Posts Tagged ‘Church and Market’

The Perfect Dress

February 24, 2017

Almost.

But not quite

So freaking close, but I was afraid to force the zipper.

Just in that one spot.

Ah well.

I’m not returning it though.

I don’t often buy clothes off Etsy pretty much because it’s hand-made often and you can’t tell, but I fell for the dress and it’s gorgeous and it fits perfectly, except I need like a 1/2 an inch in the back for the zipper, right below my bust line, pretty much the widest place except for my shoulders.

I’ll just have it taken out a tiny bit.

I’m otherwise quite happily pleased with it and had a sudden moment of realizing I was going to wear it to Paris.

It really screams Paris in Spring.

It’s a replica of a Marilyn Monroe polka dot sundress in light blue with four tiers of layered flounce and sassiness.

It’s gorgeous.

I found it while I was looking for hair accessories.

Aforementioned blog about celebrating my getting time off to go to Burning Man from work.

While bopping about in the retro vintage pin-up rockabilly accessories I came across it.

I was like.

Oh my.

Yes.

I want that and I want that bad.

And.

It must have been fated.

Because the shop has “taken a break.”

I was hunting around trying to find the link to the Etsy shop and finally landed it and the shop has closed!

There is one other seller on Etsy making the dress.

Exact same dress.

Exact same measurements, in fact, aside from a slightly different woman modeling the dress, it could be the exact same seller.

Except.

Holy shit.

THREE times the price.

I got the dress I ordered for $89.99 plus shipping and tax.

This dress.

Total was like $104.

The other site has it listed for $325 (I found a couple off Google in the upper $200s)

Yeah.

Um.

No.

It’s a great dress but not for three hundred dollars.

Quite happy I found the dress the way I did and now knowing what I know about the shop not even existing anymore I will definitely be keeping the dress and just getting it altered a tiny bit.

There would have been a time when I was devastated to not fit into the dress.

But seriously.

I have a lovely, capable, beautiful body.

So what I have a broader back, I am strong.

I was not happy the zipper didn’t get through that one sticky spot, damn it fits so well everywhere but there, but I wasn’t sad either.

That’s progress.

I ran into a fellow tonight after doing the deal with my person and having dinner at Crepevine on Church and Market, and he did a double take, “you’ve lost so much weight!”

I realized later that I hadn’t seen him since about 2009 when I was depressed, hiding in my room, binge reading Twilight, yes I said Twilight, fuck off, and binge eating bowls of popcorn, pints of ice-cream and sacks of donuts from the Jelly Donut on Van Ness and 24th Street.

It was bad, bad, bad, Bad News Bears, bad.

I was miserable.

I finally broke through the silence and reached out and got help and since that point I’ve never really looked back.

No.

My body is not all that and a loaf of sliced bread.

But then again, why would it be, I don’t eat bread.

Heh.

But it is mine.

Mine to care for, comfort, nourish, and attend to.

And that is a gift.

My body has taken a beating for me for a long time, physically and spiritually and mentally too.

It has never lived up to my high expectations, even when I was a super low weight, before I evened out and got less compulsive about my restrictions in my diet, even then, pounds lighter, I wasn’t happy, I wanted more, better, faster, thinner, etc, etc, ad nauseum.

Grateful today for the beautiful body God has given me to walk around in.

Grateful that I get to care for it and be perfect with it and not be bothered if the zipper doesn’t go all the way up.

It will.

Grateful too that although my first thought was, oh, I’ll lose some weight and it will fit in a few weeks, it was quickly supplanted by, fuck that, just get it tailored to fit you, it only needs a small adjustment, I don’t need to make myself crazy to fit into any piece of clothing.

I am not my pants size.

I cannot.

Will not.

Measure my life by my in-seam, bust size or waist line.

I am so much more than the sum of my whole.

And I am not stupid.

I am beautiful.

God please help me to see what you want me to see and to let go of what I can.

I can let go of this for sure.

Yes, yes I can.

Please and thank you.

Any one know a good tailor?

Seriously.

 

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And Then

December 17, 2015

It all just came together.

I am uncertain how, but just like that.

I have a little birthday party happening with friends.

Nothing big, just a small group of us going to Chow on Church and Market after a little getting right with God sesh at Our Lady of Safeway.

