Archive for the ‘Apartment Porn’ Category

I Didn’t Do Much

August 3, 2017

But I did a lot.

I mean.

I really did.

I didn’t even go to yoga.

No.

I slept in, I lounged in bed, I was dreamy and soft and it felt so nice to lie there and let my body be and not spring forward and charge off into my day.

Oh.

I had thoughts of going to yoga.

But they were dispelled for better things.

I took the morning easy.

I ate a lovely breakfast and made myself a latte.

I made some phone calls.

I talked to people I loved.

I got right with God.

I wrote.

I wrote a lot.

I mean.

I can fill a page, the words they stream endlessly out of my finger tips, scrawled across the page, margin to margin, all the thoughts and dreams and feelings there on the paper, my pens in a mug on my table at the ready.

I do go through my pens.

My cheap little guys that I buy at Walgreens.

I am particular.

I only like the Wexford black ink pen.

That’s the generic gel ink pen that Walgreens markets.

I love it.

I begged a friend, who asked me what I wanted from San Francisco, when I lived in Paris, to bring me back pens.

The gel ink is the smoothest and the pen is just the right grip for my hand.

Ask me sometime.

I’ll show you the place it sits on my fingers and the writer’s callous there.

Yes.

I have a callous on my middle right finger from writing.

I rather adore that callous.

I also have a distinct muscle in my forearm, again, my right side, I am right-handed, that is pretty developed solely from doing the writing I do every day.

I love words.

Can you tell?

I did more than write today, although I did not go far from my house.

I made it to the back and sat in the sun for a brief moment in the afternoon around 2:30pm when there was fleeting sun that came through the fog.

Mostly I stayed home.

I did work on the house.

I cleaned out my closet and got a bag of clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes to sell to Crossroads.

I also moved everything in my kitchen, and pulled up the rug that I’ve had for the last three and three-quarters year, it was just a simple rag rug, but it had gotten pretty worn out and a bit ragged and I’ve been wanting to replace it for sometime.

I ordered a replacement on Amazon and it was delivered yesterday.

So.

Everything got moved, and I pulled up the old one, shook it out super hard, I did not toss it, it still has a use for me–I’ll be taking it to Burning Man and lining my tent with it.

I also had a long conversation with a woman who was referred to me by a friend in the fellowship who is going to Burning Man for the first time and she had a lot of questions and I just let her pick my brain for nearly an hour and told her where I was going to be camped and all the fellowship and community that is out there and it felt really nice to share my experience, strength and hope with her.

After I finished our conversation I got serious about re-organizing my space and cleaning, everything got dusted, even all my books.

And I winnowed through my books.

I’ve been wanting to sell a bunch of them for sometime.

I only have so much space in my in-law and though the idea of having a big library and loads of bookshelves is super serious appealing.

MY GOD how I want that.

Someday.

A house with a big library, books upon books upon books, paper, ones I can pull down from the shelf, hardcovers, and read, and inhale and love on.

But.

I repeat.

My space is small and I have only so much room and the stacks of books were starting to collect too much dust and really I haven’t had much time for pleasure reading since I started grad school.

So.

I dusted them all off, sorted through the ones I was absolutely not going to part with.

Like.

My copy of Bastille, Issue #2.

The small press that published my short story in Paris, “The Button Boy.”

Poorly edited, there’s a typo and a misprint.

But.

Fuck.

My short story.

In print.

In a publication.

I can say with no small amount of writer’s pride that my first publication was in Paris.

Not selling that guy.

Then a few books that were given to me as gifts and hold far too much sentimental value to ever let go.

Ever.

And the funny thing is, whatever doesn’t sell, I will happily take back and keep.

There will be some that don’t.

But for the most part I am such a sucker for the printed word, I tend to buy hard covers or first runs, so when I do sell I tend to be able to sell most of what I have brought with me.

There was a little sadness packing up the books.

But.

It’s stuff.

And when I came home tonight from doing the deal up the street.

Fuck was it good tonight!

I was so happy to come into my super clean, super tidy little home.

Fresh and clean and dust free, with a new carpet in the kitchen.

And.

Ha.

A “new” book on my table.

I discovered a book I bought two years ago, right before the first semester of my first year of grad school.

I had never gotten to read it.

Two years later.

I started and I’m 37 pages in.

I have my hopes that I will finish it before my text books start arriving in the mail, because as soon as they do, that’s the end of my pleasure reading.

I assure you.

Sneaking in one more day of leisure before I go back to work on Friday.

Yoga, this time for sure, in the morning.

Shower, morning prayer, writing, breakfast, go sell the clothes, go sell the books.

And then a mani/pedi.

I have a client consult in the early evening.

And that’s it.

The days of leisure and pleasure reading will soon be over.

It’s been a sweet little bite of time off from my day job.

My house is clean.

I did a lot of cooking today too, all my meals for Burning Man are in the freezer as well as covering my first weekend of my first semester, so I don’t have to cook or deal with that.

Yes.

It’s a few weeks out.

But it’s nice to have it done and there won’t be down time soon like I have had.

Sigh.

I have no complaints though.

It’s been a good run.

I feel rested.

I feel rejuvenated.

I feel ready for the next chapters.

And I feel happy having taken care of my home.

My sweet little sanctuary by the sea.

It may be small.

But.

It’s all mine.

And.

I do love it so.

Yes.

Yes, I do.

 

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How Did I Do All That?

April 17, 2017

I mean.

I am not really sure, but man, it flowed, lovely and smooth from one experience to the next.

Until now.

Sitting here at my table doing my little evening routine, listening to some old school-house music, Tortured Soul, in my bunny slippers, it is Easter after all, with my belly full of warm homemade soup, I am rather astounded.

I am.

I got a lot done.

There is still so much more to do, I have so much paper writing yet to attack, but I know how I am going to handle two of my papers, which is a relief, sometimes just knowing what I am going to write about makes the process so much less stressful.

It’s still anxiety making.

I mean.

I have three papers due.

Yet.

I took a huge leap forward today.

It started slow and it started with not wanting to get out of my bed when the alarm went off, but I knew that danger, and I knew I wanted to go to the earlier yoga class this morning, I had to be up in the Castro to do some homework by a certain point and going to a later class wouldn’t have worked.

And.

I just knew I needed up and out.

The class was hard, but really good and I’m grateful I went.

