All I want for my birthday is …

It’s my birthday.  It’s not a major one. In fact, it’s pretty damn minor.  And it’s on a Tuesday this year.  Tuesday has to be the most unspecial day of the week.  It’s not the start of the week, and it’s painfully far away from the weekend. And there’s not even anything good on TV. It’s just Tuesday. So, to have a minor birthday fall on a Tuesday makes for a very subdued birthday celebration. No, celebration is too vibrant a word. Let’s call it a mere acknowledgment.

The boyfriend, bless his heart, has repeatedly asked me what I want for my birthday. I know he wants me to tell him something concrete, something that I can point at in a store or online. But, I can’t. Really, in terms of material stuff, I’m pretty well set.  I’m not feeling the need for more stuff.  In fact, quite the opposite. So, what do I want for my birthday?  I want that goddamn loveseat in my sunroom to go away. I don’t care where it goes, I want it gone.

I’ve been asking for his help in getting rid of that goddamn loveseat for a while now. Yet, there are always obstacles. The first of which is that we have no idea what to do with it. It’s not in good enough condition to give it to a charity – the rabbits have been gnawing on in their spare time. And no, I don’t want to place it on Craig’s List or Freecycle. Who wants the hassle of dealing with a bunch of strangers’ inquiries and the waiting for the no shows. Plus, frankly, I don’t want strangers in my house.  But, it still does have its good qualities and maybe someone would take it for free.  I’ve suggested that deep in the middle of the night we leave it on the side of an industrial road that leads to a weekend flea market nearby. The boyfriend has agreed that might be the best way to find a good home for this perfectly good loveseat (his words, not mine. To me it is, and will forever more be “that goddamn loveseat”).

But, then we are faced with the second obstacle: moving the goddamn loveseat. It’s a heavy sucker. And I’m at a point in my life where I hire people to lug really heavy things for me.  But, hiring someone in the middle of the night to illegally dump the loveseat does not seem to be the smartest thing to do. I mean, if I don’t want law-abiding strangers in my house, I’m sure as hell not going to invite a hired hand  into my home late at night who willing to commit a crime.  Perhaps I have to rethink my plan.

This morning, when the boyfriend called to wish me happy birthday and go on yet another fishing expedition as to what I want for my birthday, I was emphatic: please, in the name of all the good and holy in this world, please, please PLEASE make plans to get rid of that goddamn loveseat.  I am willing to pay for the labor and fees to have it dumped.  I just can’t take anymore discussions about that god-forsaken loveseat.

All I really want is to have my sunroom back. I have a vintage writing desk I bought a few months back with the idea of putting in there, along with a comfy chair for meditating or reading. To be able to look out the window at my avocado and peach trees while writing or to meditate with the sun on my face, yes, that would make me happy.  And the only thing in the way is that goddamn loveseat.

The things that surround me

Monday night the boyfriend left me an urgent message.

“Did you pick up your recycling can?  Remember we talked about how you have to pick it up today or else someone else may grab it? And you really need that can. ” he said with some passion

Listening to his message, I rolled my eyes slightly.  He can be so dad-like sometimes that I have no choice but to rebel.

The thing about the recycling can was, to me, a minor inconvenience. But to the boyfriend, who is only at my house on the weekends, it was a major deal.  I have this tendency, you see, to forget to fetch my garbage and recycling cans from the curb after pick-up day.  Now, if mine were the only ones out there, it shouldn’t be a problem. But, I share my driveway with an apartment building, so when it comes to garbage day, my cans are down at the curb along with all of theirs and it’s easy for them to get mixed up, despite being marked with our addresses.

I have many excuses for not picking up my cans in when I get home from work:  perhaps I have to pee something fierce; or I’m tired and my feet hurt; or I have groceries; or something I want to watch on TV is about to start; or it’s cold; or, I just plain ol’ don’t wanna walk the 50 yards or so down to the street.  So, what eventually happens is that my can(s) disappear into the apartment building’s garage where they end up getting used by other people. Then on the weekend, the boyfriend goes and fetches the half-full cans from their garage and lugs them back to my place.

But, last week, my can was nowhere to be found.  I shrugged it off, figuring we could live another week without since I don’t generate much trash or recycling.  But, the boyfriend?  He was on the case.

BF (the Boyfriend): You need to call Ronaldo (the owner/manager of the apartment building) to find out where your can is.
LB (Lazy Buddhist): OK. I will.

10 minutes later

BF: Did you call Ronaldo?
LB: Not yet.
BF: When are you going to call Ronaldo?
LB: Soon.
BF: OK, but you really need to call him. You can’t be without a recycling can.

10 minutes later

BF: Did you call Ronaldo?
LB: Did you hear me call Ronaldo? (voice dripping with sarcasm)
BF: Why not? You really need to get that taken care of.
LB: Can I finish this chapter, pleeeeeeeeeeeease?

7 minutes later

LB looks for her bookmark as she starts to close her book
BF: Are you going to call Ronaldo now?
LB: Yes (heaving a sigh of exasperation), but let me find my bookmark first.