I haven’t been to Chow in a long time and it felt like just the coziest place to be with some friends that are super hard to wrangle and then poof.

It all sort of fell into place.

Just like my outfit for the ballet in Paris.

Which is not at all what I thought I would be wearing.

Not at all.

The dress I ordered finally showed up, and again, the wrong size!

Ugh.

Seriously.

I have to return it yet again.

I was not happy and I will have to return it now for the third time.

Actually, this particular dress I am returning for the second time, but it’s the third go around with ModCloth.

The first dress was a horrible pattern, the screen color was no where near the actual dress and I rarely think about when a dress pattern or color clashes with my tattoos, because it so rarely happens.

But wow.

When it does.

It really does.

And the original dress was an awful clash.

So.

Returned for a different dress, this all in black.

And the first size, too small.

Returned.

And this size too small again.

Damn it man.

The instructions said size up, but two sizes up?

Ugh.

It’s not that I can’t get into the dress, it’s just that my rib cage, nothing else, is too big.

If I had the time I would take it out.

But I don’t, I leave for Paris in four days!

Four.

Holy crow.

After struggling in and out the dress I resigned myself to the fact, that I am just going to have to return it again and hope for a better fit.

I may just have to go with a different style, because I run the risk of the dress not fitting correctly if I size up further.

It fits everywhere else perfectly so if I size up it will probably fit in the ribcage but not elsewhere, it will be too baggy.

So.

Another dress return.

Oh well.

I was flustered when I left the house, thinking I may have to do some last minute dress shopping to get my outfit together.

I am dressing up, damn it, for the ballet, I just am.

I mean have you seen my new shoes?

But I had places to go tonight that were more important than my outfit and commitments to cover as well as a few groceries to buy for the rest of the week.

I came back to the house elated to have actually confirmed a dinner party with four, possibly five of my friends on Friday, this Friday, in the middle of holiday party season, for a birthday dinner.

Then I thought.

Well.

Shoot.

What am I going to wear?

Not that I have to get dressed up, but it might be fun.

The other consideration is that I will be nannying all day and so what ever I choose to wear will have some wear and tear on it.

I manage my clothes fairly well, but I do work with little boys, the dirt, it does happen.

So.

I was looking in my closet and then.

Oh.

Hey.

What if I do that and this and that and this.

And voi-fucking-la!

I have my outfit for the ballet.

Halter dress in black with white polka dots with white crinoline underneath and my Helmut Lang black cashmere sweater over the top, black tights, the new Fluevog’s in “Dots” and my hair up in a bun.

Perfect.

Chic.

Eclectic.

Retro pinup girl with class.

I tried on my new coat, the swing coat I got at Tatyana’s to match my shoes.

And.

Fuck me.

Swoon.

It’s a great freaking outfit.

I was so happy.

I will NOT be wearing it to work on Friday for my birthday.

I will wear something fun and sassy.

But this look.

Oh.

I’m saving it for the ballet.

I don’t know how I’m going to stuff my crinoline in my carry on to Paris, but that bitch is coming with.

Over the top.

I have my outfit.

And I have my birthday party with some of my nearest and dearest.

It’s such a pleasant surprise.

I really hadn’t much planned.

And when it all fell together I was so pleased.

I am so pleased.

And I’m doing pretty much exactly what I want to do on a Friday night in San Francisco, do the deal, and hang out with my favorite people in the city over a bite to eat in a cozy restaurant.

Some of whom aren’t in the city proper and I feel super grateful that they are going to come in from Berkeley and Castro Valley.

Drop on by if you like, always room for another smiling face at the table.

And like that.

It’s Wednesday.

I’m halfway through the week.

I have birthday plans.

I have a mighty fine ballet outfit.

I have my Therapeutic Communications paper three quarters done!

I have been working on it everyday before work.

I should actually have it completed either tomorrow or possibly I will be wrapping it up Friday morning before I go into work.

Work, some doing the deal, some fellowship.

Saturday, I’ll meet with my person, get my nails done and my eyebrows waxed, pack, and if I can manage to not break my brain, I’m going to write my Psychoanalytic paper Saturday as well.

Now that I don’t have to worry about buying another dress at the last minute, I’ve got plenty of time to kick it out of the way.

Then I’ll be free and clear for take off to Paris.

