Archive for March, 2015

All Grown Up and Shit

March 31, 2015

Not sure if what I am writing is even going to make it out into the world as a blog.

It may.

It may not.

I am actually a bit incredulous that I am actually utilizing my computer after the epic fail of trying fruitlessly Saturday to fix the problem.

There was no fixing.

And I resigned myself to the fact that the time had come for me to hang up the towel on my lovely little laptop, it has seen me through so much–multiple trips to Burning Man, Paris and back, London, Rome, Oakland, ha–I was loath to let her go.

But it was not working and I don’t know how long it will work tonight.

I feel like I am pinching myself to even be in my blog.

I couldn’t get into my Facebook, which is probably a blessing.

Nor into my Gmail account, which is an annoyance, but I can access both via my phone.

A dear friend told me Saturday as I was freaking out about how I had fucked up my computer and I didn’t know what to do and the damn thing is vintage, obsolete, won’t support the newest platform for browsing, so Safari won’t load and bah!

She talked me off the ledge and said maybe I needed a weekend away from the computer.

What?!

No.

Yes.

NOOOOO!

Yes.

Yes.

YES!

Oh, this is good.

I mean, the weekend is over and I am online and I did just do some big girl stuff, because, as I said, I don’t know if this blog will post, but man I miss writing them, the only thing I really missed over the weekend was the not posting, the rest of the internet trolling I was able to let go of.

Instead I read a lot.

I mean a lot.

I finished the Stephen King novel that I had been trekking through, he’s lost a little of his bite for me, but it was still a decent read and then on Sunday I picked up Althea and Oliver, a novel, a first novel at that, by Cristina Moracho, and read the whole thing.

The WHOLE thing.

I cannot remember the last time I read a book cover to cover in one day.

364 pages.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

The book was great and I got loads of sunshine and I was reminded that it was ok to be sad.

I hate to admit it.

But I have been sad over the weekend.

I miss the ex and that took me a little by surprise.

I think I miss the being with someone.

I liked being a couple.

It’s not an experience I have had much of over the last ten years and I was feeling a little lonely hearts club.

“You are so noticed,” he said to me on the phone as I spelled out my woes, “and make sure you call and let me know when you are feeling sad about >>>>>> there’s probably something underneath it.”

There usually is.

I told someone this weekend after listening to her share a pretty indepth inventory that one of my greatest fears is that I am fat and ugly and will be alone for always.

I mean.

In a nutshell.

That’s the fear.

She looked a goggle at me.

“You are so not!”

Thank you doll.

I know that, but fear, like faith, is a belief in something that is not there.

It is not logical and it doesn’t make sense.

Most of the time I choose to ignore it or walk through it.

I was in fear about the laptop.

I can’t afford to replace it!

My head hollered at me.

What am I going to do!?

Um.

Self.

You know that online savings account that you have?

Yeah, the one that is titled “MacBook Savings,” yeah, that one?

You have enough.

“It’s hard to part with it, isn’t it?” My friend soothed me on the phone.

It is!

I don’t know why.

I just paid rent.

I just bought nice groceries for the week.

I have a job.

I have clothes on my back and a way to get to work and back.

My phone bill is paid.

My student loan is paid.

And.

I have money in a savings account for a new laptop because I knew this one was going to bite the bullet soon (nothing like having the guys at the Genius Bar at the Apple store chuckle and call your laptop an antique to give one the idea that it is time to upgrade) and shell out the dough.

So.

I put on my big girl pants and I transferred the savings account money into my checking account.

I still have some money in my savings account too.

Which I will have to re-title.

Since I did it!

I pulled the trigger and I bought a new MacBook Air.

The 13″.

I asked my employers today about theirs and marvelled at how light they were, the dad has a MacBook Air and the mom has a MacBook.

Both the same size, but the Air was much lighter and the dad sold me with the battery has a longer life than the MacBook.

Done.

I also chatted with an Apple service center person and made sure I got the educational discount.

Which, you know, since I’m going to graduate school, pinch me, I actually qualify for.

With the savings I got from the discount I turned around and really acted like a grown up and bought the three-year AppleCare warranty.

My total cost with tax $1234.05.

I transferred $1200.00 from my savings account to my checking account yesterday.

I will receive my new MacBook Air in the mail, free delivery, thank you Apple, on April 2nd.

I don’t know if this dear old dinosaur of a computer will make it through tomorrow and the next day, fingers crossed, but if it doesn’t, I’ll be back properly by April 2nd.

All grown up and shit.

Grown ups swear.

Shut up.

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It’s Not Cancer

March 28, 2015

It’s eczema.

Bahahaha.

Oh.

That’s so awesome, I cannot even tell you.

And the fasting, well, broke that as soon as I could, but it went a lot better than I thought it would.

Although by the time I was due to leave work I was plenty wonky and light-headed.

My doctor and I did a full work up since I had not been in to see her in about a year.

Three full vials of blood drawn.

I’m not exactly squeamish, have you seen how many tattoos I have?

However, I am not a fan of watching blood being drawn.

Especially three vials.

Then I got to do the infamous pee in a cup thing.

Which was nearly clear, since I had drunk water all day.

I had coffee with unsweetened vanilla almond milk this morning around 7 a.m. and that was it until 4p.m today.

My first “meal” of the day was the snack I had packed in my bag–an Aztec Fuji apple from BiRite and one piece of low-fat string cheese–and an apple juice box that the lab technicians gave me as soon as the blood draw was done.

I had thought to foil the fast by getting to the appointment early, however, I had to have the test re-ordered, it, the one I had been avoiding since I had no desire when it was previously requested to fast, had been over a year.

So the doctor had to re-request the lab test.

And since I was there, she also had them check STD’s, HIV, and the general round-up of those goodies.  I had unprotected sex with my ex boyfriend (he was clean and had a vasectomy), but since she offered and I want to be able to walk into my next relationship with absolutely no doubts about my status, I said go ahead and run the panel.

It didn’t cost anything, aside from some light-headedness all day and the inability to focus on tasks.

Although a couple of times, things were so bright and clear I felt a little high.

I remember staring at a flowering purple bush, while walking to the park this morning with my charge, the vine was blooming out and how green the leaves were and the stamens and pistils were flagrant with color and the blooms iridescent with sunshine.

I felt like I was on a light acid trip.

“Carmen! Carmen! Carmen!”

My little guy chimed up, “why we stopping?”

Um.

Because I’m entranced with this plant.

Oops.

