesn’t work like mine works.  Because when you tell me not to think, I’m just going to think more.  OK.  So I got over that.  And I enjoyed my massage.  Two hours later, Bambi said “take your time getting up.  Keep yourself hydrated.”  After it was over, I did not take my time getting up.  I stood up, real light headed, and got dressed.  She tried to make some small talk, but I couldn’t get out of that place quick enough. 

I stumbled, I staggered.  I hyperventilated.  By the time I got home, I was I was in the midst of a panic attack.  I found the good sense to text a friend and say “please tell everyone I’m sorry I can’t make it tonight.  I have a headache.”  Immediately after that I texted someone who get’s it.  I begged her to tell me that I don’t suck.  She did.  She told me a lot of other things, too.  She told me that sometimes you don’t need to go out.  She told me that I deal with enough people during the week that I don’t need to do it on my night off.  She told me to breath.  I did.  And I felt a little better. 

I still felt guilty, though.  Not so much because anybody missed me at that party, but today was going to  be different.  Today was supposed to be day that I stopped fearing the ordinary.  I was supposed to go out and embrace life.  I should have gone out and laughed with my friends, but instead, I closed myself off even more. 

When I had that monumental meltdown back in the spring, I vowed to change my life, my perspective, my actions.  But I’m still doing the same thing every day.  I don’t know if that’s progress or insanity. 

Beacons

There was a time in my life when the idea of leadership was as arbitrary as the national deficit.  I realize that makes me sound pretty unsophisticated.  The whole statement.  But let’s be honest, I live on an income that keeps me clinging, at best, to the very darkest depths of lower middle class.  So, yeah, the mere thought of 17 TRILLION dollars is just a little outside of the scope of my reality.  The same was true for the idea of leadership when I was 18 years old. 

If you grew up anything like I did, leadership wasn’t a concept, it was a position.  Parents.  Teachers.  Coaches.  Those people were your leaders and you did what they told you.  It was that simple.  And as a young adult, I was none of those things.  So, I had no idea what leadership meant.  But after growing up believing that leadership was appointed by status, I had no problem believing my company commanders when they talked about leadership and followership.  It was made very clear that leaders earned their position.  They told us you could always identify a leader by the collar device and the pay check that substantiated their brass.  They also made it very clear that we were to be followers.  And good followers, eventually would be leaders.  I don’t remember if they said good leaders, or just leaders.  But, it didn’t really matter.  The point was very clear:  Follow first, lead later.  It seemed to be the natural order of things.  So, I was cool with that. 

As time passed, and I had real jobs with actual bosses, my idea of leadership surprisingly didn’t really evolve.  I did learn, with experience, that there were two kinds of bosses.  1.)  The kind of boss you wouldn’t take water from in the desert.  2.)  The kind of boss who you would pay to give your water to in the desert.  I didn’t really understand the difference.  After all, leadership wasn’t earned, it was appointed.  Deciphering the good and the bad was irrelevant.  Both kinds were leaders, and, thus, should be followed. 

Then I got older, and better educated (marginally), and more schooled by life, and I started to realize the difference: leadership is not a position, it’s an ideology.  That’s weird, right?  How do you obey a concept?  Well, you can’t.  But you can EMBRACE a concept.  That’s what good leaders do.  That’s also what good leaders instill in the people they lead.  They teach how to embrace an idea, a philosophy, a concept. 

As usual, I told you that story, so I could tell you this story.  This morning I called an old friend because I needed some feedback.  I didn’t call him because I needed leadership or advice.  I called him for his opinion.  And during the course of the conversation, we talked about a lot of things.  Life, location, economy, employment.  The things you always talk about with old friends when you haven’t seen them in a while.  It wasn’t an extraordinary conversation, but it was real.  Which, I guess, kind of makes it extraordinary. 

At one point, I said, “while I was waiting to call you, I was perusing your blog.”  Pause in conversation. Tim said “Really?”  I laughed, because I know that response.  It’s the same response i give when people tell me they are reading what I write.  It’s always the same:  “Really?”  I said “YES!!!  It’s AMAZING!  And I want everyone I know to read it.”  And I do.  Really. 

I first met Tim when he was the Executive Petty Officer at station Golden Gate.  I knew he was a boss the first time I met him.  He has that look.  He carried himself with an air of confidence, but still couldn’t hide the experience in his eyes.  I knew who he was immediately, but our encounters that followed proved his purpose.  

There were times that I needed his help, when he stopped what he was doing do make sure my  questions were answered.  There were times when I needed a resource, that he provided me with feedback I required.  There was that time, when I had to address a personnel issue, and my hands trembled as I dialed the number to tell him that there was an ugly encounter between one of his and one of mine, and I didn’t want it to turn into an international incident.  Before I could utter another word, he said “I’ll take care of it, Ang.”  Thank God.  Because I didn’t want to.  I didn’t even want to make the call in the first place. 

