I’m feeling bitchy, twitchy, and MAD

I’ve lived on the Mendocino Coast for 10 months now, and I’ve come to a conclusion. Fort Bragg is dangerous. So pardon me while I go to pieces, here.

Oh, not physically dangerous to me, because the common physical dangers don’t really apply. I’m not a meth monkey. I’d have to lose a good 60 pounds before I’d be willing to climb into a wetsuit and surf with the great whites or dive for abalone, so it’s not likely I’ll be scrambling over the ledge of a sea cliff any time soon. I expect to see deer on the highway late at night and foggy patches of highway are also a given, and so I know to be cautious. Unless an enraged contracter pulls a gun on me, I’m really quite safe. Physically.

The danger is in the salty scent on the air, the redwoods I live under, and the satisfaction I get from knowing who’s planning to build what where when and how many people are actively opposing it. (I’m such a nosy bitch.) The danger is when I find myself mentally shopping for a hybrid SUV or even a truck because I live a mile up a washboard  clay road and my little Mitzi just isn’t that practical for life in the country.  The danger is when I volunteer my skills in the midst of a political campaign, when all I had intended to do was gather a little writerly experience through observation.

The danger is when I admit to myself that I could be content here. I could settle down here. GAH! The mere thought is a mental slap in the face.

I mean, I’m a Southern Californian, born and raised. It’s in my blood, in my thought processes, my instinctive reactions, my likes and dislikes.

I’m just gathering experience up here. I’m not supposed to stay. I’m not supposed to “stay” anywhere!

I’m supposed to be footloose. My furniture is supposed to be collapsible, multifunctional, or as a last resort, donatable. What am I doing searching for mid-range priced furniture? What am I doing shopping for an SUV?

Look, my long range planning is very simple. I have a map  on the wall. I’ve ticked off all the placed I’ve been. I’ve highlighted all the places I will be. And eventually an opportunity will come along and I’ll drift there.

I’m supposed to drift right out of here. When I came down here, I looked around and thought six months. I’ll give it six months. Then I’ll go home.

(And by home, I mean HOME. Sun. Smog. Turkish grocery stores and Korean BBQs and Vietnamese sea food. Traffic. Suburban Sprawl. A fresh LA Times on my doorstep every morning, which I will have to read in the evening because I can only get through the front page before the traffic starts moving again. Four Costcos in a ten mile radius. Santa Anas and 30 second attention spans and spoiled university alumnae rumbling about sports team averages.)

And then six months passed and I figured, give it a year, you’ll have a year of solid experience under your belt. It’s really not fair to leave everyone in the lurch before the year is out. And now I’m almost at a year, and I haven’t broken into a fit of hives or tears over the fact that I’ve held the same job for ten damn months.

(Bye the bye, that’s a record, you know. One full-time job for ten full months. I’ once held the same part-time job for a year and a half, but seven months is my average. Generally speaking.)

So now there’s a sneaky little piece of me that is quietly and firmly content, thinking “so make it two years.” And a third of me is too oblivious to notice, because I’m focused on the economic repercussions of the writer’s strike, and oh, there’s that Writer’s Conference in San Francisco next summer, so maybe I should at least have the first don’t look down draft done. The rest of me is horrified. There’s a whole lot of screeching going on in here. “Two years? TWO YEARS?  And then what?  Two will become three, and then four, and before you know it, this will be HOME. Put down the pencil and pay attention, all of you! Entrapment! Blood-sucking Northerners!”  Yes, a good portion of my mind is currently engaged in hysterics at the very thought of being tied down by responsibilities here on the Mendocino Coast.

So, really, Fort Bragg is dangerous. I may just lose a couple personalities if this battle keeps up. And I have a nasty feeling just who could come out of the battle victorious. Good Goddess, Wise Goddess,  please don’t let me become content, or worse, complacent. I can be smug. I’m a nosy bitch, after all. Smug goes well with that.  But if I start on year three, please, channel Cher.

September 5: New Space

New Space

Warning: If you’re looking for Shiny Happy Lily, try another post. I’m possessed by the spirit of Florence this week. I’m sick, tired and grumpy,  and I’m in no mood to laugh at absurdity. I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time, but I can bitch and slog simultaneously.

I just moved into a new space this week. Won’t call it a place yet.  

Shall I give you a list of the pros and cons?

Pros:

1.)I have a walk-in closet. I have dreamed of a walk-in closet. I have sold my soul and quite possibly my sanity for this walk-in closet.

2.)Location: South F Street in Arcata. 5 blocks to the hotel, a mile to the church. Good opportunity for sun and exercise, and I can save on gas, too.

3.)Roommates: I need ‘em. The rent is lower, and roommates will force me to socialize. Sometimes I’m in danger of becoming too isolated. And these roommates are decent people – willing to give you the shirt off their back or their last bowl of ice cream.

Cons:

1. Location: South F Street  between Samoa Blvd and the Ambulance depot. More potholes per foot than the rest of Arcata combined. Four blocks to the bars, the hotel, and a mile to the church, so I’m morally obligated to leave the car at home and walk to work. Oh wait — humboldt, redwood trees, temperate rainforest … rain. And I’m supposed to be on the wagon.

2. Roommates: A female Boomhauer, a pregnant chick who believes cigarettes are bad for you but pot is healthy, and a BobMarley wannabe. The pregnant chick wants to bring in a 2nd pregnant chick and a bunkbed. Two random guys are always underfoot — boyfriend, surrogate brother, both, nobody seems to be sure.

3. One bathroom. Four residents. Two semi-permanent guests. You do the math.

4. I have  seen this staircase in my nightmares.

5. My attic comes equipped with an emergency hatch escape ladder and two small windows. There is no way my curvy ass will fit through those windows. Doesn’t matter. I’m living in an attic of a house built back in the ’50s. In the event of fire odds are good that I will perish from smoke inhallation, carbon monoxide poisoning, or a rare but deadly mix  of asbestos and lead-based paint chips.

6. There is no carpet. There are, however, carpet tacks everywhere. I have to wear house-shoes or risk tetanus. I HATE house shoes. (There will be carpet eventually. Why are we moved in before the new carpet?)

7. My roommates poke fun at my shoes and purses. Ordinarily, them’s fighting words but this is not new.  Poor shoe choices are endemnic to Humboldt County. Have I ever told you about the time I was lambasted for wearing my strappy black sandals to a history class?

8. There is no door between my stairwell and the rest of the house. There will be. Eventually. But at the moment,  voices and various smoke fumes are carried upstairs. Pregnant daughter can not string together three words without inserting “fuck”.

9. Someone is using my hair products.  I am a reasonable roommate. I will share my furniture, tv, nail polish, knives, candals, make up, perfume, cats, books, dishes, pots and pans, food, clothing, and for a special few purses and shoes. But have you seen my hair? I need all the help I can get. My hair products. MINE.

Okay, I’m done with my wrant. The house needs work. The house will be very nice once it’s cleaned up. I don’t even care about the lack of carpet or horrible paint. But I’m a solitary creature. I need a door to close behind me.