Posts Tagged ‘The Angelic Brewing Company’

Bullshit

January 15, 2019

I keep expecting someone to say that when I say, “thank you for 14 years.”

It sounds so surreal coming out of my mouth.

How the hell did that happen?

Really?

Fourteen years.

Nights and weekends, nothing in between, nothing to take the edge off.

As if anything really could.

Using or drinking for me over an issue or a problem would just be pouring gas on a bonfire.

I would burn it all down and I don’t actually think I would die.

That would be the easier, softer way.

No.

I think I would live a miserable, dire, soul less, ugly life.

I have so much in my life I cannot imagine ever going back.

I do see it happen though.

So here’s to having more commitments and suiting up and showing up and doing the deal no matter what.

My life is really wonderful and it was with much sweetness that I picked up some metal last night in front of my community who witnesses me with so much love.

It really awes me the amount of love I have been given access to.

Most of all, the love I feel for myself.

The level of compassion and forgiveness I have for myself really is so vast.

I didn’t have it growing up.

Occasionally I would have a moment where I thought I might have something worthy in me, I was certainly smart, but how many times does it take for a person to hear that she is “too smart for her own good,” before she begins, I begin, to think the same.

I used to also wonder.

How come if I’m so damn smart I can’t figure out my life or what I want or where I’m going.

I mean.

I had some idea.

I knew I wanted out of Wisconsin and after multiply failed attempts I made it out in 2002 to travel all the way across the country and cross the Bay Bridge in my little two door Honda Accord.

I still remember what it felt like crossing over that bridge.

I was definitely crossing a threshold.

I had no idea.

Sometimes I think it’s a good thing that I didn’t know all the things that were going to transpire.

Who knows if I would have made it out.

I do certainly remember that.

I had a feeling of dread that my time was soon to be up in Wisconsin and I needed to leave, there was a constant low-level thrum of anxiety, a beating drum of doom that throbbed just below everything.

I was in constant fear.

I had no name for it though.

I had no idea the anxiety I was under.

I knew the depression.

That I had at least been seen for, once when I was in my early twenties and when the therapist wanted to medicate me as my insurance wouldn’t allow her to continue serving me unless I was prescribed meds, I bounced.

I didn’t understand then what depression meant.

All I knew was that sometimes it was terribly hard to get out of bed.

Or bathe.

I remember my boyfriend once made a comment about it, that the sheets needed to be changed or washed and I knew I had to get out and wash the bedding and myself, but getting into the shower was so damn hard.

I can remember how sunny it was too and we lived really close to James Madison park, literally just a few blocks away on Franklin.

I can count the number of times I went to the park on a sunny summer day on one hand and have more than a few fingers left over.

I could not get myself out of the house.

I knew it would pass.

It always did.

But it started to get longer.

And longer.

I might have a day of it once in a while and then nothing for sometime and then it would just snake back in.

For some reason it happened (and can happen for me now, there’s sometimes a feeling of dread during the longest days of the year) during the summer when there was lots of light and no reason to be caged up inside.

People think depression and they see rainy days and grey skies.

I saw sunshine and couldn’t bear to be out in it.

I worked nights.

I slept days.

Sometimes, in the dead of winter I would not see the sunlight at all.

Unless it was the sunrise coming up as I was coming home from closing the bar where I worked.

I was diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder in undergrad.

Turns out that some folks, about 10% of the population that has the disorder, actually experience the depression in the summer.

I remember one year that was really bad.

I was in between jobs, I had just given notice to the Essen Haus where I had been the General Manager and was transitioning to my new job at the Angelic Brewing Company as their Floor Manager (still the worst title ever, how about Queen of Doing Everything, that seems more apt).

I had two weeks off.

I was supposed to have taken those two weeks off to go on a road trip with my boyfriend, but it didn’t come to fruition due to the Angelic needing me to start before the trip had been planned.

I postponed it and planned on doing it the next year which never happened either, but I digress.

My boyfriend went to work in the morning and I sat in the living room of our apartment in a rocking chair.

I sat there all day long.

I might have read books.

I would sleep as long in bed as I could, then get up and sit in that chair until he came home.

Part of me suspected that there was something very soothing about the rocking of the chair, I used to self-soothe as a child when I was upset by rocking back and forth, I can still slip into it if I’m really freaked out.

I don’t remember much of that week, but one particular scene is always in my head and that is of the shadows growing longer and longer in the apartment as the sun set.

They would crawl slowly across the floor and I would watch them inch up the walls until the apartment was muddled in twilight and I would only get up to turn on the light five minutes before I thought my boyfriend was going to get home.

There were many nights of sitting in that chair in the dark by myself alone.

I told no one.

Wowzers.

I had no idea that was going to be what I wrote about tonight, but hey, there it is.

In addition to the SAD, I have depression.

Hahahaha.

Sigh.

Major Depressive Disorder is the clinical diagnosis.

I managed it once in early sobriety with antidepressants but after a few years I got of the meds and deal with it through writing daily in my morning journal, I use a light therapy box every morning, I write affirmations, I get outside as much as I can, I eat really, really, really well, I do my own therapy work, I cultivate relationships with my fellows and I have good damn friends.

And I don’t drink.

Alcohol is a depressant you know.

I didn’t.

Not for years.

And for years I have been pretty free from that great ocean of doom and for that I am so grateful.

My life is lovely.

Challenging, sure.

But absolutely lovely.

Thank you for 14 years!

You know who you are and I love you, very, very, very much.

Rendered Speechless

December 27, 2018

I don’t often look at old photographs.

I just did.

Work photos from over sixteen years ago.

Longer, perhaps, though not much more than eighteen years, I’ve been in San Francisco for sixteen, so they have to be at least that old.

There’s a private Facebook page with photographs of a place I used to run for six years.

1996-2002 I was the Floor Manager at the Angelic Brewing Company in Madison, Wisconsin.

A lot of the photographs are ones that I took myself.

Although I don’t have the album that they are located in.

I used to take a lot of staff photos.

Before Facebook and camera phones.

I kept a photo album in the office and I would put it out during big staff events.

Most usually the annual holiday party that I was in charge of organizing and running.

We got silly.

I remember one year I bought a bunch of disposable cameras.

Oh the pictures on those cameras.

Many stories.

I was rendered speechless though when I saw a photograph of myself that may have been at my heaviest weight when I was working there.

I don’t actually know what I weighed.

I didn’t like to use the scale.

But I do know that the shirt I was wearing was a size 26.

I now wear a size eleven.

So much has changed.

I just sat on my couch before logging onto my computer and I had an abstinent meal.

