Posts Tagged ‘geographic cure’

Three Day Weekend!

June 14, 2016

Hello there sexy.

I had no idea.

I mean.

I sort of forgot what with all the excitement of getting my ticket to New Orleans and my special spot via Air BnB, I still feel like pinching myself a good one when I look at the pictures of it, that I have this Friday off!

In fact.

I will probably get out of work early on Thursday too.

I doubt very much that I will have a full day at work.

The family is flying out at 4:10 p.m. from SFO.

Granted.

I will have work to do.

I always do when they travel.

I’ll straighten out the house and clean out the fridge and make sure that everything is closed down and organized and set up for their return.

I will also go in early on Monday to open the house up for the housecleaner, but I will get out by 2p.m., so even though I’m working that day, the family doesn’t get back until Tuesday, I will have an easier work week then normal.

Of course.

I may still get called in for jury duty.

So far so good.

I don’t have to go in tomorrow and I did not get called in for today.

I’ll be checking again tomorrow after 4:30 p.m. for Wednesday.

Fingers crossed I don’t have to go in on Wednesday.

Yeah.

I know.

Civic duty and all that.

But.

Yes, I am hoping that my number doesn’t get called.

And if that happens.

I have a totally wide open Friday.

I will do the deal with my lady at 6:30p.m. and head over to the place to do that thing I do on Friday nights, but open during the day.

Maybe I get my butt over to the MOMA and see the new space.

A Friday afternoon when everybody is working would certainly be a good way to see the space versus trying to battle it out with the weekend crowds.

I should see if anyone is around to do a museum afternoon with me.

Especially since I plan on just getting the membership.

Hoping that I’ll get a student discount, but even if I don’t, the membership is worth it.

The cost is $100, but it’s $25 for a solo ticket into the museum and with the membership I get to take a friend with me.

Right there that’s $50.

Do that twice and I’ve paid for the membership and I can foreseeably see going to the MOMA more than twice in a year.

I’ve always had a membership, except through the last three years or so when I was in Paris and they had closed down the museum for the renovation.

It’s been re-opened long enough now that although it’s still special, I don’t think it will be packed.

Anyway.

That’s a thought.

I could do some yoga in the morning and then spend the afternoon there.

Or.

I don’t know.

But I do know.

I am grateful for the time off.

Sleeping in always sounds yummy and then I never do it.

Doubtful I will do that.

I could go on a date.

I had one on Saturday, not bad, someone I know from doing the deal and it was nice to catch up, but I think it felt like just hanging out with a friend.  It was good to catch up though and have coffee at Java Beach and sit out in the sun.

I haven’t had much success over the last few weeks with the Tinder.

I don’t really care either.

Life is good and rich and full and I don’t feel like I’m lacking anything.

I have been doing fun stuff for me and that feels really good.

Like.

I have a hair appointment for Saturday.

Yeah.

Like that.

It’s time for pink again.

“Why?!” My friend exclaimed at Philz yesterday as we were sitting up in the Castro waiting for loved ones to arrive and go to dinner with.

“You have such great hair right now,” she said.

“I have to, it’s either dye it pink or cut it the fuck off,” I said.

“NO!” She exclaimed.

It’s hard to explain but sometimes I just need a change and my hair is the easiest thing to change, like it gives me some modicum of control over the uncontrollable nature of living and being a live.

I know that I have no control.

And I’m pretty at chill with that.

But.

Once in a while.

Yeah.

I have to do a hair geographic.

It’s better than doing the other geographic, which is indicative of moving for me.

Not necessarily out of San Francisco, although I have, hello Paris, but to another neighborhood.

You know.

Rattle my box a little, get myself up-rooted.

Create some unnecessary drama.

“But you love living by the ocean,” he said to me, with a raised eyebrow.

Yup.

And I have lived here coming up on three years.

The longest I have lived anywhere in San Francisco.

Seriously.

I have moved a lot.

I landed a sublet in the Mission at 20th and York for a few months when I first moved here.

2002.

I was there about eight months?

If that.

Then the house sold and I found a room in a place at 22nd and Alabama.

