Posts Tagged ‘professional’

One Thing At A Time

August 17, 2018

I was quite firm with myself this morning, there is only so much I can do in one day and I’m doing all I can.

With some grace, I might add.

“You’re doing amazing,” my person said to me on the phone as I was driving to work.


God damn do I like being able to make phone calls from my car’s system.

And listen to music.

And be warm.

And yeah, I like my car.


I had called on my way to do a check in as I noticed a touch of anxiety in myself regarding what I can do and what I am not able to get to and if I’m doing enough and hey, whoa, slow down, I’m doing enough.

I am doing more than enough.

Truth be told.

I work a lot.

I work at work.

I work with my clients after work at my internship.

I am working to set up the parameters of my next internship.

Cue many back and forth emails with my former professor about sussing out what times and days I can use the office to see clients and what rent.

Rent has not yet been decided upon and I am nervous about it, but I know it’s just another hurdle to jump and if I catch my toe and stumble, it will be ok.

I put out a number and I haven’t heard back yet.

I sort of went with what my gut said was reasonable and I’m hoping that she’ll feel the same.

And if she doesn’t, if I need to pay more in rent, I will, I am not worried about making rent.

Not yet anyway, I’m sure that anxiety will poke its little head up once I am further along in the process.

I have also been carrying around the handbook that I was given at the orientation but I haven’t had a spare moment to read it.

I haven’t had many spare moments at all.

Which is why the touch of anxiety this morning.

What the fuck is it going to look like when I start my PhD program in two weeks?

I mean.

I have a feeling for what it will be, similar to doing my Master’s degree is what I presume, but also probably a little more work.

I ordered seven more books last night and hopefully I won’t have to order any more.

Some of the books I ordered won’t get here before the intensive starts, fingers crossed I won’t have needed to have read from any of them.

I did manage today, I see this as a huge win, though it was just a small action, to get one of my syllabi printed off and I noted that there is are a few mandatory readings that need to be done before the intensive that don’t include any of the books I ordered, but rather papers and online readings.

Which is nice, I can read them now rather than wait for a text-book to get delivered.

I didn’t have time to print off all my syllabi and I didn’t want to make myself feel rotten about it either, rather, just be happy that I took the small action of looking up the class, downloading the syllabus and printing it off.


I am still so very glad that I invested in a printer my second year of my Master’s program.

So much is done online, but I still print off a lot of stuff and it’s super helpful to have printed copies of my syllabi, I really do better with paper copy than things online.

Speaking of online.

I also, in terms of the new internship, am going to have to set up a website for myself.

I have never designed a website and I have no clue how, but I know that there are many out there online that will have a simple plug and play sort of aspect.

They will already be formatted and all I have to do is add content.

Although there is the desire to ask friends to help me here, I know a few website designers, I really don’t want to pay and all my friends are professionals.

Maybe when I get licenced I’ll go with a designer, until then I will be doing it the “old-fashioned” way, ie, by myself.

So there’s that, plus business cards, plus getting another email address set up, just for my practice, plus a new signature for said practice that not only includes who I am and what I do, put also my supervisor’s information as well as Grateful Heart Therapy and then a general disclaimer about confidentiality.

There are so many details!

I know, though, that once the details all get ironed out, everything will fall neatly into place and it will be just getting comfortable in my new office.

I do hope to have all the transitioned out by October 1st.

That first week I want to be seeing clients in my new office space.

And of course.

Speaking of all the transitions.

The move.

It will have to be done by October 31st.

I haven’t yet found a place, but I am feeling ok about that, the right place will come, I am taking plenty of actions and letting people know.

I’ve spent enough time on craigslist to have a really good idea what the market looks like and what I think I can get.

So far it still looks like I will be living on my own, but I am going to remain open to the idea of room mates if it a really good fit.


So much stuff.

Of course I might feel a touch overwhelmed.

I was also telling my person how I felt last night with the break up and how I have been walking through the feelings and letting them happen as best I can.

“You really are doing just amazing, you are walking through so much, you are showing up,” he said again, reiterating it so I would really let it sink in.

And as long as I stayed sober today, and I did, it’s all ok.

Nothing is wrong.

There are a lot of things happening.

But as I have been told again and again, I’m not being given more than I can handle.