Abstinent for me means no flour (of any kind–almond, oat, coconut, corn, wheat, etc) and no sugar.

I do eat fruit, so I get sugar that way, though I tend to not eat fruit with my dinner.

I will.

Just not always.

Fruit is a sort of desert for me.

For dinner tonight I had about a 1/2 c of sautéed broccoli with a cup of brown rice and a roasted chicken leg and thigh.

I had some bubbly water and I listened to jazz.

When I think about the way I ate when I ran the Angelic.

Oh my God.

Freaks me out a little.

Sort of like how the picture did.

I almost want to post it here but I’m not actually sure how to do that and I am also not really sure I want to post it anyway.

I am grateful though for the changes I have gone through and for the good reminder that although my body doesn’t look the exact way I want it to, it looks a hell of a lot better than it did.

I mean.

I used to have a double chin.

I haven’t had a double chin in a long ass time and I am hella grateful for that.

The amazing thing about the photo is that I’m doing the splits on the bar.

I was a lot more limber then than I am now.

I was also studying to get my black belt in Kung Fu.

That also blows my mind, that I got a black belt at the weight I was.

I wonder sometime what it would have been like if I had lost the weight sooner.

But really that doesn’t do me much good to think about that, it’s just fantasy and speculation.

I also had to have some recovery under my belt before I could get abstinent, recovery, therapy, self-care.

A lot of that.

Self-love.

I am really quite proud of myself when I see how very far I have come.

All things considered.

I shouldn’t be where I am at today.

I am very, very, very grateful.

I’m also grateful to have gotten through Christmas.

Three gay boys, two movies, and one sushi dinner.

It was an official San Francisco Christmas.

Matinee at the Kabuki, hanging out in the Castro, then the Metreon in the evening.

I am grateful too for the people I spent time with.

I am grateful for San Francisco being my home.

I am grateful for all the lovely gifts I was given.

The biggest one, always does seem to be perspective.

That’s why the photo hit me so hard.

Just how far I have come.

I’m 46 now.

I look so much better at 46 than I did at 26.

I may have been a little older in the photo, but my weight would have been about the same.

It got bad there for a bit.

But then I think, I needed to be the way I was, to feel safe.  I ate to feel safe in a body that was not a safe place to inhabit.

I ate because I had been hurt.

I did not want to hurt anymore.

I also ate because it was a compulsion.

There were times when I would find myself in the dark raiding the desert fridge at work– shoving an entire piece of Irish Cream pie into my mouth, one, two, three pieces in under five minutes.

I hated it and I couldn’t stop it.

I also didn’t realize that once I put sugar into my body it was sort of on.

Sugar is just as addictive as many narcotics.

Sugar activates the same place in the brain that cocaine does.

I loved cocaine.

And before I had cocaine.

I had sugar.

I had a lot of it.

God.

Just thinking about how much soda I drank too.

Ugh.

I mean.

I worked in the service industry for two decades.

I did not drink diet soda ever, I scoffed at it.

I drank straight up Coca Cola.

I drank vats of it.

When you work in the service industry you usually get free soda.

And because I was in management, I got free meals.

French fries dipped in sour cream.

Fried fish sandwiches with buckets of tartar sauce.

Pasta with chicken and mushrooms and cream sauce and parmesan and bread sticks.

OH bread sticks.

Idaho nachos–cottage fries instead of corn chips–with heaps of cheese and chicken and black beans and guacamole and sour cream.

Pizza.

Pizza.

Pizza.

Beer cheese soup.

And it was a brewery, so yes, lots of beer too, many, many, many pints.

Ex-employees used to joke about how they would lose the “Angelic 20” when they stopped working there since they weren’t always drinking the beer.

Which was not light in any sense of the word.

Oh.

How things have changed.

For the better.

I might have a nostalgic moment once in a great while for something.

But not ever looking like that picture again?

That will kill any craving I might have.

Fact is.

I don’t crave food, when you don’t have it in your system, the urge goes away.

Hella grateful for that too.

So here’s to not having to make New Years resolutions.

I am resolved every day.

I am happy.

Joyous.

Abstinent.

And.

Motherfucking.

Free.

 

Fuck Me!

June 5, 2016

That was so good.

I mean so, so, so very, very, very.

Yes.

Oh yes.

Good.

And no, sir, it was not my Tinder date.

Who never confirmed.

Dudes.

Strike two.

However.

As they, the infamous they, like to say, “rejection is God’s protection.”

Um yeah.

And apparently I was supposed to be doing something other than have stupid good sex.

That did bum me out for a minute, oh the plans I lay when I want to get laid, like, um, having a weekend of stupid good sex, that was the plan, God, don’t you know?

Ahem.

Anyway.

So.

I was positive, I acted with positive things in mind.

Well, if God doesn’t want me to be on the aforementioned two day date, which as I said, previous like was cancelled at the same time that another sexy offer came floating in, and, well, yeah, no confirmation on that either, which means, something stellar is going to happen.

I believe.

I have faith.

I woke up, let myself sleep in and take the later yoga class.

Which kicked my fucking ass.

Why did I not start doing yoga years and years ago?

Hindsight.

Fucking 20/20.

I had the most intense moment of diseased thinking that I have had for a minute today in class, which surprised me, brought tears to my eyes and I thought to myself as I was collapsed in a heap in child’s pose (can’t even get this one right, Martines, my head whispered to me, as the teacher adjusted my hips in the pose) I was overcome with a deep, intense, overwhelming wave of self-loathing.

Whoa.

Come on.

You showed up.

This is it.

This is the only body that you have and it didn’t drop dead on you all those years that you beat it to shit, beating your soul down, wearing down your heart, selling yourself so short, abusing it all with as much crap as I could shove in my mouth or up my nose.

Why now?

Why?

Because, that’s the story, that’s the narrative, “you are just not good enough, sexy enough, smart enough, blah, blah, blah, and why are you still single, blah, blah, blah.”

Shut the fuck up.

All that being said, I did move through the poses and some were awkward and painful, but I did it, I showed up, chatted with the teacher after, thanked her, gratefully, I am grateful for this beautiful body that God has given me to walk around in.

Even when I can’t do a stupid vinayasa pose.

So what?

I am able bodied.

How many people wish for a body capable of being able to do yoga?

Yeah, so I don’t look as good doing it as Suzy perfect who is, by the way brain, 20 years younger than you.

I forget that I am 43.

I forget it, then, I smile and whoa, hello, smile lines.

But they are sexy.

I am sexy.

Please.

I know.

