Go Out Dancing

Is my new favorite acronym for God.

Others I like are:

Grace Over Drama.

Group Of Drunks.

Great Out Doors.

Good Orderly Direction.

But for the moment, go out dancing is my current fave.

I have made a new friend and she has gotten me out twice now in the past week.

We went out to the Polyglamorous party “Left Overs” last week, Thanksgiving weekend, with Dee Diggs from Brooklyn at The Great Northern, and to date myself, I hadn’t been there since it was Mighty, so, like, um, fifteen or sixteen years?

A very good friend and I used to go there in early recovery.

The sound system there was out of this world.

I don’t even remember who I saw.

Once I went there with a room mate to see a famous rapper, who, I really didn’t know, I had never heard of the guy before, but my room mate had a hard on for him and an extra ticket and so I went.

Much to her chagrin, I got pulled up on the stage at the club to dance with him.

I don’t remember the artist’s name, but I do remember my room mates look of incredulity as I was on stage.

Heh.

Sometimes when I went with my good friend and the acts weren’t that great and we’d just go hang out by his car.

He had a ridiculous sound system in his car, a convertible Mercedes Benz that I don’t even want to know how much it cost, and he’d pop the trunk and we’d just dance around the car.

I can remember more than a few times when the best party was not what was going on in the club, but what was going on out in the street.

We weren’t alone dancing around the car.

Last night I went with my new friend to Public Works and saw John Digweed and his opening set DJ Kora with Set Underground.

Kora was beautiful.

It felt like a glorious sound bath.

There was this gorgeous alter with disco ball lights and lanterns and incense that the DJ was playing behind.

Now.

Normally.

I’m not into this kind of spiritual hoo ha.

But.

His music was lovely, deep, soft trancelike house with some Middle Eastern Influence.

The crowd was diverse, older, dreamy, community.

I saw people I knew from years and years ago.

In fact, I told my new friend last night that I recognized the way that she danced, she has a unique style, that I know I must have seen her on various dance floors and clubs in San Francisco back in the early 2000s.

And later when Digweed came on and the floor got too crowded for her, she bounced out to the Mezzanine, and I found her dancing with an old acquaintance, that I knew from back in the day.

In fact, I used to be in awe of this man.

He was the best club dancer I have ever seen, and twenty (fuck my life, really?) years later, he is still a marvel on the floor.

I remember being in the back room at 1015 for Tiesto? Donald Glaude? Scumfrog? Jonathan Ojeda?

God, only knows, I wasn’t sober then, but I had danced like a crazed person and was taking a break with a drink and my friend who had come up from San Jose to dance that night with me, also a very accomplished dancer, and I saw this gorgeous African American man and a white guy with dreads dancing across the club room.

They were dancing so hard.

Enthralled I watched for a while and then got up the nerve to join.

It was magic.

And I was blown away by their beauty and prowess and grace.

I think I held my own for twenty minutes, they were going so, so, so hard, before I had to bow out.

Literally.

I bowed out.

And they both smiled, and bowed back.

Every time I have seen said gentleman since, his dark eyes always smile at me, and he bows.

And sometimes, still, we dance, before my knees give out.

He is tall and slim, almost slight, well dressed, in his own glorious interpretation of club clothes, and last night he had an afro mohawk.

Seeing him and my new friend dancing behind the sound booth in the mezzanine, I knew, I knew I had seen her before.

She was surprised when she realized that I knew him.

Ah, the club world.

So big and sometimes so, so small.

And I don’t know how it’s twenty years later and I’m suddenly back in the scene and dancing.

Granted, I go much earlier than I used to.

I gobble Ibuprofen.

I only drink water.

I’m completely sober, spiritually centered, and drowned in the ecstasy of dance.

I get lost.

It’s exquisite.

It doesn’t always happen, but more often than not, it does.

I love music.

I listen to music all day long.

