Posts Tagged ‘Potrero Hill’

Ratchet It Down

March 31, 2017

I’m trying to get mellow.

It has been a long day, much was done, much accomplished.

Biggest accomplishment was getting out to do the deal at a spot up in Potrero Hill that I don’t get to very often anymore since it’s an 8:30 p.m. gig and I’m trying to not be out that late on ‘school nights’ but, I knew when I was watching the lights of the city come up as the sun set that I needed to go and get my connection on.

And I did.

And it was good.

I got to see some folks I haven’t seen in a while and get reconnected and get some good hugs and see some sweet faces.

Always a plus.

And now I’ll be able to go into work tomorrow and be a kind, tolerant, generous person, the kind of woman I want to be.

I told myself it was going to be a long weekend.

No days off for this lady.

So I wanted to be getting the connection in.

I will also be doing the deal all through the weekend, but there’s not much down time for me.

Super grateful I got all the school stuff out-of-the-way.

So much stuff.

I met with my advisor today who is also the head of the department, which is fun, I get to share my experiences and suggestions with someone who has a vested interest in creating positive change in my program.

I’m not quite sure how we got on topic, something to do with the goal of pursuing the PhD and how I will need to do a lot of writing and I just chuckled and told him that my writing is fine, that I have a writing practice that I have been doing steady as she goes for ten years.

And this little blog that I have been doing for 7 and 1/2 years.

I have a practice you might say.

I told him that there are some folks in my cohort who have expressed some jealousy at how fast I can whip out a paper.

But.

That I have a method to it, yes, the practice is super helpful, I mean, fuck, it keeps my typing speed at a maximum I’ll tell you that, but it also is a practice and the more I do it the easier it becomes.

And.

I have a method to my madness when I am writing a school paper and I shared that method with him.

His eyes lit up.

“Do you think you could do something for me?” He asked.

I nodded yes and he laid out his idea for a teaching panel about how to write papers.

He wants me to sit on it and help incoming students with the process of writing papers.

I was very flattered.

And I’m always willing to share my experience with doing the work.

Of course.

It’s work.

That’s the thing, it’s not hard per se, but there is effort involved.

Sometimes when I talk to people about what I am doing or how I am doing I apparently give off this casualness about the work, but it’s work, I show up and do every day.

EVERY DAY.

Twice a day.

And let me be honest.

It saves me, it nurtures me, it is art, it love, it is poesie, it is pretty flowers in my hair.

I can make up the most fantastical amazing things the words and ideas and images I can suddenly be standing on the Trocadero in Paris and be transported to the sound of the Seine and the batobus going by, the cars rolling over the bridge or me, on my bicycle rolling along the bike path headed towards Rue de Commerce to see some fellows and get to down and do the deal.

I can see squares with green grass and gravel paths and benches under beech trees.

Or.

Like tonight.

Riding my scooter home from Potrero Hill the moon, oh the moon, a heavy-handed ladle of butter in a midnight blue velvet enamel coated spoon, the syrup of sweet heady jasmine floating to me through the cool air.

Or.

How that one turn from Fell Street as it becomes Lincoln Avenue and the open swath of green grass that leads into the park proper, how the air there is always cooler and brushes over me like a cat with cold fur from being outside in the night.

Furry and soft and petulant.

Then the over blown smell of cut clover at Keezar Park, a rounded bend in the road and the moon now to my right peeking and booing from in between the Monterey Pines in the park.

Divinity.

I mean.

Shit.

I could go on like that forever.

There is a logic to how I write and there is a rhyme and reason.

Sometimes I can explain that desperate call in my heart and sometimes the words fail.

But.

I keep showing up anyway.

And that is the trick.

“Just breathe and show up,” I told myself this morning as I walked out the door, saying good-bye to my little home by the sea to scooter off to school and jump through the next hoops to do the work to eventually, one day, be a great big grown up therapist instead of a junior baby in waiting.

I jest a little.

But.

It is a long road ahead.

