Early To Blog

April 24, 2014

Early to bed.

Not that I will.

Not that I want to.

Just that I should.

I am going to go into work tomorrow an hour early to help out my Thursday family get ready for a trip to visit the grandparents and I will be done early.

In fact, they alluded to me being done by 11:15 a.m.

I am not 100% sure that is going to happen, but it seems as though the family will have to leave by that time to get to the airport.

It was just sprung on me last week that they would be off on this Thursday and as I am their regular nanny on Thursday, they are compensating me for the full day.

Which is nice and as it’s supposed to be.

Now, add to that the family I normally work for on Fridays is also taking Friday off to go camping and I suddenly have a three and a half day weekend.

Sure, I will come in early tomorrow.

Not that I want to get up at 6:30 a.m. and not that I want to skip my morning pages, I always write in the morning before I go to work unless I can absolutely help it, but I am not going to get up at 6 a.m. to do it.  I figure I will hit the sack a bit early and then get up and go straight into the job right after I get up and get breakfast in me.

Breakfast and waking up and making the bed and doing my morning routine takes a little time anyway.  I don’t just instantly fly out the door even with not doing the writing, but skipping that will give me a little wiggle room.

And I figure I will do the writing when I get back from the gig.

Then it’s the weekend.

I have my commitments, I always do, but I will have some extra space in there to navigate.

One thing, fill up the tank on the Vespa, I am going to ride it to my Thursday commitment at Church and Market and I don’t want a repeat of this past Sunday.  After that commitment it’s the weekend for real.

And this weekend, Friday at least, I am going dancing.

A group of us will be meeting up Friday at Our Lady of Safeway, then grabbing burgers at Burger Meister, then, yes, fools, off to the End Up.

Where the dance floor will be empty and we will take over the club.

Until midnight or so and then I bounce.

I am not into being there when the party people show up and I don’t have the patience to deal with that scene any longer.  As well as knowing that after a few hours of dancing I am going to need to scoot back to my side of town.

Yes.

I said scoot.

That’s the plan anyhow.

Although, looking at the weather forecast I may not, it might rain.

I don’t like the idea of taking public transportation back from that neighborhood, it could take five years to get me back out to the Outer Sunset from the SOMA district, but I have a friend who gave me a free ride on Lyft and maybe I will use it.

Although, from knowing so many taxi cab drivers in my life I hesitate to use the service, but well, who knows, that is jumping the gun, that’s Friday.

Not that I don’t jump the gun constantly.

I had a highschool friend message me this morning on Facecrack for getting together for a cup of coffee when I go visit Wisconsin.

I said, sure, joking, if you’re in the neighborhood, why not, but I’m not going to be in Madison, I will be in Hudson, which is many miles north.

He said, shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll fly up.

Uh.

Ok.

He’s a pilot and he owns a small plane, so that doesn’t sound as far-fetched as it might, but outside of FaceCrack I haven’t seen this guy in years and I wonder, why the sudden interest to have coffee?

You’d really fly up to see me for a cup of coffee?

Really?

I didn’t question it or him or his motives, but I am curious.

I don’t have a lot of recollections of us being particularly close.

Though I will admit, he was more in my circle of acquaintances then a lot of folks in my grade.  And I do remember getting dropped off in his car at my house from some event or another at school, but I can’t remember and I wonder, did anything go down between us?

I don’t think so, but then, it was over twenty years ago.

I started thinking about those old friends from highschool, there are some I would love to see again, who I didn’t see at the reunion, or who I didn’t get to see enough of at the reunion.  Now that I think of it, this guy didn’t go.

Who know what his reasons are, I suppose I could ask.

I am not going to give it much more thought past these sentences, then I will be focusing on whatever else is taking up space in my brain pan.

Like.

Oh, will this guy that I have a some attraction for show up for the dancing on Friday?

I invited him, only to find out that he may already have something on the back burner.

Dang it.

I still want to flirt it out and dance, but I am not interested in someone’s honey pot if they already have someone dipping their fingers in it.

Then there’s also the recollection, which I jumped when I remembered today, I asked out a guy, sort of (my friend said, “did you ask him on a date?  Or did you say, let’s hang out?”) who returns to the city next week.

I do want to hang out, but date like.

All the stuff percolating in the brain.

So many things to ruminate on and so much silliness.

I looked at a tree in the Pan Handle today as I was walking back from the park pushing the stroller with two very boisterous little boys in it singing our silly songs and realized that the tree had been there longer than I have been alive and that it would be there long after I had gone.

So, if I want to know why dude from high school wants to see me, ask.

If I want to go on a date with this other guy, ask.

I know this much, I want to dance and getting to bed early tonight will be the start to that.

I believe a good start has been officially made.

Here’s to a long weekend.

See you on the dance floor soon.

Where I will be leaving all my inhibitions.

 

Sconnie Girl Makes Good

April 23, 2014

Or the prodigal daughter returns home.

Something like that.

Or nothing like that at all.

Suffice to say, from my title it may be hard to interpret, unless you have been to Wisconsin or are from Wisconsin, what that means.

It means that last night after I wrote my blog and caught up on the MadMen episode I missed on Sunday (saved Game of Thrones for tonight) that I went online and I bought a ticket to go back to Wisconsin and visit my best friend and her family.

They live in Hudson.

Which is just across the river, on the right side of the river, if you ask me, but I am biased, on the Wisconsin side of the river, if you prefer, from the Twin Cities.

I have been chatting back and forth with her for a bit, trying to suss out the best possible dates for the trip back, what will work for her schedule, my schedule, her families, the families I work for, and finally settled on a date.

I will be in Wisconsin the week of the 4th of July.

I will be in Hudson for Booster Days!

Huzzah.

Now, if you’re not from the Midwest or don’t know about living in a small town, the 4th of July is a big deal holiday.

There’s usually a fair, there’s usually a carnival, geez Louise, I hope so!

I imagine that I will be out on the midway, under the stars, in the warm night air (perhaps laced with more mosquitos than I should care for) without a layer or three, without my scarf (because July in San Francisco is scarf weather, don’t be fooled by it being in California) queuing up for a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl or a the ferris wheel.

I sure do hope so.

I may also be laying beside a lake, or paddling around one with my friend in one of the canoes at her families cabin by the lake.

Holy crow.

If you don’t have a definition of heaven, I offer you this, a cabin by a lake in Northern Wisconsin.  There will be swimming in the water, which is far different from swimming in the ocean, there will be canoeing, there will be, farmer’s markets with fresh sweet corn, ripe tomatoes, oh Wisconsin vine grown tomatoes, gimme, there will be bald eagles–they nest near by and fish the lake–there will be my best friend and walks in the woods and perhaps yes, berry picking.

