Take The Fucking Drama

Out of it.

Oh my god.

What a fucking concept.

I laughed and almost slapped my own forehead.

Instead of getting worked up about work, I just thought, fuck, all I have to do is show up and be of service, I don’t have to ask anything, I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to be stupid and pushy, I can ask for what I need the next time it comes around.

No need to do it today.

Just having done the work around it, the internal re-arranging of my perspective was the relief.

My boss doesn’t have to change.

My boss is never going to change.

She doesn’t have to.

I do.

I change.

And today I decided that creating unnecessary drama before a three day weekend was stupid.

Idiotic really.

When I was going to get off work early today and be eating out with my boys and drinking pricey iced coffees.

Oh Stumptown how do I love thee.

Yeah, I know, it’s not San Francisco based, but fuck, they have good ass coffee.

I am all out of the coffee I bought in New York.

Frankly, I have to say I was disappointed with the Gorilla Coffee I got, the roast was far darker than I like and just a tiny bit charred to my taste.

The coffee I had at the cafe when I popped into it was great, but they were out of the beans that I wanted.

Now.

Variety, in Williamsburg, that stood up to the test.

In fact.

It was like being transported back to the cafe and the talk I had with the barista and then the getting together with my friend and doing that thing I like to do in church basements that evening.

It was a sweet reminder every time I ground up a batch of the Variety beans I brought back.

Maybe I’ll find some hipster coffee in New Orleans.

Fuck me.

Total digression.

I’m all over the place.

Like always.

But.

I’m a tiny bit at loose ends.

Having a clear three day weekend ahead of me.

I got free of jury duty for tomorrow and the family is out of town visiting aunts and uncles and grandparents in the Midwest.

I spent the day keeping the boys on the move and out of the house, hence the Stumptown, I popped into Atlas Cafe on Alabama and 20th.

I have so many fond, and not so fond, memories of the cafe.

It was my first heavily visited cafe, being a block and a half away from the first place I lived in the city, 20th and York.

The first time I go there I ran into someone from Madison who had moved to San Francisco years before me and I had had a class with at University, a TS Eliot class that was amazing and also challenging beyond comprehension, most of the class dropped, including the guy I ran into at the cafe, but I stuck it out and though it may seem odd, that was were I began to believe in God.

That coupled with the course on fairy tales I took the next summer and there, a chink in my armor.

A place where the light got in.

Not for a while though.

Just ask my dealer.

He made a few deliveries to me at Atlas Cafe as well.

I have a nodding acquaintance with the bathroom there.

And a fondness tinged with nicotine nostalgia for the back patio where once upon a time a lady could smoke a cigarette with her espresso romano–a shot of espresso with a lemon twist.

God damn.

I don’t smoke anymore.

I forget that sometimes.

I can forget many things easily.

Use to weigh over 80lbs heavier.

Forgot that.

Used to do drink every day.

Forgot that.

Used to not be able to not spend the money on the bag or pick up the phone to call my dealer to do a little delivery.

“Fuck, you’re guys faster than pizza delivery,” a friend “complained” as he had to scramble to get to the cash machine when my dealer showed up less than fifteen minutes after I had placed my “order.”

He was pretty quick.

Grateful for other things today.

Explained how grateful to be less of what I was and somehow so much more, humbled by the grace that I have been given, bowed head, loved, shined on so that I can turn it out and shine it forward.

That this body is no less and no more than a conveyance for love.

And hopefully sex once in a while.

Oh my God.

43.

STAWP with the hormones.

Oh.

I suppose I’ll rue the day when they go away, but seriously, the sexy sex chemicals in my blood stream.

I don’t have the screaming baby keening ache that I had for a few years, no, it’s been replaced by a last ditch ovarian siege where I am smoking out any guy with the testosterone to hang with me.

FUCK ME!

That’s what it feels like all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

Ok.

Maybe I exaggerate a little, but seriously, the body and the brain in collusion are trying real hard to get this lady some action.

“Let’s go out and find some trouble….nothing’s sexier than regret.”

Heh.

Were I to stumble upon that I might be smote.

So.

Until then.

The yoga.

The masturbation.

Thank you rechargeable Hitachi Magic Wand.

The hair geographic, which will happen Saturday.

I have a tentative date, blind date, Tinder date, not to hook up, which he made that clear, thanks, I think, but hey, you know, just trying, and I wonder if I should warn him about the impending pink hair or just spring it on him.

Fuck.

Who cares?

The drama.

There is none.

If my worst fucking problem is that I want to get laid and no one has thrown their hat in the ring, then my life is a fucking cake walk.

Rent is paid.

The phone is paid.

I got a yoga membership at the studio.

I got that thing in the church basements doing it’s deal for me.

I got happy, joyous, free.

I got friends.

I got good coffee in the cupboard.

Light in the soul.

Shine on my heart.

I ain’t got worries.

All I got.

Is three day weekend and endless fun.

Let’s see what kind of silly I can get up to.

Want to come along?

I promise.

Good times.

Seriously.

Just Me, Myself, And I

Although.

Baby.

Wish you were here.

We might have some stupid fun.

My place in New York is so freaking sweet.

Seriously.

I told my host if he ever thought about leaving he’d better let me know.

It is cavernous and gorgeous and art, oh all the art he has.