LB closes her book and then calls Ronaldo and leaves a message on his voicemail

30 minutes later

BF: Has Ronaldo called you back yet?

You get the point.

But, he’s like that, the boyfriend.  He can get completely single focused on something that bothers me not a whit. He’ll bug me incessantly about fetching my trashcan, or buying batteries for my flashlight, or Drano for a slightly slow sink. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll get around to it” is my attitude.

I know he means well.  I think he figures that by paying attention to all the things that surround me, that he is taking care of me.   The total care of another person can be an almost impossible task.  Humans in general can be so moody and hard to please.  And who knows what the hell the opposite sex is thinking?  But, making sure all their stuff is in functioning order? That can be managed. Flashlights can be made bright with some new batteries, and sinks can be made to flow like new with just one bottle of Drano.  But, lifting your partner’s despair or finding them a direction in life?  Not so easy.

So, I’ll choose to see his obsessions with all my stuff being in  its proper place and in working order as his way of showing his love to me.   It’s kind of sweet, really.  Annoying, but sweet.

LB’s big adventure

I’m know I’m kinda funny this way, but I like my sleep. I need my sleep.  And probably like every middle-aged person (at least the ones I know), I don’t get enough of it.  And that’s not because I’m out partying or feeding a crying baby. No, like millions of us, I suffer from insomnia.  And it sucks.

So, I’ve taken Benedryl, Melatonin, Valium, some kind of anti-itch medication that is like Benedryl-lite.  I’ve tried lulling myself to sleep with recordings of rain, and new age chimes over some weird supposed brainwave pulsing thing. My sleep hygiene is decent – I don’t watch TV in bed, the room is dark and quiet, and I tend to go bed around the same time each night (albeit rather late).  And all of these methods have worked – for a while.  But still there are those nights where I toss and turn and turn and toss and end up wandering around the house muttering to myself until 3 or so in the morning. It ain’t pretty folks, ain’t pretty at all.

The one thing that has worked for me in putting me to sleep (though not necessarily keeping me asleep) is marijuana. While that sedating effect was less than beneficial in my 20’s when I was a big ol’ unemployed, unmotivated pothead, it’s just what the doctor ordered for me in my 50’s.

California is one of 13 states in the US where medical marijuana is legal.  All you need is a note from a doctor that marijuana would benefit whatever condition your suffering from.  I believe there is an official and long list of ailments, and  insomnia is one of them.

Of course, you need to find a doctor who is supportive of medical marijuana.  And since I work in management at the same place where I get my health care, I decided against asking my personal doctor for a recommendation.  Instead, after obtaining my medical records which confirmed my diagnosis of insomnia, I looked at the websites of a handful of clinics in Oaksterdam that do medical marijuana evaluations and chose the one that had an available appointment on Saturday.

The clinic was in a well-maintained older building in downtown Oakland.  The office itself, however, seemed a tad temporary, as if they could pack up within an hour or two and not leave a trace.  But the receptionist was pleasant and professional and asked me to fill out a three page health history form.  She attempted to take my blood pressure, but the machine wasn’t working.  Oh well. The waiting room was not exactly comfortable nor inviting with its cheap Costco folding chairs and a vinyl couch that looks like it was found in the Free Stuff section of Craig’s List. The six or so people waiting there were a mixed bag. Some of whom seemed quite respectable, while others, if I saw them on the street, I would probably pull my purse close to me.

After waiting a while, the doctor called me into her exam room. Like the rest of the office, there wasn’t much to distinguish it, but it served its purpose.  She reviewed my medical history form and the records I bought in to support my diagnosis as well as the prescriptions I had been given for my insomnia.  I was pleasantly surprised that it really did seem like a clinical visit and that she was caring and professional.  For some reason, I expected it to take just a couple of minutes with a shady doctor who simply went through the motions before signing my letter.

At the end of my visit I was given my official medical marijuana recommendation letter as well as some information about how to get an official identification card, though most dispensaries will accept just the letter.  And with that, my next stop was a dispensary.

After doing some research on Yelp and the California NORML website, I opted for my first visit to be to the Haborside Health Center in Oakland.  Seriously, visit their site and watch the video.  It’s pretty freakin’ amazing.   Very professional, clean and welcoming.  After getting a tour of the facility and getting my letter verified, I got in line and waited for a “budtender” to call me over.  The sales counter looks like a cross between a bank and a jewelry store.  My budtender was a hip looking young fellow who, by the look of his eyes, had been sampling the medicine.  Yes, that’s right. Don’t call it pot or weed or any other slang. It’s medicine.  Anyway, the selection of medicine was overwhelming.  You could get it in edible form, tincture, aerosol, butter, and of course, good ol’ buds.  There were probably at least 20 varieties, all marked with their concentration of THC.  After telling my budtender what I needed it for, he gave me a recommendation for a certain strain, which I got along with with a bottle tincture that you can drink rather than smoke.

On my way home, my car smelling of some really stinky bud, I felt as if I had been a very naughty girl. At one point there was a CHP officer in the lane next to mine and I got really nervous despite being everything being on the up and up.  This is going to take some getting used to.

Later that evening, I took my medicine and watched the movie Man on Wire.

