Posts Tagged ‘sushi’

Everything Is Coming Up Pink

June 19, 2016

I mean everything.

Fuck me.

Ugh.

I got my hair done today and it’s awesome and fun and I had a really nice time at the salon reading trashy magazines and drinking coffee and discussing dating with my hair dresser.

You know.

Tinder versus OkStupid.

And it was a great time.

It’s nice to let myself be pampered.

I love, love, love, having my hair played with.

Seriously.

Offer to brush my hair, wash my hair, play with my hair, I’m yours.

Give me a scalp massage?

Dude.

Yeah.

So.

Getting the hair done is always an extraordinary treat.

And not one I do all that often.

Although when I do.

I do like to pull a bit of a hair geographic.

Today’s was pink.

Pastel and hot pink and it looks fantastic and my colorist was a doll and mixed up some extra color for me with some conditioner to put in my hair the next couple of times I wash it.

And away I went to Sephora on Cloud 9 to go match my hair color to my lipstick.

Because.

Please.

That is how I roll.

“Oh, I like the glitter,” my colorist said, referring to my nails which are painted sky blue, robin’s egg blue, and overlaid with, yes, pink glitter.

Because.

Again, I ain’t nothing but subtle.

Anyway.

I came back to grab my scooter and head off to my first date of the evening.

Yes.

I said first.

I had two dates tonight.

Yeah, I’m a hussy, get over it.

I’m also making up for lost time, the cancelled dates over the past few weekends, the one guy not available and the other that just never bothered to confirm, so I figured, fuck it, book two, one is bound to not be good.

They were both good.

But in very different ways.

Anyway.

I get a head of myself.

And yes, Virginia, I don’t normally do that, I have never actually done that before, but it just sort of happened and it just sort of worked.

So.

I head back to my scooter, replete with my pink hair and blow out, that’s the other thing, I got a blow out and that is so much fun, I have wild curly hair and not one iota of desire to blow out my hair, it would take me days, no thank you, not going to do it.

But put me in a salon.

All bets off.

Blow it out.

Side bar.

I can’t believe I’m blogging right now, I should be in bed, considering what time I got up this morning and that I did yoga as well, but I also had a late, as in way past my normal cut off time, Americano and I think that has just jazzed me up a bit.

So.

Blow out, new lip gloss, matches the hair like spot on and is glittery, natch, floating in the late afternoon, early evening golden light bathing the downtown and open my purse to get out my keys and check my phone.

And what the fuck?

Oh.

No.

Oh.

Shit.

Oh.

Pink.

EVERYWHERE.

The jar opened in my purse, I managed to finagle out my phone an wipe it down and my wallet, but all the stuff, all the lining of the purse, the canvas tote I got from the Jeu de Paume in Paris all of it, doused in hot pink hair dye.

Ugh.

What I am happy to report is that I did not lose my shit.

Nope.

Just took the jar wrapped it up in the bag, wiped off what I could and got on my scooter and said, well, I’ve been wanting to replace that purse anyhow.

And off I went to the first of my dates.

We met for sushi, I recognized him at the corner as he was crossing over to the restaurant, yay for looking like your profile, always a plus.

Yay, also for being on time, in fact, just a tiny bit early, which I totally appreciate as that’s how I tend to roll.

Yay for being tall.

I mean, hello, 6’5″.

I could have worn heels.

It was a slow to start date, but in the end, the dinner was nice, although I was slightly surprised to be asked to go dutch on the date, I was like, ok, whatever, not the first time, although, I had expected…

Oh, sneaky, expectations, I know where you lead.

But, I was like, ok, whatever.

And moving on.

But.

Not exactly moving on.

We walked down Valencia Street, which is odd for me to walk down when it’s the weekend and also when I’m not working, I ran into a lot of folks I know and that was amusing, always nice to be seen and to be seen on a date, I think too, is nice.

We went to Ritual, aforementioned late Americano, we sat outside.

We discussed some things.

Talked over some things.

And oh.

There.

Ha.

I wasn’t sure.

He was indeed attracted, just a slow burn sort of deal.

And that’s ok.

Some times quickly, sometimes slowly.

He had friends to meet and I had a friend to meet.

Well.

I should clarify.

I had a friends with benefits to meet.

