Welcome To The Club

She said.

The “smooshed boobs club.”

She giggled a little and gave me a pink ribbon pin on my way back out to the dressing room.

“Pretty.”

She also said.

I don’t believe she was responding to my sideways mashed breast, rather, the tattoo on my arm was drawing her attention.

“You’re doing really well, so much better than some, so good for your first time.”

“Hold still, hold your breath, ok, and……”

“Breathe.”

This conversation could have been much more uncomfortable, but I am just that, comfortable in my body.

I remember going into to the same room, the same dressing area, with the same grey back drop at Kaiser Geary years and years ago with a friend who needed moral support.

It wasn’t so bad.

I mean.

Her hands were not the hands that I wanted to be man handling my breasts, but at least it was not painful.  I rather thought that it might be.

Yes.

It was certainly uncomfortable to be half-naked in front of a stranger, but I have taken showers in the communal shower trailers (although not nearly as many as I thought I would this past burn) at Burning Man for the staff, that stripping down wasn’t such a difficult thing.

I did not feel vulnerable or scared or uncomfortable.

I felt all those things last night.

Counterpoint with the absolute thrill of being with a person I really like making out while the stars exploded over our heads.

“There’s the moon,” I said pointing it out in the sky, a bit facetiously, trying to make light conversation, trying to not wear my ragged little heart on my sleeve, trying to be funny in my own way.

Then the fireworks.

Literally.

Figuratively.

The Giants won the World Series last night.

Go Gigantes!

Ahem.

Not that I am really all that big a fan of the sportsball thing, in any of its various manifestations, I’m not even a fair weather friend.

I think I have been too traumatized by too many sports teams and the inevitable fall out of drunken revellers.

Whether I was drunk or not.

Most of the time when a large sporting event was happening that was a big deal, I was working.

I was working last night and then I went to do the deal.

“I don’t know why he cancelled,” the text read, “would you be able to fill in?”

Of course.

I wasn’t even thinking that it was game seven of the series.

I was just thinking, when you’re asked, you say yes.

So I did.

And I am grateful for it because it gave me something to fixate on rather than the text I received about being in my neighborhood and would it be alright to drop by and say hello.

“If sex is very troublesome, we throw ourselves the harder into helping others.”

Good Lord, let me help some others.

So I can stop thinking about what I am going to wear, do I have enough time to get home and shower and what am I going to wear, oh, did I already say that?

What the fuck am I going to wear?

I think I could have answered the door in a gunny sack, but I do believe that effort means something.

When a person is meaningful, I want to reflect that and show up for it.

I mean, I won’t lie, I debated taking the shower and getting back into regular civilian clothes, not that any of my clothes are all that civilian–tomorrow is Halloween and I didn’t go out and buy a costume, my costume is from my regular wardrobe, just slightly rearranged into a conceptualized idea.

Then I thought, that’s stupid, you’re just getting home from work, you’ve had an adrenaline inducing ride through the wilds of San Francisco and its drunken environs, put on your pajamas.

But I couldn’t bring myself to pull on my yoga pants and my Hello Kitty nightshirt.

I compromised, but on a dress that looks like a sexy night slip and slipped into a sweatshirt that is a tiny bit fancier than my Bicycle Coalition hoodie.

I didn’t wear makeup, but my color was so high from the ride home that I doubt it was necessary, and something about being freshly showered feels glowy and pretty.

And there were fireworks.

Of course they were commemorating the World Series win, but I could extrapolate that to my situation.

I felt like fireworks.

Clothed fireworks.

Let me reassure you.

Or me.

I suppose it’s me.

I so want to get carried away, swept away, take me away, ravish me, have me.

But.

Whoa.

Slow girl.

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to rush to.

It’s been awhile since I have felt like going it slower.

This, this speed I am at, is still above average, I do have a lead foot, I do like exhilaration, I am not good at reigning in passion about anything, let alone being alone with a handsome and sexy and delicious man.

Sweet Jesus.

Gotta get right with God, and there is no judgement here, no trying to wrangle it or snag something, it’s a building up, is what it feels like.

A slow steady burn rather than a flash of light and heat and fire and the embers faint and fading as they fall into the sea.

The fireworks were dreamy and I felt my body shake today, flashes of color and heat on the inside of my eyes and I was swept back up in the feeling of passion that was there.

As well as the excitement of knowing I will get to see him again.

Soon.

Tomorrow.

It’s Halloween and I have a date to the dance.

I mean that literally.

I have a date to the dance.

It does feel like high school, I feel like high school, nervous, giggly, then ravaged with hormones (just because I was welcomed into the smooshed boobs club does not mean that I don’t still have a surfeit of hormones), giddy.

And I am going to run with that feeling as long as I can.

Unlike high school, though, or college or last year, I suppose, I haven’t capitulated on waiting a little, slowing it down, it could have happened the first night I met him.

That whoosh of feeling and magnetism.

I could have stripped down and done a little dance of lust in the basement.

There is something to that bonfire of passion, but I don’t want it to burn out.

I want to bank it and feed it and build it up.

I think it’s only going to get better.

And then.

Well.

Fireworks.

Some Of My Friends Are Astute

I received a text message this afternoon regarding my blog.

Meaning.

I got a text expressing that I had not written a blog last night, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

When the blog’s away the cat is at play.

I guess you could say I had a good date last night.

Ayup.

I really don’t know how much I want to write about it.

I mean.

Duh.

Fuck me.

I want to write my pants off.

Which, in case you were wondering, did NOT come off.

Just saying.  Just putting that out there.  Just letting my people know.

They could have however, there was certainly heat, passion, a slow steady heady simmer of a slow roil that consistently threatened to roll over the top and sweep me away.

But I get ahead of myself.

Yes.

I didn’t write last night.  Although I made up for it today, I woke up earlier than I expected considering I hit the sheets a little after midnight and I was a bit feverish and wound up, I wrote four pages long hand before work.

I remember looking around my environs and feeling like, did that just happen?

I wasn’t about to switch on my computer, fire up the laptop, type it all out in a furious deluge of words and images and capture it all for prosperity and the few hundred folks that might read this.

There was temptation to do so, to catalogue and list and wonder, I mean really wonder, how does the man have such soft lips?

