All In The Family

I turned around, his small body pressed to me.

“Chip,” he said soft, with a slight lisp, he smiled, “chip,” he whispered again.

Oh squeeze my heart little cousin.

I hopped a tortilla chip off the platter to his waiting mouth.

He took a bite, then held out his hand for the chip and went back to his favorite uncle on the couch.

Who proceeded to feed him a bite of cake.

Family.

Grandma.

Auntie.

Uncle.

Three boy cousins and their wives (what are the wives of first cousins called?).

And then the grand babies.

Which would be my second cousins–three more boys.

Me.

Food.

Oh my goodness so much food.

Grandma homemade food.

I just about fell over.

Roast pork and chicken and potatoes and salad and the most amazing paella I have ever, ever, ever had.

I wasn’t able to eat the Hawaiian pineapple cake and some other things but getting to watch everyone eat and talk and cozy against each other, cousins and second cousins running in and out the patio screen door, was such a gift.

I got to hold a four-month old second cousin in my lap and look in his wide brown eyes and see the genetic markers of the family passing themselves merrily right along.

A part of.

Once again with my family.

My aunt hugged me as she headed out the door, “don’t be a stranger.”

I won’t.

I don’t know when I will come back down to Chula Vista, but I will again.

And I can see myself making the trip up to my Uncle’s in Nevada City for a holiday, perhaps Thanksgiving?

Make some more memories.

Have some more connections.

See more things.

My Uncle and my cousin, his youngest son and wife, took me out to Balboa Park today in San Diego this morning and we spent the morning into the early parts of the afternoon wandering around the grounds.

We went to the Historical Museum and saw the Dr. Seuss exhibit, which was truly amazing and also wonderful and silly and made me laugh out loud.

My second cousin, his dad, and my Uncle sat down a Dr. Seuss designed table and cut and colored Cat in the Hat paper hats, cut them out and then wore them around the exhibit.

I laughed so hard I thought I might pee my pants.

While they were working on hats I discovered a color in your own Dr. Seuss character postcard table and I sat down and colored up three of them right away, one for my mom, one for the boys I work with and one for my cousin and his family–they were such wonderful hosts, every one really–which I plan on sending as a thank you card.

I didn’t actually get myself any postcards from the museum.

I was having too much fun hanging out in the museum to color more.

I scooped up the three I colored on and galavanted about the rest of the Historical Museum, snapping photos wherever I could.

Then off to Rose Garden where I was happy to discover roses that actually smelled like roses, and a walk through the Japanese Tea Garden to quietly walk through the paths and marvel at the giant coi fish in the ponds.

Prior to the museum we also went through the Botanical Gardens, wandered through the Spreckels Organ pavilion and checked out the fountain in the front.

It was a lovely meander.

The sun burned through the fog and they day grew warm.

We headed to a late lunch, had sushi, ran a few errands for my grandma and then back to the house for dinner and all the folks.

Sitting here, the dishes washed, the lights being dimmed, my uncle having one last piece of cake, my gram getting ready for bed and I am filled with a kind of gratitude I find hard to express, but it is there, full, golden, sun soaked and happy.

Quiet.

Seeing photographs of my father as a boy.

My grandmother showing me his Boy Scout uniform from when they lived in Oakland, my eyes welled and my heart grew three sizes bigger.

Then she pulled out a package from my sister.

It was a strange, but so sweet, assortment of crochet items that she sent my grandma in 1986, she would have been eleven or twelve.

I gasped when I saw the postmark on the box, Windsor Wisconsin.

“I save it, I thought it was so sweet,” my grand mother said, “I don’t know what they are exactly, but you could see she was just learning and I had to keep it.”

I told her about my afghan, the one she had crocheted for me when I lived in the House in Windsor and had shared that I was in the coldest room in the house, the one directly beneath the attic and it was like living in Siberia, so she crocheted me a red and white and pink afghan.

I had lost it.

Not lost it as in lost it, but it had been destroyed in a flood in Madison.

It was in the same stack of boxes my ex had bought down in the basement when we lived on Mifflin Street the year it flooded our basement.

I also lost all my Christmas ornaments.

My ex had tossed everything out.

I was so hurt when I discovered that.

“I’ll make you another!” My grandmother told me, “just tell me what colors you want.”

My eyes welled.

It’s been a wonderful trip.

An amazing gift of reconnection and discovery.

Listening to the squabbles and talks and the hugs and the kisses and hearing all the stories between uncles and aunt and cousins and wives.

I had just a kiss of regret watching the easy give and take of love, I wished for a partner to share it all with, someone I could lean into and hug and kiss on too.

I know that will come.

Things like that happen when you are happy and secure and surrounded by family.

It just happens.

Like love.

Blooming.

An unending flowering of love.

Family.

My family.

That Cake, Is That New?

I love my uncle.

He cracks me up.

“I’ll try it, I guess.”  He tells me he only eats like this when he visits.

I’m not sure about that, but it is cute and amusing and as I sit and hear more stories and have the gift of simple time.

Sitting.

Having meals together.

Watching a show with my grandmother.

Hanging out with the dog, who really does seem to gravitate to my Uncle, with the saddest eyes ever, I don’t know how this dog is only 9lbs.

I don’t feel compelled to give treats to dogs, but this little lady, does nip at my heart.

Family.

It’s nice.

Seeing myself reflected back in the bone structure of my grandmothers face, seeing how her legs are my sister’s legs, and let me truthful, blessed to be in this gene pool.

My vanity assuaged by the astounding health, vitality, and youthful looks of my grandmother.

She’s 87.

She lives on her own, does her own shopping, drives, cooks, in fact I was told to not touch the dishes, although I had already and not to help out in the kitchen.

Hmm.

I seem to understand where I get that from.

Independence.

Also hearing stories about my father and his brothers and sister and where they travelled and what they did, where they lived, how my dad spent time in Paris when they lived in a village in France, or hearing about my uncle riding his bicycle down the highway, at the age of 8, in Japan to go play with a friend.

Sometimes I think that children in these modern times are a bit sheltered and over cared for, a touch over scheduled, a tad over supervised, and I wonder what they might be missing, what adventures they may have.

However.

That’s not my concern, now is it?