Nonetheless.

It is important that I acknowledge the movement forward.

It is a big deal.

All my papers signed off and turned in.

All the “t’s” crossed.

All the “i’s” dotted.

I even talked with the financial aid department today.

I wasn’t expecting to be in practicum this summer, it just came together that way.

The summer practicum costs about $2200 to do.

Basically $1,098 per credit, was what I was told, with the caveat of “don’t quote me on that, but I believe that will be the cost” from the financial aid admin I spoke to today.

I decided at one point that I don’t want to take out any loans for school this summer.

I have a little in savings from my tax return.

Then.

I  got a financial aid e-mail from the school and I thought, maybe I should, that way if anything happens I won’t have to dip into my travel savings.

I really want to give myself a nice break in May and be able to do all the things in Paris that will make going to Paris all the fun that I need.

So.

Tomorrow.

One more little hoop to jump.

My paperwork is turned into the registrar and it’s official, I am an intern.

But.

The “course” needs to be paid for.

I will do the application, give myself the gift of a worry free trip in May and get my grad school on when I get back.

Internship begins May 22nd.

I will be ready.

Yes.

Yes, I will.

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You Get Around

May 5, 2015

I do.

“I follow you on Facebook and read your blogs, it’s good to see you in person, you really cram a lot of stuff into your day,” he told me as we were filing out of the room tonight.

I smiled.

I believe I thanked him for reading.

It’s nice to know that folks read these things I put out into the Universe, so often without much thought or effort, it would seem.

Although there is always much thought.

The effort really has to do with sitting down at the keyboard and figuring out a title.

Once I have a title, I don’t need anything.

I knew I was going to be writing “Inbound to Richmond District” the minute I saw it on the NextBus app.

There was something really musical about it to my ears.

And I do get around, but I suspect, many of us do, I just happen to document the getting around.

This brought to mind all the places I have lived in San Francisco as I enter my second year of residing in one spot.

It’s about a year and three-quarters, Labor Day weekend, just after Burning Man, will mark two years here in my little studio by the sea.

I can’t remember the last time I lived in one spot for two years.

It must have been when I was up in Nob Hill and technically I did move, albeit across the hall, but that was a move and challenging in its own ways.

I also may have resided at 23rd and Capp for two years, but I’m not certain I did, it feels like it was two years.

But as I explained to my charge today, “feelings are not facts,” I said with a smile and also relayed the message that “this too shall pass, the good news is you will have feelings, the bad news is you will have feelings.”

Then I tickled the grumpy out of him.

He is just such a sweet pie.

“Carmen! Carmen! Carmen! You have a star in your hair!” He excitedly reported to me.

“I do!” I replied, “what color is it?”

“Glittery!”

Heh.

Close enough kid.

“Silver,” I said, “you like stars, don’t you.”

“Yes!” He said and picked up his stuffed cat, “Meow Meow really likes stars too,” then he began to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, replacing the twinkle twinkle part with meows.”

Oh my god.

The cute.

Stop.

Wait, don’t stop.

“Stars are beautiful, you are beautiful,” he continued, “you must be a star.”

I just about fell out of the bed.

I was waking him up from his afternoon nap.

“You must be a star too,” I said and squeezed his little paw in mine, “Meow Meow is definitely a star as well.”

“Meow!” He said and kissed me.

My job might tire me the fuck out, but it is surely satisfying, yes, yes it is.

We had adventures to the park, both Dolores Park–in the morning, and Mission Playground in the afternoon, plus a trip to BiRite and to the market on the corner.

It made me remember when I discovered all these places when I first moved to San Francisco.

All the sites, the personal treasure map of love that San Francisco has imprinted on my heart.

The first time I went to Dolores Park was before I lived in the city, so that must have been in 2000 or possibly 2001.

Or The Elbow Room.

Blondie’s.

Casanova’s.

Kilo Watt.

Dalva.

The Roxie Theater.

When the New College was still the New College and I could still go to Osento and take a hot tub.

