Posts Tagged ‘making out’

Is It A Little

September 14, 2016

Dusty in here?

Just a mite.

But not too bad.

I got all my Burning Man gear sorted, finally.

I still find it rather amusing that I was back almost a week before my stuff landed back in San Francisco and then it took another week for me to source a vehicle.

It happened last night though.

I got done with work and my friend picked me up from work and we headed over a few blocks to 19th and Valencia.

My friend gave me heaps of shit about the dust and my badge of pride.

I don’t know about that, but it’s amusing.

I always know my friends by the amount of shit I’m willing to take from them.

Some people.

I have absolutely no tolerance for, you want to give me shit, I might beat you.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

My friend gave me a lot of shit over the last day about my gear and that allowed me to gauge our burgeoning friendship pretty well.

He’s a good egg.

Nice to have more friends.

I wasn’t expecting to have this coalesce and it’s been a little bit of whirlwind here at Casa Carmen.

Hmmm.

That looks right, but you know, not quite.

Maison Carmen.

AH.

Yes.

Better that.

Anyway.

I ended hanging out a lot with this person the last few days.

Totally unexpected.

I had a date Sunday who cancelled in the weirdest way yet.

He, the guy who cancelled on me, texted that he’d had a date the night before and they hit it off so well that he wasn’t interested in going on a date with me.

The message I got was that he was super happy (don’t recall asking, but great) and that things had radically changed (I should have known when our date was rescheduled–he’d originally made it for Saturday) and the new set of circumstances being that he wasn’t available to date.

But.

Hey, if you want to hang out as friends we can still meet up.

Um.

No.

Not even going to waste my time doing that.

I don’t need to cultivate more male friends, I need to cultivate the female friends I already have.

Of course, I already mentioned my other male friend, who is a new friend.

Um.

Ha.

Friend with benefits.

Ahem.

Heh.

But.

I, ah, get a head of myself.

The other title to this blog, fyi, was going to be “Hickies at the 7-11 in Sausalito,” but well, it didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

Anyway.

When Sunday’s date cancelled I decided that I would take my own damn self on a date.

I eye-balled the Mike Doughty poster my friends had gotten for me for getting the tickets to the show, the poster Mike signed for me, yes, and decided I would hie over to Cheap Pete’s and get it framed and then in the spirit of more art, go to the MOMA.

I did my Morning Pages, cleaned around the house a little and hopped on my scooter.

Oh.

Small scooter update.

Total wash on the cost of getting the repairs.

Yes.

It does turn out I have a deductible for collision, but it’s $500 and the cost to repair my scooter was $246, so no go.

All out-of-pocket.

Thanks hit and run, hope that karma bites you in the ass.

My insurance agent suggested though that I could probably right it off when I do my taxes this year.

I had no clue.

He told me the deal and I said thanks and got on with my day.

End of aside.

So I hit Cheap Pete’s dropped off the poster–I’m framing it in white with a black mat, it’s going to look hot.

Then I headed down town to the MOMA.

As I approached the museum, I realized that I was going to go right by the Nordie’s Rack on Market street and I had a twenty-dollar gift certificate that was going to expire if I didn’t use it.

I turned right on Mission street and hit the motorcycle parking by the old Mint.

Then a little shopping.

I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

I’m still not sure why I answered.

But I did.

New friend on the phone, and we’ve had some social media contact prior, so it wasn’t weird that he had my number, also we have a lot of friends in common, a lot.

He needed a favor and was calling for some help.

I explained that I wasn’t in the position to lend a hand, I was downtown shopping, and I’m not sure how it fell out my mouth, but that I had basically gotten stood up on a date so I was heading to the MOMA.

He thanked me, asked if I might change my mind and I said I might check back in later, depending on how my afternoon went.

I hung up and got to the shopping.

I was in the changing room when I got a series of texts.

Hmm.

Yes.

Actually.

Ok.

The gist being this gentleman wanted to know if he could be my stand in date since I had gotten stood up.