There will be sitting on the porch in the morning, when it is still cool, drinking a big cup of coffee and watching the sun light up the lake and glow through the north woods like a beacon from God.

I can’t wait.

For summer vacation, I might actually have a summer vacation.

I don’t typically (unless you count Burning Man and considering how hard I work when I am there it’s a working holiday at best) take a vacation during the summer.

Shit, I don’t typically take a vacation at all.

But a friend pointed out that perhaps I should and then I started talking with my friend, and it’s been too long since I have seen her and then the seed was planted and it took root and I just couldn’t shake that it was time to go back for a visit.

Especially since the last time I went back it was January about five years ago.

Yah.

Not quite so nice.

Still lovely and awesome and sweet to see my best friend and her husband and their amazing boys, but damn, January in Wisconsin is cold, lest you’re a polar bear.

Actually, I just realized, the last time I went back, it was summer time, June, to be precise, I went back for my high school 20th reunion.

That was in Madison though and I didn’t have the time to go up to see my friend and her family in Hudson, it’s a good four-hour drive north of Madison, if not just a touch more, but I have a lead foot when I drive, so hard to be accurate.

And this will be in July, I need to remind myself.

The days will be warm.

No, scratch that, the days will probably be sweltering.

Humid.

Hot.

Sticky.

But, an admission, I don’t mind that so much.

I miss the Wisconsin winter right around Christmas, but I miss the summer the whole time of summer.

Summer in San Francisco is chilly, you may have heard a quip or two about his from Mark Twain, and there is always a day or thirteen so locked in fog and chill that I cannot really believe that it is July and wish mightily that I was in Wisconsin where it was warm.

Hell, I might even eat a brat.

Sans bun.

One not soaked in beer.

Hmm.

Maybe I won’t have a brat.

But I will have corn on the cob and thick sliced tomatoes.

Yes.

And big glasses of cold water and probably all the iced coffee I can get my hands on, iced coffee when it’s hot has to be my favorite beverage of all time.

But, it’s got to be hot.

Iced coffee when I am not hot through and through gives me the chills.

I rapidly become an old lady before your eyes wanting to nest in a crocheted afghan and sit in the sun in her rocker.

The smells of Wisconsin in July too, so good, cut grass, the aforementioned grilling of brats, hamburgers, chicken, all things that need to be grilled over hot charcoal, the smell of a lake, the lilacs, peonies heavy-headed and thick with luscious syrupy scent, the smell of hot pavement and the way the wind feels whipping over your arms and shoulders when you drive out in the car, rolling through the greenest green on Earth.

Can you tell I am looking forward to the visit?

Just to capture all the sensory magic of it.

To see fireflies.

Oh, I haven’t seen fireflies in years.

And to see my dear, sweet, wonderful friend who has known me for the last twenty years.

Twenty.

Whew.

I just realized that, this summer will mark our 20th year knowing each other.

‘Bout time I went home.

I have to continue to cultivate this relationship.

I am going to want her around for the next twenty.

And, selfishly so, I am going to want another invitation to come up during Booster Days and to go for a day or two to the cabin by Lake Number 26.

Yes, that is the name of the lake.

Mud Lake was already taken.

 

I’m Back!

April 22, 2014

Sort of.

The Internet connection is still shitastic.

And my landlord told me two days ago that she paid to have a faster service.

Not down here.

Nothing’s faster.

Get your money back.

Oh well.

Hopefully, at some point I will have access, there always does seem to be a magic moment when I do manage to sneak online then I will transfer the blog from here in my MAC Word documents to my WordPress site.

I have missed this!

Four days since I have last blogged.

Me no likey.

I had entertained the thought of writing my blogs long hand then taking photos of them and posting them via my Iphone, but I never got around to it.

I did read a lot.

Nearly finished Michael Chabon’s Telegraph Avenue.

Now that I have my computer back, I don’t know that I will be kicking through the book quite as fast. I will certainly finish it, it’s good enough to be finished, though, and I have to say there are some bits of it that don’t quite sit well with me. Perhaps it’s because I worked around the neighborhood that the author is describing and I lived in a rather rough part of East Oakland. There’s something in the language of the characters that does not ring true.

Fiction is not supposed to be “real” per se, but it has to read true to me and there are times when it does not read true.

Then again, it’s a good enough read that I am going to finish it.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight is all about the blog, if I do manage to get it up online.

I am writing it anyhow.

As I was riding my bicycle home along Irving, flying into the wind, the salty smell of ocean, very fresh tonight, the breeze bracing, brisk, almost cold, but not quite, I kept thinking what am I going to write about?

What did I do over the last few days that is noteworthy.

I cried a little bit on the corner of Hyde and Grove outside the Burger King across from the main library.

And not because what you think.

That is, should you know what that neighborhood is like.

Crack head central.

It wasn’t cuz I was smoking it, scoring it, or looking to turn a trick.

But I got all sorts of propositioned.

I wasn’t crying either because I had lost my abstinence or gone off on a flame-broiled binge at the Burger King either.

It was because my scooter, out of the blue, stopped running.

Right at that particular corner.

It smells bad.

See aforementioned crack head reference.

Add to that the charred smell of carcinogens people were stuffing into their glazed 4/20 faces.

Oh, yeah, yesterday, on top of it being Easter, it was Easter on 4/20; everyone was baked out of his or her heads.

Wafts of pot smoke.

Ponderous billowing clouds of smoke drifting all over the city, but most especially from the Upper Haight.

A neighborhood I had the pleasure of riding my scooter through.

I took her out yesterday.

I was not thinking about Easter.

I did not know that Kezar was going to be closed.

I did not know that because of the massive construction project happening in Dolores Park that the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence were having their Hunky Jesus contest and Mary Magdalene Pageant in Golden Gate Park, as well as the traditional little kid fest Easter Egg Hunt that was happening.

And yes, oh wise city that you are, who decided to schedule Sunday Streets (the event where the city shuts down a length of street and leaves it open to bicyclists and pedestrians only) in the Upper Haight?

What the holy hell?

I was completely not ready for that.

I had thought that I would ride my scooter to my commitment at Church and Market around 5:30 pm’ish and have a nice late Sunday afternoon ride.

I was chilling in the back yard enjoying a big mug of chai tea after having had a delicious kale salad with all sorts of fresh veggies in it, a salad I had after a beautiful walk on the beach with very few people out (I should have cottoned to it then, that the city was crazy elsewhere. Whenever it’s nice at the beach and it’s empty, something else is happening.).

I knew it was weird for the beach to be so deserted; it was 70 degrees out yesterday, clear, sunny, gorgeous, light breeze, beach weather in San Francisco for sure.

I just figured it was because it was Easter Sunday.

I was not thinking about the melee just a few miles away from the quiet, sleepiness of the Outer Sunset.

