Posts Tagged ‘mansion’

Blue Hawaii

March 28, 2019

And Paris without you.

God damn it.

I’m still pissed at you.

Granted I have my own self to blame for that.

I should not have gone on social media.

I had you blocked.

Not because I was worried about you seeing me, no.

I didn’t want to be looking at your photos.

And I did it anyway.

I looked last night.

I know you’re in Hawaii and I knew you were going to be there and I had to look.

Ugh.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

It doesn’t help that I want to go to Hawaii with you and that the trip I have tentatively planned for July has your name written all over it.

Or that I have thoughts about you in the ocean, swimming, your eyes wet and blue.

I’m so angry still and I’m still so damn sad.

Not as much.

Not every day.

And so, of course, the person to be angry with is me, I know better than to go onto social and look up your photos.

It hurts.

No more of that.

Although, why?

I can’t figure it out, a photo of us pops up every day, every day on my computer despite closing the photo app.

Every day your blue, blue, bluest eyes stare out at me as I see us on the red leather couch in the Air BnB we rented in D.C.  My eyes are closed, I’m kissing the side of your face and you have your arm wrapped around me.

Sometimes the photo makes me jump.

Sometimes I forget it’s there.

I have shut down the computer, restarted the computer, closed the app, and it just randomly pops back up.

Can’t get away from it and I use my computer all the time.

I mean.

Fuck.

I am working on a PhD I drag the damn thing around like it’s a security blanket.

And there you are, sweet face and dreamy and I know that we were in front of a fire and the color of your eyes and the shape of my face, and my hair tumbled down around my shoulders.

Ugh.

It hurts.

Not as bad.

I will admit that.

Things haven’t hurt so awful in the day-to-day.

Get me in my therapy sessions and I’m a fucking mess, but hey, that’s therapy and I leave it there in the wet balls of crumpled tissues streaked with mascara.

I joked with my therapist this past session that my tears must be some kind of napalm right now as I have tried three different kinds of waterproof mascara and the shit just slides off my eyelashes when I cry.

I yelled at you tonight.

In the car.

On the way home.

Thinking about you on an island and me here and then I’ll be going to Paris and well, fuck, you’re supposed to be in Paris with me.

Damn it.

We were supposed to do Paris.

You know it.

I know it.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Paris, baby.

You were supposed to go to Paris with me.

I hella splurged too.

I mean.

I got a place to stay, cute, bohemian, arty, obviously someone who was an avid flea market shopper, and I got a great deal, super cheap, $1,000 less than most of the other places I was looking at.

So I booked it.

And alas.

The woman got back to me and said she wasn’t able to let me rent it as she was going to be in Paris for Christmas.

Oh well.

I went back and looked some more and I looked at hotels and I really had to think about where I wanted to stay and why.

I wanted to make sure I was in the Marais, my best friend lives there and it’s my favorite part of the city and very central.

Hotels were not cheap and I went back to looking at Air BnB.

This one place kept calling me back and it was more than I wanted to spend, but then again, I knew I had the money in savings to cover it, I’d have nine months to save up more, I deserve to stay somewhere nice, the last two times I stayed in Paris I stayed with friends and didn’t pay for accommodations and the time before that I stayed in a hella cheap place and regretted it almost immediately.

I kept going back to this listing and then I said, fuck it.

I’m booking it.

It’s where I’m supposed to be and I’m going to let myself stay there.

Gorgeous tapestry wall paper.

Fireplace!

Full kitchen.

Dining area.

Plus red velvet chairs.

Couch with a red velvet throw.

Separate bedroom up this sweet curving stair case.

Big huge bed under the eaves.

Gigantic bathtub in the room!

Bathtubs are a rarity in French apartments, so to get one and it’s big, huge luxury.

It’s super pretty and I’m super grateful I booked it and I paid for the whole thing up front.

Done and done.

I was so excited when I booked it the night before last.

And then.

Tonight.

I wasn’t.

