Am I Anemic

I got the signs.  Signs that I have been ignoring now for months.  Dizziness, often light-headed, headaches, low energy, fatigue.  And man, I push myself anyhow.  So, I think I was just in the mode of, ignore it, there’s nothing wrong.  And I suffer from ego and I know what’s right for me, so fuck off.

Apparently I don’t know what’s best for me.  You’d think that I would have known that already, but I get to have it demonstrated to me again and again and again.

I also lost my period two months ago, and have not been telling anyone.  Why?  Because, god damn it, I’ve been losing weight and I don’t want to change-up my food plan, it works.  Well, apparently, not so well, if I’m tired, dizzy, losing my period, irritable, and suffering from head aches.

I heard it said once, lying, I’ve heard it said innumerable times, that pain is part of life, but suffering is optional.  I went to Kaiser this morning having fasted, one would think that I would enjoy fasting as it would impart further weight loss, but NO.  I do not like.  Especially when I walked into the lab area at Kaiser was told to take a number, 56, and then found a seat while they called out number 14.  Fuck me.  I was so hungry.  But I knew I had to fast and I was almost there.

My wonderful friends have been so supportive of this whole little process.  From Cass telling me to take care of myself, to Pell re-iterating that, to my Auntie Marybeth commenting on my Facebook page.  And everyone has basically said the same thing–self-care, lady bug.

Tami, Dr. R., told me also that anemia is easily treated with an iron supplement.  Then I get a lovely call from Genevive as I’m hopping on the bus to come back home, having ravenously eaten the protein bar and apple in my bag after they drew my blood.  And a large croissant and a latte that I grabbed on the walk to the bus stop.  Which my god was delicious, hunger is the best spice apparently.

And she’s been diagnosed with it too.  And related all the same symptoms to me that I’ve been experiencing.  How funny is that, once I open up just a tiny bit to the possibility that I don’t have to suffer through this alone, that I can ask for and receive help, that I take one step toward the Universe, and it really does take 1,000 back to me.  She gave me some wonderful suggestions and asked if I was a vegetarian.

And no, I’m not, but I do play one on tv.  I rarely eat meat, its expensive.  At least the meat I like to buy is expensive, so it’s a treat.  I do live a very vegetarian lifestyle.  Especially over the last 17 months, as I’ve been taking my eating plan very seriously and following it.  It’s a splurge, a treat, a rarity.  Genevive used to be a vegan, so she gave me some really helpful tips on eating stuff.  The funny thing is, I eat a lot of dark green leafy, but that only started I would say since the New Year.  I started craving it.

I would find myself in Whole Foods or Rainbow and being pillaging the chard or the dandelion greens, and I’ve probably bought and eaten more spinach in the last two months then I have in the past twenty years.  Obviously my body has been trying to communicate with me.  I just got too busy to really take notice.

So, alright, I’ve taken notice and I’ll be taking direction and I’ll be taking an iron supplement.

Along with that nice serving of humility I just ate.

Playing Hooky

Not really.  Although, that’s what it feels like.  And then I’m reminded that feelings are not facts.  Like when I feel “fat”.  “Fat” is not a feeling.  Or when I feel like “shit”.  “Shit” is not a feeling either.

I feel lazy and a bit despondent and a little bit silly, as I just looked down at the piece of paper poking out of my cleavage and realized I have the bus transfer still in my bra from my trip to the doctor’s this morning.  Oops.

There, a little humor, that feels better.  Self care is a learned process.  Not one I picked up coming of age.  I was and am, I mean, come on, I’m a nanny, really good at taking care of others.  I am, slowly, learning to take care of myself.  Like moving into my own studio a year and a half ago.  I hated where I was living, but was too scared to move out.  Rent control damn you.  But I was so miserable, finally I got backed into a corner and had to do it.

And I’m so glad I did.  I love my little slice of San Francisco.  I love how the sun falls in through the windows and I love having flowers in my room.  Right now I have a bunch of lilacs, probably my favorite flowers just from the way they smell.  They were obscenely expensive, but they don’t really grow around here.  The house in Windsor had them in the back yard.  Lilac trees, not even bushes, they were trees.  Seven of them.  Along with peonies, lilies of the valley, roses, although the roses never seemed to thrive very well, the flowers that didn’t need taking care of always did the best.

