Wife and I went to a Prop. 8 protest/rally at the Oakland Civic Center on Saturday.  I’ve never been a giant fan of protests.  I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, so I encounter a protest at least twice a week.

The typical scene:
Whinger: [Tip-tap-typing away at her day job.]

Outside: Rahjah jah! Rahjah jah! Woooooooooooo!

Whinger: ..?

Outside: Rahjah lee! Brug lee! Wooooooooooo! [Whistles and drums.]

Whinger: ..? [Sighs and wheels chair over to window to look down at crowd twenty-some stories below.]

Outside: Brug rahjah lee!

Whinger: ..? [Strains to see signs, but they are never clearly printed.]

Outside: [More whistles and jumping up and down.]

Whinger: [Calling to co-worker down the hall.] Do you know what the protest is for today?

Co-worker: [Pause while she looks. Calls back.] No, but it looks like they’re headed toward the water, so we should go the other way for lunch.

Whinger: Good plan.

I even recently lectured the girls at Peet’s, who were wondering what the protest was that was passing us by at the time, about the need for clarity in chants and signs.  Walking down the street with a flag that could or could not be Ireland’s is not the way to tell me about your cause.

Anyway.

So despite all protest reservations, we went to the protest at the Oakland Civic Center, and it was beautiful.  The day was lovely, and they had good speakers lined up.  But above all, as I was looking around, I realize that I live in a city of beautiful people, and not in the sense that everyone could grace the covers of Vogue.  The people are charmingly and engagingly themselves.

I saw a lot of families with both straight and gay parents, and they were all adorable and loving and romping underneath the giant Oak tree on the Civic Center lawn.  I saw many couples, also gay and straight, who casually leaned against one another for support.  There were folks of all ethnicities and sizes, and they were all bound for this common purpose of being proponents of love and family.

We had cheers for different people in the crowds: One for the same-sex couples like us who got legally married recently, one for the couples who were planning to get married, etc.  The last cheer was for the straight friends who were out to support the cause, and that cheer was by far the loudest and longest.  We all know that the gay population will never achieve protection and recognition on its own; it will never be above 10% of the population, the very definition of a minority.  And so we rely on those who love both us and equality to help, and we were not let down on Saturday.

It was a joy to see.

It’s Noodle Friday, and lunch can’t get here quickly enough.

Noodle Friday wasn’t always. Friday used to exist without any standard starch tie-ins.  Lunch on Friday was like lunch on Tuesday; there was no telling whether I’d have soup or a sandwich.  However, over time, Aunt B and I kept finding ourselves at our favorite Hunan restaurant to enjoy our favorite dish.  And in the effort to keep ourselves in any sort of slender fashion, we had to limit the noodle excursions to Fridays.

When we walk into the restaurant now, the waiter yells, “It’s Friday!” and brings our meal without asking what we want.  Co-workers will ask, “Can you meet on Friday?  Not during Noodle Time, of course.”  When others join us for Noodle Friday, they know that there is little wiggle room in the menu to accommodate different tastes.  People know that there is a ritual to Noodle Friday.

It is not time yet, but I’m smiling as I think about the rest of my day.  Everything just seems a little sunnier when there are noodles in the near future.

Please don’t send me to Noodle Rehab. (Although, what famous person would I meet there?)

All urban gyms should start on the second level of buildings.  There’s something a little disconcerting about seeing a roomful of pelvic thrusts when one is returning from lunch.

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I have two friends who are newly pregnant (awkward segue from pelvic thrusts, I know), and I couldn’t be more thrilled that I get to make two (TWO!) baby sweaters. There are few things as fun as getting to pick out a pattern and yarn for a completely useless piece of clothing that a child will outgrow in five nanoseconds.

Oh, and there’s the excitement because a baby completes the circle of life and is a physical manifestation of love and all that.

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For the last three years, I’ve been keeping a spreadsheet of potential Presidential candidates, their stances on various issues (environment, education, etc.), and scoring those stances against my own as a gauge for where my political campaign money should go.  I got to archive it this morning as I don’t anticipate needing it for another few years, and I was pleased to note that the final tally was that I preferred Joe Biden above all (although in the “Drawbacks” section, I’d listed his biggest problem as “says stupid things”), and President-Elect Obama came in third.

It should probably be noted that McCain wasn’t too far down on the list.  (He and I mainly disagree on implementation of some of his policies, something I’m certain he’s terribly interested in discussing with me.)  After past elections where I’ve felt like I’m mainly voting against someone instead of for anyone, I was happy this year that both sides put up great candidates, something for which we should all be proud.

