Archive for February, 2011

Crushed Violet Sky

February 28, 2011

The sky is my favorite color right now.  This very moment looking out the window, oh and there goes the Hyde St./Powell St. cable car, the downtown buildings pressed against the sky look like toy jewels God threw down from the heavens to just fascinate my eyes with.

I have had a lovely day.  Although it started off a little weird and janky.  I think I was just a little emotionally hung over from the night before.  I slept through 7 of my snooze alarms.  Thus putting me a little rushed to get to my noon commitment.

I pumped up the back tire on my bike and pretty much flew out the door to make it on time.  I didn’t really get gussied up today either.  Just threw on my bike shoes, a pair of tights, a tank top, and a bicycle sweatshirt.  I had a moment of deja vu as I remembered how it felt to get dressed in the early mornings when I was doing the AIDS ride training last year.

It was so good to be on my bike though.  Felt awesome to stretch out my legs and be fully self-sufficient with my transportation.  Yes, I was not going to be as timely as if I had not slept through all those snooze alarms, but I was still going to get there a whole lot faster than if I had taken MUNI.

I took a lot of MUNI this past week what with the weather being a little on the tweaky side.  I was utterly grateful to wake to sunshine and clear skies.  True, it was a windy day, but not blusteringly so, and I am happy to report that my legs hadn’t forgotten how to power up hills.

In fact, as much as I hate to admit it, I think that the break from bicycling actually helped my muscles.  It was though I had done a little mini taper without planning it.

Ah, now the sky is indigo.  And I just noticed that the top apartment across the street still has their Christmas lights up.  They are actually quite pretty contrasting with the sky.  The street lights just flicked on and the day is passing.  There’s some fancy awards thing happening right now and I’m watching the sky change color.

And listening to Boards of Canada.  So serene.  Blissful.  Peaceful.  Content.

Much like a cat.

Must remember that when I go about my crazy full days that sometimes I need to just stop and watch the sky change colors and see the amazing movie that happening right in front of me.  I get so busy planning, and scheming, and figuring out what needs to happen next that I can completely obliterated the wonderfulness that is now.

My cats have it pretty right on.  Nap a little. Stretch.  Watch the sky and the birds wheeling across it.  Nap some more.  Eat a little something.  Run around like a maniac for a brief moment.  Then nap again.

Animals are truly great about being in the present.  I will strive to be like that this week.  Right now, today.  Here listening to the rumbling cable cars roll down the hills, see the dusk fall across the city and listen to the pretty music coming from my computer.

Now is perfect.  I am perfect.

There is nothing wrong.  And I don’t need to fix it.

Dinner and a Movie

February 27, 2011

That was a thought I had in the back of my head this week.  I would really like to do dinner and a movie, and, oh la la, hold hands in the movie.

And I got to do just that tonight!

Wow was it amazing.  Saw the King’s Speech.   Had awesome dinner at Dos Pinas in Potrero.  Full day with friends prior.  Ran in Erna, who I haven’t seen in nearly 5 1/2 years.  I didn’t recognize her.  She came up to me and said, “do you remember me?”


But after a few moments of listening to her beautiful Icelandic accent I began to have the suspicious feeling, that I did in fact know her.  “I’m Erna, I met you at 2900 24th St.”  Oh my god.  ERNA! I totally shrieked and threw my arms around her.  I thought she had moved back to Iceland.  Nope.  Turns out she had gotten married, had two little girls, and moved to Walnut Creek.  Where, let’s be honest folks, it might as well have been Iceland for how often I get out to Walnut Creek.

It’s like when people say, Oakland’s so close, just a BART ride away.  Uh huh.  You’ve moved out of the city and I won’t be seeing you anytime soon.

Which reminds me I need to respond to the gentleman that asked me out on a date, but lives in Redwood City.  Where the hell is that anyway?  Just having him tell me that it was only 20 minutes away from SF was exhausting.