I guess I’m like one of those roses, I need some care taking to bloom out.  And I feel like I have come such a long way, but when I get sick I have the tendency to beat on myself.  I’m wasting time lying around in bed watching down loaded episodes of Mad Men, never saw it when it first came out and am now finding myself into it.  The doctor said probably just a cold, but when I said I had lost my period a couple of months back she got a little concerned, and wants me to run some tests for anemia.  I don’t even know what that means except, iron deficiency and light headedness.

I do have dizzy spells now and again, and to be honest, I’ve just always seen that as I need to eat more protein.  So I have.  But anemia?  I eat lots of spinach and green leafy things, see previous blog, damn it.  I guess I’m just scared.  And fear has its way of making me crazy.  Bale and run, fuck everything and run.  But I’m not going to.  I sent an e-mail to my employers and let them know I need tomorrow off to go back in and do the blood work.

Thus, the fraudulent feeling like I’m playing hooky part.  I don’t feel that sick.  I just feel a bit on the tired side, ironic, as I’ve lain in bed all day.  But I’m going to do the opposite of what my brain tells me.  Pony up, take the bus into the doctor’s office in the morning (hey, at least I’m not dumb enough to ride my bike, I did contemplate it this morning though) and do the damn tests.  It’s anemia, if I test positive for it, not cancer.  I’m sure that it’ll be alright.

And I got a free day off from work.  Sort of.

What’s in the Fridge?

I just cooked up another batch of my French red lentil soup.  Chock full of goodies.  And as I was gathering up my rainbow chard I had to laugh a little at what was in the fridge.  It is starkly different from the fridge I kept stocked in Wisconsin.  There’s raw, organic peanut butter, no sugar; rainbow chard, spinach, organic carrots, plain, nonfat, organic yogurt; coconut milk, almond milk, Earth Balance, large organic brown eggs, Ezekiel sprouted grain english muffins, brown rice (cooked and portioned out, waiting for the soup to be finished and added), and a large piece of ginger.

My shelves are stocked with organic spices, dry bulk, and a plethora of teas.  I have a drawer full or oatmeal, brown rice, bulgur, and back up spices.  Along with fresh Rosemary that I picked out walking with the girls last week.  There’s a shelf for protein powder, protein bars, vitamins, and Omega 3 fish oils.  Who is this person?

I remember going to Woodman’s on the East side of Madison and what I usually got was this: potato bread, mild cheddar cheese, milk, potatoes, sliced turkey or chicken from the deli, Hellman’s Mayo, ice cream, coffee, head lettuce, maybe a tomato or two, pot roast, butter, sour cream, cheese danish, pork chops, frozen fruit (but not to eat, just to make blended drinks with!) white sugar, white flour, shortening, smoke house almonds, bacon, half and half, Jolly Ranchers hard candy (I was always in the process of quitting smoking), bagels, cream cheese, tuna fish.

I’m having a heart attack reading this.  And wondering what the fuck I ate for breakfast.  I don’t actually think I did.  I don’t remember buying cereal, except on a rare occasion and I think I usually ate it as a snack.  I do remember Grape Nuts, loaded up with sugar, or Quaker Corn Bran Squares, but I think most the time I got a latte in the morning somewhere, a double with vanilla syrup, and smoked a cigarette.

Throw in working at the Angelic Brewing Company, beer, beer, beer, beer cheese soup with sausage, french fries (which I loved to salt heavily and dip in sour cream), fried fish, pizza, nachos, quesadillas, burgers, cheese cake, more beer.  Plus, lots and lots of Coca Cola.  No wonder I was heavy.  I almost never ate fruit, unless it was part of a dessert.  I didn’t eat a lot of vegetables, even though I purported to like vegetables, mainly they were a part of a sandwich or something to garnish the plate with.

And I’m  a great cook.  I loved to cook, I loved to bake.  I would make Christmas cookies, soft buttery sugar cookies with homemade icing, fudge, Brazil nut toffee, brownies, pies–apple pies especially, cheese cakes (coffee cheesecake with chocolate chips, peanut butter cheese cake on a crushed graham cracker crust with hazelnuts, blueberry cheesecake).  My senior year at the UW I had taken a Botany course taught by Prof. David Allen and one of the projects you could do instead of taking the final exam was to make a Digby Dinner (Digby after a famous sustainable foodie from the UK) for the professor and his TA’s, and you had to explain where you got the food and how you made it.

