You Have My Thoughts

An old friend reached out to me yesterday.

We talked for a long time.

We have been friends for a bit over fifteen years.

He was so effusive about how my life has turned out and all of the challenges I have faced to get to where I am.

“I know what you did, it’s amazing, you pulled yourself up from literally nothing and worked harder with constraints that few people I know would have been able to get through,” he said.

He witnessed me in my first year of sobriety when I literally had nothing, could barely make the rent, even cheap, rent controlled rent, barely had money for food, let alone a bus pass or taxi cab.

He took me everywhere.

He had a scooter and a convertible Mercedes Benz.

I was either on the back of that scooter or I was in the passenger seat of that Benz all the time.

We were joined at the hip.

Everyone.

EVERYONE.

Thought we were dating.

But nope.

Nary a kiss, never a date, nothing.

Although we would do things that if I was witnessing others do, especially a man and a woman, I would think, oh yeah, they’re totally together.

He took me out to lunch and dinner all the time.

He bought me clothes.

I was so broke in my first couple of years of sobriety, so broke.

He took me out dancing.

We both loved to dance.

We saw djs all over the city.

Sometimes we would just drive around in his convertible with the top down and blast music and find spots to dance–Twin Peaks, the little cove down by the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, random parking lots in the SOMA, Treasure Island.

It was a night out at Treasure Island, with no fog and a warmer than usual temperature, the city across the bay sparkling and magic, that I asked him after we had been dancing in the headlights to music and had collapsed back into the car to drink water and catch our breaths.

“Why aren’t we dating?” I asked.

He paused.

He was quiet for a long time.

He said, “well, I mean, I guess I could see you giving me a blow job, but where would it go after that and we’re such good friends, I mean, it just doesn’t seem worth going there.”

I punched him in the arm, “you could see me giving you a blowjob?!”

“Well, yeah, I mean, you know, you’ve got a great mouth,” he replied and grinned at me.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I said and looked back out over the water.

I never gave him a blow job.

We stayed friends.

Thick as thieves.

And life happened.

Life happens.

My best friend died, he know I had a crush of sorts on my friend, and would tease me once in a while about that, but also in a way that didn’t really razz me up.

When Shadrach died in General Hospital someone reached out to my friend and said, “come and get Carmen and take her out and feed her.”

I was shellacked.

I had been in that ICU by Shadrach’s side or with his family for seven days in a row, eight maybe. My friend had not been able to make it in to say good bye to Shadrach.

But.

He showed up that night in his Mercedes and took me to Chow on Church and Market and he told me to order a steak and eat it.

I did.

Then he took me out to Treasure Island and told me, “talk about it.”

I did.

I told him all the stories and the sadness and the horror of watching Shadrach die and he just held my hand and let me cry on his shoulder.

He was a good friend.

He always was.

Sometimes a bit intense, sometimes suddenly unavailable, but someone I could talk to for hours, someone who made me laugh, someone who always was up for having and adventure.

The time we went to see Gary Neuman at the Fillmore and then got out of the show with enough time to whip over to the Castro Theater and see Tron.

Or Goldfrapp at the Fillmore.

Or Sunshine Jones in so many different clubs.

Or Eric Sharp at some underground deep in the SOMA in a warehouse.

Or when he got a projector and we found a deserted parking lot in the SOMA next to a huge white painted wall and watched the Daft Punk Movie Interstella 5555.

Or sitting in front of Ritual in the Mission, before they had outside seating, on the sidewalk drinking lattes, with a boombox blasting Michael Jackson.

He taught me how to play dominoes, “bones,” and then would brutally beat me at it all the time.

I could name a lot more.

There were many, many, many adventures.

The weekend in Vegas.

And there were many, many, many girlfriends.

Some who liked me.

Some who absolutely couldn’t stand me.

My friend dated women I worked with, mutual friends, women I sponsored, (Shadrach joked once, “why doesn’t he just go right to the source,” meaning me), friends of other friends.

All sorts of ladies.

He got serious with one of them and I really liked her, hell I even lived with them for a couple of months when I had lost a job and my apartment in Nob Hill with seven years sober and ended up taking a huge pay cut and going to work at Mission Bicycle Company as a shop girl, she was sweet.

They opened a hair salon together.

One or the other of them was always doing my hair.

I was my friend’s hair model for a long time.

I got to rock some ridiculously fabulous hair.

Most of the time.

Every once in a while he did something that I was like, “dude, no, cut it off.”

The time he gave me a tail.

That only lasted two days.

Maybe only half a day, now that I think about it.

He also went to school to learn make up and to this day I credit him with teaching me how to do makeup.

And to love glitter.

When he reached out to me recently I told him I had stopped dying my hair crazy colors, after he and his girlfriend moved away, I went to a mutual friend who took me blonde and then hot pink, to be a therapist and have a professional look.

I even toned down the make up for a bit.

But it snuck right back in.

I couldn’t give up the glitter.

