The Perfect Dress

Almost.

But not quite

So freaking close, but I was afraid to force the zipper.

Just in that one spot.

Ah well.

I’m not returning it though.

I don’t often buy clothes off Etsy pretty much because it’s hand-made often and you can’t tell, but I fell for the dress and it’s gorgeous and it fits perfectly, except I need like a 1/2 an inch in the back for the zipper, right below my bust line, pretty much the widest place except for my shoulders.

I’ll just have it taken out a tiny bit.

I’m otherwise quite happily pleased with it and had a sudden moment of realizing I was going to wear it to Paris.

It really screams Paris in Spring.

It’s a replica of a Marilyn Monroe polka dot sundress in light blue with four tiers of layered flounce and sassiness.

It’s gorgeous.

I found it while I was looking for hair accessories.

Aforementioned blog about celebrating my getting time off to go to Burning Man from work.

While bopping about in the retro vintage pin-up rockabilly accessories I came across it.

I was like.

Oh my.

Yes.

I want that and I want that bad.

And.

It must have been fated.

Because the shop has “taken a break.”

I was hunting around trying to find the link to the Etsy shop and finally landed it and the shop has closed!

There is one other seller on Etsy making the dress.

Exact same dress.

Exact same measurements, in fact, aside from a slightly different woman modeling the dress, it could be the exact same seller.

Except.

Holy shit.

THREE times the price.

I got the dress I ordered for $89.99 plus shipping and tax.

This dress.

Total was like $104.

The other site has it listed for $325 (I found a couple off Google in the upper $200s)

Yeah.

Um.

No.

It’s a great dress but not for three hundred dollars.

Quite happy I found the dress the way I did and now knowing what I know about the shop not even existing anymore I will definitely be keeping the dress and just getting it altered a tiny bit.

There would have been a time when I was devastated to not fit into the dress.

But seriously.

I have a lovely, capable, beautiful body.

So what I have a broader back, I am strong.

I was not happy the zipper didn’t get through that one sticky spot, damn it fits so well everywhere but there, but I wasn’t sad either.

That’s progress.

I ran into a fellow tonight after doing the deal with my person and having dinner at Crepevine on Church and Market, and he did a double take, “you’ve lost so much weight!”

I realized later that I hadn’t seen him since about 2009 when I was depressed, hiding in my room, binge reading Twilight, yes I said Twilight, fuck off, and binge eating bowls of popcorn, pints of ice-cream and sacks of donuts from the Jelly Donut on Van Ness and 24th Street.

It was bad, bad, bad, Bad News Bears, bad.

I was miserable.

I finally broke through the silence and reached out and got help and since that point I’ve never really looked back.

No.

My body is not all that and a loaf of sliced bread.

But then again, why would it be, I don’t eat bread.

Heh.

But it is mine.

Mine to care for, comfort, nourish, and attend to.

And that is a gift.

My body has taken a beating for me for a long time, physically and spiritually and mentally too.

It has never lived up to my high expectations, even when I was a super low weight, before I evened out and got less compulsive about my restrictions in my diet, even then, pounds lighter, I wasn’t happy, I wanted more, better, faster, thinner, etc, etc, ad nauseum.

Grateful today for the beautiful body God has given me to walk around in.

Grateful that I get to care for it and be perfect with it and not be bothered if the zipper doesn’t go all the way up.

It will.

Grateful too that although my first thought was, oh, I’ll lose some weight and it will fit in a few weeks, it was quickly supplanted by, fuck that, just get it tailored to fit you, it only needs a small adjustment, I don’t need to make myself crazy to fit into any piece of clothing.

I am not my pants size.

I cannot.

Will not.

Measure my life by my in-seam, bust size or waist line.

I am so much more than the sum of my whole.

And I am not stupid.

I am beautiful.

God please help me to see what you want me to see and to let go of what I can.

I can let go of this for sure.

Yes, yes I can.

Please and thank you.

Any one know a good tailor?

Seriously.

 

The Half Way Point

Has been met.

I wrapped up my third weekend of five here in the first semester of my second year of graduate school.

Graduate school is sexy.

In case you were wondering.

Sleep deprivation.

Overconsumption of caffeine.

Anxiety about keeping up on the reading.

Writing papers.

Cramming it all in between the nooks and crannies of living life.

And.

Hoping once in a while to get a little sunshine on my face or a hug from a friend.

Or.

God fucking forbid.

A date.

Dating is challenging.

Throw recovery into the mix, full-time work and grad school.

Fuck me.

I’ll see you when I graduate and oh, then I’ll be interning.

That will be entertaining.

I do have hopes though for some magic.

I do.

I might even hop back out into online dating and Tinder.

I might.

I say this as I’m downloading the app to my phone.

I might use it.

Fuck me.

I amuse myself.

I was chatting with a friend of mine after class today at Philz and I told her about how I was getting a little too hormonal for my own good.