I was flattered and thought for a minute, then a light bulb went off in my head.

He’s pursuing!

Aha.

This has been a thing I have been writing about, being pursued rather than being the person that chases–I tend to chase guys who aren’t interested.

So.

I said yes.

We made plans to meet up at my house.

He picked me up looking dapper as fuck.

He’s a handsome guy.

In a suit, thank you very much.

And we headed out over the bridge to Sausalito.

Dinner at a little Italian restaurant.

Then.

Parking his vehicle over by Fort Baker, we changed up into riding gear and went for a motorcycle ride.

To the 7-11.

It was with some chagrin that he realized that I don’t eat sugar.

He was taking me to get a Slurpee.

Ok.

Now I don’t know about you, but it struck me as so adorable I almost couldn’t stand it.

Fast forward two days and being back at that same 7-11 at 11:30 p.m. at night getting snacks and water and giggling like I’m a sixteen year old.

Because.

Fuck me.

I have had a fucking blast over the last 48 hours and there’s something so 80’s movie perfect about being in a 7-11 with a paramour getting silly shit from the aisles and making out at the cash register.

I am not kidding.

I’m 43 but I was definitely channeling some teenager glee.

And today.

Well.

Back to reality.

I won’t say that I won’t be hanging out in the 7-11 again I probably will but the adult world is calling to both of us and we agreed at the beginning that whatever happened it was going to be light and fun.

It may have gone a bit deeper than that, I’m pretty sure it did, but it circumstances being what they are, he’s not really available.

So.

I get to be super grateful that I let myself be pursued and for 48 hours I had a goofy, sweet, silly, sexy, fun, amazing time with a new person who surprised me in more ways than one.

Here’s to new experiences.

And being hella grateful that my date on Sunday cancelled.

I hear “rejection is God’s protection.”

It wasn’t meant to be, that date, but it was the impetus for the two dates that followed with this new paramour.

Thanks God.

Let me be sure to remember this experience the next time a date cancels.

Seriously.

Take The Fucking Drama

June 17, 2016

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.

I Would Have Liked

June 3, 2016

To have read that blog!

His eyes lit up.

Yeah.

Except.

Well.

It didn’t sit with me, I woke up this morning, earlier than needed and I took down last night’s blog.

So.

Unless you’re one of the 11 people that caught it on social media before it got pulled or one of the 280 some followers of my blog, you’re out of luck.

Suffice to say.

It wasn’t kind and it was spurious and it was passive aggressive and manipulative.

It was bait.

And I don’t like that about me.

I get to keep my side of the street clean and I did that.

I actually don’t think that I was hurtful, no, nor was I mean, but ain’t nothing like a woman scorned.

Anyway.

Life moves a pace.

I have an awesome life and if you did read the blog, I got there, I was in my happy place by the time I went to put the blog down.

I also did some written inventory last night and let it go.

But, yeah, when I woke up and had a conversation with someone who wasn’t in the room with me, I knew, time to dump the blog.

Rather be clean.

So fresh and so clean, clean.

Than harbor any kind of resentment.

Does me no good.

Happy.

Joyous.

Hella hot.

Wild.

And free.

Please.

Did you see my hair today?

Mwahahaha.

And don’t get used to it.

I have an appointment booked for the 18th at Harper Paige with the lovely ladies for cut and color–pastel pink, baby, it’s summer time.

I’m also thinking that will be it for a while.

It’s been years of wild colors and maybe it’s time to go back to the brown.

I also am debating going short again, once the pink comes out and the root goes from being on fleek to being desperate.

I’m not sure yet.

I do like it long.

But once more short may be in the future.

Of course.

I may change my mind.

A lady is allowed that.

And.

“You are supposed to have fun!  There is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with playing the field,” he told me.

Well.

Thank God.

I’m out there trying, for sure.

Must to have the fun.

Still uncertain how the weekend is going to suss itself out.

Dancing?

Making out?

Pleasure.