Grateful my capacities have grown!

Get It

May 31, 2017

Up early.

Out the door.

Off to meet with the supervisor.



But still a bit tired.

Although by the time I left my supervisor I was jazzed up.

I’ll soon be seeing my first client.

We talked a lot about the frame and how it is held and how it is broken and all the communications, both verbal and physical, that are spoken in a session.

I’m nervous, I’d be stupid if I wasn’t, but I’m also excited and ultimately.

I’m ready.

I am at the “let’s get this party started” phase.

Tomorrow morning I have phone interview/orientation to do with the assistant director of my internship, go over all the paperwork and make sure all the ‘t’s are crossed and all the ‘i’s dotted.

I am a little over how it’s eating into my schedule, but that’s only going to get bigger, the schedule that is.

I’ll be going up to 41 hours a week at my job once school lets out.

I sat down today and figured out my schedule with the mom for the summer.

11-6 p.m. Mondays and Tuesdays.

9-6p.m. Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays.

The extra hours I will get paid in cash.

Which I hella appreciate.

And it will be a struggle and I will be tired and I will lean on the coffee and I’ll be ok.

I will have days off and time to play and get my ya ya’s out.

I have to.

I can’t be a therapist and always be grinding.

There has to be fun in the mix.

I am balancing things alright at the moment and not living in the future.

There is no God there, only fear and anxiety and a loud voice telling me in doomed tones that it will all go to shit and how dare you strive like this.

But fuck that.

I am showing up.

Right here.

Right now.

For whatever shows up.

As long as I treat myself well and I am accountable, transparent and honest with all the people in my life than I’m ok, I have to continue practicing spiritual principles at all times.

Now is not the time to let up on my practice.

It’s time to lean into it.

I have a new lady I get to work with starting tomorrow, I’m re-committing to a Saturday meeting I haven’t been to in a month–school and travel–and making sure my foundation is firm as fuck.

That’s the way to do it, throw myself into the deep end and swim.

I’ve always been a good swimmer and if I just remember to take the next stroke instead of worrying about swimming the last leg of the Medley 500 I’ll be fine.

Not that I ever swam the last leg, I was always the butterflyer.

I miss swimming a bit.

I have been gently wondering about getting back into the pool.

How much more can I smash into my schedule?

And perhaps it’s not smashing another thing in, but seeing if I can make room for another activity.

I seem to find out as the moments unfurl, bright and clean and shining like sun light flashing off the waves at noon.

Not that the sun has been much out.

Hello San Francisco summer.

Cold and foggy and having me consider buying another sweatshirt.

I really don’t need another, but I feel like I need a more professional coat.

I got some great new shoes yesterday.

I neglected to mention that in last nights blog.

I decided to really girl up my solo artist girl date by hitting the John Fluevog store on Grant Avenue and blowing my entire wardrobe allowance for the month of June on a pair of shoes.

But damn.

They are both sexy and fucking comfortable.


Not too sexy.



Good therapist shoes, you know for a therapist who might be throwing some I’ve got tattoos action.

It’s a platform Mary Jane.

It’s superb.

I wore them yesterday out of the shop.

They are perfect and I’m happy to use my new career as an excuse to buy myself some shoes.


I will use just about anything as an excuse to buy some shoes.

If they fit and look sexy I usually buy them, even if it means that they sit and languish in my closet for months, if not years.

I have a pair of leopard print platforms, Michael Kors, that I bought right after my ex-boyfriend broke up with me.

I was in Macy’s and there they were and they were on sale and they looked hella sexy and well, shit.

I had to.

I have never worn them out of the house.


But they are in my closet and I have hopes to wear them.

I do.

I love me some shoes.

I love dressing up.

I haven’t always had the money to dress the way I want, but I am hella creative and I have some really nice compliments on my style, which can be very street, but I have been trying to tone it down a little as I approach having clients in therapy and what that looks like.

To be my fully authentic self, but also not too out there that I can’t be related to.

I believe being myself is important, but I have many sides to myself and not all of them need to be on display for my clients.

That being said.

I do have aspirations to upscale the wardrobe over some time.

I like to be a little edgy, a little funky, but I want to be refined and classy too.