He texted me, “NEVER give up the glitter.”

A lady likes a man who isn’t opposed to glitter.

He got engaged.

He bought a house.

They broke up.

He moved to L.A.

That’s where he’s at now, muddling through the pandemic as an essential worker.

I can’t even imagine, although a number of my therapy clients have indicated that they consider me an essential worker, I just can’t imagine being out in the public as much as my friend is.

We reconnected back around July or August, played a lot of phone tag, and didn’t actually get to talk until after Thanksgiving.

And it was like riding a bike.

We talked for hours.

Every week or so we’d text a little.

And we caught up after the holidays and.

And.

Well.

Ha.

He’s interested, all these years later, in dating.

I was surprised as hell.

Although, when I have had some time to think about it I realized he’d asked a few times what my dating situation was.

“Non-traditional,” I replied once.

And.

He sent me a song one day on Spotify, “I Adore You,” by Goldie.

I loved the song.

I looked up the lyric’s, well, huh, those are some interesting lyric’s.

This seems like a love song.

Is my friend sending me a love song?

Maybe.

When all is said is done
After the run we’ve had
Let me be the one
I’ll be there for you
Better to let, better to let you know I was a fool in love
Just enough to want you more I adore you
And I’ll never let you go I adore you When all is settled dust
After the storm has passed
Let me be the one to shine on you
Better to let, better to let you know I am a fool in love
Just enough to want you more I adore you
And I’ll never let you go After the run we’ve had
After the tears we’ve cried
On all those lonely nights
I still want you in my life I see you in my mind
And now the sun don’t shine
And I’m just getting by
So why can’t you be mine?

It sounds like a love song!

And then.

One night, it came out, he was texting me and he said, “would it be crazy if we went on a date?”

What?!

We texted back and forth for a while and decided, maybe it would not be.

We went a few weeks without talking about it and he did his thing and I did my thing.

But.

It’s come up again and we talked yesterday, for a long time, and we’re going to give it a shot.

Holy shit.

I mean.

I still can’t quite believe it.

He’s going to take some time off from work and come up over a weekend and stay at an old friends house and we’re just going to see what it feels like.

HOLY SHIT.

I’m excited, nervous, think I need to lose five pounds, happy, curious, all the things.

We both agreed that whatever happens, we’re just investigating and we won’t stop being friends.

It could be a hilarious wrong turn.

Or it could be a dance party.

I don’t know.

He doesn’t have a Mercedes anymore.

But he does have a Cadillac.

So I expect we will cruise around the city and revisit old haunts.

And maybe.

Make out?

We shall see.

More will be revealed.

Push Button Baby

I saw a couple on the side of the road as I zoomed down Lincoln Way frantically trying to kick over the starter on a vintage Vespa.

I chuckled to myself.

The old Vespas look so fucking cool.

I know.

I used to have one.

It was such a pretty girl.

But.

Man.

It was such a hassle to get it started or it would conk out on me out of the blue.

Like coming down Laguna Honda in the fog going 40 miles an hour.

I got tired of that really fast.

That.

And the freaking horrifying sprained ankle that I got when the kick starter jammed and I folded my ankle in half.

That was no fun.

Months, years really, of healing.

The doctor was shocked it wasn’t broken and then told me it was too bad it wasn’t since the sprain is slower to heal and how badly I had injured it I would be lucky if it was healed fully in a year and a half.

He was right.

It took that much time to heal.

Actually closer to two years, if I’m honest, I had to be really careful and there were times when I could feel it was still injured.

It put a bad taste in my mouth for every having something vintage like that again.

Truth too.

I wasn’t prepared for the amount of maintenance and well, it turned out it was a knock off Vespa, despite the registration issued from the DMV, it was a knock off Vietnam Vespa and no body in town would touch it to repair it.

So.

I got rid of it.

I had it recycled.

I got it off the road.

I wasn’t going to be responsible for someone else getting injured on it and when the mechanics at the shop told me all the issues with it I was shocked that I hadn’t hurt myself more on it, I could have easily crashed it out.

Granted.

There were some gleeful moments on it when someone would pull up to me on it at a light and chat with me about it, the scooter really was well done, no one had a clue it was fake.

Certainly not I.

I was a tiny bit bamboozled you could say.

Any way, that’s an old story and not the point.

The point is.

Thank fucking god for my scooter.

I live in the Outer Sunset.

I work in Glen Park.

My internship is in the Mission.

My school is in the SOMA.

I have supervision in Hayes Valley.

And.

Therapy in Noe Valley.

I have to get all over the city.

And the scooter is quick.

Of course, I do have some anxiety about what will happen when the fall comes and the rains that generally come with the fall.

I will either have to get used to wet weather riding or figure something else out.

I can ride in the rain.

I have done it.

I do not like it, but it’s doable.

