Posts Tagged ‘Ok Cupid’

Don’t Give Up On Men

April 15, 2015

Who says I have?

“Don’t give up,” another friend said to me in person last night after seeing my post about being done with Ok Cupid and online dating.

I haven’t given up on anything.

Well.

I have given up on shame.

Shame–a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.

I have believed for so long that the longing to be in a relationship was wrong and foolish.

That I have to be somehow above this basic human craving, that I don’t deserve it, that I am mistaken or stupid or that, I like how Wikipedia puts it: to have shame, means to maintain a sense of restraint against offending others.

That’s it in a nutshell.

I have to restrain myself from offending others.

I can’t tell you what I want, I don’t want to offend.

Well fuck you and fuck off and I’m fucking done with that.

I haven’t given up on the capital “M” men in my life.

I love men.

Men are awesome.

So are women, fyi, I don’t want to become a man, I just want to hang out with one and have a relationship.

I love the way men smell and look and swagger, and talk and guffaw, and they way they open doors or give preference, I like having my bags carried and having the man walk on the outside, the one closest to the road, I know that’s old-fashioned, but I like that when  man does it.

I like ginger men and blond men and dark-haired men, brown-eyed, blue-eyed, green-eyed, hazel eyed, I like how a man sometimes cannot mask when he is struck by my beauty.

THere’s a man I know, a friend who is happily married and I know and adore his wife, they are really an amazing package and I admire the relationship they have.

At one point I was attracted to him (years before he met his wife) and wondered about pursuing something, but there was never really a spark or indication of attraction from him.

Then one night I was up in Noe Valley heading into the basement at St. Phillips and he turned and saw me walk in and did a double take, it was like he was seeing me for the first time, or as it were, seeing a different side of me.

Instead of jeans and a baseball jersey, which I think I lived in for the first year I was sober, I mean I wore that baseball jersey the fuck out, I was in a long A-line vintage swing coat in forest green with a silver fox fur collar and my hair was up and I was in makeup, I don’t know where I was heading, but I will always remember his reaction.

I could hear him intake his breath and I saw his eyes widen before he could drop the neutrality mask back into place.

I have an affect.

It was one of the nicest unspoken compliments I have ever received.

I’m not looking for adulation, adoration, or admiration from the male of the species either.

It almost has nothing to do with men, even though ostentatiously I am looking to date a man.

It has more to do with the act of desire, the want, the eros of something.

The Greek word eros denotes “want,” “lack,” “desire for that which is missing.”

I recall when I learned that in my Comparative Literature class in college.

I remember thinking, Jesus, that’s it, I don’t have it and I want and want and want and am in shame for the wanting.

I want to cover myself from this most basic of human needs, because to want like this must be wrong.

And of course, patterning, predilection, the art of taking on without realizing it, those desires of those that I was closet to and repeating their acts and actions as my own.

I kept chasing after those who were unavailable, completely beholden to the man who wouldn’t have me and aloof from the men who were available.

I don’t give up on men.

I give up on the idea of needing to be ashamed.

I cannot even express the freedom.

I have felt lighter, happier, more settled in my person.

I have felt more love.

For myself, for my circumstances, for the relationships that I am in, with family, friends, my fellowship, my employers, the little guys I take care of, for community, for San Francisco, for the world.

An easing of lightness in my limbs and a firmer ground underneath me.

It reminds me of the promises I have heard so much over these past ten years and often don’t pay attention to anymore, they’ve come true, then I forget, then I have to do some more work, and then, lo, they come true again.

….and economic insecurity will leave us.

It does not say that I won’t be economically insecure, I have been,  may be again, but the fear of being economically insecure has left me.

With the shame leaving me, flying off into the wind on the backs of wild geese, I can feel that same sense of promise and change in perspective.

I don’t expect that because I have a new-found attitude and awareness that my situation, being single, is going to change.

I just feel so much more comfortable for it.

“We’re experiential learners, and we can be told how it feels or feel it for ourselves,” he said to me tonight over a cup of tea at the Church Street Cafe, “I wish sometimes it were different, but that’s just how it is.”

I get it.

I want the experience of being in a couple or yes, being married (I don’t necessarily need the experience of having children, I have gotten to work with some amazing children, and I suspect that will continue), although I don’t expect either experience to fulfill me or make me a better person.

They will just make me a person with that experience.

That’s all.

And I am an experience junkie.

I want to feel all the feels.

I want to see all the sights.

I want to go to Paris with my boyfriend and hold hands in the Tuileries and go for a ride on the ferris wheel and kiss on the top of the orbit, the gondola swaying the Paris dusk in summer.

Yup.

I wrote that.

I want that.

And I am not fucking ashamed of it anymore.

It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen or has to happen.

I just get to let go of my own idea that I have to please you by denying myself this human experience.

I’m done denying myself for you.

I am my own woman.

Who needs a man?

hahaha.

Ah.

I kill myself.

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The Art Of Being

April 13, 2015

Still.

Staying put.

Not going anywhere.

Well, maybe for a walk on the beach.

But not with a blind date, I cancelled the date.

Just me.

The sea.

My white dress blowing in the wind, my red-painted toenails awash in the tide flowing up onto the beach.

“You look like an angel,” she said, giving me a hug.

I ran into a lady from the Outer Mission who had done the long, hour-long, probably longer, commute via MUNI to come out to the beach today.

I recognized her from a way off, standing facing out to the sea, the sunlight playing over the planes of her proud face.