Which was fantastic and fun and none of your business.

I can’t put it all out here, now can I?

I did find out some lovely things about myself in the whole process.

First.

Guys don’t notice, and/or care, that I had a huge, awful patch of pimples on my temples.

Like bad.

Like haven’t had a break out like this since high school.

Hello hormones, fuck you, I’m 43, enough already.

If they were noticed, which I noticed them, gah, get off my face, nothing was said.

Of course, said dates could have been blinded by the hot pink hair.

Second.

That despite getting thrown a curve ball, one in which I would have used previously as an excuse to cancel or delay, pink dye all over my purse and stuff and things, was just a small impediment to the evening and nothing to get worked up about.

What I found is that by not caring so much about how I look and presenting myself as I was, pink hair, purse, pimples, and all, I was just more me somehow.

More human.

Less put together.

And perhaps.

More approachable.

I sure hope so.

I like this new part of me emerging.

Oh.

I’m sure I’ll get wound up about something.

But for right now.

Despite the ruination of my satchel.

I’m really sitting pretty.

And.

Very.

Very.

Very.

Pink.

 

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Back to Back

May 10, 2016

Sleep overs?

Yes please.

Last night one of my best friends from school slept over.

Yes.

That’s right.

I had a girls slumber party.

There was so much talking.

OMG.

I actually can’t quite believe how much we talked, and that we could have continued to talk the entire night away.

We had our last day of the school year yesterday and went out for sushi to celebrate.

Mmmm.

Sushi.

So very good.

There had been previous talk about things we could do since she doesn’t live in the city, in fact commutes into the city for school from out of town.

The effort that some take just to show up is amazing.

Never fails to put me in a place of awe and humility, especially since I can bitch and moan about having to commute from the Outer Sunset to the Mission for work.

Speaking of which.

Still no response from the SFMTA in regards to replacing my parking permit for the scooter.

Boo hiss.

I sent them another e-mail this morning and rode my scooter to work anyway.

I did not, however, park on the block where I work.

Rather I found some metered parking for motorcycles on Valencia between 20th and 21st.

I paid for the whole day and left her there.

I may wait until next week to deal with going down to the SFMTA.

I have too much homework yet to tackle before I want to give up precious time in my day to go stand in line for the replacement permit.

Especially if there is any problem getting it issued.

Anyway.

It will get taken care of.

All in due time.

But first.

The homework.

I have it outlined in my head what I need to do and I know it will all get done.

Nothing tonight.

And that’s fine.

And nothing this morning.

Like I said we were up late chatting and talking and connecting and being “girls.”

So good.

And.

Oops.

I forgot to set my alarm!

Not a big deal, I only slept fifteen minutes past my alarm, but I feel pretty lucky that I woke up, the morning was grey and when it’s overcast and grey I don’t always wake up without the alarm.

Normally the sun will wake me up.

Not so today.

So I am super glad that I was up.

I could have slept the day away.

I was actually going back to sleep, the grey had me fooled, when a little internal voice said, just look at the time.

Oh.

Damn.

Oops.

Looks like I forgot to turn on the alarm.

And.

Oh.

Heh.

Ding dong.

My second over night slumber party has just arrived.

And.

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Heh.

Bye.

 

Signed, Sealed, And

November 7, 2015

Almost delivered.

But not quite yet.

My scooter, that is.

Yup.

I bought a brand new scooter today!

Yes.

So very excited.

And I paid all in cash.

Well, I didn’t walk in there with an envelope of cash, but I used my debit card, I don’t have a credit card, and I even was a good girl and alerted the bank to the fact that I was going to be making a large purchase so they wouldn’t put a hold on my account.

I did it all the grown up way.

Including asking for help from a friend and listening to my gut and waiting that little extra bit of time.

And putting a rear rack and basket on the scooter.

Which is why I didn’t take it right away.

Everything else was ready to go, including my insurance.

I got a hold of State Farm, they did my last policy, earlier this week and they got back to me with a quote and my agent called to follow-up this morning before I had even left the house.

His timing couldn’t have been better.

I told him I was about to be leaving the house to go out and buy the scooter and he told me to call him once I had the vin number and as soon as I gave it to him he formalized the quote, registered me, and then we charged it over the phone and I paid for six months in advance.

It was reasonable.