Reading.

Heh.

Got you on the last one.

Trip to the MOMA, finally.

I actually offered my service to a lady for Sunday and got turned down.

Apparently I really am supposed to have these two days off.

I have no  clue what is going to happen.

I will be dressed sassy for it.

Then again, when am I not?

God I love clothes.

And makeup and glitter and flowers and sequins.

And, um.

Ha.

Digress much.

Tomorrow is Friday and will be the last day that I work the school schedule with the boys.

As of Monday I will transition back to full time hours, I’ve been doing 35 a week when not in a school weekend, 10a.m.-6p.m.

I’ve got my Monday nights booked in with my person up in the Castro.

“Good, we’ll meet here, once a week, Monday’s starting this Monday,” he said.

Awesome.

Since I’ve had this big school year I’ve been meeting him every other week.

I’m so grateful to go back to meeting once a week.

Plus my other person, of course, it takes a village, yah, it does, on Saturday’s and my three ladies interspersed throughout the week.

I will have time to date.

Oh yes I will.

And have fun.

I have two months and a half months before I head back into school.

I’m going to burn it to the ground.

“Well, of course she likes you, you’re wild, you’re free,” he said to me.

God.

It is nice to be seen.

The only fly in the ointment.

Yoga.

I’m not going to be able to make a yoga class before work any longer.

I had my last Thursday morning class today.

I sent love and light out to a certain person.

Like I said.

I felt a lot better after I got up and deleted the blog.

I am a nice person, let me live up to that.

I set an intention for myself.

“Lighten Up!”

And had a great fucking class.

I’m going to be sore tomorrow, maybe even until Saturday, but.

Oh man!

I did poses I haven’t been able to hit before and took things deeper and yes!

I did a three legged chaturunga.

Yeah.

Huh?

Basically do a down ward dog position and lift one leg up as you go down into the plank pose, then, knees, chest, chin, push back into upward facing dog or cobra, and then back to a three legged downward dog.

That means nothing to you.

That’s ok.

I did it!

My arms are hella strong and I can feel my core getting super strong too, and winnowing in a bit.

I’ve not really lost any weight, wasn’t doing it to lose weight anyhow, just displace stress out of my body and get out of my head.

Which can be a dangerous neighborhood.

But.

I have noticed my body changing shape.

And I won’t say I don’t like the results.

I do.

My waist has nipped in a little and I can feel my posture is better and my legs stronger.

I’m happy doing the yoga, although it still is and may always be, a bit of a mental challenge to talk myself into going to it.

I’m always so happy when I get done with a class.

I literally float down the sidewalk home.

It is so very nice.

So my morning yoga practice is going to have to change.

My doing the deal is going to have to change.

And that’s ok.

I can hang with that.

It may not look pretty for a few weeks while I work it out, but I can be flexible.

I can also continue to do the yoga on the weekends, it really comes down to the evenings, finding out if I can work in meet up with my fellows and a yoga class, or if that is asking for too much.

I don’t need to figure it out now.

Nope.

It’s almost Friday.

One more day of work.

Then let the fun begin!

I am also open for suggestions.

Or for hanging out.

Hit me up.

I’m ready.

Seriously.

I’m Done With This Week

April 15, 2016

I know.

I know.

I still have tomorrow to deal with, but it’s just been so off kilter this whole week.

Finding out I basically can’t do Burning Man, that still is surreal.

The losing the keys.

The weird hours and days when I have been at work, but the family hasn’t been there.

The play date I didn’t know about that was an all day play date.

Ugh.

I am done with this week.

Seriously.

One more day and then back to “normal.”

I know, there really is no normal in my life, heh, but, there are schedules and times and routines that I have a longing for.

I’m flexible, but I feel like I have been ultra flexible this week and that it has sort of bit me in the ass.

That being said it was nice to get out of work early tonight and hit up a spot I haven’t been in months and see some familiar faces and get the message I needed to hear and be accountable to my recovery.