I am not stupid or blind and I know I can pull sexy off quite easily, its my body shape, I’m curvy, it’s my hair, I have a lot it’s big and curly, maybe it’s my mouth.

“Carmen, you know, you’re mouth just screams blowjob,” my best friend in Wisconsin told me one night after having a few pints after hours at work.

I smacked her.

But she wasn’t wrong.

I want to tamp that down a touch and have some nice refined pieces in my closet.

I’ll find my way.

I am not worried.


I suspect.

I will have a lot of fun doing it.

Oh yeah.

Do A Little Shimmy

November 12, 2016

In front of the mirror.



But before that I have a lot of moving and shaking to do.

Holy shit do I have a lot of stuff to do.

I preempted it by doing some of the work today.

I mean I got busy already.

I brought reading in with me to work and for the second day I was able to do reading while the boys were on their quiet time I kicked out some reading.

I also just finished doing another hour of reading.

That’s right.

Because this is how I have to roll to get it all in.


I did an hour of reading then I took another twenty minutes or so and organized the material that I will be using for my big Psychopathology paper.

It has to be 12-15 pages long, in APA style and it will be an in-depth analysis of two different diagnosis with emphasis on using the DSM V and as well as a psychoanalytic approach.

I will be addressing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.


Alcohol Use Disorder.


I may have a little experience with the two.


Fuck I amuse myself.


Hey when writing I have found that the best things to write about are things that I have experience with.

I have experience with both in spades.

Thank you very much.

So after I did another two chapters of reading for my Family Therapy class (this is after working a full day at work, and yes, it was full, though lovely, so lovely especially, getting out to the park in the sunshine) after I got back from doing the deal tonight, I sat down and organized the reading and the materials.

I did not start the writing.

But I have started the thinking.

It sits and stews a little up there in my head.

I don’t know exactly how that works, but I do know from a great deal of experience that it does.

I have done the reading, which is a huge part of the battle.

I have the beginnings of where I need to go in my mind.

I have reviewed the directions for the paper a number of times.

I have started sticking post it notes in the places I need to go back to and integrate into the paper.

I will devote seven pages to each diagnosis.

I will break them down, do an assessment, how it presents in the client, what the diagnosis looks like in the DSM V, what it could be, and how to address it psychodynamically.

I have FIVE books I am working with.

One of them is the full size DSM V and the other is the desk reference.

One book on psychodynamic psychiatry and another on psychoanalytic case formulation.

Plus one book of personal experiences.

I actually won’t be using that one so much, I have, ahem, plenty of my own first person accounts to draw from.

I really won’t have any problem sketching out what the presenting problem looks like in the client.


So yeah.


That will be taking up a big part of my weekend.

But it won’t be all my weekend.

I meet with my person tomorrow.

I plan on getting up and doing yoga, I need some exercise, before I meet her as well.

I need a mani/pedi and some eyebrow waxing and I need to do grocery shopping and cooking for the next work week.

I will also do the deal tomorrow.

And I will meet with two ladies on Sunday.

I plan on doing the bulk of the writing tomorrow after I get back from doing my errands in the Inner Sunset.

I am not sure how long this paper is going to take, it’s a big fucking paper, but having started to delve into it and having organized my materials is a big step forward.

I estimate three to four hours.

That sounds like not that much, but for me three hours of straight writing is a fuck of a lot.

I wrote my Family Therapy paper last weekend in two hours, but that was not with as much referencing and was seven pages.

This paper will be double that.

So I figure four hours of writing.

My hope is to get the majority of it written tomorrow before I head out to my 7 p.m. commitment.

And I will work on it more after ward.

I had originally planned on doing the bulk of the writing on Sunday.




Something came up.

I have a date.


Totally out of the blue.

Once it was all set up I messaged my friend, what do I wear?

I laughed to myself, the quintessential question.

Not whether I can appropriately show differential diagnosis in a co-morbid presenting psychological disease, but what dress to wear, and heels, should I wear heels?

I mean he is 6’4″.



Thank you God.

And doesn’t drink.


Lives in Oakland.

And happens to be a friend of a friend.

This was not the message I was expecting to get today as I was reading my text books at work while the boys were down in their rooms.

A message pops up.

A friend doing some match making!




So, so unexpected.

Would I be interested in?

