Posts Tagged ‘fog horn’

I Only Cried Once

June 1, 2016

Ok.

Fuck.

Twice.

And of course, I was wearing glitter eye shadow today.

ALOT.

Fuck me.

Oh well.

That’s what mirrors on my scooter are for.

They certainly were not for anything else tonight coming home.

Holy fog Batman.

I was pretty soaked when I got home.

I digress.

I got out of the house early today to go wait in a line at the SFMTA.

To get a number.

To wait to be seen.

Wait, what?

Yes.

That’s right.

I had to wait in a line to wait in another line.

Ugh.

Fortunately, I had given myself enough time and I was able to address the issue, although, damn it, yes, I did cry.

I got frustrated.

I had all the things, I mean all the things, that they could possibly require, plus photographs of the scooter with the Child Care Parking Permit and my proof of insurance, my license, my title, all of it.

However.

As the supervisor so nicely told me, after I was redirected from the counter to another counter, it was the way it was.

There was nothing she could do.

“Listen, this is just the way it is, I’m sorry that you have to go through this, but there’s no other way, you need to get this documentation every time you apply for a child care permit,” she said, kindly, she was kind.

“But, I’m not asking for a new year long permit, I’m just asking to get a replacement permit,” I said, “the permit is good until November of this year.”

“Doesn’t matter, the city requires certain documentation, here, these are the forms, have your employer fill it out and then she has to come here in person and….”she paused.

I had started to cry.

I can ask for certain things from my employers, I know I can, and I have when I have needed to, but I knew, I mean, I really knew, she was not going to spend any time in the SFMTA to help me get the parking permit.

No way.

No how.

“Please, is there no other way,” I asked, “I just can’t see her coming down to do this, anything, please.”

We worked it out.

I got a sheaf of paperwork my employer will fill out and then she can mail it back to the SFMTA.

Ugh.

So I’ll get to wait another month or so and pay for parking out of my pocket, but better that than the sore knees I have had from riding my bicycle to and from work.

Plus.

Starting next week.

My work schedule will change.

10a.m.-6p.m.

This is my last week, that is, until school starts back up in the fall, with the 1p.m. to 8p.m. schedule.

The boys will be out of school as of Friday.

Which means my yoga schedule will change too.

No more yoga before work.

But.

For this week, I still have the late start and for that I am grateful as it facilitated me getting to the SFMTA and dealing with the standing in line and the paper shuffling.

And yes.

The tears.

There are just somethings that I get worked up about and I knew, I mean, knew, before going in, to not have any expectations.

Still had them.

Surprise.

Fuck.

God only knows what the fuck will happen when I am on jury duty.

Sigh.

Yup.

Got nailed with that too.

My service week is the week of June 13th.

I suspect I won’t get called, but I had to let the family know and the mom was none too pleased about that too.

I can’t delay it.

I did that already.

I was initially called up while I was in the throws of my last round of papers and projects for my first semester of grad school.

There was no fucking way I could do it.

I applied for the six month deferral.

Got it.

And then completely forgot that six months later they were going to cheerfully pull my card and call me in.

Oh well.

Civic responsibility.

“Adulting.”

All that jazz.

I do know that it won’t be as horrid as it could be, schedule wise, the family will be going back to the mom’s side of the family for a little while and I will not have them that Friday, Monday deal.

Of course, I will get to be there to open up the house for the house keeper and do some cooking and take care of things like I do.

This time, though, no locking myself the fuck out of the house.

Not playing that shit again.

My schedule has been a little wonky this week already.

I normally meet with some ladies on the weekend, all of them got rescheduled, and normally, I meet with another lady tonight, but she had work stuff.

I found myself in a part of town I don’t normally get to.

And for an hour.

I had some reprieve from the fog, the parking, the SFMTA, the work, the schedule, the juggling of folks.

It was nice.

I saw some folks I don’t see often.

And though I wasn’t pleased to get out to see how thick the fog had become, holy Moses, it was soup, I was centered and calm and happy to get home safe and sound.

To light up some candles.

To turn on the heat in my studio.

Yeah.

It really is like that.

It’s cold out here.

The fog is something serious.

And I don’t recall it being this dense already at this time last year.

I think I’m in for a pretty fogged out summer.

Grateful I work in the Mission.

I did get to see sun today.

The mom was incredulous that there was anything but sun at the beach this weekend, but I assured her, it really was dreary.

Although.

It is a cozy sort of thing.

Wrapping up the neighborhood.

Softening the edges of things.

The transformers sparking in the moisture.

The smell of the sea.

The call of the fog horn.

Just calls for cozy company.

Which shall happen this weekend.

Despite the tears.

I’m just a girl, you know.

Life is lovely.

It really is.

Fog and all.

Happy.

Joyous.

Foggy.

And.

Free.

 

Terrifying

June 1, 2014

Thrilling.

Scary.

Fog.

Welcome to summer.

It is foggy.

And it was a dark, intense ride home in the fog, so thick that in spots the moisture slid off overhanging trees and splat on my helmet like heavy rain.

I could barely see where I was going and to top it off I was taking a way home that I had not ever taken on my own before.