I lived there for about a year and a half.

Then 25th and Potrero.

There about a year?

Not sure.

The end of that time was in 2005 and it was a bad, bad, bad, bad, REALLY bad, time.

Like.

BAD.

I remember being on the back steps smoking a cigarette, really chain smoking a box of Marlboro Light 100s and talking to my best friend back in Wisconsin about how it was so beautiful where I was living and I was so miserable.

So unhappy.

It hurts to even contemplate it.

Horrendous.

And then three months into 2005.

I moved.

Again.

30th and Kingston.

Then 26th and Kansas.

Then Palou and 3rd.

After that I was at 23rd and Capp Street.

Then Taylor and Washington.

Then I couched surfed for three months in 2008.

After that a tiny in-law in the Mission at 22nd and Folsom.

So tiny.

After that.

Paris by way of a housesitting gig in East Oakland.

Paris six months.

Back to East Oakland.

Fucking talk about culture shock.

Then.

Finally.

Here.

46th and Judah.

The Outer Sunset.

The ends of the earth.

Just about as far West as one can go, give or take three blocks.

Three years ago September.

Of course I want to move.

A moving target is harder to hit.

No wonder I’ve been single so long.

Actually.

I have never dated more then since I moved here.

Ha!

Fuck moving!

What was I thinking?

Yes.

Fuck moving.

I’ll dye my hair instead.

Bwahahaha.

Anyway.

I have some time this weekend.

Want to hang out?

Hit me the fuck up.

Seriously.

Coffee?

Museum?

Making out.

Heh.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

 

Pulled That Trigger

June 11, 2016

Holy shit.

I can’t believe I did it.

Especially when I looked at the cost of flying there.

Fuck.

But.

Fuck it.

I want to go and I decided.

And I registered.

Yes.

I am going to be out of town Fourth of July weekend again.

Last year I was in Atlanta.

This year.

NEW ORLEANS!

Woot! Woot!

Heh.

I am a little excited.

I found out the family I am working for will be at Carmel Valley Ranch down the coast for the holiday weekend and I’ll have that Friday-Monday off from work.

Then, tonight, I heard an announcement about he “Road to Detroit.”

What?

My ears perked right up.

I plan on being in Detroit for the big one in 2020.

Yeah.

I like to make the plans.

But Atlanta was so amazing, I committed then and there to go to the next one.

Well.

Wouldn’t you know?

They’ve decided to build some enthusiasm for the big one in 2020 by doing smaller regional events and the first one, this year, is in New Orleans.

My whole body broke out in goosebumps.

I have been thinking non-stop, every day since Saturday, about going to New Orleans.

In fact.

I started writing it down in my morning pages, I am a world traveler, I am going to New Orleans for Jazz Fest.

But.

l have to say, when I listened to my heart, my gut, my interior, Jazz Fest seemed just too far off, so the other day I just started writing I am going to New Orleans.

Then.

Tonight.

The announcement, the see me after for more information.

I registered.

Fuck, it was only $10 to register!

The Atlanta convention was $100.

Granted, money well fucking spent, but still.

Anyway.

I talked to the dude and forked over my ten bucks and did a happy dance and rode my scooter home with a wild silly grin slapped on my face.

Until I started looking at tickets to fly there.

Holy shit.

That’s a lot.

Then again.

It’s going to be a lot no matter where I go.

I had reached out to my friend in Wisconsin and not gotten back from her and the tickets to Minneapolis/St. Paul were about the same as New Orleans.

And well.

Fuck.

I owe myself an amends to go back to New Orleans and do it right.

I have only been one other time.

I was only there a night.

I was busy running away from home with my not so secret crush, as it would later turn out, at the age of 19, having just dropped out of college, blew that full ride good.

Seriously.

Fucked myself out of a full ride to university.

I just had to get the fuck out of Dodge, or Madison as the case may be.

It was a huge geographic.

I had no idea where I was going to end up.

Homestead Florida.

Never heard of it?

Don’t worry, you don’t want to know.

Along the way there, so many adventures.

My we were so young.

He was 17 and I had just turned 19.

