Hello Friday

My God.

You smell amazing.

There is nothing.

I mean.

NOTHING.

Like coming home to a package from Chanel.

Oh.

God damn.

And even thought I knew what it was, I still unboxed it like it was a surprise.

I was so giddy.

So happy.

The biggest smiles.

And.

The most delicious of smells.

Yes.

That’s right.

I am back to my scent.

I have adored wearing Rose Flash, it’s been a nice little thing to have and I get sweet compliments on it.

But.

It is not Chanel.

It is not my scent.

My signature scent for decades has been Chanel Egoiste.

Pour Homme.

That’s for Man.

Yeah.

I wear a men’s cologne.

I never set out to wear a men’s cologne, it was a complete accident.

There are no mistakes in God’s world.

It was meant to be, but I didn’t know it at the time.

I found it at a discount store in the mall, one of those stores that specializes in products that have been discontinued.

It wasn’t in a box.

It must have been a sample from the big department store that was closing across the way.

I don’t know.

I had only been in the big department store once, I can’t even remember what the name of it was it wasn’t one that I was familiar with, then again it was in a land I was also unfamiliar with.

Iowa.

Yeah.

For a very strange year when I was 20 years old, I lived and worked in Newton, Iowa.

The short version of the story was that I was there to help my sister raise her child while her husband waited to get out of prison.

Actually they weren’t married yet, that happened at the prison a few months after I moved there with her to help her with my niece.

I swear.

This is the short version.

The long version is the book I wrote, the second in my memoir trilogy (yes I wrote a trilogy, no, it’s not published), called The Iowa Waltz.

Anyway.

We had moved there, my sister and I, as her fiancée was caught breaking bail in Wisconsin and was extradited to Iowa to serve out his sentence at the minimum security prison outside of Newton.

I got a job waitressing at Palma’s, this crazy Greek restaurant where the owner insisted that all the “girls” wear heels when working.

And dresses.

I might have gone to that department store to buy a dress, I think, in fact, that was why I was in the mall at all.

I certainly did not have a lot of extra money to spare, my sister was getting food stamps and WIC.

And I lied my ass off to get the bartending job.

My first shift the woman training me rolled her eyes, “you have got to be kidding me, you don’t know how to make a margarita?!”

It was a margarita night.

It was on special.

And.

It was strawberry.

I learned really fast.

And within a few weeks I was zipping around, tottering really, god how my feet hurt, the other bartenders and making pretty decent tips.

For Iowa, anyway.

The wife of the owner was the “bar manager” and she was a notorious Sambuca drinker and what is that Italian wine, god she drank it by the bottle and it was red and always chilled, Lambrusco?

And.

Fuck.

She smoked.

I mean.

I smoked, probably a pack a day at the time, but she smoked rings around me.

We were allowed to, oh the good old days when you could smoke while you worked.

Gagging.

Voula!  That was her name.

Shit, that just popped right up in my brain, I have not thought about that crazy bitch in a while.

Voula smoked three packs a day, easy.

It wasn’t that she necessarily smoked that much, but she always, I mean, always, had a cigarette burning in an ashtray.

And not just one, but five, sometimes six or seven.

“Do not put out any of her cigarettes, do not dump them, don’t do it, doesn’t matter if the ashtray is full to overfull, do not dump it, you will get the wrath of Voula,” my trainer told me.

She also told me under no circumstances to flirt with Voula’s husband.

Ew.

Yuck.

Why the fuck would I?

He was gross.

Balding, smoked just as much as she did, except he smoked cigars, and he had a big paunch and swinging jowls, I mean, not attractive.

“She will fire you if she thinks you’re flirting with him,” the head bartender told me, “she’s fired four girls in the last month.”

Fuck.

I won’t flirt, like I said, gross.

But.

I had drawn his attention.

And he made it clear.

I don’t remember what he said or how but it translated to I needed to buy another dress for work, and there was no mention of a clothing allowance or a uniform stipend, the money had to come out of my own pocket.

So.

The mall.

I must have found a dress.

And somehow I wandered into this strange little store next to the big department store, cheap trinkets, discounted stuff, old holiday decorations, odd toiletries and make up, junk basically.

But.

There.

On the shelf in the back right hand corner of the shop.

The bottle of Egoiste.

I do not know what compelled me to smell it.

I must have been registering it before I opened the lid and inhaled.

Oh.

Holy Mother of God.

It was the most amazing thing I had ever smelled.

Warm and spicy, musky.

Sexy.

Vanilla, coriander, sandalwood, rosewood, subtle cinnamon.

Not that I could have told you that then.

Fuck.

I was nineteen.

It just smelled amazing.

It blew my mind.

It was $19.99.

I had twenty-five dollars in my wallet.

I did not hesitate.

I bought it.

One of the best decisions ever.

I got fired two nights later when the boss lady’s husband decided to keep the bar open late and play poker with his buddies and he wanted a personal bartender.

Yup.