I had a lovely breakfast here at the house (organic oatmeal with banana, cinnamon, nutmeg, raw cocoa, sea salt, and blueberries; a soft-boiled egg,  and an amazing toasted coconut/almond milk latte) and did some morning page writing.

I checked my syllabus, packed my books, got my notebook, my class folder, and put on some makeup, pulled my hair up in a bun, hopped into my rain boots and headed to the MUNI.

I caught the N-Judah to the J-Church.

I read the entire time.

I finished two chapters in my Trauma reading.

As well as getting into a third on my ride back from the Castro.

I got off the train at the Castro Street Station and marveled with glee at the little rainbow lights lining the escalator.

How I do love you San Francisco.

I do so much.

I strolled through the main drag with my umbrella and my rain boots and smiled at all the fellas in their Easter finery.

I ran a couple of errands then went up to Firewood Cafe.

I met with my person and another friend for lunch then we adjourned to another friends apartment up on Noe and 19th.

God.

Rent control.

How I envy folks who have it.

The apartment is a huge one bedroom with front room, dining room, big bathroom, hard woods, fireplace, huge kitchen.

I was definitely having some apartment envy.

It was the perfect place though, the big couch in the front room, the table, the chair I put in front of the couch.

We all got settled and I started the recording on my phone.

And this time I got it!

I got a half hour session of a Couples Therapy dyad.

“You’re good!” They both exclaimed after we finished the session.

Thank you guys!

It felt really good.

I had a few moments when I was unsure which way to go or what to say, but I didn’t think to hard about it and I noticed my counter transference and actually noted to myself in the session, “hey!  That’s countertransference! Remember that!”

Of course, now, in this moment, I have no solid clue what it was or what it was in regards too, but I knew I had it and I used it in the session and I know that when I go back and listen to the recording again I’ll be able to hear it in the recording.

So happy I got that out-of-the-way.

And while I was on the train riding to the Castro to meet with my friends who were going to help with the project, I had an idea about what to write for my Trauma paper.

Very happy about that.

Part of my “stress” if you want to call it that, is that I need to listen to things again before I write the paper, I can’t just pick up a book or a class reader or an article or my notebook and get the information there.

I have to take an extra step for each paper and listen to a recording, break down what is happening in the recording and use it for the papers.

It is a lot more work than a normal paper for me.

That being said, I feel so much more competent about what I will be writing about and I feel a lot better about the state of my papers.

No.

I did not do any paper writing today.

Although I did write a lot.

I thought about it, but I also didn’t want to stress myself out about it.

If I got to it, great, but that I did so much footwork for the material that will go into the writing, for two different papers, is huge.

I actually accomplished a lot.

Plus.

I got to see two wonderful men in my life who mean so much to me and have a nice Sunday lunch and walk underneath the cherry trees in the Castro and be seen and be helped.

It was truly lovely.

I hopped back on the train and was heading back to the house and my smart feet actually hopped up when I hit Church Street Station.

It was ten of four.

Oh!

I could go check out a spot I used to go to way back in the day.

And I did.

And it was good.

I got to see some folks I haven’t seen in a long time and get grounded and then hop back on the train and come home.

Home.

Home to cook my soup.

I made homemade hot and sour soup today.

I took a large Mason jar of my chicken stock (made from last weeks roasting chicken), 1 bag of large wild caught shrimp, a container of organic tofu that was cubed, a small box of Hen of the Wood mushrooms, a small box of crimini mushrooms and tossed them in my soup pot.

I added a good heavy splash or five of Bragg’s Amino Acids, instead of soy sauce, loads of fresh ground white pepper, some rice vinegar, ground ginger, garlic and sliced in a fat organic carrot and some chopped Swiss Chard (I would have used bok choy, but the store was out and the chard actually worked really well).

I put it on the stove, set it to simmer and then realized it was going to be at least an hour before it was ready.

I could do more reading.

Or.

I could sneak in another yoga class.

Yoga won.

I slipped into the studio three minutes before it started.

It was not Vinyasa yoga, like I did this morning, but restorative.

I could not have done another Vinyasa class.

But restorative, lots of slow, soft, warm stretching, yes ma’am.

It was perfect.

I got back, tasted the soup, oooh, added a little more white ground pepper, lit some candles, put on my bunny slippers and had myself an amazing dinner.

The soup was so good.

Umami bomb.

I am astounded and I have a new favorite.

I am very happy how my Sunday went.

Not upset that I didn’t get the writing done I was thinking I might, but I got the things done that I needed to do and I did exquisite self-care.

Happy day.

I saw friends, chosen family, ate delicious food, did yoga, not once, but twice! Made tons of progress on my homework and walked underneath blooming cherry trees in one of the prettiest cities in the world.

Where I live does not suck.

Nope.

I am the luckiest girl.

I really am.

And now I’m ready for Monday.

Night all.

xoxoxoxo

 

 

Sexy Got Her Homework On

March 27, 2017

And her yoga on.

But not her sex on.

Well.

Not true.

I took care of business after my second yoga class today.

Yes.

I said that, two yoga classes today.

I have never done that before.

It’s not that big a deal and at the same time, it sort of was.

I went to my normal 9 a.m. Sunday morning class and got a very good sweat on and proceeded to watch my entire day change in the span of a few text messages.

When I got back from my yoga class I got a cancellation then after I got out of my shower and was getting my breakfast ready, my coffee date cancelled.

So.

I sent a lover a message.

And.

Nope.

NO response.

That kind of day.

So.

I got to do extraordinary amounts of self-care.

Which was needed and much cleaning and house hold attending.

And.

Cooking and grocery shopping.

This next few weeks is going to be busy.

I will be working two weeks straight for the family, the dad will be leaving Thursday for a business trip out-of-town so I will be working next Saturday and Sunday.

It’s actually going to be three weeks of work and school before I have another weekend off.

It’s going to be intense.

So I’m grateful I had today all to myself.

I was good company.

I took some extra time this morning for my writing and I made myself the most delicious coconut/almond milk latte and decided to just let the day unfold and not worry about anything.

I knew I also had to get a paper written for my Trauma class, my step-father made it into a paper this go around, and do cooking and food prep.

But I didn’t force myself or stress.

I just took each moment as its own little exquisite experience.

I washed all my bedding and did two loads of laundry, even washed the rugs in the bathroom, and swept, vacuumed, washed, polished, and cleaned my whole house.

It looks so nice.

I also went grocery shopping for two weeks of food.