My doctor also ordered an anemia panel and admonished me to keep taking my iron supplement, which I had stopped doing for a while, then noticed that I was getting light-headed at work about a month ago and re-upped my iron.

Plus, two back to back days, well, not today, but Wednesday and Thursday, of spinach and kale salads.

A trend I will continue through the weekend.

“I’m jealous of your blood pressure, it’s amazingly low,” my doctor also said.

And my weight is the lowest it’s been since I had my crazy food relapse a year and a half ago.

I’m within ten pounds of my nutritionists recommended weight.

With the slight tweaking of my snack, that should balance it’s self out with out too much stress in the next four to five months.

I also realized that the weight was probably a by-product of two things–first, the ankle injury I sustained last June, though I was abstinent the entire time, I was off my ankle and not exercising for a month, unless you count hobbling around on crutches a work out.

Plus, I didn’t really get back into the swing of riding my bicycle until I started my current job.

The other?

The ex boyfriend.

He was an eat out kind of guy, which was nice, but I cook very simple foods and despite being very careful when I eat out, there are often hidden calories in things that you don’t think about.

For instance, I don’t cook with butter, but butter is a mainstay in a lot of restaurants.

Anyway, it was actually nice to get on the scale.

And I won’t be doing it again for a while.

I can get obsessive with weighing myself.

I know what I weigh and I am fine with it.

I like my dress size and I don’t expect it will change either.

I am a happy, perfect size 10.

So much nicer than the 22/24 I used to run.

Ugh.

So grateful that is no longer the case for me.

My doctor took one look at the red patch on my cheek and said, “oh definitely not skin cancer, it looks like eczema.  Have you ever had eczema before?”

“No,” I said, surprised, happily.

“Hydrocotisone will clear it right up, over the counter any pharmacy you pop into.”  She continued, “now let’s check the knees.

And there are some issues there.

However, perhaps not as bad as I had feared, certainly not as bad as I had feared.

“You seem to have the most problems with your knee caps, the left one is a little lose and wobbly, describe the pain again,” she said and rotated my knees around.

“It’s not the cartilage, although I can hear it crunching and popping, which is actually not something to be worried about,” she continued the exam.

I told her when it hurt and expressed my concern with riding my bicycle.

“Nope, it’s not your bicycle, in fact, it’s great that you ride so much as riding a bicycle is a rehabilitative exercise often prescribed for knee strengthening.”

“However, you may need to do some stretching in your quads and hamstrings, you may be pulling your knees off balance, so I am going to refer you to the Physical Therapy Department.”

Because I have such developed legs from bicycling, I may have to do strengthening on the back of the muscles, and so, I’ll be seeing a physical therapist.

Cool.

All in all some really nice news.

And I will take eczema hands down over skin cancer everyday.

I’ll be reloading on sunblock anyway when I go pick up the hydrocortisone.

Better safe then sorry.

And no more fasting.

EVER.

 

Fast Times

March 27, 2015

At my house.

Not at Ridgemont High.

Not also the fast times you are probably thinking.

In approximately half an hour I will be having my last snack of the day and then there will be no more food until probably 3:30/4p.m. tomorrow.

I am having to fast.

I do not want to fast.

I do not like to fast.

I am not one of those ladies (or gentleman, I have known a few guys who will) who do that whole cayenne, maple syrup, lemon juice Master Cleanse thingamabobs.

Nope.

I like my food.

I am not a undereater.

Never have been.

Probably never will be.

Although there are times I wish I could be, which is not healthy, and is just fantasy, but there it is.

I shared tonight that one of my first fantasies when I was a kid was not a sexual fantasy.

No.

It was a fantasy about going to the grocery store and eating whatever I wanted.

I mean not just being in the grocery store, but being alone in the grocery store, aisle after wonderful aisle, all to myself.

I would sleep there and eat there and I would fall asleep at night dreaming about what aisle I would start in and how long it would last.

Most of the time I never made it past the cereal box aisle.

Oh cereal in a box, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

Honeycomb.

Cocoa Puffs.

Captain Crunch.

Cocoa Pebbles.

Rice Crispies.

Corn Chex.

Wheaties.

Corn Flakes, but only for a minute, they lose their crunch too fast.

Grape Nuts.

Corn Bran, Quaker Corn Bran Squares, don’t know why, but love them.

Raisin Bran Crunch.

And I am sure I am forgetting a bunch of them.

I haven’t eaten box cereal in such a long time.

And I really don’t hanker for it.

I don’t fantasize about supermarket aisles or candy aisles or beer and wine aisles, either.

I stick to the outside aisles of the store if I’m at a SafeWay, even at Whole Foods–although they have become sneaky with their placement of the hot tables and prepared foods daunting you near the check out lines.

There is a sound psychological reason for the fantasy, scarcity and poverty.

We just didn’t have the much money growing up and my mom comes from a family that also went through the Depression.

My grandparents had a huge garden at their home in Lodi, Wisconsin.

And I remember with much fondness all the wonderful things that grew there.

I miss that garden a lot.

And although my grandparents are many years gone now, I still have this unwavering belief in the existence of that garden.

It is still there and I can go to it some day when I go home for a visit.

Not that I see myself in Southern Wisconsin any time soon.

There is not much left for me there.

Some memories, and a few acquaintances, but my best friend lives in Northern Wisconsin just across the river from the Twin Cities in Minneapolis.

Should I head back to the land of all things dairy, it would be to go up North, not to Southern or Central Wisconsin.

My family subsisted often times on food stamps, welfare, school lunch assistance programs.

Government cheese anyone?

Ramen noodles.

Hot dogs.

We never had sugared cereals, it was a huge deal.

Popcorn was a big treat.

Or my mom might make a cake or when I was older I might bake a pie, there was ice cream when there was a special occasion-Mitchell’s Frozen Custard if it was a really big deal.

I remember though, my mom would eat bags of Lays Potato Chips and drink bottles of Mountain Dew like it was water.

I never really liked Mountain Dew, but I could and would drink it when it was offered, mostly because I liked peeling the label of it and making weird origami like designs in the bottle with the paper shreds, which I would stuff back inside the empty.

I fantasized about food because there wasn’t enough.

I also fantasized about food because I am a compulsive eater and that was a way for me to check out.

I could make six pieces of cinnamon toast and eat them all.

If given the chance I would over eat and I never really understood why.

Now.

With time and patience and love and recovery, I don’t.

But fasting.

Well.

That freaks me out.

Not having food when I need it.

I mean.

I just did a big bonk the other day, Tuesday, when I ran around all day long with the boys and had dinner one hour later than I typically do.

The good news.

It will only be half the day.

