Posts Tagged ‘datings’

Somewhere God is Laughing

March 10, 2015

Or at least chuckling loudly.

Ever been in a room where you realize that you have, slept with two of the men in the same room, and oh, yes, so has someone else there, and you’ve made out with another, and oh, it gets better, you’ve asked two other men, in the same fucking room, out on dates.

All I needed was my ex boyfriend to walk in the door.

I knew.

I mean knew.

I was in some fit spiritual place when I laughed to myself.

I did not laugh out loud, but I smiled pretty hard.

It was funny.

It is funny.

Sometimes the world is a very small place.

Now, don’t get me confused with some sort of crazy woman, all these interactions happened at very different times and points of my life and sexual/relationship time line.

One of the guys I made out with?

It was five years ago and I’m friends with him and his wife, so like, no biggie.

The other guy, I, yes, hooked up with at Burning Man.

Come on.

It’s Burning Man.

One was a lover from before I went to Paris.

The other two were in more recent history, one guy I asked out about a year ago, and I have to say, he’s given me the best turn down I have ever gotten.

“I’m so flattered, thank you, but no.”

Quiet, sweet, firm.

We’re friends and run in the same circles.

And he’s got a girlfriend now.

The other guy, I asked out as one of the guys on my list of ten.

I was like.

REALLY?

This has never happened to me before and of in all places, the Inner Sunset?

Ha!

Then I got home and the guy who asked me out to a dessert date, even though I said I don’t eat sugar, happy to have tea with you, freaked out that I don’t eat sugar, and cancelled our date.

Whatever.

It’s all so laughable at this point.

Ah, dating.

And you know, its San Francisco, so yeah, of course there’s overlap, it’s a small world out there.

Also, I do have a community and fellowship that I prefer to date within.

They are the type of men I want to be in a relationship with, so it doesn’t strike me as so strange that a confluence of them were all in the same space.

I’m not sure what God is trying to tell me, but it’s fucking funny.

Even I can see that.

I don’t feel a bit weird about it, that’s the nice thing, I can take it all with a grain of salt and say to myself, “well, self, who’s next?”

I mean.

I’m not going to stop dating or trying to date.

Where’s the fun in that?

I believe that being light-hearted about it all is helpful, being silly can’t hurt either, not taking it so seriously, as I am wont to do with many things in my life, being easy and going with the flow and seeing what happens next.

It’s all a part of the story and the journey and life, dating, is messy.

Funny.

But messy.

I mean I don’t know a single woman or man who hasn’t had a number or horrific/silly/ghastly/laughable dates or moments in dating before finding the person they were supposed to be with.

Or not finding that person.

Or finding out that the best person to date is themselves.

“Take yourself out on a date,” I told her yesterday after we had done some reading and writing in the afternoon.

I gave her some examples of what I have done over the years.

Small things like: lighting candles when I am having dinner, buying myself flowers, drinking my water, sparkling preferably, out of a glass instead of straight from the bottle, sitting outside on the patio when the weather is nice, listening to jazz music, walking on the beach, getting a fancy coffee at a cafe.

To slightly bigger things: riding the F-Market train from the beginning of the line in the Castro to the end of the line in Fisherman’s Wharf, going to the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday at the Ferry Building and eating lunch on a bench overlooking the Bay Bridge, taking the ferry to Sausalito, spa days at Kabuki Springs, going to a matinée, walking through the rain, trips to the MOMA or the Legion of Honor, going to House of Air and trampolining, walking through the butterfly exhibit at the Conservatory of Flowers, walking through China Town with my camera, or playing pinball at Free Gold Watch.

I’ve even taken myself on some pretty fancy pants dates: one year I had a three course pre-fix menu dinner on Valentines Day at Le Zinc a French Bistro in Noe Valley, or going to Paris.

Yes, I do count that as a pretty big date, not when I moved to Paris, but when I went there in 2007 by myself for 10 days.

That was as stupendous date.

I even got lucky with a French man in the Pere Lachaise cemetery.

Well, we made out, and had I let him we would have gone further, but too many tourists around.

It was something else to have a wild-eyed dark-haired Frenchman named Philip lean me up against a 200-year-old mausoleum and kiss me silly.

So.

I know how to date.

I do.

And I make a good date.

The world is not as big as I make it out to be and so to be in a room where I had kissed three of the men, slept with two of the men, and asked out two others, isn’t such a huge deal.

A goofy deal.

A silly deal.

A nothing to take seriously deal.

Something to write about on a foggy night while I wait to see what happens next and who I will go out with this weekend.

So far.

No takers.

But you know.

The week is young.

And already weird.

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow.

 

It’s A Different Kind

December 29, 2014

Of cold.

I find myself arguing with people who live outside of San Francisco when they snark at me that 50 degrees is not cold.

But it is.

There’s no insulation in my studio.

The wind off the ocean is not a breeze.

And it will cut you.

No playing.

Wet cold is so different from dry.

