Archive for November, 2014

Sunday Self Service

November 10, 2014

Down by the sea.

Yes.

That means what you think it means.

At least Mister Sexy has given me a head full of fantasy and as I was told yesterday, “maybe this is just an experience you get to have to see that you have that depth of passion within you.”

Maybe.

Passion needed outlet.

Done and done.

Then.

HOT shower.

There is just something about a hot shower.

So good.

This blog could also be called, Sunday Surfers, Sand Castles, and Shadows.

Sand Castles

Sand Castles

Surfer

Surf’s Up!

Sunset

Sunset

There were a lot of surfers out at the beach this afternoon, they all got the memo, the surf is great, the fog is lifting, get it before it’s gone.

The sets looked spectacular and I watched surfer after surfer scooting down to the shore with their wet suits draped in various stages of disarray as they hurried to catch the set before the sun was gone.

And the fog rolled back in.

LIfting Fog

LIfting Fog

Settling Fog

Settling Fog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I too was one of the locals making a mad dash for the waterfront.  I had been in a hazy foggy day almost all day, when the sun poked through I knew I had to get myself outside.

Bicycle rides to go grocery shopping, no matter how delirious the setting (which today was not so much, the fog was tightly socked into the shore and dense and grey, blocking out anything visible, except for the sound of the fog horns which seemed to shiver the clouds wafting inland), does not count as a getting outside situation.

Granted, it is really nice to have a couple of good markets close by and I got what I needed before my noon appointment at the house for tea and reading.

After the hour I spent the afternoon having a leisurely lunch and cooking up some food for the week.

“What is that smell, oh my God, it smells so good!”  My housemate exclaimed when she got home from work.

Italian white bean stew with black olives, onion, garlic, chicken, crushed tomatoes, spices.  Big pot of brown rice. Voila.

Food for the week.

And for dinner tonight.

Plus, of course, the  persimmon (currently riding the trend of raw cocoa, cinnamon, nutmeg and sea salt–sliced thinly and dredged through the spice mix with a hot cup of tea. YUM!) in stacks on the counter.

They won’t be in season much longer and I am stockpiling.

I could have a third title to my blog–Scooteria Sunday–all things alliterative please.

I saw a friend last night up in Noe Valley who recently got a scooter and he’s pretty handy with the tool box, he mentioned that he might be able to give me a hand with my scooter.

Last night was not a fun commuting night for me.

The scooter kept dying.

At one point it fizzled out on Diamond as I was coming up to a stop sign.

The hill was so steep where I was that I was afraid to let go the brake to give it gas to let out the clutch, to fuck me, I’m going to drop it, so I turned the handle bars and let it die, then pushed it over to the sidewalk and up the top of the hill.

Pushing a scooter up a hill is vastly different from a bicycle in case you were wondering.

It was frustrating.

Fortunate for me I was not that far from the top of the hill and I was able to restart and regroup and get back on.

But.

It happened again and again.

And again.

The Vespa probably died on me seven or eight times.

Possibly more, I really lost track.

My friend had a hypothesis that the idle needed to be set a little higher and I agreed with that summary.

I had some plans to get out and about on it today, but between how it was last night and the fog, I was against pulling it out and doing a thing.

Then, the late afternoon sun cut the fog and called me beachward.

I walked collecting seashells and talking to my mom on the phone about her recent hip replacement surgery and how her recovery was going.

I like calling mom from the beach, my toes in the surf, the sun flaming behind me, the surfers running into the water, the salt licking its way into my heart, I am a fire sign, perhaps that tempering once a week of salt water does it for me.

Heals me.

Sears my heart out a little.

It’s good stuff.

Self-portrait

Selfie by the Sea

I really do feel so much better with the sound of the surf in my ears, it drowns out the crap in my head and provides tender moments of blissful quiet that reinvigorate me like nothing else.

I have taken to calling my walks down there Sunday Service by the Sea.

I get right with God.

I take some photographs.

I see a friend.

Last week a friend joined me for a picnic and conversation on a blanket when the weather was sublime and it would have been a grave tragedy to not have taken my sacrament.

This Sunday I was walking blithely, watching the shore for shells, when I heard the little whistle of an incoming message.

Was I around?

Do I still want help with the scooter?

Yes!

Yes!

Yes please.

I scampered up the beach and exited at the end of Judah and Great Highway, he was across the street on his scooter hanging out in front of Java Beach.

We hugged, caught up and then hit it to my house.

He adjusted the idle and tightened the cable on the clutch.

It was like riding a new vehicle.

So pleased.

So taken care of.

The last title to my blog?

In the alliterative fashion I have composed–Sunday Surprise!

It’s been a weekend of gifts–clarity being the greatest one, then a surprise check from my little girl Thursday’s family for my services to them, a bottle of perfume from a friend today, so not expecting that, and a new book in the mail!  A surprise gift from another friend, who though we both live in San Francisco, at opposite ends of the city we don’t frequently get to hang out.  It was a darling thing to see a package for me in the foyer when I got home tonight.

Anne Lamott–Bird by Bird; Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

I could always use that.

Instructions, that is.

Sunday seems surplus with surprise, sunshine (unexpected), seashore, shells, surfers, self-care, soup, sublime splendor, and love.

Yeah.

I know love is not alliterative.

But when did it ever follow the rules?

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Are You Going Out Tonight?

November 9, 2014

Uh.

No.

I just got in and I am staying in.

Note to Okstupid profile inquiry number six in exchange–yes I am interested in dating.

No.

Not tonight.

No.

I don’t want to meet you and go see a movie on our first date.

Guys.

First dates equal coffee shops, maybe a cup of tea, a chill space, probably afternoon.

If it goes well it can segue into dinner, a stroll, a hang out.

But a movie, at night, for the first time meeting, no.

How the hell do you get to know someone you’ve never met in a dark movie theater?

Unless it’s that kind of dark movie theater.

I am, however, not interested in meeting in that kind of theater either, repeat, coffee shop.

Nice.

Easy.

Simple.

“You have to do the communicating.”

“You have an amends to make.”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooo.

Ugh.