I am also not real humble, but hey, I know what I am, even if the body is not 20 year old banging, my brain, well, that’s where the real sexy is at and believe me I am better in bed than I was twenty years ago, and frankly, healthier, both emotionally and physically, not to mention spiritually too.

So.

I got back from yoga, took a hot shower, made a late breakfast and got down to do some writing.

As I was about to launch into my morning pages I checked the social media things and saw that some friends of mine had gone to Paul Simon at the Greek Theater last night.

I was jealous.

Damn it.

That would have been such a good show, I wish I had gotten tickets.

Cue.

Scrolling down the page and what?

WHAT?

No fucking way.

One of my friend’s has posted about having a spare ticket to Paul Simon at the Greek, anyone interested?

Oh hells yes.

Me, me, me, me.

I wrote on his page.

“You, you, you, you,” came the response.

Followed by a rapid number of texts, including the set list from last night show.

Cue listening to Paul Simon all day with a smile smashed on my face.

My heart so on my sleeve, I swear there were little drops of heart shaped blood glowing luminescent in my wake, small moons of joy as the music washed over and through me.

Who cares if both my Tinder dates cancelled?

I’m going to Paul Simon!!

See.

God really did have something better planned.

Thanks God.

I sort of needed that.

Not that I don’t think that I’m the bees knees, the cat’s pajamas, and all that jazz, it was just a little disconcerting to get back to back rejections.

But that’s ok.

Rejection is just getting things out of the way so that I am prepared for what is supposed to happen next.

Like.

Um, oh.

Paul Simon.

Playing an amazing, mind blowing, joyful, serious the joy level was off the chain, energetic, passionate, amazing set.

He played from Rhythm of the Saints, which is one of my favorites of his albums, if not my favorite, songs I have never heard performed live before.

I was in tears.

Really.

A whole bunch.

I was washed with the perspective of decades and thought about all the times I had closed down the bar at the Angelic Brewing Company and depending on who I was working with, mostly one particular bartender, I would turn off all the lights, set up a few globe candles on the bar, tap out a couple of pints of bitter and listen to Paul Simon until the very edges of dawn were pushing through the windows of the bar.

All the narratives I told myself, all the stories, all the melancholy and remorse and the unrequited love, the blue cornflower eyes and the sheaf of blonde hair that beguiled my heart, the dancing to Diamonds on the Soles of My shoes, in the dark, with him.

Oh, be still you silly heart.

Maybe these emotions are as close to love as I will ever be.

All the stories I told myself, the stories that I can spin, but choose not to, I saw them all rising in the fog of the open air theater, adrift on the music spinning out into the night and I was so grateful I could burst.

Then.

Mike Doughty friend requested me on facecrack and my brain broke.

I was taking out my phone to take one of three photos I took tonight, I really just wanted to be present with the music instead of stuck in my phone, and there it was.

I punched my friend in his arm, he’s a Doughty fan too, and I was like, “um, so what do you think should add him?”

I could not handle it.

I was so happy.

I am so happy.

These are all just humans.

But something glorious shines through.

Love.

God.

Music.

I am the luckiest girl.

I am a wanton word woman.

I am delirious with art and music and memory and gratitude.

Because really.

Sometimes even music cannot substitute for tears.

What this is, all is.

Is grace.

I am graced.

And a little hoarse from singing along at the Greek Theater with thousands of other very happy people.

It was a beautiful night.

And I accepted Mike’s request.

Only seemed like the polite thing to do.

Heh.

I mean, God forbid he ever find out I have a tiny crush on him.

Please.

My heart is just happy to have all that I have.

I have so very much.

So very much.

Yes.

Love.

Love.

That and always that.

Truly.

Just.

Love.

 

 

Well, Your Man Won’t Dance

January 13, 2016

But I will.

Oh.

My.

God.

Total nerdgasm.

I was meeting my person at Church Street Cafe this evening after work, grabbing a tea, just about to turn off my phone and I see a little notice on my Instagram feed.

Mike Doughty just liked your photo.

Followed by.

Mike Doughty is now following you.

What?!

Fuck me.

Wet panties.

Wet.

I am a dork.

I admit it.

I saw that man up front and personal when I was a wee lass, at the Eagles Ballroom in Milwaukee when Soul Coughing was on tour for Ruby Vroom.

I saw him solo at Cafe Montmartre in Madison and I talked to him, briefly about maybe booking a gig at the Angelic Brewing Company.

I remember one of my friends, a co-worker, was so in love with him and screamed out his name and belted out his lyrics, then in a hushed moment declared her unending love and the fact that she was high on mushrooms.

He heckled her so hard she left out of pure mortification.

I saw him back a couple of years ago at The Fillmore when he was playing the Ruby Vroom album pretty much solo and I just finished reading his memoir and like a dork, really thought hard about bringing it with and asking for an autograph.

I didn’t.

But.

I did get my own form of mortification.

I was right up front with my man Stark Raving Brad and our mutual friend Dirty was somewhere out there too with another friend, and I was bobbing along to a solo acoustic rendition of Janine when Doughty changed up the lyrics and said “Edna St. Vincent Millay” instead of the  radio announcer’s name and I whooped out acknowledgement.

He startled, obviously surprised that anyone got the reference.

Secret.

Shhh.

I won a gold medal at an 8th grade forensics meet in Wisconsin when I was at DeForest Middle school reciting a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

She’s my kind of woman.

And Mike.

Well.

Gah.

He gave me a nod and a smile.

I wanted to sink below the floor.

Or give him a blow job.

Heh.

He got me through the sads in Paris I must have listened to Yes, And Also Yes until I knew every single song back and forth.

It was a part of my soundtrack.

It still is.

I have it on the stereo right now.

Just a little hero worship.

Or.

Maybe some day we’ll meet.

Love, love made them beautiful at last.

She doesn’t fall in love, she takes hostages.

Let me take you hostage, baby.

Your new song can be 27 Carmens.

Instead of 27 Jennifers.

Bwahahaha.

Oh.

Gack.

I think the closest I have ever gotten to being a douche, but I reframed was when I saw Pete Yorn in the hotel bar at the W down on Mission and 3rd.

I bought him a drink and sent it over to his table.

He had some tiny, skinny, glam doll draped over him and they were both slunk so low down in the chair you could barely tell it was him.

But it was.

I asked the waitress and she nodded.

“Send his next drink from me, but you don’t have to tell him, just a fan,” I said.

Then.

“I mean, I owe the man a few drinks when I think about all the sex I had to Music For The Morning After.”

Then I got good and wasted myself.

Not so much anymore.

The days were darker then.

Not so now.

