The Full Monty

He’s married.

That’s the secret.

The big, finally done holding it secret.

I was involved with a married man.

Thus, why so little of my relationship was on my blog for the last two years.

Oh, if you were clever you might have figured out I was seeing someone but I was pretty discrete.

I am discrete.

I didn’t go burn down his house when we broke up.

I didn’t out him to the world or my community.

Oh.

I told a few friends that I needed to tell and I got super honest in a general way in other places that I had been having an affair.

“I had an affair with a married man and he wouldn’t leave his wife, so I broke up with him.”

It’s rather glib and it really is so little of what actually happened.

Love is what actually happened.

We fell in love.

I’m in it right now.

He’s really been on my mind.

Tomorrow would be the two year anniversary of us getting together.

The night he told me about his “modern marriage” and I thought, my God, you’re gorgeous and I’m open and not seeing anyone.

That kiss though.

Our first kiss, May 3rd, 2017, two years ago tomorrow.

Blew me apart.

I should have probably known right then and there it was going to be something.

Something for the books.

Magic.

Romance.

Everything.

He was everything.

Poetry.

So much poetry.

And we fell in love.

It wasn’t just the sexy.

In fact, both of us bemoaned it not being just sex on more than one occasion as it would have been easier to get out of it, easier to walk away.

But we fell in love.

Naively I thought that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Extenuating circumstances that I will not divulge as they are not mine to share kept us from ever really being together.

But god damn.

We tried.

We tried so fucking hard.

We did everything we could to make it work.

In the end, though, I left him.

It wasn’t working.

I realize that in previous blogs I made it out to seem that he left me.

And that’s not true.

I left.

I couldn’t do it anymore.

I was miserable.

I had left once before and couldn’t live without him and so we spent a year trying to figure it out and make it work.

I really did think he was going to leave his wife.

I really held onto it for so long.

How could someone love me the way he said he loved me and not leave?

This still hurts.

Cue the tears streaming down my face.

I know why he didn’t and I still really thought he would.

Which is why I say he betrayed me, which is why I say he left.

He didn’t choose me.

And that’s his right to not do that.

But it felt like a betrayal.

It felt like he betrayed the love we had for each other.

Love that neither one of us had thought was possible or real or could exist.

The stuff of teenage lust and fairytales and gothic poetry and love songs.

That’s what got me today at work.

Sitting down to keep my charges company at dinner and the dad of the family played some music and a song came up.

A song I have never heard outside of the playlist I had made my ex many months ago.

A Peggy Lee song called “Sweet Happy Life.”

I thought I was going to lose it.

It wasn’t the Peggy Lee version, but it was the same song.

My wish for you, sweet happy life
May all the days of the year that you live be laughing days
With all my heart, sweet happy life
And may the night times that follow the day be dancing nights
Stars for your smile, moons for your hair
And someones wonderful love for your loving heart to share
My wish for you, sweet happy life
May all your sorrows be gone and your heart begin to sing
And if a wish can make it be
I wish you spend everyday of your happy life with me
Stars for your smile, moons for you hair
And someones wonderful love for your loving heart to share
My wish for you, sweet happy life
May all your sorrows be gone and your heart begin to sing
And if a wish can make it be
I wish you spend everyday of your happy life with me.

I got myself together and I did not lose it, I did not cry.

But tonight, driving home.

I did.

I did cry.

I’m crying now.

It still hurts.

And it was amazing.

Real, true, fucking head over heels love.

We had it.

I had never had it before.

I just get to have these feelings and let them go and be grateful that I have gotten to have an incredible experience without judgment or self-hatred.

It was what it was and it was love.

It still is love.

I still love him.

I will always love him.

I just won’t be with him.

Not while he’s married.

I can’t ever do that to myself again, no married men, no one still getting over an ex-wife, girlfriend, partner, no one who is not 100% free and clear to be with me in the light of day.

Tomorrow night will be the two years since that first kiss and I don’t regret any of it and I’m not mad at myself.

I love myself if anything a little bit harder and a little bit more.

I followed my heart and listened when it said it couldn’t do it anymore.

I left him.

So if I left you with the idea that it was anything other than my choice, that was not right.

It was my way of still avoiding the gigantic pink elephant in the room.

I had an affair with a married man and fell in love.

He wouldn’t leave his wife.

So I broke up with him.

The end.

A Girl

And her books.

I just looked at the gigantic stack of books on my desk/kitchen table and laughed.

Hands up.

You are surrounded.

I should give up the idea of my table really being at all for dining.

Although I do eat breakfast at it every morning, it really is a repository for my books and notebooks and handbooks and readers and pens and my new white board with all its definitions that I am trying to make myself read as often as possible.

I really am in PhD land.

I mean.

You, dear, gentle reader, most likely already know that.

I went from a daily blogger to a weekly blogger, at best.

I actually am uncertain when the last time I wrote a blog was.

Maybe when I was headed out to DC for the weekend last week?

There is so much work that my schooling demands right now that I hardly have time for anything else.

Which, I guess, is good.

It’s something I get to be grateful for.

As.

Ugh.

I broke up with my boyfriend today.

It’s not the first time we have broken up, first time was last January and man, that might have been the worst pain I have felt in sobriety.

Including the time my best friend died.

It was so painful that when I wrote about it I had people reach out to me to see if I was ok.

I know that the language I was using was liken to someone dying and it certainly felt like I was dying.

It’s a kind of pain I’m not about to wish upon anyone.

We reconciled, after a few hits and misses sometime in February or March.

Then we tried it again, with variations, trying to figure out the best way forward.

We had success, we had setbacks, we tried not seeing each other, we tried just hanging out, we would spontaneously erupt into passionate embrace if we were any place semi alone.

We stopped again.

We started again.

We tried being just friends.

We cried.

A LOT.

Fuck did we both cry.

We went to New York in July and had a marvelous, terrifyingly amazing, soul rending romantic and heartbreaking time.

We decided to give it a break and let each other gently go.

I to Paris, he to his other pursuits and work and stuff and things.

He had things to work on.

I had things to do.

Through all the tumult we have loved each other.

We are the loves of each others life, soul mates, the ONE.

And.

We haven’t been able to be completely together.

For reasons I just cannot articulate right now.

I just can’t.

Maybe one day.