I choose the dinner.  Of course I did.  I made homemade beef stew in a thick, rich gravy with root vegetables, a relish tray (just like Grandma Munz’s, in fact I believe I used her pickles–black olives, pickles, artichoke hearts, celery stalks, carrots), a cheese plate, crusty peasant bread with butter and honey, smoked turkey, herrings in sour cream, crackers, and the piece de la resistance: a pumpkin cheese cake on a walnut graham cracker crust drizzled with a home-made maple syrup glaze.  I paired each course with beers from the Angelic, including a batch of bottled cider that Dean, the brewmaster at the Angelic, had whipped up.  I had the Trident Trippel, the Believer’s Bitter, the Nutbrown Ale, and a holiday spice beer that I’m totally forgetting the name of!  blasphemy, it was in the style of a Grand Cru.

I got an A.

Duh.

I don’t think I have had one of those things in my fridge or pantry now for years.  I can’t remember the last time I made gravy or bought shortening.  I think I got to use up all my sugar and fat tickets a long time ago.

I have no food regrets. And I think my soup is done.

It smells divine.

I Did Not Cook! I Did Not Finish the Laundry!

It’s still sitting on top of the bed.  I just got home a few minutes ago.  See post previous about my weekends being busier than my week days.  But I at least usually get he cooking and laundry done.  Not today.  Not this weekend.  inadvertently both Saturday and Sunday I was out all day long.  Laundry got left in the laundry room, cooking for this week did not get done.  I’ve still got a load of laundry drying, my bed is unmade and it’s already 9 p.m.

I’m usually in bed by 10:30 p.m. on “school” days.  I promised to do a post-a-day though, and I wanted to get the writing in.  Ultimately, it won’t take me too long to make the bed and put away the laundry.  I do have some soup at work and some fruit and some protein bars, and the very nice thing about being a nanny is that I can take the kids to do a little grocery shopping with me.

In fact, I often take them on little errand outings.  They love going in the stores and sampling stuff and grocery stores tend to have really friendly staff, so they get lots of attention.  I’ve been realizing more and more that I can just do little bits and pieces of shopping where I can when I can.  Which is a little dare I say it, European, Parisian, doing ones’ daily shopping.  So, why not get used to it now.

I tend to, like most American’s I think, buy up as much as I can as soon as I can and stock pile it.  But I tend to not eat processed foods, so I find that I have to shop constantly anyway.  I eat very fresh and I feel better for it.  What I’m realizing is that as my schedule is so full, I can’t always shop exactly where I want to shop.  In an idealistic world I would always go to Rainbow, but Rainbow is hard for me to fit into my schedule.  Or at least it’s been that way for the last couple of weeks.

So, I go briefly, and I do mean briefly through SafeWay and will be able to selectively pick out a few things that I can palate from the store.  I’m not a big fan of SafeWay, I think it’s a really opportunistic store that gives the shopper the illusion of getting a deal, but in reality, you’re not.  And the club card obviously informs the store when a certain item is being purchased more often.  I have seen some things go consistently up in price as I purchase it more.

When I’m picking up milk from the girls there are a few things that I will look at buying.  But they only make sense if I buy them when they’re running a sale.  And then, it makes sense.  I kind of feel like I’m being shucked and jived when I shop there.  I also, thank you Steve Fox, feel a bit put off by the mass-produced food stuffs and the in your face advertisements.  And why is there one aisle solely devoted to shredded cheese?  And why is there a natural foods department?  Does that mean that the rest of the store specializes in fake food.  Well, yes, it does appear that way.

I don’t want my food to come in a prepackaged, box wrapped individually in 100 calorie packets.  I like to see what my food looks like without being photographically retouched on the box.  I like an apple to just be an apple.

Whole Foods ends up being more of an option for me as there’s one a bit closer to my house than Rainbow and there’s one within,  granted a long walk, but, walking distance of work.  It’s just more expensive.  But the convenience I get it, it’s timeliest to buy stuff there than to ride my bike out-of-the-way to get to Rainbow.