Children grow up and people change and history happens and stories get passed down, pressed between the leaves of a book on Maui and when the sun is shifting through the sky, the palm trees crash against the blue skies over the hills, I was able to just sit and close my eyes.

Lifting my face up.

Thankful.

Just a simple prayer of thanks.

Just to be here.

Nothing needs to happen.

No depths of feeling must be plunged.

I don’t have to have an “aha moment.”

I just get to have these small pearls of time, moments with my family.

Teasing my uncle.

Then being totally gullible and falling for one of his stories without realizing I am being told a tall tale.

Even at the age of 42 I still am gullible.

I’m ok with that too, I’m allowed to be anything.

Today there was eating and a drive and hanging out with my second cousin and my uncle and going to see Mad Max–totally so Burning Man–I almost shouted out loud during one scene.

“I have those goggles!”

I restrained myself.

I did not holler out, but I did appreciate it to myself.

I never saw the Mad Max movies when they were originally released and it was fun to be a part of the culture.

I reflected that there are some experiences that I did not have when I was a kid, when I was growing up there was a lack of resources, I believe that may be the best way I can put it.

We were shit show poor.

School supplies were a fantasy of longing, always having the cheapest notebooks, crayons, pencils, pens (no wonder I am so particular about the notebooks I write in and the pens I use, it’s an entirely sensual experience for me when I write), clothes?

Please.

I started working in the corn fields detassling for Kaltenberg Seed Farms when I was twelve.

Bussing tables at the age of 13.

I stayed with both jobs until I was sixteen?

I got fired from the detailing job, which was really odd, when I look back, for using profanity, but what it really happened?

I was a crew leader by the time I was 14, which meant I made a modicum of more money, and I led the kids through the fields (in Wisconsin you can do farm labor at the age of 12 and because it is often considered “family work” they could legally pay the kids working less than minimum wage), I think I was making $3.25 an hour, much more than the $2.75 I had started out making.

Gah.

Anyway.

I was let go because I explained to a couple of kids what a gay person was.

Someone said a crappy sexist stupid, rural Wisconsin joke and when two of the kids didn’t get the punchline (to a joke I did not tell, fyi) I told them what a gay man was.

The parents called and complained and I got let go.

Such is life.

I worked more at the truck stop where I was busing tables.

I bought my own clothes.

Then I got onto swim team and things changed and I became a lifeguard and an unexpected shift in my life happened.

Not much, but just enough to alter my life seismically.

But there were things that were missed.

Television, we didn’t always have one, or it was a small 13″ black and white, once I think in my junior or senior year, my mom got a rent to own color tv.

That lasted two weeks, maybe three, but she couldn’t keep up payments.

We did not often go to movies.

When I did it was a huge deal.

I remember with great clarity the movies that I did get to see at the theater: Star Wars (lying on the floor of the car with a blanket over myself and my sister, my aunt Dolores and my dad in the front, my mom hiding in the trunk of the car) at the drive in.

Karate Kid–drive in.

Dirty Dancing–my favorite aunt Marybeth took me to that, “don’t tell your mother I am taking you to this!”

The Killing Fields, with my mom.

At way too young an age.

To give my mom some credit I don’t think she knew how violent it would be, but come on, it was the Killing Fields, not exactly a kid movie.

I saw some movies at friends houses-The Breakfast Club, Top Gun, The Little Mermaid–mostly at swim team sleep overs.

I marvel.

I really do.

How fortunate I am to be in this place, sitting on this comfy couch, with my grandmother and my uncle, the dog, the television, a show, a song, a small quiet moment.

From here to there.

From there to here.

And so many places yet to go.

Sucking Brain Power In One Fell Swoop

Gone.

What was I doing?

Sipping tea, looking at photographs on my grandmother’s mantles and walls, hearing stories, trying to not think about the weird e-mail in my in-box about my financial aid for school that puzzled me to the point that I could not read it more than twice without closing the message.

I looked at it again this morning.

They need what?

I already have my FAFSA in.

The school already has my information.

What more do you need?

Some more stuff, some more things.

Oh.

That’s it.

That little button.

That fucking little button there took me changing my password, updating my information, having over five windows open on my screen, toggling back and forth, figuring out new security questions, for almost an hour.

At one point I thought, next they will ask me to stand on my head and and with my right hand point to the true North.

Ugh.

That was obnoxious.

However.

Another thing done in the small but steady range of  actions I am certain I will have to continue to take to get into school, let alone, well, um, school itself.

Actually.

School.

I believe, will be ok.

It’s the minutiae, the small stuff, the obvious stuff, that I don’t always get.

“There, water level, right in front of you,” my cousin pointed out the fountain water-spout.

I was mesmerized by the soda options.

When was the last time I had stood in front of a soda fountain machine?

Coke?

Cherry Coke?

Rootbeer?

Sprite?

All of it please.

In a really big cup with hella crushed ice and a dessert pizza on the side.

Hahahaha.

I had a cup of water and a “pizza salad” without the pizza part–my cousin didn’t realize that I don’t eat flour, or sugar for that matter–and had taken us all to the new popular pizza place down the road.

It smelled divine.

And truthfully, I was too overwhelmed with the sudden abundance of family and how to act and be polite and be me and not melt into the background.

Not that I wouldn’t stand out a little anyway.

Even without the hot pink hair.

“I like your style,” my friend texted, “you got flavor.”

Flavor.

Yup.

I’ll take it.

And I do.

My ex called it “quirky” and I argue, I am not quirky.

Quirky is Zoe Deschanel and kitten sweaters and argyle socks and well, not me.

I rebut quirky with girl has flavor.

“Chicks with visible neck tattoos and pink hair aren’t anything nuts to me,” he replied, “maybe in Iowa.”

Yet.

When I travel outside of San Francisco I do seem to get a little extra attention.

Although not always in a bad way, the TSA agent at the airport was excited by my hair, “awesome hair!”  He enthused and waved me through.

Where I got to find out that I had to sit in SFO for a bit longer than I thought.

My flight was delayed.

Ugh.

Although, as I sat in the terminal linked up to the internet sipping organic, cold pressed iced coffee and having just finished an organic Niman Ranch hamburger (no bun, no onion, no fries, thank you) with a side of, yes organic, mixed greens, I thought, hmm.

SFO.

Worse places to be delayed.