Just not this day.

When we left each other in New York it was amidst many a tear and then I headed off to Paris.

We “practiced” not being in contact with each other.

It was excruciating.

My best girlfriend in Paris convinced me I had to stop, I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t helping him by standing by waiting for him to do the work necessary for us to really have a go at being in a relationship to each other.

I decided in Paris that she was right and it was over.

And it was.

For a little while.

We decided again on no contact, except sending each other mail.

I have a heart-shaped box full of mail, including the Valentines Day card he gave me last week with the most adorable pair of silver unicorn earrings anyone has every seen.

I’m his special unicorn.

And you can just fuck off if you snorted through your nose at that.

We’ve always believed the other person is magic.

Our love has felt like that.

Today he told me that after being with me he finally understands all love songs.  That he has a secret decoder ring, me and our experience being together (and apart and together and apart), that all love songs make sense now.

God.

I might start crying.

I have been on and off all day.

Makes it challenging to read the stack of reading for school, but I also am proud to say I muddled through more than one might expect considering the circumstances.

I just want to put my head down, have a good cry, and write a lot of painful poetry.

But.

I soldiered on, met with ladies, did readings, did the deal, did my laundry, roasted a chicken, read for hours, wrote discussion posts for school, responded to discussion posts from school and took down all the photographs of us together that I had up in the house.

Sigh.

So.

Yeah.

We mailed each other love letters and cards and kept in contact that way, romantic, sad, sweet, painful, loving, all the things.

It certainly made shopping for stationary fun and stamps and I can’t tell you how often my heart skipped a beat when I saw mail in my mailbox.

We had agreed after I came back from Paris in July that he had things to work on and that it would be best to not connect until February.

But things happened.

Deaths.

Not really my place to talk about, but I reached out and we reconnected and well, fuck, one things leads to another doesn’t it?

Back in it again for December, my birthday, Christmas, oh the pretty, pretty gifts we gave each other and the love oh, god damn it the love.

I got more tattoos.

He got more tattoos.

We talked.

A lot.

We started texting again, making plans to see each other.

I tried to internally change my point of view of what I needed in the relationship.

We took off the holidays from discussing the relationship and where it was going or not going and just loved on each other as much as school/work/travel/business demands could be met.

We decided to go on a trip.

We went to DC last week.

It was lovely and sad and sweet and hard.

And.

We started the process again of saying goodbye.

We did.

Then we didn’t.

Then we came back.

And this Tuesday.

Insert therapy here.

Mine, my own therapy, not me being a therapist, and I shared about it all, my therapist has been in on everything since the beginning, and she said simply, “your needs are not being met.”

I broke down into tears.

It was true.

They were not.

“It’s not working,” I said and sobbed.

Though there is no lack of love.

My God.

The love.

I just cannot express how much love we have for each other.

We can’t be together right now the way things are.

So.

We made plans to see each other and cleared a lot of time and talked and cried and listened to Bach cello sonatas and held each other and made love one last time and looked into each others eyes and said goodbye.

It was the most kind, gentle, sweet, tender, sad, SAD, break up.

Full of spiritual principles and honesty.

It was excruciating.

Heartbreaking.

But.

Oh.

So.

Beautiful.

And there.

Cue the tears.

Oh my fucking God this hurts.

Not as bad as the first time.

But still.

Awful bad.

I know I am a going to be ok, but right now, I just want to curl up in bed and not do another thing.

I will grieve, I will be sad.

I will let myself have the experience of the loss and I will let go.

Gracefully and grateful.

I have never had love like this before.

All else was a facade.

I don’t know that I ever will again.

I just know I am beyond grateful for the experience, despite the pain.

The pain lets me know how meaningful it was.

REALLY.

Meaningful.

I gave him my copy of The Princess Bride as he left.

I had bought it last February on a trip we took together and over the course of a couple of months I read it to him, on that trip–his head in my lap, and then I recorded myself in the subsequent weeks reading the chapters so he could listen to it on business trips.

His favorite character was Fezzik.

No wonder he’s the love of my life.

Now.

Forgive me.

I must go and cry for a little while.

Sweet dreams my love, know that I will always love you.

Always.

Always.

Always.

Your, baby girl.

Fingerprints of God

If I look closely I can see them.

They are there in the unexpected places, incidents, life re-arrangements.

The “oh my God I feel in love” moment.

“We don’t choose who we fall in love with,” my boss said to me today.

It’s inevitable.

Or.

I think of all the things in my life that seemed inconceivable and then what happened when I walked through them.

I think about my boyfriend of five years when I finally broke up with him and how he hit me and how I ran away into the night.

In January.

In Wisconsin.

In a nightgown.

Without socks on.

I ran to the Sentry Food Store on East Washington and used the payphone outside the grocery store to call the police.

I remember how the sound of his car turning onto East Washington tumbled into my ears as he went out into the night to find me, driving right along the road in front of me but not seeing me squashed into the phone booth.

I remember huddling in that phone booth, panicked and scared and crying on the phone with the operator.

That needed to happen for me to get out of that relationship.

That had the fingerprints of God all over it.

And I’m grateful for it, in my own way, I learned a lot, I learned how resilient I was and I learned how to better take care of myself.

I also learned how I act when I am in fear.

I have made decisions based on self and I have stepped on the toes of others, they have retaliated.

I decided to live where I am now because I thought it was a better fit for me than the other house that was on offer.

Sometimes I wonder how that would have worked out.

I would be living in the Bayview and paying much less rent.

Would I have the same jobs, relationships, friendships, fellowship?

I have no idea.

I made a decision to move here though it was double the rent I would have paid at the place in Bayview because I wanted to live by myself.

And I thought this place was nicer.

I am sure that house is lovely now, but at the time it was under a major reconstruction and I would have been in the middle of it.

Yes.

Paying $500 a month rent, but in the middle of a demolition and rebuild.

So I picked the more expensive and I moved in here.

And here’s where I acted in fear, here’s where I have realized in the last day what is my part.

I made a decision based on fear.

When the landlady didn’t offer me a receipt for the deposit.

I didn’t say anything, but man it felt funny.

But hey, look at my place, it’s great, and it’s all mine.

When the landlady didn’t give me a lease to sign, I didn’t say anything either, though that felt really weird to.