The cafes call, the museums beckon, there’s a steak tartar or three that have my name on them, I suspect there’s some oysters in my future, a trip to Sacre Coeur, possibly for Christmas Eve Mass, walking the streets with my girlfriend from school, buying notebooks and postcards, walking everywhere.

What a lovely holiday season this is.

I really am.

The luckiest girl in the world.

You Look Great

October 31, 2015

But you look tired.

My friend said to me just a few minutes ago in parting.

We haven’t seen each other in about three months, maybe a tiny bit more.

He’s in full-time school and working full-time.

I’m in full-time graduate school and working full time.

Add to that, doing the deal, and well, it feels like 80 hours a week.

And very little time for anything else.

Maybe some panic.

Maybe some anxiety.

I had that in spades today on my way into work on my bicycle.

I kept praying and breathing.

Deep, slow breathes in and out.

There were a lot of near misses today.

A woman ran, I mean, ran, a red light.

I narrowly avoided getting hit, seeing her just out of the corner of my eye, on her cell phone, oblivious to the oncoming traffic or the fact that there was a red light and she was zooming right along, on her way, on her Friday, got her own agenda, don’t mind me.

“Nice!” I hollered, and kept rolling.

I just had a cab almost pull out on me at 46th and Lincoln as I was turning.

She didn’t see me and I think I scared the crap out of her when I rolled up and turned aside so that she missed me, “hello, I’m right here.”

“Oh my God!”  She said and almost stalled out in the middle of the intersection.

I waved and kept going.

“Always, always, always, please look before you open your door,” I said to the woman at the intersection of Church and Market who flung open her door and nearly knocked me over.

“I am so sorry.” She said and blanched, “It’s been one of those days.”

“I feel you,” I said, “I hope it gets better.”

And I do.

I hope everybody out there has a safe and sane one.

Although I don’t think that’s actually going to happen.

It’s Halloween and the weather is nice.

There is no rain in the forecast and I foresee a lot of mischief and mayhem going on out there.

I was happy to get home alive.

I was happy to get to work alive.

As I said, the anxiety was with me the entire time I was riding into work.

I didn’t wake up anxious.

It just sort of over took me when I least expected it.

I had gotten up early to get in some reading before work.

Doing my normal routine, a little reading, a little writing, some breakfast, some coffee, check the e-mails, dress, etc, get my gear packed for work, and then sit and read.

I read and got in more reading than I expected and was grateful.

I’m still catching up from last weekend’s round of classes and I need to write a paper by Sunday.

So, imperative that I get the reading done.

I finished the chapters in the text-book and got onto the ones in the reader.

I took some notes for things I will probably write on for the paper and got a handle of what I need to do to finish the reading before I write the paper.

Then I looked at my calendar and saw that I had two more big projects that I have to do before the next weekend of classes and I have a big inventory I have booked into hear next Saturday and suddenly the feeling of quiet joy I had at getting in the hour of reading went right out the back door and was replaced by the fear of fuck, I don’t have enough time.

I know this is fear.

So I did the fear prayer and that helped.

And.

I know that creating drama in my head or catastrophizing–I just don’t have enough time to get it all done–is not helpful, that having something to fret about is a way for me to feel like I have some control.

I’m doing something, damn it, worrying, therefore, I have control over the situation.

The fact is.

I don’t have control.

And the worry is not helping me be in the present.

I asked to be brought into the present.

I did not mean that to mean that I wanted a bunch of crazy driving to keep me on my toes.

But that is exactly what happened.

I am grateful that I got my attention on the road and off my school papers and projects and reading.

Being in the moment is a challenge.

But it’s the only place I can get anything done.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” My friend asked me as I was unlocking my bike outside of Church Street Cafe.

“Nothing, I have no plans, I’ll be here,” I told him.

“My parents are coming into town, I want you to meet them,” he said.

“I would love to meet them!” I said, “they must be amazing to put up with you, especially your mother,” I teased my friend.

“She is amazing,” he said and we hugged goodnight.

It was one brief hour of catching up and I wont’ see him again until the holiday break with school.

And that is just how it is.

Hell.

At this point I am really happy when I get the opportunity to call anyone on my phone.

The best it seems that I am capable of doing is shooting out a terse, brief text most of the time.

I rarely, if ever, can make phone calls out at work, and today was like that.

I managed two short tiny calls then had to hop off the phone mid sentence.