When my ex in my twenties and I broke up we discovered something interesting–he owned the tv, stereo, VCR, and most of the cds (mostly because for five years when I didn’t know what to gift him, I gave him stacks of cds for birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, which bit me in the ass when I realized he owned most of the music).

I owned the furniture, bed, and all the kitchen ware.

He moved out.

And I had no audio visual.

I was a broke student working at a brewing company getting by on student loans and suddenly faced with paying double the rent I had the previous month.

I had enough to either buy a tv or a stereo.

There was no debate.

I bought the stereo.

I have not owned a television since.

(“I just realized something!” A friend said to me recently as we were hanging out and drinking tea in my living room. “You don’t own a tv, your living room is arranged so that people can see each other when they talk, not a tv!”)

23 years now.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I have HBO Max (pandemic buy) and Netflix–I do watch videos on my laptop, but music, music is where it is at for me.

I dance every day.

Not always for very long, but every day, mostly in my kitchen.

I was dancing before writing this.

And I will go out dancing again this upcoming Friday.

Dimitri from Paris at the Great Northern.

I could even go out Saturday night too, a friend offered to gift me a ticket to a show at the MidWay.

I’m not sure I can do that, but I am tempted.

Go out dancing more, I tell myself.

Between six and a half years of graduate school (three years in my Master’s program and three and a half in my PhD–yeah, I got that faster than the average bear) and the pandemic, it’s been a long while.

I am happy to be back.

My knees are sore.

And I’m a lot older.

But that’s ok.

I plan on dancing until I die.

Music is one of the many ways I connect to God.

And thus, it is paramount to keep listening, keep dancing, keep drowning in the love.

“I love you,” he shouted in my ear, “I saw you up there, you kept it moving, you didn’t stop, you are beautiful.”

He hugged me.

Some stranger in a sweaty t-shirt with a happy glow on his face last night at the club who grabbed me before I left the dance floor.

Grateful to be seen.

Grateful for music.

Grateful for dancing.

Grateful for this rich, full life.

Even when my knees hurt and I rue the nights I danced for hours in platform heels for six, seven, eight hours, when I was young and anesthetized on cocaine, even when I can’t drop it like it’s hot, or even like it’s lukewarm, even when I can’t stay out late or all night long like I used to, or that I have all sorts of laugh wrinkles around my eyes, even when my hips hurt (gah), and I can’t believe I’m weeks away from turning 50, even then.

I am so grateful

So, I’ll continue to go out dancing.

And if you want.

You should come.

I’d love to see you on the dance floor.

Although I might not see you right away as I will be standing in front of the DJ with my hands raised to the heavens and my eyes closed shut in my own private ecstatic moment communing with God as I understand God.

Go out dancing.

It’s good for you.

Seriously.

Girl Date

I totally took myself out today.

I did it all.

First.

I let myself sleep the fuck in.

I mean, I didn’t get up until 9:15 a.m.

So sleeping in, especially considering that I am up three hours earlier tomorrow so that I can meet with my supervisor–whom I would have met with today but it was a holiday.

I totally treated it like a holiday as well.

I went to a yoga class that I used to be able to go before I started my current nanny gig.

I had lunch with my favorite, most loved person in the entire world.

Pause.

Let me just let that sink in.

I got to have lunch with the person I hold in the highest esteem, who loves me unconditionally, who sees me, who supports me without question, who witnesses everything I do, who helps me see when I am self-sabotaging, and how to change that and be better and stronger and sweeter and softer and live my life to the fullest full definition of happy, joyous and free.

I mean.

That is an extraordinary gift.

We met at Souvla on Divisadero and had great big salads and talked and got totally caught up and I revealed myself and there was no shying away from me or judging, only complete sunshine and love.

I am beyond grateful for this man in my life, I wouldn’t have the life I have without him.

He is a human, don’t get me wrong, I am not putting him on a pedestal, he shows me how to be more human myself, more vulnerable, more willing to show up and more present in the moment when I do.

He is the greatest gift and I do not know what I would do without him.