But I stuffed that feeling down.

And every month, every freaking month, I have wondered, is the shoe going to drop, is she going to raise the rent, is she going to do something, am I ok?

And every month she would cash my check and I would feel a little relief for a little while.

I realize, or I have completely admitted to myself and to another, that I have been under this yoke of fear ever since I moved in and there was no lease to sign and there was no receipt made for the deposit.

The only thing that was said, in regards to the deposit, was that it would be put into a bank account where it would accrue interest, which I would get back when I moved out and please give at least 30 days notice when I decided to move.

Sure.

And I didn’t ask for the lease.

I didn’t.

I didn’t want to make waves.

I didn’t want to be pushy.

I should have and now I’m getting to repair that and try to do the right thing now.

Which as uncomfortable as it is, is showing up and walking through the discomfort of the situation.

It’s like walking up a steep hill.

I don’t want to do it, but I bet the view will be amazing when I do the work to get there.

I had some council last night and I found out that I do actually have a lease!

In legal terms it’s called a “de facto contract.”

Which means that every time my landlady cashed one of my checks she was acknowledging that I was paying rent for the in-law.

What a huge relief to hear that.

I got a lot of sound advice and some next directions and I was told, once again, that she doesn’t have just cause to ask me to leave and a verbal notice to vacate is not legal.

I was told to keep paying the rent.

So.

I’m going to keep paying the rent and see what happens next.

I’m sure something will happen.

I was also told to watch for whether or not my checks were getting cashed.

What do you know.

My rent check for June, that I gave to my landlady on May 25th, has not been cashed.

I will most certainly not be foolish enough to touch that money in my account, it stays put and all other monies that would be directed towards rent shall also stay put.

It’s going to be ok.

I tell myself this again and again.

I am being taken care of.

Focus on solution.

I did that today, I went to hang with my fellows after seeing my client tonight instead of coming home, even though I am working early tomorrow.

I have to focus on the solution rather than the problem.

For me that solution is spiritual.

And when I heard that God’s fingerprints are on those big things that happen out of the blue, when you’re least expecting it, well, it fucking resonated.

There is beauty here if I allow myself the discomfort of the unknown.

There is opportunity.

There is growth.

Therefor.

There is gratitude.

So yeah.

My landlady went on my gratitude list this morning.

And she will everyday until this has been resolved.

I am grateful for this opportunity to learn and to grow.

Seriously.

Sick Day

Oh all the poor, sweet, sick little monkeys.

I had a long nanny day.

Both my little charges were sick.

It was a day of snuggles and naps and a lot of videos.

I had to constantly be holding the baby, he just wouldn’t have it any other way.

At one point I had him down for a nap in his stroller and he kept waking up, feverish and upset, I took him out, brought him to his favorite little play area and sat on the floor with him.

Floor time is super important, just getting on the same level as a child, being there, he’s so much happier, even if I’m not super interactive, with me just being there, down on the floor with him.

I had a bunch of his favorite little snacks and got out his favorite toys and just sat in the sun with him and he ate a tiny snack and played a little bit, then he just turned and crawled up into my lap and lay his warm little head on my chest and hugged me.

I cuddled him up and hummed a little tune and the next thing I knew, he was sound asleep on me.

It was super sweet.

I mean.

I was sort of trapped, but it was a good kind of trapped.

I probably sat on the floor in the corner of the room for about an hour.

Fortunately it was in a sunny patch and there was a cozy braided rug underneath me to sit on and a wall to lean against.

I was happy to be holding him and be in the sun.

Especially considering how cold it’s been.

I just got in from my Wednesday night commitment and the walk back was hella brisk.

It is cold out there baby.

I could use a warm snuggle.

Or a hundred.

Or a thousand.

I could use a lot of warm snuggles.

Just saying.

I snuggled a lot with my little lady charge too.

We watched lots of Curious George videos and I made her homemade chicken soup with alphabet pasta.

I roll like that.

I peeled her apples to nibble on and made cups of tea and made sure she stayed hydrated and when she was sleepy I rubbed her back and petted her hair, tucking the long strands behind her small, sweet shell of an ear.

She fell asleep underneath my hand and it was such a tender moment.

I am very grateful for it, for the job, even when I was pretty wiped out by the end of the day.

The little lady bug has been sick all week and the baby has gotten it and by the end of the day, even though I’m not sick, I was pretty tired out from it.

It takes a lot of a person to constantly nurture and in one way or another I do a lot of care taking.

That is what my job is and what my internship is.

My chiropractor told me after listening to me talk about what I do, that she really wanted to help me because people in the helping careers don’t get taken care of well enough and it was obvious that I helped a lot of people.

There was a woman tonight who asked me how I do it and honestly, I’m not sure.

I pray a lot.

I try to get eight hours of sleep.

Which like never happens.

I manage six to seven most nights.

I eat well, that helps.

I try to get some fun in my life now and again.

I turn up the heat when I get home from work to take the chill out of the air in m studio, I try to keep it clean and pretty, I like to surround myself with beautiful things.

Not necessarily expensive things, but things that reflect who I am and where I have been, my little travels and journeys.

Fuck.

I forgot to send myself a postcard from D.C.

I always send a postcard!

Oops

Oh well.

I have so many amazing memories, I am sure they will suffice.

Plus I have the ticket from the Phillips House Museum, a notebook I bought at Kramer Books and Cafe off Dupont Circle and a book that I got there as well.

I picked up The Princess Bride.

My friend had never read it or even seen the movie and I got so into telling the story of it one afternoon that when I was at the bookstore looking for a souvenir notebook, I had to pick it up.

I have not owned a copy of it in sometime.

I remember well the first time I had read the book.

It amazed me.

It was such a powerful love story for me to read.

I must have been seventeen when I read it.

I had seen the movie in the theater and didn’t even know that there was a book.

A friend’s mother mentioned it in passing and then when she heard I hadn’t read the book, she loaned it to me.

I ate that book.

I read it so fast.

I was so enthralled.

I remember being in a romantic relationship, my first and only long-term relationship, and our first Valentine’s Day I gave him a copy of the book.

I was so excited.

It meant so much to me, that book.

He never read it

I used to fantasize that one day I would read it out loud to the love of my life while stroking his hair while his head rested in my lap.