Grocery shopping is one of the few times I wish for a car.  But, I do think that I’m more connected to what I eat just simply from the stand point that I do shop more often and I do make my own food.

Well, except for tonight.  Gah, that laundry’s not folded itself.  Time to go.

Just Another Day in San Francisco

Got up this morning and headed straight out the door, or so it felt.  Had one thing after another tumbling together until I got back home tonight at 11:38 p.m.  I left the house this morning at 9 a.m.  I tell ya, I’m busier on the weekends then I am on the weekdays.  I was joking with one of the mom’s at work last Monday when she inquired after my weekend, and I said, that I sometimes looked forward to Monday, as I knew the schedule and it was actually a “shorter” day for me.

But it was wonderful today, so good, so amazing, I’m just dripping with gratitude and you may not want to read further as this will probably be a boring little blogette tonight, full of love and gush and pink.

Can’t help it people, sometimes a girl just gets happy and I have to write about it.  I was talking with someone last night about how things just keep getting better and better and odder and stranger and more weird and wonderful all the time, I could not have known that my life would take the twists and turns that it has.

I could not have known when I was creating the gigantic collage in my bedroom in the house in Windsor, Wisconsin, that the picture of the steps of the Montmartre descending from Sacre Couer would actually be a place that I would get to visit, let alone move to.  I did not dream that big, I just fantasized a lot.  Now, I can see how every experience has continuously threaded its way through my life and there have been no mistakes, everything, every “difficulty” was to be had to lead this stunning, rich life.

Pause, breathe, exhale, love the moment.

Caught a cab after realizing that I would not make it to Fort Mason this morning by 9:30 a.m.  Walked into building C, reported to the third floor and got some grounding.  Ran into some old friends I had not seen in a long while and met some pretty cool people who I look forward to developing relationships with.  Then Cass and I meandered through the Marina and ended up at a quiet little coffee shop a few doors down from Real Foods.

Saw more people I knew and had not seen in a while passing in and out of the cafe.  Sat with Cass and discussed my goals and plans, knowing that my plans are goofy and directionless, but getting to the heart of what matters and not needing to know how I will get there, just that I will keep asking questions and asking for help when I don’t know what to do next.  I so love Cass.  She came into my life unexpectedly and I get so much from her, she is beyond question the person who I believe believes harder and more firmly for me than I am capable of.

After we had our time together and our coffees I headed to the MOMA to meet my dear friend Shannon.  The last time we had seen each other was when I was getting my tattoo worked on at Mom’s in the Haight.  I was sitting as still as possible and Barnaby told me to stop talking as I was moving without realizing it.  So, it was really grand to be able to hug Ms. Shannon, soon to be Mrs. and catch the hell up.

You know you’re going to be great pals with some one when in the course of some random conversation you both find out that the other has had a cat named “Pork Chop”.  Nobody, I mean nobody has a cat named Pork Chop, but both of us did!  Same kind of cat too, brown tabby.  Too weird.  We wandered through the MOMA dancing around the crowds and catching up.  We ended up spending the most time in the cafe at the top nursing Blue Bottle lattes and just talking about our lives.  It’s fantastic having a membership card to the MOMA as I don’t feel pressured to see everything in one fell swoop.  I can just casually go ramble through with or without a friend and go at my leisure.  Superb.

Shannon and I parted ways at 3 p.m.  And I walked and walked and walked.  I went from the MOMA to Tu Lan on 6th St. and got my favorites, an order of Imperial Rolls which I ate there, and a tofu salad that I took with me to enjoy for dinner.  Then I walked down Market to Flax at the corner of Valencia and Market.  Touched paper, fondled art supplies, leered at the notebooks, googled over the pens and left without buying anything, which is surely a feat that I never thought possible.  Only to end up walking through the new store at Valencia and 14th and dropping $70 on a coat.

But what a coat!  Oh my God.  When you put something on and just know it’s you, and you don’t have to use a mirror because it feels so right.  That was the coat.  Vintage 60s bright pink plaid with bright apple green, fuchsia lined interior and large pink buttons.  It screamed fabulous and the store was my cat walk and every gay boy in the store stopped to admire and tell me how that coat was so mine.  By the time I had gotten to the end of the store to look at the mirror, I already had seen how well the coat worked as it was mirrored so admirably in the many eyes of the scrutinizing queens pillaging the antiques.  I just clipped the tag and bought it immediately, threw my coat in a bag and sashayed my way out the store and down Valencia St.