Nope, I was thinking I would chill in the back yard for a bit, read my book, enjoy the sunshine and when the time was right, why, I might even take a nap.

Plans changed.

Quick like.

I got a text message from a friend asking me what I was up to and it became apparent quick that I needed to meet up with this person and grab some coffee and then go to an earlier showing of get my head on straight I done fucked up, with my friend.

He was not in a good place and I said meet me for coffee at three p.m. and we’ll hit the four o’clock at Our Lady of Safeway.

I got my stuff together, pulled on my gloves, popped on my helmet, pulled the choke out on the scooter; kick started her up and zoomed off into the Inner Sunset.

And right into the worst traffic I have ever seen in my life.

For all of two intersections I stayed behind the cars in front of me.

Then something in my head said, “Fuck this,” and I graduated to splitting the lane in Nano seconds.

I cut through traffic, I rolled up through the maze of crazy taking it really slow, there was no other way to do it, but getting through.

It was crazy pants.

I don’t ever want to do that again.

But I can say with no little pride, that I did not kill it once, that I glided through, carefully, but I did it, I got through.

It still took me 45 minutes to get to Church and Market.

But get there I did.

I stopped.

Got coffee.

Did the deal.

Hung with my friend.

Then afterward as he was leaving to hit a dinner commitment I got a message that my laptop, my baby, my blog-producing machine, was ready for pick up at the Apple Store downtown.

Woohoo!

I hopped on and headed out.

But I got to admit, something felt weird, I felt weird, things felt off, the scooter felt, well funny.

I had a hard time suddenly relaxing into the flow and I got uncomfortable.

Should have listened to that feeling.

Because as it turns out, nothing says good times like stalling out at Hyde and Grove.

Well, maybe having all the hairs on my neck stand up and whirling around as a huge man with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth comes up and tries to hug me.

“Yo, It’s cool, I know you from the meeting, you Cindy, right?”

“NO, I am not and I don’t know you, back off,” I said and put my arm up to fend off the incoming hug.

“Yo, my mistake, it’s cool,” he said and turned to jog down the stairs to the underground.

But that was it.

Last straw.

I could put up with the homeless dude trying to offer to help me kick it over, “no thanks, I got it,” I could handle the guy that tried to solicit me, “not hooking,” I handled the guy who spare changed me too close, “Nothing, I got nothing,” but that last dude did me in.

I fired off a bunch of texts and started making phone calls.

I got a number for a tow company that deals with motorcycles and I got a friend to come down and keep me company until the tow came.

And when the tow came, revelations.

“Didn’t the guy who sold this to you tell you about the reserve tank?” He asked.

“No,” I said.

And in all fairness, he might have, but I had no recollection, and I had checked the tank three times and each time I saw that it was half way full, even with all the stop and go traffic, it was half full.

“When it gets to about half way, you need to turn this little knob here below the choke to the reserve tank, otherwise it won’t feed gas to your engine,” he demonstrated, and then started my scooter right up.

Then what?

Only charged me $20 for the service call.

My hero.

“Bike Guy Motorcycle Tow—you never know when you’ll need a tow.”

Stephen Goodloe, you are my hero.

My friend made it down to me about the same time as Mr. Goodloe did and said he would follow me home as I rode out into the dusky twilight, headed, yes, back through the park, but by this time the roads had cleared and it was smooth sailing all the way home.

I didn’t get my computer.

But I did get to learn about the reserve tank!

It’s nice to be sitting at the keyboard again.

I look forward to heralding you further with more tales from the life of Auntie Bubba again real soon.

Like tomorrow.

If I can get online.

Where Does The Time Go

April 17, 2014

Wednesday’s Child?

I was talking to my employer today about how her little boy was dressed, very French, blue short pants, brown boots, a white shirt and a little red checked ascot/bib.

Tres chic.

Then I realized that I am just shy of two weeks of my return home from my Paris experiment.

I got two messages today from friends in Paris asking me when I was coming back.

Not yet.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

But, I will be back.

Sometimes the ache that is in my heart is a hard one to describe, it is a mix of nostalgia, soft regret, and the dull lash of the discordant whip I thrash myself with on the occasion, because, I did not make it happen.  I the all powerful, all knowing, all important, I.

But as I was remembering, it was also with a kind of realization that the Paris I go back to will be the Paris of reality, should I choose to return.  Rather than the fantasy that I went in search of.

It will be one in which I make a much harder resolve to go legally, to go to school for real, if that’s how I am going to go, really do it.

I certainly have the connections now and the know how.

Much better than I did last time.

I will go also knowing that I take myself with me.

In my roll-on luggage, in my bike box, I come with.

My employer has had a house guest all week, a sweet woman on her own for the first time in San Francisco.  I have gotten to give her all sorts of suggestions and it was nice to be the go to person when she had a question about where to meander to next.

Yesterday she took the ferry across the bay, first stopping at the Ferry Building for the Farmer’s Market.  Today it was a trip to the DeYoung with a pit stop at a cafe, FlyWheel on Stanyan, that I had recommended.

I like that I get out and see things and pay attention and go places.

I like that I went to Paris.

Scratch that.

I love that I went.

I don’t like the pride, vanity, and lack of humility that I have beaten myself up with over the last year for not having done it perfectly.

The constant seeking for perfection, in this country and that country, so that I can prove to you, who?  Not really certain who this mythical “you” is, how wonderful and perfect and amazing I am, and now please love me unconditionally.

You know the only person who is capable of loving me unconditionally is myself.

So, I choose that today.

To let my process be what it is and be really ok with that.

I told my employer’s house guest about how the Parisian children don’t have school on Wednesday’s and so Wednesdays were always a day I could find work, in fact, they were the most sought after day and the day I made the most money.

It was the day I would take the train in from the 9th out to Corbevoie, which was just out past La Defense.  It was a long commute and sometimes, often times, in the beginning of the job, it was dark when I left and just becoming light when I got there.

But I always got there.

The little girl I took care of in Corbevoie was named Nenna and she was six.

I tutored her in English.

Mostly, though, we just played and watched videos and sang silly songs, we went to the park a year ago today, it was our last day together.

The next week I was going to be leaving for Rome and the week following I would be leaving for the U.S. again.

Our last day together was really pretty and warmer than it had been, last year the winter was long and dreary, cold, wet, it snowed a lot, and the Spring was so long in coming, but that day, it was sunny, and we went to that park near her house and she ran around while I watched the other children run about and kept to myself on a bench off to the side of the park.

I am a bit of an anomaly here in San Francisco as a nanny.

I was even more so over in Paris.

But I was good and Nenna loved me and I her.