$268.54 for the six months.

I can’t argue with that.

While that was being set up my scooter was getting primed and ready and I kept looking at the racks on the wall.

That was the only thing missing.

So I asked how much a rack and basket would be and as it turns out Barry, the owner of Scooter Centre, offered it to me free of labor to install if I got it that day.

I decided to get it that day.

I unexpectedly got another $100 taken off the cost of the scooter as Barry had used the old “Vespa” for a commercial shoot.

Meaning a film company had gotten a hold of him and asked if they could rent a vintage Vespa for a shoot.  He was able to get some money for the rental and he took another $100 off the price of my scooter, so I turned around and invested in the basket.

I wasn’t able to stay and wait for the installation and so I will pick her up tomorrow.

Depending on what the surf is like, I may or may not get a ride from a friend in the neighborhood.

Or I may take MUNI again like I did today.

But when I get there.

I just roll out the door.

She’ll have her licence plate on her and a new rack and my motorcycle insurance went into effect as soon as I paid for it.

I had a receipt in my e-mail in box within three minutes of paying.

I could have ridden her home and I was completely in the clear.

It’s really nice having it all taken care of.

Now I just need to see if my housemate will let me park it in the garage.

She didn’t want my Vespa in the space, but I am hoping for a reprieve and some allowance.  There’s enough space, I feel, but it’s her garage, so I’m not making any assumptions.  If I can’t I’ll probably invest in a cover for the scooter.  I also bought a disc brake lock for the front wheel, so I can leave it outside. I would just feel better having it parked in a garage.

Less room for vandalism or possible theft.

And more protection from the elements.

I want to have a running ride as long as I can.

I still can’t believe that I actually bought it and insured it all today.

I even got stickers, decals, actually, gifted to me by my friend to put on the scooter.

So she’ll match my helmet.

Giggle.

I mean come on.

Why not.

I like a little dazzle and flash.

There’s also a motorcycle jacket in pink with silver piping in the mail.

Heh.

Do you expect anything less?

Come now.

I’ll be rolling around on a grey shimmer Titan (that’s the name of the color of the Buddy) with star decals wearing a sparkle silver and grey helmet with stars on it while rocking a pink motorcycle jacket.

Mwahahahahaha.

Pix to follow, I promise.

I’ve got a busy day tomorrow too.

Pick up the scooter.

Meet with a couple of ladies.

Hear a big inventory for a few hours.

Then.

Homework.

I have to get my Therapeutic Communications transcription done.

Have to.

It’s, um, due tomorrow.

So.

No pressure.

It’s not quite the same as writing a paper, so I don’t feel stressed, it’s really just a matter of sitting in one place long enough to get it done.  I figure two hours, three tops, and I should have it finished.  So after I hear the inventory I will do the transcription.

Aside from getting out to grab the scooter I will probably spend most of my Saturday here at home.

Which is alright with me.

I already feel like a got a huge, happy, warm start to my weekend.

Plus, I got to see my dear friend and go over to Corte Madera and see a lot of my fellows and do some service in that neck of the woods and run into some folks I don’t get to see very often anymore and that was lovely and cozy and good for my soul.

Followed up by a great sushi dinner and much conversation about the up coming trip to Paris.

My life rocks.

Seriously.

Who knew it could be this full and wonderful.

I am a very lucky girl.

In fact.

I may be.

The.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Hipster’s Don’t Wear Glitter

October 23, 2015

I protested over some of the best sushi I have had in recent memory.

My friend looked at the waitress and asked her, “does she look like a hipster to you?”

The Japanese waitress looked at me, smiled, looked at my friend smiled, “she looks like a hipster.”

Damn it man.

My friend was joking, poking fun at me, but I do have some tell-tale signs of hipsterdom.

I work for tech.

Although I do not work in tech.

My family is a tech family, no getting around it, just none.

I work in the Mission District of San Francisco.

San Francisco is already up there on the hipster list, but the Mission?

Please.

It is über hipster.

And that’s not because there are so many Uber drivers in the bicycle lane waiting to pick up their fares from Tacolicious or Mosto or Dosa or Bar Tartine or dropping them off in front of Rhea’s Deli to get that one sandwich that goes so god damn good with that tall boy of Pabst Blue Ribbon that was drank at Mission Dolores Park that one day last week when the weather was so good.