Hell I had a conversation with Pell about that today.  Sometimes just moving from one neighborhood to another is tiring.  You get stuck in your hood and it becomes this all-inclusive space for you.  I can’t remember the last time I hung out in the Sunset.  I think I may have chartered a plane to get there.

So Erna was fabulous, looked amazing, and it was just so good to see her.  We exchanged digits and made coffee plans for the near future.  And I got to see Danie too tonight, which was also a wonderful surprise.  Must to call these lovely ladies and do the hanging out thing.

And Joan, the lovely Joan, who got me out of my neighborhood tonight with an invitation to hear Clancy speak  and to reconnect with her and catch up.  Life gets busy and full and some times our closest nearest and dearest, although only a few neighborhoods away, we get isolated from.

Of course, I had been doing a lot of the isolating.  Working too much, keeping my shit to myself, letting everyone know I was just “fine”.  If I say I’m “fine” I’m usually not.  I will never forget losing a lot of allowance, after just being awarded the privilege of receiving an allowance, when my step-father would actually fine me a quarter for when I said I was “fine”.

I seethed a lot and I think I lost my allowance for a good six months or so.

Joan and I had made plans to meet in Potrero and then we went to dinner at a Mexican restaurant I had never been to before, which was a great experience and I will be going back for it–get the Santa Fe Salad, so yummy!  Not so much Sally’s where I had lunch today. My company was fantastic, but they sure messed up our orders.

Joan and I caught up and I got some very much-needed face time with one of my best friends.  And we decided, after much fruitless searching for correct movie times to go see The King’s Speech at the AMC Van Ness.

She held my hand the whole movie.  I got exactly what I wished for.  My brain had wanted to do dinner and a movie with a boy.  But apparently my heart really needed a girl friend, a shoulder to do some crying on, and warm, genuine, compassionate love.

I got what was in my heart.  In fact, all day today I got what was in my heart.  And now it is full to overflowing.  I have been hydrated.  I stole that from Pell, by the way.

Thank you Joan, Pell, Erna.  I have so needed my friends and I have been so graced.  Thank you.

Don’t Mess With Me

February 25, 2011


I will take you the fuck down.

When I say, “thanks, but I’m not interested,” it does NOT mean follow me from the back of the bus to the front of the bus.

It does NOT mean I really want to suck up some of the rubbing alcohol fumes wafting from you, nor am I interested in smokin’ up some brillo pad with you.

Step off.

I have a black belt in Shaolin.

I have an umbrella with a very sharp point end to it.

I have dealt with two little girls who have been teething all week-long and don’t want to go down for naps.  I will take you the fuck out.  All I want is to go home and have my fucking hot cup of tea.

And, hey, you asshat, on the MUNI, don’t get off and follow me.  Where do you think I’m going?  Number 1, I have $5 in my wallet.  Pay day ain’t till tomorrow.  2. I will kick your ass too.  3.  You aren’t real sly in your hoodie pulled way down low over your face.  Just because I can’t see your eyes, doesn’t mean I don’t notice the minute you followed me off one train car to another and then conveniently got off at my stop.

Back off.

Pause.  Cass just called in the middle of my rant and totally calmed me right down.  That was hysterical timing.

When it comes right down to it, this sort of stuff does happen.  I live in a city.  People get wasted.  I do keep up a pretty big front and most of it is not actually swagger.  I’m tall, I’m strong, I can dead lift a couple of toddlers over my head.

Plus, I really do have a black belt in Shaolin Kempo Karate.  Now, granted, I haven’t trained in ages, but there is something to be said for muscle memory.  And I know I can throw a punch.  When I get manicures, which I have a lech for, I always ask them to cut my nails short.

Many a time a manacurist has been shocked by that, I apparently have very nice nails and they are strong and I could grown them out.  But it’s hard to make a good and proper fist if you have long nails digging into your own palm.

I usually just say, I’m a nanny and I don’t want to accidentally scratch the children.  And there is a certain aesthetic to short nails that i like.  I wear funky colors, today sky blue, tomorrow griege, next week, who knows.  But really, deep down, I like to keep them short so that I can hit you in the fucking face without breaking a nail.  Bitches hurt when they break.

