Yo Yo Yobst !

Bridge

I just got back from the documentary film Bridge, about suicide jumpers on the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s interesting but painfully slow. The topics that make it interesting could have been presented in a much more effective and efficient manner. Although it sounds terrible to say at some points we wanted the jumper to jump just to get that part of documentary over with.

Most of the stories where missing the mindset of the jumper (except for the kid that miraculously survived by a seal keeping him afloat after his ribs and back bones had shattered and the bone pieces pierced his organs). You didn’t get a clear view into their head or psyche or understand the path that had led to their last leap into the icy cold death of the bay.

Most of the suicide jumpers had chemical imbalances, metal illness, bipolar, and were severely troubled teens . It gave the impression that suicide and severe depression only effects low-middle class people with mental illness which is certainly not the case. There was suicide note from one jumper saying he was voted most likely to succeed, that he used to be smart, and now he was 50 years old with no money, no partner, no career, no home, no hope. He brought a touch of range into the film.

In discussing Bridge afterwards (with 5 girlfriends…you’d think we could pick a better chick flick), we thought that the golden gate probably attracts more suicides with mental illness and teenagers way more than shooting yourself or taking pills. I can’t imagine many recently divorced housewifes or bankrupt family men would choose the drama and fanfare of jumping from the bridge. Their death would seem to be a more private affair.

My friends and I began talking about this film on Friday night and this weekend I cycled across the bridge 4 times and each time I thought about people jumping. The balls and determination and dead-end feeling they have must conquer must consume their every cell. The bridge to me is so majestic and beautiful. It represents so many positive things – a symbol of the west coast and the city that I have worked to make my home; the setting where I first laid eyes on San Francisco in 1996 on a cross country road trip after a stop in wine country and my first authentic burrito; the pavement to cycling paradise that I cross at least once a week; the intersection of nature and technology; the sunshine warming my skin, or the fog misting my helmet head; my favorite color red; the smile in a tourists face and the goosebumps on their arms. Through the lens of severe depression and a freedom only achieved by death, I see how the bridge can be a golden path to icy success, a quick road to the freedom of the setting sun and welcoming waves, an unconditional acceptance and welcoming, a path to making your family pay attention, and the vacant smile in a tourists face and the goosebumps on their arms when they look through you.

A new car

A typical women in her 30’s I have my fair share of neurosis. I used to try to keep them to myself but now I embrace them. I figure recognizing them and making fun of them will help them go away, or at least provide some humor.

One of my serious neuroses involves the purchase decision process, aka, purchase decision making. I blame it on growing up with a mum who loves to shop. She viewed shopping for a new pair of black pants the way some people view choosing a life partner. She insisted on looking at every single store in the always slightly desperate Salisbury Mall. Even if she found a great pair of black pants at the very first store, we still had to look in every other store because there might be something better or cheaper elsewhere. I’ve unlearned this obsession of scouring the ends of earth for ‘the perfect anything’ and can now happily buy pants when I’m not even looking for them. While most women love shopping I pretty much loathe it. A successful day shopping is an hour of in and out with no lines and a handful of fabulous things I decided quickly on.

My mum comes home from shopping and continues to deliberate over her new purchases. Do the pants look as good at home as they did in the store? Should she go to another mall to make sure she got the best possible pants? She has no shame returning something weeks, even months later.

But that’s my mum and I’m too old to blame her for my buying behavior neurosis (or lack there of). When it comes to ‘major decisions’ or decisions that affect other people significantly I often torture myself researching all the options. When my dad and I went on vacation a few years ago I was charged with planning it and I must have looked at the same three hotels in Bonaire for weeks until the travel agent finally said, “Dana go here. Done.” Thank God. The hotel was great…any of the three would have been fine…but I wanted to choose the best one. I knew he would have been happy with anything and I would have been happy to have the travel agent plan it all. Once I started incessantly researching, I couldn’t stop, and the second guessing made me wonder if somehow I missed something on the web. Finally a pina colada in Bonaire and the research is worthwhile.