Check out…

And yes?


What’s your schedule look like?

How about these days?

And this time.



Date with guy set up for this Sunday at Samovar Tea Lounge.

Holy shit.

I mean.

My friend did all the leg work, said to both parties, hey go check out so and so on my page and if you like I arrange.

She did it all.

Professional like.

Damn Gina.

I feel hella looked out for.

By the time guy had checked me out and I had checked guy out she’d verified times and dates for both of us and had gone ahead and made a freaking reservation for us!

Holy Toledo.

And like that.

I have a date for a cuppa tea and a new friend on Sunday.




Writing that fucking paper tomorrow like a house a fire.



And side note.


I got it.

I got the money I asked for.

They responded today and said, absolutely, totally reasonable, no problem, we can do that and we can’t wait to start working with you.

Quote, “can’t wait’ end quote.

Fuck yes.

I was so freaking busy after lunch with the boys, then doing the deal, then homework that I totally forget to check my e-mail.

The response had sat for seven hours in my box.


“I’m sure you’re going to be taken care of,” a friend of mine told me when I bumped into her after my get right with God.

“I always am,” I said, “I’m sure they’re just figuring out the contract.”

And they were.

The family will have the contract to me by next week to sign.

Huge sigh of relief.

So what am I wearing to my date on Sunday?

When I jokingly asked my friend.

She was like, girl you don’t have to worry about that!

And I liked her rule of thumb.

Wear whatever makes you stand in front of the mirror and do a little shimmy.


I know exactly what to wear.

Hello weekend.

Let’s get cracking.

I got places to go and things to do.


I get to get my shimmy on.

Shimmy, shimmy.

Coco pop.

Shimmy, shimmy.




Yes, please.

Dress Like An Adult

February 26, 2015

And like that.

I’ll be taking a car into work.

I am not going to go into my graduate school interview in Converse and toting a messenger bag.

I will need to bring an extra sack to carry my Converse in, I’ll still be working a half day at work, but I will change out my shoes when I show up at the school.

I will be taking a car into work and then another to the school.

I’m not fucking around.

I don’t care the cost.

I mean, all things considered, $30,000 a year, what’s a few more bucks for an Uber.  Might as well blow my cash while I still have some, like I have even a tenth of that in my savings (but at least there’s something in my savings), before I get hit with the tuition bill.

Because I will.

Have to pay tuition, that is.

Because I am getting in.

That is all.

And I will be dressed like an adult.

I spoke with a dear friend earlier today while having the boys out at the park in the late afternoon about how to go in and whether I should ride my bicycle to work, and you know, just fretting about the small stuff.

There’s a part of me that thinks, I could show up messy and slightly unprofessional, but why?

Why not show up like this is important to me.

I can dress like an adult.

I can.

Damn it.

I don’t have professional clothes, I never really have had a profession that requires tidy clothes, I mean, yeah when I was doing restaurant work, I had a uniform.

But professional clothes?

Not so much.

I do have some good jeans, dressy ones from Banana Republic and a nice blouse and camisole, I’ll do my hair up tidy like, sport out my new frames, and wear a pair of heels.

I have a jean jacket that will pass for my coat.

That’s really something that I don’t have–a decent jacket.

But my jean jacket is nice, and tailored and it will do.

I could also go with a pair of really nice black cords I have, but then I don’t have a jacket at all that will work with the heels.

I have two pairs of platform sandals and two pairs of wedge sandals.

None of them are appropriate.


I do have one nice pair of Chinese Laundry Mary Janes in a taupe color that will pass for nice shoes and they look great with the jeans and when I put them on I felt more grown up.

I don’t often feel like an adult, truth be told, I still feel a lot like a big kid.

Which is, I am certain, part of what makes me so relatable to children.

I do sometimes wonder what it would look like to dress like an adult, but for the time being, I’m just working the jeans and the leggings.

Fortunately for me, I live in San Francisco and that is more than passable for women.

I don’t even really come across as a professional nanny half the time, but I am colorful and that I believe works in my favor.

I also can recognize that anxiety about my clothes comes from a very long history of not having enough money, especially when I was growing up, of not having the right clothes or outfit or shoes, or things that fit or were attractive.

I fed into the negative by also being a heavy-set girl.