Cass thinks it’s because I’m vulnerable.  Perhaps this is true.  Steph told me when I was back in Wisconsin that I do keep a wall around me.  I want to be approachable.  I want to have people feel like they can connect with me.

I want to be asked out on dates.

Therefor I need some sort of vulnerability to come through.  But I need to find a balance.  I either have no walls or they’re all up in force.

I like to think of myself as a nice person.  I have a ceramic pair of bunnies snuggling together in my bathroom.  I’m soft-hearted and like to laugh.  But I also have a pulp paper back poster of “The Bitch” up too.  I can be a serious brat when pushed.

I just need a little sign over my head that tells you when to approach and not approach.  I haven’t apparently figured out the correct body language yet.

Although, note to drunk man, number three of weird men approaching me tonight.  I wasn’t trying to brush you off, I really didn’t know what stop you needed to get off to go to St. Francis Hospital.  I hear they have a good detox program, “your brother” will like it.

Editing (WARNING contains profanity and Licentious Acts)

February 23, 2011

I came up with the idea for this post after talking with a friend about Face Book this evening.  We both joked about the parental presence thereof.  His being he has a daughter on Face Book and a dad with an account.  Mine being that my mom called once and left me a long, windy message about how does one do Face Book?

Oh my god.  I could just then imagine my mother reading my posts, my blog, my mind.  Eek.  Mother fuckers.  Eek.

And then I realized at some point during my ride home that I already edited down a ton of what I write, even on my blog, as it gets posted to Face Book, and I have found out whom reads these things by the comments that come back to me via that darling little social network.

Like when my Aunt Marybeth left a post talking about “hairy palms”.  At first I was like, what the hell is she talking about.  Then I went back into my blog and realized I had written about masturbation.  Jesus H. Christ on a raft.

Or, how about this one, can’t wait for one of my relatives to go into my archives and find the blog about cocaine and vodka enemas.  Not that I’ve ever had one or ever given one, mind you, but the title in and of itself makes me want to go back and re-title it some thing more appropriate, like “Fun Times At Disney Land”.

Of course, I’m not going to.  But as I rode my bike home along the Embarcadero with my messenger bag full of groceries, I did really ponder what I write and how I edit when I do.

Like I went on a date with some one whose a friend on Face Book.  Now this has happened before, and in complete disclosure the two guys I dated have been removed from my friends list.  I don’t date people who come over to my house high, last boyfriend.  Bye, bye, bye.   So, it’s not the first time that I’ve been on a date with some body that I was friends with on my account.

Suffice to say, I got paranoid.  I wanted to write about that date and what happened.  And the first place I went to is, he’ll read it, think I’m a, fill in the blank, and never want anything to do with me again.

It’s not like I write about what sex positions I like.  Fuck, my grand mother has read some of these posts.

Then I think, should I start another blog?  A uber secret, nobody knows it me blog?  Well, that’s stupid.  I like that people are reading this.  So, what it comes down to is to not pander or write about what I think the people reading this are going to want to read.  And really, when it comes right down to it, it’s none of my business what people think about me anyhow.  But please, everybody, slather me with accolades, o.k.?

And I wouldn’t talk about my sexual preferences on a blog anyway.  Not any of your business.  I may have identified as Carrie from Sex in the City, but there is no way in hell that I will talk about that in first person on my blog.

Although  I did recently go to the Citadel for the first time.  Ask me in person and I’ll tell you about that.

So, no editing.  Just going to write the best way I know how and not try to change my voice.  I do look every time I write to see how many reads I had on the previous days blog, and it’s usually around 15, maybe 20.  Twice it was over 40 reads.

Let me guess, my family, a couple of close friends, and then maybe a person or two who happened to be interested when a title that resonated with them popped up on their Face Book stream.

What I could just do is bury all the juicy stuff until the end.

Like, to repeat, I never, ever, ever, ever had a cocaine and vodka enema.  But I have ingested both substances in copious amounts.  In fact, I used up all my drink tickets, and a few of yours too.