With all of that said, Tim’s project is called the “Fog of Leadership.”  I was surprised to read some of what he said about his own journey.  On the other hand, I am not at all surprised that he has delved into processing the idea of leadership.  Because I knew the first time I saw his face that he was a leader.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  INTERACTION.  Reiterated that about him.  Even after Tim left the Bay Area, I’d run into people who worked for him, (or as Tim would say, “people I worked with”)  I’d see those people and I’d say “How’s Mr. Woody?”  They’d always look back at me, a little confused, a lot enchanted, and say “Awesome.”  In every encounter with those people, I’d say “So, he’s the same?”  Then, I’d smile to myself as I walked away. 

So, anyway, read it.  Read Tim’s blog “Fog of Leadership.”  If anyone gets it, that guy does.  It doesn’t matter where you work.  It doesn’t matter who you work for.  His message is important and relevant.  It doesn’t matter where you are or where you are going.  We all talk about how leadership (or the lack thereof) is hindering who we should be, individually and socially.  But we never talk about how to get to where we want to be.  We never talk about adversity or knowledge or thinking for ourselves.  But this guy does.  Read it.  www.fogofleadership.com

-Inner Peas

Navigate This

This afternoon, I was perusing around the interwebs on my wireless mobile device, as I do regularly when I need a mind-numbing escape from the real world.  While I thumbed through all of the same “breaking news,” I saw a headline I hadn’t seen before:  “NOAA Cost-Cutting Move, NOAA to Stop Printing Nautical Charts”  I was overcome with some sort of emotion.  I don’t know what it was because my phone didn’t tell me how to feel, but it was definitely something real emotional.  My first response was “Sure.  Let’s stop learning to read, too.  Everything we need already tells us what we need to know and what we need to do, anyway.”  So, I guess, maybe I was pissed?  Cynical?  Disenchanted?  I’m still not sure of the emotion.  But I do know what the story did for me.  It took me back.  WAY.  BACK. 

Immediately, I was 21 again.  Sitting on the bridge of a boat I had sworn vengeance with.  A boat, that, seemingly owned my life.  And at 21, NOBODY OWNS YOU!!!  But she did.  When she left, I left with her.  When she returned home, I returned as well. Every fourth day came around, I’d sleep there.  Most of the time, on those days, I’d stand in the cool, early air and watch the dark turn to dawn, and dawn turn to day.  Every time I crossed her brow in the morning, I saluted the flag and requested her permission to come aboard.  Every time I crossed her brow in the afternoon, despite a shower and clean clothes, I took the smell of diesel fuel and simple green home with me.    It’s not a unique place.  Many came before me, many came after me.  But that’s the place that story took me.  Back to Alameda.  Back to a simpler time.  More specifically, back to a place I didn’t even realize was simple. 

Mornings on that boat were what I thought of when NPR.com told me that Nautical Charts didn’t require printing anymore.  The mornings there, were always the busiest.  Also, mornings are the time cutter people work inport.   Regardless, the mornings there…That’s what I remember the most.   After I mustered with my crew, I’d take a cup of coffee, and make my way down two ladders, then up four to get to my office.  My “office” was a cramped corner of the bridge where I sat corrected charts.  All day.  Every day.  EVERY.  FUCKING. DAY.  And I’d sit on that stool, every morning.  A mountain of charts and a cup of coffee and KFOG on the radio. Not iTunes.  The radio.  With all their commercials and commentaries and traffic reports and unspecified playlists.  So, I’d sit there and listen to the radio, and drink my coffee and do chart corrections.  Occasionally  I’d look across the Oakland Estuary, across the San Francisco Bay, through the Bay Bridge.  I’d look past every navigational beacon, every hazard to mariners, towards the city.  I’d stare at the skyline and wonder what those people were doing over there. “What were they doing?”  Most likely, it was real important.   Can you believe I had the ability to make it through the day without iTunes or Pandora?  Me neither. 

After those days were done, and I suffered through them with a cup of coffee and FM radio, I would go home. At 1:00.  I’d take a nap.  Then, I’d go to that bar on Central for beer and wings.  I’d make a case for how hard my day was, and then I’d do it all over again.  Life was exhausting then. 

