Posts Tagged ‘fashion’


August 21, 2017

I’m ready for Burning Man.

All I have to do is get through the week.

And what a week it’s going to be.


I have supervision tomorrow morning in Hayes Valley.

Then work, nannying, up in Glen Park.

I might, depending on what is going on with my supervisor and some paperwork, have to spin by my school and drop off a practicum trainee review.

I have seen the review and tomorrow we will be discussing it.

I’m not super excited to tell you the truth.

It wasn’t as great a review as my other supervisor, but then again, this supervisor is tough and smart and I doubt he gives very high marks to anyone he supervises.

I did good.

Don’t get me wrong.

Although I didn’t like his additional comments about how my schedule, school full-time, working full time, the practicum hours at the internship, how I’m working six days a week and have to be careful to not get overloaded and to take time to recharge.


I did a lot of recharging today.


I also did a lot of work.

Laundry, cooking–made a pot roast (god damn was that a great supper, I marinated it over night in olive oil, garlic, sea salt, black pepper, adobo, thyme; then roasted it super slow and low for almost three and a half hours, I also soaked it down with homemade chicken stock to keep it moist while it was cooking and surrounded it by baby potatoes, parsnips, carrots, and turnips.  I ate a nice juicy slice of it for dinner over some brown rice and put a pat of butter on it and some salt, because salt, and my fucking god, heaven), went to yoga, cleaned my house, and yeah.

Packed for Burning Man.

Four large bins, one medium bin, got my cooler ready to load up, but I won’t load it until the day I head out, which is next Sunday.

I’ll be keeping everything in the freezer until the very last moment.

My four man tent, a folding chair, and my parasol.

Ta da!

I’m pretty good at the packing for the desert trip, it’s just a matter of getting my bins sorted and having laundry done.

It used to be that my wardrobe was pretty small and basically I was wearing whatever I owned out on the playa.

A little time and a little bit of purchases here and there and I have slowly acquired a playa set of clothes, although a good bit of my wardrobe still does hop into a bin, it’s not my entire closet.

And there are some things that I absolutely won’t wear out there, which is relatively new in the last couple of years, I would just dump everything I had in my bins and empty my closet.

I do need to get a pair of sunglasses, some good aviators, I couldn’t find my sunglasses and then I realized, oh yeah, stupid, paid way too much for a set of Oliver Peeples prescription sunglasses and lost them at school last semester.



Yeah, that’s about all I have to purchase for the trip, that and the things that will wait until I get out-of-town, like ice and water, that I’ll pick up in Reno at the 24 hour SafeWay.

My ride is coming to pick me up at 1 p.m. next Sunday.

The drive takes about 8-9 hours.

I figure we’ll land on playa around midnight–the stop in Reno and any other pit stops or gassing up that needs to be done.

My ticket and the vehicle pass are at Will Call.

I was gifted a low-income ticket from the organization, it’s still $198 and the vehicle pass is $80, but it’s cheaper than the regular ticket, and I got a ticket, there’s always so many people who can’t seem to get a ticket since the event started selling out years ago.

I remember very well the first time that happened, I was nannying for the head of Media Mecca and there was a great kind of awed hush that came over her when the announcement was made over the radio channel.

It was astounding to think they sold out.

Used to be you could just buy a ticket when you got there.

You could buy a ticket at Rainbow Grocery for fucks sake.

Now it’s a big deal, it’s a lotto, they’re more expensive, they are much harder to get.


Well, I keep getting lucky, I keep getting to go.

I get to keep wearing big flowers in my hair and pretty dresses and my cowboy boots and crinolines.

I don’t show much skin out there per se, sure, my bra top will show, but I always wear a bra, I’m not a run around the desert naked kind of gal.

I like a tan, but not that much.


I wear gingham dresses and crinolines, or fun tights and frilly panties and loose cotton tops.

At night I wear leggings and jean shorts, and layers, I have a cheetah print jacket with a pink silk lining that I only wear at Burning Man.

I have my goggles.

And I have my box of makeup.


What I like to do is wear lots of geegaws up in my hair and put on pretty makeup.

Throw in a crinoline and my cowboy boots and that’s it.

Oh, yeah, and a few bandanas, always, one around my wrist and sometimes one around my the top of my boot, it’s nice to have a spare for the dust that kicks up.

And like that.

My day is just about done.

I need to get the last of the laundry out of the dryer and wrap up a few loose ends here at the house.

Then my full week, supervision, work, clients, therapy, and let me not forget my first weekend of classes.


It’s going to be busy.

But good.

I know my week will be very good and I will have my moments, my quiet, sweet moments in my little home by the sea to ponder how good I have it and how much I am loved.

Luckiest girl in the world.

And packed for Burning Man!

Fuck yeah.


You Look Good!

August 20, 2017

He said to me after giving me a great big hug, “where you been, I’ve missed you?”

Interning, working, getting ready for school, prepping for Burning Man.

Oh the list of stuff.

“You like?” I said, and stepped back to let him admire my look, “I therapized today, so I was dressing for the occasion.”

“I love,” he said, then continued, “you were what?”

I told him I had clients today, I had group supervision, I wanted to dress the part, the therapist part that is, I want to look like a professional.

“You look good! It’s totally working for you,” he finished, “glad you made it tonight.”

And so was I.

And I was happy that I made an impression.

Maybe it’s just me, but I really want to give an air of being a professional, I want to be respected  and I want to set a tone for my clients, I’m not super serious and I’m not uptight, I am warm and friendly and empathetic, but I also want to send a clear message.

I am an authority and I am going to dress like one.

On the other hand.

Holy fucking shit.

Some of the people who work with me are not as concerned with their appearance.

Or their body smells.

Fuck my mother.

It was a shock today to walk into my office and be overwhelmed and I mean, overwhelmed, with the smell of rotting socks and foul shoes.

The intern before me had done a session with his client in his socks.


I sort of understand, it was a child client, I will happily get down on the floor with a child, I will, getting on a child’s level is crucial, I would and have done sessions sitting on the floor with a kid.

I have never taken off my shoes for a session with a kid, but hey, sure I could, if I felt that it was of service to the session.