We are even talking about making travel plans together.

We have talked about it before.

We travel in a similar way, carry on only, get situated, go get connected with fellows and then walk and see and witness and art and churches and more art and museums and cafes and sitting still next to each other and also knowing that we both are self-sufficient travelers, that neither of us is afraid to say, give me space, I want to do a wander on my own or nap or whatever.

We have mutual friends in Barcelona as well as Paris.

We are talking about going to Barcelona together and maybe taking the TGV to Paris or Marseille, probably Paris as we have friends there too and I will need very much to see my Parisian girlfriend and her new family.

Next May.

When I graduate from my Masters of Psychology program, a grand European tour with my mentor, I couldn’t really think of a better gift, his company means so much to me.

So.

Yeah.

Lunch was fucking fabulous and we also dished and laughed and I talked about needing to set firm boundaries around any extra nanny work that may try to weasel its way in when my employers are away in July.

And then he went his way and I went mine.

Off to the MOMA.

I wanted to catch the last day of the Matisse/Diebenkorn show.

Of course.

It was sold out, even as a member of the MOMA I couldn’t get in to see it.

And truth be told, I don’t really care a fig for Matisse, and I’ve seen so much of his work in Paris that I didn’t feel that I was missing out.

I could have my girl date with myself just fine wandering around all the other galleries without having to stand in the huge, and I do mean HUGE, line that was queued up for the show.

I strolled through the second floor galleries and got acquainted again with one of my favorite artists in the museum–Clyfford Still–1906-1980.  I adore his work, there is one painting especially that always gets me and I did my stare in awe and wonder at it for a good fair amount of time before taking myself for a cafe au lait at the Sight Glass cafe on the 3rd floor of the museum.

I sat and dreamily dreamed and people watched while sipping my coffee–days off always included cafe breaks and nursing a coffee while people watching.

Then I hit the Larry Sultan photography exhibit, which was extraordinary.

And.

Since everyone was in line for the Matisse/Diebenkorn show, the gallery was practically empty.

Heaven.

I got my art girl dose in heavy-duty.

Then having some time and seeing that the sun had decided to cut through the fog and make an appearance, I strolled through Yerba Buena Gardens, and yes, got another coffee, this time iced, and planted myself on the sheltered terrace of the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, sipped ice coffee and watched the clouds scut through the sky.

I am always so overwhelmed and grateful for the gardens and the art and the fountains and though the skyline has changed dramatically in the fifteen years I have been in San Francisco, there is still all this familiarity for the place I was sitting in.

How many times had I gone through that park high or drunk?

Smoking cigarettes and slamming extra caffeine to keep up with the high-end dining restaurant that I worked at, Hawthorne Lane, how many times had I caught cabs in front of the Metreon to go to my dealers or to have myself carried to the End Up or 1015 or some underground party.

So many times.

And the dread and the terror that was just below the surface of my skin, beating my heart with fear as I walked the paths through the garden to work, short cutting on my way to the restaurant to work a double to make up for all the money I blew on blow.

And.

Instead.

Twelve and a half years later.

Coiffed, sweetly dressed, yellow silk flower in my hair, expensive shoes on my feet, Hobo purse in my lap, having just left an exquisite show at the MOMA, I sit happy and serene, joyous and free, in that same space, quietly and consistently showing up to make amends to the area and to assuage that damage I did to myself.

So grateful I don’t have the words.

Although.

I have to say I will always keep striving to find them.

Grateful for sunshine, clarity, serenity, communicating my needs, being emotionally transparent.

For all the good things in my life.

For my life.

God damn.

Life is more than fair, you know, if it were fair, I’d be dead.

And I am so not.

I am exquisitely alive.

So.

Fucking.

Alive.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

Perched Atop A Yoga Ball

High above the city.

Up in the Castro hills this evening doing a nanny gig.

I am sitting very proper and correct with the stunning view of the downtown twinkling and winking and sparkling out the balcony window.

