Posts Tagged ‘bubble bath’

Blue Hawaii

March 28, 2019

And Paris without you.

God damn it.

I’m still pissed at you.

Granted I have my own self to blame for that.

I should not have gone on social media.

I had you blocked.

Not because I was worried about you seeing me, no.

I didn’t want to be looking at your photos.

And I did it anyway.

I looked last night.

I know you’re in Hawaii and I knew you were going to be there and I had to look.





It doesn’t help that I want to go to Hawaii with you and that the trip I have tentatively planned for July has your name written all over it.

Or that I have thoughts about you in the ocean, swimming, your eyes wet and blue.

I’m so angry still and I’m still so damn sad.

Not as much.

Not every day.

And so, of course, the person to be angry with is me, I know better than to go onto social and look up your photos.

It hurts.

No more of that.

Although, why?

I can’t figure it out, a photo of us pops up every day, every day on my computer despite closing the photo app.

Every day your blue, blue, bluest eyes stare out at me as I see us on the red leather couch in the Air BnB we rented in D.C.  My eyes are closed, I’m kissing the side of your face and you have your arm wrapped around me.

Sometimes the photo makes me jump.

Sometimes I forget it’s there.

I have shut down the computer, restarted the computer, closed the app, and it just randomly pops back up.

Can’t get away from it and I use my computer all the time.

I mean.


I am working on a PhD I drag the damn thing around like it’s a security blanket.

And there you are, sweet face and dreamy and I know that we were in front of a fire and the color of your eyes and the shape of my face, and my hair tumbled down around my shoulders.


It hurts.

Not as bad.

I will admit that.

Things haven’t hurt so awful in the day-to-day.

Get me in my therapy sessions and I’m a fucking mess, but hey, that’s therapy and I leave it there in the wet balls of crumpled tissues streaked with mascara.

I joked with my therapist this past session that my tears must be some kind of napalm right now as I have tried three different kinds of waterproof mascara and the shit just slides off my eyelashes when I cry.

I yelled at you tonight.

In the car.

On the way home.

Thinking about you on an island and me here and then I’ll be going to Paris and well, fuck, you’re supposed to be in Paris with me.

Damn it.

We were supposed to do Paris.

You know it.

I know it.




Paris, baby.

You were supposed to go to Paris with me.

I hella splurged too.

I mean.

I got a place to stay, cute, bohemian, arty, obviously someone who was an avid flea market shopper, and I got a great deal, super cheap, $1,000 less than most of the other places I was looking at.

So I booked it.

And alas.

The woman got back to me and said she wasn’t able to let me rent it as she was going to be in Paris for Christmas.

Oh well.

I went back and looked some more and I looked at hotels and I really had to think about where I wanted to stay and why.

I wanted to make sure I was in the Marais, my best friend lives there and it’s my favorite part of the city and very central.

Hotels were not cheap and I went back to looking at Air BnB.

This one place kept calling me back and it was more than I wanted to spend, but then again, I knew I had the money in savings to cover it, I’d have nine months to save up more, I deserve to stay somewhere nice, the last two times I stayed in Paris I stayed with friends and didn’t pay for accommodations and the time before that I stayed in a hella cheap place and regretted it almost immediately.

I kept going back to this listing and then I said, fuck it.

I’m booking it.

It’s where I’m supposed to be and I’m going to let myself stay there.

Gorgeous tapestry wall paper.


Full kitchen.

Dining area.

Plus red velvet chairs.

Couch with a red velvet throw.

Separate bedroom up this sweet curving stair case.

Big huge bed under the eaves.

Gigantic bathtub in the room!

Bathtubs are a rarity in French apartments, so to get one and it’s big, huge luxury.

It’s super pretty and I’m super grateful I booked it and I paid for the whole thing up front.

Done and done.

I was so excited when I booked it the night before last.

And then.


I wasn’t.

I was hurt and angry and thinking about you and your vacation pictures and I just yelled at you in the car, how we’re supposed to be in Paris together, walking the streets, eating all the food, cheese, chacuterie, drinking all the coffee, snuggling on the red velvet couch, having sex on the red velvet couch, the bed, the floor in front of the fire-place, the bathtub, meeting fellows in church basements, seeing all the sites, making out in public, holding hands.

I wanted to take you to the one cafe I know about in the 11th that’s super good and order food for you in French and then happy and replete I would walk you along the Seine to look at the Eiffel Tower when it lights up with glitter lights.

Damn it.

We were supposed to do Paris together.

I know that the sting will wear off, I mean, my trip is not until December, but right now, I feel hurt and sad and yes, angry at you.

Oh God.

The places I wanted to take you.

A walk in Pere LaChaise cemetary.

And the L’ile des Cygnetes, Island of the Swans, in the middle of the Seine, that has one of Statue of Liberty models on it that the artist did as he worked on the scale for the one sent to Americar.


