The Pure Sweetness of Local Honey

When the Heart Breaks

honey_b_licious — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 02:11:47 GMT

Heartbreak again. I know it so well, and it never fails to knock me to my knees like a sucker punch. Standing at the bus stop, walking in circles to keep myself from collapse, hoping against hope that the person who could take that pain away might appear out of the blue, seeing him in a car parked on the street, in a color, in a pair of stranger’s sunglasses, barely bothering to hold back the tears, I vaguely wonder what the other girl waiting there is thinking. I wonder what her heartbreak has been. On the bus, I wonder what sorrows the other passengers have seen. The woman in her wheelchair, talking softly to her companion; the teenaged couple – she black, he white – huddled with heads together, her eyes darting everywhere but never focusing on him; the older people who have probably loved and lost more than I could ever imagine; the young girl arguing with her mom on her cell phone. Something funny happens when my heart breaks. I noticed it the last few times I’ve felt like this, and maybe – hopefully - it means that all my struggles in love haven’t been in vain. It’s this: when my heart breaks, just when I think I can’t take the pain anymore, it breaks further – and opens up. I let go, I feel warmth in my solar plexus, and I can see everything in the eyes of the people around me. The joy, the pain, the struggle, the universal human wish to be really, truly, at home and at peace. When my heart breaks, I feel empathy where there was antipathy, love where there was ambivalence. I feel connected to the universe in a way I don’t when things are going “right”, when I feel so confident and in control. When my heart breaks, my fear and judgment fade, and the people around me are all just people struggling, the way I struggle; wanting love the way I want love; mostly doing their best, often saying or doing the wrong thing, and all wanting the same things: to be seen, heard, understood, to be loved, and to give love. When my heart breaks, it’s like I can feel all the pain in the world and can take it into myself, the way the Buddhists do in tonglen practice. I want to relieve suffering, because I suffer. Rather than hardening into resentment and anger, when my heart breaks, I soften into love. Isn’t that strange? Today, on my way home from work, I found myself analyzing the pain. What does it feel like? It’s a gaping wound in my gut, it’s a weird shifting sensation, like there’s no center to hold on to, it’s grief, it’s wanting, and, what’s so odd: it’s pure love. And just like that, I knew the answer to the pain. I knew that the answer wasn’t resentment, or anger, or hatred, or demanding answers, or lashing out, or crying (well, maybe just a little) or drinking, or mindless sex with someone else to take away the loneliness. The answer was so easy and simple: it’s love. So, I walked home, and the mantra that popped into my head, that I kept saying over and over to myself, that seemed to ease the aching in my heart was “I send all my love; I send all my love.” So I send all love to you, C, I hope you find your happiness. I want nothing more than to feel your arms around me right now. But if that can’t be, then go with peace. You deserve it. I send all love to J, who taught me what unconditional love feels like and what it feels like to really let go. I send all love to R, because I hurt you and I didn’t know how not to. I send all love to F because I should have treasured your love and instead I threw it away like trash. I think of you often, and wish things had turned out differently. I think you’re happy now, and I’m so glad. I send all love to all the people I’ve disappointed and hurt. I caused hurt not because I was mean, but because I was clumsy. I send all love to the people who have disappointed me. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and even if you did, you did it from your own struggle. I send all love to the people who I’ve judged harshly. I send all love to the people who reached out to me and who I rebuffed or ignored. I don’t always see or appreciate the love that’s offered. Heartbreak reminds me to be more careful of others’ hearts. I send all love to M, my closest and best friend, who has been so patient and loving to me and who taught me what it means to be a friend. I send all love to my friend JN, he of insight and humor, who keeps me laughing and thinking, both. I send all love to the people who are fighting the flames right now; the red sun and my burning nose remind me to keep you in my thoughts. I send all love to the people who are fighting the floods right now; may you stem the tide and find peace again. I send all love to all beings who struggle and hope. My heartbreak reminds me of the essential truth that we’re all in this together, and that there is no enemy.

I’ve been reading about this new book ....

honey_b_licious — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:10:22 GMT

I’ve been reading about this new book “The Paradox of Choice” by Barry Schwartz (hear him speak here: http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/93, especially the part about buying jeans) about – and I’m sure I’m oversimplifying this, because I haven’t read the actual book yet – how too many choices can actually make us unhappy. And one thing has been running through my head ever since I heard about it: that’s what the problem is with dating. I’ve been dating for about 10 years. Mostly online (heck, Craig Newmark and I should just get married) , but also in the “normal” way (meeting people in dorm rooms, at work, at bars, in social groups, on the hiking trail, on the train). I’ve developed several relationships with men I met online and with men I met in “real” life, so I know the various sides of the coin. I’ve probably been on first dates with upwards of 50 men, some of whom I rejected for various reasons, some of whom rejected me, and most of whom just faded out of my life as I faded out of theirs. No drama, no discussion, no follow-up calls. Most of those 50 guys were just not going to cut it; I knew from the first ten minutes. I wasn’t attracted, I didn’t feel like he listened to me or cared what I had to say, he wasn’t funny, he didn’t laugh at my jokes, he had a weird rash, or too many kids, or was too charismatic (or not charismatic enough). He invited me over to his hot tub too soon – or not soon enough. He tried to make moves on me. Or he didn’t. There have been as many reasons as there have been guys. The most common reason, of course, the default justification for not seeking a second date: there was no spark. And I’m sure, to the guys who never bothered to call me after the first date, there were reasons I didn’t make the cut: not the right coloring or body type, didn’t laugh often enough, didn’t come with my own rock-climbing gear. Who knows. There’s always a reason. And I’ve been thinking recently how different it would if we really didn’t have that many choices of people to date; if Craigslist and Yahoo and the plethora of dating sites didn’t offer a daily selection of hundreds and hundreds of people, like some kind of human Berkeley Bowl (seriously, who needs 10 varieties of oranges to choose from?). What if we really couldn’t afford to be so choosy? If we knew the three available and dateable people in our town and knew we had to either choose one of them or move to a different town? Wouldn’t we be happier with the one we chose? Wouldn’t we be more forgiving of his foibles, think him more attractive, consider that we had made the right choice when compared to the other two? I think so. I’ve actually often thought of how nice it would be, on some level, to just not really have that much of a choice. To have my parents steer me towards somebody, or to live somewhere where there just weren’t that many guys to go around, and so if I wanted one, I had to choose what was available. The way I feel more comfortable shopping at Whole Foods simply because there are only 4 types of apples and not 17. There’s something comforting in this idea that I wouldn’t have to choose from an infinite number of variables. I mean a choice of three is hard enough, but how can you choose between infinity? It’s impossible! No matter who I’m with, there will always be the possibility of someone “better” out there. I know this is wrong, and unfair, but it’s still true. And then I wonder if this is why I’m still single, and why so many people are still single, not marrying until later, and generally seem disaffected by the whole dating experience. It’s because too many choices are making us unhappy – unhappy being single, unhappy with the dates we find, unhappy with the one we “end up with”, which more and more often means the one we date for two or three years and then break up with. We’re unforgiving of each other because we can always find someone else. We’re a culture of people with dating ADD. I can see this in how my own mind struggles with the whole bullshit romantic ideal thing: the “soul mate” myth, the “don’t settle” myth. That’s all crap. We’re all humans, and no human is going to be perfect. Holding out for the perfect mate is nothing more than romantic idealization of a very normal and human situation that’s about as far from a myth as it can possible get. Yet I can’t seem to get past it, this idea that there’s some perfect man out there for me, one who will make me shake with desire at the same time that I intellectually admire his value system and commitment to those values; one who knows exactly what to say and when to say it. Sometimes I just wish God or Craig Newmark would just drop down from heaven, plop a man in front of me and tell me to forget all the bullshit and make it work. Then again, like the joke about God saying "I sent you two boats and a helicopter, what more do you want?" maybe I've already had that chance. Maybe I missed it. Or maybe it's right here in front of me.

