Eat It

Grr.

Well, I sort of knew that it was a long stretch, a sort of Hail Mary of a throw, but I was hoping I would be able to sublet my studio for the couple of weeks I would be at Burning Man and for the week I am in Wisconsin.

Nope.

I knew before I asked, but I felt I had to ask.

Which leads me to the uncomfortable asking.

The house stuff is what it is, the entrance is common and I may have my own “private” space, but it’s not really separate.

I didn’t think that it would fly.

However, I am loath to pay for the time I am away, especially when I am fairly certain I could rent out my studio to cover costs of being away at Burning Man.

The real discomfort is going to be when I ask my employers for a raise.

I haven’t raised my Burning Man rates since I started nannying at the event, it’s been the same flat fee every year, five years running, same rate.

I can’t do it this year.

I have rent, student loans, scooter insurance, scooter payment, Healthy San Francisco, phone, and utilities to cover.

Being gone for two weeks without my typical take will cripple me.

Which is why the first prong of the attack, it’s an attack in my mind, can’t I just surrender to the winning side, know that I am allowed to ask for myself and let go the results?

Nope.

My brain wants to manipulate it.

How can I phrase it just so.

There is no phrasing.

Simplicity is the key.

Surrendering the results is also important.

They can say no.

They may say no.

I worked longer hours than I thought I would last year and despite making more money than I have prior, it was only because I worked every single day, had no days off and was out for 22 days.

That’s not particularly healthy.

I have also entertained doing a nanny share out there.

I was asked this weekend at Lighting in a Bottle by a family that was doing a dry run at the festival and will be at Burning Man with their daughter for the first time who will be 19 months.

I said no.

But there is my other Burning Man family and I debated that all day in my head, do they have someone, they are going, I already know that, kind of have to when you work for the organization.

But last year my charges grandpa came out and helped.

I don’t know if that’s the case this year.

Last year I would have hesitated to take on an extra one, but this year, both boys are walking, so possibility.

Ugh.

I just have to sack up and ask for more money.

It’s not the family’s business to know about my cost of living or my rent or student loans or any of it.

I just have to say I need to make more, state what that more is, and let them say yes or no.

I am a great nanny and I am worth my pay.

I have a lot of experience being on playa as a nanny and enough said brain.

Let it go.

Nothing to do about it this week.

Besides I wanted to find out if I could sublet the studio, if I could, the pressure would have been a little less, it would have alleviated the worry.

I am a classic under earner and I have done a lot of work around it and here, I can just get grateful for it, is an opportunity to grow.

For today, though, the rent is paid, just dropped the check to my housemate when I asked after the possibility of subletting.

My student loans are paid too.

I have money for the hair appointment tomorrow–some fancy new color coming my way–and money for groceries and what not until I get paid next week.

And repeat.

I did not have the luxury of coloring my hair when I was in France or worrying about a new Iphone or making a scooter payment.

I was eating corn out of a can and peanuts and apples for lunch.

I get to travel to Wisconsin next month for a week.

I get to go to Burning Man.

I will bust my ass like I always do and I will have an experience.

That’s what it’s about.

I get to have experiences.

I also will be grateful to live where I live and be happy that I can afford to live in San Francisco and pay said rent.

It could be more.

Besides, who’s to say, amazing things are happening all the time and prosperity is all about me.  I am living better than I have in years just by quietly putting one foot in front of the other and working hard.

I don’t have much debt outside my student loan–just the scooter–and I am able to meet my monthly costs in cash.

That’s pretty fucking cool.

I eat well.

I eat organic.

I drink small batch roasted fancy pants coffee.

I have a new Iphone.

I have a vintage 1965 Vespa.

Come on.

Life is good.

No worries here.

I am not going to try to make money at Burning Man, I am just asking to cover my costs.

That’s fair.

I could also put the ball in their court and say I want a raise and see what they offer.

What I will do, tonight, is write it down, say a prayer and send it out to the Universe.

My God box is a pink bunny piggy bank from the Marais district in Paris, I write little notes about things I am struggling with, and give it up to God.

Or the Universe if you will.

Or the gigantic bunny in the sky.

(Someone read Watership Down really early in life)

Just writing it down and letting it go often brings a kind of clarity that thinking about the solution, ie, trying to figure it out, does not.

There is nothing to figure out.

There is no problem.

And last but not least.

The solution and the problem are not the same thing.

Thank God I have some solution today.

Faith in the experience of being taken care of doesn’t hurt either.

The only thing left to do is have a fun weekend.

I can manage that.

Hell, who knows, maybe I’ll even get asked out on a date.

Happened last time I got my hair done.

Fuck worrying about Burning Man.

I should just be focusing on getting my hair done.

Ha.

 

 

How About The I am Tired Blog

Yeah.

I know, that doesn’t sound really tantalizing, now does it?

Doesn’t really give the reader anything to sink their teeth into, but as I am sitting here scratching my head over what to write all I am doing is procrastinating getting this blog started, so better a bad title then no title at all.

If I can just get into the meat of the motion, get into the action of doing something, than something will come out of the process.

It’s the action.

It’s not the thinking.

I can’t think my way out of a paper bag.

I am like a cat.

Content to sit still and pretend that no one sees me or hears me, nothing in this brown paper sack, move on, twitch, twitch, twitch, swat.

I am a bit more noticeable than that I suppose.

“Look at your blond hair!” She said to me in parting, as we went out ways, she back to Moss Beach, me to 7th and Irving.

Blond now.

Pink tomorrow.

Purple too.

Not exactly tomorrow, but Saturday.

That’s about it, that’s what I was thinking, how can I write a blog about my hair, aren’t I done writing about my hair.

Aren’t I done thinking about myself?

Who’s going to date a girl with purple and pink and blonde hair?

What will they, the infamous they, think of me when I got to Wisconsin for a visit.

Who the fuck cares?

I was also thinking about what I want to submit to the Burning Man blog.

I have been thinking for a while that I should send them one of my blogs about being a nanny on playa, perhaps a kick in the butt to work on a book proposal that I have been thinking about for years.

Again, it’s the taking of action that saves me, not the thinking.

I went into my archives and I have to say.

Fuck, I am a better writer than I was four years ago.

Hell, I am a better writer than I was last year.

The constant daily practice has honed a voice and a style that I have for the writing.

It is spare and direct and concrete.

My imagery is better.

My metaphors better.

My phrasing much better.

The essence is still there, but I couldn’t really read what I wrote.

I realized that if I did submit something to the Burning Man community, a dry run, I suppose for the project, that I would have to rewrite what I wrote.

I would do a new piece.

