Posts Tagged ‘Chez Spencer’

That Uncomfortable Feeling

August 2, 2016

When a stranger walks into your house.

I was like what the fuck?

Is there actually someone coming into my room?

Ah.

The housemate has a guest.

Apparently a nosey guest.

Not exactly how I wanted to find out.

None the less, pretty much the cap on a long strange day.

I got up early to go to work early to let in the housekeeper, the family is away, but there was still plenty on the list for me to do.

Granted.

It’s a lot easier to get shit done when the family is away.

It’s just hella odd.

I realized as I was changing the bedding in the boys rooms, that I have never done house work for a family when they weren’t there.

Either they were there and I was nannying.

Or they were not there, as in vacationing or out of town and I was not there.

It’s a different dynamic and sometimes I find myself taking it for granted and sometimes, well, it’s just fucking weird.

Today it felt weird.

Then again.

Everything feels a little helter skelter right now.

There is a lot happening.

Mostly in my brain.

My brain is a hotbed of activity right now, it won’t turn off.

I also had odd pockets of time today, that did not help, then again, I suppose they did not hinder either.

I found myself having coffee “on the clock” at Ritual while the laundry was working there was not really anything for me to do until it was finished, so I grabbed a coffee at the cafe and worked on my spending plan for August.

Meaning.

I worked on not being in financial insecurity.

I mean.

There’s fear.

There’s always fear.

And I always walk through it.

Sometimes gracefully, sometimes haltingly and stumbling along like a fucking idiot.

But.

I have never been dropped.

And I won’t now.

And I have the money to do that thing in the desert, even though it’s cost a lot more than I have ever spent on it.

I keep telling myself.

I get to go.

I get to go.

I get to go.

And I get to go a little early so I will actually have four and a half days on playa.

Things are falling together as well.

They are.

I have my tent, my camp chair, I got my old quilt from a girlfriend who had it for a while and whom I haven’t seen in so long, it’s rather stupid.

I have my tent.

I am going to give it a shot at getting set up either tomorrow or Wednesday.

Maybe Thursday.

Oh.

Fuck.

I’m nattering on.

I’m nervous about a lunch date I have tomorrow.

I literally had the thought today that I don’t have the right shoes.

Who is this person?

Fuck.

This guy has seen me around.

For a long time.

Like eleven and a half fucking years, the man knows I wear Converse.

Ack.

My brain, on fire.

Put it out.

I don’t have the right clothes either, fyi, that’s already been decided.

Thanks for sharing brain, really.

I have no idea where we’re going for lunch, but I live in the Outer Sunset, it’s not like we going to some fine dining gig on a Tuesday at noon.

Not that I think we’re going to Mickey D’s either.

I have been on a few dates with said gentleman, a few years ago, before I moved to Paris, and the odds are actually not that unusual that he would take me to a nice place.

He’s got good taste.

Chez Spencer before it burned down.

Flour and Water.

Which he was a little abashed to bring me to when he found out I don’t eat flour (or sugar).

I joked it wasn’t like he took me to Vodka and Cocaine.

Heh.

Oh.

Yes.

Also, La Ciccia, which was fantastic.

Plum in Oakland.

Anyway.

So it may be a fancier place, but it doesn’t matter.

I mean.

My brain will try to make it like it does matter.

But really.

All I’m thinking about is.

What will go with the cute sandals I got in New Orleans?

And.

Will he kiss me?

Or is this just a let’s catch up and see how the other person is doing?

But um, Facecrack says he’s single and I’m single and we’ve kissed before and.

Jesus fuck.

I am blushing.

That can stop.

I’ll probably get up and go to yoga so I can calm the fuck down.

Expectations lead to resentment.

I have no expectations.

Yes, some nerves, but really, that’s just that good old mind fuck that says I’m not enough and don’t have the right hair, I mean, um, it’s pink, heh, or the right shoes, I do love my Converse, or the right clothes, I have scads of cute dresses, I just have this idiotic idea that I have to look a certain way for a certain type of guy.

I have too many tattoos.

Actually I have just enough.

Well.

I could use another, who am I fooling?

Really in the end, there is nothing wrong.

I’m excited.

I want to look pretty.

And it will be good to catch up.

I am curious to see what his intentions are though.

I won’t lie.

But regardless, I can comport myself with some decorum.

Unless I’m laughing, then all decorum bets off.

Or.

Well.

I’m just not going to pursue that line of thought.

All the other dates I thought might coalesce this week have not confirmed.

I’m going where the water is warm.

Or.

At least interested.

Or.

Just letting me know there’s a date.

The date got confirmed.

That’s a start.

I’m going to have fun.

I am going to dress how I like to dress.

For me.

Wear my hair the way I like it.

Sing my song of myself.

It’s a good song.

Sexy like.

I get to go on a date.