I also had some sweet charges that I still recall fondly in the 7th–Adele and her brother Cole–who were both precocious and smart and fun.  I loved Adele, Cole was a handful and I got to be fond of him, but his sister had my heart the first time we met and it was difficult saying goodbye to her.

My last night with Adele she stayed cuddled in my lap the entire night I was there, until bed time when I tucked her and Cole into their bed–a bunk bed–and they both sat in my lap and we all read books together.

Their’s was the home that I made my forlorn phone calls home to, the parents had a carrier that allowed them free phone calls anywhere in the world, so whenever I was there at some point I made a phone call.

It made me realize, quite quickly the people who I was close to, the ones that I called more than once, the ones I reached out to.

I do long for a Spring in Paris, a summer too, although I know that’s just crazy talk, summer’s in Paris can be really unbearable, but so too are summer’s in Wisconsin, and the first time I ever did go to Paris it was August.

I won’t ever forget that trip either.

It started something.

I don’t know when I will be back, but as the days lengthen here and I look around my home I don’t know that I can imagine leaving.

Yet.

It may be that I have some things to accomplish here first.

It may be that I will get to be a traveller again.

On a different pay scale, I should hope.

I don’t want to experience the Paris of a starving artist again.

Once was more than enough.

“When did you get back?” An old acquaintance I had not seen in, well, almost a year, asked me this past Sunday at an anniversary party of a mutual friend.

“Oh, I’ve been back for a bit, lived in East Oakland, then landed out in the Sunset, out on 46th between Irving and Judah.” I replied.

“You look amazing, and I am sure it was a challenge, but you know, you are so loved here, you belong here.” He smiled and hugged me and said, “welcome back.”

It was a sweet reminder that I am wanted and accepted.

Here.

There.

And everywhere in between.

Knowing in my heart that I don’t have to commit to being anyone other than my flawed self is a relief, knowing that my community loves me is a gift.

Allowing that love in is the work of a lifetime.

Whether I am in Paris.

Or San Francisco.

Or anywhere else for that matter.

Wednesday’s child, though, I miss you, little one.

I hope your day out at the park was as lovely as mine.

Wednesday's Child

Wednesday’s Child/Paris

Wednesday's Child

Wednesday’s Child/San Francisco

All the Bunnies Go Boom*

April 16, 2014

I mean, what else would all the bunnies do?

I am betwixt a rock and an Easter basket.

I just realized, even though I sort of knew, that this Sunday is Easter.

Not got a plan for that one.

I could re-enact a great scene or seven from my child hood wherein I hide my Easter basket in a hideously hard place to find it, then torment myself for not being able to find it, then eat all the chocolate in it when, in tears I finally locate the fucking thing.

Thanks mom for many memories of Easter trauma.

Not too closely followed thereafter by fond memories of being in kindergarten and having mom break the news that there is no Santa Claus.

I had already suspected, but my younger sister was abjectly heartbroken.

To give my mom some credit she was just trying to ease the pain of us watching our cousin, whom we happened to live with at the time, opening the largess of Christmas from the mom and the recently separated dad, pending a divorce, both parents had gone over the top for their solo offsprings affection.

Nothing says good times like having just turned six the week before, don’t remember at all if I did get a birthday present that year, and then watching my cousin rip into her presents on Christmas morning.

I can even remember the dingy fawn colored carpeting of the steps that my sister and I sat on that ascended from the living room to the upstairs bedrooms.

Bedrooms I did not have access to either.

My room was a mattress in the basement.

We didn’t have a lot as kids.

Mom had a room that she must have shared with my sister, my aunt had her own room and my cousin had, of course, her own domicile, which was smashed with Barbie’s and Barbie corvettes and Barbie Dream Houses and Barbie shoes, and more crap all Barbie.

And the gigantic, SOLID chocolate Easter bunny she had won at the Easter egg hunt in Warner park that Spring.

My sister and I got to sit and watch that too.

The torture of a child eating chocolate in front of two other little kids who don’t have any is horrid.

Watching my cousin savor that chocolate for over a week drove me to distraction and I think my sister to tears more than once.

If life was fair my sister and I would have found that god damn chocolate egg with the congratulations you won the whole damn egg hunt before it even started.

I mean.

She really did.

My cousin that is.

We walked out into the field, had just barely begun, wasn’t more than a minute, children flocking all around, scrambling to burrow through the bushes, it was cold, not snowing, but frosty, and grey overcast (if it doesn’t snow around Easter there’s something wrong, it typically does, the weather gets all cheeky, then either the weekend before or the week of Easter, it snows, at least according to my memory), my cousin hadn’t walked more than five feet when she bent over and plucked the plastic egg from the grass.

The winning egg.

Repeat sad face of Christmas when my sister and I watched from the stairs.

I think my sister might have won a little prize too, maybe a package of dusty yellow peeps, that were promptly eaten in the car on the way home, while my cousin sat proper and straight holding the biggest chocolate bunny in the world in her lap.

She didn’t even unwrap the thing.

The willpower.

Not something I have ever been able to muster.

Surrender.

Oh yes.

But willpower, like that?

No.

The fact that she eked out eating that bunny for over a week still amazes me.

My basket, little chocolate bunny, not a solid one, mind you, a few smatterings of jelly beans (hate jelly beans, never liked them, gross candy along with licorice) and I think one Cadbury egg cream.

I loved Cadbury eggs.

Gimme!

My sister’s basket might have lasted into the next day.

Needless to say, Easter in my house was never that much fun, although, my mom, in hindsight really fucking tried.

We always dyed Easter eggs.

With Paas Easter Egg coloring kits.

With the little wire egg holder and the little paper cut outs of bunnies and chicks.

I can remember the smell of the vinegar that my mom would mix with the Easter egg dye.

And then dipping the eggs and making stripes.

The eggs drying in the kitchen.

And then after we went to bed, my mom would hide the eggs.

Easter morning the hunt was on.

For the Easter baskets of course, but also for the eggs, and inevitably, I mean every year, one would not turn up.

Until weeks later.

And you knew where it was from the smell of it.

Whew.

My sister and I never ate the eggs.

Only mom.

I remember watching her peel an egg with a very satisfied expression on her face, the shell crackling down as she rolled it along the table top, then the shells falling away and the egg emerging a gray, brown, weird red or blue-green, from the dye soaking through the shell, and then she would put salt and a little pepper on it and eat it with the most smug look on her face.

It smelled awful.

Funny how much I like a good boiled egg now.

Not so much then.

It grossed me out.

I liked the hunt.

The adventure of finding was more appealing than the actual reward that was given, if any.

I don’t think we got more candy for finding the eggs, it was just the finding of the eggs.

And the basket.

I usually found my sister’s first, and would grouse about how easy my mom had hidden it.

Please, mom, in the oven, again?