I will probably have to re-up on fresh fruit, but I have enough coffee, eggs, oatmeal, brown rice, almond milk, organic carrots, frozen blueberries, and prepared food to get me through the weeks to come.

I roasted a chicken today and I made jambalaya.

I froze the majority of it and canned the rest of the chicken soup I had leftover from last week.

I have meals for days and I feel happy to have dealt with it.

I didn’t leave the neighborhood.

Although I did take my scooter to the Safeway on Balboa to get my groceries.

I wasn’t going to take it further, I knew there was going to be one more episode of rain and sure enough, there was, but not before I had run all the errands I needed to do and the next week and a half looks like sunshine.

That is going to be super helpful, I have my first therapy session with my new therapist Tuesday before work and I have an appointment to see my advisor at school Thursday before work.

The before work, work begins.

In actuality, I realize, it began already last week, I have been doing things before work for the last couple of weeks since the last school weekend.

Which reminds me, I need to swing by the post office before work in the morning and pick up a package.

I think work is going to be pretty busy, not just with working next weekend, but also, its Spring Break for the kiddos, which means I won’t have reading time for school work.

I feel like I’m ok though, I have done a lot of the Couple’s Therapy reading already, finished all my Trauma reading and I wrote my Trauma paper today.

I had some push back on it.

I realize I have been having some feelings of, “over it,” move along, I’m tired of this stuff.

It can get exhausting looking at the trauma minefields in my life history and how I got through some seemingly unscathed, but the patterns of the things I did to survive stay with me, little bombs of shrapnel on my psyche that explode without warning and leave me tired on the side of the road picking the stuff out of the pockets of my emotions.

“I feel brutalized,” I was telling my person yesterday at Tart to Tart, that place has seen a lot of my tears, about an incident that happen last week and how I felt and why I was angry.

We did a lot of work around it and I got some very good suggestions and I took them, I’m still taking them, I will keep taking them as the days move forward.

I hadn’t realized how much I was carrying until I said out loud that I felt brutalized and that it reminded me, I later saw, of my step-father and my mom and some stuff that happened to me growing up.

All the things that happened growing up.

Glad I start therapy on Tuesday, Jesus fuck.

Of course, under the lens of my graduate school work, of course, a lot of stuff is going to come up, the pot just keeps getting stirred and things pop to the surface, so when I sat down to write my paper I realized just how much I didn’t want to write it and I let myself start out that way.

And.

Five pages and 1,562 words later.

I was finished.

In fact.

I finished it so fast that I realized I could go to the restorative yoga class tonight at my studio.

Yes, I had already practiced today, but the restorative is really meditative and relaxing and it’s not about getting a work out, it’s about being in your body and supporting different parts of it that don’t typically get support or rest.

It was just so what I needed.

I came home, lit some candles, checked my messages, saw nothing from anyone, and said, well, I’ll just take care of me and took care of me.

I am actually a little surprised that I had so much sexual energy today, I just finished my period yesterday, but as I am getting older I can tell that sometimes it comes out in different ways energetically.

I also had some fodder for fantasy running around my head that I just let myself have.

I could say it was counter transference from the work I did today, which is another entire blog and far to clinical for me to delve into here.

Or.

I could just say.

After getting flowers, a home cooked dinner, and a restorative yoga class I was just in a yummy, dreamy space.

And I let myself go there too.

Yes.

Thank you self-care Sunday.

You rocked.

Ready for the next weeks work.

Bring it on.

Sweet Heart

March 8, 2017

That’s what I was called today.

Not by a lover.

Nor a friend.

Not a cat call.

Not someone trying to get something from me.

Nope.

MY BOSS.

That was in response to a message I had sent.

For offereing to make dinner and sending the mom and dad fun pictures of the charges at the park on the slide.

“You’re such a sweetheart!”

I’ll take that.

It feels really quite nice to be in my job right now, it’s been just a touch over two months and I really feel a part of.

Sometimes that can be challenging as I am navigating waters I haven’t had much experience with, English as a second language for the kids, but I’m figuring it out and it’s been an adventure.

Most times I don’t have a problem when my family speaks in their mother tongue.

In fact, it’s kind of nice to not know what someone is saying.

Their language is not a romance language.

I know I’m being vague, but I have a signed confidentiality agreement and I feel like if I go into too many details it would not be cool.

I’ll leave it at I’m happy to be with them and I feel very appreciated.

Which just makes me want to do a better job.

I am grateful for them.

I have been grateful for every job that I have had, regardless of conflict or challenge, because they have led here and here is pretty fucking awesome.

I feel good.

I feel serene.

I feel easy in my skin.

I have my school work ready for this upcoming weekend of classes.

I was able to run some personal errands today at work, while running errands for the family, and I was able to grab some toiletries and household things I’ll need for over the weekend.

I was able to run to the grocery store after work before doing the deal and get some fruit and veggies and almond milk to have in the house to supplement the food I made over the weekend for class.

I even got to sneak in a visit with a friend who I have not seen in a little while who I have been trying to hang out with.

Totally serendipitous and partially because I had a cancellation tonight.

My person and I were supposed to meet, but he got the flu and I ended up having a tiny chunk of time that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

I connected with my friend, got to get my “I’m going to Paris in May,” dork on, and then when the clock was getting late, scoot on out the door, hop on my scooter and zoom zip across town.

And now I’m home.

Cozy.

Sipping hot tea and blogging.

Listening to St. Germaine and dreaming about my trip.

I am so excited to get to go again.

I am remiss that my friend, with whom I had planned the trip won’t be able to go, but hey, she’s got a great reason, she’s close to term with twins and can’t fly.

So.

Yeah.

She’ll be staying here.

I’m sad that I won’t get to experience Paris with her, but I’m cool on my own in Paris, I get along just fine.

And I will have friends there.

Because I have friends that live there and folks I know in the fellowship.

And a friend of mine will be visiting there with his mom.

He was supposed to come and visit me when I was living there but we missed each other.

I’ll get to be his tour guide for him and his mom for a few days, I think they overlap and are either going to London or Rome part of the time I’m in Paris.

I will be there ten days.

Ten days.

Dreamy sigh.

In May.

Another big dreamy sigh.

I’m so happy I’ll be going in spring, especially since the last two times I was there was during winter and it was cold.

And dark.

And grey.

I remember a dear friend of mine saying to me when I moved back how happy she was that I was back in San Francisco, in California, in the sun, that all the pictures I had taken in Paris when I lived there were lovely, but so grey and dark and depressing.