“You’re on your watch tonight, aren’t you,” he said to me from the deep brown leather chair in the front window of the Church Street Cafe.

I am.

One hour and thirty minutes.

Unless I get some crazy hair up my ass and run over to the 7-11.

I’ll buy a bunch of PowerBall tickets, a bottle or fifteen and then go throw myself in the ocean because my life will effectively be over.

Nah.

I think I’ll stay in.

And do what I did last year.

Drink a cup of tea and say some prayers of grace and thanks and let the clock roll over to midnight and then get on my knees and cry a little out of gratitude.

You know.

No biggie.

Just eleven years of being happy, joyous, and free.

And.

Sometimes depressed, wrecked, ravished, ravaged, and lost.

But never fucked up like I used to be.

No.

Never.

Sometimes so overwhelmed with sorrow that I think I will break.

“Does it bother you that I talk so flippantly about him,” my person paused, looking at me with piercing eyes, gentle, but probing.

“No, it’s ok,” I said.

And it is.

I think he would be proud of me.

“You aren’t going to relapse,” he said, “please, that’s just not in your stars.”

Not so far.

Your love is ghost.

But I still remember the kiss you gave me on that night sitting in the front row at Our Lady of SafeWay on a Friday evening.

You wrapped your arm around my shoulder and pulled me close and kissed my forehead.

I won’t ever forget that kiss.

Or.

The glow of you that last night I saw you alive.

I will always remember.

My dark star.

My heart.

I know how proud you would be of me.

I know how proud you are of me.

I hope you and Bowie are out on the dance floor together.

Toasting our souls with ginger ale.

I heard you whisper, “be the ball, Martines,” to me the other day when I was re-arranging the postcards hanging from my mobile.

I was putting up one I had forgotten I had sent myself from Paris.

On Christmas day from the Pompidou, I ransacked the gift shop and bought a cloth sack, a notebook, two magnets–one of the Pompidou and one of a Mark Rothko I really liked–and postcards.

I had written myself a note, one of congratulations for having made it through a blue period, I think Christmas Eve was the only night I thought I might die of heart ache and sorrow, but I knew, from having walked through it before that I would again.

And.

I did.

And it was Christmas and I was high on art in the Pompidou.

I bought a blue on blue on blue postcard of dense indigo; a smash of rich monochrome, super saturated, intense color.

I got that postcard in the mail, read it, and spun the mobile, looking for a place to clip it.

And there it was.

My post card from Hallowell, Maine.

The one I sent myself the Christmas I went to Maine to stay with your family, their first Christmas without you.

I heard your voice, “be the ball, Martines.”

Yes.

I think I will.

Year eleven.

I hereby declare is the year of being the ball.

The belle of the ball.

The apple of your eye.

The ball to be watched.

The ball to be chased.

Because.

I’m done doing the pursuing.

I am enough.

He knew.

He knew so many years before I did.

Mike Doughty knows.

He liked my street art photos from the Marais.

He’s following me.

Who knows who else will.

This is my miracle year.

I just fucking know it.

Like the clarion ring of a soft finger stroking the string on the neck of a guitar.

It resounds within.

Clear as a bell.

These.

Natural harmonics.

This singing of the spheres.

The lightness in my heart.

This divine glow of love all around me.

All.

Around.

Me.

This.

Love.

 

Nightmare

November 8, 2015

On 46th Avenue.

I woke up this morning from a nightmare.

I don’t have them much any more and it wasn’t the worst nightmare I have ever had, in fact, it so pales in comparison to the night terrors that I had just prior to getting sober that I hesitate to even call it a nightmare.

It was a bad dream, however.

And though I can laugh at the absurdity of it when I shared it with a friend earlier today, I can also recognize that my stress level and my anxiety about having enough time are making themselves known in my subconsciousness.

I dreamt I was back at The Angelic.

That is, I dreamt that I was back running the Angelic.

The Angelic Brewing Company that is.

A now defunct micro-brewery that I helped manage for six years from the time I was 22 years old to the time I was 29.

Yes.

I know, that looks like seven years, but it was six years, perhaps 6.25.

I digress.

The point is, that it was a stressful job and there was a period of four years when I was not only running the Angelic, I was also in school full-time and I was training in Shaolin Kempo Karate at a dojo on State Street.

Said dojo being conveniently located between campus and the brewery.

I spent a lot of time in downtown Madison between those three places.

And I worked hard.

I am good at working hard, if you haven’t noticed.

I ran a successful business.

Was my job title the most prestigious?

Nope.

Floor manager does not have a prestigious ring to it, like say, General Manager, Kitchen Manager, Bar Manager, Head Brewer, etc.

Shit.

Sometimes it felt like the bar back was getting a better job title than I.

However, I had a lot of responsibility for the establishment and I worked full time hours when I was not in school and about 32-35 hours a week when I was in class.

Similar to what I am doing now.

The only difference being is that I drank to cope then.

And I certainly do not have that option now.

Not that I even want that option.

I used up all my drink tickets from the holiday party.

And yours.

And yours.

And hers over there.

And definitely his.

He’s holding out, there’s some I stole from his back pocket.

Needless to say,  I was managing my drinking or I might not have been able to manage the brewery as well as I did.

I would go through periods, then, when I had stress dreams about work.

i would dream I had forgotten to set the alarm or I left the safe unlocked, or I had miscounted a till, or somehow, while I was busy in the back, some bartender or cocktail waitress had left for home, after the bar had closed for the night, accidentally leaving the door wide open and somehow all sorts of people wandered in and I had to get them all out and no one would listen and the cops were on the way.

And.

You get the point.

This morning I woke up having dreamt that the General Manager had booked a band (the brewery was also a default nightclub and very popular bar during the evening hours–day time hours it functioned mostly as a mirco brewery with a semi-decent pub fare menu–burgers, fries, nachos, homemade soups, etc) that was too expensive to pay out.

I dreamed I was in the office counting out tills (the queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey, the king was in the counting house counting all his money) and I noticed that people were coming into the bar.

We didn’t have video monitors or cameras at the brewery, so that’s a made up thing in my brain, but it was very real in the dream and l looked in aghast at the doors to the establishment swinging back and forth as more and more people were coming in for the show and no one was paying.

Fuck.

Where are my bouncers?

I need to put someone on the door and start collecting money.

There won’t be enough money to pay the piper.

But there was.

And I paid the piper yesterday.

My scooter is parked in front of my house, locked thank you–I got a disc lock–safe and sound and fully paid for.

But I could see my financial insecurity coming out in the dream.

As well as my time management issues.

