He had the fish with asparagus. I had the sesame chicken.

The editor of the animal shelter’s prize-winning magazine had e-mailed me out of the blue. “Is the rumor true?” Apparently my grad school news was circulating at work. “Can I take you to lunch?” Considering that I had barely exchanged five sentences with him over the course of my employment, this was a strange offer. But I accepted.

“Why haven’t you written anything for us?!” he demanded as soon as we were seated at the Jade Cafe around the corner on Potrero.

“Uh…” I said.

It was a good question. And while a few of my co-workers knew that I wrote, nobody at work knew that I had even applied to grad school. For the last two years, I had been slowly disentangling myself from work, keeping my outside life more and more private, becoming less and less interested in the office politics. When they got rid of my last boss, the most brilliant person I’ve ever worked for, I got a little discouraged. Then they laid off a few more people, gave me their jobs, and cut my hours. Which, in retrospect, was a blessing. Who knows how long I would have slowly decayed there as a glorified administrative assistant? Without realizing it they pushed me out the door, for my own benefit.

I told him some of this over lunch. He was looking at me in the way that certain co-workers have been looking at me for the past week; like I had suddenly pulled off a mask and revealed my secret mission. It wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation. On the contrary, it gave me a perverse satisfaction, like when I e-mailed my writing instructor, the one I had paid several hundred dollars to and taken several workshops with, the one who didn’t hide her preference for her female students, to thank her for the (half-assed) letter of recommendation and to tell her Columbia offered me a fellowship.

I’m still not sure why he asked me to lunch. He did ask to see some of my writing, but I haven’t yet reconciled my private life with my work life, especially considering the personal nature of my writing. I should get used to it. But it will be easier when I leave this job, when I can live one life instead of two.

He finished eating before me, and I took the remaining fortune cookie. And it read:

Reasonable people endure;
passionate people live.

Considering that two co-workers had come down the stairs from the director’s office in tears, I was a little anxious when the director called and asked if I could come see her. One co-worker had been laid off, another had to take a 20% pay cut AND take on another job. As I walked up the stairs I was actually a little excited. Perhaps, I thought, this is exactly what I need. Please lay me off, I thought as I climbed the stairs.

So it was a disappointment when she told me they were going to cut my job to 32 hours a week. Which means more money cut from my paycheck for health insurance, and no holiday pay. I’ll give you the day to decide if you’ll accept the offer, she told me.

Accept your offer? That’s an offer? Uh, gee, thanks.

Oh, it’s probably all for the best, another day of the week to write and look for a better job. What drives me crazy is the gradual deterioration of the job, as beloved bosses and co-workers drop like flies, as my job absorbs other jobs. I think I’d prefer one solid blow rather than these little irritating scrapes. Yes, I will count my blessings and I will accept the offer. I have HIV, I need the health benefits. I need the paltry paycheck. It’s a big, scary, unemployable world out there right now. One hand on the vine behind, the other stretching out, seeking something to grab.

I’m having one of those demoralizing weeks at work (actually, they’re all pretty demoralizing) where I wake up later each day, go in later each day, and flee a little earlier, each day. Where people hang up on me when I make myself answer the phone. Where people who don’t work in the office consider the office a free doggie day care for their neurotic canines, many of whom would make great case studies in separation anxiety. And to top it off, someone has just stolen my lunch from the office mini-fridge. We keep our office locked, so this narrows the field of suspects to the ten people with keys. This does not make me feel any better. This has pushed me over the edge, and I am so demoralized and completely bereft of blood sugar that I can barely type. Human beings are overrated.

Last night I told my therapist about the daily inner battle between my higher self and my lower self. My higher self knows that certain activities are almost guaranteed to bring me serenity: writing, reading, going to the gym, going to an AA meeting, talking with friends. The lower self, however, prefers lying in bed in front of the television, computer solitaire, Internet surfing, and screening phone calls. These activities are almost guaranteed to make me feel worse, but the lower self doesn’t care. The lower self is all about “let’s just do these things for an hour and relax”, knowing full well that four hours will pass and then it’s bedtime. After demoralizing workdays it’s a toss-up over who will win the evening; higher self certainly plans on winning, but lower self is a sneaky little cheat.

Okay, yes, I am Sybil. But you knew that by now. Cut me some slack.

I told my therapist that I didn’t think I could work another year at this job, assuming it will be at least that long before grad school. She gently suggested that I focus instead on getting through the next month, and letting a week with the space monkey give me a little perspective. She said it’s hard sometimes, to do all the things I do, alone. Two years ago today I moved out of the apartment I shared with the Ex. And I haven’t touched another man with anything resembling love in my heart since. It’s not like I need anyone to feel complete. But sometimes it helps. And why not? Don’t we all want someone? Someone who will smile when we enter the room? Ah, don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. I know what I want.