Did he exfoliate them.

Do men do that?

Softest mouth, softest kisses, until they weren’t, but again, I rush ahead.

When there is no rushing to go anywhere.

He’s not my boyfriend, husband, lover, partner, he’s someone I met and connected with.

And made out like teenagers for hours, but um, more of that in a moment.

He’s a person.

I’m a person.

And there was chemistry.

Heaps and loads.

Now.

Is there, are there other things?

It does not hurt, in fact, it’s damn helpful, that we speak the same language, that we have a common experience, a common solution, a common fellowship and community of people that we are connected to and bound by.

That does not always mean sparks are going to fly, because I have dated, and not dated as the case may be, in this group of people and those sparks are often missing, and the language, though common, may be of a different accent or dialect and I have my druthers around what works for me and what doesn’t.

Sounds like I am talking in circles, let me just say simple like, we got the same brand of it.

And I really like that.

Makes a girl feel good that I am attracting that brand of man.

It also makes a girl feel good when a man who she, I don’t know why I’m speaking in the third fucking person here, perhaps I am trying to give myself a little distance for perspective.

It made me feel good to see that look in his eyes.

That look that says, I want to rip off all your clothes and ravish you.

However.

There was restraint.

Restraint of lips and mouth not so much, but restraint of other things, yes.

No clothes were removed, well shoes, but I don’t suppose that counts.

I am pretty sure my top shirt dress button came undone, but that was not intentional, I think it just got frisky and popped open.

I told him I was thinking about not blogging about him again.

He said, “why?  It’s your life.”

Touche.

I like that.

It’s my life, my art, is my creation, it’s also, let me be transparent, bravado.

And a little bit of a front, I can hear the voice of my blog in my head sometimes when I am riding my bicycle home through the park and the dark night air rushes coolly over me, the crisp yellow curl of moon rises over the trees in the park and I am flying, so present, so alive, wind rifling over me, thoughts quiet, all feeling, no thoughts and it dissipates, this person, this persona.

This bravado takes a back seat to my heart and my being and my soul.

I like to titillate.

I like to have experiences and write about them.

I have a persona, a creation, I am my blog and I am not my blog.

I am confident and sexy and strong and yet, sometimes, a wreck of nerves and shy and coltish, aware of being transparent, having no poker face, being vulnerable.

And I want to be vulnerable here.

Yet.

I want to hold some things close.

I want to keep them to myself.

There is the fear that once things are out into the world that things will change, if I post that picture, what am I saying, if I write those words, what am I alluding to, what does this line of poetry from this poet coming from my mouth at this moment mean, how can I tolerate this and not manipulate and be me.

Authentic.

I am myself I love myself I am true to myself.

That is all that matters.

Not this crafting of words.

Though.

Let me not be untrue to my art, this too, is my heart and my love and I throw things out here in this venue that I forget about until someone sends me a message about something I have written and I am awed, my words, impressed someone.

Not impressed as in they are taken by my words, but the experience is informed by something I have written.

The seal of wax on a letter, embossed with the pestle as it presses it’s mark on the wax and  the soft warm wax is pushed into a different shape.

I want with great reverence and intent to live the life of the artist, to feel, to be ruined with beauty to be broken open and have my heart impressed, embossed with experience and feeling and love.

There is so much love that is outlining the edges of me as I walk along this journey.

The information that I garnered from him, other than the visceral, the feelings fleeting, the softness of a kiss of a mouth on a mouth, the disheveled hair pulled into his hand, my thumb sweeping over the bones of his face, being swallowed into a kiss and coming out the other side another kind of woman.

The information gathered?

I am on the path and the journey is lovely.

Life it gets better and all the hard work I do pays off its dividends.

And like the gaunt prospector hoarding his gold, I must to give it away so that I may continue to reap the benefits of the gift.

I still have room to grow.

And I look so forward to it.

Tonight’s Blog Brought To You By

Butterflies in my stomach.

I just got off the phone with the gentleman I was supposed to have coffee with today.

He had to retract the offer, it turned out to not be a good day for meeting up.

That’s two Sunday’s in a row now I have been cancelled on.  However, I don’t believe I will get stood up tomorrow, we rescheduled.

I wasn’t also stood up, it was more like, we should do coffee soon and we tried to make today work on short notice.

So tomorrow we will meet up for real, no coffee, but tea.

You know when you like a guy?

Or, excuse me, I, you know when I like a guy?

When I wash my hair.

Yeah, crazy that.

But no really.

My hair is kind of a big deal, literally–I have a lot of it, and it’s a hassle to deal with, although I love it greatly and don’t mind when the occasion calls for it to do something special.

In preparation for what I thought would be our first coffee date, I washed my hair, which means I shampoo’ed it, now I do that about once a week or so, maybe every week and a half, shampooing it is a huge pain and it wreaks havoc with it.

But.

Oh.

It’s so soft when I do.

And I took the time to air dry it.

That’s when I know I like a guy, when I air dry my hair.

It means I want him to touch it, because I take the time to let it dry naturally, which takes about oh, two hours to get it fully dry.  Two hours from wash to dry.  That’s a commitment, plus I pampered the fuck out of it–coconut hair mousse while it was starting to dry and finished with French Aragon hair oil.

This means nothing to you.

Unless you plunge your hands in the hair.

I looked like a wonton siren today roaming the beach as the wind blew my hair this way and that, it was windy down there, but my, the hair felt so good.

Ha.

Even though said date was unable to make today work, I don’t feel like the effort was wasted.

There’s nothing quite so satisfying as feeling sexy for oneself and I took care of that too, ahem.

I’m kind of like a guy that way, I figured better satisfying the itch before the fellow and I meet, I don’t need to dry hump his leg the first time we hang out.

Perhaps I am being a bit over the top here, but I did acknowledged to him while we were talking on the phone this evening that I might have pounced on him last night.

Not that he was complaining.

I saw him on campus and a mutual friend of ours introduced us, there was some spark immediately.  I probably spent too much time last night trying to look like I wasn’t looking.

But I was.

After an hour had passed and some hand holding, not with him, I might have fallen over, I now think, I thought to myself, you are making a move, lady pants, get on it.