So, this weekend I made a huge purchase decision in record time (so I thought). I looked at cars for 2 weekends and bought one. I am ‘the girl that cried wolf’ about cries – no one believes that I would actually buy one. Normally I talk about it (and new cell phones) and get overwhelmed by the choices and buy nothing.

However, as Dennis, car shopper extraordinaire pointed out, I’ve been ‘looking’ at new cars for years. Since I went with him in 2001 to buy a barely pregnant women’s convertible, I wanted a convertible of my own. Fast forward 5 years and I am buying a convertible from a barely pregnant women. My family is very sensible and to them cars are merely transportation with little fun value. Our cars and trucks were functional – you could put your guns in the gun rack, your tools in the pick up and drive them anywhere.

When I was 14 my brother came home with a Fiero and I thought it was the coolest car in the world. The headlights flipped up and I thought it was a Ferrari. Yes, I grew up in a small town. My brother grew up and now drives a massive ford F350. Not a dueli, but almost. I drove my grandmother’s third hand Camry (via my brother) for years before I sold it to the young boy buying it with his paper route. I wanted it to go to a good home. After a few years abroad I came back to SF and bought a VR6 Jetta (that I am now selling). My Jetta, the ninja, rocks, but it’s time with me is over and after 4 years of yearning, the convertible is mine.

And I have no buyer’s remorse or even second guessing. I have overcome my Mum’s shopping demons!

Peeing in the Streets of SF

In San Francisco we have a huge problem with homelessness. The homeless are everywhere. And they all pee in the street.

Throughout my life I have had various relationships and feelings towards the homeless. In college I worked at a shelter in Maryland for one year. I cooked and befriended the homeless folks living there. The rules of the shelter were that guests could stay as long as they wanted but they had to stay clean and be gone from the house from 9 to 5 looking for jobs. The shelter’s purpose was to rehabilitate homeless folks down on their luck and help them get back on their feet. It was really interesting and fun. I learned that many American’s live paycheck to paycheck - a few paychecks away from homelessness. I have certainly been down on my luck before and the love and generosity of friends and family kept me off the street. Many homeless do not have friends and family to turn to.

And then there is other category of homeless. They seem to be the majority of folks I step over on the way to BART in the morning. More than down on their luck, they are mentally ill, addicted to drugs, or making a conscious decision to live on the streets. They are able-bodied kids who ran away from good homes to ‘experience SF’ and the long gone hippie days. Those kids have pretty dogs, intricate tattoos and a lot of nerve asking me for money. After a long trip aboard I was homeless and jobless – living off the generosity of dear friends who let me sleep on their coach. I was quick to tell the kids that I too was jobless and homeless but they didn’t see me begging for money. I was and remain angry when perfectly healthy and angry people choose to live on the street and then ask me to fund their choice.

Now back to the chronically homeless. I commend Gavin Newsom for acknowledging and dressing the problem of homelessness in San Francisco. Our beloved city of bleeding heart liberals perpetuates the problem with cash awards to the homeless. Care not Cash is a decent theoretical concept but it is driven by the entitlement of homeless to get X dollars or services because they are homeless. I do not see any responsibility or reciprocation for the awards. Most chronically homeless are not in good positions to determine what to do with their money – they drink it away and certainly do not improve their life or homelessness state with it. What happened to teaching a man how to fish? We need to treat and teach the homeless how to live off of the streets.

This brings me to my real complaint – peeing in the streets. I am SO SICK AND TIRED of stepping in and over puddles of human waste. I see at least one person a day (usually on my walk to BART) whip out his goods and pee in front of me. When did the community of San Francisco decide peeing in the streets was ok? There is zero repercussion and no one takes a second glance. Its as if peeing is as acceptable as stopping to tie your shoe.

I remember learning about the broken window theory in school. New York insisted on fixing little things – broken windows and graffiti because statistics show that serious crime increases drastically when petty crime and vandalism rise. That is exactly what is happening in SF – acceptable petty crime like peeing on the streets, vandalism, and pan handling snowballs into other crime, tension, and resentment between the have and have nots.