I was talking to my friend yesterday as she was getting the last of her household packed up for travels back to France and she looked at me and said, “drive safe poulette (her term of endearment for me–sexy girl, although literal translation is chicken, I like to think of it as “chick” or chickadee), maybe it’s time you got a car.”

Yeah.

There’s that.

Aside from the fact that it would be handy to go to Burning Man.

Heh.

Still haven’t gotten a ride yet, still hedging my bets with a rental, but that too is beside the point.

I don’t know what exactly the point is.

I haven’t had a car for over a decade.

I got rid of mine two weeks after moving here in 2002.

Fuck.

Nearly fifteen years with no car.

Lots of bicycles.

And two scooters.

I do like my scooter and I do so appreciate getting around on it.

I just have time concerns now that I didn’t have before.

I mean.

My schedule has always been full, but then I added in graduate school and graduate school added in an internship and um, ha, since, I’m a therapist in training, I have to be on time for my clients.

I get done with work at 6p.m. and I have clients at 6:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesday, Thursdays, and I have been assigned a new client to see on Fridays now at 6:30p.m.

My first child client!

Bring on the child and family hours!

Ahem.

I digress.

This whole blog is a digression.

Sometimes when I don’t want to write about what I want to write about, I can go off on tangents.

Shadrach.

Scooter accident.

Dead.

Today.

10 years.

I had a little contact with his mom today after she posted a photo of visiting his grave.

Add onto that saying goodbye yesterday to my darling French friend.

Great recipe for sadness.

I felt heavy with it this morning when I left my house to go meet with my supervisor.

I got to Hayes Valley early and had a fifteen minute window so I called my person and shared about it and he said, “you sound sad,” and there it was, the sad, the heaviness in me, it was sadness.

Tears welled up and spilled down my face.

Yup.

Sad.

So we made a plan to meet at a church in the Inner Sunset after I got out of supervision.

It was so good.

I got right with God.

Then we went for tea at Tart to Tart and had a good session.

We sent my friend from Paris a good-bye photo of the two of us having tea, my face a little wet with tears, and my person smiling to beat the band, ugh, not all selfies are sexy.

Ha.

Oh.

Sadness.

I had my cry though and things began to shift.

I came home, made a nice lunch and then did some school work.

Because.

It’s that time.

I have two syllabi posted up and I checked them out and ordered books for class.

I sighed and realized I was pretty burnt out with the emotions.

And I decided.

You know what?

Nap.

I need a nap.

And that’s what I did.

It was perfect.

I had a little rest then got up, prepped some food for dinner and I could feel the sad had moved out of my body.

I got my things together and hopped back on my scooter, went to my internship, dealt with progress notes and paperwork and then saw a client.

By the time my session ended I was feeling great.

So nice that.

Go.

Be of service.

Feel better.

I scooted home.

Zipped by the park, rode the curves of Lincoln Way, smelled the bonfires at Ocean Beach and though it was cold and a bit foggy, I felt lifted, carried, loved.

I miss you Shadrach.

But.

You would be pretty proud of me.

Ten years.

You think the grief would have gone out of my body, but sometimes it is still there and needs expressing.

I’m grateful I didn’t squash it.

I just had it.

And I’m grateful for the emotions.

I get to have them.

Feelings.

It means I am alive.

And after all the death I have been witness to.

Well.

That’s a fucking miracle.

So glad I still get to be around.

Happy.

Joyous.

Alive.

And.

Free.

Not The Day Off

I had planned.

Actually.

I hadn’t anything fixed in my plans.

I had some ideas.

And nary a one of them was met.

Fine.

I am alright with that.

It was still a nice day off.

I had therapy in the morning.

I realized when I got there that I had left my phone charging on the table in my tiny kitchen.

I had even noticed it, and said to myself, self, don’t forget that phone, self, your phone is on table.

But.

Well.

Ack.

It was forgotten.

I took it to mean I should be electronically free for a little while.

It was interesting though.

Trying to get into the building where I go for therapy, it has a key code and I couldn’t remember it at first.

I had all the right numbers, as it turns out, I had just not tried them in the correct sequence.

I eventually got in, but it was sort of funny punching in the numbers and wondering how this was going to look to my new therapist.

We did chat a little about me forgetting my phone, happens sometimes when I get moving too fast or I am trying to do too many things, I was folding laundry because I didn’t want to come home to a basket of it and I was a little rushed.

I even remember thinking, really, are you going to be late to therapy because you’re folding leggings and socks?

Get going!

And of course.

I got.

And I forgot.

It was not the end of the world, but I can tell as the weeks just begin to build, that I am scared of what may come up, of the stuff getting unpacked, the things crawling out into the light of day, the raggedy dolly being pulled out from underneath the bed, that the therapeutic alliance is being created and if I trust this woman.

WELL.

Shit might happen.

I was joking with a friend about emotions and naming them and he said, “yeah I know, when this thing happened (insert thing, I don’t remember) I felt like shit.”

I said to him, “shit is not a feeling.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, “I felt like crap.”

