Posts Tagged ‘resentment’

And It’s Here

August 25, 2017

Holy shit.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is my first day of classes in my third, and last, year of my Masters in Counseling Psychology program.

Fuck.

How did it get to be time already.

It feels hyper surreal.

On one hand I feel like I was just in class last weekend.

On the other it feels like years and ages.

I also have a better sense of what I’m walking into with my schedule as I have spent some time tonight doing more reading for class and looking over my syllabi for the classes I have tomorrow.

I only have two.

Which is a change from previous years when I had three classes a day on Fridays.

Of course.

I have practicum, which is the difference.

And beginning in September, basically after I get back from Burning Man, I will be seeing clients on Fridays.

And.

Sigh.

Saturdays too.

I have a few clients scheduled for my first weekend back from playa.

Mostly to make up for the sessions I will have missed by being out-of-town.

I was pleased and flattered when two of my clients asked me to make up sessions with them, they didn’t want to go two weeks without seeing me.

That was nice to hear.

I am doing a good job.

Not the best, I am far from the best, but I’m doing a decent job and I know that I am making headway with my clients and that they are getting something out of the relationship, enough so that they want to continue seeing me and wanting to make up for the lost sessions.

I am grateful for the work.

It is work.

Don’t get me wrong, but it is also such rewarding work.

And I am also happy that I am continuing to learn and make connections and see things, that the work generates constant learning is amazing.

I am not in a cookie cutter job, I am getting to constantly and consistently learn.

No better thing that.

I shall spend my whole life learning and still feel that there is so much more to know and learn and so much growth yet to be had.

Perhaps on this plane.

Perhaps in another.

I don’t know what or where any of this is going.

I just know that I want, with sincerest passion and longing, to be true to this moment, the one I am in, that in this moment there is constant love, consistency and self-awareness.

I am the best person I know how to be.

In this moment.

It will change.

I will have my failings.

I will freak out.

I will get scared.

I did today when I inadvertently flipped open Facebook, which I am less and less on, I just don’t have the time or bandwidth for it, to see a response to a post I had put up about having found a ride to Burning Man and how I was happy for it.

The response was from the woman I am going with.

And it should have been a direct message to me.

But.

Nope.

Of course it wasn’t, it was a post displayed for the entire forum to see, hundreds of folks.

I didn’t respond because it wasn’t the right thing to do and I felt instant, I mean, instant resentment.

Don’t fucking change things up on me now!

I am inflexible when I am in fear.

I want what I want and I want it the way that I want it.

Got that?

Good.

So, basically, do it my way.

Damn it.

But no.

My ride has some ideas, some thoughts, some desires to do it her way.

And as such.

Wanted to know if I would be open to renting a mini van.

Oh.

Well.

Fuck my life.

I had a fucking reservation made on my own to rent a god damn vehicle, a reservation I cancelled after securing the ride with the woman whom I am going with.

If I wanted to pay for a fucking rental I would have gone up on my god damn own.

This is my thinking walking down the hill on Chenery, on the way to go get my charge some snacks at the Glen Canyon Market and then go to the park at the rec center.

I almost said it out loud.

And no four-year old needs to hear my profanity.

I was, when I am in resentment it usually stems from fear–I’m not getting what I want or I am afraid I’m going to lose something–full of angry profanity and resentment.

I took a deep breath.

I did not respond on Facebook.

I paused.

I breathed some more.

I swore in my head some more.

Then I just got into, this is what’s happening and this is what is going on and I can accept the situation or I can rant like a maniac.

Do I want to be happy?

Or.

Right.

Right!

Just kidding.

Sigh.

I wish.

No.

I want to be happy.

And if my elderly lady stateswoman wants to rent a mini van, well so be it.

I let a lot of time go and I said some prayers and I did some spot check inventory in my mind and I realized a bunch of stuff.

I have a job to attend to.

I am with my charge and I have to go get my other charge across town.

I am in a pretty park with a sparkling water in my hand, I am outside, the grass is green, the pollinating plants smell intoxicating, the clover especially, and I am alive to have all these feelings.

I have the opportunity to accept what is going on and I prayed for guidance to take the next action in front of me.

So when the text came in from my ride I was able to respond, not react, and take a phone call.

Oh.

I still got flustered on the phone.