I’m not going to have enough time, I hustled about the office at work, finding the contract for the band and gasping at what the GM had agreed to pay and furthermore.

What the fuck was Metallica doing playing at the Angelic?

That’s when I woke up.

Part of me laughed.

And part of me sighed.

It’s been a while since I have had a stress dream and I know that ultimately, I do all my own stressing.

I tell myself that I am not going to have enough time.

That the things I need to do are going to take up too much time.

Like picking up my scooter today.

Which I successfully did and it got it’s plates put on it and a tidy little basket and rack on the back.

One, said basket, that I have already used today, I went grocery shopping!

Oh how lovely was that?

To not wear my messenger bag over my shoulder and haul a big sack of groceries on my back.

There’s still going to be some bike riding for a bit until I get the parking permit at work, but soon, my bicycle will be getting a lot less action.

I intimated to myself that I wasn’t going to have enough time.

Time to get the scooter.

Time to meet with the ladies.

Time to hear a big inventory.

Time to grocery shop.

Time to do that Therapeutic Communications transcription that was due today.

(I just sent it out an hour and a half ago)

Time to do anything.

Of course, but fret.

And have anxiety.

But the thing is.

All the things got done.

And it wasn’t a nightmare.

And time just sort of folded and here I am sitting at my table, writing my blog having sent in a big transcription project and read a long tiresome chapter in preparation for a paper I’m going to have to write next weekend, and I met the ladies, and I got a ride in on my scooter along the Great Highway at sunset to get groceries.

There’s no need to hold onto any anxiety.

All the stuff.

It got done.

And.

I have a lovely new scooter.

Yay!

Life.

She is grand.

Yes.

Not a nightmare at all.

But a truly sweet dream.

Plenty of which, I shall have tonight.

May you as well.

Sweet dreams.

Good night.

(don’t let the bed bugs bite!)

Get Out of Dodge!

August 1, 2015

Or at least San Francisco.

It’s actually happening.

I am, in fact, going to go to Yosemite tomorrow.

Like early.

Way early.

I’ve just finished packing, I’m only going for tomorrow and half of Sunday, so it wasn’t a hard trip to pack for, just a quick down and dirty, and fortunately for me, I have a bunch of Burning Man food staples in my cupboard, so I just raided that guy.

I’ll need to replenish a little when I get back, but I got time.

Not much time, granted, but some.

Time.

I spent some of that precious coin today.

I read for five hours.

Five.

Well, maybe more like four, I took a couple of breaks for the bathroom and to have lunch, but I really kicked it out.

I have, in fact, completed the reading for one of my classes for the retreat, that will also go beyond the retreat.

One of the classes, I realized after looking over the syllabi, is only during the retreat–a sort of seminar on Yoga and the practice of meditation–for which there is only one book.

It’s still a book that has to be read by the end of next weekend, but I can do it.

The really big reading, I got out-of-the-way today.

Things to think about as I go forward, and I”m just ruminating here, I need to find a more comfortable reading position.

Although I do find it hella funny that I am studying psychology texts from a chaise lounge.

I’m already set up with my “office” furniture.

Freud would approve, I’m certain of it.

The other is a realization that I have don’t have the same coping mechanisms as I did when I was in undergrad.

Namely blowing off steam by going out and drinking with a bunch of my co-workers from the Angelic Brewing Company.

I didn’t rely on drinking to get me through undergrad.

Or did I?

I know that I was a maintenance drinker and I daily drank, I ran a brewing company, it was inevitable that I would be drinking the beer, but I kept it to a “dull roar” I never had more than five pints per shift, and the majority of that drinking was in the late hours of the evening, I didn’t really drink on the job, once in a while a shot.

I drank when I was done counting out the money.

And the king was in the counting house counting out the money/while the queen was in her chamber eating bread and honey.

I didn’t want there to be any question as to the reliability and the integrity of my word while I was securing the tills and the check outs from the various bartenders, waiters and waitresses, the cocktail staff, even the door money which I had to count and distribute to the band that was playing that night, or to the promoter or dj.

I was responsible to a fault.

But I did drink and I had that valve to release steam.

And I often procrastinated to the nth hour.

I am extraordinarily efficient and could manage to write a fifteen page paper on King Henry the V and do it in one night and get an “A” on the paper.

I don’t, obviously, want to employ those kind of tactics to my graduate degree.

I figure, as I have so well learned over the last ten and a half years, that the slow daily progress, the sustained, continual effort, is what is going to work the best for me.

Small chunks, small steps, always moving forward.

Always doing a little something.

And some of the work is going to be easier than others.

The reading I completed today was super dense and had a new theory or concept every other paragraph.

Fortunately I am not finding anything beyond my comprehension.

A few concepts I can see I will need to go back and review them to remember and recall with efficiency and adequate understanding before heading into the first class dynamic, but I’m getting the material.

I’m also very glad that I didn’t put off the reading.

It was up in the air whether my friends and I were going to be heading out, hinged on a couple of factors, and so instead of thinking, oh, well, I’m probably going to be here in town, I can wait until tomorrow or Sunday to do the reading, I saw my spot today was clear, no work (at least not the kind where I draw a paycheck) and I sat myself down on that chaise and got to it.

I’m so grateful that I get to do this.

I remind myself that this is an astounding gift, if life were fair, I would not be in graduate school.

If life were fair.

Well.

I’d be dead.

Circumstances being what they are in my life, I have been graced and given another (umpteen it would seem) chance to do it right.

Doing it right is also taking the calculated risk, the jump, the leap, the sure, I’m ready, let’s do it, last-minute drive to Yosemite, I’ve never been, what a way to say goodbye to July and hello to August.

Because August is its own monster of a month and well, let’s see it come in like a lion.

It will go out like a Burning Man.

I already know that.

Or perhaps I should say, let it come in like a bear, I hear there are some bears out in Yosemite.

The month of August will hold my “normal” work week, next week, then an eight-day retreat for school in Petaluma, then a five-day work week in Glen Ellen (I haven’t figured out exactly how that’s going to transpire, I may not even come back to the city to only turn right back around to go work in Glen Ellen while the family takes its last summer vacation before the boys start school), after Glen Ellen, I come back, work another week in the city, then end that by leaving for Burning Man.

Oh.

And I have papers due by August 23rd from the work at the retreat and from the reading I just wrapped up today.

Yeah.

Busy month.

So.

The pleasure is all mine to say.

Adios! Good bye! Farewell! See ya!

I’m going off the grid for the next 36 hours, I’ll be back Sunday.

Have a great weekend!

Who’s Going To Fold My Laundry?