I will skip my breakfast and morning snack.

No oatmeal with an apple and unsweetened vanilla almond milk for me tomorrow morning, no hard-boiled egg.

I will have coffee though.

I can do coffee in the morning.

No low-fat string cheese at 10:30 a.m.

No big green kale and spinach salad.

Oh.

I had the best salads the last two days.

Yesterday–kale, spinach, raw almonds, strawberries, cauliflower, carrot, brown mushrooms, olive oil, white balsamic vinegar–so good.

Today–kale, spinach, Roma tomato, swiss cheese, chopped turkey, carrot, olive oil, white balsamic vinegar.

Both days a big Aztec Fuji apple from BiRite sliced up and dredged in cinnamon, nutmeg, pumpkin pie spice, and sea salt.

The days have been warm and sunny, hell I even rode my bicycle home with out my sweatshirt on, a true rarity.

Grateful it was warm.

I forgot my sweatshirt at work.

It could have been a miserable ride home.

I am so glad I have recovery around my food, and well, so many other things as well.

And although I am nervous about going without, it’s not because I can’t afford to eat well, it’s a doctor’s request to do a blood test (one I’ve been putting off for over a year because I didn’t want to do the fast) and I will survive.

I will also take myself out for a nice meal after.

Nothing crazy.

Mexican beans and rice with chicken chunks at Herbivore with a mixed green salad.

Then off to the Inner Sunset where the real treat will be getting done with work early to get my nails done and hit up some fellows I don’t get to see normally on a Friday.

And it will be the weekend right after that.

Fast times indeed.

The week it does go by.

So too shall the fasting.

For like so many things.

This too shall pass.

 

Walk Away

March 26, 2015

Let him go.

Those were the words in my head when I saw my friend sitting outside the burrito joint on Judah and 44th smoking a cigarette.

He doesn’t see me.

Which doesn’t mean that he didn’t see me.

He did.

I saw him.

And we did the weird, uncomfortable, yet oddly enough, familiar dance of people who need to be in the same place at the same time who don’t have anything to say to each other.

Which says volumes.

It did not hurt as much as I thought it would.

I knew he’s been around and I know, know without a doubt, that he won’t have anything to do with me even if I did approach him.

Which I have been directed not to.

And if you know anything about me, have read even one of my blogs or seen me around the block, you know, that the one thing I do well is take a suggestion.

Leave him alone.

Walk away.

Let him go.

Surrender.

Again and again it comes down to surrender.

Gratitude as well.

I am grateful for the time I got to have my friend in my life, for the words and books, the conversations, the music, the poetry of our time together, the love, the in bed the out of bed, the growth and the loss.

And the grief and joy and weirdness that is life.

One day, I hope, I’ll run into him and the past will have passed and we will be able to smile at each other, have a hug, share a moment, maybe get a cup of coffee.

Or not.

It is not for me to decide.

I choose, respectfully, to move on and keep moving forward.

These dreams.

True dreams of Wichita.

….Where you stand with keys and your cool hat of silence, while you grip her love like a drivers liscence…

These dreams lead me forward.

I know, in my heart, of hearts, of hearts, that I am not alone and that my circles of friends and lovers and relationships and employers and family may change and melt and merge and coalesce in different ways.

I have loved so many people.

And so many of them are no longer in my life, my daily life, not because they have died, although a few have, but because life has happened and they moved on or I moved on.

Yet.

I get to still hold space for these people within me.

That is the fallacy of my thinking prior to having gone into recovery, that I would always have to hold so tight to anyone in my life, regardless of whether or not they were good for me to be holding tightly too.

I get to let go, softly, gently, even though I have not always done so gracefully or graciously, I get to let go even too, of that thought, that I have to move on in a certain way or manner.

I don’t have to do anything perfect.

The only thing I can do perfect is love all those in my heart and hold them, whether they know or not that they are held there.

In some ways I believe, a person is truly alone, there is no one who is ever going to know the exact depth and weight of my life or my soul or my heart, there are some that will get more inside my sphere and I will get to share with them to a greater degree than others, but on some levels, there is always this alone.

There is not, however, this loneliness.

I am not lonely.

Which is a lovely revelation to have.

I am never truly alone.

And it is not important that anyone other than myself know the inner workings of my heart.

It’s my heart.

I do hope that I can share some of it with you.

There is that.

That I can love you and that you will know it, even if we are not together.

Even when we used to be so close.

Where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

“Sit next to me Carmen,” he said in his sleepy cat voice, fresh-baked from his nap, small sweaty head imprint on his pillow. He rolled over in his ‘big boy’ bed and made room for me next to him and then tucked his Meow Meow under his arm.

“Sing me a song, Carmen,” he said, opening his raccoon fringed eyes, brown and soft and sweet, at me, before shuttering them down again, the weight of his eyelashes pulling his lids shut.

I sang him a song.

My sweet boy.

I have so many songs to sing, but they all sort of come out sounding the same and that, too, I believe, is as it should be.

I don’t know how to change you, so I change me.

Sometimes the lyrics to the song will be different from what I think and I will forget the refrain or chorus, or make a jumble of the words, but the feelings remain the same.

Instead of sorrow I feel joy.

And perhaps it is tinged by a touch of sorrow, but the sadness makes the joy that much more bright and palpable.

When I think of all the people I have met in my life and all the people I have shared a moment with, or a year, or more. When I think of all the people who’s hands I have held or the hugs given and received, whether they are to be given or received again matters not, I have been given the gift and to ask for more is greedy.

Though, I suspect, I will be given more, I think my purpose is still evolving and I know that I have more in me to let out.

More heart to wear on my sleeve.

More love to give.

More love to receive.

 

Time after time you’ll hear me say that I’m so lucky to be loving you.

A God Box

March 25, 2015

And a hot shower.

Then.

Everything got right with my world.

I was exhausted after work today.

Exhausted.

I don’t even want to think about how tired I was.

I was meeting with someone at Church Street Cafe prior to going to the 7:15 p.m. thing where I do that thing, and while riding my bicycle up 17th Street I thought, Jesus, sweet fucking Jesus, I am tired.

If I am this tired, on a Tuesday, how am I ever going to have a boyfriend?

How the fuck am I going to get through graduate school.

I forget that, “this too shall pass.”

Tired is not a state I am good in.

I suspect that no one is.

The littlest guy is a heavy napper, bless his little sweet soul, but like a lot of moms I have worked with, the parent gets worried that a long nap equals a long night of not going to bed on time and thus I am admonished to wake up the monkey after a certain amount of time.

