Posts Tagged ‘hot pink’

You Look Like

June 30, 2016

Mint chocolate chip ice cream with cherries on top.

He said as I walked by.

“LOVE YOUR HAIR,” he added, giving me the nod for extra special emphasis.

Thanks dude.

Everybody likes to look like ice cream.

Well.

I do.

I did have to laugh a little at myself though for the outfit I was rolling down the street with, or up the street as the case may be, heading to the spot I spend my Wednesday evenings at getting right with God.

I had come home, started my laundry and rubbed one out.

Hey.

Look.

Sometimes a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

Although I could have taken up an offer I was made this afternoon.

“How about ten months?” He texted me.

“Um, hmm, I’ll think about that, let me get back to you,” I replied.

I got back to him a few minutes later, I already knew the answer, but it was fun for a moment to consider.

“Get your year and check back with me,” I replied.

Mother fucker.

REALLY?

Like the third one in a week.

What is up?

Did no one get their birthday last June?

What the fuck is in the air?

My hormones I suppose.

The blood is high, I can tell you what.

My cycle won’t hit until I get back from New Orleans.

Great, I thought tonight as I stripped down to hop in the shower, my breasts a good half size larger than yesterday, great, I’m ovulating or soon will be.

Meh.

I do not need to head of to New Orleans with plans of getting laid, I have other things to think about, do, go to, experience.

Was I heading to New Orleans with a partner, it would be the perfect place to wander romantic in the warm night rains and make out under a lamp post.

Just nibble my neck there and there and then we’ll stroll through the French Quarter and maybe a few cemeteries, because, well, death is sexy, no?

Anyway.

I took care of business, and then laundry and then the shower and in between packing for the trip and being on top of the clothes being in the wash, I had, um, a curious assortment of an outfit as I walked out the door.

And.

I have to say, I pulled it off.

I don’t know how, but sometimes more is better.

Leopard print leggings.

A mint colored nightshirt with candy skulls in pink and white piping, topped off with a sea green sweatshirt and of course a big mountain of cotton candy pink hair with some pink roses and a sequined star clip.

Because sequins.

Hello.

I probably look ridiculous.

But.

Fuck it.

It made me happy and I was cozy as fuck.

Because, bitches, it’s cold out there.

Freaking foggy, chilly, cold, etc, etc, etc.

It was 50 degrees this morning when I got up and socked in with fog, which never really lifted.

It got a tiny bit sunny in the Mission, but the fog that had burned off was rapidly being replaced by 3 p.m. with a fresh batch of cold as fuck rolling in over Twin Peaks.

Hello summer in San Francisco.

They are not kidding.

And the Outer Sunset?

Shut the fuck up.

It was never not foggy out here.

I don’t suppose it ever really burned off.

When I hopped off my scooter and came in and greeted my house, “hello house,” I immediately turned on the heat and lit up some candles.

Welcome to summer, break out your scarves.

I am so looking forward to being somewhere warm for a little while.

I’m sure the heat and the humidity will lose their luster pretty quick, but right now, it sounds fantastic.

A warm run of nights where I can walk outside bare skinned to the air and drift in the warm magnolia scent of summer.

Bring it the fuck on.

One more shift at work and then I’m ghost.

I’ll finish work at 6p.m.

Scooter home.

Grab my rolling suitcase, which is 95% packed, and head out the door to the airport.

I will probably call for a car.

I could try the MUNI and the BART, but I think I’ll also be hitting rush hour commute time and I don’t particularly care to risk being late on the flight.

I would rather get there a little early and blog from the waiting area at the gate.

Tomorrow!

I fly out tomorrow.

My flight is out of SFO at 10:41 p.m.

I’ll have a brief, less than an hour, layover in Las Vegas, then onto Houston, Texas, with another brief layover and transfer.

What with the time change I will arrive in New Orleans at 8:24 a.m.

I’m not excited about the indirect flight, the two change overs are going to wreck me for sleep, but it was worth it to get the discounted ticket, otherwise it was going to be another three to four hundred dollars to fly direct.

I figured that was money for the Air BnB.