I still say I need to go to Osento sometime soon and then realize once again that it is gone.

It actually, or where it used to be, abuts the property of the people I work for.

I might have been naked on the roof of the spa soaking in the steam on a wood bench catching twinkling stars in between the clots of fog moving over the courtyard, the two wood barrel saunas, the outdoor shower, and the cold plunge–my current boss in her backyard hanging out on the other side of the fence.

I remember times when I was the only person there.

It was lovely.

You may have gathered that I lived a good portion of my time in the Mission.

My first residence in San Francisco–Labor Day weekend–it’s like my personal version of New Years, was a two month sublet at 20th and York.

I stayed past my two months and when another woman moved out of the room downstairs, I took it over.

I think I was paying $650 with everything included.

Granted there were five ladies living there, but we each had our own space carved out, technically the house was a three bedroom–all three upstairs–but one of the girls had carved out a weird little bedroom out of the kitchen pantry and then there was the studio/inlaw in the basement that I had.

It was great.

Until the house was sold and there was an owner move in and in less than two months we had to all get out.

I think it was actually 45 days, it happened so fast.

I found a room on craisglist, for less than I was actually paying at the house with all the girls, on 22nd and Alabama with a wild woman from Northern Italy who had been living in the house so long that she basically paid her rent by collecting from the two room mates and turning around and paying the landlord.

I could have cared less.

I was paying $500 a month for a huge room and access to the kitchen, bathroom, the gigantic glassed in back porch, where I spent three agonizing weeks drifting in a hammock, sleeping like the dead, out sick from work with Mono when I was 31.

MONO.

At freaking 31.

And it was my second time having it.

I had it the first time when I was 17.

Good times.

While I was living at 22nd and Alabama I had a friend turn me on to cocaine and his dealers number.

After some months of battling a rapidly growing habit, I decided, like a truly rational addict, that I should move out because I had the opportunity to move into a big beautiful house on 25th and Potrero (you would have never guessed how lovely the house was from the facade on Potrero–wood floors, Italian marble, skylights, pocket doors, fireplaces in two rooms, an office, two bedrooms, one and a half baths, laundry in the basement and the prettiest garden in the back) for $1100 a month.

That’s what my problem was!

My rent was too cheap!

If I just moved somewhere that was more than double my rent then I wouldn’t spend as much money on blow.

That didn’t work out so well.

But I did subsequently hit my bottom.

And the rest.

Well is his (her) story.

And I got around a lot after that as well.

Living at the following places:

Kingston and 30th.

Potrero and 26th.

Palou and 3rd.

Capp and 23rd Street.

Washington and Taylor.

Not once, but twice–the infamous move across the hall.

Homeless for three months couch surfing when I quit my high paying nanny job and went to work at bike shop in the Mission (crashed in the attic of a former family I nannied for on 25th and New Hampshire, “housesat” for a month at a friend of friend’s house that I met only once at a wedding, where I did her make up for the ceremony on a tiny side street at the bottom of Bernal Hill, and then on the couch of my friend who lives in Nob Hill on Clay Street) making half the salary I had been used to.

Then a teeny tiny box of an in-law in the Mission on 22nd and Folsom.

My bathroom was my kitchen was my garage (I hung my bicycle on a rack above the toilet).

After that.

Graceland in East Oakland for two months.

Then Paris–Rue Bellefond–in the bobo (bohemian bourgeoise) arrondissement, the 9th, just between Square D’Anvers and Cadet Metro Station for six months.

Then back to East Oakland for two, maybe three (?) months.

Can you say culture shock?

And finally.

Here.

46th Avenue between Judah and Irving Street.

And yes.

I moved in right after Labor Day weekend.

Where the hipsters meet the sea and the surfers rule the coffee shops.

And one wild woman with curly hair (pink!) rides out each day (well five out of seven anyway) six and a half miles, right back to the Mission, on her sparkle-pony whip of a bicycle.

I may be living in the same spot for a little while.