We had very little money.

He had a Datsun 280 Z.

It was maroon.

It had bucket seats and a tape deck.

We listened to Jethro Tull and Steve Miller and The Eagles and anything Southern rock we could.

We smoke a lot of cigarettes.

A lot.

We camped out.

But in New Orleans.

We stayed in a cheap motel on the very edges of town and decided the next day to stop and go through the down town area.

We were so young and naive and broke.

We parked in a parking garage and I remember my friend climbing out of the car, my soon to be lover but never truly boyfriend, I got scooped by the older guy in Florida who you know did some minor hot point hits for the Mafia and was 28 to my 19 and introduced me to smoking crack cocaine and I was his old lady, but I digress, and his curly, unruly hair barely held down under the sailor’s hat he had bought at Sacred Feather on State Street in Madison–a Greek sailor captain’s hat in dark navy blue.

I remember the first time I heard “True Dreams of Wichita” off Soul Coughing’s album Ruby Vroom, I felt like my heart was going to blow out of itself.

Push out dead air from a parking garage
Where you stand with the keys and your cool hat of silence
Where you grip her love like a driver’s liscense

That.

That was what it was like.

Standing in the humid murk of New Orleans and we were running away and it was scary and romantic and full of bravado and more than a modicum of stupidity.

Young and dumb and so on fire for life.

And too stupid to admit how afraid I was.

So fucking scared.

It only got worse, but that day, wandering around New Orleans, the boys in the Quarter tap dancing with Coca Cola bottle caps on the soles of their shoes, no diamonds here, and my heart trilled in my chest when we walked down a windy little street and I saw a peek inside a courtyard.

The trellis heavy with flowers and the wrought iron gate, the quiet splash of water in a standing fountain and I felt something batter in my chest, a bird with a broken wing.

I want to live here.

I want to come here again.

I want to sip bowls of coffee with my bare feet on the patio cement.

I want creole food and The Meters and Clifton Chenier and Gumbo yaya and voodoo and heat and humidity, I want the hair lifted off the back of my neck and spit curls at the nape damp with heat and sweat and love and the miraculous.

I had no idea what I wanted.

But.

Oh.

I did so want.

We spent no money.

Except.

At at tobacco shop.

I bought one pack of fancy Nat Sherman silk cuts.

And he bought one really nice, for a couple of naive kids from the North, cigar.

We got lost on the way back to the motel.

Remember folks, I’m a bad navigator.

And we had the car literally, and I am not joking, shook down for the change in the console at a 7-11 we stopped at for directions.

It scared both of us.

But we got out and that was it.

My only visit to New Orleans.

I dare say.

This time will be a little different.

Though I hope for bowls of chicory coffee and jambalaya, shrimp creole, and dirty rice, Zydeco music, much doing the deal, and summer dresses and sandals to dance in.

I’m about over the foggy gloomy summer.

I’m going to New Orleans!

Happy.

Joyous.

Motherfucking.

Free.

Bitches.

 

It Is A Spiritual Axiom

May 25, 2015

So “they” say.

That whenever I am disturbed by any person, place, or thing, I am at fault.

Well fuck me.

There it is.

Who here has heard of the “no response response?”

Raise your hands.

Um yeah.

I got it.

I called.

I left you a message.

You don’t call back.

That means no.

But I mean.

Uh.

Wait.

FUCK.

I want something out of this, I want a result, I want a response, I want, I want.

I want to shut the fuck up about it.

I want to move on.

And with that.

Yes.

I pulled a hair geographic today.

Hot Hot Pink

Hot Hot Pink

I mean.

If I can’t beat them, join them.

Or whatever the hell that means.

I am ok with not getting a response.

In fact, last night as I was masturbating.

Oh yeah.

It’s going to be one of those blogs, if you’re related to me, you can just stop reading it right now.

No holds bar.

This is a “I should probably,” but won’t at all “regret,” blog post.

While I was taking care of self, proper self-care like and having a great time with it, I realized.

Oh.

Well, there you go.

I’m not fantasizing at all about the ex.