Good stuff.

And tomorrow is Friday and Friday does go by quick.

I will be going into work early again and then I’m helping out with a commitment at my normal Friday night spot, I’ll have a little time in between, perhaps a little sit down somewhere, maybe dinner out on my own, or a little snuggle down in a big leather chair in a cafe I like with my not school book book.

I’ve started my reading for the next round of classes but I haven’t really got too far into it since things have been so up and down all this week.

All in my head, mostly, in my heart.

It still seems crazy that I can’t do Burning Man.

Although I did offer the family that I was going to nanny with an option to have me for half the time, but I haven’t heard back and I don’t suspect that it will work for them.

I think I just have to surrender to the idea that this is really not happening for me this year.

I haven’t told the family I work with full time that I won’t be going yet, I guess that’s the next step, but I found myself way too busy and yet with scads of down time–a play date can be a lot of extra work and it can also be an awesome distraction that keeps my charges engaged and busy–to take up the discussion.

I’ll let it play out when it’s appropriate.

Today was not appropriate.

It was really good to see the boys though.

Really good.

“Carmen, Carmen, Carmen, I missed you!” This littlest guy flung himself at me and hugged me fierce and long.

“I missed you too bug, a lot,” I squished him and squeezed him and ruffled his hair and kissed him.

“I missed you too,” I told the older boy who was deep into the Magna tiles when I came in this morning.

He sort of grunted at me and continued playing.

Yet, just a few minutes later when I had hung up my jacket and put my lunch in the fridge and taken care of sorting myself out, he crawled right into my lap and happily let me hug him and catch up and listen to tales of travel and adventures.

It was a very sweet reunion.

I could tell they were actually a little upset that tomorrow is Friday and the last day that they will get to see me before it’s the weekend again.

“But you’ll be back here Monday, won’t you,” the oldest ask with much seriousness.

“Yes, all back to normal,” I said and kissed his face.

Even though change is coming.

Change is always coming.

I keep wondering what I will be doing instead of going to Burning Man.

Will I be sitting in the playground with the boys?

Will I be sitting next to another, friend or lover?

I haven’t spent that time of the year in San Francisco for ten years.

It is a ways off, I don’t have to focus on it, in fact, I don’t want to focus on it.

I have school to do, life to do, recovery to take care of, dating to get on.

Not that I have any other dates lined up.

But I am open to the experience.

I haven’t had any success with Tinder since last week, which was a great success, so I ain’t hating, I’m just interested in having another date.

Doesn’t necessarily have to culminate in what I got to experience last time, but I would like to continue trying and experiencing.

Plus.

It’s nice to be kissed.

Really nice.

My successful assignation hasn’t text me since he’s gotten back in town.  I know he’s back not because I’m stalking the man, thanks, but because the app tells you how near or far a person is.

He’s about seven miles out.

Makes sense.

I’m in the Outer Sunset and he’s, er, heh, seven miles in another direction.

But I’m not interested in pursuing.

He knows my number.

It’s not rejection, not being called, it just means that there’s another door to knock on, or another person to answer to who may be knocking at my door.

I can’t know if I’m turned around and facing the corner focusing on getting what I want.

So often what I want doesn’t serve.

Hey God who do you want me to date next?

Make it obvious ok?

Thanks!

No, really, thanks.

I don’t always pay attention to the obvious clues.

Unless they are married, then oh, I can totally tell.

Ha.

That happened the other night, I was being shined at and it was super flattering until I shined back a little and then realized, oh wait, god damn it, that’s a wedding band.

I usually look for that first.

I mean right away.

I don’t like to flirt with married guys.

It does NOT go well for me.

That’s another blog another time.

I don’t also do well with recently separated or divorced guys, too hot too fast, I tend to be some sort of rebound girl.

“I’m going to be that girl at Burning Man you talk about in stories later,” I laughed and stroked his cheek bones.  He fluttered his eyes open, emerald green and sincere, so, so sincere, and we all believe that sometimes, or I do, don’t I, that sincerest, deep stare straight inside your heart.

