Posts Tagged ‘temper tantrum’

Don’t Tell Me How To Do My Job!

September 22, 2015

Or anything else either.

I am feeling a touch overwhelmed.

Can you tell?

First, I had too many people, two, but who’s counting, tell me what to do today while I was working.

Hey, you know what?

I didn’t fucking ask.

Further.

I don’t want your opinion.

And lastly.

Yes.

I did some spot check inventory and some checking in with myself and I understood pretty damn quick as I cramped up in KidPower Park (crack power now!) that I had just ovulated.

Great.

I’ll be getting that friendly reminder in the next day or two.

Which is fine.

It’s on time, it’s doing what it does, the body.

I just knew there was something up with me when I got overly sensitive to the three-year old throwing a temper tantrum on the sidewalk as I pushed the stroller through La Mission, the great gentrification thereof, and it’s nearby environs.

People do not always like kids in the Mission.

The hipsters don’t want to get out-of-the-way of the stroller and no one wants a screaming three-year old disturbing them while they taste artisanal chocolates at Dandelion or while they are getting their haircut at Fellow Barber, or god forbid while they are on a sneaky Tinder date early happy hour at Bar Tartine.

No.

And nothing says good times like a three-year old screaming at the top of his lungs while flailing his feet in the stroller.

“IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!”

Sorry kiddo.

No bagels to be had at 4:30 p.m. on a Monday afternoon in the Mission.

Oh.

I know i could have gotten him a “special treat” at the coffee shop, but I was just stopping in to grab a thank you card for someone who had sent me a Bicycle Coalition Membership!

That was a nice thing to get in the mail.

Especially since I have no extra money and I apparently, I will get to the bottom of this later, I owe money on my account with school?

Anyway.

I had not found out that information and I am not certain to the credibility of it and I am trying to not panic at the thought of owing $3,478.

I mean, huh?

Oh.

Fuck.

I don’t want to write about this right now.

I am still writing about a bagel.

“Honey, I’m not getting you a bagel right now, we’re going to have dinner in a half hour,” I said as I paid for the card.

“IWANTASPECIALSNACK!”

“I made you a special dinner,” I cajoled, accepting the change and rapidly wheeling the stroller out the door and over to the park.

I had agreed to go to KidPower Park as the boys also wanted to stop by the Eco Center on 17th between Valencia and Hoff.

“She made chicken pot pie!” The five-year old gleefully jumped up and down.

“IDONTWANTCHICKENPOTPIE!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!IWANTABAGEL!”

UGH.

I had made chicken pot pie.

And roasted cauliflower.

And I was not about to bend on the bagel.

Once in a while a bagel is great, but not right before dinner and I knew I couldn’t justify it and I headed off to the park with a wailing, flailing, screaming child.

“He needs to get out and walk,” a man told me, who was also trying to hand me some sample of something in front of a store.

“No thank you,” I said as I went past.

“He needs to get out and walk,” the man said again, louder, stepping up to me.

I wheeled around with fire in my eyes, “I’ll thank you to NOT tell me how to do my job.”

And I walked away.

Grr.

I hate responding to people like that.

I don’t like being mean and I don’t like it when people assume I don’t know what I am doing, or try to offer help and I realized by the time I got to the park as was booting a homeless man out of the playground who was digging through the trash with a stray dog running around him, that I was about to go on a tear.

I asked the man to leave the play area and was told, “get a job!”

“I have a job, this is my job, you are in the way of me doing my job, get out of the children’s playground with the dog or I call the cops.”

I didn’t raise my voice, but I was dead serious.

He left.

He muttered some things best left unsaid.

I have called the cops three times in the year that I have nannied the boys.

Addict shooting up in the playground.

Pack of adolescents smoking pot and crack in the playground.

Homeless deranged man masturbating on the corner, I mean full on pants around his ankles, dick out and in hand.

Oh my fucking god I did not need to see that.

I got myself under control and then bent over double.

Ouch.

Oh?

Oh really.

Sigh.

Well, that makes more sense.

And I didn’t even need a third person to get pissed off at.

Generally I find that if I call three people an asshole in one day, I’m the asshole.

I got there a little faster today.

Hello.

And.

Happy Monday.

Happy anniversary to me too.

Well.

Almost.

Tomorrow makes one year with the family.

I mentioned it tonight before I left.

Which means tomorrow I ask for the pay raise.

I’m going to need it if I owe money on my tuition bill.

I can’t imagine why I have an outstanding balance and I can see that, obviously, something has been applied to it, since it would be a lot more than $3,478.

But.

I thought I was actually getting back some money.

That once my scholarship and subsequent loans were applied there was going to be an offset of about $2700 to my bank account.

I guess I need to call the financial aid office tomorrow and find out what is happening.

Perhaps my loans have been applied, but not yet the scholarship?

I know that the disbursement was to happen this Friday, although I received the letter from my federal student loan lender that my financial aid loan was applied to my school.

That must be it.

That is the only thing that makes sense.

