Posts Tagged ‘Stuart Smalley’

Off On A Jet Plane

July 1, 2016

Well.

Soon.

But not quite yet.

I’m sitting in the terminal at SFO waiting to be able to board the plane.

I have a little time.

I have e-mailed my people, checked in, got accountable, and popped my headphones on.

I figured, I’ll blog it out and by the time I finish it with the writing it will be time to hop onto the plane to Vegas.

Then.

Houston.

Then New Orleans.

Yeah.

It’s a lot.

But.

I got a super sweet message from the woman that I am renting a room from in the historic mansion in the Treme district this morning, asking after my travel itinerary and when I would be getting in.

On the Air BnB site check in is for noon.

But.

When I told her that my flight was coming in at 8:40 a.m. she said, hop in a cab and come over, I’ll be here to let you in.

I don’t have to kill a couple of hours wandering around with my luggage!

I’m freaking stoked for that.

Seriously.

Makes up for any weirdo timing with the flights.

And honestly, it’s not a big deal.

I am super lucky I get to go.

I was in the Lyft car on the way to SFO and I was like.

Who is this woman?

And.

Where is she going?

How is it that this is my life?

I am the luckiest girl in the world.

I can’t get over it.

I will add.

My alcoholic mind added, so kind, so sweet, always thinking about me and my welfare, “who is this woman, traveling ALONE.”

Fuck you head.

I am happy traveling alone.

I am good fucking company.

I got the Skull Candy Hesh headphones on bumping some Green Velvet and I am happy as a clam with my company.

“You have done this before,” the woman behind me said in awe, as I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my jacket, set my laptop in the bin, hefted my roll on up to the conveyor belt and waited to be waved through the body screening device, pulling my boarding pass and id out of my bra.

I smiled, “I have done this a few times.”

It’s awful nice that.

Getting to travel.

I felt a bit like a rock star as I surveyed myself in the mirror before leaving the house.

“I love you and I forgive you and you look fucking amazing.”

Stuart Smalley strikes again.

Short flowered mini dress, chambray blue shirt, black leggings, Converse, hot pink mountain of hair, pink glitter rose clip, hoop earrings, a few choice star tattoos peaking out, black sweatshirt, blue jean jacket.

“Nice art,” the security guard said.

“Thanks,” I replied.

I still got the pat down.

I just don’t look like your typical traveler.

And hey.

Whatever.

I’m hella happy to be my glittery, pink, tattooed fucking fabulous self.

Rock star.

No I can’t play an instrument.

(cello once upon a time)

I can’t really sing.

“That hasn’t stopped me,” my friend said with glee as we walked out of the Paul Simon concert.

But.

I can swagger.

And I did just that.

Once I was through the gate, I pulled the earrings out, slipped my watch back on, slid into the Converse, hit the Green Velvet and sashayed down the terminal to my spot at gate number 74, United Airlines to Las Vegas.

And!

This is freaking crazy.

Sitting here, happily charging all my electronic devices, downloading an episode of OITNB (Orange is the New Black) and I look up from my laptop because there is someone staring at me with a baby.

OMG.

It is one of my best friends!

Heading out on a flight too.

We are not going the same place, but crazy.

Serendipity.

Especially since we were just texting early this week about getting together for coffee or doing the deal or whatever we could fucking figure out.

When you have a friend with a kid under two who also happens to be a doctor, well, it’s hard to make plans.

So to see her in front of me?

Fuck yeah.

She’s off to feed the baby then we will get some catch up time until I board my plane.

I have about an hour to go.

Super excited.

I haven’t even left San Francisco and it’s a fabulous trip already.

“Carmen, I love you to the moon and back 100 times,” he said to me, curled up in my lap, “I need to tell you since you’ll be traveling and I’ll be traveling and I need to let you know that you are in my heart.”

Oh my god kid, you’re killing me.

“I love you too, _________, to the moon and back,” he held his hand over my mouth.

“Wait,” his eyes got big, “I love you to the moon and back google plus times!”

Oh.

Fuck kid.

I guess I got trumped.

I don’t even know what that number is.

Is it a number?

Maybe I’ll just go google that.

Heh.

I thought infinity was the biggest number.

Both the boys were sweet and adorable, although loath to leave the house, they typically can sense when stuff is up and added to me traveling, the family is also traveling.

I was thinking about that when I was doing a bit of last minute rearranging with my luggage, is it going to rain, is it not, best to add this, take out that, swap out, and have this extra…that and, god, it’s nice to only have to pack for myself.

I can pack quick and fast and have traveled light and know how to do it and make it work.

And.

There’s my friend.

Off to go catch up.