“Come on!” My friend exclaimed, “you ride a fixie!”

Granted.

Yes.

I do.

“You worked at a bicycle company in the Mission!”

Yes.

I did that too.

I remember when I posted a photograph on Instagram, before everyone fucking knew what Instagram was (my Paris friend was shocked that I had been on Instagram so long, nearly four years, she hadn’t realized that the app has been around that long, but yeah, I got on the bandwagon awhile ago–the app just celebrated five years or publishing the selfie, remember what that used to be?  Literally, a self-portrait, I did a few of those before Instagram, in pencil) of my bicycle and one of the dad’s I used to nanny for commented:

“The hipster just got more hip, is that possible?”

The mom of the play date at work asked me on Tuesday night if I knew so and so, “you know, she’s really cool, and hip, like you.”

I don’t know the person she was referring to, but I can infer the compliment.

“Oh, we are going to be the envy of the neighborhood,” a mom who I ended up leaving after a really uncomfortable week of being overly micro managed, said as I agreed to be her nanny.

“We got our own hipster nanny!” She exclaimed and gave me a hug.

Note to self, if they hug you that much before the job is yours they might be neurotic.

I didn’t even know there was a candidate for nanny that was hipster, must be a subculture.

Speaking of.

Here’s a great definition for hipster courtesy of Wikipedia:

The hipster subculture is one of affluent or middle class young Bohemians who reside in gentrifying neighborhoods,[1][2] broadly associated with indie and alternative music, a varied non-mainstream fashion sensibility (including vintage and thrift store-bought clothes), generally progressive political views, organicand artisanal foods, and alternative lifestyles.[3][4][5] The subculture typically consists of white millennials living in urban areas.[6][7] It has been described as a “mutating, trans-Atlantic melting pot of styles, tastes and behavior”.[8]

Hmm.

Let’s see.

I like subculture.

Ok, I can see that, ok, fine, a little hipstery there.

Affluent or middle class?

Nope.

Nope.

Nope.

But then again, better off than I have ever been and were I living in the mid west I would be considered middle class.

Of course, I wouldn’t be making half of what I make here in the San Francisco as a nanny.

No way.

No how.

And in San Francisco I am not middle class and certainly not affluent.

Bohemian?

Sure.

I will go with that, although I think I am more of a sparkle pony than a Bohemian, but I have some of the trappings, I like art, I like music that doesn’t play on the top 40 radio stations.

When, in fact, was the last time I listened to the radio?

Oh.

Ha.

Yesterday, in the car with the mom on the way to the boys appointment to get their annual flu shot.

I got mine too.

I remember listening to the lyrics of the song that was playing and wondering, who the fuck writes this?

Awfulness.

But I love art and that is very Bohemian.

So ok, a couple of points on the hipster scale and I have tattoos and yes, I do have a one speed custom bicycle, but not because I am affluent, but because I worked in a bicycle shop and not because I had some rabid interest in bicycles, it sort of fell in my lap, my friend was the General Manager and really wanted me to come and work for him.

So I did.

And I built a bike.

But my bike, despite having hipster tendencies–one speed, custom paint job, Italian drop bars, steel frame–is so not a hipster ride.

The aesthetics are totally skewed.

Hello.

I have a deep midnight blue paint job with Rock Star Sparkle top coat.

Not one coat.

But two.

No hipster in their right mind has a whip with glitter.

Or a leather seat with embossed roses from Italy.

Just me.

What else?

Oh yeah, gentrifying neighborhoods.

Yeah.

I used to live in the Mission, but no longer.

I lived at 20th and York, paid $650 for my room with its own bath in a five bedroom house with four other girls.

I bet now that rent for my room would be $3,000.

I lived at 22nd and Alabama with a woman from Northern Italy who had rent control from having lived in the top of this Victorian forever and paid $500 for a huge room with everything included.

I also lived in an enormous Victorian on 23rd and Capp before it was gentrified, thank you very much, for $450 a month plus utilities.

God.

I have people question why the hell I moved out, but if you knew who my room-mate was you probably wouldn’t have moved in.

The last place I lived in the Mission was a tiny in-law at 22nd and Folsom and I paid $750 including all utilities.