Paris is dark, grey, cold and depressing in the winter.

It is true.

Romantic, gothic, gorgeous.

But.

Cold, dark, and depressing for sure.

So to get to go in May, when the nights are shorter, the days are longer, and the weather is warmer.

Yes.

And more yes please.

Walks along the Seine.

Trips to the Jeu de Paume–the modern art photography museum.

Walks through the Tuilleries.

Walks in the Luxembourg Gardens.

Walks in Bois de Bologne.

Walks in the Marais.

Walks, and walks, and more walks.

And then.

Sitting in cafes.

Drinking cafe creme and people watching.

Then.

More walking.

The marches, the markets, the brocantes, the flea markets, the book stalls, the vintage clothes and jewelry.

Oh yes, that too.

And.

I have friends who are musicians.

I need to go to some nightclubs.

I didn’t do that too much when I lived there, although I did go to one big underground show that blew my lid off.

I knew the dj who was spinning and had no clue the venue was going to be so big and so packed.

It was amazing.

I also know a jazz saxophonist, a blues singer and a jazz singer.

I could get some late night jazz on in Paris.

Yes.

Oh, yes, I could.

I will also get myself a couple of things that I didn’t get to when I was there last.

I need another hat.

I want a market basket purse from either Marche des Rouge Enfants in the Marais or another canvas sack from Le Merle Moquer, my favorite bookstore in Paris.

And something small and whimsical from Fleux, a store in the Marais that has amazing household items, reminds me a tiny bit of Ikea, but super cool, chic, fun, unusual things.

I got my hot pink bunny Pylon bank there when I was living in Paris.

And.

When I was last there I scored a pickle jar lamp that has a miniature Eiffel Tower on the bottom of it.

It is just so quaint and sweet and I adore it.

I turn it on and it always makes me smile.

Ah.

So much to smile about.

Life.

Well.

Life is fucking good.

That’s what.

Seriously.

Life.

Is.

So.

Damn.

Good.

It’ll Be A Blue Christmas

December 9, 2013

With our without you.

I put up my tree today!

Rode over to Sloat Garden Center and got a small blue fir and I decided I would go with blue lights, channel me some Elvis.

Blue Hawaii.

Blue Christmas.

Beach holiday.

Despite it being really quite too cold out there for me to want to go surfing, I am still a beach bum with a beach cottage style Christmas thematic happening.

I remember when a friend said my house looked like it was a store.

I like things, well, just so.

I know this stems from some childhood trauma crap, but you know what?  I’ll fucking take it.  I like my space tidy and pretty and sweet-smelling and if it looks like a store, that’s not a bad thing, it means my little space has some personality.

My tree certainly does.

It makes me stupid happy.

Or so I related to a friend via text earlier.

I had left to run an errand for my housemate whose little girl has been awful sick, and when I got back and opened the door to my studio I just about broke my face grinning.

Just that was worth the fifty bucks I dropped on the evergreen.

I am really glad I got this for myself.

I needed to do so.

I am really glad I am doing a lot of things, these days for myself.

Also on the list of why my day was fabulous, yoga.

That’s right.

I may not have gone surfing today, I will, don’t you worry, but I did get up early and go to yoga.

I had a lovely invitation to go ecstatic dancing in Berkeley with two of my favorite ladies, but when I was invited to go to the yoga studio that is two blocks away from my house, I did.

Rather than get on my bike and ride 40 minutes to a BART station to hop a train over to Berkeley.

I am sure that I would love to do some dancing, I really would, but the cold, versus the convenience of being right by the studio, well, I got my ass up and went when I got the text to get a move on from my housemate, who was and has been advocating that I get my butt to yoga since I moved in.

It was a challenging class.

I don’t know all the poses, that’s for sure, but I was honest about it being basically my first time.  I did mention that about six years ago I did a week of Bikram, but that’s it.

It was not a beginners class, but I stayed in the mix and I was so grateful to be moving and stretching, the studio got bright morning sunlight and I warmed up quick, breaking into an easy sweat, but not hot, just pleasantly toasty, about twenty minutes in.

I got some amazing stretching in and I discovered that my hips were extraordinarily tight.  I have always had tight hips, but I had no idea.

“Bike riding, I am actually working on a yoga class specifically for bicyclists,” the yoga instructor told me when we were chatting after class.

She expressed some surprise at my ability in the class, hell, I think I expressed some surprise myself, not that I was on par with any of the other folks in the class, but I got through it without dying and when I could not do a pose, the forearm head stand, not happening at this time (apparently it takes a lot of time to master anyhow, years was what I heard from the instructor), I just dropped into Child’s Pose.

By the end of it when the class was lying on the floor and we were all deep breathing, the sun warming the wood floor, the mat under my body distinct to my touch, so present and in my body, I just opened completely up.

Yup.

Tears.

But good tears.

Cathartic.

Soft, heavy, slow, rolling down my face as I envisioned the gold in the water at my feet, the treasure of the present, the waters still around me, the instructor was talking about how we have so much and we get in our own way and the ripples disturb the view and the clarity of the still water.

When we sit still and let the mind calm and be present in the body, the ripples settle and when we look down we can see the treasure like gold just at our feet.

I could see it.

I could feel it.

I could comprehend how blessed my life is.

I envisioned myself rising out of my body and getting up and giving my housemate a hug and saying thank you for getting me out of bed and into the studio.

I am beyond lucky to have friends that advocate for me.

Here, go surfing with me.

Hey, lady, come to yoga with me.

Yes please.

The classes are small and the studio is petite, but that is perfect for me and as I spoke with the teacher and another instructor after class I see how easily it will be to fall right into a yoga practice.

Heck, it’s just two blocks away.

Even once a week will help, I can see that.

My next class is free on the studio, beginners get a free class after their first, so I will go try another style this week and see what I like and then I will probably buy myself a ten pack and get myself to the studio once a week to start.

Ease into it.

I just looked up from my keyboard and smiled.

My tree is sparkling in the light, the blue bulbs make me grin like an idiot.

I got two colors of blue, tiny bright indigo lights and the bigger ceramic bulbs that look like they are aquamarine.

My tree matches my bedspread matches my kitchen table, matches my plates and bowls and matches the bookcase.

Aquamarine up in here.

It is a Blue Christmas for sure.

However, it is certainly not a sad one.

So full of love today.

For my home, my life, my Christmas.