“Nope, you are not, you are so much more that that girl at Burning Man,” he said and then tucked curls behind my head, dusty curls, but curls none the less.

“I won’t ever forget this, you, the sacred and the profane, Jesus, you are beautiful,” he turned to face me and I could see the mountains out the camper window dusty, impervious, majestic in the distance, the smudge of playa dust at the bottom a haze of golden shimmer.

I stopped protesting my role in his life, accepted the love being offered and lapped it from his hand like a thirsty woman parched for love in the desert of her high noon soul.

Maybe it’s better I’m not going to Burning Man this year.

But I sure am going to miss it.

Something awful.

Something fierce.

Even though I do believe that Nature, who abhors a vacuum will but something more spectacular in its place, it’s just hard to see it from the welling of tears in my eyes.

This too shall pass.

It always does.

And in it’s place what is always left.

Will remain.

Love.

It is the only thing that fills the vacuum.

It always has.

It always will.

I just don’t know what it looks like.

And that is alright too.

Probably better that I don’t know, I’d try and fuck it up.

Here’s to new possibility.

Dreams.

Adventures.

And always.

Here’s to.

Love.

 

 

 

Hello Monday

March 8, 2016

Let’s be friends.

It started out well.

I woke up and went back to sleep.

That helps.

Sometimes I wake up and I am awake, I can’t go back to sleep, the brain is too busy, the mind has had an espresso without telling me and has finished the New York Times crossword puzzle in black ink and is impatient for me to see its plans.

Today.

I woke up a half hour before my alarm and said, no, rest, let your body rest.

I was planning on going to yoga anyhow and my body does need some rest.

I can feel that I have gotten a lot already, so much really, from the practice that I could get compulsive about it, but I don’t want to be unbalanced.

That being said, yes, I did go today.

I won’t be going tomorrow and it’s unlikely that I will on Wednesday either, those are my two days that are challenging.

Thursday I will and then Friday, Saturday, Sunday, I’m in school.

Yup.

It’s my third weekend back.

Which is also why I won’t be going to yoga tomorrow morning before work, I need to finish up my reading and also proofing my papers and making sure they are formatted correctly.

One of my cohort got a hold of me and also mentioned that I better re-check the paper parameters for one of our classes.

And fuck.

She was right.

The format for the paper was different than I had written.

Ie, I hadn’t used the correct spacing for the paragraphs.

Re-adjusted it before heading out to work today.

I had enough time after yoga to hop into the shower, pop into some cute clothes, make up my face, fix the hair, not that it really was going to be performing after getting scrunched under my helmet–yay for a break in the rain!  I was able to take my scooter in to work today.

It doesn’t look good for the rest of the week.

Not at all.

I will most likely be taking cars, I’m not interested in riding my bicycle or my scooter in the kind of rain that has been dumping down.

I would be wet most the day and also, it’s just dangerous when it gets too blustery.

I’d rather be alive with a few less dollars in my pocket.

It will rather blow having to take a car into school, it’s so much nicer when I can scooter in, but again, it’s the showing up that’s the most important.

Just keep showing up.

To the yoga mat.

To the notebook.

To the text book.

To do the deal.

It was great to see my fellows tonight and have a chat with a few friends and re-connect.

Really grateful for connection, and commitments, for contact with people I care about and love.

I get to see one of my people tomorrow and that is always such a good feeling, a little sitting down in a cafe doing the deal and getting down to brass tacks.

Getting perspective.

I actually had a lot of perspective just from going to yoga class.

Seeing how much better I have gotten in just ten classes is pretty amazing.

I’ve gotten my new mat too, super non-slip grip and nice and thick.

It’s amazing.

My feet stick like glue to it, well, not always, I do wobble a lot still in certain poses, but again, today, I stuck a pose that I have not been able to do yet–side plank with one arm down and one arm up in the air.

Holy shit.

