The Sweet Kiss Goodnight

11/11/2015

My dearest Sassy girl. When our paths crossed twelve years ago, we were two legitimate hot messes. (not in the fun, campy way) Simply put, our lives had taken a turn into the darkness. Back then, you were a mangy, starving, flea ravaged little thing, either lost or abandoned, and doing your best to survive on the streets. I’d just lost mom to the stupid breast cancer, and shortly after, my little sister Dena was murdered. She was 24, away at university, and finishing her Master's degree. She was also 6 months pregnant at the time.

To say I was falling apart would be putting it very mildly.

Three weeks after the news about Dena, you appeared, scurrying across my front yard. I ignored you for two whole days. Then, after really looking at you – such a pitiful little thing – I saw the sadness in your huge, pooling black eyes. I plopped you into a cardboard box and drove to the vet, where I learned you were four pounds (should’ve been eight), about three years old (according to your teeth, or something), reasonably healthy, and completely traumatized. I was instructed you’d need lots of patience, love, special handling and care.

I nodded. I knew what that felt like.

We became instant war buddies, and hunkered down together. Life, for me, continued to get grim. When I got the call my sister’s murderer had been arrested, you were cuddled at my side. You would remain there, through the months and years; sharing my grief through it all. And there would be plenty more. I lost Karen, my close friend who died suddenly from lupus. Then we lost my baby cousin Justin, (also 24) also senselessly murdered months before graduating with an engineering degree. Two murder trials, back to back.There was too much loss, death, trauma. I unraveled; came undone. Quit my job. Stopped taking phone calls. The grief, anger, and devastation turned me into a recluse. 

My only comfort was you.

And all the well, too, because I was done with people; I lost complete faith in humanity. There would be years of near insanity – debilitating depressions, breakdowns, relentless insomnia, overwhelming anxiety, PTSD - and all the other issues that tend to arise when one is losing one's mind. When I couldn’t get out of bed for days or weeks, you looked after me. You slept when I did, tucked into my side, your warm body and presence the only solace I could find. 

Then, there was the darkest time - Summer 2007. It was immediately after Justin's funeral. I could barely get out of bed for the basic necessities, let alone keep the weekly visits with my therapist. When she demanded I come in, I broke down in her office, doubting my ability to function. I'd been languishing in bed over a month. She explained the seriousness of a vegetative depression. There was talk of hospitalization. She gave me a non-negotiable assignment: Force yourself up every day by 10 am, and walk your dog. Bathing or brushing of teeth was optional; she knew those tasks could easily derail me. You must get out of bed, she warned. If you want to get better. Get up, go outside, and walk your dog.

 

I forced myself up. And we walked. I'd rattle your leash, and you'd pop into action. Some days we made it a few blocks, other days, the front porch. Commitment to this ritual got me moving again. Healing would be much farther down the road, but you helped me take those early, fragile first steps. You were the best part of my wasteland years.

You had your stuff to work through as well. After what seemed like ages of being terrified of door bells, loud noises, sudden movements, and people in general, you finally settled into the idea that you'd found a stable home (with lots of food) and humans to love you for the long haul. Slowly emerging from your timidness, you bloomed into a (hilarious) feisty little busy body, in everyone’s business and underfoot, romping, running through the house like a maniac, and stealing food from any unattended plate, bag of fast food, or trash can. 

I went to the kitchen for ketchup one time, and you scarfed down my two piece chicken and biscuit meal before I got back. Didn't take more than ten seconds, max. (you can take the pooch off the streets..) We learned not to sleep when you were on the prowl. You could be in a dead slumber and still wake up when the refrigerator door opened at 2 am. (Greedy. And nosy.) You humped one of your stuffed animal friends so hard, you threw out your back. None of them were safe. 

Your personality grew ten feet tall. We doted on you, became your willing lackeys. How could we resist?  We got wise to your ploys for attention, particularly when you wanted the moles (warts) scratched behind your floppy bunny ears. Your energy and spirit were infectious. You grew into the fun kind of hot mess.