And he didn’t make plans for dinner with me this week.  I thought he might.  I ran into him tonight down at 4th and Berry.  He had said, let’s do dinner this week when we left the date on Sunday.  And no mention of dinner was made. I get it, and it really has nothing to do with me.  Poor man has an awful lot on his plate.  Probably does not need any additional helpings of this crazy girl here.

I was a little disappointed, but suffice to say, I know that if I just keep showing up and being honest and asking people out and letting go of the results, one day, oh yes, one day…..

And then you know what?  I’m going to fucking write about it.  Because I can’t fuck it up and I can’t manipulate it into happening.

So there.


February 22, 2011

Is a fine art. Much like the celebrated flaneur in Paris, but my American version of it, here in San Francisco.

Originally today I was supposed to walk across Golden Gate Bridge with Pell.  But that did not happen.  I slept in.  I had today off since it was President’s Day and I celebrated by sleeping.  I had a long leisurely, lazy breakfast and decided that since I wasn’t working and I did not have to worry about bodily fluids being split on me (pee, poo, snot, milk, saliva, drool flecked with Puff crumbs) that I would dress up.

I once had some one tell me that I should embrace being fabulous.  At the time I thought she meant it was ok to dress like a drag queen.  And, maybe it was, but what I have come to understand in the years since, is that she meant, it’s alright to be myself and if I feel like being fabulous I should.

So today I put on a black ruffled interpretation of a roaring 20s dress, some black tights with thigh high pink socks over them, a pink fur rabbit shawl, my favorite black shrug, my brown Crown Born stacked heel boots with the large buckles, and topped the entire ensemble with an antique black bowler hat that had black and pink ostrich feathers drifting from it, as well as a large peony flower and a glass blown pink bird.

Girl.  I felt like Isabella Blow.  And sure, I know I drew some stares, but just because I live in the land of hills does not mean that I always have to wear flat shoes or dress like I’m going to Funky Door Yoga on Polk St.  I like to get fancy once in a while, it feels good.  I feel sassy and I like to sashay.  So, there ya go.

I rolled on down town and hit the BART to 24th & Mission to hang with friends for a little while.  Then I strolled out of the Mission up 18th St. and into the Castro.  I have to say, I did feel right at home in the Castro.  No one really blinks twice at a girl in a jaunty hat with a pink rabbit fur shawl on when there are men wandering around in assless chaps.

I joined Pell for a late lunch at Orphan Andy’s.  It was silly and girly and deliciously decadent in that way that new friendships get to be while you are finding out all the wonderful, fun things about the new person in your life.  We giggled like school girls and had a lovely ladies who lunch time.  It was awesome.

Pell left to walk the puppies and I decided to roam around the Castro.  The rain was not threatening and the sun was out and it was a day to stroll for sure.  Picked up some pink roses at the flower shop, they were beautiful and they matched!  And then hit the 24 bus up to the Fillmore.

I finally made it to Mrs. Dewson’s Hats which I have had a hankering to go in and browse around for so long.  The proprietor loved my hat, which made me feel quite good.  And I tried on some gorgeous pieces.  But today was not a day to be buying, not in the spending plan to buy extraneous hats when I have an imminent tattoo coming up and travel to Austin in April.

But it was so fun.  Then in and out of shops in the upper Fillmore.  Just strolling, just being a tourist in my own city.  Just letting myself enjoy wearing something fun and fabulous and girly.

I never even knew that I had a girly bone in my body.  I mean, I should have had some suspicions, I started subscribing to Vogue when I was twelve or thirteen.  But I never really let myself explore those inclinations.  I really adore fashion.  And I definitely have a certain style about me, eccentric chic urban with a touch of vaudeville on some days.  Retro tattoo girl pin-up on others.

Then there’s just the days that are about working and comfort and what I don’t mind getting dirty at work.  Sometimes the moms will comment on one of my outfits and be amazed that I nanny in it.  But if it’s a dress I picked up at H&M for $25 I don’t mind getting grimy.