And that tired me right the fuck out.

I got up and made a cup of tea and decided that I had nothing further to say about it, that it was a stupid idea and who the hell wants to read about adventures in nannying on the playa.

Is there a way to be of service, to share my experience and move forward a community idea or am I just self-aggrandizing: look what I do, aren’t I special?

I am not too sure.

I suppose it’s just that I can see photographs in my head and I would like to have a collective space for them all in one piece.

Ah.

That could be the start.

I could do a photography essay.

That could be the way to go.

I could simply gather all the best photographs that I have taken and put them together.

I don’t have to ask for others photographs, I could use the ones I have in my own photo archives, then seeing the overarching picture I can write the story.

Really the story comes down to how I learned to let myself be more my authentic self by being a nanny at Burning Man.

“You were hiding your Mary Poppins in the closet,” a friend of mine said when I told him that I had been considering toning down who I am and how I dress in regards to a position that was being offered to me.

A position I did not end up taking, but it did allow me to see that indeed I was worried about the clothes I would have to wear.

Would I suddenly be raiding the racks of the mundane, or would I allow myself to flower and bloom and wear pink and glitter and sequins and bedazzle myself at work?

I choose flower.

I am grateful my families are all Burning Man families.

They have all gone to the event.

They have photographs of their experiences there.

They are themselves.

“You’re like Mary Fucking Poppins with tattoos,” a mom, another Burner,yes, said to me last year, and there it was my playa name, after many years of just going by my own name, my own little playa handle was given to me.

I do like to carry an umbrella with me on playa, it’s a great portable shade structure.

I just looked up and saw a polaroid a participant took of me and the little girl that sparked the entire Burning Man nanny gig, the year is 2010, I am wearing dusty blue jeans, cowboy boots, a green tank top, a ruffled apron and huge sunglasses, my tattoos are in full affect, my hair is cropped short and spiky, faux hawk that year, and I have my polka dot umbrella open sheltering my little girl charge from the sun, her hair is in multitude of braids that I spent hours on and she’s got a dusty bandana wrapped around her neck, a sundress on, little red crocs and white ankle socks, she’s sucking on an orange Mister Freeze Pop.

The photo behind that is her in a pink tutu and her mom’s oversized sunglass and me sitting next to her in polka dot tights and my own huge sunglasses.

Not only has the experience of being a nanny at Burning Man helped me to find my inner Mary Poppins, it has also shown me how to better take care of myself so that in turn I can do my job, which is caring for a small child in some very extreme weather conditions.

At the heart of it I learned to love myself because I was employed to love a child.

That is the essence of my Burning Man nanny story.

And that is a service I can do for others.

Go out there, doesn’t have to be Black Rock City, it can just be out in your community, where ever you are finding your niche, and explore yourself, find out what makes you tick and how you love and allow yourself to be that person.

Mary Fucking Poppins.

Or

Fire spinner.

I don’t know, I can’t tell your story.

Only mine.

And mine is going to start with compiling those photographs in one spot and seeing what I come up with.

See, that’s all it took.

Start writing and the answers come.

And I am not so tired any more.

Funny that.

MF Poppins

 

Jeebus and the Big Poop

“JeeeeeSusss!”

“JeeeeSusss!”

“JeeeeeSusss!”

He ran around the kitchen giggling like a maniac and hollering out “Jesus” at the top of his lungs.

“Shh, honey, that’s enough,” but I sort of had a grin in my voice and I could not even take myself seriously.

“Jesus!”

He looked up at me, “Jesus?!”

“JESUS!”

“Ok, that’s it, no more,” I hesitated, is it a curse word?

It was said like a profanity, he overheard it in the stroller at the corner of Stanyan and Waller by a woman walking across the street who got startled by a turning car.

It’s not like he was saying “fuck!”

Or damn it or shit or douche bag.

Nope.

He was just taking the lords name in vain and it was making me laugh.

But I also didn’t want the mom to come home to her two-year old son running around saying, “Jesus!” loud, proud, and bold.

It turns out it was ok, though,he had a change-up pretty immediately.

“Big poop!”

Ok.

I know what to do about that one.

I scooped him up and took care of business.

My two-year old charge has got a vocabulary to beat the band and he’s talking and telling stories and occasionally making up words that when we carry on a conversation will make perfect sense, then I catch myself, what are we talking about?

There are lots of conversations about airplanes, his biggest obsession.

And then many more about the train that he got for his birthday.

He got a lot of amazing toys.

Toys that I sometimes want to sit down and play with.

Most of the time, though, I am just trying to keep them out of the mouth of the 16 month old, who is getting better about putting floor snacks in his mouth, but he does still have a tendency to revert to getting his fiber from the carpet fuzz.

I don’t swear in front of my charges, but other people do.

Kids do.

Adults do.

Sometimes I want to be the school yard monitor and tell someone to pipe the heck down, see, I said heck, but I tend to keep my comments to myself.

It’s been a good week with the boys and I feel like I have my mojo back after a rocky start to the week.  Which wasn’t really rocky, it was just getting back into the flow after the big music festival weekend and all the travelling.

Next stop.

Wisconsin.

Although, I might, actually I better book that now, get a little road trip with a friend who is leaving for a very long, cross-country road trip from here to New York at the end of June.

We compared notes as he will be somewhere in the Midwest around the time that I will be in Wisconsin.

But not quite at the same time.

So, a small road trip on the back of his “new” motorcycle that he got to do the cross country ride.

We talked about heading down to Santa Cruz and doing the boardwalk.

Which I have never done.

I’ve been down to Santa Cruz twice since I have lived in California.

Neither time did I hit the boardwalk.  There could be some fun to be had there. And it seems the perfect distance for a ride on a motorcycle.

Not too long, but long enough and along the gorgeous Pacific Ocean.

I am in.

My friend who I bought the scooter from, said scooter that is working, thank you very much, suggested we might also make the trip down to Santa Cruz as well on our scooters.

Not quite sure about doing that yet, but I did get my scooter over 40 mph when we went out riding.

He came over Monday afternoon and I showed him how I was starting it and he checked it over, including the fender, which he pulled out a little more and said that the cost to repair it was going to be nada, and basically I was doing two small things that weren’t working to my advantage in getting the scooter started.

And voila!

Vroom!

Started right on up.

I was over choking the engine and he suspects that I was putting too much oil in the gas tank when I had topped it off.

So I ran out the gas and when I got back to the neighborhood after our riding adventure I took it down to the gas station a few blocks away, filled it up ($3.00 even) and added half the oil I had been.

Running like a top.