I believe this leads to some inopportune things.

First, no body likes being woken up.

I don’t.

I was woken up with a startled poke this morning.

My brain shouted at me, “holy shit, you forgot to set your alarm, get up!”

It’s true.

I had forgotten to set my alarm, not something that I do very often.

I have it set for tomorrow usually as soon as I wake up.

I just sort of automatically switch it back on.

However, on Monday’s I go in an hour and a half earlier than I do the rest of the week.  The family likes me to come in one day early and stay an extra hour to help out with errands and organizing and such.

Not a problem for me to do.

But that means I am up and going well before my set alarm for the following day.

I set the alarm on Mondays for 6:30 p.m.

The alarm on Tuesdays is set for 8 a.m.

But when I went to set it yesterday, when I thought about it, it was still before 7 a.m. and I just never got to it.

Completely spaced.

Nothing is quite so disconcerting as waking up to realize that I have not set the alarm.

I woke up at 7:59 a.m. this morning.

That was a pleasant surprise, but it was still a jarring way to wake up.

And that is the issue, I think.

The little guy gets woke up well before he’s ready and then over compensates by juicing up with adrenalin and then he’s wonky and that is what I think makes bed time at night so hard, he’s getting to worked up.

That’s my theory anyway.

I hesitate to share that with many a parent, but I might just have to.

Tomorrow is another day and I will let it play out the way it needs to, not worrying about it right now.

Especially since I am so nice and cozy and relaxed, and well, not tired at all.

When I was riding my bicycle I was close to bonking, I realize now.

Dinner for me was nearly an hour past the time I normally eat with the boys.

There was a potty emergency and instead of coming home from the park and digging into some dinner, I came home from the park and striped down the boys and hustled them into the bath.

The schedule throws them too, unfortunately, they both were ready to eat as well and so, well, bath time was lively, yo, let me tell you.

By the time I got them into pjs and had them back down stairs for dinner I was a little wonky and needed to eat.

I typically know better.

And sometimes things like this happen, but my reserves were stretched and when I was boy wrangling after dinner, dish washing, plate scraping, composting, picking up, rearranging, shoving food into my mouth when I could.

God how I hate that.

I really have grown to like sitting and eating my meals, as mind fully as possible.

I don’t always succeed in completely unplugging from my phone, but I do usually have success with sitting down to eat my meal, rather than cramming in a bite here standing up and trying to multi-task eighteen different things.

I did eat.

I did manage to get through the last hour of the day.

I did make it to Church Street Cafe and sit exhausted and near to tears, and by the end, in tears, at a table in the front and discuss with my person how I need to advocate more help from the mom and dad at certain times and how I can say that without coming off like I’m telling them that I know better, I don’t, I just have the experience I have, and asking for what I need.

“It’s not a confrontation, its communication,” he said to me.

Ah.

Yes.

I still have that old idea in my head that asking for what I want is confrontational.

Nope.

I am just communicating my needs and they have told me before they don’t want me to get burned out.

I don’t want me to get burned out either.

I sat.

Cried.

Prayed.

Held hands and let myself be held.

Then I sat for another hour and in that time felt myself come back into my body, the food had kicked in and I could feel my batteries recharged.

I even enjoyed the bike ride home.

I also notice my God box, the reading I had read out loud tonight, the one paragraph that I had as the book passed into my hands talked about putting a note in the God box and letting it go.

And rediscovering later what I had given over, usually things that I had completely forgot about–because they, the problems, had been taken care of.

I got this God box in Paris about two years ago and had not opened it since. I randomly pulled out notes, mostly about how am I going to pay my rent.

One especially that made me breathe in, knowing I had been so taken care of, even though I could not see it at all at the time, dated 1/29/13–Please help me pay February rent–I don’t know what happened, but I do know I did pay February rent, but on the 29th of January I did not have the funds and didn’t know where they were going to come from.

One slip, 3/9/13, where am I supposed to live?

I had written down Paris, New York, San Francisco?

I found centimes and Euros and pence from when I had gone to London.

I found a note I had written more recently that I had completely forgotten about–Please help me with >>>>>I am miserable–that one was dated 1/7/15.

The next I pulled out?

Dated 1/14/15 Please show me what to do about <<<<<<< I don’t know what to do.

Well.

He broke up with me just days later.

I got my answer.

So I put the bottom back on the bank, my hot pink fuchsia rabbit from the Pylones store in the Marais, and I wrote out a note to God asking him to help me be of service to the family I work for and to advocate for what I need.

And yes, I asked about a sign in regards to a boyfriend.

I damn sure am due one.

Then I got into the shower, oh hot shower, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

I washed my hair and gave it a deep conditioning and then slathered myself in cocoa butter lotion and made a cup of tea.

I feel ever so much better.

My bunny bank God box smiling benevolently on my book shelf.

My sweet home, a home I know I am covered for rent for, a job that I know I am loved and appreciated at.

And God’s got the boyfriend, he always has.

He took care of the last one, he’ll take care of the next.

As long as I take care of myself.

And keep turning it all over.

Again and again.

And.

Again.

Everybody’s Got Their Own Agenda

March 24, 2015

I heard her voice in my head as I shouted at the woman who passed me on the right and pushed me into traffic on the commute into work.

I had already had a few moments of uneasiness on my bicycle.

It rained last night.

Not a lot.

But enough.

The roads were slick this morning and as I was pedaling across Lincoln at 20th my back wheel slipped under me a moment.

I righted and breathed and continued forward, cautious, but aware.

Again the wheel slipped, just a touch, rounding a corner in the Pan Handle.

When it’s just damp enough to cause all the street oil to sluice up to the top of the pavement it feels scarier then when it is a full on down pour.

Slick roads are worse in my estimation than rain.

I thought about the rest of the commute and that I had time.

I always give myself ten minutes more than I need to get to work.

I like to get off my bike, stretch out my shoulders, wiggle out any kinks in my legs and drink some water.

I like to also have caught my breath and had a moment to get centered before entering the fray.

Monday’s especially can be a ruckus, especially after having two days with mom and dad, the charges are not always grateful to see me, despite having fun moments after I arrive.

Upon arrival I often hear a “no!” or “go away!” or the pitter patter of feet running to mom and dad.

That’s ok.

I’m used to it kid.

Sometimes I get the opposite response, but not always.

So, lots of time for me to travel my way cross town.

Monday’s are also a challenge for me as a bicycle commuter.

It is the one day of the week that I go into work early and as such I am in actual commuter traffic.

Not just car commuter and Google Bus commuter, but bicycle commuter, traffic.