We both laughed.

Thing is.

As much as I might be afraid to address the stuff, I do want to shine some light on it, find the wounding, clean it out, heal it and let myself experience more living, more experiences, more joy, more laughter.

I feel like there’s a lot of things that I don’t appreciate enough because I still have these super old defensive mechanisms that kick into place sometimes and I am not always aware of them.

I want to shed them.

I want new tools for my life and experiences.

I want to grow.

I don’t want to stay stuck.

It’s a challenge.

And I’m aware that I may throw a monkey wrench into the process, but I can also see quite well that I am the only thing in my way of moving forward.

So.

I had my session and I scootered back home.

I got my phone, 100% charged, ha.

I texted my friend who I was meeting for lunch and confirmed timing and headed right back out.

We hung out, shot the shit, talked about my trip to Paris.

God.

I could talk about my trip to Paris a lot.

In case you were wondering.

I leave a month from today on May 11th.

One month away.

Four weeks of work.

Three papers.

One weekend of classes.

So close.

I can taste the baguette.

Not that I will be eating any.

Perhaps I should say, smell the baguette.

There is just such a delicious smell to bread in France, the butter they use for the croissants, oof, the smell is heady and rich and so much more nuanced than what I smell from a croissant here.

A few places do get it right.

Tartine has a croissant worth writing about.

Again, not that I have tried any recently, but it is still something magical to ride past the store front on 18th and Guerrero and smell the bread and the pastry being made.

I always reminds me of the smell in Paris on the blocks where there is a good boulangerie.

Grateful again and again that I booked this trip.

I will be missing my darling and pregnant friend with whom I was supposed to be taking  the trip with, however, I know myself, I know my abilities, and I know that I will have a grand time.

I am not afraid to travel on my own, although company is nice, it is not necessary.

I shall create the company I crave.

And that really is all that matters.

Being aware of what my needs are, being able to access them, and take care of them.

Like today.

I just needed to chill out on my friends couch and talk.

Sometimes that is the best thing I can do.

Not do a whole hell of a lot.

Have a nice lunch, hang out, talk, connect with another human being, share adventures in life and make more plans to have more adventures.

I promised myself I was not going to have anything to do with school today or yesterday and that was accomplished.

Perhaps the most important thing was that.

We did leave my friend’s house and have adventures out in the world, running some errands in the SOMA, having coffee at Wicked Grounds, which always amuses, there are few choices for coffee in the SOMA and who doesn’t want to go to a sex positive coffee-house in the leather district in San Francisco?

Hello.

Their coffee is not the best, but when you don’t have a choice, it will work, and the crowd is always eclectic, and the scenery is fun to check out and it’s cheeky and cute.

We ended up giving up our table to a group that were coming in to run a rope bondage workshop.

I love San Francisco.

Then I headed back to the Castro, caught a quick bite and did the deal with my person.

It was a perfect.

Lovely.

Low key day off.

Hell.

I even snuck in a little self-care session when I got home.

Heh.

I am ready to go back to work tomorrow and I even have time to unwind with a video and some more hot tea before calling it a night.

Tomorrow the work and school grind is back on.

And that’s ok.

Because at the end of the tunnel.

Light.

The golden flares of brilliance off the edges of the Seine at sunset, the river smote with light, swans, and the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a dream, just there, smitten with the smell of baking bread, adrift in the dust motes of love scattered there on the waves.

Yes.

I see you Paris.

Please do wait for me.

I will be there soon.

Je t’aime Paris.

Trop bisoux pour toi.

My Face Hurts

From smiling so much.

I got the job!

I can’t believe that I am this freaking excited to get a job that is not a paying gig.

I mean.

Seriously.

I’m over the fucking moon.

It’s not official, yet, but I got it.

My interviewer made it clear that I got it, he’s going to push through all the paperwork and have the offer for me by end of day on Monday.

I asked that it happen before the applications to CIIS for their practicum sites was due.

February 10th.

If I apply to the sites that the school runs and get into one of them it doesn’t matter if I got into another site, I have to go with theirs, their rules, their program, their hours.

Which are not a great match for me and my needs.

My needs, which include, keeping my full-time nanny job so that I can stay in San Francisco and go to school.

The interview went so well, it sort of astounds me.

We talked a lot, we had so much to say, I was a little nervous, but it all fell away and the words, I have no idea where they came from, they just fell out and I could see how excited my interviewer was and he pretty much said, this is it, you are perfect for us and I want you on board.

He and I went over the process, and the details and then we just talked and I felt inspired and I told him about wanting to proceed forward with a PhD through the East/West Psychology program and it turns out, he did the same thing!

He was so warm and inviting and I like the space and I like what the institution is doing and it’s a nonprofit, which it has to be for me to do my practicum hours.

And.

Oh yes.

I can intern there too after I graduate, in fact he spoke to me about longevity and staying with them while I did do work on my PhD and that if I so chose I might be able to segue straight through with them the entire way of my degree, PhD, that is, I’ll finish my Master’s while I’m there.

