Dirty Dishes

For the first time since I have lived in this home I came back from a long day to dirty dishes in the sink.

I always wash my dishes.

Always.

But.

Fuck.

I totally screwed up this morning.

I was late and I had no idea.

I mean.

I had not one single clue.

I had gotten up with my alarm, took a nice hot shower, dried my hair, got dressed, made the bed, chatted with my best friend, did some morning reading, did some prayers, I had made breakfast, a lovely latte and I was slowly digging into some emails when I had this moment of.

Oh.

It looks like I need to go in about fifteen minutes.

I had just started eating my breakfast.

Does not compute.

I looked at my watch.

I looked at my computer clock.

What the hell was wrong?

I’m doing exactly what I would be doing on a normal morning and I’m not writing and I, oh shit, I realized right then and there.

I had set my alarm a half hour later than I should have.

If I have a shower before work I have to give myself an extra half hour, mostly for dealing with my hair.

But I hadn’t factored that in.

Oh.

I thought I had.

I mean I was right on schedule, except for being a half hour behind.

I shoveled in my oatmeal.

I mean.

It was not pretty.

I tried to drink some of my coffee down but it was too hot.

I like to leisurely sip my coffee, look over emails, check my schedule, peep my blog see if anyone’s read it, then do my morning writing.

Mornings that I shower before work I also don’t typically write, so my brain was all wired that I had this extra half hour.

In reality.

In that half hour I had to be at therapy in Noe Valley and I had not put on my face yet.

Oh no.

I mean.

I was dressed and I could have gone out without make up on, but you know, I like to put on a face.

I made the executive decision to not wash my breakfast dishes, dashed into the bathroom, did the fastest make up ever, grabbed my stuff and flew out the door.

I made it.

I found parking with three minutes to spare to dash down the block, let myself in the building, and have a cup of water from the fountain in my hand as my therapist open the door to her office.

I sort of sat and had to catch my breath.

It was a good session though, not a lot of tears, a little when I got into the feeling zone of what it was like when I heard the news that my landlady wanted me to move out, but for the most part I was able to make some serious connections, talked a lot about fear and moving forward and about self-advocacy and how it allows others to have strength and how I wanted to grow.

I talked about things I have to walk through, partially for myself, and also for my clients, as a therapist I always need to be doing some growing.  I need to always be integrating new experiences into my life and though I may never tell a client what is going on in my life, it will be in the therapy room.

My experiences are pure freaking gold.

I caught up with my old friend from high school today.

And although we did not get a chance to talk as long as I wanted, it was so good to hear his voice and to catch up.

I got to tell him a bit of what has been going on, but our conversation was cut short when the mom came back unexpectedly early.

One thing that stood out to me though, was his perception of me always being a therapist.

I had been telling him about the process and graduation and getting in my AMFT# application to the BBS and accruing hours and all the things and he laughed, because he didn’t understand half of what I said, but then when I said, “you know, all the stuff one needs to become a therapist,” he replied, “you mean what you’ve been doing all your life?”

I laughed out loud.

He was right.

I have been a therapist all my life, although I had no idea that was what I was doing.

Being kind, lending an ear, giving so many of the people I worked with a shoulder to cry on, I had an open door policy at one of the places I worked and managed and people would just come in and talk about things and tell me stuff that no one else was privy to.

I liked it.

I liked feeling needed and I liked listening.

I am a good listener and I remember a lot.

I also have a very good way of seeing something with perspective.

Oh.

Sure.

Not about myself, my vision there is skewed, but in others, I can see things fairly quickly and clearly make connections that they might not see.

Or might not want to see.

“If a client doesn’t want to take it in, or can’t accept it, they won’t,” my supervisor once told me.

It’s ultimately not up to me if the message lands or not, but it is up to me to show how I see it and to be an advocate for what the client wants to change in their life.

So being in my therapist’s office today I could see very clearly that the challenges ahead are an extraordinary opportunity for growth and for service.

I have to walk through this for my self and I have to do it for others to.