I will forget, have forgotten, most other days that there are many, many, many more bicycles on the road then there used to be and also that four days of the week I am riding in to work outside of busy rush hour traffic.

Not so Mondays.

I generally am hitting the end of the rush, but I can get caught in it, or catch up to it, almost always on the Wiggle, sometimes in the Pan Handle if the lights are not in my favor.

I was doing alright after negotiating the Wiggle until I crossed Duboce and hopped onto Sanchez.

As I was crossing over Market headed toward 17th, a rider passed me on the right.

DON’T PASS ON THE RIGHT!

I yelled, startled.

Damn it lady.

You’re forcing me into traffic and riding in my blind spot.

Stupid lady.

I didn’t say bitch.

No.

I was annoyed though and thought about giving her a lecture on being polite to other bicyclists.

I mean, I pass cars all the time on the right, except when they are signaling a right turn, then I go around to the left.

Bicyclists and pedestrians, though, I always pass on the left.

And yes.

I am that annoying person who hollers out, “on your left.”

Sometimes I will whistle sharply if I think a person can’t hear me who may be crossing an intersection while looking at their phone screen.

But most of the time I pass on the left and I let you know that I am there.

It’s something I learned on training rides in 2010 when I rode in the Aids LifeCycle tour from San Francisco to Los Angeles.

I learned a lot on those rides.

How to fix a flat, how to carry momentum to get up a hill, how to ride clipless, how to ride a back to back, how to ride a Century (100 miles) what it felt like to bonk, what I needed to do to not bonk, how it felt riding Whites Hill in Marin the first time.

How it felt climbing Mount Tam and doing the Southern Hills Climb.

How saddle sores felt.

I happily will skip having that experience again.

I occasionally rue not having registered for the ride this year, I was thinking about it a lot, but I decide to apply to graduate school and go to Atlanta for the International Conference, and see my grandmother in Chula Vista and go to Burning Man.

That’s more than enough for my plate this year.

And I still have a few ideas up my sleeve for travel.

I learned a lot of courtesy on those rides and what it felt like when another rider did not extend the same courtesy to me.

Sometimes I can be an asshole and need to prove a point and I could feel that come up in me when I saw the woman on her bicycle stopped at the traffic light at Sanchez and 16th.

I wanted to lecture her.

I wanted to tell her how it’s done.

I know better though.

It’s not my place to tell another person how to live their life and I had a flash of a driver yelling out the window at me to “wear a fucking helmet!”

Which doesn’t do much from saving my startled self when I get screamed at.

Hey asshat, when you are so focused on the behavior of someone else you’re ignoring yourself.

Just saying.

So when I coasted in to a stop at 16th and Sanchez I held my tongue.

I looked at the woman.

She was oblivious.

She was not seeing me as I was straddling my bike waiting for the light to change.

She also was fiddling with her phone and had ear phones in, so the likelihood that she heard me holler about passing on the right was nil, and she wasn’t going to hear me and my “friendly” I know better bicycle protocol about passing on the right.

I paused.

And I brought my attention to the road ahead of me.

The trickiest part of the commute, especially when its slick, the turn at Sanchez onto 17th.

There’s a great bike lane on 17th, but turning left I have to cross two sets of MUNI train tracks at a parallel instead of simply cutting straight across.

It is far to easy too slip on them.

I have in the past, but never gone down.

I kept my counsel, the light changed.

The woman hadn’t seen the light change, she was a bit behind me.

I signalled a left turn.

I signalled that I was slowing down, that’s a flat open palm hanging down at a right angle waving back and forth (think of a reverse beauty pageant queen on a float waving).

Then I signalled that I was coming to a slow stop.

A squeezing in of my hand into a ball.

I turned left.

I crossed at a diagonal and made it completely over the tracks with no slippage, I turned my head, the woman was directly to my left, riding in between the train tracks, not even in the bicycle lane.

“It’s your life lady,” I thought to myself and then, out of no where, I should move over, she’s going to pass me and cut me off again at the light.

I could just feel it.

Except.

Well.

She wiped out on the tracks.

She went down.

Hard.

I am still not sure how I avoided hitting her.

She was passing me and her bicycle nearly toppled me, I weaved to the right, and rolled off my pedals, sliding my feet out of my foot retention straps (oh how do I love thee my Hold Fast straps) and squeezing slow and steady on my brake so I wouldn’t slip too.

It all happened in slow motion.

I can still see her right hand, fingers spread, reaching to catch her fall, I can see how if I hadn’t swerved just at that moment, how I would have rolled over her hand.

I shudder.

She broke her basket on her bike and bananas flew into the street.

A car drove over one and the smell of ripe banana wafted over the tracks and assaulted my nose.

“Are you ok?” I asked, stopping, looking back, “do you need help?”

“I’m ok, I’m ok,” she stood.

I watched her pick up her bicycle and shakily run her hands over her body.

“Are you sure?” I asked again.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said and waved me off.

The car that had rolled over the banana was stopped a few feet a head of me.

I rolled up on her.

“She ok?” The driver leaned out the window.

“Yeah, she’s ok,” I smiled.

The driver smiled.

“Whew.”

Be careful out there kids.

I was a little discombulated but so grateful that I hadn’t yelled at her.

That I kept my lecture to myself.

I am certain she learned what she needed.

That’s the thing.

We all learn exactly what we need when we need it and I can’t hurry any one’s process up.

Mine included.

I can be right.

Or.

I can be happy.

And today I was very happy to make it to work in one piece.

Very happy.

Connection

March 23, 2015

That is what I crave.

I was thinking about that today as I walked along the beach.

I had just gotten off the phone with my little sister.

She may be 40, but she’s still my little sister.

I had been thinking about her and I realized, you know, why not give a call?

We had a half hour conversation and without me even realizing it I had walked from the Judah entrance on Ocean Beach to Sloat.

It was a nice walk back.

One in which I ran into a couple other people I knew.

We exchanged hugs and pleasantries, then parted.

Father and daughter walking the beach at low tide.

Before I had even made it down to the beach I ran into a fellow walking up Judah to Trouble.  He and his friend had just been down at the beach as well.

“Neighbor!” He smiled and we hugged.

It’s nice to be known.

It’s nice to be seen.

And with these thoughts in my mind I signed out of OKCupid tonight.

I have not eradicated my profile, but I am offline with it for a while.

“I realized,” I said to her while explaining my experience, strength, and hope, hopefully, “that I long for someone to travel with, to have adventures with, to go to Burning Man with.”

