Posts Tagged ‘self care’

On Track

August 25, 2016

I’m super stoked right now.

I just finished reading the last bit of my assigned reading for one of my classes.

It’s so nice to have it done, to have understood and digested a lot of it too.

Oh.

I’m sure I will have “forgotten” most of it by the time class rolls around, but there is a lot more going on in my brain than my mind wants me to acknowledge.

Also.

Fuck.

I am so lucky.

How I made it to where I am considering the trauma I underwent from pre-birth on, it’s a fucking miracle.  Just reading about it in my texts books sometimes overwhelms me, but I feel lucky, graced, blessed.

I mean.

I have always secretly believed I was something special, shh, don’t tell, that there was just something intrinsically different in me, yeah, yeah, terminal uniqueness is also a quality that can separate me out and make me unhappy, but I’m talking about more than that, something different.

If life were fair I would be dead.

Hell.

I wouldn’t have been born, I shouldn’t have considering how sick my mom was, how traumatic things were for her when I was born and then the innumerable things that happened as I grew up and I mean, can you just say resilient?

I am so resilient.

So even though I can get through the big things, sometimes the little things, job conflict, will throw me for such a loop I can’t get the hell out of the way to gain any kind of perspective on it.

I mean.

I did have fear and it was not a fun time yesterday after I set my boundary with my boss, but I had to set the boundary and though the response was not what I would have preferred, it wasn’t as bad as all that in the scheme of things I have undergone and gone through.

But my brain blows shit up.

I also am acutely aware of my part.

I people please, I am a perfectionist, I can be over accommodating of the needs of the people for whom I work.

Boundaries were crossed early on in my job and I didn’t address them when they happened.

The past, can’t change it, but I can move forward and not keep doing the same things.

I have been well aware of that too, that I can’t go back and beat myself up for not doing it better, no should’s please, I did what I could in the each situation and have been given time to assess how it works or doesn’t work for me.

I adopted a here and now sort of attitude towards the whole thing.

What can I do right now, right here, to take care of myself?

Pretty fucking basic.

And so, I got a break today, appropriately timed and well delineated and fuck, I got school reading done and I got to rest, not really as I was digesting really big psychology theory, but I got to be out of the way in my space in the house, quiet with a cup of tea and a book.

I returned happy to work and there were no other altercations, issues, or weirdness.

Ok.

That’s not true, I still felt a little on pins and needles, but that again, is my feeling and asserting a need, even though it be a small need, for me, is a very big deal.

I remember well a father of one of my charges told me years ago, seriously, six, years ago, “Carmen, your problem is you can’t ask for what you need, you have to speak up.”

He wasn’t saying it to be mean, he was saying it because he wanted me to ask for what I needed, that he knew that I was not capable of doing it and that it was ok and not just ok, but allowed.

Encouraged even.

It blew me away then, and I don’t think it actually sank in for some time, I was allowed to ask for what I need.

What a gift he gave me, you are allowed to ask for what you need!

Now the difference is, with time and perspective, also knowing that though I ask and it may not be met and in that doing I get to make sure I don’t harbor resentment.

I fail to ask many times because I anticipate not getting the need met, so why bother, and then the resentments flourish and I’m stuck in the bathroom sitting on the toilet “peeing.”

I’m really praying and asking for help and clarity and what is the next action to take.

Lucky for me I have faith and I don’t have to explain that either.

And friends.

Fuck me.

I am so lucky to have the friends I have.

The amount of support I have gotten from my friends is unbelievable to this person who for so very long felt rather alone and not able to cope or ask for help.

I wasn’t allowed to ask for help.

I don’t know when that got hammered into my head, but man, it was from a very young age.

Now I’m like, help, help, help, all the time.

Well.

Perhaps not quite like that, although there are times when I am incapable of asking for help, they have gotten fewer and farther between.

And as I feel this softening in me, this loosening up, this growing, I am more and more and more grateful for these experiences I have.

I can help so many people just be showing up and saying, hey, I went through that too and here’s how you survive, here’s how you are not a victim, here’s how you in fact, are allowed to prosper, to thrive.

Thrive.

That’s what I want.

Therein lies the striving and the living and the having fun and oh!  The fun countdown is on.

Two more days of work, then I am out, out, out.

Out to the dusty dust and the art and the big, wide open skies, and floating across the playa on my bicycle and smiling from ear to ear and wearing big pouffy crinolines and ridiculous amounts of flash and bang in my hair.

Out where my heart sings 24 hours a day and my friends are all around and though there is a lot of work, it really is so much fun.

“Funishment” a friend coined it last year.

Yup.

And god damn, I am ready for it.

So ready.

I really am.

Bring it on!

Bring on the funishment!

This lady needs some.

Yes.

And.

Yes, please.

Advertisements

What’s Up Sexy?

June 23, 2016

Who the fuck doesn’t want to be greeted like that?

I know I do.

I smiled.

What’s up?

Indeed.

All the things.

Lots of work.

Lots of doing the deal.

Lots of love.

Lots of self-care.

And just a kiss of poetry.

I had a friend reach out to me as I was getting ready to wrap up at work and he offered to hear me practice my poems in between the here and the there.

I said hell yes.

I was quite flattered and very happy to have my silly little request to get some help coalesce.

Ask for what you want, you might get it.

In fact.

In my experience I often times get what I ask for.

It may not come in the package I was expecting, but I generally am heard.

Except when I ask for a boyfriend.