For sure.

The flight was delayed for weather.

That’s right.

Fog.

Carl the Fog was wrapping up the airport tight.

I wasn’t happy to be delayed, but it gave me a moment to look over the e-mail from the FAFSA people.

I still didn’t get it and I decided, not going to boot up my laptop and try to figure it out.

Sit back.

Sip the coffee.

Watch a video.

Then the fog lifted and I was up in the air and before I knew it the plane was descending through the blue skies, clear of fog, lots of sunshine, and low 70 degree weather.

I took off my sweatshirt.

I needed it on the way to the airport and I needed it on the plane, they do always seem so cold, even a short flight.

Sidebar.

Almost one year later.

My ankle hurts when flying.

It swelled up and got tender and I had to stand in the aisle for a while rolling it around and getting the blood flow going.

I really couldn’t believe it.

The last time I flew was December and it was pretty tight after that flight, and still it’s not fully healed.

I really didn’t believe the doctor when he said it would be 6-8 months and possibly a year before it was fully healed.

End aside.

The sun was shining, the fake boobs were on display.

I mean.

Whoa.

I realized as I watched a woman in a low-cut shelf tank top proudly displaying her assets, I am not in San Francisco anymore.

Granted I have not spent a lot of time in Southern California, but I did immediately see things that I have not seen in San Francisco (and I’m sure I have seen fake boobs in SF, I’m sure they exist, they’re probably just hidden under thirteen layers of clothing and a black hoodie and infinity scarf-every woman could have fake tits and I would never know), enhanced cleavage, spray tan or fake tan, blow outs, high platform sandals, skin-tight jeans/jeggings, I still stood out.

I probably always will.

But I have stopped being so concerned with how I look.

As stated previously, I dress for myself and to make myself happy.

And I was happy I got my stuff packed and on my way with no delay this morning.

I also remembered to wear my clogs so that I didn’t have to struggle with going through security.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the lounge waiting for the flight to board that I began to sense some side looks and stares.

And I realized that I usually do get them when traveling.

I have a moment or two of feeling singled out, then I thought, whatever, I’m a good-looking woman and who cares if I have pink hair and tattoos, they look pretty and I have flavor and so there.

Ah.

My brain is coming back, the FAFSA website has not won.

Now I can bring my mind back to hanging out in San Diego.

I’m ready for some more sunshine.

PS

As I am editing this blog, my grandmother came over and said, “your hair looks so pretty up like that, it looks like a flower.”

#winning

It’s Time To Check In!

The e-mail cheerily declared when I opened it this afternoon at work while on my lunch break.

Already?

Wait, a minute.

I’m not ready.

But I am.

I am ready.

I am ready to see my family and declare myself a part of.

It is scary, what are they going to think of my hot pink hair and glitter?

And it is exhilarating.

Maybe I will get a straight answer as to how my last name is with an “s” rather than a “z.”

I know the story of it, but I realized, my parents are unreliable narrators.

So too, am I.

I was reflecting on what I write here and what I say, and don’t say, and how this is my voice, but it is also a “voice” I am actually, if you can believe it, quite shy and retiring.

“I knew it was you as soon as I saw you and you hid in your hair, just like I do when I am nervous,” said my cousin, oldest daughter of my favorite uncle when I first met her.

I met her about eleven and a half, perhaps 12 years ago.

I have met a couple of my cousins on my father’s side, and I know my favorite Uncle, who was ridiculous and cute on the phone with me earlier today when I called to check in regarding my flight itinerary.

“You know what we’re doing Friday morning?” He asked me.

“Ah, nope,” I smiled, but I could hear adventure in his voice.

“We’re going to watch that movie, you know the one,” my uncle said with no question in his voice what he was talking about at all.

Mad Max.

“We’re going to see Mad Max!” I almost jumped up and down like a little kid, “yay!  I haven’t seen it yet.”

“It’s totally Burning Man from what I hear,” I said.

“Completely!” My uncle agreed, “I was going to go to that theater that all the Gate and Perimeter people rented in Oakland to see the movie, but well, it was in Oakland.”

My uncle goes to Burning Man.

And right there.

I assuage my feelings.

My little girl, I’m not enough feelings.

My uncle will be there and we will talk about Burning Man and I am ok and this is family.

And we will know how to handle situations that used to baffle us.

I realized, I will know how to handle myself when I show up.

It’s not that I am some sort of heathen, I have manners, I know how to be a good guest, and I am really interested in finding out more about my family history.

I want to know all about Hawaii and my ancestry there, which I know little to nothing about.

Odd fragments that my mom told me, a memory of a book of poems and essays that my father once sent me that had a picture of the first truck on the islands, supposedly my great, great, grandfather’s vehicle?

I don’t know.

But I want to know.

I am also grateful that I am getting to go but not make a big fuss over it.

I am not trying to pack being a tourist into it.

Oh, there’s some touristy things happening, my cousin is going to take me to the Balboa Park area and we’re going to go wander around the museums.

I am just a whore for museums.

Art really.

And museum gift shops.

I told the boys today that I would miss them, and I will, despite today being a trying day with them, I swear someone slipped them sugar when I wasn’t looking.

They were off the wall with energy.

I also told them I would send them a postcard.

And I will.

I will also send myself a postcard, a small, happy reminder that usually ends up getting back to me a week or so after I have returned from a trip.

I have postcards from Paris, London, San Francisco, Venice Beach, Rome, New York, Black Rock City, Anchorage, and they are scattered all over my fridge along with magnets from the various museums I have visited while in the city.

It’s a really sweet way to remind myself of the journey.

“Are you all packed?” My ride to the airport tomorrow checked in with me as we were walking up the hill toward the Sunset Youth Services this evening.

“Close,” I said, stretching the truth mightily.

However.

I pack fast and I am getting up at my regular time tomorrow morning so that I can write and get right with God before going on my little sojourn.

I’m gone for three and a half days, I won’t need much.

I pulled my suitcase out of the closet before I left and threw some laundry in the wash so that I will have all the clothing options I want.

I marveled, I still am, actually.

At the size of my roll on suitcase.

It is the same one I took with me to Paris and lived out of for six months.

Six months.

Out of that one small bag.

And what I could fit in my messenger bag.