Plus, I felt obliged as I outed myself and my intentions to have a date a week lined up–when I make a commitment I want to stick with it.

Not to find the one.

There is no One.

I am the one, but to date, to get out there, to not hide my light under a bushel, to share myself with another, to go out, leap, fly, blindly perhaps, but leaping knowing I will be caught.

Because that’s what I am realizing more and more, I am good at, taking risks, leaping, living.

I have developed faith.

So I leapt.

Well.

Let me be honest.

I was rather dragged, I don’t know that leaping is the right adjective for the feeling.

I have not felt this kind of pull before.

I went to the bathroom to collect myself and pee, because, well, frankly I didn’t want to be distracted by my bladder when I made my move.

I didn’t spend time hiding in the loo, though, I did the business, washed the paws and got out there.

Where’d he go.

I scanned the room.

I saw our friend.

Then.

I saw him.

Standing alone nibbling on a sugar cookie.

Mind if I nibble on you?

I strode across the floor.

It felt, in hindsight, like I was being pulled, that’s the best way I can put it, it felt like a magnet drawing me.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, I was a little distracted by the blue eyes, a lot, but it went something like this: “I have to say this before I lose my nerve, I find your really attractive and,” I think I laughed here, “I don’t even know if you’re single, but if you are and you want to hang out sometime, I would love to get a coffee with you.”

“Yes, I am and yes, I would, you’re hot,” he said.

I think that’s what he said.

I remember the “you’re hot,” part.

What girl doesn’t want to hear that?

“I’ve noticed you around before and I have to say that you’re yourself, you’re authentic, and that’s super sexy.” He said to me when we talked this evening.

Wait.

Say that again.

Ah.

Actually, you don’t need to.

I know that I am my best self when I am being myself and that when the time was right the time would be right.

The time is right.

“I have to say this and I’m probably jumping the gun, but, let’s go slow,” he said.

Yes.

I actually do know what you mean and I agree.

There’s nowhere I need to be immediately, I don’t have plans for you.

Well.

Ok.

I lie a little.

I really do want to kiss you.

But.

We both know that.

“I don’t know how long it’s been since I have felt that,” I said to him, acknowledging the very powerful and immediate chemistry we both owned up to.

He sent me a text re that.

And that’s private for me only folks, I get to keep some of this to myself.

I am like a greedy girl with secret treasure hoarding it all to myself.

But it was a snap, a spark, an electric pop, blue lighting, blue like his eyes.

“I felt zapped,” I said.

And I did.

Zoom zip and I wake up, zoooooom zip.

Hit by lighting and left a bit light-headed and light-hearted.

And unlike my date who forgot we had a date last week, said gentleman, Mister Blue Eyes, did not forget and we rescheduled.

For somewhere safe and public.

For tea tomorrow after I get done with work.

I won’t have time to rewash the hair.

But you know, I venture it will still be lively.

I expect it to stand on end when I see him.

God only knows what it will do if he kisses me.

Hair updates to follow.

Ha!

 

 

 

Caught In A Down Pour

I was suddenly in Paris.

I was really in Noe Valley.

The rain was that sudden, heavy, sharp, the color of the sky, light soft pink around the dark grey edges, the mottled heavy clouds shifting and massing and splitting apart as the wind scuttled them through the valley, it could have been Paris.

I almost ducked into a doorway to wait it out.

It was certainly passing through fast and I knew there was nothing behind it, clear skies, sharp air, the whisper of smoke from a chimney up the hill, I ran for it.

I was wet.

But happy for the rain.

As is anyone who is aware of the drought situation here.

I wasn’t thinking about that, however, I was thinking about the rain coat I had pulled out of my closet and then put back in.

Of course I had.

It wasn’t going to rain, didn’t the universe know I was on my scooter and the last thing I wanted was a wet, dark, rainy ride home up and down the hills of San Francisco.

I mean, hello.

But there it was the rain, and I was glad for it, glad for the sudden deluge and the popping up the hood on my sweatshirt and the fact was I would be dry and warm soon with hot tea and grand company.

We sat for an hour and read and got right with the world and had some laughs and did some work and it was exactly what I needed.

I always get what I need when I get out-of-the-way, but I have a habit of stepping on my own toes.

So I was happy, am happy, to report, that I did not step on my toes tonight and I have a date for tomorrow.

Yup.

Like that.

“Now that you’ve started doing the work, the date last night, well, you’re going to find that the universe is going to open up the door.”

I smiled.

I actually believed.

And I acted.

I’m not going to say a whole lot more about that, I have a hard time writing about certain things at times, this is one of those times.

Suffice to say I rode my little Vespa home, up and over the hills and through the woods, well, alongside them as the case may be (I ride home along the park and it does feel like the wilds sometime, I can sense all things verdant that used to be the edge of the world–the old growth trees in the park often humble me with their strength, silence, longevity) with a smile, nay a grin on my face.

Let me say when there’s no chemistry it’s apparent, even when I wouldn’t mind if there were, even if he’s a nice guy, even if.

But when there’s chemistry.

Oh.

Then, why, I grin.

And I am grinning now.

It’s sort of hard to write this and keep things close to my chest, I like being transparent, but I also don’t want everything in my life on this blog, somethings, my dears, are just for me.

And onwards.

Halloween.

Next weekend.

I’m doing something.

I am going to get my Halloween on.

I am really quite surprisingly pleased that a number of my friends are going to be doing something for the holiday.

I had a friend ask me last week if I would go with her, if we could find a ride, over to a big party in San Rafael; only to find today that another darling friend who I have not seen since I got back from Burning Man, is going.

Then another friend tonight mentioned that he’s got a friend from camp at Burning Man staying with him next weekend and they too were contemplating heading over to San Rafael.

I guess I need to get myself a costume.

My first instinct is to go as  bunny rabbit.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I have something for bunnies, I don’t need to get all psychological about it, I just like the little critters, and yes, I did consider going as a jackalope, I mean, come on, how fabulous would that be?

It’s the horns that are tricky.

I did find a super cute head band with horns and moss and flowers on Etsy.

But, uh, for $130 I don’t think so.

I could afford it, I paid rent early today and took care of my student loans and put money in my savings account, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to drop that kind of cash on a set of horns.