It’s still vintage and old, so I may have to fiddle about, but it works and it, the problem, was not the scooter, but me.

We took our rides out, he has a brand new white Vespa, and my old vintage black Vespa, and got lots of looks and thumbs up and whistles.

It was fun.

We went up the coast just a tiny bit, hitting Lands End, which I probably hadn’t been to in years, parked, sat and watched the ocean and the sky, the Golden Gate Bridge spanning the bay and I gave him a big hug.

It’s really good to have friends.

We soaked up the ambiance of San Francisco, then hopped back on the scooters, headed down the Great Highway we got up to 40 mph and I got to feel how fast that is.

Truth be told, I have taken it up to 40 a couple of times on Lincoln Avenue, keeping with the speed of traffic, but it was different being on the Great Highway and I appreciated knowing what it felt like.

A stop for coffee at Java Beach on Sloat, then we rode up through Portola and over Twin Peaks.

Holy shit batman.

I never thought I would be taking a scooter up and over Twin Peaks, my own scooter, with me driving it.

The wind was fierce and I probably said Jeebus under my breath a few times, truth be told, but fortunately, I did not have a big poop.

I did feel like peeing my pants once or twice, but made it over without any bodily fluids being split.

It was pretty exciting.

And I am ever so grateful to continue to learn and grow.

Sometimes I feel like the two-year old discovering all there is to discover.

Sometimes I feel like running around and yelling “JESUS!” at the top of my lungs.

Good thing some one taught me to use my inside voice a little while back.

 

 

 

Get Yer Pink Hat On

I got me a fedora.

I have been wanting one for a bit and when I saw this one, I had to stop and grab it.

Pink.

Sequined.

Jaunty.

Yes.

I said jaunty.

And it works with my hair and my eyeglasses.

Best of all.

The cost.

$4.49.

Courtesy of your local Good Will.

I nanny in Cole Valley Monday through Wednesdays and I walk by the Good Will probably once, perhaps twice a week, depending on what park I am headed to.  It is a great Good Will and it has big windows for “La Leche Vitrine”.

Literal translation from the French: “window licking”.

Now, I am not a typical window licker, I don’t often purchase what I see, I window shop a lot, I am good at it and it’s a harmless, cheap habit.  Today especially.  A girl can’t go wrong with a hat for under five dollars and it’s pink and it’s sequined.

It now also has a pink rose attached to it and a pink feather that I got last year around this time to make hats and all things haberdashery for the playa, from the arts and crafts store on Haight.

I was house sitting in Cole Valley, just off the Haight Street neighborhood, last year about this time and I had decided I wanted to make all my little hair pieces myself, instead of laying out forty, fifty bucks for the pieces that I was drawn to.

Hell I saw some cute ones at Lightening in a Bottle too, but all were quite expensive and I recalled again, with a smidgen of guilt for not having done anything with all the gear I got for this project.

Buttons, bows, ribbons, flowers, glitter, feathers, netting, little metal charms, embroidery floss, hair clips to pin everything to.

I got all the right stuff to make some fascinators and some other pieces.

And I never did it.

I remember taking it all back to Grace Land with me after the house sitting gig had ended and spreading it all over the gigantic table in the dining room, then getting out needle, thread, scissors, the fabric glue and sorting everything into piles and sighing and sitting down to go to it.

And not being able to go to it.

In hindsight, I was pretty depressed and not certain what was happening with my life, having just returned from France and it being a difficult transition from the 9th arrondisement to East Oakland, 51st and International was a bit of culture shock to me.

Granted my dear friend who was letting me stay, was a dear friend, and had all the comforts of a well stocked home, kittens to snorgle with, Netflix on the tv, internet, a big cushy bed, so much nicer than the lumpy futon I had spent the majority of my nights on in Paris, and a big huge vat of popcorn that he had gotten special for making kettle corn.

Thus began my slippery slope that led soon to my relapse on all things sugary and floury and donutty and icecreamy and basically way bad for me and my health.

I picked up all the flowers and ribbons that I had planned to bedeck myself with, shoved them in a hat box and went to the kitchen.

I got out the air popper and poured the kernels in.

I just started with butter and salt, a big glass of sparkling water, and I cued up the first season of the West Wing, which I had never seen before, and proceeded to check the fuck out.

That’s not a solution for me today.

Thank God.

I was reminded of that today and I am grateful to have the way of life I have now.

And also a degree of humility about it, I could have checked out with some booze, there was a fully stocked bar.

I could have checked out with some crack cocaine.

There was East Oakland right outside my doors.

And I did not.

And for that I am ok with the fact that I checked out with the popcorn, then the ice cream, then the donuts and macaroons, and Arizimendi pizza, the hamburger and french fries from Burger Joint, the boxes of cereal and more Netflix, and then lots of self-loathing and hatred.

I got through it with a lot of help from some dear friends who reminded me that this too shall pass and I went to work to get out of the clutches of my historical reliance on food as a means of self-soothing.

It didn’t work for me then, it never had, and it was the place that I went to.

I pray I don’t have to have the experience again.

I lost the weight I put on with that binge that ended up being about three weekends of self-destruction.

And for the first time, for me, it was not about losing the weight (in fact, I have only weighed myself twice in the past year so I don’t even know what it is), it was not about checking out to solace myself.

Buying that pink fedora at the Good Will store when I was window shopping on the way to the park was like waiving a flag of victory.

I wore it all day long.

I even rode my bicycle home with it perched on my head.

Which was a great test for Burning Man.

The brim shielded my eyes and did not get in the way of my glasses and best yet, though it was windy, it stayed put.

That is important.

And when I got home I was happy to deck it out with the feather and the pink fabric rose that I had bought this time last year.

In fact, I am so pleased with the results that I am thinking I may host a little playa prep party at my place and see if anyone wants to sit out in the back yard with me and enjoy the sunshine, drink tea, and make some fascinators and hats and clips.

It would be fun, I have the gear, and so many of my girlfriends are going this year, it might be just the thing to do.

Celebrate my 8th year returning to Burning Man by putting another feather in my cap.

Literally.

Stairway to Heaven

Hello friends

It’s been a few days.

I have missed you.

I have so much to write about, I may not get it all out here tonight, but I will give it a shot.

I was away for the last three nights in Bradley, California for the 9th annual Lighting in a Bottle Festival.

I had never heard of it before this year and really hadn’t much inclination to go.

However, the opportunity to spend a weekend camping with a dear friend is not to be missed and you know, maybe I might see some music that I like.

Moby.

Moby

That’s right.

I got to see God.

No.

I don’t believe Moby is God.