Window shopping, strolling, taking in the Mission.  Chuckling a little to see how much of a tourist destination it has become.  And I allowed myself to feel like a tourist too, it was fun to play and most people seemed to think I was from somewhere else.  Where, who knows, but not the Mission.  I wasn’t wearing any black, or jeans, or Vans, or moccasins, or retro 80s, or feathered earrings (said fad, fading fast jump on board quick folks) really a fad that could just die as soon as I saw it, or boat shoes, and none of my tattoos were showing.  I was dressed in a vintage jumper I found yesterday at the Out of the Closet in the Castro, my new pink, plaid 60s coat, with an Italian pink scarf tied around my neck.

I don’t know what my outfit was saying, but it wasn’t saying ‘Mission’.

Then I walked up into Noe Valley along 24th Street.  I bought some groceries at Whole Foods, a book and a new note-book–to take notes about Paris and write down questions to ask people, Cass’s suggestion–at Phoenix Book Store.  Then I sat down at a little cafe table on 24th and Sanchez and ate my tofu salad from Tu Lan.  Then a coffee and a blissed out moment of being so grateful for my life I just about passed out from it.  A quick hug from John Ater and then on up the hill, with a short pause to stop and buy my self some flowers from Flowers of the Valley, lilacs!

Then more delicious gratitude and a bit of girly posturing for Pell and co.  at St. Phillips.  After which Pell and I had tea and caught up on the past days events and life and Paris and dreams and plans and goals and boys.

And that was my day.

Whew.

And I balanced my checkbook!

Baby Steps

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.

Take one step toward God and God will take one thousands steps to you.

Stop putting the cart before the horse, Martines.

I over did it.  I can admit it.  I Paris’d myself the fuck out in ten days.  My diseased brain went into overdrive.  I became obsessed with writing my essays for applying to the Sorbonne.  Probably not something I have to worry about right yet.  I swam around in the murky waters of “how do I get a visa” for a few days.  I dug up my passport and realized it expires this August.  I played apartment porn on craigslist Paris.  I bought a Paris Capitale and a French Vogue.  I pulled out my Paris travel guides from my trip in May of 2009.  I meandered around the Nanny GPS website looking for jobs.  I down loaded the entire Edith Piaf catalogue I’ve been eyeing up what clothes I’m going to need to buy.

My brain is out of control and I wore myself the fuck out just like that.  To the point, when last night after too much circuitous internet googling I had decided that I can’t go to school there, there’s no way I’ll ever figure out how to get a student visa, I’m stupid to try this, what the fuck was I thinking, no body would want me as an English-speaking nanny, it’s all too difficult, so why even bother?

Ugh.  Then Pell sent me a bunch of pictures that are hanging in her father’s house of the Montmarte area.  Right at the exact second I had decided to hang my head low and admit defeat, that I’m just not good enough to get there, live there, or be there.  God, I am sick.  The pictures perked me right up.  It was my little sign for the day that I am on the right track, that I’m supposed to go.  I don’t need to know the “how” of it right now, I just have to have the faith to take the next action step around going.  I can take one teeny tiny action every day and I’ll get there.

I don’t have to figure it out.

I don’t have to manipulate it into happening.

I can’t fuck it up, I’m just not that powerful.

I need to live in the moment and do one little thing and the next thing you know I’ll be strolling through the Musee D’Orsay.  I need help, I don’t know much about moving out of the country and I’m going to have to do a lot of research and a lot of talking about it and a lot  of being willing to take what ever little action I can.

These are things I’m looking for help with: who knows about going to school in France?  How do I get a student visa?  How do I get a visa?  Must I have a job first before getting a visa?  Where should I stay?  Do I go over and find a place or do I try to find one before going?  Anyone have connections in Paris?  Anyone nanny in Paris?  Should I take French classes here in the states, or just wait until I’m there?  Any suggestions, thoughts, recommendations, advice, I will gladly take it.

