Posts Tagged ‘manifesting’

No Date For You!

September 5, 2016

No soup either.

I chose a pork chop instead.

I was in the middle of class today and I received a text message from tonight’s date regarding where and when to meet.

Um

Uh oh.

Zeitgeist.

Now.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Zeitgeist, it’s great, lovely picnic tables, outdoor seating, lots of port-a-potties, good location, the Mission and all.

But.

Um.

Yeah.

The last time I was at Zeitgeist I was wasted in the beer garden and well on my way to scoring some blow from my dealer.

I was smoking cigarettes like there was no such thing as lung cancer, or a brighter tomorrow, and over tipping the bartender to over compensate for my lack of self-esteem.

And well.

He was hot, in a beer goggly kind of way.

I haven’t been to Zeitgeist in over a decade.

Seriously.

I am 11.5 years into recovery and I think the last time I was at that bar was a few months before I got sober and put it all down, thank you very much, the dancing on the picnic tables was fun when the weather was warm and the nights were boozy, but no thank you.

But thank you for the offer.

When I responded that Zeitgeist was not an option for me on a first date I got a long, drawn out pause.

I mean.

Let’s get something straight.

If I have a reason to be at a place serving liquor or where there’s drugs and extra curricular activity happening, Burning Man, a concert, a club with a good dj, then I’m all set, I have a reason to be there.

But a date.

Nah.

Meet me at the cafe s’il vous plait.

Bars ain’t no good for me and Zeitgeist doesn’t have any appeal either for music since they don’t do shows there, fuck they don’t need to, they have an outdoor beer garden and you can smoke.

Well, you could the last time I was there, who knows now, regardless, not the place for me.

My potential date quietly and vaguely backed away from the meet up.

I asked for some clarification, not that I gave a shit, you don’t want to hang because I don’t drink, no biggie, you got your heart set on a pitcher of pilsner and a smoke in the beer garden at Zeitgeist on a Labor Day weekend, do it.

He had made a soft ball pitch, underhand, slow pitch, not fast, that maybe he would consider hitting Dolores park.

Which didn’t have much appeal to me, but I could if enticed.

There was no enticement though, again a vague rather back out.

I finished up my day at school.

Hurray for getting through the first weekend intensive of the semester!

And.

I sent a text asking for clarification.

Did he want to meet or not?

The answer was a no.

And like that I was free to go about my day.

We were both congenial in our response and that felt rather adult.

It also reminded me of the things I have been writing about regarding the want to attract an adult male partner.

Sobriety is pretty high on that list, followed closely by not smoking, gainfully employed, self-supporting, age appropriate, local…

I was grateful to turn down the date and be honest about what I want and need.

The first step in manifesting a mate, yeah, I know, hocus pocus, but fuck you, I’m giving it the old college try, all things considered I have manifested stranger–hello three seater Cessna plane ride home from Burning Man this year (you do realize my stuff is still on playa gathering dust as I type), why not a sober mate; is to know what I don’t want.

I don’t want an active drinker, drug user, or cigarette smoker.

I do want someone who is emotionally available, strong, powerful in themselves, aware, intelligent, creative, funny, affectionate, will bring me flowers…

I could go into further detail, but suffice to say, said partner is not going to want to take me to Zeitgeist for my first date.

Nope.

Truth be told, it was nice to have the afternoon to look after myself once school had wrapped up.

I took my time, chatted with a few friends in my cohort–man, I am liking how well I have been getting on with everyone–and slowly took my leave of campus, tucking my books and notebooks into my scooter basket and zoom zipping to the Outer Sunset.

I dropped off my school bag at home and headed back out on my scooter to do some grocery shopping.

I decided to cook myself a nice meal: boneless pork tenderloin pan sauteed in orange and rosemary infused olive oil with tarragon, garlic, sea salt and pepper; accompanied by thinly slice brown butter (ok, ok, it was Earth Balance, but brown butter sounds so much nicer) brussels sprouts, brown mushrooms, and white corn.  I served it over a little bed of brown rice and happily tucked into the deliciousness with some sparkling water.

After that I was a good school girl and read for about an hour and a half.

There is a lot of reading this semester.

A LOT.

And despite wanting to sit it out for a minute, I knew that it would be a better use of my time while I was freshly fed and hydrated and relaxed in my cozy little home, to get in a little reading time.