I made a lot of romantic gestures in that long-term relationship that were never returned and I suppose at some point though I realized that it was going nowhere I would still try.

Eternal optimist I suppose.

The story still means a lot to me.

Stories do.

I like to tell them.

I like to write them.

I like to believe that narrative has the power to heal.

That the love shines through the words and that whenever I am in doubt I can return to the thread of the story, know the truth of it, the strength of it and lean in there.

Old fashioned romantic.

That’s me.

Wishing you, now and always.

Happily ever after.

Always that.

Always.

 

Happy Valentines Day!

I know.

It’s nowhere near Valentines Day.

But.

I finished up writing all my cards today.

I gave everyone in my cohort at school a Valentine last year and it felt so nice to do that and so good for my own heart, that, yes, I decided to do it again.

I am a bit of a dork.

But I think.

Perhaps.

A sweet dork.

I do want people to love me and I’m not past slipping someone a card to get a little bit of love shone back to me.

But.

There is also that little kid in me who wanted desperately to get a paper bag full of cards at school.

I very much remember third and fourth grade and how the decorating the bag was almost as much fun as getting the little cards and the heart-shaped candies and then.

Well.

It changed.

Boys came on the scene.

Paul Ripp.

Fourth grade.

Mad crush.

Maybe my first crush.

A very sweet boy, tall, blushy cheeks, you know, that Nordic white skin that blushes easily, I always remember his ruddy cheeks and soft wavy brown hair.

I had a few other boys I liked, but he made me feel.

Well.

Special.

And so.

I made him a special card in 4th grade but at the last-minute I got super shy and I didn’t sign it, I sent it anonymously.

Then Tammy tattled on me and told him that it was probably me since she had seen me by his desk right before recess.

I never liked Tammy.

Drama queen.

I mean.

I think she just needed some extra attention and she probably had a crush on Paul too, you might have had you seen him, he was lovely.

Many crushes followed.

Some that lasted a few months.

A few that lasted a few years.

One that lasted decades.

I still love him, but I’m not in love with him and we are still friends.

I haven’t seen him in years but we still stay in touch.

It’s funny how things change, but there is still this soft entwining of memories and I am not sad for that girl and her girl crushes.

Or that young woman and her young woman crushes.

I learned something from them all.

I learned about unrequited love and I learned about romance and I learned how to seduce myself into thinking those things were the best things because I was feeling so deeply.

I may not have dressed up like a Goth, but I had my Goth girl feelings.

Yes.

I did.

Today.

Well.

I find the holiday sweet and I like that I can spread a little extra cheer, really any excuse to give some one a card and to play with stickers and stamps and stick some love in an envelope and mail it across country or just across town.

I don’t know what I would do if I actually had a date or a boyfriend on Valentines Day, it’s been years.

Seven years.

I just counted.

I mean.

I have dated in those seven years, but it’s been seven years since I was with someone on Valentines Day.

I hope he’s well.

He had a good heart.

But.

He was an active addict and I had myself convinced, momentarily, that we could date.

I couldn’t, in the end, I couldn’t.

I do find myself thinking about, why, I don’t know, habit, maybe, that this year it might be different, maybe I’ll have a boyfriend or a partner or.

But it’s rather like Lucy and the football.

My heart is Charlie Brown and runs forward to swing and kick.

And this time.

Oh!

This time I’ll kick that damn ball through the goal posts of love.

And.

Nope.

I kick.

Valentines Day pulls the ball away and I’m flat on my back, breath knocked out of me, staring at the wide blue sky above me.

Blue like the watery eyes of rheumatic old man.

Blue like the inner lining of intestines in the bright air of death.

Peridot.

Periwinkle.

The death knell blue of hyacinth dying in the sun on the windowsill and how they smell so, so, so sweet, then, one day, dead.

Rotting blue-veined meat.

Staring into the robin’s egg blue bowl of sky turned over my head.

And instead of crying.

Today.

Well.

I laugh.

There’s nothing wrong with trying.

I can hold my heart’s hand and pull her back up and say, hey, it’s ok, look, you broke yourself wide open.

Let’s cross the river and not drown in the undertow.

The sheltering sky a broad band of periwinkle and seer sucker and the scudding of flat bottom clouds with billowing tops sailing right on by.

I can gather up an apron full of blue cornflowers and wipe clean my blue slate.

I can salt it with love and eat my heart.

Blue black.

Just the way I like it.

Rare.

Buttery.

Seared on the outside.

Tender and juicy and melting on the inside.

And the bluest eye might shed one crystal blue persuasion tear and let loose with a flood of love.

A tsunami of blue capped water.

Aquamarine.

Indigo.

Turquoise.

Love the color of bluing skin above a tourniquet.

Dusted with blue velvet eyeshadow.

And the somnolent smile of sleep at the grey blue crack of dawn when the moon is still pushing through the muddled grey clouds permeating the sky.

My face buried in a Diebenkorn Ocean #5 blue pillow case.

I sigh.

And hold my hand to my heart.

Love.

Right there.

My hand on my own heart.

My country tis of thee.

I pledge allegiance to me.

Be my blue jean blue Valentine.

Be my love so true.

Be my tight blue star skinned tattoo.

Not quite healed.

But stretched tight and taut and smoothed in blue skeined lapis lazuli love.

Tenderfooted.

Dancing shoes blue suede.

A soft shoe shuffle.

Underneath that blue fairy ringed moon.

Love.

Love.

Always here.

Always there.

My paint by number blues.

In the shadows and the hues.

My.

Luminescent.

Blue light district.

My heart.

My love.

My blue valentine.

Always.

And.

Forever.

So.

Very.

Very.

True.

Blue.

 

 

 

Unbox This!

The reverence in which I just unboxed a ream of paper made me wish I had been video taped.

I was all excited as I saw the box in the hallway when I got home from work tonight and I thought, boy, I could use a little pick me up after the busy day I had at work.

Grandparent visit.

That’s all I’ll say.

Thank God tomorrow is Friday.

Anyway.

I wheeled home, a perfectly temped night, a fast whiz through the park, the smell, dark, rich, fragrant, trees and earth and coolness, the sharp, delicious smell of wood fire burning down at the beach drifting towards me.

I looked up.

Saw Orion in the sky.