I’m going to have my own office!

I’m going to get keys and the key code.

And.

I’ll be seeing clients and accruing hours by this summer.

I can start this summer!

I don’t have to wait until fall.

Which is really huge.

It will give me more time to collect hours before I graduate.

The program requires that I do 235 hours to graduate.

But.

I can garner up to 1300 of the 3,000 hours while I’m in the program.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to do all that and do my recovery and do my full-time nanny job, but every hour I can get is going to help.

Being able to start in the summer is a huge game changer for me.

And.

Heh.

I talked to him about doing my Community Mental Health project on the Institute.

He said absolutely, and so, two birds one stone.

Although that paper is less a concern for me than getting the placement, it’s like a nice little cherry on the top of my practicum Sunday.

I will be able to do my trainings and supervision while I work and I will be able to get what I need to graduate and also establish a client base and a practice for myself.

He talked to me about staying in the non-profit track for a while, that it was on the table, that if I worked in a non-profit for ten years I would get student loan forgiveness.

Ten years may seem like a long time.

But it’s not.

Especially if it cancels out my student loans.

Most especially if I go for my PhD.

Which I am.

That’s a lot of money forgiven.

Anyway.

I get ahead of myself.

I am just super happy and excited and relieved that I don’t have to go anywhere else, don’t have to do another open house, don’t have to do another interview, don’t have to fill out any more applications, or write another cover letter.

Or buy more interview clothes.

Heh.

Although.

I have to say.

I love, love, love my new “interview shoes.”

I will be wearing them a lot.

Maybe, um, ha, absolutely, to my new job.

I’m going to have my own office!

I know I already said that, but, my own office.

God damn that sounds so nice.

And.

While I’m on the topic of my new office, I should mention, it will be in the Mission.

Yes.

Very happy about that too.

Now if I could just find a place to live in the Mission.

I’m serious.

The commute to and from work and school is enough that I would love to cut it down.

I’m going to be working 15-20 hours at the practicum site.

I’ll be working 35-40 hours at my nanny gig.

If I can find a place that is more central I’m going to jump on it.

So here’s it out to the Universe.

I’d really like to be back in the Mission.

Or Bernal/Noe/Castro.

Heck.

SOMA could work too.

My nanny job is Glen Park.

School is Mission and 10th.

My practicum will be at 18th and Treat.

Somewhere in the middle of that.

A new home?

Yes, yes please.

Gently lifting that one up and I have no expectations and I love my home, I do, it’s so sweet and so cozy and pretty and I love the neighborhood and all the folks I have gotten to know in the last three years, but man, I could stand a shorter commute.

I’m a Mission girl at heart and though things have changed, and they probably will keep changing, I’ll probably always be a Mission girl.

It was the first place I lived in the city.

It is where I got into recovery.

It is where my heart is.

Yeah.

Goals.

And so much happiness right now.

Just pure.

Unadulterated joy.

Funny that.

How service to community opens one up.

Happy, really happy to get to do my part.

And thank you to all my friends and family who sent me love and light today as I took another big step down this path.

I love you very much.

So.

Very.

Much.

Yes.

I do.

 

 

Just Say Yes

Do something different.

Ugh.

But I don’t want to, I’ll be tired, it’s the end of my work week, it’s in a weird location, I don’t have the energy, I don’t want to ride my bicycle home that late at night.

Blah, blah, blah, Ginger, blah, blah, blah.

Wow.

Does my head have a great capacity to conjure up reasons to isolate and stay single.

I have a date Friday night and he’s come up with a fun thing to do, I didn’t have to figure it out, and my firs thought was I don’t want to.

I’ll be tired, etc, etc, etc.

I thought to myself as I was reading the text message, “you’re tired now, does not mean that you will be tired then.”

I cannot make decisions based on how I think I am going to feel four days from now.

Just say yes.

Or at least pause before responding.

Give it a minute.

I was tired when I got the message about the date, let’s go to the Grand Guignol.

The huh?

Oh.

Theater.

Nice.

And spooky theater at that.

Cool.

I was in the midst of dealing with after dinner, after swim class, in the bath tub, tooth brushing, bubbles and soap and cups and washing and two little monkeys when the message came in.

I am exhausted because it’s Monday.

Monday is not only my longest day at work, it’s also my earliest start time.

I was up this morning at 6:30 a.m. to get ready for work and be on time and do all the things.

Including taking a few minutes to sing happy birthday to my little sister who turned 40 today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

She answered and I got the honor of singing it live to her instead of leaving it on a voice mail.

I also got to explain that the gift I got for her ten days ago has not shipped yet because there was a problem at the gallery with the printing.  I got her something from an arts collective in Oakland and I got a message from the studio that the screen printing was behind and they hadn’t processed the order yet.

I got the e-mail on Friday.

Damn it man.