You guessed right.

Me.

I never once did a thing.

Nothing.

Didn’t matter.

I was fired when I came into work the next day.

“Get out of my bar,” she screamed at me, “you’re fired you fucking whore.”

Yeah.

And goodbye.

Funny thing.

I actually got my next bartending job because of her.

“Wait, what?  You worked for Voula for two months?” The woman interviewing me said, she was the owner of Boots and Spurs, why yes, I did work at Iowa’s largest country western night club, how did you guess?

I nodded, abashed, I had indeed gotten fired.

“You’re hired!” She exclaimed, nobody makes it two weeks with Voula, let alone two months.”

She laughed out loud, “hell, I only made it four days, she was one of my first employers, years and years ago now.”

“You must be amazing, when can you start?”

And so began my illustrious career in a country western nightclub.

But that’s a blog for another day.

Or you know, just read the book when I finally get it published, there’s plenty of stories there, believe you me.

Anyway.

I was hooked.

I fell in love in Iowa with a men’s cologne from Paris.

So many, many years ago.

And I got a bottle today in the mail.

Such an amazing gift.

I opened it and smiled and laughed and giggled and hopped up and down a little.

And then I opened it.

Oh.

That smell.

So good.

So, very, very good.

And just for a moment.

I was transported back to that small town mall in Newton, Iowa (home of Maytag Washing Machines!) and my 19-year-old self.

My god.

How far I have come.

How very fucking far.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Best smelling one too.

Heh.

 

 

 

Faster, Faster, Go, Go

Get it all done.

I was replacing the light bulbs in my overhead lamp and juggling laundry, messaging with a friend, peeling carrots for lunch tomorrow, packing my school bag and putting away the groceries.

Jesus H. Christ on a raft.

I’m a little busy.

I got up early today and wrote a paper before I went to work.

I also wrote my morning pages, because that’s where so much of the mind gets sorted out and it’s helpful to clean that out before I do my other stuff.

It really does help to set me straight.

I’m a bit bent.

I’m a bit crooked.

I need a little help.

From my friends.

My friends, pen and paper.

I picked up some of my favorite pens today at Walgreens, along with said light bulbs that I was just juggling in my hands, multi-task much Martines?

They always remind me of being in Paris and how devastated I was to not be able to have them when I was running low.

The funny thing is, they are just generic, cheap pens, but I’ve been using them for years and they just have the nicest flow to the ink.

Lovely, luscious, scrawls right out onto the page, easy, loose, and that is important to me, as I write a lot long hand and I want the pen to just be an extension of my hand.

I don’t scrimp on paper though.

Oh!

That is something I just realized!

I will be buying myself Claire Fontaine notebooks when I go to Paris.

I always buy a bunch.

There is a website, I suppose I could always order them, I am still stocked up at the moment, I’ll probably need to replenish sometime between Christmas and May, but I might make it.

Anyway.

That paper, so good, so dreamy, slick and cool and silky under my hand when I write.

I am such a sensory little beast.

I love how things feel, I’m all about the tactile.

The wind on my skin, the warmth of the sun, the touch of something soft.

And smells.

Flowers, my perfume.

“You smell like roses,” she exclaimed to me, “I couldn’t figure out who smelled so good Friday night, and it was you!”

I smiled.

Yes, that’s me.

“But not old lady roses, what is it?” She asked.

Rose Flash baby.

My new perfume.

Well.

I suppose it’s not so new at this point, I started wearing it back in March I think, after I broke my favorite bottle of scent in the bathroom sink, the scent that I have worn with a few exceptions (the Issey Miyake Feu D’Issey years before it went off the market, fuck I would kill for one more bottle of that) Egoiste Pour Homme, by Chanel.

Yes.

I know.

That’s a men’s scent.

But it works so fucking well with my chemistry.

I can only get it at Chanel down on Maiden Lane or when I travel.

Ooh.

I could get another bottle in Paris.

Of course I will.

How could I not?

French perfume, God, I love perfume.

So much.

And scented candles, I’m such a sucker for the good smells.

Wood smoke.

Nectarines.

Salt.

I put on my perfume before I go to bed because I like to smell it in my hair as I fall asleep.

I like clean, soft sheets and perfume.

I light up my candles when I get home.

I like my cozy.

I like my sensory things, I’m a little gluttonous when it comes to those things, but when I think about all the things I don’t imbibe in, well, fuck, bring on the perfume.

Hello, please.

I am pretty happy with the Rose Flash though, I get it at Tiger Lily a little perfumerie on Valencia Street in the Mission, I don’t know if it’s my forever scent, I vacillate about going back to the Egoiste, but it is such a lovely perfume, and I do feel special wearing it.

I want to turn heads.

What girl doesn’t?

I’ve had people stop me when I’ve worn it, as well as follow me to ask what it was.

“You smell so good,” he said to me, and kissed my neck when he stopped by Wednesday before I was heading into work.

