A God Damn Christmas Miracle!

I was not expecting that I would get my suitcase back today.

On Christmas.

ON CHRISTMAS!

Come on.

That’s like a stupid rom/com movie trope.

I mean, I can just envision the script, tired American in Paris for the holidays wears outfit four days in a row and cries in tepid bathtub after multiple delays and flight cancellations, losing baggage at Charles de Gaulle, battling with weary agents at Lufthansa who don’t give a fuck and just keep handing over a piece of paper with directions as to how to file a claim, buys wrong toiletries at Franprix (damn it I know better French than to buy sugar scrub instead of face wash), finally understands that French je ne sais crois of messy updo (fuck my hair is trashed after cheap toiletries and not being able to use a real blowdryer), no makeup (cuz was in suitcase that was lost) and world weary look-tres chic, tres sexy. Meets cute in a cafe when the regular notices same outfit on the third day in a row and falls in love when he takes her out clothes shopping in the Marais.

Well.

All of that was true except the last sentence.

I just took me out clothes shopping in the Marais.

But back to movie.

I mean, my life.

I mean.

Hmmm, what if my life were a movie?

What if the love of my life is just me?

What if I just keep falling in love with my own damn self?

An ex reached out to wish me Merry Christmas this morning.

Signal perfect teardrop rolling down face.

I am tired of this particular Christmas tradition, frankly, time for a new one.

I am ok with being alone on Christmas.

Not always, not for every moment of the day.

Not for the seven hours I waited for my bag, but you know, I wrote a lot, I watched Lady Chatterly’s Lover, I paced a bit.

I gave up the ghost around 4:30p.m.

I remember looking at my watch and thinking, well damn, there goes the day as it started to get dark and the suitcase had not arrived.

I sighed, thought about what I would make for dinner–I had planned ahead and grabbed a poulet roti, rotisserie chicken, from the frou frou boucherie on the block, so I would have a nice meal, yesterday.

So I was shocked and delighted when just after 5p.m. Paris time, my phone rang and it was the delivery driver!

I ran out the door (thankfully I had the keys in my pocket, I had a nightmare thought about running out the door and locking myself out, another movie trope, no?) and down the steps, opening the door to the courtyard just as the delivery service pulled up.

I have never been happier to see a suitcase in my life.

It looked like it had been dropped out the plane and dragged down the runway, but it was closed, and upon opening, all was there.

Thank goodness.

Makeup!

Bras and underwear!

My blowdryer!

My new boots!

My jean jacket I had just bought a month ago.

My favorite sweatshirt.

Note to self.

I over packed.

Of course.

I didn’t know I was going to wear the same outfit four days in a row, so there is that.

I put on some makeup, swept my hair up into a messy up do, I mean, I will fix that tomorrow with proper products and a good blow dryer, and bustled out the door.

Christmas night in Paris is not a real big night out, but I needed a walk after staying inside all day.

It was a lovely night, I caught the sliver of the new moon climbing over the rooftops of the Marais, walked by Hotel de Ville and smiled at the kiddos riding the carousel, I walked over the Pont Notre Dame and circled Ile Saint Louis, remembering all the many times I have crossed that bridge.

I have crossed quite a few bridges in Paris.

I have lived here poorer than a tit mouse.

I have cried in cafes here.

I have struggled.

Even with a little money in my wallet and my Air France credit card, Paris is not easy, the bureaucracy, the time it takes to get things done, it wears you, I mean, me, down.

My time in Paris has never been easy.

But.

It has always been beautiful, and perhaps those things most beautiful are not the things that are most easy.

I thought I was going to have an idyllic return, a victorious, sexy return to Paris, ten years later, turning 50, and eating at some fancy restaurant with my Parisian friends.

I was sitting in SFO instead waiting for yet another delayed flight to load.

I thought I was going to wear chic shoes and pretty clothes.

Not my Vans sneakers all week long, but hey, I still have two days to rock some heels (fyi, how the fuck does Emily in Paris totter around in those heels all day long? No fucking way) and will perhaps tomorrow night when I take myself out for a fancy dinner.