I had an amends to make, and wouldn’t you know, it wasn’t to the person I thought it was to, it was to me.

“How old are you, 42?”

Um.

No, not quite yet, but yes, next month, this lady will be a snappy 42 years old.

“Grow up.” She said it succinctly, to the point, with no meanness or judgement, just, hey, come on, grow up, this is how adults act, this is what women do, learn how to communicate, you are a woman, you can do this.

Just.

Keep it light, easy, uncomplicated and kind.

KIND.

So a script was written out, thank you God for women in my life who are willing to hold my hand while I fumble around writing something in the margins of my grocery list.

Which is when I made the call, on my way to Other Avenues to pick up a few essentials for the weekend.  I also, wow, I might really be growing up here, made the call after I had lunch.

No hungry, angry phone call here.

I almost made the call prior to that, eating of the lunch, and then it hit me, nope.  I have to take care of myself and there is no rush, I am going to take care of the communicating that needs to be done so that I can call up my person and report back that the amends was made.

Still getting to change my behavior, probably I will have to continue in this vein for some time, but at least I don’t balk at it the way I used to, I take direction, I do the action, I get the relief.

And the relief, well it was huge.

It wasn’t me.

I mean, that sounds vague, but I don’t feel like reporting blow-by-blow the gist of the conversation, rather personal and private, suffice to say the gentleman was being mindful of my welfare and it was a sweet, insightful conversation.

I showed up for it, fed, and present, walking to the grocery store with the warm sun on my face and the sea off in the distance shimmering and sparkly in the light.

Clarity.

I got clarity.

Which is fantastic, since, well, I’m not a mind reader, although I have had myself convinced on more than one occasion that I am indeed just that–capable of deciphering how another feels and then manipulating my response to get the desired response from said person.

That my friends is what’s called crazy making.

And man, I can make some crazy.

I used to bake dozens of sugar cookies during the Christmas season, spread them over the table and spend hours frosting them, it took hours and hours and sometimes days of prep as I spread the buying of ingredients out over the course of a week or two so that I could afford all the necessary components.

I can spend just as much time with my kookoo ideas.

Fortunate for me, I don’t run the circus anymore.

As my friend Bruno used to say in Paris, ‘the monkey is off my back, but the circus is still in town.’

I can so relate to that.

In a previous incarnation of my life, I might have jumped at the idea of going out on a movie date last-minute with a guy I’d just met online, especially if he was say 31 and way cute.

However, I know where that goes and I am so not interested.

Even if I was interested, I’m not.

Clarity here too, is great.

I don’t mind going out late, I have, I will again, it’s just the idea of not encouraging the fantasy, and I do mean fantasy, that there is a scarcity issue in my life.

There are more than enough men out there to date without worrying that random guy OkStupid is the last of the line, so I better get gussied up and hustle out to the late show down the street.

Uh.

No.

How do I want to show up?

In abundance and knowing that I am damn worth the effort.

There really are more fish in the sea.

There’s some for you and some for me.

There is no scarcity and when I tell myself that I am just unshelving an old idea that can be retired right now.

Today was also a big day for challenging myself to grow in other ways, some a bit quieter than the dating noise in my head, but none the less quite present for me.

Graduate school.

I worked some more on my application.  I wrote the admissions department an e-mail with a question about the application materials needed for the program I am interested in.  I sent the link for the letter of recommendation to the mom who I used to work with who is in academics here in San Francisco and agreed to write me a letter.  I also called two different numbers at the school to make sure if the e-mail went unanswered I would still get an answer to my question.

I also requested information about how to get my transcripts sent from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, to the California Institute for Integral Studies.

And then.

I had dinner with the family.

It was so nice to catch up and see their daughter, who immediately demanded lip gloss from me.

I laughed, although not nearly as hard as when she climbed into my tennis shoes.

To be so warmly welcomed, fed, and thanked for the time I spent with their daughter and to not only receive the word from the mom that I would get that letter, they also gifted me a thank you for the time I was with their daughter.

I left in tears.

To have the ability to maintain and sustain relationships with people in my life is such an enormous gift.  They said come back and visit again, and soon, and come for Christmas Eve (my current family has invited me to Thanksgiving twice now, but I think I will be spending it in the Castro with Honey and crew), which if I don’t head to Wisconsin, I probably will stop through.

This intimacy I have developed with friends, employers, the children I work with and for, with the woman who I sit with over tea, all lead me to the burgeoning of romance, which will happen, I just have to keep practicing and letting go of the results.

Powerlessness is powerful.

Surrender does mean going over to the winning side, now doesn’t it?

Today I am winning.

 

Just About Ready To Dance

November 8, 2014

In fact, if it weren’t for the lack of willing friends, I would be out tonight shaking it.

I am feeling ready, after last Friday’s brief bit of dancing, to get out there again.

My ankle is ready to do the deal and I need to get out there and shake my crazy out.

I have a busy day tomorrow, so doubtful that it will happen this weekend, but soon, I feel soon.

I’ve got meet ups at noon and at 7p.m. tomorrow for an hour each one for some reading and some perspective change, and yeah, oh yeah, a whole lot of perspective change.

Then a dinner with a former family I used to nanny for, I am super excited to see the little girl, it’s been a few months and I miss her little self.

Plus, the mom and I have some chatting to do, she’s agreed to write my letter of recommendation for graduate school and I am excited to be getting further into that whole thing.

And I have some art to wrangle back to my house.

A beautiful print of Baker’s Beach with the Golden Gate Bridge in the back ground and a woman in a bathing suit in the foreground.  The woman reminds me of myself, but I also love the richness of the print, the colors, the beach and the bridge.

Plus it’s done by one of my favorite artists, and people, Arin Fishkin, I can finally have a signed Fishkin hanging in my inlaw.

This is exciting.

I was heading into the Mission last weekend on Saturday to finally get the print from her studio when I touched base with my friend who recently returned from his Sabbatical to New York.

We had a confab and it was agreed that he would pick me up from Noe Valley in the evening and head back to my place for tea on his motorcycle.

Which immediately negated bringing home my print.

So, it’s in a bag in the Mission, in a garage and I want it.

Damn it.