But.

I still get around.

“Bye Bye Sexy”

September 24, 2012

The owner of Papito said to me as I exited this evening from the restaurant.

Well.

If I was going to give you the thumbs up on your Yelp review, now I have to give you five stars too.

Damn.

I do feel sexy.

I am rocking the new me, the old me, the new do.

I am back to brown.

Hello sexy

Back to Brown

I was going to go blonde, but the blue was too entrenched and Diane suggested we go dark.  Dark feels right.  Dark feels me.  Dark and bold and beautiful.

I feel it.

I loved the blue, it was fun, but this feels adult and womanly and most definitely sexy.

The owner of Papito is French, no irony there.

Basically this is San Francisco–French owned organic Mexican restaurant in Potrero Hill.  It really was hands down the best Mexican I have had in some time.  Funny, too, I had “hamburgesa” basically a hamburger.

But what a hamburger.

Ground chorizo smothered with carmelized onion and sliced avocado, no bun, instead my favorite touch, which is very French, a soft fried egg draped over the top.

Oh my.

Even my food was sexy.

Salty, spicy.

Love it.

“Did you hear that?”  I said with a smile curling my face as I walked out the door with Diane and Calvin.

“Uh, yes!” Diane chuckled gleefully, “maybe you should go back and give him your phone number.”

I laughed, “not a bad idea, like I have the time.”

But I must say this does bode well for Paris.  I like getting hit on by sexy French men.

I remember something Cass said to me last year about this time when I was trying to figure out what the hell I was going to be doing, at the time I was already contemplating working in Paris as a nanny.

She said the French find older women attractive, there is not the obsession with youth like there is here in the U.S.

Good to know.

I do not represent the youth vote at this time, if I ever really did.  I was always ahead of my age, although I do not mind not looking my age, ever either.

I am glad I went back to my natural color.  Low maintenance.  I do not want to have to worry about the hair when I go.

Frankly, I do not want to worry about anything.  I want to take the first month just for me.  I want to write and get adjusted and work on my book.  I want to not look for work. I want to wander.  I want to get a museum pass and go every day to a museum for a week.  I want to meet my fellows–expats and Parisians.  I do not want to look for work at all.

Let work look for me.

I am a catch.

I am sexy.

I am extraordinary, if I do say so myself.

So, if you want me, court me.

Come after me.

I am taking a month.  I am taking time to get settled.  It is not going to seem real and it is going to be surreal and bizarre and I will feel like I am in a dream and it will be wonderful and hard and fuck if I know what it will be.

It will be what ever it will be.

I just know that I want to have some time some time to explore, myself and Paris.

I do not want to seek out employment until it becomes necessary.  I feel like I have a month.  I will have a month. I do not need to live large.

The living large will be just the fact that I am there.  The living will be in the daily get about on the Metro finding my way from this point to that point.  Walking my neighborhood.  Finding the markets.  Going on dates.

I will date in Paris, I can tell already.

I am getting my practise on here.

Despite coming home alone on the BART tonight, I feel mischievousness in the air.

Maybe it was just being flirted with that blatantly.  What I find interesting, too, is that it was not slimy, it was not rude, it was undeniably French, that’s for sure, I do have just enough experience with being flirted with by a French man to know that, but it was not off-putting.

Philippe.

Wouldn’t that be funny, to run into him again.

I could always use another make out session in the Pere LaChaise cemetary.

I do not usually find cemetaries sexy, but there is sexiness in death.  That is what the French call an orgasm after all, le petite morte, the little death.

What better place than beside a crumbling archangel underneath a century old tree canopy and a wet burnished sky?

I feel like it may be time to hand over all my colorful bright crazy clown clothes and San Francisco glee and go black, charcoal, dark navy, hunter green.

It is not just the falling of the light, the scattering of fog slipping along the edge of the horizon, it is the chic thrown together uniform that I find European women seem to have.

I have enough color splashed on my body as it is.

I will never be demure.

Even naked I shout, “look at me!”