The loans were applied, but my scholarship won’t be disbursed until Friday when the school disburses funds.

Whew.

That’s a relief.

Anyway.

There is nothing wrong.

Even if I do owe money.

It will come from somewhere.

I have a month’s rent in the savings and that will cover some costs and I suspect I will be taken care of anyway.

I always am.

I do the work.

I show up.

Even when someone tells me how to do me how to do my job, I know that I am doing a damn fine one indeed.

I have nothing to worry about.

Not at all.

Life is good.

Really.

I insist.

I don’t even need a special snack to know that.

Finding Space

September 17, 2015

in between the spaces.

I took an hour this morning that I did not even think I had.

I took it anyway.

I read school work for an hour instead of getting my nails done.

But I have a date tomorrow.

Who cares.

The man met you in a white out dust storm at Burning Man and took you into his bed despite not having shaved or showered in four days, that’s tasty to contemplate, he is not going to give a fuck about your nails.

But.

He will give a fuck if you’re distracted pants because you feel like you need to be taking care of business.

So.

I took care of fucking business today.

I sat my ass back down at my table, when I was really and truly about to go out the door.

I did my own nails and read for an hour.

I finished and caught up with a second class of work.

I already did the paper that is due for that class, so one down three to go.

Oh.

And look there, yes, the reading load is horrific, really lady, stop already, but I don’t have a paper due until the 2nd of October, I thereby have breathing space.

I still need to get a lot done and I have a group project that I have to work on as well, but there is space.

There is time.

When I sit still.

I find there is more time than I thought.

And.

When I am not procrastinating I feel more competent in my work and I know that I will get caught up with what needs to be done.

I also got home tonight and read until 10pm.

That seems to be as much as I can do at the moment.

And that added another few minutes into my day of looking at my graduate school work and assimilating the knowledge into my brain the best way I possibly could.

Hell.

It seems to be working.

I practiced non violent communication with the five-year old after a faked temper tantrum of dramatic proportions broke out post dinner pre bath time.

I was amazed at how well it worked and wanted to do a jig of happiness, but the three-year old was busy being three and that was curtailed.

The celebration that is.

But not the recognition that even in this brief amount of time being in graduate school, I am already learning and applying that knowledge to what is happening in my work environment.

Good to remind myself as I come up on my year, the 22nd of the month marks a year of being with the family, and my asking for a raise.

Not quite sure how that conversation is going to happen, but happen it will.

And I am constantly being taken care of.

“Here, take this,” my friend handed me $100.

“I know you didn’t get a paycheck last week, it’ll help with groceries,” he finished tucking it into my hand.

Tears prickled my eyes.

I said thank you.

I folded the bill and put it in my bra.

I forgot it was there.

Went to the store and realized I needed to take the bill out of my brassiere and pay for a quick food staple I had forgotten to buy the other day on my SafeWay run–which was almost exactly $100.

Groceries for a week.

So very grateful.

I forget how much abundance and generosity there is in the world.

I forget that I am always, beautifully, taken care of.

It is not always how I think it’s going to look and so often it is because I am NOT looking at myself, rather at how I can help out someone else.

Not an attitude that I have in spades, but one I have learned to cultivate.

One that saves my life.

I exaggerate not.

Again and again.

That is not to say that I should not or need not speak up for myself at work.

I need to do it.

I should have asked for a raise long ago, especially after being told I was the best nanny the family has had in five nannies and my salary is the same as the nanny who left them last year.

I realized that I was beholden to the plane ticket they bought for me when I went up to Anchorage to see my dad.

And that I am afraid to ask.

Of course.

If I don’t ask.

I won’t receive.

Even if I don’t get a raise, I feel like I have to ask.

The nice thing too, I have done my numbers fifteen ways to Sunday and I know exactly what I need to bring in to the penny to make it while I am in school.

I can make it on what I make now, working five hours a week less than I was working two weeks ago, and the extra time and space I have given myself will make my life a better place to live.

I could go through the process of being scared.

Or.

I can find the space to continue moving forward.

Doing the things that I do best.

Showing up.

Being accountable.

Doing a good job.

Hell.

The timing people!

I just got a text message about a place in the neighborhood that might have a room open up that is significantly cheaper than what I am paying now.

Now there’s a thought.

It has not even occurred to me to move.

I’m not sure I want to give up my autonomy here.

I do love my little home by the sea.

I would still be by the sea but at Noriega instead of Judah.

That’s not too much further than I am now.

Another five minutes or so on the bicycle everyday.

But maybe.

Stuff and things.

Everything is fine.

I have no problems.

I have only oceans of solution and love.

Love.

Yes.

Always.

Just there.

On the periphery of my fears.

Dancing a soft shoe shuffle.

Waltzing a prandial of desire.

Love.

Brown sugar crystals and the faint.

Caustic.

Drift of cigarette smoke.

I am going to be just fine.

I already am.

“Pet Me”

August 6, 2015

Oh baby.

Of course.