Or for the experience of being there, restaurants, souvenirs, tickets to places, should I swing into the New Orleans Museum of Modern Art, it’s actually close to where I am staying, or just for riding around the French Quarter on a street car.

The disjointed travel was worth it.

I’m not upset and it worked out well for me timing wise too.

I’ll hang out and have a nice leisurely breakfast somewhere fabulous in the hood where I am staying and roll into my Air BnB at noon.

A swim in the pool?

A soak in the tub?

A fresh change of clothes, a sexy sundress.

And then off to explore a little and a late lunch before for going to the conference and hitting the registration and the big night get together.

I’m so ready.

Saturday I am really going to play by ear.

I know where I will be in the evening, at the conference, but I really do want to do a little exploring, walk, shop, dine, see what New Orleans has to offer, and also, what do I have to offer to the city, since I am such a taker.

How can I go and best be of service to the situation?

Make amends for the time previous I was there and my behavior, it was not so pretty.

I’m wild with excitement.

And I’ll keep you posted on all the adventures.

Promise.

See you next from the gate at United Airlines flight 455 SFO.

Happy.

Joyous.

Motherfucking.

Free.

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All The Gifts

June 26, 2016

The constellations in the sky.

The love in my heart.

The ocean, the waves this twilight, late afternoon walk to the beach, perfect curls and peals and no one there.

No one.

The whole city, and a few extra thousand folks, were all at Pride.

I didn’t have FOMO.

Fear.

Of.

Missing.

Out.

I thought I would, but truth is, I’m in the Mission and the Castro a lot and it felt like it was going to be like going to work and all the traffic and the drinking and sloppy, I just didn’t have it in me.

Although I did get dressed up for it, just in case I happened to change my mind.

I did the yoga and that was great.

Felt nice to be in the studio and stretch and get strong.

I had a nice breakfast at home then scootered up to the Inner Sunset and met my person and did the deal and connected and got perspective.

And fuck.

The gratitude.

Just whelmed me.

That I get to do all the things that I do.

That I get to go to New Orleans next weekend.

Next weekend!

I mean, it feels like I just got back from New York.

Heh.

I sort of did.

I mean.

There was a moment, and it was so brief, that I just waved it off, swatted it like a little gnat, I don’t have a date for Saturday night, oh boo hoo.

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

You know.

The thing is, I do.

Me.

And I am damn fine company and not that there’s not interest.

There is.

I just have some rules about dating that I am pretty unbendable on, even if he is hella cute.

No touching.

Hands off.

That’s the policy, always has been, always will be, but it was sweet to get his messages and catch up, we’ve known each other for years and always stayed in touch.

We reconnected and that was nice.

Although, also a tiny bit disappointing to hear that there was a misadventure and a return to day counting.

Le sigh.

Oh well.

So it goes.

Although, it was sweet to hear the incredulity he had that I was still single.

I’m saving myself for Mike Doughty.

Ha.

Anyway.

I took myself down to the beach and I had me a me date and it was fantastic and I sat in the dunes and let the wind rumple my crinoline and sat with my face in the sun and let God blow love into my heart.

It was a good time.

I’m such a lucky girl.

Pink hair and all.

I think that this is going to be it for a while on the hair color too.

Time to go back to brown.

I’ll spend the summer pretty in pink, but yeah, I have been thinking it could be time to go back to my natural color.

I also thought about hacking it all off at the end of summer.

Go short again, cut off all the colored bits.

That’s on the table though, I do love my long, curly hair, I do.

But.

Yeah.

Maybe back to natural.

Who cares?

I am rambling.

Oh.

Ha.

And I could have had a date tonight too, now that I am reflecting.

I must have been putting it out there on my way back from the beach, I don’t know how the guy didn’t hit me, but I literally had a guy whip across the MUNI tracks and pull his car in front of me while I was crossing the street at Judah and 46th and ask me what I was doing tonight.

I was like.

What the fuck?

Do I really look like a prostitute?

Were you just hoping I would say, well, dear, I wasn’t doing anything, but since you zipped up in your brand new bright orange SUV mini Cooper (which is so not mini and so ugly), I’ve totally changed my mind.