Then, here, today, I read that nautical charts are no longer important enough to print.  Once the bane of my entire existence, they are no longer worthwhile to mariners because technology has corrected them to perfection.  Better than I could ever do, that is certain.  But paper charts weren’t just a pain in the dick to correct on sunny mornings in the San Francisco Bay.  They were a reminder of something to look forward to.  Those early mornings on the bridge, they reminded us of the good times that would come after work.  On those frigid evenings  on the Bearing Sea, plotting fixes on the worn paper, we were  reminded that we were that much closer to home. 

Thanks to technology, we don’t need to fear getting lost.  We also don't need to feel the excitement of finding our way home.  

-Inner Peas

Finding Home

Marquis

When I got out of college, I got this gig with a homebuilder.  It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting after dedicating four years of my life to higher education, but it was enough to pay the bills.  Marginally.  As all college graduates understand, life after education is never as glamorous or meaningful as you envision it when you are the heat of your idealism.  I was a Political Communication major at a school inside the beltway.  I was going to take that degree to law school, then, with a law degree, I was going to save the fucking world.  Poverty.  Discrimination.  Inequality.  I was going to fix it all.  Then I took the LSAT.  And it made me its bitch.  That’s how I ended up at Marquis Custom Homes.  It was a job.  And it was going to pay the rent.  And the student loans.  That’s what I needed.  So I did that. 

My time at Marquis was very short.  It was also very powerful.  I didn’t make it in to law school, the LSAT made sure of that.  But, wow, did I meet a lot of lawyers.  And politicians.  And lobbyists.  And people with a lot of power who were more than willing to spend a lot of money on a big house.  After all, big houses equate to big power, and that’s what powerful people want.  MORE!  More influence.  More image.  More power.  I soaked up every minute of it.  Every brush with celebrity.  Every extravagant home.  Every glamorous party.  Much to the dismay of my hippie parents, one day, I just stopped caring about social equality, and human rights, and fighting the good fight.  I was way too busy with other stuff.  Like rich people and lavish parties and open bars.  You know, the important shit. 

Well…turns out, as I was in the midst of reveling in the glamorous life, the housing market disintegrated.  It blew up.  It fucking imploded.  No more high profile clients.  No more parties.  No. More.  Job.  I left Marquis on pretty uncomfortable terms.  And by uncomfortable, I mean unemployed. 

That’s when I left the beltway.  No house.  No job.  No connections.   I swore I’d never go back. 

Holly Heights

I told you that story to tell you this story.  Eight years later, I was sitting in the front yard at Holly Heights with one of the people closest to my heart.  There was conversation and laughter and, a lot introspection.  Holly Heights, of course, the antithesis of Marquis.   It’s simple.  It’s subtle.  It’s unobtrusive.  Holly Heights is humble, quiet and ambiguous.  It is my utopia.  And it’s where I sit with the people I love and talkabout what is important, or maybe what has no importance at all.  

So, anyway, there I was in the front yard, sitting in a plastic lawn chair, drinking wine with a long, lost friend.  Long lost friends show up here a lot.  I don’t know why.  Anyway, we talked and laughed and watched the birds holler from the tree above.  As we enjoyed a magnificent spring sunset in the West county, I looked across the fence at the million dollar homes on the other side, and said “By this time in my life, I never expected to still be on this side of the fence.”  Darien looked at me and said “How does the side of the fence you live on matter?  How does that determine your successes or failures?”

I looked into his walnut eyes, real indignant, quite certain that I had an answer.  Then I looked away quickly when I realized I had nothing to say.  And I immediately changed to subject.  Music.  Movies.  Stuff.  Anything would be better than trying to answer the question he had posed.  So, I threw the uncomfortable questions back at him.  I glared at him over my glass of Pinot  and said “how did you get to where you are?  Why haven’t we ever talked about that before?” 

That was my response to being called out for being blessed, and insufferable, because of it.  D looked at me again, and said “I really don’t’ want to bore you with all that.”  I was already pissed.  He already called me out on my entitlement.  Small talk wasn’t going to make this any better.  And dodging questions, was only going to piss me off more.  Much to my dismay, this guy is pretty intuitive.  He knew that, so he said “I usually don’t talk about it.  Because it’s a long story.”  I glared back at him and said “I’m your ride home.  I’ve got all night.” 

Cuba

Not easily susceptible to idle threats, he looked at me and told a story I will never forget.  Ever. He looked down at the ground first; then, he stared me in the eye and relived his story.  “My dad was a really cool guy.  In Cuba.  And he’d always hang out with his friends and they’d talk a lot. I listened to what they were saying.   I’d go with my dad anywhere.  So, one day I rode a ferry with my dad to go see family. ”  My friend is real careful, even now, about how he describes their travels that day.  As he recounted the story, he didn’t reveal everything. But he related what was really important.  “We were coming back from visiting our family.  We were on a boat.”  Sounded legit.  When I lived in Bellingham, I rode a ferry every other weekend to go see my aunt and uncle on Bainbridge Island.  I got it.  Then he said “the ferry ran out of gas.”  Like it was a teenager burning every ounce of fuel  in an old beater, trying to get home after curfew.