Then I would become more and more morose as my own failed to appear and my sister happily gnawed on peeps.

Also an absurd candy that icks me out.

I don’t recall this, but according to family legend one year I found both my sister and my Easter baskets before anyone else was up and I ate all the candy in both.

Oops.

So, mom always made a point of hiding mine in the most challenging of spots.

The year my cousin won her foot high solid chocolate Easter bunny I had almost given up, it had taken hours and I still had not found it.

Only when I went digging for my mittens in the wicker hamper holding all the scarves and mittens and hats, did I find it.

Remember, Easter’s cold in Wisconsin.

I need my mittens to go out and I couldn’t find both, so I dug to the bottom, nearly toppling over the hamper, when my fingers grazed the handle of the basket.

At last!

Finally.

I burst into tears.

My mom and my aunt smoking cigarettes and drinking instant coffee in the kitchen laughed out loud at my cries of relief.

I could let go Santa, but I was having a hard time letting go the Easter Bunny.

I don’t have any plans to go hunting through the grass this weekend.

But maybe I will go out and get myself a little Easter gift.

Perhaps a new bonnet.

We used to get one of those too.

That was the best part for me, the new Easter hat my sister and I always got.

That’s what I remember the most.

My sister with her long dark hair in ring curls topped with a straw boater hat that had a black ribbon around it tied into a bow–the ends of the bow draped over the back of the hat and moved with it when she shook her head, and she was dressed in a white sailor dress with a navy ribbon square lined collar,  lace ankle socks and patent leather mary janes finished the look.

That’s my best Easter memory.

Getting ready to go to Easter Sunday dinner at my grandparents house in Lodi and my sister in her Easter bonnet rig.

And despite the poverty of it, looking back, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.

I had a perfect childhood, give or take a chocolate bunny, given enough time and perspective.

It was indeed a grand life.

*No rabbits, chocolate or otherwise, were harmed in the writing of this blog.*

 

All the Animals

April 15, 2014

Today I just had one monkey and with that in mind I asked mom for a permission slip to go on a field trip.

Academy of Sciences here we come!

I really did ask for a signed permission slip.

That’s the policy at the Academy in regards to nannies and caretakers. If you go with your charge and the family membership with a note from the parent and the signature matches the card and the family member states your full name, upon showing your id saying that you are said person, you get in free.

That’s a lot of freaking effort to pull the wool over someone’s eyes, but apparently they used to have a lot of problems with people sharing the membership.

I don’t know what the cost to go is, I cannot remember the last time I paid to get in it.

As a practicing nanny I go lots of places with the kids and don’t pay my way in, the family covers the cost, or if I do pay out-of-pocket, I get reimbursed.

Discovery Museum.

MOMA.

Carousel in  Golden Gate Park

Maritime Museum.

Randall Museum is free, but gone there lots too.

Little Farm.

Redwood Steam Trains.

Definitely done that.

Don’t forget I also dated the grandson of the original engineer who built the train tracks up in the Berkeley hills.

Nannies need loving too.

So, today’s adventure was off to see the fishes and the snakes and the frogs.

The python’s, not my favorite to visit, but they had my charge spell-bound.

On a normal day I take loads of photographs of my charges and send them willy-nilly through the air to the parents phones via text.

Not so much today.

The lighting in the Academy sucks for photos.

Flashes are useless in the underground aquarium and reflect off the curved walls of glass. Plus, the light is super low and back-lit and my charge, though definitely enjoying himself was super serious in regards to his watching the fish.

At one point we were in the underground part where there is a tunnel that you can go below the aquarium and be surrounded by fish and turtles and all manner of creatures paddling about, and he just sat in my lap and watched.

It really was pretty amazing.

In fact, I saw two fish playing together.

I never thought about that before, playful fish, but they really were, they were having a good time chasing each other around. I could almost imagine them having a goofy little conversation.

The Academy was far busier than I thought it would be, and then I realized it was probably Spring Break. There were too many big groups of kids and they weren’t tourists, they seemed kids on vacation with mom and dad and maybe a daycare or two had a group.

But a lot of kids were running around.

Poking fingers here and there, slapping the glass to get the attention of a penguin, the penguin exhibit was a lot of fun today for my charge, though.

One of the penguins was paddling close to the aquarium wall and was following us back and forth as we were walking. It was close to lunchtime and I suspect he was thinking I was bringing him some food.

But it was close to lunch time and we needed to go, so off we went, reversing our travels from the Academy in the park, through the park, back out to Stanyan and yup, there he goes, with his little paw stuck in his bag of snacks, a sleep.

And then it happened.

The most illusive of all animals showed his face.

The nap Unicorn.

You don’t believe me do you, but there is such a thing.

It is a magical beast that bestows nannies with the gift of a quiet sit down lunch without a charge underfoot. You don’t need to be a virgin to be gifted by the nap Unicorn, he will bring you things with no strings attached, like the New York Times Sunday Magazine supplement, and after lunch cups of tea, and quiet.

Glorious quiet.

The nap Unicorn brought me an undisturbed three-hour nap.

THREE HOURS.

The last time I was visited by this mythical beast was the first day I had with my Thursday girl, who immediately endeared herself to me for taking such a gigantic nap on our first day together.

This charge today has never taken a three-hour nap with me.

I have heard that he will and has for his parents on a rare occasion, but never for the nanny.

Often it is because his little companion that I also have a share with is not a big napper, 45 minutes, twice day if I am lucky. And they don’t often overlap with my other little boys nap schedule.

Today, said short napping charge was on vacation with his family.

So, I had only one charge and one very long nap.

Oh glory.

It was lovely.

Though I will admit that after two hours I start to be on pins and needles anticipating when the wake up would happen. I had his lunch ready to go an hour before he was up.

In fact, I actually went and checked on him to see if he was still asleep.

I mean, I totally believe in the nap unicorn, but I still had to see for myself that it was true.

Although, now that I am thinking about it, one should never look the Nap Unicorn in the mouth, take the gift and don’t question it whatsoever.

I mean, I even read through the entire April issue of 7×7 as well as the New York Magazine and the entertainment section of the Sunday portion of the newspaper.

What a nice Monday.

Then I got done and got to see a lovely friend and confirm some dance plans for next Friday.

Monday, you are not always this nice an animal.

We need to meet like this more often.

Glad to have met your illusive acquaintance.

 

Perfection

April 14, 2014

You are not my friend.

“I just realized, I mean, truly, deeply, madly, how insane my need for perfection is,” I said to my friend on the phone today.

I mean I am off my rocker with needing it.

It could just be that I am über aware of it.

I see it’s roots so deep in my psyche and I wonder will I ever extract it.

“Gratitude, you get be grateful about this, and laugh, have fun with it,” she said to me yesterday as I was letting it go and surrendering again.