Oh, Boo Hoo

honey_b_licious — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 23:50:26 GMT

OK, I know I'm not being very nice by laughing so hard at the current "gas crisis." I shouldn't be laughing, I just got my first car, and now gas prices are nearing $5 a gallon! But I just clicked on CNN.com and saw an item they have on there which was described thusly: "The record-high price of gasoline is putting a strain on American motorists - and spurring some to shift their habits. Here are their stories." Oh good lord. Their stories about finally thinking about their consumption habits?? The photo spot next to the item shows a running slidehow of presumably normal (white) Americans, some with rosy-cheeked kids in tow, staring poignantly into the camera. "Gas is so expensive!" They seem to be saying, "How could you do this to me, God??!!" All I could think was: It's about time, sheesh. Now, I understand that the U.S. is a car culture , and it's not most peoples' fault that they drive so much. There aren't many options, unless you live in a big city, for getting around without a car, and even in most cities, the options aren't very welcoming. I mean I should know, I've taken the bus at 11:30 at night from events in San Francisco; I know the discomfort of waiting in the cold for a bus that may or may not arrive, when all you want to do is be home and warm and in bed. I know the shady characters that you seek to avoid by staring at your shoes as you take your seat, knowing, just knowing, that they'll choose you to sit next to. I know that people need to work, and buy food, and have a social life. And because we don't have the infrastructure that most countries have, of a decent public transportation system, and that though we have the technology to make cars that pollute less, for various reasons such cars are not available for the majority of Americans, and that we have to rely on the options we have, which in most cases, are gas-fueled cars. I know all this. But I still find myself thinking "It's about time. Sheesh." Maybe because I know there are options out there for ways to get around without a car, and those options don't scare me, I don't find gas prices an issue. And I have to admit that my self-righteousness kicks in when I see these overwrought news items about how people are finding ways to get around by driving less. It's about time! Another item I saw reported that the ridership on Caltrain has jumped by something like 7%, and that there's standing-room-only on some commuter trains. It's about time! Because these ways have been around for years! These are not new options! In the 24 years that I have been taking public transportation, nothing has changed. There are still the same BART and bus lines that I have been taking since I was 14 years old. And why has ridership been down in recent years? Because people haven't been thinking about the gas they're consuming. Even with a pointless, bloody war over oil, most people haven't cut back on their driving. But when it hits the pocketbook: Oh My. I'm hoping that gas prices stay high because I finally see people paying attention. In my ideal world, this will mean that whoah, we might see some efficient public transportation being developed! And amazing, we might see alternative-fueled vehicles that actually come to fruition, and might actually be affordable for more people. And my lord, we might see more development of sustainable live/work communities that include easy walking or biking access to the places that humans frequent. Oh, and, wonder of wonders, we might even see people developing communities around sharing: sharing cars, sharing food, sharing knowledge, sharing lives. Wouldn't it be wonderful? And it might all be because dammit, we can't afford to drive everywhere anymore. It's about time!

Happy Birthday to Me! or Thanks, Universe!

honey_b_licious — Wed, 21 May 2008 00:04:34 GMT

I've never been the kind of person to complain about getting older. Heck, my 70-year-old mother says she's happier than she's ever been. I admit that as the first number of my age gets higher, I get slightly more anxious about each birthday, but I'd be hard-pressed to admit it. And I do have to say that my thirties have certainly been the most...interesting...years I've had. Not that they're over. Quite. So here's another one coming my way, and I've found myself musing more than is normal for me about just how good things are at the moment. That being the case, I thought I'd send out some gratitude for not only the good things in my life right now, but all the lessons I've learned this past year (and previously) without which I wouldn't be who I am today, and most certainly wouldn't be wise enough to realize when things are good. First off, I'd like the thank the powers-that-be for landing a very affectionate friend in my lap (and I do mean that literally). It's been a very long, very frustrating dry spell for me (maybe for both of us), one that I was pretty sure would never end, so I'm drinking this up like a person wandering in the desert would drink a bottle of cool water. With a chaser of really good tequila. Yum. It is scary and somewhat exhilarating (depending on my mood) to realize how much I've learned about being intimate with someone, and how much more I have to learn. Also, my loving, forgiving, just-nutty-enough-to-be-interesting family, without whom not only would I not have my car or my house, but I probably wouldn't have my ability to laugh at anything and everything, my love of the written word (and hence my career) and my curiosity about the world. Then there are my loving, forgiving, trusting, listening friends who both indulge me and kick my ass, sometimes in the same conversation. I hope I do as much for them. Finally, I'd like to thank the universe for (not quite literally) landing a free car in my lap. I know, I know, it's a material possession, but I've never owned a car in my 30-cough years, and though not having a car has taught me much (patience, problem-solving abilities), I'm now ready to see what having a car will teach me (Don't tell me: patience, problem-solving abilities, how to spend money like it's water). I'm still not used to being able to go somewhere else at the drop of a hat without having to have two hours' lead time. Luckily, the price of gas and my environmental activist soul prevent me from driving the two blocks to the mini-mart when I'm out of toilet paper. There's lots more: a stable job with great coworkers (I sometimes grumble about work, but damn, I'm lucky to be somewhere where I'm part of a team and not a cog in a wheel!), a little house to call my own, good health, and a nice ass. What more could I ask for? As for my life lessons this year, here are some choice ones: * When in doubt, say 'yes' * It's only money * Act as if you feel the way you want to feel, and you will * Being your true self with others is the best gift you can give them * And a related corollary: to accept another's gift is in itself a gift So happy birthday everyone, and thanks for everything, universe!

When Boundaries Make Fences

honey_b_licious — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 22:42:09 GMT

I’ve always been a person with a heightened sense of integrity. Even as a kid, I worried about money, wanting to be as independent as possible, to not put a financial strain on my parents (as if that was ever an issue; my dad was a doctor!). I rarely asked for things that cost money, and I got my first job as soon as I was old enough. Even then, every decision I made seemed weighty. Is it right? Is it good? Am I making that decision for the right reason? When I would go on road trips with my family, I’d see ghosts of the ancient decimated tribes who used to fish and hunt there. Once I understood what patriarchy meant, I spent years reading nothing but books by women and people of color. I always understood in some visceral way the privilege that my white skin and parents’ financial stability gave me. I was a pretty serious kid, as you can imagine. Rob Brezsny recently wrote a horoscope for Geminis that told me to be on the lookout for, among others, “humble perfectionists who obsess over the integrity of every little thing they do and then mock themselves for being so conscientious.” I laughed at that, because that’s me to a T. I’m proud of my conscientousness (is that a word?), the importance that personal integrity has in my life. Yet, I can also see how it has the potential to limit me, put fences around me and sap my enjoyment of life, if I let it. Sitting around with some kind of 24-hour flu thing on Monday, I started thinking about someone I’ve just started casually dating. Not a social change person at all, drives an SUV (though a small one), doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about how to be more compassionate or how to change the world for the better. I’m used to people like that – most people I know are basically self-obsessed and don’t have much mental room for world-changing. I happen to consider world-changing my vocation, but I know that's not everyone's gig. But he’s also fun, sweet, sexy as hell, listens when I talk, holds my hand when we walk together, likes my cat, and has a fine sense of adventure. Not to mention it’s the first time in 6 or 7 years that I’ve had a mutual attraction with someone who lives in the same state. But for a stomach-dropping minute, lying in bed with fever, I knew, just knew, that I had to drop my new friend because he isn’t the social activist I’ve always seen myself dating. For a moment, that voice that makes every decision I make have to be about personal sacrifice and “doing the right thing” gained hold. I regained my equilibrium after a few minutes, but that got me thinking about how too much attachment to “doing the right thing” can also be bad for us, can be just as limiting as having no passion and no interests, like the guy I had to interview recently in Spanish class who claimed to have no favorite pastimes, food, movies, or books. I can’t even imagine! My mom loves Starbucks. I can’t stand the jolly green giant, cloaking every urban area with its corporate mood-manipulation. Every time I see a Starbucks I think of that episode of the Simpsons where Bart is skateboarding through a mall where every storefront is a Starbucks except one, which changes into one as he rides past. Yet my mom loves Starbucks. And I love my mom. And sometimes when she helps me do errands (since I have no car), she wants to go get her favorite drink at Starbucks and treat me to one, too. And who am I to argue with her about that? To me, connection with my mom is more important than stiffing Starbucks the $2.50 they’ll get for my coffee drink. I believe that my reason for being on this planet at this time is to keep learning and evolving, and to offer my life as a model for new way of being that isn’t about competition, consumerism, or self-righteousness. But part of learning to be like water is learning to flow, not to force change by hammering people over the head with my need for them to be like me. So with my mom, and my new friend, I’m practicing the art of going with the flow, and of not letting my inner magnet of integrity pull me away from the connections and experiences that matter. I still want to change the world, but I also know that this new world won’t be any fun if everyone worries endlessly over every little decision they ever make. Besides, love begets love, whether it’s in a Starbucks or an SUV.