I am not going to bring that however, just my purse and my laptop and a notebook.

And sandals.

Fingers crossed the weather will be sunnier than it’s been here.

I was looking at my phone’s weather app earlier and wondered what in the world the forecast icon was, it looked like rain, but it was not rain.

It was an icon for fog.

I realized as I was rolling home though the Pan Handle, the forecast was for fog.

I was drenched when I got home.

It might as well have been rain.

And the forecast is looking like that for the next few days.

It’s not super warm in San Diego, but it sure looks sunnier and I will happily take low 70s versus mid to high 50s for temperatures.

I may even pack a pair of sandals.

I’ll be ready.

The dryer is almost done.

The blog is almost writ.

The feelings are still there, a pinch of anxiety, a bit of excited nervousness.

And a lot of joy.

I get to go do this.

I get to amend my ways and show up and be the grand-daughter my grandmother deserves to have in her life.

I get to be a grand-daughter, a niece, a cousin, a part of.

I get to go be with family.

I’m pretty sure they will accept me.

Pink hair and all.

Hell Hath No Fury

Like a woman scorned.

And don’t I know it.

I had lots of things to  say tonight, lots of words, lots of engaging things that would lead me to make an amends to a certain person at some point.

What’s the point?

Self-righteous anger does not serve me.

Nor does taking anyone else’s inventory.

It’s always myself I have to look at, what’s might part?

I was a big old Charlie Brown.

I went for the Lucy, the ball got swiped, and I’m assed out looking at the sky.

Wait.

Didn’t I just go through this?

What the fuck?

Oh.

I responded.

I started back down that road again, I did.

No one else compelled me to revisit it.

I was riding my bicycle home through the gloaming, the park darkening quickly, the few joggers out with their headlamps on, a handful of hardcore frisbee golf kids hanging out around the first tee on the disc golf course, but mostly, just me, the wind, the chill, the thoughts in my head, and the sky above.

I was thinking about how I am the better person and how and what and when and this and that.

And whoa.

Slow down.

There is not a better person, there is his experience, and there is my experience and I have come out of the experience a better woman.

Not better than another.

I am not the better person, I am just.

A better person.

For having had the experience.

I realized as I was riding my bicycle a number of things that did not happen around the break up and how grateful I am for that, and how hard I worked to not let any of the following happen.

First and foremost, I didn’t drink.  I didn’t pick up a drug.  I did not start smoking again.  I did not do any kind of crazy risky behaviors that would land me in the hospital, I did not have a bunch of crazy wild one night stands.

Oh.

And I didn’t eat eighteen boxes of donuts and twenty-two pints of Hagen Daaz icecream.

I had all the feels.

ALL of them.

I wrote about them.

I inventoried those little fuckers.

I did work.

I discovered that I don’t like it when I lose my voice in a relationship, I don’t like being on a pedestal, I learned about how I want to date in the future, I learned about what I want from a partner I learned more about how I need to communicate with people in my life and with myself.

I deepened my spiritual life.

I renewed my vigor and commitment to doing my blog.

I tried some online dating.

I tried asking some guys out.

I tried not doing anything.

I paused when it was applicable.

I took action when it was applicable.

I resolutely turned my attention to others and their needs.

I didn’t check out.

And I am not about to act like the scorned woman now.

No.

I have some honor.

And the still quiet voice of a friend in my head.

I was riding past Lindley Meadows thinking about what it will look like when I get married.

Yes.

I went there.

Decorating out the park.

Where the lights would go.

Who I would invite.

Pure fantasy landia.

However.

It had been supplanted with an honest share from an uncomfortable chair that after the last time I did work around a sexual ideal what I really wanted was this: a sober, non-smoking, heterosexual, monogamous, spiritual, fully self-supporting, creative, sexy, passionate, kind, healthful, man.

Who I want to be married to.

The dirty secret is out.

I don’t need children.

But I want a marriage.

Old fashioned.

Strange to think about in this day in age.

But there it was, right at the heart of it.

And then when I reviewed my ideal, knowing, without having to be told, I have achieved al those things in my life.

I am sober.

I am monogamous.

I am heterosexual.

I am creative.

I am financially self-supporting.

I am sexy.

I am passionate.

I am spiritual.

I am enough.

Fuck.

I am more than enough.

Worthy of love and lovable.

So when I got the text, oh I almost wrote something else there, ah, restraint of pen and tongue, restraint of pen and tongue and blog, saying, in a nutshell, meeting up is not a good idea.

I just responded.

Yes.

I agree.

Deleted message from said ex.

I had already deleted his number and the Facebook and social media channels are clear.

I didn’t say anything else.

There was nothing left to say.

I did feel like, for a moment, it passed, that I had the break up twice, but with none of the fun stuff like having sex one more time or dramatic frothy emotional appeals in public.

Not that I need to have those things to know when to let go.

Baby won’t you let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Let me go.

Baby, won’t you let me go.

There was a bit more to the text, but it’s not my place to pick apart here.

That voice I heard.

My friend’s voice.

Drifts back into my head, just like it did on my bike ride home.

And then I breathe and recall the sun on my face, we were at the beach, sitting and watching the waves, it was just a few weeks before I started seeing the ex and my friend said with complete candor, “oh, I could never date a woman who blogs, what if something happens?  All my foibles out on the web for anyone to see, I just couldn’t do that.”

And I knew.

I can’t write about the ex.

I can only write about myself.

My process.

My feelings.

My inventory.

The feeling now is.

It is definitely over and I won’t be seeing him any time soon.  No texting, no flirty messages on Facebook, nothing.

Moving on.

Letting go.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And then.

Just a little more for good measure.

Because I want an open heart and open arms for the wonderful person who wants to be with me, the me I am, with openness and candor and authenticity.

I won’t be distracted again.

Oops

I did it again.

Sigh.

I un-friended the ex once more on Facebook.

It was just taking up too much headspace.

And I really have more important things to do than look at any one’s news feed on Facebook.

So.

Bye bye friend.

I won’t be calling, texting, or Facebook messaging you anytime soon.

Have a great life, you’re a great guy.

I don’t want to know anymore.

Lesson learned and really, not too badly done at that.

I never saw him, we never met back up, there was no break up make up sex.

Just two ships passing, very closely, but never together, in the night.