Surrendering this old, old as the hills, old as the age spots on the back of a bent old man pate, old as the sun, old as the rain, old, old, old, idea that I am unlovable unless I am perfect.

And in the pursuit of that perfection I isolate myself, not the perfect body, not the perfect job, not the perfect outfit, certainly, not the perfect hair, no matter how many different filters I use on Instagram, it’s still just hair, it could use a trim too, and I will continue to be on my own until I let myself get vulnerable enough to not be perfect.

To let go my pride, my vanity, which is ultimately some warped kind of self-loathing, that too, does not serve me.

Whew.

Where did all this come from?

I am not a great scooter rider yet.

Bwahahahahaha.

That’s my brain.

I can’t get it down, I am not smooth off the start,  I am still awkward with the brake, I had to re-start it twice, I had to let people pass me at intersections, I am just so not good enough, why did I ever bother?

Oh.

Good fucking times.

Ha.

I had gone out and practiced today, and it’s a practice, let me remind myself.

Practice, not perfection.

A slow, gradual, sustainable learning.

I don’t need to be whipping across town on my scooter, yet.

I can take it slow.

I have options.

There wasn’t even anywhere for me to go.

I had an idea I might, might try to head over to Stonestown.

I wanted to see how close the YMCA was to me and I am interested in getting a membership there.

They have a pool.

I like to swim.

I made it to Kirkham and knew that I was not going to go to Stonestown.

I live between Irving and Judah.

If you’re not familiar with this part of San Francisco, the streets run alphabetical.

So, ugh, yeah, not even a couple of blocks and that goal shattered.

However, I did get it into gear and I did ride and though I did kill it, I also was out on my longest solo ride to date.

And remember, I have only taken out the scooter, including today, five times.

I was out on my own for an hour.

I did swing back by the house and grab a quick snack and throw a Japanese sweet potato in the oven to roast for lunch while I was out making the neighborhood rounds.

I rode up Lincoln to 41st, turned left, rode past Chain of Lakes in the Golden Gate Park, so pretty, so pretty, so pretty, and then wound my way through to the other side, the Richmond side of the park, then dropped down and rode to La Playa and down and back a few more times.

I went around my block a bunch, up the hills a bit on Irving, down to the beach and just around and about.

I got pretty good at the shifting between second and third and a few times dropped into fourth as well.

But, like when I was learning as a kid, the lowest gear, 1st, is my nemesis.

And not an evil bad nemesis, but a kind I don’t quiet understand yet.

That’s all.

I wasn’t sure if I was not letting out the clutch well, or if it was sticky, a couple of times it seemed that I was struggling turning the clutch to 1st gear.

I am actually going to ask my friend to come out and do another ride with me this week.

And I found out I won’t be working this Friday again, so I am going to practice that day as well.

“Before you know it, you will be zooming around town and it will be old hat, and you’ll be a natural,” my friend gave me a little pep talk as I down loaded my experience as well as my insight around my crazy pursuit of perfection.

Which, thankfully, is not so bad that I didn’t go for it, ie, didn’t try to learn how, didn’t bother to get my motorcycle license or try to learn something new because, unless I can do it perfect, why try at all?

This attitude used to stop me.

I wouldn’t even get out the gate.

The old idea is still there, but I can see it.

I am aware of it.

I have to accept it.

Ah, acceptance, there you are again.

Because it’s not about self-improvement, it’s about self-acceptance.

And allowing myself to fail at stuff, get up, try again.

Roll the scooter through the intersection, pull it up on the kickstand and kick-start it again, wait for the old lady to cross the street, roll the throttle, squeeze, slowly let out the clutch, let off the foot brake and scooter on.

I spent an hour practicing.

Then I took a walk to, well, walk it off.

Walk off the attitude, the adrenalin, and to laugh at myself a little.

I came home, had a great lunch, then made some homemade soup.

This weeks flavor?

Split pea soup with brown rice and organic chicken, broccoli, zucchini, carrots, celery, garlic, sea salt, black pepper, Spike, and onion.

It is sooo tasty.

I had some for dinner when I got back from my later afternoon adventures, which included a successful trip to buy a few new things for my wardrobe and going to see a friend who was celebrating a big anniversary in the Mission.

I rode my bike there.

But I can see riding my Vespa there soon.

With a little more practice and a lot less perfection than I might want.

But with the perfect spice.

Humility.

With a dash of acceptance.

And a big pinch of self-love.

Recipe for a successful day, month, year.

Hell, probably my whole life.

 

Out All Day

April 13, 2014

Up all night.

Well, maybe not all night.

But I realized that I drank caffeinated tea up in ye olde Noe Valley and that was not my intention to do that at 8:30 p.m. in the evening, not at all.

AT ALL.

Oops.

What’s done is done and I won’t die, despite having a speedy mind and some rapidly moving fingers over my keyboard.

Hopefully once I get my frenetic energy expatiated out via my blog I will be able to unwind with some non-caffeinated tea and chill out.

I have things to do tomorrow.

Two things.

Perhaps three.

I really don’t have jack to do tomorrow, but I like to tell myself that I will be keeping busy.  I will make some soup for the week, thinking split pea, and I will go out for a ride or two on my scooter.

I say two, because I believe I may actually get my butt out of the Outer Sunset and go maybe, perhaps further, say to Church and Market.

I have a commitment in that neighborhood at 6:30p.m.

It will go an hour, then I can zip back.

I feel like the traffic on a Sunday at that time won’t be too bad and once I get through the Wiggle I can hit a stretch of streets that brings me down to the Pan Handle and on through the park.

I shall play it by ear.

There’s a big piece of Fell Street that I may not want to navigate until I am a little more comfortable on the scooter.  The park I won’t have a problem with, but Fell, that could be busy.  I will get on my vehicle and scoot around in the morning and see what is what.

Then cook some soup.

Then, I dunno, nap?

Relax?

I was told to explore the joy of living, so whatever that looks like.

Baha.

I actually did ok with that today.

I spent the morning doing my normal little routine, with an extra cup of coffee, one of my few extravagances on the weekend, that and a longer meditation.

I know, coffee and meditation?

But I find I can do it.

And I do enjoy it.

Slowing down for me is not a bad thing at all.

In fact, I slowed down a lot today, I didn’t even ride my bike.

I took the train to my meet up at Tart to Tart, spent an hour there checking in, doing the deal, letting go of some inventory that had to be discussed, then being told to go explore the joy of living.

I got picked up shortly thereafter and rode over the hills and through the woods, sort of, to the Mission and perhaps not to Grandma’s house, but grandma would have approved, to Mission Pie.

Where, I discovered there’s more to them than just pie.

Sat there for an hour then walked with my companion to Scarlet Sage and bought some pretty smelling candles and canoodled about the store.

