Dance Fever

Cardio is one of the vital exercises that contribute to weight loss. I wrestle with my metabolism which seems to be winding down like a wheezing tortoise with a flat. I determined not to be those wives that allow themselves to get tubby just because they agreed to love through thick and thin and for better or worse. I am going to keep fit for as long as I can, because as soon as I start popping out those snot nosed ankle biters, it’s all down hill. I want to savor the morsels of being fit and slender and in control, because muthahood is right around the corner and than I will declare war on my kids and my body fat.

I’ve been taking hip hop classes three to four times a week for the past two months. Personally, I have fallen head over heels with the art. I would never have thought in a thousand dog years that I’d be taking dance lessons. It helps me to focus! Muscle memory versus living in my cerebral temple. Muscle memory occurs when we practice things enough times until we can do them automatically, without conscious thought. See each move and tick includes simultaneous leg, hand, head, booty movement in counts of 8 seconds. A mere hesitation on your next move, and you will find yourself blurred in a whirlwind. Not only is it challenging, but it allows me to embrace the fact that it’s totally chic to be imperfect. The first few weeks, I was definitely a loaf. Just when I thought I knew my left from my right and up from down as sure as the sky was blue, I was a dexlexic defect. Literally. For some odd reason, I did everything backwards or opposite. All due to analyzing the next move in my cabeza.

Secondly, it’s amazing to be surrounded by a medley of styles and impressions. My favorite aspect of hip hop is that your allowed to put your personal pizzaz on the basic moves. Your allowed freedom, yet in synchronicity. The adults that attempt to keep up with modern culture speckle the mesh of dancers. There’s a few children in the mix bumping and grinding to the provactive lyrics as their parents watch on from their seats. The two front lines are the spotlighters young, fresh and feisty their ghetto fabulous gear bling, strutting their “I wanna be a backup Usher dancer” attitude.

I found comfort in the last row, but soon realized that I could never see the instructor, which explained why I was always lost. Eventually the teacher eased me to switch lines and move forward, but I was a like a tick on a dog’s back, I wouldn’t budge. Are you kidding? I didn't want to at my reflection in the mirror doing all these fly moves. A month and half flew by and I’ve removed the cobwebs from my confidence cabinet and moved forward two rows up to the far left of the room. In the past two weeks, two teachers had pat me on the back on my progress as if I had just been potty trained. In a room of about thirty dance maniacs, I didn’t think that they’d notice.

I would highly recommend a hip hop class to anyone young or old. It deflates stress and puts a smile on your face. It increases your heart rate. It's hot and sexy. It triggers laughter. What is better than shaking your booty at the end of a long hard day? I feel that humans should dance and laugh more, it will bring them eternal joy and a slim waistline!

Lesson: Grasshoppers always remember that line dancing are for maggots and leave the jitter to the bugs and the hop to the bunnies, but always remember that determination is for everyone.

Let it Snow!

The past few weeks have been an enormous holiday snowball of tree trimmings, spiked eggnog, buttered rum, warm company and good cheer!

Flashback:

1977 December

Dear Santa and reindeers,

Hi. I been good. I went to church every sunday accept that Sunday my stomach was sore. I help mom do the dishes and laundry. Daddy spanks me when he is mad. He is mad a lot. Laurie pulls my hair and kick me off the top of the bunk bed. My brothers hit (not my youngest brother Nolan). Steven chases everyone around with knives when mommy and daddy are not home.

For Christmas, please can daddy be happier? Please make mommy rest more. My brothers stop hitting and calling me dubm? Please make me strong so my sister will stop being so mean. Um and please make Steven stop playing with knives & please help him to control his temperature. Oh and please look over my sister Mabel she does not live with us. If you can, I would really love jacks for christmas. Thank you.

Love,
Shellie

I love Christmas, because it’s a time for jubilation, kindness, enlightenment and forgiveness. Christmas provides me with a moment to overlook all the bad, foul, and the ugly. It helps me to remember and to never forget. Humble. It’s a time to put my qualms in check and move forth. I wish others the best in good thoughts and intentions and peace of mind.

Lesson: Grasshopper should always look both ways when jumping.