Fare thee well my friend and should we see each other out and about I know it will be with no animosity.

Moving on.

I dealt with the things that needed to be dealt with today, some clothes shopping for basics–bras, socks, etc. and a visit to the Genius Bar at the Apple store down town to migrate all my old files from my previous laptop to my new MacBook Air.

Done and done.

Although it still took two and a half hours to do it.

I was grateful to have a library book with me!

Even though I finished the book an hour before the migration of files was finished, I wasn’t upset about the situation.

It was far faster than the 46+ hours the system had told me prior to going into the store and having them do it.

The WIFI here has never been great, although I am grateful to have it, yes, yes I am.  And at one time when I was attempting to migrate the files myself the wait to do so was 96 hours.  I gave up.

I left the house, I went to work, I came back from work, I slept on it over night, it still was not done.

So.

Better to do the direct to direct there in the store.

And it was good people watching.

Especially the young man who came in experiencing problems with his new Apple Watch.

You just settle down Mister Sexy Watch and stay awhile.

There was also a famous musician there, who sat across the table from me and kept catching my eye.

Not super famous, not like Kanye or something, but somebody Indy and just slightly older, maybe in his early 50s, but known.

I should have just said something, then I thought I may just know him from around, then I thought, maybe he was in Paris?  I met a few famous folks in Paris.

And when I next looked up, he was gone.

Bye bye mystery famous guy.

It made me think though, as everyone was bent over their laptop, MacBook, iPod, iPad, iPhone, and various other Apple devices, how much we all want to be connected and yet how separate everyone seemed.

It didn’t feel like two and a half hours.

And for that I am glad and I didn’t do much internet browsing, the little I did was only nettling my spiritual condition and when I gave it a thought, when I paused to flick a piece of hot pink hair out of my eye, I knew, life was too short for boring hair color and to obsess with anyone who has so obviously moved on.

So.

Move on.

I don’t know what that looks like.

Or how that works, although I do know how it works.

The actions I take will create space for what comes next.

When I think about all the things I have gotten to recently let go of I know that I am having my fingers gently pulled off the things that don’t work for me so that I could be free-handed to accept the things that will work for me.

Bye bye scooter (recycled to scooter heaven).

Bye bye old laptop (recycled to the store).

Bye bye ex-boyfriend and old ideas about dating.

I am going to recycle those too.

My experience will be used again, I am sure of it, to help another woman walk through whatever she needs to walk through.

For that, too, I am grateful.

And as I did some inventory this morning before setting out on my shopping and laptop adventures, I also realized, hey, self, forgive yourself.

You’re human.

So what you called to have a coffee with your ex?

Who hasn’t thought or done the same.

Rejection.

God’s protection.

I got the final rejection and it didn’t sting the way it did the first time around and I can be easy in my self again.

Just let it go.

It can be easy if you just let it.

Give me all your lovin/and I’ll give you all of mine.

I even thought about starting another profile on-line.

But I held off there too.

Ah.

Another thing I let go of that I forgot, online dating websites.

That’s right.

Ok.

So.

Free, clear, moving on.

I like it.

I got lost in the weird of my head and it’s not really a great place to be lost in, bad neighborhood you know, but fortunately there are lampposts that light the way back out as long as I remember to look for them and follow the light to the source.

It is only dark when I am inside my head.

Even when it’s grey outside, and believe me, it’s grey, it’s really a San Francisco summer.

Seeing all the stores down town with their summer seasonal displays of sheer dresses and light tops, shorts, and swim suits, sun hats and capris made me laugh as I wandered past in my layers and hand warmers.

There were more winter scarves on than summer shorts, I tell you what.

Even when it’s grey outside.

I bring my own color of love to the mix.

“OH MY GOD!!! I love her hair, did you see her hair, look!” the young teenage girl in the mall excitedly chattered to her friend.

Well.

At least I’m a hit with the kids.

And myself.

For reals.

This journey, this part of the path, has been a little rockier than expected, and although I have stumbled a bit, I’m picking myself up, dusting myself off, and letting go of the unnecessary garbage I thought had some value to it.

Obsession with and validation from an outside source does not bring my happy.

Only I bring me happy.

Happy.

To be.

Once again.

In the pink.

It Is A Spiritual Axiom

So “they” say.

That whenever I am disturbed by any person, place, or thing, I am at fault.

Well fuck me.

There it is.

Who here has heard of the “no response response?”

Raise your hands.

Um yeah.

I got it.

I called.

I left you a message.

You don’t call back.

That means no.

But I mean.

Uh.

Wait.

FUCK.

I want something out of this, I want a result, I want a response, I want, I want.

I want to shut the fuck up about it.

I want to move on.

And with that.

Yes.

I pulled a hair geographic today.

Hot Hot Pink

I mean.

If I can’t beat them, join them.

Or whatever the hell that means.

I am ok with not getting a response.

In fact, last night as I was masturbating.

Oh yeah.

It’s going to be one of those blogs, if you’re related to me, you can just stop reading it right now.

No holds bar.

This is a “I should probably,” but won’t at all “regret,” blog post.

While I was taking care of self, proper self-care like and having a great time with it, I realized.

Oh.

Well, there you go.

I’m not fantasizing at all about the ex.

Despite having given over to him, or perhaps to the fantasy of him, the majority of my brain space yesterday after I called and left a message about getting together to have coffee, I was not in fact, fantasizing about him at all.

Oh.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Suffice to say, it was not my ex.

And it was good.

Mmmm hmmm.

Then I slept like a baby.

Slept so well, I slept until 10:37 a.m.

I can not remember the last time I slept past 10:30 a.m., let alone 9:30 a.m., even on my weekends I tend to be up by 8:30 a.m. at the latest.

Look at me.

Sleeping in.

Yes.

I had a late and leisurely breakfast and even skipped doing the normal load of Sunday morning laundry I typically do (although, I will admit, I couldn’t put it off all day and did in fact, do a load, it’s in the dryer now) and the house cleaning.

Sometimes a girl just has to really take the whole damn day off.

No cooking.

No grocery shopping.

Well, light cooking, oatmeal with apple and blueberries and a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, lots of lovely Ritual pour over coffee, and lunch as well as dinner was homemade “fried” brown rice from the leftover vegetable stir fry I made yesterday with scrambled egg and avocado and tomatillos (note to self, tomatillos are hella good!  I never have cooked with them before, they added a nice flavor to the rice).

