Female Lesson #1

Flashback: I’m 22 years old living in the lower haight with live in boyfriend from New York. To make our relationship work, it would only be healthy that he cut down on the alcohol. Well, he did drink a fifth of vodka on the daily. If you don't know what a fifth amounts to it’s 25.6 fluid ounces which breaks down to 1.6 pints of vodka. This he drank as if he was parched for 40 days and 40 nights in the Theben desert. His second apertif, was vodka stirred with more vodka. It was like dating a skitzophrenic you just never knew if you were talking to the 8 year old that lives on a farm or the vegetarian transvestite from Idaho. It was madness! Yep, I must admit he kept me on my toes and I was never bored. Instead of walking out the door, I wanted to play mother martyr. Bite me, I was 22 and I learned fast.

This has been a recurring event with women in history. Now, why do we, as strong independent women, find the need to always fix our men? We, ourselves, are far from perfect. We're equipped with emotion and estrogen which triggers a deadly medley of weaknesses such as insecurity, bloating, binging, oversensitized, paranoid, analytical. In fact, flaws can be cute like freckles to a certain extent. I mean if your man has monogamy issues, that’s when you leave him on the doormat. Otherwise, what's up with women being such control freaks? Always wanting the upper hand, the last word. Why?

Why must we cast a stone? I don’t like to be reminded about my characteristics as being imperfect. Just like the local hawaiians say, “just go wid da flow bra.” Shrug your shoulders. Pointing out people’s weaknesses is so demeaning and a prelude to a complex. Any angle you look at it, it's not pleasant.

Shoe switch: Girl your getting fat! No wonder! You stuff your face with fried chicken, ice cream, burgers! Go to the gym! You look like shit!

We as woman, need to stop dictating and enjoy what we have, because it's exausting. I mean just accept him for who he is. If a women feels more despise than adoration, that's when it's time to go. Please, with all the whining, yapping, nagging and complaining that we do? It's a miracle we don't have a bullet in our head. All should be equal and fair when it comes to love.

"Men are simple things. They can survive a whole weekend with only three things: beer, boxer shorts and batteries for the remote control.."

Shane, has his quirks and I have mine. Sure, sometimes their like nails on a chalkboard, but I deal with it. I mean he has to tolerate my slop on different levels. Who else would? Honestly, I like his endearing quirks. His intentions are always good and that's all that matters. Love has many facets and each angle is just as beautiful as the others.

Lesson: Grasshoppers should always love without opinion.

Vehicles are Personal

Last names are like automobiles, some of them basic, cushy, comfortable like a '72 Chevy Wagon. Meanwhile, others are sassy like a mint 1959 Porsche. Amid the mediocre, are the Rolls Royce and the Jags with all the whistles and bells, the dashing and debonair names passed down from generation to generation. On the other hand, there are a few unlucky names that reek Pinto and I'm not talking about the bean.

I am eager to take my new name on a test drive. I know today’s woman want to remain strong and independent. (Sisters, throw your hands up in the air!) Secretly, I believe that women prefer to have their cake and eat it too, hence "hyphenate." Ew! Like the Hybrid! Please don't put me in a corner and stone me for not respecting the environment with that comment.

Not me! Little miss non-traditional, well, next to being a housewife, I don’t mind this tradition at all. As of today, I will be known as Mrs. Shane Kitchen. The new and improved, hyphen free me.

Trends and fads fade rapidly like the Gremlin and the Delorean. I think that Kitchen is charming, old fashioned, and stylish. I intend to head forth towards the on ramps and off ramps into the highway and byways of life riding comfortably in my jalopy Cadillac Seville next to my sweetie pie Shane Kitchen.

Lesson: Little Grasshopper can not make friends by playing in the mud, but only if clean behind the ears.

Lucky Star

I am a very lucky woman. I am loved by a man who works his finger to the bone and never shuns a complaint. Every morning from the time his feet touches the floor he is off and running. He packs my breakfast while I’m getting dressed for work. He calls me at work exactly at 12:35pm to wish me a good day. He calls me at 3:30pm to wish me a good day and to see if he could pick up anything from the grocery store. By the time I get home, the dishes are done, the bed is made and the house spotless. The laundry has been dropped off at the fluff and fold. He says he does this to make my day easier. This coming from a man that laboriously works eight hours a day. Taking pride in everything that he does, he always goes above and beyond the call of duty. A man that comes home covered in dust and dirt with the intent to make my life easier.