Well, I watched part of the movie.  Within minutes I was fast asleep on the couch.

Writin’ it out

It’s an old friend, this sense of discontentment, this sense of being lost, not knowing where I want to go, much less how to get there.  But, like all humans, I want.  I suppose in Buddhist-speak, we’d call that craving.  Some cravings are pretty concrete and attainable – I want chocolate, I seek chocolate, I eat chocolate.  Craving satisfied. For now.  Others are more amorphous, like I want something different, something new, something to distract me from how mundane my life feels.

For a while I thought it was recognition I wanted. I mean, who doesn’t want to be recognized for the witty, fabulous, talented ________ (fill in the blank with your aspiration du jour) that you know deep down inside that you truly are. For me, my most recent aspiration was to be a Writer.  And yet, when I started to get recognized and complimented in the real world, by real flesh and blood people, my output shuts down.  The veil of  the LazyBuddhist falls and underneath you find the quivering mess that is Mary.  So, Mary runs and hides and can barely eek out a word for even private consumption.  I could hardly put together a grocery list, so severe my graphnophobia became. God forbid I put anything down in writing and possibly reveal to the world I need cheddar cheese and toilet paper.

So, I’ll blame the holidays and the darkness. It’s a common phenomenon, this winter funk.  With the new year mere hours away, I’m taking steps, again, to crawl out of my comfortably-appointed well of self-consciousness and self-pity.  I corralled some of my friends to join me in signing up for a 10 month long program called Awakening Joy.  I still miss not having a sangha.  I know I want that back in my life, and to be able to know I’ll be seeing a handful of my good friends at least once a month while hearing some great teachings makes me happy.

And it appears that writing and I are once again on speaking terms.  I wouldn’t say we’re friendly or particularly close at this time, but it’s a start.

Happy New Year, my friends.  May you all find the peace and contentment we all crave.

Heart warming Christmas correspondence

I suppose, it being the holidays and all, that a lapse in posting is to be forgiven. What with the shopping and frivolity and family and eggnog and tra-la-la-ing and all, it’s hard to keep up with the ol’ blog.

But, that’s not my excuse.

I’m having one of those classic screw-the-holidays holiday funks.  I shan’t bore you with all my various gripes, but I think this cheery Christmas Eve correspondence between myself and my dear friend John paints a fairly vivid picture of our moods.

He wrote the following email after we had spent a lovely kick-back evening together at Chez LazyBuddhist:

Now, Darling, I can’t speak for you but you brought light into my Christmas this year. I thought that was a lovely homey evening and we should do more, where you play psychiatrist on the chair and me the highly volatile psychotic patient with frequent thoughts of suicide on the couch. As there is a plethora of mental and social disorders between the two of us we can trade roles and examine some of the darker, more dangerous thoughts. Playing with knives may prove to be a beneficial therapeutic tool during one of our sessions. I feel like I am moving thru molasses, low motivation, low self-esteem and am waiting for the dark month to end. I didn’t even once invite anyone to my home this season. just me and my sad poinsetta with a string of white lights slowly choking it to death.

Merry Christmas.

PS. Rudolph was female as male Reindeer drop their antlers in winter, females don’t. It’s all a sham.

And this was my cheery response:

Oh honey -

I’m so glad you had a good time.  I believe that that will also be the highlight of my holiday season.  Yesterday I was in such a holiday funk, I subjected a couple of my staff to a full blown indignant rant about how I feel I should be able to bow out of Xmas, yet because of my stupid boyfriend, I have to play along and how filled with rage and resentment I was about the whole thing.  By the end of the day I am feeling a bit calmer and think to myself, “self, maybe I should attempt to go to REI on my way home.”   As I am heading down 101 I realize I don’t have my debit card on me.  Sure, I hear places still take checks, but I can’t survive without my debit card.  So, I get off the freeway to see if I can’t still catch my buddy Gabe at the office to have him check to see if my debit card is in my office, or should he not be able to find it, confirm my fear that I had  thrown it away.  Well, guess what, my iPhone was also nowhere to be found.  Of course, any normal person would just head back to the office and go fetch those things, but no, I was obsessed, OBSESSED I tell you with getting to my local corner store and buying tortillas before they close.  The night before I developed a hankering for one of my soy chorizo/brown rice/veggie burritos slathered in copious amounts of cheese, but TJs was too crowded and after I got home from a horribly frustrated attempt at Xmas shopping too late to hit the corner store.  So, being in desperate need of copious amounts of cheese, I bag going back to the office so I can go home and get some goddamn tortillas.

Once I had my fill of cheesey goodness, I go in search of the only gift I have managed to get the boyfriend, some shaving soap I bought him at the goddamn KPFA Crafts Fair, since I figure I should have something under the tree for him.  And like everything else of some important in my life, it is missing.  Along with another bag.  Jesus fucking Christ Kathleen, just fucking shoot me.

So, here I am getting ready to drink some coffee and figure out what I’m going to do about fucking Christmas shopping and my debit card and my iPhone and the one present I have actually purchased for Ted.  Fortunately, I have a recent refill of  Valium, so I think that is going to come in handy.