I did meet with two ladies and do some reading and writing and sharing of the stuff.

Then nada.

I had my lunch, put on some jazz, Miles Davis, Relaxin’ With The Miles Davis Quartet, drank some tea and read my book on the chaise lounge for two hours.

I had plans.

I was going to go out and do stuff and things.

But the fog was heavy and the air chilly and I just wanted to curl up and stay where I was.

Sometimes, though, I have to go somewhere.

So I went to pink, I mean, really pink.

I picked up some Manic Panic at the salon yesterday when I went to get my nails done, just because I wanted to try one last color in the trio of pinks that I have been recently experimenting with.

Each of which, note to self, must get myself to an event with black light soon, glow in the dark.

Seriously.

My hair will glow in the dark, under black light.

Get thee to a night club lady.

Not that I have any plans to go hit the club circuit this weekend.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (the SOMA) I would have been rejoicing at a three-day weekend, I would have been at least three bags deep into it and looking to score more and be at the door at the End Up ready to make the most of the holiday weekend.

Not so much now.

And I find this much better.

In case you were wondering.

Anyway.

I went radically pink.

It is startling, fun, eye-catching, I won’t be missed.

“You are not easy to miss,” he told me, “even if I didn’t say anything, I knew when you showed up, where you were, I would sit and stare from a far.”

Oh lovey.

I don’t want to be stared at though.

I want to engage and I did have a moment of thinking, am I self-sabotaging, going this crazy hair color?

And then.

NO!

I am fucking having fun and to top it off I threw on a little pink glitter to make me feel better.

I don’t dress for a man, or to get a man, or to have a man, or get asked out on a date.

Nope.

I dress for myself.

I love that.

Being authentically myself is one of the best things I have discovered about living my life with a clear head.

Oh.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind at some point.

But right now.

I’m in the pink.

And I’m not mad at him.

I got, suddenly, how hard this has to be for him too.

I was reminded of the few times during the 90 days, twice, when he reached out via text and I did not respond.

Now I know how it feels.

Sucks.

But it won’t kill me and as I was more than happy to supplant the fantasy in my head with a fantasy of another, I knew in my underneath all that pink hair, my brain was slowly coming to terms with my heart.

And I could walk away and not text and not call back and move on.

Frothy, pink, emotional appeals seldom suffice.

I choose today to act like a woman.

To not just talk the talk, but to walk the walk.

Which meant today, hopping on my bicycle in the gloom and getting out of dodge, my brain, for a little while and riding out to Saint Gabriel’s up on Ulloa and 41st for an hour.

Where I was reminded of the spiritual axiom and laughed out loud when it was mentioned.

Then I blushed as pink as my hair.

But I got the message.

Sometimes it just takes a day to sink in.

From my head to my heart.

By way of a small hair color geographic.

Tickled pink to be back home.

Happy and free.

In my own self once more.

Nuthin’ But Fun

I inadvertently just had a date with myself.

I was only going down to Java Beach to get out of my house and read a book over tea.

I had done the unexplainable.

I went to the library today and checked out books.

Look at the old lady go.

“Your principles today are fun and flexibility,” she said to me as I explained the trepidation that comes over me when I don’t have things planned out.

“I know you need to feel like you are doing something constructive, just let the day unfold, have fun,” she finished and smiled.

Who are you smiling at lady?

I put my head down on top of the book and sighed.

“Ok.”

I did alright.

Not the funnest day ever, but really, not a bad one at all, and there was some fun in there, inadvertent, as I said and tongue in cheek for sure, the name of the band that was playing at the cafe?

Nuthin’ But Fun.

Ha.

Ha.

God is funny.

I had fun too.

Sipping my tea, reading my book from the library, people watching.

I like to people watch.

I liked watching the inexplicable interaction between the counter girl and the man whose sandwhich, a big goopy ham and cheese, explain that it was not the vegetarian grilled cheese he had ordered and the girl responding by offering to pull the meat off the bread.

I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

The look of incredulity on the man’s face, the look of annoyance on the girl’s face for obviously having fucked up the order and now she had to take it back to the kitchen and it was probably a habit, this fucking up orders, and then, “or, I suppose, I could ask them to make it again,” came out of her mouth.

She hadn’t picked up the plate, she, I, the elderly vegetarian man who was flummoxed by the interaction, we all stared at the thick swath of ham on the plate with cheese congealing over it,  “um, yes, please, I”m a vegetarian…..”

Big long pause.

Sigh, almost audible, trying hard to not roll her eyes, the young woman picked up the plate, and turned it around, “I totally understand!  I”m a vegetarian too.”

I just about snorted hot tea out my nose.

I was at the cafe, Java Beach, for nearly two and a half hours.

I watched, the scene, the community of families and moms and dads and friends, kids, teenagers on dates, old codgers in knit caps, bicyclists fueling up on soup and coffee before getting back out on their fancy touring bicycles, the people come and go, little waves of neighborhood ebb and wane.

It was sweet.

And I got lost in my book.

Lost to the point that I found myself laughing out loud at a funny part of the book and completely tuning out the music coming from the band.

Which was louder than you would have thunk and the manager had to ask them to turn down the volume after a very boisterous rendition of “They Say It’s Your Birthday,” for a friend in the audience.

I was a fly on the wall.

But at least I wasn’t a fly on my wall.

I got out and I was out a lot of today.

After I left my person this afternoon at Tart to Tart to go off on pursuit of fun, I decided a mani/pedi/waxing session was needed.

Especially since I will be flying down to San Diego on Thursday and suspect that the weather there will be more conducive to sandals then the weather here has been.

At least the gloom lifted for a while.

The wind came in around 3 p.m. and pushed away the clouds, it was clear, sunny, bright.

Breezy as fuck and still a bit chill, but sunny.

I decided to treat myself to a lady’s lunch after my mani/pedi/wax session and went to Pacific Cajun on 9th and Lincoln Avenue for a Wasabi bowl with brown rice and Hawaiian Poke.

So freaking good.

I did some window shopping after and then strolled over to Green Apple to grab a book.

But.

I wasn’t feeling it.