Something's Happening Here....What it Is Ain't Exactly Clear

honey_b_licious — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 23:45:29 GMT

So I've had some kind of transformation lately. I haven't written about it because the truth is, I don't know what to make of it. Let's start from the beginning. As the two readers of my blog know, I can be kind of cynical about self-help, even though I work in the industry (maybe because I do.) Posts like this one (http://honeybtemple2.blogspot.com/2007/12/be-here.html) , and this one (http://honeybtemple2.blogspot.com/2007/07/happiness-is-crap-since-my-last-post.html)are a testament to my love-hate relationship with all things self-improvement. Actually, both "love" and "hate" are too strong. I'm mainly ambivalent about it. Partly this is because I've been trying to improve myself since I bought my first self-help book ("How to be Popular") in fifth grade, and have been trying out various therapeutic tricks and techniques ever since then. Therapy, books, "process groups", books, pills, books, you name it. After awhile, a girl just starts to get tired of having to improve all the time, right? A few months ago, it dawned on me (and I mean "dawned", as in a slow, steady, ever-brightening realization) that part of my cynicism was actually resistance. Resistance to going deeper. Resistance to being uncomfortable. Resistance to looking myself straight in the face. Even resistance to really grasping what I'd been saying for so long: that there really is nothing wrong with me. "Coincidentally", my boss sent me to a work conference on the science of consciousness - a highly experiential two-day retreat in Portland, OR - sponsored by the Institute of Noetic Sciences. many things happened in Portland, but the most intense experience happened when I was taken into a trance state and met two creatures in a dark, damp wood that should have been scary but wasn't. The laughing Cheshire-cat-like grey fox with bright eyes, and the laughing willowy nude woman with long auburn hair both answered my despairing question of "What do I do now?" with the same answer: "You're already doing it." "You're OK", they said, laughing, as they led me on a half-run, half-flight through the forest, "You're already perfect." In this trance I felt, really felt, in the core of my being, the basic and incontrovertable "okay-ness" that is every creature's birthright. The thing that people say they feel when they become enlightened. I felt it, and knew it, and nothing has been the same since. Other things have happened in the last two months to support this notion of my basic, core, human goodness (the idea that I - we all - are completely and totally perfect and whole, deserving of all good things, simply because we exist). I've met amazing people, I've understood more about why I'm here on this planet, and I've understood more about how I can stand up every day and connect rather than isolate, love rather than flee, laugh and cry and dance all at once. It's been amazing and not something I can tell many people. That's why I'm writing it on this blog :-) At the same time, I haven't become a trance-happy, grinning, lightheaded hippy-dip (nothing against hippies; I did grow up in Berkeley and am a hippie in my soul). I'm still me. I laugh at inappropriate things. I like movies and books that are dark and complex and use foul language. I still like to swear like a truckdriver, drink, talk about sex (and nowadays, I can even HAVE sex. With someone else. Imagine!) , get kinky, get frustrated, eat pizza, all the things I've always done. If anything, I'm more me than I've ever been. Yet everything's different for me now. I've lost 95% of my habitual fear of people. I talk to strangers. I keep my office door open so I can talk to my coworkers as they pass by. I'm not as afraid in general. I can be patient with those who frustrate me. I've been getting an amazing amount of positive energy coming my way. I take more personal risks. I can have social events every night of the week and not get tired, where more than two nights a week used to make me exhausted and cranky. I'm more comfortable being uncomfortable. It's not that I never get depressed anymore, or get pissed off, or drink too much, or get bored, or think yoga is a waste of time. It's just that that core part of me that knows everything is now and always will be OK just comes right on back up, like one of those sand-filled clown punching bags from kids' parties. Everything's coming up roses, because something in me is already a bed of roses - and callas and forget-me-nots, and daisies, and all other sorts of flowers - and always will be. Thorns and sweet smelling flowers, bugs and butterflies, and all. That's what I've been up to in the last two months. It's why I haven't written. I'm still transforming, I think. And I'm curious to see where it all goes. If anyone wants to write to share stories or insights, please do. I feel an urge to connect with like-minded people who are also transforming themselves, and the world. Oh, also, I'm still taking donations for the Habitat for Humanity Build-a-thon, at which I'll be pretending to know how to do carpentry. Ha! www.firstgiving.com/melissakirk.

Please Help me Help Others, AKA HB Asks for Money for a Good Cause!

honey_b_licious — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 23:54:07 GMT

Hi everybody – Some of you may know that last summer, I went down to New Orleans to help rebuild houses with Habitat for Humanity and some other organizations. After that, I decided I wanted to do more work with Habitat, but reasoned that, instead of flying 2,600 miles from home, I could do more good here in my own community. To that end, I’ve signed up for Habitat’s “Build-a-thon” to be held over the Earth Day weekend (April 19-22). This project will involve completely framing six homes in East Oakland, and will eventually transform a former auto salvage yard into a healthy community for 54 families. All I know about framing is what you do to pictures before you hang them up on the wall (or what often happens on cop shows), so this will be interesting. Of course, before I went to New Orleans, I thought “mudding and taping” was something kinky, and that hanging drywall looked sort of fun. This is Habitat’s largest fundraiser of the year, so all volunteers are required to raise at least $200 per day that they work. That’s only 10 people pledging $20 a day! I’m working April 19 and 21, so that’s only $400. I’ve very helpfully put up a fundraising website so you can donate to my efforts with only a few clicks. You can visit the site here: http://www.firstgiving.com/melissakirk. The Build-a-thon is coming up (I only decided to do this today), so if you’d like to donate, please do so as soon as possible, so I can look good in front of my fellow volunteers :-) And of course if you have friends with deep pockets and philanthropic sensibilities, please feel free to send 'em on down to my site! Thanks in advance for your help. If I survive, I’ll regale you all with tales of my incredible building prowess. -Melissa

Letter to my Soul Mate

honey_b_licious — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 17:19:48 GMT