Merry Christmas, my friend!

By the way, the debit card was on my desk, the iPhone under my car seat and the soap was in my bedroom.  Crisis averted.

I hope you all have a lovely holiday, however you choose to celebrate or not.

My friend, the animal abuser

Normally, by the time I sit down to write I have already made some sense of my topic in my head. The writing of it simply documents thoughts that have already been figured out.  So, it’s hard for me to write about something I haven’t  fully resolved for myself yet.  Especially something I feel kind of ashamed of.  So, please excuse me if my thoughts seem somewhat scatter-shot or contradictory.

As most of you probably know by now, I am an avid animal lover and advocate.  In fact, I probably have more affection for animals than I do people.  While animals may sometimes be vicious, I’ve never met an animal that is purposely malicious (though I used to question the motives of a chicken I had as a teenager – she was one mean mother clucker).   I believe that when we choose to bring animals into our homes and make them part of the family, that we make a pledge to care for that animal for the rest of its life.  I would no more abandon an animal when it became troublesome than other people would abandon their baby if it became sick.  To me, the bond between animal and it’s owner/guardian is a sacred bond.  I consider the happiness and well-being of my pets to be just as important as my own.

Of course, I understand not everyone shares this view.  Others see the animals as beloved toys or belongings, nice to have around as long as they don’t create any problems, and they fulfill our need to be entertained and loved.  These people aren’t purposely cruel to the animals, just a bit clueless.  To them animals are simply not as important as humans, so they don’t require the same kind of consideration that one would give a human.

And then there are those who purposely hurt animals: the psychopaths who abuse them for kicks; the heartless thugs who harm them for fun and profit (yeah, I’m looking at you, Michael Vick); and my friend, Patricia.

Damn, that was hard to say.

A warm and fuzzy story

For the last week or so I’ve been trying to work on a somewhat serious posting, but after writing that initial surge of words, it has gone nowhere. It just sits in my drafts box and taunts me.  So, for the sake of putting something up on these ol’ internet tubes, I think it’s high time for an update on things cute and fluffy in LazyBuddhist’s world:

The visitor bunny:  the story of the little visitor bunny ended with me dropping the bunny off at the Berkeley Animal Shelter in the loving and caring arms of  Annie, the  lady who takes care of the cats and bunnies.  She had assured me that he would sent off to the rabbit rescue shelter within a week.  This was confirmed by Judy, the kind hearted rabbit rescue lady.

So, after a week, I call the rabbit rescue place to see if the visitor bunny had arrived.  Judy wasn’t in so I was stuck talking with her assistant, Amber.  What can I say? I don’t like Amber.  She doesn’t strike me as a great employee (she messed up Mr. Binkles’ first boarding reservation there) and she always has this tone on the phone like she’d rather be out smoking a cigarette.  In fact, I dislike Amber so much I have actually hung up when I heard her petulant voice answer the phone rather than Judy’s charming southern drawl.  (Yeah, despite being 50 I can still act like I’m 15, so what?)  But, this time I just wanted a quick reassurance that the visitor bunny arrived as expected. “Can you be more specific?” she complained “there are a lot of black and white rabbits here.”  I could hear the roll of her eyes.  “He should have arrived within the last week” I explained trying to sound pleasant despite my urge to slap the sass out of her.  “We haven’t had any new bunnies arrive since about two weeks ago” she answered with less attitude.  “He might have gotten adopted at the shelter. That happens sometimes.”

That weekend I stopped by the Berkeley Animal Shelter to see if I could talk to Annie.  The place was a madhouse.  It looks like they are working with the barest of budgets as they appear to be understaffed.  But, despite the fact that they seem busy as hell, you can tell these are good people who are trying their best under difficult circumstances.  When I asked for Annie, I was pointed towards the back where all the animals are held.  I found her by the two rabbits they had for adoption. With the constant chorus of dogs barking (over half of whom are Pit Bulls), I don’t know how anyone can think.  She vaguely recalled meeting me before. Finally, it dawned upon her and her expression changed suddenly to that of someone who misplaced her keys.  “Oh, right!  Where is that bunny?  I remember taking him in, but I don’t remember adopting him out. Oh my!”   She suggested I talk to Dave, one of the overwhelmed front desk employees to find out what happened to the little guy.

It took a bit of searching, but Dave eventually found the little guy’s record. “That was Clarence. He was adopted a couple of days after you brought him in” he said matter-of-factly. Annie seemed a bit surprised  and even a little disturbed  as I assume she is responsible for screening the potential rabbit adopters. I was disturbed too knowing the little guy went out the door without the potential adopter being vetted.  That was the main reason I wanted some guarantees that he would go to rabbit rescue because I know Judy would  make sure that he went to a good home and would be properly cared for and not put outside in a hutch to be left alone and ignored once some child has grown bored with it. Annie said she would follow up on the little guy and would give me a call.

A couple of days later I got a call from Annie with the good news.  The little guy got adopted by a rabbit savvy woman who also had a spayed female indoor bunny.  She had done a home visit and saw for herself that he was in very good hands. I could hear in her voice she was very happy and touched by the little guy’s good fortune.  I got a little verklempt when I first heard that message. In fact, I get a little verklempt every time I have replayed for anyone who may be interested.   I’m just ridiculously happy for the little guy.