What?  Ran out of gas?  What do you mean?  Boats just don't run out of gas.  Then, the magnitude of his story set it.  It took a few minutes.  I asked him, “Was that boat hijacked?”  He said “eh.  Maybe.”  Well, it just happened to be a very politically hostile time between Cuba and the United States.  And whether that boat was commandeered or not, there was a young boy, alone.  By himself.  Adrift. Floating towards the United States.   That was 1994. He was fifteen years old.  And alone.  Finally, he made it to Florida, with nothing except two phone numbers and his father’s blessing. 

Back at Holly Heights…

So, today I sat out front, thinking about my journey. I sat at the wine table and reminisced about the, now, defunct Marquis Custom Homes.  I thought about the days that job was going to save me.  I thought about the million dollar homes that I admired and coveted.  I thought about the lifestyle that I had once envisioned in my future.  Then I laughed.  And I laughed.  And laughed….because nothing real happened in those “homes.” Those Marquis homes weren’t real.  Then I thought about my own home, here on Holly Heights, and I thought about all the love and the reality that has passed through my threshold in the three years I have been here.  I thought about Darien.  And how I never would have had the privilege to hear his story at a ball game or at a concert or on a bar stool.  But here, at Holly Heights, he made me a better person with his honesty.   The people I know the best and love the most never hide who they are here.   The strongest people I know let me hold them close here.  And they hold me here, too.  I am pretty lucky to have dodged the Marquis bullet.  But the universe has BLESSED me with this place where there is no hatred.  No Judgment.  No facade.  It's not a law degree.  It's not fighting inequity. It, most certainly, is not a mansion on a hill, but it’s a humble home.  This is where honest stories reveal themselves.  This is where love is unconditional.  This is where life happens, and if it doesn’t happen here, it’s revisited here. 

-Inner Peas

Expectations

Let me ask you a question.  Have you ever walked into your doctor’s office at 7:AM and demanded to be seen because you didn’t feel well?  My guess is no.  You have not.  For several reasons.  Most notably, because if you tried to walk into a private practice before the sun came up, you’d only be greeted by locked doors.  Because at seven in the morning, your doctor probably hasn’t even brewed his first pot of coffee yet, and he most certainly is NOT waiting in his office to treat your ailments.  Also, in the event you walked into your doctor’s office and demanded to be seen, on sight, at seven AM or any other time, you’d be greeted by the hostile faces of the appointed patients who were already there, waiting for a date with their doc that they had made weeks in advance.  So, no.  You would never do that.  You would call your doctor and make an appointment and wait to be seen.  Then, when you got to your doctor’s office, and they doctor was running behind, because he was dealing with a medical emergency (believe it or not, this happens to doctors), if your visit was important, you’d wait until he had time to see you.  If it wasn’t important, you’d talk to the front desk and find a mutually convenient time to reschedule for.  Right?  That’s what you would do.  Unless you were really sick.  Like real sick.  Like a high fever and difficulty breathing and coughing up blood.  Then you’d drive to the nearest urgent care clinic.  You’d register and then, you would sit and wait, until it was your turn to be seen.  And if you were REALLY sick, like passed out on the floor sick, somebody would take you to the emergency room, where, in an emergency situation, you would be seen immediately.  Right?  That’s how it works.  Right? 

Now that we are all in agreement about that, let me pose  another question.  Hypothetically speaking, you get a really good job.  A job with VERY fair pay and excellent benefits.  A job with remarkable advancement potential.  Let’s just say, that this is a job that is guaranteed for you until you retire, only there are a few requirements for you to maintain your employment.  These requirements aren’t necessarily unreasonable, but they are non-negotiable.  You are excited to take this job.  The economy sucks.  You’re guaranteed a paycheck and a lifestyle that is far exceed most of your peers.  As you sit with the HR girl, and you sign the “conditions of employment” page in your new hire package, you see that your new employer is going to require you to keep your credentials up to date.  Not a problem, right?  For a job that is going to substantially improve your lifestyle, that’s totally worth it.  You have no problems when you sign your contract.  But then your credentials expire.  What do you do?  Do you call the HR girl and say “I’m not going to do it.  I don’t want to and it’s going to make my life too hard for a little while?”  Again, my guess is no.  You do not.  Because as soon as you say that to the HR girl, she calls your boss and initiates your termination paperwork.  If you have a really good boss, she might come to you and say “Hey, I see you aren’t in compliance with the terms of your employment.  If you demonstrate an effort to meet the standards, we might be able to save your job.”  That’s IF your boss cared.  If she didn’t, let’s be honest, you’d be done. 