Beautiful.

We chatted for a moment, then she went her way and I went mine, walking further down the beach toward Sloat.

I reflected on the day, the weekend, the dating over the weekend and the decision to delete my OkCupid account.

“You’re gorgeous! I’m sure you’re going to be drowning in dates, you’re totally going to be taken care of!”  She exclaimed in my little kitchenette as I was plying her with experiences I have had recently over the past few months of online dating and the like, while she was sharing some inventory.

“It’s not about being gorgeous,” he said, “it’s not about that, you and I know that, that’s an ego feeding proposition and it does nothing for you.”

“I agree,” I replied.

It’s, cliché, but it’s what’s inside that counts.

I realize that I get a distorted idea of who a person is online, just as I assume, they do of me.

I want to be seen.

“Oh you’re noticed,” my ex-boyfriend said, “I feel like I need to constantly mark my territory.”

Interesting.

Not that I notice.

I only seem to notice when it’s not appropriate to what I want.

Which is also telling.

“It’s about acceptance,” my friend said as the date from yesterday disappeared down Judah toward the Starbucks on the corner.

“You know you can always reach out to me,” she continued, “now that I am retired, I really like seeing women in the fellowship and talking recovery, you know I’m on Facebook, just reach out.”

We hugged and I got on the N-Judah.

Sometimes I tend toward creating drama when there is no need for drama.

I don’t need to be dating.

“Oh, I get it,” he said today on the phone as I was walking up the dune at the end of Judah and Great Highway, “you want to be coupled up.”

“Yes,” I said, sheepish, embarrassed, “but,” I added, “I don’t need to be, I get that, I’m not looking for something to complete me or someone to fix me, or…”  I drifted off, the view of the ocean taking my breath once again.

“I know you understand that, it’s natural, we’re experience junkies, being in a relationship, being a couple, is an experience and you want to have as many experiences as possible in your life time.”

He paused as I caught my breath, I almost started to cry with relief, “every relationship is God’s, every one of them, what ever one you are in, friend, sister, daughter, employee, it’s God’s.”

Of course.

I know this.

Yet I needed to be reminded.

And.

Good gravy man.

It was a comfort to hear that it’s natural to want to be in a relationship with a lover, to be a couple, to be dating someone, committed to a person.

I have this idea, which I realized only while talking to my person, that I have shame around this desire.

That I somehow don’t deserve this very basic human experience.

Well.

Damn it.

Let’s change that right now.

What action can I take?

Let me fucking do it.

Oh.

Wait.

Pause.

Breathe.

Be still.

Know that there is a God.

And I am not it and be quiet.

Let the moment seep into your skin.

Let the smell of the ocean wash over you and carry your salty tears off onto the wind.

Turn your face to the sun like a flower, float down the beach like an angel, gorgeous in forgiveness.

For therein lies the true beauty.

Forgive myself.

Grieve and let go.

That of course, is the hardest thing for me, the letting go, the soft, yielding surrender.

I don’t have to be forced to it.

I don’t have to be beaten into it.

I can accept, kind and gracious the gift of not being ashamed of my life, my experiences, my heart, the way it beats when a Jim Croce song comes on the stereo and I am transported to a soft summer night rife with the smell of chicken on the grill, the barbecue searing the air with smoke and charcoal, the smell of cut grass, being a little girl in a sundress and running around the yard.

Or I can struggle some more.

I choose not to struggle.

The yielding to the better life, the actual goodness that I know and have in my life is so abundant and prosperous with love and sunshine and oh, god, glory.

I live a glorious life.

I do not need to create drama.

I do not have to do anything.

I can be still.

Thus I sat when I got back from the Ocean Beach walk.

I meditated.

I sat in the sun in the Adirondack chair in the back yard.

Then I ate some dinner on the back porch sitting at my housemates wrought iron table and chairs, curled up basking in the sunshine falling from the sky and lighting every crooked passage of my heart.

Sear out the shame in sunshine.

It’s ok to be human, child, girl, woman, this is how you get to live.

Not how you have to live.

But get.

This graced gift, my life.

Listen to some music that fills your heart, sit in some sunshine, sip some spicy ginger tea, read a book, watch the raven’s fly over the back yard, delete the things in your life that don’t work and surrender to the breath that draws your beating heart forward into the golden land of the sunset.

Or

At least the Outer Sunset.

Connection

March 23, 2015

That is what I crave.

I was thinking about that today as I walked along the beach.

I had just gotten off the phone with my little sister.

She may be 40, but she’s still my little sister.

I had been thinking about her and I realized, you know, why not give a call?

We had a half hour conversation and without me even realizing it I had walked from the Judah entrance on Ocean Beach to Sloat.

It was a nice walk back.

One in which I ran into a couple other people I knew.

We exchanged hugs and pleasantries, then parted.

Father and daughter walking the beach at low tide.

Before I had even made it down to the beach I ran into a fellow walking up Judah to Trouble.  He and his friend had just been down at the beach as well.

“Neighbor!” He smiled and we hugged.

It’s nice to be known.

It’s nice to be seen.

And with these thoughts in my mind I signed out of OKCupid tonight.

I have not eradicated my profile, but I am offline with it for a while.

“I realized,” I said to her while explaining my experience, strength, and hope, hopefully, “that I long for someone to travel with, to have adventures with, to go to Burning Man with.”

Which for me, means traveling, having adventures, and going to Burning Man.