Dear Soul Mate – You know, I just realized I’ve been meeting you in my dreams for years. Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve been having dreams where I meet you and feel such sweet, warm, all-encompassing love – a love I’ve never felt in ‘real’ life. The funny thing is that you look different in every dream: dark, fair, skinny, stocky, once a dentist, once a botanist. Maybe that’s just dream language, maybe it’s because I love everything about you – all of your aspects. But there have been some consistent things throughout all the dreams: the love I feel for you and my amazement and joy at having found you. Your love makes me smile, makes me ache, makes me feel strong and proud, makes me feel safe. I love your huge grin, your gorgeous laugh-lines, the depth of your eyes, the strength in your hands and your back, those lovely arms. I love your wide, wild spirit that reminds me to drink every moment as if it were my last breath. I love your commitment to living in love, to living lightly on our Mother Earth, your desire to make the world better and how this is reflected in the choices you make every day. I admire how you’ve let go of bitterness, grimness, and self-righteousness and instead have chosen hope, compassion, and abundance. I also love that you can fully experience the depth of your sadness, anger, and fear, but that these things haven’t poisoned the world for you – in fact, they make your life infinitely more complex and lovely. I love your eminent good sense and your goofiness. Your ability to say something silly and serious in the same sentence. I love that you can hold all of life’s contradictions and are comfortable doing so. I love your love for me. You love my eyes the color of denim or grey seas, depending on the light and my mood. My love for color, my stubborn refusal to believe anything truly without experiencing it first, my deep care and compassion for all creatures, my wanderlust and the travels that we share – because traveling together is like never leaving home. You love my awe at the most ordinary things: the sun rise, the moon, the flash of a crow’s wing, the soft breezes of October, the white profusion of February flowers. You love that my little house is yellow, that my backyard is bigger than my house, and that I like weeds, especially, right now, all those bright yellow flowering ones that close up when the sun goes down. You love that I planted milkweed for the Monarchs and that I share my vegetable patch with the snails (but not with the aphids). Together, we search for balance: joy and attention to the sadness of living, hedonism and moderation, dark and light, activity and relaxation, reaching out and drawing in, commitment and freedom. I love that you can share this all with me, that I can learn from you and you from me, and that we don’t complete each other – because we’ve always been complete – but that we magnify each other’s strengths and balance each other’s weaknesses. We know that a relationship isn’t about each person giving 50%, but about each person giving 110%. And we aren’t just twice as good together, we’re 1000x better together. Together, we can do anything, accomplish anything, can bring about a new reality for the planet that includes joy, awakening, laughter, love, justice, sustainability, creativity, and peace for all. I love that we’ve found such joy on that path. Our love fills the world with love. In Love- M

Why the Housing Market Crash Has Been Good For Me

honey_b_licious — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 00:35:08 GMT

So one of my dreams has always been to own my own home. Even as a teenager, I used to dream about having my own place. It would be some old farmhouse, with a big yard, and maybe a big old tree. My friends and family would come over and we’d cook food together, share stories, create stuff, laugh a lot, drink wine, and maybe even change the world. Yes, I did spend a lot of time daydreaming back then. A little over three years ago, I finally decided to do it. I had a good professional job in my chosen career, I lived in a moldering old practically subterranean apartment run by a slumlord, with a sunken kitchen that flooded every winter when it rained, and a shower with a drain that was open to the sewer (I kid you not.) Every once in awhile, my neighbor’s toilet would overflow into my shower. I had lived there for ten years, believe it or not. It was time to get out. The choices were to move to another apartment, or finally realize my dream of home ownership. When I owned my house (not an old farmhouse with a tree, but a circa 1943 shipyard worker’s house with a yard), I was not as ecstatic as I expected. Anyone who owns a home probably knows how I feel. It’s work! And money! And I pay a crapload of property taxes! For awhile there, I regretted my decision, or at the very least was ambivalent about it. I loved having my own place, I loved the place, I loved the big yard, but I didn’t love the money, or having to keep the place up, or having to look at the horrible neglected weedy lawn every morning knowing I was the one neglecting it. I didn’t like living in the 9th most violent city in America, without a car, and having to walk under a freeway underpass every morning to get to the train station to go to work. For about three years, I had one foot out the door, metaphorically anyway. I still fantasized about living somewhere else, the way I had when I rented my apartment. I imagined I’d sell the house in 3-5 years, and rent a nice place somewhere warm. I still grew veggies in my yard, had parties, and planted flowers, but I didn’t do anything major or permanent. Why should I, when I didn’t know if I was staying? Right after I bought the house, the market slowed, then stalled, and of course now it’s pretty much in freefall. I was smart and lucky: I got a nice rate on a 30-year fixed mortgage, so no balloon payments or foreclosures for me. But slowly, I’ve been realizing that it would be stupid to sell the house now, and that things aren’t likely to be rosier in 2-3 years, either. And about four or five months ago, it finally clicked: I’m staying. Like it or not. Once I made that commitment, my outlook shifted. I’m paying more attention to the house now, keeping it up. I hired my neighbor to install a drought-tolerant native garden in the front yard, and got the city to plant a tree in front of my place. It’s like I decided that, rather than give up what I have in order to keep looking for what I don’t have, I’ll do my best with what I’ve got. One of my goals has always been to live somewhere I love, but I’ve turned that around now: I want to love the place where I live. And this had been a major change for me. Eye-opening, actually. I’ve started interacting more with my neighbors, trying harder to support local businesses, and planning as if I have a future here. Rather than thinking about how to manage to move closer to work (which just happens to be in one of the most expensive metro areas in the U.S.), I’ve started to think about alternative ways to transport myself, including getting my old, crusty bike out of the garage and fixing it up. It isn’t lost on me that this new way of seeing things extends to my personal relationships, too. I feel like I appreciate my friends and family more than I used to. Despite their quirks and flaws, they’ve been there for me, with all of my quirks and flaws. Getting new friends isn’t the answer; appreciating the ones I do have is. So, I thank the housing crisis. It made me sit down, take stock, and take responsibility for my own life. Not to downplay the amount of pain and suffering that others are experiencing around this situation (foreclosed homes are a dime a dozen in my town), but for me, I’ve been lucky enough to be able to take advantage of it. Because I can’t move, I will stay here and make this the place that I want to be.

Your Life in Six Words

honey_b_licious — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 00:02:09 GMT

I love this idea! http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=18768430 Here's mine: Decided early on: adore the mystery

Help for Christopher Rodriguez

honey_b_licious — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 23:41:23 GMT

Here's how people can donate money to Christopher Rodriguez, the 10-year-old boy shot & paralyzed in a freak incident while practicing piano at Piedmont and Pleasant Valley. * Deposit your donation at any Wells Fargo branch: cash or check made payable to "Christopher G. Rodriguez" (reference Trust Account No. 7013202606) * Mail your check, made payable to "Christopher G. Rodriguez" (reference Trust Account No. 7013202606) to: Wells Fargo 151 40th St. Oakland, CA 94611 Tel: (510) 597-4210 * We are working on an on-line credit card donation page. It should be up soon... Benefit Concert for Chris on 2/10/08 Chris's music school - Harmony Road - will be holding a benefit concert on Sunday, 2/10 at Chapel of the Chimes on Piedmont Avenue. Proceeds will go towards Chris's family.

Dear 2007,

honey_b_licious — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 04:11:38 GMT