Not if my feet smell like bad molding cheese.

God damn.

I am not over exaggerating, even if I have a tendency toward the dramatic, I am not being dramatic, it was bad.

So bad that an hour later when my group supervisor and the rest of the interns coming in for our 2p.m. session, noticed it, complained and opened the windows wider.

I shared with one of the interns about why it smelled that way and that the room also had not been vacated on time, the therapist had gone over with his client.

I was livid.

I had the room assigned to me and I had a consult waiting in the hallway.

I understand that I am working in a community mental health facility, but fuck, people, professionalism.


There is something therapeutic about what I am modeling for my clients by showing up on time, by presenting a clean persona, by having a nice outfit on.

I don’t have to be dressed to the nines, but I present nicely.

I mean, I am a professional nanny during the day, I run around with a four-year old and a seven-year old and I am constantly juggling a baby–which is great, I joke often that I am emitting baby smell which has to be a therapeutic smell if there ever was one–who sometimes burps up milk or mashed carrot on me.


I have back up clothes at work.

I have nanny shoes.

I have therapy shoes.

I bring in my nice clothes, I change, I put on my therapy shoes, I tidy my hair, I make sure that there’s no burp residue on me, I refresh my lipstick before I hop on my scooter and zip to my internship after my day job has ended.

I pull it together.


I am done ranting.

I guess I have just been taken by surprise a few times by the lackadaisical attitude of some of the interns.

I take what I am doing so fucking seriously, I want to be good.

I mean.

Really good.

I am proud of what I have accomplished and it feels good to give it acknowledgement.

I had hot pink hair when I started my Masters of Psychology program.

I have a lot of tattoos.

A lot.


I dressed flamboyantly, glittery makeup, big flowers in my hair.

A little faux queen if you will.

Big hair.

Big personality.

And I love that about myself, that I can pull out a fabulous costume from my closet and do it up, but I remember quite distinctly when I began the process of interviewing for practicum that I wanted to present a bit more polished.

I went and got a good hair cut.

I went back to my natural color.

I hadn’t been my “natural” hair color in god only knows how many years.

Purple, magenta, green, blue, yellow, hot pink, cotton candy pink, rainbow sherbert, name a color I had it.

I stopped painting my nails super dark colors.


I still do now and again, but I tend towards a neutral manicure now.

I toned down my clothes, I got some good clean, easy dresses from the Gap and a couple from Asos, that I could layer with a classic black cardigan.

I softened my makeup.

I almost never wear winged eyeliner anymore and I don’t wear glitter.


Maybe a tiny bit of sparkle, but it’s so subtle now, you might not notice it at all.

I stopped wearing flowers in my hair.

I still have them.

I will wear them at Burning Man.

I will have a wild hair parade everyday out there, I will wear flowers and ribbons and hats and fascinators and I will have fabulous makeup and flamboyant dresses.

I will wear fucking antlers on my head.

See if I won’t.


Not when I have a session with a client.

I like this refined me.

It feels adult.

I like wearing heels and nice button down shirts and expensive jeans and soft, clean makeup, I still wear hoops, but not the super gigantic ones anymore.


Don’t get me wrong, I’m an attractive woman and I have unique features and my hair is always going to be wild, but it’s just wild brown curls now not hot pink curls, and well, the tattoos, they will always be there and there will probably be another one or two add to the mix.

I am never not going to be noticeable.

But fuck me.

I will be professional.

And that’s my business.

I don’t have to judge how others do it, even though, shit, half this blog was all about judging mister stinky feet and the sloppy ass interns in t-shirts and dirty jeans, but I do get to process it out here.

So that when I interact with them.

I can be professional.


I am.

I am a psychotherapist.

And I will dress like it because it pleases me to do so.

So there.


Be Anais To My Henry

February 28, 2016

And ding!



We have a winner.

Best pick up line ever.


Back on the dating tip again.

I was told, suggested, ha, when have I not taken her suggestions? To get back on the dating, “that was one date, try again,” she said and gave me a look.


I also got some really specific things to write my next inventory on.

Gratefully I have only four, FOUR!

Four people on this inventory, and one concept.

I can’t believe that.

The concept blows me away.

She wants me to write about being unworthy.

“What I’m hearing is that you’re not worthy, I want you to go back and look back and really write about that, how and when that started, because you are worthy, and that false belief needs to get taken out and replaced with worthiness.”


I have never heard it put like that.

I am excited, nervous, yes, what will happen when I believe I am worthy, how will my life change?

It will change for the better, that I know, so I will do what she suggests.


I have started yoga, went again today, 6th time.

Really hard time today, had a hard time getting out of my head, felt stiff and the new mat I got was so slippery that I was sliding all over the place and falling on my ass, a lot, too much, found myself swearing “fuck this” and almost in tears more than once.


I have a housemate and I asked her after class today, as she does yoga too, about her mat.

I showed her mine and she said, “oh, it’s because it’s a cheap mat, look, you want something like this,” and she showed me her mat.

Oh my god.

What a difference.

I went online immediately and googled non-slip mat and found a Gaiam mat and yes, it was expensive, but not too bad and I have committed to doing this practice, for my school class, for my person, for my self.

I might as well get a good mat that I won’t slip on, because if I had to continue the way that I did today I would quit, it was untenable.


My housemate gave me the older one to use of hers that I was borrowing until I got my own, so I will retire the slick little mat I bought at the co-op and use the housemates until I get the new mat.

That will help.

I plan on going in again tomorrow.

And Wednesday.


I’ll be on a tea and poetry date in the Outer Sunset.


I did get back on Tinder and realized that one bad date was not going to throw me and even if I have more bad dates, which is more likely than anything, I’ll have had more experiences.

As I have stated before I get to get out there and do this, I get to learn, and like the yoga, I will fall on my face a bunch and make an ass out of myself and probably meet a few asses, but maybe, I’ll also meet someone impeccable and fun.

And tall.


My Wednesday cafe date is 6’4″!

Mama’s bringing out the heels!

Although, I may not as we’re having a cafe date after I get out of work and doing the deal.

I may not be in heels wearing mood.

I’ll probably rock the tried and trued Converse.