But I do believe that he is a conduit for a higher power that so moved me I nearly danced my knees to pieces.

And I was so close I could almost reach out and touch him.

The set was beyond belief, I still cannot tell you how exactly it happened, but we just gradually made our way closer and closer to the stage, being there for the previous act helped, and the next thing you know while they are changing sets, we, my friend and I, are down in front, center stage.

It was so good.

So good.

This good:

Me, front row, Moby

I was filled up with light.

Yeah.

I know.

Cheesy.

Corn ball.

Over the top.

But, whatever, I won’t argue with you.

You get to be right.

I get to be happy.

Man, was I happy.

Then the round of stair climbing truly began.

The festival was set up in a emptied lake resevoir that had dried up and the event was spread over quite a few acres, I am not sure the exact parameter of it, but it was probably spread out over two, two and a half miles.

And there were stairs going in and out of the gullies and valleys.

You could not make it from one side of the event to the other without going down some pretty big drops and long climbs in and out of the gullies up and down the stairs.

Now.

I am already a bit injured, from the scooter accident I had two weeks ago and the attack of the skateboard last week, and my legs were sorely taxed.

I must have climbed those fucking stairs a thousand times.

Perhaps I exagerrate.

But, not by much.

My friend and I postulated that we probably walked anywhere between three and five miles a day.  Maybe more.  I am not sure, but there was a lot of walking.

A lot.

Unlike Burning Man it was not flat and there really wasn’t much bicycle riding, although I did see some valiant efforts to do so and there were pedi cabs circling about.

The other thing was that there were vendors there, unlike Burning Man which is a gifting community and I found it a challenge to not compare the festival to it (the lights, the rigging work, the stages, the shade structures, some of the art and the artists, have all been to Burning Man).

For example The Front Porch was there:

The Front Porch

An art installation that debuted, I believe, please do not quote me for fact, three burns ago on playa.  It features a front porch facade that is pulled by a tractor and the back side has a working kitchen with an oven, where yes, dear, you can bake cookies.

There is nothing more magical than the first time I saw the Front Porch rolling across the playa at Burning Man and I was riding my bicycle through a dusty night following the sound of bluesy folk music and the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies being baked.

My goodness.

Free goodness too.

Nobody charges you for those cookies at Burning Man.

However, when I saw someone handing out slices of watermelon from a cooler I overheard this conversation:

“Oh my god, WATERMELON!”

“I’ll take a slice,” the man eagerly reached forward to the proffered piece.

Then he hesitated.

“Is it free?”

“No.”

“Dollar a slice,” the vendor replied shutting the lid to the cooler.

The man retracted his hand as though he had been bitten.

That dude made a lot of money off the participants.

I suspect all the vendors did.

And I don’t begrudge someone making a living, but it was such a contrast to the kind of de-commidication that I have found so warming at Burning Man, that well, I was bummed out a bit by it.

I found also that the act of commidifying the spiritual aspects of the even made me quite judgemental about it.

I was also wearing my Ms. Judgy Pants with all the out right drug use happening.

Esctacy.

Molly.

Cocaine.

Pot.

Mushrooms.

Acid.

I saw so many fucked up people.

I saw more out right open use of drugs than I have in all the burns I have gone to, seven, combined.

I found it disgruntling and a bit disturbing.

Hey, let’s serve you some raw vegan gluten-free food, its organic too!

It’s gonna help you get over that cocaine/alcohol/acid/mushroom/GBH/K/Molly hangover you got going on.

Just in time for you to get to that yoga class you wanted to make.

I was mystified by it.

The quest for spirituality through incessant drug use.

I mean.

I get it.

I understand, I sought escape too, one time, dontcha know, but to see it encouraged to the point that it was, made me feel a little jaded about the entire event.

Though, in fact, despite myself and my nay-saying ways, I got to have that little spiritual awakening myself.

However, it did not come from drugs.

I came from music and it was so powerful that I hesitate to write about it.

Not from the stand point that I want to convince you.

I am not interested in convincing anyone.

I know what happened.

I was there.

I was aware.

I was not checked out and it completely took me by surprise.

Lying, exhausted from being up late the night before, climbing many sets of stairs, remember, pitching camp in the dark, dancing my ass off at Moby, followed by little sleep, awakening early, too early the next day, by seven a.m. when the hot sun chased me out of the tent, walking more, up and down those stairs, probably mildly dehydrated, in an oasis, I had an awakening.

Not unlike the one I had about seven and a half years ago after doing a lot of amends in my life.

I was underneath a shade structure, spent, lying on a mat on the dusty dry ground, head propped up on a pillow I had scavenged from the ecstatic dance group that was going on nearby, I closed my eyes and tried to rest.

Rest, however, can be a challenge when there’s a dj playing music and the bass is so heavy it shakes the ground beneath you.

But it happened.

Somewhere in the middle of the sound, carried on the waves of bass, brightened in the hot air, blue-ified sky, high above me, the sound blew in and out of my heart and broke it open.

The dj was spinning a Paul Simon song from the Graceland album that I had played so often during a certain period of my life that I still know all the words by heart.

I sang along to the words, the song being mixed with a classic four four beat, bass trembling beneath me, warm ground cradling me, I rose into the sky and cried it all out.

The grief, the loss, the idealized fantasy life that I had surrounded myself with so long ago, the ideas of who I am and what I am finally melting out of my soul, like a hard sugar candy crust that had finally been cracked.

Yellow, sweet, golden, I basked in the music and let it hold me.

I don’t know that I can fully articulate everything that happened in those moments, but the deep realization that grieving is not linear and has no time line, struck me again, that I could still be holding onto to these old thoughts and ideas, beliefs of who I am and what I am, to let go those concepts.

Who wouldn’t cry?

I had a lot of small epiphanies after the grief riveted out of my heart and I will write more soon.

It’s just late, my friends.

And I missed you.

But I missed my bed too.

Tomorrow.

More.

Love.

For you.

Or magic, should you prefer.

Magic

More Magic

Black Light Magic

Magic, it’s everywhere

 

 

 

Packed

Or the closest proximity to being packed as I can be.

I have to put together my toiletries and a few more clothes.

I can’t pack them yet, though, toiletries needed for tomorrow’s work day and the clothes are in the laundry.

Although, should I need to, should the laundry not get taken care of tonight for some strange reason, I’m ready on that front.

I am actually bringing more clothes than I probably need, although less than I had originally packed up.

I got a text from my friend regarding the weather being in the 90s.

Ok then.

I will need my sunblock and that sweatshirt can go back in the closet.

The only other thing I need is the tent, which is in the garage, but not packed yet.