Epiphany

In my writing group, we give ourselves a writing assignment at the end of each meeting so that even if we haven’t been working on anything else, at least we’ll have our “homework” to share with the group.  Last week’s homework assignment was:

Think of a time in your life when something happened that changed your perspective on life.  It may have been a conversation, an experience on a vacation, a relationship, a death or birth that happened in your life.  Write about it in 500 – 1000 words.

This is what I came up with.

It’s been my experience that true epiphanies are few and far between.  You know, like the kind you see in the movies: the camera moves in, the music swells, and after some intense facial emoting, the heroine gets up and rushes away, off to take action on her new found insight.   No, for me change usually comes slowly, sometimes stealthily, so subtle I barely notice it. But, there was once when I had one of those big almost cinematic epiphanies (except for of course without the close-up and the swelling music).

At the time I was working as a manager/programmer/data analyst at a small survey research firm in San Francisco.  I wore many hats and worked many hours.  When I had first started the job, I was working close to 70 hours a week. And I didn’t mind it, at first.  Within that very month when I started, not only was I beginning a new job, but I had broken up with my boyfriend of 10 years, stopped drinking, and started therapy.  Work became my refuge.  I knew my role, I knew my value, and I had less time to sit at home alone and think about my lost loves.

The company was owned by a couple, Kathryn and Michael.  They encouraged their staff to think of the company as family.  Michael was the loveable, yet absentee dad. Everyone loved it when he was around. But, he spent a lot of time away from the office wooing clients, leaving Kathryn to tend to her flock, which was an interesting mix of the over-educated and street urchins. The Project Managers were almost uniformly PhDs from Stanford, and the telephone interviewers were mostly students, musicians, artists and smart under-achievers. It was a lively, fun and engaging group.

Kathryn, unlike Michael, wasn’t entirely comfortable in her role as  a company parent. Sure, on any given day, she could be the cool mom, just hangin’ with the crew, joking around and more than willing to take some of us out for a long lunch. On those days she was capable of immense kindness and generosity. And for someone like myself, who was using work as a life substitute, it was easy to get sucked in and start seeing her as boss, friend & mother.  But then there were the Joan Crawford days where she stomped around the office throwing fits about the smallest things.  On those days people hid in their offices, staying away from the common areas in hopes they wouldn’t run into Kathryn and become the target of her rage.  For a small woman, she was capable of casting a huge shadow over an otherwise congenial workplace.

Over time, Kathryn changed her ways.  Instead of terrorizing the entire staff on her bad days, she would single out one person to be in the doghouse for an entire week.  If you were in the doghouse, nothing you could do was going to be right.  She had a knack for finding the softest, most vulnerable spots in your psyche and then proceeded to take a sledge-hammer to them. If it was your turn in the doghouse, other colleagues would come up and offer solace, a shoulder to cry on, or a stiff drink after work. We all had done our time there.

For me, Kathryn’s form of torture was the silent treatment.  She wouldn’t rage, or verbally abuse me. Those I could stand up to.  But, she would stop speaking to me altogether. All I would get from her were looks of disapproval or a derisive roll of the eyes.  How did she know?  How did she know that this had been the way my mother had expressed her disapproval towards me?  How did she know that this treatment hurt me more harsh words, ridicule, or even a physical beating?  The silent treatment said to me, you’re not even worth wasting my breath on. You do not even exist. Those doghouse weeks were brutal.

Turnover at the company was high.  Most sane people were able to see the insanity, and left when they could. Yet, I stayed for four years. My self-confidence had been pretty well  ground down by the intermittent soul pummelings. My entire life was wrapped up in my work.  I couldn’t see my way out.

That is, until one evening after work. I was on West 580, maybe a mile from my the exit I took to get home.  It was dusk, just bordering on night.  I don’t remember my thought process or if there was even a thought process. But there it was. My epiphany. I broke out in tears when I  finally recognized that Kathryn was not my mother, and that it was not my job to make her happy.  Her unhappiness belonged to her and it was not a reflection on me. And perhaps, the longest lasting insight was that work is not who I am.  Work will never love me and I should stop expecting it to.

The tears continued into the evening.  But, at the end, I felt free.  Something had irretrievably shifted.

The next day when I went into the office, I started putting together my resume, made a few phone calls to other research firms with whom I had established relationships. One company had an opening for an Operations Director and they definitely wanted to talk to me about it.  Kathryn could sense something was up, so I was squarely put back into the doghouse.  This time it didn’t faze me. It was laughable.

After I submitted my resignation, Kathryn ceased to acknowledge me altogether. She refused to come to my going away dinner. It’s a pity.  I really wanted to thank her for all that she had taught me, and the skills and lessons I carry with me today.

Breaking the pattern

This is the way it usually goes:

Step 1: stray or abandoned animal shows up on my doorstep or is dumped in my office.
Step 2: I say “No, I do not want/need another pet.”
Step 3: “OK, well, I’ll take care of it until I can figure out another situation for it or find its owner.”
Step 4: said with feigned resignation, “oh, OK, well the other animals have accepted it, so I guess I’m keeping it.”