Curl up in my arms and I will hold you and pet you.

I stroked his small, warm back.

We had us a day.

it started out with one hell of a temper tantrum.

Screaming.

Outside.

Yikes.

It escalated and then.

It stopped.

He blew himself out and then got tired and we sat down on a neighbor’s steps and I held him against my heart and when his breath had slowed I looked at him, “take another breath for me, big deep breath,” I said and demonstrated.

He breathed in.

His wet eyes, mashed eyelashes, brown pools of sweet soft little boy.

“How old are you sweet pie?”  I asked him, brushing the hair off his forehead.

“Three,” he whispered.

“Three more breathes in and out and then we’ll talk about what we can do to make this better,” I cradled him on my lap while his brother hid in the stroller with his hands over his ears.

I am sure that the older brother was not the only one with hands over ears on the block for the duration of the tantrum.

But.

Then.

Peace and the struggle was over.

It was about his stuffed cat, who, yes, I refer to it as a who, sometimes a she, sometimes a he, Meow Meow, has become a source of such comfort for the littlest guy that now, this last week especially, he has insisted on leaving the house to go to the park with the stuffie.

Unfortunately.

The once white cat is now grey.

“Look!”  The five year old said at the park yesterday, “Meow Meow is camouflaged!”

And indeed he was.

The stuffed cat blended right into the dirty sidewalk.

Ugh.

It’s not that I really care all that much if the stuffed toy gets dirty, it’s more that Meow Meow has become a weapon of destruction when the three-year old loses his ability, slight at this age, to communicate his needs.

Reminds me of myself at times, I will lash out unhesitating in my necessity to claim what ever security I can grasp in my small little world.

But the reaction has gotten pretty bad and the cat ends up being used as a device to beat his brother or worse.

He’s used it to hit other little kids at the playground.

So far no real cats have been hurt in our capers, but I am concerned.

“Meow Meow is a lover, not a fighter,” I explained to him today.

More than once.

But we’re working it out.

The summer is coming to a close, in a manner of speaking, for the boys.

School camp starts next week, which is the school’s way of integrating the new students into the system, the pre-school kids and the new kindergarten kids into the system, as well as providing a nice little segue for the parents into the school year.

It is handily timed, as I will be out-of-town next week myself.

I’ll be in school too.

Oh god.

This is happening.

I got a little freaked today and wished for a minute that I could be a little cat, curl up in someone’s lap, hide away from the world with my blanket and be pet and stroked and taken care of.

But it’s just me here doing the deal, so to the best of my ability, I’m taking care of myself with kindness and compassion and breathing through the moments as calm as possible.

Being 42 years old I wonder if I should be taking that many breaths when I get overwhelmed.

It’s not a bad idea.

I had to remind myself to just take the time to sort and look at my books today, get a little more organized, I still have loads of reading to do before I hit the retreat on Sunday.

Check in time is 4p.m.

Granted, classes don’t start until Monday morning, so I do have Sunday to do some reading as well, but I really want to have the majority of it done before I head to the retreat.

I would like to also ask the cohort how the hell I’m supposed to enjoy the retreat if I’ve got hundreds of pages of reading to do to be prepared for just the retreat and as far as I can see I also will have two papers due relatively soon thereafter the retreat–which will be written while I am working with the family in Sonoma.

Retreat my ass.

It feels like boot camp.

But that’s just my perspective.

I had to take manageable little bites with the reading.

And also to be kind to myself.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

I shouted this evening when I got home from work, looking over the syllabus for one of the classes.

I realized I had overlooked a book on the list of readings that I had to do and it precipitated a great deal of anxiety as I looked over the stack of books and yes, did indeed confirm, that I was missing a tome.

I got online immediately and ordered it through Amazon.

Most of my books I found online and I have bought all of them used.

I would not be able to afford them all at list price and I’m willing to overlook the used quality of the books to just have them in my possession.

Fortunately I discovered that the reading out of that book was not listed for the retreat.

Whew.

And I’ll have it by the time I do have to have it.

And breathe.

I’m sure the retreat will actually be good for me.

I’ll meditate.

I’ll get outside.

The great out doors.

(G.O.D.)

Get right with the trees and hills and sky.

I’ll take walks.

And, fingers crossed, I’ll get myself into the hot tub underneath the bright stars outside the city lights and I will soak away the worry and fear.

I’ll let myself be myself and I won’t be afraid.

Or I will.

But I will remember to breathe and when I have that feeling that I just need someone to hold my hand, someone to pet me, to console me, and stroke my hair, I’ll ask for God to hold my hand through it.

And I’ll get by just fine.

I always do.

Hello Monday

April 14, 2015

Let’s be friends.

I wrote that this morning as I was sitting and thinking about what my day would look like, how it would go, where I would go, what I would do, and then further, how I was going to be.

Happy.

That was my choice.

Happy is a choice.

Sometimes happy happens all on its own and that is lovely and surprising and I am always grateful for it.

Then there are other times, Monday’s, when I have to put myself in that mode and get happy.