Green Apple.

I don’t know if it was the loud conversations that I kept stumbling into, but I wasn’t comfortable browsing the stacks and decided that though it was not much fun, it was necessary, I was going go grocery shopping.

On my ride back to the Outer Sunset I saw the Sunset Branch of the Public Library.

It’s been a minute since I have checked out a library book.

And the nice thing.

Checking out books is cheaper than buying them.

And I still get that nice cracking open a book feeling.

I got there fifteen minutes before the branch was closing, grabbed a couple of books and hit it home.

Some shopping in the neighborhood, some cooking food for the weekend–vegetable stir fry and sautéed ground turkey with Bragg’s Amino’s and brown rice, and fresh ripe, organic, gorgeous, sweet red cherries.

Then I called my ex-boyfriend.

Bahahahahaha.

Oh.

The gift that keeps on giving.

I stopped and thought about it.

I’ll send a text.

I’ll not.

I want to get this over with.

I don’t have to do anything right now.

Pray.

Write it down and drop it in the God box.

“Why don’t you put the weekend in your God box and see what happens,” she suggested to me.

I wrote down my ex on a scrap of paper.

I said a prayer and dropped it through the coin slot of my hot pink bunny bank, aka, my God box.

Then I wrote “the weekend” down on another, said another prayer and did the same.

Then I ate my dinner.

Never call on an empty stomach.

Texting is childish, act like an adult, call.

So I called.

It went to voicemail.

I asked him out for coffee sometime over the weekend if he was free.

Then I decided to get the hell out of the house.

A friend text’ed me to say hello while I was packing my bag to get out of the house and I told him what I did and it felt fine.

And I feel fine.

I don’t feel bad at all.

What I have realized is that I want things to go my way, I want to control how I am seen and what happens next.

I keep expecting to bump into him, he lives in the freaking neighborhood for Pete’s sake, but our schedules were wildly divergent when we were dating, why would that have changed?

I haven’t, with the exception of once, seen him.

I have walked past his house twice since the breakup.

Really.

Not bad, when you consider it’s four blocks away.

I actually felt ok with the message and the call and when it’s all said and done, it’s said and done.

I walked to the cafe, the sunset spreading in spectacular manner over the ocean (I would have walked to the beach to catch it, but the wind was just too fierce) and into a jam space, the locals all gathering for the blues cover band and I got my tea.

I found a place in the back by the bar and sat with my book and let myself have fun getting lost in the book and the small world of community unfolding before me.

I even forgot about the phone call until I booted up my computer and the Facebook feed featured a photo I was not expecting to see.

“I’m not looking at his feed at all this weekend,” I told her over the coffee at Tart to Tart.

And I haven’t.

Then this photo popped into my news feed.

It was sort of like getting punched.

Grr.

Maybe I will take a break from ye old FaceCrack entirely for the rest of the weekend.

I have books to read.

And fun to be had.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

More fun.

I suspect.

I am wide open.

Available.

Let the fun begin.

Cold, Grey, Foggy

But not lonely.

Alone.

But alright with it.

Not whistling in the dark.

Whistling through the dark.

The buffalo paddock was glowing with mist as I rode my bicycle through the depths of Golden Gate Park on my ride home this evening, the bounced back light from the underbelly of the low-lying clouds and the thick fog swirling in from the ocean, made the meadow look as though it was laced with snow.

And it felt cold enough on my ride home for me, for just a moment, to actually think that the field was full of snow.

I did a bit of a double take and then chuckled at my misperception.

I should always chuckle at my poor perspective, my inability to ever see anything quite clearly.

It does seem like so much is shrouded in fog and mist.

I can be magical though.

The ride home, especially the stretch from the waterfall through to the buffalo paddock always does it to me, especially when there is little or nor traffic on the road and the glimmer of the lamp posts marching stolid through the dark makes me feel like I am on the cusp of the wilds, that I am in that in between land.

Could be fantasy.

Could be reality.

Sometimes I call it Narnia.

I am reminded of the Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, the lamp-post in the woods, the snow flurries around the halo of light, I feel like that when I ride through the mists and fog and head home to my small spot by the sea.

“You’re all the way out there,” my friend said to me as we caught up hanging out on the side-walk across from the SafeWay in the Church and Market neighborhood.

Three more blocks and I would be at the sea.

There’s a special kind of absence of light when I turn off Chain of Lakes and make my final descent down Lincoln Avenue to 46th, cornering like I’m still riding my bicycle in fixed gear, there is a blackness, a lack of light, that even should I not know the sea was there, is indicative of the ocean being there.

The edge of the world.

I could just drop right off the edge.

Not that I plan on anytime soon.

I could become morose, I could wish for more than what I have, but that is just a misty shroud of self-pity that doesn’t serve me or my fellows.

It’s really just selfishness masquerading around in fancy pants clothes.

I love my warm little space.

It is exactly as it should be.

Pretty and quaint.

My life is exactly as it should be as well.

And I have a three-day weekend.

That is nice.

I did have a moment when I was in the middle of the day, a stretch that is not always relaxing, but heralds that it is closer to the end of the day then the beginning, and I thought, I am just not going to make it all the way to the weekend.

And what do you know.

I did.

And it’s here.

And yup.

No plans.

Get excited.

I remind myself.

Things are going to happen.

Stuff is happening things are brewing.

There is not a single reason in the world to be troubled.

Just because I can’t see through the fog doesn’t mean that something fabulous.

Amazing.

Astounding.

Miraculous.

Out of the ordinary.

May happen.

I have a confession to make, now that I am through a good chunk of the blog and have lost a number of readers, I mean, how long can you wax poetic about fog and mist before someone decides to go watch some down loaded porn?

FYI.

I write about working for love and being a nanny and I get like zip reads.

I write anything about sex.

I get reads.

I know what you all want.

I know my audience.

But do I know myself?

Here’s one.

I need to stop looking at my ex-boyfriends FaceBook page.

I’m about to unfriend the man again.

It’s just about to start taking too much time of mine.

It’s just about to start.

Ha!

I make myself fucking laugh.

It is taking up too much of my attention.

He posted something and I found myself reacting and I was like, no, no, no.

It’s not my business where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s hanging out with, but, dude, we’re supposed to be doing that together–fucking jealousy.