I had an idea of what I was going to spend on getting to the damn event and now I was facing having to pay more and I felt a bit in a bind, a bit out of control, like, I don’t have any other way at this time to get myself out there and I have a three-day weekend of school and the rest of the work day to get through.

I can’t fathom trying figure out other means of transport.

I told her I was willing to consider it.

I asked what she wanted by way of compensation.

She gave me, what I considered a vague, cop-out response, but, ultimately, the freedom to decide what I felt comfortable contributing.

I had a number in my head.

I paused for a while after getting off the phone.

I know I can afford it.

I am willing to pay more.

I don’t want to think about it.

I have other things happening before it.

I want to show up alive and present and enjoy every beautiful moment of my weekend.

So.

Whatever vehicle shows up for me on Sunday.

Well.

That’s the one I’m going in.

And whatever the cost.

Well.

That’s what I will be paying.

I’m just surrendering to what’s happening and letting God have it.

God always does in the end anyway.

I get to have this experience.

And like so many others.

I am sure there will be spiritual growth.

And.

Love.

I am certain of that.

There will be love.

There always is.

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That Uncomfortable Feeling

August 2, 2016

When a stranger walks into your house.

I was like what the fuck?

Is there actually someone coming into my room?

Ah.

The housemate has a guest.

Apparently a nosey guest.

Not exactly how I wanted to find out.

None the less, pretty much the cap on a long strange day.

I got up early to go to work early to let in the housekeeper, the family is away, but there was still plenty on the list for me to do.

Granted.

It’s a lot easier to get shit done when the family is away.

It’s just hella odd.

I realized as I was changing the bedding in the boys rooms, that I have never done house work for a family when they weren’t there.

Either they were there and I was nannying.

Or they were not there, as in vacationing or out of town and I was not there.

It’s a different dynamic and sometimes I find myself taking it for granted and sometimes, well, it’s just fucking weird.

Today it felt weird.

Then again.

Everything feels a little helter skelter right now.

There is a lot happening.

Mostly in my brain.

My brain is a hotbed of activity right now, it won’t turn off.

I also had odd pockets of time today, that did not help, then again, I suppose they did not hinder either.

I found myself having coffee “on the clock” at Ritual while the laundry was working there was not really anything for me to do until it was finished, so I grabbed a coffee at the cafe and worked on my spending plan for August.

Meaning.

I worked on not being in financial insecurity.

I mean.

There’s fear.

There’s always fear.

And I always walk through it.

Sometimes gracefully, sometimes haltingly and stumbling along like a fucking idiot.

But.

I have never been dropped.

And I won’t now.

And I have the money to do that thing in the desert, even though it’s cost a lot more than I have ever spent on it.

I keep telling myself.

I get to go.

I get to go.

I get to go.

And I get to go a little early so I will actually have four and a half days on playa.

Things are falling together as well.

They are.

I have my tent, my camp chair, I got my old quilt from a girlfriend who had it for a while and whom I haven’t seen in so long, it’s rather stupid.

I have my tent.

I am going to give it a shot at getting set up either tomorrow or Wednesday.

Maybe Thursday.

Oh.

Fuck.

I’m nattering on.

I’m nervous about a lunch date I have tomorrow.

I literally had the thought today that I don’t have the right shoes.

Who is this person?

Fuck.

This guy has seen me around.

For a long time.

Like eleven and a half fucking years, the man knows I wear Converse.

Ack.

My brain, on fire.

Put it out.

I don’t have the right clothes either, fyi, that’s already been decided.

Thanks for sharing brain, really.

I have no idea where we’re going for lunch, but I live in the Outer Sunset, it’s not like we going to some fine dining gig on a Tuesday at noon.

Not that I think we’re going to Mickey D’s either.

I have been on a few dates with said gentleman, a few years ago, before I moved to Paris, and the odds are actually not that unusual that he would take me to a nice place.

He’s got good taste.

Chez Spencer before it burned down.

Flour and Water.

Which he was a little abashed to bring me to when he found out I don’t eat flour (or sugar).

I joked it wasn’t like he took me to Vodka and Cocaine.

Heh.

Oh.

Yes.

Also, La Ciccia, which was fantastic.

Plum in Oakland.

Anyway.

So it may be a fancier place, but it doesn’t matter.

I mean.

My brain will try to make it like it does matter.