Thanks I said and handed over his boots.

Bye bye boots.

Those boots were made for walking right out of my house and I don’t think they’ll be coming back, I didn’t invite the boot owner in and I don’t think I will be again.

But that’s another story.

Senses.

Sound.

Oh yes.

Music.

Right now I’m listening to the Spotify play list my dear French friend put together for me.

I get to see her tomorrow and I’m really happy about that.

In fact, I’m super happy to see a bunch of my cohort.

I have missed them.

I didn’t get it all done, all my homework, I didn’t manage to get all my reading done, but all the papers I have due, four, are finished.

And I’m not going to sweat the reading, I did enough.

I am enough.

And I don’t have to be perfect.

I do need to write my little blog, because it feels so good to write it, all the frustrations and thoughts, it takes away my pain.

Not that I’m saying I’ve been in excruciating pain.

Just a little agony.

You know, no biggie.

Agony.

Ha.

Where was I with my senses?

Oh taste.

Salt.

Cinnamon.

Nutmeg.

The taste of an apple with the above spices liberally sprinkled on them.

Fizzy water in black cherry.

Persimmons!

And oh are they in season, it looks like a persimmon orchard on my kitchen counter.

Sight.

Let me not forget you, and I am scantily covering these senses, there is so much more that I haven’t even had the opportunity to share, write about, ponder.

I don’t have that much time tonight, I’m already up past my bedtime considering that I need to get up and go to school tomorrow.

But.

Let me finish.

I love pretty things, color, my home is full of light and every where I look,  a piece of art, a photograph, something to rest my eyes on, some sort of beauty to see.

Art.

I want to live my life as an artist.

I might even call myself one once in a while.

Writers are artists, no?

Not that I believe tonight’s blog is art, it’s just a scattering of words on a page, a nest of luminous possibility, the thoughts that tumble, the words that I do not write, the ones still trapped in between the skin my heart and the skein of my soul.

But that too.

Is another blog.

And this lady still needs to finish her laundry.

Good night love.

Sweet dreams.

For tomorrow beckons with all its busy.

Rest now.

Rest my heart.

Rest.

 

 

 

Upside Down

Right side in.

Topsy turvy.

This day has been strange.

However.

I have rolled with it really well, surprisingly so, I feel super settled and though overwhelmed a little, just now, pretty able to just groove along with what is happening.

It did not hurt that I got a full night’s rest.

I was knocked out last night.

It still took me a minute to fall out, but when I did, whoa, I was down.

I think I actually got a solid eight hours, which is the first time since last Thursday.

Yay sleep.

I got myself organized this morning, stripping the bed and washing the sheets, getting into my morning routine, a little breakfast, a couple cups of coffee, some writing.

Oh.

Yeah.

And text my friend who’s place I’m staying at in Brooklyn.

I mean, I should find out how I’m getting into his place when I show up there next Thursday.

Except.

Well.

Shoot.

His travel plans were changed and he actually needs to stay at his room in Brooklyn and I need to find another place to stay.

I really took it well.

I was a little sad at first, I mean, who doesn’t want to save a few bucks on a place to stay?

But then.

I got happy.

Hey!

I get to see my friend, I get to go do the deal with him and see how he’s doing and catch up and grab a coffee and maybe walk around Brooklyn.

I may wrangle him for one of my museum days.

He is an artist after all.

So instead of getting miffed, I just got real.

Ok God.

Where do you want me to stay?

I mean.

I am a little overwhelmed with the decision.

I reached out via the social media and said, hey, what’s up New York?

I have gotten some nice leads.

Suffice to say, and I am not at all ashamed of this, I’m a little too freaking tight on time to give it a whole lot of thought.

The place will find me or I will find it.

Right now.

My mind is focused on finishing the work for school, because I’m not going to have any fun in New York if I still have papers to hand into to my professors.

I got one more in today.

Just a small piece, a page posting and a couple of response replies to the thread online.

Not much, but some motion.

And!

Yes!

Oh, such sweet relief, and I have no idea how it happened, but the APA formatting software that my friend let me download from her, well, I finally got it to open.

I have absolutely no idea what I did differently, but it suddenly happened.

I texted her and got the password to the account.

And voila!

I can now format all my papers in APA style.

No more pulling out my hair trying to figure out citations for the paper, the software does all the work for you, organizing, formatting, my paper will be perfect!

Well.

At least better formatted than the previous ones.

I still have to write the thing.

I made some strides though, small ones, but it was a start.

I put away the one class reader and notebook that I have finished all my reading and papers for, thanks and good night Multi-Cultural Counseling, it’s been fun.

Then I organized my three other classes that I have assignments due for and did the aforementioned posting for the fourth class.

I had five classes this semester.

Going back to just working full time is going to feel like a vacation.

No wonder I am having trouble focusing on where the hell to stay in New York.

Queens?

Brooklyn?

Hell’s Kitchen?

Harlem?

Chelsea?

Wait.