That’s a work out.

We did a lot of core work today and as per my body’s demands, I ate a lot of kale salad today.

However.

I think I may have kale’d myself out for a little while.

I got through half of my dinner salad and I wasn’t feeling it anymore.

I wrapped it up and figured I’d nibble on it tomorrow for lunch.

Like the good little bunny I am.

Have you seen me eat carrots?

Please.

And folks wonder why I have bunnies all over the place.

Symbolic rabbit meanings deal primarily with abundance, comfort, and vulnerability. Traditionally, rabbits are associated with fertility, sentiment, desire, and procreation.

Hmm.

Sounds about right.

Thanks interwebs.

Although I’m not procreating at the moment, heh.

I have been writing affirmations about sex and making out.

I am single, sexy, and available to date the man God wants me to date.

I am having amazing sex and make out.

Um.

Ha.

I think I’ve actually been writing: I am having mind blowing sex and amazing make out sessions.

That’s the full affirmation.

Every body deserves that, right?

And after all the wonderful stuff with Burning Man unfolding for me, yes, completely confirmed, time off, I’m going, I’m going, I’m going, ten in a row!

I figured.

Come on.

I stopped trying to write affirmations about the one or marriage or my beloved, I’m like, let’s get down to brass tacks.

Let’s go out.

Hey, do you want to go out?

Hey, do you want to burn?

Hey, do you want to dance?

Seize the mysteries.

Hold them in your hands.

Yes.

Exactly.

I won’t spend my whole day stuck trying to figure anything out, but I’m just saying, I’m open, I’m available, I’m going to keep trying, working at it, taking care of myself, focusing on the good stuff right in front of me.

The flowers I bought on Sunday opening.

The new yoga mat and my new practice.

The music on my stereo, the sweet apples in a blue pottery bowl on my counter.

Going to Burning Man.

Going to graduate school.

Loving my little charges and their sweet faces.

Getting kisses from the pup at work.

Hugs from friends.

Life.

You know.

It’s dreamy and delicious and it’s only Monday.

What wonders will the week bring?

I suspect fabulousness and magic.

Well.

Ha.

I know that I will get that since I’m having dinner with my Puerto Rican fairy godfather on Sunday after I get out of school.

But.

I suspect that there is greatness a foot.

I have a vast warm light feeling in my heart.

The days may be grey, there may be rain.

But there is sunshine in my soul, buttercream and daffodils.

It’s Spring!

Baby.

Magic and mysterious and momentous.

Mythic.

I  feel it.

I really do.

 

 

 

I’ll Be Your Arbiter

February 4, 2015

Baby.

We both laughed.

“I want little placards that read ‘straight pepper diet’ and ‘imperious urge’ and one small gavel.”  I then laughed uproariously.

I amuse my own self.

I have been asked to run a workshop on sexuality and body image in recovery and though so flattered, did I want to do it?

No.

Fuck no.

Hell no.

I think not.

“God alone can judge my sex situation,” I explained to her, “which means, I can’t judge my sex situation.”

Always a good thing to be reminded of.

“I just immediately thought of you and how you embody your body and you’re fabulousness, and you just seemed the right person for the job.”

Again.

So flattered.

Then I thought, well god damn, I best get me laid before the event on the 28th of the month.

What does that give me?

25 days.

Let’s go boys.

Bwahahaha.

Ah.

Chuckle.

I mean, yeah, hey, I’ll take some loving other than self lovin’.

I’m down for the latter too, but my vibrator isn’t really made for making out.

Ahem.

For me, however, it’s not just about sex, it’s about letting myself be sexy.

“You sort of ooze sex, I think a lot of people think you’re getting laid all the time,” he said to me.

“Not like that,” I slapped my leg, “Jesus, no wonder I don’t get approached.”

I may not get approached also because, well, I’m fucking flamboyant as hell and got up and it takes some balls to approach this woman.