I love to travel and I love adventures and I am down for camping in the heat and dust, as long as there’s loads of love and light and art, please, oh pretty please, give me some art.

I want to live as full and rich a life as possible.

And though a good part of that life is documented here, not all of it is and when I find myself not connecting on OkCupid, or Tinder, or Hinge, when the emoticon becomes the template for my communication with another human being, it’s time to scale back.

I don’t care for texting.

It’s emotional shorthand.

It’s cave man communication.

And it’s too easy to read all sorts of things into it.

I want to actually talk on the phone, I know that’s even becoming outmoded in the land of looking at our phone screens.

Sometimes I wonder if folks are going to actually stop using their phones and just text and facetime and spout emoji’s on one another.

I need contact.

I need touch.

I need to hear the emotions in a person’s voice.

I am not saying I am lonely.

Far from it.

I am fabulous company.

I spent my afternoon after doing the deal with a lady at the kitchen table, cooking homemade chili, and hanging in the back yard, watching the ravens swoop and the cats lazy, prowl the roof tops for the warmest patch of sun.

I looked at the yellow flowers in the weeds and marveled at the wild geranium, soft lilac with splotches of deep red and violet on its petals, careen toward the sun.

I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the sun as well.

Don’t worry I had my 45 sunblock slathered on.

I, like a cat, love the warmth of the sun though.

I drank sparkling water and ate large kale salads.

I read a Vanity Fair.

I read my book.

I made some phone calls and left some messages.

I thought about connection and how I want to connect with the world.

I thought about dating and realized that the action is to not pursue.

Rather to be pursued.

I like being courted.

I need to let that happen.

I reflected on the best parts of my time with my ex boyfriend and realized that it was all before we had sex.

The feeling of holding hands, sitting next to one another, the building up of emotions.

That I want to have more of.

I am not saying sex is off the table.

I am saying, though, that when I am at my absolute rock bottom honest, I want more and that more has to do with emotional intimacy.

I’m not trying to figure anything out.

I’m not sick of dating.

I am, however, sick of trying to figure it out.

Thus.

I say I stop.

I signed out of OkCupid and I don’t know when or if I will sign back in.

I want to be signed into my life.

“I’m really glad you’re getting your knees checked out,” my dear friend told me yesterday as we wandered around Alcatraz.

Holding hands, at that!

I think about some of the nicest hand holding and it’s been with her and my best friend back in Wisconsin.

Whom I am contemplating going to see and when that might fit into my busy life.

Christmas?

I know, it’s March.

But after having just sent my employers my official time off requests for going to Chula Vista to see my grandmother, then the time for my graduate school retreat, and the week of Burning Man, I realized I may not have time to do any other travel until late fall/winter.

And I’m not even including when I go to Atlanta in July–I don’t have to ask off for that time, it’s 4th of July weekend, so I’m off already.

My friend continued, holding my hand as the crowds pushed ahead of us, “you should do couples dancing, I think you would have fun and meet people.”

That sounds nice.

Meeting people in person.

Engaging face to face.

Human being to human being.

Maybe I’m old-fashioned and I should really re-think staying on all the sites and things and doings.

But.

Despite wanting All The Things.

I don’t believe that I will find them there.

I am more than a sound bite.

Hell, I am more than this blog.

How could I expect anyone to get a grasp of me via a text or a tweet or a post?

I want to get to know you.

Face to face.

Not facebook to facebook.

I know you’re out there.

I am ready when you are.

Let’s go explore this great big amazing world together.

Hand in hand.

 

Somewhere God is Laughing

March 10, 2015

Or at least chuckling loudly.

Ever been in a room where you realize that you have, slept with two of the men in the same room, and oh, yes, so has someone else there, and you’ve made out with another, and oh, it gets better, you’ve asked two other men, in the same fucking room, out on dates.

All I needed was my ex boyfriend to walk in the door.

I knew.

I mean knew.

I was in some fit spiritual place when I laughed to myself.

I did not laugh out loud, but I smiled pretty hard.

It was funny.

It is funny.

Sometimes the world is a very small place.

Now, don’t get me confused with some sort of crazy woman, all these interactions happened at very different times and points of my life and sexual/relationship time line.

One of the guys I made out with?

It was five years ago and I’m friends with him and his wife, so like, no biggie.

The other guy, I, yes, hooked up with at Burning Man.

Come on.

It’s Burning Man.

One was a lover from before I went to Paris.

The other two were in more recent history, one guy I asked out about a year ago, and I have to say, he’s given me the best turn down I have ever gotten.

“I’m so flattered, thank you, but no.”

Quiet, sweet, firm.

We’re friends and run in the same circles.

And he’s got a girlfriend now.

The other guy, I asked out as one of the guys on my list of ten.

I was like.

REALLY?

This has never happened to me before and of in all places, the Inner Sunset?

Ha!

Then I got home and the guy who asked me out to a dessert date, even though I said I don’t eat sugar, happy to have tea with you, freaked out that I don’t eat sugar, and cancelled our date.

Whatever.

It’s all so laughable at this point.

Ah, dating.

And you know, its San Francisco, so yeah, of course there’s overlap, it’s a small world out there.

Also, I do have a community and fellowship that I prefer to date within.

They are the type of men I want to be in a relationship with, so it doesn’t strike me as so strange that a confluence of them were all in the same space.

I’m not sure what God is trying to tell me, but it’s fucking funny.