These are expectations.  These are the unwritten rules of survival.  You do what you do to keep yourself healthy and employed.  I’m the same way, no different from any other working slob.  I have a lot of expectations.  For example, I expect my employers to ALWAYS change the rules of their game.  I expect them to never give me enough time to get ahead.  I expect that I have to be really FUCKING sick before I seek medical treatment.  Because it’s gonna cost me A LOT of money if I have to go ask my doctor for a prescription for Mucinex or a day off work.  Also, generally, she won’t see me at 7:AM.  I’m fucked, either way.

So, let’s just say, I’m sick.  I don’t feel good.  I have to be at work at the ass crack of dawn.  I get in the shower, I’m puking up something I’ve never seen before.  I have to get my kid out of bed and get him ready for school, while I’m still yaking my brains out.  After I tell this child 27 times to get in the car, I finally get him bucked in.  And we’re off.  Then I am overcome with fear.  I drive the eight miles, with white knuckles.  It’s unexplainable.  I finally get to work.  And the first thing I say to anyone is “We don’t have sick call anymore.  It’s been a year.  The Coast Guard does not have sick call anymore.”  Then the look.  The look says it all.  It says:  ‘do you even work here?  I’m sick and I need medical treatmen50t.  Now.”  And at 7:13, every morning, I have to look a grown person in the face and tell them “I can get you an appointment to see the doctor later in the day.  Until then, you can stop at the pharmacy and pick up some over the counter medications to get you through until 8:50.  Thank you for being patient with us.”  Then, before 8:00, I’ll say the same thing to three more people.  Then by nine, I will have received at least two phone calls from people who are morally, socially or religiously opposed to vaccinations.  I’ll say, again, “I’m sorry sir.  Policy is 100% for flu shots.”  Then, at 8:30, after I have sworn off people for the day, I’ll get an IM that reads “I got an email that I need my OMSEP.  I don’t have time to come up for that.”  Oh, I’m sorry.  I don’t have time for you to tell me you don’t’ have time.  Because there are 1,100 of you…So, I’m kind of busy. 

Do I look like the fucking Commandant?  Clearly , I do not.  I don’t even wear a uniform.  And I still have hair.  Don’t mistake my position for his authority.  If you don’t like that guy’s policies, CALL HIM.  I don’t want to be the enforcer of the rules.  I want to hug people and drink wine and laugh a lot.  Unfortunately, my job requires enforcement.  Because people want to fight the very minimal stipulations of their very high paying jobs.  It’s real simple: Go to work.  Keep your credentials.  If you are too sick to work, tell us, we’ll take care of you.  If you are too busy to keep your credentials, don’t blame us.  We didn’t’ make the rules.  We just want to keep you healthy and employed.  The rest is up to you. 

Pretenders

I'm gonna find myself a girl

Who can show me what laughter means

And we'll fill in the missing colors

to our paint by number dreams

Then we'll put our dark glasses on

and make love until our strength is gone.
And when the morning light comes streaming in
We'll get up and do it again.

-Jackson Browne

The interwebs

A few months ago, my friend Dustin said to me “Angela.  You don’t need a boyfriend.  It would interfere too much with your relationship with Facebook.”  Huh.  Thanks, Jerk.  But in hindsight, he had a point.  I live by myself and if I didn’t have an outlet, the voices in my head would probably get too loud and I’d have to go out and make friends or something.  And let’s be honest.  That’s a lot of work.  Sitting here, behind a keyboard is much easier than looking someone in the face when you tell them that they are a dumbass.  Not that I wouldn’t say that to someone while I look them in the eye, it’s just easier here.  It’s not just that, though.  A lot of things are easier when you don’t have to make eye contact.  It’s a lot easier to tell people you are lonely.  Or that you need attention.  Or that you don’t agree with their point of view.  It’s also easier to put up a front about how amazing your life is (or is not).  It’s a very convenient outlet to allow you to post images of your perfect husband and your perfect children and your perfect cooking and your perfect life.  In some cases, social media is the perfect place to reinvent yourself, in others, it’s the perfect place to pretend.  Even though social media is full of fallacies and half truths, sometimes, somebody has something interesting to say.  That’s when social media becomes more than narcissism and facade.  When somebody says something important or thought-provoking, and a conversation ensues.  That’s pretty cool.  That someone can express their feelings and others, from across the country, or the globe, for that matter, can engage in conversation.