It’s my housemates and she wants to pack it up to make sure nothing’s missing.

Ok.

She knows I leave tomorrow by 4:30p.m. and although I offered to do it, she insisted.

I am covered.

I was offered, very sweetly, some extra gear from one of the families that I work for, but the logistics of trying to get it and co-ordinate with my friend who is driving were too much for me.

And not worth the struggle.

Which is what I realized when I stopped to really access my need for the things that were being offered.

Do I really need a cook stove?

Yeah, I suppose, it’s nice to have it, but all the food I bought for the weekend can be eaten without cooking.

Ditto for the cooler, which maybe I could have used, but the thought of getting up earlier than I already am, to go to work on the MUNI so that I could then either Uber/taxi/MUNI over to another location to pick up a cooler that I don’t really need seemed just too much.

Then my friend would be making two stops, one to pick me up in the NOPA and another to go out to my place here by Ocean Beach.

Keep it simple.

I don’t need the cooler either.

Should I change my mind I’ll just buy one.

Everybody needs a cooler anyhow.

I did take the offered sleeping mat and a blanket that can be used for roughing it and picnics and laying about on.  I folded the blanket tightly and wrangled the sleeping pad in my messenger bag.  Pair that with the sleeping bag I bought years ago for when I did the AidsLifeCycle Ride, and I am set sleep wise.

I will probably also bring a pillow, but that won’t get packed until tomorrow.

I have everything else stacked by the door.

One plastic bin and one large recycled bag with the pad, blanket, a towel, my food supplies, and some eating utensils.

I will rough it just fine.

It’s only three nights anyway.

I am looking forward to being out of the city.

It will still be a jam for me tomorrow.

I will ride my bike to work, get in seven hours, leave an hour early, by 4 p.m. and ride like the wind, to get back to my place at 4:30p.m. to be picked up.

I feel quite competent that it will all work out and I am ready for some dancing, some art, some hanging out with my friend, some making new friends, some seeing old friends who let me know they are there, and just chilling.

I am bringing my laptop and my phone and my camera and I don’t know if any of them will be supported.

Well, that’s not true.

My camera will be fine.

It has re-chargeable batteries that are fully charged and I have packed an extra back up.

The laptop and the phone I am curious about.

I don’t know if I will have access to electricity where we will be camping.

We are not going to be RV camping with hook ups.

We will be car camping.

I may not be blogging.

I don’t know.

I am going to do my best to send my daily posts out, but fore warned, there may not be another blog coming.

That being said, I will take a lot of photographs and I will document the experience in my notebook, I will continue to write my three pages long hand, that’s a habit I can take anywhere with me.

Funny, I was thinking I actually have access to more amenities when I go to Burning Man, but I won’t be dusty here.

I had that thought earlier, oh, don’t forget to pick up some baby wipes.

Then I laughed.

I am not going to be camping in the dust bowl of the Black Rock Desert.

I don’t know what to expect and the not knowing gnaws at me a bit, but there’s only so much preparations a person can do and I am as prepped as I am going to get.

I am not investing a lot of money into going, I just don’t have it to invest, the ticket is bought and paid for and I have a sleeping bag and some Tasty Bites, a summer dress or two, something to sleep on, some flowers to pin in my hair and the attitude of let’s go have fun.

That’s all I really need.

Oh.

And my water bottle.

I expect I will be drinking a lot of water if I am going to be dancing in 90 degree heat.

Memorial Day weekend.

The opening salvo of summer.

I am ready.

All I need to do is get up in the morning, shower, and stick to my normal routine, swap out the laundry, get dressed, ride to work.

Then ride home and wait to be picked up.

I will pack up my little mobile office with my MacBook and chargers and my Iphone and camera and if I have the time, whip up a little dinner to take on the road with me.

That’s it.

Summer time fun.

Road trip.

Lighting in a Bottle.

Here I come.

Burning Man Dry Run

Yeah, yeah.

I know.

It’s not Burning Man yet.

But, it’s always Burning Man.

Oh.

Look at that, insert, thingy here–dress, tutu, pot of lip balm, string of lights, Hello Kitty duct tape, alligator clip, Sigg Bottle, sticker, necklace, boy–all year round, I look about and see things I should have, take, get, to bring with me to Burning Man.

That being said.

I still travel really light.

All things considered.

I don’t have a lot of needs.

Although, I do have wants.

Lots of those.

Want more socks, tights, hair clips, elastics, glittery makeup, coconut body lotion, lip balm in various flavors (strawberry currently rocking my world, Rose Lip Balm, and Philosophy Berry Jam lip gloss), bandanas.

Those are my wants.

All of my needs–water, food, shelter, showers, ticket, transportation to and from the event, early arrival pass–are met.

Since I will be working the event I am taken care of by the family I nanny for.

Yes, if you haven’t followed my blog too closely.

I am a nanny at Burning Man.

I am a nanny in San Francisco who happens to have gotten to work for five different families that work for the Burning Man Organization.

I have nannied for two board members on a part time basis.

I have been a temporary fill in nanny for one of the main art curators and the manager of the art placement team, which includes, the building of the man.

I have nannied for the head of Black Rock Solar and his wife, who was the Communications Manager and wore so many other hats I was never quite sure what her title was, aside from the most amazing multi-tasker I may have ever met.

Currently I nanny for the head of the Human Resources department, the head of the Rangers, and the Placement Team Manager.

That makes it sound like I am juggling a lot of babies.

Truth be told I have three families I currently am employed with, one of whom I only work one day a week with, but yes, I was referred to them by the head of the ticketing team.

So, all things Burning Man.

All the time.

Which is part of the draw for working as a nanny with these families.

They don’t really look twice when I wear full on make up to work or glitter, or got a new pink phone.

Total aside!

I got my new Iphone yesterday, yes, it’s the 5C, so it’s got a colored back panel and yes, it is pink.

If they had it in glitter I would be buying it.

I will still probably get a case, and you betcha, it may glitter yet.

The families are artistic, creative, colorful, musical people.

ARTISTS.

As I write I just looked up to think a moment of what I wanted to write further and the first thing I see is an aerial photograph taken last year by Will Rogers that was gifted to me by one family, the next thing I see is me and the JuneBug rocking it out in sunglasses and tutus in her dad’s El Camino (the dusty blue one without a front windshield or doors), I look to my right and see a Burning Man Evolution poster from 2009 on my fridge as well as my favorite sticker from last year’s event: “Fuck You It’s Magic”.

I am surrounded.

This will be year number eight in a row.

I have a dear friend who wants me to go and not work it as a nanny and she’s right, at some point I should probably just go to go, but as things unfolded this year, I am working the event again as a nanny.

