Hump Day

First published to SFHouseMouse.com on 2/4/2015

For months now I have been joking about The Real Housewives of San Francisco. Out of all the many mind numbing “reality” TV shows, the Real Housewives series is the one that hooked me. I only sat through one season (plus a few random showings, here and there), but that was enough. The ladies and I have often bantered about the San Francisco edition. Instead of having partially plasticine painted ladies stabbing each other in the back over afternoon cocktails, we have yoga moms hosting meditation groups to heal wounds and find unity in the ecologically refurbished Painted Ladies. The joke, of course, is how different that reality show would be in this town as opposed to the others. Our bank accounts might look the same as those women is Las Vegas, New York, Atlanta, and wherever else they filmed, but that is where the similarities end.

One afternoon, The Man confided in me his fantasy—he mentioned how every time I joked about being a Real HW of SF, he envisioned the myriad Sex and The City style stories to be written. Inspiration!

So here I sit, embarking on this voyage.

To be fair to you, the reader, I am not yet an actual “wife”. That is an adventure we will be traveling together, you and I. But, despite the ring and the contract, I am practicing the role until He makes an honest woman out of me. I had started using the term as a means of self-placation. For years I had been struggling in my chosen field of employ (as one does in unhealthy relationships). Then, when my father passed, it was all I could do just to get out of bed during the day—much less don the attire, and bear the pain, of a stove slave. The Man mercifully granted me dispensation. He said we were sitting pretty financially, and as long as I kept our affairs in order around the house, he would offer me this reprieve. That act has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. But what does one answer to the question, “So, what do you do?” Having been raised by a feminist, and a nervous pragmatist, at that, I felt my internal mechanics squirm under the thumb of that query. After all, how could I possibly be fulfilled in such a traditional feminine role? And, what if… What if The Man gets hit by a bread truck? Or gets a brain tumor? Or looses his job? What happens when, 40 years down the road, his retirement isn’t enough? So I quelled those questions with humor—the best medicine.

Now that my heart has healed (as much as it can when a loved one has made the ultimate journey), I have been left with that question of what to do, where to go from here. The Man has been pretty spoiled by his house mouse over the past year. After all, it’s not every playboy who gets the treat of having a live-in gourmet chef prepare home cooked meals, wash his clothes, advise his investments, and practice extended orgasm. So, we decided to extend the terms of our agreement. Finding the Muse for virtual ink can be a tough task when one has exorbitant rent to pay on their postage stamp in the Mission (fortunately, rent control on our Lower Haight Victorian eases the burden of maintaining a roof for both of us).

The answer to my inquest came from that aforementioned pragmatist mother of mine, oddly enough. Years ago, when I was flailing through some college courses, doggedly determined to go my own way (as the song says), she swooned over some essay. It had never occurred to me that I could develop a career as a wordsmith—writing had never occurred to me at all, really. I’ve written my whole life, but it’s something that just happens. I feel something, life leads me to a certain place, and all of a sudden I look down to see words on paper. I guess the process came so naturally that I never thought of making a life out of it. I’ve also had a story that work has to be painful, difficult, and hard. So when the woman who deterred me from an education in history, philosophy, and theater because can you really make money doing that?, said WRITE, it caught my attention. Of course, it has taken me well over a decade to actually let those words sink in. But, as I sat in my flat in foggy San Francisco (the home of so many artistic legends) pondering those questions of where to go and what to do, I allowed myself to relax into a dream—the same dream I had been having for years—the dream of putting words on paper (or, in this case, on screen).

This is the year I start to write a book, and this blog is my homework. The Man has blessed my life with so much goodness, but for our purposes today, we will give him thanks for this kindness—the generosity of allowing me to write for the pure pleasure of the craft. Every hump day you will receive updates through this medium as a disciplinary practice. Not all of it will be good, or entertaining, but all of it will be real… mostly ;)