Its all yours, even when its not

by

It is all mine.

An embarrassment of riches.

I had the pleasure of getting pleasured last night.

And the lady will leave it at that.

Then I got asked out on a date by another man.

What is going on?

Oh yeah, I am moving to Paris.

I am also lighting it on fire on OkStupid.  But let me to say I am so not interested.  It is not worth the time, effort, or thought behind making myself any way available.  I have the time for known entities, not unknown.

I have thought about taking down the profile and when I attempted I could not figure it out.  Sometimes I think it is a miracle that I even manage to get this blog posted.

I am tired today, but a good kind of tired.

Ahem.

Work has been mellow, busy, but mellow.  I have nothing invested in it.  I find that I am able to go in, do the job, do it well, then leave. I will let my fellow co-workers get busy staying past close to build bikes.

Been there.

Done that.

Moving on.

I am still not quite sure how I am taking it all in.  It does not seem to be being taken in.  I have had a moment now and again when the fleeting thought whisks through my brain, “well I’ll be in Paris at that point,” and I just stop.

I’ll be what?

I’ll be where?

Are you nuts?

I hung out for a little while with John Ater tonight and told him of my “plans” how I had gotten a dj and was going to rent a room and how I needed to find a PA system and, and, and…

“Honey, remember what I said about not planning your own going away party?”

I almost kicked him.

He burst out laughing, I was pouting.

I hate it when he’s right.

“Who do you want to host the party?”  He asked.

“You,”  I said emphatically.

“Well, that’s nice, but I do not have a place to do so,” and he sagely looked at me, with just the top part of his eyebrow lifted.

“Carloyn did say I could have it at her house in Noe Valley,” I replied petulantly.

“Well, there you go, and why don’t you want to have it there?”

Because god damn it I want to do it all myself and how dare you show me that you care about me and it is too freaking intimate and I will cry and no.

NO.

I just about stamped my foot.

I really did.

John laughed.

“Let her know I will co-host the party,” John said.

Sigh.

Ok.

Fuck.

I guess I will ask Carolyn to let me have the party at her house, since she already offered and I can stop trying to make arrangements and do it my way, and run the whole damn show.

I am so good at that.

Running the show.

Honestly, I still know nothing.  I think I know something or someone, or even myself and then something changes, shifts, alters, and my perception completely changes.

Like my hair color.

I will tell the Robert that I will not be needing his dj services.  I cannot imagine that Carolyn needs a dj at her house.  I will go with simple, easy, and without my arranging, manipulating or trying to make it all happen.

Because I know what is right.

I am holding onto the idea even now, even as I type, yet I know John is right and I would rather be happy than right.

Happy.

Morning sex.

Happy.

Ooops.

How did that slip in there?

And what the hell am I going to wear on tomorrow’s date.  I actually did not know whether or not I should go and every single woman I spoke to, said go.  In fact, a couple of them said, go tonight.

The original ask was for this evening.

Frankly I am a hussy, but even I cannot imagine showing up for a date with my bed head.

I mean it looked rather fetching pulled up off my nape in a messy bun for work, but I smelled like Irish Spring.

Boys.

They do not have the best shower soap.

Actually, it smelled good on him.

I am just used to my vanilla and almond and coconut and tangerine and soft and sultry and sensual smells.

I laughed when I was at work and raised my arm and caught a whiff of Irish Spring.

When was the last time I smelled like that?

Remember the commercials?

“Get’s a strong man fresh.”

Ha.

Better that then go into work smelling like I had just rolled in the hay.

Hey.

Maybe that was why work was so relaxed.

Double ha.

So what to wear tomorrow.

Not the blue jean micro mini skirt.

I am getting picked up from work in a convertible BMW, I think it’s a BMW, fuck if I know.  It is a nice car and he is a nice guy and he took me to a really nice meal the last time we went out, but I have no clue if he has any interest in me.

And I just re-read that while I was typing it and realized, duh, he is interested in me if he left me a message while I was at Burning Man, asked me to call him when I got back, asked me out, and is picking me up from work tomorrow.

Fuck.

What am I going to wear?

And is it too late to ask where the hell we are going?

And double fuck, I have blue hair.

He has not seen the crazy hair.

Oh well.

I do not actually believe anything is going to come of it.  He is a nice guy.  Do I do nice guys?

And I don’t mean it like that sounds.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

I mean, he’s nice, a wee bit pedestrian, and sweet.

I like sweet, I like nice, I like…

I like it dirty.

Who the hell am I kidding?

I like to play and I like to be a tom girl and I ride a fixed gear and I can play at wanting to be a polite mannered marm, but the fact is that I play hard and I don’t know that this guy is that kind of guy.

Then again, I guess I won’t find out until I go out on more than one date.

What am I going to wear?

I keep envisioning heels, but I know I will be riding my bike and the last thing I want to do is ride through Oakland to the Fruitvale BART in heels.

I like to go fast.

Maybe put heels in bag?

That’s hot, showing up for date with my messenger bag and dirty Converse.

Although, I suppose it’s better than showing up with I just had sex hair.

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