Remembered nights, compiled upon one another in a stack of memory Tarot cards, a shuffling of images, heart rendered soft with the sweetness of that unrequited love, that night on the beach there, that hand in my hand on the sea wall, the fall of the red moon into the sea, the lift of the stars above my head.

I thought of all the times I had stared up silent and alone in the awe of the stars, the press of the night on my heart, the alone of not being alone and the loveliness of the sky after just slipping off my bicycle and turning off the flashing lights on my handlebars.

I smiled at the stars, stuck the key in the garage door, wheeled in the bicycle.

I opened up the door to the hallway and there was the box.

Ooh!

Look.

My shoes!

My new Sam Edelman, I bought them with my State Tax Return, shoes.

Oh goody.

Maybe I’ll wear them this weekend.

It’s supposed to be nice.

I started thinking about what dress I should wear and I picked up the box, heavy, satisfying, the weight a sweet promise of eclectic colored pedicures and walks in the sunshine.

I got a pair of “flatform” sandals.

A retro wood platform with leather toe and ankle straps.

Super cute.

The Bentlee by Sam Edelman.

I mean.

Serious cuteness.

I delayed a little.

I put the box on the table and turned on the lights, lit the candles, cued up some music.

I am in a nostalgic music phase and am listening to Masters of Reality, Sunrise on the Surferbus.

It always reminds me of a particular boyfriend and one summer day coming into our room at the house and I didn’t know he was home, he must have come in after me, and I had the album playing loudly in the bedroom.

It was the song, Jody Sings.

The sun was slanting through the elm trees and dappling the wood floor.

I was in a long skirt, one that I had salvaged from a house dress of my mom’s, I wish I still had it, it was the perfect A-line skirt and it spun so well, I always felt so pretty when I wore it.

A long A-line skirt, a navy blue leotard, my hair down, my feet bare, the sunlight warm on the wood floors, Jody Sings playing on the tape deck player, one, two, three, I’m on my knees, Jody sings, I get high, when she rings, clouds roll by, Jody sings, I get high, when she rings clouds roll by.

Lucky one.

I am two.

Yes, I am.

Lucky three, oheee

The one for me.

One, two, three, I’m on my knees.

On my knees.

On my knees.

On my knees.

Please.

Baby, please, baby please.

I remember swaying my hips and the skirt flaring out above my knees and the sun playing on the fabric, I felt soft and sweet and sensuous.

I spun on my toes and stopped mid spin when I saw my boyfriend leaning in the doorway watching me.

His eyes aglow.

It is something.

To have someone look at you like that.

Wow.

I just had the most intense rush of emotion remembering that.

It was a hard, horrible relationship at the end, but I forget, sometimes, not always, the sweetness of the early part, the mixed tapes and the rides on the back of his motorcycle, the picnics at Picnic Point, the long nights talking until dawn, the realization that this was my person and I was his and then the realization that I was so, so, so stuck.

Ah.

Perspective.

I called it, recently, as I recall, the one night stand that became a five year relationship.

I don’t do that anymore.

Not that I have been horribly successful with romantic relationships over the past decade.

Although, truth be told, I found the One long ago, me.

And that was a divine discovery.

“Go, be frivolous!” He texted me today after my check in about my finances and some residual fear that was still trying to hang on to, even though I did some inventory around it last night before I went to bed.

He’s right, though.

He usually is.

I’m excited to be frivolous, in case you were wondering.

I found another pair of Fluevog’s I’m pretty raring to get and another pair of sneakers, I’ve had my eye on them for a bit and they’d be super good for work and also cute, which is important.

I also did my spending plan for February and tallied all my expenses for January.

I figured out what I need to put into savings and what I am allowed to spend on myself.

I’m going to have fun.

I’ll keep you updated.

Especially since I did not get the shoes tonight.

Ha.

Nope.

As I said.

The sacred cutting open of the brown cardboard box did not reveal a fancy box full of adorable platform sandals.

I reverently removed the plastic bubble wrap and said, “what the fuck?”

Oh!

Bwahahahaha.

It’s my paper for my new printer.

Well.

I guess I’m ready to write my Clinical Relationship paper now.

Ha.

Hopefully the shoes will come in time for the weekend.

And if not.

I’m sure I will find something else to bring me joy.

I have a heart full of it.

I plan on keeping it that way.

It doesn’t have to come in a box in the mail.

I have an unlimited source of it whenever I look inside myself.

Right.

There.

Hello.

Love.

Nice to see you again.

Let’s have fun this weekend.

Ok?

 

 

First Time For Everything

“You are beautiful,” he said to me standing in the check out line, the express line, fifteen items or less, people.

I have actually been told to get out of the line once by a clerk who clocked how many items were in my basket.

Yeah buddy.

“And so tall, tall and beautiful,” he smiled, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, touch too old, nice enough, but I’ve got somewhere to be and I just want to pay for my groceries so I can get back home and do al the stuff that needs to be done so that I can write my paper for Human Development class.

I ain’t got time to flirt.

“Thank you,” I said and pulled my wallet from my messenger bag.

“I bet you do not get told that enough, that you are beautiful, you really are, and that lip gloss, my, I’m just blown away.”

I smiled again, thanked him, and started packing my bag.

He wasn’t unattractive, but I was not feeling any attraction.

Possibly as I was also feeling the time crunch to get back to my house, I was expecting a lady to be dropping by to do some reading with me and I had laundry going, and I wanted to finish up my errands before she arrived.

“May I have just a few minutes of your time once you finish up,” he asked.

At least he was polite.

I appreciate that.

“I have somewhere I need to be,” I said.

“Just a moment, really, just a bare minute,” he smiled, trying harder, “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“No, thank you, I appreciate the compliments, but I really do have to go,” I said, paid, grabbed my bag and walked out the door, “have a nice day.”

He caught up to me and asked me out to lunch, coffee, anything.

I said no, but you know, it was nice to be asked and maybe if I wasn’t so busy and maybe if he hadn’t dropped the I live across the Bay bomb, location, location, location, it is everything, I might have considered.

It was a first though.

I have never been asked out in a super market before.

I do like that I am approachable.

I want to be approachable.

I want to date.

Not that I have the time for it.

But it’s a nice thought to have.

Dressing up.

Going out.

Being kissed in the fog.

My it was foggy tonight.