Come back, Martines, not there yet.

Get back to the paper.

So.

I started going through my notes and putting the stickies with scrawled notes and ideas on my notebook.  I started to get the gist of what I am going to write.

Tomorrow I’m going to do yoga in the morning and when I get done I usually have a few moments after my shower to look at things, I’ll take another half hour and keep up the organizing.  Then, come home and review the rest of it.  I’ll take Friday to do the writing, before and after work and the doctor’s appointment.

Then date night.

Because a girl’s got to have some play too.

All work and no play makes Carmen no fucking fun.

I’m listening to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel right now, he lives in New York, and as I have been blogging I have had this little question in my head.

“Where would Mike Doughty stay?”

Fucking cracks me up.

Maybe I’ll just message him.

Hey, you got a place you like?

No, you don’t know me, but you follow me on Instagram.

Ha.

I do actually have a lot of connections and folks I know in New York or people that have traveled there and had suggestions.

Everything from my boss saying she like Gramercy Park (um, out of my price range) to go where there’s good coffee shops–Queens, Brooklyn, etc.

Oops.

Ha.

Digressed again.

I am happy though.

I have the opportunity to go to New York and have a completely different experience than the one I planned.

Isn’t most of my life like that?

While I’m busy making plans, God steps in and says, “no, here, this will work better, you’ll like this more.”

Ok, God, so yeah, where should I stay?

Now that I know what you want me to smell like.

OMG.

I found my scent.

I am in love.

Remember, couple weeks back, I dropped my brand new bottle of Chanel’s Egoiste Pour Homme in my sink, yeah, that sad, sad day, I haven’t had any perfume since then.

I have not had the time, or, well, truly, the inclination, to replace it.

I suspected I was needing something new.

And wouldn’t you know it.

I got to work super early today, the traffic was oddly light, and I parked on Valencia and paid for all day parking, still waiting on the permit, in front of a specialty perfume shop that opened a little while back–Tiger Lily.

I walked in.

I told the woman what I used to wear that I really loved.

Issey Miyake Feu D’Issey.

Then I told her about the Egoiste Pour Homme and breaking the bottle and that Chanel had sold me the last bottle and were waiting for restocking.

That I decided I needed a new scent and I was looking for something closer to the Issey Miyake perfume.

I described what I wanted and she and I walked around the store.

She suggested this and that.

And they were nice, but not exactly what I wanted.

Then.

Oh damn Gina.

There it was.

Rose Flash.

Holy shit.

I had a visceral reaction to it.

I shuddered deeply with pleasure as the scent washed over me.

I felt warm and lush and supplicant and hot and fiery and sexy and roses and candles and spicy, all so delicious I could barely stand it.

I was completely transported.

“This one!” I said fierce with the knowing.

“How much?”  I asked, bracing myself for the amount.

“$60, and it’s perfume, not a toilette, so it will last you a while,” she smiled.

“I’ll take it,” I walked over to the counter heady with the perfume.

“We’re currently out,” she said scanning her supply.

Well poo.

“But, it’s a local perfumery and I can get it in really quick, let me have your e-mail and I’ll send you a message as soon as it comes in, and in the meantime, let me give you a sample, I love how you reacted to it!”

Yup.

And I have been dreamily reacting to it all day long.

I put some on at work and the soft warm wafts of scent would envelope me and my mood would just shift and change and open.

Happy.

I feel happy smelling it.

Ah.

So nice.

See.

Something new.

A new smell, a new experience.

There’s something great in New York.

Serendipity.

Love.

Adventure.

There are no problems.

Only different points of view.

Different perspectives and a new opportunity to have a different experience.

Looking forward to it.

Now, excuse me, while I wind down.

I’ve got some busy time ahead of me.

And opportunity to see what happens next.

I suspect it will be amazing.

It always is.

I’m Fucked

It’s late.

My brain is on fire.

And I don’t want to do anything tomorrow.

I don’t want to yoga.

I don’t want to homework.

I don’t want to food prep.

I don’t wanna, I don’t.

And.

Yet.

I will.

I was so in denial about how much I needed to hang out with my friends tonight that I really did come awful close to calling the whole thing off.

And things are changing in me.

I can feel this big energy, this big thrust of thought and power and tumult happening.

Fire in the tower.

Change of perspective.

Growing more into my person and light and being.

Or something.

I smashed something today.

I wonder.

Did I do it unconsciously, it was precarious were it was perched, did I, in the moment self-sabotage myself?

Or did I make space, in a dramatic, sweeping way.

For something new.

I broke my brand new bottle of Egoiste Pour Homme.

The same bottle I bought just last week, just last Saturday, at the Chanel on Maiden Lane.

The last bottle they had in the store.

I am sure there will be more bottle of this perfume.

But it felt momentous to buy it.

A bit expensive too.

$100 with tax.

And I opened it two days ago, having used the last of my bottle and lovingly placed the old bottle in the recycle and reverently opened the new box and took it out and sprayed it on me.

