Posts Tagged ‘expereince’

It’s A Lawn Ornament

May 11, 2015

Nice to hear if you’re the proud owner of a flock of pink plastic flamingos.

Not so much if you’re the (sort of not so proud anymore) owner of a 1965 Vespa.

Ugh.

I just keep repeating to myself, bless it or block it.

And man.

This is blocked.

I met with my friend who sold me the scooter.

I talked with my friend who just finished rebuilding his own Vespa.

I texted back and forth with another friend about his current rebuild at Scooter Centre.

And I am done.

Done.

I keep also hearing keep it simple stupid.

I will drop the stupid part, but I do own up to my part.

My part–taking on something that is vintage, that I don’t have the band width to tinker with, that I don’t have enough passion for to keep.  Thinking something is cute and posing by it is not the passion that will keep it running.

Nor do I have deep enough pockets.

My hopes, expectations, and needs were never met with this scooter.

Which is not the experience my friend who sold it to me had and I understood his point of view and his offer of help.

But in the end I left the coffee shop in tears and I just felt over it.

I talked with another friend on the phone a few hours later, lunch, a cup of tea, a call to my mom to wish her happy mother’s day, a walk along the Great Highway staring at the dunes and the sun poking out valiantly from the clouds, and he said, be up front, tell whom ever decides to buy it point-blank it’s a Vietnam scooter and you’ll probably get $1200.

Fact is.

I don’t want to deal any more.

I don’t want to spend any more time thinking about it.

I don’t.

Perhaps that is me being a baby.

But I prefer to think that it is me be simple, direct, and absolutely to the point.

The scooter was blocked for me from the beginning.

I had misgivings the minute I saw it and it didn’t have so much to do with the ideation of it; that made me feel wonderful, how sleek and sassy and cute the Vespa is; but that I realized that I had bitten off far more than I could chew.

The having to mix motor oil with gas.

The choke.

The cold engine.

The kickstart.

Damn that thing.

Only eleven months later and I still get an ache in my ankle if I walk too hard on it without enough support.

Maybe it looks like I’m rolling over and showing the world of scootering my pink, vulnerable, belly.

But I have heard, more than a few times, that surrendering means going over to the wining side.

It’s not a loss.

It’s just money.

I got hurt once trying to use the scooter.

But I wasn’t in an accident on the road, I didn’t lose my life, like my best friend who was hit while riding his scooter nearly eight years ago.

I didn’t have to donate my organs to science, make my mother cry, or be cremated to have my ashes scattered over the wide world.

I had an experience.

I don’t want to have it any more.

I told my friend who was advocating talking to Chris Ward again, making a case to Barry Gwin again, trying this tack or that, that I really was done.

As far as I am concerned I would happily sign over the title to him and let him tinker with it for the next few years.

He’d have fun.

I find it frustrating.

This is not the first time I have invested in something that has not worked out, but really, in the end, I got to have some great experiences.

I learned how to use a throttle on a scooter and what it felt like to climb over the top of 17th Street, terrifying, and up Castro and over Twin Peaks.

I rode out to Sea Cliff twice.

I got to have the experience of stalling out in the fog and crying.

I got to see how badly my ankle could get mangled.

I got to have the experience of setting up insurance and registering through the DMV and learning how to ride at the Motorcycle Safety Course.

I got to almost get hit twice on Lincoln Avenue when someone changed lanes without looking.

I got whistled at once stopping to park it and taking off my helmet and shaking out my hair.

I felt all sorts of Charlie Girl around that.

Suffice to say.

I believe I’m done.

I really meant what I texted to my friend, he wants it, it’s his.

I give it away.

It certainly wasn’t doing any good sitting in the foyer at the house collecting dust and providing a cute place for spiders to spin webs.

The mechanic at Scooter Centre said it was a lawn ornament and he’s right.

That’s what it’s been since my accident.

I can stop banging my head against the door that does not open.

Or if you will, banging my ankle on a kick starter that won’t turn over.

Or I can walk, ride my bicycle, take MUNI, or pogo stick through the one that is open.

I don’t know what God wants for me as far as transportation goes; probably my bicycle since that seems to be in great working order, but it’s not this Vespa.

And when I am honest with myself.

It never was.

So friends.

You want the Vespa I’ll sign that title right over to you.

Wash my hands of it.

Wipe away the tears.

Say lesson learned and look for new and more entertaining ways to have another experience in this great big game of life.

I am an experiential creature after all.

