Just When I Thought I Had It All

Figured out.

SURPRISE.

Guess who gets to look for a new job?

Ugh.

That was not the conversation I thought we were going to have when the mom said, “we need to talk.”

Ulp.

“I’m fired.”

My first thought, followed quickly, by, “for what?”

Third thought was, “they are moving.”

Not one of those thoughts were true, which is a good thing to remember, my thoughts are often not true, so often are they not true I wonder why I even bother listening to them at all.

Note to self.

Stop listening to  your head.

The mom sat down and I sat down and we got down to the business of taking care of the sweet, sweet monkey, who got into pre-school.

And not just any school, but Katherine Michiel‘s, a fantastic pre-school that always, always, always has a waiting list.

The mom explained that they had put themselves on the list and had completely forgot about it, they weren’t expecting the phone call they got three days ago saying, come in for an interview.

It happened that fast.

They interviewed and of course my boy got the spot.

Of course they took it and of course they should have.

I so understood, in fact I was a proud, albeit sad, nanny, I know that I may have had a hand in some of that sweet, smart, out going personality.

Who knows how much, but perhaps just that bit that got him over the hump.

He’s an outgoing little boy and handsome and intuitive and smart and has great parents whose philosophy is very aligned with the school, plus it’s pretty much in their neighborhood, on the way to work for mom, and you know, if they hadn’t taken it, there were only 50 other children on the wait list happy to usurp his spot.

50.

Then the bomb really dropped.

He starts on September 2nd.

The day I leave Burning Man.

Which means that I only, as of tomorrow, have two more weeks with him.

I didn’t burst into tears, I withheld that until the mom left and my charge had been fed lunch and I had put him down for a nap, then I called a friend and burst into tears, but I did get leaky.

Two weeks to say good-bye.

“This is not goodbye,” his mama insisted, “you are a part of our family.”

I know this, but it is still nice to hear and I know that the 14th of August is not going to be the last time I see him, or probably take care of him, I am sure there will be other days.

I am also saying good-bye to my little girl Thursday two weeks from tomorrow.

It felt like a double blow, losing them both.

Ah.

My heart breaking.

I know that this is only God making it bigger so that I can hold more love.

I am not being abandoned.

The mom said the family wanted to cover my costs the week after I get back from the event, so the week of September 8th I will have financial coverage, and the mom of my little girl Thursday saw a social media message regarding my status and immediately sent me a message.

From Germany.

Where she is at a teaching conference.

She could use a little coverage for her daughter who will be transitioning half days into pre-school for that week, and perhaps some things here and there.

So.

I have the next six weeks taken care of.

I have paid my rent for August.

I have food in my fridge.

I have clothes on my back.

I have socks in my drawer.

Go read last night’s blog if that made no sense.

I am done with my Burning Man prep.

I am alright.

Yeah, I suppose I could freak out, when is there going to be time to look for a job when I have a full-time job right now with extra hours every week until I leave for Burning Man, besides taking care of and covering all my other commitments, which are just as important as the work, as they enable me to do the work, and oh, yeah, get my stuff organized, and over to the house to take to the event.

Yeah.

Not so certain that right now is the best time to be looking for work.

But I opened up Craigslist to scroll for a few minutes and when I got nauseous looking at job listings, I just got off.

I have had so little success with Craigslist, I do better word of mouth and I have a huge network, and a lot of great references, I will be fine.

I did ask for a letter and she said, you write it and I will add in more superlative adjectives than you can shake a stick at.

I have great references, I have great skills, I have deep, abiding faith.

I have not been dropped on my ass.

I am not going to be now.

In fact, fuck this, I am excited.

Yes.

God cleared the slate, there is something amazing coming down the pipeline.

I can’t see it, I am in the dark hallway again, but I don’t feel like I am stumbling around hitting my head on walls, I am just taking sure, quiet steps forward, toward the open door.

I don’t even know if it’s going to be a nanny job.

I got peeped about a teaching assistant position that a friend knew of, but the pay was too low.

I know what I am worth and I am not going to go backwards.

It could be anything.

“You’re going to be taken care of,” my friend said tonight as she drove me home into the fog and the chilly late July air, “it’s going to come to you at Burning Man, just wait and see, you’re going to be just fine.”

“And you can always sleep on my couch if you need it,” she smiled.

I thanked her.

“I mean it.”

Good to know.

But I don’t believe I will have to.

My future is unfolding and though it is totally unexpected, I am sure, certain, complete in my faith that I will be held and the next thing is better, brighter, and more me than this is.

And that must mean it is spectacular.

I am ready.

Please, remove the fear.

Direct my attention to what you would have me to be.

Now more than ever.

I await my directions.

With a full and thankful heart.

This is going to be amazing.

Just wait and see.

Boy, You Sure Are Serious

About this Burning Man thing.

My friend leaned into my last night, gently joshing me about my apparent obsession with the event.

His words floated back to me as I re-arranged and sorted my sock drawer.

No, I am not on methamphetamines.

I dusted my book shelves when that happened.

Ahem.

Anyway, I bought two more pairs of socks today to round out my collection, I sorted them into various colors and striations–hearts (like polka dots, but hearts), polka dots (black and white, green, yellow, orange, on a white field, yellow and pink on a pink field, orange, pink, and yellow on white field), argyle, stripes (grape and lilac, Neapolitan pink, chocolate and vanilla, pink and brown Hello Kitty, forest green and light green, purple and navy, navy and black, black and white), “plain” colored socks, all either knee-high or thigh high.

Twenty two pairs all total.

I am out there 19 days.

You need a few extra pairs, because sometimes you want a fresh pair after a shower.

There may be nothing grosser than putting on old dirty playa socks after a shower.

I have done it once I never want to repeat the experiment.

So, socks are set.

