Posts Tagged ‘rant’

You Look Good!

August 20, 2017

He said to me after giving me a great big hug, “where you been, I’ve missed you?”

Interning, working, getting ready for school, prepping for Burning Man.

Oh the list of stuff.

“You like?” I said, and stepped back to let him admire my look, “I therapized today, so I was dressing for the occasion.”

“I love,” he said, then continued, “you were what?”

I told him I had clients today, I had group supervision, I wanted to dress the part, the therapist part that is, I want to look like a professional.

“You look good! It’s totally working for you,” he finished, “glad you made it tonight.”

And so was I.

And I was happy that I made an impression.

Maybe it’s just me, but I really want to give an air of being a professional, I want to be respected  and I want to set a tone for my clients, I’m not super serious and I’m not uptight, I am warm and friendly and empathetic, but I also want to send a clear message.

I am an authority and I am going to dress like one.

On the other hand.

Holy fucking shit.

Some of the people who work with me are not as concerned with their appearance.

Or their body smells.

Fuck my mother.

It was a shock today to walk into my office and be overwhelmed and I mean, overwhelmed, with the smell of rotting socks and foul shoes.

The intern before me had done a session with his client in his socks.

Granted.

I sort of understand, it was a child client, I will happily get down on the floor with a child, I will, getting on a child’s level is crucial, I would and have done sessions sitting on the floor with a kid.

I have never taken off my shoes for a session with a kid, but hey, sure I could, if I felt that it was of service to the session.

But.

Fuck.

Not if my feet smell like bad molding cheese.

God damn.

I am not over exaggerating, even if I have a tendency toward the dramatic, I am not being dramatic, it was bad.

So bad that an hour later when my group supervisor and the rest of the interns coming in for our 2p.m. session, noticed it, complained and opened the windows wider.

I shared with one of the interns about why it smelled that way and that the room also had not been vacated on time, the therapist had gone over with his client.

I was livid.

I had the room assigned to me and I had a consult waiting in the hallway.

I understand that I am working in a community mental health facility, but fuck, people, professionalism.

PLEASE.

There is something therapeutic about what I am modeling for my clients by showing up on time, by presenting a clean persona, by having a nice outfit on.

I don’t have to be dressed to the nines, but I present nicely.

I mean, I am a professional nanny during the day, I run around with a four-year old and a seven-year old and I am constantly juggling a baby–which is great, I joke often that I am emitting baby smell which has to be a therapeutic smell if there ever was one–who sometimes burps up milk or mashed carrot on me.

But.

I have back up clothes at work.

I have nanny shoes.

I have therapy shoes.

I bring in my nice clothes, I change, I put on my therapy shoes, I tidy my hair, I make sure that there’s no burp residue on me, I refresh my lipstick before I hop on my scooter and zip to my internship after my day job has ended.

I pull it together.

Ugh.

I am done ranting.

I guess I have just been taken by surprise a few times by the lackadaisical attitude of some of the interns.

I take what I am doing so fucking seriously, I want to be good.

I mean.

Really good.

I am proud of what I have accomplished and it feels good to give it acknowledgement.

I had hot pink hair when I started my Masters of Psychology program.

I have a lot of tattoos.

A lot.

And.

I dressed flamboyantly, glittery makeup, big flowers in my hair.

A little faux queen if you will.

Big hair.

Big personality.

And I love that about myself, that I can pull out a fabulous costume from my closet and do it up, but I remember quite distinctly when I began the process of interviewing for practicum that I wanted to present a bit more polished.

I went and got a good hair cut.

I went back to my natural color.

I hadn’t been my “natural” hair color in god only knows how many years.

Purple, magenta, green, blue, yellow, hot pink, cotton candy pink, rainbow sherbert, name a color I had it.

I stopped painting my nails super dark colors.

Oh.

I still do now and again, but I tend towards a neutral manicure now.

I toned down my clothes, I got some good clean, easy dresses from the Gap and a couple from Asos, that I could layer with a classic black cardigan.

I softened my makeup.

I almost never wear winged eyeliner anymore and I don’t wear glitter.

Well.

Maybe a tiny bit of sparkle, but it’s so subtle now, you might not notice it at all.

I stopped wearing flowers in my hair.

I still have them.

I will wear them at Burning Man.

I will have a wild hair parade everyday out there, I will wear flowers and ribbons and hats and fascinators and I will have fabulous makeup and flamboyant dresses.

I will wear fucking antlers on my head.

See if I won’t.

But.

Not when I have a session with a client.

I like this refined me.

It feels adult.

I like wearing heels and nice button down shirts and expensive jeans and soft, clean makeup, I still wear hoops, but not the super gigantic ones anymore.

Oh.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m an attractive woman and I have unique features and my hair is always going to be wild, but it’s just wild brown curls now not hot pink curls, and well, the tattoos, they will always be there and there will probably be another one or two add to the mix.