I can, however, probably pick up a set of bunny ears and draw some whiskers on my cheeks and a little nose, and wear some pink and call it a day.

I also thought about going as a modern-day interpretation of the queen of hearts, you know since I am trying to put myself out there and date and be vulnerable and stuff.

And stuff.

Ha.

I could wear my heart tights, a heart sweater, my heart earrings, wear my hair up in braids on my head and get a little tiara from a Multi Kulti on Valencia Street and maybe stick some roses in my braids, some bright red lipstick and voila, she’s wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Conceptually I think it’s cute, but that may just be me.

I’m not interested in being some sexy vixen thing for Halloween, but I do like to look pretty.  Of course if sexy happens, then cool, but that’s not always the aim for me when I have dressed up.

Last year I did wear bunny ears with my little girl Thursday that I was nanny for on the day of the holiday, her grandma made her the cutest little bunny outfit and I did her makeup and also sported a pair of ears to music class with her.

So maybe, bunny rabbit is out, now that I realize I was a bunny, however fleeting, last year.

Queen of Hearts it is.

Seems apropos.

I’m going to stop blogging now.

And go back to grinning.

 

Flashback City

I was sitting in the audience tonight at the Hypnodrome for the Grand Guignal spectacular of The Bloody Debutante and I kept having these moments of deja vu.

What the hell is going on?

I mean.

I know I am ass out tired.

Sorry date.

Not you, I swear.

Just running amok after two little boys today, end of the week, running errands, twice to the market, once to the dry cleaners, over to the park, make the lunch, prep breakfast for the weekend, make the dinner, gather the snacks, and all other various sundry nanny and household duties.

You know.

Typical day at work.

At least I am getting used to it.

And the days, they do go by quick.

I was not even able to worry about the date, although on the occasion when I had a spare moment to think, I was concerned with what the traffic was going to be like, you know, first home game, third game into the World Series, San Francisco Giants.

But.

As it turned out.

I got done with work right after the Royals scored their first run of the evening.

The streets of the Mission were eerily quiet.

The normal Friday night melee was all inside cozied up in front of televisions and big screen monitors in various bars, restaurants, coffee shops, and laundry mats (I kid you not, if it was a place of business, it probably had a huddle of folks around some screen watching the game).

I had a pretty easy commute over to Wicked Grounds for the first leg of the date.

Which made me laugh.

First.

I haven’t been to Wicked Grounds in years and years.

And it’s a damn funny place to take a girl for a cup of coffee on a first date.

It’s a sex positive coffee shop that was opened, I think, but am not certain, by the same folks that run the Citadel, an underground dungeon up the road off of Market Street.

Butt plug with your Americano?

Ball gag on the Halloween pumpkin at the register.

Pictures of naked women in Japanese rope bondage scenarios.

I had a giggle or thirteen as I waited for my Americano to be made.

And.

As luck would have it, two dear and darling friends happened to walk in while I was paying for my coffee.

They were at the art gallery show next door and had popped in for coffees.

“You are everywhere!” My friend exclaimed.

“Carmen sandwich!” Her husband declared.

Yes.

Ah, friends, love my friends, so good to get squeezes and squishes and hugs when in slightly uncomfortable dating scenario.

First dates are awkward, that’s the nature of a first date, I think, but it didn’t help that every time I looked up from my coffee I was looking at the vaginal canal of a woman prostrate in rope bonds.

I didn’t know where the fuck to look.

It certainly encouraged me to make direct eye contact with my date.

I will give my date some credit, I don’t believe he was trying to drop hints (or was he?) about future possible dates, I think it may have been the only coffee shop in the neighborhood of the theater.

Besides, I don’t think Mister Leather had a coffee bar service.

Ahem.

The show was at 8 p.m. and despite my Americano, I was lagging.

But intrigued by the theater and the host who greeted us at the door to the theater and allowed us to sit front row in the handicapped reserved seating (as there were no handicap patrons at the show) which was really quite sweet.

I sat stifling yawns through the first half of the show and trying to appreciate the theatrics.

The first half of the show was good, but a little slow and I kept having odd thoughts and memories needle at me.

I could not figure it out and when the intermission happened I hoped that I would be able to make it through the rest of the show and not fall asleep on my date.

As it turned out, the second half was much more energetic and engaging and I got quite caught up in the theater and it was good, really good.

In fact, go see it.

If you want to take your Halloween honey somewhere fun and unusual next week, or even this weekend, this would be a great date.  The theater really is a great space and if you can afford it, buy a “Shock Box” which is basically a grand theater box that are rather tricked out and cozy and sexy.

Definitely a place to have a little canoodle or knee grabbing during the show.

The show is called the Bloody Debutante and it really is quite a bloody show.

At times it’s quite campy and I kept being reminded of something and then it hit me.

The Cockettes!

I first moved to San Francisco in 2002.

The same year the Cockettes documentary film came out.

I worked at Hawthorne Lane and one of the waiters took a shine to me, he was older, but I couldn’t tell you how old, fabulous, gay, and as it turned out a master seamstress and costume designer.

In fact, he designed a lot of the costumes for the original Cockettes shows.

To celebrate the documentary and because it was Halloween and no other city on earth quite does Halloween like San Francisco, there was a party for the movie and a fashion show and my friend from Hawthorne Lane needed an extra model for the show.

“He bailed at the last moment!” He hustled me in the dressing room at work as we were finishing our lunch shift, “you have to help, I need someone fabulous to rock it out.”

Well, nothing says stroking a girls ego, especially a fresh transplant to San Francisco from Wisconsin, like telling her you want her to model some fashion on a runway at the opening of a film.

I wore a hot pink rabbit fur coat with the most fabulous pockets and buttons and swag and geegaws sewn all over it.

I had on fishnet stockings and one of my garters snapped when I was walking.

I stopped mid catwalk, bent over, wiggle my bottom in the air, pulled it up and sashay’ed to the end to many a hoot and holler.

I had completely forgotten about my first Halloween in San Francisco until the second act of the show started and I realized that there were members from the Cockettes in the show and then it all suddenly flashed upon me.

Holy shit.

My life.

I may be just another nanny on the block.

But once in a while, when no one is looking, I’m on the run way in hot pink furs.