All I Want for the Holidays...

Shane’s been under the gun in search for the perfect gift for me. So much so that his teeth are going to rot and fall out and his eyeballs are going to shrivel up and plop out of sockets, if he doesn’t stop these ridiculous stress seizures. I don't want anything for Christmas. What could I ever want? He's fluent in managing my bliss. He flipped the coin for our wedding. He's building our dream home. Plus, he volunteered to be my prisoner for life without any coerce. I know, hurl on my circus, I'm getting soft! But really, he's pretty much covered me for the next ten years...well, alright maybe for the next five years. Giggle.

Flashback: April of ninty four roommate's friend inquires on my whereabouts the Tuesday of last. He vaunts that my boyfriend was at DNA with an asian girl. My hearts sizzles on a dirty griddle. Cursed! Damnit heaven and hell! I've caught my cute boyfriend with english accent in a lie. I psychotically page him, if I could I would have paged him many series of f*ck you(s), but instead settled for numerous 911(s). He finally calls with calm tones of "lets talk about this your jumping to conclusions". I threaten his illegal existence with deportation subsequent to my snipping his balls off first. Finally, he admits to the two year affair. Indeed, three months into our two year relationship. Instantly, rearing it's wretched head from the depths of my darkness is the lunatic female. Pity the next few boys after this guy for they have suffered the wrath of my new enemy; insecurity.

I have found the best heart to burrow my happiness into. I have a man that makes me laugh in the middle of the night, because he converses in flatulence. He adores me even in the shadow of my dorkiness like when I purposely sing off key just to drive him up the wall. My husband lets me cry when I'm feeling down and engulfs me in his arms and tells me that tomorrows a new day. Indeed, he listens to my whims, whines, and worries and his candidness, most of the time, is sincere. He is my neutral when my PMS is in overdrive.

All I have ever sought is simplicity. Just when I thought aliens didn't exist, he entered my galaxy. I am thankful, because everyday with him is a holiday.

Lesson: Grasshopper if you can grasp that a knot is just a series of circles and loops than you will solve the meaning of life.

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

There’s been many medical studies where in fact, the holidays raise the bar for blood pressure, bankruptcy, bad credit, divorce rates, wrinkles, gray hair, waistline, and depression.

I, myself, have discovered the stress that consumes others. Since I suffer from Shop Paux, the uncontrollable urge to purchase beyond any sane means, shopping for the holidays has been quite difficult. For instance, as I shop for loved ones I suddenly feel the magnitude of the shoe department howling to me like a sick curse, “Look at me! Try me on! I’m uncomfortable! I will slender and shape your calf muscles! Oo la la.” Suddenly those sleek torture chambers are sitting in the front line of my closet like a marine waiting for battle. Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes Shane keeps discovering new coats, handbags, boots hidden way in the back of my closet like a bulemic hides her stash.

Random thought: I wonder if I’m a direct descendant of Imelda Marcos? Gulp.

Naughty. Hiss. Shame on me. In the past two weeks, my wardrobe has increased by a third. My wardrobe is like a wet Gremlin, it just keeps multiplying. This is why it is impossible for me to go through the holidays without positive reinforcement. I’m that junkie that requires all the fix’ns. When do I say enough is enough? Truly? Like what is my damage? Am I causing any damage?

Flashback: Please Mom, I really want these jeans? Please. Please? Please. I pleaded like I hadn’t been fed in weeks and these jeans was my breadstick. All the girls were wearing the horse with the wind blowing through its mane. This was an absolute imperitive; Code Red. I could feel my jaw tighten and a pout was mere nanosecondth away. Mom looked at me and said, “Twenty dollars? Child, it is not what you wear, but how nice you are on the inside. What good is all this when you can’t take it with you when you die.” She yanked my hand and plucked me from profanity. I felt myself shrink like salt on a slug.

Drop the phone. Save your Dr. Phil schpeel for the masses. I don’t have to create a crop sign to know why I find shopping so centering. There are worse things in the world like finding little boys attractive, or vegetarians or even more vile, vegans. I am very generous at heart so I like to nurture my inner child, who doesn’t?

Lesson: Grasshopper you can bundle yourself in a thousand fine silk threads, and it will never be as rich as the kindness you show others.