That has been the pattern for all four of my current pets,  and has been the pattern for pretty much all my pets during my during my adulthood. That is, until last week.

One evening, about three weeks ago, my co-worker Patricia texted me – “I found a baby bunny in the park. You want a bunny?”  I immediately texted her back. “No, but I can advise you how to take care of it until the SPCA is open tomorrow morning.”  “Oh never mind”, she texted back, “we’ll just leave him here tonight and come back tomorrow.”  “That would be a death sentence for the bunny – raccoons, dogs, etc. – easy to keep him overnight and keep him safe” I responded back with some urgency. “Oh, OK.” she finally relented.

The next day she told me that her 10 year old nephew was going to keep the little bunny.  I kind of cringed when she told me that since children have notoriously short attention spans when it comes to small animals.  But, I proceeded to send her a plethora of links on the care and feeding of bunnies, and offered to bring her some hay.  I was happy to act as bunny consultant as long as that meant the bunny wasn’t ending up on my doorstep.

But, let’s go back to Step 1, shall we?  While I may have avoided having the bunny land on my doorstep, I didn’t dodge having the bunny dumped in my office.  As I feared, the nephew showed no interest in actually taking care of the little creature, and for close to a week had kept it exclusively in a 2′ x 2′ Rubbermaid storage box.  Well, that’s not completely true, they let it out once, only to have their two foxhounds terrify and attack the little guy.

Patricia brought the rabbit into the office on Monday to let me “see it”.  What a cute little guy.  It wasn’t a baby like Patricia said, but a full grown English Spotted Rabbit.  He looked in good condition, though I quickly saw that she had taken none of my advice re: his litter or food.  Once she told me that he hadn’t been out of that box for 5 days, I offered to let him hop around my office for a while, though I still insisted I had no intention of taking him home.  Apparently, no one in the office believed me.

I could tell he was so happy to get out of that damn box.  He did a few laps of my office,  and then proceeded to check everything out. Finally, he stretched out near my feet, looking quite normal and well adjusted, especially for a little guy who had been through so much.   And unlike my two bunnies, he didn’t fuss when you picked him up, so we also got in some major snuggle time.  What a sweet, sweet little guy. And soft?  Insanely soft – made Mr. Binkles feel like a damn brillo pad.  But, still, I had no intention of taking the bunny home.

When 5:00 came around, Patricia came in to say good bye to the bunny.  “What?  No! Listen I spoke with a couple of rabbit rescue organizations and they recommended that you take him to the San Francisco Animal Control Shelter – they work with Save-A-Rabbit.  He’ll be fine.”  I said somewhat unconvincingly. “Thanks for taking care of Mr. Bunz!”  Patricia said as she flounced out of my office.  I could have sworn I heard some of my co-workers laugh in the background.

So, now we’re at Step 3.  Of course, I could have taken the little guy to the SF Animal Shelter.  But, I wanted to talk to Judy, the rabbit rescue lady in Berkeley first.  Maybe even try and get him placed with her. But she wasn’t in, so I had no choice but to take the little guy home with me.  Really, I had no choice.

When I started the day, I had no idea I would be taking home a rabbit, so I was ill-prepared.  But, I figured as long as I kept him away from Mr. Binkles and Mrs. Peabody, everything should be fine.  Since the sun room is the only thoroughly bunny proofed room, I put him in there – separate from my two buns, though they were able to see each other. Perhaps that was a mistake.  Binkles was FURIOUS.  Fit to be tied.  Fire coming out of nostrils.  That was one pissed off bunny.  When I let him out for his free time later than evening, one of the first things he did was to come over and take a big bite out of my arm.  Mr. Binkles was not pleased.

Later that evening, I moved the visitor bun into my office where I could close him off and seperate him completely from the other two.  But, that didn’t fool Mr. Binkles.  As I sat in my office with the little guy, I could hear Binkles pacing back and forth at the door, like some kind of jealous enraged lover.  This was not promising.

For the next week I tried to make it work, hoping the Mr. Binkles would eventually calm down. The house ended up being divided into two different turfs: Mr. Binkles and Mrs. Peabody had the front part of the house, while the back part belonged to the visitor. Moving between those two turfs became increasingly difficult as one of the bunnies was always waiting at the door trying to get at the other.  And finally it happened.  Mr. Binkles slipped underneath my feet and charged towards the little visitor bun. An ugly and ferocious fight broke out.  Tufts of fur were flying.  Not wanting to stick my hand or my foot into the middle of that melee, I grabbed a shoe and placed it between them. I was then able to pick up the visitor bun, but not before Binkles once again latched himself onto the little one with his teeth.  I had a hold of one bun, but I ended up lifting them both up.  Grabbing Binkles’ jaw, I was finally able to get him disconnected from the visitor.  Everyone got put away for the night so that mommy could take a Valium and try to figure out what to do.