Wow, it’s been a whole year! I can hardly believe it. It seems like only yesterday that I was down in Santa Cruz with my friends listening to the revelry as the clock struck 2007. I know we got off to a rocky start: horrible emotional throw-downs with on-again-off-again boyfriends can be like that. And at a Christmas party, no less! (yes, I know technically that was in 2006, but the aftereffects lingered) Well, at least we got that out of the way early, so I could spend most of the year moving on way past that dead-end relationship, like a rocket ship zipping past a minor planet. So, it could only get better after that. We did a lot of social stuff together, shared a lot of laughter, as well as moodiness and frustration, boredom, depression, you name it. The normal stuff. Through it all, I really just tried to be aware of everything, not get judgmental about myself (or you, though that was harder.) Or I tried to be aware of the judgment, anyway. I got relatively mobile last January when I finally got my driver’s license 20 years later than most people. That was a few weeks more than one year ago. That was a challenge, something I’ll forever consider one of my major accomplishments. Does that sound pathetic? Well, to me, that was the fruition of all the reading and studying I’d done up to that point about facing your fears. That goddamn lack of a driver’s license had plagued me for all of my adult life. I’d had nightmares for years about driving, and when I would think about driving, I’d hyperventilate. I still can’t believe I did it. And in exactly a year, I can sign up at one of those car share companies! Them and their 2-year driving history requirements (grumble.) That brings me to relationships, of course. You helped me deepen my relationship with my best friend of 12 years, who helped me and encouraged me to learn to drive. As scary as relating could (and can) be sometimes, you, 2007 finally taught me to sit with that discomfort, to look it straight in the eye. I’m not great at it yet, but it’s like driving: I’m comfortable (somewhat) with the discomfort, and it no longer freaks me out (as much.) Or maybe I just recognize the discomfort and the instinct to freak out and don’t always give in. There was some small-time travel: down to Santa Cruz in March for some R&R, where I got all misty-eyed when a friend-of-a-friend saw me and seemed genuinely happy to see me. Really, it affected me more than you’d think. It made me realize how I long for that recognition and genuine warmth. And it helped me realize that it’s all around me, too. I just have to practice seeing it. There were men, lots of men. Not in the nasty way you’re thinking of it, 2007. Just dates, lots of dates; and finally I realized I just can’t do the formal dating thing anymore. As dry as my romantic life has been in this year, I just had to walk away from the internet dating, the speed dating, all of it. If I meet someone, it’s going to be because we connect in our normal lives, doing the things we do anyway. In the summer, there was New Orleans, helping rebuild (or at least that was why I went. I still don’t know if I helped at all), I remember sitting in the steamy summer morning out in the old playing field of the elementary school where the volunteer camp was, and falling in love with the swamp that pressed up against the chain-link fence. The fluttery feeling in the stomach, the whole bit. Is it possible to fall in love with a place? Maybe I’m just weird. Anyway, that was a challenging and strange experience, all in all. But probably one of the defining ones of my adult life, and not because of the work I did (although, heck, I can install insulation AND drywall, then mud and patch it and paint. Pretty nice for someone who used to be barely familiar with how to work a hammer!) It was more about the experience of being still in the face of my almost compulsive need to get away from the human race, in a situation where that just was not possible. Difficult would be an understatement. I think I did a pretty good job, too! But we came away from that with a new friend and some good stories. I guess the theme of our relationship, 2007, has been connecting. Many of my relationships have deepened, some have faded away almost completely; I’ve gotten closer to my dad than I probably ever have been, which is nice, and strange. Since when are parents supposed to be normal people?! In friendships, there’s been some conflict, and I’ve spent a lot of time figuring out the difference between my neuroses and my better instincts. I guess I’ve seen that it’s okay to let some relationships die in the cradle and to concentrate my energies on connections that seem more fruitful. Oh, and speaking of cradles, 2007, you brought a new baby boy to my family. As someone who has never wanted children, I’ve watched the growth of the two new ones in my immediate family and seen how they change the lives of the people around them. I don’t regret not having kids, and I don’t see my niece and nephew very often, but I understand better the promise that kids represent. I’m fascinated to watch how these two little new people will grow and evolve. There’s been some death, at the end of our relationship, 2007. That’s been difficult, but the sadness has been tempered with the realization that death finds all of us, sometime. Sometimes I feel very wise, which is funny, because so often I feel like a bumbling fool. But somehow I have a very philosophical view of death, and that feels right and wise to me - it’s sad for the living, yes, but also something else. I don’t know what. Mysterious, maybe? The deaths, strangely, have made me realize how many truly special people I’m lucky enough to have crossed paths with in my life. You know, those people who shine bright like flames of wisdom and compassion, even in the midst of their own struggles. I don’t know how else to describe it; I see them as flames, actually. But after two of them died, one after a protracted struggle, and one of them suddenly, violently, it made me think of all the others I’ve gotten to know in my life. What a blessing. Anyway, 2007, this is getting too long. But I just wanted to say that as difficult as some things have been between us, I feel closer to something important after knowing you. Something about just being. Not struggling as much. Being okay just as myself, and letting others be okay being themselves. I know I still have a lot to learn, but as I get to know 2008, I feel confident that I’ll get closer to it. Thanks, 2007, it’s been nice knowing you! -HB

Rest in Peace, Ravinder and Paramjit

honey_b_licious — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 20:18:35 GMT

I just found out that two brothers who I knew in passing were shot in their restaurant on Thursday, hours after my mother and I ate at a restaurant next door, and I saw both brothers as we walked back to the car. I moved to Richmond three years ago, and Sahib was one of the first restaurants I tried. I remember going in there and being greeting with a huge smile from one of the brothers. I never found out their names until they died. The younger brother, the one with the smile, who I now know as Ravinder, was tall and skinny and wore a traditional Sikh turban. The last time I spoke to him, he proudly showed me a picture of a house he and his brother had renovated and were now selling. I saw these guys frequently on my walks around town, always in their red pickup truck. The older brother, Paramjit seemed shy, but every time I came into the restaurant, he'd come out of the kitchen to say hello. I always found it sweet and a little odd that they were so, SO friendly - I mean I come from the bay area, where people don't typically meet your eyes as you pass. And here are two devout men who always had a kind greeting and a wave for someone who patronized their business a couple of times a year, if that. I hardly knew them, but I'll miss them. They made me feel a part of the community here. Sikh community seeks answers after brothers' slayings in Richmond By Karl Fischer and Kimberly S. Wetzel Two men shuffled down San Pablo Avenue on a wet December night. They passed a burger joint and doughnut shop before pausing at the door to Sahib Indian Restaurant. One banged on the window. "You open?" he mouthed to his quarry inside. It was a few minutes past 9 on Thursday night. Ravinder Kalsi, who owned the place with his brother, had locked up minutes earlier. Perhaps hoping to hear better, he turned the lock. Opening the door became his last act in life. The killers shot the 30-year-old dead in the doorway. They stepped past him and moved quickly. They touched nothing, said nothing. They found 42-year-old Paramjit Kalsi in the kitchen and shot him. "It does not look like a robbery. It looks like these two guys went in there to kill," Richmond Detective Sgt. Mitch Peixoto said Friday morning. "That's what worries me. Why?" The cryptic deaths of two prominent restaurateurs left the East Bay's substantial Sikh community scratching for explanations, as Richmond police reviewed surveillance camera footage and looked for witnesses. They became the first of four homicide victims reported in Richmond within 24 hours, making this month the city's most lethal in more than a decade and pushing its annual homicide total to 47 -- highest since the early 1990s. Nothing about the Kalsis made them obvious targets, friends said Friday. They owned the strip-mall restaurant between Nevin and Barrett avenues for about five years, and remodeled residential Advertisement property for profit on the side. "We are shocked, in shock," said Tehal Singh, an in-law of one of the victims. "They were young men, very gentle." Their family hails from Punjab in India, where they sent money, particularly for a disabled sister. A friend and former roommate called them kind, hard-working people who went out of their way to avoid confrontation. They were very close and spent their little spare time at the Sikh temple in El Sobrante. "They were totally pure guys, not in a fanatical way, just really hard-working," friend Gurman Bal said. "They were very spiritual. They listened to Indian religious music, watched religious TV. They knew their path, and they stayed on it." Bal knew the brothers for almost a decade. The pair shared a room in his Berkeley home for about five years before moving to Richmond. They did not drink alcohol, did not eat meat, and were quick to help around the house after long hours at construction sites. "They would work a full day, about 12 hours, then they would ask me if there was anything they could do for me," Bal said. "That's the kind of people they were; they didn't take any handouts." A witness dialed 911 at 9:14 p.m. Thursday. The gunmen walked or ran south on San Pablo Avenue after the attack. A canine officer passing on his way to work arrived at the crime scene almost immediately after hearing the call but did not see the shooters. His dog tracked a scent as far south as Key Boulevard in El Cerrito, police said. Detectives found little more inside the restaurant. The attackers did not disturb the cash register and took nothing, making a common motive for violent crime in the commercial strip along the Richmond-El Cerrito border unlikely. Businesses there frequently face robbers, sometimes with tragic results. In April, another avenue restaurateur, Alfredo Figueroa, died after resisting a takeover robbery at the Red Onion diner. El Cerrito police still investigate that case. The Kalsis took over Sahib Indian Restaurant in 2002 and often worked seven days a week. At one point they lived in the restaurant to save money, Bal said. They also owned at least two residential properties in the area, which they renovated in hope of selling for a profit. "They would repair homes. They were extremely hard-working. They were particularly known for their tile work," said Richmond City Councilman Harpreet Sandhu, also a leader in the local Sikh community. "They had recently been granted permanent residency here." But money was tight, and they were planning to sell the restaurant when they died, police said. Sikh leaders say they are working to arrange shipment of the bodies back to India, or to bring a family member to the United States for release. The family took it hard, Sandhu said, particularly Ravi's fiancee. "It's terrible," said J.P. Singh, past president of the Sikh temple. "There's too much of that going on in Richmond." Bal organized a Friday night vigil in front of the restaurant. "The main thing is to not let their deaths disappear into the void," Bal said. Bal fears the killings could be a hate crime. Police say there is no clear evidence of a hate crime but say they will investigate all possibilities. "We don't know yet, but going on what we've read in the paper, if they didn't even attempt to get into the register it tells me there's something going on here," Bal said. "Just from the facts it looks like they were targeted for who they are. It was a hate crime." "They were trusting," he added, "and that's why they opened that damn door."