“It’s a political act,” she ended, my therapist, in regards to some actions I’ll soon be taking, “I’m in awe of how beautifully you just put it, thank you for letting me witness you.”

Anytime.

And hopefully next time I’ll remember to set the alarm another half hour early.

Fingers crossed.

Nobody likes to come home to dirty dishes.

At least not me.

Oh, That Thing

I completely and totally forgot I had to send in a bio for the lecture series I’m participating in next Tuesday.

Jesus, like in six days.

Don’t I still have homework to do?

Oh my God.

I have so much going on, I’m so tired, I’m fucked, how is it all going to happen?

I mean.

I’m fine.

It’s just going to be a push, it will come together.

I only wish the people who are in my group project would chill the fuck out.

I don’t actually give a flying fuck about my final group project for Transpersonal, I have so many other things on my plate but one of the people in my group has been sending out these huge text messages about how we need to talk to each other and make it cohesive and blah, blah, blah.

I got the text and lost it.

Not on her.

Not in general.

Just kind of in a melting, I don’t have energy to even read this text kind of way, to coordinate a time to talk about the project when I am busy thinking about this other project and all the papers I still have to write and all the things.

My God, all the things.

But.

Sigh.

Breathe.

It’s ok.

It’s all working out.

I just have to do what ever the next thing in front of me is.

And.

You know.

Be gentle about it, be nice about it, be kind about it, not blow up on my friend in the group because she wants it to work smoothly.

I just already know how much energy I have to give to any certain thing and the energy it took to respond was about all I had to give.

I did get the bio done and I did send it off to the producers and I got a big thank you and that they quite liked how I had written it and then a nice thank you for participating and that they are really happy to have me as part of the project.

I am too.

Even though it means having a full schedule this week, I’m on board.

Here’s the event again if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about:

People Who Usually Don’t Lecture.

It’s going to be a fun night and I’m grateful I get to do it.

I’m excited and a little nervous too.

I have been practicing and I started carrying the lecture with me, I did a little work on it today at work when I had five minutes of down time.

And it was seriously, the only five minutes of down time I had all day.

It was a full tilt boogie kind of day at work.

And even when I got home from work.

I did some food prep and then did a bunch of homework.

I finished half of the online assignments for the Psychopharmacology portion of my class.

The other part is a final paper on the Human Sexuality aspects of the class.

I should be able to finish the rest of the online stuff either tomorrow or Friday.

I was just too tired after coming back from my evening commitment and the business that had to be discussed after the meeting, end of the month stuff.

Sigh.

I really wanted to bounce, but was basically wrangled in and I’m grateful for that, there were things that I was able to help with, but I was so tuckered out that I considered not writing my blog.

Work really zapped me.

But.

It wasn’t horrible, just full.

The dad’s been away on business for two days and juggling three kids and her own private business has made the mom super busy and in turn me super busy.

And also, super validated.

Really sweetly validated.

The mom has just been nice as pie to me and it’s nice to be told that I’m doing a good job and that I am so appreciated.

And!

Oh my God.

I don’t know if it will work, but I had mentioned that my supervisor thinks I’m going to have to quit being a nanny at some point and devote a year of my life to working, probably unpaid, at a school to get my child hours and how that rather stressed me, I get anxious when my finances are threatened, and hey, privileged white guy, I’m super stoked that you were able to get all your hours in one year because you didn’t have to work a job to pay rent, that you had money from other sources.  Bully for you.

I don’t have money like that.

I don’t have a year to not work.

Unless somebody has some for me to take a year to work unpaid, um, it’s just not fucking happening

It’s like the dirty little secret of getting your MFT license, you have to accrue a lot of hours, 3,000 to be exact, and most of them are completely unpaid.  I’m basically volunteering 10-12 hours a week for no money.

So unless you have some outside income, family, spouse, etc, it’s hard to get those hours quickly.

It takes time to acquire them if you have to work a full-time job.

And I do.

I have to work a full-time job to support my continued living in San Francisco.

Frankly I don’t know where I would go anyway.

All my support systems are here.

There really is no where else for me to go.

Anyway.