I’m thinking I will ride my scooter over to the NOPA to see my former family and their sweet petunia pie girl, then zoom over to the Mission and see if I can wrangle it to my scooter then on up to Noe Valley for my 7 p.m. meet up at the Starbux.

The print is 11×7 but the frame is a little larger.  I think I can manage it, and if not, then I am going to take MUNI on Sunday, though I loathe it, I do, and get the print.

I have contemplated rigging it up to my messenger bag, but I don’t want to risk it, and since I have been holding a spot for the print for almost a year now on my wall, I’m willing to take a little time and care to get it home.

Other than that, no weekend plans.

I will probably look over the admissions requirements for the graduate program more, I mean, to first be able to talk intelligently about what I am looking for in regards to the letter of recommendation as well as get myself moving into the next phase of development with the process.

I have a paper to write.

I can tell you it’s been some time since I have written an academic paper and I am not even sure where to start as I have not written in that vein in sometime.

I also have to write a statement of purpose as well as an introduction letter.

Those two I am fairly certain I can sit down and kick out in a few hours.

This is the time to start all that up, a week from tomorrow the admissions open for next fall.

I know that it’s early for me to have an application ready for it, but well, I like being ready on the early side of town.

I like paying my rent early.

I like paying off my debts.

I like having my ducks in a row.

I suppose there’s some question about safety and control of my environment, if I get it just so than everything will be alright and I can breathe and be safe.

The thing is with this application and this segue into a Masters program, I feel like I actually have a really good shot at getting in, it makes me nervous, it makes it feel quite real, this is the path I am supposed to be going down.

I was speaking with my mom recently and she asked if I was still intending to pursue a PhD, which I am not, and I explained what the process was for my coming to consider this specific program and what my goals were.

Goals that are much smaller and less grandiose than my awkward strivings for money, power, prestige, recognition, fame, through my writing.

And my mom didn’t disagree with me, but she also said that I would still get published and there was still time (There will be time, there will be time) for my art and writing.

I don’t know anymore.

I suppose I have surrendered to this process of writing and I know that I will keep on keeping on writing my blog, but other things, other projects I just don’t know, I get befuddled by it all, self-publishing, editing, writing fiction, not writing fiction, the memoir, all of it.

I get fucking overwhelmed and then why, yes, it would seem prudent to have a career that is not contingent on making it as a writer.

The writing is happening, the writer is writing, I just get to humbly be an artist for a much smaller audience (yet larger than any I would have thought to have had), a much more intimate audience, than I had thought I wanted or needed.

Anyway.

That’s my weekend thoughts, plans, designs, I don’t have a date.

Unless it’s with destiny.

And I know better than to expect anything to happen.

But I am going to show up for whatever does.

I will have friends, dinner, fellowship, love, art.

It’s not a bad plan.

Just a humble one.

 

Full Moon Fever

November 7, 2014

Is it really the moon being full or is it an excuse to act like a loony?

Does it actually matter?

For instance, having been recently visited by the monthly due I pay for being a woman, I wondered, would I have had as much chemistry happening for me if my body hadn’t been screaming to be impregnated?

And, was it really God’s protection, the rejection?

Would I have gotten carried away?

I mean you don’t have to believe that prayer works, the efficacy is proven and written about and yes, I do, but no you don’t have to, and so it doesn’t really matter that last Saturday when I felt abandoned and went to the loo after ward to catch my breath it was no wonder that there was a small red dot floating in the water.

I believe in hormones, but I also believe in chemistry.

There’s something to be said for pheromones.

Moan.

And sexy seems to be oozing out of my pores at times, as it was so fondly related to me from an outside observer.

“You two are too much tall, dark, and sexy.”

It hit me today.

Whoa.

I mean, ok, it hits me more and more often, but shit, ma, I am sexy.

I know revelation.

What?

“Women would kill to look like you,” a past date said to me once over watermelon radish salad at Maverick’s in the Mission.

I was hoping he would just kiss me again.

I spend too much time wondering if he will just kiss me again.

All the he’s all over the place.

All the moon and the hormones and the chemistry and the pretty faces.

I can have it all.

I was sharing this evening and it really struck me, wait, I do attract god damn attractive people, so I needn’t be shy about asking attractive men out.

I know.

REVELATORY.

Not that I have spent a lot of time to fantasize about any one in particular, but I sacked up, I asked out a really attractive man.

He said yes.

Which means, I know, you are laughing at me, I am attractive to attractive men.

Which means, go for it.

I don’t know if it was the flirting I was doing with one of the vendors at the Bartlett Street Farmer’s Market in the Mission (totally harmless, but fun, I’m not about to date someone who lives in Watsonville.  I mean, where is that anyway?) or it was the late afternoon Americano I had before hitting the market.

Or perhaps that fateful, full, creamy moon rising over me.

It sang me out the door of work tonight and I noticed a lot of heady, giddy, crazy drivers, taxi cabs, bicyclists, happy hour folks being wooed by the great disk in the sky.

Did we all notice it at the same time?

Did it give permission to be sassy and sexy and wound up?

I don’t know.

But that self-same moon followed my home on my bicycle, singing in my blood, urging me on, pulling me forward, down, down, down to the sea.

I wanted someone to go barefoot walking on the beach with that moon bright as neon kisses over my head.

I don’t often want someone to go walking on the beach with me, it seems trite, clichéd, and over done, but tonight, I could almost feel the cool sand on my bare feet.

I could certainly feel the cool air from my bicycle ride in my hair when I got back to the house and pulled it up into a top knot.

I wanted someone’s hands in that coolness, until it wasn’t cool anymore.

And that’s when my little sexy epiphany struck, somewhere between pulling up my hair and folding my clothes (I was super sneaky and got in a load of laundry last night, so nice to squeeze that in early), I could ask out other really attractive, to me, men.

Guys that I might have previously, erroneously, thought, nah, he’s out of my league.

I tried to summon someone to mind and no one sprang fully formed like Athena from Zeus’s brow, but that was ok too.

Just the knowledge was enough.

“You are learning all sorts of things about you.”

That’s what dating is about.

Learning about myself.