And all the outdoor markets, buying cheese and fruit and bread for you.

I wanted to take you to the amazing restaurant in Belleville that my friend took me to last summer and then go to Le Chat Noir and do the Paris Open Mic and recite you poems I have written about you.

But I won’t.

I won’t be doing any of those things.

I’ll be taking a bath under the eaves of a mansion on Rue de Parc Royale.

A bath with bubbles.

And I will sit in front of the fire and fingers crossed, not be sad to be alone, again, in Paris, without you.


Slow And Steady

September 5, 2012

I took it really easy today.


I slept until noon.


I made the bed.  I read some daily reflections.  I got on my knees and asked to be guided.

I was guided to a bubble bath.

Mr. Bubble

Mr. Bubble

Yesterday when I was lost looking to make it to Grace Land proper, I stopped by the Lucky Super Market and there it was–Mister Bubble–and I scooped it right up.

When was the last time I took a bubble bath?

I cannot for the life of me recall.  Yet, as soon as I cracked open that pink bottle of joy I  remembered what felt like every single bubble bath I had ever taken.  The stuff smells good.  I don’t know that I will indulge all that often in the bath time and the bubbles, but having a claw foot tub at my disposal, now that says good times.

I was also going to go and get my nails done.

I did not.

I took out the trash, fed the cats, did the cat litter, recycling, and folded and put away my laundry.  I took care of business.  I wrote my long hand pages.  I sent a few e-mails out.  I sent a submission to a photographer I met at Burning Man who is working on a book and asked me to send him something to accompany that photo he took of me at Center Camp Cafe.

Was I just really at Burning Man?

My body says, hell yes you were.

I cannot fathom what I did that was so strenuous, I am sore, sore, sore.

Thus the bubble bath.

I also balanced my check book, help unload another round of Burning Man supplies from Juno’s van, her friend Anna got a hold of me and came over.

Thus the bubble bath.

For despite having taken a shower yesterday, I did have to wash away another layer of playa after helping Anna unload her supplies.  The van is coated inside and out.  I vacillated all day today on whether or not I was going to take it into the city and do some errands.

I did not.

The only errand I tried to do was walk to the nail salon.

But after a block and a half, seeing a prostitute finish off a john in his car, getting propositioned as soon as I locked up the gate (dude, I was taking the recycling to the curb, do I really look like a working girl?), and again half a block later, I turned right back around and headed back to Grace Land.

I will do my nails myself, thank you very much.

The master of the house had said told me to not walk anywhere.  Duly noted.  Won’t be walking again.  I will take the van to the city tomorrow morning and run a few errands before work.  Then, as my bike has been in storage at the shop, I will park it at a garage and after I get done with work I will ride my bike to the garage, load it up and take it back to Oakland.

Thursday Juno is back and I will hand over the van to her and bike to BART and back for the rest of my time here in Fruitvale–the part of Oakland I am in.

My phone tried to auto-correct to Fruit Cake when I was sending a text message out today.

Fruit Cake.


I also did a nice twenty minute mediatation today.  Sitting in the sun slanting through the stained glass windows.


The cats are total snuggle bunnies; which is sumptious after the dust bunnies I have been snuggling with for the last few days.  They snuggled with me last night and despite the warning from the owner that they would most likely wake me up in the morning, they were good little monkeys and let me sleep in.

I think I am going to like staying here at Grace Land.

It is serene.

The commute may be a little bit of a challenge and I have yet to figure how I will get my meetings in, but I am sure things will suss themselves out.

They always do.

I also spoke briefly to the moms, who thought I was in New Mexico.

Burning Man, you know, that art’s festival in New Mexico, loads of turquoise jewlery and burnt sienna sunsets.

Ah, mom.

She told me of her plans for our time together, eleven days hence, and I agreed to just go with the flow.  I will pack a swim suit, my amends note card.  Gah, still cannot believe I will be doing a face to face.

Sweeping up my side of the street yet again.

She laughed about her grey hair, I told her about my blue hair.

She paused, exclaimed, “blue?”

Uh, yup, blue, not quite as bright as it was when Diane first did it, but there is no denying that it is blue, and rainbow panelled.

Like I am not already bright enough as it is with my tattoos, add on blue hair to the mix.  My mom seemed to have a small heart attack on the phone.  I suppose I will be the talk of her gated golf cart community for the next millieneum.

If any of them live that long.

I also told her that I know how to drive a golf cart as that is how I did my job at Burning Man.  Granted I don’t think fluffing is anything like how they use their carts–they have three!

Maybe I’ll ask if they can spare one of them, my friend Dubble is looking for a sponsor to donate three carts to next years event–he did not have nearly enough to do the job proper and make sure all his team members were taken care of.

Although I don’t think that getting a golf cart from Florida to Burning Man would be an easy task.

Perhaps easier than walking to the corner to get my nails did though.

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