Ha.

Not that I am lacking any sort of attention.

I’m pretty taken care of and that’s a nice thing, and I have options, and time and I’m allowing myself to have fun and be present and show up without expectations.

I still have expectations, but the faster I see them for what they are, the faster I get to let go of them and see what is really going to work for me.

Not obsessing about those who can’t show up for me or who have chosen to withdraw in ways I don’t approve of.

Like anyone needs my approval.

Nope.

Just me and my God, that’s it, and I get to do whatever I want, as long as I accept the consequences of those actions.

Like.

I’ll be up a little late tonight.

I’m jazzed over how the poetry practice went and my friend’s very insightful way of looking at the experience of how I wrote the pieces and I loved getting to speak them out loud to an audience.

Even though it is nerve wracking and I wanted to sound better and realize that no matter how good I sound I will always want to be better.

And that’s ok.

That’s something to shoot for, just being a little bit better.

There will never be perfection.

Well, in the idea that I am perfect in my imperfections.

But.

That there will always be progress.

That’s what I get to strive for and I am grateful for that.

Wildly grateful.

Full of heart and heat and desire to do more, be more, be of service, to surrender, let go, give in.

There is great beauty in that surrender.

And sexiness too, I think, anyway, a kind of beauty in that letting go that when done without thought for how it will be received is a kind of extraordinary thing.

I might have been feeling a little bit of that when I saw my friend just a little bit ago up at the spot.

And.

I also have to say.

I am grateful I was feeling sexy and saucy and sassy.

As I ran into a gentleman I had a brief intense date with back in February who completely ghosted me so bad that it was a touch disgruntling to be played so hot and cold.

I got to do some work around that, oh yes I did.

So.

Completely feeling my swagger, my messy pink hair in braids, my lipgloss freshly applied, my hips swinging as I dance down the block.

Oh.

And hey.

Ha.

What’s up mister walking your dog by the 7-11.

I got a “hey” and “it’s cold” and a quick sliding glance and a scurry by.

Yeah.

Scurry baby.

I ain’t got time for that shit.

You have yourself a nice ass night.

I smiled and wandered up the street, seeing all my friends coming towards the place and happy to walk into the warm glowing room and get greeted by my fellows, my family, my friends.

Fuck me.

I am such a lucky girl.

Really.

The luckiest girl in the world.

I get to do so much.

I get to be so much.

I get to feel so much.

“The good news,” she said, “is that you get to have feelings.”

Pause.

“The bad news,” she continued, “is that you get to have feelings.”

Right now.

I’m in the good parts of that.

I feel fucking fabulous.

The hair is on point.

Summer is starting out as something fun.

I get to go to New Orleans next weekend, I leave a week from tomorrow, for three days.

I get to hang out with people I like and love and care about.

I have friends.

I have a life.

I have a place to live.

Fuck.

I get to live in San Francisco.

That is amazing.

Especially on a nanny salary.

I get to write and dance and blog and be out in the world and seen.

I am seen.

I am known.

I am accountable.

I like these things.

I can isolate too easily and with no regards to the world and what is happening if I don’t take care of the basic things in my life and recovery.

I have to put the horse first.

Sometimes I have to put that so first, always really, I could do or have what I have if i didn’t, that I can’t even see how I will get through a situation.

I just know that I will if I focus on solution.

I focus on problem.

It only gets bigger.

I focus on doing the next action, getting into solution, loving, being of service, why the problem fucking takes care of itself.

And I didn’t do anything.

See.

My best ideas are ass.

I’m not capable of making great decisions for myself.

I have no perspective.

So I get out of my way, out of my blinders, if I can shift my perspective just a tiny amount, man, it’s amazing.

Transformation.

Utter and complete and astounding.

Magic.

Poetry.

Sex.

Sugar.

Love.

Music.

Star shine.

God’s kiss freckling my upturned face.

All the things.

Baby.

All the fucking things.

Amazing.

I can’t explain it, I don’t want to, I don’t need to.

I think that’s called faith.

Or.

Grace.

Shall we just agree to agree?

It’s love.

And it’s everywhere.

Just look.

I promise.

It is here.

It is there.

It is.

Right now.

It is always.

Love.

The new sexy.

 

Work, Work, Work

February 20, 2015

Work it out.

And I’m not talking about work.

Although it’s been a hell of a week at work.

Ski week.

Ayup.

Private schools in San Francisco have what’s commonly called ski week–Tahoe anyone?

My boys don’t ski, although the family does take a week in the summer to go to Tahoe.

Nope.

My boys have been with me all week, keeping me busy.

I thought to myself tonight that perhaps I should not schedule any more dates after I am done with work.

That I should go on dates when I have a chance to be fresh and relaxed and mellow and can show up with some sparkle.

I have another first date tomorrow and I am trying  to figure out the cute for date and works for work outfit.

You know, a day to-night sort of deal.

I’m not horribly concerned, my date will be arriving via bicycle, as will I.

My date and I will both be coming from work.

And that’s the work I am thinking about, the work of giving myself time to date and to be available.

It is really easy for me to book myself in.

For instance, I have nothing.

And I mean nothing (ok, well, a commitment Saturday night, but other than that) happening on Saturday.

I really want to schedule some stuff in that time.

I was hoping for another date, either another first date with someone or a second date with someone.

Or.

I don’t know.

Something.

As my week is ending and my weekend fast approaches, I feel compelled to have it all figured out.

More work than I need to give myself.

