I’m coming back!

You may have noticed, it has been a long time since I have blogged. It certainly doesn't mean that I haven't had anything to say or anything I wanted to share with you. Most likely, the reason I have not put anything up for a while has been due to the adherence to the concept of saying nothing, where there is nothing pleasant to say.

True, I have started a new job over the last two months. I am grateful beyond measure to have one in this current unemployment / economic status. Yet there are, naturally, caveats to my fortune. Because of the climate, I felt obligated to take the position despite a 10k pay cut (when I was already barely making it by with that 10k) and it pinches me… regularly. The other, less than obvious downside, is that now that I'm working, everyone I had to stave off when I wasn't is now holding one hand out for their money and shaking a threatening fist of credit-rating-meltdown with the other. There are, friends, considerable penalties for being poor (where once you had a reasonably stable financial flow). It is exhausting, but at least I have the funds to work with these people. That I am threatened, rather than worked with, serves as an ever burgeoning reminder of how this nation has lost so much of its heart and soul (and how much it sucks, sometimes, to be a woman – as my ex NEVER received threats of any kind when he had thousands to pay off and my roommate and I get a threatening letter from our electric company if we're two weeks late with our money).

Again, I want to make it clear that I'm not complaining about working. It is just that getting the job hasn't been all sunshine and lollipops.

I started my job just weeks after my mother was buried. To say that there is still so much I have not yet dealt with in regard to her death, would be a crass understatement. Even now, I regularly have nightmares that she and I are bitterly arguing over something I never saw coming (as was often the case with us). More to the point, she's yelling at me like I'm a festering boil on her butt, while I'm trying desperately to defend myself. That was our relationship much of the time, after I turned 12 and she would tell anyone who would listen that she adored me, was proud of me, and had no idea why I was so unhappy with her. There are no words to describe the frustration of having strangers tell me what a shit I am for not worshiping her. They all believed her. And now, members of my family (despite knowing the truth in full and vivid color), have conveniently chosen the same path of passive aggression. In some instances, the aggression has not even been passive, but rather full frontal. Explaining to my friends, who accompanied me to the funeral to lend me much needed solace and support, why my siblings made sure that there was no mention of me in the official service, was probably one of the most upsetting and humiliating moments of my entire life so far. If you know me, there's been plenty of humiliating and upsetting moments, so for this one to take the cake… had to be pretty damned bad.

Dealing with the death of a mother whose love and support and nurturing I desperately sought my entire life, and never brought to fruition, is taking a massive toll on me. That the rest of my family persists in carrying on that tradition of unwarranted disgust and resentment is sickening (except my father, who barely understands what is happening because the rift in my family makes no sense to him – or anyone in their right mind). But there is nothing I can do but suffer it, accept and try to understand it. That this is happening because of money, makes it all worse. Particularly when those who cry "THIEF" at the sound of my name, are the ones who are stealing a nest egg I have been promised my whole life, and worked like a dog to make sure I received. Trying to deal with that, along with my mother's death, trying to start a new job and get my dilapidated life back in working order, has aged me... has killed something off in me. I am sad in a way that I never knew I could be, and as Christmas draws ever nearer, my heart grows exponentially heavier.

To those who have heaped onto my already overly heavy load with your deceit, your misplaced rage, your selfishness and your greed, I am confident it will be your undoing. You genuinely deserve every sleepless night you are about to and doubtless already have had. I believe there is a Higher Power that watches over us all. I have no need to retaliate. That Power will not fail to deal with you in due time and I am more patient than you will ever know. Until then… stay the fuck out of my way. Because when I am done with this mourning and sadness, a new me will come forth, more fierce, more confident and more determined than ever before to live MY life MY way without any of your bullshit. I already feel it happening, like a ravenous lioness pacing in a cage.

Friends, I know that I am experiencing the changes we all must endure in life. There is no sense of my feeling like I am the only one with a heavy heart and a gut filled with stress. I know that death is a part of life and so, too, is the buggery that comes of familial strife brought on by the vagaries of entitlement. I also know that starting a new job is always stressful (it just so happens I started a retail driven job just before the most significant season of the year, during the worst economic climate since The Great Depression). That I am still standing after three of the most unimaginably horrible years is a triumph of will and a testament to the work I've done on my life. I may be bruised and battered and fatter than hell, but I'm still standing and for that I am truly, truly blessed.

If there is any reason I am wounded but not totally annihilated, other than that which lies in my own heart and soul, is now – as ever – completely due to the outstanding friends I have amassed. I will not name them (lest the Googlebots drag their names up when their bosses or clients are looking for dirt or drama). They know who they are. And they know, all of them, that I love them with every fiber of my being. You are, my friends, my best gift, my happiest day, my sweetest song and the best excuse I have to be better. I love you all so much… so very much. Thank you for your patience and your tenderness and your ass kickings and your distractions. I truly hope that soon, when we sit across a table from one another, you see me smiling back at you more than that far off distant version you've been getting. Until then, thank you for letting me try to deal with all of this in my own time. You utterly RULE!

Merry Christmas!

Sunny

On Guilt and Justification

Here is what I know… if you are truly guilty of something, there is no justification that will get rid of that guilt. It will eat at you, every day, every single day. You can tell yourself anything, give yourself every possible piece of logic as to why you were right to do whatever it was you did, but if you know in your heart you are guilty, no lie you tell yourself will change it. Just as you cannot justify it away when you deserve it; you cannot create true guilt in someone who knows and trusts themselves and where there is no guilt to be had.  But once it is there, it will greet you when you wake, and there it will be when you lay your head down. 