Flashback: Yesterday, I’ve been home from work for a good twenty minutes. I look up at the television and there sat a white orchid and a purple orchid. He remembered that I wanted to spice up my desk at work with orchids and went ahead and bought one for me and my co-worker.

His thoughtfulness captivates me. So the least I can do is cook a 3 course dinner every night.This is why I refrain from all nagging. This is why I choose my battles and complaints wisely, if at all. This is why he gets a golf hassle free card. This is why he is my sweets. My love. My husband. My man.

This is my one simple algorithm to gushy happiness.

Lesson: Female Grasshopper never lay your eggs in the first burrow.

Ghost town

Where have all the artists gone? The groups and circles that sipped coffee in the mission, traipsed the lower haight, prowled the likes of nightbreak on sushi sundays, meander the south of market, Oakland, and Berkeley.

1992 Flashback: It was saturday in the month of may high noon. The sidewalks crowded with people trying to get into Spaghetti Western. There I was next door at the Horseshoe cafe in cut off shorts, knee high motorcycle boots, soccer socks, wife beater midriff cut sitting in a circle in the warm sun jabbering from left to right Periot (trendsetter and poet), Mike (musician and motorcycle messenger) "hot" cup Joe (painter and hardfloor worker), Mischka (bicycle messenger and welder), Gabrielle (trust fund baby and writer), David (musician and pizzaboy).

It was nauseating when everyone including their pet rat introduced themselves by their medium such as, "Hey, I'm mike and I weld." The arrogance was pungent. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, I came to San Francisco at seventeen to become a musician or writer. I came, I saw and I was. Look where that got me a tiny smudge as a blogger. Punch me in the gut and call me blasé. We infested San Francisco like fleas on a rat. That was the San Francisco that I loved.

Where have the free thinkers gone? This town is screaming out for a voice. A fire. A spark? Sure, we have those clicks of "no fashion sense snot nosed kids" who call themselves artists. Not even close. The lazy generation of Dr. Phil, reality shows, video games, internet, Paris Hilton, and celebrity gossip are a bunch of whiners. The greasy generation that has an opinion on Brad and Jennifer's marriage while stuffing their faces with french fries and double all beef patty melts. A country that is forcefed media of the paranoid kind. My question to you is, how did we get here?

On the other hand, New York is and always will be the nucleus of all existence. It is full of life. It is full of rage. It is full of no nonsense push and shove. New York is gentle and abrasive. Most of all, it is alive. It is safe to say that my heart will always be in San Francisco, but my soul yearns for New York.

Lesson: Grasshopper learn to jump high that way you see farther beyond the wheat fields.

Baby on the brain

Eighth grade flashback – in fact (cough) just (cough) yesterday – my teacher lecturing about women hitting their prime and getting that feeling. No not menopause, you freaks. It’s having that want for a child. Well, that damnation feeling has arrived folks. I have never had someone that is wholeheartedly on the same plane. I mean don’t guys usually run the other way? Nope, not my man, he’s accepting this dagger with an open heart.

I guess it doesn’t help when I live in Noe Valley where it’s infested with newborn parent epidemic. I mean when nannies and strollers outnumber dogs and their masters, I’d hate to say it, “but Toto, we’re not in the Mission anymore.” Back to nature, as soon as my insurance kicks in so does my pregnancy.

I know the happily married couples are hissing and dousing us with holy water to beware. The new parents, are like sirens seducing you into that quicksand, "It's a part of you and him, it's beautiful!! They're a bundle of joy!! There's nothing like it!!" I say, there's nothing like a stroke either, but I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Transclucently, these happy go lucky parents, gently omit the ruthless months of sleepless nights, the low sexual drive, the lack of self, the deficiency in patience. Oh, I hear the rhyme in your song you sirens!

Flashback: Sixteen years old full of angst and rebellion. Dark eyeliner and big hair, baby blue large anarchy t-shirt, plaid mini skirt, black creepers, Misfits playing on my walkman, “Why would anyone wanna raise a child in this world, it’s so evil and corrupted! I'm never having a child ever.”

Get ready world, because there may be a new Kitchen utensil.

Lesson: Grasshopper can not live on grass alone.