I shared some of this with the mom and she said, “it’s too bad you can’t get hours for being a nanny.”

OHMYGOD.

The thing is.

I could.

It was suggested I check it out and I talked to my supervisor about it and he said, yeah, it’s possible, but most families won’t want to deal with the paper work, the supervision, etc.

I told the mom that and she said, “I don’t have a problem signing something.”

Holy shit.

Now.

This is not to say that it’s going to necessarily happen, but options, baby, options.

I’m going to research it further.

As though I don’t have enough to think about.

Anyway.

That’s it.

I’m done.

Good night.

I have to get up early and move the car and shower.

Sweet dreams lovelies.

Sweet dreams.

 

I Have A Question For You

Why are you single?

You’re gorgeous.

Wow.

Thanks darling.

That was super nice to hear, especially in my nanny regalia, which granted is cute, but not sexy.

I also got the sexy compliment.

Which coming from a FIREFIGHTER made my day.

Did I just turn down sex on a first date with a firefighter?

FIREFIGHTER!

Fuck.

I did.

Damn it.

First off.

I’m going to TMI y’all right now.

First day of a my period is not my sexy time.

It can be, I can and have had great fucking times on my period, but for my first time with someone, my first hang out, yikes, not so much.

And.

I didn’t shave today.

So.

No.

I’m not sleeping with the firefighter.

Right now.

Ooooheee.

God damn.

Smokin’.

And nice.

He was very nice.

We “met” on Tinder.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, like last summer, I think, when I was still using the app, but we never quite connected.

We’re not friends on facecrack but he does follow me on Instagram and, yes, that’s right, I had my first time getting asked out on Instagram.

That was a new one for me.

Kind of fun.

The crazy thing is, we live in the same neighborhood.

Like.

A fucking block away from each other.

Shit.

If it weren’t my first day on my period I would throw myself in the shower, shave them stems and um, heh, go make a new friend.

Ahem.

FIREFIGHTER.

Ok.

I’ll stop now.

firefighter.

Heh.

I feel like Samantha in Sex in the City when she goes to the firehouse.

Of course, in the episode, I think she got stranded naked in the station when the alarm goes off and her date has to leave to go put out a fire.

Not really the outcome I want to have.

Anyway.

Said gentleman, liked one of my posts on Insta and sent me a message.

The timing was pretty spot on, I had just gotten in and I was registering for fall classes.

And I was messaging with some of my classmates about classes and things and I get the message let’s get a coffee.

And of course.

I’m intrigued.

He’s gorgeous.

And well.

I’m trying to be spontaneous.

And we live in the same neighborhood.

I asked, “let’s get coffee sometime or tonight?”

“Tonight.”

Well then.

I suggested tea since it was late and we met and hung out and marveled that we’d never run into each other before, I mean, he literally lives a block away on the same fucking street, but nope, never seen each other in the hood at all.

We flirted.

There was flirting.

There was a lot of flirting.

And I let it stay there.

I am actually rather amazed that I did.

Of course when I got home I got a few more messages.

This time on my phone, I figured we’d gotten to know each other enough that I could give him my number.

When he texted me and asked me why were texting and not making out I just about fell out of my chair.

I told him I had homework.

I told him I was writing.

I got flustered and broke and dropped the TMI bomb.

“That has nothing to do with us making out.”

Oh damn.

I’m not flustered at all, at all, at all.

Ok.

Well.

Maybe a little bit.

I did, before we parted, give him a little information, as he asked the why am I single question twice, I think he may have also been implying that he might want to try out for the position, or perhaps just positioning himself to be, I got to stop, I can’t even go there.

Um.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

I did tell him I was seeing people, that I had, in fact a date on Thursday, but that I wasn’t exclusive with anyone, not that I would be, the date Thursday is a first date, but all in all, I have to say, um, super fucking validating and fun experience.

I liked his confidence and I liked that I felt confident too.

Even in my nanny togs.

If a man thinks I’m sexy in a long sleeve black dress with black leggings and Converse, well, that bodes well for when I am actually in a put together outfit.