More than that, we helped each other heal. Both of us had already seen the end of the world, so the ordinary days became deliciously special. We learned to cherish the gift of everyday life. 

Once I got up, and out in the world again, I realized it could still be quite unpredictable out there. Coming home to you was my reward for making it through another day. We settled into a quirky routine. Weeknights consisted of watching DVR'd episodes of Judge Judy to unwind; belly rubs, chats, gossip, snacks, dinner, you plopping on my laptop or journal as I tried to write (brat), then the two of us snuggling in for the night. Mornings I'd prepare for work, watching your furry body luxuriate on the bed or couch, as I set out your snacks and switched on Animal Planet to keep you company through the day. On weekends, there were few errands we didn't run together.

You became my best friend, confidant, side kick, running buddy, road dog, and cuddle bug; my security and serenity in this turbulent world. You assisted with my daily wardrobe dilemmas. You helped sniff out potential boyfriends, and gave me heads up on the jerks. You knew all my dreams, joys, disappointments, and secrets. We knew where all the bones and bodies were buried. We became a team. A dynamic duo at its best.

The greatest gift, though, is that we got to fully live out this bond and companionship. We've been blessed with the luxury of time. You weren’t snatched away from me, like the others. We hung in there long enough to experience happiness, for life to get sweet again. And we pulled out all the stops.

God knows we'd earned it.

We had the best adventures. We traveled together, road tripped, slept in five star hotels, and treated ourselves to room service. You experienced the finest doggie spas and hotels. We made an art out of sunbathing - in the backyard hammock, at the park, the beach. I'd pull out your pink glam carry bag, you'd hop in, and we were out.  Late night summer drives, sunroof open, your head hanging out the window, bumping 80's music or Kanye. Vintage shopping in Silver Lake, strolling the Venice boardwalk, eating out cafe style. I'd let you chow down on whatever your greedy heart desired. Every now and then, I'd think back on our trauma days, and smile.

We've come a long way, baby.

You helped me tolerate, then embrace, life and people again. You were my emotional support dog before it was even a thing. You are my forever reminder that there is still happiness to be found on the other side of darkness. You have shown me what grit and grace are all about.

I am writing this while watching you nap in front of the fireplace, no doubt exhausted from all the dancing and feasting at the pizza party we just had. And tomorrow I will somehow get up, and once again, drive to the vet – but this time, to say our good-byes. At fifteen, your little body has worn completely out, and I won't let you struggle anymore. You're too spunky for that.

We've shared the worst of times, we've shared the best. I wouldn't change a thing.

Sassy Poo. You are one of the great loves of my life. You are leaving me in a much better place than where you found me. Thank you. Thank you for saving me. You are the best girl, the sweetest girl; more than I could have ever dreamed of or wanted.

You were the best little girl in the world. You were perfect. And you were loved to the end.

             Long live Sassy Poo Sharif. ♥ ♥

Why I Won't Quit Kanye

I know, I know. He’s an asshole, he’s a jerk. He’s delusional and ridiculous. A narcissist, whiner, blowhard, idiot, bitchy loud-mouthed clown, and quite possibly an undercover gay fish who everybody wishes would just sit down and go the fuck away.  To all that, my reply is: hmm….maybe. Perhaps.

But yeah, no. Never.

NEVER, I say, because Yeezy is like my pretend little asshole brother who I’m constantly defending on the playground - whether it’s to save him (from himself) when he DEMANDS that a wheelchair bound fan of his GET UP AND DANCE, or to gently calm the confused victims from his latest rant about the functionality of black leather jogging pants. Yeah, he might act like an spastic, asshole prick on Adderall and shrooms, but he’s MY SPASTIC ASSHOLE PRICK. 