I do better with retaining the material if I do a half hour to an hour and a half at a time.

More than that and my eyes cross.

I read for a bit over an hour, took a break, then went back and picked up a different book and read for another 30 minutes.

Perfect.

Some hot tea, some blogging, some relaxing.

I’ll watch a little Mr. Robot, have a little snack, a cup of tea, and sleep in tomorrow.

I won’t be setting my alarm for 6:30 a.m.

I will be resting.

I don’t have plans for tomorrow.

Like none.

I suspect I will spend most of my time in the neighborhood.

A walk down to the beach, perhaps.

A long sit in the sun, if the fog lifts, in the back yard.

And.

Yes.

Very likely.

More grad school reading.

But.

Hey.

If you’re a sober male, appropriate age and local.

(non-smoker)

Let me know.

I’m around.

And.

I like coffee.

You?

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And Like That

September 4, 2016

I got a date.

Now that was fucking fast.

I don’t know that he is necessarily the man I have been hoping to manifest.

But.

Then again.

I have no idea.

Funny this.

He asked me out over a year ago and then I ran into another guy who I thought was him and I asked that guy out thinking it was the first dude who had asked me out.

Oops.

Not the same dude.

But they both do look a bit alike.

That being said, this is pretty much a blind date.

He was someone who friended me on social media after reading one of my blogs.

I think a mutual friend must have shared it, because I am uncertain how we connected, just that I remember he asked me on a date, but we never did connect.

Then a couple of weeks ago, right before Burning Man, while I was still working in Glen Ellen, he messaged me on Instagram.

I think he liked one of my photos or I liked on of his, who knows, but he reached out and asked me out to dinner.

We chatted a bit and I said probably after I get back from Burning Man, but yeah, I also got that school thing happening, so, it might be a minute.

And then.

I forgot about it.

Except there it was on my phone tonight, a little message in the in-box on my Instagram account.

And like that.

I have a date tomorrow.

I’m not certain exactly what we are doing, but we’ll hang out after I get done with school.

Sunday’s I have a half day, done by 4p.m. and I also have Monday off, so if it goes well and I’m out a little late I’ll be cool with it.

I’ll be happy to celebrate getting through my first weekend of the second year program.

I ordered more books today, well, one more book, a big gun, the DSM 5 and I also got my advisor situation worked out.

My advisor is on sabbatical this semester.

Which is cool by me, we didn’t really click and I never met with him.

My new advisor is actually the head of the program department, and though I know he’s really busy, I also had him for one of my classes last year and I really connected with him and how he communicates is right up my alley.

I got the paperwork sorted and I’ll be having him sign off on it tomorrow.

I had a tiny moment of panic today when I thought about things, all the reading, all the paper writing, all the paying attention and learning and doing, there is so much of it.

But.

Then I remembered.

I only have to do today.

I only have to show up, to the best of my ability, on time and alert and to participate.

Sometimes that participation is just to make sure I take a moment, sit down and eat my lunch.

The next things will fall into place, the next actions will happen, and the next thing you know I will have my masters in psychology and I will be heading into the doctoral program at the school.

I get a head of myself.

Just a note to self.

One day at a time.

One moment at a time.

And.

I don’t have to figure it out.

It will happen how it is supposed to happen.

But damn Gina.

Am I ever so glad that I have a writing practice, that I sit down here every night and write.

That I sit at this same table every morning and I write.

Write, write, write.

It’s a good habit, it’s a life line, it’s the thing that makes my blood surge and my heart beat and I decompress and unwind and let the day do it’s thing on the page.

Sometimes it’s really good.

And.

Sometimes.

Well.

It’s ass.

But.

I do it anyway and I keep doing it and one day, millions of words later, and I do mean millions, the blog I published last night was number 1,900.

I average 1,000 to 1,500 words per blog.

Which means I have written over two million words on this site.

Not bad man.

I don’t know what that breaks down into hours, they, the infamous “they,” say that it takes 50,000 hours at something to be considered a master.

Want to be a master cellist?

50,000 hours.

I wouldn’t say my blogs take me an hour to write, they typically take about a half hour to 45 minutes depending on what I have to say or what kind of mood I am in.