Then.

Time.

To.

Hit the next leg of the journey.

I’ll see you in New Orleans!

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And So It Goes

November 6, 2014

I wore the wrong underpants today.

Jesus.

They are cute, not sexy, wearing sexy panties to work is weird when you’re a nanny.

But man, they did not work with the outfit today.

I was wearing my favorite pair of painters bibs and I just picked the wrong pair, I mean truly.

On the bicycle ride home I was almost as fixated with my underwear as I was with my surroundings.  The speed and essence of the bicycle ride was almost negated by the uncomfortable riding.

I couldn’t wait to get home into my yoga pants.

Which caused me to forget my underwear woes and reflect on what an amazing difference a week can make.

Last week this time I was dodging bullets, well, perhaps not bullets, but fireworks, police squad cars, mobs of San Francisco Giants fans, drunks, the random flag waver, cars with howling people shouting, ‘let’s go Giants,’ cars honking, lots of honking cars, and the desire to get home as quickly as possible to change out of my nanny attire into appropriate date attire.

Which did not include said yoga pants.

I mean, I think I look cute in my comfy cozy with my hair done up at the back of my head, but I don’t look like date night.

Last Wednesday was a pretty explosive date night, lots of fireworks, this Wednesday, nada.

It’s done.

Or so it would seem.

I mean, I cannot ever know what a person is thinking, but it’s done.

That’s what it feels like.

And like picking my underwear out of my bum, wrong panties, cute, sort of sexy, purple, frilly things, I apparently can’t pick out guys either.

I mean, I know it’s all a crap shoot, but I have been told before that my picker is broken and it would seem to be the truth.

The thing is, despite rejection being God’s protection, as I was so pithily told today, I still think I had a moment, a minute, a sly, secret hope, that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to come.

No.

No phone calls.

No text messages.

No future date.

And that’s great.

That’s all the information I need.

Move on lady pants.

In better underpants.

So how to do that?

How to keep going out and doing the dating thing if what I am attracted to is not a good fit?  How do people do this thing, this weird relationship thing?

I got to know.

It really feels like this is the time.

I don’t ever recall being at a better place in my life and since I have been in some craptacular relationships when I was in horrid places, wouldn’t it make sense that now that I am in a really good place, I would be in some really good relationships?

Of course.

I am.

I am in a great relationship with myself, I love myself and I can say that without cringing, which, man oh man, there was a time and in the not too distant past, when I could not say that without making a moue with my mouth.

Now.

Well.

I do it every morning.

After I have had my coffee, after I have had my prayers and reading and oatmeal, and I have written for a while and did the hair and the makeup and packed the messenger bag and secured a second cup of joe for the road, then I look at myself in the mirror and I say:

“I love you and I forgive you.”

Then I smile.

Because, god damn it, it’s true.

I love this woman I am and I love the person I am becoming, I know there’s more growth and more challenges and I feel capable of walking through them.

Oh.

I know.

There will be feelings and emotions, I just cannot seem to get past that, but there will be growth and beauty and art and love.

Whether it is love of the women I work with or the women who work with me, or my friends or the fellows in my community, I have strong intimate relationships.

I just don’t have a romantic one at the moment.

I did think that it was coming down the pipe line with this past guy and that’s on me.

I accept that I had expectations without even realizing that I had them.

There they were.

Sneaky little fuckers.

However.

To be honest.

To not put too fine a point on it.

I cannot recall having had that kind of chemistry in a really long time and I think the hormones just blew me the fuck out of the planet.

It’s good to have that feeling.

I believe that it is vital and necessary to be attracted to the person you are dating.

I mean, it just makes sense.

And between last Monday night and Wednesday night I was sugar-coated in desire.

It’s not a bad place to be.

And like a good little addict, I want more.

Since the source seems to have dried up it’s time to go procure elsewhere.

That is not to say that I am so callous as to think I can substitute one man for another.

Rather that I don’t want to sit, lonely girl style, next to the silent telephone.

I have too much life to give and too much love to give.

And damn it.

I am a fabulous kisser.

Let me not waste the sexy sitting in a corner, let me not put Baby there, and let me loose out into the world.

Just, um, help me, will you?

Point me in a different direction.

I am wearing blinders, I always have, and I can’t see off to the sides, the man who might be in the periphery, the person I could be going out with if I wasn’t focused on “what if I had done it different.”

If it was meant to be you can’t fuck it up.

If it wasn’t meant to be, you can’t manipulate it into happening.

There is no going back.

Just moving forward.

With kindness, compassion, and forgiveness for the experience.

Because damn it.

I am worth it.

 

“I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.”


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