And since I was in the bureau I did a quick inventory on my tights and leggings, which I found to be a little lacking, but not completely bereft of hope: two pairs basic black leggings, 1 pair red velvet leggings, 1 pair navy blue with tiny white polka dots, 1 pair pink argyle, 1 pair solid hot pink with lace ankles, one pair nude with black lace flowers, one pair nude with black hearts up the back seam, one pair sheer black thighs highs with pink ribbon laces up the back and thick black lace tops, one pair hot pink fishnets, one pair rainbow fishnets, one pair neon green leggings, one pair black leggings with silver glitter, one pair purple tights with glitter.

Total tights and leggings: 15.

I could use a few more pairs of tights/leggings.

I like to pair the leggings with a crazy set of socks or thigh highs and then wear hipster underwear (no none of my underpants have tiny mustaches on them or ironic coffee pour over references or Nietzsche quotations or Beach House lyrics) and a tank top.

These wild combinations with my boots and my utility belt and I am ready to rock the playa nanny gig.

I also inventoried my under ware.

When was the last time you hears anyone say that?

When was the last time I have ever said that.

“What did you do last night?”

“I inventoried my panty drawer, you?”

Baha.

The panty inventory too a little shy of my goal number: 15 pairs, ranging from solid black to plaid in neon purple and pink, hip hugger, lacy stripes, neon pinks, polka dots, tiny ribbons.

My boss has the best underwear ever–days of the week.

She literally has three sets and just uses a fresh pair each day of the week she’s there.

Well, she’s covered.

I, however, find myself a few short.

Plus, again, like the socks, there will be a time when I shower and I won’t want to put on the same pair of panties, blech!

I will want a fresh pair.

So, 19 days on playa,  I will shoot for 25 pairs of panties.

I am 6 pairs short.

That might be overdoing it a little bit, but better an extra pair of underwear than not enough.

True that.

I have plenty of tank tops and slip dresses and I am going to bring my bibs and my tutu, because why not.

I have one small box completely packed–a hat box, with a couple of hats, some fascinators, my goggles, and my utility belt with the pink Super Girl button on it.

Every good nanny needs a utility belt.

I ran across an old photo from John Curley that he took of the Junebug and I at camp and it is an awesome juxtaposition of charge and nanny.

Juni is looking wistful, forlorn, slightly tired, off into the golden hour descending dusk, and I, just shot from the waist down, am resplendent in my tights, striped orange and brown and cream, a pair of hipster underpants in black with white polka dots and a black tank top, utility belt with water bottle hanging from it, and in one hand I have J’s star wand and in the other her tiara, and I also have a pair of fairy wings that she dumped on me hanging off the back of my shoulders.

Voila!

Playa nanny.

My boss today stopped me mid conversation to ask if I was getting the time I needed to take care of all my own Burning Man preparations.

“I love having you this extra time,” in regards to me helping her out on Fridays for the last few weeks, and again this Friday, “but I realized, that maybe you need some time to get ready, how are your preparations coming?”

I smiled.

I have been whittling away at it for weeks.

A tiny bit here.

A teeny bit there.

So it would not overwhelm me, neither time wise or financially.

A lot of the stuff, socks included, I already have from previous burns, this will make number 8 for me (actually I am really impressed when I went through my tights, the black ones with glitter have been to five burns, unheard of, the same with a couple of pairs of the knee highs which I would never wear except out there)–my utility belt, my crinoline, my electric teapot, makeup, hair stuff, jewelry.

However, there are things that I have to always have.

Baby wipes.

I have bought one pack every once in a while for the past month and now have four packs ready to go.

One week it’s a lip balm.

Another week it was hand salve.

This week I got another container of sunblock.

A few days ago, it was cotton swabs and hair elastics.

“Oh, I have been getting stuff for a bit now,” I told my boss, “I am pretty much ready.”

And I am.

I could go with what I have and not break a sweat, I have gone with far less in the past and got by just fine.

There is a point to when the stuff getting has to stop and the being ready is just fine.

I pick up my bicycle this week from American Cyclery and that’s about all she wrote.

Well, aside from a few more pairs of underpants.

A girl can’t have too many of those.

Ice, Ice Baby

And not the diamonds.

No.

Just the ice.

Actually, let me upgrade.

Ice, ice, peas.

Peas.

Tanks.

Fuck me man.

I am over this.

I am over it and than some.

I am just tired, is what it is.  Worn out.  Sacked out.  Beat down.

And it’s just Monday.

Eek.

I will get through, I am sure I will, but I was tired so quickly today and my ankle was much sorer than I thought it would be, is that grammatically correct, sorer?

What ever it is, it, said ankle was really tender today and all the muscles around it were in protest too, like hey, ankle, snap out of it, we be tired of carrying the brunt of the weight, get on some support.

By the end of the day I just felt like it had all been sucked right out.

And it was a lovely day with the boys, they were sweet as pie, it was great to see them, they were super lovey and I got lots of hugs and even a little down time with naps.

Not as much as I could have used, but I snatched thirty minutes of down time with a moment to put up the foot and chill.

I began to wonder if I was coming down with something, my energy just way low.

And a friend shared his experience around a broken leg and it was an aha moment for me.

He said that it was almost harder when it started to heal because he realized how weak he had become.

That is what I feel like, weak.

And I have felt weak and vulnerable for weeks now, and it just makes me tired.  I have been showing up for work and showing up for commitments and trying to go, go, go, and not like my normal pace, but just a little bit, and I can’t seem to muster it.

I know this will pass and in that there is the relief.

Today just felt interminable.

But it is a feeling and they pass, just like the days pass, time passes, the world moves on and before I can blink I will be onto something else, some other adventure to ruminate on, some other part of myself or my body or being to “improve” something to learn and grow around.

Part of the exhaustion, I must admit, seemed mental too.