I had ordered it early enough so that it would get there on time.

But it’s a small arts collective and I really like there stuff and so, I said, hey cool, please send a note with it explaining what happened and please pay for the expedited shipping when it is done.

She’ll get it next week.

At least I know she got the card I sent.

I love sending cards and gifts, there’s just something about it that has always made me feel good.  I like buying people presents and I have to say, I’m pretty good at it.  I pay attention to what folks like and I believe that I often hit the nail on the head with what I get.

I also like supporting local arts and creatives in and around the Bay.

I get a lot of my stuff from here and it feels, to me anyway, even more special if it’s coming from San Francisco.

My mom has a knee surgery coming up, two days before her birthday, and I want to send her some local coffee and some treats from Tartine, since she still talks about when I took her to Philz and Phil himself made her coffee and later that same visit, I took her to Tartine.

Most of the stuff at Tartine I can’t ship to her, but I figure I can send her a bag of Philz Tesora and maybe a package of cookies from Tartine.

I haven’t set foot in that shop in years.

Not really anything in there for me to eat.

Although I do always enjoy walking by and smelling the smells, they are awful good smells.

I’m pretty psyched to also be in the Mission for work as it will lend nicely to buying Christmas presents for folks.

I won’t get too crazy, my sister, my mom, maybe a little something for my youngest niece.

If I go back to Wisconsin to visit my best friend and her brood, or skulk I should say, I will also stick a couple of things in my carry on.

Anyway.

That’s getting ahead of myself.

And I realized that I was doing the same thing with my initial resistance to the date idea.

Pause.

Respond.

Don’t react.

So I waited to respond to the message and after work I got on my bicycle and I jammed over to 7th and Irving and I caught up with some folks who I have been missing this past month with the new job.

“Are you going to be coming back,” he said giving me a huge hug, “we really miss your energy here.”

I am going to try.

I felt so much better after sitting sandwiched in between two dear friends that I knew my answer to the date question was going to be yes.

Yes, let’s go.

It sounds like fun.

I still had a minute or two of trying to figure it out, I’ll be coming from work, I’ll be this, I’ll be that, I don’t want to ride my bike home from the SOMA that late at night on a Friday.

Blah, blah, blah.

Then I realized.

Hey!

I don’t have to ride my bike home.

I can ride my scooter.

I can ask the mom tomorrow if I can park the scooter in the garage on Friday (I can’t do street parking, it’s only two hour parking and I don’t have a nanny permit for the neighborhood).

Then I can just scooter home after the play and not worry about biking.

Tada!

Solution.

And it had nothing to do with the “problem.”

See, I am the problem and I am realizing that more and more as I feel myself balking at certain aspects of this dating thing.

I am the reason I am single.

So I am the one who has to change.

And I know that initially there’s going to be some resistance.

I just have to walk through it, trust and say yes.

Yes.

Let’s go to the theater on Friday.

I mean, really, when was the last time I went to the theater anyway?

Here’s to changing.

Here’s to dating.

Here’s to saying yes.

Yes, thank you.

I’ll have another.

Home Cooked Care

I cannot for the life of me imagine why I am so tired.

I jest.

I was up, after two and a half hours of sleep, at 5a.m. to wrest myself and my belongings onto the J line train headed out of Brooklyn to Queens to connect with the AirTrain to JFK.

It seems a little surreal, that.

I was just in New York and now I am here.

I was just at Burning Man.

I have been to both sides of the country and back and wonder why I might feel a tiny bit deflated, a tad flat, a touch morose, a teeny bit sad.

I also feel happy and grateful and glad to be home.

Home is where San Francisco is.

Home is here, in my little bungalow by the beach.

It was so good to feel the cool breeze off the ocean when I deplaned today at SFO.

It hit me as soon as I step over the threshold of the plane and onto the tamarack, cool, clean, slightly salty, crisp.

A perfect San Francisco day, no fog, scatter of high wispy clouds, mid 60s, slight breeze.

When the wind was not blowing the sun felt warm, but not hot, and then the cool breeze would slough over me and refresh my weary self.

I got into SFO at 11:10 a.m. this morning.

I got on BART, then onto MUNI and it was about 1:30 p.m. when I got home to my little studio by the sea.  If you count the hours as they stood East Coast time, it took approximately 11 hours door to door to get home.

Of course I am tired.

I did nap a bit on the plane, which helped and though I don’t feel terrible, I do feel quite low-key.

Perhaps it is my body still digesting all the meat from last night.

God.

That was just yesterday.

I was walking through Central Park, sitting at Tavern on the Green, eating steak at Peter Luger’s (and bacon and lamb, and I do not apologize for it), it was just yesterday that I was at a Chelsea gallery looking at the Nick Cave exhibit, walking the Highline, having iced coffee in the hot and humid of New York.

And here I am back home.

Home, though, where the heart truly is.