Didn’t I already work through this?

And then I knew I have not, not completely,  there’s always a little more work I get to do.

I have to stay away.

When I go down that road it isn’t shrouded in mist.

It’s a bright fucking light that says, you’re not good enough, he didn’t want you, nobody wants you, might as well go cry in my tea.

And then I focus on all the things that are lacking in my life.

Which is nothing.

Once I get disgusted with myself and tear my eyes away from the stream of posts, that are.

NONE OF MY BUSINESS TO BE READING.

Ugh.

So.

Maybe I’ll try that this weekend.

I won’t check his Facebook feed for the rest of the weekend.

That will probably help me see what is actually happening in front of me.

Maybe I’ll actually be available to the man I’m supposed to be with instead of focusing on the one who didn’t want me.

Good rule of thumb.

Focus on what’s in front of me, rather than focusing on what I do not have.

That whole compare and despair thing.

Because I am enough.

There’s not a thing wrong with me and my ex and I aren’t together because we’re not suppose to be.

That’s all.

It’s not some big mystery.

It’s just life.

It’s just an experience.

And the nice thing about coming in from the fog and the chill, with my fingers stiff from riding in the misty weather, I can always warm up, change my perspective, get cozy, and be happy that I’m not having a mystical experience.

I’m just having an experience.

It’s called living.

And it’s pretty damn good.

Especially when I mind my own business.

It’s good then.

REALLY.

REALLY.

REALLY.

Good.

Heading Into The Weekend

Wondering what I am going to do.

I have three days.

I don’t have a lot of plans.

There are times when not having a lot of plans can make me crazy, or better, I make myself crazy with the thinking and the trying to figure it out.

I live in San Francisco.

There is always something to do.

Saturday, I am happy to report, I will finally be having dinner at Cajun Pacific.

A small restaurant in my neighborhood, literally, around the corner a block away, UGH.

NOOOO.

They’re closed for a private party on Saturday.

Damn it man.

I was thrilled when my friend suggested it, they are only open Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, very small, limited menu, always changing.

I have walked past it a number of times and drooled over the menu.

As I would not be able to partake of a number of the dishes there, but you know, I would enjoy smelling it.

Sigh.

Oh well.

I guess my Saturday won’t be including Cajun food.

I will probably still play catch up with my friend, it just won’t be over a bowl of gumbo.

“I’ve been reading your blogs,” the text read, “you sound lonely.”

Ayup.

But.

It’s not so bad at the moment.

Most of the lonely sneaks in when I am under the weather and my defenses are down.

The cold that I have had for the last two weeks seems to be waning and I am glad for it.

I don’t have plans, but I will do something fun for myself.

Probably go to Free Gold Watch and play some pinball, maybe wander around the Haight a little, perhaps go catch a movie, I’m down for Mad Max, although, it feels like it would just be a preview of Burning Man, but that’s just me.

I have my usual commitments to do and folks to see, but yeah, I do have a bit of down time and since Monday is a holiday I can act like Sunday is not the early to bed day for me it typically is.  Monday mornings are my earliest start of the week and I am up by 6:30 a.m on Mondays.  Which means in bed by 10:30 p.m. on Sundays and then usually my brain is too busy chatting at me to actually fall asleep until midnight (like this past Sunday, that was obnoxious) and I drag a bit at the beginning of the week.

Anyway.

I am wiling to suspend the belief that I won’t have a thing to do and will mope around and be lonely.

NO MOPING.

I really do feel better.

I’ll go to the salon and get my mani/pedi/wax game on.

That’s always a treat.

Hmmm.

In fact, maybe I should do a session at Kabuki or get a massage.

I can’t remember the last time I went to Kabuki, it’s been over a year and a half.

I wouldn’t mind going out to the Banya either, but Kabuki makes better sense for me travel wise, the whole not having a scooter thing, which I thought would be more on my mind than it has been.

I have forgotten it almost completely.

It was just last Friday that I signed over the paperwork to have it recycled and my brain has not had any discomfort around it.

None at all.

So nice.

Not to be obsessed with it.

In fact, I’m not particularly obsessed with anything at the moment.

I don’t have anything that is bugging me or nagging at me.

I just feel like I’m swimming a long.

There’s plenty happening over the next few months, only three months before I start graduate school!

And the not having a lot to do on a three-day weekend is absolutely ok with me.

First, it makes room for me to relax and second, it makes room for surprise and spontaneity.

I’m going to practice saying yes to things this weekend.

I’m going to not plan anything and see what happens.

I bet I can say yes to a lot of things that haven’t even occurred to me to do and I will have a terrific weekend.

No worrying allowed.

Which is a good rule of thumb for me anyway.

“Thank you, we received your addendum to the Diversity Leadership Scholarship, we will be in touch with you in the next two weeks,” sincerely….

Whatever happens, it will be alright.

I felt completely free of anxiety.

I haven’t been brought this far a long to be dropped now.  I am going to graduate school and the money will be there, whether via scholarships or grants or financial aid student loans, however, whenever, I know it will show up.

I have utter faith in it.

I have felt led and ushered along this path and once I surrendered to going to graduate school and pursuing something completely different from what I thought I should do, the path was revealed.

I can have that same faith in the rest of my life.

The relationships with friends, family, with my future partner, with employers with whomever, will happen exactly as they are supposed to be.

I don’t have to look for something or someone to fill the hole of extra time.

It will fill itself without my worry.

There is nothing to miss out.

I don’t have to have FOMO (fear of missing out) in my own life.

I do plenty.

Instead of trepidation I choose excitement and eagerness to greet whatever comes down this weekend, what ever comes to me in this life.

A large raven circled over my head as I rode my bicycle down John F. Kennedy Drive in Golden Gate Park, the gloaming of the clouds, the twilight fast approaching, I saw its heavy wings flap over me and circle.

I was reminded of my friend who passed and thought.

What would he do?

And I knew that in my being alive, present, here, doing this thing, that I will get to continue having experiences.

There is no running out of them.

That’s just not what I foresee for my life.

Even if I can’t see where it is going.

I know that it is happening.

And that is exciting.

Anticipating a bright forecast for the weekend.

No matter what the emotional weather bears.

This experiential creature will be living.

As fully as I can.

Saying yes to everything.