I don’t look slovenly, there’s that, I won’t lie, if I thought I wasn’t looking pretty I wouldn’t have left the house in my work clothes.

But.

I also didn’t feel like trying really hard on a Tuesday night to get all made up and glammed up, especially to grab a cup of tea at Java Beach.

There will be time.

I told him that was very tempted by the make out, but, I decided, for me, that it would be better to go on another date, before leaping into the make out.

So.

I asked for a rain check.

Who is this person?

And.

He said, absolutely.

And we text flirted a little more and now I’m up past my bed time, but, so what, that was fun.

I haven’t had that kind of forward as fuck attention in a while, super fun, super validating, sexy as fuck flirting.

I think the Universe did that one up on purpose.

Thanks God.

I needed that.

And.

Um.

I’ll take hot make out with a firefighter for $200 once I get my get out of Jail free card from my body.

Anticipation is also not a bad thing.

Not a bad thing at all.

Giggles to self.

Ok.

Going to stop this silliness now.

Night.

Sweet dreams.

Or

Incindiary.

Same/same.

Heh.

 

When You Get The Package

But.

It’s not the package.

Grr.

I was super excited to get home and see that my new dress had arrived.

But.

Hmmm.

That seems like a smallish package.

Yeah.

Because it was.

No unboxing video coming out of the opening here.

Nope, maybe just a few profanities, and no body wants to hear me swear, it’s not pretty.

I was pissed though, I was planning on wearing the dress for a special occasion, an anniversary of mine that is coming up.

Oh well.

I understood the mistake too, the person doing the packing had put in my invoice, but the wrong item of clothing and it totally made sense, the person who should have gotten what I got lives in the neighborhood.

So what I’m hoping is that this girl got my dress.

I shot her an e-mail and fingers crossed she has my dress and I can just swap her sweater and we don’t have to deal with sending the stuff back to the company.

Because it’s in LONDON.

Actually, it shipped from Essex.

So yeah.

I’d love it if this lady gets back to me and says, yup, I got your dress.

I sent her my e-mail and I’ll see what comes of it.

I also e-mailed the company, because, well, I’m a little disappointed.

And if she didn’t get my dress or already returned it I want to know what to do.

I am not keeping the sweater, that’s for sure, I want my dress and the sweater though cute is the wrong size, so no matter what some action needs to be taken.

Mistakes happen.

Not the worst thing ever.

Nothing was the worst thing ever today, although sometimes the small things can get under my skin much more than the big things.

Oh!

I just got a message back from the girl, she said she got a notification that a package was delivered to her, she’s going to let me know when she gets back.

Ok.

That would be lovely.

Cut out the middle man and have myself a new frock to wear for the weekend.

I’m going to meet with a few friends and fellows on Sunday to celebrate my anniversary.

It feels so surreal and so amazing and I’m super pleased that so many of the people I asked to join me are going to be able to join me.

Sometimes letting in the love is the hardest thing and I hadn’t even thought about trying to get people together.

I hadn’t.

Not my idea at all.

I had made the decision that I would leave school a little early so that I can go to my spot that I like to go to on Fridays and share with the folks there, but nothing past that.

My person was like, um hello, come up on Sunday and pick up your chip and we’ll have dinner beforehand and I was like, oh my God.

Yes.

What a fucking fabulous idea.

I messaged some folks today

And some could make it and some can’t but.

Holy crap.

There’s eight of us going to dinner and ten I think hitting the spot afterward.

I was blown away by the responses I received.

You are the one thing in my way, you are the one thing in my way, you are the one thing in my way.

I am the only thing in my way.

There is so much love and though it is scary and hard to open up and receive it, I shall.

I am learning.

It is a job that seems to be the most important to me, the most healing and also, sometimes, oft-times, the most difficult.

To hold the doors of my heart open, to accept love.

To be told, “I would be honored to be there.”

To have someone message me that they were clearing their calendar to be there.

To be seen.

To be witnessed.

To be loved for who I am.

I don’t have to do a tummy tuck or make a million dollars or manipulate you through with holding my honest response.

I am just me and you like me?