Dragons and cherry blossoms, stars and butterflies, tulips and peonies.

I am quite simply always going to be dipped in crayola hues despite the darkness of my tresses.  But I can and I will embrace this new sexy.

This womanly movement, this getting older, this getting into my skin, soft and starting to show its age.

My face, my smile, my eyes, my hair, saying hello to a new me, a new age.

I am going to embrace the hell out of being forty.

I am truly only getting better.

Hello sexy.

Here I come.

 

 

Accidental Vegetarian

February 17, 2012

And other random thoughts.

Today’s blog.  Nothing really exciting has happened today.  I want to put yet down, but I am uncertain at this point in the day whether or not I am going to leave the house again. I am home, it’s cozy, it’s dark and cold out there.

But it’s also 7:24 p.m.

It’s early for me to be at the house and I usually go out and take care of business.  My Thursday commitment cancelled on me and I am at odds as to what to do with myself.  I have a suspicion, a hunch, an intuitive idea, that there may be somewhere I should go.

Part of the issue with going over there is timing.  I would be hitting the Potrero Hill neighborhood at 8:30 p.m. and hanging out until 9:30 p.m.  And the reality of it is, it would probably actually be 10 p.m. before I head back to my neighborhood.

Still, that may work if I get in a little more blogging.  I am bound and determined to continue doing my post a day.  I am also negotiating my time this weekend.  I am going to find the balance that works best for me.  I feel compelled to do more writing.

I am remembering when I first wrote Baby Girl.  I would get done with work and go sit and write for an hour somewhere.  Then I would go onto my next commitment.  Then eventually home.  It made for a long day.

I also was not blogging at the time.  My blog takes up about a half hour to an hour depending on what I post and how much I have to think about content.

Usually the content is just what happened during the day and how those patterns of daily living ripple out and shape my current life.

Man would it be boring if I told you today that most of what I did was prepared for the closing of the shop next Tuesday.  During which time we will be doing a shop wide inventory.  I hate to break it to you, it is going to be ass.

The inventory process there is fucked from the get go.  They don’t have a proper platform for entering in numbers or reconciling.   There are also too many chefs in the soup.  Three, four, five, sometimes even six different people may work on one bike order.  And I am not talking about the mechanics that build the bike.  I’m talking about just the people taking the order and putting it into the system.

It is messy.

I am in trepidation about next Tuesday’s inventory.  But as I told a co-worker yesterday, I will just show  up and do the work that is handed to me.  I don’t have to make an argument for why it is non-sensical.  I don’t have to be right.  If my opinion is asked, then I will share it.  Otherwise I will be keeping my opinions to myself.

Which is hard to do.  But I get to practice all the time!

I was thinking about this as I clocked out to prep my dinner.  I eat two meals at work daily, lunch and dinner, because of how my hours fall and I just can’t do it on one.  And most evenings I am not back home until after 8:30 or 9 p.m.  I can’t wait that long to eat dinner.

I would be one crazy bitch.

We are currently working out a new time clock system.  One in which, I shit you not, you actually punch in using your finger.  That’s right, the machine scans your finger print and identifies you.

Creepy.

There’s been some issues with it, it’s a new system and the kinks are getting worked out.  But I have an opinion.

I try to keep that opinion between me and the fake turkey meat I am building my sandwich with.  I realized as I was putting together my meal, I am vegetarian.  Not something I strive to be, it’s just sort of happened.

Oh, and don’t get me wrong I will eat me some steak and bacon and ribs and name a meat, I’m down.

But since I have moved into my place I have only eaten vegetarian food, with the occasional scrambled egg thrown in there.  I don’t have a kitchen to cook with.  I did get the microwave set up, so I’ve made scrambled eggs a few times for breakfast, but mostly I have just been eating vegetarian.

It is interesting.  I don’t miss meat.  Although, the scrambled egg I had today was pretty damn tasty.  I know when I need more protein and this morning was one of those days.