They do have one hell of a view up here.

And a large screen monitor with a remote keyboard hooked to the internet.

No hunching over my laptop today on my non-ergonomic table and borrowed chair.

I have to get a better set up at the house.

I was doing my morning pages today and I could feel the shoulder starting to sing and I believe that it is definitely exacerbated by the writing, which, fuck me, though it don’t pay the bills, yet, I still love to do.

Am compelled to do.

“You may only write for the joy of writing, you may never make money at it and you will count yourself as lucky that you give yourself the space to do it.”

Yes, ma’am.

You are entirely correct.

Which reminded me, that and the back and forth shop talk with a friend back in Wisconsin who has been sending me drafts of a short story he’s been working on, that I need to submit again to the Bastille before the dead line is up.

They contacted me about submissions and I have been meaning to send them something, if only to say that I am published a second time in Paris, despite not currently being in Paris.

The pay for the short I submitted was to see my own name in print and a free copy of the journal.

But hey, like I told my friend, I can say for ever and always that my first short story was published in a Paris literary journal.

Can’t really sneeze at that.

Nope.

I am going to not only submit another story, but I am going to send them some photographs.

The solicit for materials mentioned photographs, and well, I took a few when I was there.

Grateful over and over and over again that I took so many.

Grateful too that I Instagramed a bunch, not even 1% of what I took ended up on Instagram, but a few did and as I randomly scrolled through the photos  I put up today on my wanders through the Castro and the Mission, I drifted down my own feed and saw them and remembered exactly where I was when.

The rain, the light, the cobblestones slick and shiny, the tower, the staircases in the Montmartre, Christmas Eve climbing up them to Sacre Coeur for midnight mass, all the street graffiti and paste art, the street lamps, the shadows of snow fall, the cafe chairs and tables at closing time, Odette & Aime.

Oh, I took some photographs.

I will be taking more.

It’s a great hobby to have for me.

I would actually be adding a few into the mix with this blog were I writing it at home, but I don’t want to download my photos to the computer here.  And I don’t want to wait until I get home to write my blog, I am working until 11:30 or midnight, depending.

I got here at 11:30a.m.

I did get a big break in between.

Enough time to get over to 2900 24th Street and catch up with my people for an hour.

Enough time to get soaked riding my bicycle in the rain.

Enough time to sit and have a nice dinner with myself and the last few chapters of Clockers at Herbivore, was craving the Mexican beans and rice.

Enough time to pop over to Valencia and 18th and go up to Arin Fishkin’s open studio, give the artist a hug, give the kid a hug, give the hubby a hug, scratch the dog, check out the new prints, awesome, then back out the door, into the wet and rain and back up the hill to the spot here.

I walked my bike.

I had just enough time to do so.

I wasn’t really into getting on it again with the rain falling  heavier and the happy hour segue into the late dinner and cocktail hour, the taxi’s getting flagged, the people jumping in and out of traffic with umbrellas, the slick streets.

I opted to just walk.

Got here wet and soggy, but they have a dryer and all my layers are nice and toasty now and I have to say, this is rather a fun experience, listening to some excellent electronica mix of the dads on the computer (he’s a professional dj amongst other talents and has a fantastic music library), writing on top of the yoga ball.

It is down pouring right now and though it may disperse by the time they get back, the weather is cold, the wind is growly, and I don’t have any desire to get on my bicycle and brave the storm.

No freaking way.

I am either getting a ride out to the beach from the dad or calling a friend who happens to drive taxi, I already checked to see if he had a vehicle that I could toss a bicycle into the back of, I asked the parents to pay me out for the week partially in cash in case I have to hit the taxi.

Then the next two days off.

I have tentative plans to go surfing, but not sure what this weather is going to be doing.

I also just found out that 2ManyDjs are playing at Mighty tomorrow night for the clubs’ 10 year anniversary.

First, how is it ten years?

Damn, Gina.