Even I can see that.

I don’t feel a bit weird about it, that’s the nice thing, I can take it all with a grain of salt and say to myself, “well, self, who’s next?”

I mean.

I’m not going to stop dating or trying to date.

Where’s the fun in that?

I believe that being light-hearted about it all is helpful, being silly can’t hurt either, not taking it so seriously, as I am wont to do with many things in my life, being easy and going with the flow and seeing what happens next.

It’s all a part of the story and the journey and life, dating, is messy.

Funny.

But messy.

I mean I don’t know a single woman or man who hasn’t had a number or horrific/silly/ghastly/laughable dates or moments in dating before finding the person they were supposed to be with.

Or not finding that person.

Or finding out that the best person to date is themselves.

“Take yourself out on a date,” I told her yesterday after we had done some reading and writing in the afternoon.

I gave her some examples of what I have done over the years.

Small things like: lighting candles when I am having dinner, buying myself flowers, drinking my water, sparkling preferably, out of a glass instead of straight from the bottle, sitting outside on the patio when the weather is nice, listening to jazz music, walking on the beach, getting a fancy coffee at a cafe.

To slightly bigger things: riding the F-Market train from the beginning of the line in the Castro to the end of the line in Fisherman’s Wharf, going to the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday at the Ferry Building and eating lunch on a bench overlooking the Bay Bridge, taking the ferry to Sausalito, spa days at Kabuki Springs, going to a matinée, walking through the rain, trips to the MOMA or the Legion of Honor, going to House of Air and trampolining, walking through the butterfly exhibit at the Conservatory of Flowers, walking through China Town with my camera, or playing pinball at Free Gold Watch.

I’ve even taken myself on some pretty fancy pants dates: one year I had a three course pre-fix menu dinner on Valentines Day at Le Zinc a French Bistro in Noe Valley, or going to Paris.

Yes, I do count that as a pretty big date, not when I moved to Paris, but when I went there in 2007 by myself for 10 days.

That was as stupendous date.

I even got lucky with a French man in the Pere Lachaise cemetery.

Well, we made out, and had I let him we would have gone further, but too many tourists around.

It was something else to have a wild-eyed dark-haired Frenchman named Philip lean me up against a 200-year-old mausoleum and kiss me silly.

So.

I know how to date.

I do.

And I make a good date.

The world is not as big as I make it out to be and so to be in a room where I had kissed three of the men, slept with two of the men, and asked out two others, isn’t such a huge deal.

A goofy deal.

A silly deal.

A nothing to take seriously deal.

Something to write about on a foggy night while I wait to see what happens next and who I will go out with this weekend.

So far.

No takers.

But you know.

The week is young.

And already weird.

I can’t wait to see what happens tomorrow.

 

You Seem Really Happy

February 19, 2015

That’s always a positive response on a first date.

Yup.

Knocked one out of the cafe.

Park, seems, so, cliché, but cafe, where we sat, drinking tea and hanging out, feels about right.

He asked me later if I was going to blog about it.

Of course I am.

Not about him.

But about the date, why yes.

If it pertains to my life, then I am blogging about it.

That’s what I do.

I do have boundaries and I try to be discreet and I do my best to not involve other people; it’s taken some practice and I haven’t always been the best at it, but I do leave others out.

Especially should they be in my circle of people.

I will say I had a nice time, there was laughter, we have some things in common, he has nice blue eyes, I could see myself having another date, there was a connection, and dare I say a little chemistry.

That’s nice.

He bought my tea and got there early.

I appreciate that.

The small things count.

I like my door being opened, I like having a tea waiting for me, or flowers, or a thoughtful gesture, it means that it means something.

I got half way through my day and I have to admit, going on a date was the last thing on my mind, it was there, the thought, the anticipation, but by the time I was half way through the work day I was wondering if I was going to get out of it alive.

Let alone have any sass or sparkle for a first date.

But it feels like it went well and we acknowledged that there was more to explore there and mutually agreed to another date.

Nothing has been set up.

If he wants to see me further, he knows my number.

And enough about me that a second date shouldn’t be too difficult to negotiate.

We also talked about the fact that we are dating.

Though we are both looking for monogamous relationships, yay!  We are both seeing other people, we both have dates set up for this weekend with other folks.

I received a few texts this morning at the park while I was still in the early part of my day and didn’t know that I was going to be run over with the demands of potty training, nap time melt downs, things getting thrown in restaurants, and the general melee that just sometimes happens with little boys.

It was a nice moment to get the texts from the other gentleman I’ll be seeing this Friday.

We caught up over the weekend, he was out-of-town in the East Coast and in the crazy weather, and confirmed that we would be meeting this Friday for tea at a cafe in the Church and Market area.

Excellent.

I’m really doing this dating thing.

It’s happening.

I also responded to an OkStupid ask and said I would be up for a coffee date with a gentleman from Alameda.

Which is sort of breaking my date only in the city rule.

I had one gentleman in San Jose ask me out and get a little pushy about it.

I just don’t see sustaining a relationship with someone who has to commute to date.

There’s more than enough fish in the sea here in San Francisco.

But the guy on OkStupid had one of the best, if not the best profiles I have ever seen.  We are also an 89% match, which is a huge plus, and he’s tall-6’5″.

Mama can wear her heels out dancing.

Thank you very much.

So I said yes to a coffee with him as well, although we have set nothing up yet.

Life.

It is happening.

What else is happening?

Oh yeah.