Here are few reasons why I can’t ever quit Kanye:

TWINSIES: Basically, I understand the weirdo. We both come from similar, unique backgrounds. Inner city raised, but defied the stereotypes. Our parents were artists and academics, who ensured that our zip codes would not determine our destinies. Also - he’s also a Gemini. A June-born Gemini, like me. So I get the overall, existential Gemini angst.  MOST GEMINI ARTISTS ARE ALIENS WHO FELL TO PLANET EARTH, AND STRUGGLE A GREAT DEAL TO ACT LIKE REGULAR HUMAN BEINGS. Other Gemini artists – 2Pac, Notorious B.I.G., Kendrick Lamar, Prince, Andre 3000, Ice Cube, Curtis Mayfield. Other infamous Gemini’s: Jeffrey Dahmer. David Berkowitz aka Son of Sam. Kenneth Bianchi. So when people say how sensitive, neurotic, flamboyant, unpredictable, over the top, and exhausting Kanye is, my reply is: AND THAT’S ON A GOOD DAY, MY DUDE.

HE’S A MUSICAL GENIUS: Yeah, I said it. Take away the public antics, and every dickwad move he’s ever made. (even though this was funny as hell.) TAKE IT ALL AWAY. Then contemplate that Kanye’s primary foray as a creative is/was as an arranger and producer. You’ve heard of Shawn Corey Carter? Yes, that JAY-Z FELLA. Alicia Keys, Common, Lady Gaga, Nas, Janet Jackson, Brittney Spears, Mariah Carey, John Legend, Maroon 5, Beyonce, Rhianna, Madonna. Ye has production credits for all these artists. So what I’m saying is, IPSO FACTO YOU PROBABLY LOVE KANYE, EVEN IF YOU CAN’T STAND HIM. I fell in love with this song before I even knew Kanye produced it. How can anyone hate this song? 

And then: just cop to the fact that he’s the most successful producer turned hip-hop ARTISTS OF ALL TIME. He’s also one of the most clever, insightful, audacious wordsmiths in the game. In 2004, he resuscitated hip-hop back to a respectable state of glory. Some of these young cats didn’t know naan about Emmett Till or conflict diamonds or Chiraq until Kanye started rhyming about them. But let me tell you, just when Yeezy does something absolutely ridiculous and I’m about ready to quit his ass – I listen to this track. This track alone always brings me back. It reminds me that at his core, Kanye has the ability to create sweeping, haunting, original arrangements that keep me on the fool’s side. Plus, the way he samples Nina Simone’s discography is unparalleled. 

HE RANTS IN ALL CAPS: Nope, he’s not going to calm the fuck down, even on social media. AND HE’S GONNA TELL THE WORLD TO LET HIM BE GREATTTT, YO. There’s something to be said about RANTING CAPS LOCK STYLE A LA KANYE, IT’S DELICIOUSLY EVIL AND SIMULTANEOUSLY REFRESHING. SOME OF MY FRIENDS ARE ALSO CAPS LOC ENTHUSIASTS. IT CONVEYS PASSION AND EMOTION AND RIDICULOUSNESS. AND IT SEEMS TO AGGRAVATE A LOT OF PEOPLE, WHICH IS ALWAYS A PLUS.

HE IS A PURE ARTIST: Not pure as in pristine. Pure as in unmarred, absolutely embodying everything it means to be a creative. Kanye is on that BATSHIT CRAZY TALENTED GENIUS LEVEL TIP. I do believe he is tapped into a higher frequency that most average people can’t access. He’s free-thinking, braggadocious, self-involved, self-deprecating, introspective, hard-headed, egotistical, tortured, impatient, persistent, and refuses to censor himself in any way.  All the discomfort and vulnerability (and triumphs) of being an artist -  he confronts, wrestles, embraces, and bares it all in his work (and life) ALL DAY.  He expresses himself through film, architecture, fashion design, education, social issues, and activism.  Sure he’s a tad impulsive, and might have a legit personality disorder, but whatevs.  Like it or not, he will go down as one of the most iconic artists of the 21^st century.