As though I haven’t learned enough already, here again, more to learn, more things to sort through and grow around.

Awesome.

I mean annoying.

I mean awesome.

I am learning that I don’t want to date people, men, whom I am not attracted to.

So that dude that I met at Decompression who kissed me with stale Tecate mouth, NOT attracted to.  Don’t give out phone number, even if I said I would try to date and do one a week, there’s no point in going out with someone who leaves me cold.

What else am I learning?

Not to go on super big dates.

Start small.

No big theatrical stuff, start with a cup of coffee.

I sort of already knew this, but I have to stick to my guns.

First date is chill.

Sort of like an interview.

And if the guy interviews well, than second date can be decided upon.

Communication is super important and I have to say what I need.

So.

I am having a whole heap of learning.

Good stuff.

The moon is still full-out there and I am obviously full of myself, but that’s ok, if I don’t get a little full of myself occasionally, who the fuck will?

I might do something wrong, I might go fuck it up some more, but hey, I am living.

The trees in the park, the giant wide trunks, the breadth and circumference of them, the reach of limbs toward the yellow moon of buttery love, they were here before me, they will be here after me.

What care the trees for my foibles?

In the great, grand scheme of it all.

I am just a tiny drop in the bucket of life.

A sexy drop.

But a drop none the less.

 

 

And So It Goes

November 6, 2014

I wore the wrong underpants today.

Jesus.

They are cute, not sexy, wearing sexy panties to work is weird when you’re a nanny.

But man, they did not work with the outfit today.

I was wearing my favorite pair of painters bibs and I just picked the wrong pair, I mean truly.

On the bicycle ride home I was almost as fixated with my underwear as I was with my surroundings.  The speed and essence of the bicycle ride was almost negated by the uncomfortable riding.

I couldn’t wait to get home into my yoga pants.

Which caused me to forget my underwear woes and reflect on what an amazing difference a week can make.

Last week this time I was dodging bullets, well, perhaps not bullets, but fireworks, police squad cars, mobs of San Francisco Giants fans, drunks, the random flag waver, cars with howling people shouting, ‘let’s go Giants,’ cars honking, lots of honking cars, and the desire to get home as quickly as possible to change out of my nanny attire into appropriate date attire.

Which did not include said yoga pants.

I mean, I think I look cute in my comfy cozy with my hair done up at the back of my head, but I don’t look like date night.

Last Wednesday was a pretty explosive date night, lots of fireworks, this Wednesday, nada.

It’s done.

Or so it would seem.

I mean, I cannot ever know what a person is thinking, but it’s done.

That’s what it feels like.

And like picking my underwear out of my bum, wrong panties, cute, sort of sexy, purple, frilly things, I apparently can’t pick out guys either.

I mean, I know it’s all a crap shoot, but I have been told before that my picker is broken and it would seem to be the truth.

The thing is, despite rejection being God’s protection, as I was so pithily told today, I still think I had a moment, a minute, a sly, secret hope, that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to come.

No.

No phone calls.

No text messages.

No future date.

And that’s great.

That’s all the information I need.

Move on lady pants.

In better underpants.

So how to do that?

How to keep going out and doing the dating thing if what I am attracted to is not a good fit?  How do people do this thing, this weird relationship thing?

I got to know.

It really feels like this is the time.

I don’t ever recall being at a better place in my life and since I have been in some craptacular relationships when I was in horrid places, wouldn’t it make sense that now that I am in a really good place, I would be in some really good relationships?

Of course.

I am.

I am in a great relationship with myself, I love myself and I can say that without cringing, which, man oh man, there was a time and in the not too distant past, when I could not say that without making a moue with my mouth.

Now.

Well.

I do it every morning.

After I have had my coffee, after I have had my prayers and reading and oatmeal, and I have written for a while and did the hair and the makeup and packed the messenger bag and secured a second cup of joe for the road, then I look at myself in the mirror and I say:

“I love you and I forgive you.”

Then I smile.

Because, god damn it, it’s true.

I love this woman I am and I love the person I am becoming, I know there’s more growth and more challenges and I feel capable of walking through them.

Oh.

I know.

There will be feelings and emotions, I just cannot seem to get past that, but there will be growth and beauty and art and love.

Whether it is love of the women I work with or the women who work with me, or my friends or the fellows in my community, I have strong intimate relationships.

I just don’t have a romantic one at the moment.

I did think that it was coming down the pipe line with this past guy and that’s on me.

I accept that I had expectations without even realizing that I had them.

There they were.

Sneaky little fuckers.

However.

To be honest.

To not put too fine a point on it.

I cannot recall having had that kind of chemistry in a really long time and I think the hormones just blew me the fuck out of the planet.

It’s good to have that feeling.

I believe that it is vital and necessary to be attracted to the person you are dating.

I mean, it just makes sense.

And between last Monday night and Wednesday night I was sugar-coated in desire.

It’s not a bad place to be.

And like a good little addict, I want more.

Since the source seems to have dried up it’s time to go procure elsewhere.

That is not to say that I am so callous as to think I can substitute one man for another.

Rather that I don’t want to sit, lonely girl style, next to the silent telephone.

I have too much life to give and too much love to give.

And damn it.

I am a fabulous kisser.

Let me not waste the sexy sitting in a corner, let me not put Baby there, and let me loose out into the world.

Just, um, help me, will you?

Point me in a different direction.

I am wearing blinders, I always have, and I can’t see off to the sides, the man who might be in the periphery, the person I could be going out with if I wasn’t focused on “what if I had done it different.”

If it was meant to be you can’t fuck it up.

If it wasn’t meant to be, you can’t manipulate it into happening.

There is no going back.

Just moving forward.

With kindness, compassion, and forgiveness for the experience.

Because damn it.

I am worth it.

 

“I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.”

You Use Your Mouth Prettier

November 5, 2014

Than a twenty-dollar whore.

I’ll take that.

I have been on the receiving end of some really nice compliments the last couple of days.

I’ll take them all.

It’s quite handy to know that I am doing this thing alright, that it’s getting out there, that folks read what I write, that there’s an impact.

That it is not all for naught.

Not that I ever have thought that it was all for naught.