The illusion of control.

If I know what’s happening, I can control the outcome and manipulate my situation to my best advantage.

Or so my brain tells me.

Shut up brain.

A little free time is good.

Who knows what may happen.

I did think tonight, when I was riding my bike home from my Thursday night commitment, that it would be so nice if the guy I’m going out with tomorrow hit it off and I don’t have to think about asking anyone else out.

I’m a bit tired of it.

I haven’t asked anyone out all this week.

I realized I was coasting along on the fact that I asked out 8 guys last week.

And scheduled two dates for this week.

After tomorrow’s date there is nothing lined up and oh no.

I mean, really, in the scheme of it all, no big shakes, but I feel that I want to keep the momentum going.

It’s just.

Well, it’s a lot of work.

I know that it will pay off.

I just don’t know when and sometimes a girl gets tired doing all the asking.

Hey you.

Yeah you!

You want to ask me out?

Do it.

I mean, I have fucking blinders on anyway, half the time I have no idea if you like me or not anyway, so if you’ve been waiting around wondering if you’re on the list, just cut to the chase and ask.

Because I’m in no place to say no.

I’m throwing it all at the wall.

I’m not desperate.

Really.

I just realized that I like being in a relationship.

I do.

I make a pretty good girl friend.

Even though I wasn’t the right girl friend for the last guy.

And I like the company.

And you know, sex is nice, and kissing, and uh, stuff.

Ha.

Oh.

Fuck me.

I think what happens for me is that at some point or another I try to find the magic bullet.

That thing that is going to work, that combination of asking out, following suggestions, doing the online dating world, Facecrack messaging, etc, that I will figure it out.

And poof!

Boyfriend.

I mean, it’s no different from any other time I have tried to put myself out there as sexy, single, available for dating, smart, fun, great in bed.

Fuck.

My blog is now an over stated want ad for a partner.

Heh.

I’m happy to say I have some humor around this and also, that I am willing to try to change and do different things.

I don’t think I will ever figure it out, dating, life, love, friends, family, recovery, any of it.

Really, it’s all a lot of work and I just have to do it.

The good things, they take effort.

I mean I didn’t lose all that weight by wishing on a star.

I radically changed my diet and lifestyle.

No sugar.

No flour.

No fried foods.

Organic foods.

Bicycling four to six days a week.

Yeah.

That was not a magic pill.

That was some hard fucking work.

And it’s paid off.

So, I’m going to have to do some more work with dating.

And then with school.

Woohoo.

I am still a little in shock that the day has been set for the interview.

A week from today.

I cleared it with work and I will go in for a half day, leaving at 2 p.m. to make sure I get there on time and have a few minutes to sit still, breathe, say a prayer in a bathroom stall, re-apply my lipstick, and nail the interview.

I know I can do it.

Why?

Because I don’t shirk at doing the work.

I’m not about to change that now.

So when a wave of fatigue washes over me, I can surrender to it, and know that this too shall pass, that I am just here playing the role assigned and that God really does want me to be with one fine man.

Seeing as how I am one fine woman.

I will show up tomorrow at work and do my job.

Then I will show up for my life and do the work that leads to the relationship.

It doesn’t have to be with this man or the man I dated last night or the one I haven’t asked out yet, but I will.

I don’t have to know.

I just have to do.

Thinking about it is not the solution.

Acting is.

Here’s to doing the work.

It’s worth it.

I am worth it.

You See Me Better

February 17, 2015

Than I see me.

It’s really true.

I don’t see myself well.

I don’t see how others see me, either, but when I take the time to ask, I get some real nice surprises.

I went downtown today in the afternoon, I had today off, it’s a holiday yo.  And I did some shopping.

My first stop was Optical Underground at Sutter and Grant.

I have been noticing that I need new glasses.

My prescription hasn’t changed that much in the past few years, but as I explained to a ladybug tonight over tea, we’re sensitive people, and my equilibrium has been a little off and I have noticed myself doing the old lady squint a couple of times recently.

I knew I would have today off so I contacted my ophthalmologist, because I wasn’t going to spend a couple hundred or more on the frames at her place, way out of my range, and I had them e-mail my prescription to me.

I took myself to Optical Underground instead, they have the frames they have in the store, nothing more, mostly overstocks or last season, or if they get a hold of the frames from a store that has closed, they’ll scoop them up.

I got my current pair of frames there.

I was not as overwhelmed as I was the first time I went in a few years back, I hadn’t worn glasses at that point in over a decade, since the laser surgery on my eyes, and I couldn’t figure out what frames to buy.

Plus I was really cash strapped and a friend had announced she would help me out with the new frames.

I was abashed to have to ask for help, but knew I had to accept.

That’s how it is so often in my life.

I don’t want to ask for help, but I have to.

Sometimes, yes I know I’m being dramatic, it really is a matter of life and death.

When I went in with my friend the first time she and I wandered around the store for a while then asked the sales clerk to help us pick frames.

“She just got a job at a hipster bike shop in the Mission, she needs hipster glasses,” my friend told the sales girl.

“I’m not a hipster!” I laughed.

Even though I occasionally drink coffee like one and yes, I do ride a one speed flip-flop hub steel frame bike (but really, no true, self-effacing hipster would ride a navy blue frame with rockstar glitter sparkle top coat and purple and silver rims and a flower embossed saddle.  A hipster would have a raw steel frame with a clear coat over it and silver components with a black Brooks saddle and wheel locks), I’m really not a hipster.