I put my hair in pony tails.

I wore some electric blue and some purple.

I stuck a couple of big purple and teal flowers in my hair.

And I did my make up to match–shimmery purple glitter on the whole lid complimented with some teal eyeliner set off by a black winged cats eye and two layers of black water proof mascara.

Waterproofing.

I should have known.

I think I was subconsciously telling myself, but i didn’t hear it.

I was busy getting happy and doing my writing in my pink glitter notebook and thinking I should make a run on Flax and pick up a notebook and that I needed some new stickers, I’m almost out and what could I do to guarantee I would continue bright and upbeat and not let Monday have its way with me.

“Swimming, swimming, we’re going swimming,” the mom was singing to the boys when I walked in this morning.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I whispered under my breath.

Of course.

It was a family swim day.

Spring Break you’re going to kill me.

But, I put myself in the happy place, breathe and pray, and got into it.

“Carmen? Carmen! Carmen!”  The oldest came hustling down the stairs and ran into the kitchen where I was putting together stacks of snacks for the trip to the pool and back.

Swimming makes for hungry little boys.

“You’re here!” He hugged me, “it’s so good to see you, I missed you!”

I missed you too, my sweet guy.

I picked him up and gave him a big squeeze.

“Sometimes you hug so hard I think it’s going to hurt,” he told me, “but it never does.”

I felt a small hand reach inside my heart and squeeze it.

These kids get me.

I have thought before when transitioning to a new family from another that I wouldn’t love the kids as much or there would be differences and I wouldn’t be accepted or, whatever it was, that there wasn’t enough love in me to go out to another child.

And yet.

There always is.

There are times when I have a moment with the little guy and he’s my favorite and the best and wouldn’t trade him in for millions.

Then the oldest does something like hug me and kiss my face and ask me to sit by him and write out “a very secret story that only you and I share,” and he snuggles into me while dictating the words to the secret story, so secret that I can’t even look, and then, yes, he is my favorite.

The best.

The most awesome.

Then I see my little Junebug and Charlie Reno squished up on the top bunk of Charlie’s bed–my screen saver on my phone, Junie’s eyes wide, saucer like, glowing like love lamps and my heart squishes and she is it, oh goodness, so much it breaks me in half and then in half and in half again, times infinity and beyond.

“My favorite number is 20 hundred plus infinity,” the older one informed me out of the blue.

Yeah.

Like that.

Love it doesn’t wear out or go away or get smaller, it just grows, and like a flower forever blooming it only grows sweeter and better even when the person is not close to me or gone another way.

I have this note that a dear friend, who is currently not talking to me, but that’s another story, wrote me this past year about how much I inspire him and that I will never understand how much and that I have loved him more than he deserves and that for that he will always love me more than I will know.

And another note, on two yellow stickies about me on my playa bike and how she thinks of me with love, and it accompanied a necklace sent from my best friend in Wisconsin.

Then there’s the photograph of me and my darling girl friend, who takes a lot of random ass, I’m freaking out, need to talk me down from the ledge moments, of her and I doing the tourist photograph from Alcatraz.

I have postcards and note cards and “love letters” all over my fridge.

I have the most amazing print from a friend who signs it “Love you Carmen.”

And I know she does.

And I love her.

Love.

It’s so nice.

And it’s a good thing to remember when the two and 3/4 year old boy, half-naked, then completely naked, launches into the longest temper tantrum I have ever experienced.

Second only in severity to the one he threw in the bathroom at Mission Playground.

This one happened at La Petite Bailene, in the locker room, that space that is the echo chamber to end all echo chambers, a locker room.

The screams.

It was horror.

He lost it.

Lost it.

Lost it.

The tantrum was prefaced by him not wanting to get out of the pool, which is so amazing, a few weeks ago he was adamantly against the pool and I remember telling the mom that it would change, patience and practice and gentle repetition and before you know it, he will love the pool.

He loves it so much that when the family swim was over, and my eye makeup had been dashed and sprayed and doused in water and he was swimming with nanny the raccoon, he wouldn’t get out.

And he didn’t have a choice.

Open swim was over.

Try telling that to a stubborn child who has his heart set on swimming and all the wonder of it.

Poor baby.

The mom and I managed, the older brother managed, the snickering of the German mom changing her small children out of their co-ordinated racer back swimsuits in the corner, I could have done without, but you know, what ever, tantrums happen and one day you’ll get yours lady.

The mom got him out of his swim suit and wet trunks, but getting him into clothes was impossible.

Executive decision time, out to the car naked, but he pulled the one trick out of the bag to get back into the swimming pool facility.

He stopped wailing and in the calmest voice ever, said, “I have to pee.”

Oh good gravy.

Kid.

You are killing me.

I looked at the mom, “I’ll do it, give me his clothes,” I ran him back inside, got him in a stall, he tried to escape, I knew he wanted back to the pool and the tantrum exploded again.

Mad little naked monkey.