I was pretty drenched by the time I got back from my evenings adventure, doing the deal and stopping by a friend’s house in the neighborhood to hang out for a minute.

In fact.

It was pretty much starting to rain and I can hear the droplets falling outside my door.

The door to my super cozy and sweet little studio.

My very clean little studio.

Want to know the magic secret to keeping your house spotless?

Be in graduate school and have a paper you have to write.

Laundry?

BAM!

Done.

Bedding washed and bed remade, laundry folded and put away; floors swept, bathroom scrubbed, grocery shopping done, groceries put away, cooking for the week done, food put up in to go for work, dishes washed.

I actually almost started working on my spending plan for November, make sure I crunch all the numbers and get the scooter situation all worked out.

I wasn’t procrastinating, but I was getting damn skippy close.

I met my ladybug for an hour, I did some quick shopping in the neighborhood, picked up my mom’s birthday present, must to send tomorrow to make sure it gets to her, did my cooking, and ate a lovely lunch, looked over my notes and reader and text-book and took a big deep breath.

Then, yes, Mildred, I prayed.

It so helps.

Cleared my head.

Got me centered.

I sat down and I wrote.

And before you know it, 7 pages, 3,112 words.

BOOM.

I edited it, spell checked it, tidied it up a bit, and sent it out.

Three out of the five reflection papers for the class are now done.

I will have to do two more reflection papers and a final project for the class.

In the next six weeks.

Plus all the reading, thank  you.

I have a gigantic paper due on November 17th for my T-Group class.

As well as a transcription I have to do by November 7th for Therapeutic Communication.

I don’t know what I’m doing for Psychoanalytics except trying to keep up with the reading.

After I finished my Human Development paper I read an article in the Psychoanalytical reader just to get my mind going in that direction.

Sweet, tender, little darling blog.

You are fast becoming a place where I organize my thoughts about what I have to do for school.

When was the last time I wrote about sex?

Or relationships?

Or stuff other than reading, writing, and more writing.

I should not beat myself up, I did have some fun this weekend, hanging out with my friend, going to look at scooters, in fact, I am transferring the money tomorrow from my savings account to my checking account and I’m calling my former scooter insurance guy at State Farm and getting that put together.

I am ready.

I even looked at star decals today.

Yeah.

I know.

But come on.

I got to have some stars on my ride.

And if I can.

Glitter too.

Just a little.

Heh.

And I have written about poetry and that has still been an amazing little experience that I will go back to every once and awhile and stroke it softly, like a murder face cat rolling around on the carpet, all purrs and sass, enjoying the feeling of awe still that I was given such a gift for my writing.

That the writing is the gift too.

That I have such abundance.

My clean little home, my stacks of books to read, my experiences, all that I have, all that I have to pass along.

All these rich little details of my life.

All the things indeed.

Soon to be accompanied by star poetry powered scooter love.

Giggle.

And more sass.

Because.

Why not?

Bulldoze My Heart

Ugh.

Sometimes meeting your person means don’t wear the eyeliner.

Although it was not as messy as I feared when I got home and wiped down my face.

“Girl, you can’t just achievement bulldoze your way through all your feelings.”

Well damn it man, I”m gonna try.

It doesn’t serve me very well and when I was induced to sit down and have a full hour check in I just about passed out from relief.

“We are not reading tonight,” he took one look at me, “sit down, check in, that’s all we’re going to do.”

And he took the book off the table and put it back in his bag.

I got my check in.

I can’t remember the last time I just got an hour to talk all about me.

Of course there were tears.

There usually are when things are not going the way I planned.

Funny thing that.

Plans.

Sometimes I don’t even know I have them and then, bang!

Plans.

And disappointment.

And assessing.

And realizing.

All is good.

I just had an angle on things, thought I had things “figured” out, and well, I don’t.

It’s ok.

It’s how it is and it just means continuing to keep the focus on me, what I need, how I need to be in this world and when I obviously need to slow down, sit down, pray, meditate, take it easy, and relax.

Relax.

Bah.

What is that?

I have sonnets to write.

(Only two left!  I wrote another this morning and I am really happy how it came out, although, for a minute it was like pulling teeth.  Then I found the right word for the rhyme scheme and it flowed delicious and easy.)

Text books to read.

Thanks.

But screw the relaxing.

“Since I have been working with you, you’ve been on this achievement track, and although it serves to a certain point, it’s not serving you now.”

God damn it man.

I looked over the table at him and the tears leaked out of the sides of my eyes.

“I’m afraid if I stop I’ll die,” I whispered.

It’s true.

I’m like a shark, I have to be in constant motion or I’ll sink.

There is no one to catch me.

That’s a fallacy, but it’s where the brain goes.

I do have a net.

I do have a community.

I have nothing to be in fear of.

Slight anxiety about getting all the reading done for the next weekend of classes, not withstanding, I don’t have much to be worried about.

My rent is paid.

I just paid my phone bill.

I am in graduate school.

My job is stable and in fact, I’ll have a couple of extra hours on the next paycheck–which is nice since it negates the small one I got last Friday (every third one is going to be smaller I remind myself, they are shorter weeks when I am in school and I navigated that reality yesterday when I did my spending plan for October.  Grateful that there is an extra week in October for getting a paycheck, that will help lots).

I have lots of friends.

I even have a friend who I was dating who is now a friend again.

Le sigh.

We had a great, sweet, open-hearted conversation last night and it’s back to being non-physically intimate.

At least for right now.

Which is fine.

It’s what has to happen and I have no expectations of when or if or whatever it will happen again.

He is a dear man, he is my friend, I don’t see him being less in my life, just not physically available.

I have a wonderful friend.

So lucky to be loving you, my friend, so lucky.

Relationships are amazing, communication is extraordinary, and I feel lucky to have had so many great friends in my life.

I checked in with one of them today and we had a really good catch up, I so wish she was in the city, but like so many of my friends, she’s been priced out of living in San Francisco.

I’m lucky to still be here.

Now I just need to learn, yet again, how to relax and enjoy it.

So lucky that I don’t have to navigate my own brain by myself, I get so lost in all the dishonesty and crazy that my brain shovels out.

I got a lot of perspective this evening and when I was told to go home and take it easy, I decided to do just that.

I lit my candles, I put some Chet Baker on the stereo.