I have been thinking about a story piece and working on it and the performance is tomorrow and I just could not wrap my head around practicing more for it, writing more on it, then going and doing it tomorrow after I got done with work, commuting on more public transportation down to the Mission/SOMA border, being there, then commuting back to the beach.

I really wanted to cry when I thought about it.

I had the piece on my mind all day long and wrote and rewrote it in my head and thought about re-visiting old blogs to get inspiration and it all just seemed like too much work.

I might be trying to go to fast here, the intuitive thought, perhaps next month, perhaps not tomorrow.

And.

Maybe just pause and wait until tomorrow and see how you feel.

Maybe I will feel amazing and excited and want to go perform and even if it’s just to be bad, since I have not had a lot of practice telling it, just mostly the writing of it, because bad is better than not at all.

I kept admonishing myself, just show up, that’s half the battle.

That’s where most of the work is for me.

Just showing up.

Sitting down in front of my laptop and opening up the blog page and just letting the words roll down the page like alphabet rain.

I know that part of this too is that I don’t want to disappoint someone who has made the suggestion to me to go and have this experience.  I take all her suggestions, or almost all, I am realizing, if there’s one or two I haven’t taken it’s rare.

This would be me not taking the suggestion, show up and be horrible and have fun with it.

I took the other suggestions she gave me over the weekend about getting a little notebook to jot down creative ideas, I usually carry something with me anyhow, but I picked up a special little guy just for more writing down of the stuffs.

I like the idea of being bad, well, sort of, I really want to show up and be perfect, but I know that’s not possible and the stress of being perfect is not worth the effort, I am too tired for it.

I like the idea of being of service.

“That’s what creatives are, they are being of service by putting their art into the world,” she told me Saturday.  “You are of service to the audience, it’s not about you.  What can you bring to the performance?”

My tired ass self.

I did give her a call today after I got done with work and just expressed how I was struggling with it, not so much the writing, I got that down, at least the bones and musculature, it needs a little fleshing out, but I could extemporarize it quite well, I believe; but the idea of just getting there.

That’s what was exhausting.

And it made me long for my bicycle and that bums me out, not being on my bike, really just bums me the fuck out.

I miss it so bad.

I miss the feeling of being free on the road and the wind on my face and my legs moving underneath me without pain, just moving, like pistons, clocking the distance down Lincoln or through the park.

Exercise is important to me too because it helps stave off that low-level depression that can sneak up on me when I am not as active and that could be some of this too, tiny bit of depression, woven in with a smidgen of self-pity, some physical discomfort and pain, and voila.

Perfect cocktail of “tired the fuck out.”

I will wait for tomorrow to make my final verdict.

Tomorrow is another day.

Tonight is for tea and rest.

And iced peas.

Silver Lining

“Look on the sunny side of life,” Mister Chet Baker crooned as I grumped back into my studio this afternoon.

I really wasn’t interested in looking on the sunny side of life or seeing the silver lining, but it sure was funny timing, that song coming on just as I was battling the self-pity tears.

I never even got to get a good self-pity party on, hadn’t even donned my little hat with the upside down frowning faces in yellow and the sad pom-pom sitting askew on the pointed tip.

Nope.

I pretty much got perspective immediately.

And information that I was grateful for.

Though upset when I first had gotten it.

I just wanted to go to the grocery store.

Not the one that is a block and a half away from my house either, the one that is four blocks away from the house.

I had decided this morning after getting up and feeling pretty good with my ankle, did the alphabet in my bed with my toes (this is a rehabilitation exercise, you’re supposed to imagine that you are holding a pencil in between your toes and write the alphabet with it-helps to work the ankle and rebuild the muscle) and stretched and it felt good.

Good enough to seriously entertain riding my bicycle.

I was nervous about it, I realized after eating breakfast and having coffee while I was writing my morning pages, but I figured, you know, time to get back on the bike, and four blocks was going to be easy.

I turned over the load of laundry in the dryer and proceeded to stare with longing at my bike.

Give it a shot.

You can do this.

I feel good.

I feel strong.

I got this.

I feel nervous and maybe I don’t got this but maybe I am going to try anyhow.

My bicycle needed a touch of maintenance, I haven’t ridden her since the night of the accident, June 5th, so seven and a half weeks, no bicycle riding for me, that is a length of time.

I haven’t gone that long without being in the saddle since I started riding in the city eight years ago.

I have missed my sparkling speedy whip, I had fantasies about riding it to work this week, I am really over MUNI, but I thought, start slow, go to the market at Noriega and 46th and see how you feel, if you feel ok, then maybe a ride along the Great Highway.

All flat, all easy, nothing that I would have thought twice about riding in the past.

I went to my bike, “hello friend, I’ve missed you,” I patted the saddle and lifted my two u-locks off the handle bars and pulled her away from the wall.

Both tires needed air, I pumped them up and felt scared again, maybe this is too soon.

Maybe I should just forget this.

Maybe I should just chill out and stick my foot on the pedal and shut it.

I swung my right leg over and slipped my foot into the Hold Fast strap (foot retention device on the pedal similar to a cage, but adjustable and much cooler looking, if I do say so), I adjusted it to fit my Saucony.

I was uncomfortable with how my foot felt in my shoe and how it fit in the Hold Fast, so I adjusted it a little and fantasized about wearing my Converse, which I know better, but I am just going for a little bike ride.

I could hear the story in my head as I told the doctor in the ER.

Ok.

So, no Converse, just stay with your good shoe, and open up the strap.

Hmm.

Now.

On to the left foot, the injured foot.

I back pedaled, took my right foot out of the Hold Fast strap and set it down, steadying myself, I placed my left foot into the strap on the pedal.

I felt wildly unbalanced.

I never set down my right foot when I am at a stop.

I am left footed.

Right handed, but left footed, don’t ask me why, but I kick better from my left foot, and I have always planted my left foot down on the pavement when on my bicycle and at a stop.