I did, however, master the messy bun, the scarf (grabbed at COS in the Marais), and the side bag swagger, and the no makeup look, except a red lip–the only makeup I had in my possession, a red lip crayon.

It’s been a trip.

Things I have figured out.

-How to turn up the hot water heater in the flat, sorry Air BnB person trying to save on utilities, I paid an arm and a leg for this place and I deserve a hot bath, I’ll return it to its lukewarm setting when I leave.

-I speak better French than I give myself credit for. Many, many compliments and looks of surprise when I say I am from the US.

-I still don’t speak French as well as I want, like, um, hahahaha when I told the delivery driver he was tres jolie (smacks forehead) and then quickly changed it to tres gentile (jolie is pretty, gentile is nice).

-I love the Metro, well, most of the time, there were some strikes and driver shortages, so it was rather packed, but it is simply an amazing train system, and off all the places I have been, probably the easiest to use.

-I don’t need to do the Louvre again, this time I skipped it, I went to the Palais de Tokyo, the Centre de Pompidou, Musee D’Orsay, and Musee de l’Orangerie. Those are my favorites, I don’t need to kill myself drowning in tourists trying to take a selfie with the Mona Lisa.

-Palais de Tokyo has the best book store and cafe hands down, of any museum I have been in anywhere.

-Saying please and thank you and have a good day and using manners gets you really quite far, I sort of already knew this, but I find it rather comforting the little formalities, the have a good day, have a good night, Bonnes Fetes, et al, makes things a little more human.

-I don’t like how much time people spend on their phones here, I was surprised, phone culture here has caught up with America, and in some ways, seems worse. Maybe it was the pandemic. It made me a little sad to see it, but there are still people on the Metro reading books.

-I don’t want to come back to Paris alone.

Yeah.

Your read that last one correct.

In my many times of traveling here I have not done it with a true partner and though I am my own good company, I am a little tired of being the solo lady traveler in Paris.

I’m not going to quit traveling, but after time number eight, I think I want a different experience with the city.

And with myself and with someone else.

I had an ex reach out prior to my trip on WhatsApp, a different ex than the one who caused the tears, (the only platform he’s not blocked on, but is now, thanks) and wish me a happy birthday and hopefully I’ll be enjoying a romantic time in Paris, and how I deserve to be with someone who loves me–can’t argue that, but please, stop.

I am my romantic time.

I’ll draw a bubble bath, watch a movie, have a snack.

And plan my last couple of days as a single lady in Paris.

The rom/com trope is that I am happy and ok single.

And that I can have complex emotional feelings and experiences and long for a partner too.

I have had some very intense dating experiences this year.

And I forgive myself for that.

The change now is to surrender, like I did my lost luggage, not look for it on apps, or dating sites, to not project myself as larger than life, to be vulnerable and let myself be approached.

I tend to have men project (and some former female friends) on me a certain fantasy of who I am.

Because I live grand, I write this blog (though, honestly, not always the best reflection of me it is sometimes taken to be a completely accurate picture of my life, when it is just a montage of snapshots) and I live with my heart of my sleeve.

I want to be gentle, be approachable, and maybe soften up the makeup and glitter (a little, not doing away with it all), wear my hair up messy, and be ok with being human and older and still not having it quite altogether.

I think it’s tres chic this.

Thanks for the lesson Paris.

I am not sure when I will see you again, but until then, thanks for teaching me all the things vulnerable and how to turn up the hot water heater in French.

Trop gros bisous.

I Suppose I Should Write

I don’t much feel like it.

But that’s because I was just in my car singing along to John Denver’s “Sunshine” and crying.

Ugh.

I was not expecting that either.

I got in my car today to run errands, man did I run some errands today, and of course the first thing that pops on the stereo is the playlist my ex made me and I was like, “NO!”

I immediately queued up my Spotify and went the opposite direction that I could think and started listening to a 2ManyDj’s Radio Soulwax, electronic dance music with a hard rock edge to it.