Why is it that a soft brush on the top of drum kit can soothe me so fast, the cool moan of a coronet, or the fingering of the ivories makes me just mellow out?

I do not know where or how I came to appreciate jazz, but my God, I am so glad I did.

Next up, perhaps some Art Tatum.

Jazz piano.

Yum.

I digress.

I had my feels about my friend.

I had my feels about my job.

It was a little weird today, the schedule thrown off with the holiday, but the boys were so, so, so sweet with me, and goofy and happy to see me and I them.

I got the best good night hugs tonight too, so much goodness.

We also got outside this afternoon and went hiking with mom and the pup up around McClaren Park.

It’s been years since i have been to McClaren.

It’s just off my radar, not really a good park to bicycle to, at least not on a one speed.

But I realized I hadn’t been to McClaren since I had house sat for an old friend who used to live by the park, 8 years ago.

So strange to realize there are parts of this city that I have not been to in that long, or really, to be honest, parts of the city that I have never been to at all.  I’m still often a tourist in my own city.

Thirteen years in and still grateful to be living here.

A decade of doing the deal.

Eight years of serenity, mostly.

And a few doing that other thing I do as well, no sugar, no flour.

When I take them out and lay them on the table and see the history of my life and my recovery I am overwhelmed with what I have.

My heart opens and it’s in the opening that I realize, once again, how much emotion is there and how sometimes just feeling all of them is overwhelming.

No wonder I want to go fast.

No wonder I feel constant need to strive.

The busier I am, the less I will feel, and the more I think I am in control.

But.

As is evidenced in my daily day-to-day.

I have no control.

I am powerless over everything.

And.

Everyone.

Surrender.

That’s the best I can do.

And perhaps a little more sitting still.

Just a little.

Disingenuous

This is how I feel.

I thought about it for a minute.

“Well,” he paused, on the other end of the phone line, waiting for me while I thought hard, while I pulled my thoughts together, when I got honest.

With him.

With myself.

“It doesn’t feel right,” I said.

“As soon as you said “disingenuous” I knew,” he said, “it’s not about what he wants, it’s about what you want and being a 42-year-old woman who is working full-time, in recovery, and going to grad school, well, sport fucking doesn’t suit you, now, does it?”

Well.

Damn it man, when you say it like that, I suppose not.

I have been in a quandary.

I have been on the fence.

I have been holding my counsel and keeping things tight to my breast.

I have been keeping them tucked between tongue in cheek.

Hidden between the corsage on my label and the heart skin under the velvet sheath dress.

“I don’t want you to write about me,” he asked.

Sure.

But then.

When do I write about me?

How does that affect me?

When does not writing about him influence me.

Am I writing for an audience?

No.

I am writing for myself and I may rue this blog.

Or.

That blog.

Or the other one over there.

But.

I am restricting myself in my lack of not writing about what has been sitting on my chest.

See.

I have been seeing someone and I won’t say who.

That is private.

I have been dating.

It’s been fun.

Hell.

It’s been more than fun, like when my face hurts from laughing so long and so loud or I find myself inadvertently snorting, gah, I wish that would not happen, but it does on occasion slip out, when I make the sushi face in front of a man, when I am myself times fifteen, when I am vulnerable and me and silly and seen.

Well.

After awhile I have to start writing about some of it.

Some of what lies in that dark night of my heart.

I feel that ache there, just underneath my skin, that pulsing and pulling.

The nerves.

Because.

Well.

He reads my blogs.

Hi you.

I know, I know, I can hear what you are saying–you my friends and fellows–don’t put your heart out there, don’t write about it.

But.

That’s like being in Paris in the rain and not writing about walking the wet streets with shoes soaked in water and cold toes and cold nose and the umbrella bought at a book shop is not holding up and you go into the Pompidou and see Kandinsky’s Accent en Rose and you don’t write about that.

I get art high.

He gets me high.

Laughing high.

Sweet high.

Delirious and sweet and soft and goofy and me.

And the gift is that we are friends and the gift is that we are not naming it and the gift is that we are dating but not in a relationship.

So what’s the problem?

Well.

Dating other people.

We are adamantly not in a relationship.

This is agreed upon.

There is not a bone in my body that says I have to be this man’s girlfriend or that’s it, it’s over.

There is so much more to it than that.

A romantic relationship is off the table.

Although the signifiers are there and I argue that there is romance and sweetness and grace and goodness and moon eclipses over the city and moon sets on the beach and the hand holding are all signs for romance.

Courting.

I like being courted.

I like being pursued.

Who the hell doesn’t?

What I realize that I can’t do.

What I realize that is disingenuous to me.

Is that I don’t want to date other men, it’s not about the non-exclusivity clause or the I want to be claimed or titled or anything.

I am happy with the present moment.

It is a gift.

He is a gift.

My life is full of gifts.

So much so that I sit in awe just looking around my beautiful little studio, the colors and the light, the framed Marilyn on the wall–it’s up!

Finally, the amazing Sturteveant “Double Trouble” print of the Black Marilyn Monroe that I got at the MOCA in LA months ago.

it is so gorgeous and dreamy and rich and luscious.

So like my life.

And my life is rich and wonderful because I am looking deeper inside my heart at every moment that I can stand to.

I realized in talking with my person this afternoon that it does not matter what he, the man, or the men, or whomever in my life wants, even when it seems so important and so tantamount to me making a decision about what I want.

In the end what he wants doesn’t matter.

What I want does.

I don’t want to date anyone else.

It feels wrong.

It feels like not being present to the unfolding magic.

It doesn’t feel right.

And.

Yes.

I know.

I am free to change my mind too.

But my mind and my heart are not on the same page.

My mind says, great! Date everybody!

Go out and get it girl!

And then.

Write about it!

Yeah.

Let’s get titillating, shall we?

I’ve done that though.

It doesn’t serve.

It may not mean that it doesn’t serve others.

What others need is not my business.

I have to stay inside my own hula hoop.

I don’t feel right taking another man into my bed when I am seeing someone else, regardless of the title of what that relationship is or lack of title, I know what my heart needs and it’s not to sleep around until the person I want to be with is fully available.

He’s perfectly available for what I have to offer.

And.

The best thing.

I don’t have to do anything about it.

I can not date other men without having to make a big deal out of it.