Let me get in your car and give you a blow job.

What you say?

Fuck off.

I just walked around the car and kept going.

I’m not sure if he thought I was a working girl, I mean, I am sure there’s lots of extracurricular action going on this weekend, but come on.

I was walking home in my flip flops.

Of course, I am tall, maybe he didn’t see the beach wear.

Just the bright, hot pink, hella big, curly hair waving around my pink glitter lips.

I get it, but seriously, fuck off.

Besides, like I said, Mikey, I’ll be waiting for you, nice and cozy, down here by the sea in my little love shack.

hahahaha.

Oh.

I fucking amuse myself.

I do have a thought though to message him when he gets to San Francisco.

Then.

I heard “Don’t You Forget About Me,” and I heard Shadrach in my heart.

“Be the ball, Martines, be the ball.”

Yeah.

Like that.

Go where the water is warm.

Let myself be pursued.

I’m not real good at that, but I’m willing to try.

Flowers yo, courting, pursue me, damn it.

Ah.

Fuck.

I feel like I’m trying all sorts of things.

Although I have yet, and really don’t plan on doing so, returned to OkStupid.

I can’t bring myself to do it, after having a profile on that site for like six, seven years, time to move on, it didn’t work.

And.

Yet.

I still feel like I am hurtling, inexorably toward the man I am supposed to be with.

So.

So.

So.

Not worried.

I’m in love with me.

Yeah.

I know what that sounds like, you can fuck off, but it’s true.

I really do feel that way.

It only took like a few decades or so.

Heh.

And it may change tomorrow.

But right now.

Life is so fucking good.

It really is.

I have so many astounding gifts.

I am so grateful.

If life were fair.

I would be dead.

I am alive.

I am a light.

I am loved.

I am.

I am.

I am.

So.

Very.

Loved.

 

Everything Is Coming Up Pink

June 19, 2016

I mean everything.

Fuck me.

Ugh.

I got my hair done today and it’s awesome and fun and I had a really nice time at the salon reading trashy magazines and drinking coffee and discussing dating with my hair dresser.

You know.

Tinder versus OkStupid.

And it was a great time.

It’s nice to let myself be pampered.

I love, love, love, having my hair played with.

Seriously.

Offer to brush my hair, wash my hair, play with my hair, I’m yours.

Give me a scalp massage?

Dude.

Yeah.

So.

Getting the hair done is always an extraordinary treat.

And not one I do all that often.

Although when I do.

I do like to pull a bit of a hair geographic.

Today’s was pink.

Pastel and hot pink and it looks fantastic and my colorist was a doll and mixed up some extra color for me with some conditioner to put in my hair the next couple of times I wash it.

And away I went to Sephora on Cloud 9 to go match my hair color to my lipstick.

Because.

Please.

That is how I roll.

“Oh, I like the glitter,” my colorist said, referring to my nails which are painted sky blue, robin’s egg blue, and overlaid with, yes, pink glitter.

Because.

Again, I ain’t nothing but subtle.

Anyway.

I came back to grab my scooter and head off to my first date of the evening.

Yes.

I said first.

I had two dates tonight.

Yeah, I’m a hussy, get over it.

I’m also making up for lost time, the cancelled dates over the past few weekends, the one guy not available and the other that just never bothered to confirm, so I figured, fuck it, book two, one is bound to not be good.

They were both good.

But in very different ways.

Anyway.

I get a head of myself.

And yes, Virginia, I don’t normally do that, I have never actually done that before, but it just sort of happened and it just sort of worked.

So.

I head back to my scooter, replete with my pink hair and blow out, that’s the other thing, I got a blow out and that is so much fun, I have wild curly hair and not one iota of desire to blow out my hair, it would take me days, no thank you, not going to do it.

But put me in a salon.

All bets off.

Blow it out.

Side bar.

I can’t believe I’m blogging right now, I should be in bed, considering what time I got up this morning and that I did yoga as well, but I also had a late, as in way past my normal cut off time, Americano and I think that has just jazzed me up a bit.

So.

Blow out, new lip gloss, matches the hair like spot on and is glittery, natch, floating in the late afternoon, early evening golden light bathing the downtown and open my purse to get out my keys and check my phone.