The connecting is a desire that I have and I need to stay close to my people, but it is exhausting trying to juggle it all.

I’m doing alright.

I remind myself.

I don’t have to do it perfect.

I just have to show up.

I’m getting up earlier tomorrow than I do on my days working, but I need to meet a couple of ladies in the Inner Sunset and do the deal, then off to do some cooking, and hopefully by mid-afternoon or early evening, I will be settling in with my reader and getting it on.

So I can write my paper on Sunday.

So I can go back to work on Monday and do it all over again.

I feel a sense of deja vu as I realize this is very much like how all my weekends are.

Work.

“I don’t have any time off,” I said to my friend, in response to his, you look great but tired comment.

“I feel you,” he said looking just as harried as I.

We hugged again and we both bounced in our opposite directions.

And here it is Friday, again, with the dance music on my stereo being the only party I will be having this weekend.

Aside from the reading party of one I have reservations for.

I may even decide to not nap tomorrow.

I had plans for one, but you know what God does when I make plans?

Laugh.

A lot.

At least I know the joke is not on me.

And I can laugh along with it.

Or at least chuckle as I sip my tea.

Good night my fellows.

May your dreams be sweet.

And your sleep restful.

Oh sleep.

My darling.

I shall see you soon.

Although I shan’t be in your embrace for long.

I know I shall be soothed.

Good night.

God bless.

God speed.

God damn it.

I Think I Broke Myself

July 25, 2015

Well.

Maybe it isn’t that bad.

But fuck.

I danced hard.

Hard.

Hard.

I wasn’t planning on staying as late as I did nor dancing as much as I did.

Then the ride home.

Woof.

My body is sore.

A 41 hour work week with two boys, a daily bicycle commute of 15 miles, doing the deal, hanging out a lot with friends, writing, blogging, emotional upheaval around my financial aid package at school and finding out that I did not get a full ride–though let me to be thankful, I still was awarded $30,000 and that is nothing to sneeze at–and I should be crawling into my bed.

But.

Old habits, and I do mean this, it is an old habit, 5.5 years of doing it pretty on the daily have made it a habit that is exceedingly hard to break.

I am wide awake as well.

The adrenalin from dancing, then the brisk ride through the night, the quiet singing of blood in my veins, and I am wide awake.

Wide awake.

I, fortunately, don’t have any plans tomorrow but one commitment to keep at 12:15 p.m. at Tart to Tart in the Inner Sunset.

The rest of my day is wide open.

I do have plans to get downtown and pick up my course readers for school, but I’m not exactly sure when I’m going to do that.

I had thought I would be getting a ride in, now I’m not so sure.

Rides.

They be tricky things.

I had a ride lined up this morning and it fell through and as I was tossing my things from one bag to the other, I don’t like to ride my bicycle with a purse, I was thinking how nice it is to have options.

Sometimes plans change and I can be flexible and change with them.

The ride to work was fast, I had a nice tail wind, and I even got cat called twice, that actually sort of made my day.

I’m 42 and single.

I’ll take it where I can thank you.

The boys were adorable with me when I came in and for a rare few moments, we had the house completely to ourselves–the parents work from home–and we snuggled up on the couch and I read them a French pop up book that a former nanny had given them, from yes, France.

Lots of nannies doing the French connection.

I enjoyed brushing up on my French and it was fun to translate the book with the boys, then get them out into the world.

First stop, the Laundrette on the corner, drop off a dress to get altered.

Next stop, Mission Playground.

Running around the courts, kicking balls, chasing each other, swings, tag.

Back to the house for lunch–smoked white fish sandwiches on whole wheat toast with avocado, carrot sticks with humus, and sliced grapes and mango for the boys.

Quiet time was actually quiet time as the youngest, worn out from shenanigans last night and a hard romp at the park, actually took a nap.

I got to have my lunch, drink some tea, check in with a ladybug having a hard time, and talk to my person before the howl of the five-year old alerted me to the end of quiet time.

They have colored clock faces.

When the light on the clock is blue, its quiet time.

When it turns yellow, it’s time to holler my name at the top your lungs.

Good times.

In the afternoon we went further afield, I had the time to spare, not having to prepare any dinner, dinner reservations were happening, to KidPower Park.

Aka.

Crack Power Park.