I also have to say, thank God for girlfriends you can share all the things with.

I am so lucky.

I told her about how things have gone this week and got all flustered and wound up and how if I’m feeling like this, if I’m so flushed up and flustered, maybe I need to take action.

“I need a fucking boyfriend,” I said.

“Yes, you do, but get laid and maybe, don’t worry about the guy being sober, like, throw open the pool and just you know, have some fun, get you through for a little while,” she said and laughed with me.

I’m a touch frustrated.

And it’s ok.

It is what it is.

But walking around perpetually turned on, although, hey, my skin is glowing, is a lot to deal with on top of grad school, work, etc, ad nauseum, blah, blah, blah.

It’s just life.

I remind myself.

It’s just another thing to experience.

I’ll probably have it up, the Tinder profile, for a week and be like fuck this like I have previously.

But.

I do feel a need to take some action.

I was thinking about asking someone out.

Not that I have had the opportunity to do so recently.

Recently having been this weekend, in which I was in school classes for 29 hours, so yeah, maybe not the best time to go out on a date.

But.

I do feel like I need to keep trying.

Keep things moving.

Keep trying.

Keep living.

I’m going to be a fucking therapist.

I should have some more relationship experience.

And besides.

I feel ready.

Definitely ready and I’m adamant about the “no married men” thing and the being available to be with someone who is available.

No going back to the drawing board.

But maybe just a little roll around the hay.

Hmm.

I don’t know.

I definitely don’t have to figure it out right now.

Perhaps the frustration of not getting what I want can be harnessed.

Heh.

I could run the world.

Not like I’m not already busy enough.

I was able to express myself to my friend though, it was so helpful and I am so grateful for my friend and to get to have dinner with her and her husband and another beloved person tonight after school, after cups of Philz coffee in the Castro, I was really so very grateful for them.

We went and had dinner at Lark, up on 18th between Castro and Hartford.

Pretty much the heart of the Castro.

Lots of lovely men to look at.

Not that anyone of them were interested in me, aside to compliment my frock.

I have to say, nothing like having a load of gay men tell me I look divine in polka dots and red lipstick.

Thank you very much.

I wore my crinoline too, it was just too much, but just right all at the same time.

And we had such a lovely time.

My friend also suggested that I talk more with them in French.

I tried.

I get a little flustered with it, but it’s such good practice and considering how much I love my friend and she’s French and lives in Paris and I’ll be going to Paris to visit her.

I also suspect that it won’t be my last time to Paris.

When someone you love dearly is living in Paris, you go when you can.

I did rather well, with the French-speaking, actually.

I ended up describing my relationship to my person, my mentor so to speak (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) all in French and though I stumbled a bit, I got it all out and that felt rather good to explain about my person and how I am helped by working with him and the whys and whereof of getting support around my family of origin alcohol and drug addictions.

It was rather awesome.

I mean, there was still some things lost in translation, but really, I did ok.

And my friend said the same thing, she told me that I actually speak a lot better than I think I do and that what I should start doing with her is speak as much French as I can and when I can’t, then use English.

She’s totally right.

It helped immediately.

I went back and forth between English and French all dinner.

It was thrilling.

And when I thought about it.

My heart just beat so hard in my chest.

Who was this woman, in her red Chanel lipstick, speaking French at a fancy restaurant in San Francisco?

Surrounded by people who love me.

I mean.

I have absolutely no question that I am loved.

It was just amazing.

And I felt so, well, awed, really.

I felt validated too.

It’s been a good week for that.

I’m in a good place.

A happy place.

A secure place.

A place of love.

A place of polka dots and my heart on my sleeve.

A place full of music and joy.

I might be just a tiny bit relieved to be done with the school weekend too.

Heh.

Happy.

Joyous.

Sexy.

And.

Motherfucking.

Free.

 

Sashay

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

Time To Edit

My mouth.

Or my pen.

Er.

My blog.

Haha.

Nope.

I mean.

Well.

Maybe.

I have done the thing where in I have facecrack friended a blind date before our first date.

It doesn’t feel like a blind date though, we’ve texted a lot, had a few phone calls and awkwardly face timed twice now.

We’ve got a date for Saturday and it’s been discussed that it’s going to be an all day date.

I also clarified if this was a hook up or a date.

Not that I am opposed to the hook up, he’s sexy and there’s chemistry already, so, there’s that, but it seems more than a hook up, there’s a lot of commonality.

Especially in the not drinking/drugging thing–he’s straight edge and well, if you haven’t figured out what I do you can always ask me privately, I’m not into breaking it all the way down on my blog, it’s um, not seemly.

Plus.

We both have loads of tattoos, always a plus.

Like pinball, baseball, music, books, and it’s apparent he’s intelligent.

I am liking it.

The only draw back is the distance.

I feel like I’m sort of breaking my own rule about dating someone on the other side of the bridge.