I sighed, it feels weird, but I can go slow and maybe I will just turn the pedal over and not wear the strap at all.

I got off the bike and went inside to grab my messenger bag.

I said a prayer and went to it.

I took my bike out into the world.

I opened the garage door and swung my leg over the top bar.

I put my right foot in the strap, squared my shoulders, looked for traffic, and pushed off.

I put my left foot on the top of the pedal and pushed down.

PAIN.

Oh ouch.

I pedaled one more revolution.

More pain.

Ok.

Stop.

I had gone five feet.

I got off my bicycle and walked it back to the garage.

Ok, God, I got it.

I am not supposed to be on my bicycle.

Ugh.

My heart hurt, I really wanted my freedom, I really wanted my wheels underneath me, I really wanted to go grocery shopping at Noriega Produce Market.

I shut the bike up in the garage and went inside to take a minute to collect myself.

I turned on the stereo cube and the song that randomly comes on, Chet Baker, there’s a silver lining, just look on the sunny side of life.

I couldn’t help to break a chagrined smile.

Really?

Ok.

I can do that.

I am not on crutches.

I am not hobbling about in a walking boot.

I can walk to Other Avenues, it’s just a block and a half away.

I have money to buy groceries.

I paid rent for August already.

I have a job to go to tomorrow.

I turned off the stereo, walked outside and headed to the closer market.

I turned the corner from 46th to Judah and saw a man in a motorized wheelchair climb up the little hill between 46th and 45th.

Ok.

I get it.

There’s nothing wrong.

And I will get back on my bicycle.

Just not this week.

And until then.

I am able to walk and I get to ride MUNI and I get to go to work.

Silver lining.

Another way of saying perspective.

I got mine today.

I See You

Or I would like to see you.

Without the aid of my glasses.

I have decided that I am all ready for Burning Man–wet wipes, Sigg water bottle, Mason jar with handle and sealed top with straw in extra-large size, socks, boots, homemade (like I made it) fascinators, hand salve (for gifting hand rubs, I give a good one, come look me up), sunblock, coconut body lotion, crinoline in my playa box, playa cruiser (American Cyclery has her and she should be ready this week for pick up), makeup, tank tops, bras, underpants, tights, fuzzy pink sweater for cold nights, bandanas, utility belt read, goggles ready–I mean, I really got it all.

If you don’t see food, water, the ticket to the event itself, transportation to and from, it’s because, thankfully, those things are a part of my ask for working the event.

But what I have flirted with before and think I am going to do after just checking a few sites online in a quick search, is contact lenses.

I wear glasses.

My sight is not too bad.

The glasses are because, in the parlance of the ophthalmologist, “you’re getting old.”

Thanks man.

I had laser surgery on my eyes back in 2002.

I had been legally blind and I went to having perfect 20/20 vision in both eyes within a matter of minutes.

In fact, they told me later that one of my eyes may have been corrected to better than 20/20.

The world lit up.

I was blown away by how clear and concise everything was.

When I was first diagnosed with needing glasses I was in the 5th grade.  I had needed them before, absolutely know it, I had problems seeing what was on the chalk board in school, so I always sat up front.

I think most of my classmates thought I was a brown noser, teacher’s pet, by the time I was in third grade.

Not so much.

Although I often did get along quite well with my teachers.

It was because I couldn’t see what was on the board.

I did not know that this was not normal.

I faked the eye exam in elementary school.

I never once had a school nurse figure it out, until after I was in the fifth grade.

It should have gotten red flagged when I was in fourth grade, but it slipped by my teacher, who couldn’t understand at the time what was happening to me.

I had failed my team at a math competition at a school tournament in a neighboring district.  I couldn’t read the questions, they weren’t on paper in front of my face, where I could peer down at them, my nose literally to the paper (my nose was always in a book–buried, not because I was trying to escape, although there is truth to that as well, but because I couldn’t see the letters on the page if held at a normal distance), no, those questions were on overheads on screens in a gym auditorium.

I cried the entire time in frustration, little leaky tears of anger.

I remember writing down the answer to the questions as follows: “I can’t see the questions on the board.”

No one thought to ask me if that was true.

I just got back a test with all red marks on it.

I lost the meet for my team because I got them all wrong.

Yeesh.

No wonder I am not a fan of math.

Too much pressure.

My mom tells the story that I was found out when I got hit by a car on my bicycle as I was crossing through an intersection, I said, to explain the car hitting me, that I hadn’t seen it coming.

There is some truth to that, I thought it was making a turn and it was not.

I overestimated how fast it was going and the direction and in a way, sure, I didn’t see it coming.

This did not prompt the eye exam.

My mom did not hurry out and send me to the eye doctor.

Although I won’t soon forget my mom running, bare foot, in grey sweatpants and a green short sleeve t-shirt, her arms pumping as she sprinted down the sidewalk, to me in the cross walk to make sure I was ok.

I don’t think I had a scratch and was horribly embarrassed and thought the whole thing my fault but was afraid to say anything.

No, it was a smart new nurse at Lake View Elementary school that caught me in a lie about the exam.

She was administering the standard test and I don’t know what it was or why, but I hadn’t memorized it fast enough.

I would listen to the answers of the children in front of me while the bored nurse pointed out the letters descending on the eye chart and then wave through the next child.

This nurse saw me stumble or pause, or I don’t know, maybe she figured out I was repeating back verbatim what I had just heard.

Whatever the case, she stopped the exam and pulled out a new card, one I had never seen before, literally and figuratively, and I failed with shining colors.

She immediately contacted my family and told my mom I had to go get an eye exam immediately.

I don’t remember much except the dialating  of my eyes feeling really weird.

I also remember the doctor telling me I was going to get to wear glasses.

The other thing I remember, ugh, my soon to be stepfather helping to pick out the frames, the cheapest ones they had, big oversized plastic clear frames with bits of colored confetti floating in the stems.