Does my Ass look Fat in this?

honey_b_licious — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 22:35:26 GMT

I was sitting in a bar last night with a friend who had just gotten a new haircut and wasn’t sure how she liked it. For the record, I think it’s totally cute and I’m not just saying that. Anyway, a coworker of mine , whose other job is as a hairdresser, sat down next to us, and my friend asked her opinion of the haircut. My coworker immediately launched in with criticisms, pointing out straggly hairs and jagged layering, while I scowled at her from my barstool. It reminded me of an article (http://www.esquire.com/features/honesty0707) I read on radical honesty, where the writer experiments with being totally honest, and interviews the proponent of radical honesty ,Brad Blanton. Last week, another young coworker (and yes, both of my coworkers in this scenario are young – she’s in her twenties, he’s still in college) proclaimed that he didn’t understand why people can’t just honestly tell each other when one person wants to leave a conversation. Ironically, only a couple of minutes before, I had been talking to him,(or I should say he had been talking at me) and I had desperately wanted to get out of the conversation. It made me wonder if the people who believe that are the ones who would hear that message the most. But, I digress. My point is that I think complete honesty is a terrible idea. My friend felt bad about her hair and I had to spend time reassuring her, using the fact that my coworker is a hairdresser as proof that she doesn’t see my friend’s hair the way ordinary people would. What was the purpose of complete honesty, in that case? I suspect it made my coworker feel good, but it made my friend feel bad, and it didn’t result in any improvement of her hair. Granted, my friend shouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want to hear a negative answer, but what’s the harm in saying, “Oh, it looks cute”? We live in a society with both written and unwritten rules of conduct. These rules are there to allow us to live relatively peaceably together, and most often these rules take into account the fact that we’re human, with human flaws. If everybody were perfectly serene and centered, with no need to defend their egos, radical honestly would make sense. Nobody would get hurt or offended, then. But we are very much NOT like that, and the unwritten rule of the little white lie is meant to protect our soft, squishy human egos from more pummeling than they already get in the world. Even in cases where someone really DOES want to hear the honest truth, it’s important to be careful. Even with friends and intimate partners, a little padding of a hard truth with a positive insight goes a long way in making life nicer for everyone. And I don’t see any reason why that shouldn’t be so. Yes, I would want someone to tell me if I have spinach in my teeth or if my pants are split in the back, but those truths actually save me from further embarrassment, But do I want a date telling me "I was really bored during our date, I think you're ugly, and I never want to see you ever again?" Hell no. All that would do is make me feel bad for no reason, and I wouldn't want to say it to someone, either. I would feel terrible. It’s not my job to teach my friend – or anyone else – how to be ego-less. It IS my job to help build positive, supportive relationships with my loved ones. And if I have to tell a small lie or half-truth in order to make a friend feel good about herself, I will, and I hope she would do the same for me. But, I really DO think her haircut looks cute.

Arrivederci

honey_b_licious — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 22:54:56 GMT

Right about now, if the airline is actually running on time, one of the most significant people of my adult life is rising into the atmosphere in a tube of metal and gasoline, en route to his next adventure. He's moving to Trieste, up in Italy's crotch, to teach english. I think everyone may have someone like this in their lives, or they will. He was the person who shared (and instigated) the most profound joys as well as the blackest pits of despair for the last 7 years of my life. Sometimes the love I felt for him knew no bounds and no sacrifice was too much, and sometimes - often within the same weekend - my hatred for him was equally vast. I've cried my eyes out over this man and come closer to self-harm than ever before or since, but have also felt in his presence, for the first time, that absolute safety that comes from sharing a soul. It was, shall we say, an intense relationship. The relationship was conflict-ridden from the start, like nothing I've ever experienced. We fought before we even started dating. We fought the first time we went out. We fought the first time we had sex. We fought the first time we went on a trip together. We fought and fought, and made up, and fought some more, and cried, and laughed, and solved all the world's problems, and had really good sex, and pretended nothing was wrong, and knew everything was wrong, and drank too much, and ran out in the rain and tears, and wrote letters full of pity and wisdom, and came together, and separated, and came together again, and separated again. We have the best conversations and worst fights of anyone I've ever known, and for seven years we've tried to figure out how to come to a balancing point. We never did, and now he's flown the coop, followed a dream he's had for a very long time, and gone to see if it's true that Italians make good wine and pizza. I've known for several months that this was his plan. When he first told me, we had just started communicating again after being on radio silence with each other for months. Right before Christmas last year, a last horrible and embarrassing fight, phone calls and letters that spilled out all that nasty stuff that's better left unsaid, like the rotting entrails of a carcass all over my clean kitchen floor. Then, as always, the one phone call - a 3-hour call - and then another a few weeks later - another 3-hour conversation - and then more regular calls, and then the meeting at the public place, with friends, and then the nice dinner, just the two of us, and then.....well, this time it's goodbye. Of course this time I'd decided not to let him back into my life. We'd done it too many times - said it was over and then woke up in each other's arms. I wasn't going to do it again. I was determined. A call a month seemed OK, but then when I knew he was leaving, I suggested a nice dinner together, and then our mutual friends wanted to see him before he left, so the nice goodbye dinner turned into several get-togethers with friends and two or three meetings between the two of us. If he hadn't been leaving, I doubt I would have said yes to any of it, but because he was, I let him slowly back in, until yesterday morning I woke up and actually felt the loss of it all. This was my friend and enemy, flying away. It changed everything. I didn't expect the sadness, honestly. Up until yesterday, I was glad he was leaving. Not because I don't value him, but because with him on another continent, I would no longer have to keep myself on alert, wary of any feelings affection, on guard against any movement towards each other. With him in Italy, maybe we can really be friends. But yesterday morning, as I woke up after our very expensive, very nice, very cocktail-laden farewell dinner, I wondered why I felt so low, why depression was percolating in my brain. Then it hit me: I'm going to miss him. In Eat, Pray,Love, the author writes of soul mates: "people think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants, but a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down walls and smack you awake...soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it.' I read this yesterday, and it rang in my heart. Yes, that's what he was to me. A soul mate. The one who smacked me upside the head with the fact that I was loveable. Someone who saw the light shining from me that I never could see for myself. Someone who pushed me to my limits and beyond them, in good ways and bad, someone who taught me patience and compassion not because he necessarily embodied those traits, but because it was either go down into the pit of despair, or rise up above it. He gave me wings by pushing me out of the nest, and I...what did I do for him? Who knows, only he can answer that. I remember the first time I realized I was in love with him. I was pacing in my old apartment, a funky, dark, subterranean place that nevertheless had its charms. I was thinking about this crazy relationship I had found myself in, and noticed this strange, expansive, hot feeling in my chest that felt like it wanted to burst out of there and fly up into the night. I stopped what I was doing, and all of a sudden it dawned on me: this is what love feels like. I once asked him, at the very beginning of our relationship, what it felt like to be in love, and he said "You'll know it when you feel it." He was right. I knew it. And though feeling love for someone isn't the same as being able to be with them, I now know what it feels like to not only be in love, but to love someone unconditionally, without any wish or hope that he be someone he's not. With only the wish and hope that he be happy, wherever he ends up. That's real love. In my sadness that he's gone away, there's also that feeling of hope for him ,that in this next adventure, he'll find that place where he finally feels at home. This is for JP, wherever you are: May you by happy May you be healthy May you be safe