I went Gavin’s SF Connect launch party to see what he proposed doing. I am tired of bitching about it and wanted to be part of the solution. As I spoke with the Hands on Bay Are project coordinator, I realized I didn’t’ really want to help the homeless. My compassion for their predicament has slowly dissipated over my 10 years in SF. I’ve become hardened and uninterested in stories behind the people. I am interested in no peeing in the streets and community policing. I want the community to look around and say “this is not OK. You can’t pee here. If you want to pee, go to shelter or a public restroom”. I understand that law enforcement may have better things to do but this paradigm shift nees to start with them.

I feel that the homeless and others will respect themselves and their environment much more if there is something to respect. I love this city but am often embarrassed when friends or family visit and pleas with wide eyes when accosted by the homeless.

A permanent solution? I think we should learn from New York City. It’s time for San Francisco to take care of itself and reclaim our streets.

Love Lost

On a scale of things that are sad – love lost is my Everest.

When you’re passionate, love knows no rules or sanity or order and when it’s lost it seems that sadness, emptiness, and pity know no bounds. Eventually the heart heals and life goes on. That process might take days or years but is it ever really over? Does the heart ever fully recover from lost love? I’m not sure. Yes, you can love again – as much, more even, and often, but the pang of lost love never really goes away. It gets buried by life and pops up every once in while. That’s why people cry at Hallmark commercials. They are really crying over love lost.

You hear a phrase or a laugh or see a smile or an email and suddenly you are whisked back months, days, years, decades even, to a time of love of happiness…an elated love that exists now only in memories and photos. The ache of heartache creeps in. It’s not jealousy or longing for times past – it’s more of a realization that things that were once so good could go so bad. It’s remembering the beauty of life that felt so real and perfect and forever. It’s the little prince and the wheat colored hair. It’s tending roses and making them your own.

Despite the sadness of love lost, remembering brings me hope and confidence. It reminds me how the world can be, how happy I can be crawling into bed with cold feet, how much fun I can have buying eggs at the grocery store, and how comfortable I can feel. Most importantly it reminds me not to settle, if emotions are strong enough to pierce you years later, they should be strong enough to skew your reality during love. As an adrenaline junkie, I love love and I’ll take lost love with it. It makes me feel alive and inspired and lucky. Some people go their whole lives without love.

I guess one day my love might not be lost.

A good night kiss & a Homeless man

Dating in the city is always interesting on many levels. You never know how you are going to feel 10 minutes into the date – let alone the end of the night. You might be begging for an after dinner drink or willing your date not to order dessert so you can run home. If you manage to like your date after a whole evening with them…you get to experience the almost always awkward and exciting good night ritual. If someone is driving, they must first decide to park the car or not. If the driver looks for a ‘real’ spot that indicate they think they are coming inside. If they double park it’s assumed they aren’t coming in.

Luckily there are still gentlemen who double park and walk women to the door. Chivalry goes a long way in my book. So you make it to the front door then you scuffle your feet a bit imagining a deeply engrossing shoe-gazer band. Even the smoothest most outgoing person can crack a bit here – making jokes and rambling on.

That’s all expected. Now add a homeless man to the mix. He’s outside my door rummaging through all the rubbish bins searching for bottles and cans. My date (who was and is splendid) and I stood at the door and laughed. The homeless man was really cramping this good night kiss opportunity. Then he decided to give us advice. He mumbled, “Don’t let her send you home…you’ve got to stay….and……” Meanwhile he drank sips of leftover beer from the bin whilst relieving it of its valuable aluminum cans and bottles.

Finally the homeless man made his way down the street leaving us to shoe-gaze and giggle and say good night without an audience.

University of Richmond – 10 Years Later

After 10 years of adult life, college seems like a distant memory, a time I learned about life, love, drinking, and living on my own. But, as I learned a few weeks ago at my 10 year college reunion, college life is apparently modern life for many of my fellow students from the University of Richmond in Virginia.

U of R is really small school with less than 1000 students in each class. It boasts a sprawling campus with deep red brick buildings, shady woods, and a scenic lake that separated the women’s dorms from the men’s when I was a student. Single sex dorms now sit on both sides of the lake but the lake and its wooden bridge and romantic gazebo still stand. The dining hall has floor to ceiling windows overlooking the lake and the University of Richmond is still one of the most beautiful college campuses in America and probably the world.