Love them.

Not something I ever listened to with my ex, not that he wouldn’t have been into them I think, but never came up in any of our many discussions about music.

Fuck there is just so much music I feel like I can’t listen to right now, everything seems tied to him.

So yeah, I blasted the Soulwax and went grocery shopping and everywhere I went today I listened to that playlist.

Until just a little while ago.

I was just coming from a very lovely ladies dinner night out with two girlfriends I know in recovery and we literally closed down the restaurant talking.

We were going to go see some chic flick at the AMC Van Ness Theaters, but ended up having such a conversation over dinner that we decided to just stay put and keep talking.

God damn it was nice.

I didn’t once talk about the relationship ending, rather I just listened to my friends talk about dating and who’ve they’ve seen or not seen, and it was just a relief.

When I was coming home through the fog, man it’s been a foggy August, usually it’s lifted a bit by now and we’re beginning to have some semblance of a summer, but not tonight, fog city, I didn’t feel like jamming out to the Soulwax anymore and wanted something to sing to.

So yeah, I put on a little playlist that is silly and fun and I can sing to the songs.

Like.

Ahem.

Eddie Rabbit’s “I Love a Rainy Night.”

Or.

Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton singing “Islands in the Stream,” and fuck.

It happened.

I was singing and then the lyrics started to sink in and I realized, damn it, these are love songs too, upbeat, but love songs.

Not sad though, very sweet, rather endearing, and ugh, they made me wish for my ex so bad.

By the time John Carpenter started singing “Sunshine,” I had lost it and started to out right cry.

Sorry folks.

It’s another I’m crying over my ex-boyfriend blog.

I miss him so much.

It hurts.

I’m not going to die, but now I have some more music I may need to avoid for a little bit.

I mean.

I had a great time with my friends, and I felt really upbeat heading home, so the emotional sucker punch of the music caught me off guard.

I also looked at a picture of him today.

From a trip we went on this summer and his smile was just all sunshine and how he was looking at me from across the cafe table, it just got me so hard.

I have most of the photos off my phone, but there are a few from that trip that I realized where there and I looked.

I’m not going to beat myself up for looking.

But.

When “Sunshine” was playing I thought of him, that day, his eyes, his face, and later that day when we were close, we sat on the leather couch at the pretty AirBnB and I read him poetry from Pablo Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets, his head in my lap, and I brushed my fingers through his hair and stroked his face.

He was my sunshine.

And in the night fog driving home I missed his light so horribly.

I pulled it together to drive, but I admit that when I found parking I sat in the dark in my car and let the music spool out around me and I bawled like a baby.

I love you darling.

I miss you.

I hope you are making it through.

You always will be my sunshine.

Even in my darkest night.

I will always have the memory of how you smiled at me.

How you shined at me.

My how you shined.

Tickets Please

I just bought my tickets to Atlanta, Georgia for July 1st-5th.

I leave SFO at 10:30 p.m. on the evening of the 1st, so I will work that last shift before heading out and not have to take an extra vacation day.

I will arrive in Georgia, land of peaches, the morning of the 2nd.

Oh.

My.

God.

I’m going to Atlanta.

Now all I need to do is find a place to stay.

I talked to another friend today who wants to go and we spoke about getting a bigger space for three instead of just two.

I found some things on AirBnB and I think I may have to confirm, but really, it would make better sense to have another person stay with, cut down on the cost of being there.

The plane ticket was $438.

The registration was $100.

I am figuring that housing will be about, fingers crossed less than $500 for the time I am there, I think it could go quite a bit lower, though.

I did find a few things on Airbnb that would be quite affordable for three people, one that caught my eye was $560 for three people for four nights.

That is a steal.

That would be slightly less than $200 for the time there if I split the cost of staying with two other people.

Hell I could even book it and say, who’s in?

My friends could say no and I know that I could find a few other friends who would be down for jumping in the boat.

It’s a bit out time wise, but I suspect that closer to the event, the more expensive things are going to be.