And the longer I have done them, the faster I have gotten.

My typing skills are pretty sharp, lots of practice, yo.

So.

Let me just think about that if I’ve got 1,900 published, which is less than I have written, I have a few dozen drafts that have never seen light of day and about another 50-100 that I scrubbed out after wanting to be careful about what I am writing and making sure that I am keeping the focus on me and my experiences and not judging others for whatever their experiences are (but I’m not perfect, it still sneaks in once in a while), so let’s just say, 2,000 blogs.

2,000 blogs at 45 minutes=90,000 minutes/60 minutes to the hour=1,500 hours.

Nowhere near a master.

But.

That being said.

I’ve spent thousands of hours writing.

And I don’t see it easing up any time soon.

For which, I am grateful.

One of my cohort and I were discussing options in regards to the program as we move forward and she was curious about the come to Jesus moment I had at the intensive week.

I shared my experience and basically outlined some thoughts about wanting to do a dissertation and get my PhD in East/West Psychology and what that might look like.

I really, fyi, have no fucking clue what that would look like except that I would be Dr. Carmen and also that I could do more with the PhD than I can with just a regular MFT license.

Which is not to say that I won’t sit for the MFT boards.

I will.

I want to be able to get my hours and also intern and make money as a therapist while working toward my PhD.

And if I keep with my writing practice.

Well.

“Oh my god, you’ll be great, you’re already a writer, you should totally go for the PhD,” she said with much assurance.

Thanks lady.

That’s nice to hear and I’m so grateful to get to do the work by getting to do this work, this little exercise that has carried me so far, let me work on so many issues, writing things out, letting things go.

Growing all the damn time.

I am so grateful I am a writer.

Even if my audience is small.

Motherfucker!

I have an audience.

How fucking cool is that?

Pretty cool.

Seriously.

Way.

Fucking.

Cool.

 

PS.  I promise my dissertation won’t use profanity.

I think.

Heh.

You Got Some ‘Splain’in

September 3, 2016

To do.

I have not told you guys something!

I’m off Tinder.

Yup.

It’s official.

I cancelled the app and deleted it off my phone.

Now comes the hard part.

The sit and wait part, the let it happen without looking for it part, the re-integration of lost things and places and experiences, the growing up part.

The.

Oh, dare I say it.

The adulting part.

I did some work at Burning Man and not all of it was fluffing, a lot of it was spiritual work, growth, therapeutic work, allowing myself to look at it like a dusty spa of spirituality and a sort of recovery conference in the desert.

I got my God on.

Heck, I even did a shaman journey.

Yeah, I know, shush.

I have been living in California for 14 years, please, it rubs off.

And I was ready for it.

Especially.

When I ran into my friend who was at the first camp I stayed with ten burns ago.  We hugged and reconnected and talked and I shared my experiences being in graduate school for therapy and psychology and that I want to pursue a doctorate now, I mean, really, it might be time for a new playa name, Dr. Carmen has a nice ring to it you know.

Anyway.

We chatted, he’s a therapist and he also does shaman work and I recalled a time when he had offered to take me on a spirit journey and how I sort of pooh poohed it.

Then.

I found myself wanting to ask when I saw him this past week at the burn.

And.

I found a great big lump of fear on my chest.

Oh.

How interesting.

When I feel that much resistance to something it is rather indicative to me that it’s time to do some work on something.

So.

I asked, and I admitted my fear and then we laughed and he said, of course and then asked me to ponder a question or to sit and be with what it was that I wanted to address.

What popped into my head?

Sober boyfriend.

Yeah, like that.

We met the next day in the heat of the afternoon, in the middle of a white out dust storm.

Things were said, deals were done, navigation of emotions, experiences, lots and lots of therapeutic theory.

He knows his stuff and I recognized a lot of the techniques he used and I wasn’t uncomfortable with the way it went, despite, yes, there being some fear there too, but mostly a curiosity to see what would arrive and an eagerness to address these baffling relationship issues that seem to crop up for me often when I am least expecting or most wanting to have a relationship.

It’s like a wall, glass, that I can feel, that I can see through, but can’t quite figure out how to get to the other side.

We talked and talked and got down to some root things, which when expressed from his perspective was obvious, so obvious, it made me feel a bit baffled then I realized how I am most often unable to see what others see so clearly, I have no perspective on my own life or abilities.