You can, of course, rid yourself of that guilt that you earned by making amends and doing what is right. But that does require you being honest with yourself, and... let's face it, not too many people are keen on that level of self-awareness.  Or you can continue lying to yourself and count the days until that finally eats away at you. The question soon becomes… which is more powerful; the guilt or the lie you told yourself to create your guilt in the first place? Are you greedy, spiteful, petty and malicious? Or are you good, kind, righteous and truly, genuinely justified in your actions? Your image means nothing to guilt. Your conscience will let you know what to do. 

… that is, if you have one. I do. Do you?

 

I See You

Like a lot of people, I have trackers on my blogs to see who is coming to visit, how often, where they linked off of, where they are… all kinds of information. I know when my MySpace friends are checking my blogs, when my close friends are, when someone landed on my page through a Google search or came through my Twitter. So I know that one particular household is checking my blogs every single day, sometimes twice a day or more and I'm not sure what to say to this person. So I guess all I can say is that I have not stopped being accessible via the phone. I have spoken to you whenever you called. If there's something you want to know about me, call because it looks as though you either don't think you can or you are looking for ammunition against me. Maybe there's some other reason you come here that I can't imagine, but considering how things have been lately, those are the only two I can come up with.

So if you're waiting for me to put out some shitty blog about you, don't. I won't. If you're hoping I'll say something about being open to talking, I always have been with the exception of a couple days I requested you leave me alone (and I wouldn't have asked for that if you had been open to talking to ME at the time). If you're looking for validation for treating me so badly, you won't find it here. There is no justification for it. Whatever your agenda is, this is kind of creeping me out, so I wish you would stop this. But I know I can't stop you so, I just thought you should know all of this so you can choose to spend your time more constructively.

Blue Sky Day ~ A long-overdue love letter to Grey Matter

There once was a great and mighty rock band. Their songs were edgy and entrancing, both smart-assed and perceptive. They borrowed heavily from their heroes and beloved peers at the time of their apex, and so even if they were not “inventing the musical wheel”, as it were, they were mind-blowingly badass and came to us well before their time. Some bands do, and because of that they vanish into memory with only their enduring, wistful admirers to keep the flame of their songs ever- burning with life while never having known the staggering thrills and the terror-filled valleys of success that some of their peers came to know. If you’re lucky enough to have found one such gem, and lost them to whatever demise they may have met, such bands often set a tone for what you look for in music for the rest of your life. Even if you don’t look for them consciously, we all find ourselves seeking similarity in that which comforted us as children. We do it with food, we do it with lovers, how we dress and how we live. The same can be said when you begin a deep and profound relationship with music; and when I was a late teen growing up in San Jose, I was devoted to a couple of bands that fit that description. But to me, for no other band was the tragedy of bad timing truer, than that of Grey Matter.

Joe Simpson, Sean Galvin, Marty Flanagan and Jeff Ebbage were one of those rare combinations of talent who, when put together, plugged in and amped up, comprise something truly amazing… something magical. Indeed they were a bunch of guys with instruments who were, frankly, renowned for their rumored sexual exploits and in that sense just like everyone else with a name and a gig. Yet, rarely have I since experienced that charge in the air when they took the stage; that feeling like I was present for something remarkable and I had no idea how lucky I was to have been there during their golden reign in the late 1980s. Despite my neophyte status in the local scene the first time I saw them play, by the middle of the opening song, there was no a question in my mind that they were extraordinary. Songs like “Better Off Gone” and “Charm School” were largely too adult for my experience level at the time, but had the right bite and bitterness to help me release some of the bile still lingering from my teens. “Temptation’s Reply” gave me a slight inkling of sexuality I had not even begun to comprehend yet derived a nervous pleasure from, as if committing some delicious sin of which I wasn’t consciously aware. But my favorite song of theirs, and remains still, was “Blue Sky Day.” Like most songs to most people, I’m sure the way I interpreted this lovely, hypnotic tune and it’s dreamy lyrics, was probably nowhere near what I was meant to have perceived. It didn’t matter. I left nearly every one of their shows feeling (which I can express now, having experienced more life since then), as one feels after having spent a stolen hour with a secret and sumptuous lover who knows all the right ways to please you. Loving them was changing my life and it scared the hell out of me… in a good way.

Sadly, I was too young, and too sheltered to have known of Grey Matter (who lost their name to a New York-based group who had retained legal rights to it), until it was near the end for them. At least, it was the end of the foursome that I knew as Grey Matter.

Joe left (in late 88 or 89), and went on to work with a band called Legal Reigns who managed some reasonably respectable success in the 90s. But like all of the most delicious dishes, once you take out a key ingredient, it’s just never the same flavor, never the same delectable treat that made you want to come back again and again for more.

Still, the three that remained were worth savoring and so we kept coming back. They tried hiring on a new guitarist (perhaps two or more, I’m old now and only remember one of them clearly). They brought their own element, their own… if I may continue with my culinary parallel… flavor to the music. They still rocked, they still had spark, they still drew us in, but with someone replacing Joe, it was still something different. As charismatic of a front man as Jeff was (and a more charismatic front man I have scarcely seen in all my life), it couldn’t last. Like it or not, Joe has a certain style and one that lent the songs a visceral growl that balanced Jeff’s folk-poetry lyrical sensibilities. Their music had an almost imperceptible country undertow (at least to me, back then) with some bluesy hues and poetic bitch-slaps that fit well into the vague description of “alternative” back then. Not finding a suitable (or reliable) replacement for their lost member, they became a trio.