Hooking up might be different, but dating is a challenge with distance.

Never the less, there will be a day long date Saturday and I’ll know more at that point.

I’m tentatively excited.

I don’t want to have expectations.

They lead to resentments.

But.

Yeah.

There seems to be something here and of all the Tinder dates and matches he’s definitely head and shoulders above the rest.

So we have enough friends in common that we inevitably both posted on a mutual friend’s facecrack time line in regards to her anniversary today.

And there it was.

“I see you,” he texted me.

I laughed to myself.

I had already done the facecrack troll on his page.

I chided him a little, but totally said yeah, we can friend it up.

Despite being very well aware that all my blog posts are visible to anyone who friends me.

There’s a lot of incriminating shit here.

And.

There’s none at all, all at the same time.

I am transparent, most of the time, I put it out there and sometimes it ain’t pretty.

That’s ok.

If my blog scares him off, then well, it wasn’t meant to be.

I do know that I’ll most likely curtail any more writing about him.

Especially if this leads to dating, which I suspect it could.

No need to live in the future though, just taking it one moment, text, call, date at a time.

I have plenty, plenty, plenty on my plate.

The reading for school, the negotiating my last weekend of school–a lot of people want to have get togethers and hang out and such and I’m rather of the opinion that I would rather not, but I also kinda would.

I’m on the fence.

Like I said just a moment ago, I don’t have to figure it out now.

I know that I’m definitely hanging out with one of my girlfriend’s on Sunday, she’s goingt to crash over here and we’re going to have a slumber party.

And another of my girlfriend’s and I are going to the Steampunk Masquerade Ball at NIMBY the following weekend.

I like my cohort.

But I’m not sure I want to get real wrapped up in trying to spend time with everyone before the weekend is over.

I mean.

I’m still going to have to go to work and do the deal and I’ll have papers to finish before I head to New York too.

Ah.

See.

I can get caught up in the future so quick.

Be still my funny head and relax, all is good, I’m on track with my reading and I have a date for Saturday with someone I find funny, smart, sexy, and attractive, who I already know I can carry a conversation with and who won’t kiss me with beer breath.

I just keep showing up for what’s in front of me and the weekend will get here when it’s supposed to.

A little yoga.

A little work, a lot, boy, talk about work, today was a long play date with two other kids from school, I cooked up a storm and must have gotten a great work out in–all the toys I picked up, I cannot begin to count how many times I bent over and grabbed Lego’s or train tracks up off the floor, Magna Tiles, stuffies, blocks, Octonauts, books, markers, all the things.

A good bit of doing the deal.

I have a little something to do every night after work, someone to meet, somewhere to go, some church to sit in and get settled down about my life, recovery, all the jumble of work and school and time management and dating.

It’s been fun, though, this flirting.

I will not say that it hasn’t.

But yeah.

Thinking about it as I just texted him a good night thought, it’s time to not write about it anymore.

It’s not my place to reveal details and also, I know myself well enough to know I put my heart on my sleeve pretty damn quick.

Hell.

It’s usually out there all the time anyway, but I don’t need it to be seen so quick.

He may not have figured out the links to the blog yet anyhow, but I would rather him get to know me by hanging out with me.

And.

Well.

Since I feel this has potential, it’s got legs, it might go somewhere, well, then it’s mine to cherish and experience, keep private so to speak.

Oh.

No worries.

I’m sure there will be plenty of titillating things for me to write about.

Fuck.

I can make just about any blog I write provocative.

I’m a flirt.

At least in print.

Fingers crossed I can convey it in person.

Heh.

I’ll let you in on that.

I will be flirting.

And I will be wearing a dress.

Polka dots maybe.

Giggles.

See.

Already, an inside joke to myself.

I got to stop while I’m a head.

Nighty night

Y’all.

Easing Back In

Not that I want to.

Nope.

Not at all.

I would rather just pretend that this week is pure and free and there’s nothing to do but hang out and walk the beach, drink coffee, write, color, chat with friends, go to cafes, connect with folks.

You know.

However.

I did gear back into the habit and routine of doing some reading for classes.

Of course.

I didn’t even make it through an entire article when I closed my eyes while I was reading on the chaise and I drifted off.

Fuck me.

Two days in a row with a nap.

Who is this person?

Well rested, that’s who.

And nicely set up for the weekend.

I have a yoga class, gulp, I’m taking tomorrow.

I am afraid.

I know that sounds silly.

But.

There it is.

I am afraid to do it wrong.

I am afraid to look stupid.

I am afraid I will love it and become one of those obnoxious yoga people that prance around town obnoxiously glowing and happy.

Wait.

I sort of want that.

Heh.

I remind myself that it is just showing up and that I am just exploring it and I have had two girlfriends in the last six hours offer to go to a class with me.

I am going to be just fine.

Let me just repeat that.

The yoga studio will not eat me alive.

I bet I even enjoy it.