I want to feel it all.

Just not maybe around this particular scooter anymore.

I’m done with it.

Next experience please.

I concede.

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Stay Calm

April 21, 2015

I repeat.

Stay calm.

I really want to freak out though.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I sounded like I knew what I was doing when I call the Registrar’s office at CIIS this morning while there was a brief pause in the work day.

“So I just go online, and register and I’m all set?” I said.

“Yes, anything else I can help you with?” The woman, Nikki, I think she said her name was.

“Nope, all good, thanks so much for your help.” I replied and got off the phone.

I don’t have any idea what I am doing, I thought as I got off the phone, further, I’m not even sure what the correct questions are to ask.

I received an e-mail a few days ago about the course schedule being up and I poked around on the website looking at things, but it was sort of gobbledy gook to my eyes and I got off it pretty quick.

I was unsure what I was looking at.

My assumption, ah assuming that wonderful thing that makes and ass out of “u” and “me,” was that because I was accepted into the Weekend Integral Counseling Psychology Masters Program, there would be a big sign saying, you do this now and go here now.

Push this button and you are all set.

I mean, maybe not literally, but I just thought, ok, there’s only one program set up, I’m accepted, I paid my deposit, I just show up for the first day of class and they tell me what to do.

Right?

Um.

Wrong.

I do have to register for classes.

Well, fuck.

What classes do I have to register for?

I’m confused.

How come the department head didn’t send out a message to the weekend program detailing which classes are to be registered for?

That’s not helping, self, when I think I know better how to do something and I have never been to graduate school and it’s been a long time since I have been in school period and when I was there was this thing you did where you looked up your classes in a paper book of schedules and then you were assigned a time to call on the phone.

Like a phone with that’s attached to the wall via a cord.

And then you registered by punching in the number of the class followed by the pound key and it would tell you if the class was full or not.

A lot depended on registering as soon as you could, at the exact time you were scheduled.

You snooze, you definitely lose.

Somebody else was going to get that class.

Occasionally the class I would want would be full and I learned that you kept trying, because somewhere someone on campus was trying to get into another class and might be dropping the one that you wanted and if you got it at the right moment, you might be able to snag that spot.

I remember pumping my fist in glee getting into a Comparative Literature Class that I had been trying to get into my class schedule for over a week, randomly calling at odd times of day or night, or whenever I had a spare moment to sit on the phone.

I swear I had that class number memorized for years.

Then there was the last resort, where you could show up for the class and hope that someone found the professor to be an asshole or a taskmaster or the class wasn’t exactly to their liking and they would drop and you could pick it up.

I remember walking out of a class my junior year thinking, no way I could listen to that professor drone on for an entire semester.  I hadn’t even waited until the end of the class, I got up and left after fifteen minutes and never once regretted that.

I believe the system hasn’t changed that much, it appears to be of the same general idea.

Except that I have to register online at 11:35 a.m.

Which is when I’m at work.

I also don’t want to have to do it on my phone.

Even though I have internet access on my phone it seems like it would be far easier to bring my laptop into work with me.

I’m sure the mom and dad won’t have an issue with me taking a few minutes to register.

I went online and logged into my student page and I figured out what I’m suppose to register for, the classes for the fall, 13 credits, my god.

I’m really doing this.

Aside.

I’m fucking going to graduate school.

Holy shit.

This is real.

I’m registering for the fall semester tomorrow at 11:35 a.m.

That just blows my mind.

That I’m going to be a child therapist blows my mind too.

“Breathe,” I told him as he threw an epic temper tantrum in front of the market at 21st and Valencia.

I’m already practicing, have been for some time, it would seem.

I took in a big deep breath and moved him a little further down the street, he was still apoplectic; however, it was going to fade and I knew if I could just get him to the store front of Casa Bonompak on Valencia Street, all would be well.

They have a huge display of pinatas in the window.

It was like a switch had been thrown.

The next thing you know the hurricane of tears and wails and no’s and screams were gone and we were talking about paper mache.

Incredible.

I suspect I was telling myself just as much to breathe as I was my little charge.

I suspect I will tell myself much the same when I get to work tomorrow and talk to the mom and dad and ask for a few minutes out of my schedule to register.

I’m nervous that I will fuck it up.

The truth, however, is, that even if I do make a mistake, it can be corrected.

And I will have another experience under my belt.

I will have registered for my first semester of graduate school.

That, I suspect, will feel pretty damn good.

It already does.


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