That was about two and a half, three years ago, right as it was getting crazy.

Now.

Well.

Fuck.

Whatever.

Everybody know how expensive it is to rent in San Francisco, and now I live in the Outer Sunset, where I am very happy and content to live.

Although it too is getting a little on the hipster side.

I’m definitely progressive, I definitely eat a lot of organic food, ok, sigh, I am looking more like a hipster every word I type.

Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.

I wear glasses with oversized wood frames.

I listen to alternative music.

Ever hear of jazz?

Yeah, like that.

But there’s a lot of music that I listen to that is definitely not mainstream, is underground, and is alternative.

Fuck.

I guess I am a hipster.

Wait.

Millennials.

Nope.

Fuck that.

I am so not a Millennial.

Not by a long shot.

I’m way too old.

Gen X thank you very much.

There.

See.

Not a hipster.

Well.

I guess I have some characteristics.

(Wrecking Ball coffee in my cupboard from Washington State)

Converse on my feet.

Fixie in the garage.

Yes I did own a vintage Vespa, well, I thought it was a Vespa.

But.

I protest.

I am still to glittery to be hip.

And I eschew cigarettes, tall boys, tech talk, Tinder, festival clothes, floppy hats, jean shorts (unless I’m rocking some funky tights), happy hour in the Mission, and snobbery.

See.

I’m too nice to be a hipster.

So there.

“I’m just joking!” My friend laughed at me, “you know I’m just joking.”

I do.

I do, I know.

I am willing to admit that I am often mistaken for a hipster but as soon as I wave my hand and give you a hug the truth comes out.

Oh!

Your’s so nice.

You must be from the Midwest!

Yup.

I’m not hipster.

I’m a Sconnie.

Welcome Back To “Normal”

June 17, 2015

Although there never really is a normal day in my life.

I am just not going on a date, being scammed for all the money in my bank account, or finding out that I won a full ride to graduate school.

It was a big day at work, I had to have the boys out most of the day as the house was being fitted with new heating and air duct work, so crazy amounts of working guys in and out and I had to be off premise from 10 a.m. till almost five p.m.

But.

The mom and dad are so flexible with me and the boys schedule and they have extra space outside their main residence that was used.

It ended up being a restaurant adventure sort of day for me and the boys and one that I marveled at on more than one occasion today.

I got to eat at Tacolicios for lunch, which despite its lame name, I’m sorry, it’s lame, is really quite good.

I had the Marina girl salad with grilled shrimp and sat on the patio with an iced tea while my boys ate the house made refried beans with cojita cheese and had fish tacos on hand-made tortillas and ate corn chips and rice like they were going out of style.

Then this evening, a further celebration with the family for my graduate school acceptance and the scholarship award–dinner out with them at Kiji on 23rd and Guerrero.

Oh my god.

It was so good.

I texted a friend tonight and was like, go, go, go.

I had Hamachi Kama–grilled yellow tail tuna collar-bone–extraordinary; grilled asparagus, Umi Maso, also a first for me, which is ocean trout, sashimi; Unagi–barbecued fresh water eel; Toro–blue fin belly; sautéed Japanese mushrooms; a bowl of the best Miso soup I think I have ever had; and two perfect Miyagi oysters, some of the best I have ever had, super fresh and the presentation was beautiful.

Divine.

I will be going back.

Sans the little guys.

In fact, I thought, definite date night restaurant for upcoming date.

I have many upcoming dates on my mind.

But not obsessively so and I have to say, that is so refreshing.

Just taking it nice and slow.

I’m finding the more I know about myself, the more that taking it slow feels right, good, the thing to do.

Healthy.

I am liking that.

Taking it day by day is how it’s supposed to be anyway and I realize that normal, whatever normal looks like for me, is just staying as much as possible in the moment and keeping the focus on myself and my care; on what I have to accomplish in my day and how to be the best woman I can at any given time during that day.

I’m not perfect and I don’t expect to become so, but I am feeling a whole lot more relaxed about things.

I suppose not having to be concerned with coming up with tuition money for my first two years of graduate school has something to do with that.

And my healthier approach to Burning Man.

I just got off the phone with my best friend from Wisconsin, who echoed how nice it was to hear me doing well and what a big change it was going to be for me to go to Burning Man and not work every day that I am on playa.