And it’s a block from the house.

I told on myself too.

I knew I was going to back out if I didn’t make myself accountable to some people.

I called three people and told them I was going tomorrow and I still felt myself balking to even say it.

I know there’s something to explore there, when I have this much resistance it’s sort of the dark territory that I need to go into, headlamp on, yoga mat tucked under my arm.

I walked over to the studio today and checked out the facility and the schedule and it really is the best possible solution.

It is on my block.

I keep telling myself that as I spend stupid amounts of time looking for other solutions when it’s right there.

Like the elephant in the room.

I’m using my scooter a lot.

I’m going to need the exercise and the breathing is going to be great and the stretching will help and the sweating is needed and then I’ll be a hop, skip, and a jump away from my house, a shower, and then whatever I need to do.

I have been doing my Applied Spirituality work and instead of doing the yoga so far, I have implemented the physical part of the three pronged approach that I proposed by walking the beach.

I was out there an hour today.

It was glorious.

Mostly because there were so few people there.

It felt like just me, the sea, the sea gulls, ravins, the plovers, and hermit crabs.

I found two whole sand dollars.

I turned my face to the sky and the sun.

I almost got drenched by a wave without realizing it and ran laughing out loud out of the surf.

It was a good connecting.

I felt grounded and in myself.

I did some grocery shopping.

I cooked some food.

I confirmed with my friend coming into the city that we’ll be meeting in the Haight tomorrow.

It’s project rain so I’ll be on MUNI.

We’re going to meet at People’s Cafe, hang out, catch up, maybe do some window shopping, do the deal, grab a bite to eat and oh, that sounds so good.

Solid gold friend time.

And then.

Who knows what the rest of the weekend will bring.

I found out today that I don’t have either of the people I normally meet with on Saturday.

A free and clear Saturday.

No commitments.

I’m not going to make any plans.

Out loud anyway.

My brain will chatter about it all day for the next night and day if I let it.

I prefer not to.

I am just going to stay here, in this moment.

Change is coming.

Suffice to say, as I started this piece, I will be focusing on some homework.

I have to post up pretty soon to Applied Spirituality forum and since I have been doing the deeper work, really it doesn’t feel necessarily “deeper” but I have enjoyed it and noticed a different space in myself, an easiness in my being after I have done the coloring meditation.

Other than that, I will do the readings for classes and depending on how I am feeling work on one of the papers that are due for the next weekend of classes.

I have two this go around.

And lots more on the horizon.

I’m not there yet.

I do actually have wiggle room this week, I could foreseeably do no homework, but I don’t care for the anxiety that produces in me.

There is balance.

I can go about this life with some semblance of equilibrium.

I know I can.

And all these experiences, well, they are gifts, some uncomfortable to hold until I get used to the edges and pushing past those places of resistance.

Hell.

Maybe I just need to go out dancing with some girlfriends too.

I have a tentative offer for this weekend.

Again.

Not pressuring myself.

When I spend too much time focusing on what is not happening for me, what I should be doing, where I should be going, then I just jump right out of the present moment.

The present moment looks like singing along to Mike Doughty’s Stellar Motel, rocking a polka dot frock and a crinoline, third day this week, and loving my sweet self hard as I can.

Sometimes that love is doing the things that I least want to do.

And having compassion for that little begrudging voice to express herself.

“NO!  I don’t want to go!”

Shh.

It will be ok.

I swear.

It’s just yoga.

Seriously.

 

Things Change

On a dime.

Or on a nickel.

Or on $5,000.

Um yeah.

Like that.

Fuck me.

I was not expecting to see that in my account this morning.

I was getting ready to write my morning pages, gearing up to do my last edit and go over on my Clinical Relationship paper, first paper of the second semester, make sure that I get the APA formatting correct–still not sure about it, but I used the Purdue OWL and it’s pretty freaking handy–and I thought.

Hmm.

I wonder if that check to the SFMTA has finally cleared.

I mean, they called my employers to go over a last few minute things to make sure that they, my employers, were aware that they were not allowed to transfer the permit to anyone other than me or put it on any other vehicle they may own.

Ayup.

My boss told me this yesterday and I took that as a good sign that my permit was in process.

So.

I checked.

And then I nearly shit my pants.

I am not kidding.

I’m a little embarrassed to say that, but my bowels knotted up.

What the fuck?

Why is my account got that much money in it?

Then it clicked.

My scholarship.

Oh my God!

My scholarship.

When the school sent out a notification that financial aid disbursement would happen on the 10th of this month I was expecting it all to be disbursed.

It was not.

I was confused when I checked out my account after getting a deposit of $477.

I was expecting $1500.

I was hoping to at least pay for one months rent with it, especially since the rent is going up next month.

But.

I was grateful that there was anything left over after paying for my tuition.

And so I just assumed that was it.

I did check out my financial aid page last night, but it was confusing and I just sort of let it go, assuming that was that.  Tuition was paid, be happy.