Christmas is Coming!

Christmas is my all time favorite holiday. Christmas is like warm chamomile wrapped in cashmere. From the cold crisp air to the scent of the Christmas tree to the warmth of a fireplace to the department store display windows, it’s definitely my favorite time of year. It helps me to overlook matters that are absolutely trivial like who invented sugar cubes and where do sugar cubes come from? Instead, I reflect on what is conducive to a happy lifestyle, perhaps another pair of wedge heels before they go out of style next season.

Flashback: A week before Christmas, I was a senior in high school and I couldn’t wait to bust loose from this small town mentality. The rage against all conformity was at full blast. I spat on corporate capitalism and the U.S. Government. I despised fashion and cigarettes. My first boyfriend was an athiest irish punk rock kid with a six inch mohawk whose mom's been married seven times. Finally, I refuted the birth of Christ and all his miracle whip. Mom attempted an indirect exorcism and prayed to Jesus and all his cronies to chase the evil that grows in my heart like a black weed.

Shane has come to loath the holidays. He can’t see beyond the assault of shopping madness. Secondly, he's allergic to previous engagements, hence the succession of christmas events really cramps his style for spontaneity. He suffers from "Giftolitis" which come with a trainwreck of symptoms such as abdominal discomfort, tightness in the chest, diziness, frequent urination, the inability to concentrate, insomnia all due to the pressure of finding the perfect gift and getting it shipped out on time. The pressure he puts himself under? It's amazing he's still regular much less seize the spirit of Christmas. As my mom always said, "it is not about the gifts, it's about the birth of Christ." I'm not a full hundred percent about the birth of christ, but I concur on the the gift aspect.

I am hoping that I can provide Shane the luxury of peace of mind this year and years to come.

Lesson: Grasshopper, always stand upright like cardboard when standing stark naked in the falling snow and it will warm your heart forever.

Wash that Lazy out of my Hair!

Time and time again, I need a reality check like I need my two front teeth knocked out a me. Living in the "all about me" mentality can really get ugly. Once in a while, if I'm lucky, I'll catch myself committing one of the mortal sins; taking my husband for granted.

While we moved into our new house, Shane did most of the lifting, the transporting, the unpacking, the cleaning. Meanwhile, I assisted in the move, he did the bulk. I admit that I am a sofa spud, and I do things at the pace of a slug. I can’t help it? I was born that way. Shane is no couch superstar. On the contrary, he is, to say the least, a hard worker that gives his 110%. If I turn my selective hearing off, I can muster up his distaste for my sloth style. I, on the other hand, am not that appealing. I enjoy leaving each stone unturned. I embrace my disorder like it was my first born.

He has always supported my delusions I like to call extracurricular activities. After returning from hip hop class, I walk into a home that was absolutely cozy clean. Shane, in his work ant mode, has been busy putting away the pantry goods, categorizing my wardrobe, breaking down boxes, sweeping, cleaning the counters. As I seek my daily cardio workout, he's been at home making sure our house was a home. I am a piece of turd on a stick. I have sinned on the highest level of all sins. I am guilty of being a lazy lard.

I have to do something quick! This is just not cool. I will try my best to make his life easier and you know that I will have to struggle, but it is something that I must do to rid me of this guilt. I need to make my sweets happy with joy.

Lesson: Grasshopper must always wash, rinse and repeat in order to achieve ripeness.

Take this tryptophan and Stuff it! In your face that is...

Twas the night of Thanksgiving, I just couldn’t sleep,
I tried counting backwards, I tried counting sheep.

The leftovers beckoned - The dark meat and the white,
But I fought the temptation with all of my might.

Tossing and turning with anticipation,
The thought of a snack became infactuation.

So, I raced to the kitchen, flung open the door,
And gazed at the fridge, full of goodies galore.

I gobbled up turkey and buttered potatoes,
Pickles and carrots, beans and tomatoes.

I felt myself swelling, so plump and so round,
'Til all of a sudden, I rose off the ground.

I crashed through the ceiling, floating into the sky,
With a mouthful of pudding and a handful of pie.