Because that’s just how I roll.

Fabulous as fuck.

 

 

Wow!

Look at you!

“You’re teeny tiny,” she said with admiration and awe as I explained that I used to be a size 26/28 and now I am a size 10/11.

I don’t think of myself as teeny or tiny, so that was a super nice complement to hear.

I don’t think of myself as much different from I have always been, until I see pictures from years ago and then I realize, holy shit, I really have changed.

I don’t do much compare and despair, it doesn’t work so much for me.

Occasionally I will see some woman rocking a hard body and I will feel a twinge of something other than admiration, I admit it, but I don’t have the jealous envy thing going on.

Mostly, it’s just that I realized I don’t have that kind of body and that’s ok too.

I lost a lot of weight.

A LOT.

Those of you who know me in person can attest to that and those of you who don’t, I lost about 100 lbs.

It was a process.

Lots of trial.

Plenty of error.

Loads of surrender and taking other people’s suggestions and bicycle riding and dancing and walking and letting go of my ideas about what I could do and what I should look like and lots of information seeking and sometimes some hiding under the bed.

But mostly I don’t think about it too much.

It is nice, however, when someone asks about my story and experience and I can relate what happened and how and pass it on and be of service around it.

I had a sweet heart to heart with someone this evening and the best I could say was, “be gentle to yourself, no matter what you go home and do right now, be kind, and the change will happen, and call me if you need some support, you’re not alone.”

I wasn’t.

I thought I was.

But I wasn’t.

I also did not know that there was a solution for me.

I still have my ups and downs with things.

I joke that I have recently lost my baby fat.

My “I sat on my ass for a month and didn’t work and had to rehab my ankle,” and then I was on MUNI riding to and from work for three more months, weight gain.

Four months with no real kind of exercise.

I actually don’t think I gained a lot of weight, but I gained some, mostly, I believe, I just loss muscle tone.

I’m sort of lazy when it comes to exercise.

I get it riding my bike.

My bike happens to be my mode of transportation, so I kill two birds with one stone.

Get to and from work and get about an hour to an hour and a half of exercise five to six days a week.

Who needs to go to the gym after that?

Granted I have a goofy body from it.

Bicycle thighs and bottom (like an apple bottom, but better), but I don’t mind.

I don’t have a six-pack, my belly is soft and my arms have sag.

Partially that’s excess skin from the weight loss and there have been times when I fantasized about getting rid of it.

If it wasn’t a cosmetic surgery that costs a lot of money and isn’t covered by my insurance, I would do it.

If I had the money, I would.

I would love to get rid of the flap.

But I am not the sum of my jeans size or the excess of my skin in spots, I am fully just me.

And I know I am beautiful and it was a pleasure to hear her say those words.

I also look at my body as a road map of my experiences and I hope that anyone who knows me and loves me or hell, even likes me isn’t going to be hyper concerned with what my body looks like.

Granted, I do want to come across as healthy and I prefer to spend time with like-minded folks, I think it a strong expression of self-love that I take care of my body the way that I do.

I hated myself, the way I looked, the size I was for too long to do anything other than love every bit of it as fierce as I can now.

Jesus.

I sound like Tyra Banks.

Smize bitches!

I do know that I look good right now though, I’m not tooting my horn, well, maybe a tiny bit, but I have been back on my bicycle now for about a month and I can see the difference and I can feel it too.

Some looseness in my jeans.

But mostly a lightness in my step and a feeling of going faster on my bicycle.

There is two points to this, one is that I am lighter, so I go a little faster, but I am also stronger for having been back in the saddle for four and a half weeks, therefore, faster on that account too.

I whipped home tonight and that was nice.

I also ate more protein today.

I suspect that might have been a factor yesterday with my fatigue, when I reviewed my food for the day, I send it to someone every night who helps me with some perspective about that and keeps me accountable, I saw that I was a little protein light.

That will wear me down almost as fast as being fatigued.

My muscles work hard.

I pedal my bicycle hard.

I haul and tote a two-year old and a four-year old, plus groceries and library books and I get a good work out.

I remember a guy I was dating about six or seven years ago and I remember when I made the decision to break up with him.

We were at the Walgreens in the Mission at 23rd and Mission street getting a few things for the night–condoms, let me be transparent–and he picked himself up a few things too.

A pack of cigarettes.

Beef jerky.

Funyuns.

And I thought, you’re going to put all that crap into your body?

Blech.

I realized that not only did this man not love himself, he really did not like himself either and I didn’t want to date someone who didn’t care for themselves.

It was rather revelatory.

I’m not a fanatic, I’m not an exerciser, I’m a little on the lazy bones side as far as that goes, but when I look around at the pile of gorgeous organic Pippin apples and persimmons I got at the farmer’s market today, I know that I love myself.

And wow.

That’s more important to me than my pants size.

Even if I rather like being a size 10.

I am more than, not less than, my weight.

I am the weight of my love for myself and that is, at least in this moment.

Fathomless.

Not bad insights for a Thursday.

Fucking fantastic insights as I prepare to begin the dating thing.

Friday night date number one on order tomorrow.

See you on the other side.

Looking fabulous.

Is Exhausted A Principle?

I was practicing joy today, I mean I figured, I did happy yesterday, logical conclusion, try joy today.

Yeah.

You may have guessed it, tomorrow will be free, but who knows, I may change my mind when I ride my bicycle into work.

Today I felt joyful riding into work, the sun was bright, but not too hot, I was in my bib overalls, I got a grand and cheerful hello and good morning from a guy doing municipal work on a bus stop and it felt right.

Joy.

Joy to be alive and healthy and riding my bicycle to work.

I kept it that way most of the day, grateful for work, my health, my place in the world, it’s a small place, but fulfilling, joy to have the four-year old stroke my hand at dinner and then kiss it sweetly.

Are you wooing me little man?

We both wore bib overalls today.

There is construction happening at the house and we both had on our “working man” uniforms.

He got home from school saw me wearing my overalls and immediately dashed upstairs to get his.

Add one white plastic hard hat and he was a go.

We went in search of construction sites in the neighborhood–considering where my job is located, there were no dearth of sites to watch–plenty of condos going up on every corner.

The continuation of housing gentrification does amuse me.