Given the 40% tuition hike to $40,000 annually, they should start serving caviar and champagne instead of protein supplemented salad bar and veggie burgers. The president recently stepped down due to a number of blunders including calling the alumni ‘mush’. There went the annual alumni ‘giving campaign’.

At any rate, I went to my college reunion with three of my college girlfriends. We stayed with Emily and her husband and 2 kids. She was my roommate for 2 years. It was amazing to see her as a mum and run around with her 2 little ones. It was both of our birthdays and I wrote in her card, “Who would have guessed how we’d turn out?” The answer is everyone. Emily was born to be a wife and mother. She has accomplished her goals and stayed in the south she loves and married her tall religious husband. And me, well I was always ‘the wild child’ and was expected to live in ‘exotic’ places like San Francisco, Indonesia, and Africa. Old friends took one look at me – my mullet, my pink suede corset and funky skirt and though they knew my life story. ‘Dana, you’re still a wild child! Take a look at the photos of my kids.’ What they don’t know is that I’m not a wild child anymore. In fact I’m all grown up in my own way. I’m responsible, respectable, well employed and accomplished, but that doesn’t mean wearing conservative clothes and pushing out kids. Not that I have any problem with that. On the contrary I totally respect and sometimes envy my child bearing happily married friends.

But growing up is not a binary choice. It’s not black and white. There are many ways to grow (including out as most of the guys demonstrated). What bothers is that people form my past often can’t see things in other perspectives. They don’t respect my life or my choices. They see me as a failure because I have not embraced their way of life, or found the ‘love of my life’ or had children, which gives their lives their entire meaning. Why can’t see the beauty in my life?

Then they were the grudges, the folks who carried their anger or jealousy 10 years into the reunion. How amazingly pathetic that they have nothing better to worry about than people who pissed them off 10 years ago.

Many of the girls I went to school with had become stay at home moms and the mena supported their stay at home moms. I complete that choice but the swallowing up into obsessive child land where many of the East Coast Richmonders end up is fairly foreign to me. The east coast, especially the south, can be so strange compared to San Francisco and our progressive West Coast ways.

The men I once did keg stands with were mostly older, balder, and fatter – which I attribute to east coast lifestyle and complacent marriage. In SF men and women in their 30’s look damn good. We take care of ourselves, run around a lot, and eat less cheese steak and pizza. The warm weather helps too because we’re not holed up all winter long. At least the women back east take way better care of themselves than the men- kids and all.

I love my girls (pictured above) and had a great time with them. No matter how much confidence and happiness I have, it’s hard to remain secure when you’re the odd man out. I felt a little like I did living in Africa, like I could have gotten less grief if I was naked playing the tuba.

The Fabulousness of Life

Life is fabulous. Sometimes the fabulousness of life is buried under a bunch of other shit…but underneath it’s still fabulous. And sometimes the fabulousness filters to the top of life and your all smiles and excitement.

That’s how I feel now – amazingly happy, lucky, and fabulous. When people ask me how I am, I excitedly answer with a heartfelt superlative. After a really challenging year with a bad break up, a moldy house that made me sick, and a failed start-up experience, I am back on track!

There are myriad reasons for my giddiness.

Work. I just got a new job… a career even! All my life I have been challenged by work, I’ve had a lot of great jobs but most of them fall short in one area or another. They get boring because they aren’t challenging or the company goes under or my role is too limited in scope. I have been working at a software company in sales for the last two years. It was my first ‘hard core’ sales job and at first it was really challenging and interesting. Then I started to feel like a broken record with nothing interesting in my day. I was in inside sales so I never got to meet my prospects or clients and felt like I was not using any of my brains or skills.

I quit that job to start a technology company with some friends. After 6 months that went the way of many start ups and kind of fell apart, at least in my participation. My old job was kind enough to keep me on part time throughout the start up experience which saved my wallet and sanity.

A few months ago I started looking at MBA programs. My career needed a serious injection as I am sick of having ‘jobs’ and want a real career I can believe in. I started applying for dream jobs to see what kind of traction I could get. My plan was to pursue an MBA if nothing worked out in the career category.