I did eventually get him changed and dressed and out the door and into the car seat and back home and he napped and then the world became a much quieter place, but for a moment, I had the Monday blues.

Oh yes I did.

Then the day ended and he sat in my lap and snuggled and said, “please, oh please, eat your food,” he likes my beans and rice dishes.

He curled up with his stuffed cat in my chair and ate beans and rice and I fed his brother and we did bath time and it was all good.

Love.

It doesn’t go away when things get hard or screaming happens, all the emotions, all the big feels, they are just a part of the journey.

And even though Monday was not quite as happy as I had planned it to be.

It was still full and wonderful even when it was tough and heartrending.

That might be the best definition for love I have.

And I can always use a little more.

Or a lot more.

Like.

20 hundred plus infinity.

March Madness

March 3, 2015

I’m already booked.

What the fuck?

It’s March 2nd and every single weekend is booked.

I have some space to wiggle, but basically, every one of my Saturdays’s for the entire month of March is booked in.

As of this afternoon, I have a graduation celebration to go to, in Oakland, which I had RSVP’d to and then completely forgot until it popped up in my calendar today, that is for this upcoming Saturday.

Then the Saturday following, a baby shower in Berkeley.

The weekend following is my dearest friend’s birthday and we are going to go to Alcatraz to see the Ai Weiwei exhibit before it leaves.

I can’t believe that I am actually going to go to Alcatraz, twelve years of living in San Francisco, give or take a hot second in Paris, and I have never been out to that lonely lump of rock in the Bay.

It’s too spooky for me, frankly, but this is my friend’s birthday and the exhibit is exquisite from all reports, so off to the rock I go.

Then, I may be going down to Chula Vista to see my grandmother and my uncle and an aunt and I suspect a bunch of cousins.

My uncle called and left a message for me about coordinating a time to go to Chula Vista, this month. I hadn’t planned on going so soon, but it makes sense to go when my Uncle will be there and voila, there’s the month.

And the week, well it started off with a bang.

Or a scream as the case may be.

A screaming, shaking, writhing, pee drenched temper tantrum that lasted over twenty minutes in the handicap stall in the public bathroom at Mission playground.

I had been warned upon entering the house this morning that the littlest guy was a bit on the fragile side.

His big brother’s blow out birthday bash was yesterday and the little guy did not have a nap, and I suspect was cupcake hung over with sugar.

He was an intense little guy to deal with and apparently suffered some sort of potty training trauma yesterday at the park with the party and when he wet his pants at the park the melt down went into full overdrive.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

He did not, NO, want his pants taken off.

Poor baby.

They are all wet and the underpants are wet and they have to come off.

We went to the bathroom and it was just a riot act.

I have never had a child scream so loud, thrash so hard or get so upset.

He was a contrary little ball of emotions and the temper tantrum was in full on hysterical while he was half-naked.

I had a shirt cocking maniacal two and a half-year old hollering bloody murder in a public bathroom.

I expected CPS (Child Protection Services) to bang down the bathroom stall and ship me off to 850 Bryant (the jail downtown).

I took everything I had, all my wonderful serene energy, all my patience, all my love, my entire nanny wrangling abilities to get the child into a pair of shorts.

I don’t think I have ever had such a struggle, in 8 years of being a nanny; it was the longest, most intense, almost savage, emotional outburst I have been a party to.

I wonder what the hell happened over the weekend.

I was able to laugh over it later this evening when I was sharing about my day and finding myself so helpless, so powerless over what was happening.

That and the ridiculous box of confetti that was spilled, a huge box, not a little box, of shredded paper that was the packing contents of a shipping box that was thrown wildly all over the kitchen right before dinner.

I used three different vacuum cleaners and attachments to get it all up.

It didn’t help that the cleaners had come in early in the day; I felt I had to get it all up and there was just no getting it all up.

I picked up the youngest boy and shook him by his ankles and tickled his ribs, “who put the quarter in you today?” I asked him.

“Me! I put quarter in me!”

Yeah you did.

Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick.

Let me not horrify you with the bath time saga.

Suffice to say.

It was a wild day.

Happy Monday.

Hopefully that’s out of his system and we can get back to our regularly scheduled program of nanny.

Not as if that’s not busy in and of itself, swim lessons, cooking, laundry, marketing, play dates, ad infinitum.

Life, well, it’s full, that’s for sure.

And that’s the way it usually is.

Full.

Which is nice.

I like being busy.

The busy that has to do with seeing family and friends is a good kind of busy too.

I am busy celebrating life.

My friend’s party in Oakland for accumulating her 3,000 therapy hours; my friend in Berkeley celebrating her baby and having a baby shower; my dear friend’s birthday, my family in Chula Vista.

These things are good and sustain and important relationships that I get to cultivate.

Which means saying yes and going and doing even when I think I have better plans or need to keep some space open for dating.

I’m not asking anyone out for a while, I’m over that, so unless someone crosses my path and asks me out, I have room for these obligations, which aren’t obligations, but joy.