I still rue not taking the studio that I was offered at Valencia and 21st seven years ago.

The rent was $850!

I could have been at Valencia and 21st!

But I am where I am and that’s ok.

The bike ride is good exercise, even when I am tired I am grateful for the exercise.

And I felt no little joy when talking to the mom this afternoon at lunch time while the littlest guy was down for his nap.

“Have you been accepted into a graduate program already,” she asked out of the blue.

“No, the application for the school I am interested in has not been opened yet.  I have been to the open house, but admissions for fall doesn’t open until November 15,” I replied.

We talked about the program.

We talked about my undergraduate degree.

She expressed some amazement at the fact that I worked close to full time hours when I was doing my undergrad.

Sometimes I too am amazed, I worked 30-35 hours a week, went to school full-time and also trained at the dojo I studied martial arts at four to five days a week.

Well.

There were some months when it was more like once or twice a week, but ultimately I was training a lot and found the practice super helpful, in hindsight, it held my drinking in check, even though I was running a brewing company and nightclub.

The packed schedule helped me keep up the illusion that I had some control over my life, even while it was spinning merrily out of my control.

I told the mom that I planned on working while pursuing my masters degree and that yes, I had looked into other programs, but none of them were quite the fit that CIIS is (California Institute of Integral Studies).  The fact that I could get a master’s degree in three years and work full-time is appealing.

Although I have heard from more than one person that I will want to only work part-time.

The mom made it clear that they would have room for me no matter what.

That is awesome to hear.

More joy.

In fact, a bit of a relief, to know that I can go and apply to this program and have a source of income for the time that I will be studying.

“We have the kind of household where we are always going to need help,” she said succinctly.

Yes.

I really like the family and I absolutely adore the boys.

They wear me down, they do, but they are also sweet, and snuggly and beautiful and smart and funny and damn good company.

Whether I am reading a story with the family dog and the littlest guy on the couch or having pirate battles on the high seas with the four-year old, I feel that I have been fully integrated into the mix.

Add to that job security while going after my masters degree and I am quite the content lady.

I do have to continue forward with work around my application.

The admissions for fall will open in three and a half weeks.

Not that I need to send it in the day it opens, but I would like to have it done sooner rather than later, I don’t see the point in putting off doing the work to apply.

Granted I am going to need a little time to write the personal essay and do to an academic paper for the writing sample the school requires.  I will also need a letter of recommendation from an academic source and my transcripts.

Perhaps that is what I can do this weekend–order my transcripts.

The essay of why I want to go back to school won’t be hard, hell, I have had some practice writing about that since I was at Burning Man this summer.

What did you do over summer vacation?

I had an epiphany at Burning Man and decided to go to graduate school in an area I have never thought to explore before–therapy.

And I wasn’t even on drugs when I had my come to Jesus moment!

I will most likely address my sobriety and recovery in a different manner than I do here, there’s a kind of, ahem, anonymity, that I practice here that I can let drop when I am writing my admissions essays.

They won’t be made public.

I keep certain things to myself in matters regarding the press, radio, tv, and film.

Not that I am on tv or film or radio.

But this blog is public and I prefer to keep certain things a little, well, private, although you could probably read between the lines if you spoke the language of the heart.

Anyway.

Enough with being oblique.

Back to being exhausted.

Which is not so bad now that I have had a moment to sit and rest and sip some tea and write some words.

Funny how I always feel invigorated after I write a blog.

This too is my joy.

Joy.

Bliss, gaiety, happiness, satisfaction.

All of the above.

Even when I am tired.

I have loads of joy in my life.

Being aware of it and present might be the best thing about it all.

I Choose Happy

It’s such a nicer choice than entitled.

I reflected as I listened to someone rant about not being in a relationship and how God, the Universe, the powers that be, etc, owes the person a fucking partner.

Not I, said the fly, on the wall, my head pressed back into the chair, clam and serene as fuck.

I was happy.

Happy that my day went well, long, tiring, but really fulfilling.

I got up and did my deal this morning and had a great breakfast and even had time for a second cup of coffee while I was doing my writing and then off into the great wide world that is the glory of San Francisco in October.

I think October in San Francisco might just be my favorite time of year.

Fall is always a favorite–the air, the coolness, the sun still shines bright, but that lick of chill that makes one pause and stuff a sweatshirt in the messenger bag for the ride home–the smell of burning fires on my ride home, the smell of clover that has just been cut in Kezar Triangle as I rode my bike to work, the stacks of pumpkins, the orange lights making the Conservatory of Flowers look like the Giant Pumpkin from Charlie Brown.

Granted the orange lights on the Conservatory of Flowers may have something to go with the Giants being in the Worlds Series.

Go Giants!

Ahem.

I love fall and this city does know how to do it so deliciously well.

Persimmons are in season.

Halloween is just around the corner.

I’m thinking about going as a jackalope.

Ha.

Or a bunny if I can’t wrangle up some horns.

The season is bright and clean and I have to say it is the one time of year that also reminds me of Wisconsin at certain moments.

Winter in San Francisco certainly does not remind me of Wisconsin, but there are certain nooks in the city when I turn the corner on my bicycle and suddenly, the light, the clear air, the flaming sugar maple on the corner, and I could be in Madison, a patch of grass, bright, shimmering, green and lush and I could be heading out to the East side or Vilas Park or Monroe Street.

It’s not always like this for me, but this is the one time of year that does make me a touch nostalgic for Wisconsin.

Apples.

Oh, the apples are in season now too and so divine.

Actually, that may be something to investigate, a field trip, and adventure, a sojourn to an apple orchard would be lovely.

I’m not sure there are any around this neck of the woods, but perhaps some research would bear fruit.

Literally.

It would make a good date for me.

And I go on dates with me too, a suggestion I made to the friend who was pitching a fit about being single.

Of course, I could feel a little bristle when I made the suggestion, but honey, I have been down that bitter road and there’s nothing at the end of the entitlement journey.

Certainly not a boyfriend.

I like taking myself on dates.

In fact, I just thought of one, something akin to the apple orchard thing, I think maybe a cruise down to Pacifica or nearby environs on my scooter might be in order.

I think there are a few farm stands along the way.

Or even a little further down the One.