But the 90s were hard on their heels, and with the new decade dawned the loathsome need to categorize and fit everything in to tidy, easy-to-read packages for mass marketing to the less-than-discerning masses. Anyone who didn’t fit a convenient musical genre that MTV, fashionistas and the ever-mutating radio industry could shove down your throat, found themselves faced with a choice; sell out or get out.

Somewhere in the tail end of Grey Matter, I had mustered the courage to talk to Jeff and Marty. Knees shaking, stomach lurching, my first conversation with them was such unholy gibberish that I know I would be ashamed and deeply amused to remember exactly what I had said now. I am, however, sure that I must have (my being mean) surreptitiously waylaid Jeff with one of my heat-seeking, yet unassuming criticisms or observations of their set that night.

I was so green and unaccustomed to talking with musicians and artists at that time, that I had no idea of how delicate and raw their egos could be, particularly facing a fan. Most people who create art (and I daresay I believe this is particularly true for musicians and performers) want, sometimes desperately, to please their audience. These men were certainly no exception that rule. In retrospect, part of me wishes I had known better, but mostly, I think some people need to hear the truth and I was more than happy to deal it out. I respected, admired and adored these men and true to myself, I wanted the same from them; that meant being honest.

By the time Grey Matter decided to go for it “Joe”-less, tastes were changing fast. Grunge, Speed Metal and Funk Rock were about to take their place in the world and when that wave hit San Jose there was little room for lothario troubadours like Jeff in the lifeboat. Sean was becoming an exhausted businessman (he was part owner of the premiere “alternative rock” venue in town), Marty needed to focus on working a bit more and getting his shit together, and Jeff was settling down. Age and life was not just catching up with them, but their following as well and the crowds dwindled rapidly. Trickling awareness of bands like Nirvana (whom I first saw with about 40 other people –including the staff- in Sean’s club and had to flee from the building for fear my ears were going to start bleeding), Fugazi and Faith No More were ushering in a new crop of faces and a new tone in the clubs; an angrier, louder, darker tone. In all fairness, the effects weren’t singular to Grey Matter, and we still had acts like Toad The Wet Sprocket, Poi Dog Pondering and Bob Mould to balance things out. But the new batch of college students were the regulars and the aforementioned acts were out-of-towners who had their own following to bring in money at the door. Where once you couldn’t open a Metro without circling at least five or six upcoming Grey Matter shows (San Jose’s equivalent to the Village Voice or LA WEELKY), they had finally faded away. If not for their friends The Frontier Wives, waving their freak-flag as hard and proud as they ever did at the time, my twenties would have sucked the high-holy one (not to be too prosaic about it).

Then, there was a glimmer of hope!

Thankfully, not too long into the 90s, what can only be surmised as an answer to all that rage coming through the clubs and over the air-waves, a hippy, poppy movement hit the scene like a fresh, cool breeze on scorching Summer day. Bands like Jellyfish and Redd Kross were either coming of age or enjoying a new audience and getting a lot of buzz on MTV and radio. It was almost as though the door had swung wide and a cheerful voice called out, “Jeff… your time has come!” Cottonhead answered.

Jeff, Marty and Sean (with Joe adding some guitar tracks) recorded a CD, then brought on guitarist Mike Donio (who had replaced Matt Rook in the Frontier Wives and was doing double duty for both bands). They retooled some Grey Matter favorites, threw in a couple new(er) songs and Cottonhead was born. The details of how they came to be are still a little fuzzy. I talked with Sean virtually every night for months (we had befriended one another at the end of a riot at his nightclub, not too long after Grey Matter disbanded), and must have been while they were in the process of recording, he never said a word. But that was just like Sean. He has a lot to say about a lot of things, and a lot of them might not make any discernable sense. But if doesn’t think you need to know something he can be seemingly as silent as the grave. I like to think he wanted it to be a surprise, that they all did.

With Cottonhead, Jeff meant business. It was do or die and thanks to my burgeoning friendship with Sean, I found myself “working” for the band and grateful to be in a position to help. I was to aid in “promoting” (which was basically stapling fliers on walls and bulletin boards of record stores and coffee houses, delivering posters to venues, maintaining their mailing list and selling CDs at the shows). With my new position came ample opportunities to trounce an increasingly beleaguered Jeff with my razor sharp “honesty.” To say that we didn’t much like each other during the early days of Cottonhead, might well be a crass understatement.

Most of the criticisms I tried tenderly to lob over to Jeff, I would still stand by today. His longing to make it big with Cottonhead was palpable. It was so heavy, sometimes, it gave me chest pains but I couldn’t fault him for his vibe. Everything seemed to be squarely on his shoulders as Marty wasn’t really suited for a leadership role, Sean was busy with work and school (eventually bowing out when he was diagnosed with the Epstein-Barr virus) and Mike had two bands to contend with. With all that responsibility, there also came all the pressure for him to be the one to make it happen for everyone. Nevertheless, owing to my ignorance of the multi-faceted mind-fuck that is dealing with musicians and their fondest desires, I made it clear to Jeff that I felt his grip on the band was too tight. I regularly bitched that he needed to listen to outside observation (meaning mine, naturally) about things someone else might be better suited to worry about and to not have his finger pressing the nerves of every detail of the band.