This.

Hello Carmen,

You are scheduled for an interview on Thursday February 26th at 3pm in room 210.

This message was in my inbox when I got back from my evening out tonight.

I have a date to interview for the cohort at CIIS for the Masters program in Integral Counseling Psychology.

Yikes.

This is happening.

I mean, this is really happening.

I told my employer this week, yesterday, now that I think of it, that I was going to be interviewing soon and would let them know when.

Next Thursday.

Holy crow.

I am very grateful I got my shit together and applied for student financial aid last week.

It feels like it’s moving along.

I’m going to be going to graduate school.

Who is this person?

I mean, yeah, I have wanted to go to graduate school for a while, there’s something about having a Master’s that appeals to my ego in a hard-core way.

But I never, not once, suspected that it would be to get a Masters so that I could be a therapist.

Huh?

Aren’t I the one that needs therapy?

Ha.

I suspect that will be part of the program as well.

A week from tomorrow.

Wow.

Makes dating seem like no big deal.

Which I feel like is the point of asking as many guys as I have and trying new things and putting myself out there, do it so much that it becomes no big deal.

“You need to date a bunch of guys, five or six, all at the same time,” was the suggestion.

Now in my mind, which is diseased, let me not forget that, I hear, “you need to sleep with five or six guys all at the same time.”

Well.

Um.

Not at exactly the same time, but you know what I mean.

I have this thing where I am used to just seeing one person at a time, not actively dating a bunch and finding who works out and who doesn’t.

I have an idea, an old one, that I have to be loyal to the person I am on a date with, see it all the way through, and if it works, fantastic!

And if it doesn’t, wait until it’s completely obvious and then move on to the next guy.

Turns out I don’t have to do this.

I really don’t know what actions I have to do or take or how many dates it takes to get to the middle of the Tootsie Roll Pop, but I am willing to try things that are outside my bag, my small bag, of dating tricks.

And oh yes, have fun.

If it’s not fun, than it’s not worth doing.

Light, easy, no getting caught up in expectations.

Just show up and see what happens.

I suspect my interview will be much the same next Thursday.

Eek!

I really am doing this.

All in baby.

Graduate school, dating, life.

That’s how I roll.

Get Out With Your Girls

February 7, 2015

Ok then.

I did it.

I went and hung out with some ladies.

Jesus fuck.

I had no idea how much I needed to just hang out with some ladies and kick it at Burger Meister.

I didn’t even eat, I had gotten to do that already tonight at work, work, which was intense, long day, two sick boys, extra hours, thank god I made it through the week.

And let myself take a Uber into work this morning.

The gale winds did not speak well for traveling by bicycle and I knew the rain was close behind, I could smell it this morning when I opened the back door to my studio and heard the surf crashing on the beach.

I took a car.

That feels all luxurious and shit, which, let me tell you was not, despite it being Uber which I like a little more than Lyft, I tried the new Uber service, Pool, which was ok, although, the driver did the cardinal sin of waiting too long for the second passenger, they are only supposed to wait two minutes when picking up a shared ride, I came rather close to being late for work.

And I couldn’t tell if it was the passenger that was already in the car, or the driver, but the bad breath was foul.

Bad, bad, bad.

I got good and grateful though, to not be riding my bicycle in the weather and though it meant being trapped inside for the majority of the day, I got through.

And although I found myself meandering through the Mission in weird weather after work killing time, I took care of myself by doing a lot of contrary actions.

I had some thoughts about where I would go this evening after work, I had some choices, I could have flagged another car and headed toward the Inner Sunset, seen some folks over at 7th and Irving, but I had a feeling the ex would be there, and that was the allure to going there.

Oh.

No reason to engage, you know, just cause myself, some unnecessary pain, feel uncomfortable, and rub some salt in a  wound that is rapidly healing.

Don’t pick at it.

It’s still a relatively new tattoo, but I have found my hand drifting toward it, stroking the edges where the skin is still rough and pulling, healing.

Leave it be.

I reprimand myself.

But a few times I have found myself doing it without even thinking.

And that was what was tonight.

Sneaky, slithery, slippery thoughts, sniping their way into my brain, little ear worms of irritation, I knew better than to entertain them and I knew to take the opposite action of what I wanted to do.

So I ended up wandering around the Mission for about an hour before I needed to be where I knew I needed to be.

I window shopped.

I grabbed a tea at Church St. Cafe.

I read my book for a little while.

The desire to pick at the scab left me.

I went where I was supposed to be.

I saw who I was supposed to see.

And I was invited to hang out with a trio of lovely ladies at ye olde Burger Meister.

I took my own suggestion and fellowshipped.

I also talked up dancing next Saturday.

It’s going to be a long week-end for me, I’ll have Monday off for the holiday, so I thought, to hell with it being Valentines Day, I am my own best date, let me take me dancing.

I’ll have an extra day of recuperation if I blow out my knees.

Or my ankle.

Let me not dance too hard, now that I am thinking about it, I don’t want to do either and I can.

I just want to have some fun and work  it out.

And there it is.

I just wrote that and realized, what the hell is holding me back, go buy a ticket.

Good thing I did, the event is about to sell out.

All the early bird tickets are gone, so I had to shell out another five, but it’s worth it, the Basement Jaxx are one of my favorites, I’ve never seen them live and David Harness is also playing–I’ve seen David plenty and like his stuff–I’m going to dance myself out.