Conversation

So, why all of this talk about social media?  Well, yesterday morning, one of my girlfriends, a woman I have known almost longer than anyone else on the planet, like elementary school long, posted on Facebook that she was happy to be single.  That she was satisfied with her life without a husband.  She said she was glad that she could live without being bound to someone else, to someone else’s expectations, to someone else’s ego.  And I got my pom poms out and I was like “YEAH!!!!  Me too!!!”  Surprisingly, Deanna took a lot of heat for that statement.  But, as Deanna does, she handled it with dignity.  When someone said “well, these have been the seven happiest years of my life.”  She responded with “You have a beautiful family.”  When someone said “There’s nothing wrong with being married.  My life is better because of it.”  D said “You all are perfect together!”  A lot of people tried to prove her wrong.  But she never tried to defend her argument, nor did she try to degrade anyone for their lifestyle.  She was just making a statement about how she prefers to live her life.  Deanna wasn’t being hateful when she said that she was happy being single.  She wasn’t attacking married people.  She was making a statement about how she’s learned to be happy by herself.  It was really surprising to me how many people felt they had to defend themselves to her.  In a public forum.  Even though she was challenged by MANY people, she never felt the need to explain her position any further.  She said what she had to say, and she encouraged the discussion that followed. 

Independence

So, this morning, I called and asked Deanna if I could discuss her post.  Her response was “Of!! Course!!! Two sarcastic broads.   That sounds like fun, huh!”  And that was that.  We also made some talk of how we are actually happy without partners and now that we’ve said it out loud, Karma will certainly not think this is funny and we’ll both end up in loveless marriages, AGAIN, and we will be forced to defend them to the outside world with every fiber of our beings, all because we taunted those who were committed to the sanctity of the institution.  And we laughed.  A lot.  Then we laughed nervously.  Because as everyone knows, you don't challenge Karma.  She's a spiteful bitch and she's easily offended.

Pretenders

Then, iTunes played a horrible joke on me.  Love songs.  All.  Morning.  Long.  Come to my Window.  In Your Eyes.  In Love with the Girl.  If I Could Turn Back Time.  Something in the Way She Moves.  Loving You Tonight.  Then I got real…emotional???  I think emotional is the word.  I started thinking about all of these love songs.   They are all so beautiful and hopeful and meaningful.  They all make you want to be in love.  They all evoke a feeling of optimism.  They make it real easy for you to believe in love. 

So, there I was, torn between this powerful sensation of independence and an overwhelming desire to live one of those songs.  Finally, I thought to myself  “You’re too old for that shit.”  So, I responded to myself “Yep.  Yer too old for that shit. It’s not real.”  Then, as if to validate my thoughts, iTunes played The Pretender.  I’ve always loved Jackson Browne, even though I’ve wondered how someone so dismally predisposed to sadness has survived as long as he has.  Anyway, The Pretender.  As many times as I have listened to that song, it caught me off guard this morning.  I started to wonder who the pretenders really were.  Is it me? Is it Deanna?  As we live our lives, in an uninhibited fashion, being able to call our own plays, determining our own futures?  Or are the pretenders the people who are perpetually reminding us that we still have something to look forward to.  That just because we are single in our 30s, doesn’t mean that  there’s no hope for us.  That maybe, if we’re lucky and pray a lot, somebody will love us, eventually. 

Well, this is the thing.  I can’t speak for Deanna, but I’m pretty sure she’s onboard with this.  We are FINE alone.  Because we are never alone.  We have plenty of people who love us and encourage us.  Just because we may go to bed alone most nights, that does not mean that we are lonely.  It means that we are comfortable by ourselves.  AND!!!  It means we can have sex with whoever we want, whenever we want.  (Most times, it’s better by ourselves anyway.) 

As Deanna said, “I’m not trying to judge anyone else’s relationship.  I’m just talking about what’s right for me, right now” 

-Inner Peas

Answers

I realize this sounds very pretentious, but I have the answers.  All of them.  And if I don’t have the answers, I will find them, and get back to you and tell you how to apply those answers in order to make them benefit you.  When people are looking for answers, they call me.  It pisses a lot of people off.  But it’s legit.  Some days, I feel like a fucking oracle.  “Uh…Ms. Angela do you know the number to the hospital in Novato?”  Sure.  “Hey lady, who’s working in supply right now?”  Ashley.  “Do you know anyone at the Academy?”  Of course I do.  “Miss A.  Can you get me the link for the print shop?”  You know it.  “Hey.  When did my guy pass the color vision test?”  March 2012.  “You know that guy down at…?”  Yep.  Mark.  “Do you have a copy of my lab work?”  Duh.  Right here on my desk.  “Angela.  Who’s gonna inspect my EMT bags?”  Probably your EMT.  “Can you get me the number to those girls over in TRICARE?”  Real funny, asshole.  Ok.  That’s the one answer I don’t have.  But the rest of the answers, I have those.  All of them.  It’s not just work either