And I always wear makeup to work.  In fact, for my birthday in December my employers gave me a gift card to Sephora.  So nice.  I will never forget the first time I went into a Sephora shop, it was in Paris.  I was in love.  But even at that time I barely wore make up.  I think I bought myself a set of hair clips and my sister a very bright red lipstick.

It took me a few more years of dilly dallying around before I let myself wear make up.  And now I love it.  I have a Kaboodle for my stuff.  Who knew?

I digress.  I continue the stroll up and down Fillmore until dinner time.  Debating whether or not to cook at home or grab a bite out, I turn the corner to check the time on the next California 1 bus and it’s arriving.  Taking that as a sign I climb on and head home.

I got to mosey through Nob Hill, Union Square, the Mission, and the Fillmore today.  I think I may have covered more square footage than the average tourist and I enjoyed every fabulous minute of it in my pink and black.

It was a lovely Presidents Day.

Perfectly Over Caffeinated

February 21, 2011

I have had just enough caffeine today to ignite a rocket to the moon.  And scare a few tourists along the way.

It started with a cup of Marco Polo black French tea this morning.  Which morphed into a cup of Coconut Chai in the early afternoon.  Then it turned into a cup of Four Barrel Coffee around 1:30 p.m.  After which I killed a little time while I was waiting to meet a gentleman at the MOMA, by downing a large Peets.  Because nothing is better then assuaging your nerves on a first date like a large cup of Peets.  BAH HA.

Oh, and I’m not done yet folks.  After the MOMA, he says coffee?  And yes, that’s right I have another cup of Peet’s, but this time I do moderate a little, I get a medium.  I don’t think I scared off the nice man, but I may have, I was incandescent with caffeine by the end of the date.

I left downtown and walked home on rocket fueled feet.  I was going to catch the 30 Stockton back toward my neck of the woods, but I did not need to bother with it as I was moving so fast I beat the bus home.

I called Pell to discuss details for tomorrow’s walk across the Golden Gate Bridge, which now may be re-scheduled due to inclement weather, damn you rain.  And she said, “where are you? Let’s get coffee.”  I hopped up and down like a mad elf, startling the couple passing me by headed into China Town with their little folding map.

I flew up Clay St. and literally stumbled upon a chair that I have been looking for my studio sitting and waiting for me at Clay and Mason.  Perfect, shabby chic, worn red velvet, swivel chair with carved wood trim and old castor wheels, just looking for a new home.  Normally I would not have even tried to muscle it back to my place.


Amped on the date, the caffeine, the imminent arrival of Pell to hang out, I lifted the chair and hustled it down the side-walk.  I realized about a half a block away from my house I was going to get the best momentum by lifting the chair over my head and carrying it that way.

I grunt a little under my breath and clean and jerk the chair over my head, balancing it literally on my head and walk the last block to my house–drawing many a stare from the party of fine diners coming out of Venticello on Taylor and Washington.

I get the chair into my studio, scotch guard it (thanks Pell!), throw a little food in my mouth and put on my jacket as the texts come fast and furious from Pell who is rapidly approaching down Washington St. to come and  pick me up.

We head into North Beach, taking a few minutes to find parking, it is after all a three-day weekend and folks are out.  We swoop down on a place just as I’m about to suggest that perhaps North Beach is not the best place to go and voila! There’s an open spot!

So, Cafe Trieste here we come.  And you think does she really need more caffeine?  Apparently so, I order a latte, Pell, smart lady, orders one too, but decaf.  I think, momentarily, decaf that’s a great idea, but I don’t change my order.  I get my latte full strength.

We close out Cafe Trieste and poor Pell gets the story of my life in the hour and a half we are there.  I believe I exhausted the woman.  And now, I sit, pleasantly jittering along blogging my little wee heart out.

My chair looks great in the corner all ready for me to get cozy in it with one of the cats and a book.  I have some jazz on the Ipod player, hot tea in a cup, non-caffeinated.  And now that I got through this blog and my brain hasn’t combusted from all the caffeine;  I can say that he had me at Hallowell.