I was finally able to get a hold of Judy, the rabbit rescue lady.  She assured me that if I took him to the Berkeley Animal Shelter that after a short holding period he would be transferred to her care.  That was the reassurance I needed.  I would be able to track the little guy’s progress, even visit him on the weekends until he gets adopted.

After Binkles and the visitor bun got a taste of each other’s blood, their obsession with each other just grew worse.   Granted I knew some of this aggression was happening because the little guy wasn’t neutered.  And sure, I could have had him neutered, and then after the hormones died down tried to bond him with my other two.  That process could have taken two months or more, and even then there were no guarantees they would get along.  Step 4 looked like it probably was not going to happen.  I hated giving up, but knew what I had to do.

I was surprised how emotional I got when I gave him up to the Berkeley Animal Shelter.  He really had a lovely, sweet personality.  I was relieved when to see that the woman who handled the bunnies was clearly such a gentle soul.  She reaffirmed that after his neutering, he’ll be sent to Judy’s rabbit rescue.

Good luck little guy.  I hope you find a permanent home where you can be happy and loved.

What to do about Richmond?

I live in Richmond, California. Yes, that Richmond. The Richmond that often finds itself in the news as a gang-infested hell-hole. It’s not all that unusual to read about a spate of four or five shootings over the course of a night or two. Hell, a couple of years ago it got so bad that there was talk of bringing in the National Guard as a back-up.  When many people think of Richmond the words that may spring to mind are “violence”, “poverty”, “gangs”,  and, my favorite, “the armpit of the Bay Area.”   And now, you can add to that list “gang rape.”

That’s not the Richmond I live in.  Like many of us who live in nice neighborhoods in sketchy cities, we identify ourselves by our neighborhood.  So, when people ask where I live, I don’t say Richmond, I say Point Richmond just as others may say they live in The Marina, or the Richmond Hills.  When I say Point Richmond, the words that spring to mind are “quaint”, “historical”,  or “nice”.  Yet, here in quaint, historical, nice, Point Richmond, we are less than a mile away from the Iron Triangle and North Richmond, the poorest and most violent neighborhoods around.  And Richmond High, the sight of that horrendous gang rape is only three miles away.

My first reaction to the news of that gang rape was incredible sadness.  Sad for the victim of such depraved, animalistic violence, and sad for my city that will once again be dragged through mud as a place that breeds young men with no sense of right and wrong, no remorse, and whose basest instincts are given free reign.  And yet I also feel sad for those young men who perpetrated this crime. No one wants to grow up to be a monster. No young child says “when I grow up I want to spend most of my life in and out of prison.” Yet, this is the life they, their parents, their community, and their culture have created for them.  Of course, they deserved to be punished severely. But, how will that change things?  Yes, the community will be safe, for a while, from this particular group of young men.  And yes, patrols will probably be increased in that area and new lighting installed. All of that is good and long needed.

But, what about the deeper issues?  Is there a whole generation of young men in our midst who have no capacity for empathy or compassion?  How do we keep our girls safe, self-assured and strong in a culture where that simply isn’t a priority?   How do you instill a respect for living beings and life itself, when clearly, too many see life as cheap, for others and for themselves?

I want to help, yet I am at a loss as how I can.  I am not a parent, a social worker, a community activist, or a civic leader.  I am simply a citizen of Richmond, California, saddened and horrified at an unspeakably inhumane crime, and what it says about our young men , our city, and the culture that has created them.

Spidertown

No need for faux spiderwebs for Halloween at Chez LazyBuddhist.  No, at this time of year, my yard becomes Spidertown.

two spiders do battle outside my kitchen window

I’ve lived in this neighborhood for about 12 years now so I’ve become used to the annual spider invasion.  It usually happens in the latter part of the summer or early fall.  But, it does seem that each year these damn spiders are getting bigger and bigger.  You would think I lived next to a nuclear power plant rather than merely an oil refinery.  One big guy has a web that is probably close to three feet in diameter.  It’s right next to my walkway, which is fine with me.  When he starts to encroach across my walkway?  Well, bub, you’ll find out who is the bigger and more dangerous species. With the flick of this yardstick, I can bring down your days of work.  So, don’t even think about expanding across my walkways, ‘k?

Sure, now I sound all bold and brave when it comes to my eight-legged friends.  And normally, I have a live and let live philosophy when it comes to spiders.  But, if I’m surprised by one by walking into its web, or having it lower its creepy self in front of my eyes while driving 65 mph, I become a damn shrieking fool.  (And yes, I did have a stow-away in my car reveal itself to me while I was driving over a bridge at 65 mph.  I completely and utterly spazzed out for the entire length of the bridge until I was safely across and found a place to park, lept out of my car and fully shook out my clothing, hair and car to make sure he wasn’t on me.  I didn’t find him that morning, but I scared him enough to go take cover, only revealing himself a couple of days later when he started spinning a web in the back window of my car.)

Sleeping driveway spider

I’m not the only one who spazzes out when encountering a spiderweb.  One  fall day a couple of years back, a young. outdoorsy looking man was canvassing my neighborhood for the Sierra Club.  I was at the back of the house, so I called out to him to meet me at the backdoor. He walked right into a huge spiderweb and started freaking the fuck out.  I tried my best not to laugh, but there was something so deliciously ironic about seeing this big rugged nature boy completely lose his shit when walking into a spider web.  I know, bad Buddhist, bad bad Buddhist.