And I am pleased as punch to be going.

There’s always a moment when I think, how the hell am I going to go next year?

I mean, I’m going, but how’s it possibly going to work out?

Before last year’s event I was in Paris and had no clue how it would work out, that I would be moving back from Paris and yes, working as a nanny again for people who run the event.

I just knew.

I would be going.

The how and the why of it, beyond me.

Always is.

I was informed of my leave date today for the event.

My Thursday girl, who I get to hug and squeeze and squish tomorrow, is going to be heading off to pre-school this fall and as such her parents requested my leave date to Burning Man so they could schedule her care when I leave.

They asked me three weeks ago for the dates.

See, I am not the only one looking ahead.

I had a quick check in with my Burning Man mom this morning before she left for the office about dates.

And it was pretty much what I expected.

I will leave San Francisco the morning of the 16th of August.

That Friday, the 15th, I will finish out my work week at their house in Cole Valley, nanny the evening shift for them so that they may have a diner with friends and do last-minute prep.

Then, in the morning, we will drive out.

We will overnight in Reno and get anything that couldn’t be got in San Francisco, including, a trip to Whole Foods.

Aside.

The Whole Foods in Reno may be the best and biggest and most amazing Whole Foods I have ever seen in my life.  It is really huge and of course, at that time of year, fully stocked with all things Burning Man.

We have a loose date as the return.

Me, the mom, and my charge will leave a little earlier this year, the dad, Head of Rangers, will stay longer and tend to things the week after the event.

I will be there the week before the event, the week of, and half the week after.

Rather than the full week after like we did last year.

I have not negotiated my ask yet.

And I will need to ask for more than I received last year.

My cost of living expenses are high–last year I wasn’t paying rent when I went to the event, my friend in Oakland was letting me stay at his place free until I was back on my feet.

This year.

Well, there’s a lot more costs–I pay my own health insurance, a monthly scooter payment and I also have scooter insurance now, rent, utilities, my student loan (which was just coming out of forbearance last year) phone.

Ie a lot more going on.

I also have not had a raise in my rate since I first went as a nanny.

Time for a cost of living raise.

I am nervous to ask, but I have to, so I will.

Fear you will not wrangle away my life.

I can’t have it.

I have the weekend to think about it and approach the family and see what can be done.

I also need to know about after Burning Man, I may be looking for employment, I am assuming my eldest charge will be heading off to pre-school soon, he’s of age.

That is a worry I don’t feel like thinking about.

Rather.

I will contemplate my dry run on the Burning Man event by negotiating my camping for Lighting In a Bottle.

I leave for the festival on Friday at 4:30p.m.

I get done with work at 4p.m.

I will scoot back to my house as quick as possible and have all my things ready to go for pick up–borrowing my housemate’s four man tent, grabbed my sleeping bag, a plastic bin with some clothes, and whatever food I am taking.

I went to Whole Foods and got things that will work, thinking just like Burning Man–Tasty Bites anyone?

I got 3/4s of what I believe I will need to go to the festival packed and ready.

Tomorrow night I will put the last stuff together and be ready to leave come Friday when work is done.

Four day weekend here I come.

Burning Man dry run.

Music, art, friends, camping, dancing under the moon, making out, fingers crossed, socializing, living.

My good, good, good life.

It is awesome.

It is so Burning Man.

 

I’d Take A Bullet For You Kid

Or apparently a skateboard.

I got hit today in the park on the way to the playground.

It was overwhelming and uncomfortable and strange enough, told me everything I needed to know about where I am at in my life.

The level of compassion I had for the person who hit me.

The level of serenity I had around it as the day went on.

The fact that I took care of myself.

Now.

I only have any of this through the lens of perspective.

It hurt.

I was mad.

It really hurt.

I was mad.

Repeat.

I swore in front of my charges.

Which never happens and I felt almost as bad for that as I did for the pain in my ankle.

I got nailed from behind with a run a way skateboard–one of those gigantic ones that look like surfboards–this morning on my way to the children’s playground in Golden Gate Park.

There are a lot of homeless there.

A lot.

Sometimes I can handle them, most of the time I ignore them, I don’t care to interact and I don’t want to engage and some of them can get aggressive.

I got “nice job mom,” yesterday while I was texting next to the stroller from some snot nosed one of them.

A. I am not the mother.

B. Fuck off.

C. I was texting the mom in regards to the teething.

Oh good gravy the teething.

It is happening.

And the pooping and the changing of the outfits since they got jettisoned with the poop.

Some of them will ooh and ah over the boys, somehow having boys makes it more acceptable to approach or talk to me.

It almost never happens when I have my little girl Thursday.  Or any other girls I have nannied, sometimes an older woman, definitely tourists (I get stopped and asked for directions a lot too–“Where Haight Street?” You’re standing on it. “This Haight Street?” Yes, I know, it’s a bit of a disappointment to me at times too), younger homeless girls will also engage or try to interact.

It’s the guys that bug me though.

They tend to be a little leery and gross and want to apologize for swearing in front of me.

“It’s my birthday,” he said to me in drunken apology.

Yeah.

Dude.

It was your birthday yesterday too and last week, if I recall correctly.

Or they want to hit on me.

They are fairly certain I am not the mom, but I also don’t look like your typical nanny, so I might be the mom, but I am not wearing a ring, but.

Hey, listen, fuck wad.

You smell.

BAD.

You are smoking pilfered cigarettes from trash cans.

Your pants are falling off your ass and you’re not wearing underwear.

Your leisure tan might once have been attractive, but now it just tells me that you can’t afford sunblock, or a shower, or rent, or socks, why in the world would I want to engage with that?

Anyway.

I tend to be leery and cautious around them.

Especially the ones with dogs.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the dogs.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the kids.

Most of the time I give them a wide berth and practice looking intently off into the distance where the park, my destination, is.

Today I noticed a rather unwieldy pack of them and my nanny senses went off.

I corralled the older charge as he was walking alongside me pushing the stroller and I tried to interact with him quietly too, I don’t want to draw attention and I just want through.

They were all up and down the hill in front of Stanyan, across from the McDonald’s and the Whole Foods.

Sleeping in battered sleeping bags, chattering at each other, roaming around.

We made it past the gauntlet and headed down the hill toward the pond where my little guy wanted to stop and see the ducks.  We talked about ducks for a while and then headed through the tunnel, the Alvarez Lake Bridge, and toward the Koret Children’s Playground.