I have been as North as I could go on my scooter–any further and I would have to cross the Golden Gate Bridge and I’m not certain about doing the bridge on my scooter.

I was also happy when I told my date for this Friday that I would not mind grabbing a bite before the show and that the principle I was practicing was just that, happiness.

So what ever restaurant that looks like.

Although there may not be enough time between getting done with work and the show starting.

I’m not too concerned.

I’ll happily eat at work as well.

The happy started hitting me when I hopped on my bicycle this morning, the high clear blue skies, the scuttle of clouds, the sun-bright, the traffic light, the friend waiting at a bus stop that I waved to as I pedaled my way up Lincoln toward the Pan Handle.

The aforementioned smell of fresh-cut clover in Kezar Triangle the rush of cool air, exhilarating and refreshing, delicious with bright eucalyptus scent as I rolled toward the park, and the traffic, past rush hour, light on Oak Street, so I skipped the Pan Handle and hit the lights all the way to the Wiggle, then up and over to 17th street and then as I was stopped at 17th and Church a dear one of mine rolled by driving a MUNI train.

I waved to her and blew her kisses and grinned like a fool.

Happy.

Then on down 17th, hitting all the lights and a pitch perfect right turn onto Valencia, getting into the stride and rolling through all the intersections with the 13 mph wave for bicycles making my transit smooth as silk.

I wound up at work fifteen minutes early and stretched, drank some water, mellowed out a little from the ride.

Then I put some Pharrel Williams in my headphones and I did a little dance underneath the tree in front of my job while the sun dappled through the Japanese Maples on the block.

I was so happy, I replayed the song and danced my bike across the street, into the garage, and pranced my way right up the stairs to work.

I’m sure I amused the hell out of at least one of the neighbors if not a few of the construction workers on the house next door, but I did not care.

I was happy.

I still am.

It was a great principle to practice today and I am ever so grateful for these suggestions on how to better live my life.

Just the getting to live life can be enough, but I will often forget that it’s not a grind, it’s a gift.

And I like getting present(s).

Gifts make me, well, you may have already figured that out.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

 

 

Just Say Yes

Do something different.

Ugh.

But I don’t want to, I’ll be tired, it’s the end of my work week, it’s in a weird location, I don’t have the energy, I don’t want to ride my bicycle home that late at night.

Blah, blah, blah, Ginger, blah, blah, blah.

Wow.

Does my head have a great capacity to conjure up reasons to isolate and stay single.

I have a date Friday night and he’s come up with a fun thing to do, I didn’t have to figure it out, and my firs thought was I don’t want to.

I’ll be tired, etc, etc, etc.

I thought to myself as I was reading the text message, “you’re tired now, does not mean that you will be tired then.”

I cannot make decisions based on how I think I am going to feel four days from now.

Just say yes.

Or at least pause before responding.

Give it a minute.

I was tired when I got the message about the date, let’s go to the Grand Guignol.

The huh?

Oh.

Theater.

Nice.

And spooky theater at that.

Cool.

I was in the midst of dealing with after dinner, after swim class, in the bath tub, tooth brushing, bubbles and soap and cups and washing and two little monkeys when the message came in.

I am exhausted because it’s Monday.

Monday is not only my longest day at work, it’s also my earliest start time.

I was up this morning at 6:30 a.m. to get ready for work and be on time and do all the things.

Including taking a few minutes to sing happy birthday to my little sister who turned 40 today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

She answered and I got the honor of singing it live to her instead of leaving it on a voice mail.

I also got to explain that the gift I got for her ten days ago has not shipped yet because there was a problem at the gallery with the printing.  I got her something from an arts collective in Oakland and I got a message from the studio that the screen printing was behind and they hadn’t processed the order yet.

I got the e-mail on Friday.

Damn it man.

I had ordered it early enough so that it would get there on time.

But it’s a small arts collective and I really like there stuff and so, I said, hey cool, please send a note with it explaining what happened and please pay for the expedited shipping when it is done.

She’ll get it next week.

At least I know she got the card I sent.

I love sending cards and gifts, there’s just something about it that has always made me feel good.  I like buying people presents and I have to say, I’m pretty good at it.  I pay attention to what folks like and I believe that I often hit the nail on the head with what I get.

I also like supporting local arts and creatives in and around the Bay.

I get a lot of my stuff from here and it feels, to me anyway, even more special if it’s coming from San Francisco.

My mom has a knee surgery coming up, two days before her birthday, and I want to send her some local coffee and some treats from Tartine, since she still talks about when I took her to Philz and Phil himself made her coffee and later that same visit, I took her to Tartine.

Most of the stuff at Tartine I can’t ship to her, but I figure I can send her a bag of Philz Tesora and maybe a package of cookies from Tartine.

I haven’t set foot in that shop in years.

Not really anything in there for me to eat.

Although I do always enjoy walking by and smelling the smells, they are awful good smells.

I’m pretty psyched to also be in the Mission for work as it will lend nicely to buying Christmas presents for folks.

I won’t get too crazy, my sister, my mom, maybe a little something for my youngest niece.

If I go back to Wisconsin to visit my best friend and her brood, or skulk I should say, I will also stick a couple of things in my carry on.

Anyway.

That’s getting ahead of myself.

And I realized that I was doing the same thing with my initial resistance to the date idea.

Pause.

Respond.

Don’t react.

So I waited to respond to the message and after work I got on my bicycle and I jammed over to 7th and Irving and I caught up with some folks who I have been missing this past month with the new job.

“Are you going to be coming back,” he said giving me a huge hug, “we really miss your energy here.”

I am going to try.

I felt so much better after sitting sandwiched in between two dear friends that I knew my answer to the date question was going to be yes.

Yes, let’s go.

It sounds like fun.

I still had a minute or two of trying to figure it out, I’ll be coming from work, I’ll be this, I’ll be that, I don’t want to ride my bike home from the SOMA that late at night on a Friday.

Blah, blah, blah.

Then I realized.

Hey!

I don’t have to ride my bike home.

I can ride my scooter.

I can ask the mom tomorrow if I can park the scooter in the garage on Friday (I can’t do street parking, it’s only two hour parking and I don’t have a nanny permit for the neighborhood).