But really.

All I’m thinking about is.

What will go with the cute sandals I got in New Orleans?

And.

Will he kiss me?

Or is this just a let’s catch up and see how the other person is doing?

But um, Facecrack says he’s single and I’m single and we’ve kissed before and.

Jesus fuck.

I am blushing.

That can stop.

I’ll probably get up and go to yoga so I can calm the fuck down.

Expectations lead to resentment.

I have no expectations.

Yes, some nerves, but really, that’s just that good old mind fuck that says I’m not enough and don’t have the right hair, I mean, um, it’s pink, heh, or the right shoes, I do love my Converse, or the right clothes, I have scads of cute dresses, I just have this idiotic idea that I have to look a certain way for a certain type of guy.

I have too many tattoos.

Actually I have just enough.

Well.

I could use another, who am I fooling?

Really in the end, there is nothing wrong.

I’m excited.

I want to look pretty.

And it will be good to catch up.

I am curious to see what his intentions are though.

I won’t lie.

But regardless, I can comport myself with some decorum.

Unless I’m laughing, then all decorum bets off.

Or.

Well.

I’m just not going to pursue that line of thought.

All the other dates I thought might coalesce this week have not confirmed.

I’m going where the water is warm.

Or.

At least interested.

Or.

Just letting me know there’s a date.

The date got confirmed.

That’s a start.

I’m going to have fun.

I am going to dress how I like to dress.

For me.

Wear my hair the way I like it.

Sing my song of myself.

It’s a good song.

Sexy like.

I get to go on a date.

Fun.

This is fun!

Duh.

I get to do this.

Nerves or not.

I’ll look cute and have an adventure.

Promise to tell  you all about it.

Well.

Maybe.

Heh.

Balance

January 28, 2016

I didn’t have it this morning.

I recognized that pretty much after telling God to fuck off in my morning prayers.

God can take it.

God’s a good bitch like that.

I was mad.

I have been annoyed and I didn’t even realize it until I was kneeling next to my freshly made bed, with my freshly shaved and showered self, my wild mane of curly “bronde” hair and my attitude, which, was yes, bigger than my hair.

I was hearing my Applied Spirituality professor’s voice in my head.

And it just popped out.

“Fuck you.”

Then.

I felt the fear and it was a surprise, I mean, I didn’t honestly realize that I was this afraid of this class, that I am holding on this tightly to my routine.

I wrote some inventory after I finished my breakfast.

God.

It really works.

Amazing.

How it works.

Once again it boils down to a fear of not having enough time and also that if I monkey with something that has worked so well for me for the last 11 years that I may not have the next 11 years.

Which is just bullshit and distracting and I can’t tell what’s going to happen in the next 11 days, let alone years.

Fuck.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next 11 minutes.

Things.

They could switch on a dime.

The thing is I am able to roll with it.

But mess with my morning routine and I get a bit fractious.

Suggest that you want me to implement on a daily basis something that requires a half hour more of my day and I am all up in arms.

All up in that shit.

So I wrote it down and got it off my chest and made a phone call and told on myself and then got to focus on being of service where I was off to next.

Work.

And I did.

I did a good job at work, I had fun with the boys, I got to go outside and be in the sun.

Oh, delicious sunshine, how I have missed you.

I took the boys out to the grand re-opening of Dolores Park.

It was something else.

And I’m not talking about the flood of Millenials with their sacks of burritos and sandwiches from Rhea and the hipsters with their micro-brewed six packs, the bike messengers with their Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Or the floods of pot smoke.

Jesus.

I suppose the park was officially christened with weed when it gets right down to it.

No, what I’m talking about is the park.

The glorious, full tilt boogie that is Dolores Park at its delirious best.

The grass was green, the sun shone benevolently, it’s a week day and the opening of the park, but it wasn’t obscenely packed.

It will be.

It looks so nice.

I am so grateful I got to be around to see it re-open.

The renovation has been a long one, and it reminded me of the first time I saw the park and dreams I would have of it, flying, I remember a flying dream I had about Dolores Park back in 2001 before I moved here to the city I had visited–the park made an impression.

I got to review the last 13 1/2 years that I have lived in San Francisco.

“Where are you from?” The driver asked me yesterday.

I internally sighed, not interested in having this conversation, but I’ll play along.

To a point.