Or maybe the new Fluevogs, they’ve got a sassy little heel, not too extreme for a first date.

I got time to let my wardrobe speak to me.

I wore the sweetest new gingham black and white check halter dress from Hell Bunny today.

I got the last of my dresses from my fitting at the Modcloth Brick and Mortar.

So happy that I did that for myself, it’s been so nice having sweet, cute, sexy, sassy clothes, I’ve really been enjoying the hell out of them.

I wore the dress with a little black cardigan today and pink glitter lipgloss and just felt all kinds of fancy.

I am also reflecting on fashion as it looks really good for that thing in the desert.

I got an amazing and awesome proposal from the family that wants me to playa nanny this year.


I’m a little loath to share the details here, suffice to say I need to collect myself and e-mail my current employers and ask for the time off.

I have nerves about the request as it falls outside of my paid vacation time.

First and foremost I have to go to my school retreat.

It’s the second year retreat and it’s another full time week of classes out at the center in Petaluma we were at this past summer.

The dates are August 7th-14th.

That is what I am saving the rest of my vacation days for, I have to go to that, it’s part of my curriculum, there is no getting out of it and I love Burning Man.



I have to prioritize the school stuff.

So that’s my first ask for time off.

The second request, the Burning Man request, is outside of my paid vacation, August 25th-September 6th, and though I’d be well compensated by the family I’d be working for on playa (thus negating any pay losses which I can’t, um afford, considering what the hell my tuition is, hello student loans), I’d really be honor bound to work with my current family.

That’s the job that pays the bills the rest of the year.

I think they will.

They did last year.

I just have to ask.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it tonight, but I will tomorrow.

I want them to have the information and I want to be transparent.

I respect them greatly and they have really taken care of me, the raise, the SFMTA Child Care Parking Permit for my scooter, cash when I work overtime.

I appreciate them and how they have been so business like with me too.

That being said, I deserve these things, I bust my ass and work hard and I do love, so much, my boys, they are just deliciousness all the time.

Well, not all the time, but you now what I mean.

That being said, I know they want me to be happy and Burning Man makes me happy.

I’m pretty sure it’s all going to work out.

And yay.

It’s been a good day.

I also started my period so I’m not so hormonally nuts, but you know, I’m alright with what happened, my emotions needed a vent and I got it.



You are so good to me.

Tall cafe date, Burning Man, recovery, self-care, coffee, spicy sweet tea, flowers in my hair, yoga, sleep, graduate school, life.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Told you so!

I’m talking to myself here, yesterday and the day before, I wasn’t feeling it.

Funny how quickly things turn around when you let go.

Take suggestions.


And let the love find you.

Show up for it.

It is always there.

I promise.




Unbox This!

February 5, 2016

The reverence in which I just unboxed a ream of paper made me wish I had been video taped.

I was all excited as I saw the box in the hallway when I got home from work tonight and I thought, boy, I could use a little pick me up after the busy day I had at work.

Grandparent visit.

That’s all I’ll say.

Thank God tomorrow is Friday.


I wheeled home, a perfectly temped night, a fast whiz through the park, the smell, dark, rich, fragrant, trees and earth and coolness, the sharp, delicious smell of wood fire burning down at the beach drifting towards me.

I looked up.

Saw Orion in the sky.

Remembered nights, compiled upon one another in a stack of memory Tarot cards, a shuffling of images, heart rendered soft with the sweetness of that unrequited love, that night on the beach there, that hand in my hand on the sea wall, the fall of the red moon into the sea, the lift of the stars above my head.

I thought of all the times I had stared up silent and alone in the awe of the stars, the press of the night on my heart, the alone of not being alone and the loveliness of the sky after just slipping off my bicycle and turning off the flashing lights on my handlebars.

I smiled at the stars, stuck the key in the garage door, wheeled in the bicycle.

I opened up the door to the hallway and there was the box.



My shoes!

My new Sam Edelman, I bought them with my State Tax Return, shoes.

Oh goody.

Maybe I’ll wear them this weekend.

It’s supposed to be nice.

I started thinking about what dress I should wear and I picked up the box, heavy, satisfying, the weight a sweet promise of eclectic colored pedicures and walks in the sunshine.

I got a pair of “flatform” sandals.

A retro wood platform with leather toe and ankle straps.

Super cute.

The Bentlee by Sam Edelman.

I mean.

Serious cuteness.

I delayed a little.

I put the box on the table and turned on the lights, lit the candles, cued up some music.

I am in a nostalgic music phase and am listening to Masters of Reality, Sunrise on the Surferbus.

It always reminds me of a particular boyfriend and one summer day coming into our room at the house and I didn’t know he was home, he must have come in after me, and I had the album playing loudly in the bedroom.

It was the song, Jody Sings.

The sun was slanting through the elm trees and dappling the wood floor.

I was in a long skirt, one that I had salvaged from a house dress of my mom’s, I wish I still had it, it was the perfect A-line skirt and it spun so well, I always felt so pretty when I wore it.

A long A-line skirt, a navy blue leotard, my hair down, my feet bare, the sunlight warm on the wood floors, Jody Sings playing on the tape deck player, one, two, three, I’m on my knees, Jody sings, I get high, when she rings, clouds roll by, Jody sings, I get high, when she rings clouds roll by.

Lucky one.

I am two.

Yes, I am.

Lucky three, oheee

The one for me.

One, two, three, I’m on my knees.

On my knees.

On my knees.

On my knees.


Baby, please, baby please.

I remember swaying my hips and the skirt flaring out above my knees and the sun playing on the fabric, I felt soft and sweet and sensuous.

I spun on my toes and stopped mid spin when I saw my boyfriend leaning in the doorway watching me.

His eyes aglow.

It is something.

To have someone look at you like that.


I just had the most intense rush of emotion remembering that.

It was a hard, horrible relationship at the end, but I forget, sometimes, not always, the sweetness of the early part, the mixed tapes and the rides on the back of his motorcycle, the picnics at Picnic Point, the long nights talking until dawn, the realization that this was my person and I was his and then the realization that I was so, so, so stuck.



I called it, recently, as I recall, the one night stand that became a five year relationship.