But, I managed to yell as I soared passed the trees....
Happy eating to all - pass the cranberries, please.

May your stuffing be tasty, may your turkey be plump.
May your potatoes 'n gravy have nary a lump,

May your yams be delicious may your pies take the prize.
May your Thanksgiving dinner stay off of your thighs.

MAY YOUR THANKSGIVING BE BLESSED!!
HAPPY THNKSGIVING EVERYONE!!

Gobbledy Gobbledy

My birthday whizzed by like a bullet. Halloween whooshed by like a rocket. In my crystal ball, I see dry turkey in my future.

Flashback: It’s Thanksgiving and I’m gnawing on a turkey leg as family members gab ear loads of gossip. The children, not mine, insist they’re not hungry. Persistently, the children-once again not mine-like a broken record whine and plea to play in their room. The parents rebut by threatening them with no dessert. I continue to stuff my face with seconds and thirds until my pants begin to cut off blood circulation past my waistline and that’s when the tryptophan kicks in. By that time, I’m golden. The tryptophan wheels me into a deep coma on the floor of the living room. Meanwhile, the males slouch with arms crossed anesthetized by a bunch of men in tight pants tossing a ball on the television. Suddenly, my deep slumber is disturbed by the covey of rowdy Neanderthals. Ugh, of course, touchdown…



Please don’t misconstrue my perception of my family and the holidays. Indeed, I absolutely love my family, but I need some quiet time. We’re heading to Glen Allen. We’ve rented a charming house with a heated pool off some beautiful creek in Sonoma. Another couple will be joining us. Undoubtedly, I am delighted to orchestrate a meal for four. In truth, I am giddy about the whole idea. This year I can let the tryptophan do its deed as I take a dip in the heated pool and relax to the sounds of the water rushing down the creek.

Lesson: Once Grasshopper discovers that there is not only one route to Shaolin Temple than he will discover self acceptance.

Apple Spider

I’m back from NYC! Frown. Although those three short days felt like a week, I could have stayed longer. Guggenheim, Soho & Noho, Moma, Cocktails, Dining, Shopping, Washington Square Park, Pastrami on Rye, Cocktails, Amateur Night at the Apollo, Hotdogs, Wollman Rink in Central Park, Pizza, Lower East Side, Bagels & Brooklyn. I barely scratched the surface of my beloved city.

Since we landed at 630am, yes an absurd hour, Vanessa and I dropped our luggages off and jumped on the train to Springer Street. If you haven't shopped in a delirious mental state, I suggest you try it! Meanwhile on Canal Street, I was on a hunt for the dark alley ancient chinese secret special. Onforth, we strolled through Soho and Tribeca. A few hundred dollars light, and we were back at the hotel than back out to H&M. Shopping is to Shellie as little boys are to priests.

Anthony managed to talk his way into a jam packed Italian restaurant by mentioning a friend of the family. A man by the name of Nino or Pepe or something Italian like Giuseppe. Anyway, the food was consistently beyond exceptional. It was absolutely dreamy.

Flashback: Summer of 98, I strutted down Ludlow with maximum blurred vision suddenly like a strike of a thunderbolt, my knees buckled and my stomach gave way to the wicked. There I was huddled over trying to direct my fluids into the gutter. My multi-talented friends chuckled, yet managed to hold my hair back from the projectile. As soon as my alchohol purge fizzled, my audience of bouncers and bar folks clapped and cheered just like I did as a child at the circus. In fact, they insisted that I come in and enjoy a few cocktails compliments of the owner.

I whipped through the city as fast as I could as time mocked me. I adore San Francisco, but NYC is still my grandioso favorite! Favorite. Favorite!

Lesson: A healthy Grasshopper should drink tiny doses of poison to maintain strength and vitality.

Chickville

As much as maintaining a strong marriage is important, having girls night out is my spoonful of sugar. I believe that we weave hectic lives and it’s only fair that I advocate to set aside a moment to spend with my girlfriends.

Indeed, Shane has poker night with his boys. I’ve decided to organize a roundtable of girlfriends weekend. I’m not talking about a “girls gone wild woo hoo get drunk and take off your top for beads” experience. It's fulfilling about a bunch of giddy hens clucking away over a nice dinner and bottles of wine. I feel that in this day and age, it is vital to maintain your own identity and happiness instead of being joined at the hip to my husband like some obtuse bottleneck.