The job hunt went amazingly well and I interviewed with a number of interesting folks and companies. I got offers of varying attractiveness and finally decided on a position in Product Marketing at an eCommerce company. I am SUPER EXCITED! The company seems great; the product is top notch, the people are smart, passionate and interesting, and I’m confident I will get the mentorship I’m craving. The role will be challenging, diverse, creative, and really fun. It seems to combine all of my work experience and skills with technology and people and has the international reach and participation I crave.

The only downside is distance – it’s in Pleasanton which is 45 miles away. But you can’t have everything. I have 2 good friends working there including Julia, my Geek Rules partner, who starts the same week as me, and will be great to carpool with.

Vacation. I start on March 20th which gives me the opportunity for vacation, my next reason to smile! I’m going to Western Samoa tomorrow. Why and where is that is wht usual reaction. It’s in the South Pacific and I choose Samao because I could use my United miles to fly there and it looks really nice. Now that I’ve done a bit of research, I am really excited. It looks amazing – kicked back with beach huts called fales to sleep in, a handful of travelers, and warm clear water. I am bringing a few books, bathing suits, and my journal and I plan to spend my days snorkeling, diving, kayaking, hiking, and relaxing. I’m going solo sadly because no one else could come with such short notice but I hope to meet people quickly and rent a car with other folks. Yeah SAMOA!

Biking. I am really getting into my road bike. I road 36 miles on Saturday – the farthest I have ridden yet and it was so fun! I went out dancing Saturday night and today my legs are sore. I love that sore feeling. It makes me feel accomplished. I knew I would like biking but I didn’t know I would like it this much. Going down a hill at 35 miles on hour on a bike is insanely fun. I like the wind, the pavement, the relaxing cadence of the pedals going round and round and the way my calf muscles feel.

A rowdy night out. Saturday night Jo and I went on a party hopping quest to meet new people. 6 parties later, at 7 AM we had effectively accomplished our goal. We mixed it up between dancing, a fancy loft party, a nerdy architect airline themed party, a relaxing birthday party at a very grown up house, a cracked-out after hours burning man party, and final stop at a good friends loft for debauchery. I was on a witty roll with my new friends until I got too drunk to be clever and went to bed.

My friends. My friends always make me happy and this weekend we celebrated Dennis’s 30th birthday and new jobs for Julia and me.

Trips to LA. I’m book ending my Samoa trip with nights in LA and that makes my smile even bigger.

All this smiling makes my face hurt.

A Toast to Us (the ladies)

For all the ladies on v-day. I’m not a bitter anti-valentine girl. I do think it’s a rather stupid holiday and whoever I’m in love with should be nice to me every day – not just February 14th. (Man, that’s such a girlie thing to say- there goes my street cred ).

Valentine’s Day flowers do invoke bitterness in me though. In high school, when a classmate gave me a dozen red roses, everyone was all excited, “ooooh you have to go to the winter formal with him now! He sent you flowers”. The problem was I didn’t like him – with or without flowers. Granted we were like 15 years old, but I was riddled with guilt for not returning his affections.

I snubbed the roses and went to the winter formal with Andy, my first love, my first  boyfriend. Andy was the greatest first boyfriend a girl could wish for. He set the stage for good respectful loving relationships and we are still great friends now, over 15 years and many relationships later. I made a good choice for the winter formal.

Tonight, I have a lovely evening planned to dine, drink, and dance to the Lovemakers with my three favorite J’s.

A perfect opportunity to share my favorite girl power quote which I am shocked to find comes from a song by Willa Ford.

Here’s to the men we love
Here’s to the men who love us
Here’s to the men we love who don’t love us
Fuck the men, let’s drink to us!

Everyone Loves a Secret

Since we were old enough to listen, to be told things were not our concern, to play telephone and whisper, we loved secrets! A good secret is a little gem that you and zero to infinite friends share. Some people love to keep their secret sacred from everyone whereas other people like to share them with a handful of friends. They get pleasure out of sharing their tantalizing tales. I fall in the ladder category. What fun is a secret when no one else knows it?

Some people like to share their secrets with everyone- anonymously, online and on PostSecret. Get in on some secrets. Share your own.