I don’t do that anymore.

Not that I have been horribly successful with romantic relationships over the past decade.

Although, truth be told, I found the One long ago, me.

And that was a divine discovery.

“Go, be frivolous!” He texted me today after my check in about my finances and some residual fear that was still trying to hang on to, even though I did some inventory around it last night before I went to bed.

He’s right, though.

He usually is.

I’m excited to be frivolous, in case you were wondering.

I found another pair of Fluevog’s I’m pretty raring to get and another pair of sneakers, I’ve had my eye on them for a bit and they’d be super good for work and also cute, which is important.

I also did my spending plan for February and tallied all my expenses for January.

I figured out what I need to put into savings and what I am allowed to spend on myself.

I’m going to have fun.

I’ll keep you updated.

Especially since I did not get the shoes tonight.



As I said.

The sacred cutting open of the brown cardboard box did not reveal a fancy box full of adorable platform sandals.

I reverently removed the plastic bubble wrap and said, “what the fuck?”



It’s my paper for my new printer.


I guess I’m ready to write my Clinical Relationship paper now.


Hopefully the shoes will come in time for the weekend.

And if not.

I’m sure I will find something else to bring me joy.

I have a heart full of it.

I plan on keeping it that way.

It doesn’t have to come in a box in the mail.

I have an unlimited source of it whenever I look inside myself.





Nice to see you again.

Let’s have fun this weekend.




New Dress

November 10, 2015


I returned a dress weeks ago and finally just got the access to the return on Modcloth.

I have been itching to get a new frock, but what with the scooter purchase and the unexpected, “hey let’s go to Paris for Christmas!” I have been loath to lay out any money for a new dress.

I want a new dress.

For Paris.

For my birthday.

Because it’s Monday.

Because maybe I want to wear it somewhere.

Not that I have a date or plans, but you never know.

I am still debating popping into the ARTumnal event on the 21st.

We shall see.

If so, then this is definitely the dress for it.

Or just to have a dress.

It’s nice to have something coming in the mail.

I won’t be spending anything else this month on clothes.

I am trying to keep it all to a dull roar.

Technically I could drop up to $200 on clothes this month, that’s what I put into my spending plan, but that was before Christmas in Paris and frankly, well, I would rather buy things in Paris than buy new clothes here.


I am getting myself a gang of Clarefontaine notebooks.  I see the occasionally here in the city, Flax will carry them, but they don’t tend to carry the collections or the special issued ones.  I suppose I could just order them online, but there is something special about buying notebooks in Paris.

I will definitely be purchasing a special notebook for the trip, me and my glue stick are ready.

“Whenever you go on a trip, grab a glue stick and paste in things to a little notebook, so you can see everything you did while you were there,” a very good friend of mine, who travels a lot, told me this years ago and I do exactly that.

Where ever I am, Paris, Burning Man, London, Rome, New York, I stick and paste little things from my travels in that notebook.

I discovered, in my great hunt for my passport, so many of my notebooks from Paris.

I was a gog at all the places i went, all the little tickets and postcards and strip photos from photo booths in Metro stations, with ribbons and match book covers, with the Metro tickets and airplane boarding passes, the reciepts from museums and the ocassional business card or note from someone I had met.

I was able to remember so much just by flipping through the journals.




And stickers.



I like stickers and I always try to get some from where I travel to.

The museum stores normally have some fantastic ones that you just don’t see anywhere else.

My trip in 2007 I got some phenomenal stickers from the Pompidou, I was just astounded at the whimsy and artistry of them and I never saw them anywhere else again.

But they are in my notebook.

I want as well, a market bag.

I lost my Merle Moqueur tote bag, I think in a Uber one day coming home from school being totally exhausted and stupid I think I left it in the front seat, so I need to replace that.

I would love to go to that bookstore, it’s a great one and definitely my favorite in the city.

Even though all the kids go to Shakespeare and Company, which has its appeal, but it’s a definite tourist stop and Le Merle Moqueur was just a neighborhood bookstore with a great selection of books and paper goods and I got two strands of paper cut outs there that I still have hanging in my house–one of the Eiffel Tower and paper hearts in yellow and orange by my chaise lounge and the other of pale green birds hanging in my bathroom.

I may get another set of paper cut outs.

They are sweet and not a lot of money to buy.

I also will get a hat.

It’s Paris.

You have to get a hat in Paris.


I have to get a hat in Paris.

I always get great compliments on the cabbie hat I got in the city my visit in 2007.

I still have it and whenever I wear it I do feel just a kiss of Paris.

The last time I wore it to school my friend who gave me a ride said, “nice hat!  You look very French today.”

“I bought it in Paris,” I replied with a smile and adjusted the brim.

“Of course you did.”

I chuckle.


I want some tea.



From Mariage Freres.

The Earl Grey.

So yummy.

I remember the first time I had it, visiting my person up in Pacific Heights and she was someone who travelled frequently to Paris, being in fashion, how could she not, and she made me a cup and it was divine.

Just a kiss of milk and heaven in a cup.

Yeah, I take a tin home with me for sure.

Perhaps some perfume from duty-free on the way back out, another bottle of Chanel Egoiste.

I still have some from the Chanel Boutique down on Maiden Lane, but it will be gone soon enough and it’s always nice to have a bottle I bought in Paris, in the airport as the size of bottle I want won’t go through security.

Postcards are on the list.

I will send myself one.

I will send many to friends and family.

It’s what I do.

I love snail mail.

There’s something so lovely and deliberate about sitting down and writing a little note and thinking about the person I am writing to, then the placing of the stamp, sealed with a kiss, the dropping it in the post and letting her go.

The time it takes for mail to get from France to here will be longer than the time I am in Paris, so sending myself a postcard is like a lovely little reminder of the adventures I had while away.

Perhaps a small poster from the booksellers along the Seine.

I pair of earrings.

That is always something I do.

I still have the pair I bought at a brocante (flea market) at Square D’Anvers one of the last weekends I was in Paris.

I always think of walking around that market and the sunshine, it was a warm April day, last weekend in April and it was almost hot and the cafes were overflowing and the music of French being spoken all around me, soon.


I will be there again.