It’s at 16th and Hoff and occasionally is a little colorful being so close to the 16th Street Mission BART station.

However, today was perfect and I actually sat for a while and soaked up some sun and thanked the universe for my nice job.

After much playing, poking of roly poly bugs, more swinging, lots of sliding, chasing butterflies, and renegading the merry-go-round, we headed back to the house for a small snack, some milk, and a change of clothes.

I cleaned the house, emptied the dishwasher, set right the small disasters that seem to follow after little boys, then hopped on my bicycle and headed to 14th and Folsom for dinner with the family at Rintaro.

A special treat.

Good lord it was good.

I had sashimi–salmon and tuna and trout–tomago, the best I have ever had, baked trout, astounding, yakatori–duck and chicken–stunning and simple and quite possibly the best duck preparation I have had in the city, and a Dirty Girl Farm heirloom tomato salad with squid.

Simple, bright, luscious.

It was great and I certainly would not have taken myself out here, but you got the dime to drop, it’s worth the dropping.

After that.

A quick, fast, short ride up the hill towards Church and Market for a little doing the deal at Our Lady of Safeway.

After.

Tea with a friend.

Then.

Yes.

Space Cowboys at Public Works.

Where I effectively danced off all the duck yakatori and baked trout I had eaten, and then some.

The Space Cowboy dj collective is one of my top favorites and I found myself staying far longer than I said was going to.

I got there at 10:20pm, hit the dance floor at 10:30p.m. stopping only around midnight for a quick walk through and some silly photos in the photo booth with my darling friend Le Bon Bon, we then went back to the room upstairs and got our rocks off on Dusty Rhino.

Quite simply the best set of music I have heard out all year.

So worth staying and dancing another hour to.

I left at 1:15 a.m., never running into one of my dear friends who was also there and we were like ships passing in the night the whole evening, to arrive at my door and text my girlfriend that I was home safe and sound.

1:58 a.m.

Not bad, Martines, not bad at all.

I mean.

I fucking take it for being 42 years old and up past my bed time and yes, blogging to beat the band.

I didn’t break myself.

But I am now ready for bed.

A bid you a good night.

And my body a good rest.

xoxoxo

Honey, Slow Down

March 11, 2015

She chuckled at me over the phone.

“The awards letters will go out in April, you’ll know soon.”

Oh ok.

You mean, sit still and enjoy the pause in the performance, enjoy the fact that you got into graduate school and for a moment, really, there’s nothing else to do.

“Honey, you’re a human being, not a human doing,” he said to me over the phone when I called to check in and told him about the financial aid advisor’s little speech to me on the phone.

When I received the information about the graduate school program accepting me I didn’t really know how to celebrate.

I mean.

I posted it on Facebook, so that should mean something right.

The post was “liked” a lot.

Isn’t that enough.

I mean, I don’t want to rest on my laurels or anything, chop, chop, what’s the next step, let’s keep this train rolling.

I went home Friday evening and did the online counseling for financial aid and signed my promissory note and I shit you not, I was looking to see what my awards package was the next day.

I mean, logically, I knew that it really wasn’t going to be there yet, but you know, I’m just checking.

Ugh.

I decided to call and chat with the financial aid office, I was advised I may qualify for some scholarships, so I better figure out which ones and apply.

NOW.

I shared about that tonight, about needing to just pause and acknowledge the accomplishment instead of moving on to the next thing now, now, now, God forbid I have any feelings around it.

It is an accomplishment, I remind myself, I did have to do some work to get into the program and not just the work of going through the application process (8 page autobiographical statement, 1 page letter of intent, the application itself to fill out, the $65 fee to process the application, asking for the letters of recommendation, getting my transcripts sent out from the University of Wisconsin, Madison), there was the work that I did to get to the point of applying in the first place.

All the exploring of dreams and ideas, writing, writing, writing, being vulnerable, showing up for and exploring other programs, researching Masters Degrees in Creative Writing, looking at getting a second BA in education, what about exploring accounting school and taking course work at City College (which only lasted one class, I am not cut out to be an accountant), applying to Aveda (getting in, but not getting the aid I needed to go) going to an open interview at Blush School of Makeup (I still like me some make up yo), the couple of times I applied to work at the Burning Man office but never got a reply to my applications, let alone called into an interview.

All the soul-searching.

Moving to Paris.

Moving back from Paris.