Then I can just scooter home after the play and not worry about biking.

Tada!

Solution.

And it had nothing to do with the “problem.”

See, I am the problem and I am realizing that more and more as I feel myself balking at certain aspects of this dating thing.

I am the reason I am single.

So I am the one who has to change.

And I know that initially there’s going to be some resistance.

I just have to walk through it, trust and say yes.

Yes.

Let’s go to the theater on Friday.

I mean, really, when was the last time I went to the theater anyway?

Here’s to changing.

Here’s to dating.

Here’s to saying yes.

Yes, thank you.

I’ll have another.

Oops I Forgot

That was the gist of the message I received late last night, after I had gone to bed, in regards to the mornings’ date.

The gentleman in question overbooked himself.

Felt awful.

Had to go work out with his trainer that he booked at same time.

Cool.

Glad to have seen the message this morning at 8 a.m. when my alarm went off.

I suspected something was up when I did not get the promised confirmation message yesterday as was told to me earlier in the week.

“I’ll confirm on Saturday.”

When I got home last night at 10:15 p.m. and there was no message confirming I sent him one, just let me know, I’ll be up for a little bit.

But not that late.

Since the date time was for 9:30 a.m. today.

I wanted to have about 8 hours of sleep and a little breakfast and get ready time before meeting him at Trouble Coffee and Coconut Club before going and walking his dog around Fort Funston.

My alarm went off at 8 a.m. and I saw no text, no call on my phone, I checked my Okstupid profile and yup, incoming message at 1 a.m. saying he’d over booked, scheduled himself to work out with his trainer, so sorry, feel awful, please let me make it up to you.

Yada.

Yada.

Yada.

I got up, went pee.

Went right back to bed.

I slept until 11a.m.

Apparently God wanted me to have some rest instead of a date with someone who over books themselves.

And cool.

Rejection is God’s protection.

No skin off my nose.

I even did the nice thing and sent a nice response, “no worries, have a great day, if you want to hang out, you know where to find me.”

And that was that.

I had a free day to do with as I pleased.

I wasn’t sure what to do and truthfully, though not miffed, I was just a little flummoxed.

First week of trying to date and date is no-show.

Then I thought.

I didn’t say I was going to go on one date a week, I said I was going to try.

And try I did.

I made a date with someone and I set aside time to do so and opened myself up to being vulnerable.

And it felt kind of fun to know that I had a date.

I actually never really thought anything would come of it and a couple of times wanted to cancel, haha, but didn’t as I feel that’s self-sabbotage.

Now the funny thing?

I decided to take some action and tweeted my status as stood up and did anyone want to hang out as I was suddenly free to move about the day.

And what do you know.

I got a response.

And we chatted a bit.

And now I have a date for this Friday.

So there Mister I Got to Go Work Out With My Trainer.

FYI.

Posting pictures on social media of cheeseburger, fries, assorted dips and sauces, and the 49’ers game on your big screen tv does not scream working out with personal trainer, but hey, that’s ok.

Sometimes I get overbooked too doing my nails.

I bear the guy no grudge, in fact I thought it was pretty fucking funny.

And I think that’s what this experience is going to be, a lot of amusing stories and maybe, if a girl is lucky, a date or two with a nice guy.

I would love me some courting.

I don’t expect any.

In fact.

I have no expectations about any of it.

The only expectation I have is that I am going to put myself out there and learn how to date.  I hear that some folks can do it and I have seen a number of friends in my life, women and men, do it, and heck, they seem to enjoy themselves.

So.

I didn’t sit on my ass, I took myself on a date.

First I got cute, because you never know who you might see or whom might see you and I like looking cute.

Then I got on my scooter and drove it up the coast.

It’s awful handy that the coast is just three blocks away.

I went up the Great Highway and hit Lands End first.

It was glorious.

The view, well, amazing.

Lands End

I walked along the cliff edge for a while and then decided I was going to do what tourists do, I was going to walk the bridge.

The Golden Gate Bridge, that is.

I have ridden my bicycle over it countless times, but I have never walked over the pedestrian side.

I climbed back onto the Vespa and took Sea Cliff over towards the other side of Lands End and then dropped along Camino del Mar and around Bakers Beach and China Beach, then up and around the Presidio.

The views were astounding and I was so grateful that I had not decided to stay at home and mope.

Not that I really felt mopey about the date cancelling, just that I can get into the habit of staying at home and it’s better for me to get out, do things, take actions, live my life like, this is it.

Because.

This is it.

And when I live so close to so much beauty it’s a shame to not appreciate it.

So I got my appreciation on.

The bridge was packed.

Packed.

But, as I was on a scooter I got motorcycle parking right up close and was able to amble right onto the bridge really quickly.

I got to say I like that about being on a scooter, easy peasey parking.

And voila!

The Golden Gate Bridge, established in 1937,

 

1937

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

spanning the bay, slightly shrouded in light fog, crisp wind blowing, but not too bad (I have certainly ridden over it in really nasty fog and high winds), just enough to blow my hair about my face in a sexy manner.

I felt really filled with joy and gratitude looking out over the view.

I live here.

I live here!

Golden Gate Bridge

How freaking amazing is that?

I took a few photographs.

I played tourist.

I called my mom from the bridge because I wanted to share with her the experience and it made me giggle to be calling my mom from the Golden Gate Bridge, I don’t know why, but it felt sweet to do so.

I went to the gift shop after walking the bridge and I bought myself a souvenir–a refrigerator magnet, what else?

And I scooped a little something for my mom too, since I had called her while I was on the bridge and her birthday is coming up soon.

I laughed as I was checking out and said something in regards to the compulsive gift buying.

The clerk smiled and said, “where are you from?”

I laughed harder.

Then I leaned in, “here, I live here, in San Francisco, Ocean Beach.”

We both laughed.

I rode my scooter back along the edge of the world full of joy and lightness and gratitude.

I came home and put my magnet on the fridge and cooked up some soup, it’s Sunday after all, and had a late lunch on the back deck with the sun on my face and the sound of the neighbor playing jazz piano.

How good is my life?

So good.

And I have a date for Friday.

I don’t think he will be cancelling.

And if he does, well.

I live in a pretty incredible place, I can probably figure out something to do.