I also wonder about whether or not a lot of Atlanta knows what’s happening in July, but that  when they do, prices may go up and availability down.

I want to book a place as soon as I can.

Which means coordinating with my friends.

Or.

Just making the decision to reach out and take action and book a place and then invite the my two friends to join me.

I don’t have to make any decision tonight.

The main action was taken.

I bought the ticket.

I’m going to Atlanta!

Hot damn.

I get to wear summer dresses and sandals in July!

I know I live in California, but I live in San Francisco, it’s chilly, if not down right cold in July, I’m going to be thrilled to be somewhere hot, to walk outside at night, to be in humidity and warmth.

Oh deliciousness.

I suppose I might change my tune when my hair explodes from the humidity, but who knows.

“You got a lot of hair!” The homeless woman on Church Street said to me around a bite of scavenged burrito.

“I do,” I laughed and kept walking.

The hair it has been getting bigger.

And longer.

And by the time I get to Atlanta and have oh, about twenty minutes in the weather, it will be twice as big, I’ll be able to give Diana Ross in her prime a run for her money.

Let me just take another moment to fantasize about sundresses and sandals.

Ah.

That’s nice.

In fact, I will tell on myself, there’s a pair of sandals I promised myself I would buy when I bought the plane ticket, they’re on sale and I thought, you know, they’ll be perfect for Atlanta.

Hehe.

As though I don’t have other sandals.

I do.

But, I might want a pair for each day I’m there.

“Excuse me miss, we’ll have to check your bag, too many shoes to carry on the plane.”

Bahaha.

Oh.

I amuse myself.

I was thinking when I was riding my bicycle home from a successful end of the week, I actually snuck in a trip to Whole Foods and to the nail salon before going to my Friday night commitment after work, that I just had to put this recovery thing first and the rest would follow.

It’s something I always forget and when reminded, it is such a relief.

Who am I going to date next?

Becomes how may I be of service in this situation?

And suddenly.

I don’t care who I’m going to date next.

What am I going to do about financial aid for graduate school?

Becomes, who do I need to call and check in on?

And suddenly.

I don’t care about graduate school either.

I know this much, I have complete and utter faith that if I take the continual actions in front of me, focusing on what I can do and where I can take action, instead of thinking about it, the graduate school stuff will all fall in line.

If I get in, the money will show up.

If I don’t.

Then I try something else.

I’m young.

I’ve got time a head of me.

I could probably get two Master’s Degrees and a Doctorate before I die.

I’m going to be an old lady, it runs in the family, and I’m down with it.

So, yeah, focusing on what I can do, what action I can take today, just one or two, and it builds up.

It’s divine.

And so simple I forget that it’s often the smallest things that lead to the biggest revelations in my life.

I may troll around on AirBnb a little more tonight, but I have done the heavy lifting for the day.

Now it is the weekend.

Which always goes by so fast, and is quite loaded up with things to do and places to go.

And I want to get my taxes done, that is a priority.

Oh.

And perhaps I should breathe a little too.

Ha.

Just slow it down.

It is the weekend after all.

I don’t need to get too far a head of myself.

Relax.

Enjoy a little down time.

And.

Think about picking up another summer dress.

To go with all my sandals.

Giggle.

I’m Going to Atlanta!

I just registered for the conference.

Woohoo.

I started looking for flights, but as I won’t really be able to buy the air plane ticket until after my direct deposit goes into my account at midnight, I figure, I’ll be waiting until I get home from work tomorrow.

First step on the way to the dirty South.

Hotlanta here I come.

I still can’t believe I will be going there in July.

However, not only may I get to see a lot of folks, some from here in the city, I found out in the last day that another two friends are also going, I may get to see my eldest niece as well.

That would be pretty cool.

I haven’t seen her in about 10 years.

My sister sent me a message that she, my niece is in Atlanta doing school and working for FEMA.

Whoa.

Cool.

It’s a little ways off, 154 days, but the preparation to go has to start pretty quick.