Unless of course you’ve been smoking hella weed in the soccer court at Mission Pool and Playground, then it doesn’t even matter that I’m with two young boys under the age of five, I’ll get heckled.

Or leered at, same thing really.

This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, no particular reason, I just did.

I tossed my grumpy ass in the shower and washed up and dried my hair and decided what I was going to wear and I climbed into my attire for the day.

I made my bed.

I read some things.

I said some things.

I ate breakfast.

I drank coffee.

I washed my breakfast dishes.

I pulled out my notebook, aqua blue glitter, thank you very much, and started to write.

I wrote about being cranky for no particular reason and what that brought to mind.

I drank my coffee and decided I had time for a half cup more, and time to do my make up and fuck it, I’m cranky, I’m going to fake it til I make it.

And I swept my hair up into flower clips.

Not one, but three.

Because why the fuck not?

Then, yes aqua blue eyeliner, and silver hoops in my ears and glitter aqua blue stars in my ears, the second and third piercings on the left ear, and why not, I’m not saving it any longer, the lipstick from the Monoprix in Paris on the Champs Elysees that I ducked into one day on my way to Charles de Gaulle Etoile Metro stop.

I was a wild mix of purple, glitter, aquamarine, and hair flowers with feathers and glitter.

I looked mad good, in case you were wondering.

And I felt fantastic.

I’m living the Burning Man dream, riding my sparkle pony up Lincoln Avenue with a big smile on my face.

If a little face paint and a few hair flowers can change my mood, then why the hell not embrace it.

I embraced the fuck out of it.

She smiled and said, “you’re so colorful.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled, as I pushed the stroller through the gate at the front of Mission Pool and Playground on Valencia Street.

That is what sexy is for me.

When I am having fun with myself and being bold and not caring what the world thinks of me.

“I used to keep a hula hoop in my kitchen,” I said, laughing, “not because I really hula hooped all that much (although for a weekend I got into it), but because it was a good visual reminder (being oversized and vibrant lime green with dark green sparkles threading the outer edges of it) to keep the focus on me.”

“What is outside of the hula hoop is none of my business,” I said and made a circle with my arms to represent that.  “What’s inside is my business.”

“Who are you dressing up for,” my ex boyfriend asked the week before we broke up.

“Ah, nobody, I always dress like this,” I said.

Although, truth be told, I had been taming it down, my way of dressing and makeup weren’t to his taste.

Which in hindsight is a red flag, note to self.

How I attire myself is also a reflection of myself as an artist.

My body, my hair, my tattoos, my choice in makeup, my way of dressing, of expressing my sexuality, of allowing myself to be sexy, are done in ways that I believe, really, truly, in my heart, to be an artistic expression.

I am my own walking poem.

Sometimes the stanza is a dance move, a twist of the hip, a rotation of the foot, a twirl in my bedroom, listening to Daft Punk and grooving out to my own little dance party.

Sometimes it is the sweep and swoosh of eyeliner, I like a cat eye, or a retro glam look, or it could be that the color on my eyelid matches my shoelaces, which match the second heart glitter earring on my left ear.

I am a palette and I glow and fuck yeah.

Bring it.

I’ll run a workshop on sexuality and body image.

I may even wear my leopard print, pony skin, black platform heels and make everybody get up and shake their gorgeous booties to a hot track.

I just got to step into my body, my self and be the awesome creature that God made me.

You’re not the arbiter of my conduct.

God damn it.

I’m here to enjoy this life.

This body.

This everything.

Bring on the dating.

I got 25 days to practice.

Giggle.

Break a girl off.

 

 I want a little sugar in my bowl
I want a little sweetness down in my soul
I could stand some lovin’, oh so bad

 

 

Get it On

March 13, 2013

I just about fled the second floor of the American Church, got to go, got to get, got to get going.

I have places to be, Metro’s to catch, blogs to write.

I was up at 7 a.m.

Tomorrow I am up at 8:15a.m.

Ooh.

I get to sleep in.