“Here,” I said bluntly.

“Oh, well, you know, your name,” the driver tried.

I decided I would help a little, but I wasn’t going to go into the whole saga, the moving from here to there, the growing up in Wisconsin, the no I don’t speak Spanish conversation.

“I was born in San Jose,” I said.

I had a sudden realization of not having to be wrapped up in my own story.

It’s just a story after all.

The only reason it’s special is because it’s mine.

All stories ares special, I just know the details to mine rather well, it’s familiar you could say.

What is not familiar is this feeling of balance and serenity that has come from doing so much work and also from being able to acknowledge and recognize my feelings a lot faster.

The faster I notice that I am out of whack.

The faster I can get back on the beam.

I am a sensitive lady.

I used to think that I had a really high threshold for pain and that this was something to be proud of.

Not so much.

I don’t need to suffer.

The more I allow my feelings, the less I suffer, and that less I actually attach true meaning to them.

Feelings are valid, but feelings aren’t facts.

Plus feelings are super transient.

They come and go.

And I can hold more than one at a time.

That was a revelation when I realized it was ok to be happy when I was sad.

That it wasn’t all so black and white.

Lovely little shades of grey, nuances of emotions.

I have a palette.

I also have a memory and I realized that I was probably also a little extra sensitive when I got teary reading some inspirational quote on my Facecrack feed.

I went back and re-read it to get the full gist and a tear actually did fall.

Oh.

Fuck.

I’m getting my period.

I haven’t ovulated yet, but it’s getting ready.

Which would also explain the super sensitive nose I had yesterday.

My sense of smell goes through the roof when I am close to my period.

I think my body is busy sniffing out a male with some juice to get busy with, that’s the instinctual thing I think, pheromones and what have you.

I may be 43, but the body is still not done with that part.

Yet.

I figure I am almost close to that chapter ending too, but who knows.

Not here to think about that.

Grateful for self-awareness and self-acceptance.

And.

Spiritual solutions.

To my.

Applied Spirituality class.

I get to remind myself.

God’s plan is better than mine.

Just get out the way, Martines.

God wants better for you than you want for yourself.

Drop the rock.

And open your arms to the flowers being held out to you instead.

I like flowers.

 

She Keeps Us Civilized

January 22, 2016

The mom said to her guests as they thanked me at the end of my shift this evening.

Well.

I try.

Sometimes though, the five year old is just going to stand on his head and fart on his friend and giggle wildly.

Fortunately the parents were outside in the back yard enjoying daiquiris.

I was inside with four boys: 5 3/4; 51/2; 4; and 3 1/2.

I add the halves and the quarters.

They are very fierce about their age and the hierarchy of who sits where in accordance to what age.

They were lined up left to right, oldest to youngest, along with two stuffed huskies, one stuffed cat, and one very, very loved teddy bear.

Four cups of milk in sippy cups and four graham crackers.

And.

Pengu.

Man.

There is nothing funnier to this age group than Pengu.

Nothing.

There is just something about the claymation little penguin that tickles the funny bone.

I find it endearing and cute and about the only video I can stand watching with the boys.

It’s a special night when the boys get videos, when I’m there we don’t watch videos.

I have been told by the boys that they do watch a lot of videos 0n the weekend.

I know they do and that’s not my business.

I am in no position to criticize or judge any one and their parental style.

I have in the past and it did not serve me well.

Glass houses and stones and what all.

The boys had a play date and I made pizzas.

I had to laugh at one point.

I don’t eat sugar or flour and here I am rolling out pizza dough–spinach and mushroom, pepperoni, plain cheese, and cheese and mushroom–and navigating around open containers of sugar and booze.

Not my normal.

Even at work.

But no matter.

I did my deal and took care of the boys and was grateful for my own lovely little abstinent meal and my extra time to get done laundry and pick up all the different sets of train tracks that had gotten pulled out to entertain the boys.

Three separate sets.

I pondered my psychology reading and was happy to use some theory on the boys.

I mean.

Come on.

I’m in the heart of family.

And I’m going to be a therapist.

Gold mine.

It’s like doing field work all the time.

I mean I got an A+ in Psychodynamics using a scene at the dentist office where one of the boys had a temper tantrum and I was able to apply Freud and Melanie Klein theory to what was happening.

I am a very lucky girl.