Happy holidays my friends.

Get out there and spread some cheer.

Sock I(kea)t To Me

September 12, 2013

Big deep breath.

In.

Out.

And repeat.

It will be ok.

The store will not eat me.

It may suck up all my prudent reserve though, which I have sat and figured and re-figured out how much I can afford to spend at the Norwegian/Scandinavian, what is it anyhow, super store, in Emeryville.

The last time I went there it was for my studio in Nob Hill, many moons back, just after, yes that is correct, I came back from a nanny gig at Burning Man.

I am apparently all about the moving directly after I get back from Burning Man, I have done it three times now?  Maybe four.

I am, fingers crossed, done with the moving.

I am getting up early and going with my friend after she drops her daughter off at school.  I looked at a catalog today at work, a quick half day, and by the time 1 p.m. had rolled around I was ready with my list.

One bed frame.

One mattress.

Two side tables.

One “kitchen” table/desk.

Sheets, duvet, duvet covers, pillows, throw rug, can opener, dish strainer and mat, pictures ledges, frames, a soap dish, a throw blanket and a few other miscellaneous objects.

Maybe a pot for my new orchid.

I also went to the Farmer’s Market in the Castro by Cafe Flore today after I met with John Ater. I rode my bicycle back to the Sunset and my “room-mate” was leaving to pick up her daughter in the same neighborhood I was in and offered a ride to and from the market.

I was down.

Not having to haul groceries along on a bicycle in a messenger bag is a huge treat.

I am not going to say I am aghast at what I spent, but it was more than I would have had I not been with company and just really felt like treating myself well.

I deserve nice food.

And I bought some.

Damn you Frog Hollow fruit sample man.

Not like I don’t love them anyway, but I know what I a getting from them and it is always the nectarines.  I will enjoy a peach and that is what they are known for (their peaches have the highest measured fruit sugars of any peaches in California, probably in the United States), but give me a nectarine.

I like the tang and the lack of fuzz.

It is the end of the stone fruit season and now is the time to get those last-minute fruits.

I was just going to get the nectarines.

Then I was offered a sample of a Warren Pear.

Holy Toledo!

It blew my hair back, it has to be the best tasting pear I have ever had in my life, it tasted like it was dipped in honey and slowly glazed in the sun and soaked to the brim with translucent juices.  And only $4.90 a pound.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

I bought a fucking five dollar pear.

I am looking at it perched in the kitchen on the plate with the other fruit I scored at the market–organic Golden Delicious, Fire Island Nectarines, and yes!  The first persimmons of the season.

I don’t hardly know where to start.

I also got baby pickling cucumbers, heirloom tomatoes, fresh dill, baby gem lettuces, Easer Egg radishes, and the most beautiful head of cauliflower I have ever seen.

Also a five dollar and change purchase.

The cauliflower!

But damn it was tasty in my dinner salad: 1 baby gem lettuce, 1/2 a Hass avocado, four sliced radishes, with the radish greens chopped up and tossed in, fresh dill, one baby cucumber, a handful of heirloom black cherry tomatoes, an organic carrot, one hard-boiled egg, and some sea salt, Bragg Amino’s, olive oil, and a splash of Gravenstein apple cider vinegar.

I had a nectarine for desert and felt so full and replete and satiated and happy.

I barely had room for my tea.

I was going to go down to the beach and finally take a stroll, but I found it easier to repose back to my little room–I had dinner with my friend and her boyfriend and daughter in the up stairs unit–and clean up my dishes and look over the Ikea online catalog one last time.

I am not going to be able to fit the bed frame and the mattress in the Pathfinder, so I am going to get the same day delivery, add-on $89, and I may even pay to have it assembled.

The dollar signs flashing like warning signs in my brain.

But, I also know that I deserve a nice bed to sleep in and a place to write my words and a chair to sit on, a home.

I am not going nuts.

I have a spending plan.

But I am also not going to cause myself unnecessary stress or anxiety.

“What’s the worst that can happen,” John Ater asked be today as I was re-telling the tried and true “tale” of my financial woes and worries.

“I couch surf,” I said and laughed.

“I start over,” I shook my head, “I know this, I know I am not going to be out in the streets in the gutter, I told myself to simmer the fuck down, the thoughts don’t help.”

Nope they do not.

I am not going to live the next part of my life with holding nice things, like pears and persimmons, or a soft mattress and a nice pillow.

I am not going to live with that kind of mentality.

I am embracing abundance and I believe that I will be allowed to live here, in this home in a manner that does not disregard financial responsibility, but also does not place me in a space of such frugality that I sleep my nights away on a blow up mattress.

Nope.

This is my last night on a blow up mattress.

Tomorrow, the Ikea, the bed, the same day delivery, set it up and let me make it up with new pillows and sheets and a duvet and a throw blanket that is soft and cuddly.

If I blow my entire budget on my bed I will be ok with it.

I deserve it.

And I believe that I am being taken care of.

As long as I take care of myself.

To that end, I also bought myself a bouquet of sweet pansies and my first orchid.

I love flowers in my space.

My space.

Ah.

I like the sound of that.

My space, my home.

My little nest.

By the sea.

Home, Sweet, Sweet, Home

January 31, 2012

Yes, that is correct, you are reading that right, I am home.  I am in my new room on Folsom and 22nd, in the heart of the Mission, across the street from the Cesar Chavez elementary school.

I woke up, in my own bed, thank you very much, to the sound of rapid fire Spanish being spoken in the kitchen at top volume and loud Mexican music.

I could not care less.

I had slept so soundly, so wonderfully, so dreamily that I had not actually woken up to the noise of the family in the kitchen, but to my alarm clock.  That may not always be the case, I may get annoyed, but the sound of Spanish being argumentatively thrown about was just fine with me.

Yeah, so  the walls here are a little thin.  The good news is, who cares?  I have my own set of walls!  I am in my own room.  Right now, sitting at my desk writing my blog.

Which, my apologies, dearest readers, I could not bring myself to write last night.  I was one pooped puppy.  I got up yesterday at 7:30 a.m. and I took care of myself in the proper way.  I knew if I was to fly about like a chicken with its head cut off I would not be efficient nor useful to myself or others.

Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful others that helped me move–Shannon, Alex, and Matt.  My heroes who came into to save the day at the last-minute.  I owe you much.

I joked with Shannon and Alex that I need a village to do anything.  And it’s true.  I could not have done what was done yesterday without the help of my friends.  I am so grateful for friends.