Despite having given over to him, or perhaps to the fantasy of him, the majority of my brain space yesterday after I called and left a message about getting together to have coffee, I was not in fact, fantasizing about him at all.

Oh.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Suffice to say, it was not my ex.

And it was good.

Mmmm hmmm.

Then I slept like a baby.

Slept so well, I slept until 10:37 a.m.

I can not remember the last time I slept past 10:30 a.m., let alone 9:30 a.m., even on my weekends I tend to be up by 8:30 a.m. at the latest.

Look at me.

Sleeping in.

Yes.

I had a late and leisurely breakfast and even skipped doing the normal load of Sunday morning laundry I typically do (although, I will admit, I couldn’t put it off all day and did in fact, do a load, it’s in the dryer now) and the house cleaning.

Sometimes a girl just has to really take the whole damn day off.

No cooking.

No grocery shopping.

Well, light cooking, oatmeal with apple and blueberries and a hard-boiled egg for breakfast, lots of lovely Ritual pour over coffee, and lunch as well as dinner was homemade “fried” brown rice from the leftover vegetable stir fry I made yesterday with scrambled egg and avocado and tomatillos (note to self, tomatillos are hella good!  I never have cooked with them before, they added a nice flavor to the rice).

I did meet with two ladies and do some reading and writing and sharing of the stuff.

Then nada.

I had my lunch, put on some jazz, Miles Davis, Relaxin’ With The Miles Davis Quartet, drank some tea and read my book on the chaise lounge for two hours.

I had plans.

I was going to go out and do stuff and things.

But the fog was heavy and the air chilly and I just wanted to curl up and stay where I was.

Sometimes, though, I have to go somewhere.

So I went to pink, I mean, really pink.

I picked up some Manic Panic at the salon yesterday when I went to get my nails done, just because I wanted to try one last color in the trio of pinks that I have been recently experimenting with.

Each of which, note to self, must get myself to an event with black light soon, glow in the dark.

Seriously.

My hair will glow in the dark, under black light.

Get thee to a night club lady.

Not that I have any plans to go hit the club circuit this weekend.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away (the SOMA) I would have been rejoicing at a three-day weekend, I would have been at least three bags deep into it and looking to score more and be at the door at the End Up ready to make the most of the holiday weekend.

Not so much now.

And I find this much better.

In case you were wondering.

Anyway.

I went radically pink.

It is startling, fun, eye-catching, I won’t be missed.

“You are not easy to miss,” he told me, “even if I didn’t say anything, I knew when you showed up, where you were, I would sit and stare from a far.”

Oh lovey.

I don’t want to be stared at though.

I want to engage and I did have a moment of thinking, am I self-sabotaging, going this crazy hair color?

And then.

NO!

I am fucking having fun and to top it off I threw on a little pink glitter to make me feel better.

I don’t dress for a man, or to get a man, or to have a man, or get asked out on a date.

Nope.

I dress for myself.

I love that.

Being authentically myself is one of the best things I have discovered about living my life with a clear head.

Oh.

I’m sure I’ll change my mind at some point.

But right now.

I’m in the pink.

And I’m not mad at him.

I got, suddenly, how hard this has to be for him too.

I was reminded of the few times during the 90 days, twice, when he reached out via text and I did not respond.

Now I know how it feels.

Sucks.

But it won’t kill me and as I was more than happy to supplant the fantasy in my head with a fantasy of another, I knew in my underneath all that pink hair, my brain was slowly coming to terms with my heart.

And I could walk away and not text and not call back and move on.

Frothy, pink, emotional appeals seldom suffice.

I choose today to act like a woman.

To not just talk the talk, but to walk the walk.

Which meant today, hopping on my bicycle in the gloom and getting out of dodge, my brain, for a little while and riding out to Saint Gabriel’s up on Ulloa and 41st for an hour.

Where I was reminded of the spiritual axiom and laughed out loud when it was mentioned.

Then I blushed as pink as my hair.

But I got the message.

Sometimes it just takes a day to sink in.

From my head to my heart.

By way of a small hair color geographic.

Tickled pink to be back home.

Happy and free.

In my own self once more.


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