Which for me, means traveling, having adventures, and going to Burning Man.

I love to travel and I love adventures and I am down for camping in the heat and dust, as long as there’s loads of love and light and art, please, oh pretty please, give me some art.

I want to live as full and rich a life as possible.

And though a good part of that life is documented here, not all of it is and when I find myself not connecting on OkCupid, or Tinder, or Hinge, when the emoticon becomes the template for my communication with another human being, it’s time to scale back.

I don’t care for texting.

It’s emotional shorthand.

It’s cave man communication.

And it’s too easy to read all sorts of things into it.

I want to actually talk on the phone, I know that’s even becoming outmoded in the land of looking at our phone screens.

Sometimes I wonder if folks are going to actually stop using their phones and just text and facetime and spout emoji’s on one another.

I need contact.

I need touch.

I need to hear the emotions in a person’s voice.

I am not saying I am lonely.

Far from it.

I am fabulous company.

I spent my afternoon after doing the deal with a lady at the kitchen table, cooking homemade chili, and hanging in the back yard, watching the ravens swoop and the cats lazy, prowl the roof tops for the warmest patch of sun.

I looked at the yellow flowers in the weeds and marveled at the wild geranium, soft lilac with splotches of deep red and violet on its petals, careen toward the sun.

I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the sun as well.

Don’t worry I had my 45 sunblock slathered on.

I, like a cat, love the warmth of the sun though.

I drank sparkling water and ate large kale salads.

I read a Vanity Fair.

I read my book.

I made some phone calls and left some messages.

I thought about connection and how I want to connect with the world.

I thought about dating and realized that the action is to not pursue.

Rather to be pursued.

I like being courted.

I need to let that happen.

I reflected on the best parts of my time with my ex boyfriend and realized that it was all before we had sex.

The feeling of holding hands, sitting next to one another, the building up of emotions.

That I want to have more of.

I am not saying sex is off the table.

I am saying, though, that when I am at my absolute rock bottom honest, I want more and that more has to do with emotional intimacy.

I’m not trying to figure anything out.

I’m not sick of dating.

I am, however, sick of trying to figure it out.

Thus.

I say I stop.

I signed out of OkCupid and I don’t know when or if I will sign back in.

I want to be signed into my life.

“I’m really glad you’re getting your knees checked out,” my dear friend told me yesterday as we wandered around Alcatraz.

Holding hands, at that!

I think about some of the nicest hand holding and it’s been with her and my best friend back in Wisconsin.

Whom I am contemplating going to see and when that might fit into my busy life.

Christmas?

I know, it’s March.

But after having just sent my employers my official time off requests for going to Chula Vista to see my grandmother, then the time for my graduate school retreat, and the week of Burning Man, I realized I may not have time to do any other travel until late fall/winter.

And I’m not even including when I go to Atlanta in July–I don’t have to ask off for that time, it’s 4th of July weekend, so I’m off already.

My friend continued, holding my hand as the crowds pushed ahead of us, “you should do couples dancing, I think you would have fun and meet people.”

That sounds nice.

Meeting people in person.

Engaging face to face.

Human being to human being.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned and I should really re-think staying on all the sites and things and doings.

But.

Despite wanting All The Things.

I don’t believe that I will find them there.

I am more than a sound bite.

Hell, I am more than this blog.

How could I expect anyone to get a grasp of me via a text or a tweet or a post?

I want to get to know you.

Face to face.

Not facebook to facebook.

I know you’re out there.

I am ready when you are.

Let’s go explore this great big amazing world together.

Hand in hand.

 

The Rock

March 22, 2015

Not the wrestler.

The island.

Alcatraz

The view from Alcatraz

I went out to Alcatraz today with my dear friend whose birthday celebration happens to coincide with the 65th anniversary of the penitentiary closing.

The last inmates were shipped off 65 years ago and they shut the prison down.

Thank God.

I cannot think of a worst place to be, and I am sure there are worse, but to be stuck on a rock in the middle of the bay and see the beguiling San Francisco just across the way is a kind of torture I just don’t think I could bear.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back in San Francisco soon,” my friend patted my arm as we waited for the ferry, the line was long, so many of us, though not many of us from San Francisco itself, were waiting that I did have a moment of panic.

I laughed out loud.

I am that obvious.

Take me out of the city and I am itching to get right back to it.

Although my friend and I agree, I seemed to have out grown the Mission, and though I don’t look my age, 42 (and thank you Uber driver for the flabbergasted look on your face when I told you my age), I do feel it quite often, and I am a grown up living in a grown up place.

The Outer Sunset.

Oh.

There’s some kids out here, surfers and guys and gals, and some hipsters and the like, but it does seem a community less focused on the hip, slick, cool, and of the moment.

I am not a tech girl, but as I realized, again on the Uber drive to the Ferry Building (when the bus rolled over the hill on Judah I remembered that there was construction on the Sunset Tunnel between Duboce Park and Cole Valley and I was about to embark on a journey that would put me way behind schedule, I called for a lift), just from living in San Francisco I am often a head of the curve with tech and its uses.

I’m still not savvy enough to use my google map or to know how to delete apps of my phone.

Thank God a friend noticed me struggling with my Iphone and showed me how to get Tinder off it.

Complete and total side bar.

I got rid of Tinder, Hinge, and OkCupid on my phone.

I kept OkCupid online though.

A girl has got to have a few balls in the air.

Or a cute tour guide to flirt with.

Dude.

The cute guy at Alcatraz knew my girl friend and I were there for the @Large exhibit by Ai Weiwei.

“Anyone from San Francisco,” he hollered as we joined a small group clustered below the penitentiary sign.

Alcatraz

Alcatraz

 

My girlfriend and I nodded.

“Here for the art exhibit?” He asked.

We nodded our heads, it was pretty obvious, yes, we’re locals and yes we came out to see the art, not so much the cell blocks–we were the only folks in the group to acknowledge we were there for the art.

Though it was pretty impressive to see the prison.

And spooky at times.

Especially when the fog started to roll in.

Fog

Alcatraz

The guide gave us directions and we went to the exhibit.

It was truly amazing.

Ai Weiwei

Ai Wei Wei–Blossom

The light was one of the things that would have saved me if I was an inmate at Alcatraz, little else.

The artist, Ai Weiwei, though confined to China, seemed cognizant of the light, spectral, haunting, smashed by the sea and melting through the wired panes of windows.

It was dreamy and dangerous and affecting.

The first piece was a large floating Chinese dragon kite.

Dragon

Dragon

It was astounding and wound through a large holding cell space.