It’s probably just a matter of time till they write me up. I started the week by making a woman cry on the phone. Ha, I fucking love it. I sat there, cold as stone as she sobbed about her miserable life. Granted, she had just been very rude and patronizing and defiant, as in adopting a dog from us Sunday, and by Monday wants to break one of the conditions of the adoption by dropping out of her obedience class. “Because my dog is already perfect and I know everything there is to know about training dogs.”

Lady, everybody thinks they know everything about raising a dog, so why does this shelter even exist? “This is our profession, ma’am, this is what we do for a living. There are reasons we ask you to take the class. It helps you bond with your dog, and frankly it greatly reduces the chance that you will return your perfect dog in three days. This is what we do.”

“And how old are you?” she asks.

I close my eyes for a moment. “Ma’am, please do not do this to me right now.”

“I’m just telling you I’ve had dogs all my life.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind.” Frankly I don’t care.

“Well, I have, but I just want to make sure you aren’t going to try and like, take my dog away from me.”

“We can’t do that. But you did sign the contract, you agreed to the conditions.”

She starts getting snivelly. “But what was I supposed to do, not adopt her?”

“Well, you could have adopted from a different shelter if you didn’t like our terms.”

“But I was supposed to have her! She needed me! She looks exactly like my last dog!”

Ooh, now I really can’t stand her. People who try to adopt the same dog as their last dead one are seriously unbalanced and setting the new dog up for complete failure when it turns out to be, surprise, a different dog.

Then she started crying.

I hate my job. I can’t deny it anymore. I hate the phone, I hate rude people, I hate being on the front lines. I hate everyone telling me they know how to raise a dog but then they abandon their under-exercised, neglected dogs with us. People so chickenshit they’ll tie their dog to our fence in the middle of the night. People who abandon their dogs when they get hit by a car because they don’t want to pay the bill. Within two months this job has become everything I was trying to avoid when I started two years ago. Introverted, oversensitive artists like myself should not be answering phones all day. Worse, it has made Dogpoet cynical about dogs. I like dogs, I do, I just don’t want to build my life around them. The writing is on the wall, I know it’s time to leave. My writing is drying up as fast as my sense of humor.

But I am one impatient mofo who cannot wait. An impatient mofo who doesn’t know the next step, who wants the next step illuminated in million-watt floodlights because I need it that way.

Yes, this is a problem of luxury. As most of mine are now. I made it through hell and now I’m ready for more, I want more from life. None of these clothes fit. Growing pains the space monkey says when I call. “Yeah, well fuck them,” I say. It’s actually exciting to witness, it means you’re hungry. “Glad you’re enjoying the show,” I say. I’m being contrary because I can, and because it’s very sexy.

Later I meet up with the cast and the crew of this little movie I’m going to be in, at the director’s house in the Castro. Some old friends, past directors and co-stars I’ve worked with. And a lot of new people, directors of photography and grips and gaffers and art directors.

“This movie has an art director?” I think. Cool.

I vent a little over tacos in the kitchen. Secretly loving the ground beef. Over the guacamole bowl I meet the young actor with whom I have a sex scene. “Oh, you’re the guy I’m going to pretend to rim.”

No, I didn’t really say that.

what, the bitch says, well you work there, don’t you know anything about dogs that stopped up the wind pipe and ma’am I’m not a trainer nor do I profess to be one click I hung up on her. fire me, someone, please, set me adrift maybe that’s what I need, fuck cut away the safety nets the ropes that tie me to drudgery and duty push me along the razor’s edge can I be poz without insurance oh fuck probably not patience young cricket eater

thank you but I know already all that I don’t know, I don’t need any more reminders

namaste mutherfucker

can’t quite hear myself think

pick up the 30 do 21

pick up the 35 do 21

pick up the 40 do 21

pick up the 45 do fucking c’mon 19 arrrgggh get the fuck outta my way

doin’ it for my space monkey

can’t quite hear myself speak

dig a little trench boy, get it flowin again

each word a scratch in the sand

Hi. My name is Michael and I’m an Aries and I like driving at night with the windows down. And fried chicken.

My middle name is Lowell, my grandfather’s name. I used to hate it when I was a kid. I wanted a normal name like Tom or Scott. But now I like it.

I have a dog named Louie and I work in an animal shelter. I like dogs but I often don’t like dog people. Louie likes my job more than I do. I think people like my dog more than they like me, too. But I’m okay with that.