I am also a very lucky girl to have done some work today before work.

That’s the funny thing about work.

I work before it and I work after it.

Sometimes the work I do outside of work is more work.

But I digress.

I did some reading.

I checked over a couple of my syllabi.

Specifically I read the entire seven pages for Applied Spirituality.

,

I was resentful, wildly so, the first time I read it.

Hey, don’t you know who I am?

Don’t you know what I do?

I am special.

I already apply spirituality to my life.

Don’t tell me what to do.

Which.

When I took some time to reflect.

Was a rather unspiritual stance to take.

After doing some inventory on it and discussing it with another person at length I realized that I was, once again, being inflexible about my schedule.

I have a certain way of doing things and a certain time and don’t bother me while I am.

And.

Don’t even try to get me to do anything else.

It’s a matter of life and death.

Motherfucker.

Ah.

Yeah.

So, you can see, not so spiritual at that.

I recognize the fear behind the thoughts, I’ve been doing it this way for years, and I’m doing just fine, and I’m going to hold onto this way of doing things and you can pry my practice from my cold, dead, but still fucking spiritual, hands.

I laugh at myself.

I had a small epiphany–the poetry epiphany–and decided to not change up my practice so much, as deepen it.

I’ll grab some new spiritual readers, I will change out my daily readers, I’m still going to use conference approved literature, there is a really good reason I stick close to the original message of recovery.

It works.

But there’s more than one daily reader, so I will try another.

And I went for it this morning.

I wrote a full sonnet after writing my regular morning pages and doing my gratitude list.

I’m using a notebook that I bought at the museum store at the Centre Pompidou in Paris.

I’m calling the series.

“Love Letters To God.”

I debated posting the first sonnet here, but I am not sure how I am going to incorporate them yet for the class, and since that is the reason, the impetus to do the writing, I’m going to wait until after my professor gets back to me regarding my proposal.

That may not be for at least a week.

I got word today that my professor was under the impression that classes started this upcoming weekend, he has not officially posted the syllabus and sent out an apologetic e-mail this afternoon giving some suggestions and saying basically, just wait for a week and I’ll be ready for you.

I find this extraordinarily unprofessional considering this is a graduate school program and I am paying graduate school tuition out the fucking ass.

But this is not the first time that something wonky has occurred–readers not ready, etc.

And frankly, I don’t bear a grudge.

It’s just humanity happening in front of my eyes.

I can get fussy about it or I can be grateful for an extra week reprieve from the start of another round of grad school work.

It will all work out.

And.

I have no complaints.

I mean.

I wrote a delicious sonnet.

It made me happy to write.

Happier to read.

The next thing to explore is to see if I can link a sound byte to my blog or if I should do some sort of podcast on Youtube.

Which I know nothing about, but I do feel quite compelled to have some voice recordings out there.

It feels like the next thing to do in this evolution of being an artist.

Yup.

Me the artist.

How lovely that is to claim.

I am a poet.

I am a writer.

I am an artist.

Hell yeah.

Bring on the spirituality.

Bitches.

I Keep Up With You On Facebook

May 14, 2015

Good to know.

I ran into an old friend tonight at an unexpected spot and we got to reconnect, check in, swap tales, talk about work, life, change, graduate school, pattern making, dress altering, and Burning Man.

Oh yes.

That thing.

I picked up the most fabulous of dresses at Community Thrift a few months ago–blue sequins, marabou trim, teal, really the whole thing is glittery and teal and well, it will look amazing in the dust.

Except it fits for shit, too big and not properly cut.

So when I saw my friend I asked, for the first time really, to have something altered to just fit me.

I am excited.

She’s busy.

I’m busy.

But there’s enough time before the event for me to get one or two fabulous things together.

I always want fabulous things for the playa, but this year, I really do.

I’m going to get to play a lot more and spend more time hanging out and seeing art and well, going to Burning Man instead of doing “working man.”

Oh.

I dare say, I’ll still find plenty of ways to be of service and I will carry my weight and help where and when I am needed, but it’s going to be a fair different show for me and well, I went to be dressed up for it.

Besides.

Who doesn’t want a teal sequined dress?

I mean.

Please.

I’ll find somewhere to wear it.

Maybe even to work.

I’ve been known to wear some kooky shit.

But I like that.