None.

Hearing all the things come out of my friends mouth, with a broader perspective of my history, trauma, and adult male patterning that I did when I was a little girl.

Well.

Fuck.

Of course I tend toward being single.

Hello safety.

I am either chasing after the unavailable boy or I am being the mother to said boy.

I don’t date adult men.

I don’t know how since I hadn’t seen healthy adult relationships growing up as a little girl.

I often tend toward two ways of being in relation to men I want to date.

I have been the mother–my longest lasting relationship was five years and I was definitely the care taker.

And then.

A long series of men, boys, that I chased, who were not often, or ever really interested in dating me romantically.

These paradigms made a lot of sense to me and I think I have been dancing around this knowledge for such a long time that when it was finally revealed it was less a great big aha moment, but more of a softening and relaxing into myself.

I had a lot of compassion for myself and a gentleness that I found so tender that I was in tears just from the relief of that.

So.

My friend made some suggestions.

Stop chasing.

Stop being the mother.

Write it out.

What does an adult man look like, what qualities do I want?

And lastly.

Be patient.

Don’t expect it overnight and stop looking for it.

It won’t be the impetuous passion of a sixteen year old in a romantic crush.

It will probably not be someone I’m crazy wild about at first glance, it will be softer, and I will be pursued and I will be seen and my power, who I am will be my calling card.

He will be strong.

He will not complete me.

I won’t have to mother, and I will not chase.

What a relief.

At first when I deleted Tinder I was pretty ok with it.

Then.

Yes.

I did re-install the app for a half day.

But.

I realized.

Nope.

It doesn’t serve, not after the experience in the dome, in the dust, in the heat, my heart opened, the little girl response to dating laid to rest in the resplendent gold dust light.

My friend said write about it, at least once a day, a paragraph, what my adult man looks like, what I want.

And.

Then.

Heh.

Text him when I start dating.

It won’t be long.

I’m ready.

I am happy, healthy, smart, employed, in graduate school, sober, loving, lovable, funny.

It’s on.

And I’m done with the dating apps and the chase.

I am here and available.

And I don’t need to chase.

I am fucking awesome.

I would date me in a heart beat.

I don’t need fireworks, although passion is lovely, I’m not going to try to make anything happen.

I don’t need to.

It already is.

 

 

You Need To Hit Something

February 10, 2016

And hit it.

He laughed.

Oh my god I love that my person basically told me to go hit something, ie, go take a kick boxing class or a boxing class and hit a bag.

As well as.

Girl, go get laid.

Of course as soon as the permission is given I’m all like, who, who, who, I took down my Okstupid profile, how am I going to meet people, guys, I’m into guys, thank you, and ick, I didn’t like Tinder and…

“Face to face,” he said, “it’s called ‘adulting’ not texting, not online dating, face to face.”

Oh goodness.

Then I thought, well hell.

I’m busy as fuck when am I going to meet a fuckable fellow?

There’s a few places I could look and to tell the truth, I’m not going to loo too hard, when the time is right, the right man will present.

I am so horny it’s retarded.

I know exactly how un-PC that is.

That’s how it is.

In my pants.

Heh.

Oh and I so don’t give a serious fuck what anyone is thinking about this blog.

Family members, dear friends, those of tender mercies.

Stop reading.

The thrust, pun intended, of this blog is not going to be pretty.

But it might be sexy.

What I also love about being with my person is that I was able to be open about something that I have noticed myself doing and I don’t want to be doing.

It’s a form of self-sabotage that has it’s roots in a lot of family of origin crap that I have processed a lot about, but occasionally another layer is peeled off.

Here it the gist of it.

I like to dress up.

I like to wear dresses.

I love makeup.

I love frills and glitter and frippery.

Frippery is a word.

Although it does sound like something I might make up.

Anyway.

I have a tendency to get myself a pretty outfit, then not wear it.

I get excited about an event or a place or a thing that I am going to and then, last minute, change my mind, take off my heels, put back the dress, or worse, I don’t put it on in the first place, and I go back to my standard black leggings, jean shorts, tank top and t-shirt.

Sure.

It’s got its own sexy appeal.

More over it’s a handy work outfit.

I can bust it on my bicycle and I am cool.