I am looking forward to it.

And I will be well dressed for it!

Today’s Password Is

October 16, 2015


Yesterday’s was “tool.”

But that was yesterday.

“Password!  Password!” My little guy shouted from the steps.

I was laden down with grocery bags and diaper bags and my own bag, his younger brother, and it was time to get inside for dinner.

“Tool!” I shouted.

“That was yesterday’s!” He replied and grinned.

“Big guy, I need your help, I have too much stuff, you have to give me a hint today,” I said juggling all the things on the steps and reaching for my keys while balancing his three year old brother and his brothers hat and stuffed cat on his head, that is the cat was on his head, not his hat, which was falling into the bushes and the dog was inside snuffling with joy to come out and greet us and it was 5:15p.m. and I had to pee.


Oh my God kid you’re killing me.

“Spaghetti, apple, banana, milk, market, JP, Dave Hale (the two favorite vendors at the Farmer’s Market that we go to on Thursdays, ie tomorrow, note to self get out the market bags), pumpkin patch!”

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

“Kiddo, I…..

I was getting angry and took a deep breath.

“Love,” he said soft, sweet, his big brown eyes luminous in his face, my little angel, my sweet boy pie, then he kissed my hand and swung open the gate.

I do live in a fairy tale.



Was my spiritual principle to practice today.

I have no idea where the kid came up with it, just that it was all around me.

Has been all day.

All night.

I just got back from a kick assery shopping extravagance at SafeWay.

My friend gave me a ride over after doing the deal.

Grocery shopping.

Not that much of a big deal.



HUGE deal.

I am a bike rider.

I don’t have a car.

I have to grocery shop all the time to keep a pace with the fact that I make almost 95% of my food.

I rarely eat out, unless treated, and my restaurant budget for the month is typically $50.

Lunch out once a week is my MO.

My grocery shopping spending plan, though, is close to $500 or for this month $550, since it has an extra week in it.

That may feel like a lot for a single lady.


I am a single lady in the city and when you compare that to eating out, even one meal a day, I save a lot of money on cooking my own food.


I am a person who abstains from sugar and flour.


You should have seen my friend and I shopping.


He eats like a growing high school boy.

I couldn’t tell you what exactly was all in the cart but the highlights were an uncountable number of 2 liters of soda, Chili Cheese Fritos, raw cookie dough, and um, other stuff.

My stuff was fruit and organic veggies, edamame, organic free range chicken breasts, unsweetened vanilla almond milk, turkey bacon (my secret ingredient in my brown “fried” rice that I make big batches of and have for dinners and lunches all throughout the week), apples, persimmons, organic avocados.

I think my friend got some Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal too.

I can’t be sure though.

It may have been buried under a pile of 2 Liter sodas.

Not to say I am better than.

Just different.

If I could eat like he does and get a way with it.

Well fuck yes, hello, I so would.


I can’t however and that’s cool.

I love that I have such a kind and generous friend.

I am lucky.



If you will.

By the amazing people in my life.

Love indeed.

I was feeling the love this morning as I put on my safety orange cord pants.


You don’t have any?

You so need a pair.

I matched them up with, yes, this actually worked, a pink tank top, layered with a grey tank top that I got from Lightening in a Bottle two years ago with a white rabbit on it with colored swirls of pink, turquoise and safety orange.

I also wore a big glittery flower concoction in my hair and glitter on my eyelids.



A sparkly blue heart glitter necklace.

It sounds fucking atrocious.

Like a raver candy tripping on molly and LSD with a side of cocaine to take make it all some how disco sexy.


If you do it right, and I did, I promise, it can be pulled off.

“That’s right, Wednesday, get your sparkle on,” I laughed as I looked in the mirror.

Sometimes I forget that one of the ways I have fun is to let myself dress up.

Speaking of.

I’m trying to figure out what to wear for tomorrow nights show.

I will be going straight from work.

But I am getting a ride into work, so I could wear a cute dress, something that I don’t wear too often.

Certainly not for work.


Why not?

It may be time to break out a crinoline.

I dare say my principle tomorrow will be “happy” if I wear a crinoline.

I mean.

How could it not?

Life is good and full of love.

You know what else is lovely.

Aside from the idea of getting my dancing shoes on.


Oh that’s right.

I finished the sonnets!

I am over the moon.

I haven’t written the artist with whom I am collaborating on yet as I have not yet gotten them cleaned up and into my computer, but they are done.

I have the rough drafts of ten sonnets.


In fact, I actually have thirteen, but I fucked up the rhyme scheme badly in one and had to toss the whole thing when I realized I had done the embedded poem wrong for that specific piece, and the other two pieces were written before I had the inspiration that led to the ten that I have written.

I used my poem “While You Were Sleeping” as a frame work to work the all the sonnets around.

I also embedded a principle, this time one of the Ten Principles, from Burning Man, into each poem.

Love is not one of them.

Decommodification is though.

Let me just say, I am going to give myself some props here, the fact that I worked decommodification into a sonnet should be noted as some sort of literary achievement, I mean, not like the Pen Faulkner award, or anything, but maybe the Nemerov, the Howard Nemerov Sonnet prize (which I have secretly coveted for over two decades).

Just sayin’.


I will let him know that I have the roughs and I figure I will have them all typed up in my computer by Saturday or Sunday.

Then e-mail them out and I’m way ahead of schedule and if he doesn’t like them.


He still has time to collaborate with another artist for his project.


I don’t care.

I love them.

I love that I am a writer, a poet, a blogger.


As a darling friend likes to tease me.

“A woman of the world.”


A very loved.

Woman of the world.

Sucking Brain Power In One Fell Swoop

May 29, 2015


What was I doing?

Sipping tea, looking at photographs on my grandmother’s mantles and walls, hearing stories, trying to not think about the weird e-mail in my in-box about my financial aid for school that puzzled me to the point that I could not read it more than twice without closing the message.

I looked at it again this morning.

They need what?

I already have my FAFSA in.

The school already has my information.

What more do you need?

Some more stuff, some more things.


That’s it.

That little button.

That fucking little button there took me changing my password, updating my information, having over five windows open on my screen, toggling back and forth, figuring out new security questions, for almost an hour.