My ex called me a “hippiester” once, an amalgamation of hippie and hipster.

I bristled at that.

I laughed too.

There’s some granola in my roll, I don’t doubt it.

But I’m not a hippie either.

I am just myself.

Fabulous me.

The sales girl at Optical Underground looked at my friend, smiled, and said “I know exactly which ones she should try on,” and retrieved a pair from the glass shelf.

They were it.

I knew in the blink of an eye.

As soon as I tried them on, they were perfect.

I did try on a few other pairs, but it was obvious, the first frames were it, and I acquiesced to my friend paying for them.

Grateful then.

Grateful now.

To have the friends I have.

And I thought about that experience as I wandered around the shop not finding anything I liked or that looked good on my face.

The sales clerk today told me my current frames were in great condition and I could just get the new lenses and they would pop them into my frames, but it would take a week.

I wasn’t keen on the idea.

I don’t actually need my glasses to drive, I was able to pass the DMV eye test without wearing them, but I feel a lot better with them on and I notice that, especially with all the writing and reading I do, that I can get headaches from eye strain.

But after going through and trying on ten pairs and not liking anything I saw, I was beginning to think I may have to.

Then.

Well, duh, ask for help genius.

That’s what the sales girl is there for, to help the customer.

I went up to her, showed her the one pair that I liked, but not as much as I liked the ones that I am wearing, and asked for help.

She looked at my face and dashed off, returning shortly with a tray with six frames on them.

The third pair she had picked were it.

I was shocked.

They were fabulous.

I mean, fuck, I would not have picked the frames either.

Um.

They’re really hipster’y.

Ahahahahaha.

I can’t escape it.

And they’re colored.

I was not expecting to end up buying a pair of frames with any color, but the frames fit my face perfect and the colors, a kind of forest green and redwood brown, were super flattering to my skin tone.

I didn’t think twice, I said these are it and I will take them.

I had to laugh when I saw the price tag, $179, I was not expecting that either, most of the frames in the store are around $50-$75, of course they were–I’m great at picking the most expensive thing around (turns out the frames are this “season” as well, which explains the look, a store had just gone out of business and Optical Underground scored all their current stock).

The entire reason I had gone to Optical Underground was because all the frames at my ophthalmologists were too expensive.

Adding the lenses and tax, my total came to $277.

But, as I picked up the frames again and put them on, it was so obvious they were mine, I didn’t bat an eye.

I whipped out the debit card and paid for them.

And I was so grateful that I could, that I have the money to do so, and when I thought about how my friend had bought my last pair, well the bigger price tag really was negated.

I’ll have a new set of glasses to see with in one week.

Grateful that I get to still ask for help.

Grateful that others see me better than I see myself.

Funny how that works.

Wonderful too.

Valentine’s Day Eve

February 14, 2015

And I’m rocking out in my polka dot frock.

Sitting home on my Friday night with my hot cup of tea and some house music on the stereo.

Ready, I am, for the weekend.

I don’t mind so much that it’s Valentines Day tomorrow and all the ladies and lads in the land are traipsing about with flowers in hand.

Oh.

I had a moment or two.

A girl likes Valentines Day.

Even the bittersweet of not having a Valentine.

I love the colors and sparkle and the people who are dashing about with flowers or balloons in their hands.

I love seeing the different folks, who on a regular day I wouldn’t think are coupled up, go about with bouquets in their hands.

I just like flowers.

I take that back, I love flowers.

I only got them once in the last relationship.

I would like more of those please, in the future, note to all future dates.

Pink gerber daisies were the flowers my ex left for me on the seat of my scooter when I was still at work.

They were sweet, but a trifle too little too late and a bit too obligatory.

I got the impression that he felt he had to.

It was a significant day for me, a day that I was celebrating 10 years of sobriety.

The funny thing was, I would have rather have had his company that day, instead of the flowers left like an anonymous ghost of a relationship that was already a bygone.

I felt it was a big deal, that day,  big date, and on the other hand, it’s just another day, but a girl wants her significant other around for those days.

I really knew it was over at that point and it was just going through the motions.

I threw the flowers out a few days later.

I haven’t had any since.

It’s been four weeks.

One month.

The relationship was a little over two months.

Some say, who, how the hell do I know, but they, the infamous they, say, it takes half as long to get over the relationship as it took being in it.

That seems the case.

I am done thinking about it and willing to move on.

It may sting the next few times I bump into my ex but that’s going to fade and I know that it will and really, let me tell you, I’m tired about writing about him.

I will say I should trust my gut better the next time I pre buy a gift when I have doubts about a relationship.

I bought my ex a Valentines day gift the week we broke up.

Maybe, in hindsight, I might have been trying to out juju the Gods, make some magic happen, rub a little gold duck, and poof, the arrow Cupid shot would stay put.

Not fall out the other side, broken shaft and bloody feathers.

I saw it, the golden duck, and knew it was the thing to get.

My ex had a thing for rubber ducks and had quite a few, including a rubber duck tattoo.

So when I saw bronze duck with gold gilding I knew I had to get it for him, but I also heard the whisper in my heart that said, you know, you might not make it to Valentines Day.

And sure enough.

The relationship did not last.

The night we broke up, four weeks ago, around this exact time, I packed up a paper bag and handed him the two disposable razors I had bought him to have in the house, the two bottles of hazelnut creamer he liked, some other toiletries, and the duck.