I usually choose to adorn my hair with something floral and feathered, and I put some make up on.

Today.

I wore that exact outfit.

Exact.

Then I did my hair up into two big poofs, stuck two black and glitter flowers in it with black feathers and two different star shaped sequined hair clips.

(“Carmen!  I love your hair,” she said to me has I exited the gate and was unlocking my bicycle.  “I wish I could get away with stuff like that, it looks amazing!)

Plus.

I was wearing long should grazing silver star earrings with chains.

The affect was electric.

And I had fun.

But I will talk myself, self-sabotage, out of wearing the really fabulous shit in my wardrobe.

So.

I told on my self.

I told my person, who incidentally has me speaking for him this Sunday, and who also, is extraordinarily well put together himself (only one of the many reasons I work with him), that my head has been trying to tell me to not be so fabulous.

But that I want to be.

I mean.

I do.

I want to wear some polka dots.

Which is good since I got a red dress white polka dots to go with my new Fluevog shoes.

Mwahahahaaha.

And I want to wear a crinoline and I want to twirl in my dress in pretty shoes.

I am going to do just that, because my autonomy is attractive and my authenticity is important and because, damn it, I am allowed to get dressed up.

I am also allowed to get laid.

It’s about damn time.

I am not sure who I was trying to convince, but I’m over it.

I laugh at myself, “me thinks the lady dost protest too much.”

Sure.

The woman has needs and I am allowed to meet them.

Stop asking for permission and get it.

I also love that idea of hitting something, a body bag, a BOB, doing some target practice, doing some hitting drills, kicking drills.  I am going to explore that during my time off.

I have done some investigating into swimming, yoga, and now I am thinking boxing, possibly kick boxing, and dance class.

Mostly what I am concerned with is my schedule and what is going to be compatible with my work and school and recovery schedule.

And you think I’m too busy to get laid.

Ha.

I’ll show you.

Speaking of which.

Show yourself man.

I know you’re out there.

If I’m going to meet you, I need an approach.

I know that part is up to me.

If I want to meet someone I’m going to have to be out there in the world.

I’m doing better.

Getting out.

Getting out of my head.

Lightening the fuck up.

But you know, I’ll take your suggestions.

I’ve always done well with suggestions.

I’m not going to do the online dance though, I realize that really has never worked.

I could manifest like I did at Burning Man.

My friend was so funny and perfect when she suggested I write it out in my notebook, “You need the Universe to manifest a guy that will fuck you like a man and feed you steak.”

It was manifested.

I could use that right about now.

Yes.

I am busy.

But let me look at this as self-care.

I am charging the vibrator as I blog.

I told you I was not holding any punches with this blog.

You’re squeamish?

Fuck if I care, take it elsewhere.

I’m sure that there’s a rainbow, fairy tale, princess pants blog out there wishing you well with kitten whiskers and such shit.

And you know.

Great.

That’s great.

This is great.

Getting to be all things.

I get to be this mix.

A fabulous, crazy (at least I know I’m crazy, let’s be real, the ones to be wary of are the ones that say they’re fine), wicked sexy, fun, funny, sweet, kind woman.

I get to be it all.

I get to be spiritual.

And.

Sexual.

I mean.

Maybe this weekend isn’t the right one, Valentines and all.

Then again.

Heh.

I got six days off coming up.

I said it would be a “staycation.”

Maybe I should have a sexcation.

Ha!

Oh I amuse myself.

I don’t know what’s going to happen.

But hey, Universe, I have been given some instructions.

Help a girl out.

Thanks!

It Was The Perfect Storm

March 27, 2014

Until my vibrator broke.

ARGH!

Shakes fist at heavens.

Looks at hand.

Meh.

I guess we got to go the old fashion way.

Which is not so bad, it just takes longer and I did not know how much time I had.

I don’t normally have a little knookie when I get home from work, I have other things to do, blogs to write, etc.

However, the car was not in the driveway, the house was dark, and there was no one home.

Upstairs.

The housemate et al, were away.

Do I have enough time?

I ran about setting the stage.

Oh, come now, don’t you set the stage?

I mean, first of all, you got to be in the mood.

I was in the mood, have been for a few days, months, ahem, always, but especially right about now, it’s the time of the month when nature has dropped a little bomb into my system and all systems are suddenly a go and that guy I never would have looked at twice, suddenly looks cute.