I think a lot about flow and what fits and if something doesn’t fit it drives me crazy and I annoy all my friends and loved ones talking about it till it fits or goes away.

Sometimes at night the sky over San Francisco is so bright that it keeps me awake. But I won’t shut the blinds.

I always get the worst songs stuck in my head. This morning in the shower I was singing “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.”

In spite of this I’ve had friends threaten to take away my gay membership card because I wear flannel shirts and own a few Bruce Springsteen CD’s. What do they know about being a gay?

I resent my writing instructor because she fawns over all the women, especially the blind one.

But maybe that’s good for me.

If I love you I will soak up all your favorites; books, music, movies, artists, philosophers.

If I love you I will rearrange my days.

If I love you I will save all your letters and scraps of paper.

If I love you I will put your pictures on my desktop.

If I love you I will try and write it down.

My name is Michael and I like roller coasters, scary movies, and pudding.

Is Paula there?

- Um, I don’t think I’ve seen her yet today…

- That’s okay. I can just….I can just talk to you.

- Okay.

- I think I…(voice tightens)…I think I need to put my dog down today.

- Okay.

- I had been talking to Paula about him…we’ve tried everything, we’ve had him for three years and I…I just can’t trust him anymore.

- Okay.

- He bit me today. Twice. When I was trying to put him in the car.

- Did he break skin?

- He drew blood, yes.

- I’m sorry.

- And he’s never had any bad experiences in the car or anything…no trauma. My husband and I have tried for three years to help him, we’ve done everything. And I’ve had bites and scratches and bruises.

- …

- And I have a toddler and a new baby now.

- Yes.

- And….I don’t know why I am telling you all this…

- That’s okay.

- I was going to sign him up for class…I sent in a check. Can you tear it up? My name is___.

- Yes, no problem.

- Thank you.

- I’m sorry you had to make such a difficult decision, but it sounds to me like you made the right one.

- …(cries).

- …

- Thank you. Okay, bye.

- Bye.

///

I found her check and registration form in the mail that day. Her dog’s name? “Boo Kitty.”

And perhaps you should get youself spayed, while you’re at it

- (very whiny voice) Hi, I have a Pomeranian and I’d like to put it out for breeding and I was given this number because they said you could help tell me where to go.

- Uh, we don’t have information on breeders.

- Really? Because I was given this number.

- Right, and we don’t have that information.

- Can you connect me with your operator?

- They won’t be able to help you.

- Oh.

- Do you have Internet access? You could do a search for Pomeranian breeders in your area.

- No, I don’t.

- You could go to the library.

- Yeah, but you need to get up REALLY early in the morning and go all the way down there and wait for a computer and I don’t know how to use one, so that’s why I wanted to you to help me.

- Well, actually, ma’am, we strongly recommend spaying and neutering pets so we’re not the place to ask for information on breeders.

- Right.

- And it is my personal opinion that you shouldn’t raise a houseplant, much less a dog.

- Okay then.

- Good luck. Bye.

I know, I know…I have been a lame blogger this week…so few posts. I seem to have hit a patch of self-doubt or something. I’m hoping a weekend up at Tahoe at a cabin in the snow will help. Read some old dogpoet or check out my list of links to other fine bloggers. Be back Sunday.

Oh, Sharon Stone came into the shelter today. But then she had an allergic reaction and left.

But honestly the hours aren’t the problem. Or rather, they are, but not in the sense that Viriginia Woolf implied. Instead of enduring the hours, I can’t seem to get enough. Where the hell did they go, all those hours? Was that really me, a year ago, playing Tomb Raider for days at a time? My God, what waste. There’s so much to do, 48 voicemails to return, a new (read: merely super-expanded-without-pay) job to wrassle to the ground; my blog surfing cut short, exquisite e-mails from strangers to answer, sponsees to meet, steps to discuss, the gym because I must look good, a freelance writing gig for a friend due tomorrow, errands to run (a paper towell wedged into the coffee maker now that the filters ran out) , six half-read books at bed-side, two magazines at toilet-side, laundry accumulating, the dog (oh yeah, the dog) to walk, kill the television, send back Sopranos season 2 to Netflix, watch Bjork lose her sight sometime this week, start the new writing class Wednesday night, and blog, yes, we must blog, must always blog and have something interesting to say, and said artfully, speaking of art wander dazed, chilled, laughing through the Richter show, dodging docent tours while wishing the monkey boy was here, oh need that form notarized and that check dropped and draw some blood and get eight hours of sleep.

I am sharing a cabin up at Tahoe this winter. I think it’s empty this weekend, I’m gonna go.