Then.

This morning.

I checked my online account.

And there it was.

My scholarship was deposited to my account today.

The 11th.

Holy shit.

I haven’t had that much money in my account ever.

Still some left from my tax return and then this new deposit.

My first thought was, it’s a mistake.

My next thought was, is it my scholarship?

It is!

My third thought, ugh.

Wow!

That could buy A LOT of cocaine.

(But never enough, oh no, it would not, in the end be enough at all)

And then.

I laughed out loud.

Once an addict.

Always a fucking addict.

I remember when I first got sober.

I was extremely uncomfortable with anything more than $20 in my wallet.

I didn’t want to have enough to score and for probably the first year I didn’t ever have $50 in cash–what my dealer was selling a gram of coke for.

I don’t even want to know what the cost of it is now.

Don’t bother telling me, I don’t want to know.

I scrolled through my online account and saw, yes, it was my scholarship money.

Hurray!

And the reason it was so much more, the disbursement, I realized, was that there is not a spring retreat.

The cost of the fall retreat came out of the scholarship money, and what was left over was about $1500.

It all suddenly made sense.

And I was blown wide open.

What am I going to do with all this money?

Well.

I am not going to be stupid.

First.

I wrote out the rent and utility check for March.

Just get that the fuck out of the way and don’t think about it.

Then I put the majority of it into my savings account.

I left myself a little bit.

I do plan on taking some yoga classes and the best bang for the buck is to get a year membership at Laughing Lotus.

It costs about $900.

I am going to go in Monday after work and my tea date with a girl friend in the Mission and get the $30 month long deal and see how I feel about the studio and if the classes are a good fit for me and my schedule.

I also still have the option to go to the studio in my hood, the Laughing Lotus studio just has a much greater range of classes and times that seem to fit my schedule better.

I have all next week to explore.

And I have the money to do so.

Wow.

I am so grateful.

So, so, so grateful.

I mean.

Things are being taken care of.

I am ok.

I am better than ok.

Hell.

I got a new pair of Converse delivered to the house as I was cleaning (procrastinating finishing my paper) and getting my stuff ready for work and the impending school weekend.

Black glitter Converse.

I have no needs at all.

I mean.

You know.

The basics, love, food, sunlight of the spirit, recovery, joy, friends, life, etc.

But.

I mean.

After you get a pair of sparkle pony Converse in the mail, what needs does one really have after that.

Oh yeah.

I still need to get laid.

There is some movement on that end.

But really, this weekend is devoted pretty much to school and showing up for the commitments I was asked to do, the sharing my experience, strength and hope on Sunday, the showing up for my cohort and for my life.

I am not going to get worked up about it.

I’ll save that for when I have a little more time.

I almost swung by Good Vibrations tonight on my way home.

But.

I decided.

Really?

Do I need a new vibrator right now?

Let me just hold out through the weekend.

I don’t need to get out of my head that bad.

I did have some conversations rattle around.

Some old talk that was looking to grasp hold and make me miserable and I was like, hey, thanks for sharing, but I’m good with all of that.

Let it go.

Surrender.

And be hella happy that I have money, that I am not homeless, that I have clothes on my back and polka dots sneakers on my toes, be happy that I didn’t catch the flu that the entire family came down with at work, be grateful that I have a week off from that.

Granted, yes, I’ll be heading to work on Monday, but, on my scooter and without the family there is a totally different experience.

I’m ready for it to all begin.

I have my school lunch packed.

I have dinner plans with a classmate for after school.

I have my outfit picked out.

I have my paper printed.

Yeah.

I did finish it, I did print it off, and I have it ready to turn in.

My books are packed, my notebooks sorted, my readers prepped.

And now.

My blog finished.

And.

I am rich.

Well.

Ok, not really, but in other ways I have such abundance and prosperity.

That yes.

I am wealthy indeed.

Flush, you could say.

With.

Experience.

Strength.

Hope.

And a couple extra shekels in the bank account.

Ha!

 

You Need To Hit Something

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!

Luxury Problems

I am almost loath to write this.

However.

This is what happened in my day and this has been in my head all day long and I know I don’t have to do anything about it.

I just find it interesting.

And I am reminded of a conversation that my professor brought up in my Multi-Cultural class about how it takes three generations to break the cycle of poverty.

I am not poor.

Not by any means of the word.

But I act poor all the time.

I “feel” poor often.

I am scared of being homeless pretty much on the constant.

It’s prevalent.

Even when I have money.

And I am treating myself gently with it and being ok with it and I am letting it sink in.

Slowly.

But.

Um.

Yeah.

I could stand to do some shopping.

I tore the hem on my slip dress today riding my bicycle into work.

It’s an old dress and could stand to be tossed and I contemplated having the hem, well, um, haha, hemmed, but the dress is old and I figure it’s going in the trash bin.