When I was up in Anchorage, the temperatures were drastically different from here, yet I found myself “freezing” on a number of occasions this past weekend.

I cannot believe the weekend is past tense already.

Aside from some cold extremities, which come in handy if one so chooses to use them as weapons of mass destruction on your boyfriend.

“ARGH! How are you’re feet so cold!?” He yelped when I stuck them on his warm leg under the covers in bed.

I felt justified.

The punk is not ticklish, so how am I to get my revenge?

Cold feet are awesome for that–revenge, a dish best served cold.

Not that I really have any thing to seek revenge upon my boyfriend, he is a peach, a pumpkin, a bunny, a darling, a sweetheart, as was often and amply demonstrated over the five-day weekend, which encompassed Christmas and all the crazy family baggage that entails.

For me.

Not him.

His baggage?

None of my business.

To write about or otherwise.

Something that being in a romantic relationship with this person is teaching me, I get to keep learning about myself, not him, myself.

Keep the focus on myself.

Which can be challenging for someone who grew up the way I did.

It’s easier to focus on others, whether it is their perceived wrong doings, or their right doings, when I compare, I despair.

And when I am focused on another person exclusively I am not seeing what I need to do to take care of myself.

It is a dance that I am clumsy at, but have a had a few moments of grace with; my two left, cold, feet, straighten out here and there and I manage to do a pretty pirouette and gracefully navigate a situation or feeling.

I just paused for a moment, to sip my tea and look about my clean space, it got deep cleaned today, and my pretty Christmas tree, to listen to the jazz on my player, to feel the warm dinner in my stomach, to hear the laundry drying in the next room over, to be so grateful for this place, this home, I just wanted to acknowledge a deep contentment for my space.

For that matter.

Let me acknowledge a deep contentment for my life.

I really have a blessed life.

Yesterday, for example, my guy and I went on a little road trip down the coast on Highway One to Santa Cruz.

We went to the Natural Bridges State Park and went on the Monarch hike.

Unfortunately, we got a later start then we had anticipated and there was not much monarch action to be seen.

Oh.

The monarchs were there, in the hundreds, if not thousands, they were just difficult to see.

The bower of eucalyptus trees that they were nestled in were already deep in afternoon shadows when we arrived.

The butterflies had thus already settled down into the bunches twined around the branches and leaves.

There were a few scant flyers in the top part of the tree canopy and I was able to spot a few fluttering around in the last of the suns rays when I strained my eyes all the way up to the sky.

Monarchs

Monarch Butterflies

The monarchs blend so well into the leaves when they are still that it took much searching to finally see the bundles laced throughout the boughs.

Monarchs

Monarchs

In this photograph I pulled as much out as I could and used my filters in Iphoto to somewhat capture a bundle. The gigantic mass is a horde of monarchs, most of them have their wings closed, so it makes it further challenging to observe them without their distinctive orange and black markings showing.

My boyfriend and I walked holding hands and climbed around the trees and paths and listed in the sun when it dappled down through the canopy.

I was already cold and ready for the car.

I joke with him that I am only dating him for the car seat warmer in his car.

In a way, I was disappointed, but in another, I was not at all.

We had gone on an adventure.

Sure it wasn’t the spectacle I had expected and I, of course, self-centered in the extreme, had envisioned the entire thing alone, with my boyfriend, the sunshine, the thousands of butterflies, and the trees.

Not the loud families having arguments about where to park or the tourists taking photographs or grumping to themselves that what was the point, you couldn’t really see the butterflies.

Damn you nature for not complying with our so human and prideful demands.

Rather, I was grateful for the experience.

I had gotten to take a road trip down the coast with my honey, listen to good music, hold hands, stop at roadside coffee shops and berry farms, I had gotten to see the waves unfurl and smash on the beaches of the shoreline on the drive, if I had only done this and nothing more, it was a successful adventure.

A grand experience.

And then as we were winding our way out along the elevated boardwalk, the last of the sun streaming in

Monarch Trail

Monarch Trail

I saw a monarch flutter in the trees and I whipped out the camera and caught them.

Not to take or steal or keep.

But to cherish and remember that moment, with my boyfriend next to me and the sun shining it’s last beams on our faces with boundless love.

Monarch Bundle

Monarch Bundle

Granted.

It’s not the best photograph I have ever taken, but it struck me, how often I can not see the beauty of the moment because I am too caught up in how I think it should be.

The present is full of gifts and they are simple, the most alluring, and beautiful, when they open their wings and remind you that love is here.

You just have to look with an open heart.

Love.

Is in fact.

Everywhere.

Which was then further smashed home when we exited the trees and saw the escaty of the setting sun.

My feet may have been cold.

But my heart.

Oh.

My heart was on fire.

Pacific Ocean Sunset

Sunset, Santa Cruz, Natural Bridges State Park

Split Pea Soup and Sex

March 23, 2014

I don’t actually believe very many folks are going to bait into this blog with that title, but you never know.

I mean, I imagine that the first thing that comes to mind is having sex with split pea soup in the equation, but split pea soup is not necessarily a sexy soup.