Fun.

This is fun!

Duh.

I get to do this.

Nerves or not.

I’ll look cute and have an adventure.

Promise to tell  you all about it.

Well.

Maybe.

Heh.

Down to the Wire

October 31, 2012

Yet, it still does not feel like this is happening.

I am really quite ready to go, ready, packed, well almost, I will probably re-arrange a few things on the morrow, but really, ready is about where it is at.

I did a couple of little errands today, but mainly I just straightened out around Graceland and  had a lovely leisurely morning and early afternoon.

I wrote, I sent a few messages out–Paris bound way–I got another couple of contacts tossed to my in-box this morning, I talked with my mom.

I did a little laundry, stuck a few things in a little box and put them, my notebooks that I have filled since being at Graceland, and an odd or end of other things together and stuck them down in the basement.

I chatted up the kitties.

I chatted up the master of Graceland and thanked him and he I.

I bought a coat.

I went to a magnificent dinner at Chez Spencer. Oh. Was. It. Good.

Starter: bowl of wild mushroom soup with truffles and a disc or crisped parmesan.

Second: pan seared scallops, so delicate and buttery and cooked the definition of seared, with pea sprouts and micro greens tossed in a bright verde sauce.  I made my happy food face.

Which is apparently close to my sex face, or what may pass for my sex face.  A friend once said to me over a divine sushi dinner at Blowfish, that he suddenly could see what I looked like when I had sex, so engulfed was I in the luscious eel I was eating that I had closed my eyes in bliss and my smiled creased my face.

I also roll my hand along my thigh, like I am petting myself.

I have no idea when this came about but I did notice it once or twice and then I realized I was doing it tonight at Chez Spencer while eating the scallops and then again during the main.

Third course: house wood smoked Sonoma duck breast with spinach and black berries.  The fat was just rendered out and the breast was tender and rich and the bitterness of the spinach cut it so and the berries provided pluck and sweetness and my hand drifted over my thigh and I smiled and closed my eyes and went to a very happy place.

The company was not too shabby either.

Talking to my girl friend Radha last night over another glorious San Francisco dinner (really?  I have gotten to just be spoiled rotten lately with the lovely food–La Ciccia, Plum, Flour and Water, Chez Spencer.  Not to mention the plentiful garden here at Graceland serving up tomatoes and cucumbers and basil and raspberries and fresh figs from the fig tree!) at DOSA she said to me, “you really are going out with a bang.”

It is really true.

I have had such a nice leaving San Francisco time that I almost don’t want to leave San Francisco.

Almost.

I am ready to board that plane.

I have my phone dealt with, my student loans set up to withdraw automatically, my Skype account ready to go, my new coat (on sale at Anthropologie, thank you very much), my suitcase three-quarters packed, my ducks in a row.

Mmmmm, duck.

I have gotten to spend alone time in various forms with all my sweetest friends and cohorts and fellows.

I have my bike to pick up at the shop–lovingly boxed and ready to go.

All I need to do is show up for the next day and let it take its inevitable course.

I have one more phone call to make to my bank, to alert them that I am leaving the country and that is about it.

I have one more date with the Mister and a ride to the airport.

I still cannot believe that it all has fallen out the way it has.  I got a lover–whose face I am holding in my heart–the blue of his eyes against the sky as he looked at me at Dolores Park, the plush pillow of his bottom lip, the way he made me laugh, and his smile, creased warm flush face and wry twinkle when he brought pleasure to me–I see these pictures in my head and know, some where, some time, I will reflect upon them fonder than fond.

I got to have romantic dinners and walks and hand holding and movies with a romantic man and I get to have one more date before I go.

Radha looked across the table at me and said, “you deserve it, you deserve this love and you damn well do not get to feel guilty for it or wrong or anything but loved.”

I do not feel shame.

I do feel a little European, perhaps this is prep time for the next great romantic story.

I also just feel an overwhelming sense of place, in this time, in this body, in who I am at this moment.

I deserve this.  I worked so hard this last year–six moves, couch surfing, new job, losing the cats, taking a pay cut–but a happiness increase–Burning Man, getting the ticket to Paris, renewing my passport, seeing my mom for the first time in over five years, writing, writing, writing, and more writing.

Following my heart and my dreams and jumping in the middle of the deep end without hesitation.

Saying yes is sometimes the hardest thing to do.

When the Universe shows up at your door and you are standing there in your Hello Kitty pajamas and the sleep is crusted in your eyes you can either put on your faux fur slippers and do a little dance, a jitterbug that is a mixture of fear, excitement, and glee,  or you can shut the door, put on the snooze button, and bury your head under the blankets.

I choose to dance.

I choose to fly.

I choose to leap.

And I choose to wear a very sexy black dress out tomorrow night for my last night in San Francisco.

I am going out with a bang.


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