All men look cute.

Ok, I exagerrate, not all, how about a lot more than normal.

I have not been on birth control since I was in my mid-twenties, hate what it did to my system and vowed I would not go back to it.  So, I know my cycle really well and what it means to feel what I feel at this time of month–ie sexually aroused.

I use condoms and until I am in a committed relationship, that’s what is going to happen.  I am not going on the pill again.  It sucks.

So, I am alone, the house is quiet and no one is around upstairs.

I am not so worried about them hearing me, although I have been known to be operatatic and I won’t hesistate to say that being vocal or expressing myself vocally is part of the fun.

Don’t try to shush me, please.

It’s more that hearing the upstairs neighbors is not putting me into a sexy good mood, rather quashes it, it does.

A seven year old banging around the house and jumping up and down whilst singing Katy Perry songs does not do it for me.

So when I saw the perfect storm, I took advantage, or tried to.

I mean, I don’t know why I am teasing you, it did happen.

It’s just funny how I felt momentarily betrayed by my vibrator.

NOOOOOOOooooooooo.

Shakes fist at ceiling?

Why?

Why now?

Ugh.

The motor wasn’t broken, but the connection was not working and after a few attempts, half-hearted I admit, I knew it was done for.

Damn you Hitachi Magic Wand.

Third one of my career.

Grr.

I am disinclined to buy another.

Same thing happened with the last two.

They do last a while, I won’t say they don’t but I expect a longer shelf life than what I have gotten from the last two.

I tossed it in the trash and went to the next best option in my bag of tricks.

And yes, mission accomplished, and all before the house hold returned to the homestead upstairs.

Heck, I even got in a shower before the noise started up.

It was a nice little diversion, then to the task at hand, some writing.

Ah, my little sweet blog.

Ever here for me, rain or shine.

I took the train into work today as it was downpouring this morning and I had no inclination to ride my bicycle in.

I did consider it for a few moments, packed my bag like I would, then I looked at the clock and looked out the door, even opening it to really gauge the deluge, and there was no second thought after I saw the rain falling.

I had more than enough time, I would take the train.

And I did.

Making it in to work a few minutes early and dry.

Heck I even got the train back and didn’t have to wait long at all to scoot out here.

The sunset was still happening when I hopped off the N-Judah.

I thought about going down to the ocean to watch the sunset, but I had an intuition, I suppose, or just a scratch to itch, and I went home to find the house delightfully quiet.

I looked at my scooter with much appreciation when I came through the door and thought about when I will go out again, probably next Tuesday in the early evening once again with my friend in the park.

I had aspirations to be riding it this weekend, but I see that it’s too soon for me to make a trip up and over to Noe Valley on Saturday, though I have to be there to meet more than one person.

I booked some back to back ladies for tea and then I have the 8:30 p.m. commitment up the hill.  It would definitely be convenient to not have to take MUNI there or back, but I am not quite ready to do that.  I want another lesson, perhaps two and a guided ride with my friend before I commit myself to leaping aboard and going out by myself.

But that time will come.

I am excited for it.

I had a friend make a sweet comment about how fast it happened and how I am amazing at manifesting things and as I was standing underneath my heart shaped umbrella waiting for the train to pull in I laughed.

Can’t seem to manifest a boyfriend.

But then I thought, exactly how hard have I tried.

I did really go after the scooter.

I took action and took direction and got the license and kept showing up for it.

Not that I am looking to manifest a boyfriend, it was a fleeting thought that made me chuckle.

Boyfriends are not objects or things or vibrators.

They kiss better than vibrators for sure.

I can however, continue to take actions that manifest things in my life, while clearing out old ideas, and sometimes old object, ahem, Magic Wand, and tossing them in the trash to make way for what is next.

What is better.

And what suits me.

It’s always so much nicer than my own ideas.

Best thing I can do.

Clean house.

Opens me up for being of service, not in that way, you pervert you, but to allow in that which makes me happier.

And I as I was told today.

“Go, enjoy your life, you just have today.”

Enjoyment was had.

Really.

I Got The Job

October 1, 2013

Honestly, I figured I would, but it was a matter of am I going to take something that is lower paying than what I want.