Dragon Body

Dragon Scales

 

 

 

 

 

Dragon head

Color and light

Then the portraits of various activists and artists laid out on the floor with Lego’s.

Legos

Edward Snowden in Lego’s

Lego Art

Lego Activists

If you are in the San Francisco Bay Area, I do encourage you to take the trip out.

I don’t know that I would have gone out otherwise and I am glad to say that I did.

The art was exquisite and the juxtaposition of it in the prison was superb.

Haunting.

Depressing.

There was a room, “Hydro Therapy” that gave me the goosebumps.

It was like someone had stepped on my grave.

Bathtub

Hydro Therapy Room Alcatraz Psych Ward

I had a flash of an inmate disrobing and being hosed off with high pressure water, the light refracted around the enamel bathtub and I took the shot and shivered.

I had no desire to walk through the cell blocks are take a photograph in one of the tiny cells.

Although, I laughed and acknowledge that a few of the cells were actually larger than my studio.

The light better too.

But I would not trade what I have for a prison cell.

Even if the square footage was impressive.

I counted a lot of my blessings today talking with my dear friend as we traversed the Farmers Market at the Ferry Building (a bit over priced–$7.00 for two Aztec Fuji apples, albeit delicious and gigantic) and picked up lunch and snacks for the afternoon adventure.

I had divine boxed salmon sushi from Delica and two of the most amazing rolls I have ever had that I bought ala carte, sushi rice with rare roast beef (sushi doesn’t have to be fish, fyi, “sushi” means food on rice, it is often vegetables and fish though, the beef was exquisite and I couldn’t even bring myself to share it with my friend, who thankfully had brought her own lovely lunch) draped over the top of it topped with fresh wasabi.

Oh my goodness.

I get to live in San Francisco being very near the top of that list.

I get to go out on ferry boats and travel the bay and see amazing national park areas, Alcatraz is part of  The Golden Gate National Park System, I mean, basically right in my back yard there are all these incredible parks and land marks.

Plus.

You know, the Burning Man community started here, Bakers Beach, baby, and all that Burning Man is to me.

My friend and I discussed that a lot today as well.

I have started my list of the stuffs that need to be gathered.

Another reason to love the event, it brings out the inherent hunter/gatherer in me.

And of course, there was much talk of the graduate school program and just how far I have come in a short time.

I mean.

Really, it was not quite two years ago, I was coming home from Paris and when I got to Berlin to change in my Euro (the only money to my name) I got back $10 American.

I came from that to where I am now.

I work my ass off.

I took a moment or two to bask in my glory, to reflect on my gratitude for this city, for my dear, darling friend, and when we saw our photograph taken by the tour guide on the trip,  we didn’t have any problem shelling out the $30 bucks for two copies of it.

I’m lucky.

Or graced.

Or lucky.

I got to open up the cell door of my own imposed prison and walk out of it.

Free.

Clear.

And moving forward.

Becoming even more myself and more in love with my city by the bay.

It was with much gratitude and love that I stepped off the gangplank of the ferry and hopped the F-Market back downtown.

It was truly an experience to see the city from Alcatraz.

But I prefer to see Alcatraz from the city.

My home sweet home.

San Francisco.

Take A Moment

March 21, 2015

And bask in this.

“Have you done that yet,” she asked me over the phone, “when did this conversation happen?”

“About a half hour ago,” I replied, under the partial sunny skies, blue streaking out behind the lengths of clouds.

I was on the basketball court at Mission Pool and Playground with the boys kicking around a soccer ball and corralling them, to the best of my abilities, in a fenced in spot while I made the phone call.

“I hear the boys,” she said, “they sound like they are having a good time.”

They were.

And so was I.

I had just had my “review,” a process that was really quite short and very, very sweet.

The mom had actually said, “can we do this next week? There’s just so much happening today for me.”

I acquiesced, “of course, there’s really no hurry, I just really wanted to talk about dates proceeding forward, I don’t have any thing other than that to bring up.”

“Let’s do it next week, then,” she said, as the dad came into the kitchen.

“Really, we don’t need to, unless there’s something wrong, is there something wrong?” The mom and dad stopped in their tracks.

“No, no, not at all, I, well, I just was offered a ticket to Burning Man and I really want to go and it doesn’t coincide with the holiday time that you are taking,” I said.

I might have blushed.

And may I just say, how nice it is to nanny in San Francisco, where for the most part, the population knows what Burning Man is.

Of course, most of that comes down to a profound relief to be able to find a parking spot during Labor Day weekend in San Francisco, but you know.

“You have absolutely earned that vacation time,” the mom said as she was gathering up the snacks I had prepped for pre-school pick up and grabbing the milk container in the fridge, tossing it all into a cloth Mission Farmer’s Market maroon bag.

“Well, the other thing is that I got my graduate school schedule and I will need to take a week off for the retreat that is a part of the program, adding that to the two days off I’m heading to Chula Vista to see my grandmother, I will have gone over my vacation time.”  I said, “I just wanted to make sure that…”

The mom cut me off, “you have nothing to worry about, we can take the time out of your personal days off for your grandmother, I’m sure you need to talk things through about your dad and we want you to be able to do that.”

I think I might have felt my heart swell two sizes bigger with gratitude.

“I wanted to let you know I can make up the hours, or help out a little more in Sonoma,” I replied.

The family will be going to Sonoma for two weeks in July and another week in August.

Serendipitously, neither Burning Man or my graduate school retreat happen to coincide with the week in August that the family will take in Sonoma before school starts up for the boys.

The youngest will be starting pre-school and the oldest, kindergarten.

“You don’t have to worry about that, we can play that by ear, we will have extra help in Sonoma,” the mom said, adjusting her purse and digging out her car keys, “besides, we don’t want to burn you out, we really like how you are when you are at full energy with the boys.”

“We’ve had four nannies,” the dad interjected, “and you are by far, the best nanny we have ever had.”

“Hands down.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, “I adore the boys, I really do, I just wanted to make sure that all the scheduling was ok with you.”

“It’s great, we can talk more next week,” the mom rushed out to grab the eldest from school.

“Do you have your dates for school,” the dad asked.

“I do, I can e-mail you the full set of dates, Fall 2015 and Spring 2016 just went up on the site,” I explained the timing.

Three days, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

About every three weeks I’ll be in class.

Fridays and Saturdays from 9 a.m. until 8 p.m.

Sundays from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m.

Woof.

The retreat is August 9th through 16th in Petaluma.

The first weekend of school is September 11th-13th.