Afterward I walked back toward Valencia and Cesar Chavez, hit up the Salvation Army, on the hunt to replace my jean jacket, and decide to walk up and down Valencia until I was to be in Noe Valley–dinner date with a salad bar at Whole Foods and a catch up with a girlfriend soon off to Paris.

I walked down one side of Valencia from 25th to 16th, then turned around and walked up the other before heading up to 24th and going up into Noe Valley.

I felt a bit like a tourist and I acted like I had never been there before.

I went into a bunch of stores.

I window shopped.

I found a sweet sweater at Therapy and I got the best tea mug at Viracocha.

In fact, the stop at Viracocha might be my favorite and most adrenalin producing, shopping of all time.

It’s a very cool little store, bit of an artists co-operative, from what I can see, a venue, a vintage store, a music shop, there’s a person playing the piano, the clerk sitting behind the desk is in an old barber shop chair, there’s repurposed furniture, art, cool things that need to be picked up, touched, stroked, appreciated.

I had poked into it hoping the lending library was open, but it had been shut down or was not in evidence so I just noodled around and I saw this very cool Mason jar with a leather tea cozy sewed around it.

$20.

I was torn.

Do I want to spend $20 on a tea cozy?

I mean, yeah, it’s cool, but a Mason jar costs a buck, maybe two, do I need this?  Don’t I have enough tea like things already?

But it sort of called to me.

And then I saw the sign by the piano.

“Recite a poem from memory and receive half off one item in the store.”

Now that could be a big freaking deal if I was buying the $1200 reupholstered vintage couch in the back.

I just wanted the tea cup.

But I wasn’t sure I could do it.

I left the store, but it stayed with me, and yes, when I was walking back from 16th and Valencia, I swung back across the street and peaked in the store.

I walked over to the tea mug and picked it up.

Jar.

Really, it’s a tea jar.

Went over to the counter, said “nice chair,” and then asked if the sign was true.

“Yup, recite a poem and I’ll give you half off,” the clerk said, I was beginning to think he might be the owner, or manager, but I wasn’t sure.

I stood in front of the register, a beautiful old one with the swinging handle to open the cash drawer, and drew in a breath.

“Ok, I’ll do it,” I said and prepared to tell him a poem.

I have done this at Burning Man, recited a poem to a stranger, how could this be any different, but it was.

It was miked.

“Oh, great, now turn around and speak into the microphone,” the clerk said with a wry smile.

My body temperature went through the roof, I could feel myself about to actually start sweating.

“The mic?” I said.

“Yup, into the mic,” he repeated.

Which happened to be next to the piano, which happened to have some one playing jazz on it.

And, yes, I did it.

I recited one of my poems from memory, listening to the soft plink, plonk of the piano being cajoled into a deconstructed and slowed down jazz rag, the mic was mic’ed through the store and I almost jumped when I heard my voice drift down from the rafters.

But I did it, to soft sweet applause after, and I sketched a quick curtsey, told them my name, paid for my half price teacup and collected my new mug.

“That was nice,” the pianist said to me, coming up on my elbow as I was departing the store, high on adrenaline and the quiet applause of the people in the store.  “I really enjoyed playing underneath your poem, we found a nice place together.”

“Thank you,” I smiled, and floated away down the street.

San Francisco you may be a bit gentrified right now, but that experience, surprising, sweet, slightly anti-establishment, kind, and generous, resembled the city I came to twelve years ago.

Came to live.

Came to love.

Glad to make your acquantaince once again.

 

How the Day Gets Away

April 12, 2014

It’s suddenly 8:30 p.m. and I have just finished having my dinner.

Not too late for some, but rather late for me.

And I wonder, how did the day get away and what the hell did I do with it?

Oh, I did plenty, but my head thinks that unless I have gotten a book deal, a screen play written, planned a trip around the world, figured out who is my illusive boyfriend, and what I am going to wear tomorrow night when I go up to Noe Valley, then my day was a waste.

“You get more done on your “down days” than most people get done in a week,” a good friend of mine said recently.

And she’s right.

Perspective, of which I have little, is important.

Just as important that I do the little daily things that make it possible for me to build up to the bigger accomplishments.

Which reminds me I need to write an inventory about getting my MFA in Creative Writing and share that tomorrow and I have conveniently not done that.

Yet.

I will soon.

Just after I get this blog out of my system.

I have to say I love my blog, I adore it, I am its biggest fan.

In case anyone was wondering.

It’s just such a great way for me to continue the practice of writing and letting myself have a forum to do so has to be one of the greatest gifts, unexpected, that I have given myself.

I do, as well, want an MFA in Creative Writing.

I would love to go to The Iowa Writer’s Workshop, or pursue a Stegnor Fellowship–although it does not translate to a degree, or how about Columbia?

I have poked into these programs, even applied for the Stegnor years ago.

Oh, the poor person who had to read my submission.

I cringe at what I sent them.

Slop on a paper plate.

But.

I have learned and then learned some more about writing.

I don’t always have a brilliant twist of word, but I have found a style that suits me and I have a practice and perhaps it will just always be me and you, blog, but hey, it’s better than me and no one.

Today I was supposed to go for a scooter ride with an old friend of mine from Madison, but he mistook our eminent reunion, it’s been over ten years I think, for next Friday.

Today I had off and meeting with him was what I had on my agenda.

Not much else.

Oh the typical, grocery shopping (SafeWay, Noriega Produce, and Other Avenues), laundry (two loads), clean the house (which I always do on the first day of my weekend and since it came early this week, so too the cleaning and the laundry), take out the trash, recycling, compost, write three pages long hand, meditate, and then meet my friend.

Except.

Well, no friend.

He was heading out-of-town and when I sent a query text inquiring where he was, Petaluma was not the answer I was expecting.

What to do?

Shop.

Ok.

I am not the biggest shopper, but I do need to implement some changes into my wardrobe.

“Oh man,” the young dude with the skateboard said to me as we awaited the incoming N-Judah this evening from the Inner Sunset, “I used to have a jacket like that, just shredded it wearing it so much it fell off my body.”

Yup.

My jean jacket has gone from being comfortably worn in to basically falling into denim ribbons on my body.

But I love it.

I don’t even know what the label is.

I bought it at the Sally on Valencia and Cesar Chavez.

That’s the Salvation Army.

I might have spent $4 on the jacket.

I have had it for years, five, maybe six?

Part of it the allure of the jacket is that it’s been all around the world with me–London, Rome, Paris (aren’t you cold in that jacket?  A question I was asked often as I shivered in my bones waiting for the Metro.  Yes.  But I wore a lot of layers underneath it), Burning Man.

And it’s the last location, Black Rock City, that makes it the hardest to give it up.