In the mean time, I am committed to continue to put money in my Paris savings account.  I will NOT buy things to nest up my studio with.  Even though I just found out a good friend of mine is now working at Restoration Hardware, not fair!  I will find make inquiries to the French embassy.  I will find out about how to renew my passport.  And I will have faith that the next action in front of me will eventually carry me back to the Latin Quarter and the Metro Cafe for a croque madame et un grande cafe creme.

Bon nuit, mes amis.

Get your mind out of Paris!

And into the present moment.  Yes, I am totally stoked that I’m in the process of moving and finding out about school and visas and passports and finding the perfect pair of walking flats (Al’s in North Beach), and the perfect French man to snog with again.  Wonder if Philippe is still in the Montemarte?  However, I’ve forgotten about the here, the now, the lovely, delicious, delightful San Francisco.

So, I returned the French immersion cd’s to the library today and have given myself the day off from daydreaming and stayed, to the best of my abilities, to be in the present.  As I have been oft told, that is where the magic is, it is the gift.  And my present is pretty stunning, my life is simple, but so abundant, and I am so taken care of.  I can spare a moment or two to myself to actually enjoy what is happening right now.

Hot tea in the mug, decaf, it’s late.  Two cozy white cats lounging about.  The sound of rain falling outside my window.  The cable car lines humming, the rumbling cars trundling down the hill.  A sweet apple with salt and nutmeg and cinnamon and ginger and pumpkin pie spice sprinkled all along its crisp flesh.  A hot shower after riding my bike home in the rain.  My feet encased in cozy slippers.  Jazz on the Ipod player.  Soft light pooling under the rocking chair.  The Good Wife downloading to my computer.

The present is awfully good.   And it’s nice to allow myself the moment to enjoy it without future tripping on how I’ll get into school or where I’ll live next, or how much money I have to save or whether the dollar will have a better conversion rate on the Euro when I go.  If it would make more sense to buy a bike over there when I get there.  How will I go bike shopping in Paris?  Or, would it make better sense to just use the bike system that’s in place?

Oops.  There, I’m off again and running.  Back to Chet Baker, take another sip of tea.  Feel the soft furry slippers, faux fur, but still furry feeling, the drowsy heat radiating from the hot water pipe in the corner, the smell of Mexican cocoa wafting from my candle indulging at Rainbow.  The tick tock of the clock.  I still have to get the clock I bought at the flea market, not Clingancourt, the other one which is not quite so big, in Paris, that stopped running about a month after I brought it back.  I keep intending to take it to a clock repair shop and then it slips my mind.  I find it rather quaint that it’s always five of five.

Well, apparently, it’s not much use, my mind wants to dwell in Paris.  And that’s ok brain, you don’t know any better.  But I have to say, the right now is pretty rocking.

The right now, where everything is just right on.

I had something really awesome to write about

And poof!  It was gone.  I just downloaded a bunch of French Go-Go music from the 60s that a good friend sent to me.  I got totally caught up in the music and truly have not a frickin’ clue as to the awesomeness that I was about to lay down for you, dearest reader.

So I guess, I’m just going to cobble together a little hodge podge of words and see where it goes.  Like me, traveling all over the place for the next few months.  I just got the save the date for Shannon and Alex’s wedding, woo hoo!  And it looks like I’ll be heading to the Santa Cruz Mountains for the wedding in September.  I have been to Santa Cruz once, I remember very little of it.  I did not have any money and I spent the majority of the time looking for a public bathroom.

This time should be different.  Looking forward to seeing another part of the state before I head off to Paris.  Yeah, that’s right, I snuck it in.  Ba ha.  I will keep sneaking it in too.  Little bit of French every day until I go.  Little bit of progress til I get on the airplane.  Which reminds me I am scheduled to put a little more money into my Paris account.

I got a response back from the Sorbonne directing me back to the website that directed me to contact the person who directed me back to the website.  I had to laugh.  Any one have any experience with applying to school overseas?  I’m thinking I may also take a stroll by the Alliance Francaise sometime in the near future, it’s actually within easy walking distance from my neighborhood.  I’m sure I could get more information there.