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Coming down from the election pundit hangover, I enjoyed this thoughtful and well-written P. J. O’Rourke article, which highlights very well why I’m so liberal (although the article is anything but kind to liberals).

I also loved this commentary on Prop. 8 by Keith Olbermann, who even cutely tears up a little in a few places.

Wife’s best friend from high school and her family came to stay with us this weekend and helped contribute to my annual yearning for specific children, wherein I only want kids if they could be these exact models. Their family runs a Christian camp in Mississippi, and I have never met a more efficiently run family. Their daughters are sweet and bright and funny, and do exactly what they’re told on the first try without any eye-rolling, whining, or offputting Stepford qualities. We were deemed the best aunts ever upon discovery that we have a Wii and serve pizza for dinner, and everyone got along happily from there.

We did the tourist thing with them in San Francisco on Saturday, something we haven’t done in awhile. I had suggested we go to Chinatown, as kids love Chinatown, and the girls did nothing to dissuade me of that assumption. Two hours later, we’d managed to go only two blocks, but we’d looked at approximately one jillion things for sale, each for about 75 cents.  Hard-earned babysitting and chore money was spent on much pink Chinois, and then it was off to Fisherman’s Wharf for the obligatory viewing (and smelling) of the sea lions, who put on a fine show of barking and shoving one another off the docks.

They left us on Sunday to go to Tahoe, and the animals recovered in giant heaps on the floor and furniture. Dog slept from the exhaustion of non-stop happy attentive playing, and Cat slept from the exhaustion of attempted escapes from being picked up and carried around by his middle.  Wife and I had the Melancholy that comes after loved ones leave when you’re not sure when you’ll see them next, but did have the fun task of recounting moments from the weekend to one another.

All in all, a good weekend and a welcome distraction from the ongoing Prop. 8 battles.

The days are dark right now. My status of sadness has been officially downgraded from “in a funk” to “in a depression.”  Not to worry, though: A psychotherapist has been suggested and procured and met and liked and deemed helpful. I’m hoping to come out of this situational depression before it screws up my chemical balance, but will cross the bridge into anti-anxiety meds if it comes to it. It’s not my first choice to take meds, and I’m trying to nip it all in the bud, but if the Internet has taught us anything, it’s that there is no shame in taking a drug or two if you find yourself unable to get out of bed in the morning.

God, I’m such a cliche.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.  Let’s discuss my depression further on the Interwebs, shall we? Everyone knows that it was invented for government use and for people to discuss their problems in greater detail than is appropriate in normal conversation.

I find that I am speaking in exclamation! points! and platitudes in an effort to cover up that at any time, I could potentially burst into gut-wrenching sobs. And this is coming from a girl who has become almost comfortable with her tears over the years.  I’ve always been a crier, but I’ve previously managed to reduce it to eye-welling and sniffling in the presence of others.  This new eruption into uncontrollable and incoherent zero-to-sixty sobbing I’ve got going on is proving to be a little disruptive.  And so I try to disguise it with a manic feigned happiness with those who don’t know me or my situation; passing acquaintances may be wondering what’s up with me and my new hyper excitement over the mundane.  I’m hoping with a little more time, I can return to talking in regular punctuation.  I do hate to overuse the exclamation point.

I’m having trouble with the big picture right now.  I’m so frustrated with the meanness of strangers that I’m having trouble focusing on the fact that I have an overwhelming support network of people who care for and support me.  I can’t seem to hold onto the knowledge that my life is really pretty great, and that’s annoying to myself that I’m coming off as ungrateful for this myriad of blessings I have.  I’m not ungrateful as a whole. I just can’t seem to hold it in my head.

So I have a new strategy: I’m going to start small.  I will be grateful for the tiny things I usually take for granted, starting with Dog’s Tiny Tail.

Dog is not a morning animal. She will sleep until nine if left to her own devices, and even then, will stretch lazily or just give me the glimpse of one eye from the tiny circle in which she sleeps.

It is part of my morning routine to get her up and outside every day, and always, even when she’s trying to pretend that she’s not awake, that she never has to go outside, that this dog never, ever pees, she gives herself away with the tiniest wag of her tail.  It’s just the tip, just the smallest little thump, and it’s so charming.

She’s a good dog.

(Pictured here with her self-made fort for midday sleeping, her favorite stuffed pheasant nearby.)