Then I thought, I really like this little girl, her folks did their graduate work at UW Madison, know where the Essen Haus is and went to the Angelic, why, they’re almost family.

Plus, I can always accept other work.

It seems silly to turn down a position with nothing behind it.

I have full-time work this week and I have an overnight in the upcoming weeks that will help pay the bills.  The new gig is just going to start off as one day a week, on Thursdays, it will help with the overhead, which is being taken care of.

Bills they be getting paid.

Paid my rent on the 28th for October.

I like to roll like that.

I know what I want from the nannying, I put it out to the Universe, and I was pretty damn clear.

The only thing I forgot–paid holidays.

That is a nice thing.

When I had PTO (paid time off) with a couple sets of employers I also got the standard, American, holidays off and paid–Christmas, New Years Day, Thanksgiving, Memorial Day (not usually Labor Day–as I am usually out in the desert Labor Day weekend), and Fourth of July.

So, yeah, let me add that to what I want.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but if I am going to nanny until then, then yeah, I do know what I want.

(I want to get my book published, have it get optioned for screen play work, then have all the fucking time I want to work on the follow-up pieces as well as enough money to own my home in, wait for it, I am dreaming big, San Francisco).

Yeah, you and I both know what I want to be when I grow up.

A writer.

Wait!

I am.

Ok, more specifically, I want to be a highly paid, sought after, credited, writer.

Published.

I want to see my words in book form.

I want to see my ideas translated to film.

I would love that.

I think in a cinematic way, anyhow.

I like to think that I write that way, when it’s good, that the words are no longer words, but a movie in your head.

Because when I am writing, not the blog, the blog is like opening my head and shaking out the contents into a sieve, some of it worth reporting, the Mister is working ALL week again, some of it not, who should I date instead? What time do I need to set my alarm for tomorrow, who am I seeing, do I want to pick up carrots at the store?

Et cetera.

But when I write, I am watching a movie in my head and transcribing it.

That’s the best way to describe it.

And speaking of which, I just had a thought.

Maybe I want no more than 40 hours a week and maybe I want to work slightly less, or, better, I want to work four days a week instead of five.

I want that fifth day for my writing projects.

I have an idea for a short story that has been pinging around my brain since Burning Man and I have not taken the time to write it down.

Need to get on that.

Also need to pester my friend who has my book.

I want my hands on his edits and comments and thoughts.

Give them up.

I want to work the last of the kinks out of the book and get it fucking published.

That is my end goal.

Get this god damn book out there.

It can and will happen.

And I can and will happily work the work that is in front of me.

I love my charges.

My boys.

So sweet today.

I love that I get the big flirty eyes from the 8 month old and the 16 month old’s sense of humor is so coming out, along with scads of words and he loves me to read him stories.

Not all kids have the patience to sit in your lap and have stories read to you.

He surprised the hell out of me today, in a good way, when he said the title to one of the Sandra Boyton books we read together.

It sounded like this: “moooballalalalalalalala” giggles.

Oh my God.

The book is called “Moo, Ba, La, La, La” (A cow says “moo”, a sheep says “ba” three pigs in a row say “La La La” NO!  You say, pigs they say oink….”)

First, he’s a boy.

Boys don’t always have a verbal aptitude that well advanced at his age, second, he’s 16 months!  Ok, maybe 16 1/2 months, but that still quite shy from 2 years, and he’s still using the signs I have taught him.

My favorite, aside from please, everybody loves a good please, is apple.

He does it really well and says apple while doing the sign.

Pretty cool.

So, yeah, I can hang with being down with the nanny thing.

I know what I want for pay and I am willing to allow abundance into my life, I want to make more money, I want, well, I want a scooter.

And yoga class.

My friend has a scooter that he once was going to sell me, he has two and a car (he also has a garage at his place so he can) an old Vespa, I know he still rides it but not that much and I remember what he offered it to me for back before I was moving to Paris.

My thoughts are keep working at the savings, pay back Barnaby the plane ticket, then start saving for a Motorcycle Class and a scooter.

I would like to get that for my birthday.

A motorcycle license and a scooter.

That might be pushing it, my birthday’s in December, but hey, you know, according to some really amazing women I know, if you know what you want and you put it out there, you will get it.

I am putting it out there.


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