Take The Fucking Drama

Out of it.

Oh my god.

What a fucking concept.

I laughed and almost slapped my own forehead.

Instead of getting worked up about work, I just thought, fuck, all I have to do is show up and be of service, I don’t have to ask anything, I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to be stupid and pushy, I can ask for what I need the next time it comes around.

No need to do it today.

Just having done the work around it, the internal re-arranging of my perspective was the relief.

My boss doesn’t have to change.

My boss is never going to change.

She doesn’t have to.

I do.

I change.

And today I decided that creating unnecessary drama before a three day weekend was stupid.

Idiotic really.

When I was going to get off work early today and be eating out with my boys and drinking pricey iced coffees.

Oh Stumptown how do I love thee.

Yeah, I know, it’s not San Francisco based, but fuck, they have good ass coffee.

I am all out of the coffee I bought in New York.

Frankly, I have to say I was disappointed with the Gorilla Coffee I got, the roast was far darker than I like and just a tiny bit charred to my taste.

The coffee I had at the cafe when I popped into it was great, but they were out of the beans that I wanted.

Now.

Variety, in Williamsburg, that stood up to the test.

In fact.

It was like being transported back to the cafe and the talk I had with the barista and then the getting together with my friend and doing that thing I like to do in church basements that evening.

It was a sweet reminder every time I ground up a batch of the Variety beans I brought back.

Maybe I’ll find some hipster coffee in New Orleans.

Fuck me.

Total digression.

I’m all over the place.

Like always.

But.

I’m a tiny bit at loose ends.

Having a clear three day weekend ahead of me.

I got free of jury duty for tomorrow and the family is out of town visiting aunts and uncles and grandparents in the Midwest.

I spent the day keeping the boys on the move and out of the house, hence the Stumptown, I popped into Atlas Cafe on Alabama and 20th.

I have so many fond, and not so fond, memories of the cafe.

It was my first heavily visited cafe, being a block and a half away from the first place I lived in the city, 20th and York.

The first time I go there I ran into someone from Madison who had moved to San Francisco years before me and I had had a class with at University, a TS Eliot class that was amazing and also challenging beyond comprehension, most of the class dropped, including the guy I ran into at the cafe, but I stuck it out and though it may seem odd, that was were I began to believe in God.

That coupled with the course on fairy tales I took the next summer and there, a chink in my armor.

A place where the light got in.

Not for a while though.

Just ask my dealer.

He made a few deliveries to me at Atlas Cafe as well.

I have a nodding acquaintance with the bathroom there.

And a fondness tinged with nicotine nostalgia for the back patio where once upon a time a lady could smoke a cigarette with her espresso romano–a shot of espresso with a lemon twist.

God damn.

I don’t smoke anymore.

I forget that sometimes.

I can forget many things easily.

Use to weigh over 80lbs heavier.

Forgot that.

Used to do drink every day.

Forgot that.

Used to not be able to not spend the money on the bag or pick up the phone to call my dealer to do a little delivery.

“Fuck, you’re guys faster than pizza delivery,” a friend “complained” as he had to scramble to get to the cash machine when my dealer showed up less than fifteen minutes after I had placed my “order.”

He was pretty quick.

Grateful for other things today.

Explained how grateful to be less of what I was and somehow so much more, humbled by the grace that I have been given, bowed head, loved, shined on so that I can turn it out and shine it forward.

That this body is no less and no more than a conveyance for love.

And hopefully sex once in a while.

Oh my God.

43.

STAWP with the hormones.

Oh.

I suppose I’ll rue the day when they go away, but seriously, the sexy sex chemicals in my blood stream.

I don’t have the screaming baby keening ache that I had for a few years, no, it’s been replaced by a last ditch ovarian siege where I am smoking out any guy with the testosterone to hang with me.

FUCK ME!

That’s what it feels like all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

Ok.

Maybe I exaggerate a little, but seriously, the body and the brain in collusion are trying real hard to get this lady some action.

“Let’s go out and find some trouble….nothing’s sexier than regret.”

Heh.

Were I to stumble upon that I might be smote.

So.

Until then.

The yoga.

The masturbation.

Thank you rechargeable Hitachi Magic Wand.

The hair geographic, which will happen Saturday.

I have a tentative date, blind date, Tinder date, not to hook up, which he made that clear, thanks, I think, but hey, you know, just trying, and I wonder if I should warn him about the impending pink hair or just spring it on him.

Fuck.

Who cares?

The drama.

There is none.

If my worst fucking problem is that I want to get laid and no one has thrown their hat in the ring, then my life is a fucking cake walk.

Rent is paid.

The phone is paid.

I got a yoga membership at the studio.

I got that thing in the church basements doing it’s deal for me.

I got happy, joyous, free.

I got friends.

I got good coffee in the cupboard.

Light in the soul.

Shine on my heart.

I ain’t got worries.

All I got.

Is three day weekend and endless fun.

Let’s see what kind of silly I can get up to.

Want to come along?

I promise.

Good times.

Seriously.

What A Day

What a day.

A fucking awesome, amazing, meandering, sweet, full, very caffeinated day.

Yeah.