Sometimes, my girlfriends will say “why are people so lame?”  I’ll say “because they’re dicks.  Ignore them.  Other times, I will tell Radley “Stop jumping on the couch.”  He’ll look at me, real indignant and ask “Why mommy?”  Because I said so, little boy.   Occasionally, my friends will ask for advice about their relationships.  I’ll say things like “make sure you know what you are getting into.”  Or “chose your battles wisely.”  Those are always the right responses.  Never mind my failed marriage and all of my other unsuccessful relationships give me zero authority to weigh in on relational concerns.   But, I do have a degree in communication.  So, I must have all of the answers.  All of them.  People recognize it, too.  They know that they should heed my advice.  Even as recently as last week, one of my little brothers said to me “You were totally right about that!!!  I don’t know why I don’t listen to you more often.  You always see what’s really going on.”  Let this be a lesson to you, baby bro.  I have answers.  I’ve been around for a very LONG time.  I know things!

I’m not gonna lie.  I revel in it.  I LOVE it when people think they know more things than I actually do.  I love when they think they have the answers.  Even more, I love when those same people come back to me, and say “you were right.”  I love that shit.  Knowing stuff validates my entire existence.  Futher, it makes me an asset.  Anyway, point being, I’m pretty good at answers.  And stuff.  Unless….It’s answers to my own questions and solutions to my own conundrums.  Then, I’ve got nothing.  Hell, most days I don’t even eat breakfast because I don’t have the foresight to make time in the morning to grab a fucking banana.  The bananas are in the fruit basket next to the coffee pot.  Where I pour my coffee.  Every morning.  But still no breakfast.  I always think “eh.  I’ll just get some wine after work.”  That’s kind of like a banana, right? 

A lot of days, I get frustrated with myself; with my life.  It all seems so simple.  Get up.  Go to work.  Pay the bills.  Raise a little boy.  It seems like those are things that should all come so naturally.  There shouldn’t be any thought, and certainly, those things shouldn’t require answers.  The answers should all be there.  You get up to go to work.  You go to work to pay the bills.  You pay the bills so that you can raise a little boy.  Comfortably.  It all makes sense, until people start asking me questions about me. 

A few weeks ago, at the smoke pit, I sat crying.  One of my nearest and dearest was walking her pooch and saw me sitting, with my head in my hands.  After  a short interaction, she said “this job brings you so much turmoil.  Why are you still here?”  Uh…..Nothing.  A few months ago when my soul was devastated with the prospect of orphaning my child as a result of breast cancer, my mom called me and lit me up.  My own mother, after a very heated interaction about responsibility, screamed into the phone at me “ANGELA!!!!  Why can’t you accept help from anyone? What’s wrong with you????”  Eh.  I don’t really need any help.  Then, recently, my sweet Charity felt my heart hurting from three thousand miles away.  She texted me and asked “why do you love so deeply and unconditionally?”  All I could say was “why doesn’t everyone else?”  To myself, however, I thought “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW!”  Because I don’t have those answers. 

If you need directory assistance, call me.  If you need turn-by-turn directions to the nearest grocery store, I’m your girl.  If you need to know the name of your neighborhood pharmacist, I’ve got him in my contacts.  If you need to know why you shouldn’t jump on the couch, I’ll tell you.  If you have a question that I don't immediately have a response to, I have wine.  For both of us.  We'll figure it out.  But if you want know what’s going to save my soul.  Don’t ask me.  I don’t know. 

-Inner Peas

Whatever It Takes

A little over a year ago, my friend Karl, somehow, encountered an emerging film maker.  He made fast friends with him and landed a cameo in this guy’s movie.  It’s real typical of Karl.  He’s an attention whore.  Real good looking.  Real personable.  Real OCD.  Karl can find a camera and make IT look good.  He can make friends with a hotel maid and find a way to network from it.  He also can spot an uneasy soul, and foster and encourage it.   That’s how he rolls.  So, anyway, Karl (and his home) made an appearance in a Hollywood film.  And no, this was not his first encounter with Hollywood.  The first day I met Karl, he was bothered that I made him late to a movie shoot on the set of the Ashley Judd  and Tommy Lee Jones action “blockbuster,” Double Jeopardy.   Never mind that the reason he was behind schedule was because he was driving a boat.   A boat that had just been contaminated by human remains.  A boat that responded to a search and rescue case gone VERY ugly.  I remember him yelling at me “Listen, we have to get this boat somewhere.  Can you work a little quicker?”  I remember thinking “can you put that fucking cup of coffee down and come help?”  I didn’t say that out loud though.  Thank God.  If I had, I might not be telling this story tonight

. 