I am never not going to be noticeable.

But fuck me.

I will be professional.

And that’s my business.

I don’t have to judge how others do it, even though, shit, half this blog was all about judging mister stinky feet and the sloppy ass interns in t-shirts and dirty jeans, but I do get to process it out here.

So that when I interact with them.

I can be professional.

Because.

I am.

I am a psychotherapist.

And I will dress like it because it pleases me to do so.

So there.

Ha.

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Mystified

April 15, 2017

And over it.

I have had so many suggestions about dating.

“You have to ask for what you want,” a friend said.

Yes.

I fucking get that and when I do, I still don’t get what I want.

I’m not bitter, but befuddled.

I had a guy friend break down the whole “we should hang out sometime,” as a really weak way of asking a girl out and that it’s quite prevalent in the dating culture.

Well.

Good to know.

So.

When complaining, yes, I do complain, I am not a fucking saint, if I was I wouldn’t need y’all and I still need you, despite my weak protestations, to another friend, I was told, “you have to get clarification.”

Ask the person when do you want to hang out.

So.

I did.

And.

Well.

NOTHING.

I got the intuition, I know you’re interested, I can see it in your eyes, you’ve got some mojo I’ve got some mojo, let’s get together and have some fun.

He gave me his number.

He said, “call me,” in fact, he repeated it twice.

I said I would.

I, in fact did.

No response.

I started to second guess the whole thing in hindsight today, but then I rethought it again, it’s not my issue.

I got clarity.

That’s all.

I called.

I left a message, I said, “let’s nail down a time to have a coffee date,” and truth be told, I probably bumble fucked my way through it.

Not even a text back.

Dude.

Hahahaha.

I just wrote “dud,” before correcting it to dude, but maybe dud was not quite the Freudian slip I thought it was.

Dud.

Drawing a blank, dum dum bullet, faulty switch.

It’s you not me.

I insist.

I know you find me attractive, I’ve known since I first met you and when I saw you yesterday and we slipped right back into the easy, intellectual banter that I have come to hallmark our few conversations, I could feel it.

I gave you my phone.

You put your phone number in it.

Granted.

I had asked for a speaking engagement, it’s not like you were putting your phone number in my phone because we were going to get it on later that evening.

No.

I asked you to do service.

And you said yes.

And I said super.

And that was about it.

Until.

You caught up with me a little later and we conversed, and conversed, and conversed, until the room was empty and everyone was walking out the door.

That’s when you opened the door to the phone call and said, “we should really get together, hang out, talk, call me, really, call me.”

I replied “I would love to hang out.”

Now.

Maybe this is where I fucked it up.

Maybe, the friend who gave the advice about guys motives when they say “hang out” was not an ask for a date and I should have clarified immediately.

But.

I went from the gut, the feeling, the look in your eyes.

Because I’m gullible sometimes.

But.

I’m not stupid.

I also have a lot of experience now seeing when men are attracted to me and nothing happens and then years later I find out they were attracted to me and that I was right.

I’m right.

You’re attracted to me, you weren’t asking for a friend hang out, I know it.

Grr.

I don’t know which one of my guy friends to slap.

And then.

I think.

Ah, fuck it, I killed the fantasy, which in the end is always so super valuable.

He didn’t call back.

No response is a response and it’s about as good and obvious as a flat-out no.

And frankly.

I’m fucking proud of myself for sacking up and calling him.

I didn’t text.

I called.

I left a message.

It may have been awkward, but I did it.

I took action.

I remind myself, that the results are not mine and I have no regrets.

I wouldn’t change the sequence of events to “I wish I hadn’t bothered to call,” because I am so super glad that I did.

I mean.

Good for you, girlfriend, another one out-of-the-way between you and whomever is next.

I’m really ready for next.

I’m not actively searching, no, I’m just ready.

That’s all.

I’m happy about that, that I’m not looking, I’m not trying to get on some new dating app, although the brain flirts with it once in a while, no, I’m just ready, available.

I’m proud of myself.

I keep trying.

That says something.

Sure.

I experience frustration and sure, this is a thing, this thing I keep writing about, but believe that all is not for naught, that there is learning here, that I have to keep changing and growing and loving myself for who I am.

I really am not looking for a completion.

I complete myself and I won’t be complete until I die.

I am excited to keep growing and changing and loving and trying new stuff.

Life is fucking amazing and awesome and I’ve come so far and have so much further to go.

Yet.

I long for someone to walk along with, carrying a conversation with, have fun with, connect with.

It is natural to want to partner up, it doesn’t mean I know how to do it, or am upset with myself for being single nor am I in self-pity.

My life is good and my growth, astounding.

I just find myself a bit bewildered.

It is my growing edge.