No.

As it turns out.

You love me.

I feel so special.

Some of the folks I asked are girl friends from school.

Some are people who I walk the road of happy destiny with.

All of them responded with love and kindness and joy at my invitation, even those that aren’t able to come said they would be with me in spirit and I totally believed them.

It feels astounding and I am so grateful for this little outpouring of love.

It feels miraculous and I have to tell myself, gently, without negativity, that yes, they do love me and I’m lovable and worthy of love and it’s ok to accept them in.

I might get hurt.

Hell it’s bound to happen.

I’m human, I’ve hurt others, absolutely I have.

But it’s worth getting hurt.

Besides, when it comes right down to it no human can fulfill me completely, that kind of love comes from within, from a source deep with in, that still quiet voice that tells me with unequivocal truth that I am loved.

I was hurt when I was young and I developed ways to deal with that.

One of them was to disassociate and to not let you in.

It was too hard, those that I trusted hurt me.

So.

I built up some walls.

Bigger and bigger and harder and I blocked you the fuck out.

But in the end that defense stopped working.

I looked out over my towers and ramparts and I felt safe, but the longing I had for connection became so great it led me to leap.

I leapt.

I had faith.

I changed.

I opened my heart.

I let you in.

Oh.

Sometimes I built the walls back up.

I shut the door again.

I leaned against it, heavy and hurt and burdened by feelings.

I was abandoned and alone and lonely and sad and tired and it was just too much work to keep all the monsters at bay.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I felt the sun on my cheek, through the cracks in the wall and I opened the door again and stepped out into the sun.

You can’t fix me.

I’m not broken.

I just didn’t know that for a long time.

And when the love comes in I do have to take a moment and not run from it, to allow it in, to receive it, to let that love be a blazon and to shine it right back out.

I can’t give it away if I can’t accept it.

And I want to love you.

So fierce.

So deep.

With every fiber of my being.

I wish to love you with all that is bright and right and beautiful.

Love, like fireworks and eider-down, like peonies heavy-headed with dander in the grass at the edge of the garden, where the wild currants grow and the violets nod their sleepy heads, soft sheathed in the sweet, pale, green summer grass.

Love like cotton blossoms and the smell of wood smoke.

Love like light through amber and butterfly wings.

Love, warm, and soft and so, so, so strong.

For you.

All my love.

Love.

Always and forever.

Yes.

There.

Like.

That.

Just like that.

 

Sorted, Satiated, Seduced

By my sweet foggy city.

Home.

It is such a nice place to be.

I am so grateful I put it all back in place to when I got home last night.

I unpacked and put away all my little treasures from the trip.

Some flower hair clips.

Two vintage cardigans.

A couple pairs of cheap earrings.

Some stickers.

Two pounds of locally roasted coffee, one from Mojo and other from Hey Cafe and Coffee.

Two pairs of new sandals.

And the little bit of swag from the conference.

I was a little wound up from getting home.

I got the butterflies and the happy sparklers of joy in my belly as the plane flew in over SFO International Airport.

It is this way every time I fly into the airport.

This feeling of happiness and glee.

This recurring knowing of being home, even before I called San Francisco home, it was home.

I still remember, sixteen years later, how it felt the first time I flew in over the city and how giddy I was with it.

Anticipatory joy and love and awe.

Awe that I was coming and getting to see the friend, a man I was in love with, romantically crushed out on, a man that though I did eventually get to have for one one night, was not the man for me.

But.

I will always be grateful for that unrequited love song that yearned in my heart for it led me to this city, this amazing space and land and confluence of fog and love and flowers in my hair and self-discovery.

And.

Of course.

No matter what.

No matter where.

It will always be home because it is where I got sober.

No other place can lay claim to that piece of my history.

So on top of the general body and soul and heart knowing, there is this deep pocket of grace that I am here.

I leave and return.

I tried to move to Paris.

That didn’t work.

I could see living in New York, it has it’s energy and allure and spark.

But.

Yet.

I am here.

And I continue to return and be soaked with gratitude every time.

I could live in New Orleans.