And.

I’ve been wearing it for so long.

I couldn’t smell it.

Even a brand new bottle of my favorite scent.

I could barely smell it.

I smelled it tonight.

It was sad and I was upset and I cried on the phone to a friend.

And yet.

There was this very odd, very powerful, and very, very fast, move towards acceptance.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

It’s time for a new scent.

I had actually thought about it before I replaced the bottle, that I might want something new.

Now.

Well.

Fuck.

I love perfume and to not have my signature scent, ok, I can do that, but I do love spraying something on myself, I love how evocative perfume is, scent is important to me.

My signature scent, fyi, is not my favorite perfume.

Second favorite.

Issey Miyake Feu d’Issey was my favorite scent.

They don’t make it anymore and I haven’t worn it for years.

But there was a span, three years or so when it was the one for me.

Fire.

It was a passionate, fire scent that one man told me when I was wearing it that I smelled like “sex and chocolate chip cookies.”

Life was hot and happening.

I was on fire.

I feel like I am on fire again, a lot of energy and thrust and power.

I am not exactly sure where it is leading and I do feel that there will be upheaval, but good upheaval and good change, even if it is uncomfortable.

Change for me typically is, even when it is change for the better.

I feel open to desire.

I feel open to new possibilities and new perspectives.

New loves.

New drives.

New.

I feel scared to get it all done and in and also.

Exultation.

Lifting up.

And a curious letting go as well.

I don’t have to know.

I have some ideas, but I don’t have to know.

I was talking to one of my friends about something I have always thought would be fascinating to write about  and school and studying and the energy and pulse of that.

Academia.

It was and is still a very frustrating place for me to be in.

Yet.

I am alive with ideas and art and poetry and words and theories and thoughts and I am a good student.

I am a student who also has a lot of work to do tomorrow and one for whom the bell is tolling, but I feel I can and will be lead to where I need to go and what I need to write about and how it will happen, well, frankly, I don’t know.

I also don’t know.

Complete sidebar, what the fuck is wrong with my phone.

It won’t turn or on and I can’t tell if it’s doing an update or if I let the battery get too long, but something is not right and I don’t like that.

No.

It’s my alarm clock.

Dang it.

Oh my God.

Thank you interwebs.

I think it’s going to come back on, fingers crossed, let’s see if this works.

Could be time for a new phone.

Just like it’s time for a new perfume.

A new man in my life.

A new perspective.

A new pair of glasses.

Still getting used to the “progressives” and I should be getting back my re-lensed frames next week.

$1,000 out of pocket since my insurance through Healthy SF doesn’t cover optometry.

But two new pairs of glasses and a renewed ability to read all the reading for school and help with all the online work and of course the papers.

I will be fine.

The writing will be fine.

Yes.

It’s late and I’m jazzed up with ideas and hope and recovery and having reconnected to bright, beautiful, smart, capable women.

So blessed with that.

Really.

I don’t know how long this change will last nor what will come out of the inner upheaval, but I feel like it will continue to light me up and lighten up my perspective.

That through all the awareness and acceptance that I can take more action to become even more flexible.

Not just on the yoga mat.

But in my life and how I live.

I can allow a little down time or play time.

Or.

God please.

Some sexy time.

And just by showing up today, to the mat, to the coffee shop, to that one place over there at 7th and Irving, to my friend’s house to go to a birthday celebration up in the Marin Hills–Mt. Tamalpais, the Mountain View Inn–I showed up to my life with a tiny bit of trepidation, suspect and sad and overwhelmed, then accepting and joyful and gleeful and all powered up.

I am ready for whatever tomorrow brings.

And excited too.

The journey continues.

the heart open more.

Love, fecund, rich, deep, and abiding.

Shall see me through.

It always does.

New Dress

Finally.

I returned a dress weeks ago and finally just got the access to the return on Modcloth.

I have been itching to get a new frock, but what with the scooter purchase and the unexpected, “hey let’s go to Paris for Christmas!” I have been loath to lay out any money for a new dress.

I want a new dress.

For Paris.

For my birthday.

Because it’s Monday.

Because maybe I want to wear it somewhere.

Not that I have a date or plans, but you never know.

I am still debating popping into the ARTumnal event on the 21st.

We shall see.

If so, then this is definitely the dress for it.

Or just to have a dress.

It’s nice to have something coming in the mail.

I won’t be spending anything else this month on clothes.

I am trying to keep it all to a dull roar.

Technically I could drop up to $200 on clothes this month, that’s what I put into my spending plan, but that was before Christmas in Paris and frankly, well, I would rather buy things in Paris than buy new clothes here.

Notebooks.

I am getting myself a gang of Clarefontaine notebooks.  I see the occasionally here in the city, Flax will carry them, but they don’t tend to carry the collections or the special issued ones.  I suppose I could just order them online, but there is something special about buying notebooks in Paris.