I pulled it out and jokling callled it the parting gift.

I didn’t tell him that I had planned on giving it to him on Valentines Day.

I walked past the shop today where I bought it and I didn’t think of him.

I thought how happy I was in the sunshine in my polka dot halter dress and my hair up off my neck, I looked at my reflection in the store window and smiled at myself.

I look pretty.

I walked on, pushing the stroller to the park.

I had a date with two little boys and a very large container of bubbles.

I laughed out loud with joy and incredularity at my life.

It’s February, I’m in a sundress blowing bubbles in the park and the sun is warm and everyone is rushing about carrying flowers and I live in San Francisco and how amazing is it?

Beauty and love everywhere.

I don’t have to be coupled up to appreciate people showing each other love.

It’s sort of like Christmas or any other holiday, I can appreciate love and gifts and joy all year round, I don’t need a specifiic holiday to sanctify my feelings.

But.

That being said.

I still really enjoy witnessing the love around me.

The mason jars filled with sweetheart pink roses and the white spray of baby’s breath being sold on the corner, the accordian player at the cafe dressed in sailor’s strips and wearing red lipstick dancing with her beau while he played the harmonica, the men, old, young, everywhere, holding bouquets of tuber roses and carnations and lilies, the smiles on the women, the little girls with heart shaped red Valentines day balloons, the children at the playground with their paper bags decorated with pink and red and rose and white cut out hearts filled with candy hearts and valentines from school mates.

This may be the first time I felt so much love for a holiday that has been notoriously riotous and emotional for me.

I thought I might be sad and the truth is that I am not.

I am joyous.

Filled with love for myself.

Not that I need a holiday to celebrate my life either.

Not that I need to do the trite dance of being my own Valentine either, I just don’t have to try that hard.

I’ll be getting dressed up tomorrow, just like I do every other day of my life, for no particular reason other than it’s going to be a beautiful day to wear a dress and be pretty for me.

I may get myself flowers.

Or I may just wear flowers in my hair.

It is San Francisco after all.

And flowers are De rigueur.

 

Get Out With Your Girls

February 7, 2015

Ok then.

I did it.

I went and hung out with some ladies.

Jesus fuck.

I had no idea how much I needed to just hang out with some ladies and kick it at Burger Meister.

I didn’t even eat, I had gotten to do that already tonight at work, work, which was intense, long day, two sick boys, extra hours, thank god I made it through the week.

And let myself take a Uber into work this morning.

The gale winds did not speak well for traveling by bicycle and I knew the rain was close behind, I could smell it this morning when I opened the back door to my studio and heard the surf crashing on the beach.

I took a car.

That feels all luxurious and shit, which, let me tell you was not, despite it being Uber which I like a little more than Lyft, I tried the new Uber service, Pool, which was ok, although, the driver did the cardinal sin of waiting too long for the second passenger, they are only supposed to wait two minutes when picking up a shared ride, I came rather close to being late for work.

And I couldn’t tell if it was the passenger that was already in the car, or the driver, but the bad breath was foul.

Bad, bad, bad.

I got good and grateful though, to not be riding my bicycle in the weather and though it meant being trapped inside for the majority of the day, I got through.

And although I found myself meandering through the Mission in weird weather after work killing time, I took care of myself by doing a lot of contrary actions.

I had some thoughts about where I would go this evening after work, I had some choices, I could have flagged another car and headed toward the Inner Sunset, seen some folks over at 7th and Irving, but I had a feeling the ex would be there, and that was the allure to going there.

Oh.

No reason to engage, you know, just cause myself, some unnecessary pain, feel uncomfortable, and rub some salt in a  wound that is rapidly healing.

Don’t pick at it.

It’s still a relatively new tattoo, but I have found my hand drifting toward it, stroking the edges where the skin is still rough and pulling, healing.

Leave it be.

I reprimand myself.

But a few times I have found myself doing it without even thinking.

And that was what was tonight.

Sneaky, slithery, slippery thoughts, sniping their way into my brain, little ear worms of irritation, I knew better than to entertain them and I knew to take the opposite action of what I wanted to do.

So I ended up wandering around the Mission for about an hour before I needed to be where I knew I needed to be.

I window shopped.

I grabbed a tea at Church St. Cafe.

I read my book for a little while.

The desire to pick at the scab left me.

I went where I was supposed to be.

I saw who I was supposed to see.

And I was invited to hang out with a trio of lovely ladies at ye olde Burger Meister.

I took my own suggestion and fellowshipped.

I also talked up dancing next Saturday.

It’s going to be a long week-end for me, I’ll have Monday off for the holiday, so I thought, to hell with it being Valentines Day, I am my own best date, let me take me dancing.

I’ll have an extra day of recuperation if I blow out my knees.

Or my ankle.

Let me not dance too hard, now that I am thinking about it, I don’t want to do either and I can.

I just want to have some fun and work  it out.

And there it is.

I just wrote that and realized, what the hell is holding me back, go buy a ticket.

Good thing I did, the event is about to sell out.

All the early bird tickets are gone, so I had to shell out another five, but it’s worth it, the Basement Jaxx are one of my favorites, I’ve never seen them live and David Harness is also playing–I’ve seen David plenty and like his stuff–I’m going to dance myself out.

Public Works, next Saturday, Valentine’s Day, I’ll be giving myself the gift that I always want a gentleman to give me, the gift of going dancing.