Chet Baker

February 19, 2011

On my Ipod player, Uni kneading in my lap, and all I want to do is crawl back into bed.

I just had a lovely little lunch and a nice home-made latte and it’s rainy and I don’t want to go to work.  Why, why, why did I say yes to working today?  John Ater sums it up quite succinctly, “you don’t know how to say no.”




There I’ve said it.  Now I need to practice saying it to my employer.  I should have known something was up when she asked me if I had any plans for Presidents Day weekend.  I shrugged and said nope.

Not the “no” I need to say.  Here I should have said “yes”!  Why yes, I do.  I can’t tell you what they are, it’s a top-secret mission my cat Uni has planned to put me on where in I laze around my studio wearing what ever  black I can find in my closet and she promptly, along with some help from Frankie, sheds her white fur all over me.

Then I think about whether or not I want to sweep up the cat fur.  Highly important, covert mission.

But, of course that is not what I said.  And she pounced.  Wiley boss lady.  So now I’m going in to work tonight from 5:30pm to 10:30pm.  I will miss one of my favorite group get together’s, miss seeing John give me crap, miss Margo, miss Pell, miss other people, you’re catching my drift.  So that I can assuage that little voice in my brain that says, “you better do what she says, she’s the boss and she’ll fire you.”

Fuck off voice.

No, really, I mean it.

The only slack I’m cutting myself is that it is a three-day weekend for me and I did not know that it was going to be.  So, although I’m going in tonight, I still will have two days off in a row.  This is also balanced by the fact that to compensate me for the time I’m coming in, they let me go early yesterday.  So I had a half day.

But, and I don’t think this is just me, you don’t enjoy it as much if you know you’re going back to work the next day.  I mean, I totally took it and met with Cass and got my nails painted and tramped around in the rain and the cold all day.  And I got to pop into Mom’s up in the Haight and see Barnaby and discuss the tattoo I’m going in to get on March 5th.

So, it’s not like it was a bad thing, it’s just not what I wanted.  Not in my plans.  I should learn by now that my plans often do not hatch out the way I want them to.  Which is a good thing.  In normal day-to-day doings I actually don’t know what I should be doing.  And I need to keep dropping the “should” from my vocabulary.

Add “no”, and drop “should, would, could”.  These are words that lead me down a little garden path of trouble.  I should have done that, I would have done that if, if only I could have done that instead.  Not living in the present is what that is.

And there is nothing wrong with saying no, no matter how hard it is.




Ok, I’m just trying it out.  So the next time my boss asks me what I’m doing, I’m going to holler out NO before she can insinuate herself into my weekend.  I’ll probably be shouting at NO at her when she’s about to offer me a raise, knowing myself the way I do.

Margo suggested that I always have a back up excuse to offer and she said she would be willing to be it.  “I’ve got plans with Margo.”  I don’t need to tell the boss lady what those plans are.


Nope, nada, no doing, none of your business, not available.

God damn it, I want my weekends back.

I need to get the fuck out of my own way is what I need to do.

As for tonight, what’s done is done,  I’ll suck it up and go and I can enjoy the warm kitten in my lap right now and the jazz and I’m going to go look up some airline tickets for a trip in April.

I’m going to Austin to go to Austin.  I found out I have a five-day weekend in April when both the families, unbeknownst to the other family, booked vacations.  So I get five days off, paid, that I don’t have to take PTO time for.

I figure I better book the plane ticket before I go to work tonight.  Ease into the saying NO.

No, I’ll be in Austin, thanks for asking.

Where Are My Slippers?!

February 19, 2011

They be on my feet!

God damn it’s cold out there.  I don’t mind the rain and I don’t mind the cold, but combine them and I had wet, cold feet for a good part of the day today.  I can handle a decent amount of cold, but once the feet get chilled, it takes forever for the rest of me to warm up.