Along with the top that I have been layering, cleverly, I may add, over anything black, as it has little holes all over it.

And it’s a hand me down from my employer.

I am basically wearing an old, throw away outfit with holes in it and Converse sneakers that I have run through the wash three or four times.

The point being.

I got some money.

I got back my Federal Tax Return today.

I was shocked.

I just did my taxes like, um, 8 days ago?

I don’t even exactly recall, just that I was procrastinating doing some homework reading, and decided I’d focus on getting my taxes done.

I did.

Submitted.

And promptly forgot about.

Then.

Yesterday.

I got my state return back.

It was only $190 and so it was really easy to spend.

$120 for a new pair of shoes, $50 in savings, the rest in my wallet for a little walk about money.

But today.

Shit.

I yelped with surprise when I checked my account, I was looking to see if my rent check had cleared and I just wanted to make sure that I was square in my accounting.

And there it was.

My federal return.

I kind of froze.

I realize that I sort of expected to not get it back or that I had fucked up the return, or I don’t know, something was going to go wrong, I’m getting audited, I didn’t do it right last year, yada, yada, yada.

In short.

I had not planned on doing anything with the money because my brain actually decided I wasn’t getting the return.

My brain, sorry graduate school, but my brain, is a fucking idiot.

I have the weirdest fears sometimes.

I recalled my mom haunting the mailbox one year, waiting impatiently for her return.

Weeks on weeks of checking the mail box and checking the mail box and days of disappointment that it hadn’t arrived.

And then, one afternoon, it did.

I swear to God my mom was signing the Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music.

Ok.

Perhaps I exaggerate a little.

I remember it was sunny, school was out, the grass was green and we suddenly had a baby sitter, a pizza from Pizza Pit, sausage, black olive and mushroom with cheese, and a six pack of Pepsi Cola in glass bottles.

I distinctly remember the taste of that pizza, thin sliced, goopy with hot cheese, spicy sausage, the mushrooms slippery in my mouth, the black olives salty, the sweet hit of carbonated fizz from the Pepsi–my mom was a died in the wool Pepsi drinker.

Unless she was drinking Mountain Dew.

The babysitter put us to bed that night and I don’t remember when mom got home, but I will always remember that tax return landing in the mailbox and the glee with which it was met.

I met my tax return with dread.

Like.

I am going to fuck this up.

This is too much money for me to handle.

It’s not.

It’s two grand.

I put some right away into my savings.

I feel like I should put more in.

However.

I am holding off for a minute.

I want to let myself enjoy it.

Because I am afraid to do so.

The next thing I did, like a good girl, is I bought a “new” printer.

I bought a “used” printer from the warehouse store of Amazon, it’s basically a pristine refurbished printer that would have cost me $285 more dollars but I got it and a ream of 500 sheets of paper for $193.25.

I got it for basically 1/3 of the cost.

Then.

I balanced my check book and pondered all day long the weirdness of having money that I don’t know what to do with.

Yeah.

I could put it all in my savings.

It’s not like I have huge savings, one months rent, sort of a safety hatch if something stupid happens.

I do want to buy some new clothes and to that end I made the decision to go shopping 18 different times today.

All this weekend.

All the while forgetting it’s Super Bowl weekend and the idiocy of Super Bowl City is happening and where I typically go shopping is downtown.

Not going anywhere near down town.

Maybe I’ll go to the Haight.

I resolved to let myself have some fun with the cash.

I bought two new pairs of Converse that I have always wanted but never let myself get.

One pair is black glitter.

Giggle.

I told you I was a fucking sparkle pony.

The other pair are denim with white polka dots.

I also quite fancy polka dots.

I need a new purse, I was going to buy one in Paris but never got around to it.

I also had eyes on another super cute pair of shoes at Fluevog.

I need some socks.

But that’s it.

I will give myself an artist date and go to Flax and get some new things–colored pencils, coloring books, stickers.

Maybe a movie.

Maybe a trip?

That’s the funny thing.

I have the money.

But.

I am loathe to part with it too.

So.

I am just recognizing that it’s ok to enjoy the gift I have been given–which is basically getting my own money back, and just a fraction of it when it comes right down to it, I had $10,000 taken out in taxes over the past year–and allowing myself to have a little fun with it.

I am going to find out what is happening with the family for the week they are in Hawaii and maybe see about booking a massage and making matinee movie plans, getting together with a girlfriend from Castro Valley I don’t get to see as often as I like, grabbing a meal, doing the deal.

I have options.

And.

Apparently.

The money to enjoy which ever ones I choose.

I remind myself this is nice.

Not a burden.

My brain wants to be freaked out.

I am going to opt for excited instead.

Enjoy myself.

Be flexible.

And.

Have fun.

I swear!

Boy, You Sure Are Serious

About this Burning Man thing.

My friend leaned into my last night, gently joshing me about my apparent obsession with the event.