May 15, 2015

I mean.

I got the work side of it covered.

Actually did laundry three times already this week at work.

Between swimming lessons, potty training, and boys just being boys, I have a lot of laundry to do.

But what about mine?

It’s just sitting there on the bed, looking at me like, “what you’re blogging, excuse me bitch, you have chores to do.”

My bib overalls spake the loudest.

I really should just haul ass into the shower is what I should do.

I was in the pool today with the family at UCSF Mission Bay and I can smell the chlorine on myself.

Which is actually a scent I quite enjoy.

It reminds me of swimming in high school, one of the few places I always felt safe and secure in.

I lucked into swimming.

I lucked into being on the team and I lucked for sure into lifeguarding.

That haven of chlorine and warm air was a balm to my soul, even if I did not have the words to put on it, I loved that pool, I loved the light that would come in through the windows and I loved that every once in a great while there was no one at open swim and all the guards could be found napping on plywood boxes that held kick boards and pull buoys.

I miss that.

One of the few things from high school that I miss.

Sometimes I see a post of a high school classmate on Facebook and it does make me wonder what my life would look like if I had stayed in Wisconsin.

I don’t know that I would have as many tattoos or that my hair would be multi-colored.

Of course last year when I visited my best friend and her skulk up in the Northern reaches of the state, she pointed out a number of colorful dye jobs–I was not the only one.

Dare say, however, that I was the only one in her 40s with purple and pink hair.

What would life look like if I had stayed in Wisconsin?

It is almost too much of a stretch for my mind to imagine.

I suspect I would be married and with child or children.

Career wise I have no clue.

Although, considering what I was doing when I left it would probably be in the hospitality, food service industry.

Would I be sober?

Also another thing I cannot quite imagine.

Although I believe, knowing what I know, that my disease would have progressed and found me drinking more and more.

I don’t have any doubt about that whatsoever.

I know folks who have gotten sober in Madison, in fact, someone I reached out to during a nadir or despair, but I was not quite there yet, that was to come about four months later, had told me about being sober and going to undergrad and how it was just his luck that his new good friend happened to be the floor manager at the Angelic Brewing Company.

Floor Manager.

I hated that title.

I was not the General Manager, never would be, but I always felt that Floor Manager just did not do justice to the work I put in there.  I am still amazed that I worked there for six years and did the things I did.

Although most of it is a haze of memories and the nights all blur together.

Not that I was black out drinking while I was working there, or doing drugs.

The only thing I did was an ecstasy pill one night after the bar closed in one of the last days of working there.

I was far too controlling and afraid of the repercussions of drinking and I wanted nothing to do with drugs.

I was in charge and God forbid I didn’t do the right thing.

I believe I held myself, and I still hold myself, to far higher standards than any one else was or does.

I realize, just now as I think about an ex and his wife and their two kids in Sun Prairie;  I would rather not continue thinking about what life would be like, if, when, or whatever.

The fact is life is pretty damn good now and I don’t have regrets about it.

Even the laundry sitting on my bed thinks I have done an astounding job of making it here in San Francisco.

I’ve never been forced to leave, and the only time I chose to move away was not to move back to Wisconsin, but to move to Paris.

Not Texas either.

France.

I was just thinking though, I miss my best friend and sometimes I do wonder what it would be like to live closer to her, to get to see her and her husband and the boys a little more often.

I received a voicemail from her the other day and I could hear how much she misses me and damn, don’t I miss her.

Christmas?

I know.

It’s May.

But as I gear up for the ensuing travels and then the start of graduate school I don’t know that it will be any sooner.

I, of course, much prefer Wisconsin in summer.

There’s blueberry picking, strawberry picking, running around in sundresses, warm nights (mosquitos and ticks, but who’s counting those), long walks along the water, and my friend.

Then I think, well, I do like Wisconsin in the winter too, it’s pretty, the snow, the Christmas lights, the stark trees outlined against the grey skies.

It’s a different kind of beauty and one that I know well from the many winters I spent there growing up from five to when I really left, 29.

Twenty four years of Wisconsin.

There are times when I ride through the Pan Handle on my bicycle and I will have a flash, the way the light is falling, the trees, the green of the grass, and it feels, just for a moment that I am on the North East side of Madtown, perhaps the edges of Maple Bluff, and if I was just to go left rather than right I would find myself riding my bicycle past Tenney Park instead of Golden Gate Park.

But it never does happen.

And I don’t want to go back.

There is no there there.

It is here.

Here, in San Francisco where I belong.

“I always worried about you when you said that you were going to find yourself in San Francisco,” my best friend told me.

I think she meant pulling a geographic was not going to solve the problems I was trying to solve.

She was right, I took my problems with me.

But I did find me here.

I found me in Burning Man, in the rooms, in the Mission District, on the long walks through the park, the meteor shower over Twin Peaks, I found me riding a bicycle (who the hell knew that I would be bicycling all this time? Certainly not I), I found me on the beach by the ocean, the sun wrapt in my hair on my face, the sand in my toes; I found me while being a nanny, who the hell was going to call that one?

And I’m going to fold my laundry.

Because I find me in that too.

The simple acts of self-care that I have been taught to do and enjoy.

The small things that I carry out to continue getting to live in the most amazing place in the country and continue to be the most amazing woman I can be.

It all happens right here.

In San Francisco.

Nowhere I would rather be.

Right here.

Right now.

So Much To Say

May 9, 2015

So little time to say it.

“You have so much happening,” my mom said to me this afternoon during our brief phone conversation.

I just don’t know what you are talking about mom.

I laughed.

I’m going to be busy until the day I die.

Busy all the time.

My ex, who recently contacted me, said, “congratulations!!!!” in regards to my getting into graduate school; we had few things to catch up on, how things can change, so fast, in a blink of an eye, they change, and then added, “how much less free time is that going to give you?”

I don’t know.

I don’t want to think about it.

I am still missing the rare pork chop that I was just offered as way of incentive to hang out with a dear friend who has come back into my life at NOPA.

Did I really just turn down food at NOPA?

Ugh.

Yes.

I already had dinner and I also needed to get my ass back to the house, said ass having left my house over fourteen hours ago, fifteen? To work, do the deal, cover a commitment, then go share some experience, strength, hope, and crazy up in a room at USF at 10 p.m.

It’s near midnight and here I sit, doing the writing, which is also part of my deal.

“I don’t know what its going to look like when I do graduate school,” I told my employers yesterday, who are hoping, as am I, to continue having me work for them while I go to school.  “I have some ideation, but having never been to graduate school, I just don’t know what it’s going to look like.”