Case in point, I’ve been home now for about 45 minutes and I’m still wearing my scarf and my cardigan and I’m sitting next to the radiator and I have had a very large cup of hot Bengal Spice tea.  The toes are still cold.  The first thing I did when I got in was take off my wet shoes and socks and pull out my warmest pair of socks–purple striped wool Carharts that I got in Augusta, Maine during December of 2008, bought at the Renny’s with Wendy.

Then I put my slippers, faux fur-lined, specifically purchased for my trip to Hudson, Wisconsin this past December, on over them and started shuffling around the house.  I’m about to turn on my oven and stick my feet in there to toast them up.  I know that they will warm eventually and when that happens my whole body will light up because the rest of me is sufficiently warm.

My face is actually quite flush at this very moment.  But until my feet register as warm, the brain continues to send out distress signals telling me that I’m freezing to death.

If only my cat would sit on my fee rather than on my lap.  She is quite warm and divinely toasty hunched up in my lap right at this moment.  I already know she would not deign to nestle on my feet, but I have truly considered perching her there to warm up the tootsies.

I will be wearing socks to bed tonight.

That used to be an abhorrent idea to me.  I remember very distinctly sitting after hours over a few, quite a few, pints of bitter at the Angelic, talking with Maria Vasoli about how neither one of us could stand wearing socks on our feet when we went to bed.

This was in Madison, WI.

I am in California and I will be wearing socks to bed tonight, I can pretty much guarantee it.

Cass and I were talking today and she, being 65, credits this to getting older.  Fuck man, I’m 38, what do I have to look forward too?  I will be one of those old ladies carrying around an afghan that I crocheted myself.

It will be burnt sienna and it will have an owl in the middle of it.

I thought one got hot flashes as one got older.

Ah well, at least I have the ability to laugh at my younger self.  And John, John Morgan, where ever you may be, you darling man.  I am so sorry that I resented you for giving me socks one year on my birthday.  You were trying to be sweet, and they were wool, and cute, and I’m sure tres expensive (having now balked any number of times at putting out hard cash for quality socks, fuckers ain’t cheap) and I got mad at you.

You had noticed that I didn’t have many socks.  And I certainly did not have good socks.  And we were dating in Madison, and my birthday is in December.  You were a dear man and I threw those socks in your face.  Literally, I think.

If there is a man out there ready to give me a nice pair of socks, you, my dear are all romance and I will gratefully accept them and wear them to bed.

They don’t even need to come wrapped in flowers.

Daisies are my favorites.

I digress.

I think, it’s because I’m beginning to have sensation in my toes and my mind is overwhelmed with the feelings of defrosting toes.

Oh my god.

I’m still wearing my socks to bed.  In fact, I think I’m going to go huddle under the covers right now.

MUNI Fashionista

February 18, 2011

You rocked my world.

Seriously, I saw you coming down the platform at the Powell St. station and I really hoped you were getting on the train so that I could check out your outfit.  It was sexy, androgynous, cutting edge, a minx mix of punk, Japanese anime, and Burning Man/Steam Punk.

I fucking loved it.

I honestly couldn’t tell if you were a boy or a girl until you sat down and the distressed vintage black leather you were wearing parted slightly to reveal a purple bustier.

God damn.

You were young and rocking and I’m not sure any one else noticed, but you got my attention.

I who was returning home from a full day of being a nanny.  Wearing my light blue rain jacket and my GAP sweat shirt that had numerous snot stains on it from the girls and their dual runny noses.

Is it love when a child comes up and grins and hugs you and then uses your shoulder as a snot rag, or what?  All I know is that as I sat covered in mucus and digestive biscuit crumbs I wished desperately for just a moment to be in your steel toed platform black lace up boots.

Or at least had long enough hair to rock the ‘do you were sporting–pigtails that had been back combed out and stuck up like little baby unicorn nubs of fluff in a mix of sage, brown, and golden rod.  Which matched the furry lined camouflage pattern hat you were wearing with the ear muff flaps lowered.

And to top off the ensemble you had goggles perched on the crest of the hat.  Not ski goggles, or snow board goggles, but aviator goggles.  Replete with the little leather sides that make the goggles pop out in three dimension.