“I’ll learn to dance, I’ll take lessons, I swear, really, this time, I will,” my ex of five years pleading with me on bended knee in the house on Gilman Street in Madison, the late afternoon sunlight fading into the gloom of a grey dusk in January, the frost patterns on the window catching the last glints of light on his face.

I gave into being in that relationship another week, maybe ten days, I don’t remember, but he didn’t go out dancing with me.

I learned to do it on my own.

I’m not the worlds best dancer, but I like to cut a rug and though I sincerely wish my body was in better shape, my feet are flat, my knees are creaky, I apparently have weak ass ankles, I can still get out there and let the music wash over me and get carried away and dance like there’s no tomorrow.

The music is love for me and I intend to drown myself in it.

I’ll be my own best date.

Speaking of dating.

That was something discussed by the quartet of females in Burger Meister this evening.

And yes.

I have been convinced to hop back into the online dating weirdness.

Although I didn’t care for the slightly smug message from OkStupid, “welcoming me back.”

I uploaded a new photo, checked my stats, scrolled through the matches, looks about the same, and said, ok, here’s to taking an action and letting go the results.

I also was given the suggestion, which I have had before and think I did, but I honestly don’t remember, of making a list of ten guys I would ask out and then, well, actually going and asking them out.

I’m ready and willing to give it another go.

The break up is done.

Three weeks ago tonight.

The relationship was short, intense, but short, and three weeks feels right.

This lady is back on the market.

You can check out my profile, or just get back to me here, or facecrack.

Or maybe, you might see me, smiling my head off, next Saturday at Public Works.

Doing that thing that I do so well, getting lost in the music.

Being utterly in my body and present.

Dancing.

Come on, you know you want to.

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.

 

Where Did All My Money Go?

December 8, 2014

When the clerk rang me up at Rainbow I blanched.

Err.

“Are you sure,” I wanted to say.

However, I held my tongue.

I knew I had overspent, not but much, but by a lot.

Yeah, I meant to write it that way.

I berated myself a little bit, I had been having shopping fantasies and they did not play out the way I had envisioned them.

Then again.

Fantasy rarely does for me.

I had use of my boyfriends car this afternoon and I had grand delusions of getting some holiday shopping done, buying new blue jeans, maybe getting some fancy lingerie, grocery shopping, household shopping, and maybe a small side trip here then there.

I lost it on the second floor of Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

And that was my first stop.

Does not bode well for my shopping day.

Fact is, I am just not a great shopper, I get overwhelmed with stuff and I usually end up doing the opposite of what I came to do, I leave with my head on fire and have to ditch stuff in the aisles or on the way out the door.

I was about to do just that as I was not finding what I had headed up to the second floor to find—pillow case shams—they have them, I just couldn’t locate them and instead of asking, there was no one to ask, really mostly another confused woman wandering around with a fabric swatch she was trying to match to bathroom carpeting, I fled the top floor.

I ran to the escalator and as the moving stairs unfurled before me I looked into my basket—one large bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint soap, a packet of makeup remover and nothing else.

I just about threw my hands up in defeat, what had I come here for?

Not this.

The items in my basket I could get anywhere.

Oh, yeah!

A new saucepan.

Which I finally discovered, grabbed, and ran to the line.

I don’t do well in big box stores and the lie I tell myself is that I do.

Or that there is one big imaginary store, with no one else in it and I have all the time in the world and I will have buckets of money to spend in said store.

I paid and got out of the store, I walked past Trader Joes.

Do I dare go inside?

I looked and shuddered.

No.

No fucking way was I going in.

I went to Nordstrom’s Off the Rack.

I used the bathroom and tried to settle myself down.

I did feel calmer, but I was not in the space to shop and I knew it.

I need jeans and I went to the rack and was trapped between a woman with a large stroller, empty, mind you, her progeny was not in the stroller, but rather flying about the store on his scooter–I got rolled over twice by the boy—and tiny Asian woman and her boyfriend who were so assiduously combing the racks I couldn’t insert myself to do the same.

I sighed.

What in the world had I wanted from here?

Oh yeah.

A soft throw blanket.

Success.

I found one, its soft and furry and beachy sky blue.

I have wanted a soft faux fur throw forever and now with delicious naps beckoning to me on the weekends with my man, more so than ever.

Score.

Another thing down.

After my small victory I thought I might be able to do a roll through the lingerie department, but no dice.

I did grab a bunch of bras and panties, but once I was heading to the check out my feet took over my brain and refused to detour to the dressing rooms.

I did not have it in me to try on the bras.

I dumped them on a table and ran to the check out, narrowly avoiding getting hit by small boy on scooter a third time.

Somebody corral his or her child please.

I was so over it that I almost skipped going to Rainbow and in hindsight, I should have, there’s nothing there that I can’t get where I live, I just had this thought that I would get a few things in bulk that I normally don’t have around and also to pick over a few of their household department things.

But the damn store foiled me.

Damn you Rainbow.

They had re-organized the bulk bin and spices and the coffee and teas and I was lost and turned around and wanted out so bad.

I had to just go for it.

I was there.

And somehow I spent one hundred dollars.

What the fuck did I buy?

That was my question when I got home and unloaded my groceries and household supplies.

I also realized that I had lost two of my items in my boyfriends car and that was annoying.

I mean I could go walk over to his place and grab them out, he lives four blocks away (geographically ideal thank you very much) but once I got dinner cooking, I was loathed to leave and retrieve the items.

Ah well.

Lesson learned.