And I’m continuing to listen to the French immersion cds at work.  And it totally working.  New words that have stuck–pottage, soup, and brulee, which means scorched.  Also, reminded of one of my favorite French phrases–leche vitrines, literally to lick windows, English translation, window shopping.  And that’s pretty much how I remember it when I was in Paris.  In particular this small shop window that had a beautiful wedding dress displayed in the window.  I’m single, I was single at the time, and I got it, I totally got why women want to get married and fantasize about it as soon as a guy asks for a phone number.  I wanted to get married as soon as I saw that dress.  I was literally slavering over the window display.  Licking the window indeed.

My tattoo still itches, but it’s not quite as bad as it’s been.  Either that or I’m getting used to it.

Was going to cook tonight and totally decided to watch my download of Shameless instead.  I’ve got food prepped for the week.  I just thought I may get a jump on the weekend.  I’m not planning quite the jam-packed weekend as the one I just had, however, they do tend to fill up very fast, but well, Show Time’s debauchery is calling my name, and I think it’s won.

In fact, now that this blog is officially over five hundred words, I think I’m going to stop.

Au revoir, bon soir, a demain.

Oh, so tired

But in such a good way.  I spent a marvelous weekend catching up with friends that I don’t often get to see, let alone spend time with for more than a few hours.  I got amazing Joan and Tami time, with a quick dash of Pell.  I danced my bottom off, drank a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot of coffee, and slept in a hotel bed for the first time in a while.

Which, I was just thinking I will be doing again next month as I head down to Austin for my first visit to the state of Texas for some bike riding with my friend Lizz and some hanging out that has been literally years in coming.

The only thing about staying at a hotel that I don’t care for is the food.  I was at the mercy of what the hotel had to offer and it was expensive and not so tasty.  I at least had the fore sight to throw a few apples in my bag, and Pell brought me more (thank god!  And coffee, double thank god), and a couple of protein bars.  Had I known, and now I sort of do, I would have definitely did a quick trip to the market to have some other things on hand.

This is the penalty for staying at a hotel by the air port.  Which is good to remind myself about, you are a bit trapped and don’t have much around you, so you eat and drink what the hotel has to offer and even a decent hotel, like the Hyatt, doesn’t have the same kind of quality I’m used to making for myself.

So, I did a little market splurge and headed over to Whole Paycheck.  I mean, Whole Foods, after a delightful lunch and stroll about North Beach with Ms. Joan.  I got a beautifully cut pork chop, organic, some gorgeous strawberries, my first asparagus of the spring and a few delicious apples.

I made myself a blackened tarragon pork chop with an onion, garlic, sea salt, and black pepper rub, pan roasted asparagus, and a spinach salad that I tossed with a fig infused balsamic vinaigrette and roasted strawberries.  The roasted strawberries where my touch of brilliance, if I do say so myself.

I found out from a pastry chef at Hawthorne Lane, Marika, that strawberries when roasted are sweeter.  Turns out the heat breaks down the fibers in the fruit and the natural sugars are enhanced, the sweetness is brilliance, with absolutely no sugar added to it.  Holy lord, are they good.  And the perfect foil for the pork chop.  My tummy is happy and full.  Albeit, I had a moment where I had absolutely no desire to write or post to my blog, I got all kind of food coma’d out and felt like a nap.

But a full weekend does not preclude prepping for the week to come.  I still have laundry going and I needed to do some general house keeping stuff and give the cats loads of attention for the time I was away.

I also was trying to research the slang term “head” and couldn’t find what I was looking for.  Although, I know exactly what it means, and I was thrilled to be called one this weekend after dancing my ass off during a deep house set that I got to be up front and personal for.  I get lost in-house music.  It becomes a deeply spiritual, ecstatic kind of dance for me.  My brain is gone and my body is moved by the spirit in the music.

I used to be a little shy about my love of house music, it seemed like there was a bit of back lash a kin to what disco went through when it’s time in the clubs ended (although disco really isn’t dead, hello Gaga).  So many people seemed to associate it with techno.  Which I am also a big proponent off.  I love minimal techno, all sorts of electronic music and obscure music that I just stumble upon–like Northern Stomp.

Anyway, I got my dance on.  I was seriously moved.  And I felt absolutely euphoric.  The best way I can describe it to my friends, which I know they understand, is that it’s a good show when I stop wondering about what boy is going to dance with me.  Where’s the action at?  Who’s going to approach, who’s not, whose eye am I trying to catch.