Not even when I had ten readers.

I, in fact, remember quite distinctly the day I came home from work and booted up my laptop, said laptop, self-same laptop, just about obsolete, vintage laptop, and typed in my blog and there it was–my tenth subscriber.

Ten people following me!

Wow.

I have a few more readers now, I believe, I’ll have to double-check, I have about 250 subscribers, that is folks who have signed up to receive my blog straight to their inbox.

Which, sometimes I feel like I might have to apologize for.

There are always a few typos or goofy footed wording that I might not catch until later on, usually, of course, after I have pushed the publish button and its sent out into the world, into the dark night of the internet to land in some one’s email account.

Then there’s anywhere from 40 to 50 people who pick it up off of Facebook or occasionally Reddit.

I get a read or two off of LinkedIn as well, but I stopped posting to my LinkedIn account when I was interviewing for my current nanny position, I didn’t want my blog to pop up on the family’s radar.

Who knows.

It may have.

I scrubbed it pretty clean though.

I did not want to, but I pulled about two hundred, maybe, three hundred blog posts off.

Anything that I felt was too nefarious, anything meanly said, anything judgemental, and a lot of the nanny blogs I had up from a tremendously challenging family I worked for years and years ago.

I knew my current employers were going to run a back ground check and I just wanted to be extra special careful.

Every time I see how many blog posts I have I always add another two hundred in my mind.

It’s sort of like getting on the scale and saying, well, my jeans probably weigh a pound and I had a big breakfast, so let’s just take two pounds right off the top to account for that.

Anyway, what I am saying is that I have been doing this a while and I do forget that there are readers out there, some I know really well, some I don’t know at all, a few family members here and there, old highschool acquaintances, perhaps a man or two I may have dated or slept with.

Hard to say.

Occasionally there is a reader or two that I am unaware of who they are, but boy howdy are they interested in me, they either search engine my name or my blog name and obsessively read certain posts.

This hasn’t happened in a bit, but when it does I do feel as though someone has walked across my grave.

The blog  means a lot though and I have found it comforting to have a few friends and fellows and folks and family reach out to me over the past week and tell me how much they either love me or they love my blog.

I had one friend who was wondering last night, as I posted quite early, if I had a date.

Nope.

I wish I had a date.

No date on the horizon.

Perhaps for the best as I sort through all the feelings and emotions from last week.

Oh feelings.

Someone break out a tiny squeaky violin for me please.

I am going to give it one more day of process and climb back aboard the dating train.

I am not fond of the whole deal, but I will say I am learning so much about myself that it is worth it and when it hurts or is hard, why it makes for a great blog.

“He’s an artist, he’ll create,” a friend said once over pints at the bar.

Said friend was perhaps a touch tipsy, but he was money on the nose.

Our mutual friend was grieving a rough break up with the woman of his dreams and it was almost, almost, not quite, comical, how devastated he was, the drama was pretty high color.

I remember we all laughed like hyenas at his pain.

But I recalled that this past week when I have been blogging, experiences that are painful do pull something extra out of my being, the writing, I suppose, makes the pain more bearable, then, almost as though I have put a balm on it, it is soothed and then goes away.

“It’s your process, you’re living in real-time, you’re revealing it all and you have to choose whether you’re going to put it out there and not care, really let it all go, or whether you need to be more circumspect.”

It’s a choice I am not comfortable making, the power of the word, the work, the way it flings itself out of my fingers doesn’t always feel like it’s mine.

Shadows of the trees on the grass swath of park lawn rolling along the road as I whip down the road, turning onto the last leg of my bicycle journey through the park.

The moon tonight, so bright, so high, that a few times I turned to see if it was the high beams of a car coming up behind me.

But no.

It was just the moon.

“There’s the moon,” I said.

I leaned into him and breathed in his smell.

How is that sentence to repudiate me at a later time?

I don’t know.

I do just know that as much as I wish I could curtail it, that it just comes out, so perhaps, it is a kind of self-sabotage, a sacrifice, a surrender of my life to the art.

Sure.

Maybe.

One day.

Down the road, around the corner, my shadow flying ahead of me, I won’t mistake the moon’s bright frosting of light for my own truth, but rather that of another and I can fictionalize this life I lead and I can write something out of experience that has the cake icing of fiction.

But for now.

This is what I’ve got.

I know it’s good.

And for the moment.

That’s all I need to keep going.

At least for tonight.

It’s Not The Woman In Your Life

November 4, 2014

It’s the life in your woman.

The life in your woman.

I am one lively woman right now.

Just got off a brisk, oh its almost time for more layers, bicycle ride down Irving.

It is November.

Although, a lovely November, warm, I mean yesterday I was in flip-flops most of the day.

It was a bit of a manic day for me, not intentionally, not that I was looking for mania, it just struck, as it does at times, on a Monday.

The boys were just super high energy with me today and I had to step it up to keep up.

There was also some sugar involved, which I had completely forgotten about, and when I asked one of the boys who had slipped them the caffeine pills it struck me, that’s exactly what’s going on, too much of something–the  special cookie treat at school when the mom and I picked up the eldest to head to swimming.

The two-year old was really affected and a bit of a handful.

The last few hours of the day went by so fast I could barely catch my breath, in fact, a few times I asked the boys to pause and take big deep breaths.

I think I was telling myself to pause and take really big, deep breaths, I needed to slow down.

I did get them to settle down when I challenged them to tongue twisters.

The eldest boy got completely caught up in rubber, baby, buggy bumpers.

The youngest just winged around the room like a whirling dervish and I am still amazed that I got out alive.

Monday’s are my longest, busiest day.

I get there early for the family and have the youngest quite a bit before nap time, there’s always lots to do for food prep and errands and children’s laundry, and there’s the swimming in the afternoon, which precipitates a lot of prep to get out the door, to the school, to pick up the four-year old, navigate through San Francisco traffic from the Mission to the Presidio, get all the gear, and the boys, and the bags into La Petite Bailene, then changed, then to class, then out of the pool, showers, changed back into clothes, back into the car, and fed with snacks and milk, then back to the house for dinner and baths.

I am breathless writing about it.