Like I want to work as much as possible.

Like I have no clue how to pay for tuition.

Like I haven’t gotten my financial aid awards package so I don’t know how much money I’m going to need.

Like please give me as many hours as possible.

“Look at how much you worked at the Angelic when you were doing your undergraduate,” my mom said to me on the phone, as she too asked me what I was going to be doing work wise.

“And,” she added, “you weren’t even sober, and you did really well.”

Not to put too fine a point on it.

Thanks for the reminder mom.

She’s correct, though, I was not sober.

I was micro-managing the fuck out of my drinking, afraid to end up getting drunk, because when I did, man, all the wheels fell off.

I control drank my way through my undergrad degree and I did do really quite well.

I am not a unitelligent person.

“You are so smart,” he said to me with a hug, “you are going to do amazing!”

I hope so.

I also get caught up in the minutia, the small shit, the weird, how does this work deal, and though I have somewhat of an understanding of my intelligence, I also don’t, it’s ephemeral to me, I don’t have perspective on it and I often times think that I am not smart enough because I haven’t figured out how to date, or be in a sustaining relationship, or why hasn’t anyone asked me out since my ex broke up with me, or what I’m going to do when I grow up.

Well.

I think I may be a therapist.

We shall see.

“I’m concerned about what I will have to let go of,” I told the dad at work, “it may be my writing practice, I’m not sure,” and as I said that I thought, no, not this, I can’t give up this.

But perhaps I will, can I sustain 30 hours of work (the program is such that you “supposedly” can work full-time, but every single person I have spoken to about it suggest 20-25 or none at all, so I’m already swinging big by thinking 30 hours), going to graduate school, doing the deal, and writing 2,000-3,000 words every day.

And I wonder why I’m single.

Bitch take a break and sit still long enough to get asked out.

AHem.

And then start talking nicer to  yourself.

I do love myself and I do respect myself and I know myself.

That I can run and push and fight harder to fill up the hours, to always be busy, doing, shaking, moving, hustling.

“I missed months of the story, and just know that you did not put it all in the blog, you just disappeared,” my friend said tonight,  after offering me a pork chop.

I’m not fixated.

(maybe a tiny bit)

I just like a pork chop.

He’s right, he knows where to read in between the lines and there are stories to tell that I don’t write here, things that don’t land on the blog plate.

Posts that I could write, that I think about writing, that I don’t.

But, so much is here.

And I love my little forum.

I had someone ask for my blog site tonight and I rattled it off.

“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” he said.

No.

No you have not.

But thanks for saying that, it was sweet.

I have so much to say and the stories, the experiences, they just keep coming.

I don’t actually believe I will stop blogging or writing when I go to graduate school.

Y’all might get tired of me writing about it.

But there it is.

The writing is not going to be the spot that I cut back.

At least, that’s what I can see from here.

Not much else.

And maybe a night shift or two with the family, mom and dad can go out and I can study and do my homework after the boys are in bed.

Jesus.

I sound like I’m in school.

Which is what I’m about to be, but I feel suddenly young and foolish and am I ready for this?

Will have start having the naked in school dreams soon too?

I will state now, that I would like to take a pass on that.

It’s taken me awhile to get to where I’ve gotten, but that’s ok.

And it’s going to take a while to get to where ever graduate school is going to lead me.

“You’re so young!” My mom exclaimed, “you’ve only just begun.”

That’s nice to hear at the age of 42.

I don’t feel 42.

I suspect that will serve me well in school.

I do feel, though.

Grateful.

Lots and lots and lots of that.

That I have more.

That there are more stories to be told.

That I will be around awhile yet to tell them.

Maybe even a few in between the lines.

Although I may reserve those for conversations over tea.

Or.

Pork chops.

Sounds Like Soup

February 13, 2014

Which does not sound like sexy, but trust me it is.

I really like to have some soup bubbling away on the stove while I write.

There is just something homey, and comforting, and yes, sexy about it.

How many of you are cooking for yourselves?

Cooking it seems, is a bit of a lost art.

I really like to do it and wouldn’t mind it at all if I could give myself a little more time to it.  But I get by with what I do and I am happy to have some simmering away right now.

Self-care is sexy, is what I am alluding to.

Not waiting for someone else to step in and care for me.

Currently on the stove is some red lentil soup with chicken and onion, garlic and tomatoes, and carrot, salt, pepper, a smidge of chili powder, and lots of cayenne.

I am going to cook it down a little bit longer, basically as long as this blog takes to well, blog, and then pull it from the stove to cool and then “can” it up in some single serving Mason jars I have in the house.

I also made a nice pot of brown rice.

It is going to taste like a spicy dhal with chicken and I will top it with some sliced avocado, should the mood strike, or even a little yogurt.

Yum.

I noticed the trending stats on my blog tonight and thought, well, shoot, looks like it’s going to be another low reading night from the constituency.

It appears that unless I am really writing about sex or dating or men or something of that ilk, my stats drop pretty quick.

Then again, out of nowhere, there are days when suddenly they shoot way up, someone Googles my blog and the person reads through a bunch of them.

I always wonder who is so curious about my life.

Who are you, stranger?

Friend?

Foe?

Ex-lover?

Possible future friend?

Some one who wants to hang out romantically?

Come on you can tell me.

Then I will feed you some soup.

Soup is sexy, I swear by it.

I make a mean chicken soup, no more noodles though, or dumplings, since I gave up that flour stuff, but my chicken soup is still pretty damn killer.

I also make a great French red lentil with spinach and broccoli and carrots, it’s vegan and you would never freaking know, it is so good.

I once gave my manager at the bike shop a jar of it, he’s a vegan, and I have never seen some one lavish as much attention on a bowl of food.

He told me later that he had to stop himself so that he could save half of it for later.

That is nice to hear.

I make a pretty good chili, it’s Wisconsin chili and my mom’s version, pretty much, where she got it, I am assuming is from my grandparents.

She also made a fantastic chicken soup–her version with the dumplings might be my all time favorite–and an autumnal vegetable soup that always made me happy to smell and be glad for fall.

I remember working at the Essen Haus and the soups there made me squeamish to even tell a table.

“That comes with soup or salad, house or small caesar, what may I bring you?” I would ask a table.

“What kind of soup do you have tonight?”

“Our soup today is beer cheese or liver dumpling.”

The looks on people’s faces.

Priceless.

The liver dumpling was apparently really good and I had a girlfriend who swore by it when ever she was on her period, but I never did try it.

I can still see the globes of liver floating in the brown bath of broth though.

Yick.

And beer cheese?