Oh, the hot humid sexy of it.

The big lushness of it, the flowers and trees, the moss in the trees, the drawl of the voices, the funky, bluesy, jazzy’ness of it, the art and the creative.

And also the underground dark scary spooky.

I suppose everywhere has pockets of wildness and dark.

But I could sense it closer to the surface there than a lot of places, maybe any other place I have been.

Death and sex and hot damp over abundant wildness.

It is there just skimming along below the pulse of warm air on your skin.

I can’t quite describe it, it is intense and dark and surreal and powerful and made my skin feel electric at times, the small hairs on the back of my neck rising in silent acknowledgement of the old the, wild, the barbaric yawp.

I feel it at times, in a different kind of way, but a dark wild way, in pockets of Golden Gate park when I would ride my bike through it at night.

Not always, but often, and though a different kind of energy then what I felt in New Orleans which was at once languid and violent, it too has a dark windy animal howl.

I am compelled by both those energies, softly drawn and also quite aware and wary that it is not my space to wander through.

I get to give it a wide berth.

The other thing about New Orleans was the architecture that was so heavily French influenced.

I do have a thing for all thing Francophile.

It is a definite and well defined influence that I really felt drawn too.

Plus, the colors.

Oh, so bright and many.

And that too, is something I find wonderful and compelling about San Francisco–the Victorians and the architecture here, gorgeous and bright and colorful as well.

I also recognized a kind of art and brightness that I normally associate with San Francisco and the Burning Man culture here.

In fact, at one point when I was in a little store on Magazine Street, I recall thinking to myself that I didn’t know New Orleans was such a Burner’s city.

Then I realized that it was Burning Man influenced, though, there may be some of that too–I know Burner’s Without Borders did a lot of work in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina–it was Mardi Gras.

The store was full of costumes and feather boas and masks and at first I thought it was a store like you might find in the Haight that specializes in festival gear and clothing.

Nope.

Mardi Gras.

Either way, it’s dress up.

For me, though, although I flew my personal little self-expression flag high, I was not as comfortable with it in New Orleans as I am in San Francisco.

I felt at times, if I were to live there, I would tone it down a bit.

Then.

I realized.

Nope.

I am not toning it down for anyone.

I am wild and free and wonderful and live a happy, joyous, compelling life.

And so far.

That life has been focused and centered around living in San Francisco.

Even when the fog, Karl, sweetheart I did miss you, is so thick you can’t see the fireworks display in the sky on the fourth of July.

Even when I needed to unearth the heavy sweatshirt today.

Even with the tech kids and the Millennials and the people getting pushed out and the high cost of living.

Even with the extra traffic and the gentrification.

I still love it so.

I still get feathering tickles in my body of joy co-mingled with electric blue sparkles of anticipation and awe, the wonder of it all.

I get to live in San Francisco.

I.

So.

Am.

The luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

Welcome To The Club

She said.

The “smooshed boobs club.”

She giggled a little and gave me a pink ribbon pin on my way back out to the dressing room.

“Pretty.”

She also said.

I don’t believe she was responding to my sideways mashed breast, rather, the tattoo on my arm was drawing her attention.

“You’re doing really well, so much better than some, so good for your first time.”

“Hold still, hold your breath, ok, and……”

“Breathe.”

This conversation could have been much more uncomfortable, but I am just that, comfortable in my body.

I remember going into to the same room, the same dressing area, with the same grey back drop at Kaiser Geary years and years ago with a friend who needed moral support.

It wasn’t so bad.

I mean.

Her hands were not the hands that I wanted to be man handling my breasts, but at least it was not painful.  I rather thought that it might be.

Yes.

It was certainly uncomfortable to be half-naked in front of a stranger, but I have taken showers in the communal shower trailers (although not nearly as many as I thought I would this past burn) at Burning Man for the staff, that stripping down wasn’t such a difficult thing.

I did not feel vulnerable or scared or uncomfortable.

I felt all those things last night.

Counterpoint with the absolute thrill of being with a person I really like making out while the stars exploded over our heads.