More inventory.

Working jobs that weren’t a good fit until they became so painful I had to get out and when I did finally saw the way out of my gilded little cage.

Nobody puts Carmen in a corner.

But me.

So, perhaps some acknowledgement of the success is called for.

I am not going to rest on my laurels, I don’t even know how to do that, I have never had the chance to breathe and relax, I need to move and do and shake and go, nothing’s changed.

But so much has changed.

And as I realized that once again, without even knowing I was doing it, I went to the hardware store to buy a hamburger, as my dear heart said to me tonight while we were checking in.

“You just want to be seen, and you weren’t seen,” she said succinctly.

Hey, aren’t I supposed to be helping you?

I didn’t get the validation and approval from my mom I was expecting and I’m tender about it.

It brought up a whole passel of crap that I thought I had worked through, but without even consciously knowing it I had walked on down to the corner hardware store, screws on sale, and demanded a medium rare burger with sharp cheddar and mayonnaise with a nice toasted bun,  swipe some butter on that before you put it on the grill, ok?  And a dill pickle too, perhaps, even, dare I, a chocolate malt as well, heavy on the malt please.

What do you mean you only have a wrench for me.

I want my hamburger.

Maybe some fries too, double-quick.

No, I don’t need a caulking gun.

What the fuck?

I don’t fault my mom for not validating me the way that I want validation.

It’s not her job.

It ceased being her job.

Actually she walked off that job long before it was even had a job description in the mom manual.

But I looked for it long and hard all my years growing up.

I know my mom’s proud of me, but it doesn’t always come across and like going to that dry well expecting a refreshing cold glass of hydration I came up short and had the rug pulled out under my feet, to mix my metaphor’s.

Reminding me that though the sign says the Doctor’s In, I may still get the football pulled away after paying my five cents.

So.

“Be the mother to yourself you wish you had,” she told me yesterday when I called to vent about the voice mail I had received from my mom.

Except.

I couldn’t figure it out.

I couldn’t figure out what that looks like.

I was flummoxed.

What would a mom do upon learning that her daughter got into graduate school?

I kept thinking I should buy myself flowers or oddly enough, socks, I could use a new pair, or maybe a nice dinner out or write myself a card and send it to myself.

Drawing a complete blank.

Then.

I shared about it tonight and that helped a lot.

A LOT.

And I got to have a big moment of forgiveness for myself and this process and loving myself and letting go again of the idea that anyone, mom, dad, boyfriend, friend, boss, lover, sister, teacher, can really validate me.

I validate myself.

I give myself the stamp of approval.

I also forgive, again, and again, it’s a process, my mom, she really is doing the best she can, and knowing her up bringing I doubt she got much validation coming her way.

Hard to give away something you haven’t got.

Then.

I got home.

And there it was in the mailbox, like the post, not my e-mail.

The hard copy of my letter of acceptance to the Master of Arts Weekend program in Counseling Psychology with a concentration in Integral Counseling Psychology for the 2015-16 Fall Semester.

I knew what I had to do.

It was so obvious I laughed out loud.

I got a magnet and put my letter of acceptance on the fridge.

Just like a proud mom would do.

I looking at it right now and it’s pretty much perfect.

I am proud of myself.

And I will celebrate.

There’s a necklace at Fiat Lux on Church and Market I have been eyeing forever.

I’m going to buy it for myself on Friday when I get off work before heading over to Our Lady of Safeway.

It’s a butterfly wing under glass.

I’m emerging from my chrysalis.

It fills the bill.

As does the forgiveness.

Acceptance.

Awareness.

Action.

And.

Celebration.

I got into fucking grad school!

Let’s party.

 

Nice Vespa!

April 25, 2014

What year is it?

1965.

Fucking awesome!

Thanks!

Then, kerchunk.

I killed it on the hill turning onto Fell Street.

Ha.

That’s what you get for flirting with the guy on the corner.

Well, I might have killed it anyway, it’s my newest challenge, going up a hill in gear, first mind you, while using the rear brake to stabilize me and then easing off said brake, letting out the clutch and giving it a little gas.

Not too much.

Not too little.

Just the right mix.

I have it down when I am in the flats and am getting proficient enough with it that I can smoothly slow down, down shift, stop, and ease it right back out after the stop and keep moving forward.

Most of the time.