At one point I thought, next they will ask me to stand on my head and and with my right hand point to the true North.


That was obnoxious.


Another thing done in the small but steady range of  actions I am certain I will have to continue to take to get into school, let alone, well, um, school itself.



I believe, will be ok.

It’s the minutiae, the small stuff, the obvious stuff, that I don’t always get.

“There, water level, right in front of you,” my cousin pointed out the fountain water-spout.

I was mesmerized by the soda options.

When was the last time I had stood in front of a soda fountain machine?


Cherry Coke?



All of it please.

In a really big cup with hella crushed ice and a dessert pizza on the side.


I had a cup of water and a “pizza salad” without the pizza part–my cousin didn’t realize that I don’t eat flour, or sugar for that matter–and had taken us all to the new popular pizza place down the road.

It smelled divine.

And truthfully, I was too overwhelmed with the sudden abundance of family and how to act and be polite and be me and not melt into the background.

Not that I wouldn’t stand out a little anyway.

Even without the hot pink hair.

“I like your style,” my friend texted, “you got flavor.”



I’ll take it.

And I do.

My ex called it “quirky” and I argue, I am not quirky.

Quirky is Zoe Deschanel and kitten sweaters and argyle socks and well, not me.

I rebut quirky with girl has flavor.

“Chicks with visible neck tattoos and pink hair aren’t anything nuts to me,” he replied, “maybe in Iowa.”


When I travel outside of San Francisco I do seem to get a little extra attention.

Although not always in a bad way, the TSA agent at the airport was excited by my hair, “awesome hair!”  He enthused and waved me through.

Where I got to find out that I had to sit in SFO for a bit longer than I thought.

My flight was delayed.


Although, as I sat in the terminal linked up to the internet sipping organic, cold pressed iced coffee and having just finished an organic Niman Ranch hamburger (no bun, no onion, no fries, thank you) with a side of, yes organic, mixed greens, I thought, hmm.


Worse places to be delayed.

For sure.

The flight was delayed for weather.

That’s right.


Carl the Fog was wrapping up the airport tight.

I wasn’t happy to be delayed, but it gave me a moment to look over the e-mail from the FAFSA people.

I still didn’t get it and I decided, not going to boot up my laptop and try to figure it out.

Sit back.

Sip the coffee.

Watch a video.

Then the fog lifted and I was up in the air and before I knew it the plane was descending through the blue skies, clear of fog, lots of sunshine, and low 70 degree weather.

I took off my sweatshirt.

I needed it on the way to the airport and I needed it on the plane, they do always seem so cold, even a short flight.


Almost one year later.

My ankle hurts when flying.

It swelled up and got tender and I had to stand in the aisle for a while rolling it around and getting the blood flow going.

I really couldn’t believe it.

The last time I flew was December and it was pretty tight after that flight, and still it’s not fully healed.

I really didn’t believe the doctor when he said it would be 6-8 months and possibly a year before it was fully healed.

End aside.

The sun was shining, the fake boobs were on display.

I mean.


I realized as I watched a woman in a low-cut shelf tank top proudly displaying her assets, I am not in San Francisco anymore.

Granted I have not spent a lot of time in Southern California, but I did immediately see things that I have not seen in San Francisco (and I’m sure I have seen fake boobs in SF, I’m sure they exist, they’re probably just hidden under thirteen layers of clothing and a black hoodie and infinity scarf-every woman could have fake tits and I would never know), enhanced cleavage, spray tan or fake tan, blow outs, high platform sandals, skin-tight jeans/jeggings, I still stood out.

I probably always will.

But I have stopped being so concerned with how I look.

As stated previously, I dress for myself and to make myself happy.

And I was happy I got my stuff packed and on my way with no delay this morning.

I also remembered to wear my clogs so that I didn’t have to struggle with going through security.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the lounge waiting for the flight to board that I began to sense some side looks and stares.

And I realized that I usually do get them when traveling.

I have a moment or two of feeling singled out, then I thought, whatever, I’m a good-looking woman and who cares if I have pink hair and tattoos, they look pretty and I have flavor and so there.


My brain is coming back, the FAFSA website has not won.

Now I can bring my mind back to hanging out in San Diego.

I’m ready for some more sunshine.


As I am editing this blog, my grandmother came over and said, “your hair looks so pretty up like that, it looks like a flower.”


I Keep Up With You On Facebook

May 14, 2015

Good to know.

I ran into an old friend tonight at an unexpected spot and we got to reconnect, check in, swap tales, talk about work, life, change, graduate school, pattern making, dress altering, and Burning Man.

Oh yes.

That thing.

I picked up the most fabulous of dresses at Community Thrift a few months ago–blue sequins, marabou trim, teal, really the whole thing is glittery and teal and well, it will look amazing in the dust.

Except it fits for shit, too big and not properly cut.

So when I saw my friend I asked, for the first time really, to have something altered to just fit me.

I am excited.

She’s busy.

I’m busy.

But there’s enough time before the event for me to get one or two fabulous things together.

I always want fabulous things for the playa, but this year, I really do.

I’m going to get to play a lot more and spend more time hanging out and seeing art and well, going to Burning Man instead of doing “working man.”


I dare say, I’ll still find plenty of ways to be of service and I will carry my weight and help where and when I am needed, but it’s going to be a fair different show for me and well, I went to be dressed up for it.


Who doesn’t want a teal sequined dress?

I mean.


I’ll find somewhere to wear it.

Maybe even to work.

I’ve been known to wear some kooky shit.

But I like that.

I like that I have a skewed sense of fashion and I love to be a peacock.

I mean life is short, let me dress up for it.

It was good to see my friend in real-time, though, and I want to make sure that I am doing more of that–spending time with friends, not just interacting via social media and texting.

I need to have human connection.

It means an awful lot to me.


I know that I don’t translate as well over the internet as I do in person.


I suppose, this blog is me, but it’s not me too, you don’t see me fussing around my place, messing with my hair or trying on clothes or mooning over music or dancing or stuck in my head or daydreaming when I should be paying attention to the road in front of me.

I want to be seen for all that I am.

All my human ness.