I will definitely be purchasing a special notebook for the trip, me and my glue stick are ready.

“Whenever you go on a trip, grab a glue stick and paste in things to a little notebook, so you can see everything you did while you were there,” a very good friend of mine, who travels a lot, told me this years ago and I do exactly that.

Where ever I am, Paris, Burning Man, London, Rome, New York, I stick and paste little things from my travels in that notebook.

I discovered, in my great hunt for my passport, so many of my notebooks from Paris.

I was a gog at all the places i went, all the little tickets and postcards and strip photos from photo booths in Metro stations, with ribbons and match book covers, with the Metro tickets and airplane boarding passes, the reciepts from museums and the ocassional business card or note from someone I had met.

I was able to remember so much just by flipping through the journals.

So.

Yes.

Notebooks.

And stickers.

Yeah.

Whatever.

I like stickers and I always try to get some from where I travel to.

The museum stores normally have some fantastic ones that you just don’t see anywhere else.

My trip in 2007 I got some phenomenal stickers from the Pompidou, I was just astounded at the whimsy and artistry of them and I never saw them anywhere else again.

But they are in my notebook.

I want as well, a market bag.

I lost my Merle Moqueur tote bag, I think in a Uber one day coming home from school being totally exhausted and stupid I think I left it in the front seat, so I need to replace that.

I would love to go to that bookstore, it’s a great one and definitely my favorite in the city.

Even though all the kids go to Shakespeare and Company, which has its appeal, but it’s a definite tourist stop and Le Merle Moqueur was just a neighborhood bookstore with a great selection of books and paper goods and I got two strands of paper cut outs there that I still have hanging in my house–one of the Eiffel Tower and paper hearts in yellow and orange by my chaise lounge and the other of pale green birds hanging in my bathroom.

I may get another set of paper cut outs.

They are sweet and not a lot of money to buy.

I also will get a hat.

It’s Paris.

You have to get a hat in Paris.

Well.

I have to get a hat in Paris.

I always get great compliments on the cabbie hat I got in the city my visit in 2007.

I still have it and whenever I wear it I do feel just a kiss of Paris.

The last time I wore it to school my friend who gave me a ride said, “nice hat!  You look very French today.”

“I bought it in Paris,” I replied with a smile and adjusted the brim.

“Of course you did.”

I chuckle.

Oh!

I want some tea.

Definitely.

Tea.

From Mariage Freres.

The Earl Grey.

So yummy.

I remember the first time I had it, visiting my person up in Pacific Heights and she was someone who travelled frequently to Paris, being in fashion, how could she not, and she made me a cup and it was divine.

Just a kiss of milk and heaven in a cup.

Yeah, I take a tin home with me for sure.

Perhaps some perfume from duty-free on the way back out, another bottle of Chanel Egoiste.

I still have some from the Chanel Boutique down on Maiden Lane, but it will be gone soon enough and it’s always nice to have a bottle I bought in Paris, in the airport as the size of bottle I want won’t go through security.

Postcards are on the list.

I will send myself one.

I will send many to friends and family.

It’s what I do.

I love snail mail.

There’s something so lovely and deliberate about sitting down and writing a little note and thinking about the person I am writing to, then the placing of the stamp, sealed with a kiss, the dropping it in the post and letting her go.

The time it takes for mail to get from France to here will be longer than the time I am in Paris, so sending myself a postcard is like a lovely little reminder of the adventures I had while away.

Perhaps a small poster from the booksellers along the Seine.

I pair of earrings.

That is always something I do.

I still have the pair I bought at a brocante (flea market) at Square D’Anvers one of the last weekends I was in Paris.

I always think of walking around that market and the sunshine, it was a warm April day, last weekend in April and it was almost hot and the cafes were overflowing and the music of French being spoken all around me, soon.

Soon.

I will be there again.

I am looking forward to it.

And I will be well dressed for it!

Retail Therapy

I got me some.

And now, like a good therapy session, I am all tuckered out from the effort of being present and in my body.

A body that I still don’t always see that well and when I am thinking it’s a fat body, it’s time to stop the shopping.

Size eleven is not fat.

In case you were wondering.

“Why aren’t I a size ten?” My brain started questioning my blue jean choices, and when I go there I can go there quick.

I did pretty well before the blue jeans began to be too much and I had to call it a day.

I actually may have found a pair but I was too tired and starting to second guess myself.  I need to enlist a girl friend to go jean shopping.  I am not good on my own.  In fact, it was suggested to me that I either go future clothes shopping with a friend or enlist a salesperson.

That, helping customers fit into their clothes, is apparently one of their jobs.

Who knew.

I started off the shopping with a bang and a special treat for me.

I went to Chanel on Maiden Lane and bought my signature scent–Egoiste–I have not had it for the last month, having run out around my birthday.

I had some expectation that I might get perfume as a gift from someone, but uh, that didn’t happen.

And like the flowers I eventually bought myself, I bought myself perfume today.