Who doesn't love tattooed blonds?

honey_b_licious — Fri, 05 Oct 2007 22:10:13 GMT

Orangutan prefers blondes AMSTERDAM (Reuters) - Sibu the Orangutan has miffed his Dutch keepers by refusing to mate with females and showing sexual interest only in tattooed human blondes. Apenheul Primate Park hoped Sibu would become its breeding male when he arrived two years ago, but orangutans aren't his type. "He chases them, or ignores them, but he doesn't do what he should do," said a spokeswoman for the park. Instead, Sibu fancies his female keepers, especially blondes. That, the spokeswoman said, was common for orangutans but Sibu has a fetish for tattoos, harking back to a heavily tattooed keeper who reared him. "orangutans have special interests in special subjects. Sibu happens to like tattoos," she said. The park hasn't given up on Sibu, 31. He showed an amorous interest in a female Orangutan while living in England and keepers hope he will find love when reunited with her in a new enclosure in Chester, England.

Goodbye to All That

honey_b_licious — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 01:58:26 GMT

I just decided to stop dating. Period. To stop meeting up at restaurants, bars, and cafes with men I've never seen in person before, to stop sitting across from them or next to them with a drink or meal that I don't want while struggling to make small talk and simultaneously doing internal battle with my various judgments, critical thoughts, and neuroses. To stop forcing myself to spend hours with someone when it's clear within the first ten minutes that we have no spark. To stop hoping, as I get ready to go out, that this stranger will be someone I can love, while expecting that he won't be. To stop telling the same stories, answering the same - and hearing myself ask the same - boring questions about work, family, music, movies, travel. No more reading personals ads, perusing photos of strange men and reading between the lines trying to figure out if we'll click, no more writing my own ad in my head and taking photos of myself with the automatic timer on the camera, striving to look beautiful, no more going to dating events of various stripes - speed, quiz, you name it. No more wondering who should pay the check at dinner and arguing over it, no more awkward hugs at the end of the night when he thinks I'm moving in for a kiss, no more hopeful e-mails and phone calls saying he had a wonderful time but that make my heart sink because now I'm going to have to be a grownup and tell him I'm not interested. I've finally gotten tired of the excruciating blind dates with perfectly nice men who look like good matches on paper, but who don't excite me in person. I noticed that after these dates, I always get really depressed, and during them I often have to stifle yawns. It's not that these guys are necessarily dull, it's just that we don't have that spark, that energy, that makes it interesting and exciting for us to be together. Not that I'm giving up on finding someone, but I finally realized that I'm spending way too much time looking. I think I've developed a scarcity complex around relationships. I spend a lot of time worrying that I'll never find anyone. This obsession drains my energy that I could be spending doing the things I want to do: learning Spanish or ballroom dancing, traveling, being with friends I know love me, creating the garden haven I've always wanted, giving back to my community and to the Earth. I still do those things, but it's hard for me to get up the energy to really devote myself to them, because I spend so much time being anxious and worried - often subconsciously - about my lack of a relationship. I made a list of all the men I've gone on dates with. In the blind date section, I'm up to 30, and I think I missed a few. There are a few under "set ups" and 6 or 7 I first met in person and then went out with once or twice. All in all, I think I'm closing in on 50, and it's finally dawning on me that this dating thing, at least for me, just doesn't work. For a long time, I've thought it was a flaw in me, this inability to find anyone I want to be with. These guys have been perfectly nice, kind, sweet, hardworking, intelligent, funny, and responsible people, for the most part. I used to come home from dates thinking "What is wrong with me that I never want to see that person again?" But when I reflect on the handful of times I've met a man and felt an instant interest and attraction to him, I know that's what I want, and that I'm not going to settle for less. I think of this one man, whose name I can't even remember. I had just had another dull date, and my date had abruptly left with half his beer still in his glass. I dejectedly sat down at the bar and ordered another drink, when a guy sat down next to me. He was dressed all in beige, something that doesn't exactly scream "date me!" But for some reason, I was feeling brave or it was just that I no longer cared what people thought of me, and I threw out some non sequitor about Lent. This guy immediately picked it up and responded as if was the most normal thing in the world to start having a conversation about Lent in a bar, and we were on a roll. We talked for two hours, about everything from our names (trying to guess each others') to corn farming (his parents used to grow corn for Orville Redenbacher) and we were in stitches the whole time. He was from Atlanta and was flying back the next morning. But even though I knew I'd never see him again, I went home that night feeling higher than I'd ever felt with drugs. I didn't even drink that much that night. I didn't have to. That's the feeling I want. That brain and heart connection that can never be severed. A meeting of the souls. When I think of that night, it gives me hope that it can happen again, with someone who actually shares the same zip code (give or take a digit) as me. But I don't think it will happen through dating. I think it will happen through living life. It will happen when I'm going along in my normal life, doing the things that interest me, and I'll meet someone. Probably, it will be someone who I see more than once at some regular gathering, at first not speaking past the occasional hello or small talk, and then talking more and more until we finally begin to notice that spark of interest. By then, we'll know about each other, that we share some of the same interests, we'll already be attracted, and we'll have things to talk about besides the standard "What do you do?" The indefinable energy, the spark, will be there already, and though just because that spark is there doesn't mean a relationship will work out, at least it will be a journey with a spark in it.

Subtle Seasons

honey_b_licious — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 17:54:19 GMT

These days the Canada geese who’ve been making the bay area their home for the last several months are starting to fly. You hear them coming before you see them, from the cacophonous racket they make that sounds, strangely, like autumn. Then they fly past, usually small groups of 7 or 8 geese, making that familiar ‘V’ formation as well as they can, some doing it better than others. The other day, from my office window at work, I saw a small group of geese flying north in a formless jumble “You’re going the wrong way!” I told them, as they honked past. About ten minutes later, forming a more recognizable flight pattern, they returned, flying south. “That’s more like it,” I thought. In this place, the geese are really the only sign that the season is changing. There are no jewel-like colors of leaves, no sparkling frosty nights. This is California. It’s September, and nobody except, perhaps, in the most northern part of the state, are putting up storm windows, winterizing their motorcycles or power boats, digging in closets for the heavy winter coats and gloves, packing the outdoor plants with straw, getting out the tire chains, anticipating snowfall and black ice. Most of us are going about our normal business, enjoying (or complaining about) the typical late-summer heat, really the only time during the summer that it is consistently hot in the bay area. In California, we are in, for all intents and purposes (and in spite of the water-guzzling, ever-expanding tumor known as L.A.) a gigantic desert, and I like the subtlety of the season changes for the same reason I love the desert. At a casual glance, the desert seems dead, but the closer you look, the more life you see. In fact, the desert is teeming with life and its tiny dramas, the same way the signs of fall are all around us here, if we take the time to notice them. September; in a month or so, we hope, it might rain (“might” being the operative word) and that’s how we know it’s fall. East coast transplants love to guffaw about how there are no seasons here, but that’s not true, ours just aren’t as obvious. You have to be alert to notice the first signs of yellow and orange creeping across the leaves of maple, the way the bird songs in the morning seem…different…somehow. Deeper, or more hoarse. The way the summer light has thinned and become watery and the nights smell smokier, like old leaves. The darkness falling earlier, but only slightly at first: ten minutes, then fifteen, then an hour, and finally the way the sky starts to purple at 5:30 and you know winter has finally arrived. In the summer, around this time, I always anticipate the cold and the dark the way I’d anticipate a warm down comforter and a cup of spicy tea. It feels like comfort, like after an active summer playing outside, it’s time to come inside, curl up, and rest. I think of warm fires, the taste of cinnamon and cloves, the sound of rain against the window. I love the summer, but the fall is welcomed. It’s time to harvest all the lessons of summer, bake them into a pie, and invite family and friends over. Time for the tan to fade, and the sandals to eventually wend their way into the depths of the closet, taken over by boots. Time to watch the dramatic tumble of stormclouds and wait eagerly for that first splash of rain. Time to say goodbye to the loud, honking geese for awhile, and wish them well on their journey.