I did have a wonderful dreamy time in New York, but as someone close to me recently said, “great to visit, don’t want to live there,” it is not the city for me.

San Francisco, my foggy seaside treat, you are.

I was reflecting that it’s been twelve years since I moved out here from Wisconsin.

Twelve years.

Give or take a little sabbatical in Paris.

Twelve years of rainy seasons, fog, recycling, composting, eating organic, quitting smoking, quitting drinking, no more drugs, no more car, riding my bicycle everywhere, slowing down (who am I kidding, I am still learning to slow down), meditating, trying surfing, trying yoga (neither stuck, but I do have a great wet suit to show for the surfing), giving up sugar and flour in my diet, going to Burning Man a lot (8 times in a row), concerts at Stern Grove, dancing at the EndUp and the Mezzanine, DNA Lounge and Mighty and Club 222 and The Elbow Room and The Make Out Room, riding across the Golden Gate Bridge on my bicycle, going up Twin Peaks (on foot once, on bicycle once, many times in a car, once on the back of a motorcycle, and once on my scooter), taking the cable car, the BART, the F-Market Line, living in Nob Hill (Taylor at Washington), living in Potrero Hill (Kansas and 26th), living in the Bayview (Palou at 3rd), living at the foot of Bernal Hill (Kingston and 30th) living in all sorts of places in the Mission (20th and York, 22nd and Alabama, 23d and Capp, 23rd and Folsom) and now in the Outer Sunset–46th and Judah.

Twelve years of Halloween’s, Gay Pride, Folsom Street Fairs, Castro Street Fairs, Day of the Dead, Carnival, Fourth of July fireworks, Giants play off seasons and league wins, Sunday Streets, and farmers markets, the Ferry Building, riding the ferry to Tiburon and Sausalito, walking the Embarcadero, feeding the wild parrots of Telegraph Hill, playing frisbee in South Park, lying around Dolores Park, The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence on Easter, and Hunky Jesus, SantaCon, pillow fights on Valentines Day, the How Weird Festival, Decompression parties in the DogPatch.

Twelve years of work, waiting tables at Hawthorne Lane and Absinthe (almost at Slanted Door–tried out, got hired, then they had a hiring freeze), working at San Francisco Vet Hospital, volunteering at the SPCA to do kitten socializing with feral kittens, personal assistant to a pornography director (documentary and educational films), make up artist assistant, household assistant, nanny, babysitter, customer service representative for a Bayview Wholesale vegetable and fruit vendor, house sitting, dog sitting, cat sitting, plant watering, fish sitting, front of house whiz kid at Mission Bicycle Company, and a whole bunch of odd jobs from being a hair model to dog walking and plenty of other things I am sure to be forgetting.

Twelve years of dating but not really dating, craigslist dates, Missed connections, M for Female (mostly when I first got in San Francisco before it got super creeps and weird), accidentally ending up in the first Fucking Machines studio before they relocated to the Armory and Kink Dotcom (they shared space with a Burning Man artist’s studio in the SOMA), blind dates, hook ups at, of course, The Make Out Room, the R Bar, Zietgeist, sitting outside and smoking cigarettes and drinking bloody mary’s and pitchers (pre-sobriety), dating the door man at the Crow Bar when it was still open, blind dates with guys from Silicon Valley that drove up to the city, too many OKCupid profiles, one 9 month relationship with a steam train locomotive engineer (I kid you not, RedWood Steam Trains up in the Berkley Hills, he’s probably still running the miniature trains up in the hills today) kissing outside of Muddy Waters on 24th and Valencia, strolling down 24th to Philz, too many blind dates at Philz (maybe I should stop first dates at coffee shops, I get too caffeinated), sushi at WeBe Sushi, sushi at Blowfish Sushi, a surprise date to Flour and Water when I thought we were, yes again, meeting for coffee, dates at Mavericks, Mission Bowling, Chez Spenser before it burned down, that one time I dated the tea buyer at Rainbow not knowing he bought tea for the whole store and I invited him up for a cup of stale chamomile I filched from a room mates tea box, weird underground Trance parties in the Bayview for Kontrol, making out underneath Coit Tower.

Twelve years.

San Francisco I hope I get at least twelve more.

And twelve more after that.

And well, you get the idea.

Happy Anniversary love of mine.

So very glad to be home.

Home where my heart resides easiest and best.

When I am not wearing it on my sleeve.

Enforced Retail Therapy

I got up today and was mellow, quiet, head full of peace.

Oh, thank you Jeebus, the writing I did last night worked.

I could care less about my job, the money, any of it, I had a quiet head and that was such a blessing I went about my morning with nary a care.

Just do the laundry, do the writing, drink some coffee, and log a little bit of time for the design firm sifting through e-mails and projects.

I only had a few things on my agenda today.

Pick up a package at FedEx and swing by Sugarlump to have an iced coffee with a lady, followed up by more getting what I need over at 2900 24th Street and then back to Graceland for a mellow evening in.