I don’t have to wait for a partner to treat me well, not that my ex didn’t treat me well, he absolutely did, but there were things that I didn’t get myself for a moment when I had expectations around the holidays.

Expectation.

Leads to resentment.

Oh my yes.

And I can expect idiotic things too, I realize this all the time.

Like, oh, this is rich, I should be going to graduate school to get a literature degree or a Masters in Creative Writing.

Despite the fact that all the programs that I have applied to turned me down.

I still have this antiquated idea that I am supposed to be doing this thing where I write, make gang loads of money, and I don’t know do something with the English Literature degree I got as an undergraduate.

As though the benefits of studying have to pay off monetarily.

As if it wasn’t enough that it was through studying TS Eliot and Shakespeare, and yes, Tolkien, that I rediscovered God and went from being an atheist/agnostic, to believing in God.

Something that was very helpful to me when I got sober.

And continues to be helpful to me.

But no, I got that degree with the intention of becoming a writer.

Oh.

Wait.

I am a writer.

But, it doesn’t look like how I think it should look.

Neither do those jeans, but hey, you’re not fat either.

Aside.

Even after nearly five years of maintaining an over 80 pound weight loss, I still gravitate to the plus size clothes section and got excited when I walked into H & M and saw that they now have a plus size section.

Hey lady.

Snap out of it.

I am not a size 26 anymore.

I am a size 11.

Which is not the size 10 I eventually got down to, but wasn’t able to really sustain without restricting more than I should considering my energy levels, body type, and the amount of bicycling I do.

End aside.

I shared these thoughts around graduate school today with someone before heading out into the wilds of San Francisco shopping (which were wild, I had no idea that there was going to be a protest downtown or that the streets were torn up with construction projects).

I told her that I was beating myself up for applying to program that had nothing to do with my writing or my literature degree and that I was still holding out on the idea that I would be making it as a writer.

Famous.

Rich.

Worldly.

As though I am not already.

Famous in my own mind.

Rich in love.

Worldly in my travels and experiences.

The perspective is just different.

She laughed at me when it all finally came out, and pointed out to me how important words are to a therapist, the words behind the words, the language that is being spoken, the things that people say when they aren’t actually saying anything, how important that communication is and understanding of language are to a good therapist.

Well duh.

I had not seen it that way and I was astounded by how spot on she was.

Of course!

My gift for language will be used and used better than any of the silly fatuous fantasy I have of what it means to be a writer.

She also pointed out that I am not actually great at being isolated and that perhaps I don’t want to have a career that is so focused on being alone without distractions.

Another great point.

And then, the ringer, how much I can be of service.

She told me things that I don’t see often in myself because I have this idea of who I am that does not always match up to who I am.

I’m getting better at it.

I am.

And I was able to leave Tart to Tart with a smile on my face and be ready to tackle the shopping.

Which I did with gleeful abandon until I was done.

I actually did really well.

Two pairs of shoes, one pair of black leggings, new earrings, new makeup, new hair clips, a new skirt, a new sweater, a new bra, a tank top, a baseball jersey, and a new jean jacket.

Plus the perfume.

In total I shopped and bought at nine different stores and went into at least another six or seven others.

I went to Chanel, Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, Nordstrom Rack, H & M, Urban Outfitters, the Westfield Mall, Zara, Banana Republic, Gap, Anthropology, Claire’s, and Beauty Lands.

No wonder I am tuckered out.

I don’t do this very often and next time I do have to go with a girlfriend for some body perspective, but I can give myself a pat on the back for doing the deal and taking care of myself.

Even if I didn’t find the perfect jeans.

I still found what I need.

The metaphor for my life.

I may not get what I want.

But what I am given is always.

ALWAYS.

Beyond my wildest dreams.

 

I Raise Your Black Friday

And up you a Tuesday.

Today was my first day off in seven days, my first day of six days off, and my first day of not knowing what the fuck I was going to do.

I knew I needed to do some shopping.

I did not get it all done.

However, I did get more done than I would have suspected.

Even venturing downtown to pick up a bottle of my favorite perfume.

Egoiste pour Homme, by Chanel.

If you have any concept of French you may have sussed out that my perfume is actually a men’s scent.

And I like to think it funny, especially where I am at in my life and how far I have come, and all the work I do, that I still douse myself in something that directly translates to “selfish” in English.

Of course, I did not know this when I first saw the little bottle on the shelf at the half-price discount and over stock store in Newton, Iowa where I was living, working as a bartender at, wait for it.

Boots-N-Spurs.

Iowa’s Largest Country Western Nightclub.

That’s right.

It was sexy sexy times let me tell you.