Gross.

But I was so happy to see.

I was amazed.

I had been missing so much!

I vowed when I was old enough and had enough money I would get contacts.

And I did, sophomore year of high school.

I never looked back, never wore my glasses again, except right in the morning to go to the bathroom and put in my contacts and last thing at night when I took out my contacts.

Then the laser surgery when I was 29.

Then when I was 39 I had to get glasses.

It was just after Burning Man and I had no idea what I had been missing.

But I was missing a bit, and last year was my first year on playa wearing regular glasses.

Regular glasses sort of suck, is the experience I had.

They get dusty and sweaty and smeary.

So, perhaps there is one more thing I can do before I head out.

Grab a quick eye exam, get a few weeks worth of disposable contacts and the only glasses I will need for the playa will be sunglasses.

I like to be seen.

But I also like to see.

And you know, there’s usually some good stuff to see out there in Black Rock City.

I’ll be there in three weeks.

Can’t wait to see you there!

Made It

Although a few times in the early part of the evening after hiking around Masonic Ave, I didn’t think I was going to.

The ankle was a talking and the walking was going slower and slower.

I ran into a concerned friend at the intersection of Waller and Masonic, “are you ok, do you need a ride?”

So sweet.

“I just watched you cross the street and you look like you are having trouble,” he continued when I shook off the offer.

“I am meeting some one, I will be ok, it just snuck up on me.”

And it had, although snuck, perhaps is not the correct word, I could feel it coming around 2:30 p.m. when I was getting tired and the thought of taking the boys to music class was now no longer a fun idea, but a chore.

A chore compounded by the fact that one of the boys tossed his brand new straw fedora hat overboard.

I had no idea where it was and had to curtail my trip through the Pan Handle Park to turn back around and find it.

Brand new hat.

Gone.

And the wind had started to pick up.

I got mad.

I began envisioning the bowing and scraping I was going to have to do and the hat replacement.  He’s a boisterous one and he doesn’t always like to wear the hats, they often go sailing.  I usually retrieve them pretty quick, but I wasn’t on my game and didn’t notice.

To cut myself a tiny modicum of slack, the double wide stroller is hard to see around and there are quite a few times that things get tossed and I have that prickling feeling that something went overboard.

I have lost one hat to this and the mom was cool, then another and I felt bad about it and replaced it out of my own pocket and I just about threw my own tantrum when I realized that here it was another day of having to replace a hat and boy, I don’t freaking feel like it.

I turned the stroller around and began the walk back.

I am still stunned that I found it.

I realized that the hat was gone when we had reached the playground, it had been tossed over five blocks back.  I found it at Cole and Page.

Thank God.

It really was not a big deal, but it indicated to me I was a little off my game.

I was tired.

I had not felt tired going into work.

In fact, I felt exhilarated, alive, awake and ready to take on the day.

I had a good a night and despite not wanting to stay up late, stay up late I did, but it was worth it and it was awful nice to be held.

I love sex.

Who doesn’t?

But a good cuddle after, being tightly held, lying with someone and falling asleep on them, oof, now that is satisfying.

I have had some amazing lovers, but I have not always had amazing sleep over companions.  It is beyond yummy to have both and the latter feels like an additional, unexpected gift to be given.

“I can go, you know, if you need to get some undisturbed sleep,” he said after.

“No, stay, I want you to stay,” I said and he pulled me in, tucked me under his chin and held me tight, I really fell asleep, lights still on, candles still lit.

Lights still on.

I haven’t mentioned that, but perhaps I should.

I love being in a place with my body and myself as a sexual person where I am ok with the lights on.

I am flawed, believe you me, this body has seen some things and done some things and some of the things that I have done to my body have not been kind.

I strive to be as nice to this beautiful body I have been given to walk around in as much as I can.  And I am ok having sex with the lights on.

At least with this partner.

I also like that when I told him when I was getting up and I waffled for a minute not wanting to admit that part of my early rising was so that I could do some morning reading and prayer and writing.

“I could skip the writing,” I said looking at the 6:30 a.m. alarm I was setting, I paused thinking, but I don’t want to.

He interrupted my thought before I could get it fully articulated, “no, don’t skip your morning routine, do your writing.”

And I did.

I woke up at 6:29 a.m.

One minute before the alarm was to sound, took a hot quick shower, dressed, made breakfast, got my hair dried and made coffee.

I did my bend down to the knee and get right with God.

And it was fucking awesome.

Yes, I said God and prayer and sex all in the same blog.

Get over it.

Then I had my oatmeal with banana and raw cocoa and cinnamon, nutmeg, and sea salt and fresh strawberries from the Farmers Market at Stanyan and Waller, drank a big cup of Stumptown Holler Mountain, and had a half hour to write.

Of course I was jazzed when I showed up at work.

But the jazziness wore off and I was tired and cranky and the ankle sore.

I made it, though.

I had to slow down.

But I made it.

I took it easy in music class and the room was hot, so the energy level was low for the boys and I wasn’t stressed and then it was time to go and it was ok, alright, I am almost through the day, through the week, and yes, I didn’t get as much sleep as I wanted, but I did get a lot of insight and a little knookie, and some good catch up time with a darling lady shortly thereafter the hobble along Masonic Avenue.

“Next time we get together, let’s make it a day I can sleep in the next ok?” I said with a smile this morning as he awoke and dressed and I finished up my three pages long hand.

Always a negotiation.

This human thing.

Being intimate is not the act itself, but how I am before and after.

Always the learning.

Always.

Which is better, in case you were wondering.

With overnight snuggling.

Come On Girl

Get your sexy on.

Honestly.

All I really want to get on right now is some tea.

Sigh.

End of week school night slumber party may not have been so well advised, but this was it, tonight, or nada.