In retrospect, I understand why he didn’t listen. I wish he had, but I understand why he didn’t. Who was I to be so presumptuous as to believe I knew what was best for him. He’d been trying to make it in that business since long before I got into High School. I certainly had no credentials, no reason for him to listen to me other than the fact that I was a consumer of the product he was selling. Market research works when you want to sell something, even for bands, my friends. (Thank you to shows like American Idol, Total Request Live, Dancing with the Stars, etc. for proving my point!) But even that didn’t really matter. Besides, I was, after all, a female fan who was working for the band. The only people musicians usually consider to be less worthy of trust and attention in such matters, are the drunken whores who dance in front of the stage in slinky dresses, stiletto heels and too much makeup. At least they customarily get laid by the band! Hell, I’ve known members of bands to listen to transients more attentively than any girl offering up an opinion.

Being a female, and not one that is considered hot, or in a band that is pulling more bodies into a venue (or, heaven forbid, is more talented) and therefore worthy of attention ate away at me for at least a decade. Now, I still don’t like it, still hate that it’s the norm, but at the very least I understand and realize there is little I can do to change it. I have to give Jeff credit for being as respectful as he managed to be.

There were countless nights when my co-hort Cindy and I would cringe in horror watching Jeff order Marty to put on a wacky, spotted oxford shirt that Jeff had embellished with fabric paint (and had looked like something Jackson Pollack threw up). It was hideous, clearly trying too hard and made Marty look as though he was painfully unaware that the 80s had ended.
Jeff was trying to market the band to fit in with the Seuss-like fashions that Jellyfish and Redd Kross were not only known for, but were also setting a short-lived fashion trend to boot. It was a smart move on Jeff’s part to try, no doubt. The execution was just a bit off. I knew what he was going for and agreed, but sometimes you have to be able to stand back and look at what you’re splashing together to know when to stop. He just couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

I can’t possibly say I wanted them to succeed every bit as much as Jeff did, but I was close… very close. And it was obvious to what few fans they had, still clinging to hope, that if something didn’t click that was not going to happen.

Out of desperation (and misplaced sense of entitlement) I spoke up, and when I did it was not met with a joyous reception, I don’t mind telling you. If I hadn’t known Jeff better by then, I might have expected him to pop me in the mouth for some of the blows I dealt him. Having had people critique my music and art since those days (some of whom I love and crave their acceptance and respect), I can now say that I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. When someone criticizes something so deeply personal, something that affects every level of your life, it is like an invisible beating. What might be an innocuous comment to a fan or audience member could become such a thrashing to an artist. They may not scar on the outside, but the pit of fear that their critics may be right, the rage they feel when they believe in all respects that you are wrong, the fierce explosion of protection for that which they hold most dear and have worked so hard to bring to life, are like a whirling dervish on their insides. So ultimately, it didn’t matter if I was right or wrong. I hurt him regularly and I am deeply lucky that he still calls me his friend after all (point of fact, Jeff was the one person I talked to regularly, when I was going through a terrifying cancer scare. If not for him, I don’t know how I would have made it through that time). For all my sucker punches of reality, all my pleadings to tweak just a few small but crucial things here and there, my words fell on deaf ears.

Cottonhead went on for some time. I would get calls from Jeff, telling me that they were going to be on the radio in LA, or that there was some lead that might finally break them into the business. Each time I hoped he was right, not just for the band’s sake but for his. He was losing faith, getting tired and it didn’t seem they’d last much longer.
They did last longer; longer than some imagined they would. Cottonhead recorded another CD, played small venues all over the San Francisco Bay Area and my friend Cindy and I were nearly always at all of them. Sometimes, we were almost their entire audience.
We didn’t go to their shows out of pity, misguided affection for a particular band member or even our clear and ardent loyalty. We went because we loved the music and over time we cared deeply for the men who made it. They had become our friends, and what is better than being friends with people who make music that makes you happy? I’m sure I can think of something better, but I can tell you this ranks right up there with the most decadent luxury you could name… at least in my book.

The first time I saw Grey Matter live, was at a music festival called Summer in Centerfield, which was that day. Still, I couldn’t have known the depth of the impact that summer, my best friend’s music taste (which was why we were there in the first place) and Grey Matter would have on who I am now. But as with any time one falls in love, as I did with this band, the memory of the moment you realize it makes an imprint in your heart and mind that dulls only slightly over the years. To this day, I could probably tell you what every member was wearing, and if I thought about it hard enough, I might even be able to recount the set list. As I write, now, a slide show of snapshots and clips of scenes from that show and the countless others are playing in my head and my heart is filled with love, sentiment and regret for not having known of them earlier. Particularly since I don’t recall having seen more than two shows with Joe in the band, and I’ve missed every reunion show since. I’d never met him and had the chance to tell him, as I had with the others, what the band meant to me. Luckily, we did manage to talk for a while, a year or so ago, when we connected on MySpace (one of the few things I like that shitty site for) via the page for the next generation of a Joe and Jeff collaboration, called Barrelfish –which also includes Joe’s wife. I guess eventually some musicians actually listen to women! ;-)

I know it’s possible I may not have liked Joe if I’d gotten to meet him when Grey Matter was in their prime (according to Sean, during one of our pre-Cottonhead conversations, I wouldn’t have liked any of them back then). Whatever. I think he’s fuckin’ awesome now. And I don’t mean that in the overused, current vernacular of the times.

As with all living things good and bad, Cottonhead finally ceased to be not long after I turned 30. I miss Jeff regularly, haven’t seen Sean in years (but would love to – especially since he has my Edgar Allen Poe book!) and wish I could give Marty a big hug. A Marty hug always went a long way. I miss these guys in a way that I don’t miss much about San Jose or the time I spent there. More importantly, I can’t help but begrudge the feeling that they would make it if they were just coming out now; if life, age, family, responsibilities, regret or fear were not an issue. I think they’d find a following and even if they didn’t reach exalted heights of stardom, they might enjoy the renown, residuals and respect they deserved 20 years ago. I could be wrong, but like usual, I doubt I am.