I could actually go completely raw if I thought about it.  Just have the fridge in my kitchen and make smoothies all the time.  I would miss my hot oatmeal too much though.

Meat’s expensive, especially when you have some ethics around food, which I do.  I eat organic, locally sourced, blah, blah, blah.  But that’s what I do.  And that is pricey.  I have not often purchased meat in the past, a chicken every other week or so, maybe a roast.  Bacon.

MMMMM Bacon.

I would like some bacon wrapped in bacon please.

I also eat meat on occasion when I eat out.  But yeah, I am a vegetarian by trade, apparently.  It is cheaper, that’s for sure.

This small living environment thing is not a bad way to constrain my food.  It also forces me to grocery shop often.  I need fresh food pretty much every third day or so.  I don’t have storage available here.

I will be able to expand my dry good selection a little this weekend when I get my shelving unit, finally, from Harrington’s.  I had asked Tanya to give me a hand.  But I think I will try City Car Share one more time and get a truck and do it right.

Third time is the charm.

Hmmmm.  7:45 p.m.  Do I make the 8:30 p.m. commitment?  I could get on my sexy bike and be there in ten minutes.  Fifteen maybe as there’s a hill.

I have an ulterior motive.

Of course I always have an ulterior motive.  My motives are never good.  I always do things for the wrong reason.

Then again, I won’t meet the man of my dreams alone in my room, now will I?

Body By Bicycle

December 8, 2011

I wore tights today.  I wasn’t thinking much about it, just put on what was available to wear, it’s laundry day (tonight’s my last night at Reno’s so I wanted to make sure I got a load of laundry in before my next move) and I did not have any clean jeans I wanted to wear into work.

Alas, I am down to two pairs of tights.  It’s time to get more, and some fleece lined ones at that.  I just discovered a big run in the two of the ones I have been wearing.  They have been good troopers–even made it back from not one, but two tours of Burning Man.

Suffice to say, it was a chilly day out there on my bicycle.  But my legs got a work out.  I ran an errand on my bike today for the store, I also got up early and went shopping at Rainbow for a few staples, so I used the leg muscles a little more than I do on an average day, but really, I blame the tights–

hot pink.  and the short black dress.  Not super short, but just short enough.  So, what I’m saying is that the legs were noticeable today and when I see my legs in mirror I myself ogle them a little.  They are pretty rocking legs.  I have hamstrings that are solid and defined, as are my calves, but it is always my thighs that I go to when I see my legs bare to the world–look at those muscles.

Seriously.

Body by bicycle.

I may not be riding up and down Nob Hill at the moment, but I am still bike commuting and I am riding up and down Potrero Hill.  Not to the top, thank god, but I’m getting in a decent little climb every night when I come back on 23rd street.  I remember when I was incapable of riding much past General on my old commuter bike.  It was a slow, heavy, fat tired hybrid.

I had walked into Pedal Revolution and said, “I don’t care about hip slick and cool.  I want something that will get me from point A to point B and is comfortable.”  I got the hybrid.  Which I regretted in about two weeks as it started to need constant repairs and tweaks as I rode pretty hard right from the get go.  By the time I had gotten rid of the bike, which is now rusting quietly on Reno’s back porch (this is where all hybrid’s go to die–the back porch of a family with a small child that wants a slow, heavy, stolid bicycle to put a child seat on to occasionally take their toddler to the park on or do Sunday Streets with), I could have bought four hybrids, or one really nice bicycle which would have lasted me indefinitely.

Lesson well learned.

I will end up paying more in the long run for a cheap bike.  Get the good one and just do maintenance, ends up being much cheaper and you have a nicer riding experience.  Problem with me is, you could not have told me that when I got that first bike. I really thought spending $450 on a bike was extraordinary.  Now I know much better.

I wouldn’t bat an eye at paying $1500 for a decent road bike.  Not at all.

Good thing I get a discount at work!