I have to say eight hours into a ten-hour day I was pretty much contemplating cancelling, I have a share tomorrow when I normally have a single and it will not be a late start to my day, but my normal 8:45 a.m. start.

Which means a 6:30 a.m. get up time.

Then I got a text asking if we were still on tonight and well, my body responded and said, shut up brain, all a tingle and a glow, “yes!”

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, please.

And so, yes, we are on.

Of course when I got home just minutes ago I was back to the, I want to cancel mode, I don’t feel sexy, I feel like a grungy nanny who has been doing grungy nanny work all day long.

I feel like someone who worked a ten-hour day and spent an additional two hours of my day on MUNI.

First the N-Judah to the 24 to work, then the 24 up to the Castro from the NOPA after my nanny share was over, with a solo monkey, who’s folks were going to be late with work, so I ferried him home on the bus.

Then eventually, after dinner time, bath time, snuggle time, and song time, I left to get back on the 24 to the N-Judah to home.

Sigh.

I get home and the first thing I do is disrobe.

I mean.

I don’t know what it is, along with putting up my hair (which is down, since I have a date), I strip down and climb into my yoga pants and a night-shirt.

Then I make tea, thinking about what I am going to blog, and I ice my ankle down.

Which, thank god, was not so bad today, not sure what it was, I did take it easy today and only went to Alamo Square park with the charges and I rested while they were napping.

I even got in a little nap snack, maybe twenty minutes or so, to rest up.

I am starting to feel my mojo come back, I think I was just frustrated too, with the later start to the date than we had previously discussed.

Things happen and when I got the text with the eta it was later than we had discussed.

I wanted to throw a temper tantrum.

Not sexy.

Ugh.

What am I going to do?

I bemoan my fate.

Ok.

Perhaps I am a little dramatic, I mean, really, I am complaining because my lover is going to be taking a little extra time to do something for himself that will probably make our experience better anyhow, so, chill ladybug.

Chill.

I also realized that I was uncomfortable with being dressed when I got home, I like to relax, I want to put my feet up, at least one of them anyway, I want to drink my tea and change into my comfy clothes.

So I did.

Sexy is not what you wear, or what I wear, it’s how I feel.

And if I feel grumpy and frumpy and nanniefied, I won’t be putting out a sexy vibe even in my cute outfit which I picked out this morning specifically because I figured it could weather a ten-hour nanny shift and still bear a resemblance to be sexy.

Besides, the man has seen me naked for Pete’s sake.

I don’t think he’s paying much attention to what I am wearing.

Hell, the first time I was in a walking boot and hobbling around on crutches, I already look sexier than that.

And you know, I am feeling it now.

I stopped my blogging, I striped out of the work clothes, spritzed a little perfume on myself, mussed up the hair, took it down, and slid into some Hello Kitty pajama pants and my new  Day of the Dead night-shirt.

I felt better immediately.

And no surprise, much sexier.

The other thing that is sexy, is taking care of myself.

Which means, having my night-time snack, making myself a little tea (a balance for sure, no one wants to feel overfull when imminent coitus is about to occur, nor do I want to get out of bed fifteen times to pee), writing my blog and taking care of my things.

I have my alarm set.

I have my lunch and dinner set out for tomorrow.

I wrote out a check for Healthy San Francisco and balanced my check book.

I tidied up, not that there’s much to tidy, I am a pretty neat person, and now that my ducks are in a row and my blog near writ and my pajamas on (I did concede to still wearing my bra, I just don’t know that I can meet a lover at the door without one on, that feels too casual, which is again, a hoot, I don’t think he cares, but I do.  And I like the slowing down a bra provides and it’s not the bra I wore to work, it’s hot pink, matches the Hello Kitty pants, heh) I feel better and I know that as soon as he texts.

“I’m here”

I will get a jolt.

And as soon as he kisses me.

I will forget the world, the work, the MUNI, the unsexy and I will unspool and unwind in the best relaxation anyone could ask for, happily provided by the letter “O” and the number “More.”

Tomorrow will take care of itself and I will get through the day just fine.

Probably with a happy smile on my face for most of it.

Who’s sexy now?

All Systems Go

Well, it’s on.

I got the heads up from my friend as I was editing my blog last night; the room-mate said cool, and he gave me the green light.

I think the exact words were, “book it bitch.”

Ah.

Friends.

I booked it.

Flying out of SFO to JFK on Thursday, September 4th at 4:37 p.m. returning JFK to SFO on Sunday, the 7th at 8:10 a.m.

We already have my first day pretty mapped out.

We’ll get up Friday morning, late morning I am supposing since my flight arrives at JFK at 1 a.m., walk to Manhattan and grab coffee and breakfast and head to the High Line, then Central Park, then the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

And that will take up most of the day.

Interspersed with food, hanging out, smack talking, and lots and lots of walking.

He asked how my ankle is and I don’t want to say it sucks, it hurts, it’s stiff, how can it still hurt this much, I don’t care for the whining, but by the end of today I was so ready to take off my shoe and throw down with some iced peas, I was near to tears.

I was also taken aback at how swollen it is again.

Seriously?

Come on.

Ugh.

I’m resting, I am going slow, I am taking it easy, but I am still working and going up and down steps and pushing a double stroller and it just takes time, so six more weeks of healing and I should be able to handle the mean streets of Manhattan.

I just got goosebumps saying that.

I do not know why it has taken me this long to do it, I suppose fear, but I’m ready and it seems all ready for me.

I have a dear friend who is going out there and will be a mere twenty-minute walk from where I am staying in Brooklyn, what are the odds?

Plus, a darling friend who I have known for 9 1/2 years, who lives there, but I have not seen much of outside of social media channels and a quick text or three around the same time each January.

We sort of share a special month anniversary you could say.

First thing out of his “mouth” when I texted that I was coming was, “do you need a place to stay?”

