Posts Tagged ‘Giants’

Thankful

November 28, 2014

Full of thanks.

Thanksgiving.

On the back of a sporty Harley Davidson, motor rumbling under me, blue sky above me, scuttle of clouds, flash of sun, ocean off to my right, heading down Sunset Avenue, San Francisco.

Thankful.

This is my life?

This is my life.

Quite a bit different from last Thanksgiving when a friend wrangled me an invitation out to Marin to hang out with his buddies from school.

Not that I had a bad time last Thanksgiving, it was just a new time and an uneasy time for me, getting back into being in San Francisco, getting a new rooting in the soil, sandy soil that is.

“What has happened to you,” she said to me tonight as we hugged in the kitchen at a dear friends Thanksgiving celebration.

“I moved out to the Sunset, that’s what happened to me,” I smiled.

Lot’s has happened to me since I have moved to the Outer Sunset and so much of it is so different than what I expected.

I feel constantly and continually surprised by this little community at the edge of the world, the edge of the sea, the edge of San Francisco.

It may just be the best place for me to celebrate this Thanksgiving.

I have a boyfriend.

I have a job.

I have a writing practice.

I have a graduate school application I have to get my ass into gear about and finish up this weekend.

I have a four-day weekend.

Day one.

Well, so far so fucking good.

Go re-read that part about riding around on the back of a Harley Davidson with the sun warm on my back and the Pacific Ocean shimmering in the sun and ask me what don’t I have to be grateful for.

New experiences?

Check.

Friends?

Check and double-check.

So many fine, amazing, and beautiful friends in my life.

Some of whom I got to see today.

And a community that I belong to that has seen me change and grow and evolve and for what may be the first time in a while, certainly in a year or so, Thanksgiving to Thanksgiving, I feel that I belong.

That I am in the right place, that I am in the spot, that I have a spot to come home to and people who want me for who I am and what I do.

I don’t do much, but I do it well and for that I am grateful.

I show up.

On time.

With helpful intentions.

I still think of myself an awful lot of the time, but I am able to be present for others, and for my life, which is one and the same, I think, sometimes, that showing up for my life is a reward and a risk, a dare.

A dare to live outside the box, and sometimes, yes, in the box too.

I felt a moment of gleeful exhilaration on the Harley today.

I was thinking random Thanksgiving thoughts for the past few years, comparing last year to this year and the year prior when I was in Paris and those darn French folks with their ways that don’t celebrate the pen-ultimate American holiday.

With the pen-ultimate American sport–football.

In France it is not football, but futball–soccer.

In French class, Thursday, November of 2012, crying, tears slipping down my maudlin face because what was everyone doing and why were the all in class, it’s a holiday for fucks sake, why are you not having some turkey?

I was crying over a soccer ball exercise in my French class.

I was homesick.

Wow.

Was I homesick if I was homesick for football, which, in case you were wondering, I don’t watch.

I am a fair weather Packer fan, suppose I always will be since I did grow up in Wisconsin.

Twelve years of being, mostly in San Francisco, I am almost a Giants fan (sorry, Gigantes, though, the damn Milwaukee Brewers still have my heart–Cecil Cooper why did you have to give my third grade self that signed baseball?  Robin Yount, why did you have to be so cute? Gangly, yes, but hella cute, you know?), but nowhere near a 49ers fan.

Sorry folks.

But yet, football, a soccer exercise, French class, Paris, what was I doing, so far away from home?

How could I be homesick for something I never really liked?

Especially when I was in the city that I had been pining to be in for so long?

Fantasy.

That’s the haps.

I was fantasizing.

It gets me every time.

I shot the Paris fantasy in the foot and I am good with that and don’t doubt that I will go back, I have friends there, fellowship, and I love Paris, it’s a beautiful town (a little too much dog poo, but you know, every city’s got to have their thing), but I don’t want to live there again.

Nope.

I want to live here, in San Francisco, out by the beach, fog or sun, rain or shine, this is my place and it feels like my time.

The second thing that happened that Thanksgiving back in Paris that made me homesick?

Sons of Anarchy.

Yup.

I had downloaded the episodes on my laptop, this self-same archaic, almost obsolete little machine, and cued one up to watch that rainy night in Paris after having an awkward ex-pat dinner at the Lizard Lounge in the Marais, I had gotten lost trying to find the pub and was still feeling a little sorry for myself if the truth were told.

My room-mate came in blustery from the rain and work and sat for a while then we took a cab back to the 9th arrondissement, to rue Bellefond, he dropped me and went to go hang out with friends in the 18th for another ex-pat dinner.

I stayed in, made a cup of tea, sliced up an apple and had it with some creme fromage and watched Sons of Anarchy.

You know you’re homesick when scenes of the motorcycle gang rolling through the dock yards in Oakland make you tear up.

Yeah.

I am not ashamed to admit it and today, remembering it, I chuckled.

Two years later, one year of living it out, making it work, not knowing what was going to happen or how, just living it to the best of my ability one day at a time, I’m here.

In the city I belong to on the back of a Harley driving down Sunset Avenue heading home to back an overnight bag to go over to my man’s place and enjoy the gifts of being a local.

I’m not a native San Franciscan.

But I am a local.

And I belong.

For that, and so much more I am utterly and completely grateful.

Now excuse me.

I have someone to go canoodle with.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

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Welcome To The Club

October 31, 2014

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.


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