I remember going to the club when it first opened.

I was there a lot for a while, it was part of my mix–DNA Lounge, The End Up, 1015, Mighty–you could say I like the dancing, jah.

The posting I saw said sold out, but if I could get tickets I would be there in a heart beat.

The last time I saw them was at the Mezzanine just a bit over 9 years ago.

I danced so hard.

I might have had some extracurriculars in my system, ahem.

But they really are an amazing group.

They played New Years Eve in Paris, but I was working.

I am not working tomorrow night and I would love to see them.

I have a couple of commitments to attend to in Noe Valley, but after that, nada.

Well, as the rain continues to fall I will continue to be grateful that I am currently dry and my work week is just about over.

Working it out, holding on, grooving to the good life.

My, my, my, it is a good life.

It’s a Small World

And I only have so much time to write about it.

I just got back from a 14 hour plus day.

It went just a bit over the original estimate of time.

I was ok with it until the last-minute.

Then there was a fucking bomb threat in the Mission and mom and dad had to hoof it home.

Who the fuck bomb threats the Mission?

Isn’t it bad enough with the rents?

Anyway.

In the end, it was fine.

I am home now and I had the most exhilarating ride home.

I don’t usually care for late night rides home, but then I consider where I have done late night riding and the difference between doing a late night bicycle ride through crack infested waters in East Oakland and the delicious perfumed air through the Pan Handle is so starkly different that I can scarce believe it.

The weather too, nigh to perfect.

The air was still warm on the ride, not a usual night in San Francisco.

I believe that tomorrow and Sunday are also going to be as nice, if not nicer.

Quite lovely for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.

The Hardly-I-Won’t-Be-Going-Festival, I should call it.

As despite many a debate in my head over the last three days, I don’t believe I am going to venture in.

It is just too much.

Too many people.

I like my people.

I like my concerts in the park.

I just don’t want to do it with over 50,000 people.

I mean, maybe at Burning Man, but the area of the city is quite a bit larger than the Golden Gate Park area that the festival encompasses.

Maybe if I knew a posse of folks that were going and camped out a stage, but just the thought of trying to go claim some territory with a blanket and some coolers.

No.

I can’t.

I will sleep in instead.

I have a coffee date with a lady at 1:30 p.m.

Which means that I will further unwind from my day with another cup of tea and a download of a video.

I may not watch the entire thing, but I will sit in my bed and I will eat an apple and or a persimmon and have some tea and maybe just ooze into the pillows.

I watched a movie tonight at work while the baby was sleeping, the baby that did not take his late afternoon nap and was cray cray.

Cute.

But crazy.

I took some photos of him and he looked drunk.

It was fun and those photos along with the movie I watched reminded me of some of my early times in San Francisco.

Add to that the movie, “Ecstasy,” was based on the novel by Irvine Welsh (Trainspotting, Skag Boys, Porno, etc) and it was definitely a flashback sort of night.

I remember some of the shows that I went to, the places I danced at, the people I met.

Turns out my employer worked with a lot of the musicians that I was going to see.

I knew that she was in the music industry, as is her husband, you only have to take a quick peak in his office to know that there is a serious sound system and recording studio in there, but I guess I just did not put two and two together.

Turns out she did vocals for loads of shows at 1015 with Spundae between 2002 and 2009.

I am sure I saw her sing.

And I have absolutely no recollection.

Of course I was a bit of a whore for the dj booth, I always wanted to be right up front, pressed as closed to the class as possible, eyes closed in my own little dance world of bliss.

“Someone’s in love with the dj,” my friend said to me one night at 1015 as I danced myself crazy in front of the booth on the main floor in the big room.

“No, I mean, he’s cute, yeah, but no,” I said, shaking off the accusation, wild-eyed and wide-eyed and yes, oh yes, quite dilated eyes too, “I saw God.”

Period.

The dj was Jonathan Ojeda with Spundae.