I mean, I always knew he probably meant that when he offered it to me the last time I saw him in San Francisco, he was with a gallery show, he’s making it as an artist, a fact that used to arouse jealousy and now just induces awe, go man go, make art and get your money!

He had said, we have a spare room, you can stay, you don’t have to pay anything, I’ll even show you around.

But I was afraid and never took him up on the offer.

Fear.

Such a silly emotion.

Necessary, I know, but often, in my case, overblown.

I also had a mad, mad, mad crush on him for the first year or so that he and I ran around the same circles, perhaps some of that still was in the mix.

None the less, thrilled to hear that he too is not that far away from where I will be staying and he offered to accompany me into Union Square, of all places, Saturday afternoon for a little get right with God.

I love that where ever I go, I am taken care of.

We’ll grab coffee before hand and catch up.

That’s all the planning I have.

My friend whom I am staying with said figure out what you want to do now since I am just coming in for such a short visit.

Aside from going to Central Park, seeing the High Line, and going to the Met, I couldn’t think of a lot else, just being in the city will be it for me, to get overwhelmed by it, absorbed by it, to see it, touch it, be in it.

I have a hankering to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge and to see the Williamsburg bridge, get my Soul Coughing reference on, I want to see the skyline at night, I don’t have much desire to shop (I’ll do what I always do, I’ll get a magnet from the museum store and a postcard and send the postcard to myself and I will get myself a cheap pair of earrings.  I almost always lose them, but while I have them, they will remind me every time of the experience.  To this day when I put on my little pink heart-shaped earrings I am reminded of Paris, of the brocante, flea market, of Square D’Anvers, of the foot of Sacre Couer.) but I will grab a few souvenirs.

I will act like I don’t care that I look like a tourist and I will take photographs with my camera.  I am will travel light, no reason to pack a huge bag or even my roll on.

I am going to go with two changes of clothes, a pair of Saucony’s, I’ll be walking and my ankle is not ready for sandals yet, damn it, my laptop, my camera, my phone, and a notebook.

Perhaps that is one other thing that I will get myself in New York–a notebook.  I do like having a notebook from the place I was visiting.

I have little journals, cloth bound, from Rome, I have numerous, at least seven, journals from Paris–all Claire Fontaine–and of course plenty of them from San Francisco.

I may not write as much, but I will try to absorb as much as I can, I don’t think I’ll sleep much either.

And, fingers crossed, I will have most of the playa scrubbed off me before I get on the plane.

I will have a day turn around from leaving Black Rock City to leaving San Francisco to New York.

I don’t know what to expect, except that I get to see two dear friends, and visit somewhere I have never been and be fucking jazzed that once again I leapt.

“It’s not a geographic,” I told her over coffee, “it’s a leap of faith.”

Thank God I can still take them with a shoddy ankle.

Look out below, I leaped again.

Waiting to Pull the Trigger

Well.

I am going.

And now comes the waiting.

The hardest part, after making the decision, which really wasn’t that hard to make, is waiting for the final thumbs up from my friend in New York to clear it with his room-mate.

And drumroll please.

I am doing the unthinkable, the impossible, the how is this going to work, but, yes, Virginia, I am going to go right after I get back from Burning Man.

I may, depending on when we get back in, actually have a day of down time in San Francisco before turning around and hopping on a plane.

Hopping on a plane with very little luggage.

I am only going to be there for three days.

I will need my laptop, blogging, duh, my camera, my phone, a change of clothes some decent walking shoes, and some toiletries. I am going to travel light and just go have me a three-day weekend in New York.

“You’re going to shit your pants when you see the Met.”

My friend sent me a text earlier as we were discussing the day and when the room-mate will be getting back, hopefully soon, I found a good ticket price and want to jump on it.

I am ready to shit on New York.

Or in it.

Uh.

Yeah.

I went to work today and found out that we will be returning from Burning Man far sooner than I had originally thought, mom wants to leave the 2nd and drive straight through.

No stopping in Reno for an overnight, just hit it and get out and get home.

Now, it’s Burning Man and stuff happens–like cars breaking down, or things taking longer or dust storms, so instead of thinking, boy howdy, I should book that ticket for the third, I decided to wait until the 4th.

It will give me a day’s down time to unwind and de-dust and shower exhaustively.

Maybe even sneak in a mani/pedi at the nail salon before hopping on a plane and flying cross-country.

I realized my only reservation this morning when I was writing morning pages was inconveniencing one of my families (one of my families is not going to the even this year and will be missing out on three weeks of me working for them).  I would be coming back and then saying right way, hey, I’m going to take a day off from our regular schedule, I’ll be back next week.

So when the mom told me today that we would actually be coming back sooner, I got excited.

Because not only would it be cheaper, not sure how that worked but the following weekend, the rates to fly were significantly higher (usually it’s the other way around, the closer the date to fly the more expensive), but a dear friend of mine will be out there visiting a friend of her’s in Brooklyn.

Like where I will be.

She’s going to be occupied with her friend and I with mine, but it’s going to be nice to know she’s around should anything go wonky, I know I can call her and we can grab a coffee or visit with some fellows.

In fact, I am really looking forward to that bit.

Always good to check things out in another city, see what they have dialed in.

I don’t know what part of Brooklyn the Air BnB my friend has himself in, my other friend will be staying in Highline.

Not that any of this means a thing to me.

My boss rattled off a dozen places, a rhapsodical recalling of cream cheese and dark rye bread and cup cakes from Dean and DeLucca and galleries, and go see Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and what, wait.

“You’ve never been to New York!”

Nope.

I mean, you know, I lived in Paris for six months, have been to London twice, and Rome once, but never you know, taken a bite from the Big Apple.

“You have to go!”

I agree.

It was nice to hear that I will be getting off playa a little sooner than expected, dad will stay to finish out his job there, but me and mom and the little guy will head back to San Francisco on the 2nd and though I am sure to be tired, dusty, dirty, exhausted, who the hell isn’t?