Oh.

Look.

My art date, artist date with myself, is already happening.

The space is a big old warehouse in Clinton Park.

Super high ceilings, big windows, I can tell there’s going to be some ridiculous light in here come morning.

He’s a photographer and traveler and bicycle guy.

My kind of fellow.

There’s an awesome dog that has already become my new best friend, a three legged cat, yes, that’s right, he’s got a tripod cat, and an organic market around the corner.

Plus.

The promise of the best coffee in New York come morning.

I am not exactly at home, but I feel right at home.

And I am super stoked for my new adventure.

This new, New York experience for me.

I caught an Uber from JFK.

Although, dude, you were hella sweet, but you got to lay off the cologne, whoa man, and I got the very broad, huge hint that I should definitely be going clubbing this weekend, preferably Saturday, hint, hint, nudge, nudge.

Yeah.

It was a lot cheaper than I thought and I will probably do the same back to the airport come Monday morning since my flight out is at 7:30 a.m.

The travel here was good.

I woke up retarded early though.

An hour before I needed to.

And I had the hardest time falling asleep.

I was a bit anxious.

Travel sometimes does that to me, I can get worked up with the organizing of the stuff and things and forget that I am going to have fun.

I am definitely having fun.

I have already had a really awesome conversation with a new friend in Brooklyn and gotten some great tips for my time here and I’m stoked that I get to stay in this big, open, well lit, art filled space with animals and coffee and photographs and old fixed gear bikes.

“My dad, that’s his fixie, he’s 86, and he still rides,” my host explained pointing out the various bikes he has.

We talked some shop, some travel, some New York, lots of art talk, just exactly what I need.

Super happy.

Well taken care of and excited for the rest of the adventure.

Plus!

I ran into a girl friend at SFO.

We were on the same flight, one aisle apart and caught up on all things school and travel and it was super sweet to get to reconnect with someone I hadn’t had a chance to catch up with probably years.

The flight was great.

I feel all jacked up and excited to be here.

Which really is the only problem, the only fly in the ointment, I’m on West Coast time and I want to get up early and get out there and have my New York experience.

I’m super proud of myself.

I know how that sounds.

But I am.

It means a lot to me that I am doing this.

Shall I let you in on a secret?

It wasn’t my idea.

It was my travel partner to Paris who came up with the idea.

“We should do New York, do the museums there too,” he told me, my heart already so broken down and sad.

Sometimes God gives you exactly what you ask for.

“Hey God,” I remember saying one day, probably the last week that I was in Paris before I moved back, “the next time I am here I want it to be with someone I am in love with.”

Haha.

Fuck you God.

Maybe I should have said, someone who can reciprocate love back to me.

Do you have any idea how hard it was to be in Paris with a man that you’re in love with and not kiss in every side street possible, to sleep in the same bed and not touch?

Heart breaking.

Hello Tinder.

Hello fuck the pain away.

Hello do another inventory.

Hello there, pulling into the parking lot at the 7-11 at the corner last Wednesday.

Yeah.

Didn’t see that one coming did you?

I don’t always write about things that happen in my life, you’d be surprised, I am transparent as all fuck on this blog, but not always.

No.

Not always do I put it all out there.

Sometimes things never come out, sometimes it things just get pushed aside because other things are happening.

I was still feeling the after affects, the glow, the good feelings of a date I had recently had with someone I’m rather working a little crush on.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Suffice to say I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I like a guy.

That’s all.

And then.

This other guy, my inventory guy, my leave him alone amends guy, my no more friends on facecrack guy, my he stopped subscribing to my blog guy and we don’t do the deal in the same places guy, in the parking lot.

Just there.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him.

He’s been popping up in the rear view mirror here and there recently.

Which doesn’t surprise me, we live blocks away from each other, I’m surprised more that we hadn’t run into each other sooner.

The first time was a few weeks ago and I was scootering to the Inner Sunset to do the deal with my person and go over said inventory and I was wearing a dress, ha!  I packed that same dress for tomorrow’s date with me, myself, and I in Brooklyn, and I was also dressed up for a first date, with the aforementioned I might be working a crush guy, and I was light.

So light.

My skirt fluttering out behind me, the sun warm, the air kissing my face and I was lane splitting and then I noticed, white SUV with the alma mater sticker and hey that’s the same as, oh, shit, that’s him.

I lane split.

He turned his wheel.

I blew by.

And that’s what it was like.

No animosity or upset.

I had moved on.

I felt so light and free and removed from it all.

All the drama and story and emotional upheaval.

Gone.

I raised my hand, waived, and scootered on my way.

So when I crossed in front of his car pulling into the 7-11 parking lot and there was nothing there to dramatize, it was just a hey how are you.

“Your hair looks great,” he said.

“Thanks,” I think I said, but really, I don’t think I acknowledged the compliment.

Rather I kept going.

“I won’t keep you, good night,” I said and walked away.

No drama.

No story.

Nothing.

Freedom.

Gratitude.

Thanks God.

I’m free.

Free to be me in New York.

Free to say, to acknowledge, this wasn’t my idea, but damn I am so glad I ran with it.

Free to be happy.

Free to pursue and be pursued.

Free to go get my art the fuck on.

I’m in New York.

Fuck yeah baby.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.