I like that I have a skewed sense of fashion and I love to be a peacock.

I mean life is short, let me dress up for it.

It was good to see my friend in real-time, though, and I want to make sure that I am doing more of that–spending time with friends, not just interacting via social media and texting.

I need to have human connection.

It means an awful lot to me.

Besides.

I know that I don’t translate as well over the internet as I do in person.

Oh.

I suppose, this blog is me, but it’s not me too, you don’t see me fussing around my place, messing with my hair or trying on clothes or mooning over music or dancing or stuck in my head or daydreaming when I should be paying attention to the road in front of me.

I want to be seen for all that I am.

All my human ness.

All my frailties.

And my strengths.

I do have those too.

I want to be able to be vulnerable and tender in front of you, not just behind the screen of my phone or sitting at my table typing words onto my laptop.

I want to carry on a conversation, long, long, long, up late, past my bed time, sharing secrets, telling tall tales, laughing, drinking tea, being me.

I have a tendency to isolate and I wish to be more known.

Here in my community, in San Francisco, in the world at large.

I wish to see and be seen.

“I saw you on your bicycle this morning, riding up Lincoln,” my friend said to me tonight, “I almost hollered out the window at you.”

“Next time, do,” I smiled, “it really makes my day, I feel like I’m a part of the neighborhood.”

I feel apart of the city, the movement and action, the life that is happening.

I like being alive.

I’m feeling a little more alive today too, I’ve had just the tiniest bit of a cold since last Thursday and I think it’s finally starting to pass–all the family has it, I swear, even the dog seems to have it–and I’m not one who often gets sick.

In fact, aside from my ankle, I can’t remember the last time I was sick or when I actually had a cold.

And it’s low-grade.

I have a sort of husky, sexy, throaty voice, raspy like, which is amusing, and a tiny cough once in a while that produces, well, you know, stuff, and I have been just a tiny bit tired.

But not horrible.

Certainly not enough to call in sick.

But enough to slow down this week, make sure I’m taking all my breaks, eating well, sleeping well, taking good care to take good care.

Which is good.

I want to do things this weekend.

I want to get out.

I’ll be hitting an anniversary party Saturday afternoon in Golden Gate Park after I do some doing the deal in the Inner Sunset,then I’ll be off to the park, getting connected to my peeps.

I want to go out too.

My going out last week felt really off and rather awful after the heart-rending scooter encounter at the shop I took the Vespa too.

Side bar.

I actually forgot about the Vespa today!

What a fucking relief to not have that taking up head space.

I cannot even begin to express how good I feel letting it go.

End aside.

I’m not sure what’s happening Saturday night, but I feel something happening, a plan, winds stirring, something.

Change is always happening.

Flexibility.

Adaptability.

Love.

My stars aligning.

Who knows.

But maybe I’ll get my party dress out and see what’s shaking up in my world this weekend.

Not my sequined one, but that will get addressed soon.

I hear music playing.

Maybe some dancing?

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

Suffice to say.

I’m feeling happy and sexy and that’s a nice feeling to have.

Feelings.

I get to have more than one, you know.

I’m good at running with the happy and sexy ones for right now, however.

Bring those on please.

And you got some ideas about this weekend.

Do share them.

Do.

I want to see you in the real world, not just my phone screen.

I need to give you a hug.

And.

I could use one too.

Retail Therapy

January 25, 2015

I got me some.

And now, like a good therapy session, I am all tuckered out from the effort of being present and in my body.

A body that I still don’t always see that well and when I am thinking it’s a fat body, it’s time to stop the shopping.

Size eleven is not fat.

In case you were wondering.

“Why aren’t I a size ten?” My brain started questioning my blue jean choices, and when I go there I can go there quick.

I did pretty well before the blue jeans began to be too much and I had to call it a day.

I actually may have found a pair but I was too tired and starting to second guess myself.  I need to enlist a girl friend to go jean shopping.  I am not good on my own.  In fact, it was suggested to me that I either go future clothes shopping with a friend or enlist a salesperson.

That, helping customers fit into their clothes, is apparently one of their jobs.

Who knew.

I started off the shopping with a bang and a special treat for me.

I went to Chanel on Maiden Lane and bought my signature scent–Egoiste–I have not had it for the last month, having run out around my birthday.

I had some expectation that I might get perfume as a gift from someone, but uh, that didn’t happen.