At one point in the day Matt said, you look good in a truck.  And it made me smile.  I felt good in the truck.  I like pick up trucks.  There’s something sexy about them.  Maybe it’s from growing up in Wisconsin, maybe it’s from my dad restoring old Chevy’s in the drive way, I don’t know.  But I like pick up trucks.

Then it hit me!  I want to have a truck.  How great would it be to turn around the favor and pass along what has been given to me?  So many people have helped me move, so many.  I would love to play it forward.

So, hey Universe, I aspire to own a truck.  It would be pretty damn cool to be of service to others when I have been so gifted with friends who help out.  I have moved a lot in San Francisco, you might have figured this out from past blogs, and it would be awesome to do for some one else.

I like it.

And with the help of said village, I was able to move all my things from the Castro and Bernal to my new digs here in the Mission in two hours!  Of course, I don’t have  a lot to move and I have done it a few times, so I know how to do it, but I was sort of amazed that it happened so fast.

Which, all in all was a good thing as I only had the City Car truck for 2.5 hours.  Next time I will reserve a little further in advance!  I even got to have coffee with Matt at Philz and I took him out to lunch at a taqueria in the neighborhood—mmmmm carnitas.

This could be dangerous, I had carnitas twice this weekend.  I will be mellowing out on that.  In fact, food is going to get real basic real quick.

The kitchen situation here is not awful, but it is uncomfortable.  The patriarch of the house speaks no English and I speak no Spanish.  He’s none to happy, one can tell a bit from tone of voice even if you don’t speak the language you know when some one is talking about you, about my presence in the kitchen.

To give the man some credit, he’s old, this is a family home, cousins, daughters, mom, dad, grandpa, I’m the stranger in the mix, and he’s probably very set in his ways.  And who is this strange woman with tattoos in his kitchen making her oatmeal?  Get her out of here.

The good news is that the space I have can easily accommodate a small mini kitchen.  I have been planning it out since I got unpacked yesterday.  I will need a mini fridge and a microwave.  Perhaps a crock pot or a little hot plate.  It will be a bit like dorm living, but I will be more comfortable not having to engage with them in their kitchen–it feels like their kitchen.

I do have stuff in the fridge right now, it’s not like I don’t have access, it’s just not a welcome space for me.  And that’s cool.  I am loving having my own entrance and my own king size bathroom, I can make do with setting up a kitchen space for myself and be completely self-sufficient.

The room is actually bigger than my studio was in Nob Hill, which I did not realize it was until I got my bed set up and my desk and my rocking chair situated.  Plus, there’s a fairly large wardrobe that came with the room in the space (no closet in the room or bathroom).  So, if I set up a little kitchen nook, I’m looking at having a nice little studio space for $700 a month.

That is not bad.  Not bad at all for San Francisco, and killer for the Mission which still seems to be supporting artificially increased rents.  The rents here right now are out of hand.  It’s going to push everyone interesting out if it continues.

A lot of artists I know, part of what made the Mission the Mission, seem to be fleeing to Oakland.

Maybe I should go snap up some properties around the artist migration to Oakland and when it suddenly blossoms I’ll be able to jack up rents and make a tidy profit.

Nah.

I’m just going to stay here in the Mission, in my little nest, in my little nook, sunny and bright, small and tidy, and all mine, all mine, all mine.

I once would have looked at this space and said, no fucking way.  Now, I love this space.  I have keys to this space and I have made it into my little home.

And I walked to work today!

Only took me fifteen minutes.

Now that’s hot.

Keys to the Kingdom

January 27, 2012

Tomorrow at 5 p.m. at the corner of Folsom and 22nd and hand off will happen.  Cash money will be exchanged for the keys to the gate, the keys to the room, the key to my own room.

It is finally about to happen.

Yes.

I requested off the end of the day at work tomorrow to negotiate the hand off.  I will leave work by 4:30 p.m. and walk to Folsom and 22nd.  I am debating whether I should go to the bank in the morning or go on the way over.  Odds are that the Bank of America on 23rd and Mission will have a line out the door on a Friday afternoon.

I will stop at the bank on my way into work.  That way there is no stress.  Just the self-imposed kind that I inherently place on myself.  Like what if I could magically manifest an extra day to move in my stuff?  What if I got to move in on Friday?

Oh slow down, child.

Really, the couch surfing, albeit not the most comfortable way to fly, has not been too bad.  It hasn’t been the best, but it hasn’t been too bad.  And it has been a way for me to get some awesome perspective on what I like and what I don’t like.

Despite what some friends have said about the Mission, I adore it.  I love it.  It is home.  It has been home since my first days in the city.  I was not always comfortable with it, I got lost sometimes, I got  turned around going the wrong direction on the BART between 16ht and 24th street stops, but every corner seems to have a little memory for me.

Some of them are not such fond memories, but an awful lot of them are.  I had two bad years in the Mission.  The following seven years I have had more awesome moments in the Mission than I have anywhere else in the city.

As I have said elsewhere, the prodigal daughter is returning home.

Nob Hill is lovely and meant to be enjoyed with a vehicle.  I don’t recommend a car, the parking is ass.  But a scooter will do you quite well.  China Town is fun for a walk about, but no way would I want to live there, the smell and the foot traffic would mow me down.  North Beach is a treat once in a while, but I always feel like a tourist there.  I do aspire however, to get more clothes from Grant street, there are some amazing tailors there.

The SOMA can be sexy, but unless I’m living in South Park, I’m not so interested in the SOMA–it’s still too industrial and not developed enough.  Same goes for Mission Bay.  The Dog Patch could be fun on a budget, but again, the amenities are scarce.  Potrero Hill has never quite done it for me.  Yeah, the views are stellar, but it never felt like home, although being close to the Mission was a bonus.

The Financial District and Down Town also do not hold a lot of appeal to me.  I really dig some of the buildings, but the tourists, the over pricing to gouge the tourists, not so much.

Pacific Heights?  It demands money and wheels.  Marina?  No. Never want to live there, don’t like hanging out there, or shopping there, or eating there.  It can be fun to walk about Crissy Field, it can be fun to ride through, but that’s all I want to do in the Marina, ride through it (usually as fast as possible).