HE CARES, YET HE DOESN’T GIVE A FUCK: Yeezy was butthurt over that Southpark parody. Yeezy spilled his entire coming of age journal on wax. Yeezy was heartbroken after he andAmber split. (I love Amber). Hell, Yeezy’s 808 & Heartbreak album was basically a tormented letter written to an invisible therapist. Yeezy was emotionally devastated by the loss of his mother, the only true anchor in his life. THE DUDE HAS FEELINGS. And at the same time, he’s outspoken and tends to ramble (a lot), but will continue do and say whatever he wants. And I guarantee you it will be unpopular and outlandish. And he will keep on, no matter how much anyone (society) discounts and dismisses him, villainizes him, attempts to get him to act right, and play by the rules.  He is an absolute, unapologetic non-conformist and DON’T WE ADMIRE HIM JUST A LITTLE BIT FOR IT. And on an unconscious level, I think any black man who is openly self-assured, talented, outspoken, wealthy, and cocky makes certain groups of people (read: white folks) a tad nervous. Kanye is not quiet, docile, scared, or interested in maintaining the status quo. He’s an arrogant fuck; a wild card. Which means he's basically one of America's nightmares. YAY.

HE’S UNPREDICTABLE: Every time Kanye gives an interview, I squirm in my seat, hoping like hell it isn’t the day we all witness a very public, coke-fueled, manic breakdown. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. From the "You Aint Got The Answers” meltdown to the Jimmy Kimmel shenanigans. I love Kanye even more when he’s brilliantly unhinged. 

HE’S HIS OWN BIGGEST FAN: Yes, he thinks highly of himself. Sure, he’s a braggart. So was Muhammed Ali. Everybody ‘aint gotta be on the humble tip. Yeezus ‘aint gonna stop, and why should he? Kanye doesn’t have to act the way we feel he should act. No one man should have all this power to make folks feel some kind of way about his every move! Let Kanye be himself. Some artists get their point across by being palatable and low key, Kanye blasts his truth and hopes you choke on a big fat dick if you don’t like it. So open wide, peasants.

HE HAS THE BEST GIF’S: Anyone who has ever swapped texts with me on a regular basis, knows that I have an arsenal of Kanye GIF expressions at the ready for every occasion.  This is my favorite: 

via GIPHY

GIVE HIM A BREAK, HE HAS BRAIN DAMAGE: This is Kanye’s forever get out of jail free card, as long as I’m concerned. Remember that near fatal head-on auto collision he was involved in – you think the only damage he suffered was a cracked jawbone? NO WAY. The most obvious conclusion is that his brain was seriously rattled around in that big, roomy skull of his. Of course he’s eccentric and a little wacky, and it all makes sense: it’s called a TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY, FOLKS. Just think of him as Gary Busey-lite.

ADDENDUM: I started writing this post a few weeks before Kanye won the MTV Vanguard award. His speech reinforced everything I expect and love about him, so I have nothing more to add. Though, I think he was just trolling us with his "presidential run" announcement..but who ever knows with this dude!

LAST ADDENDUM: It's 2019, Kanye met with Trump, and said "slavery was a choice."

I quit him.

WAZE IZ AWEZOME - Part 2 (UPDATES)

 

As I mentioned before, WAZE has significantly increased my overall quality of life. Yep, I said it. Just like a steaming bowl of Ramen – IT MAKES ME UNABASHEDLY HAPPY. Instead of a huge groan before starting my a.m. or p.m. commute, I gleefully bask in the mystericfullness (mystery, magic, and cheerfulness) of where WAZE will lead me next. 