Nothing says good times like underage bartending, teased hair, hot pink polo shirts (the staff’s uniform, a hot pink polo with Boots-N-Spurs crested over the breast and a picture of a bucking bronco tossing a cowboy in black ink over the back.  With this plucky little bon mot stitched into it: “and that’s no bull-shirt”), Budlight on tap, Budweiser in bottles, the “import” was Coors, ‘cuz it was from like the other side of the Rocky’s, pool tables, jukebox with loads of Alan Jackson, Patsy Cline, Billy Ray Cyrus (yes I knew how to Boot Scoot and Boogie and if you ever ask me how I will have to punch you in the face), and various other Country/Western/Country Pop singers and bands.

I had just gotten paid.

The rent was paid and there was a little left over.

I was living in this weird little two bedroom on the main strip with my sister, her husband, their baby daughter and we were just trying to make it all happen.

Two young girls, one baby, one ex-con shifty motherfucker and some pluck.

I wanted to get something pretty for myself and had succeeded in not finding a thing at the mall.

We were wandering through this little discount store when I saw the perfume.

I don’t know why I took it down and smelled it, but it blew me away.

It was the most amazing thing I had ever smelled in my life.

It was half off and though above my budget, I had to have it.

I sprayed myself down.

I probably hosed myself down with it.

It has a sharp citrus, grapefruit smell to it edged with a little deep rosewood.  Which is probably why it works well with men and me, I tend to have a strong chemistry that eats up perfume.  Then it mellows and develops into a smooth floral almost to my nose a tuber rose, but not as heavy, then it gets spicy and woodsy like wild geranium, and it finishes warm on the skin with a semi-sweet vanilla nose.

It is astounding.

I have had men and women stop me on the street and ask me what I am wearing.

Sometimes I like to spray a little on the base of my throat before I go to bed and just smell it wafting over me as I pull up the covers.

It is intoxicating and I have never had anything else work quite so well for me.

Oh, I have tried, Issey Miyake’s Feu D’Issey (Fire), came close–but it was discontinued within a few years of its release.

I wore it when I could not find the Egoiste any longer.

It was pulled from normal stores and became a boutique only scent in the United States.

Meaning, you can only buy it at Chanel boutiques.

In Paris, where I got my last bottle, you can get it in the Marionnaud’s which remind me of an upscale Walgreeens pharmacy, as well as the boutiques.

I sprayed my last little drops onto my neck this morning and after the teary bout I had upon awakening, yes, I cried this morning when confronted with free time.

Isn’t that just fucking ridiculous?

Most people are starving for free time, down time, relax time.

Me?

I can’t get enough of pack it in time, make more happen time, get it done time.

Rest?

Relax?

Who are you talking too?

Jesus H. Christ on a fucking raft.

I got a glimpse of the inside of the thought though and that was interesting.

I was unwilling to get out of bed, it was warm and soft and snuggly, but I was wide awake and knew I was only going to lie there and think and well, the thinking is not a good idea.

So I popped up out of bed and got my day started.

Shower.

Brush the teeth.

Strip down the bed and wash the sheets.

Kneel down beside the bed and say some words and read some stuff.

And then ask for direction, because I don’t have any and the idea of a whole day of free time is freaking me out and cue tears.

I realized as I got anxious and it threatened to swallow me up that I am always trying to make up for lost time, that if it doesn’t get done now it never will, I am always trying to make it happen, when most the time, “it” just needs me to get the fuck out the way.

Selfish.

Yup.

That’s me.

Selfish, what do I have or think I have that I am trying to hold onto?

I am trying to be perfect, not need your help, and keep it all together.

I am trying to hold onto doing it all on my own, all alone.

Of course to no avail.

And it isn’t what I really want anyhow.

But seeing that I was castigating myself for not getting more done made me laugh, out loud.

Oh, for fuck sake, I had already accomplished a load of things this morning.

I added to that list by making a really awesome breakfast, having a couple of mugs of fresh ground pour over Stumptown Coffee, then writing three pages long hand, paying my rent a week early, balancing my check book, cleaning my kitchen and bathroom, sweeping the floors, shaking out the rugs, taking out the trash, pulling in the garbage cans from the curb, doing another load of laundry and meditating.

All before lunch.

Yeah, I don’t do anything at all.

I said I am done being silly and I am allowed to splurge and buy myself a new bottle of perfume, I helped out this weekend at the Makers Mart and the money felt like it should spend joyously.

I eschewed my bicycle, rode the N-Judah downtown and went to Maiden Lane where the Chanel boutique is and bought my bottle of “selfish”.

I picked up a few other things on my way back to the Inner Sunset where I had a tea date with a friend and a manicure appointment.

And I had a really nice day being down in the shopping district before it was Black Friday.

I won’t go near that or any other shopping district this Friday.

This Friday I am hoping will be blue.

As in surfing the ocean blue.

That’s how I am going to celebrate the day after Thanksgiving.

Not trying to mash my way into an electronic store or shoe store or what ever other store the rest of the world is trying to mash into.

I think I will opt away from that.

Tomorrow, another long day with almost nothing planned.

Maybe I will cry.

But it will be ok.

Letting out the grief helps me let in the love.

And that’s the best smell of all.