As for me, its only poetic justice that one of the lines I love best, from my favorite song of theirs (and one of my favorites of all time for two decades and running) begins to tell the tale of where I find myself now:
“Ain’t got a dime ‘cause dreams don’t pay. Spend all my time in Blue Sky Day.”
Thank you Marty, Sean, Jeff and Joe for being one of the strongest winds of positive change in my life. I love you guys!

*If any of the dates or facts of this epic tome don’t match the ones in your head (or reality), please forgive me. I’m old and nostalgic.

How I love her!

Whiskeytown
Originally uploaded by Sunny-bunny

It's funny, when I look at photos of myself when I was little, I imagine what it would be like to be the mother of the child in the photo. Perhaps this is because some people very close to me have children that I love so much it makes me achey and some of them I only know from photos (the fact that I've never met the "Farty Pants Twins" is a prime example). It is because of this that I do believe you can love someone deeply, that you've never met in person. Romantically.. well... let's get into that some other time.

As I pour through photos of a former self, I see the spirit it took hard work for a controlling adoptive mother to squelch. It had to have been arduous and if that task hadn't been something that has caused me so much pain in my life, I would probably be enthusiastically proud of my mom for having been so prolific and undaunted in her quest. I know, now, why she did many of the things she did and have long-ago forgiven her (as I believe wholly that much of her behavior toward me had a good deal to do with her feelings surrounding a very creative, high-spirited and eventually alcoholic / drug-addict sister). Those that cling self-righteously to the idea that I resent her for not providing me with an idyllic childhood are grossly off base. Particularly since most of the people I know and love had equally as shitty, if not worse childhoods than mine (at least I lived in a house!). No, what finally made me disconnect from my family is far deeper. Far more personal. It's about love.

When I look at this photo, my instinct is to love the hell out of that little girl. I want to put my arms around her and tell her I love what a goofball she is! I want to know what what's bubbling around in her kooky brain and delight in whatever odd little world she lives in and encourage her to make use of what she finds there. I want to take her places that promote exercise that are fun, so I can do it with her and so she doesn't feel like she's a lone freak. I want to tell her how lovely and smart and funny she is and tell her what the world is really like so she doesn't get out into it and get the bitchslap of reality that I got after years of fantastic, nearly-psychotic rhetoric. I want to cheer her up when boys make her cry and remind her that just because they don't want her, doesn't mean she isn't lovable. I want to do all the things my mother never seemed to want to do with the girl in the photo.

Most likely she didn't have the intellectual and social capacity to do a lot of those things. That she spent most of our relationship telling me what was wrong with me, calling me childish, playground-bully names like "hippo" and "retard", making me the butt of her jokes and the focus of all of her pent up rage and control issues surely was the damage a dysfunctional relationship had done to her. A lot of people never realize fully how deep the scars of those relationships go and I cannot help but feel sorry for her in that way.

When I was 24, my mother told me to my face that she would never accept me for who I am. I had not fallen into line with her expectations of my creating a 1950s "perfect-girl-next-door" life. Much of that had to do with my body. She had wanted a popular cheerleader, who dated the quarterback in high school and married after graduation. I was supposed to have gotten a simple job, had a wedding she could orchestrate to her taste, had kids she could spoil and an adulthood that she could spend her golden years bragging over. She wanted those things, because they were everything she hadn't been. She didn't like the life she had lived and stewed in anger that I hadn't become a vehicle to do all those things she was cheated out of. And even that I can forgive.

But at the end of the day, and for years after that, I still tried. The truth is (and I mean that in the most literal sense imaginable), she made a choice when we were both adults and still had time to heal our relationship. She consciously chose, at every occasion possible, to be hateful, resentful and unloving. Not the imaginary kind that overly-hormonal teens and angst ridden post-adolescents suspect of their parents. The real, "fuck you bitch" kind that we are taught our whole lives to never take... from anyone. I loved her. I wanted her love back. I never got it. In the real world, that means it's time to move on and I did. And with God and you as my witness, I plan to make this one of the last times I will ever explain that decision again. I do so now, because she is dying and taking with her all the love she saved up for the day when I made her dreams come true.

She must never have felt, looking at me when I was little, or even the amazing woman I became, what I feel when I look at these photos now; immense love, hope, pride, and perhaps a tinge of sadness that so many lost and wasted opportunities to show the girl in the photo how loved she is. It has never been more clear to me, how important it is to develop love for oneself. But if I feel for the woman I am, what I feel for the girl in this photo, then I am well and truly loved. I'm working on that... every day.

More Adventures in Unemployment

I don't mind telling you, folks, that if this weren't happening to me... if this weren't something I was painfully experiencing on pretty much a daily basis, I wouldn't believe it. No, I really wouldn't. When I asked my roommate if she would have believed me, if I had tried to tell her the story of what she has seen unfolding, she agreed that she would have assumed I was telling tales. Unfortunately for me, I am not embellishing one iota of my dealings with the California EDD, The United States Postal Service and now... Washington Mutual Bank.

No, I'm not looking to be extremist or pathetically desiring of dramatic effect, so I am not suggesting that these institutions are in cahoots with one another. What I'm putting forth, here, is nothing like that. But what I am finding is that apathy and opportunism have gained an all-time low that many people are probably lucky enough to not have to notice. Yet, when you are in the position that I am in... bent over a barrel, so to speak... you have no choice but to deal with that cold incompetence and hope to heaven that someone is feeling like doing a little work that day and that is what has led me to the keyboard today.