Coming home this evening from Noe Valley on my scooter I decided to avoid the traffic in the Mission and the Castro and instead head up and over Clipper to Portola and then down and around to the Inner Sunset.

I don’t know that I have ever been so glad as when I reached 7th and Irving.

Familiar territory.

A sigh of relief to know where I was and to recognize the lay of the land.

Granted I have ridden this way before on the back of some one’s cycle, as the passenger in a car, in the back seat of a taxi cab.

But on my own.

At night.

On my scooter.

In fog so dense that I was grateful to be behind a large slow-moving bus to guide me through it, never before tonight.

I actually pulled over and caught my breath, pulled the windshield up on my helmet and yes, I admit it, I took off my glasses and rode the rest of the way back without a face shield.

I know, it’s illegal.

I took the damn test.

However.

The fog was too thick.

I could not see a damn thing, it was collecting and condensing on the face shield and my glasses too much.

Once I pocket my glasses and lifted the shield I could see and I was a far less dangerous person on a vehicle on this lovely opening night of the fog season.

AKA

Summer in San Francisco.

I don’t mind the fog.

I like how it glides in over Twin Peaks, shrouding the sides of the Castro Hills and draping Noe Valley in a blanket of hush.

It’s just not particularly awesome to ride in.

That being said.

I rode my scooter all about town today!

I had an appointment to complete the color on my hair today at Solid Gold Salon.

It looks amazing.

I did not do the Brazilian blow out, however, we decided to just do the color, a dark violet/indigo that blends into a glaze of hot pink.

The color is quite a bit darker than I wanted, but with good reason, it’s going to fade to the color I want and I won’t have to worry about the color fading, we went intentionally darker.

It’s going to fade to the perfect shade in a wash or two.

And for the moment, it’s a fun shade to have that I don’t recall anyone I know currently having.

The indigo will fade to a frost lilac and the hot pink to a soft, dusky, pastel pink.

I get to have my cake and eat it too.

Because then, under all that, I still have the blonde highlights–which were necessary to pull in the rich, exuberant color–win, win, win.

I wasn’t thinking much about the hair color when I got up, my brain was rather pre-occupied with getting to the salon on my scooter and seeing if I could get it started without having to call in the Calvary.

And I did.

And it was awesome.

I still killed it at one point on a hill going to make a right turn as I was heading from the Tenderloin into Nob Hill.  I got nervous, I couldn’t remember the exact cross streets for the salon and I was on a one way.

But, I just calmly pulled it over, and started her right back up.

Then I remembered how to get to the salon and rode a few more blocks, pulling up to the salon as my friend was running a quick errand down the street.

That was satisfactory!

Seeing my friend as I arrived on the scooter he sold me.

I felt this great sense of accomplishment as I backed into the motorcycle parking at Sutter and Jones.

Said sense of accomplishment then further embellished by the joy of paying for the parking meter.

$1.25 for three hours of parking.

I was happy to pay.

I believe the cost of metered parking in downtown San Francisco for a car is $1.25 per fifteen minutes.  I may be exaggerating a little, but I know that metered parking for a car is really quite expensive.

After I got my awesome color at Solid Gold Salon I headed to that food mecca called Rainbow Grocery and got some staples that I am hard pressed to find elsewhere and revelled in the joy of bulk bin shopping.

I didn’t do as much shopping as I had thought I would do, I was too hungry to really be able to concentrate, so I took myself over to Herbivore on Valencia and 21st.

It’s a vegan restaurant that has one of my favorite dishes, I have simple tastes and it hits every thing for me, it’s a Mexican beans and rice dish with fake chicken.

I can’t tell you why I find it so tasty, but I do and I never order anything else.

I am not a vegan.

But I will play one on tv.

I have also been known to have sex with one.

Shh.

Speaking of, I didn’t get asked out on a date with my fabulous hair, but I wasn’t even thinking about it.

I was too busy being concerned with getting home tonight.

The fog was heaving in over Twin Peaks into Noe Valley hours before I was to be heading home and I knew that would be taking up all the head space I had to focus on getting home.

I had one tiny moment when I thought I might ask some one out, then it fled my mind and I returned to keeping my attention on the night, the scooter, the fog, the getting her started and running.

Which all happened.

And I got home safe and sound.

The neighbors across the street huddled on their front steps enjoying foggy summer time beers wrapped up in beach blankets and smoking joints; the bell of the fog horn blowing out over the ocean, the smell of salt and sea, the beat of my heart that for a moment I took to be the thrum of surf on the sand, but was coming from inside me.

Then, the scooter parked, secured, and I home.

Home with my sexy awesome hair.

Safe and secure in my little bungalow by the beach.

A successful day for sure.

Color me content.

 

House Party!

December 14, 2013

“I haven’t been to a good house party in years,” my friend hollered in my ear as we were dancing in the living room.

Years.

Yeah, it’s been a little while since I have been out and up until 2 a.m. shaking my thing on the floor.

“Have you been dancing this whole time?!”  He asked me with a touch of incredulity.

I nodded, smiled, grinned actually, “once I start, it’s hard to stop, especially if the music is good.