Fortunate for me, swimming only happens once a week.

It’s a big deal, and the classes are only a half hour-long.

It’s a humongous amount of work for a half hour class, but the boys love it, and truth be told, I am a little envious.

I miss swimming myself.

Not sure when I would get myself into a pool, but there it is again, a longing to swim.

Though not the longing to pack up all the gear, the washing the hair, the in and out of the pool, the getting back and forth.

It’s not the swimming that is exhausting, although it can be, it’s the deal of doing it.

Now that I am back on the scooter, one payment left!  I might reconsider going to a pool again.  There’s a YMCA close to Stonestown that I could hop into and the membership looks pretty reasonable.

It might be nice to hop in once in a while on the weekends.

I am feeling more and more in my body since I have been back on my bicycle for the last six weeks.

The ankle is holding up and though still has a twinge or two of pain or a bit of stiffness, it’s healing.

Tomorrow marks five months since I had the accident and it really does appear that it will be the full six months of recovery the doctor told me.

Those doctors, they know their stuff.

I find it hilarious that I would even question someone who has more knowledge of something than I do, but I do it all the time without even realizing it.

Maybe you don’t want to try that, maybe you should pause, maybe you could try something else, maybe you don’t have that right.

Nah.

I got this.

I got nothing.

I do, at least, have an aggregate of experiences which seem to be pointing me in a general direction and that’s nice.

Still a struggle, and the crazy, well it leaks out.

But I have such an awesome support network of women that I was able to get some perspective today from a friend and I feel like we both talked each other down from mutual ledges in regards to basically the same thing.

Fear.

Fear of fucking it up, mainly.

Fucking what up?

EVERYTHING.

As though I am just that all-powerful.

I can get that thought stuck in my head and be going round and round with something and then someone says, “hey call somebody, ask how they are doing,” and what do you know, I feel better.

Life is really lovely and I don’t have answers to anything.

I do have experience, but I tell you, things are constantly a surprise, I should think by this point that I would not be surprised, but life sneaks up and says boo and whoa, what just happened?

Life.

Just life.

And I am so over awed that I get to be a part of it.

I mean really.

I live in San Francisco.

I am surrounded by the most beautiful city, landscape, the ocean is out my back door, I mean, come on, who rides along the Pacific Ocean, Great Highway, to go grocery shopping?

I do.

Ha.

I also ride through Golden Gate Park, I work on one of the prettiest blocks in the Mission, the house I am in is full of light and art, I am surrounded be beauty.

And I am beauty too.

I get to live this scrumptious life.

It’s not perfect, I am not perfect.

But it is perfection.

I am perfectly imperfect.

Learning again and again how to shift my perspective, how to show up, how to walk through fear, how to surrender, how to be more authentic.

How to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I jest.

But that’s what it feels like sometimes.

Just the day-to-day living can be a leap of utter faith.

Good thing I have  a lot of it.

Faith, that is.

The Week In Review

November 3, 2014

“Oh my gosh, I so relate to that,” she said, “I self-sabotage all the time.”

Hmm.

And then.

“Oh, I won’t date a woman who blogs,” said a friend today that I ended up hanging out on the beach with this afternoon, “too many people seeing my foibles, all one-sided, nope, I couldn’t do it.”

“You need to stop writing about dating.”

And I wonder.

Maybe I do.

It may be time to stop the self-sabotage, to not air the laundry, clean, dirty, or otherwise.

“You can write about me all you want,” my friend told me last night as we sipped lemon ginger tea and got caught up on each other’s lives–he’s back from the radical sabbatical and it was good, very good, to see him.

It’s hard to watch friends through struggles and he has been there for me through a lot of them.

There is a lot I don’t blog about, I think, I do keep some things, lots of things, to myself, for myself, by myself.

I could write all about my friend, but it is not my place, so perhaps, yes, I should not be writing about the dating too.

Not that I had a date today to write about.

I spent the day having Sunday service down by the sea.

It was so beautiful out today and I had a new white dress to wear.

I woke up earlier than I should have, all things considered, even with it being Daylight Savings time, I still was up late last night.

However, the sun was up and it was all blue skies and the brain started up and I just decided to get up and brave the day.

Even without having a thing planned, which can at times cause a kind of frantic feeling in me, I have a hard time sitting still and I have spent much of this past year trying to find that balance of not working too much and getting in some fun and some relaxation time to, because, ultimately, it does make me such a better worker and person in the end if I do.

Breakfast, coffee, hair in braids, new dress, flip-flops (which made me smile a bit, it’s November 2nd and I am in flip-flops), write for a while, sit for a while.

I went out into the back yard and sat in the big white Adirondack chair and the sun beamed benevolent and warm and the birds rustled over head, ravens, and songbirds chattered, gulls squawked, the ocean surf rumbled, and once in a while the N-Judah would grumble past.

I sat soaking in the warmth and the love and I got quiet.

The frazzle and dazzle of the week siphoned through me and I was still.

I realized I did a few things this week that I could regroup around and rethink, especially in regards to self-care, late nights, some really late nights for me, both Friday and Saturday, with early wake ups and no naps, a few nights when I did not get to my blog, which is like its own version of sunshine for me, I need to do it, it feeds the art monster in me, drinking an energy drink on Friday.

Oooh.

I know, I am so subversive, drinking a caffeine bomb.

However, it’s true, I don’t really drink them, I don’t do artificial sweeteners, I don’t chew gum, I don’t drink diet sodas, so what was I doing drinking a sugar-free Rockstar on Friday?

I knew, even as I said yes, I should have been saying no, or at least, yes, I’ll have a water, thank you.

But I did it anyway.  I want to keep up with the cool kids you know.

Then again.

I also did some spectacular self-care for me–went and got the mammogram done, which I was dreading and it wasn’t so bad, did grocery shopping, sent my mom a birthday card and got her birthday present, I need to drop it in the mail tomorrow.  Called mom, I try to call my mom on Sundays, it still amazes me that we have re-established a relationship, I feel ridiculously blessed by it.