I mean it’s green and sort of mushy.

Delicious.

But mushy.

Then I think, is that soup hot?

That would burn.

Maybe you’re kinky?

Hot mushy soup instead of candle wax.

Then I thought, well then, how about cold, like that nursery rhyme: peas porridge hot and peas porridge cold, peas porridge in a pot nine days old.  Some like it hot and some like it cold and some like it in the pot nine days old.

Now first off all who the hell likes anything nine days old?

Nine day old peas porridge sounds like salmonella poisoning to me and nothing says sexy like vomiting.

But cold pea soup, is not sexy at all.

Not even like I am wearing this as a mask to get sexy.

Sexy foods are chocolate and whipped cream, sticky though, let’s be honest, who has had sex with whipped cream?

Raise your hands you kids you.

Uh huh.

And it’s sticky.

Unless you’re hopping in the shower right quick sexy with whipped cream is not sexy.  It makes a good visual, I will grant you that, but otherwise it gets tacky and kind of gross and then you have like lint stuck to you and who wants that?

Or dog fur.

Or gack, cat fur.

“Don’t post a photo of you and your cat!” My friend said over the phone today.

He was asking me to help him look at a few things on his OkStupid profile and I immediately went to you need to change your profile pix, not a good one, take off the sunglasses, show a current photo, you don’t have a beard and the hair cut is much better.

And he replied with the cat insight.

Not that I have a cat photo on my page, but apparently girls do.

“Oh and no kids, even if they’re your cute nieces and nephews,” he added.

I know that one too and told him to do the same, except not with kids, with other women.  I don’t want to see the guy with another woman, whether it’s a co-worker or a sister or an old friend, only pictures of said dude.

As soon as I see another woman I think ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, and it sours me whether or not it’s true.

All this talk about sex and soup and whip cream.

Where is this going?

I basically did my shopping and cooking today, is where it’s going and I was trying to make it sound sexy, and self-care is sexy, split pea soup can be sexy, as long as it’s not cold and nine days old, and I was filled with a kind of warmth, and yes, I dare say it, love of self when I saw my full fridge with healthful stuff in it–homemade soup in canning jars, fresh veggies and fruit and it’s all organic and good and yay.

I suppose that’s where I sort of left it.

I got up late today, almost 11 a.m. before I rolled out of bed, but considering I went to bed at 3 a.m. last night, it makes perfect sense.

I knew I would be busy tomorrow–Joan’s birthday party–and I wanted to get all my stuff dealt with today.  So soup making and food shopping, laundry, and fresh sheets on the bed, flowers in vases, check book balancing, bill paying, and tidying up.

And voila, my day.

No, there was not sex in my day, but you know, as a friend recently commented, I have been baiting my reader with sex in my titles to get a read.  I don’t usually have high readership on Saturdays anyway, so I thought, why not.

I mean, I have sex on the mind, why not put that out there too.

Or at least body contact.

Out at the club last night I sat by my friend for a moment in between dancing and he put his arm around me and I threw a leg over his lap and we hung out.

I have to say, it felt good.

And I wondered, how come never this?

But, he’s a smoker and that’s not a match with me and I know from some experience that guys will let you know if they are interested and I don’t think he is, but we are messaging back and forth on OkStupid to help out both of our profiles.

Apparently the more often you reply the more you get asked out.

According to some blog he read about the site.

I have never even thought about that.

Then when I told him he could use better profile photographs we actually started talking, joking, but I think it could actually be funny, about going around and fake doing things to have that perfect profile shot.

So basically now we need groomers and photographers and more media manipulation on our social sites to get what we really want, personal contact with another human being.

The internet is great, don’t get me wrong, but when I am blogging I am alone, so too when I am on my FaceBook page or OkStupid or Twitter or anything else.

The interconnectivity is awesome some times, although I did not need to see the post my sister just put up about not wearing underwear anymore.

TMI.

Then again, seeing photographs of my niece, pretty cool, especially since, when will I see her next?

Could be awhile.

But I feel that I need to see people face to face and not just over the net to really connect.

I need to watch people too.

I am an artist and I observe.

I take.

Like the small Asian man on the MUNI tonight, with age spots and a mole the size of a quarter on his face the skin on his face sagged and his eyes weary closing against the overhead lighting on the train.

His shoes were worn down and he walked with a bow-legged swagger that made me immediately think sea man and he was far shorter when he stood to get of the train than I thought he would be, almost diminutive in his navy suit and rumpled white dress shirt that was baggy out of his pants, pulled askew on the left side where he had been  scratching his ribs.

And the hat.

Slouched down, yet dapper, a fedora in tweed with flecks of brown and mustard.

That hat said so much.

Would I have noticed that hat had I been engrossed in my Facecrack feed on my phone?

I don’t think so.

I don’t know where all this is going, but I am grateful for these powers of perception whether they are reflecting on soup or sex.

Or hats.

I am writing and that’s the sexy in my soup any day.


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