And like the flowers I eventually bought myself, I bought myself perfume today.

I don’t have to wait for a partner to treat me well, not that my ex didn’t treat me well, he absolutely did, but there were things that I didn’t get myself for a moment when I had expectations around the holidays.

Expectation.

Leads to resentment.

Oh my yes.

And I can expect idiotic things too, I realize this all the time.

Like, oh, this is rich, I should be going to graduate school to get a literature degree or a Masters in Creative Writing.

Despite the fact that all the programs that I have applied to turned me down.

I still have this antiquated idea that I am supposed to be doing this thing where I write, make gang loads of money, and I don’t know do something with the English Literature degree I got as an undergraduate.

As though the benefits of studying have to pay off monetarily.

As if it wasn’t enough that it was through studying TS Eliot and Shakespeare, and yes, Tolkien, that I rediscovered God and went from being an atheist/agnostic, to believing in God.

Something that was very helpful to me when I got sober.

And continues to be helpful to me.

But no, I got that degree with the intention of becoming a writer.

Oh.

Wait.

I am a writer.

But, it doesn’t look like how I think it should look.

Neither do those jeans, but hey, you’re not fat either.

Aside.

Even after nearly five years of maintaining an over 80 pound weight loss, I still gravitate to the plus size clothes section and got excited when I walked into H & M and saw that they now have a plus size section.

Hey lady.

Snap out of it.

I am not a size 26 anymore.

I am a size 11.

Which is not the size 10 I eventually got down to, but wasn’t able to really sustain without restricting more than I should considering my energy levels, body type, and the amount of bicycling I do.

End aside.

I shared these thoughts around graduate school today with someone before heading out into the wilds of San Francisco shopping (which were wild, I had no idea that there was going to be a protest downtown or that the streets were torn up with construction projects).

I told her that I was beating myself up for applying to program that had nothing to do with my writing or my literature degree and that I was still holding out on the idea that I would be making it as a writer.

Famous.

Rich.

Worldly.

As though I am not already.

Famous in my own mind.

Rich in love.

Worldly in my travels and experiences.

The perspective is just different.

She laughed at me when it all finally came out, and pointed out to me how important words are to a therapist, the words behind the words, the language that is being spoken, the things that people say when they aren’t actually saying anything, how important that communication is and understanding of language are to a good therapist.

Well duh.

I had not seen it that way and I was astounded by how spot on she was.

Of course!

My gift for language will be used and used better than any of the silly fatuous fantasy I have of what it means to be a writer.

She also pointed out that I am not actually great at being isolated and that perhaps I don’t want to have a career that is so focused on being alone without distractions.

Another great point.

And then, the ringer, how much I can be of service.

She told me things that I don’t see often in myself because I have this idea of who I am that does not always match up to who I am.

I’m getting better at it.

I am.

And I was able to leave Tart to Tart with a smile on my face and be ready to tackle the shopping.

Which I did with gleeful abandon until I was done.

I actually did really well.

Two pairs of shoes, one pair of black leggings, new earrings, new makeup, new hair clips, a new skirt, a new sweater, a new bra, a tank top, a baseball jersey, and a new jean jacket.

Plus the perfume.

In total I shopped and bought at nine different stores and went into at least another six or seven others.

I went to Chanel, Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, Nordstrom Rack, H & M, Urban Outfitters, the Westfield Mall, Zara, Banana Republic, Gap, Anthropology, Claire’s, and Beauty Lands.

No wonder I am tuckered out.

I don’t do this very often and next time I do have to go with a girlfriend for some body perspective, but I can give myself a pat on the back for doing the deal and taking care of myself.

Even if I didn’t find the perfect jeans.

I still found what I need.

The metaphor for my life.

I may not get what I want.

But what I am given is always.

ALWAYS.

Beyond my wildest dreams.

 

Dance Party Pooper

February 18, 2012

I backed out tonight.  I am a little ashamed of myself.  I was really up for going dancing tonight.

Then I had my 90 day review at work and had the juice sucked out of me.  I had my inventory taken, so to speak.

It was actually a good meeting, but it was hard to sit still and take criticism.  It was harder yet to have humility, and hardest, was the, where’s my pat on the back?