“There’s the moon,” I said pointing it out in the sky, a bit facetiously, trying to make light conversation, trying to not wear my ragged little heart on my sleeve, trying to be funny in my own way.

Then the fireworks.

Literally.

Figuratively.

The Giants won the World Series last night.

Go Gigantes!

Ahem.

Not that I am really all that big a fan of the sportsball thing, in any of its various manifestations, I’m not even a fair weather friend.

I think I have been too traumatized by too many sports teams and the inevitable fall out of drunken revellers.

Whether I was drunk or not.

Most of the time when a large sporting event was happening that was a big deal, I was working.

I was working last night and then I went to do the deal.

“I don’t know why he cancelled,” the text read, “would you be able to fill in?”

Of course.

I wasn’t even thinking that it was game seven of the series.

I was just thinking, when you’re asked, you say yes.

So I did.

And I am grateful for it because it gave me something to fixate on rather than the text I received about being in my neighborhood and would it be alright to drop by and say hello.

“If sex is very troublesome, we throw ourselves the harder into helping others.”

Good Lord, let me help some others.

So I can stop thinking about what I am going to wear, do I have enough time to get home and shower and what am I going to wear, oh, did I already say that?

What the fuck am I going to wear?

I think I could have answered the door in a gunny sack, but I do believe that effort means something.

When a person is meaningful, I want to reflect that and show up for it.

I mean, I won’t lie, I debated taking the shower and getting back into regular civilian clothes, not that any of my clothes are all that civilian–tomorrow is Halloween and I didn’t go out and buy a costume, my costume is from my regular wardrobe, just slightly rearranged into a conceptualized idea.

Then I thought, that’s stupid, you’re just getting home from work, you’ve had an adrenaline inducing ride through the wilds of San Francisco and its drunken environs, put on your pajamas.

But I couldn’t bring myself to pull on my yoga pants and my Hello Kitty nightshirt.

I compromised, but on a dress that looks like a sexy night slip and slipped into a sweatshirt that is a tiny bit fancier than my Bicycle Coalition hoodie.

I didn’t wear makeup, but my color was so high from the ride home that I doubt it was necessary, and something about being freshly showered feels glowy and pretty.

And there were fireworks.

Of course they were commemorating the World Series win, but I could extrapolate that to my situation.

I felt like fireworks.

Clothed fireworks.

Let me reassure you.

Or me.

I suppose it’s me.

I so want to get carried away, swept away, take me away, ravish me, have me.

But.

Whoa.

Slow girl.

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to rush to.

It’s been awhile since I have felt like going it slower.

This, this speed I am at, is still above average, I do have a lead foot, I do like exhilaration, I am not good at reigning in passion about anything, let alone being alone with a handsome and sexy and delicious man.

Sweet Jesus.

Gotta get right with God, and there is no judgement here, no trying to wrangle it or snag something, it’s a building up, is what it feels like.

A slow steady burn rather than a flash of light and heat and fire and the embers faint and fading as they fall into the sea.

The fireworks were dreamy and I felt my body shake today, flashes of color and heat on the inside of my eyes and I was swept back up in the feeling of passion that was there.

As well as the excitement of knowing I will get to see him again.

Soon.

Tomorrow.

It’s Halloween and I have a date to the dance.

I mean that literally.

I have a date to the dance.

It does feel like high school, I feel like high school, nervous, giggly, then ravaged with hormones (just because I was welcomed into the smooshed boobs club does not mean that I don’t still have a surfeit of hormones), giddy.

And I am going to run with that feeling as long as I can.

Unlike high school, though, or college or last year, I suppose, I haven’t capitulated on waiting a little, slowing it down, it could have happened the first night I met him.

That whoosh of feeling and magnetism.

I could have stripped down and done a little dance of lust in the basement.

There is something to that bonfire of passion, but I don’t want it to burn out.

I want to bank it and feed it and build it up.

I think it’s only going to get better.

And then.

Well.

Fireworks.

Bang!

Don’t worry, nervous system it’s just 4th of July eve here in the Mission, I’m sure it’s just a firecracker.