The airlines are averaging about a $475 ticket round trip for the time I am looking at.

There is supposedly a discount through an airline agency that links up to the conference website, but I wasn’t able to navigate it to find out what ticket prices were.  I will be doing more exploration soon.

Ha.

I just figured out the site and I actually found cheaper tickets via another website, not by much, but probably by enough that I will buy my own airplane ticket and by-pass the event site.

Then.

On to housing.

My friend got a hold of me and let me know that he had not actually booked the hotel room.

So we are looking at AirBnB.

I’m sure that something will come up from that.

But again, stuff to attend to quickly.

I suspect that the hotels and motels will be overwhelmed with requests for berths.

There are not hotels with vacancies within eight, nine miles of the venue.

That’s a lot of rooms that have already been booked.

There are dorms, apparently, available at a couple of the universities, but frankly, though I am ready for graduate school, I am not ready to stay in a dorm ever, ever, ever again.

I am willing to pay a little more to stay in a spot a little nicer.

Plus, if I’m splitting a room with my friend then we can probably get something decent.

I am super grateful that I bit the bullet and regisered.

The cost is $100.

Just enough to make me know that I will go.

The investment in money is important, but the investment in me and my life is the most important.

I am over the moon that I am allowing myself this trip.

I have been thinking about it since I missed the last convention in 2010 and a lot of people in my community went and raved about it, it was in Austin that year, this is definitely my year.

Oh sweet Jesus.

I just got completely sucked into AirBnB.

I need to stop.

I wont’ be booking tonight.

I can spend time over the weekend checking out all the options and doing the research.

I can also shoot my friend in Atlanta a message and see if he has any suggestions.

I have plenty of stuff to do this weekend.

Might as well add-on one more thing.

The biggest thing is done, I registered and paid for the conference.

The rest of it will fall exactly into place as it suppose to.

The next thing on the agenda is, drum roll please, taxes.

Yeah.

Woohoo.

Time to get those suckers done.

I am awaiting the response from one of the families I worked for to see what, if any, there are declaring in regards to deductions for child care.

I have gotten response back from the two other families and I just need the last and then I may proceed with the taxes.

I am ready with all my stuff.

Once I have the pertinent information it shouldn’t take me much more than an hour to do the deal.

Then I get to do the FAFSA forms.

It was suggested that I apply for financial aid even before I receive confirmation that I have gotten into graduate school.  It apparently will take some time for the application to be processed and the school advisor said the sooner the better to make sure that I can pay tuition when it is due.

I still cannot believe I actually applied for the program.

Sometimes when I am at the park and mediating a melt down between a 2 1/2 year old and a 4 1/2 year old over the same shovel I am so far from doing anything else, it seems absolutely impossible that I could do or be anything other than a nanny, for the rest of my life, amen.

Then I ride my bike and feel a twinge in my shoulder, the same one that has been bothering me for almost a year, or my ankle, yeah, that’s right, my ankle still hurts, and I think, I can’t get done with being a nanny fast enough.

I must have work that doesn’t rely on my body keeping it together for another ten to fifteen years.

Of course, the graduate program is just the first of many steps that will need to be taken before I can be a licenced therapist doing the deal and making decent money.

I figure, and I am not joking, that I’ll be 47 or 48 before I have my own practice.

I’m 42 now.

The program takes three years.

The accruing of hours will probably take another couple of years.

That puts me at 47.

I might even be lowballing that estimate.

I may be 50 before I have my own practice.

Regardless.

I am not afraid of the work.

Work has never really terrified me.

Sometimes, it tires me out.

Today was hard, this week really, has been long.

The eldest boy was home sick again and that makes for longer days.

The upshot?

Lattes every morning this week from Ritual and lunch three times out, paid by the family, once at The Crepe House and twice now at Tacolicious.

That’s a nice perk.

Plus all my fruit this week courtesy of BiRite.

I can hang with that.

Ah yes.

Work.

Taxes.

Travel.

Throw in some sex and I’ll have it all.

I’ll pass on the death bit though.