And what the fuck?

Oh.

No.

Oh.

Shit.

Oh.

Pink.

EVERYWHERE.

The jar opened in my purse, I managed to finagle out my phone an wipe it down and my wallet, but all the stuff, all the lining of the purse, the canvas tote I got from the Jeu de Paume in Paris all of it, doused in hot pink hair dye.

Ugh.

What I am happy to report is that I did not lose my shit.

Nope.

Just took the jar wrapped it up in the bag, wiped off what I could and got on my scooter and said, well, I’ve been wanting to replace that purse anyhow.

And off I went to the first of my dates.

We met for sushi, I recognized him at the corner as he was crossing over to the restaurant, yay for looking like your profile, always a plus.

Yay, also for being on time, in fact, just a tiny bit early, which I totally appreciate as that’s how I tend to roll.

Yay for being tall.

I mean, hello, 6’5″.

I could have worn heels.

It was a slow to start date, but in the end, the dinner was nice, although I was slightly surprised to be asked to go dutch on the date, I was like, ok, whatever, not the first time, although, I had expected…

Oh, sneaky, expectations, I know where you lead.

But, I was like, ok, whatever.

And moving on.

But.

Not exactly moving on.

We walked down Valencia Street, which is odd for me to walk down when it’s the weekend and also when I’m not working, I ran into a lot of folks I know and that was amusing, always nice to be seen and to be seen on a date, I think too, is nice.

We went to Ritual, aforementioned late Americano, we sat outside.

We discussed some things.

Talked over some things.

And oh.

There.

Ha.

I wasn’t sure.

He was indeed attracted, just a slow burn sort of deal.

And that’s ok.

Some times quickly, sometimes slowly.

He had friends to meet and I had a friend to meet.

Well.

I should clarify.

I had a friends with benefits to meet.

Which was fantastic and fun and none of your business.

I can’t put it all out here, now can I?

I did find out some lovely things about myself in the whole process.

First.

Guys don’t notice, and/or care, that I had a huge, awful patch of pimples on my temples.

Like bad.

Like haven’t had a break out like this since high school.

Hello hormones, fuck you, I’m 43, enough already.

If they were noticed, which I noticed them, gah, get off my face, nothing was said.

Of course, said dates could have been blinded by the hot pink hair.

Second.

That despite getting thrown a curve ball, one in which I would have used previously as an excuse to cancel or delay, pink dye all over my purse and stuff and things, was just a small impediment to the evening and nothing to get worked up about.

What I found is that by not caring so much about how I look and presenting myself as I was, pink hair, purse, pimples, and all, I was just more me somehow.

More human.

Less put together.

And perhaps.

More approachable.

I sure hope so.

I like this new part of me emerging.

Oh.

I’m sure I’ll get wound up about something.

But for right now.

Despite the ruination of my satchel.

I’m really sitting pretty.

And.

Very.

Very.

Very.

Pink.

 

Sucking Brain Power In One Fell Swoop

May 29, 2015

Gone.

What was I doing?

Sipping tea, looking at photographs on my grandmother’s mantles and walls, hearing stories, trying to not think about the weird e-mail in my in-box about my financial aid for school that puzzled me to the point that I could not read it more than twice without closing the message.

I looked at it again this morning.

They need what?

I already have my FAFSA in.

The school already has my information.

What more do you need?

Some more stuff, some more things.

Oh.

That’s it.

That little button.

That fucking little button there took me changing my password, updating my information, having over five windows open on my screen, toggling back and forth, figuring out new security questions, for almost an hour.

At one point I thought, next they will ask me to stand on my head and and with my right hand point to the true North.

Ugh.

That was obnoxious.

However.

Another thing done in the small but steady range of  actions I am certain I will have to continue to take to get into school, let alone, well, um, school itself.

Actually.

School.

I believe, will be ok.

It’s the minutiae, the small stuff, the obvious stuff, that I don’t always get.

“There, water level, right in front of you,” my cousin pointed out the fountain water-spout.

I was mesmerized by the soda options.