I got a pat on the back, it just wasn’t what I wanted.  And as it is so often with things we don’t want, they may sting at first, but the sting eases and the humility pill is swallowed and something changes, a perspective, something, shifts.

I got the shift today while meeting with the GM offsite at a cafe during work hours.  I had no clue it was coming and rather felt snuck up on.  I would have prepared, I would have said something different.

I would have not cried.

That’s what I would like to take back.  But nope.  I cried.

I called myself stupid and I got embarrassed over of all things, being a human.  I made mistakes.  I did not hear the good.  It was there.  I do a good job, let me acknowledge that.  But all I hear is that I have so much further to go.

Rather painful to hear and accept.

The truth usually is.

One day, perhaps, I will reach for truth and embrace it, but this ego let’s go rarely without a hearty fight.  I don’t even have the retaliatory speech in my head.  There was nothing to retaliate for.  Retaliation is, perhaps the wrong word, this is not a battle, this is not a war.

It’s a fucking bike shop.

Oh, look, another pair of humility pants to put on.  Boy, I hope these fit better.

Crabby and grouchy.  I want accolades, damn it.  What I got was carefully structured criticism.  It was so god damn politically correct it was painful to listen to.  In fact, I wandered off at one point and it was pointed out.  Which is also embarrassing.  I have no poker face.  None.

I can’t exactly say what happens, it’s like I glaze out.  I can’t hear anything else that is being said and I nod my head and say yup like I am giving my full on attention and all I am saying is “are you done yet?” in my expression.  I am supposed to learn to give my full on attention to the world view and the story and how everything is organically grown.

And I don’t give a fuck.  Just show me how the god damn thing needs to get done.  I don’t need back fucking story.

I have so much that I can take with explanations.  I don’t care for hearing the big picture.  But that is what is expected of me, I am supposed to see the big picture and learn to enjoy that way of seeing.

Fuck.

Am I resentful?

Hmmm.

Can’t I just stay with my own narrow world view?  Really, because it has gotten me so fucking far.  Bike shop.

The nice thing about being able to acknowledge that I am lacking in certain skills is that I am being offered some job training that I am rather surprised to be offered.  They want me to take computer courses.

Whereby, see,  I just got something!

Aha.

If they are willing to invest time into educating me, time and money, they will either pay for the course or they will pay for me to take the course, depending on where I go, then they are investing in a cause.  They want me to stay and grow with the business.

This means job security, which is nothing to be sneezed at.

I would like it to also me insurance and being paid on time.  The new Big Brother time clock snafu continues as we weren’t synced up to the secure deposit people and, oh yeah for timing, of course there is a holiday on Monday so, they may not receive our pay until Tuesday, which means no pay-day until Thursday.

And I have my underwear in a bundle when I make mistakes?  What the hell?  Perhaps being paid on time is something that could be rectified.  That would be cool, eh?

I felt pretty drained after the whole thing.  I know it was supposed to be supportive and  open and communicative and all that other bullshit.  But I just felt attacked.  Despite the way it was broached I did not feel much acknowledged, just judged.

That is poor me self-pity that doesn’t go very far, except into self-pity land and frankly that’s a boring place to go.  It did suck the joy out of my day.

I finished work and took care of what project loose ends I had to tuck up and slipped out at 7p.m. on the nose.  I went bicycling over to Church and Market and did some grocery shopping and went got a big hot tea at the Church St. Cafe.

I was supposed to be getting a coffee.  An end of week celebration latte.  A kick of caffeine.  I was going to go dancing with Beth and her friends visiting from Hawaii.  But I did not have it in me.  I just wanted to come home and hide under the covers.

No dance party for me.

In the end, I got what I needed.  Validation that I am an investment.  An acknowledgement of my assets and a list of places where improvement is necessary.  I was given an honest assessment.  I am a perfectionist which is just a fancy way of saying I hate myself and I am not teachable.

Not true.  I loved myself enough today to hold my tongue, to keep the focus on me, instead of what the other person should be doing to make my life change.  God damn it, it would just be fine if you did it my way, dontcha know.  I let my inventory be taken and I see my part.

What can I do differently?  How can I be useful? Where can I take initiative? Where can I be of maximum service?  Usefulness makes for happiness.

I know I am useful at my job.

I get to continue to be so.  The acknowledgement is in the paycheck.

If it ever actually gets deposited to my account.

 


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