Anyway.  My first introduction to Karl was over a cup of coffee and some gray matter.  I looked at him and his fucking movie shoot and swore to hate them bother forever.  I was 18 then, so I got over it.  And that’s why we were still friends 14 years later, when he made his second film appearance.  And this is the one that’s really important.  While the details of how this whole thing came to fruition are still very ambiguous, essentially what happened was Karl was being Karl and ran into a guy who was looking to make a movie.  Again, Karl being Karl, befriended him and the next thing we knew, there was a camera crew in Karl’s house.  How he ever talked his very patient and very beautiful wife into allowing this, I will never understand.  But anyway, there they were.  People.  And cameras.  And movie stuff.  In Karl and Amy’s home.  I was sure that Karl was on his way to being a reality TV star at that point.  I rolled my eyes every time he talked about the movie.  Just Karl being Karl, I thought.  But then something else happened.  He started talking about this filmmaker on a very personal level.  He talked about how honored he was to be asked to help provide a set for this movie.  He talked about doing “whatever it takes.”  He even made mention that the producer, the same guy he had allowed to film in his home, was living in a car in strip mall parking lot outside of LA. And then I was confused.  How did Karl run into a person so glaringly human?  An individual so passionate and dedicated to his convictions, that he would sacrifice his own comfort to attain them.  .  A man who was so committed to his craft, that he was making movies and didn’t even have a fucking house.  Then, again, I realized that was just Karl being Karl. 

So, anyway, Karl met Mooch.  Mooch is a good dude and made a couple movies.  They’re besties now.  That’s where the story ends, right?  Wrong.  Not at all.  This is actually where the story begins.  Because Mooch taught Karl a lot of things, and subsequently, Karl passed those lessons onto his friends, whether he meant to or not.  Karl shared the story of a fledgling filmmaker who lives his life outside the realm of what society deems acceptable.   He shared Mooch’s passion with people who would never have understood the concept.  But, the most important of these tutorials is Mooch’s mantra of doing “whatever it takes.” 

“Whatever it takes” has become a very influential theme here in Sonoma County.  I completely understood what Mooch meant when he said it, or so I thought.  He is doing “whatever it takes” to fulfill his dream.  He’s a man with enthusiasm and vision.  And he is doing “whatever it takes” to create a reality from his dreams.  Not to make his journey superficial, but that’s how I saw it.  And I got it.  Karl, at the same time was going through some pretty serious soul searching evolutions.  He was getting ready to leave a job he had known for 21 years.  He was venturing away from a lifestyle that had provided security and comfort for more than half of his life.  He had to do “whatever it takes” to find a new path.  Not only did he have to find a new path, he had to find it by himself.  Again, I’m not trying to trivialize his experiences, but that’s what Karl was doing.  Whatever it takes. 

I remember the first time I saw Karl wearing his “whatever it takes” t-shirt.  And I thought to myself:  “I want that.”  Not so much the shirt, but the drive to do whatever it takes.  Then I saw Amy wearing a pink “whatever it takes” shirt.  And I thought to myself:  “I want that.”  This time, it was about the shirt.  It’s real cute in pink.  Amy wore it well and I’d like a rack like that, too.  But anyway, back to whatever it takes…I really wanted that.  I just didn’t understand how to get it.  Then, last night, when I made the very long, fifty paces to the mailbox, I got it.  And by “it”, I mean the shirt(s).  Two.  One black, one pink.  Both bearing the reminder to do “whatever it takes.”   As I sat on the front stoop, and opened the package, my heart smiled.  At the same time, I began to weep.  For several reasons.  Because someone cared enough to remind me how important it is to fight for what you need.  Because fighting for what you believe in is important.  Because fighting for what you want is hard.  Mostly, though, I cried because I don’t know what I want or what is worth doing “whatever it takes” for. 

I have a lot of “whatever it takes” moments.  Usually, those moments come in the form of paying the rent, feeding my child, and driving to work in the morning.  They are never as inspirational as Mooch and Karl.  And that makes me think that I should be looking for something more…that I should be doing something more. But then I realized, sometimes doing whatever it takes doesn’t just apply to fulfilling your dreams.  It applies to surviving.  That’s when I realized Mooch’s intention.  Or at least the intent I hope he was implying.  I think that doing “whatever it takes” isn’t necessarily a challenge to change the world, but it’s more meant as encouragement to complete what the universe has tasked you with. 

I can do that.  I may not be able to save the world, but I can do whatever it takes to save my own life. 

-Inner Peas