I have heard folks say that they worry about what will happen, how will they have fun without the party and the booze and the drugs.

Let me be the one to reassure you.

Life gets full, really full.

It’s amazing.

I am no longer at the end of the bar at the end of the night talking about the things I want to be doing.

Rather I am doing them.

It’s a privilege, to live this full life.

One I’m grateful for, even in awe of.

March madness it may be, but really.

It’s just a typical month in my life.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

And as per usual.

Hella busy.

 

Why Is She Hugging

January 16, 2015

The working guy?

I could almost hear the thought bubble over the mom’s head as she pulled out to run errands this afternoon.

I had been sent out to BiRite to procure food to make dinner, the pizza party was a smashing success in case you were wondering, for the evening.

I love going to BiRite.

It’s just far enough away that I can stretch my legs, but not too far that I can’t do the trip in a decent amount of time.

I could even bicycle over there, I don’t know why I haven’t thought of that before now.

Most times, though, I am with one or two of the boys.

A double stroller in that store is a ticket to resentment and anger, so I don’t often do that.  Most times, I’m with the littlest guy and we make an early run before lunch and naps.

There was none of that this morning, waist deep in potty training and using the current favorite work, “NO!” at top vocal capacity, there was no going to the store.

There was no leaving the bathroom for a while.

I walked into twenty-minute tantrum this morning.

And so it goes.

Feelings they happen.

When I am having them, off, I think they are going to last forever.

“I just don’t want to feel anymore,” she said to me tonight on the phone.

Don’t I know it.

That’s why I spent over half of my life checking the fuck out.

I am a sensitive creature.

I don’t want to have feelings either.

Although they are the things that make life so very interesting.

I don’t care for them.

Unless they are ecstatic, euphoric, happy all the time, tinged with upbeat excitement, tingling anticipation, spiked with a little adrenalin and orgasmic in nature.

Then.

Bring them the fuck on.

I mean.

Hell yes.

But regular old feelings?

Pain, grief, sorrow, ambivalence, boredom, anxiety, worry, depression.

No thank you.

No, really, I’m not interested.

I’ll take serenity though, calmness, peacefulness, contentment, these are some feelings I’m down with too.

The thing is, I will always have a bundle of them.

The thing is, feelings are not facts.

The frustration of potty training and the anxiety of feeling and acknowledging his own unique self has made my little two and a half-year old a little wild.

What is happening?

I don’t like it!

Make it stop!

Give me Skittles!

Ugh.

The mom was a peach though and said, you run without him to BiRite and I’ll put him down for his nap before I have to head out.

Deal.

I grabbed the money, a cloth bag, and my phone and hit the road.

I got to make a few phone calls, check in with a few folks, get some perspective on my day.

I went to confirm a meeting for tonight and was cancelled on, she’s sick.

There’s some super bug going around, I keep avoiding it by the skin of my teeth.  I got the flu vaccination, so there’s that, but I suspect it’s also being a nanny, I’m pretty immune.

Knock on wood.

It’s been a hot second since I’ve been sick.

I’ll take a big pass on it.

Especially since I have a big weekend coming up.

I had made reservations at Samovar tea lounge for a celebration party but it was cancelled on me, so I’ll be heading for a nosh up to the Firewood Cafe in the Castro.

It’s pretty casual, but it’ll hold a bunch of folks and it looks like there’s anywhere from 8 to 11 people showing up.  We can grab a bunch of tables, get cozy and hang out.

I’ll be coming from Castro Tattoo where my friend Barnaby will be planting my 10th star on my neck.

Excited for that.

Excited too for the dancing after dinner and a meet up with some fellows in Noe Valley.

I’ve got some friends coming in from Berkeley, Castro Valley, and Alameda who I realize I haven’t seen all together like this since we were all hanging out at Burning Man.

There will likely be talk of Burning Man at the table.

I do that thing.

I don’t know if I will this year, but I want to.

I have to wait and find out about graduate school before making any solid plans for the event.

I would feel really weird, though, to not go.

This year would be year number 9 for me.

I may have to be in school, and if I get in, that’s going to have to take priority.

Then again, I could go pre-event.

I know enough folks to get into some sort of service position there to get an early arrival pass.

“Are you going to go this year?” My darling friend asked, she’ll be going back for her second time and has begun the preparing.

You may scoff, but really, I prepare for the damn thing year round at this point.

If I see something that makes sense for me to go to Burning Man with, I get that thing.  I have socks and tights that I rarely wear out, though I suppose I could, I do live in San Francisco, which though heavily gentrified in parts, is still a wild creative place.

I felt like I got to be that little bit of special flavor today as I walked around a group of tourists in front of Craftsman and Wolves on Valencia Street.

Oh look.

A local out shopping.

Yes.

Oh and what colorful tattoos.

Yes, now move, I have places to go and things to cook.

Today I made ginger chicken stir fry with celery and green onions, sushi rice, and prepped fruit.

I saw my friend as I was turning the corner and went up to sneak in a hug before getting my cook on.