Here are a few updates, discoveries, and personal recommendations I've made since embarking on this wonderful journey:

KNOW YOUR DISTANCES:

I’ve never been a "good at directions” kind of gal, so the fact that Waze baby steps me through any driving route is all kinds of win.  Though in the beginning, I had to become aware of the concept of distance.  When Waze told me to make a right turn in 325 feet, I figured I had at least 3 good minutes to fast forward that wack song playing on Pandora and grab a snack out of the glove box before making the turn. But no. Turns out, 325 feet is roughly half a city block, so for the first few weeks I kept miscalculating the impending turn. This caused me to do a last minute fast-ass break type action, then bust a hella sloppy move by turning on a dime. This really pisses people off.  Happens to a lot of Waze newbies.

I think the solution would be more verbal reminders for us clueless folk. As in “make a left in 225 feet….make a left in 100 feet….make a left in 25 feet….DAMMIT GIRL MAKE A LEFT RIGHT HERE.”  Which brings me to....

USE GOOD JUDGEMENT:

In the earnest desire to get you home in time to watch the live airing of Love and Hip-Hop (don’t judge), Waze will sometimes give you questionable driving advice. For instance, a simple voice command to “continue ahead on current route” really means “continue to barrel across four lanes of traffic." Or Waze will blithely tell you to “make a left turn” when you’re already firmly planted in THE RIGHT LANE. No matter how calm and reassuring that Waze chick’s voice is, no matter how bad you need to get home to take a whiz - DON’T DO IT. I call it the Waze honey trap.  Don't get caught out there just because Waze told you to; that shit's not going to hold up in court. Remind yourself who’s really gonna pay the cost after you T-bone that brand new Tesla into some dude's illegal garage apartment.

BELONGING TO A CHUMMY COMMUNITY:

After becoming a Wazer, (that's what we're called) you will fellowship with the best group of formerly disgruntled and disillusioned drivers, who are now basically the Dali Lama’s of The Commute. We are no longer stressed, dismissive, or driving under the influence of rage. We gladly give you space and patience, and let you jump ahead of us on those delightful treks to and from the office. And to prove it, we freely give each other The Wave. 

The Wave is that hand motion that says “Dude! Go right ahead!” and the recipient throws up the “Gee thanks buddy!” hand motion in return. It’s the I DRIVE IN PEACE signal within the charitable Waze community, not to be confused with throwing up gang signs. But don’t get it twisted. If some asshole jerk makes an improper move without giving/receiving The Wave, we will place you on notice by irrationally screaming “HANDS MOTHERFUCKER! HANDS!!" to indicate your non-compliance. And trust, we sound more menacing than the LAPD.  

WAZE HELPS KEEP YOUR ASS SAFE, INFORMED, AND OUT OF TROUBLE:

Another reason why this app is truly awesome. Waze users notify other Wazers when there is: 1) A red light camera (2) An accident (3) A vehicle stopped on the road (4) A vicious Pot Hole that will crack your low profile rim and set you back a hundred and fifty bucks (5) The nearest gas station, and most importantly (5) THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE POLICE. As soon as anyone spots The Fuzz, we scramble to update the network so everyone knows when and where to slow down, cease yapping on the phone, texting, and/or watching Netflix. 

One caveat: UNREPORTABLE DANGERS:
Because I have the night vision of a newborn mink, driving after work is tricky.  Unfortunately Waze cannot help me avoid the hidden hazards that come along with night driving, such as annoying pedestrians, joggers, or cyclists; people walking their dogs, people shuffling along with babies in strollers, homeless dudes pushing carts, or people who think it’s wise to be doing anything in the middle of the street that I happen to be driving down after sunset.

OH YOU MAD?


'Cause you know. Haters gonna hate. A group of folks are in a huff now that we're up on game, and suddenly trampling through their previously exclusive little neighborhoods while making the way back to our plebeian existences. Waaah, there's too much activity on the poor little street where my multi-million dollar mansion sits, and we're gonna fight back against these peasants! And they've tried. Complaining to neighborhood associations and city councils and such. But the law clearly states that "anyone has a right to take a public road or trail to whatever destination they choose," so my message to them is buck the fuck up. It's me who has to brave these dank and often dangerous streets just to land safely at my struggling middle-class abode, so until you build your way into a nice exclusive cul de sac - WE'RE COMING THROUGH YOUR HOOD, BITCHES. Deal with it. Xoxo.