His words floated back to me as I re-arranged and sorted my sock drawer.

No, I am not on methamphetamines.

I dusted my book shelves when that happened.

Ahem.

Anyway, I bought two more pairs of socks today to round out my collection, I sorted them into various colors and striations–hearts (like polka dots, but hearts), polka dots (black and white, green, yellow, orange, on a white field, yellow and pink on a pink field, orange, pink, and yellow on white field), argyle, stripes (grape and lilac, Neapolitan pink, chocolate and vanilla, pink and brown Hello Kitty, forest green and light green, purple and navy, navy and black, black and white), “plain” colored socks, all either knee-high or thigh high.

Twenty two pairs all total.

I am out there 19 days.

You need a few extra pairs, because sometimes you want a fresh pair after a shower.

There may be nothing grosser than putting on old dirty playa socks after a shower.

I have done it once I never want to repeat the experiment.

So, socks are set.

And since I was in the bureau I did a quick inventory on my tights and leggings, which I found to be a little lacking, but not completely bereft of hope: two pairs basic black leggings, 1 pair red velvet leggings, 1 pair navy blue with tiny white polka dots, 1 pair pink argyle, 1 pair solid hot pink with lace ankles, one pair nude with black lace flowers, one pair nude with black hearts up the back seam, one pair sheer black thighs highs with pink ribbon laces up the back and thick black lace tops, one pair hot pink fishnets, one pair rainbow fishnets, one pair neon green leggings, one pair black leggings with silver glitter, one pair purple tights with glitter.

Total tights and leggings: 15.

I could use a few more pairs of tights/leggings.

I like to pair the leggings with a crazy set of socks or thigh highs and then wear hipster underwear (no none of my underpants have tiny mustaches on them or ironic coffee pour over references or Nietzsche quotations or Beach House lyrics) and a tank top.

These wild combinations with my boots and my utility belt and I am ready to rock the playa nanny gig.

I also inventoried my under ware.

When was the last time you hears anyone say that?

When was the last time I have ever said that.

“What did you do last night?”

“I inventoried my panty drawer, you?”

Baha.

The panty inventory too a little shy of my goal number: 15 pairs, ranging from solid black to plaid in neon purple and pink, hip hugger, lacy stripes, neon pinks, polka dots, tiny ribbons.

My boss has the best underwear ever–days of the week.

She literally has three sets and just uses a fresh pair each day of the week she’s there.

Well, she’s covered.

I, however, find myself a few short.

Plus, again, like the socks, there will be a time when I shower and I won’t want to put on the same pair of panties, blech!

I will want a fresh pair.

So, 19 days on playa,  I will shoot for 25 pairs of panties.

I am 6 pairs short.

That might be overdoing it a little bit, but better an extra pair of underwear than not enough.

True that.

I have plenty of tank tops and slip dresses and I am going to bring my bibs and my tutu, because why not.

I have one small box completely packed–a hat box, with a couple of hats, some fascinators, my goggles, and my utility belt with the pink Super Girl button on it.

Every good nanny needs a utility belt.

I ran across an old photo from John Curley that he took of the Junebug and I at camp and it is an awesome juxtaposition of charge and nanny.

Juni is looking wistful, forlorn, slightly tired, off into the golden hour descending dusk, and I, just shot from the waist down, am resplendent in my tights, striped orange and brown and cream, a pair of hipster underpants in black with white polka dots and a black tank top, utility belt with water bottle hanging from it, and in one hand I have J’s star wand and in the other her tiara, and I also have a pair of fairy wings that she dumped on me hanging off the back of my shoulders.

Voila!

Playa nanny.

My boss today stopped me mid conversation to ask if I was getting the time I needed to take care of all my own Burning Man preparations.

“I love having you this extra time,” in regards to me helping her out on Fridays for the last few weeks, and again this Friday, “but I realized, that maybe you need some time to get ready, how are your preparations coming?”

I smiled.

I have been whittling away at it for weeks.

A tiny bit here.

A teeny bit there.

So it would not overwhelm me, neither time wise or financially.

A lot of the stuff, socks included, I already have from previous burns, this will make number 8 for me (actually I am really impressed when I went through my tights, the black ones with glitter have been to five burns, unheard of, the same with a couple of pairs of the knee highs which I would never wear except out there)–my utility belt, my crinoline, my electric teapot, makeup, hair stuff, jewelry.

However, there are things that I have to always have.

Baby wipes.

I have bought one pack every once in a while for the past month and now have four packs ready to go.

One week it’s a lip balm.

Another week it was hand salve.

This week I got another container of sunblock.

A few days ago, it was cotton swabs and hair elastics.

“Oh, I have been getting stuff for a bit now,” I told my boss, “I am pretty much ready.”

And I am.

I could go with what I have and not break a sweat, I have gone with far less in the past and got by just fine.

There is a point to when the stuff getting has to stop and the being ready is just fine.