Public Works, next Saturday, Valentine’s Day, I’ll be giving myself the gift that I always want a gentleman to give me, the gift of going dancing.

“I’ll learn to dance, I’ll take lessons, I swear, really, this time, I will,” my ex of five years pleading with me on bended knee in the house on Gilman Street in Madison, the late afternoon sunlight fading into the gloom of a grey dusk in January, the frost patterns on the window catching the last glints of light on his face.

I gave into being in that relationship another week, maybe ten days, I don’t remember, but he didn’t go out dancing with me.

I learned to do it on my own.

I’m not the worlds best dancer, but I like to cut a rug and though I sincerely wish my body was in better shape, my feet are flat, my knees are creaky, I apparently have weak ass ankles, I can still get out there and let the music wash over me and get carried away and dance like there’s no tomorrow.

The music is love for me and I intend to drown myself in it.

I’ll be my own best date.

Speaking of dating.

That was something discussed by the quartet of females in Burger Meister this evening.

And yes.

I have been convinced to hop back into the online dating weirdness.

Although I didn’t care for the slightly smug message from OkStupid, “welcoming me back.”

I uploaded a new photo, checked my stats, scrolled through the matches, looks about the same, and said, ok, here’s to taking an action and letting go the results.

I also was given the suggestion, which I have had before and think I did, but I honestly don’t remember, of making a list of ten guys I would ask out and then, well, actually going and asking them out.

I’m ready and willing to give it another go.

The break up is done.

Three weeks ago tonight.

The relationship was short, intense, but short, and three weeks feels right.

This lady is back on the market.

You can check out my profile, or just get back to me here, or facecrack.

Or maybe, you might see me, smiling my head off, next Saturday at Public Works.

Doing that thing that I do so well, getting lost in the music.

Being utterly in my body and present.

Dancing.

Come on, you know you want to.

Hello Stranger

November 17, 2014

Where you been?

I have taken the last couple of days away from the computer, the laptop, the internet, the interwebs, the social media, the facebooking, twittering, chirping, instagraming, tinder, okcupid of it all.

I have been busy living.

I am being a little oblique.

I understand.

Curiosity it killed the cat.

This may be one of the harder blog posts I write.

There was and is a very good reason I was offline for the last couple of days.  I mean, I wasn’t totally, I checked a few things on my phone, I’m not a Neanderthal after all, but I haven’t booted up the lap top to input the blog.

I have been, um, busy.

Yargh.

This is hard.

I just recall certain things that certain folks have passed a long for a little while now, snippets of suggestions, dollops of care, maybe I sound like your mother, but I love you, advice.

And you know what is happening?

I am listening.

I am really listening.

To my heart, to my gut, to my instincts.

There are truly some things that I am not going to write about.

I can’t.

Too much is at stake.

Therefor I stayed off the blog the last few days.

I let things unfold, I discovered what feelings were in real-time and had them and processed them and went about my life with new and unusual information about who I am and let myself enjoy the fuck out of it.

I will drop a few hints and if you should be curious, I know one or two of you might, please call me on that old-fashioned thing called a phone and we can have a chat and I can give you details.

There are details.

Be assured.

Some things that I am willing to cop to.

Number one.

Get Tinder off my phone.

Don’t want the app, not interested in using it, not needed, get thee gone.

Except I can’t figure out how to get it off my phone–it may have something to do with the fact that I never was successful at installing the app in the first place; it wouldn’t load and I spent more time watching the error sign come up then swiping left or right.

Second.

I killed OkStupid.

Yup.

It’s done.

I’m off the site.

Now.

I know my friends are some smart monkeys.

If a + b = c one might surmise that.

a. No OkCupid

b. No Tinder

c. No blog for last couple of days.

I will say no more.

See.

I can do this!

Not certain for how long I can keep the hat on it, but I am going to give things room to grow and breathe and be, myself included and keep focus on the practices that I am currently doing.

Writing, writing, and more writing.

Maybe if I’m not writing about certain things I can be writing my autobiographical statement for graduate school.

Not tonight.

I’m too tired.

I had a busy weekend.

I got behind on some things and played catch up a lot today.

For instance, my Sunday soul soup is still cooking on the stove–my food for the week is a vegetable three bean chili with brown rice–I didn’t get to the cooking for a little while today and it still needs a good hour of simmering on the stove.

I did have an awesome late lunch at Thai Cottage, but that’s not cooking for the week.

I did get groceries done, but far later in the weekend then I normally do, same with cleaning the in-law and doing laundry–one load left to go.

I was a little behind on things, I had my attention elsewhere.

I enjoyed that attention being elsewhere.

Especially as I head into a busy week.

One with dancing at the end of it and a lot of service thrown in between.

Two speaking engagements this week and it feels like there’s another lurking around the corner, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Thanksgiving is coming up, which is frankly weird, not the holiday, just that it’s so close already.

I had some plans for the day, and I still think that it will probably happen that I end up in the Castro with Honey and the orphans and take out and a movie matinée at the Castro Theater.

I have plenty to be giving thanks for.

I tell you what.

So many things.

Like already booking dates in December for Christmas parties and on into January for a night at the symphony (the San Francisco Symphony is doing a big screen viewing of the original God Father and the symphony will be playing the soundtrack to the movie).

I actually opened up my closet and started poking through it, could I wear that dress to the party, would this work for the symphony, what about those heels?  Are they too high?

I may have to go out and buy a holiday frock or two.