The grin on his face was beaming.

We hugged.

He had just celebrated an anniversary the day before mine.

We both could have floated off the ground.

It was awesome.

The mom pulled out of the garage and gave me the strangest look.

I know a lot of folks.

I do.

Even some that happen to work on the house doing gardening and construction.

Or just down the block at the coffee shop or at the playground, the corner market, the bike shop, the hipster clothing store clerk, the check out gal at the farmers market, I know a lot of folks in the Mission.

And I try to hug as many of them as I can.

Not a bad way to break up the work day at all.

And tomorrow.

Is Friday.

Bring on the three-day weekend!

Yup.

I got Monday off.

First time I have ever been given Martin Luther King Jr. Day off.

Pretty stoked.

I’ll still have plenty to keep me occupied.

That’s for sure.

And maybe I’ll hug another working guy too.

I like working guys.

Boogie Nights

November 11, 2014

Some of the ladies have been reaching out to me about dancing.

Ladies.

I am down.

Downtown down.

Let’s do it down.

Let’s get down.

At the moment the two options on the table are the Opulent Temple benefit at the Armory on Saturday the 22nd of this month.  The other is the BRAF (Black Rock Arts Foundation) Artumnal.

Burning Man people

Actually Opulent Temple would be a lot of Burning Man folks too.

The BRAF part is expensive though, $60.

The Opulent Temple $20.

Either way, I am going out dancing.

I am ready to do it.

Get out and shake some tail feathers.

I mean, yes, I did go out dancing on Halloween, but it was an amateur dj, I mean, I love that the venue was of service, but it wasn’t the quality or caliber of music I like to get down to.

It would be divine to have some grooving on the dance floor.

And maybe ask someone on a date.

I need to get myself back in the mix.

I don’t know what next, but yes, that thing when you ask someone out.

I just haven’t anyone on my radar at the moment.

Suggestions?

OkCupid is just not panning out, I mean, I have had a profile on this site for years, I think I may have had a date or two that went well, but for the most part, really not good fishing.

Time to move to another pond.

I know all the kids are doing Tinder and I have waffled on whether or not to try it.

I get the distinct impression it’s really about hooking up with someone, not dating so much, but casual sex partners.

Nothing wrong with that, but I’m not sure I’m ready to peddle myself out like that.

There was little opportunity for me this weekend.

Well.

That’s not entirely true.

My friend who helped me with the scooter is someone I have on again off again considered, but he’s such a heavy smoker, I just can’t take it.

Anytime I think I might want to kiss him, there’s a smoke in his mouth and riding in his vehicle is like being in a giant rolling ashtray.

He doesn’t give a shit and figured he’d be dead by thirty, so smoke ’em if you got ’em Johnny, but I’ll pass on asking you out on a date just because of that.

I did talk to a guy Saturday about going out, but we got our wires crossed and didn’t end up exchanging numbers.

It felt good, though, to ask, to not be hung up on the last dating experience I had, and move on.

I’m not going to be sad Sally sitting by the phone.

Nope.

I got things to do, places to be, boys, er men, to kiss.

As a friend recently pointed out he was a little concerned that the only guys I was seeing were 2 and 4.

Those would be the monkeys I nanny for.

And wow.

They were a handful today–first day back, Monday, longest day for me on the job, swimming lessons, up and down routine, and a grand temper tantrum from the oldest boy.

Which happens, but they can be exhausting.

Temper tantrums usually stem from an inability to express or communicate what is needed, and often times are exacerbated because the child wants something and knows how to get it be throwing a tantrum.

I’ve seen a few in my time.

I just patiently wait them out and go about doing my thing, but it’s hard, and it can get exhausting and I was looped by the end of the day.

Not tired enough to not cast an eye about my environs this evening for a possible dating candidate, but no one stirred my interest.

I thought about one guy, and then thought, nope, he’s sweet, I know him through friends, but there’s nothing there, just friendship.

I have another guy who always tries to engage with me, we went on a date a few months before I moved to Paris, he was unaware I was moving he told me at the date, and was only interested in pursuing something that would have longevity.

Which was fine with me, it was the easier softer way to let him down, he excused himself from the pool before I could turn him down.

But I see him on the occasion and he’s definitely interested and I am definitely not.

He has not asked and I won’t even give him an opening, and I know better than to suggest we go out just to fulfill my goal of a date a week.

That would be a shoddy thing to do to someone.

I’ve got to be principled about this the best way I can and show up as my best self.

My passionate self, mind you, I still want that, the singing in the blood, the pull of the moon on my heart, the flutter in the stomach, the shyness, then the boldness, the touch of electricity that zips and zings along my nerve endings, I got to have that.

So dancing it seems like a good place to start.

I get to be myself, I love to dance.

I get to dress up.

I get to be sexy.

I get to flirt.

And hopefully I will get an interested party.

I don’t doubt something will come of it.

And in between, I keep focusing on today, and showing up, and doing the next actions in front of me for graduate school.