The not knowing.

And also the ok with the not knowing.

I like to say I like surprises.

But that’s a fucking lie.

I do like anticipation.

But not surprises.

Perhaps this is God’s way of getting me ready for a surprise I will really cotton to.

Who knows.

I obviously don’t.

Getting down with the unknown.

Throwing my own dance party to a soundtrack that is in another language.

God’s time.

God’s will.

Not mine.

Sigh.

Ha.

Oh, resignation, look at you.

Or shall I say instead.

Surrender.

Over and over and over again.

Powerless over it all.

Fucking all of it.

Help me God.

Seriously.

I’m Sexy

March 6, 2015

I’m not stupid.

I know I’m sexy.

I said this out loud to a group of fellows and outed myself as a self-confessed fraud.

Half the time I walk around wanting to embrace every sexy curve of my body and the other half I’m like, I’m too sexy, too over the top, too much, I have to tone it down.

I know there’s a balance and I want to be everything that I have been given, but I struggle with it, I am still wondering, what the fuck do I do, what do I have to do to get asked on a date.

I got another soft turn down.

Which, FYI, dude, too much explanation.

I don’t care what your reasons are.

Who cares?

I don’t.

In fact, I respect the “no response” response.

It’s a no.

When you say I want to take you out for dinner and then you don’t ever get back to the woman, she, I sort of figured out there’s not that much interest there.

I had forgotten, pretty much, when I got a long-winded text yesterday about how the person is this that and the other, dude, I repeat, I don’t care.

I don’t need the explanation.

I suppose when it comes right down to it, I don’t ever need an explanation.

I am getting exactly what I am supposed to be working on every day and when I get caught up in why aren’t I dating more, I’m focusing on the external.

I’m doing the compare and despair.

But.

There really is a very curious woman inside me wondering what I could be doing different.

I’m not looking to self-improve.

I have tons of self-acceptance.

I love myself.

I take good care of myself.

I’m pretty damn good company.

So like, what the fuck God, can you break a girl off?

I’m confused and I don’t care for confusion.

I don’t know what actions to take any longer.

Stay online.

Quit online.

Ask a guy out.

Not ask a guy out.

It’s all too much.

I’m tired of the struggle.

It’s a pain in the ass.

I suppose it’s just my brain looking for something to obsess on aside from my taxes, whether or not I am going to get a return after the identity confirmation thing (which apparently takes six weeks to process? What is that? I’m me, I swear), and graduate school.

I have not heard yet whether or not I am in.

And that pisses me off.

Come on.

I got things to do and plans to make and well, geez you guys said it would be less than a week, so does that mean I didn’t get in?

Yeah.

I’d rather obsess about why I’m single than that one.

If I don’t get into the program I’m not sure where to turn my attention next.

I know that rejection is God’s protection, I know that hands down, so Mister Text me long unnecessary texts, it’s cool, we weren’t a great match anyhow, I’m not upset by the rejection.

Not at all, not one bit.

I am a little frustrated with God and I yelled at him, for lack of a better gender I don’t really think God is a man, it’s just short hand for the higher power I work with—I grew up with a patriarchal idea of God as the Father, so what ever, it works—as I was riding my bicycle home through the park.

“What do you want me to do?!”

I might have been that crazy person you see on the bus, but I was on my bike.

Sometimes, most times, I pray out loud, they are just conversations with God and usually they are little prayers of gratitude.

Thank you God for not having me drink today.

Thank you God for not having me use today.

Thank you God for this beautiful body you have given me to walk around in.

Thank you God for not having me smoke yet today.

Thank you God for not having me be homeless yet today.

Thank you for the trees in the park, the smell of clover in Kezar Triangle as I ride to work, for the smell of blooming jasmine, for magnolia blossoms, for the full moon in the sky, for the honking of geese two days in a row as I ride my bicycle up Lincoln Avenue to work, thank you for my awesome, amazing, wonderful life.

Thank you.

I mean I do that all day long.

But tonight, grateful though I am, I did have some words with God.

What the fuck?

What do you want me to do?

I’ve been working my ass off, what else should I be doing?

I’m tired of figuring it out, you figure it out, what can I do to best be of service to the man you want me to be with?

How do I move toward that man?

Give me some signs!

Ugh.

I mean, really, it’s fucking laughable.

It’s just life and there’s nothing wrong.

I just realized that I really liked having a boyfriend.

It was fun.

Until it wasn’t.

And I want to try it again.

I have a full and wonderful life.

Being in a relationship is not going to make my life better; it’s just going to make my life different.

Change.

I know it’s always happening.

But sometimes it just seems like it’s not at all.

And I’m stuck again in this space of being in the hallway, and damn it man, sometimes that hall way is fucking long.

Anyway.

I do have a great weekend coming up.