The back pack was the only thing that did not do it for me.  But once I saw the Academy of Art tag on it, it all made sense.

I want to dress like an Academy of Art student.  Not a nanny.

I did however take comfort in the fact that underneath my rather pedestrian raincoat was in fact a lot of gorgeous ink that most nannies do not sport.  Although on occasion I do see a nanny in the park who does, and some times a mom or dad depending on what part of the city I happen to be in.

I would hazard a guess that I’m slightly hipper than the average nanny out there.  But MUNI girl you had me salivating.  My hat off to you.

My hat I got in Paris.


February 17, 2011

Welcome to San Francisco!  Did you remember to wear layers?  Bring an umbrella?

Or sunscreen?

What was up today with the crazy weather?  I got up early because it was such a stormy night last night that I thought I would be taking MUNI into work.  Well, it actually would have been a cable car to the train, then a bit of walking, so I had to adjust my alarm clock to compensate for the extra time it was going to take.

My alarm set for 6:15 a.m.

And yup, the streets were wet this morning, but the sun was shining.  I had a back and forth conversation in my head about how I was going to get to work.  Streets are wet, slippery road conditions, four sets of cable car lines to cross on my bike, 1 set of trolley car lines, a bridge over 4th St. that is metal plated (which I hate riding over even when it’s bone dry, I usually ride on the “side-walk” part of the bridge and annoy pedestrians with my passing) and slick road paint.

Or the possible San Francisco public transportation commuter dance.  A little mix of the Powell/Mason cable car line coupled with whenever the T line decides to show up and a walk, which granted, would take me past Philz coffee so I could get rocket fuel for the day at work.

Or walk down three blocks, catch the 30 or the 45 Stockton to Caltrains and walk from there.

All roads leading to I need extra time to get to work.

After a shower and some breakfast I make the decision to ride my bike.  I hate being at the mercy of the bus and MUNI trains.  I go slow, I use the side-walk on occasion, I carefully, or so very carefully ride over the various cable and trolley tracks.  I make it to work.

The wind is brisk, the sun is bright.  K.  is helping me take off my bike shoes, when I hear this sudden delirious batting of weather at the window.  It is hailing.  I just missed it.  Thank god.  That would have been miserable.

And there’s a rainbow.

And then it’s gone.

And then I decide, yes, we will take a walk, the sun is back out.  Then it rains.  Then the sun is back out, then it rains.  Ugh.  Make up your mind SF.  I go out and make it the majority of the walk with the girls in the morning constantly watching the sun and the clouds battle it out.  Get caught in a brief shower, but am prepared.  The stroller is well equipped and I have a rain coat on.

What I didn’t account for is K’s absolute abhorrence to the rain jacket that goes over the stroller.  She did not want none of it.  Oh, fuck no.  Get this shit out of my view.  Let me tell you, nothing makes a nanny more paranoid, this nanny anyway, than walking with a screaming child.

I feel like everyone is judging me.  That people are on the phone to child protective services.  There are spy planes in the sky relaying my in capabilities to the parents.  The satellites have pin pointed me and I’m going to be fired when I get back to the house.

Mum mums (crunchy little rice rusks, great for teething), digestive biscuit, fruit puffs, bottle of milk, bottle of water, singing, diaper check, soothing voice, pleas to God, all go absolutely over this little monkeys head.  Six molars, a slightly too long walk and the constant shift in the weather have pushed her over the edge.

I’m walking across the UCSF campus praying out loud to get back to home base and get the child out of the stroller and fuck me, I have to pee, and it’s gonna wait, and now S. is crying, brave little trooper, because K. has been crying nonstop for twenty minutes, and I know that the CPS team is on its way.

And then, more rain.


One more block, hang tight, and we turn the corner and K. sees her house and, shit you not, there’s a rainbow.

Two in one day.  Not bad.  I could have done without all the drama, but in the end we got back, CPS was not called in, I’m not a bad nanny and the weather, however mercurial did not ruin my day.

Only my perspective can do that.



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