I’ll have two weekends in October, one in November, one in December, one weekend each in January, February, March, April, and May.

There is no school June and July.

I’ll have “summer vacation.”

Which means I’ll work a lot, but let me to not jump too far ahead.

Pull back.

Bask.

“You’re HP is really working for you, graduate school, Burning Man, the job review, really, take a minute and appreciate what they told you.” She admonished me on the phone.

I am not good at recognizing or accepting this, but as I stay at the work of taking suggestions I have gotten better and it would not be in the spirit of humility to not acknowledge the compliments.

I do a good job.

I do a really good job.

I do.

And as the boys chased a red soccer ball around the court at the playground, stopping once in a while to run up and grab me and tug my hand and engage, I could feel the sun on my face and accept that I am a good nanny.

Doing a good job.

Being of service.

How many nannies pray to be of service before going into work?

Not sure that there are a lot.

Not sure that there aren’t others who don’t, but I really do wish to be of service when I go to work and the pay off is great.

I am loved and I get to love.

I mean I sat under the table in the kitchen today with the littlest guy after his nap before mom got back with his big brother and had a total conversation about his stuffed cat Meow Meow and we sang songs and cuddled and had snacks, well, he had snacks, I wiped snacks off his face, and to have such a tender (though wildly rambunctious at times) little boy crawl into my lap and kiss my face with his cat makes me tear the fuck up.

To not put to fine a point on it.

I get paid to love.

How lucky am I?

And I get to go to Burning Man?

Shut the front door.

 

Of Course You Are!

March 20, 2015

This was the response to a text I sent out this morning.

This morning delirious with joy.

“I’m going to Burning Man.”

Was the text I sent out.

Like, I’m really going to go to Burning Man.

It’s happening.

Funny thing too.

I had done a lot of writing about it this morning and this constant let go, I don’t know how to let go, idea of going this year and how it’s going to play out and what’s going to happen and the how of it.

Never the why.

There has never been a why.

I don’t think I have ever asked myself why I want to go to Burning Man, I just do, there’s not a reason for the high heat, high desert, high altitude, the dust, the odd ball weather, flash flood last year anyone?

The long hours driving there and back, the preparation, the planning, the frankly, obsessing, what boots, how many pairs of socks is the perfect amount, should I color my hair pink this year or purple or blue or just go full on blonde?

The wrangling of time off, when I have worked for other families not in the Burning Man community.

“We actually need you to work that week after,” the mom said, “do you think they could change the date on the event?”

This was a real question.

Sure, let me get back to you on that.

Why would anyone in their right mind go?

“You don’t drink, do drugs, eat sugar, or flour?”  He asked as I ticked off the list, “why the hell do you come out here?”

“I like salt and caffeine,” I replied and cackled like a mad woman.

And there’s that.

I am crazy.

Crazy like a fox and crazy in love with the Universe who listens and hears my desires and peers into my heart and goes, “ah, there, that’s what she needs, let’s see what I can do about that.”

And boom.

I’m off to the burn.

I was writing, like I do every morning, before heading out to work and being realistic about what I wanted to ask off for with the family, I’ll be sitting down with them tomorrow to discuss moving forward as it marks my 6 months with them, and I was thinking, do I bring up Burning Man or not?

I want to go.

Can I afford to go?

How do I get there?

What’s the plan, Stan?

I realized that if it was going to happen it would happen naturally and organically, without me mucking about in it, without me manipulating it, without me being dishonest.

I could tell the family that since my school dates coincide so nicely with the event that I am basically going to ask off for it and throw caution to the wind.

That the going would happen if it was supposed to happen.

I did say a prayer, write it really, for God to show me the way forward with it.

I don’t usually go back and re-read what I write in my morning pages, the point is not to write a readable book, it’s to get the gunk out of my head and clear space for my day (a day I must say that I needed to be clear and present for, it was hella busy at work), a way for me to be balanced and have perspective around the day before heading out into the world.

But.

I really did write a lot about Burning Man this morning, ending my morning pages with this: “God, please show me if you want me to go.  I want All The Things.  I do want to go.”

I’m not going to bullshit.

I want all the things this year.

I mean, it’s nice to have someone advocate that for me and my friend, who’s sticker I bear so proudly on my laptop, certainly pointed out to me years ago that I deserve them.

But sometimes it takes me a minute, or a month, or a year, to get that I really want all the things.

I do, I do.

I want to go to Burning Man and I want to go to Hawaii and I want to go to Atlanta and I want to go to graduate school, and hey, look at that, things are happening.

I want a boyfriend who wants to go to Burning Man with me.

Not a boyfriend who makes fun of me going to Burning Man.

I didn’t make fun of your motorcycle club man, don’t make fun of my dust bowl, ok?

I wanted a clear sign.

And well, ha.

I got one.

I was riding my bicycle up Lincoln Avenue, that part where the hill is the hilliest and there’s still blocks to go, but if I am in a good groove, it’s not so bad.

Ping.

I heard the messenger app on my phone go off.

I had a feeling.

But I mean, I didn’t know.

I thought briefly for a moment who it could be and then forgot and got on with my bicycle commute.

I have to pay attention to traffic and though the commute is rote for me at this point, I am still riding a bicycle in traffic and I’m in it for about 35 minutes in the morning and another 35 in the evening.

That’s over an hour, more usually as I don’t always go straight home after work.

And in that hour a lot can happen if I’m not paying attention.

I got to work, the ride was smooth, lovely, light wind, high clear, blue, blue, blue skies, I smiled at the world.

I was ten minutes early and I did my long draught of water, followed by some stretches and then I sat down on a bench across the street from work and checked the message.

It was a message from God.

Not to be dramatic or anything.

It was a message from my original playa mom.

The OPM.

Or in other words.

The Action Girl.

Oh damn.

Oh yes.

I read the message and my smile got so big and I think I made some unintelligible yelping happy noise and bounced on the bench in glee.

The family is planning on going and they wanted me to come and help out and the getting of there and back will be taken care of and the getting of a ticket will be taken care of and I can camp with them.

OMG.

Yes!

I’m going to Burning Man.

I didn’t even really think, I just replied, yes!

And yes again and yes some more.

Happy, happy.

Joy, joy.

Not sure the specifics yet, but I don’t really need to be.

I can sit down with mom and dad and the Junebug and see what needs to happen and when and how.

But never why.

I don’t need to know why I need to go.

I am just going.

I’M GOING TO BURNING MAN!

Of course you are.

Bahahahahahaha.

Thanks for the sign God.

xo

Mary Fucking Poppins.

 

 

 

 


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