Or a gunshot.

Or a firecracker.

Or a gun shot.

The Mission gets crazy with fireworks this time of year.  Everyone lights them off, there are illegal bottle rockets and M16s going off on every corner and the streets are lashed in smoke.

It used to really freak me out.  I remember my first fourth of July in the Mission.  I was living at 22nd and Alabama.  Deep down in the Mission, just straddling a sort of neutral land between the Reds and the Blues and I was afraid to go out side.

It was cold, foggy, smokey, and every other second it seemed like there was artillery fire happening.  I wanted to get a six-pack from the corner store and I felt like I had to get psyched up to get myself out the door and to the Bodega.

The streets were smokey and at first I thought the fog was just really heavy coming in from over Twin Peaks.  But no, it was smoke.

And where there’s smoke there’s definitely fireworks.

The fact is I will probably be deep in Mission territory again this 4th of July.  I am working at the shop my normal hours then heading over to 2900 24th Street to meet with my fellows at 8p.m.

I suspect that by the time I get done there, 9 p.m. the melee will be beginning to get some action.  It will be dusk.  I am already contemplating getting done with work, riding the bike home, and just walking over to 2900.

I don’t know that I want to be riding home as the fireworks get going.

I have actually never gone down to the waterfront and watched the fireworks.  Last year was probably the best viewing I have ever had and that was something else.

I was still living in Nob Hill.  I took the stairs up to the roof.  I had a clear, unobstructed view of the Bay, stunning.  The night was clear and cold, but clear, which is not always the case, was a huge deal, it was my first 4th of July without fog.

I was just as fascinated by the fireworks as I was by the parties of people  (Jesus, that’s a load of fireworks that just went off, that sounded really too close and really too loud, fuck, I am already jumpy like a cat) if not more so, who were scattered all over the roof tops and balconies of the houses studding Nob Hill.

Truly some of the best seats in the house.

Side bar–favorite child hood fireworks–Snakes–something very oddly compelling about them and the smell of sulphur.

I am a bit of a firebug, but I have not lit up a firecracker or a sparkler in quite some time.  I loved sparklers when I was a kid.

Ok, dude, that one made me jump.

Eek.  It might be tough sleeping tonight.

I loved how they smelled, the sizzle they made when they were burning, the trails of colors left on the back of my eyelids.  I have this very fond memory of tall grass in the back yard of the house in Windsor, my feet buried in thick lush, soft grass, the smell of the summer night, the sparklers, a whole box just for myself, the falling indigo dusk and the fire flies wicking in and out of the deeper grass in the back orchard.

If I could be anywhere for 4th of July, it would be in Madison, at Warner park, camped out all day on a blanket in the park, waiting for the light to fail and it to get dark enough to watch the fireworks as they set them off from the lagoon.

There are probably better fire works displays.

There are probably.

But I can remember every Fourth of July that I lived on the North East side of Madison, going over to Warner Park for the fireworks, even going when I did not live on that side of town.

The time I sat so close that I got firework ash in my hair and had to be careful that the embers that fell down around me powdery and hot did not land on my head.

The boom and the sizzle of a loud cannon blast and the resulting blooms and showers of light.

Fireworks, I feel, and this is only my opinion, are the best in the Midwest on a warm July night, the smoke keeps the mosquito’s at bay, the air is lush, electric, and soft.  You wear a sun dress all day long and the heat bakes off your skin as the cooling breeze from the night falls around you.

A band plays a rendition of the star spangled banner and the whole crowd roars together in one loud momentous movement of patriotism.

The fourth of July happens to be one of the few days I do feel oddly patriotic.

Ironic as I prepare to become an ex-pat.

I won’t be watching the fireworks tomorrow and I am ok with that, I’ll still get plenty of experience with the noise and the smoke, the boom and the bang.

I loved the bright clear stunning display last year in Nob Hill.

But the dirty, gritty, pop of cheap, illegal fireworks booming between the alleyways in the Mission, is really the more authentic celebration for me at this time in my life.

Happy Fourth of July!

Now, go blow something up.