I was hurt and angry and thinking about you and your vacation pictures and I just yelled at you in the car, how we’re supposed to be in Paris together, walking the streets, eating all the food, cheese, chacuterie, drinking all the coffee, snuggling on the red velvet couch, having sex on the red velvet couch, the bed, the floor in front of the fire-place, the bathtub, meeting fellows in church basements, seeing all the sites, making out in public, holding hands.

I wanted to take you to the one cafe I know about in the 11th that’s super good and order food for you in French and then happy and replete I would walk you along the Seine to look at the Eiffel Tower when it lights up with glitter lights.

Damn it.

We were supposed to do Paris together.

I know that the sting will wear off, I mean, my trip is not until December, but right now, I feel hurt and sad and yes, angry at you.

Oh God.

The places I wanted to take you.

A walk in Pere LaChaise cemetary.

And the L’ile des Cygnetes, Island of the Swans, in the middle of the Seine, that has one of Statue of Liberty models on it that the artist did as he worked on the scale for the one sent to Americar.

Oh.

And all the outdoor markets, buying cheese and fruit and bread for you.

I wanted to take you to the amazing restaurant in Belleville that my friend took me to last summer and then go to Le Chat Noir and do the Paris Open Mic and recite you poems I have written about you.

But I won’t.

I won’t be doing any of those things.

I’ll be taking a bath under the eaves of a mansion on Rue de Parc Royale.

A bath with bubbles.

And I will sit in front of the fire and fingers crossed, not be sad to be alone, again, in Paris, without you.

 

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Sashay

June 25, 2016

Ooh.

The good timing.

“Are you dressed up for Pride?” My friend asked as she stopped in front of the cafe on Church Street that I was hanging out at doing the deal with another lady before going to Our Lady of Safeway and doing that thing I do on Friday nights at that spot where they do those things.

Wink.

Wink.

Nudge.

Nudge.

I mean.

I always knew I would be a part of a “secret society” but not this one.

Ha.

Oh.

I love it.

“How come you know so many people?” One of my charges asked when we were walking around the Mission and I ran into a friend.

I get around kid.

And I digress.

Back to the original conversation.

“Nope.” I replied to the young woman, herself a portrait of fierceness, “I’m just dressed for me.”

And I was.

And I will continue to be.

Even when I wonder what the fuck people will think, then, I remember, oh yeah.

It’s none of my fucking business what people think of me.

Only what I think of me.

And I like the way I dress.

Twirl girl.

Oh my gosh.

I got two new dresses in the mail today.

I had a feeling they would arrive and I was super happy to see the box in the hallway when I got home tonight.

I ordered them thinking about New Orleans and wanting to have a couple of cute dresses to sashay around the French Quarter in.

Or just, you know, be dolled up in to sit around on the veranda at the HISTORIC MANSION I’m staying in.

I showed my person a photo of the Air BnB and she was like, “you have to take a bath in that tub! You just have to.”

Oh my God.

Yes, yes, I do.

In fact, I was thinking about doing a photo shoot in it.

I have a photo of myself from a few years back, must be six now, in Texas, at a wedding in a mansion in the Hill Country, outside of Austin.

I was wearing this navy blue retro vintage dress with small white polka dots and coral colored espadrille wedges.

I had short hair that was a little retro flip and I was wearing a white head band with a big flower in it.

I looked fabulous.

And skinny.

Fuck.

What was I doing?

Oh!

I must have just come off the AidsLifeCycle ride, yup, my calves look crazy.

Heh.

A good reason to do some bicycle training again.

Fuck.

I also look so young.

It was only six years ago.

Damn.

Time, it does fly.

So.

Maybe I’ll do another photo shoot with me in a dress in a bathtub in a mansion.

I mean.

Why not?

I’ll have to get someone to come back to the room with me and help me out with that though, not really able to do a full bodied selfie.

Not that I wouldn’t try.

Especially considering the two new dresses I got.

They are hella cute.

The first is not going to work for me right away.

The color does not quite work with my hair.

It will, the color just needs to soften a tiny bit.

Right now it has too many magenta pinks going on, it will fade off a little and be the perfect pastel pink in about a week I think.