I pick up my bicycle this week from American Cyclery and that’s about all she wrote.

Well, aside from a few more pairs of underpants.

A girl can’t have too many of those.

You Look So Much Better

I mean, wow.

She was the first person to tell me that today.

But not the last.

“Oh, you look like your normal self!”

My friend exclaimed as I got us situated and made a cup of tea.

That could be because I took a shower this morning and I am getting the knack of getting in and out of the shower and using the stool.  It still takes a bit of balancing and maneuvering, and the stool isn’t exactly designed to be sat on, but it works and I showered.

Oh the feeling of a hot shower.

So good.

I also put on cheery clothes today and bright colors and I know that adds to the whole thing, that feeling of being on the upswing.

I am still using the crutches in the morning and the evenings when I have taken off the walking boot, though, the great gold goodness has yet to be retired.

That is now my goal, a more realistic goal than being out of the boot by the time I travel to Wisconsin, next Monday, rather, I will be in the boot, but I won’t have the crutches with me.

I should be able to hobble to and fro a bit without boot and crutch in the evenings when I am there, bathroom trips, etc.

I really cannot fathom having to get on an airplane with the crutches.

I have, however, conceded to use the wheel chair.

It just makes more sense and I will be more comfortable and it’s a courtesy thing, a not charged thing, a way to ease my transition from here to there, my ego can get the hell out-of-the-way, thank you for you thoughts, thank you for sharing, now get out of my way.

I’ll be rolling through SFO next Monday morning.

I will also be bringing all my ace bandages with me and when I do transition out of the walking boot, next Tuesday, I will be extra careful and wrap my ankle as I transition to shoes.

Slow it down.

That seems to be the message, again, and again, and again.

Let my body heal while my mind runs itself on a one way track of, “there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong,” ad infinitum.

There’s nothing wrong at all.

I believe that at my basest level, my brain just is that kind of scared, besides, when something’s wrong maybe I will go back to old habits and drink or pick up some drugs, or smoke, or eat some donuts, or I don’t know go crazy and rob a bank.

Or jump off the Golden Gate Bridge before they install the suicide barriers.

That frantic thought of “something’s wrong” keeps me out of the present, out of the gift of the moment, that is so perfect that I cannot handle it, I have to be moving rapidly forward trying to solve all future problems before they even arise so that I know what to do when that day comes.

That day ain’t never coming.

I shared this evening that this whole situation continues to be a gift that I was not expecting, that has allowed me to realize how much I need my community and how easily I can isolate by keeping myself too busy to see what’s happening in my heart.

My heart wants me to slow down.

My heart wants me to breathe and be present.

My heart wants to hear the gulls and the ocean and the robins singing when I sit quietly in the morning with the back door to studio open.

There is such peace there.

My brain wants to know what I plan on wearing to Burning Man.

ARGH.

Brain.

Give it a rest.

You’ll wear the same things you wore last year, like you always do, what ever happens to be in your closet.

My rule of thumb is I only buy something that I will wear here and there.

I haven’t a huge clothing allowance and to just spend money on something that I will only wear two weeks out of the year, is not a wise way for me to spend my clothing dollar.

“I love your polka dots!”

A girl friend said to me this evening.

I am covered, head to toe.

Literally.

Polka dot leggings.

Polka dot sock.

Polka dot shirt.

Polk dot earrings.

Heh.

All stuff I wear at Burning Man.

All stuff I wear here.

But at sometime, and it happens every fucking year, my brain latches on to what will I wear at Burning Man and how to go about collecting said socks, tights, dresses, hats, etc.

Can I just get to Wisconsin before I fixate on that?

Please.

I can fixate on Wisconsin too.

It’s going to be hot and humid.

But really, I don’t see that it’ll be any different from what I wear now.

I may pare it down a bit, the colorful stuff, but then again, I probably won’t.

I am who I am.

And I look more myself than I have in weeks.

Which is a relief.

It means I am getting better.

The ankle is still needing to be elevated more often than not and I am icing it still, but rather than five, six, seven, eight, times a day, it’s becoming twice a day.

Once in the morning when I am sitting and doing my meditation.

Once in the evening after I have finished writing my blog and I am enjoying a little evening snack and having a cup of tea.

There is definite improvement.

I put a little weight on it this morning, just a tiny bit, to test the waters, and knew immediately that today was not the day to push any further.

Don’t wreck the healing that has been happening out of impatience.

Patience.

Kindness.

Tolerance.

Love.

Those are my watch words and my principles.

I can use them to engage with the world.

I can use them to navigate the bad neighborhood in my head.

I get to use them to allow myself the time to continue on the path to recovery.

I am glad that I look better.

But really.

I am glad that I am allowing myself the process of healing more than anything else.

Inside and out.

That’s probably what shows the most anyhow.

I like to think that I reflect my interior state.

Right now it’s all polka dots.

And sunshine.