All my frailties.

And my strengths.

I do have those too.

I want to be able to be vulnerable and tender in front of you, not just behind the screen of my phone or sitting at my table typing words onto my laptop.

I want to carry on a conversation, long, long, long, up late, past my bed time, sharing secrets, telling tall tales, laughing, drinking tea, being me.

I have a tendency to isolate and I wish to be more known.

Here in my community, in San Francisco, in the world at large.

I wish to see and be seen.

“I saw you on your bicycle this morning, riding up Lincoln,” my friend said to me tonight, “I almost hollered out the window at you.”

“Next time, do,” I smiled, “it really makes my day, I feel like I’m a part of the neighborhood.”

I feel apart of the city, the movement and action, the life that is happening.

I like being alive.

I’m feeling a little more alive today too, I’ve had just the tiniest bit of a cold since last Thursday and I think it’s finally starting to pass–all the family has it, I swear, even the dog seems to have it–and I’m not one who often gets sick.

In fact, aside from my ankle, I can’t remember the last time I was sick or when I actually had a cold.

And it’s low-grade.

I have a sort of husky, sexy, throaty voice, raspy like, which is amusing, and a tiny cough once in a while that produces, well, you know, stuff, and I have been just a tiny bit tired.

But not horrible.

Certainly not enough to call in sick.

But enough to slow down this week, make sure I’m taking all my breaks, eating well, sleeping well, taking good care to take good care.

Which is good.

I want to do things this weekend.

I want to get out.

I’ll be hitting an anniversary party Saturday afternoon in Golden Gate Park after I do some doing the deal in the Inner Sunset,then I’ll be off to the park, getting connected to my peeps.

I want to go out too.

My going out last week felt really off and rather awful after the heart-rending scooter encounter at the shop I took the Vespa too.

Side bar.

I actually forgot about the Vespa today!

What a fucking relief to not have that taking up head space.

I cannot even begin to express how good I feel letting it go.

End aside.

I’m not sure what’s happening Saturday night, but I feel something happening, a plan, winds stirring, something.

Change is always happening.




My stars aligning.

Who knows.

But maybe I’ll get my party dress out and see what’s shaking up in my world this weekend.

Not my sequined one, but that will get addressed soon.

I hear music playing.

Maybe some dancing?

Maybe I don’t have to figure it out right now.

Suffice to say.

I’m feeling happy and sexy and that’s a nice feeling to have.


I get to have more than one, you know.

I’m good at running with the happy and sexy ones for right now, however.

Bring those on please.

And you got some ideas about this weekend.

Do share them.


I want to see you in the real world, not just my phone screen.

I need to give you a hug.


I could use one too.

Inbound to Richmond District

May 4, 2015

You got to love NextBus.

I don’t often ride the MUNI trains or the bus, but when I do, this is the best app ever.


I can sit in my house, noodle around, and when I have about three minutes, maybe four, if I’m feeling anxious, walk out the door, walk to the end of the block, and voila!

Bus arriving.

So nice.

Remember when you just sat and waited?


It would say bus every ten to fifteen minutes in the schedule, but it was 49 minutes later and you’ve seen 18 buses headed the other direction and yet, here you are, alone, cold, shivering in the fog, waiting for the fucking bus to come.

Not waiting for Godot.

No never.

Waiting for the 22.

Or the infamous 24.

Or the 33.

Oh how I have waited for the buses.

Today, I just scrolled my finger on my phone, popped open the app and saw when the next one was coming and even better.

The app also has the time that the bus behind it is coming.


Therefore allowing me time to do what ever I need to do at the house before leaving the house.

I got up early and got my errands, chores, and laundry on.

I still got a good night’s sleep, just a touch over eight hours, and I took a friend’s suggestion and silenced my phone last night.

I will forget and be pinged awake at all hours of the night, texts from my sister in Florida, which is three, no, four hours ahead, at 6:30 a.m.; messages from friends, Twitter alerts, Facebook messages, all manner of social media pings and beeps and boops.

Plus, of course the occasional text and what have you.

It’s nice on one hand to be in the mix.

But sometimes I don’t want to know who has like my Instagram feed.

I want to sleep.

It is with that in mind that I also do not look at my phone, I am not always successful, or respond to messages until after I have done my morning routine.

I can’t flip on my phone and lie in bed and scroll the internet universe.

I will be a grumpy toad before even having tossed aside the sheets.

I love my world, I love my friends, I love, love, love that I am in contact with so many of them through so many different places.

Case in point: having a conversation on the ride back from North Berkeley with my friend about not having a ticket, yet, to Burning Man, this conversation happened about oh, 24 hours ago, slightly less.  Fast forward to a few minutes ago when I saw a post on a private Facebook page for a group I belong to for a camp at Burning Man that I have dear friends camping at.  The post featured a link to another post saying, hey friends, I have two tickets, who wants them?

I see lots of people want them.


However, I look closer, oh!!

It’s my good friend from my first year at the burn when I camped with Camp Stella and he gave me my first playa name: Ophelia and has a photo of me hanging in his office from the dust storm I fell asleep in (I got covered in dust, head to toe, had my hands crossed over my chest and was wearing a tutu, face mask, bandana, and goggles, I looked dead).

I have to hook my friends up!

I message both, get a text from both, exchange phone numbers and they just got off the phone with each other and my friend who didn’t have a ticket.


Now he does!


It can happen like that.

Sometimes, though, I do need to slow down, take it easy, turn off the technology and rest.

It helps me get clear with the things I do need to do and a lot of that has to do with taking extremely good care of myself.

Laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, composting, taking out the trash, meeting with the ladies and doing the deal.

I had two ladies back to back from noon to 2p.m.

But before that.

I did all of those things above.

Plus my own writing and having a nice breakfast (hot oatmeal with diced pear and blueberries, cinnamon, nutmeg, sea salt, raw cocoa, one organic hard-boiled egg, lots of coffee w/unsweetened vanilla almond milk) of my own.

Then later after my last lady bug had left.

I got to have lunch from what I had cooked earlier, dinner too, and I had time to do a field trip.


I opened my NextBus app and saw when the 18 was heading my way.