What the fuck is beer cheese?

Actually, beer cheese is pretty spanky good.

I wouldn’t eat it today, aside from the base being beer (yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, alcohol cooks off, but you know, it would be just my luck.  Oh, did you hear?  She relapsed on beer cheese soup, said it tasted too much like the real thing and she went out for a lager which lead to an 8 ball) the base is also made with a flour roux.

But fuck me, if it’s done well, it’s extraordinary.

My boss at the Angelic, Woody, probably made the best version of it I have ever tasted.  It was creamy smooth (no lumps, and yeah, depending on the cook, there would be lumps, which is not so elegant, but hey, who is looking for elegant in beer cheese soup?) done with the Blonde Ale and sharp Wisconsin cheddar, kielbasa slices, onions, diced carrots, and bits of potato.

Jesus Lord it was good.

On a cold Wisconsin winter day, nothing better, with a couple of bread sticks to sop up the bottom of the bowl.

Amaze balls.

And yes, there was also another soup that he did well, and my God the first time I heard the name I just about barfed, but again, Woody pulled it off, Cheeseburger Soup.

Basically the same as the beer cheese soup, but with sautéed ground chuck instead of the kielbasa sausage.

It was damn skippy good.

Not soups I will be making any time soon, but they do bring back the memories.

I don’t know that I could have ever suspected the last time I had a bowl of beer cheese soup that I would ever be the type of person who would be cooking a pot of lentils on the stove, I hated lentils.

At least I hated the way my stepfather made them.

Although, come to think of it, it might be his chili recipe that I base mine off of.

No matter.

The soup, it is good, and I can smell that it is also close to being done.

As am I for the evening.

Time to wrap it up and attend to the rest of this evenings self-care needs.

Like putting up my soup for winter.

Ha.

I Am, Uh, Good?

October 3, 2013

Good.

Period.

Not question mark.

Too funny.

I just got off the phone and finished a good check in with one of my people and there was no drama to report, no anxiety, no fear of finance, or work, or food, or sex, or jesus, who the hell is this person?

We ended up talking about different styles of yoga.

I told her I was thinking of taking some yoga and I got the thumbs up.

Certain things I really need to run past others, I can get on the self-improvement kick real quick instead of the self-acceptance thing, and especially around exercise or body stuff, I need to run it past someone else.

And yes, the green light.

Tomorrow I will go to the yoga place and check it out.

I am meeting someone at Trouble Coffee at noon to do some reading and talk some life experience, and strength, and you know, stuff.

Then I figure after an hour of that I will be ready to walk into the yoga studio and say, sign me up.

I have tomorrow off.

I have a speaking engagement in the evening and there is the outside possibility that the Mister may have some time.

The message I received was, maybe Thursday, maybe Saturday.

Maybe I need to date someone else, or make it known to him that I want to date someone who I get to see more than every other week, maybe.

I like him.

I do.

But man, I am 40.

I ain’t saying let’s get married and pop out some kids, but I am saying, jesus fucking christ on a pogo stick, please, some more time together, and some like intimacy.

Like.

I am a dirty girl.

I want to get laid.

But I dont’ want to get laid out of a relationship, Burning Man’s over, ahem.

That being said, my friend on Sunday said something quite pithy about it and it’s been rattling around in my head for the whole three days since we sat down to tea.

Powerful, successful, busy people make time for people they are interested in.

I think he’s just not that into me.

If he were I would be getting some more attention.

I think.

I started scrolling through OkStupid a little again.

I got a few hits, some from guys I actually went on dates with years ago.

But, dude, I’m sorry, there was no chemistry the last time we went on a date, why would there be now?

Thanks.

But no thanks.

So, that’s the only thing I have any concern about?

Life, yeah, is good.

Work has been lovely.

The boys have been just peaches and the days at the park have been so lovely.

Today we went to Kids Kingdom in the Panhandle and there were musicians playing on the benches by the basketball court and not your usual buskers that hang out around the Haight trying to make spare scratch for a hot meal and a pack of cigarettes, an eighth and a bottle of rot gut.

Nope.

I think, I mean, maybe they weren’t but, they were musicians in town for Hardly Strictly Blue Grass, which is this weekend, they were so good.

I have never heard someone play banjo the way this man was.

It blew my hair back.

It was the perfect soundtrack to hang out in the park.

Sunny Indian Summer in the PanHandle.

Lead the Way

Lead the Way

I let my older charge out of the stroller and walked behind him as he toddled toward the play area, enjoying the music, the sun, the dappling shadows on the grass.

The baby was in the Snugli happily chewing on my sweatshirt drawstring, teething he is, and I felt just a sense of everything being exactly how it is supposed to be.

The entire day.

The entire eveing.

Everything.

Even the Mister.

You know, there’s nothing wrong with anything that is happening.

I am getting to learn what I need to learn and I am absurdly grateful for that.

I also made some phone calls today.

Leaving messages with most, but finally getting back to some of the messages that have accrued over the last few days.

One of which was a message from someone I used to work with a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Wisconsin.

His father had passed a few weeks back and he discovered a load of photographs from the time we worked together, some of which his parents were in.

I remember them well, sweet, and supportive of their son and his, strange decision to move to San Francisco.

Anyone moving to San Francisco from Wisconsin has to be strange you know.

Why would you leave?

He and I caught up and made tentative plans to have coffee next weekend.

I haven’t sat and had coffee with him in over 8 years.

That is a long time to not see someone who was a huge part of my life when I first moved to San Francisco.

I paved the way for him into a job at the Angelic Brewing Company.

He introduced me to San Francisco’s Mission District.

Vouching for me to my first room mates at 805 York Street.

He was at my first Thanksgiving that I cooked in San Francisco.

A meal that was supposed to be him and two other old co-workers from the Angelic and ended up becoming this epic dinner of 13 orphans.

I have so many fond memories of him.

And some fear too.

I acted badly toward then end of the time I was friends with him and for a long time it was suggested that I not reach out, that my motives may have not been the best.

Sometimes when you are a certain age you play hard and then you grow up.

I just played hard and ran away.

I ran away to the place I needed to be, but I abandoned a lot of friendships along the way.

It was nice to hear his voice and know that the fear is silly and that he probably has no judgements about me.

I am usually the only one really judging me anyhow.

But as of the last few hours, well, I haven’t got a thing to judge.

Oh, I am certain I’ll shake something up.

But right now?

I am just fine.

I am good.

I am perfect.

I always have been.

I just haven’t always allowed myself to see it.

Perfectly flawed.

Perfectly, deliciously, human.

Perfect me.


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