Plans to go to the East Bay and see some lovely ladies and do some celebration of life and I don’t need to be coupled up for that to happen.

I will get dressed up though.

And be sexy for myself.

That’s the person, ultimately I have to seduce and love.

I’m sexy for me.

And I know it.

OH Wow

August 14, 2013

That’s even longer than I thought.

I sat and talked out some more logistics with the families today, three days until I leave.

Three!

Mostly I just wanted to get a sense of when I was going to be coming back to the city so that I could also juggle some arranging of moving out to the studio.

You know, like I really need something else to occupy my time with.

Jesus lord.

And a side bar I may or may not get back to, cute flirt from Paris Skype days sent me a message, hey, I’m in town until Saturday, would love to see you.

Hey, could you have given me a forewarning?

Maybe I would have cleared out some time.

You should have seen the wheels click clack turning in my brain when I was on BART heading back to Oakland, you’re in the city?

Damn it man.

Can I get laid before I leave for Burning Man?

And maybe there was a reason I bought a new vibrator today.

Ok.

Ok.

Too much information, but it’s true.

How in the world can I squeeze in a date before I leave?

Giggle.

When it rains it pours, what else can we squeeze in?

And the thing is, I would totally go to work, head to playa, traffic all my stuff here and there and to gladly make out with this man, hands down, I don’t mind the sleep deprivation, it’s been too long, damn it Janet.

Ok.

This blog, already out in space, already off track.

Oh.

Wow.

Yeah, that’s right, I was realizing how long I am going to be out on playa.

I know they said three weeks, but I don’t think my brain was registering it despite my mouth saying it.

Mom told me today that there’s not a hard and fast set day they are leaving, but it’s most likely the Friday after the event.

AFTER.

That means the 6th.

Then another over night stay in Reno to hose off the dust before hauling it back to San Francisco.

I won’t land in SF until the 7th or the 8th, possibly.

I’m going to need a day or two to get my wits back together.

Then I will be moving out to the in-law.

I can’t even fathom how that is all going to suss out.

Thing is, it doesn’t matter.

Nothing really matters right now.

Just getting the blog up and posted and having a little wind me down snack and a cup of tea.

That and a late sleep in.

I don’t have to be at work until 2 p.m. tomorrow afternoon.

That is nice.

Today I left for work, in Cole Valley, at 7:40 a.m.

I got back from work at 10:50 p.m.

That is a long day.

Three charges.

Fortunately for me they all had naps.

They all staggered them as well.

Sometimes that sucks, as you don’t get the opportunity to sit down on your own and rest, but today, it just all really flowed smoothly.

Even when my little girl got dropped off and she was having a really hard time, way past her sleep time, way late nap and way over tired.

Over tired has to be the worst.

Maybe over tired and teething.

There was some sobbing.

Not crying.

Sobbing.

Which caused the youngest baby some distress and he started to sympathy wail.

Two howling babies, one baby napping.

Run.

Run for your life.

I hustled them upstairs to make sure that there was quiet space between the screams and wails so that the other would not wake up.

I managed to get situated in the upstairs nursery and get out some books, fyi, if you’ve got a kid’s gift to get, grab the book “Grumpy Bird” freaking awesome.

We snuggle down into the chair, the baby on a throw blanket on the floor, my little girl in my lap, we read four books, I sang her a lullaby, we fed her baby (she got a new baby doll, so cute!) and I snuggled her to sleep.

Then off to warm the bottle and do the same for the youngest.

Who, unfortunately, was then off his game, but oh well.

With two down, one was not so hard to manage, and he’s the easiest in some ways as he does not move yet.

Yet.

But man, he is close, he’s so close to crawling, and when crawling happens, all bets are off.

And everything is open for little baby paws to get into.

He’ll be crawling by Burning Man.

I realized saying good-bye to the mom today that I wouldn’t see her until I was at the event.

That was spooky.

It still feels really far away.

Even though it is so close I can taste the dusty.

I have a friend who I met in Paris get a hold of me who is trying to get out there, I may have found him a ticket, or at least I introduced him to someone, via Facecrack, that has one with a camp I first went out with, Stella.

My first Burning Man camp.

They are actually camped pretty darn close to me this year, or I to them, they’re in the same place, I’m the one who’s going to be moving.

OH.

And in case you get out there and want to see me I will be camped at 8:45 and C, behind Artica near the main Ranger station in the 9 o’clock keyhole.

That’s gobbedly gook for most of you, but the ones who know, you know.

Otherwise I will be making my way pretty daily over to Anonymous Village at 8p.m.

I hear there may be some impromptu fellow shipping happening in that neighborhood pre-event.

Anywho.

Time to go watch So You Think You Can Dance.

And check my messages for possible coffee dates.

Like I got the time.

But you know I’ll make the time.

Yes I will.


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