Then the kelley green dress will look gorgeous with my hair.

Ooh.

I can’t wait.

Until then, though, the other dress works perfectly with my hair color right now and I believe with any and all colors I may do with my hair in the future.

It’s white, has a square cut bodice, A-line skirt, and a large cobalt blue rose pattern that is feminine and fabulous and all that.

Totally on point.

I tried it on and twirled and sashayed down my little hallway.

I threw on a black crinoline underneath.

Fuck.

Even more fabulous.

Added a black cardigan and it looks incredible.

Very cute.

Very sexy.

Very femme.

My curves look good and I didn’t have any sort of upset about that, that I have curves, that I’m not some skinny little thing.

I have been thinner, smaller, but not by much, but I don’t know that I have ever felt quite this relaxed and at ease in my body.

I love my body.

Nope.

It’s not perfect.

And thank God for that.

I would be boring.

I like my flair.

“Your hair looks even better in person,” he said to me tonight, “and the pink flower, you put flair in your hair.”

Yes.

Yes, honey I did.

Later tonight when my friend gave me a hug goodnight he whispered in my ear, “you looked beautiful tonight.”

Aw.

Thanks darling.

It was a nice thing to hear.

I was wearing one of my favorite Modcloth numbers, a swing dress with heart shaped pockets, a heart shaped bodice, and behind the neck halter tie top, my hair, the mountainous pink of it, up off my neck, curls falling all over the place, bright pink rose clip and a sequined star in there too, and I felt really good.

I love being glamourous.

I love wearing makeup and being fabulous.

Sometimes it takes me a minute to get there.

But get there I do.

And I love that I don’t do it for anyone else.

Just myself.

I’m not doing it for Pride, although, I am more than happy to be thought of in that way, I’m doing it for myself.

I’m not dressing for a man.

Although, should I attract one, I’m not going to be upset with that.

As the case may be, tonight I thought I would probably have a date, and it didn’t happen.

But considering I was on three this past week, really not too upset about that, and the weekend is young and I have time.

Especially since the podcast canceled.

And I have a fabulous new dress to wear out and about.

Sashay.

Work, turn to the left / Work, now turn to the right / Work, sashay, shante / Work, turn to the left…

Happy Pride family.

I love you no matter what day of the year it is.

I mean.

Seriously.

xoxoxo

Less Than 24 Hours

June 12, 2016

Since I heard the announcement.

And.

I have booked tickets to New Orleans.

As well as.

Secured a place to stay.

I cannot believe it all fell into place so quickly.

I mean.

Ridiculous.

Yeah.

I dropped some dough, but I didn’t spend all the money I had earmarked for my New York trip that I had been saving for and I transferred that money from my savings account, leaving me with a little more than my standard prudent reserve of one month’s rent and utilities.

Hey.

I know.

I don’t have a retirement plan.

But fuck it.

I only have this one life to live and somehow I don’t think that it would have all fallen together so beautifully if I wasn’t suppose to go.

Besides.

Please.

I’m going to be with my fellows.

Unless I decide to not leave the Air BnB I rented.

Holy shit.

I mean.

I was basically had when I read the “Historic, Opulent Mansion Suite With Swimming Pool” and then I saw the photo of the HUGE claw foot bathtub and the bathroom that is probably as big as my in-law studio and I was like, book it, book it, book it!

Except.

First.

I had to book the plane ticket.

Last night I was searching, searching, searching.

I couldn’t find what I needed and I couldn’t find what I wanted at the price I was willing to spend.

Everything for the time frame I was looking for was $700-$900.

That’s just a little rich for my pocket.

I figured.

I could go as high as $700.

Not that I wanted to, but I could.

I can.

I will if I need to.

Funny how registering for a commitment and dropping two five dollar bills into someone’s hand committed me to doing the deal and going to New Orleans.

“You could back out,” a insidious little voice said in my brain.

“Just consider it a donation to your favorite cause,” the snarky little voice continued.

Fuck off.

I love that I get to be wild and impetuous and leap once in a while on an unexpected adventure.

I have no man in my life, no children.

Yes.