That’s sort of my go to when I’m on vacation.

Coffee.

And  a lot of it.

I may regret that come bed time, especially as a friend pointed out to me via text, “and you’re still on West Coast time.”

Fuck me.

I totally am.

But I was up super early this morning.

I mean.

Really early.

I had not planned that, it was just what happened, I got up to go to the bathroom, tiny bladder yo, and the animals were on me like the second coming of Christ.

“Feed me!” They were scampering about as I made my way to the loo.

I pet them both and went back to bed, actually shutting the door this time, last night I left it open and both the dog and the cat slept with me!

“You must be one of those people that give off that vibe,” my host said this morning as he served me my first cup of coffee today, “they always sleep with me.”

He’s got a lovely little Cuisinart espresso maker and he pulled me a fine shot and then topped it with some hot, steamed, unsweetened vanilla almond milk.

OH my goodness.

So delicious.

So.

Yeah.

Um.

Ha.

I had another.

Yeah.

I know.

Addict.

But better a hit off the caffeine then a hit off a pipe.

I got back into bed intending to sleep, but as I lay there thinking about all the things I just decided to get up and get the day started.

And I am so glad I did.

It was such a lovely meander of a day.

I decided to walk to the Brooklyn Museum.

Google mapped me out for a 38 minute walk, 1.76 miles from the place I’m staying at in Clinton Park, Brooklyn.

It took me nearly three hours to get there.

Bahahahaha.

I made a few stops on the way.

Ahem.

Ha.

I went to a wig shop.

I hella love wig shops.

I’m not in need of any hair, in case you are wondering, but I always can find a great fabric flower clip for my hair and I had recently broke one, and there it was in the store on Dekalb and I had to pop in.

Yeah.

My first stop in Brooklyn was not a museum, but the wig shop, I don’t even want to know what that means.

I will say, however, that all along the way, all day long, I was constantly being complimented for my look, my style, my hair.

From middle schoolers in the bathroom at the Brooklyn museum–three eighth grade girls on field trip hiding in the bathroom braiding each others hair–“you got great hair,” one girl said.

I thank them, smiled, played it forward, complimented their braids and walked out, as they were chatting to themselves–“she got style,” one girl said.  “It’s her hair,” another girl said.  The other girl replied, “it’s her dress,” the third chimed in, “no, it’s all of it, she got style,” she finished, “that’s right.”

Hella flattered.

Flattered to be stopped on the streets, literally, by gay men and black women and construction guys, and not creepy construction guys, and the security guard at the Brooklyn museum, Jules, oh my god, such a Brooklyn accent and the conversation about tattoos we had and the Marilyn Monroe bag I was carrying and whoa.

I mean from the minute I ambled down the ramp of the warehouse loft where I’m staying to the minute I got back, I was pretty much complimented on my look, hair, smile, tattoos.

Seriously, if I need a boyfriend bad like, I could consider moving here.

Nah.

I like where I’m at.

I also like not having a cold ass winter.

I don’t know that I could tough out a New York winter.

But today was lovely, 75, sunny, got lots of warmth on my skin.

Weather tomorrow calls for rain, but that’s ok, I felt like I got my summer moment in, in my polka dot dress with my crinoline on and daisies in my hair.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I just can’t stop staring, you, you’re outfit, the marguerite in your hair and they match the ones by your bunny tattoo!” This sweet young gay man at the table next to me at dinner tonight.

It turns out he’s from Denmark, and the queens name is Marguerite and they all love the Marguerite daisy, which is my favorite flower, and next thing you know we are having this great conversation and I meet his husband and their dog Dolly.

Is it me?

Or is New York just friendlier than San Francisco?

Or is it having grown up in the Midwest, where you smile and talk to people and wave?

Maybe all of it.

I did really talk to a lot of people today, 95% of them I did not know, baristas, yeah, like I said I drank some coffee–Gorilla Coffee was amaze, and I bought some coffee there and the girl gave me a very coveted sticker after we chatted a bunch, and a great recommendation for breakfast where I had the most amazing porridge I have ever had, although for the small amount in the bowl and the huge price tag, $11, it needed to be extraordinary–so maybe my tongue was just unhinged.

But.

You know.

I think I am just someone that people feel they can approach.

I was asked for directions early this afternoon.

And I was actually able to tell the young woman where to go, I had just passed the place two blocks prior.

I’m not a local.

But I’m not a tourist either.

Just another woman of the world.

Out and about.

So grateful for this trip.

And!

That I got to see my good friend and his girlfriend, we met up and did the deal in Williamsburg.

I’ll be seeing him again for round two of said deal tomorrow by Union Square tomorrow and then off to the book store.

“Have you done any pleasure reading yet?” He asked after I down loaded about graduate school.

So a date for the Strand and then he’ll go his way and I’ll go mine, the MOMA, the Guggenheim, the Whitney, depending on where I am at and how I feel.

And of course.

Yes.

More coffee.

I mean.

I am on vacation.

Seriously.

Oh yeah, and lest I forget.

I got a tattoo.

Heh.

It really was quite a day.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Yes.

Damn straight.

Luckiest girl in the world.