I can’t remember the last time I had plans around the holidays that required some more formal attire.

I have dresses, but they are not so formal.

Ah.

Yes.

What every woman needs, or just this woman, an excuse to go dress shopping.

I can handle dress shopping better than jeans shopping.

Yikes.

I really do have to buy a new dress, probably two, and maybe some new heels.

My ankle should be all healed up and ready to prance about.

Speaking of prancing, I shall be dancing this weekend too, very much looking forward to the party at the Armory and getting to see some friends who I haven’t had much chance to catch up with since Burning Man.

This party I have clothes for.

And I won’t be wearing heels too, oh no.

Sneakers.

I may lace them up with some pink ribbon shoe laces for flair, but I am wearing flats for my night out dancing.

No hurting the ankle.

Well, the soup is simmering, the tea is in the process of sipping, the night is young and full of stars.

Far away messages of mystery in the sky.

Dumped over the bowl of dark covering the ocean and beach, drizzling me in sweet dreams and delicious thoughts from the weekend.

~End vague blog~

 

Boogie Nights

November 11, 2014

Some of the ladies have been reaching out to me about dancing.

Ladies.

I am down.

Downtown down.

Let’s do it down.

Let’s get down.

At the moment the two options on the table are the Opulent Temple benefit at the Armory on Saturday the 22nd of this month.  The other is the BRAF (Black Rock Arts Foundation) Artumnal.

Burning Man people

Actually Opulent Temple would be a lot of Burning Man folks too.

The BRAF part is expensive though, $60.

The Opulent Temple $20.

Either way, I am going out dancing.

I am ready to do it.

Get out and shake some tail feathers.

I mean, yes, I did go out dancing on Halloween, but it was an amateur dj, I mean, I love that the venue was of service, but it wasn’t the quality or caliber of music I like to get down to.

It would be divine to have some grooving on the dance floor.

And maybe ask someone on a date.

I need to get myself back in the mix.

I don’t know what next, but yes, that thing when you ask someone out.

I just haven’t anyone on my radar at the moment.

Suggestions?

OkCupid is just not panning out, I mean, I have had a profile on this site for years, I think I may have had a date or two that went well, but for the most part, really not good fishing.

Time to move to another pond.

I know all the kids are doing Tinder and I have waffled on whether or not to try it.

I get the distinct impression it’s really about hooking up with someone, not dating so much, but casual sex partners.

Nothing wrong with that, but I’m not sure I’m ready to peddle myself out like that.

There was little opportunity for me this weekend.

Well.

That’s not entirely true.

My friend who helped me with the scooter is someone I have on again off again considered, but he’s such a heavy smoker, I just can’t take it.

Anytime I think I might want to kiss him, there’s a smoke in his mouth and riding in his vehicle is like being in a giant rolling ashtray.

He doesn’t give a shit and figured he’d be dead by thirty, so smoke ’em if you got ’em Johnny, but I’ll pass on asking you out on a date just because of that.

I did talk to a guy Saturday about going out, but we got our wires crossed and didn’t end up exchanging numbers.

It felt good, though, to ask, to not be hung up on the last dating experience I had, and move on.

I’m not going to be sad Sally sitting by the phone.

Nope.

I got things to do, places to be, boys, er men, to kiss.

As a friend recently pointed out he was a little concerned that the only guys I was seeing were 2 and 4.

Those would be the monkeys I nanny for.

And wow.

They were a handful today–first day back, Monday, longest day for me on the job, swimming lessons, up and down routine, and a grand temper tantrum from the oldest boy.

Which happens, but they can be exhausting.

Temper tantrums usually stem from an inability to express or communicate what is needed, and often times are exacerbated because the child wants something and knows how to get it be throwing a tantrum.

I’ve seen a few in my time.

I just patiently wait them out and go about doing my thing, but it’s hard, and it can get exhausting and I was looped by the end of the day.

Not tired enough to not cast an eye about my environs this evening for a possible dating candidate, but no one stirred my interest.

I thought about one guy, and then thought, nope, he’s sweet, I know him through friends, but there’s nothing there, just friendship.

I have another guy who always tries to engage with me, we went on a date a few months before I moved to Paris, he was unaware I was moving he told me at the date, and was only interested in pursuing something that would have longevity.

Which was fine with me, it was the easier softer way to let him down, he excused himself from the pool before I could turn him down.

But I see him on the occasion and he’s definitely interested and I am definitely not.

He has not asked and I won’t even give him an opening, and I know better than to suggest we go out just to fulfill my goal of a date a week.

That would be a shoddy thing to do to someone.

I’ve got to be principled about this the best way I can and show up as my best self.

My passionate self, mind you, I still want that, the singing in the blood, the pull of the moon on my heart, the flutter in the stomach, the shyness, then the boldness, the touch of electricity that zips and zings along my nerve endings, I got to have that.

So dancing it seems like a good place to start.

I get to be myself, I love to dance.

I get to dress up.

I get to be sexy.

I get to flirt.

And hopefully I will get an interested party.

I don’t doubt something will come of it.

And in between, I keep focusing on today, and showing up, and doing the next actions in front of me for graduate school.

For instance–I received an e-mail back from the admissions department and the program that I want to apply to, I do NOT have to write the 8-10 page academic paper with sources.

Yes!

I still have a letter of intent, a CV to formulate, and an autobiographical statement to write, but really, I do that almost every day.

