That Was Not for Naught


Despite the immediate, somewhat childish tantrum building in my head.

I went into the city today to do some work, although I knew I could do it remotely.  I wanted to be in the office space, I wanted to provide myself with accountability.

I wanted that to not be a ticket on the windshield when I went to move the car.


Damn it man.


That pretty much negated going into the city to work.

I only had a few hours to put toward the project, although when I left and had packed up I had some more thoughts that will bear exploring, but not today.  Today it was get back, after a coffee date at Four Barrel, to the East Bay without getting any more tickets.

It was not a horrible day, it was not, I got to see a lady bug and do some work with her and I had a delicious cup of Four Barrel, I know folks that might pay $62 to just do that, a little trip into the city.

I took a walk down Valencia Street, I went to Dog Eared Books, I bought a book and a new notebook–my last journal from Paris was filled this morning–I saw my friend Carlos on the street, I got a hug.

I saw so many folks out there, in San Francisco and here in Oakland, pushing shopping carts that the sting of getting the ticket was gone before too long.

I paid it immediately.

It’s not my car.

I do not want my employers to come back from their vacation and wonder what the hell their car was doing on the wrong side of the street, in San Francisco.

Not to say that they did not give me permission to drive it, they did, but I get to be honest and adult and take care of shit before it bites my ass.

I was trying to remember when the last time was that I got a ticket and I could not remember, although the feeling of it was similar, annoyance, anger, fleeting financial insecurity.  Then I thought, I did not die the last time I got a ticket, I paid it and went about my life and forgot that I had been given one.

I will drive into the city again tomorrow, but I already secured parking for it.  I texted the family I will be nannying for and asked if I could park in their driveway.  I was given a resounding thumbs up and I shall motor back over again tomorrow.

Counting down the days when I will not be crossing over the bridge so much or under the water via BART.

“You’re moving back to the city?!”  She asked me in line at Four Barrel.  An old friend who last I saw was in Oakland a few days back.  She too does a lot of work in San Francisco, not too strange to see her in a coffee shop in the Mission.

“Yup, Ocean Beach,” I replied.

“You’ll love it,” and she gave me a hug.

I will certainly love it more than this commute.

I have a new appreciation for everyone who does this on a daily basis.

I feel challenged doing it and tired and grumpy and over it.

I feel grateful that I have a reason to come and go for work, despite there not being a lot of it this week.  Two nanny gigs and a few things for the design firm.

It feels like I will break even coming and going and groceries for the week.

Not much else.

I am hoping to have rent for the new place set aside before I leave for Burning Man so that I may secure the space.  Although I feel confident that my friend is not going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me it’s not available.

I just want to have it set up.

I am grateful for all the places and spaces, beds, guest rooms, couches, and fold out futons that I have gotten to stay on, the couches, oh the couches I have surfed.

However, the thought of being in my own room makes my panties damp.

Sorry, but it’s true.

I can live pretty lean and I have done so for many years now, not as lean as the lady pushing a cart in the bicycle lane at Valencia and 19th, though, truth be told, she may have had more belongings in her heaped up cart than I own.

I am not saying extravagant, I am not saying over the top, although I won’t sneeze at that.

I am saying comfortable and my own.

Yeah, I know life is transitory, stuff is stuff, but I am tired of being rootless.

Perhaps I am just not as spiritually evolved, but I can say it here, if I can say fuck and shit and piss and burning man and sex and kissing, then I can say it here, I am ready for my own damn place.

I am a material girl.

At least I know it.

I want to hang a hammock from the back and have a big cushy bed with white bedding and a wrought iron frame.  I want to have mason jar lanterns and wooden crates for night tables, I want a desk/kitchen table combo, a nice chair, fluffy towels in the bathroom, a plant or two to call my own.

I want bookshelves and notebooks and pens and candles that smell pretty.

Oh, I want it all.

Being satisfied with what I have is good and I am.

I am lucky and grateful and blessed, I have good friends, and good coffee beans to grind tomorrow morning before I begin my journey back to the city, all these experiences that help me to realize what it is exactly that I want.

None of them were for naught if they got me to where I am today.

Not a single one.

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