Of course, once here, once sat in front of my computer, I fumble about, what is there to write about today?

Does not matter if you don’t have a topic matter, lady bug, just sit and do the work, just show up and the words will show up, they always do.

They always do.

I have had a longer relationship with writing this blog than I have had dating anyone in the last five years.

Fuck me.

Make that the last ten years.

I have not been a long-term relationship in over ten years?  Is that correct?

No.

Actually, that is not correct.  It has been longer.

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

It’s been fifteen years since I have been in a long-term relationship?

I must have been pretty fucking burned the last go around.

I am ready to move on.

I want love.

I want love to wrap my fingers gently, slam them in the doorway…

I have been seeing a lot of old patterns as I continue to do my nightly inventories and see what serves and what does not and where the insanity is and how I can get some restoration toward sanity.

Of course, I find that all too often, come the morning, when I open my journal and begin the days writing, I have gone back to some old idea of what works and what does not.

And why do I get horny when I know the room-mate is going to come back and I have to be up early.  I don’t have time to get it taken care of, the distraction of getting out of my head is just that mainly, a distraction.

Yeah, but can your vibrator kiss you with whiskey breath, he said at the bar, beer sloshing around in his glass.

No.

See, that’s part of the issue.

I can’t date the drinker any more.

I have tried.

I was sitting with a dear heart today at Bert’s and we were talking about sex and dating and men and relationships and we both laughed at the same time, “what would we talk about?”

The phrase that elicited the laughter.

What would we talk about?

I mean, for me I have a tendency to attract and be attracted to people who consume things beyond the ken of the normal.

I have never dated a “normie”.

I repeat.

“What would we talk about?”

Yet since coming to Paris I have had thoughts, some which seem to stem from me and some that seem to crystallize out of the air like scattershot snow, that it was about to happen.

It.

What the fuck is it?

Who the hell is it?

Questions that do me no good.

It’s a surprise.

I don’t care for surprises.  I used to believe I did.  I like to know.  And I like to know right now.  Then I can get busy planning out my life.

Of course, if anything has been taught to me in the four and a half months that I have been in Paris, my plans mean absolutely nothing.

“I am not going to baby sit.”

I have two gigs tomorrow.

One in the 7th from 10:30am to 1:30 pm.

The second in Asniers-Sur-Seine, in la ghetto, from 4pm to 10pm.

I gave up on the ultimatum when I saw how rapidly the funds were flying out of the bank account.

The funds, $60.13 in my BofA account, nada in my wallet.

I gave the Barnaby 50 Euro today toward rent.

I have food in the fridge.

A warm bed, damn.  It was nice to crawl into that warm bed last night, and I know it shall be again tonight, heavy down comforter that I am completely inured to the temperature of the outdoors with when I lay beneath it.

A hot shower.

A hot cup of coffee.

So what I want some romance, romance yourself.

Yet, there is that length of time as I see others get together.

And sometimes fall apart.

I wonder, what is the insanity here that I continue to have.

I am the only constant in the lack of relationship.

I am feeling as I continue to embrace being me that something will switch and really I do not have to figure it out, I really don’t.

Then I hear someone in my head say, “if  he’s the One, he’ll follow you to Paris.”

Note to said person, nobody is following me to Paris.

The only thing that followed me to Paris are my manuscripts.

Which is a relationship in its own way, a relationship with the words, with the language a love affair that never leaves me, I suppose, as I show up for it.

Every morning.

Every night.

I am with my master, the words, the story, the language jazz in my blood, the visage that kisses me goodnight every evening and wakes waiting for me patiently to drink my coffee and make my bed, waiting for me to eat the oatmeal and brush my teeth, then take to the notebook, the pen, the journal, the paper.

If this is the only long-term relationship I get, then I am alright with that.

As it stands, I am good damn company and the words, the stories, the histories are here, any time I want to find out how I am doing, I can just check in here.

The only problem?

My blog can’t make out for shit.

I need to get kissed.

Well

And.

Soon.


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