'Cause it's all about that Waze life, son!

T.G.I.O. (Thank God It's Over)

 

"To many people, holidays are not voyages of discovery, 

but a ritual of reassurance." 

Phillip Andrew Adams

There’s truly no better way to out yourself as a Grinch, than to be honest about what you did over the holidays.

“SLEEP,” is what I blurted out to my curious co-workers, when asked how I’d spent the Christmas time off.  “And lots of Netflix-ing. And lounging. Hung out with the kids, reorganized my closet, painted a wall…"

 They stared at me with differing versions of awkwardness and awe.

“Andd..?” they implored.

“Oh, and I mailed out some custom holiday cards, which featured the cutest picture of my dog!” I added that last part (which was true), to not come off as a total misanthrope. 

When they discovered none of my answers included running myself ragged to purchase gifts, putting up decorations, sitting through forced gatherings with dysfunctional relatives, or ugly Christmas sweater contests, they were like WAIT WHAT YOU DON’T CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS?

And the answer is nah. Not really. And how fucking presumptuous it is to assume everyone does. Since when did Thanksgiving and Christmas become mandatory rituals for all inhabitants on the planet? Does it ever occur to anyone that MAYBE I'M A GODDAMN ATHEIST? Or Taoist. or Wiccan. Or a freaking DRUID. (I’m not, but I’m all the way down with Festivus)

I’ll say this though, I don’t buy into the rampant, soulless, frenzied consumerism that dictates what I should be doing like clockwork once a year. Yes, I love connecting with friends and family, eating, drinking, and being merry; picking out little thoughtful cards and gifts, being grateful and aware and alive, but I do that through the entire year.  Why do some people get so damn fanatical about it in December? Just to revert to being the same self-involved, neglectful, slacking fools come January?

Who's to say.

And what a lot of people don't realize - while singing and insisting that It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year - that it just might not be; not for everyone. 

Some folks have problems that don’t dissolve just because it’s The Holidays. Illness, addictions, poverty, pain, estrangement, loneliness.

And for others, the holidays represent a prolonged and cruel insult; ramming reminders into the hearts of those who have lost loved ones over the years. To mandate cheerfulness on everyone BECAUSE IT'S CHRISTMAS is insensitive. It's this lack of compassion that makes the holidays even harder to tolerate.

Over a decade ago, my mother died five days before Christmas. Her funeral was right before New Year. Since then, it’s been a wrap. Neither I, nor the holidays, have ever been the same.   

It was also my induction into The Club.

The Club consists of those who have experienced some heartbreaking loss, and share a coded language with others who've experienced the same.  It is a very sad, very quiet membership.  We don't advertise, though it is our universal duty to acknowledge each other in kind.

An ex who use to chide me about my holiday grumpiness, recently lost his only son in early November. When he gave me the news, he also apologized.

“I never understood it before, until now. What you must have felt like. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said. “ You couldn’t have known. I would’ve preferred you never know.”

And I was sorry. It’s always disheartening to embrace a new member to The Club.

“Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday,” he said. “ I hate it now. I'll never celebrate it again.”

“I know,” I said, grabbing his hand. “I know.”

Say no more.

***********

Thank God It’s Over.

And here we are, safely into the second week of January, settling back into the flow of old (and new) routines that will launch us into another year. 

Which means I'm relieved of the holiday madness, (somewhat) out of hibernation, and back to the good stuff. The opportunity to make every day special, on my own terms.  

This is what brings me joy. The magic of an ordinary day: Who will I see and talk to, what will inspire me, who shall I call and let know I am thinking of them, what will move me, who or what will make me laugh, think, explore, grow... 

Twenty four hours of infinite possibilities. 

Just how I like it. Christmas, every single day of the week.

January, 2015.