I still have my moments.

Then, I have to think about the fact that today was time number seven, of being out on my Vespa riding, and three of those rides were short with someone else with me.

I took it up to Church and Market today to do a meet up at Crepevine and then head over to Our Lady of Safeway, except that I didn’t.

After my meeting at Crepevine it started to rain.

Not a lot.

But enough.

Enough that my companion urged me to skip where I was going and head home before it did start to really come down.

The rain wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow, but that’s what happens in San Francisco.

The weather can be a little tricky and I did not want to push my luck with it.

As it happened, I made it back without getting more than just a little sprinkled on.

And I can say that I am getting the hang of it more and more.

I still have what I call my pre-game warm up.

I get nerves.

I get anxious.

I have to breathe through it, roll my shoulders a little, loosen up my body, say a word to the powers that be and give myself more than adequate time to get where ever I am going.

There is a ritual involved to rolling it out and starting it up and I am getting a small routine, but it’s going to be a little longer before I just hop on and cruise off.

Granted, it’s getting easier to will my way into riding.

I expressed tonight at the restaurant that I am more scared than I would like to let on, but then, I have had moments of unadulterated fun, the moving through the park, on John F. Kennedy, has really helped, the green, the lushness, the Chain of Lakes, the Bison in the paddock.

Even, yes, the frisbee golfer warming up tonight as I headed home in the dusk trying to beat out the rain fall.

There’s another thing I can get myself into, frisbee golf.

Free.

Yeah.

I like those sorts of activities.

It would require a small investment to buy a couple of discs and I could hop my scooter and be over to the course in ten or fifteen minutes.

My friend’s partner, said friend who sold me the scooter,  got really excited for me when she saw me last, giving me a big hug she said, “it’s going to open up the city to you in ways you cannot imagine.”

I knew she was right when she said it, but I think I am just starting to get an inkling of what that might look like.

I am a bit bummed that there’s rain forecasted for tomorrow, I know, I know, we need the rain, but I would have like to have ridden the Vespa into the Castro tomorrow, met with my friends, then headed over to the End Up for some dancing.

I am not willing to take her out yet in the rain.

I will, I am sure, at some point take a ride in the rain, but unless it’s absolutely necessary, I don’t see the point.  I can take MUNI, not worry about my burgeoning scooter skills, and stay dry.

I had visions of perhaps going to Kabuki before heading out, but perhaps I will save that for the weekend instead.

Dancing is the only thing on the menu, so far.

I had my half day.

It definitely threw me for a loop, getting out of my routine, going in early, leaving early.

I did not care for it and I did not know what to do with myself, but I just told myself, next little action in front of you and see where it leads.

Lead me home, but not quite to the house, I buzzed by, on my bicycle, earlier, I am still riding my bike into my nanny gigs, and hit the Noriega Produce Market for groceries and supplies to get me through the weekend.

I knew the forecast called for rain, so I figured, get the shopping for food out-of-the-way.  Then back to the house, chop up some raw veggies, eat some hummus, have a bowl of homemade soup and do my “morning” pages, which were clarifying and helped me resolve to continue taking next action, which, yes, led to me meditating.

I can stand that.

The quieting of my mind.

Getting into my body.

“You are so hard on yourself,” she said to me tonight, leaning over the table, “you really don’t have to be.”

I don’t even know it.

I don’t see it.

I don’t feel it.

Once in a while I can see I am learning to ease up.

But most times not.

It’s rather like learning to ride this vintage Vespa, it’s a practice, an easing up, a letting out the clutch and an easing off the throttle.

I am so used to going full throttle and riding the clutch with a death grip.

Ease up.

Slow down.

Mellow out.

Be nice to the scooter.

Fuck.

Be nice to me.

I may not have gotten as much done today as I would like (laundry, cooked food for the weekend–black-eyed peas with kale and broccoli, laced with browned organic ground pork and onions and garlic, pot of savory brown rice–turmeric, garlic, black pepper, ginger, adobo, wrote four pages long hand–I had the time, rode my scooter, met up for tea with someone who has a better perspective on my life than I do, worked a half day, finished my library book–Telegraph Avenue, Michael Chabon) but I did do a lot more than I let myself acknowledge.

For today, for at least this moment.

I acknowledge I do a good job.

The best I can.

And that is pretty damn good.

 


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