Despite my fear of spiders, I’m not a spider killer.  If there is a spider in the house, we strike a deal – you stay over there, and I stay here. And since most of the time they are places I care not to be, we’re cool.  I let them have the ceiling, the upper part of the walls, or the basement.  Enjoy yourself Mr. Spider. Let us co-exist peacefully.   And if he fails to understand our agreement about boundaries, well, that is what the boyfriend is for.  He is not a spider killer either, but he is adept at capturing them and taking them outside.  Good boyfriend, good good boyfriend.

walkway spider w/ 3 ft wide web

This year one of the spiders have located himself right outside my kitchen widow.  Every morning is like my own personal episode of Nature.  One morning, there was the turf battle (see pic above) where these two pretty equally matched spiders kept attacking each other.  It was fascinating, especially how this one spider would curl up in a ball and play dead.  When the other spider came over to poke at him to see if he was still alive, the curled up spider would spring open and start wildly attacking the other one.  Unfortunately, that spider that got attacked wasn’t the smartest spider, as he kept falling for the other one’s play dead ploy.  I could have watched this for hours, but I had to go to work.  When I came home, there was only one spider left – the victor.  Now I watch him work on his web in the morning with all the grace of a harpist plucking at the strings.

At a safe distance I can appreciate the effort and workmanship that go into making these massive webs.  And that the way  I like it – at a distance.

Panic!

I was in my mid-20s when I had my first panic attack.  It came out of the blue.  I wasn’t involved in something that frightened me, or unnerved me, or any type of thing that you can imagine that would inspire panic.  No, I was laying in bed watching TV – something highly familiar and comfortable.

I can’t remember what triggered it.  It was probably just a numbness in an arm, or an odd pain.  But soon I was feeling as if I was going to lose consciousness.  Nay, not merely lose consciousness, but actually die.  I needed to get outside where someone may see me or rescue me, some place where I could breathe.  My legs felt like they could not support me since they had gone numb like much of the rest of my body.  At the time I lived in an apartment complex where I had become friends with one of my neighbors.  I managed to ring her doorbell.  I couldn’t really describe my symptoms besides, “I’m dying.”  I guess she didn’t take me too seriously since she didn’t rush me to the hospital as I expected her to do, but instead rang the doorbell of yet another neighbor, a nurse.

The neighbor-nurse asked me a few questions about my health history, medications, symptoms, etc.  The diagnosis came quickly: I was having a panic attack.  Despite my mother being an agoraphobic (which is basically the end result of untreated panic disorder), I knew nothing about panic attacks.  The neighbor-nurse offered me some orange juice and let me lay down while she gently explained what was happening and reassuring me I wasn’t dying.  A half an hour later the symptoms had subsided and I went home, feeling shaken but relieved it was over.

It wasn’t until years later that I had another attack.  This time I was older and there were no kindly neighbors to talk me off the ledge. Again, it happened late in the evening while relaxing in front of the TV.  First a numbness and then the thought, “oh my god, I’m dying.”  I drove myself to the emergency room.  I suspected it was just panic – I knew a lot more about it by then – and I just wanted someone to take my blood pressure and tell me I wasn’t having a heart attack.  But, it was a busy night, so I spent much of the night in the waiting room.  The comfort of knowing there were a gaggle of doctors just beyond that swinging door and the distraction of a busy ER calmed my symptoms quickly.  Why I continued to wait, I don’t know.  It was probably close to 4 hours before I saw a doctor who, upon hearing my faded symptoms, and my family and personal history, quickly diagnosed panic.  My blood pressure was slightly elevated, but nothing to be alarmed about.

In the years since I have gone through periods where I tend to have more panic attacks.  Always it is the same:  at night, alone, triggered by some minor ache or pain.  The type of ache or pain that most people would react with maybe an “ouch” or “maybe I should change my position so my arm doesn’t fall asleep.”  Not me, my mind goes from “Ouch! What’s that?” to “No doubt that is  symptom of a heart attack, or some kind of blood clot that is going to cause my imminent death.”   If I don’t catch it in time with some  rational self-talk or mindfulness or distraction or Valium (or all of the above), the next part of the routine is getting dressed in preparation to drive myself to the emergency room.  Eventually, I calm down enough so I can start distracting myself until all the symptoms are completely gone.

I don’t know what the point of this post is.  I’m tired.  I woke up with a cramp in my leg at 2am, which, of course, triggered a panic attack, so most of my night was shot. Sleep has been hard enough these days without adding in the odd panic attack or two.  I’ve done the cognitive behavioral therapy thing – I recognize what it is, and that is probably what has kept me from multiple trips to the ER.  I’ve done years of therapy, including for PTSD.  I think this is just part of the genetic heritage left to me by my mother who, for my entire lifetime with her, rarely ever left the house because of her panic disorder.  I know it could be a lot worse, so I guess I’ll just deal with the occasional attack and be grateful it doesn’t control my life.