The internet was not around and plus size clothing was not a thing.

I cannot tell you how welcome Lane Bryant was to me at one point in my life; and how, at another point in my life, I was grew out of Lane Bryant, but I went the opposite direction and down sized, literally, myself right out of their clothes.

I could still use some help dressing, but it’s not because my options are limited to size.

They may still be a bit limited due to budget, but that is slowly changing as well.

When I look at my closet there’s more options than there has been in a long while.

I could still use some help and I can see where I could have some nicer things, but really, I am so grateful I have what I have.

I’m clothed, I have a roof over my head, I have a job to go to, I have a bicycle, I have the option to take a car into work, I have a Vespa.

A Vespa that has been diagnosed!!

I may not say this correct, I had a gentleman swing by this evening and lend me a hand and I asked him tell me a few times what was wrong with it so I could repeat it to the mechanic: the “Pep cock” is broken in the fuel tank and needs to be fixed and there’s probably something clogging the carburetor.


I have no idea what that means, well, a little, it means that the fuel is not really getting to the engine, which is why it’s been dying all the time.

So when I get a moment to think about something other than the interview tomorrow, I will call the mechanic who put the new engine on the Vespa, and let him know what is happening and that I will need to drop it off for help.

It turns out Vespa San Francisco doesn’t do any work on vintage Vespa scooters.

Oh well.

Either that or I take it to Barry at the Scooter Center.

I’ll probably take it up to Chris Ward in the Tender Nob, next to my salon, Solid Gold, and get my hair done, kill two birds with one stone.

I’ll call up the motorcycle tow guy and tow the scooter up to Chris, he’s the one who put the new engine in it for my friend before he sold it to me, and have him fix it and pop out the little dent in the front fender.

Then maybe I’ll go on a ride or fifteen.

Glad to be finally growing up.

And dressing like it too.

Wish me luck!

I’ll be keeping you posted.

In style.

Grown up like.

I’d Take A Bullet For You Kid

May 21, 2014

Or apparently a skateboard.

I got hit today in the park on the way to the playground.

It was overwhelming and uncomfortable and strange enough, told me everything I needed to know about where I am at in my life.

The level of compassion I had for the person who hit me.

The level of serenity I had around it as the day went on.

The fact that I took care of myself.


I only have any of this through the lens of perspective.

It hurt.

I was mad.

It really hurt.

I was mad.


I swore in front of my charges.

Which never happens and I felt almost as bad for that as I did for the pain in my ankle.

I got nailed from behind with a run a way skateboard–one of those gigantic ones that look like surfboards–this morning on my way to the children’s playground in Golden Gate Park.

There are a lot of homeless there.

A lot.

Sometimes I can handle them, most of the time I ignore them, I don’t care to interact and I don’t want to engage and some of them can get aggressive.

I got “nice job mom,” yesterday while I was texting next to the stroller from some snot nosed one of them.

A. I am not the mother.

B. Fuck off.

C. I was texting the mom in regards to the teething.

Oh good gravy the teething.

It is happening.

And the pooping and the changing of the outfits since they got jettisoned with the poop.

Some of them will ooh and ah over the boys, somehow having boys makes it more acceptable to approach or talk to me.

It almost never happens when I have my little girl Thursday.  Or any other girls I have nannied, sometimes an older woman, definitely tourists (I get stopped and asked for directions a lot too–“Where Haight Street?” You’re standing on it. “This Haight Street?” Yes, I know, it’s a bit of a disappointment to me at times too), younger homeless girls will also engage or try to interact.

It’s the guys that bug me though.

They tend to be a little leery and gross and want to apologize for swearing in front of me.

“It’s my birthday,” he said to me in drunken apology.



It was your birthday yesterday too and last week, if I recall correctly.

Or they want to hit on me.

They are fairly certain I am not the mom, but I also don’t look like your typical nanny, so I might be the mom, but I am not wearing a ring, but.

Hey, listen, fuck wad.

You smell.


You are smoking pilfered cigarettes from trash cans.

Your pants are falling off your ass and you’re not wearing underwear.

Your leisure tan might once have been attractive, but now it just tells me that you can’t afford sunblock, or a shower, or rent, or socks, why in the world would I want to engage with that?


I tend to be leery and cautious around them.