I have a screen print of a kneeling skeleton praying in supplication with a halo of stars around its head that was done by Breedlove at a Media Mecca Volunteer appreciation party on playa on the back of the jacket.

I love that print.

Maybe what I will do is cut it off and frame the back panel of the jacket.

Anywho.

So, I tried shopping today.

And you know, unless it’s grocery shopping, and I have that down to a fucking science, I am not the best clothes shopper.

I did try.

I went to Nordie’s Off The Rack.

I got lip gloss.

I went to Gap.

I got annoyed.

I went to Anthropologie.

I fled.

I got back on the train.

Oh.

I got rush hour traffic on the N-Judah.

Yick.

But I tried.

And for that I am grateful.

I will try again tomorrow, not that I particularly want to, but I do need to remedy this jacket thing.  As it also is now important to be wearing something more substantial with the scooter.  The wind sort of rips right through my current jacket.

Try again I shall.

I did sneak in a manicure and pedicure and eyebrow waxing.

Oh, who am I kidding, I got the entire face waxed.  I am no lady.  I have a mustache.

Thanks pops I love the coloring of my skin most days and my hair is great, but yeah, I got to wax that upper lip and recently, ugh, in the last few years, my chin too.

I am probably over sensitive to it, but I see it and when I started to see it, it had to go.

Go it did.

Then off to my 6:30 p.m. engagement and after a ride back to the fog and the Outer Sunset and a late, again, for me, dinner at the house.

A house that I loved coming home too, clean, and tidy and sweet-smelling, with fresh sheets on the bed and clean towels hanging in the bathroom.

And a big bowl of home-made soup for my meal.

Last of the black-eyed peas I made this past Saturday.

Tomorrow, another day.

Tonight.

A mellow evening in.

Next week, don’t you fret, I will be shaking my ass and my blog will be a late night affair–dancing is planned.

The day may have gotten past me, but it was still a day of good progress, even without getting what I set out to do done.

Plenty was.

This is how I get things done.

This is how I make great leaps.

I am ready to jump when the time comes because I have done the prep work on my days “off”.

The weekend is young and I have already done everything I need to accomplish this week, except that pesky inventory, who knows what’s going to happen.

Whatever it is, though.

I shall be ready.

Oh yeah.

Bring on the weekend.

 

 

Give Me My Interwebs!

April 11, 2014

I can’t decide what is worse.

Not having the Internet so that I can get online to write my blog.

Or not having anything to write about for my blog.

Probably the first.

I usually come up with something if it hasn’t struck me by this point, I could be doomed to write and ineffectual, although to me, somewhat entertaining blog.

There are times when I sit down, often of late, and find that I don’t have a single thing that makes any sense to write about and something will come up just like that.

Unlike the Internet.

There was a time when I did not use the Internet.

It did not exist.

I do remember this time.

I remember too, when I got my first cell phone and an old friend from elementary school who I happened to bump into on State Street in Madison, said, “oh no, you’re one of those people.”

Yes, I am one of those people.

And now I like my internet and my WIFI and I don’t want to pay for them and if I am going to I want them to work.

Then, too, there was a time when I did not blog every night.

I did not use my computer very much.

I like to watch videos on it that I checked out from the public library.

I am not kidding.

I remember talking to my therapist at the time (not gone to therapy in years, that’s sort of amazing too, when I pause to think on it) that I was annoyed with myself for not understanding or using my computer to better use.

That I was just using it as a monitor to watch the first season of Grey’s Anatomy.

My therapist said, “sounds like you’re using it.”

She was right.

But at the time I wanted to be using it to craft great best-selling novels that would make me famous, outside my own mind, and rich, or at least be able to pay of my student loans and prove that the degree in English Literature was not waste of thousands of dollars.

Like nearly $40,000.

Still paying off that.

But, that’s the only thing that I am paying off.

Scratch that.

I am paying off the Vespa too, but I will have that paid out within the year, that’s the plan anyway.

The student loans are going to be around for a while, unless something happens that I cannot foresee.

Then again, so many things happen that I cannot predict, that I should just keep my mouth shut about it.

I use my laptop a lot more than I did when I first got it.

I am sure that there are many applications that I don’t use that I could, but I am proud of my neophyte ways and the progress I have made with them. I use the Word application a lot, recently, to write my blogs, which is so not how I prefer to use it, but there it is.

I use the Iphoto, a ton, I have thousands and thousands of photographs logged in there and I use the editing in the application quite a bit. Altering over exposed shots to balance them out, working with the little tools to clean up the photos, crop them or enhance the colors.

I enjoy the hell out of that.

Of course I have a library of music on my laptop.

In fact, I have no albums, vinyl or cd, anymore.

Everything is on my laptop.

My slowly decaying laptop.

I need to take her in to the Genius Bar at the Apple store and see about getting the fan replaced and soon.

Recently it started to shut itself off because it was getting too hot.

I do not like this.

No I don’t.

And my IPhone is going through the same thing that happened when I came back from Burning Man last year, i.e., not taking the charge very well.

I could get a new IPhone pretty affordably; I could renew my contact and get a decent discount on it.

How much?

I have no clue.

I was able to get online for a moment and pay off my phone bill for this month, but as soon as I was looking at the phones and pricing, the Internet got wonky and dropped me.

So, I am not to post my blog and I should not be phone shopping at the moment.

Or this is my interpretation in a me centric world, the Internet being all about me, you know.

I should peep the landlord and see if she would restart the modem in her place, I mean if I am going to be charged for it, let it work, man.

Speaking of work.

I don’t have any tomorrow.

Friday free.

I am going to meet up with my old friend from Madison, grab some coffee at Trouble, then go for a ride.   He will have his cycle and I will have the Vespa.

Other than that I don’t have plans, I am interested in seeing what turns up tomorrow.

I could even stay up late tonight.

I could even sleep in tomorrow.

Not like I will do either thing, but I like having the choice.

I keep thinking that tomorrow is Saturday though, and that has been throwing me a bit. I got a hit on OKstupid; I might also have a coffee date with a stranger, who also happens to be from Wisconsin.

What are the odds?

Actually, I think there are a lot of folks from the Midwest out here and we do tend to find each other very quick.

The guy went to UW Whitewater and UW Madison and grew up in Milwaukee.

We’d a least have something to talk about.

I wonder if he was at Madison the same time I was?

That would be funny.

His name doesn’t ring a bell with me at all, but I have run into people here that I went to university with and once in a while I run into someone who knows me from the six years that I ran the Angelic Brewing Company.

The world is a small place.

The Internet makes it smaller.

When it works that is.

Hopefully, it will soon and this blog will go out to the ether and I won’t be concerned about it anymore.

Fingers crossed.

*Posted after three hours of trying to get online*

Oof.


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