So, in tights, end of day, unlocking bicycle and getting ready to step into my clipless and ride off into the night to meet Maitreaya (!) at Muddy Waters on 24th and Valencia.  I had gotten a text from her about an hour and a half before the shop closed and she was in town and took a stab in the dark to see if I was around.  I hadn’t seen her in years, three?  Three and a half?  God, maybe even four, so I was absolutely down to have my plans changed up.  Although I do rue not seeing Joan as I was supposed to hook up with her this evening.

Nevertheless, I am ready to get the legs moving as it is cold out there, thank god I just realized there’s a space heater up here in the attic, it has been going full blast since I walked up to my chilly abode this evening.  I get into the bicycle lane on Valencia and am blown by a cloud of nasty exhaust coming from a tow truck.  I couldn’t decide whether or not to save the lungs and hang back a little or get closer and report the licence plate for smog, it was seriously bad.  BAD.

A fellow cyclist on a Specialized was debating the same thing, and as it turned out, not so discreetly checking out my hot pink clad legs.  And as I find out a block or two later, my bum.  He verbalized, not too inelegantly or I would have made a turn off early, the splendid nature of my gams.  And how were they so achieved?

Bicycle.  I ride a lot.  Every day, twice a day, just like thousands of other people in the city.  Probably not all of them wear fancy pants tights however.  Or short black dresses when they ride.  I ride in whatever strikes my fancy.  There was a time when I felt uncomfortable riding in dresses or short skirts, but after having done the AIDS LifeCycle ride and been in form-fitting bicycle shorts and jersey’s, nothing bothers me.

Andrew once said to me while on a training ride in Marin that it was like riding naked anyhow, and really, it kind of is.

I don’t know how much more of the commentary I would have put up with, it was getting to be a little too obvious, checking out my ass, can’t stop that, but dropping back more than once to do so, kind of pushing it there dude.  I appreciated the compliments, and didn’t flirt back and dropped over to the side of the road when my destination was in sight.

Only to be engaged in another “bicycling” conversation as I was locking up my bike to the post.  This time about my cycling shoes.

Really ladies, if you are interested in a certain kind of guy (slightly geeky, but cute, moderately shoe gazing, borderline hipster, mid twenties with beard and curly tousled hair or the hard-core bike messenger tattooed guy sporting a Chrome bag and an attitude) get yourself a pair of SiDi bicycle shoes and learn how to ride clipless, worth the investment.

Also helps sculpt legs.

But so does hill climbing.

And yup, he too was checking out the tights.

Which round about leads back to end of day at the shop.  Where I have been left alone with one mechanic to hold down the fort.  GM’s well deserved day off (thank god I am no longer a gm, the days of working six days a week are done for me!), and a relatively slow day, led to many people ducking out early.  I didn’t mind and as the last employee was leaving a gentleman I had not seen in years, probably four?  Walked into the shop.

We caught up, shot the shit, and related what the other was doing as far as doing the deal was concerned.  It was good to see him, and he re-iterated it was good to see me.

Then he dropped the “f-bomb” on me.

He stopped by the door turned around and looked me up and down, “I got to say it, you look really foxy”.

I chuckled, spouted off my tag line, shrugged a little, said something about a bike and what it will do for you, and smiled.

“Well, to repeat, you are lookin’ foxy and now that I know you’re working here, I’ll definitely be dropping by more often”.  Then he wandered off into the night.  Well, ok then.

Funny how my brain works, I had not thought I was looking all that hot today, my hair was not doing what I had discussed with it (there are some draw backs to bike commuting–funky hair apres helmet) and the “radio silence” from Mister West Oakland (am so proud of myself, I have not texted or called!  I will continue to be uncomfortable and let him make the next contact. We’re confirmed for Saturday, it may not be until Saturday that I hear from him.  Ugh.), who I know is busy, but–kind of led me down the not feeling so hot today.

Feelings, sing it with me.

I apparently was wrong.  I blame the hot pink tights and the body by bicycle.

I will be investing in some more pairs very soon, be on the look for me next laundry day.


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