And the music was fan-fucking-tastic.

I saw people dancing who I have never seen dance.

The dj got us all going and it was just an extraordinary night.

A night to remind myself how important it is to dance, to sing, to jump around the room with dear darling friends.

“What are you doing for New Years?” She asked as we segued into another set of shake your ass harder.

“Fuck.” I said, “I am working.”

“They better be paying you like $700 to work!” She said, “please tell me you are getting a good rate, you so deserve to.”

“I am, they are taking care of me, I am bummed though, I didn’t know you would be in town.”

My friend is a busy, busy, busy doctor and it is rare that we get to see each other.

But when we do, it is just the best.

We made plans to do brunch on New Years Day.

My overnight gig will be in the Castro and she’s got a place on Market and Church, perfect meeting of the minds, maybe a little Cafe Flore action, I know they will be open, then we were thinking we might hit Breakfast of Champions or perhaps the End Up.

But definitely do some dancing.

We also made tentative plans with another friend to do a night at the End Up in February.

Hehehehehe.

Yeah, that’s right, I am turning 41 next week and I still am making plans to go to the End Up.

God damn I love San Francisco.

And it really was one of the best, if not the best, house parties I have been to in the city.

All I had to drink was some apple juice and a cup of melted ice.

No party favors.

No extracurricular visits to the bathroom.

Just me dancing my heart out in the middle of the mashed room full of friends, old and new, from all walks of my life, Burning Man, nannying, people in my life that mean so much.

“We have to do this again soon, like, soon,” she said to me with a fierce hug.

The mom of one of my little charges, who was dressed like the best unintended Cindy Lou Who of them all with her little white tights with the red snowflakes that became stripes right at the top of the knees.

She held my hand and walked me into the front room where the Christmas tree was (this was before the dj, to some lovely live music that was being sweetly sung in the living room), she pointed out the star at the top of the tree.

“Up,” she said in a high sloughing voice that I only heard in my heart, it bypassed my ears and landed flat in the middle of my heart, and raised her arms.

I lifted her up and she touched the star at the top of the tree and giggled.

“AW!”

A chorus of onlookers behind us.

“You have such a beautiful little girl,” one man said to me.

“She’s not my daughter, but I love her very much, I used to be her nanny,” I smiled.

There is no discomfort in me when someone thinks that one of the children I work with is actually my own child, that means I am doing my job well.

I don’t want to be that nanny that I see in the park, corralled up in a huddle around a bench with the babies all strapped into the strollers while they sit and eat and talk on the phone.

I want to be the nanny that the child talks about and wants to see and hugs and tells secrets too, and remembers the books we read.

I did a full on from memory interpretation of Jez Albourough’s “Hug” with her in my lap.

Of course, it’s not a difficult book to remember.

There are only three words in the book.

“Hug.”

“Bobo.”

“Mommy.”

But it’s all in the reading.

“You really should go into early child hood development,” my dear doctor friend said to me, “you are just amazing with children, they really respond to you.”

I don’t know what that is and I don’t take it as a talent, it’s just a given.

A gift, I suppose.

And I don’t know what to do with it, but you know, I like that idea.

“You should look into what it would take to open your own pre-school,” she continued.

Oof.

I don’t know.

But yeah, there have been times when I have thought about teaching.

And yes, I know I am good with kids.

I just don’t have any clue how that translates to career.

Anyway, that is another thought, another blog.

I danced.

It was good.

I met people.

I met Julian from France.

“You speak French!” He gushed, “really well!”

Well, I don’t know about that, but that was super flattering to hear, especially from a native-born Frenchman who teaches at the Lycee Francaise.

I met Ryan from Chicago.

A PE teacher who teaches at six different high schools in the city.

I met Andrew who is a waiter in the Mission.

I danced with guys and gals and made new friends.

And discovered people I hadn’t seen in a long time and found out we had mutual friends there and elsewhere.

It was such a sustaining feeling.

And good god damn was the dancing just what I needed.

“I need to go,” my friend said as the clock crept towards midnight.

“Me too,” I said was I contemplated the long bike ride home.

The holiday house party was at 30th and Church.

It was about a six-mile ride home.

But I just had to dance to one more song and the next thing you know, it’s 2 a.m. and the neighbors are saying, “turn it down,” and now, it really is time to go home.

I got a blog to write.

Dontcha know.

The writing which began in my head as I flew down Lincoln Avenue in the middle of the road smelling what heaven must smell like.

At least my version of heaven.

The evergreen resin so strong and pungent, I knew unconsciously that the sap must have started moving with the warmer weather today and then when the fog began to roll in and the air-cooled off, how it sung through the air, cold in my nose, replete with pine, the soul of the woods leading me down to the sea.

The rush of the air the only thing I heard until I stopped and got off my bicycle in front of the house, then, I heard the soft bell of a fog horn starting up and the breath in my lungs spooled out in front of me making its own fog and I looked up at the moon so bright in the sky, ringed with fairy light and I thanked God that I get to live here.

That I get to dance here.

That I am really truly home.

Getting to have my own private house party by the blue lights of my Christmas tree.

 

 


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