I met Ojeda a few weeks later at Spundae in the Haight and he and I talked turntables and he showed me what I should get.

I made notes, thanked him and made plans as to how I was going to afford Technics.

A month later I was back, money in hand, ready to buy, but Ojeda was not at the store.

Instead, there was a young woman who helped me out.

The shop was quiet, we started talking djs, dancing, clubs, guys, SF, etc.

Before you know it, she says, “you don’t actually want to buy here, you don’t have that kind of money to spare.”

“But I want them and I am willing to pay,” I stopped as she waved me off.

“Listen, the tables are too expensive here, go to House of Stereos on Market Street and flirt with the old guy behind the counter, tell him exactly what you want and don’t deviate from it, don’t buy anything extra.  Here, I will write down what to get.”  She bent over the counter top at Spundae and jotted down a concise list.

“See you at the club,” she said, “good luck!”

“Thanks!” I grinned ear to ear and hopped on the Haight 71 headed downtown.

I found House of Stereos and it was sleazy but stocked, man was it stocked.

I walked in, went straight to the counter and read my list to the younger man behind it.

He looked at me, went back behind a door in the store and a few minutes late an older gentelman walked out.

He flirted with me.

I flirted back.

He offered me some extra stuff.

I said no, nicely, firmly, with a smile, I said no thank you, just what I have on my list.

He shook his head, ok, and waved to the young man who took my list and got all the items on it.

Two Technic turntables.

A mixer.

A really nice set of head phones.

Some needles.

The total bill was $1400.

I asked to split the cost between two credit cards.

I signed the first for $700.

I signed the second for $7.00.

I did a double take.

I looked up, “you didn’t charge me the correct amount,” I said swallowing my tongue, damn it, why did I say anything?

The old man squinted at it, “nope, is right.”

I did a double take, “are you sure?”

“Yes, now sign and go enjoy.” He smiled.

“Where your car?  My boy, he load it up for you.”

“No car, bus,” I said.

“No, no bus, taxi, go flag her taxi, load it up, where you go?”  He asked me.

“20th and York,” I said, barely able to contain myself.

I don’t remember the first vinyl I played on the tables.

But I do know where they are.

In a friend’s house in Diamond Heights.

I sold them to him when I was in the process of moving.

He took them to New York, Chicago, and now they have come home, here to SF.

It’s a small world.

It really is.

And I did see God.

I still do.

It Wasn’t A Walk of Shame

Until I got to work.

Damn it.

I spent the night over at the lover’s house in the Mission.  I feel all relaxed and easy in my skin.  I slept soundly.  I had packed my over night bag.

It’s not a walk of shame if you pack an over night bag.

I saw some walks of shame this morning.  Most noticeable the girl on 14th street with no shoes on, dress on backwards, carrying a pizza box.  At least she was getting her breakfast on.  If I had my camera ready I would have gotten a great shot.  It really was the classic walk of shame.

But this, what I was doing?

Nah.

I had brought my toothbrush and my nice lotion, a change of clothes, don’t want the co-workers to see you in the same duds as the shift before.

No thanks.

Although, I did forget an extra pair of socks, so I am a little bit of a dirty girl, despite the morning shower.  And the boy bath products.  I was prepared for the Irish Spring scenario again, so I brought a little bottle of coconut papaya lotion with me and a bag of makeup.

What I was not prepared for was the gigantic mess my hair had become.

Sex equals bed head.

Serious bed head.

He said I could blame him, but I think I may have had a little something to do with it.  Writhing around on a bed doesn’t make for a nice blown out hair do.  And I have so much more hair than I used to.  The last time I had a lover I had very short-cropped hair.  Then I had no nookie for over a year, you, know, I was busy, “Calling in the One,”  much to my chagrin and the statement I made earlier last year, “I will get married at Burning Man next year.”  My hair has grown out a bit since then.

That, Burning Man prediction, by the way, was this past Burning Man and I, Jesus, did I even get a kiss?

