Posts Tagged ‘prostitute’


July 25, 2013

You have won crackhead bingo!


I saw my midget prostitute today.

I win.

I don’t know why seeing this woman puts a smile on my face, is it the cliché of it all?

She was dressed up more so than the last time I saw her, she looked like a miniature Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman.

Which fyi, was NOT filmed in East Oakland.

In case you were wondering.

She was dolled up in a platinum blonde wig, a very tight leopard print mini dress, and black boots.

Like you know, a three-year old might wear.

If she were a hooker.

I totally smiled, and I shit you not, I almost found myself waving.


Just your friendly neighborhood crazy girl bicycle commuting through East Oakland in the late morning, oh yeah, it was morning.

I was not smiling or laughing or waving to anybody tonight on my ride home.

I just missed the magic hour of dusk and the end of the work day commute and got caught in the let’s get it on of after dark Oakland.

It was getting on.

I was just pedaling as fast as I could and doing my best to slow down and breathe, to not stay standing at any intersection, to always be in motion, to be seen, to not get hit, to not get harassed.

I made it back alive and not too scared to tell the tale.

The girls during the day are not the same girls that work the nights, from what I can tell.

I still would like to take my camera out and catch a few of them.

Not working, but you know, working.

I did take some surreptitious photographs at the park today.

I took out the camera to capture a man sitting nodding off on a park bench with ropes of drool coming out of his mouth.

Every once in a while he would come to, sit up, regal, raise a hand and softly point, almost wave, in a direction.  Like was directing slow motion traffic in his mind.

Then he would lean forward and nod back out.

I was busy watching my charge, but being on hyper nanny alert I was also, I always do, making sure he was not a threat.

He was harmless in a sad, old man, down on his luck sort of day.

I thought later, what if my perspective is skewed?

He was sitting on a park bench, nodding out, so he got his fix, in warm sunshine, children laughing and playing t-ball in the lot.  He was probably happy as a fucking clam.

Unlike the little girl whose mother pushed her down the big kid slide after getting impatient with her not having the immediate courage to do it (it is a steep ass slide, fuck, I went down it once and got nervous).

Pushed her the fuck down.

Congratulations bitch cakes, you just gave your child fear of heights in one stupid move.

I saw a beautiful three-year old, I know because she was introduced to me as such, go from being happy and joyful to scared, screaming, frightened.

Then it became hysterical crying.

And it was bordering on the tantrum crying that cannot be stopped.

I got up and left.

It was so uncomfortable.

I would rather watch a fucking junkie homeless man nod off on a bench then listen to the little girl wailing and I knew the crying was going to stop and it was going to stop when she got hit.

It was pretty obvious that was the route it was taking.

And the kid knew it too, which I think was adding to the hysterical crying.

“Home,” my charge said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said and picked her up and tucked her into my side and got the fuck out of there.

“Leaving before it catches,” a dad said with a wry chuckle.

“Something like that,” I said.

PTSD alarm bells ringing in my head.


The crying broke with a desperate, abrupt wail about a half block out.

I am just glad my charge was not there to see it.

You can explain away the nodding out junkie, “he’s taking a nap in the sun,” you can’t explain away the parent that pushes their own child down a slide and then hits them later when the child does not respond well to your action.

No thank you.

“I have decided what your playa name should be,” my employer said to me this afternoon when I showed up for the gig, my charge already down for her nap.

The mom’s eyes gleamed with pleasure.

“Mary-Fucking-Poppins!”  She said, gleefully.

Oh my god.



I am Mary Fucking Poppins, or MFP, for shorts, you know.

That will be my street name.

“No, sir, I am not working, I am just getting done with work, no sir I am in child care, no, not childish care, I am a nanny, yes you heard me, ass hole, my name is MARY FUCKING POPPINS.”

Then I would bean him with my umbrella and fly away on my magical bike.

Which might be a little E.T. but the image rather works for me.

And I did get a new parasol for the playa, yes I did.

Bright red.

In the shape, of a, wait for it.



I love myself.

I crack myself the fuck up.

In other news, I will be house sitting this fine upcoming weekend, in San Francisco, in Cole Valley, in the Upper Haight, yo.

So, let’s do some hanging out and some coffee and or tea having.

And since I will be staying at my Burning Man families place, I will be bringing my playa bike over from my friend’s house on 19th and Valencia.

After a short pit stop at the bike shop to get my Fat Banana saddle.