The Smile Imperative

honey_b_licious — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 17:53:07 GMT

Yesterday morning, as I was walking up the busy street to the train station, a truck driver yelled at me "You don't look very happy today!" I was surprised out of my normal walking (minding my own business, thank you very much)reverie, and smiled at him rather lopsidedly the way you do when someone shouts something at you that you don't immediately process. Afterwards, I felt stupid for smiling at him, the dolt. All of my life (and the same is true for many women, from what I can tell), I've repeatedly had strange men telling me to smile. I've had "Come on baby, things can't be that bad", "Show me that beautiful smile," "Come on momma, smile for me now," "You'd be beautiful if you smiled," and more variations on the theme than I can even remember. My reaction is almost always the same. Since the comment usually interrupts me from some daydream, I smile slightly at the guy as I become aware that he's saying something to me, but before I register what that something is. By the time I get what he's just said, I've usually passed him, and it's too late to make a biting comment the way I'd so often like to. What I'd like to say is: "DON'T TELL ME TO SMILE, MOTHERFUCKER!!" It's a constant mystery to me as to why some men think it's acceptable to demand that a woman put on a facial expression purely to please the man. Because I can't see a woman saying that to a strange man, can you? "Hey buddy, where's that smile?", "Hey guy, you'd be more handsome if you smiled." I'm sorry, but not going to happen. And men certainly are not going to say that to other men. What's with guys who think they have the right to comment on a woman's facial expression? The funny thing is, that I've noticed that I'm much more likely to get attention from passing men if I look visibly upset than if I'm happy. Last summer, walking tearily through 3 am urine-soaked streets in New Orleans after a stressful, sweaty week, I had more men express concern to me than in all my years of bouncing around happily, grinning, laughing, and dancing. Granted, I didn't trust that any of them had my best interests at heart, but it was nice to feel like someone cared, even if only for a fleeting moment. What is that? On one hand, I'm supposed to be smiling all the time, but on the other hand, I don't get any attention unless I look upset? It's an old saw, that women are supposed to be happy and content and sexy and virtuous and maternal and glowing and beautiful and all that. We've all heard it before. But it's 2007, man! Haven't times changed at all? Isn't it generally accepted that women have brains and can use them? That we're not just arm-candy anymore? Some of my guy friends have suggested that these smile guys are trying in their clumsy way to flirt with me. I suppose I can buy that. Men aren't always known for their social prowess. But far from making me interested in talking to the poor uncreative sap, it just makes me want to make some snide comment that'll burn his ears with shame. One thing I've noticed with chagrin is that after a man requests that I smile, I actually feel self-conscious about my normal resting facial expression. "Do I look too serious?" I ask myself anxiously, "Is that why guys don't seem to want to date me?" I find myself walking around with a strange sort of half-smile expression on my face. Not really a full smile, because that would be weird, but not really my normal expression either, because I was just told that that's not acceptable to men. And when I find myself thinking these things, I want to go find the smile-demander and make a comment on the size of his package. Or something equally as demeaning. I've recently begun to get interested in why these men say things like this, and one day I'd really like to stop and ask one of them. It's the same feeling I have about those guys who will slow down in their cars as I walk on the sidewalk and ask me if I want a ride. I always want to ask "Does that EVER work?" But since most of the time I'm wandering in my own little cranial world when some genius utters the suggestion that I smile, I've never once been quick-witted enough to stop and talk to him. Right now, I'm working on curbing my Pavlovian impulse to smile automatically at anyone who's blabbing anything at me. Smiling, in some species, is thought to be a sign of deference, of indicating that the smiler is no threat to the smilee, and it's something women habitually do more than men, as if to say "Don't hurt me, big strong he-man!" While I enjoy smiling, and will willingly smile when I think of it, I am most certainly not going to do it on demand. Next time, guys, just try hello.

SICKO limited showings THIS SATURDAY!!

honey_b_licious — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 17:30:20 GMT

Saturday, June 23, Michael Moore's new doc on the plight of the health care system is showing in a limited engagement. Apparently, its distributor is not confident that people will want to see it, so hasn't made plans for a wider showing. Let's let them know we want this film shown! Here are local bay area showtimes/locations: AMC Bay Street 16, Emeryville 730 pm Century 9 San Francisco Centre (845 Market) 7:30

RIP Kurt Vonnegut

honey_b_licious — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 21:42:43 GMT

*Sigh* The only one who ever got it right. Hilarious, tragic, bemused, and bizarre: just like real life. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/04/12/MNGKFP79CJ1.DTL&hw=kurt+vonnegut&sn=001&sc=1000

Be careful out there, chickies...

honey_b_licious — Wed, 21 Mar 2007 23:23:56 GMT

And let's hear it for these ladies who saved the day... http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2007/03/20/MNG0UOOA1I1.DTL

Looking for supplemental income/part time/temp work

honey_b_licious — Sat, 10 Feb 2007 20:43:40 GMT

Hi everybody - I'm looking to pick up some part-time work for a little extra cash, preferably work-at-home assignments, but I have evenings and some weekends free, so I can also do on-location work. Anything will do, except for outdoor manual labor and food service. I've done office work, phones, retail, worked briefly in a book warehouse and for 4 years as a cashier at a bookstore, and am very familiar with Mac and PC computers and the internet, so I could also do database and word processing work and/or internet research. I'm a fast typer and a good writer (I ghostwrote/co-wrote two books for my company) and I know a lot about the book publishing industry. If you or anyone you know is looking for some help, please let me know. Thanks!

Discussion salon

honey_b_licious — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 22:22:54 GMT

If anyone's interested, I'm hosting a discussion salon on Wednesday, June 21 at 7 pm at Au Coquelet in Berkeley (1000 University Ave, just west of University and Shattuck.) Another discussion group I had on a Wednesday a few months ago was well-attended and had some great conversation. The topic is: "Love: What is it, how do we find it, and how do we keep it." Please let me know if you'll be attending! And bring friends, famiy, etc. The more the merrier. Melissa

My new zine is out!

honey_b_licious — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 17:50:57 GMT

My new zine, Beauty is a Battlefield (a complete revision of my zine of the same name from 4 years ago) is out now. It's 52 pages, 1/4 sized, with a full color front and back cover. It's all about body image issues and filled with quotes from people all over the world answering the question "what is beauty?" The essays cover personal issues, socio-political issues, and offer new insight from women who struggle with body image and finding themselves beautiful. It's an inspiring, though-provoking zine that hopefully will leave everyone who reads feeling just a little bit better about themselves. $2/ea, plus 2 stamps per zine for postage. www.honeybtemple.com honey_b_temple@yahoo.com Honey B Temple, p.o. box 5383, Richmond, CA 94805 I take paypal, cash, and checks. If you run a distro - e-mail me for wholesale pricing.