Now that I seem to be getting my unemployment checks with some semblance of regularity, a new crux has arisen and it goes by the name of WAMU.

I opened an account with WAMU on December 10th, seeking refuge from the rampant bumbling that now curses my once efficient credit union. Take-overs can do that to any good business and it certainly has with Vista (now Partners). If they were not the loan holders for my car and a credit card I have no chance of paying off any time soon, I would already have closed my accounts with them. I had hoped that WAMU would be better. They have been exponentially worse.

It took them two months to get my ATM card and pin number to me. I finally had both as of last weekend and flushed with relief of standing in lengthy lines at the branch, I deposited my unemployment check on Monday night. Charges were about to go through and it never, ever occurred to me that a bank would be suspicious of my unemployment check.

I was wrong, so very wrong.

Washington Mutual put a 10 day hold on the funds. These funds were supposed to cover such necessities as rent, car insurance, etc.

When I called them to find out why they had put a hold on a government check, they said, "We can't get someone at the State of California to confirm that the check is good."

We're talking about 900 dollars. If the State of California doesn't have 900 bucks in the kitty, we are in DEEP SHIT, people!

If that weren't bad enough, the harpie that I managed to get on the line was hostile toward me when I didn't understand what she was telling me. I have never heard of government checks being held under such suspicion and scrutiny. I've never had trouble cashing such checks at liquor stores or seedy check cashing places, so of course it didn't dawn on me that WAMU would have issue. Again, I was mistaken.

I tried to explain to the beeeawtch that was yelling at me over the phone, that I genuinely didn't understand what was being told to me, and she literally began yelling over me. I asked for a supervisor, she said she was one. I asked for a manager. She asked for my callback number. That was two hours ago and I've not had one phone call since.

So I called back and got someone reasonably pleasant and helpful and she told me that when she called the California State Treasurer, they refused to confirm that the check was good or not. All he was at liberty to discuss was that there was no hold placed on the check at their end. That was not good enough for WAMU to release my money. She suggested I go down to the unemployment office and get a letter stating that the check is good.

Hahahahahah! Human interatction? Seriously?


I explained to her that this was not only impossible, but that even if I called to request such a letter, it would take at least until their ridiculous hold was over to get it, and by then my rent check, insurance, etc, would all be bounced and cost me at least 100 dollars. She said her hands were tied, so I asked for the Treasurer's phone number and called. I got some guy named Jeff.

Jeff didn't answer his phone but his voicemail said that if there was an emergency, to call another number he gave. I called that number. Nobody answered.

You have GOT to be kidding me, right?

So I called the EDD and went in the sneaky way. When I got a hold of an operator he exasperatedly transferred me to claims, where a woman of about 200 answered the phone and immediately put me on hold. Four minutes later, she came back and transferred me to an adjuster. Apparently, the adjuster is working on this situation now.

Am I hopeful? No. Not even remotely.

As always I am struck by the fact that this is happening to me, someone who desperately needs the flow of her money to stay fluid in order for her very survival to continue, but I don't really hear of these things happening to others. Not much, anyway. Is everyone being quiet? Are you all just hoping someone else will take care of it? What is going on here?!

All I know is that the more I try to follow the rules and stick within the lines, the more I am thwarted. But I'll keep going for now. There's not much else better to do. But I think I will start cashing my checks and stuffing the money in my mattress. Seriously. This is rigoddamneddiculous!

EDD v. Sunnybunny... guess who's winning!

So, in case you've been keeping score and hedging your bets in my direction, I have some rather glum sporting news for you. I don't seem to have much chance of winning when it comes to getting my unemployment benefits. Like... at all.

If you've been having trouble keeping up with this debacle, here's the tally:

Contract ended September 28, 2007 (EDD has it listed as 9/23)
Filed for unemployment benefits at approx Midnight on 9/28/07.

Following week letters arrive:
We cannot confim your identity, please send or fax the following documents
We must have a face to face meeting with you, please come to the office on October 11th at 10 AM.

The day of my appointment the following letter arrives:
We have recently discovered that we overpaid you the last week of your
previous claim (the first week I worked in my previous contract). Why did we do that? Explain yourself.

The documents you sent that we asked for, to confirm your identity, were unclear. Please resend them.

At my appointment, where I showed no less than three people my passport along with my live body and face, I learn that these people cannot confirm my identity to the EDD and then was urged to lie about not knowing PowerPoint in order to get training.

My first benefit claim form arrives on the same day.

I mail in my guess as to what may have happened to cause an overpayment the following day, not having recalled an overpayment (I assure you I'd have remembered!)or what I might have done to cause one since it had been eight months since I filled out the form in question.

I receive a letter the following week, instead of a check:
We have disqualified you based on the fact that we could not prove your
identity. Please call if you wish to reopen your claim.

I call and explain that I have not only faxed the documents three times, but sent clear, enlarged color copies of the documents they requested and that there should be no earthly reason why they wouldn't know I was me, particularly considering they didn't question my identity when asking for money back they think they overpaid me.

I luck out and get a kind agent on the phone who gives me her personal fax number. I fax it over, she walked it to her boss, and I was off and running.

November 14, 2007, I receive my first checks. Six weeks after I opened my claim.

I receive a tip from my apartment manager that management is cracking down on late rent, and as I had been living in my apartment for seven years, were particularly anxious to see me move out so they could raise the rent. Having been threatened with eviction the last time the EDD was bumbling my account, I have no choice but to move.