I have friends and commitments and doing the deal and the yoga and yes I need to do all these things, but there was no one else to consult, no one else to worry about.

The only person I had to please was me.

And I am so well pleased.

I went to bed with a dazed head, a bit of a head ache from looking over too many travel sites trying to find the best deal and I realized that nothing needed to be done that quick.

I could take the day.

I could take the morning.

I could take a breath and pause.

Make sure that my impetuous idea was actually a intuitive decision that would serve me.

And.

I did just that.

I shut down my computer.

I set my alarm.

I had signed up for a morning yoga class.

I decided I would yoga it up, shower, have breakfast and coffee and do some writing, go meet my person, do the deal, and then look for a flight to New Orleans.

I saved the listing for the Air BnB and went to sleep.

I woke up a half hour before my alarm and was too restless to go back to sleep.

Hello brain.

Glad to see you’ve already had a double shot of espresso, mind if I make some coffee for the rest of me?

I got up, did my little morning routine, did some writing and headed off to yoga class.

It was hard.

What with my schedule change this past week I was unable to make any classes during the week, so it’d been five days since the last time I had stretched and I could feel my body was slow to warm.

My brain was also busy and I was grateful to get into my body and my breath and let it go.

I know that thinking about something constantly does not do me well.

It does not serve.

Action.

That works for me.

Not trying.

Not thinking.

Doing.

So I did the yoga.

And thank fucking God.

It got me out of my head, I left feeling light and sweet and joyful.

A good hot shower, some hot breakfast and coffee and I suddenly, out of nowhere I had extra time.

Where the hell did that time come from?

I have no clue.

However.

I felt it.

NOW!

Look now.

I opened my lap top and there it was.

$577.

My ticket.

Now.

Granted.

That’s still more than I would have liked to have spent, but still, not bad for a last minute purchase and moreover, it was the times I was looking for.

The deal with this being that I have work until 6p.m. Thursday the 29th of June.

The family would normally have me be working that Friday, but they will be heading out of town for the weekend and I have the Friday off.

I did not want to to fly out Friday, it would have meant losing a day of the convention I registered for, but I had not been able to find any flights that were in my price range that also left during the evening of Thursday the 30th at a time that would work for me.

I wanted to find flight that would allow me to work a full day Thursday, then basically fly a red eye to New Orleans.

Sleep on the plane.

And arrive in New Orleans on the morning of the first.

I hadn’t been able to find anything last night that would have allowed me to do so without it costing upwards of $800.

The flight I found was for 10:50p.m. evening Thursday, June 30th out of SFO.

Yes!

I can work my full shift, hop on my scooter, get my stuff, and Uber to the airport without having to ask any time off from work (I’m saving the last of my vacation pay for my grad school retreat in August).

The flight arrives in New Orleans at 8:54 a.m. Friday July 1st.

Fucking perfection.

I will get in, make my way into the city, probably head to Morning Call, the 24 hour beignet cafe in City Park, that is close to where I am staying.

You know.

The opulent, historic MANSION, with swimming pool and claw foot tub and twelve foot ceilings.

Giggle.

I will feel like a princess.

The Air BnB also offers a bicycle with the room.

I will check in at noon, chill out, maybe go for a swim, then make my way over to the convention which is a couple of miles away.

I’ll probably ride the bike unless it’s crazy hot.

Or.

I feel like walking.

A couple of miles is a nice walk.

The event starts at 4:30p.m.

I’ll probably do the two events Friday night that are listed and then go see New Orleans all day Saturday.

Walk the Garden District.

Check out the neighborhood where I’m staying.

Dine out.

Oh jambalaya, I can taste you now.

Then do the deal in the evening.

End the day at the conference on Sunday, check out of the Air BnB and have a lunch somewhere splendid and then hit the airport.

I’ll fly back at 6:50 at night, get into SFO in the late evening, right before midnight.

And have all day the fourth of July to recuperate from my travels.

Fuck yeah.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

Love my fucking life.

So.

So.

So.

Hard.

It’s fucking fabulous.

Seriously.

 


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