You Can Do Anything You Want


As long as you are willing to accept the consequences.

The words of a very wise man, John Ater.  You can do anything you want as long as you accept the consequences.

I accept that I will not be getting a lot of sleep tonight.

I accept that I will be packing for a while yet tonight.

I accept that I “should” be cleaning and sorting and getting it done, but I am writing.  And I accept that as well.

I also accept that I went on a date, when I could have been packing.

I went on a date and we closed the restaurant.  I have never been that girl.  They literally closed the restaurant around us.  We were busy holding hands and looking deep into each others eyes.

What the fuck?

Who is this woman and who is this man?

I went on a dinner date after I had already had dinner.  I went on a date when I was freaking out about how it was all going to get done and how and I have once again bitten off way more than I can chew, and who the hell do I think I am, super woman or something?

Who hid my cape?


I went on a date, he was worth it.

He’s better than packing.  I actually slipped and said that, I would rather be here with you than packing.  He about fell out of his chair, “I am going to use that!”  N_____ is better than packing.

Oops.  That doesn’t sound sexy now does it, but the sentiment came across.

I told him to not let me talk, as I would be continuing to stick foot in mouth.

He told me that he wasn’t allowed to talk because he did not want to fuck it up.

Funny thing, I don’t think either one of us can fuck this up.

This is crazy.  Who’s idea of timing is this, by the by?  I mean come on, I don’t have a place to live, well I do, but not mine, I’m moving, I’m getting rid of all my shit, I just started a new job, and now this, him, this absolute and utter surprise dropped into my lap from the heavens, who ordered this?  I did not order this.

Oh, but wait, I am not sending it back to the kitchen.

Not when I am so thoroughly kissed on the corner of Valencia and 16th that it eradicates the rest of the universe for those moments that we were kissing.  Valencia and 16th, gone, gone, gone, on a Saturday night, as the action is getting hot, the Marina chicks dropping their purses in front of Casanova’s, the stumbling drunks falling out of the corner store, the hailing of taxis, the crowd emptying out from the Roxie theater, the group of thugs with their boxers flashing and barely concealing the heat they’re packing as they divvy up the corner for the evenings action.

Everything gone, gone, gone.

An ellipses in time, a complete and utter slippage of time.

I accept the consequences of my actions.  I accept that I will be up for a little while yet packing and sorting and cleaning, and I also accept that my face may hurt a bit tomorrow from all the wild grinning I am doing right now.

He wants to go to Paris.

He wants to take me to Boulevard and order my steak for me.  Blue black.  NOBODY wants to order me a blue-black steak, they always freak out when I order that.

He made reservations at Jardiniere.

I thought he was joking.  I told him, that I was dirty and dishevelled from doing the moving sale and getting all my shit together, so he cancelled and made reservations at Maverick, he figured I needed comfort food.

Uh, yeah, except I had already had dinner.

Fuck my mother.

I told him this when we met, I thought he was joking.  Oh no he wasn’t.  And he had made reservations at Jardiniere.




I have always, always, always wanted a date to take me to Jardiniere, are you fucking kidding me.

Although, I am glad that we went to Maverick’s.  I did have a few bites of this and that.  I was scheduled to have my evening snack anyhow, it just would have been an apple and some raw flax seeds and plain, organic, nonfat yogurt.  Instead I had a few delectable bites of beet salad with mandolin sliced radishes and sheep’s milk feta.  I also had one nibble of sumptious fried chicken (without the skin, he took it off for me and made sure that it had no batter on it–I explained I don’t do flour).  And brussels sprouts sautéed with porcini mushrooms.

He fed me little bites.

Are you fucking shitting me?

Was I being filmed?

Who set this up?

This is nuts.  Right?


Stop arguing with me.

He kissed my neck.  Nuzzled it really, held my hand, looked into my eyes, hung on my every fucking word.  I told him more in the few hours we sat together (or oversat, I still cannot believe we closed out the restaurant) than I have ever told a man.

We could have kept talking.  Although after the neck attention I may have been a bit unable to form sentences.  Uh, yeah, definitely.

Thank God he lives in West Oakland and had to get on the BART to go home and walk his puppy.  Thank God.

We had a cup of coffee, he joked with me about being better than packing and I slipped that he was better than work as well.


Double fuck my mother.

He gave me a rather quizzical look and I explained that I went on a date with him yesterday rather than go to work.  Now that sounds like craziness, and I did explain that had the shop been open I would have gone into work, but I had the option of not.  I have never, ever put not working in front of a man.

Ask my ex of five years, he used to tell his friends that I had sold my soul to the Essen Haus.

I always put work first.


Well, apparently not always.

He said, then let’s go to Paris next week.

Knock it off.

Cass told me that the one would follow me to Paris.

I thought she was pulling my leg.

My passports expired, it expired in August.  But I think I may go renew that bitch.


Oh yeah, and pack, I have some packing to do yet.


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