Fingers crossed my bicycle basket with the daisies comes in this week as well.


I am Mary Fucking Poppins.

Good lord.

Four Prostitutes

May 22, 2013

Three homeless people.

Two drug dealers.

And a pimp on a BMX bike.


You’re marketing tricks from a BMX bike.

That’s actually kind of impressive.

Are you like Jr. pimp?

I made a little travel on down the road to the In Between Fellowship on International Ave.

In Between crazy and crack addled.


But I got what I needed and I got back safe and sound, not harassed, not bothered, pretty much left alone.  Oh, there was a truck that slowed down and a van that did two circles around the block I was walking down, but that could have been for me or the heavy-set woman walking ahead of me with three-inch roots above the bottled blonde weave.

Or whatever it was, but it was not natural hair.


I don’t think so.

I got home and walked into the wafting smells of warm popcorn and melted butter.

Good times.

I opened up my laptop, made a cup of tea and settled down to write.

I keep telling myself to take each day as it comes.

I don’t know exactly what is going to happen, how long things will take, and where I am going to go.  I know this much, I am going to get my bicycle legs back and in spades.

I was pretty punked today and I realized it had something to do with the 6.5 mile long bicycle ride I took to work.  And then back.

13 miles round trip.

“You know you could take BART,” my room-mate said to me as I lay on the floor yawning and rubbing the ears of a fluff monster.

“Yup, except that it’s probably faster on my bicycle,” I replied and stretched my arms up over my arms.

I will get my “sea legs” back in about a week.

I have been riding every day since the bike came out of the box.


However, today was the first day I did the full round trip bicycle ride.  I will be doing it at least three times a week.  I don’t mind, I like the sun on my face and the wind at my back.

Or in my face as the case was this afternoon.

But the ride is flat and quick.

40 minutes there.

40 minutes back.

That is an hour and twenty on my bike.

There’s your gym work out.

I’ll be fit and in shape, not that I am terribly out of it, in no time.

My schedule got busy today as I fielded a few phone calls and texts and some messages on Facecrack attack.

I will work and do the deal tomorrow, with a new addition, a year old who will for 1.5 days a week be a part of the nanny situation in North Oakland.

Where, small aside, I was told by man today on the way to the park with my charge, “I am not afraid of your tattoos!”

He gamboled across the street, crossing San Pablo against traffic, muttering under his breath, carrying what I believe was a relic of a radio transistor, I wanted to shout at him, “just wrap that shit with some aluminum, you’ll get better reception!”

But I held my breath, held the stroller handle bar tight in my hand and kept walking.

My calendar is looking interesting all over the place.

I found out that the family in North Oakland will be on vacation for a week and a half in June.

The day after I was approached by a family from Austin, friends from Burning Man, who wanted to secure my services mid-June to take care of their little boy for the weekend as they  were to be going outside of the city to a wedding.

They will be able to leave him with me at the house and I will be able to take care of one wee visiting monkey and the two cats at the house.

Graceland, though lovely, and alluring with popcorn scented air, is not child friendly.

Serendipitous that I will be house sitting and be able to provide care for the friends and provide care for the family I work for.

I was not even allowed to get into fear about the eleven days the family was to be out-of-town and I was to not have work with them.

That, the disadvantage to not being full-time, is the thing with having part-time hours every which way with four different families, I don’t have paid vacation, or health insurance, or benefits.

In my previous incarnations of nanny I had paid time off and sick days built into my pay rate.  I don’t this time around.  However, I don’t feel too concerned.  I feel like everything is working out exactly as it is supposed to.

I was also making enough that I was able to pay my own health insurance out-of-pocket.

What I would like is to not worry about that.

But if I am going to be riding my bicycle from East Oakland to North Oakland three days a week at 13 miles per day round trip, it may be in my best interest to secure medical care.

Or a job that will provide me with such.

Or freelance work.

Or, well, I don’t know.

I do know that I am not homeless digging through trash cans on International Avenue, and I am not pushing a stroller at night with garbage bags hanging off it, nor am I turning tricks to purchase drugs.

I am alright.

I am in the correct place at the right time.

Doing what is in front of me and saying yes to nannying and house sitting and preparing myself for what happens next.

Life is exciting.

A little exhausting at times, but I have a lovely bed to climb into just above the endearing scent of warm popcorn to buoy me up the stairs on my weary legs.

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