The Avenues, the Sunset, and the Western Addition all seem too far away.  I don’t know why that is, but the effort to get there seems so much greater than the effort I want to put into it-why, I almost liken it to Oakland.  Although, I will admit, I have had moments of desiring to live in the outer Sunset, at the edge of the world to be close to Ocean Beach.  I like the idea of living that close to the ocean.  I don’t know how much I would like the idea of living in the fog bank though.  I would be at Java Beach Cafe every day of the week and probably out surfing as much as humanely possible.

But I don’t surf.

Haight and the Castro.  Oh, I have flirted with the both of you, but nothing ever seemed to pan out.  I do, however, feel an afinity with both those neighborhoods and should another move transpire, they are always options that I leave on the table.  Not to say that I am looking to move, I am not.

The Excelsior feels like Daly City, and what’s the point of living in Daly City?  No thank you.

Portola seems sweet, but too far away.  The same goes for the Presidio.  I like both areas and both have some gorgeous landscaping, but neither seem like home.

Nope, it’s to the Mission I go.  It was love at first sight.  Maybe it was dancing at the Elbow Room to Vivendo do Pao the first time I visited the city.  Or the first time I had a quesadilla suiza with carne asada from El Farolito.  Perhaps it was the first time I had a Philz coffee made by Phil himself that seduced me over to the dark side.  Or the sunshine.  The first time I saw the down town skyline from the top of Dolores Park did not hurt either.

I may never know.  I don’t need to honestly, I can feel the weight of the keys in my hands already.

It’s almost time to go home.

Danger! Danger!

January 26, 2012

Get off craigslist!  No furniture shopping.  No housewares shopping. No nesting until you are actually in your space.

Why?

Because I can’t remember how much space I have and because what I do have is plenty for it!

I have some discomfort that I am experiencing around my move in.  The family really does not speak English.  REALLY.  I tried to call today to set up a time to go by and pay my rent and deposit and get the key and I got hung up on three times before I got through.

This I understand, I still, after nine years of living in San Francisco, have a Wisconsin telephone number.  My first thought when I see an unrecognizable number from out-of-state is–telemarketer.  I would not answer either.  But I was hoping to at least get a voice mail.

And that did not happen either.  I finally got through only to be asked if I spoke Spanish, which I don’t, yes, I know my first name is Carmen and my last name is Martines and yes, that’s right, my middle name is I speak French.

Anyway, I was unable to hold a conversation with the father, who I believe speaks even less English than the mother, who I have had a tiny bit of interaction with.  But I got ahold of their son, who I know and left him a message describing what happened.

But the son got back to me and I will be leaving work early on Friday at 4:30 p.m. to meet with the mom and pay the rent and the deposit and get the key!

Yes.

I don’t think I will be able to move in on Saturday, but my brain did skirt off into that arena.  What would happen if….

But I have Saturday plans.  I have Saturday commitments.  And I have a Saturday night nanny gig with my monkeys in Potrero Hill.  Saturday is not a great day for me to do a move.  Yes, my mind went there right off.  I want out off this couch so bad, I cannot express.

Actually, I can, and I have, suffice to say, I have not put it on the blog, it’s not comfortable here and I am ready to get the hell out.  I’m safe.  I’m warm.  I’m just really uncomfortable and so ready for my own room.

I just have tonight, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights to be here.  I can do it.  What do they say, “this too shall pass”.  This too shall pass, I will be here just a little longer and then my first move of 2012.

I am hoping that it is not going to be a year of constant moving, like 2011 was.  I moved a grand total of four times.  Four!  I don’t want to move that much this year, unless I am moving abroad, then bring it on.  I’ll move more.  I’ll happily move over seas for a while.

Yes I will.

But in San Francisco?  No.  I want to stay put.  Which is part of the reason I was on the craiglist doing the furniture/appliance porn.  I am looking for a microwave and a mini fridge.  I was told pretty much at the outset that the family will give me access to the kitchen, but they would like it to be minimum.

I am not sure what that means.  I will want to keep food in a refrigerator and I would like to cook once in a while.  But I also don’t want to be in the way and if I have the space for it I will put in a little microwave and fridge in my room.  The more separate I can make my space, the better.

I also don’t know what their own schedule is like at the house.  I don’t know if they work or if they are retired.  Hell, I don’t know shit, except that I have my own bathroom and my own entrance and what my rent is.

That’s good enough for me right now.  And trying to figure out what kitchen stuff I am going to need until I actually see what is available to me, is also of no sense.

Because I veer off into craigslist fantasy world.  Oh, look at that, that would be pretty in my new room.  Or, I could use that. Or that would make a nice upgrade on my bed.

Nope.

I don’t need these things.  My furnishings are perfectly fine.  The only thing I need to get is a new set of pillows.  I got rid of the really old ones I had in one of my last moves.  I decided a new set was necessary.  I am going to splurge and get myself some nice ones, too, no Anna’s Linens for me.  I am at least going to go to Nordie’s Off The Rack and get the Calvin Klein ones I saw the last time I was there.

They are more expensive than what I might normally get, but less as they are at the Rack and I want some nice pillows.  I just looked at my nemesis, the couch, this couch is not a comfy couch, it’s a damn cool looking couch, but it is not really all that comfortable to sleep on.

A bed.  Soon.  A bed.

I am getting closer to having the details worked out for the move as well.  I have it down to getting the stuff at Robyn’s house between 10 a.m. and noon.  I still need to co-ordinate with Shannon and Alex to get my bed and desk from their storage unit.  Robyn’s place, though, is first on the list as my window to access her place is just 10a.m. to noon.

I need to contact one of the people who said they can help and see if they are still down to do so.  She has a truck.  I may not need to do the City Car Share reservation for a truck, but I do know she has offered and I should probably oh, I don’t know call and confirm?

Still feels uncomfortable to ask, even when it’s been offered.  There are no negative consequences either, I mean, I’ve got the car share and I can use it.  And should every single truck in the city be reserved, fine, I can do u-haul too, I have the where withal to do it.  I have options.  I have choices.

The only choice that I really need to make for the rest of today, though, is to choose to NOT go back on craigslist scouting for a microwave and a mini fridge.  That is just a waste of my time and my energy.

Four more days!

 

The Queen’s New Clothes

January 4, 2012

I had an epiphany tonight.  It was not a pretty epiphany, but it was one none the less.  If one knew when one was going to have one, perhaps, one wouldn’t wear eye make up.

But then again, nothing says a little drama like a tear-stained face with eye liner rolling down it.

I need some new clothes.

In the literal and figurative sense of the word.