I’m not about to go running outside and tell all the neighbors or put it out on Facebook, I’m in a relationship with so and so.

No.

I’m his friend.

He is mine.

And I am open to there being more, but I have not expectations.

That’s the change.

That is the big deal for me.

I don’t have expectations.

Sure.

There are desires.

I am 42 and woman and well aware I desire.

That’s well and good.

My heart desires more.

And that is good too.

All hearts are allowed to desire more.

Whether or not the more is down the line is ultimately not my business either.

What is mine is that I can’t go out and date others, I have committed too far in my heart, there’s too much there to ignore it.

Potentially lonely.

Perpetually human.

Suspended and open.

Open.

With what ever risk that involves by being out there.

I am happy putting it out there.

I am ready to fly further out over the dark seas and tie my heart-strings on the tail of comet flaring out over the ocean, a bright streak of light, my precious time on this plane too short to not honor my feelings.

Not his or his.

Or his either.

Mine.

All mine.

To thine own self be true.

I remind myself as I finish and lay the poetry on the table, the sheaf of my hair falling in my eyes as my heart aches already with words and feelings.

And love.

So much damn.

Love.

Who knew there was so much?

Right Time

Wrong block.

Story of my life.

But it’s a funny story and there is no sad ending.

Just a lot of wry amusement on my end.

And a few hickies.

Yah.

I know.

I’m 42.

Or fifteen.

Guess who wore her hair down at work.

I can’t even imagine the conversation that would have been with the five-year old.

“Carmen, WHAT’S THAT ON YOUR NECK?!!”

“Hickies.”

“What are hickies?”

Cue not getting a raise, which I still have to ask for, yeah, just waiting until the very last-minute, like when I have a year on the 22nd on the nose; cue probably not coming back to work.

Nothing says professional like hickies.

But.

I will admit, they did bring a smile to my face a few times and perhaps a giggle or two of dramatic exasperation, but really, hickies, it’s fun to say it.

Better than dildo.

Who likes saying that word?

Not that any of my collection, a small collection, please, get your mind out of the gutter (like I can even tell you that, here I am writing about sex toys, yeesh.) were brought into play last night.

But.

There was playing.

“What did you guys do?”  My friend asked me after tossing my bike in the back of the car.

It is nice to have friends in the neighborhood!

I got a ping saying he was heading into the Mission and did I want a ride, or was my guest still there, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

It’s like I’m 13 not 42.

“Go?” I asked.

I actually did not understand the question.

“My bed?”

As my friend was saying, “you know, on your date? Where did you go?”

I repeated, “my bed.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh.” I laughed.

We didn’t go out at all.

Although my “date” asked me to meet him outside at 9p.m. sharp to look up at the silver sliver of a buttery biscuit of a moon in the sky.

Except.

When I went out, he wasn’t there.

He was on the wrong block.

Oops.

But he figured it out.

And there was a lovely reunion of hugs on the sidewalk in front of my house a few minutes later.

“Listen, I just want to make something really clear,” he said looking at me with mossy green eyes after we had gotten comfortable on our “date.”

Uh oh.

I know this conversation.

I know this song and dance.

And yet here I am again having the conversation.

I like you, but.

I want to spend time with you, but.

I don’t have much time, but.

I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but.

But, but, but.

Sweet heart.

I know.

I knew the minute you told me what your circumstances were.

A pattern of being delicious to men who are not entirely available seems to be resurfacing and I acknowledge it and say, hello, I raise you five bits, because, I’m going to keep trying and I am going to keep having experiences, and one day.

Maybe one day sooner than later.

I will be with someone who wants me and is after me and goes for it despite or because of his circumstances.

“You are not responsible for my feelings,” I told my paramour.

No labels.

There are no labels.

When there’s a handsome naked man in my bed who I’m not dating or in a relationship with, in the conventional sense, since he’s not exactly available in the conventional sense, what do I call said person?

I am speaking lightly, perhaps glibly, but I am also finding my way with my words.

The experience at Burning Man was amazing, intense, awesome, and fun.

There was intimacy on the playa and there was intimacy last night.

There was much looking into the other persons eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say this, but i can’t help myself,” he paused and looked into my eyes as I was lying against him.

“You get more beautiful the more I look at you,” he stroked my hair and kissed me, “it’s like I can see what’s behind your eyes.”

Ah.

Nicest compliment ever.

Now fuck me like a man.

I jest.

Sort of.

Thing is I knew, I know, I am possessed of the knowledge, that yes, the connection is special, but also that it is a complicated situation and I have the very simple part of the equation, my busy is nowhere near as busy as his busy and I’m busy.

“I’m not going to be around much the next six weeks,” he told me last night.

“I’m ok with that,” I said.

I’m not chasing, I am being the ball, you want me, court me, come after me.

I’m busy too.

Graduate school.

Life.

Doing the deal.

Work.

Fuck.

Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, is my first “day off” in five weeks.

It’s been a busy ass time for me.

The school retreat, working out-of-town in Sonoma for my employers, Burning Man, working, starting school last weekend, working all this week.

I’m busy.

Do I want to be dating someone exclusively?

Yes.

Do I want to be in a romantic relationship?

Yes.

Do I allow myself to play when the time is right, do I let myself have a break from the tedium and stress of work and the grind of school, why the hell not?

“Girl!” A friend of mine said last Monday when I expressed the situation, how I met the guy at Burning Man, that we were going to see each other this week, that I didn’t have expectations, that I don’t have time for expectations.  “This is perfect for you, you don’t have time to pursue a real relationship right now, go have fun, blow off some steam, get it.”

It got got.

Thing is.

I don’t have to figure anything out.

I can just show up as my best self, in my best way, with my honesty written all over my face.

“I have never met anyone like you,” he said with a catch of wonder and awe in his voice, “you’re so transparent, you can’t hide your feelings, they are just all over your face.”

I was a little abashed, but not much, I know this about myself and have accepted it.

And I know this too.

I have an affect.

He has feelings.

He just has nowhere to go with them and I don’t have to wait for him to find a place either.

I am a free agent.

Not that I have anything big planned for this Friday night.

A cup of tea.

A video.

Catching up on my sleep.

There wasn’t much sleep last night.

Heh.

But there were hickies.

Ah.

Hahahaha.