For instance–I received an e-mail back from the admissions department and the program that I want to apply to, I do NOT have to write the 8-10 page academic paper with sources.

Yes!

I still have a letter of intent, a CV to formulate, and an autobiographical statement to write, but really, I do that almost every day.

The letter of intent is one page, the CV will be one page, the autobiographical statement is 6-8 pages.

I got that down.

I have one more letter of recommendation to secure from a second source, and to order my transcripts on-line this week.

Plenty to keep me occupied.

And then.

The dancing.

Oh yes.

 

Where Does The Day Go?

June 15, 2012

I just looked at the clock and it’s almost eleven.

I have only been home for 45 minutes and I feel like, ok, there we go, day done, go to bed, cuppa tea, and my Paul Auster novel.

Oh.

Wait.

Time to write the blog.

Plus, I took photographs today after work that I really liked and I wanted to work on them, so I did that first and posted up some shots I got of Beth on to my other blog click here.

I got a lot of good shots tonight.  I loved the light this evening.  It was delicious.  I also took a moment to just sit in the sunshine as well.

Sitting in the Sunset

Warm sun on my face

God, it was nice to sit, breathe, collect myself for a moment.

It was pretty much go all day long.  I got up early and went to see Carolyn up in Noe Valley.

Yes I wore makeup, but it was waterproof.

I learned a few stunning things.  I knew my perspective was about to change, but I had no idea how much.  I feel like it’s still happening.

More will be revealed and all that.

The amazing thing about working with someone else is that they can see things that you do not.

I was utterly blown away when she said to me in response to something that I was reading to her, “that, by the way, is manipulation through withholding your affection.”

OH holy shit, batman.

I learned how to do this when I was four.  I will never ever forget that night. My mom was upset with me, I have a vague recollection of what had happened, I threw a temper tantrum in the super market.

I wanted the Count Chocula damn it.

Something happened in the parking lot, in frustration, juggling two little girls–a two-year old and a four-year old–my mom snapped.

I think, again, hazy memory, that we drove off with all the groceries, including that damn box of chocolate covered sugar bombs, still sitting in the cart next to the car.

Of course, when we got home and my mom was getting us out of the car, she realized what had happened.  We drove like lightning back to the store.

The cart was gone.

And it was not returned to the market by a good Samaritan.

No food.

Two hungry little girls.  One very short fuse.

I don’t remember the beating.

I always remember the before and the after.  But never the exact incident itself.  The memory stays locked inside a box inside a box inside a well with a heavy rock on top of it tied down with duct tape.

But the before, oh so clearly.  I can even see the trees just starting to change.  We were living in Columbus, I remember that as well.  I can see the front door to the apartment building, the stairway going up, then blank.

The after, lying in bed on my side, the pillow is cotton, there is not a pillow case on it.  The fabric is blue striped.  It is wet and indented from my head being burrowed in it.  It is a feather pillow.  I can smell the pillow, now, still, I can smell that pillow.

The mattress is on the floor, there is no bed frame or box spring.  The blanket is brown and rough.

My mom is in the hallway I can see her shadow on the wall, I can see the pattern of the wallpaper, the faded flowers in blue ribbons marching down the wall, the bright demarcation of the paper against her shadow.  I can hear her, she is crying and apologizing and never again’ing me.

She is asking for forgiveness.  Begging.

I am four.

I am never going to forgive her.  I will never let her see how much I am hurt.  Never.  I will never show her how devastated, betrayed, and destroyed I am.  I am stronger than my mother.

I will show her.

Well, god damn it.

I have been showing her for 35 years.  Maybe it’s time to, oh wait for it, to stop.

Stop manipulating her through withholding my love and affection.  Maybe it’s time to actually let the woman in.  Perhaps cut her a break, maybe.  All she has ever wanted to do was love me.

I just about fell off my chair in Carolyn’s kitchen.

I never made that connection before.  Like if I just kept doing this, holding on to this willful, stubborn, hurt little girl, I would make the past change, I would change my mom, I would alter my destiny, my life, my being.

You know what this means?

I don’t have to live my life thinking that not showing affection is going to save me.  I can risk it.  I can open up.  I can actually establish a relationship with my mom, with other women, with friends, with intimates.

I also have a sneaking suspicion that therein lay some amends, but you know what?

I am not there yet.

I hollered at myself as I was riding my bike along Potrero between 23rd and 20th, I was completely somewhere else, lost in thought.

Completely.

I literally did a “snap out of it!” moment with myself and yelled out, “get out of tomorrow and on your bike!”

Oh yeah, get present.

The present, a gift.

My life a gift.  One in which I don’t have to continue forward with the emotional rational and thought patterns of a four-year old.

Good God.

And I thought I was emotionally unintelligent.  No, I am emotionally just a four-year old girl.  No wonder I relate so well to children.

It’s safe to come out into the light, baby, no body will hurt you anymore than you do your own self.

Come, sit with me and get some warm sun on your face.


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