Richmond bound.

Legion of Honor.

That’s right.

I finally got myself in to see the Brooklyn Museum’s Costume Collection: High Style.

Oh my.

It was so good.

I got all sorts of art high.

House of Worth, Roger Worth evening dresses.

Edward Molyneux evening dresses.




Yves St. Laurent.

Charles James and the muslims for his ball gowns, breath-taking.

Steven Arpad, for Delman, Inc evening shoes.

Elsa Schiaparelli butterfly day dress and parasol.

I’ll take two please!

Oh fashion, how I do love you.

Plus, you know, the normal galleries with their Monet’s and Pissarro’s, the Rodin sculptures everywhere, the Renoir’s and Manet’s (I like the Impressionists a bit you could say), it was just scrumptious.

The museum was a bit busy, there was also a concert happening–an organ concert by David Hegarty–which I thought about staying for, but it was standing room only and it felt nicer to just wander through the galleries with the sound of the Skinner Organ drifting around me.

I’m ever so grateful for all the tech that this world has, I mean, I am writing a blog and posting it online and sending it out into the inter webs, but I am also a Mensch for the classic, time-worn, much beloved wander through a museum, sit on a bench and listen to an organ concert, admire art, slow and delicious, taking the bus and not riding my bike willy nilly though the park and over the hills.

I believe this is what’s called balance.


It’s a nice place to be in my life.

More please.

Color Me Happy

April 26, 2015

I got the best hugs today.

I caught up with some friends that I have not seen in a long time.


I got my hair did.

So good.


Blow Out









Color me happy, joyous, and pink.

I was just going to go blonde.

But well, one thing, er, lead to another.

And I’m in the pink.

And I love it.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, my dear friends at Solid Gold Salon, Sutter Street at Jones (shameless plug, they are just awesome and amazing, I mean, come on) in the Tender Nob of San Francisco.

Check them out.

I mean they have been doing my hair for a long, long, long time.

Calvin did my cut and his partner Diane did my color.

I could not have been in better hands.

It was not always this way.

“You look like a space hooker!” Calvin hooted in the living room of his apartment in Nob Hill proper.

“Dude.” I said, as I looked in something like horrified awe at what he had done to me.

Note to former self, never let anyone dye your eyebrows.


Especially not someone who is still in beauty school.

“You are not allowed to post those photos up,” I said, “and excuse me while I go scrub my face off.”

Calvin was not just in school for hair (Aveda and Vidal Sassoon), he also did the program at Blush School of Makeup down on Market Street.

I too was living in Nob Hill, Taylor at Washington, and I would often make the two block, very uphill walk, to his place and we would shoot the shit, drink too many lattes, and he would cut my hair, color it, razor blade it off, once, oh God, once, he gave me a faux hawk and a tail.

How do you know when you love someone?

You let them give you a tail.

I saw a little boy at the park the other day with a tail and all I could think was, that is so not cool, cut it off.

Off man.

I made him cut that off pretty quick.

I never really gave a damn about the color or the weird cuts, he always figured it out, and it was fun to be his hair model and let him go to town on my head.

“I remember when you were rocking all those crazy colors and cuts, you were doing wild color before any one else,” she said to me last night when I told my friend I was going in to the salon today and I was going to do blonde, pretty blonde highlights, beachy, you know, sexy.


There was some blonde involved.

And the pink will fade, eventually to blonde.

Which is perfect.

That’s actually what I want.

I also left with a container of Manic Panic Cleo Rose.

When it fades too much.


When it’s just about time for Burning Man.

I will use the Manic Panic and bring back the pink.

I love the way it fades out though, I may wait a while to douse it with more color.

I’m pretty happy with how it turned out and they gave me a blow out, using the great big curlers, and I just love the being fussed over.

Perchance we are to date, and you are a man, identifying as heterosexual, not gay, not homeless, and not in a poly possible relationship, you will win me over by 1. Kissing my neck and 2. Washing my hair.

Oh goodness.

It is the best thing to have a person wash your hair.

I could just lie in that wash station all day and let that happen.

It still amazes me that I go to the salon and get my hair done.

Or that I go to the nail salon and get my nails done.

Or that I wear makeup.

All the things.

All the things I never used to do.

It’s like having the adolescence that I never had.

“My dad says I should be careful, you’re high maintenance, he says,” my boyfriend in my twenties told me.

I’m high maintenance?


What the fuck do you know about high maintenance old man?

He was right.

Perhaps why I reacted so strongly to it.

If you spot it, you got it.

I love this part of myself though and I am doing my best to allow myself to embrace it, within reason, I’m not so high maintenance as you might think.

“I’m going to shame you when I tell you when the last time you came in for a cut was,” Calvin said as he looked it up in the computer.

“I know, I know,” I said, cringing.

I knew it had been almost a year.

“Almost a year,” he said, giving me the look.

They say every six weeks.

I say every twelve months.

“I wish you would teach me how you do that cat’s eye,” she said to me, “I just can’t do it.”

It takes me five minutes to do my make up in the morning.

Maybe six if I don’t have a steady hand, but it’s just doing the same thing every day since Calvin taught me how to do my makeup.

I got to be his model a few times for make up and when I went to Blush one of his head instructors also used me to do a demonstration and I learned a lot.

I could learn a lot more.

I don’t know contouring or really how to use blush properly or apply false eyelashes.

But you know.

I’m willing to learn.

I may be high maintenance, but I’m not time-consuming high maintenance.

And I know how happy I feel when I have pretty hair and makeup.

And how sexy I feel.

“Don’t hide your sexy under a barrel,” she told me, “God did not give you all that to waste it hiding in a corner.”

Yes ma’am.

“Where are you going tonight,” Diane asked as she finished the hair and smoothed down the last pieces, coaxing the full soft curl forward in a long sashay of bang framing my face.

“I don’t have plans,” I said.

“You look great! Are you going on a date?” My housemates friend asked as she popped over to check the mail and feed the cat.


I do not.

But you know.

Every time Calvin has done my hair.

I do end up getting asked out on a date.

Here I am.

Let’s do it.

My hair looks amaze balls.


I’ll put my make up on quick.

Real quick.


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