Because dancing for me is an intensely private thing.  I wind up getting so caught into the music that I lose myself, close my eyes and just let it take me over.

I ran into the dj after the set was over, randomly as I was walking down a corridor of the hotel I was staying at and got to personally thank him.  Thank him for playing vinyl, first and foremost, there is an audible difference to my ear, it’s richer and more nuanced and I can totally appreciate a dj working the magic of a laptop, but an old school two turn table coffin with Technics and a mixer really does it for me.  It’s just lush.

And he told me, he was playing for me.  He thanked me.  He said that it didn’t matter if he was playing for a room full of people if no one really got the music.  But he said that I and the guy off to my left, who was also into the music the same way I was, getting his own groove on whilst I did mine, had made his night.  There were a lot of young kids on the floor and they definitely danced hard, but I let go.

And in letting go, surrendering to the music I was suffused with something greater than myself.  And the dj acknowledged it, the importance of those one or two people in the crowd which can really shift the set for him.  He said I worked it out and he was so happy to play for me.

I was beyond happy to dance.

He said it was fantastic to have a few “heads” in the house and it made his night.  Well, mr. dj, you made mine.  Thanks for the fantastic set and the awesome compliment.

Now, I can go pass out, I have a little sleep to catch up on.

What is Up, Party People?

Or should I say Patty people.

It’s St. Patrick’s day, which I have completely forgotten any number of times today.  And I did not wear green, both the girls did today, they were adorable and cute and neither have a speck of Irish in them.  But both mom’s were adamant that they wouldn’t get pinched.

I pinched their wee little cheeks when no one was looking, they are just delicious.

I was riding my bike home tonight through the Polk Gulch and was vaguely starting to notice that it was going off more than usual.  Normally, Thursdays are just starting to take off when I head home, folks starting up the weekend and all.  But tonight it was extra special crazy.

It was when a posse of loud boys wearing green socks and dyed green hair gamboled across the street at Pine that I finally got it, again, for the umpteenth time, that it was St. Patrick’s day.  Day to wear green, drink yourself green, and pass out in the front you your Escalade with the driver’s side door open and your body hanging out.

Dude.

I thought this guy was just looking for his keys or something, but no, they were in the ignition and he was passed the fuck out.  It was approximately 7:50 p.m.  Happy St. Patrick’s!

Happy hang over.

Happy I don’t ever, ever, ever have to drink green beer again, or Irish car bombs, or Guinness, or Harp, which I never liked anyhow.  Not that I’m too worried about the lack of my consumption’s effect on the liquor industry, I’m sure no body noticed but me.

Ah, holidays, I’m so glad I forget about you most of the time.  I never did really get into St. Patrick’s, again, the whole lack of being Irish thing.  Plus, I always tended to be working on the day.

Highlights from the reel–Henry Hall bringing in his little brother Morgan, not of age, sorry, Mr. Bob Worm, I let him in, to the Essen Haus and them getting absolutely hammered and doing the chicken dance to the polka band.  Martin pouring so much dye into a boot of beer that it was no longer green, but black, and the table being so messed up that they didn’t even notice.  This is the same table that bought the paper vest off Martin for $50.  You know you’re drunk when….

The smell of corned beef and hash vomit.  Need I say more.

Off the topic of beer and vomit; the year my mom bought me holiday themed socks for not only Valentine’s Day, but St. Patrick’s Day.  Jesus, mom, I never lived that down.  I was in 7th grade, new to the school district and there I was in Mr. Peterson’s algebra class rocking the holiday socks.  I was Napoleon Dynamite meets mathletes.

The snickers from Kerri and Naomi withered my little soul.

Getting wasted with Anna Parker at the Dubliner in Noe Valley.  I do not know to this day how we managed to get into the bar, or into the bathroom, now that I think of it, all I remember was the bouncer flirting with me and some guy passing me a handle of Jameson’s.  Then somehow making our way to the Harry’s in the Fillmore where our mutual friend, Brian Belfield was bartending.  Needless to say, Anna was not able to drive home that night.  And I remember a vague conversation I had with a ex-girlfriend of Eric Roblees’.

Ah memories.

Now the only thing that’s green in my vicinity is my Lilliputian French/English Dictionary that Pell gave me last week.  I think I’ll keep it that way.