I bought myself a new dress, I don’t clothes shop well, so this was really big self-care and as I took it out of my bag last night to hang in the closet my friend made a comment and I said, “I don’t even know why I bought it, I have no idea where I am going to wear it.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

And of course.

I did.

To the beach, to the beach, to the beachy, peachy keen, lovely beach, that place wild and wooly right out my back yard, just blocks away.

I packed a lunch up for myself–large kale salad with 1/2 an heirloom tomato, broccoli, carrots, 1/2 an organic Hass avocado, kalamata olive oil, apple cider vinegar, Bragg’s amino’s, 1/2 a tart apple, two hard-boiled eggs, and of course the ubiquitous persimmon (they won’t be in season much longer so I have stacks of them in my kitchen), a bottle of water, a blanket from the housemate, my camera, and off to the beach I went.

I climbed up and over the dune at the edge of Great Highway and Judah and walked down toward the sea.

I found my spot.

Spread out the blanket.

Sat down and breathed deeply all things good and salty and sea.

I felt it all loosen in me, the sun warmed me, I felt doused in love and light and I unpacked my lunch and ate it under bright cerulean skies, laughing at the confused sea-gull who was watching close by and was none to happy when after much patience he finally scavenged something from my lunch–the persimmon top, and disgusted with his findings, flapped off  in a huff to better pickings.

Beach Picnic

Picnic

 

 

Kite

Kite

I took some photos and called a friend.

Who, as luck would have it, is it odd or is it God?

Was right down the beach at Noriega and Great Highway.

He made his way to me and we sat and talked about shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, dating, family, recovery, Ocean Beach, life, travel, work.

It was so good.

He gave me some lovely perspective and I felt unburdened and lucky and blessed to again, come back to this simple, sweet, serene life I lead.

My Sunday sabbatical complete I was able to come back to the house, write some more, meet with a lady, do some reading, eat a wonderful dinner, sit in the last of the sun and drink copious amounts of cinnamon tea.

I downloaded my photographs and felt that despite a rather tumultuous week–all in my head, mind you–I had gotten what I needed and relaxed here, finally, at the end of the week, the edge of the world, down by the sea.

Sunshine

Sunshine Day Dream

Right exactly where I am supposed to be.

We All Have Our Own Stories

November 2, 2014

Etched on our skin, soft glass, bevelled, delicate to the touch, the smoothness be lying the pain that scraped out the hardness therein.

My friend sat on my chaise lounge and broke it down.

He had picked me up in Noe Valley.

He was on the motorcycle, leaning against it as I walked out, wondering about my life, about this thing in me that leads me where it leads me.

My heart.

This incessant, necessary, almost compulsive desire to feel, feel, feel.

I used to not want to feel and now I am this feeling junkie, give it to me, I want to be alive I want to sense it, this world that is about me.

I was walking up the hill into Noe Valley from Valencia taking 24th and just over awed by San Francisco.

She does it to me, this city, I was taken and inflamed with love and majesty, and magic, really, its magic and I am always just a little startled when this happens.

I can see things in flat two-dimensional ways, planes of glass on mirrors, flat, a fallow falling of shadow, a skein of dust floating across the pain (pane) of a plexiglass frame, dust it all you will and it is still there, sallow, coating the picture with a filter.

Then.

There will be days, like today, violet days, days of purple, when the skein comes off, the sun flashes out, the dust is gone, it is clear, the world is wiped, shiny, emboldened, lovely, loverly, and I am smashed to pieces with the beauty of it, just the frame of the condominiums across the way from the SafeWay grocery store on Fulton Street blows me apart.

The curry yellow faded paint and the mid-80s architecture some how smote me, the mediocrity of the building becomes bludgeoned with the vast sea it frames and the roll and heave of the Pacific Ocean in that one snippet of view, thunderous and huge, and yet, contained in the picture.

I knew by the time I was getting back from Noriega Produce this afternoon that I was not riding my scooter, I was not riding my bicycle, I was walking or taking MUNI, I was daydreaming with my load of groceries on my back from Safe Way and almost got side swiped by a car that rolled through the stop sign at La Playa and Lincoln.

I had the right of way.

I was right, but I was about to not be happy.

Normally, it wouldn’t have matter, I would have recognized that the driver was doing what the driver does, the driver has his own agenda and it does not involve me.

But I, in my self-centered way, was blithely riding my bicycle along believing that everyone can see me, and see me clearly (though, to stretch this into a metaphor, I don’t see things clearly anyhow, I need a community of like-minded people to daily, constantly, hopefully, lovingly and compassionately, give me fucking perspective), that they know I have two half gallons of unsweetened vanilla almond milk in my bag and there was a sale on my favorite organic yogurt so I got more and I splurged on bottled water, which I never do, but there was a sale and.

Holy shit.

I am almost hit.

Not because I wasn’t obeying every traffic law there was, hell, I was even in the turn lane on the Great Highway to take the green arrow with the cars, it didn’t matter, the driver was doing his own thing and came out of the gas station, onto La Playa and right out into the lane, no stopping, not even pausing, probably did not see the stop sign.

And I.

I was too smitten with sea salt and the smell of a bonfire, and the crispedy crisp ness of the world and my environs, like a camera obscura, lit within and edge with gold and saffron, to see that I am about to get hit on my bicycle.

“Well officer, I didn’t see her coming, it was all just a vast river of almond milk in the road.”

They shake their heads sadly and kick the waxed cardboard half liter to the sandy curb.

I missed getting hit.

I caught it out of the corner of my eye and swerved, the driver never saw me, never stopped, I felt the whick of the car sliding along my ankle to the point where I had anticipatory pain wing up my calve and cause me to gasp out loud.

I gave the car the thumbs up and said, “thank you God for saving drunks and children” as I am both a drunk (sober) and a child (emotional).

I resolutely set forth the last three blocks to home, not getting hit, shielding my eyes from the startling beauty of my neighborhood–did you see the clouds, did you feel the sun, did you smell that air today, did the last kiss of autumn beguile you?

I got home, unloaded my groceries, made a run to Noriega produce, hyper aware and absolute in my resolution to not be on two wheels, either scooter or bicycle, today, ride the MUNI, get a ride home from Noe Valley, call a cab.