It’s coming up pretty fast.

However.

My next focus will be on getting to Sonoma next week and what that will look like work wise.

I’ll be heading up to Glen Ellen to work with the family and stay with them at their place, I believe it’s called Stone Tree?

It’s not their house, they rent it, but it appears to be palatial and has a pool and a lot of space and I’ll have my own room and bathroom.

Which is good.

It’s one thing to nanny at Burning Man, I mean, yes it’s Burning Man, so there’s that; but it’s quite the other to actually be a live in nanny at a house with a family.

For a week.

I’m going to miss my sweet little home by the sea.

Although, it will be sunny and there is the aforementioned pool and I will have down time.

I’m not even anxious about it, really, rather just looking forward to a new adventure with the family.

I really do consider myself so lucky to be with them.

The fit is perfect for my graduate school schedule and goals and they just take care of me and I love the boys.

God.

I love these kids.

I mean.

I know.

I say that about all the children I take care of and I love them all.

I marvel at how they are all so different, but when it comes down to certain things, there is nothing like sitting down somewhere–a stoop, the bench at a playground, on the floor, a bunk bed, or rocking chair–and snuggling and reading stories or just talking.

Yesterday the oldest boy and I sat for a good forty-five minutes on the front stoop bird watching and talking about how much we like spending time together.

“We’re going to have slumber parties in Sonoma!” He said.

And so we are.

Blackberry picking.

And blackberry pie making, the oldest one is adamant about making a black berry pie.

I’m even tempted to break out the old pie crust recipe, although I’m sure freezer ones will do, and weave a crust.

There will be swimming in the pool, hikes along the creek, visits to the llama farm down the road.

I’m excited.

And I get paid.

So there’s that.

I’m excited about all sorts of things.

Some of which I am not going to write about, but you know, read between the lines yo and know that I am happy.

Life is good.

It is generally.

But.

Really.

Life is good.

I Want To See More Of You

October 10, 2013

I told the Mister tonight.

“But I am not going to chase,” I finished.

No.

I am not.

Because, this woman is worthy of pursuit.

We went to Ebisu tonight and I made the “sushi face”.

This is the face my friend said that I must look like when I have sex, although we had never slept together and we will never as far as I am concerned, it was an apt observation.

The sushi was good tonight.

I couldn’t help making the sushi face and rubbing my knee when I got happy.

I have no idea where this comes from, I’ve mentioned it before in previous blogs, but yeah, when extremely happy eating something I have noticed myself rubbing my leg, usually my upper thigh, in small concentric circles, a soothing self-caress of luxuriousness.

It’s like eating velvet, good sushi, and my hand wants to pet something.

When I think of good sushi I do as well think of textures, soft, creamy, lush, rich, succulent, there’s a transportation that occurs.

Good sex is like that too.

“What do you want?” I asked him over the second course of the meal.

It all came out at different little moments, orchestrated it seemed to just pique the appetite onto the next place.

I had closed my menu, I was too distracted to eat, I had been thinking and talking about this conversation with myself and a couple of my good girl friends, for a day or two.

Or week.

Shhh.

I realized that I just had to bite it today or be in that ambivalent space and I am sick of the vagueness.  I have so much clarity around other things, my job, where I am living, being back in San Francisco, that I don’t want to be vague about my dating life right now.

I know what I want.

I want a committed relationship.

“I want freedom,” he said, “to work, to play, to hear music and go out to see art, to eat good food, to do yoga, to be of service and help out in my community, to spend time with beautiful attractive women,” he paused.

The crab rolls had arrived.

Crab hand rolls in nori with roe.

So good.

I mixed my wasabi in my soy sauce and watched how he ate the roll, it was not something I had experience with, not a traditional roll that I could eat with chop sticks.

I picked it up, dipped it in the wasabi spiked soy sauce and revelled in the juicy sweet crab and the pop of roe in my mouth, the nori a delicate delivery device, almost more so than the seaweed taste, a crumbling sheet that melted across my tongue just as it was subsumed by rich, savory crab meat.

Divine.

“Like this, now,” he finished, gesturing across to the restaurant and to me.

Ok.

Well, you are not looking for commitment or a girlfriend.

Gotcha.

But you are looking to spend more time with me.

That was obvious.