Oh, yes, that’s right, Dubble’s friend North kissed me.

That was lovely, but pretty much a not going to go anywhere scenario as the gentleman had a girlfriend back home.

I don’t know about you, but I think that a kiss can be more intimate than most people allow and I would not want my boyfriend kissing other women, but that’s just my opinion.

Back to the walk not walk of shame.

Which, I have had me some.

Ooh yeah.

The time I was living on 22nd and Alabama and dropped some really good E and it hit harder and faster than I was expecting and I was getting ready to go out to the club and suddenly I HAD to change my outfit, it just would not do for the night that was about to go off.  Out came the glitter, the flower hair clips, the ribbons, the sparkles, the flowy shirt and god only knows what else, the platform Steve Madden buck leather shoes–I remember that–I could hardly walk the next day, although I did do walk my in my heels, I won’t do the barefoot walk, no way, no how.

I had gone to 1015, then to the End Up, then to an after party, then to an after, after party.

About early afternoon, somewhere high up in the Castro, or lower Twin Peaks, the view was astounding, I also remember that.

I never really did do black outs, sometimes to my great chagrin, I do have an astounding memory.

As I looked out over the bowl of the city the sun twinkling sharply of the towers and spires and the water, I realized it was time to go home.

I said good-bye graciously to my hosts and began to gather my things.

“Girl, where do you think you are going,” one of the fabulous gay boys said with a wry chuckle.

“I’ll just go flag a cab,” I said, shouldering my bag and fishing out my sunglasses.  This was during a time that I discovered that I always needed sunglasses and would often buy them at the gas station kitty corner to the End Up when I was making cigarette and gum runs over from the club.

“Honey, have you seen what you look like recently?”

Ah no.

I went to the bathroom.

Oh my god, what the hell has happened to me?

My very long hair had been “artfully” braided by someone at some point in the night, entwined with god only knows what, ribbons, flowers, was that a glow stick in my hair?

It was.

I had put on more glitter eyeliner at the club.  Apparently I was just not fabulous enough when I had left my house on Alabama Street the night before.

I had various in and out bracelets from the clubs on my arm as well as door stamps, one of which was on my cleavage.

I was a hot mess.

I tried to wash, but it really was no good.

I came out of the bathroom and the whole room clapped.

I got a ride home.

That may win the walk of shame walks.  And there were a few.

This turned into an inadvertent walk of shame, or ride of shame, as I was on my bicycle this morning.

Come by the shop!  I am working.

Ugh.

After lazing in the sun for a while–there is nothing like waking up in a puddle of sunlight.  Good morning light is almost as good as good morning wood.

Did I just say that?

Ok, so I did not get as much sleep as a girl could get.

Hush.

I had a hot shower, put on my change of clothes, made the bed, did my morning get centered rituals and went to Rainbow to grab a little light breakfast and the stuff to make lunch today at work.

I do not know why  I was craving sour kraut.  But man, it looked really, really good in the cold case.

Maybe it was that damn blog I wrote the other day about making apple pies, I had cooking in the house of Windsor on my mind and one year we did this retardedly huge batch of sour kraut, over ten 5 gallon pickle buckets of sour kraut–the garden put out a lot of cabbage that year and I believe my step-father also supplemented with some extra from the farmers market.

We had kraut for years.

It was stunningly good.

I saw it at Rainbow and I wanted.

I had an after sex craving, I guess.

I got my black chai spice tea and almond milk, a couple of bananas, a raw bar, a Naked smoothie (ha), and some stuff to make for lunch, including sour kraut.

I hopped on my bike, chuckled when I saw the girl walking home with the bare feet and dress asunder carrying the pizza box.

No one will know, but me and my “tousled” hair.

Then I got to work, why is my stuff wet?  What is that smell?

That is not I just had sex smell, I mean yes, those are my panties and damn they are wet, but, what the?

OH

Fuck my mother.

The sour kraut opened in my bag.

Walk of shame.

You got me anyway.