Or have a friend meet you at the place on his motorcycle and scoop your wet eyed self up on the edge of the sidewalk and adjust the helmet on your head since you, suddenly incapable, blunt smacked with feelings, struggle to get your hair out-of-the-way.

And it stuns me.

These feelings.

“You need to stop writing about__________,” my friend said to me today.  “________ knows everything about you, it’s not fair, you have to keep somethings to yourself,  you, can you fictionalize it, can you make it up?”

I can’t.

I want to, you know.

But there it is these colors and feelings, the sharp hammer etching out the frosted glass of my heart and it is beautiful, but sharp and painful and I can’t stop doing it.

Because I become the art and the beauty and it is my process and my love and me.

Not all me.

“I know you don’t write it all out, that’s for your morning pages,” my friend astutely observed as we talked about love, loss, stories, the nuances of feelings, the perspective of time and what it is like to make art in real-time.

I am an artist.

I love myself.

I forgive myself.

I accept myself.

“Honey, of course he called you an artist, you ooze it out of your skin like your sexuality.”

Wow.

I had not thought of that.

So I am the art, the piece and the parcel and the story, it is I and I am it.

Yes.

There’s my heart on my sleeve.

Was it any wonder that I can’t come up with a good costume for Halloween?

I was already dressed for my part.

And so.

I continue, and it’s here, but not here, you see it, there beneath the bevelled glass, a shimmering of truth, but frosted slightly.

I get the pain, you get art, vibrant and mitred on the skin of my being.

Tattooed with love.

Yet again.

Wide Awake

November 1, 2014

I knew I was going into dangerous territory and I did it anyway.

I had an energy drink.

I cannot recall the last time I had one, granted it was sugar-free, I am still rocking that no sugar thing, but it was highly caffeinated.

More so than I have been in some time and I should be in bed, should be sleeping, should be making out, should be doing something.

However, I have been dropped off and left to my own devices.

Which is fine.

Strange.

Not exactly how I thought tonight would end, but not uncomfortable, just curious.

Things don’t have to go the way I think they should or might for them to be exactly perfect.

Tonight was exactly perfect.

Meaning everything happened for a reason.

Everything didn’t happen for a reason.

There was some awkwardness tonight on the date, and it could have been any number of reasons, being out in a large group of people, it’s Halloween, we are seeing each other for the third time in one week, expectations, who knows.

There was a lack of connection, a wall went up, and I wondered, what did I do wrong?

Then I realized, what ever is happening, or again, not quite happening, almost, but the reservation, the distraction, it wasn’t something I was doing, it was just what it was.

Life.

Dating.

Humanity.

It was quiet.

It was restrained.

There was a space, and better, better described, there was a space between, although, again, the drawing in, that weakening at times.

I actually wished we were alone to just keep being around one another.

I felt awkward and I realize that a lot of that had to do with the venue, a big dance party with a lot of people is challenging, and we are new at being around one another.

I also recognized something tonight that I was already doing without realizing it, not taking action around dating in general, more than one person, I was told to get out there with a bunch of guys.

Not mess around so much, but date more than one person.

It’s been a one person week.

And maybe that’s too much focus on one man.

Although I cannot fathom kissing anyone else.

Riding home tonight there was a lot of silence.

I didn’t feel uncomfortable with it, curious, but not so much so that I felt I needed to plumb some psychological depths, not my place, not my desire.

Quiet time, a quiet moment, can be just as loud as a brisk conversation, much can be said.

I felt finally drawn in as we drifted down Lincoln Ave, hand in hand, my head on his shoulder, watching the sky flash by, the tree tops, the bottoms of the clouds glazed with light from the street lamps, a scrap of cloud, the moon smothered behind low clouds dropping into the horizon.

There is a magnetism I feel with this man, and also a push a way, a step back, a pausing that I was standing still for, waiting to see what would happen.

I want more.

I need more time.

Time to sit.

Time to hold hands.

I already know I want to sleep with him, that I don’t feel is the question, it’s the space between.

The languor in my skin and the tightening of muscles in my arms, the electric pull, where there are no thoughts or doubts, just connection.

And if there is not space for that, then there shouldn’t be space for anything further.

I should pause.

Let the room breathe, let myself breathe, move easy, thick, honey slow, open up, see what is unfolding, make no judgements or myself, my process, of the learning that is happening.

“You go on dates to learn,” he told me. “Not about him, but about you.”

What have I learned?

That this thing is hard.

That being drawn to someone is real and illusive all at the same time.

Raw and intimate.

And then distant and distracted.

I cannot know another’s thoughts or desires and I am learning what mine are.

I want to be wanted.

I can see that.

I want to be beautiful and desired.

What woman does not?

I want to be with a partner.

I don’t want to write that.

It feels like a jinx.

But that’s what I went into the bathroom to pray for, direction, guidance, how to show up for him and be of service to the situation.

I wasn’t sure I even needed to pee when I went to the bathroom, but I felt confused and needed to just take a moment and breathe and sit quietly and ask for direction.

How do I show up and be myself and not push for something more than is available?

How do I bring without taking or expecting.

I surrender.

I had a wonderful date.

It really was good.

Don’t let me fool you into thinking that I didn’t have an awesome time.

It was just different from I expected and that’s ok.

I don’t need to figure it out.

I danced.

I laughed.

I had some wonderful food and saw friends that I don’t get to see very often.

I held hands and kissed a man I am deeply attracted to.

There was more silence than I expected, but that doesn’t mean things weren’t communicated.

Things were.

I understand.

And there is nowhere to go, no conclusion to have, no outcome to be forced.

I spent time with someone I like, at the end of the day, at the end of the song when there is just the final note fading off, a reverberation of feeling, my head on his shoulder, holding hands, driving down Lincoln Avenue with the wash of deep indigo sky and the ragged black of eucalyptus trees swaying in the air blowing by.

There was intimacy.

Touch.

Contact.

And that is rare.

Uncommon.

Fine.

I don’t need to ask for more than that.

Even when I wanted more kisses at the end of the night.

There is something to be said for leaving wanting more.

And I have a feeling.

More will be revealed.

It usually is.

 


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