Lesson: Little Grasshopper, remember that a road to eternal bliss is when you are able to laugh at yourself.

Apple Bomb

I meet up with Shane in NYC this Friday night. I land at 555am on Friday. I know it sounds early, but Vanessa and I are like a pack of wild dogs ready to ravage this city, previous to our boys arrivals, I mean. I am anticipating cramming some freaky fast shopping prior to his arrival. I’ll storm the street for generic rip offs and gnaw my way through the city. As a matter of fact, I have lunch reservations at Shun Lee's Palace at noon. The food is incomparible! I am restless for a heavenly slice of pizza. I will drop dead for some authentic Italian. I can’t wait to have a bagel and lox. Tick. Tock. Two more days.

So before Shane’s arrival, I will do my best to get all my personal time out of the way. If you know Shane, than you know that he’s a stickler for spontaneity. He is a man that stands by the “wherever our feet takes us” method of traveling. So am I? But a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.

I luv, love, LUV NYC and know exactly where I want to go when I'm there. Ahem. Lower East Side beeotch!

Lesson: A sagacious Grasshopper will always talk you into having dessert first.

Free Bird

I dropped Shane off at Oakland airport this morning. As much as I’m going to miss him, I couldn't wait to enjoy the time to myself. See in a relationship, I mean... marriage there's a thing called compromise. Most of the time, I am proud to put Shane before myself. I think I heard a few shudders and faints from the femininist corner. I'm just old school filipino yo.

Flashback: Mom orchestrated the kids to clean the house in a jiffy before Dad got home by cussing in gibberish filipino and whapping us with the broom. His comfortability was vital to her. She always had breakfast, lunch and dinner ready. She always saved the significantly largest piece of protein for him. On the same token, Dad ensured mom’s happiness by treating her like a Queen. After dinner, he’d whoo her from the kitchen into the parlor. Mom, as usual, always giggled like a little girl.

Don't get me wrong, I feel no resentment, I enjoy making him happy. It is not a hassle. But! Don't mistake me for one without a spine. On the contraire froyer, if there's time to be had, I will always take advantage of time to myself. I think it’s extremely important to feed my soul with goodness.

Subsequent to dropping him off, I walked the hills of Dolores Heights with girlfriends. Subsequently, we had a nice cold smoothie and bathed in the beautiful sunshine at Dolores Park. We followed up with a light lunch at Limon. Sure, the service was slow, but I was in good company. I proceeded to my hip hop class for the next two hours. I had plans to meet up with the girls for late noon cocktails, but I had to fit in a good hour for my personal therapy cough clothes shopping cough.

I met up for dinner at Medjool which was absolutely divine! For as much as I wanted to go to a movie, we went to shake our romps at a club. I steered clear from cocktails, since I was recently advised of it’s empty calories. In my sobriety, my inhibitions were in full effect. My dancing was not as smooth as if it was paired with a couple nice shots of chilled patron silver. All in all, I had a fantastic Saturday!

Sunday, has always been my day to decompress. Unfortunately, Shane’s always coercing me to bike, hike, or do something active. As he always comments, "it's a waste of a beautiful day to sit in the house." Instead, I met up with my sister and nieces and had a quick bite of sushi for lunch. Like the Lord, I choose to rest on the seventh day. In celebration of rest, I plopped my exhausted body on the couch for hours as my mind melted into the back of my head. In fact, I had to peel myself off the couch to prepare a nice hearty stew for myself early that evening.

Lesson: It is always advantageous for little Grasshopper to adapt in order to be wise.

Sold to the Newlyweds!!!

As of today, we are official Potrero Hillians!!! Hip! Hip! Hooray!!! I just got the call from Shane and the house belongs to the Kitchens!!!