By this time, I have had to borrow over 1K from a kind friend who had just loaned me 1300 in order to go to baking school, and had to use all of it to keep afloat as the initial checks barely covered the late fees and overage charges I incurred (much less rent for two months) while waiting for them to figure out I am me.

November 28, I begin moving the four blocks to the shared condo I now reside in. I cannot afford a truck for the whole move, so I hire movers for the big stuff and move the rest in my car. Movers put a 300 dollar hold on my account for a 200 move. Monthly charges go through. Overage fees abound. I am exhausted and overwhelmed with the move and come home to my new place to find a letter from the EDD.

We believe you deliberately falsified your benefit claim form on the last week of your previous claim. We are docking you five weeks of benefits. You may appeal if you wish.

I finish moving on the 3rd (there's 150 off of my deposit that I would have gotten back), scramble to find the money to pay the move in deposit and formulate my appeal. By this time I am up to over 240 in overages alone.

Appeal is mailed on December 7 and faxed on the 10th.

Appeal court receives paperwork from EDD on December 27th.

Several potential temp positions are snatched out from under my due to the writer's strike. Suddenly everyone needs a secretary with a Bachelor's degree, preferably in Business or Literature.

January 5, 2008 finally arrives, signaling the end of the first week since November 26th, that I qualify for benefits. I send my benefit claim form in promptly on January 6th, as instructed. I am now borrowing from strangers, and vomiting Ramen in the middle of the night in stress.

January 11, 2008 Check information hotline says the check is in the mail. HOORAY!

January 28, 2008 After trying literally hundreds and hundreds of times to get someone on the phone, I finally go down to the EDD to see what the hold up is. Am turned away as there is no parking and the line to use the "Magic Red Phones" - that put you through to an agent quicker (but not immediately, you still have to do the hang up and redial over and over) is too long.

January 29, 2008 Back to the EDD to use the phone. Am told "stop check" form and next claim forms are in the mail that day (never to be received) and assured that if I can prove I will be evicted, that they will expedite my claim form.

January 31, 2008 I finally receive my January 11th $450 check, along with a good deal of mail I had been wondering about, including my appeal hearing date scheduled for the following Monday (see USPS v. Sunnybunny posts). Have to go back to magic phones to inform EDD that I have cashed the check (as instructed previously) and learn that there is absolutely no expediting process for claim forms. None, whatsoever. Impossible. Agent tries to help by sending the claim form that should be attached to the next check immediately, so I may catch up.

Same day I go to the USPS to have words over why I wasn't getting my mail. Abnormally apologetic for botching my life, they overnight my claim form for free. Next check for $900 (700 of which will go to rent) arrives on the following Tuesday. The form the helpful agent sent, arrives the next day.

February 11th, instead of a check, I receive a fresh claim form for the weeks I should have been paid for, stating that I had forgotten to fill out employer information. I get the "guilty" verdict from the appeals court the same day (which does not shock me as the judge had clearly made up his mind well before I had arrived). I fill it back out and send it in immediately.

February 15th I manage to get a hold of an agent who claims they had not received the replacement form but corrected what I sent based on my response and that the check would be in the mail on Saturday.

February 16th, called check information hotline at 6 AM. "Your last check was paid on February 2nd. Check information will be updated again on Wednesday, February 20th, 2008."

Naturally, there is no chance of getting a hold of a human right after a three day weekend. No chance in hell. But I try anyway. After doing some cash work for a friend, in hopes to stay afloat (and he skips out before paying me), a friend takes me to dinner. At the end I see that I have a text message from my roommate "You have mail from the EDD!"

I call and ask if it's a check, she doesn't know. I said, "It'll have some color on it, like it would BE a check." "oh no," she says. "It just looks plain white."

Not

Good

News

I get home a half an hour later to find... that's right... the SAME benefit claim form, for the two weeks ending FEBRUARY 2ND!
You marked yes and no for the same question. Please fill this out and send it in.

Imposible. This time I had a witness. I had my friend CB actually look at the form before I sent it (not having access to a copier).

Did you tally up how many checks I received in all that time? Were you paying close attention?

I wouldn't blame you if you didn't and just skipped to the end. As my roommate and I agreed, if we weren't seeing this unfold before our eyes, we would not believe such a story. Nobody could befall that much trauma, that much strife from one agency, could they?

Yes. Yes, they can and do. I'm lucky I still have a place to live and that is due to my friends. As always... you keep me sane when little else can.

The Importance of DIY

I recently wrote a blog about how I had never decorated my home because I had been afraid that I would have a man I wanted to be with came over, he would think my decor was so eccentric or eclectic that he'd run screaming from the place and thus I would be alone forever. Here's another thing that made me change my mind about that...

I recently spent a good deal of time in the home of a man whose ex-wife spent the last years of their marriage covering every available wall of their house with the most hideous atrocities against pleasant home design I have ever seen. She even went so far as to paint their bedroom (a place that should have been filled with passion, romance or at the very least relaxation) a color best described as Rancid Baby Caca. If that wasn't a passive hint that there was trouble in paradise, I don't know what would have been.

By doing things like insisting that he never wear red (pouting angrily when he did, insisting he had done so as a deliberate affront to her), driving away any friend that empowered him or disagreed with her, spoon feeding him his life and domineering the rest, she had basically decorated the man much the same way as she had their home. I don't know what bothers me more; that she was self-absorbed and grotesque enough to insist up on that being the case, or that he had let her do it. Whatever the case, both he and the house were tailored specifically to her eerily selfish taste, both were as far from seeming like a cohesive whole as one could imagine, both were teeming with potential and equally as completely unable to attempt change without someone else coming in to do the hard work. I can't even describe how frustrating that was to me.