We walked around the Inner Sunset chatting and catching up before going to sushi and so much of the conversation had to do with things that were upcoming and finding time to see more of each other.

He paid attention, ordered me food he knew I liked, I just put down the menu and acquiesced to be taken care of, it’s a nice feeling to let go of trying to figure out what to eat at a new restaurant.  And he knows my dietary restrictions, and has always been conscious of it, which I find utterly endearing.

Besides, when you are out with someone who is as grounded in the San Francisco food scene as he is, there is no need to worry.

He has never taken me out to a bad restaurant.

I have never had a bad dining experience with him.

I just have not had as much time with him as I would like.

“What would spending more time with you look like?”  I asked him.

“Well, like this, except you would call me, ____________(his nickname amongst friends), and you would probably carry a tissue on you, everyone who I spend time with does (he has allergies and what he doesn’t know is that I bought a fancy box of kleenex last week when I thought he was going to have some time to see me and stashed it in my bathroom. ), he laughed and gently blew his nose to the side.

“I can do that,” I smiled and we continued enjoying the sushi, the company, and the green tea.

After the meal we walked over to 7th and Irving and spent a little time in those environs.  Then homeward toward the ocean.

“You were really brave,” he said as we crossed back over to the car after our time in the Inner Sunset concluded.

He was referring to when I went to Paris.

“I really admired that you did it, it really took a lot of balls, you have to respect that,” he said and looked at me as I stepped off the curb to cross the street.

“Thank you,” I said and smiled, “I am really proud of myself, for going, for trying, I don’t regret it, I never will, and I don’t know that I am moving back, but I will be going back.”

I can continue to be brave and ask for what I want, I thought to myself as we drove through the bustling early evening traffic.

We drove back along the crowded Irving Avenue blocks, past the busy pho shops and tea houses, the Asian five and dimes, and lotto stores, past the Giant Super Market at Irving and 22nd, over the Sunset Avenue, toward the ocean, the crescent moon a beacon over the water.

“Friday, I want to go,” I said.

Some mutual friends are having a bonfire down at Ocean Beach.

“Yeah, and I want to go see the Bulgari exhibit at the DeYoung, maybe I’ll get us tickets,” he said as he pulled up in front of the house.

My little house, all decorated with Halloween ghosties and cackling witches, spider webs and pumpkins–my housemates daughter is 7–and I giggled a little as he took my hand, without meaning too, thinking about how startled I had been coming home the night before and the ghost in the door way “boo’ed” at me.

“We’ll figure out time,” he said and kissed the side of my cheek.

Then my mouth.

The kisses soft, sweet, firm, ardent.

“Good,” I said after, smiling at him, “I want to see more of you, but I am not going to chase you.”

“I know, I have a responsibility here,” he said smiling.

“I like your tights,” he said out of nowhere.

(Good, I wore them with you in mind)

“I like you, _____________” I said, using his nickname.

“Hey!” He smiled at me as I climbed out of the car.

“Call me when you want to see more of me,” I finished and waved as I pulled the gate shut behind me.

I want you, but you have to want me too.

I am worth it, Mister.

But I won’t chase you.

I am the ball.

The man who wants me will come for me.

Until that time, I am free, available for dating, and oh yeah.

Surfing.

Googly Eyes

December 1, 2011

Dude.

They dilated my eyes.  My whole world is wacked.  Not as wacked as it was earlier, I am now into my fifth hour of the dilation and my eyes are almost back to normal.  Almost.  I still have odd halos around lights. But for a while there it was like I dropped a lot of acid.

And not the fun kind of acid.

Or I had taken a big hit of E.  But got none of the yummy side affects, just the black anime eyes.

I could not read, I could not look at stuff.  Oh, I tried, but it was all wonky.

I went to Rainbow and good thing I know the store like the back of my hand and it was not during their peak times.  I got out of there just before the after work rush was starting to happen.  Which is a good thing as my depth perception was seriously skewed.  Like, how did I expect to put all those groceries in my messenger bag?  My eyes were literally bigger than my stomach!

So with eggs and bananas precariously perched onto the very precipice of my Chrome bag I toddled out into traffic on my bike.

I know, I know, I am crazy.  It was an exhilarating ride.

That’s what I like to call a change of perception!  It was not a death-defying ride, it was exhilarating.