Especially the ones with dogs.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the dogs.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the kids.

Most of the time I give them a wide berth and practice looking intently off into the distance where the park, my destination, is.

Today I noticed a rather unwieldy pack of them and my nanny senses went off.

I corralled the older charge as he was walking alongside me pushing the stroller and I tried to interact with him quietly too, I don’t want to draw attention and I just want through.

They were all up and down the hill in front of Stanyan, across from the McDonald’s and the Whole Foods.

Sleeping in battered sleeping bags, chattering at each other, roaming around.

We made it past the gauntlet and headed down the hill toward the pond where my little guy wanted to stop and see the ducks.  We talked about ducks for a while and then headed through the tunnel, the Alvarez Lake Bridge, and toward the Koret Children’s Playground.

On the other side of the tunnel I could hear the group we had passed, probably six or seven, four or five dogs, a bunch, all carrying knapsacks, a girl with a purple and silver ribboned hula hoop, dread locks, smelling of pot and unemployment.

I pulled my charge closer, stooping to take his hand as the wave of bad smells enveloped me.

When I heard one of the girls commenting on how cute his socks were I lost what patience I had for being anywhere near them and stopped to pick him up.

I heard it before it hit.

“Watch out, watch what you’re doing!”

“Hey, she’s got kids, pay attention, idiot!”






Great big long board smack to the back of my right ankle.


It broke the skin.

I am bleeding.

It hurts like a son of a bitch.

I am surrounded by these wayward dirt children and dogs and, oh jesus, fuck, it hurts, get away from me.

“Dude!  Apologize to her, what is wrong with you,” one of the boys hollered out.

He stumbled around apologetically, “sorry, sorry, what can I do, are you ok.”

I am actually writing what I think he said, not because I was in white-hot anger and a lot of pain, but because he was tweaked the fuck out of his mind I could barely understand what he was saying, but I knew he was high.

I realized it immediately.

Stepping back I said, “nothing, I am fine, just pay attention to your surroundings,” I was starting to shake a little from the surge of adrenalin I had going through me, and I quickly tucked the little boy I was holding into the stroller and waited for them to move off.

I shuddered.

Then started to cry.

My ankle was blazing.

I took a couple of steps towards the park.


Uh huh.


I paused.

Fuck, you pussy, soldier on.

I turned my foot and that’s when I saw the blood on my sock.

Well, fuck, god damn, it broke the skin.

I peeled back the sock and yup, a couple of nasty gouges on my ankle.

I reached into the diaper bag, got a bag of snacks and peeped into the stroller.


The little one was napping.

A full hour a head of normal.

He was sound asleep.

The other little boy stared up at me.

I handed him the bag of Puffs.

“Enjoy, sweetie, we have to head back to the house,” I dropped the snacks into his lap and wheeled the stroller back around.

I had a few moments of wanting to report it.

But what could I even do?

How was I going to identify the guy.





On a skateboard being pulled along by a large pit bull mix.

I just described half the homeless guys in the park.

He was high.

He should be arrested.

My dramatic self got on her high horse.

Oh please.

You are not that hurt, yeah, it sucks, I make my living using my body a lot, I am not behind a desk, I am not sitting in front of a computer, I have to move and I got scared about that, the physical implications of it.

I mean I was walking in the park minding my own business headed to the playground.

No one expects to sustain an injury doing that.

I limped back to the house, resolved only to clean it out and put a band-aid on it.

When I got there.

Wonders will never cease.

The older boy was asleep, hand in the bag of Puffs.

I almost cried out of relief.

I hobbled up the stairs, dumped my messenger bag, and went to the bathroom.

Then I did cry.

Sobbed really.

Just for a minute.

The dad popped out of his office and scared the crap out of me.

I hadn’t realized he was home.

I wiped my face, told him what happened, cleaned up my foot, put a little Arnica gel on it, two band aids, and went downstairs to have a cup of tea.

“Thanks for taking one for my kid,” the dad said.

Just doing my job.

Glad to be of service.

And grateful I am not a homeless kid in the park with a dog.

And that I can walk.

Really grateful that my charge didn’t get hit and neither little boy knew the difference.

That’s what I call being a professional.

Or a hard ass.

I am not sure which.


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