Here’s one of my favorites. Don’t you hate being the last to know?

Underneath Niches

In high school in a small town there was ‘the cool crowd’- the jocks, the brains, and the pretty folks. We (yes, I was a member), came from good homes, did reasonable well in school, and had some ambition in life. The fringe- the geeks, nerds, and dorks, were on the outside of mainstream ‘cool’.

Then I went away to college where ‘the cool kids’ had multiplied. At my homogenous yuppy university in the former capital of the confederacy, everyone had been a cool kid in high school. Everyone was smart and pretty.

That’s when I first noticed cliques and niches. Each clique had it’s own focus and defining features. Qualifications were a shared background, hobby, or Greek affiliation. Although my school had only 4,000 people, we had a very strong greek system. Guys were in a fraternity, a sports team, or they were social outcasts. Girls has it a little easier, because the parties were all at the fraternities. Nonetheless, the cool girls were mostly in sororities. I was lucky enough to quickly develop deep friendships with 6 fresh(wo)men who joined a number of sororities. I crossed the line form mainstream to fringe when I stayed independent. I rushed for a sorority but I didn’t get in. In fact I got black balled because I didn’t follow the rush rules. Sunday night (Sorority meeting night) became date night. I still like Sunday night dates.

Life continued and I jumped into another pool of smart dynamic folks when I worked for a huge consulting firm after college. I was surrounded by brilliance, beauty, energy, and outgoing personalities – the inherent genetic make-up of consultants. Then the pimp, in my case, uncle Andersen, worked me to the bone. I needed my boundless energy and ambition to do all the work piled on my plate. I worked out of town for months on end, finding fun and friends in my projects and co-workers. My niche was instant – colleagues, co-workers and all our roommates and friends. That spider web of people created some of my best friends today.

Then I quit and traveled in Asia for 3 years, another no brainer niche. You hang out with people who are traveling the same direction as you, who speak your language, or share your nationality.

Fast forward back to SF and my first Burning Man – a religious experience for any first timer. I had been to a few Burning Man parties in the city – amazed by the art, the music, and the free spirit of burners. I embraced the carefree life of burning man on the playa and delved into the vibrant and engulfing community here in SF. Before long I knew tons of people in the scene. I had logged countless hours dancing to electronica and chatting with people in various stages of cracked-out-ness. I went traveling again and came back to the best Burning Man ever for me. After 6 months of looking over my shoulder in Africa and living in fear, I was free to run around naked, to worry about nothing, to look anywhere except behind my shoulder. I hung my SF fringe freak flag loud and proud.

Then this past September I went scuba diving with my dad instead of Burning Man which was pretty big change and hard for many friends to understand. Well, not my friends, but my ‘party friends’. My good friends got it.

My priorities and interests had once again changed, and left me feeling kind of niche-less. I have unique groups of friends who are talented, smart, funny, ambitious, and well balanced. They like to party and have fun and go to burningman but they also like to read and build things and go see plays. They are the combination of things that attract me to San Francisco – snowboarder by day, dancing queen by night, new york times cross word puzzle do-er in the morning. They belong in many and no niches.

But I am seeing more and more that this mix of talents, skills, and diversity is a rarity. Humans crave comfort – we want to belong. We like niches because they are safe and warm or hard and cold but at least they are familiar. It feels really nice to walk into a club at 3 am and hug half the people and say hi to the other half. It feels good to walk into a bar or book shop where people know your name.

I don’t like feeling trapped in one niche or unwelcome because I’m not niche-ie enough. I like the indie rock scene…but I have too much ambition, too few indie clothes, and too much dorky attitude to be 100% indie. I like the Burning Man scene but I grow weary of party talk, small talk, and wearing furry boots. I like the geeky tech scene and talking about web 2.0 and following new products, but I’m not an engineer. I’m not quite geek enough. I love biking and the outdoors but I could not survive alone on the mountain for a week and I still like late nights and wearing prety dresses. Where do I belong?

I’m a chameleon changing my niche with my underwear. Sometimes it’s camo, sometimes it lacy boy shorts, sometimes it’s a bowed thong, and sometimes it’s hello kitty.

But underneath my niches, it’s always me.