Still, if I had gotten married when I wanted to, which was right out of high school, or even say... ten years ago, I would have innitially suffered the same fate. Maybe not entirely, but I would have stuck myself in a situation where my significant other may have gotten quite used to my bending to their every whim, tailoring myself to them like a living suit of support and love and service. I was well on my way with the man I was supposed to have been married to by now. Without my determination to grow and get better and change, I might well be splotched with emotional paint effects that made no sense, and caused people to gasp and recoil at the lost potential. I wouldn't relive a lot of what got me to this place, but I had to experience it all to get where I am and there is a depth of value to that I cannot fathom.

So don't doubt that The Universe sends us messages all the time. As with the three ghosts in Dickens's A Christmas Carol, I have been shown visions of my past, my present and my would be future. I too have woken from my slumber shouting, "There's still time! I can make it right!" One thing is for certain... anyone who comes at me with their can of Rancid Baby Caca paint, is in for a big suprise.

On Red and Regret (a concordance with “Danger Amy”)

Having left my apartment of nearly seven-ish years, I look back and think about how much fun I could have had decorating the place and didn’t start until about a year ago. Now I find myself in a place where I am expected to have to vacate in about two years and wondering if I should go through the trouble of decking my walls with luscious ruby red paint only to have to change it back in such a short time. The answer is resoundingly YES! Here’s why.

Once upon a time I was a blank canvas. I was gessoed up and ready for bright splashes of vibrant colors and sweeping textures of all kinds. Instead of deciding what I wanted on that canvas, I allowed other would-be artists to dictate the artwork known as Gina (Gina, being a name that I not only hated on myself but never felt connected to, and therefore allowed a dear friend to rename me when I was 23 and had undergone the first wave of positive change in my life… Sunny will be legal this year).

As the years went on, the people around me kept editing my canvas. Some contributors insisted that what they saw never changed no matter how many edits had been made. Some continued to add and subtract elements they didn’t like in hopes of forming the ideal masterpiece. Others would stand back, in awe, and watch the constantly evolving work; sometimes feeling fearful of what it was becoming and occasionally envying the fact that it wasn’t tied to staying forever the same. For a while, I didn’t mind it so much because I didn’t believe I really knew who I was anyway. It was so much easier to let others create me because it was their acceptance, their approval I desired most and I believed that if I let them mold me into what they wanted I would have what I desired. I was wrong. I was very, very wrong.

The same thing applied to my home (an extension of myself). I was afraid to pick out furniture, paint the walls, decorate in any strong fashion because I didn’t want to alienate a man who might want to have a relationship with me. Having grown up with people who believed largely as I did, or had suggested that I believe as they do out of some misguided idea of helping me find a mate, it had never occurred to me to really sit down and question that perception. Even when my ex-intended moved in with me, I was ready to let him lay a heavy hand on the decisions of how our home would look (which was asinine considering the most decorative item he owned was a figurine of Marilyn Monroe that he salvaged from a man's house who had committed suicide). All the while, somewhere underneath, I was thinking things like, “I want an Enchanted Tiki Room dining area!” or “I have always wanted a brothel / bordello bedroom” knowing full well that he would never agree to it. After I asked him to leave, I lost all interest in romance or decorating for a couple of tumultuous, busy, gut twisting years. Then a series of events took place that changed everything. And I mean… EVERYTHING.

During the gut twisting years, I met a man who once worked in special effects for film who had decorated his home in a way much like a Disney Imagineer would have. So much so, that many of the pieces were ones he had recreated in his garage workshop and he shared this home with his love (at the time). When I was getting a particularly healthy refund from the IRS, he took me to where he had gotten a good deal on his furniture (which was unique and yet still comfortable and homely). After sifting through no less than fifteen fabric books, I came upon a fabric that had a Moroccan look. My idea had been that I wanted a “Midnight at the Oasis” living room and it fit what was in my head perfectly. The main color is a deep, rich, dark red. When the furniture arrived, I remember my heart racing like crazy. I was so excited I couldn't sleep for days. I'd had no idea how good making that decision would feel.

At the same time, my then boss was unloading a lot of lovely fabrics, much of which were silk shantung that matches my furniture perfectly. It was as though I was being given a sign.
Not long after, I attended my first Bats Day at Disneyland. For those of you who do not know what Bats Day is, it’s sort of a gathering for all kinds of alternative types that the “normal” folks would call FREAKS. It was also the most comfortable and happy I’ve been at Disneyland in a long, long time. For once I was looking around and seeing people I understood and felt comfortable being around. More importantly, I was seeing them and their significant others and their families. That day, I finally began to realize that it didn’t matter what I looked like, how I dressed, what kind of furniture I had or art I chose. Anyone who truly loves me would either like the same things, or at least love me enough to live with it. When I finally disconnected from the hyper-judgemental, never accepting people in my life, it was the clearest that concept had ever been. Suddenly, I felt free to do whatever felt right, be whomever I choose, and live as I wish to live. Moreover, I finally let it sink in that to prohibit myself from doing something fun or fulfilling or creating an atmosphere where I feel comfortable and relaxed in order to appease the tastes of someone for the sake of their acceptance is just stupid and silly.

I have many regrets that I have let go of, some that come to me in dreams when I cannot stop them from haunting me, but more often than not I don’t allow them to run my life. But the single most burning regret I have, is that it took me this long to figure out how to live my life. To me, the best way to celebrate is with boldness, the richness, the power and sensuality that I believe is in me… and is represented by the color Red.