When I moved out of Robyn’s place I realized that I had been carrying around some articles of clothing that did not fit.  Or that I did not like.  And despite the fact that it meant winnowing down my already narrow closet, I got rid of them.

I made a vow to not buy things that did not look good on me or fit me.  I vowed to not buy it just because it was on sale.  I avoided buying a pair of jeans this last weekend due to that resolve.  But they were on sale!  And such a good sale too, and they sort of fit.  I mean, they did fit, just not in a very flattering way.

I did not buy them.  I left them in the changing room.  I did but one skirt that fit and was on sale, so I got a little of that good time bargain shopper experiential glow.  But then I also got two shirts, one a long sleeve jersey and another a simple tank top, neither of which were on sale.

I did not quibble over the price.  I did not tell myself I would wait until they went on sale.  I had the money, I allowed myself to buy them.  And I am glad I did.

Now in cleaning out my “closet” aka my suitcase, I stuck to my guns, not getting something that did not fit.

Yet, here I am day after day, week after week, looking to grasp onto anything, anything at all that will work for my living situation.  Yesterday I e-mailed some one about a room in the Mission.  $450!  Share it with my reptiles–snakes, a couple of iguanas, and a turtle.

I responded.  I did not even think.  I did not hesitate, I went right to the amphibian room at the zoo.  I don’t hate reptiles, but I don’t want to live with them.

NEVER YOU MIND said the voice of fear, you respond to that ad, you make that happen. NOW.

I responded, he responded, then poof!  Nothing.  No more response, no more yup, you can come over, here’s the address.  The reptile house was snatched away from me.  And I haunted my in-box today like  he was going to mysteriously change his mind.

This morning I called on an ad for a temporary living situation on a sail boat.  I am supposed to call back tomorrow morning.  He got a lot of interested people wanting to stay on his boat.

At $450 a month I would stay on a raft tied up next to the boat.

Neither of these situations really work for me.  Yet, here I am trying to make myself fit into something that doesn’t work, because I am so afraid that it won’t work out that I better snatch at whatever shabby thing is right in front of me.

Rather than trust that I am being taken care of and that the right situation is being manifest without my struggling with it.  And that you, yes you, are allowed to help me.

It was suggested to me tonight that I get into the couch surfing.  And hey, you’re not paying for electric this month, now are you?

This is true.

Perhaps I can let you clothe me.  I am not naked, despite feeling vulnerable.  My wonderful wardrobe is being sewn as I type.  I bet it looks far prettier than I can imagine and it probably fits a whole lot better.

A friend recently opined that perhaps I was playing out a child hood trauma, allowing myself to heal over the numerous up rooting experiences I went through growing up.  We moved a lot.

Moves I remember–one in the middle of the night with my mom sneaking us out of the apartment, I think this was the same apartment neighboring the vacant lot I tried to set on fire.  We ran over a cat in our haste to depart.

2. We lived in Baraboo, WI for a little while, in two different places if I recall correctly.  One was a friend of my mom’s I think, the other was a little tiny two bedroom apartment.  I actually have some fun memories of that one, I began exploring tree climbing in that neighborhood.  I also got raped by a baby sitter.  Lots of excitement there.

3. Aunt Teresa’s house in Columbus, and if I recall correctly we also lived in two different houses there, but not 100% sure were the other was, just have some faint recollection of another house in Columbus.

4. Another house with my Aunt Teresa and my cousin Channing, this time a duplex on the very far East side of Madison.  I like exploring this neighborhood a lot.  I climbed a silo, walked the school woods, climbed more trees, got stuck in one, oops, sorry mom the fire department interrupted her date.

5. North Port/Packers Town Houses on Northport Drive in Madison.  From summer before third grade to middle of 7th grade.  I actually liked living at North Port.  I ran amok.  I was always outside, always running around the play grounds, walking to Tenney Park or Warner Park, riding my bike everywhere, when I had a bike to ride, doing all sorts of crazy things.

6. The house in Windsor, Wisconsin, 7th grade to the week before I graduated from high school.  I felt like my personality was born here.

But let’s go back, shall we?  There were other places I lived.  Other places I don’t recall as well, but know I either lived there, or crashed there, or was sheltered there, all before the age of five.  When your personality really seems to be molded.

My father’s parents house in San Jose.  Sexually abused by the grandfather.  My aunt Dolores’s apartment, in Oak Land?  That doesn’t seem right, but I think Oakland was were we lived at some crazy point.  Another apartment complex in Palo Alto?  Another with a scum covered swimming pool that my mom “managed”.  A ramshackle house my father fled to with me in Lodi, Wisconsin when he found out what grand pa was up to.

My aunt Alice’s house in Merrimac, Wisconsin.  Some where in Okee Wisconsin.  Back to California.  Where?  No fucking clue.  We moved around a lot.  There was drama and chaos and no lack of neglect, abuse, and poverty, plenty of drug use, drinking, and smoking.

We were always on the run.  Running away from some one, running to something.  Constantly taking geographic’s.  I can recall sixteen different places.  However, I can also recall rattling off the number of houses, apartments, farms, cabins, tree houses, stables, yurts, cars, and hotel rooms that we lived in to a classmate when I was in third grade…it was around 34.  I was proud of that number.

She was horrified and it showed.  That was the last time I ever said anything about how much we moved.

And so, perhaps I have been playing out that archetype in my adult life.  And perhaps it is time to let it go.

Oh!  Fuck, a trailer park?  When did we live in a trailer park?  Outside of Columbus?  That one just came back to me.  That was the place I had my first nightmare that I can still remember.

Memories, oh, sweet memories.  I was three?  Four?  I don’t even know, but I remember that nightmare well.  I won’t make you sit through it.  I think it’s best left in the vault.

Oh, we also lived in my father’s parents house.  That just came back to me as well.  Which would explain the heightened abuse cycle at some point really came home to roost.

So, here’s to me letting go of the thought that I have to keep moving to be safe.  That I need to run away.  And here’s to me letting you outfit me.

I am not saying I am going to idly sit on my hands and expect that it will be handed down to me on a silver platter.  I am however, going to accept that I can receive your help and your couch or spare bed without guilt or shame or remorse.  I can also sit still, rather than grasp at that which doesn’t work.

I don’t want to be Cinderella’s step sister forcing her foot into a dainty shoe.

I want the shoe to be mine, it will mesh form and function, fit and style.  And it will look really awesome with my new closet full of frocks.


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