On the other side of the tunnel I could hear the group we had passed, probably six or seven, four or five dogs, a bunch, all carrying knapsacks, a girl with a purple and silver ribboned hula hoop, dread locks, smelling of pot and unemployment.

I pulled my charge closer, stooping to take his hand as the wave of bad smells enveloped me.

When I heard one of the girls commenting on how cute his socks were I lost what patience I had for being anywhere near them and stopped to pick him up.

I heard it before it hit.

“Watch out, watch what you’re doing!”

“Hey, she’s got kids, pay attention, idiot!”

WHAP!

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

Great big long board smack to the back of my right ankle.

Hard.

It broke the skin.

I am bleeding.

It hurts like a son of a bitch.

I am surrounded by these wayward dirt children and dogs and, oh jesus, fuck, it hurts, get away from me.

“Dude!  Apologize to her, what is wrong with you,” one of the boys hollered out.

He stumbled around apologetically, “sorry, sorry, what can I do, are you ok.”

I am actually writing what I think he said, not because I was in white-hot anger and a lot of pain, but because he was tweaked the fuck out of his mind I could barely understand what he was saying, but I knew he was high.

I realized it immediately.

Stepping back I said, “nothing, I am fine, just pay attention to your surroundings,” I was starting to shake a little from the surge of adrenalin I had going through me, and I quickly tucked the little boy I was holding into the stroller and waited for them to move off.

I shuddered.

Then started to cry.

My ankle was blazing.

I took a couple of steps towards the park.

NOPE.

Uh huh.

Stop.

I paused.

Fuck, you pussy, soldier on.

I turned my foot and that’s when I saw the blood on my sock.

Well, fuck, god damn, it broke the skin.

I peeled back the sock and yup, a couple of nasty gouges on my ankle.

I reached into the diaper bag, got a bag of snacks and peeped into the stroller.

WHAT?

The little one was napping.

A full hour a head of normal.

He was sound asleep.

The other little boy stared up at me.

I handed him the bag of Puffs.

“Enjoy, sweetie, we have to head back to the house,” I dropped the snacks into his lap and wheeled the stroller back around.

I had a few moments of wanting to report it.

But what could I even do?

How was I going to identify the guy.

Young.

Homeless.

High.

Dirty.

On a skateboard being pulled along by a large pit bull mix.

I just described half the homeless guys in the park.

He was high.

He should be arrested.

My dramatic self got on her high horse.

Oh please.

You are not that hurt, yeah, it sucks, I make my living using my body a lot, I am not behind a desk, I am not sitting in front of a computer, I have to move and I got scared about that, the physical implications of it.

I mean I was walking in the park minding my own business headed to the playground.

No one expects to sustain an injury doing that.

I limped back to the house, resolved only to clean it out and put a band-aid on it.

When I got there.

Wonders will never cease.

The older boy was asleep, hand in the bag of Puffs.

I almost cried out of relief.

I hobbled up the stairs, dumped my messenger bag, and went to the bathroom.

Then I did cry.

Sobbed really.

Just for a minute.

The dad popped out of his office and scared the crap out of me.

I hadn’t realized he was home.

I wiped my face, told him what happened, cleaned up my foot, put a little Arnica gel on it, two band aids, and went downstairs to have a cup of tea.

“Thanks for taking one for my kid,” the dad said.

Just doing my job.

Glad to be of service.

And grateful I am not a homeless kid in the park with a dog.

And that I can walk.

Really grateful that my charge didn’t get hit and neither little boy knew the difference.

That’s what I call being a professional.

Or a hard ass.

I am not sure which.

 

What’s Your Higher Purpose

Or fear.

Those are my topics.

I will go with the first, although, the more I thought, the less I knew and then I thought some more, maybe that’s the whole point.

Learning.

More and more.

Experiencing more and more.

Being achingly present as much of the time as possible, even when I would rather check out with Netflix, when is Orange is the New Black back?

Never mind.

I actually don’t need to know.

One thought was to be of service in my community by being a kick ass nanny.

I love my boys, even when they are boys and boy oh boy, were they ever today.

And I love my girls.

I love all the little monkeys I have been graced to work with.

“You’re really good with kids,” the mom said to me as she picked up her daughter from swim lessons, over twenty-three years ago when I was teaching Tiny Tot swim lessons and Mom and Tot.

“You should be a teacher,” she concluded.

In a way, that is a big part of my job.

I teach.

Patience.

Sharing.

Love.

Tolerance.

Kindness.

Generosity.

How to laugh, giggle, play, be silly, blow bubbles, communication of needs, I teach daily and without thought.

I also teach numbers and letters, colors, directions, manners, catch, fetch, sand castle digging, fort building, dancing, singing, hand eye co-ordination, sign language.

I am sure I am forgetting something in there.

I don’t have a degree in Education or Early Childhood Training, but I have a knack and I am not going to deny that.

The very act of getting down on the ground and hanging out with a child is not intuitive to all people, tons of adults have no clue how to interact with children.

I do.

That is definitely a higher purpose.

I mean, come on, taking care of children is a looked down upon profession yet, the most successful thing we can do as a society, is just that, take care of our children.

Even if there is not the kind of reward that comes with signing a book deal or making a movie or being a social networking maven.

Which I am good at as well.

That thought crossed my mind, I am good at connecting people.

I am a people person.

I meet people, I get there names, I talk,  smile, I engage.

I welcome.

It’s just something I do.

I suppose that has something to do with being genuine and that attracts people and I am open to new situations and trying new things, wherein, I meet more people.

I like connecting people to each other.

I like that I went to Burning Man and said, hey you and you, and yeah, you too, you need to go.

And they did.

Now, I am not the reason they went, but sharing my experiences with them helped that decision.

“He said I should get a hold of you about moving to Barcelona since you moved to Paris,” the message read.

“Go.”

I didn’t need to send anything else.

Go.

I went.

I did it.

You can to.

To inspire.

That is a higher purpose.

I have asked men on dates, jumped on trampolines, moved to Paris, danced in the dj booth of big name dj’s, I did the AidsLifeCycle ride, I got a black belt in Shaolin, I started a blog and keep writing it every day.

Inspire people to follow their heart.

I dyed my hair.

That is a big deal.

To be my authentic self.

There’s nothing wrong with colorful, insert clothing, tattoo, hair, here.

Be yourself.

Have fucking fun with it.

Wear a tutu to work.

Or your pajamas.

Stick flowers in your hair.

Get a pink jack-a-lope tattoo.

Laugh.

Have loud sex.

Kiss people.

Hug hard and long.

Dream.

Wear your heart on your sleeve and be you, because, no matter how similar we are, there’s only really one you.

Or me.