In between this I had some thoughts, maybe, just maybe, I would actually go buy that pair of jeans that I have been talking about getting since I decimated my last pair in Paris four months ago.

I got my package at FedEx–my playa boots–and walked leisurely over to 766 Valencia Street to chat with the guys at the bike shop about the saddle I ordered for my Burning Man bicycle, just a nice little heads up that I had a package coming in my name.

It’s nice to have a place to send stuff.

I popped into the design office, sorted through the junk mail, put the other mail on her desk and slit open the box.

Please let them fit.

They did!

And they are so cute I am tempted to not wear them at Burning Man.

The dust will kill them.

However, they were cheap enough that should I decide I must have another pair upon my return I can buy another pair.  The beautiful thing for me is that for the first time in seven years, yes, I am about to turn a Burning Man seven, I got myself a new pair of boots specifically for the event.  Something comfortable for three weeks of being on playa.

This year I feel like a lot of work is going to be waiting for me out there and I need to be prepared for it.  Socks, underpants, boots, baby wipes, tights, one utility belt, hats, sunglasses, sunblock, a parasol, and the little bit of gear I need to make my bike a comfortable ride.

I am finally seeing my importance in regards to self-care out there is the number one thing I can do for my enjoying the event.

I will be of service, that’s a huge point to me going, there’s a community that I get to help enjoy the event and I love that I am a little cog in the machine.

But to really do my job, I have to take care of my basics.

I also got a lovely message from a dear friend who has some extra bedding for me to take up to the event.

Rock on.

As I broke down the box to recycle I decided that I was going to go to Nordstrom’s Off The Rack and look for a pair of jeans.

It was time.

I stashed the boots in the office and went to the bike.

I hopped on, not trying to get anywhere too fast, there was a small voice I heard quite loudly that said, take it slow today, and I crossed Valencia street on foot pushing my bicycle across, rather than try to snake through the traffic.

I cut over at 14th then turned onto Bryant to hit the Trader Joes/Nordie’s/Pier One/Pete’s/Bed, Bath, Beyond block of stores.

There was a cop car screaming behind me and I pulled into the left lane to let it pass while another car almost cut me off getting out-of-the-way of the police car.

I noticed the guy sitting by the newspaper dispensers on 8th opening a bottle of Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joes with a wine key.

Clever that.

He spare changed me in a quiet voice but was quite intent on opening the bottle in his hands.

That reminds me, I want to stop at Trader Joes and grab a few things, my brain debated while I was walking my bicycle into the parking structure, which way do I want to go?

Left to the grocery store?

Right to the clothes store?

I was prompted to the right, my gut said go there, grocery store after.

Thank God I listened.

Had I been locked down in Trader Joes for an hour and a half I do not want to know what would have happened, 13 days abstinent on my food program, it might have been a challenge more than I could have taken.

As it was I meandered over to the Nordie’s, locked up my bike and went inside.

It was fairly quiet, not as many folks as I thought there would be and I felt like I must remember this time, so that if I had to shop there again I would do so during this hour, there was barely a person in the store.

I went through the racks looking, not seeing anything, taking my time poking around, they had just re-arranged everything, so I was getting a new look at the lay out when the music was interrupted and a woman’s voice came over the loud speakers.

“Attention Nordstrom’s shoppers, by direct order of the San Francisco police department the store is now on lock down.  No customers may leave or enter the store.  Please remain calm and stay away from all windows.”

What the fuck?

For a moment I thought, some dip ass is shop lifting and they are going to be winnowed out, there was a homeless cross-dresser in the women’s lingerie that I was pretty sure was stuffing tights down his/her baggy pants.

I ignored the announcement and went back to perusing the racks.

Wait.

Did it say, stay away from the windows?

I flinched back from a large pane glass window as another fleet of cop cars went screaming by.

What the hell?

Music interrupted again.

“Attention shoppers, please be aware that the Nordstrom’s Rack store is now on lock down by direction of the San Francisco police department.  We will alert you when you may leave the store.  Please stay away from the windows and do not panic.”

Ok.

Backing away from the windows and taking a haul of clothes to a dressing room to hide in.

I tweeted my status and was hit up by a few folks who let me know a gunman had fired at the Jewelry Center just around the corner.

Well, looks like I have all the time in the world to try on pants.

Again, thank God I did not go grab my snack first.

By the time I had gone through all the pants, yes, I did find a pair, the store was finally allowed to release the shoppers.

I paid for my jeans, a few new pairs of panties, and a new tank top, stuffed it all in my bag and walked out over to Trader Joes.

It was like the zombie apocalypse.

There was no one there.

No cars in the lot.

No customers in line.

I zoomed in and out in three minutes.

Hopped on my bike and headed through the worst traffic I have seen in the SOMA.

Grateful for my bicycle today.

Grateful for the retail therapy.

Grateful I did not get shot.

It really is nice to be alive.

With a new pair of jeans to be alive in.