Ok, I was scared shitless.  And I went very, very slow.  I also decided that cooking for myself or wielding knives was not good idea.  So I took myself out for sushi.  The waitress handed me a menu and I snorted with laughter,  I could not read a single thing on the menu.  I just got the special.

And what do you know?  It was fabulous.

My phone whistled at me to signify that I had an incoming text.

Side Bar–I just realized that I don’t cringe anymore when I get a text message!  I am not expecting a demanding update from one of K’s parents about whether or not she’s eaten, slept, pooped, or had any unwanted contact with the outside world, like fresh air. I actually get a little frisson of nerves now.

That probably has to do with getting texts from Mr. West Oakland.  With whom I had “the talk” last night.  In which I told him that I was not interested in just a hook up, that I was not interested in sleeping with someone after two dates.  I acknowledged that we had chemistry, jesus, there’s enough chemistry to make a room full of high school boys sprout hairy palms, but that chemistry was not enough.

He said he understood, that I was “husband shopping”.

I am quite proud of myself for not 1. denying it or 2. getting pissed off at him for saying it.

Fact is, he’s correct.  I am, as he pointed out, of a certain age and I am done “pillow hopping”.  Now I have never heard it put quite like that before, but that about sums it up.  I am looking for a partner, a husband, a mate.  I am old fucking fashioned despite the nose ring, the hipster glasses, the hipster bike shop job, the sleeves of tattoos on my arms and the Iphone I am rapidly becoming attached to like it’s my child.

End Side Bar-

The waitress commented, wait, so you can read that, meaning the incoming text on my phone, but not the menu.  Well, sort of.  And then she made a suggestion.  First, switch seats, the glare is not as bad on the other side of the table.  So I did,  and she was right!  Second, put down the phone and the menu and just enjoy the feeling of sitting in your body, close your eyes if you want to.

Ok, only in San Francisco could a waitress so blithely suggest that, with no hint of malice or attitude.  And no I was not at Cafe Gratitude, I was at We Be Sushi on Valencia at 16th.  So, I did.  And I had the loveliest meal.  I sat and closed my eyes and drank the hot cup of green tea (how come when I make green tea I can’t stand it?  I never buy it in the store, it tastes like ass, but when I am at a sushi restaurant it always tastes just so divine).  I felt the hot liquid course its way through my body from the mouth down my chest into my stomach and felt suffused with a soft warm glow.

When I opened my eyes the world was still wild and wonky, but now it was soft and I had relaxed and I wasn’t forcing my eyes to adjust.  I just let myself enjoy the halos of christmas kaleidoscope lights that frizzle frazzled my pupils.  Then I had my miso soup and it was delicious and warm and salty (ah salt, my last hold out, the only white powder I deign to do anymore).  And the sushi!  God lord, soft, luscious, buttery, melt in my mouth in ecstasy, combined with the prick of wasabi and the umami of the soy sauce, I rolled my eyes back and sighed with complete contentment.

Maybe I should get my eyes dilated more often!

Afterword, I slowed down further.  It had become dusk and with the falling of the light the turning on of the head lights was happening and the cars on Valencia where a cacophony of rainbowed halos and fuzzy halogens.  My depth perception went completely out the window and I contemplated getting off my bike and walking the rest of the way.

But I did not.  I just went slow, very, very slow. An octogenarian with hip problems passed me by.  But I made it to where I needed to be.  Unloaded my bag and sat for an hour in a chair with my eyes closed listening to the world turn around me.  It was delirious fun.  I don’t know that I could meditate for that long again, I basically just sat for an hour, but it was amazing.  And when my hour was done I climbed slowly out of my cocoon of silence and I felt light and soft and downy like chick fluff.

I wanted for only one thing–a hot bath.  Alas, my accommodations do not have that.  Wait a second!  Yes they do.  Duh, the down stairs bathroom does have a tub.  Oh my god.  I think I am going to indulge myself completely, finish this blog let my googly eyes get that last bit of rest they need and go sit in some bubbles.

Dude.

I don’t really want to do the dilating of the eyes again any time soon, but perhaps I will choose to take the lesson of the day with me for a little while.  Stop.  Slow down.  Sit still.  Be in my body.

It is a lovely place to abide.


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