The letter of intent is one page, the CV will be one page, the autobiographical statement is 6-8 pages.

I got that down.

I have one more letter of recommendation to secure from a second source, and to order my transcripts on-line this week.

Plenty to keep me occupied.

And then.

The dancing.

Oh yes.

 

Split Pea Soup and Sex

March 23, 2014

I don’t actually believe very many folks are going to bait into this blog with that title, but you never know.

I mean, I imagine that the first thing that comes to mind is having sex with split pea soup in the equation, but split pea soup is not necessarily a sexy soup.

I mean it’s green and sort of mushy.

Delicious.

But mushy.

Then I think, is that soup hot?

That would burn.

Maybe you’re kinky?

Hot mushy soup instead of candle wax.

Then I thought, well then, how about cold, like that nursery rhyme: peas porridge hot and peas porridge cold, peas porridge in a pot nine days old.  Some like it hot and some like it cold and some like it in the pot nine days old.

Now first off all who the hell likes anything nine days old?

Nine day old peas porridge sounds like salmonella poisoning to me and nothing says sexy like vomiting.

But cold pea soup, is not sexy at all.

Not even like I am wearing this as a mask to get sexy.

Sexy foods are chocolate and whipped cream, sticky though, let’s be honest, who has had sex with whipped cream?

Raise your hands you kids you.

Uh huh.

And it’s sticky.

Unless you’re hopping in the shower right quick sexy with whipped cream is not sexy.  It makes a good visual, I will grant you that, but otherwise it gets tacky and kind of gross and then you have like lint stuck to you and who wants that?

Or dog fur.

Or gack, cat fur.

“Don’t post a photo of you and your cat!” My friend said over the phone today.

He was asking me to help him look at a few things on his OkStupid profile and I immediately went to you need to change your profile pix, not a good one, take off the sunglasses, show a current photo, you don’t have a beard and the hair cut is much better.

And he replied with the cat insight.

Not that I have a cat photo on my page, but apparently girls do.

“Oh and no kids, even if they’re your cute nieces and nephews,” he added.

I know that one too and told him to do the same, except not with kids, with other women.  I don’t want to see the guy with another woman, whether it’s a co-worker or a sister or an old friend, only pictures of said dude.

As soon as I see another woman I think ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, and it sours me whether or not it’s true.

All this talk about sex and soup and whip cream.

Where is this going?

I basically did my shopping and cooking today, is where it’s going and I was trying to make it sound sexy, and self-care is sexy, split pea soup can be sexy, as long as it’s not cold and nine days old, and I was filled with a kind of warmth, and yes, I dare say it, love of self when I saw my full fridge with healthful stuff in it–homemade soup in canning jars, fresh veggies and fruit and it’s all organic and good and yay.

I suppose that’s where I sort of left it.

I got up late today, almost 11 a.m. before I rolled out of bed, but considering I went to bed at 3 a.m. last night, it makes perfect sense.

I knew I would be busy tomorrow–Joan’s birthday party–and I wanted to get all my stuff dealt with today.  So soup making and food shopping, laundry, and fresh sheets on the bed, flowers in vases, check book balancing, bill paying, and tidying up.

And voila, my day.

No, there was not sex in my day, but you know, as a friend recently commented, I have been baiting my reader with sex in my titles to get a read.  I don’t usually have high readership on Saturdays anyway, so I thought, why not.

I mean, I have sex on the mind, why not put that out there too.

Or at least body contact.

Out at the club last night I sat by my friend for a moment in between dancing and he put his arm around me and I threw a leg over his lap and we hung out.

I have to say, it felt good.

And I wondered, how come never this?

But, he’s a smoker and that’s not a match with me and I know from some experience that guys will let you know if they are interested and I don’t think he is, but we are messaging back and forth on OkStupid to help out both of our profiles.

Apparently the more often you reply the more you get asked out.

According to some blog he read about the site.

I have never even thought about that.

Then when I told him he could use better profile photographs we actually started talking, joking, but I think it could actually be funny, about going around and fake doing things to have that perfect profile shot.

So basically now we need groomers and photographers and more media manipulation on our social sites to get what we really want, personal contact with another human being.

The internet is great, don’t get me wrong, but when I am blogging I am alone, so too when I am on my FaceBook page or OkStupid or Twitter or anything else.

The interconnectivity is awesome some times, although I did not need to see the post my sister just put up about not wearing underwear anymore.

TMI.

Then again, seeing photographs of my niece, pretty cool, especially since, when will I see her next?

Could be awhile.

But I feel that I need to see people face to face and not just over the net to really connect.

I need to watch people too.

I am an artist and I observe.

I take.

Like the small Asian man on the MUNI tonight, with age spots and a mole the size of a quarter on his face the skin on his face sagged and his eyes weary closing against the overhead lighting on the train.

His shoes were worn down and he walked with a bow-legged swagger that made me immediately think sea man and he was far shorter when he stood to get of the train than I thought he would be, almost diminutive in his navy suit and rumpled white dress shirt that was baggy out of his pants, pulled askew on the left side where he had been  scratching his ribs.

And the hat.

Slouched down, yet dapper, a fedora in tweed with flecks of brown and mustard.

That hat said so much.

Would I have noticed that hat had I been engrossed in my Facecrack feed on my phone?

I don’t think so.

I don’t know where all this is going, but I am grateful for these powers of perception whether they are reflecting on soup or sex.

Or hats.

I am writing and that’s the sexy in my soup any day.


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