I am a very superstitious person. Not the type that eats toads eyeballs and goat balls stew on the night of the second full moon. In my silent modesty, I worried and wished that the stars look upon us with pity. This results in the repercussion of too much greek swirled with catholocism. Not only am I condemned to guilt, but that paranoia is relentless. Since eight years old, I have been a fan of Greek Mythology. The consistency in Greek stories are: foolish immortal boasts and gloats and is struck down for the rest of his existence with a curse. Hence the term "greek tragedy." I have discovered a long time ago that modesty is endearing and beautiful. On the otherhand, have you ever met someone that is a complete brag? Most of the time, they're quite repugnant and in result I'm unnerved.

Moral to the story is that conceit wears the same shoe as misfortune.

This is why I have been painfully silent for the past month about the birth of this great opportunity. Plus, Sophia's recently taught me to always expect the worst to avoid any dissapointment. True that! Hugs and Kisses to Kurt, Kathy, Uncle John & Aunt Nyra for all of your support and hardwork.

Lesson: Little Grasshopper silence is the beacon for best intentions.

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.

Need vs. Want

I’ve put my 2001 Honda with 32,800 miles in good, not to be mistaken with mint, condition up for sale. Wink. Wink. Knudge. Any takers? I even gave my car some love and took it for a carwash. It’s not that I neglect my car; it’s just that I’m simply a lethargic slug, lazy for short. Hell, I’m not sure a homeless person would make my car his home, because on top of lazy I’m also a slob.

We’re on the mission for a car before the snow season begins, trying to steer away from SUVs, but boy they sure are shmoove. A requirement more than a must is a 4-wheel drive; Shane’s a board jock, a true sucker for snow. We were shooting for an Audi, but after speaking to too many unsatisfied customers, we’re leaning towards the BMW, 3 series sports package. Shane’s taken the 3 series out for a test drive as I sat in the backseat hung over, but from where I sat the ride was smooth, even if this car would be my ride. Irony, I’m a few months from paying off my car only to take on a new one.

Flashback: 1993, lower Haight flat two floors above Toronado, throwing my old boyfriend down two flights of stairs for stealing my hard earned savings for a Dodge Dart or Welding equipment. I kicked him in the gut first when I found out he pawned my bass guitar and my amp.

Meanwhile, I need to post my car on Craig list, because I’m not trading my car with a dealer. I might as well sell my reproduction organs, if I’m pursuing that route.

Lesson: Silly Grasshopper it is only destiny that can determine your fate, not your legs.

Fab is on the rise

Yes, I am a retard. Even after my wedding I pursue the happiness of a flat stomach. I have been working really hard towards it. I know I will wake up on the morning of Christmas and lift my t-shirt and find a nice red bow from santa on my flat abs. Three cheers for Santa and his army of elves. Sorry I am very coerced by my daydreams.

I’ve continued to see my personal trainer twice a week and I may just bump him up to thrice a week. It has not been a walk in the park for me. I’m not fat, but I want flat abs aka fabs godamnit! I’m not the lucky few who are born with fab. I’m the percentage that was born with that evil DNA of flab.

So in my pursuit to self confidence, I am seeking the help of my personal trainer. I know I should be seeing a psychiatrist instead, but they just sit and scribble. I have increased my cardio and I’ve decreased my food portions. Maybe I should see a therapist…but, I’m already crazy as a hawk.

It’s not like I want breast implants, lipo, or calf implants? I just want my firm body of eighteen again. No, let’s make that 21 (legal age of drinking). Plus, I can’t just forfeit my body to fat. It’s just too easy to scarf on a bucket of fried chicken, snort a pile of buttered mash potatoes, wolf a gallon of apple pie crumble ice cream! Society gets down on drug abuse. Honestly, food abuse is on the rise. According to the SSFSG (Shellie San Francisco Statistic Group), in the 25-40 age group, 10 to 1 people suffer from heart disease pertaining to the epidemic of trans and saturated fat food than drug overdoses nationwide. So Ronald McDonald, I plead on the life of my future childen, stop frying and salting your foods!

Anyway, back to me, myself and my flab. Dear Santa, I promise to make my bed every morning, not tease Dolomite (my dust ball under the bed), run and not walk up the hills, chew my food, not spill canned corn off the roof of my building on the heads of jogging yuppies. Thank you in advance for the fab.

Lesson: Young spry grasshopper cannot cross river on broken branch.