I will also be excited to explore a new place, a new city, to have a new experience, to see the skyline at night, to walk, to smell the smells, and see the people, and hear the noise, and be a part of the hectic frenzy of it all.

“Your ankle better be healed, yo.”

I hope so, my friend, I am icing it down now.  I am taking precautions, I am going slow, I am being all easy does it and shit.

Now that the idea is out of the bag and everybody I know and checked in with and whose opinions, values, and suggestions mean very much to me, said “GO!” I am ready to leap.

I had not thought there would be another journey in my year after Burning Man.

I had Florida in January.

Wisconsin in July.

I will get Burning Man in August.

And New York in September.

That’s a fabulous kind of itinerary.

And then I always get to come home to San Francisco, my favorite city of them all.

At least permanent cities.

In its very special and unique way, Black Rock City is probably my favorite city to live in, it’s a temporary home, but deeply etched into my psyche and when ever I land, I know I am home and it is right in my world.

I may not get the thumbs up for a day or two, but you will hear it, the loud whoop, the happy holler, when I am confirmed and all is a go and I pull out my bank card and get online and buy that ticket.

I am finally going to the Big Apple.

I don’t know what took me so long.

I really like apples.

To New York

Or not to New York?

I was just texting back and forth with a good friend who had an amazing night in the Big Apple and was regaling me of the experience and I just felt such a ping of, I really should be there, not jealousy, so much, but I wish I was there.

My friend is there for the next two months.

He’s got an Air BnB in Brooklyn.

I also have friends that live in New York.

Not super close friends, but friends that have always encouraged me to swing on by should I be in New York.

He said, come.

I joked, “New York, the perfect antidote for Burning Man.”

If I were to go I would have to time my trip to be between 9/3 and 9/21.

I don’t know exactly when I am getting back from Burning Man, but it’s going to be either the 3rd or the 4th of September.

I just cannot imagine getting on a plane after two to three weeks of being on playa to fly cross-country for the weekend and kick it in New York.

Sounds like a recipe for no sleep, and knowing my excitement level for being somewhere new, I probably wouldn’t sleep much anyway.

I would be in New York, the city that never sleeps.

I have never been.

Gasp.

Yeah, I know.

Which I find amusing since so many folks have made the assumption that I hail from the East Coast, but nope, I have never set foot in the state of New York, let alone the city.

I would have a place to crash and a tour guide.

I sort of have to do this.

I looked at tickets and balked a bit then thought, go write your blog, you’ll get clarity about it and you’ll know within minutes of setting your fingers to the keyboard.

I know.

I have to go.

When am I going to have this opportunity again?

Friend in New York, not working, not obligated to anything, other than enjoying the city, open invite to stay at his place, someone who knows the city, museums.

Oh snap.

MUSEUMS.

I could probably just choke on the museums.

Just do that all day long, go to museums then go to music at night.

Eat some food in between and walk everywhere.

I think September would be a lovely time to be there too, summer’s ending, kids back in school after Labor Day, fall starting to creep into the air.

I am talking myself into it more and more.

My window is small, I would still need to negotiate time off from work.

But what if I just took a Friday off, flew out after work on Thursday and flew back on Sunday?  I bet I could.

My thought at first was fly out on Friday and fly back Sunday, but I want an extra day if I can get it and the Friday would be easier for me to get out of work than the Monday.

Monday I have two boys.

Friday I have one boy.

I’ll need a vacation after Burning Man.

I will.

Burning Man is not a vacation for me, though it often looks like one in the photographs I post and the social media that I contribute to.

No, it is work.

Long, hot, dusty, emotionally draining work.

What better way to wind down than a new city with a friend who I love and adore and knows the town?

It’s stupid to not say yes to this.

In fact, he said, via text, just back track to the yes.

Say yes, then figure it out.

Don’t try to figure it out then decide.

And he’s right.

This is about taking an action, not about sitting and thinking about it.

Because, too, the longer I wait, the more expensive the ticket will be and the less likely I am to nab one.

I am going to check in with one or two people tomorrow and ask for some thoughts and if I get the thumbs up, which I don’t know why I wouldn’t, I will come home tomorrow night and book a ticket.

I think the best bet is the weekend of the 12th.

Fly out Thursday the 11th after work, which may mean arriving in New York at like 1 a.m., but whatever.  Then fly back the morning or early afternoon of the 14th, that Sunday.

My friend will be leaving the Air BnB the weekend of the 21st and it doesn’t seem like the right time to fly in for a trip as he’s preparing to get back on his motorcycle and continue the cross-country road trip, the radical sabbatical, I think is the term.

And the weekend before, though working for him, just seems crazy to get back from playa and then fly right out of here to New York.

I would be one dusty bunny.

That’s for sure.

Wow.

I cannot believe I am contemplating this.

But.

You only live once, so they say.

I have been taught to say yes.

“You can live with me in Paris,” he said to me on the corner of 18th and Linda, between Valencia and Guerrero.

Ok.

“You can stay with me in New York.”

Yes.

Ok.

Let’s do this.

Holy crow Batman.

I’m gonna go to New York.

My ankle better be all healed by then, or at least significantly better, I envision so much walking.

Jesus.

The Statue of Liberty.

The Empire State Building.

The Museum of Modern Art.

Mostly just that last one, I don’t care about going out to the real touristy stuff and I could give a fuck about Times Square, or even Broadway, although Hedwig and the Angry Inch might be fun to check out.

Central Park.

Concerts in the Park.

Yes.

St. Marks.

Yes.

The Strand Bookstore.

Gah.

What am I waiting for?

I got to go get a ticket for this.

The ferry-boat to Staten Island.

House Parties.

Music.

Oh sweet Jesus.

I really am going to do this.

I will keep you posted.

New York.

New York.

These vagabond shoes are longing to stray.