When was the last time I had stood in front of a soda fountain machine?

Coke?

Cherry Coke?

Rootbeer?

Sprite?

All of it please.

In a really big cup with hella crushed ice and a dessert pizza on the side.

Hahahaha.

I had a cup of water and a “pizza salad” without the pizza part–my cousin didn’t realize that I don’t eat flour, or sugar for that matter–and had taken us all to the new popular pizza place down the road.

It smelled divine.

And truthfully, I was too overwhelmed with the sudden abundance of family and how to act and be polite and be me and not melt into the background.

Not that I wouldn’t stand out a little anyway.

Even without the hot pink hair.

“I like your style,” my friend texted, “you got flavor.”

Flavor.

Yup.

I’ll take it.

And I do.

My ex called it “quirky” and I argue, I am not quirky.

Quirky is Zoe Deschanel and kitten sweaters and argyle socks and well, not me.

I rebut quirky with girl has flavor.

“Chicks with visible neck tattoos and pink hair aren’t anything nuts to me,” he replied, “maybe in Iowa.”

Yet.

When I travel outside of San Francisco I do seem to get a little extra attention.

Although not always in a bad way, the TSA agent at the airport was excited by my hair, “awesome hair!”  He enthused and waved me through.

Where I got to find out that I had to sit in SFO for a bit longer than I thought.

My flight was delayed.

Ugh.

Although, as I sat in the terminal linked up to the internet sipping organic, cold pressed iced coffee and having just finished an organic Niman Ranch hamburger (no bun, no onion, no fries, thank you) with a side of, yes organic, mixed greens, I thought, hmm.

SFO.

Worse places to be delayed.

For sure.

The flight was delayed for weather.

That’s right.

Fog.

Carl the Fog was wrapping up the airport tight.

I wasn’t happy to be delayed, but it gave me a moment to look over the e-mail from the FAFSA people.

I still didn’t get it and I decided, not going to boot up my laptop and try to figure it out.

Sit back.

Sip the coffee.

Watch a video.

Then the fog lifted and I was up in the air and before I knew it the plane was descending through the blue skies, clear of fog, lots of sunshine, and low 70 degree weather.

I took off my sweatshirt.

I needed it on the way to the airport and I needed it on the plane, they do always seem so cold, even a short flight.

Sidebar.

Almost one year later.

My ankle hurts when flying.

It swelled up and got tender and I had to stand in the aisle for a while rolling it around and getting the blood flow going.

I really couldn’t believe it.

The last time I flew was December and it was pretty tight after that flight, and still it’s not fully healed.

I really didn’t believe the doctor when he said it would be 6-8 months and possibly a year before it was fully healed.

End aside.

The sun was shining, the fake boobs were on display.

I mean.

Whoa.

I realized as I watched a woman in a low-cut shelf tank top proudly displaying her assets, I am not in San Francisco anymore.

Granted I have not spent a lot of time in Southern California, but I did immediately see things that I have not seen in San Francisco (and I’m sure I have seen fake boobs in SF, I’m sure they exist, they’re probably just hidden under thirteen layers of clothing and a black hoodie and infinity scarf-every woman could have fake tits and I would never know), enhanced cleavage, spray tan or fake tan, blow outs, high platform sandals, skin-tight jeans/jeggings, I still stood out.

I probably always will.

But I have stopped being so concerned with how I look.

As stated previously, I dress for myself and to make myself happy.

And I was happy I got my stuff packed and on my way with no delay this morning.

I also remembered to wear my clogs so that I didn’t have to struggle with going through security.

It wasn’t until I was sitting in the lounge waiting for the flight to board that I began to sense some side looks and stares.

And I realized that I usually do get them when traveling.

I have a moment or two of feeling singled out, then I thought, whatever, I’m a good-looking woman and who cares if I have pink hair and tattoos, they look pretty and I have flavor and so there.

Ah.

My brain is coming back, the FAFSA website has not won.

Now I can bring my mind back to hanging out in San Diego.

I’m ready for some more sunshine.

PS

As I am editing this blog, my grandmother came over and said, “your hair looks so pretty up like that, it looks like a flower.”

#winning


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