I don’t need to cross town in traffic just because I can.

I did get what I needed, but what I really got was that I have everything here.

The pasture is not greener and there is no better than right here.

Applies to just about everything in my life, that lesson.

This time of year I also am a little more spend thrifty than usual.

That being said, I am happy to report that I am 95% done with my Christmas shopping—my sister and her family, my mom, and my boyfriend—done.

I have one small thing left to get the man, but that will fall into place in my regular out and about daily life, I don’t have to travel for it.

And I nearly am finished with writing my Christmas cards.

All total 25 of those bad boys dropped in the mail.

I have to buy more stamps tomorrow, and write up a few more, but just about done.

As too, this weekend, just about done.

I saw my guy.

Went to a holiday party.

Wore a cute frock.

Canoodled with my man.

Cooked some beans and rice.

Wrote some cards.

Made some calls.

Saw some ladies.

Did the deal.

Wrote.

No complaints here.

Even if I overspent.

I have the money to do so.

My life, well.

Yes, Virginia, it does.

Rocks.

 

 

Welcome To The Club

October 31, 2014

She said.

The “smooshed boobs club.”

She giggled a little and gave me a pink ribbon pin on my way back out to the dressing room.

“Pretty.”

She also said.

I don’t believe she was responding to my sideways mashed breast, rather, the tattoo on my arm was drawing her attention.

“You’re doing really well, so much better than some, so good for your first time.”

“Hold still, hold your breath, ok, and……”

“Breathe.”

This conversation could have been much more uncomfortable, but I am just that, comfortable in my body.

I remember going into to the same room, the same dressing area, with the same grey back drop at Kaiser Geary years and years ago with a friend who needed moral support.

It wasn’t so bad.

I mean.

Her hands were not the hands that I wanted to be man handling my breasts, but at least it was not painful.  I rather thought that it might be.

Yes.

It was certainly uncomfortable to be half-naked in front of a stranger, but I have taken showers in the communal shower trailers (although not nearly as many as I thought I would this past burn) at Burning Man for the staff, that stripping down wasn’t such a difficult thing.

I did not feel vulnerable or scared or uncomfortable.

I felt all those things last night.

Counterpoint with the absolute thrill of being with a person I really like making out while the stars exploded over our heads.

“There’s the moon,” I said pointing it out in the sky, a bit facetiously, trying to make light conversation, trying to not wear my ragged little heart on my sleeve, trying to be funny in my own way.

Then the fireworks.

Literally.

Figuratively.

The Giants won the World Series last night.

Go Gigantes!

Ahem.

Not that I am really all that big a fan of the sportsball thing, in any of its various manifestations, I’m not even a fair weather friend.

I think I have been too traumatized by too many sports teams and the inevitable fall out of drunken revellers.

Whether I was drunk or not.

Most of the time when a large sporting event was happening that was a big deal, I was working.

I was working last night and then I went to do the deal.

“I don’t know why he cancelled,” the text read, “would you be able to fill in?”

Of course.

I wasn’t even thinking that it was game seven of the series.

I was just thinking, when you’re asked, you say yes.

So I did.

And I am grateful for it because it gave me something to fixate on rather than the text I received about being in my neighborhood and would it be alright to drop by and say hello.

“If sex is very troublesome, we throw ourselves the harder into helping others.”

Good Lord, let me help some others.

So I can stop thinking about what I am going to wear, do I have enough time to get home and shower and what am I going to wear, oh, did I already say that?

What the fuck am I going to wear?

I think I could have answered the door in a gunny sack, but I do believe that effort means something.

When a person is meaningful, I want to reflect that and show up for it.

I mean, I won’t lie, I debated taking the shower and getting back into regular civilian clothes, not that any of my clothes are all that civilian–tomorrow is Halloween and I didn’t go out and buy a costume, my costume is from my regular wardrobe, just slightly rearranged into a conceptualized idea.

Then I thought, that’s stupid, you’re just getting home from work, you’ve had an adrenaline inducing ride through the wilds of San Francisco and its drunken environs, put on your pajamas.

But I couldn’t bring myself to pull on my yoga pants and my Hello Kitty nightshirt.

I compromised, but on a dress that looks like a sexy night slip and slipped into a sweatshirt that is a tiny bit fancier than my Bicycle Coalition hoodie.

I didn’t wear makeup, but my color was so high from the ride home that I doubt it was necessary, and something about being freshly showered feels glowy and pretty.

And there were fireworks.

Of course they were commemorating the World Series win, but I could extrapolate that to my situation.

I felt like fireworks.

Clothed fireworks.

Let me reassure you.

Or me.

I suppose it’s me.

I so want to get carried away, swept away, take me away, ravish me, have me.

But.

Whoa.

Slow girl.

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to rush to.

It’s been awhile since I have felt like going it slower.

This, this speed I am at, is still above average, I do have a lead foot, I do like exhilaration, I am not good at reigning in passion about anything, let alone being alone with a handsome and sexy and delicious man.

Sweet Jesus.

Gotta get right with God, and there is no judgement here, no trying to wrangle it or snag something, it’s a building up, is what it feels like.

A slow steady burn rather than a flash of light and heat and fire and the embers faint and fading as they fall into the sea.

The fireworks were dreamy and I felt my body shake today, flashes of color and heat on the inside of my eyes and I was swept back up in the feeling of passion that was there.

As well as the excitement of knowing I will get to see him again.

Soon.

Tomorrow.