Perhaps my purpose is to help the still suffering.

To pass on my experience, strength, and hope.

To be happy, joyous, free.

That’s probably my biggest purpose.

And my most precious.

To save my life by helping someone else with similar issues is an amazing gift.

One that I never thought I wanted or needed or had a purpose for.

You want me to what?

Are you high?

OH.

Ok.

Let me try that.

Perhaps my higher purpose is to write.

But not write for accolades, honor, esteem, money.

Just to write for the act of being able to do it, the joy of it, the sound of my fingers flying over the keyboard, a song of life and meaning that means almost nothing to any one else, but me.

Or the feel of a good pen on good paper.

Maybe my higher purpose is to be happy.

Really.

Just that.

As happy as I can be.

Whatever that looks like, however that evolves and to love.

Yeah.

That’s what it is.

My higher purpose is to love.

I get to do that at work.

I love my charges.

That is something.

How many folks can say they love their bosses?

My bosses are fabulous, sometimes a bit moody, or pushy, or bossy, “PUFFFFFS! SNACKS!”

Then again, how many folks have bosses that blow them kisses, hug them, dance with them, and fall asleep in their arms, I get to love and be loved at my job.

That is a higher purpose indeed.

I suppose it’s really to live this life, my life, the only one I have got, to the best of my ability, as full and rich and pulsating with purpose as I can make it.

To get the fuck out the way of my life and let it happen.

To walk through whatever fear I have and live anyway.

If I narrow the field too small, if I find “the higher purpose” for me, perhaps I wouldn’t have so much fun looking and trying things out.

I am still learning.

And if I don’t know what exactly my higher purpose is, I am ok with that.

Besides.

I know I am on the right track.

And that is enough.

 

 

Pampered

Spoiled.

Taken care of.

Two cappuccino’s later.

New highlights.

New color.

Love.

Not going to show the world yet though, there are still two more sessions of hair goodness coming down the pike from Solid Gold Salon.

Today, subtle and not so subtle.

The subtle?

The lowlights in my roots that completely masked the few grey hairs I have.  Blessed with some awesome genetic markers on my genome, at the age of 41 years, I have perhaps five grey hairs on my head.  But, I don’t need to see them and they got covered up today.

The not so subtle?

More blonde.

Lots of blonde.

In fact, the colorist and I discussed pulling it up even further the next time we meet.  It’s not a traditional ombre, it’s what is called a bilayage, which is a much more subtle, “natural” if you will, way to color the hair so that I won’t have weirdo roots when it grows out.

That’s the thing for me.

I love going to the salon, but I don’t care to spend a lot of time on my own hair in the mornings.

I have more important things to do, eat, pray, make bed, write.

Then muss about with my hair, aside from throwing a flower dipped in glitter into it, I have no desire to spend time styling it.

So, going into the salon is a super huge treat and I have not had this much goodness in my hair in a long time.

It’s not a splurge per se, as the new colorist is getting her chops on my head, but I happily accept.

I know my friend is not hiring hacks at his business, I am grateful to allow them practice on my hair, and if it doesn’t turn out, they will fix it.

But man, it turned out.

No photos yet though.

We have decided to wait to do the big reveal.

I still have two more services to go.

Another round of color–pink and violet in a pastel tones–and more blonde.

Then the Brazilian Blow out.

After that photos.

I was relaxing this afternoon in the back yard with a book after having made up my food for the week–homemade pinto beans with olive oil and diced carrots, onions, garlic, sea salt, black pepper, brown rice, chicken with roasted white corn and garlic sautéed kale–just relaxing in the sun, reading my library book, drinking some tea, listening to the smash of the waves on the shore and realizing, for the umpteenth time, how lucky I am.

I was also grateful to not be in the wild crush of Bay to Breakers, which I had a small taste of taking the N-Judah down town at 2:30p.m. this afternoon.

I had thought that it would be done and over, but even heading back this evening at 7:45p.m. I see a gaggle of girls crossing the street, tipsy, in knee-high red athletic socks and red panties.

It’s like Burning Man.

Except obnoxious.

And with no art.

And running shoes.

Girls, please, put some pants on, the event is long done.

Go home.

Tomorrow, it’s Monday, that hang over’s gonna suck a bag bad.

Oh well.

I stayed out of the fray.

I heard a lot of it, garbled shouts and noise and ruckus, but didn’t see much of it, I stayed at home, cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, then reading in the back.

Perfect Sunday for me.

Add to that going to the hair salon and I feel like a god damn princess.

I forget that I am allowed to do things like this.

There is still a large part of me that thinks I need to suffer to get ahead or I won’t get ahead.

Note to self.

There is nowhere to go.

Here is just fine.

In fact, it’s pretty god damn sweet.

Why wait until I am retired to sit in the sun and read a book?

Why not let myself get pampered and have my hair done and revel in a scalp massage.

Note to any future boyfriend out there, want my number, give me a cranial massage.

I swear, it’s the best, a washing of the hair and a face and scalp massage.

Sigh.

It’s near sexual.

It’s over the top sensual.

One of the loveliest things.

I need to allow myself lovely things.

I saw a pretty dress in a shop today and I thought, I should go back and get that.

And I actually believe I will.

Not this month though.

My spending plan allotment for clothes got eaten up by my hair.

I hadn’t even thought about doing all this stuff with my hair, but then when it all happened the way it did, I was all in and booked the time.

Plus, well, you know, Burning Man is like in less than 100 days and I, uh, like to have some fun hair for the event.

Shit.

I like fun hair any old-time.

My friend who owns the salon was telling one of his clients about a hair style he had done for me, hot pink, faux hawk, shaved up the back, like shaved to the skin, and the client could not picture it.

Sometimes I can’t either.

But I remember well sitting in the kitchen of his place while he mixed his dyes and compared notes and directions.

He’s come a damn long way and it’s been really fun to see that too.

From sitting in his kitchen to sitting in his salon.

Grateful for that perspective too.

He’s seen me through some rough transitions.

From taking me out to a steak dinner the night I said good-bye to Shadrach at the hospital and then driving me over the bridge to Treasure Island to see the city sparkle and shine in the black water of the bar and letting me cry on his shoulder with the loss.

To letting me crash on his couch for two months when I lost my place in Nob Hill and transitioned to working at the bike shop.

To now, 9 years later, still close friends, giving each other shit, talking smack, coloring my hair, teaching me how to ride a vintage Vespa scooter, and being my friend, through it all.

Pink hair to purple to magenta to blue and back again.

I have amazing friends.

You.

My friends.

Are AMAZING.

Just know that.

I love you.

I do.