It’s Halloween and I have a date to the dance.

I mean that literally.

I have a date to the dance.

It does feel like high school, I feel like high school, nervous, giggly, then ravaged with hormones (just because I was welcomed into the smooshed boobs club does not mean that I don’t still have a surfeit of hormones), giddy.

And I am going to run with that feeling as long as I can.

Unlike high school, though, or college or last year, I suppose, I haven’t capitulated on waiting a little, slowing it down, it could have happened the first night I met him.

That whoosh of feeling and magnetism.

I could have stripped down and done a little dance of lust in the basement.

There is something to that bonfire of passion, but I don’t want it to burn out.

I want to bank it and feed it and build it up.

I think it’s only going to get better.

And then.

Well.

Fireworks.

That Took The Startch

October 1, 2014

Out of my shirt.

Whew.

What a way to end the day.

A play date at dinner time with two boys from the neighborhood and their mom and the dad and the mom and the other nanny, who came over to help the mom with some projects, and the dog.

And.

Oh.

Yeah.

Me.

Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick.

That was hard-core.

And to think that I was patting myself on the back for how good I was doing today.

I got in, took the littlest guy over, played chalk drawings on the front sidewalk, got him lunch, and got him down for his nap with nary a problem.

Then.

Run to the market, pick up dinner stuff for tonight’s meal with friends and prep said dinner while the monkey napped–whole wheat spaghetti with turkey meatballs, steamed cauliflower with olive oil and garlic, large tossed salad.  I also made sure there were apples sliced up with cinnamon for snacks and did the dishes, the composting, and some light cleaning.

Then I had my lunch and sat for a hot second before the nap time was over.

Then it was go, go, go.

Go to the library, return books, check out more books.

Go to the park.

Play like maniacs.

Then.

Shit.

The smallest one takes a header playing “sea monster with his older brother.  I could not tell if there was a push involved with the older boy, I suspect that there was, but since I didn’t see it, I did not report it as such.

I think there’s a bit of sibling rivalry that happens and the younger is often shoved out-of-the-way or has his toys taken or gets pushed around a little.

Granted.

The little guy is a tough cookie.

But he got a bang on the head and the skin was cut and there’s a bruise and I immediately thought, shit, not even week two and I’ll be fired.

I wasn’t fired.

Mom was great.

“Accidents happen, he seems fine,” she said and let it go.

Then the melee.

Two four-year old boys and two two year old boys and a dog and two moms and a dad and two nanny’s and dinner time and whoa Nelly.

The mom did step in at one point when I was corralling four boys to eat their dinner, and let me know that if it was all too much to tell her, but what could I say.

It wasn’t all too much.

It was just a lot.

And I knew it was going to be done soon.

But it did feel like a mad scramble to keep it all together.

Fortunately play dates like this probably don’t happen all the time.

I would be a dead nanny in the water if they did.

As it stands, I am just a tired nanny who left more than a touch frazzled.

I had a few minutes between work and my evening commitment and I sailed along Valencia Street on my bicycle stopping by Therapy to do a little window shopping.

“Carmen!” A co-worker of mine from the bicycle shop rode by on his bicycle and waved to me.

“Carmen!” A young woman who I taught swimming lessons to when she was ten, she’s no longer ten, and I had to bite my tongue to not say, “oh my god, how tall you’ve gotten.”

I got a hug and we caught up and then I ran into another friend a block up.

“You going to this thing,” I nodded to him out side the gate.

“Yup,” he said and gave me a huge hug.

“I see you riding up Lincoln Avenue all the time, do you live out there?”

Yes.

Yes, I do.

I live, all the way out there.

Though once I had a chance to sit and let my body and my mind rest for an hour, the fifteen minute meditation I did was spectacular, I felt rested enough to do it without complaint.

The ride through the park was superb and I felt rejuvenated from the brisk air and the delicious smell of night-blooming jasmine co-mingled with the ever-present sea salt smell and grateful, once again, to be living and working and commuting in San Francisco.

It is a pretty grand life.

Even when it is a pretty damn busy life.

Sometimes, like this morning, the thought of sustaining this pace feels a bit much, but I know that the routine is getting the kinks worked out and before too long it will just feel like what I do and it will just be what I do.

I have about a year of this.

Then the graduate school.

Which is its own kind of arduous journey, a journey my brain has been loathe to comprehend, and when it does it sees all the hours and the work and the money and whoa.

That too knocks me down and tuckers me out.

Then I thought, while I was writing this morning, that I don’t have to do it all by, say, this weekend.  I have time to go on the journey and I have time to prepare for it.

The admissions for next fall open in November.

Tomorrow is the first day of October and there are five weeks in October, 31 days.

All I have to do is one action every week.

Some will take a series of smaller actions to make them go, others just teeny tiny endeavors will bear great results.

One goal to set for this week is to order my transcripts from undergraduate program degree from the University of Wisconsin, Madison.

I have done it before when I applied to the MFA program in Creative Writing at USF.

A program I obviously did not get into, despite being so cock sure that not only was I getting in, I was going to get a scholarship too and loads of financial aid.

I don’t feel that way about this program.

I do feel that I will get in, but I am uncertain how the funding is going to go.

That, however, is not a concern for me this week.

This week, the only action I take, aside from not letting the boys take me down, is to order my transcripts.

I will put off the worry for another week.

Perhaps indefinitely.

I have more important things to attend to.

Like sleep.


%d bloggers like this: