Posts Tagged ‘tired’

Tired

June 23, 2017

And wide awake all at the same time.

There was a moment today when I just thought to myself, I am not going to make it through the day.

Not enough sleep.

Too many hours at work.

Client that needs to be seen after work.

Party for a friends studio opening.

And I was asked to come in earlier tomorrow to work.

I thought I was just going to pass out.

The little lady was close to taking a nap and I hazarded a distinct longing to put her down for a nap and cuddle with her and sneak in a nap myself.

But.

No such luck.

I also didn’t want to super caffeinate.

Although I came daringly close I did not succumb to the temptation and powered through the day.

My thoughts kept me company and I kept myself moving around the house a lot and kept telling myself that it was almost Friday.

It still was a long day.

But I made it through work and I got to my internship and I had a really good second session with a new client.

Two clients this week and I’ll be adding another client next week.

Slowly it builds.

I felt really good doing the session and decided that I could rally afterward and go sneak over to my friend’s open house studio opening.

I really wanted to have a grown up moment that was a social, even if it was just for a little snick of time.

I hadn’t any dinner so I knew that it would be short-lived and watching the fog roll in over Twin Peaks I was pretty assured that it would be a quick visit.

But it was good and I got to see an amazing work space and reconnect with Burning Man friends and talk a little about the event and when folks are going.

I haven’t found a ride yet and there was a moment when I thought, fuck it, wouldn’t it be nice to not stress and give up the ticket and spend the time here in the city with people I love and then I was like.

Um, no.

Hahahaha.

Sure, there are people who I want to see here, but the fact is if I don’t go to Burning Man I’d just be working anyhow, it’s not like vacation, although it completely is, but it’s outside of my time frame of paid vacation and I wouldn’t just take the week off without going.

Plus.

It’s the ten-year anniversary of my best friend’s death and he’s the reason why I went in the first place.

My heart, tender, feeling that loss, but not so achy as it’s been in the past, just tender, just there and I know there will be feelings that come up.

And there will be a conversation with him, somewhere in deep playa, out past the Temple where I am sure between the Temple and the mountain range my friend still resides, just a little part of him, I didn’t take all his ashes, but enough, enough to know he’s there and there are many places that I connect with the memory of him and also with the aliveness of him, the way I live my life a reflection of the gusto he went after life with.

I am sure he would be proud of me.

OH.

Hello.

There are the tears.

I knew you were around.

I watched the fog roll in over the top of Twin Peaks from the deck of my friends studio in the Mission and it was the same height and approximate distance from the hospital ICU, General, where my friend spent a week in a coma before the family pulled the plug and harvested his organs for donation.

There is always one strong memory for me, pressing my face against that window, my fevered brow, the hotness of my heart, the tears always on and off, more so off when I was at the hospital–it was only in the privacy of my own room in the dark as I prayed to God on my knees to get me through the experience that I would allow myself to cry–the coolness of the window and the dark, heaviness of the fog rolling in over Twin Peaks.

A blanket of sorrow and felted love thrown over the entirety of the city as though we all grieved the loss of my friend.

So.

Yeah.

I might be a little tired, but I’m not bailing on Burning Man.

Nope.

Sure.

I haven’t gotten a ride together yet, but that will happen and hopefully it won’t be as crazy as the ride up was last time.

I have gotten a couple of nibbles from my post on the ride share board, but nothing solid, it always comes together, I’m not too worried.

It’s more a matter, at this point, of getting a playa bike and finding time in between the comings and goings of my life to do some preparation.

I have people I am responsible to, my own recovery to attend to, and God damn it would be nice to get in a yoga class this weekend, but yeah,  a new playa bike and some sourcing of other items that are always nice to have and I’ll make some time, find some time, create some time, and do a little shopping when I can.

Side bar.

The mom just sent me a message about my work performance and told me that I really was “Mary Poppins sister!”

I’ll take it.

Anyway, this Mary Fucking Poppins, will be riding again under her parasol out on playa again this year and enjoying the hell out of not being a therapist in training, a student, or a nanny.

Just a girl.

Out on her bike.

Riding towards the painted calico mountains with secrets and love to share with an old friend.

“I finally was the ball, Shadrach, you’d be so fucking proud of me.”

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Cold And Hella Sore

January 6, 2017

I mean.

Fucking sore.

I got two shots today.

One in each arm.

Flu on the left side.

Tdap on the right.

Tdap is for whopping cough, diphtheria, and tetanus.

Technically I was still in the range to be covered by my last Tdap shot, but new baby in the home where I work and it’s been eight years and so, I got the shot today with the dad at the Walgreens in Noe Valley.

It was sort of a comedy of errors as the pharmacist couldn’t understand why the dad was just getting the flu shot, why I was getting both shots, and who was billing what insurance, and where to stand in line and how to do it and just too many cooks in the stew and too many papers to fill out.

At one point I looked at the dad, who was covered for the whooping-cough vaccine already and said, “betcha they give me two flu shots and you get the Tdap.”

And that was exactly what almost happened.

I intervened on the shots though and corrected the woman, a fourth person in the odd queue of people who had to facilitate the process.

The new family I work with is European and they seem almost as boggled by our American Health system as I do.

“We don’t take that insurance,” the clerk told me when I handed over my card.

“I’m paying for her shots, the dad told the clerk,” who just looked at us and tried to figure out what our relationship was and why we had separate addresses.

It was hilarious.

Until I got the shots.

I know that there is aching that happens, but the mind forgets and my arms got sore pretty fast and now, fuck, it sort of sucks.

Plus a very, very, very cold ride home on my scooter tonight after doing the deal up in the Castro with my person.

“Girl, I’m cold in here, you get yourself home and get warmed up,” he said and gave me a big hug.

I did not want to get on my scooter, but I also really wanted to get home.

It is cold out there.

I know, I know, it’s not Wisconsin cold, but it’s been a long wet, chilly week and the temperature here dropped a lot and is around 39 degrees right now.

That is hella cold for San Francisco.

And add some nice wind chill to that and it felt like I had frozen tears on my face riding home.

I’ve had a cup of hot tea and the heat is on and I’m still pretty chilled.

I could take a hot shower, but I already showered this morning and it’s such a hassle with my hair and I’d rather just not deal with it.

This week has been long, a bit tiring, and a little stressful.

New job anxiety.

But.

I do feel better and better and better with the time I have spent with the family.

They are warm, intelligent, kind people and I feel like I’m being really happily taken into the family.

So grateful for that.

Sore arms and all.

At least I won’t get the flu this season.

My God, though, it’s worse than I remember.

Of course, I also didn’t get both done at the same time.

My arms are on fire.

I don’t want to write this blog!

I wonder if it’s also just being tight from the ride home and tense with the cold, I think once I warm up a bit more I’ll be ok.

I am a bit of a baby when it comes to the cold, I’ve noted recently, be that as it may, I am very happy it did not rain today nor is there any rain in the forecast for tomorrow.

After that.

All bets are fucking off.

It’s going to be a long, wet, wooly, wild, rainy week of storms.

There’s a big storm coming and I am not looking forward to it.

Granted I don’t have to do a lot of stuff this weekend, meet my person at Tart to Tart, do some yoga, hopefully my arms will be back in working order by Saturday.

I’ll be heading over to Oakland on Saturday too, got a speaking engagement in North Oakland.

I’ll be doing the trains and the BART all weekend long.

And probably next week to and from work too, I can’t fathom riding in the rain when it’s been as cold as it’s been.

I’m so grateful I didn’t last night, the feeling of dread that came over me when I contemplated riding home last night in the cold and rain, it was unbearable.

No such feeling tonight when I got on the scooter, just the cold to contend with.

And I did.

And I’ll warm up.

And the rain will pass and it will all be ok.

The train rides will give me opportunity to read.

And not pleasure reading.

That brief time as passed, that window has closed.

I got my first text-book for the next semester in the mail today.

I shall begin the reading for class ASAP.

There’s a good deal to read and school starts the next weekend.

Sigh.

Winter break.

You’ve come and gone so fast.

Oh well.

I did read one book all the way through and a bit into the Don DeLillo, but all the other lovely books I got are going to have to wait until summer time.

C’est la vie.

It was real nice there for a moment.

Damn Gina.

I’m tired.

Cold, and lonely, and the wolves are after me.

Ha.

Just kidding.

Cold though, I’m still cold, time for more tea and a good snuggle under my grandma’s afghan.

Yes.

That sounds just about right.

Night all.

Stay warm.

Snuggle bunnies.

Seriously.

Stood Up

July 17, 2016

But not angry about it.

In fact.

I was rather relieved.

I sort of expected the guy to stand me up.

And since.

I had spent the previous half hour slowly sobbing into a puddle at Tart to Tart with my person and doing some inventory.

I was indeed relieved.

I was a hot mess.

Fact is, I still am.

Which happens, I forget, despite my exhortations to the universe to have a magical and amazing Saturday.

Instead it was just tender and raw, or it wasn’t, I was, I am.

I just have to change some stuff and I don’t feel comfortable with it.

Fear.

Fuck everything and run.

Or.

Face everything and recover.

I got some big prideful pants on right now and they are not serving me at all.

I have been having some issues with work, not being able to set a boundary, hoping that instead it will magically happen.

That somehow my employer will read my mind and know that I need a break.

But.

Nobody’s a fucking mind reader and people are too busy thinking about themselves, hey, look at me, I’m thinking about myself right now, and nobody knows what I need, except.

Well.

Fuck.

Me.

So.

I’m not getting the kind of break I need at work.

And I feel appalled to admit it, that I’m not some fucking super hero who can do it all.

I can’t.

I’ve been trying.

I know that I am owed a break and I don’t know how to ask for it or to express that I need a break from the whole family, not just the kids.

It’s something I keep going back to and feeling this horrid shame that I need something from my job other than the paycheck.

That to do my job well I have to get more of a break.

That being in the house with any kind of responsibility to it is not a break, it doesn’t matter that I have done it in the past, rolled along, taken my break when the kid is sleeping and sometimes the nap is long and it is lovely and sometimes the nap is short and hey, as a nanny I just roll with it.

But the family I work for, work’s from home and I feel like I have to be on at all times, that I am always being observed and it’s fucking exhausting.

And I keep saying.

Everything is fine, fine, fine.

But.

It’s not.

See, I know my job’s hard, and the people I work with, not my employers, but the people I do do the deal with, know it’s hard, a lot of friends and my school cohort know it’s a hard job. But the parents, they don’t see it that way.

Or maybe they do, I mean, I can’t read their mind either.

I just know that being in an environment in which the parents are always there is like being constantly supervised and scrutinized and I’m just not in a good spot with it at the moment.

I didn’t get out at all from the house this past week, except once to the farmer’s market with they boys, I didn’t go for a walk, I didn’t get to take them to the playground, I didn’t have respite or the relief that I find when I am out of the house and not under the eye of the parents or the monitors and camera’s.

I also know, acutely, that so much of this is also of my own making, that I need to speak up.

I have once.

It was really hard and the parents had a hard time hearing what I said and I got what I asked for, but it went away, slow and sure, and now I’m back at that point where I wonder if it’s just not time to go back to working with babies again.  Or have the conversation once again, I need a break, that I’m not getting enough structure to allow myself the flexibility to the job as well as I could be.

“There are so many jobs out there,” she said to me today, “so many.”

I have to do some more writing.

She suggested I write out exactly what I want and then just say it, regardless of consequence.

Fear says, oh conflict, oh confrontation, oh shit, you’ll lose your job and wind up being abandoned and alone and homeless in the park with a cat.

Fuck off.

I am so sick of that fear and I am so tired of doing this same fucking work.

So.

Change.

I have to change.

My employers don’t have to change.

I have to change.

I also have to lay off the beating myself up about it.

It doesn’t help.

I hate feeling tender and vulnerable and asking for what I need leads to those feelings.

I suspect because I had a lot of denial around my needs during times when I needed to have things met.

The basic things, shelter, food, clothes, love, nurturing, unconditional support.

I got what I got and it was good enough.

I am good enough and I don’t have to look to my job to be my joy or my identity.

I also get to practice in this relationship whatever it is that God needs me to be working on.

There is stuff here.

Obviously.

I’m in the job until I learn what I need to learn.

I am in the job until I fail to be of service to it.

Ironic that I can’t be of good service if I’m not taking care of myself, so the uncomfortable task of self-searching and being open for something new, whether it’s a new attitude and approach to this job or it’s looking for a job that will fit my needs better.

I need to know what my needs are.

I can surmise that the discomfort of not asking for a break is rapidly becoming harder to bear than the discomfort of not taking said break.

I am not a super hero.

I can’t be a super nanny.

I don’t want to burn out and I can’t be the best nanny if I’m nursing resentments.

All of them pretty much aimed at myself.

I’m a sitting duck.

I’m tired of shooting at myself.

I give up God.

Got some guidance?

I’ll take it.

Thanks man, I’m tired of learning this lesson.

I surrender.

Which.

In some circles is considered going over to the winning side.

I rather like the way that sounds.

The winning side is where it’s at.

Seriously.

 

Whole Lot of Tired

July 14, 2016

So tired that I wondered earlier today.

Why the fuck did I buy tickets to that dj show?

But.

I knew that would happen, even when I was buying tickets to the show, whole lot of tired strikes when it does and usually brings up the, what the fuck where you thinking attitude when reviewing things to do later this weekend.

Fact is.

I want to go dancing.

Fact is.

I got invited, I invited some friends, I have three friends going, a possible Tinder connection also going and a whole lot of need to shake my ass and just wash the work week off my body.

I’m a whole lot of tired because I worked extra hours today and didn’t have much interaction with humans other than my employers.

Even less so today than I typically do.

I never got the fuck out of the house.

It just breaks my heart when it’s nice out and I am stuck inside all day long.

I have never had a nanny job like this and sometimes there are things that I don’t exactly disagree with, but they run contrary to my usual get up and go and get the heck outside.

Being outside is one of the huge perks of my job, being in the sun, walking around, stretching my legs, letting my head have space to meander free and clear.

I just didn’t get that today and I haven’t really all this week.

Summer camp scheduling and a strange sort of malaise that the youngest one has had all week have led to me being pretty much tied to the house.

I can’t say I hate it.

I have had moments of deep gratitude for the job, but I’m not used to being this cooped up and on top of that, working the extra hours today to help out on the dad’s birthday really blew me out of the water.

I think I’m going to squeeze in a yoga class tomorrow before work to get me out of the crazy in my head.

I need to exercise is probably the biggest thing.

Even though I am still sore from yesterday’s yoga class, today’s lack of genuine physical activity was uncomfortable.

And should it repeat through the remainder of the week I am really going to need the invigoration of getting my dance on by Friday.

Even if my brain protests.

I have committed to going and like I said, ticket bought.

I’ll be hitting up Public Works on Friday night for some dj action from the Desert Heart Collective.

Gonna get me some deep house and techno.

Yes please.

Ah.

Apparently I just needed a cup of tea and being in my own home to set me right.

That and a couple ibuprofen to ward off the impending headache from being indoors all day.

At least the back patio was in action today, I did sit outside and eat my lunch with the littlest guy al fresco.

Very cute.

So much cute.

Just not enough getting to the park.

At least tomorrow I know I will get outside for the Farmer’s Market.

Plus.

I am going to see the folks at the Farm tomorrow night and that’s always a nice treat.

I have a couple of ladies that I get to connect with, one, the friend that encouraged me to get after asking for the Burning Man ticket, and two, another friend who has gear it looks like I’m going to be able to use.

Reunion!

Book ending my day at work with yoga in the morning and doing the deal at night will make the day go by faster.

And the weekend is getting booked up.

I had a friend reach out today about doing coffee and pretty much had to book it for next weekend.

Although, I will probably have some free time in the eve on Saturday.

I am doing the deal Friday after work, then meeting a lady for tea and reading, then friends for dancing at Public Works.

Saturday I’ll be meeting my person and I have a coffee date at Tart to Tart at 1:15pm.

I’m not feeling the vibe in a big way, but I’m trying to practice.

I figure I’ll hit a late afternoon yoga class and go do the deal somewhere in the evening.

I may leave the night open for flexibility.

See what comes around.

Sunday I have a lady coming over, going to try to do yoga again, and then all the things I need to do to prep for a work week.

Cook, clean, laundry, and maybe something else.

I don’t know.

Tired thinking about it.

But.

Grateful for a full and happy life.

For being busy.

And I’m going to get a nice fat nights sleep and stretch it out in the morning.

I have a big, full, beautiful weekend.

Busy, but not too packed.

Full, but also open to being flexible.

I mean.

I could handle a date Saturday night.

Why not?

I’m supposed to be having fun!

Oh.

And I connected with my Burning Man family, the OG dad, and checked in with him about getting my playa bike.

I still haven’t nailed down a ride there and back, but I figure getting all my things together in one spot is going to be helpful.

I am wondering if I could send up the bike with the friend who offered me a ride.

Hmm.

Something to ponder.

And though I don’t know how I’m getting there and back, I do feel heavy magical feelings around it.

Something is stirring there, I can’t quite see it, but some pot of possibility is stewing.

Open to all suggestions and ideas.

I suppose that means I need to post to the board as well on the Burning Man website.

Another action I can take tomorrow.

It will all come together.

It somehow always does.

Even when I’m ready to fall apart.

With that.

I’m out.

Night all.

Hope some of you got some sunshine in today.

The skies looked so blue.

Impossibly high and bright and blue.

Love, hope, joy, the press of the King Palm tree’s giant fronds into the sky, the soft hand of a small boy’s in mine, the snuggling with stuffed cats, and the bright orange black of a monarch in the sky above.

Beauty in the small quiet moments.

Respite in between the fall of minutes.

The shift of blue to blue to blue.

Against blue.

A swath of love in the gentle wash of sky.

 

 

 

Be Gentle

October 25, 2015

To yourself.

He said to me on phone as I sobbed into the receiver.

The receiver.

Please.

As though my little phone has a mouth piece and an ear piece.

As though I am in a corner of the house in Windsor, the kitchen nook, on the old yellow rotary, oh yeah, that’s right, I had a rotary phone, out dated even for then, but completely functional, with a long curled cord that would get tangled up in itself.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asked, discerning the most important thing, “girl, you’re totally in HALT.”

Hungry.

Angry.

Lonely.

Tired.

I might add sad to that.

Halts.

But it doesn’t sound as good and crisp as HALT.

“Of course I have,” I said into the phone, “I know better than to call you without having first put some sustenance in myself.”

I had eaten the bowl of soup, Tom Kha from Thai House (Vietnamese coconut milk soup with thinly sliced onions, lemon grass, carrots, and chicken) with some brown rice, standing up in my kitchen trying to catch my breath and focus on what was in front of me.

Damn it man.

This is the second time I have done this to myself.

I am acutely aware of my part.

My feelings, though, they were hurt.

Hurt.

And so it goes.

I had my feelings hurt.

Things happen.

How do I recover?

How do I take care of myself?

Shakily spooning soup into my mouth like an idiot who had waited too long to eat, tears snaking down my face co-mingled with eye liner and snot.

Sexy.

I tell ya, I got sexy all locked up, don’t try to get anything by me.

I fell down this hole and I should have known better, in fact, I had an intuition to eat my dinner, call, text, and say you can’t wait until after school to eat.  But I got caught up in a conversation with a professor.

And.

Then I thought, no, just soldier through.

Gird your loins and get it.

It’s not so bad.

And.

The thing is.

It’s not too bad, my feelings, my tender heart, tender, but was I going to die?

No.

Did it feel like it?

Yes.

That is the nature of a panic attack.

Welcome to graduate school, land of panic attacks.

Someone in my cohort admitted to having had one yesterday, maybe they are in the air, catching, like a cough, a soul sickness, a salty sadness, bereft in the elevator shaft of my soul, the cars rumbling up and down, but only stopping mid-floor, caught up in the sinews and entanglements of my heart.

Second panic attack since I have been in graduate school.

Good times.

At least I know what to do, but it was hard to facilitate that where I was.

I closed my eyes and prayed.

I asked to have it lifted.

I slowed my breathing.

I got into my body.

It was hard.

My body was a bit depleted.

I am going to take a moment here, now, and breathe.

“Don’t tell someone who is in a panic to breath,” my professor said today during lecture, “why?”

“The client will feel judged,” I said.

I felt judged.

Scared.

Vulnerable.

Then abandoned.

On the doorstep.

The front gate.

The wrought iron rails dipped in safety orange paint.

I held a crumpled brown paper bag of take out soup in my hand.

My ride pulled away after declining to come in.

I was a mess.

I felt like I showed my most vulnerable self and was dropped like a sack of kittens outside of the car and as I sobbed inside, I shut the door to the car and walked away.

My feelings were hurt.

Yup.

Give it time, give it time, give it time.

“You have every right to feel like that,” he said to me sweet as pie in my ear, “girl, maybe what you have to do is just submerge yourself in your school weekends, nothing but that, stop trying to fit other things in when you are in school, a dinner date after class all day is too much.”

He paused, “and pack some more snacks.”

He was soft, but firm.

Then he told me about falling in a hole.

And climbing out.

And walking down the same street and saying, “oh, there’s that hole again, better skirt it,” but walking right into it again.

Pulling myself out again.

Then.

Going down the same street and saying, “oops, there’s that hole again, maybe I should give it more room, but still skirting too close to the edge, which crumbles and I fall in.”

I laughed, yes, I have done this.

Then.

“Then, one day you walk down the street and cross over to the other side,” he continued.

And.

“Finally, you just don’t turn down that street anymore.”

“Be gentle to yourself,” he admonished me again, “maybe go for a walk, get some fresh air, or do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself.”

“Now, I got to go and eat some food myself,” he said.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We hung up.

I drank some tea.

I put Coleman Hawkins on the stereo.

I decided to pause on writing my blog and sent off some poems to a friend in my cohort who asked for a copy of the sonnets I recently wrote.

Then.

I realized I wanted a really, really, really hot shower.

So.

I did that too.

Washed the hair, shaved the legs, dried the hair, lotion, put on some yoga pants and a cozy sleep shirt.

I looked at my phone.

I couldn’t help it.

Then.

I knew it was all ok.

Because it always is.

When I focus on all the abundance I have.

When I know that emotions they come and go and I can write it out and let it go and pray and ask for direction, love, guidance.

So leave your things by the sea.

And when the thieves come in.

Just let them take what they need.

And wash it out.

Wash it out.

Wash it out.

Just wash it out.

I put on The Mynabirds and sang and breathed soft in my heart.

I am taken care of.

I am alright.

I am taken care of.

I am loved.

I love myself.

I forgive myself.

Regret doesn’t undo a single thing.

I hope you’re happy today.

If we could go back to the beginning.

We might not have had any wall between us.

I hope you’re happy at the end of the day.

I hope you’re happy today.

So very happy.

I hope you’re happy today.

Punked

May 2, 2015

But not for long.

I made it through the week and that is saying something.

I changed or something changed and it all changed.

It was still a tiring week though and I am grateful that I have the weekend off and although a bit disappointed to find out that my person is not available to meet again this week, I will get to see some friends and head over to the East Bay to see my dear heart who just had a baby a few weeks back.

I still get to be of service and I get to hang out with friends.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

I’m not 100% sure how things are going to fall out tomorrow.

Suffice to say that I’m going to get picked up either here or in the Inner Sunset around 2p.m. and then accompany my friend to North Berkeley where we will be seeing the mama and the baby with a few other friends and doing the deal.

It’s nice to take the deal over to the new mom.

I feel very grateful that I get to help out.

In whatever small way I can, which was really, just making the time to do so and contacting a few people on the phone.

You know, that thing that everyone stares at but rarely seems to talk on anymore.

I saw someone make texting motions to indicate a letter she recently wrote someone and I had to take a pause.

First.

How long can the letter be if you are typing it out with your thumbs?

Second.

That I even knew what she was referring to.

“Oh, you’re one of those people now,” an old friend said to me when I flipped open my new cell phone and took her number.

I was very proud of my old Sprint flip phone and I had it for quite some time.

Until I dropped it in the toilet at Tosca.

Oops.

No need to really elaborate on what I was doing in the stall, it was not peeing, I assure you, and how flummoxed I was when I fished it out.

I had just placed a call and my dealer would be rapidly swinging through North Beach to make his delivery.

He always rang me and I would come out from where ever I was and hop in the passenger side door and we would chit-chat for a few minutes as he drove around the block.

Catch up.

You know.

Like friends do.

Friends who deal drugs to you at any hour of day or night and make a nice fat income off you.

“I don’t know why he’s calling me,” I told her frantic on the phone.

“I don’t owe him any money,” I continued.

I always find myself grateful for that, I never asked for fronted drugs and I never copped unless I had money.

Which was part of the problem at the end.

“I don’t have a problem with cocaine,” I told my room-mate in a huff.

I had overheard him explaining to a friend of his who was visiting (who had happened to get me mighty high at the End Up the prior weekend) that I had a problem.

They were smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, adjacent to my room, and whispering in gossipy undertones about why I was still in my room at four in the afternoon.

You would be too if you hadn’t gone to bed for three days.

Please.

When I next saw him I had my words, “I don’t have a problem,” I continued, zooming into his space as he was frothing milk for a cappuccino, “my problem is that I don’t have enough money to afford doing the amount I want to do.”

Um.

Yeah.

Mission Control.

We have a problem.

But I did quit.

And I was shocked to get the message from my dealer.

He wanted to “talk” to me about something.

I was walking up Valencia Street where it ends at Mission and heading home towards my new little tiny rented room at the foot of Bernal Hill on Kingston at 30th.

And I was freaking out.

“First,” she said on the phone, “you don’t have to call him back.”

“But what does he want?” I cried, “I don’t get it, why is he calling me?”

She laughed uproariously.

I did not know what was so funny.

“Carmen, honey, he probably wants to know if you want any blow, he’s probably wondering where his good customer has gone off to.”

The rooms and I ain’t never going back.

“Oh,’ I said.

“OH!” I cried out, “of course, that makes perfect sense.”

I never did call him back.

I realize tonight that yes I am tired.

But not that kind of tired.

Not the kind of tired that was soaked into my bones.

The constant repetition of I’m not going to do it, I’m doing it, I don’t want to be doing this, why am I doing this, please stop doing this, I’m killing myself, don’t do it anymore, I’m not going to do it anymore, it wasn’t that bad, I can do it just this weekend, it’s a three-day holiday, I’ll just get a couple of grams, it’s not a problem, I don’t have a problem.

Fuck me.

I have a problem.

And I am ok with it.

I have a solution today.

So, tired.

Yeah, sure, it was a long week, but it was a week full of joy, yes some exhaustion and some tears, and some frustration, but also a burgeoning of flexibility in my schedule, an unleashing of wild pink hair, a happiness to have rent paid, my student loans paid off for the month, and friends that I get to see and a new baby in the mix.

I don’t mind getting a little tired to have that.

As well as reconnecting with an old friend.

Who was swell when I said, I got to go, friend, I’m beat, the groceries in the bag got to get in the fridge and I have to get on my bicycle and pedal out to the beach.

And that is alright too.

A quiet Friday night in is not a bad thing at all.

I’ll be ready for the rest of the weekend and refreshed.

Because tomorrow.

I’m sleeping in!

A God Box

March 25, 2015

And a hot shower.

Then.

Everything got right with my world.

I was exhausted after work today.

Exhausted.

I don’t even want to think about how tired I was.

I was meeting with someone at Church Street Cafe prior to going to the 7:15 p.m. thing where I do that thing, and while riding my bicycle up 17th Street I thought, Jesus, sweet fucking Jesus, I am tired.

If I am this tired, on a Tuesday, how am I ever going to have a boyfriend?

How the fuck am I going to get through graduate school.

I forget that, “this too shall pass.”

Tired is not a state I am good in.

I suspect that no one is.

The littlest guy is a heavy napper, bless his little sweet soul, but like a lot of moms I have worked with, the parent gets worried that a long nap equals a long night of not going to bed on time and thus I am admonished to wake up the monkey after a certain amount of time.

I believe this leads to some inopportune things.

First, no body likes being woken up.

I don’t.

I was woken up with a startled poke this morning.

My brain shouted at me, “holy shit, you forgot to set your alarm, get up!”

It’s true.

I had forgotten to set my alarm, not something that I do very often.

I have it set for tomorrow usually as soon as I wake up.

I just sort of automatically switch it back on.

However, on Monday’s I go in an hour and a half earlier than I do the rest of the week.  The family likes me to come in one day early and stay an extra hour to help out with errands and organizing and such.

Not a problem for me to do.

But that means I am up and going well before my set alarm for the following day.

I set the alarm on Mondays for 6:30 p.m.

The alarm on Tuesdays is set for 8 a.m.

But when I went to set it yesterday, when I thought about it, it was still before 7 a.m. and I just never got to it.

Completely spaced.

Nothing is quite so disconcerting as waking up to realize that I have not set the alarm.

I woke up at 7:59 a.m. this morning.

That was a pleasant surprise, but it was still a jarring way to wake up.

And that is the issue, I think.

The little guy gets woke up well before he’s ready and then over compensates by juicing up with adrenalin and then he’s wonky and that is what I think makes bed time at night so hard, he’s getting to worked up.

That’s my theory anyway.

I hesitate to share that with many a parent, but I might just have to.

Tomorrow is another day and I will let it play out the way it needs to, not worrying about it right now.

Especially since I am so nice and cozy and relaxed, and well, not tired at all.

When I was riding my bicycle I was close to bonking, I realize now.

Dinner for me was nearly an hour past the time I normally eat with the boys.

There was a potty emergency and instead of coming home from the park and digging into some dinner, I came home from the park and striped down the boys and hustled them into the bath.

The schedule throws them too, unfortunately, they both were ready to eat as well and so, well, bath time was lively, yo, let me tell you.

By the time I got them into pjs and had them back down stairs for dinner I was a little wonky and needed to eat.

I typically know better.

And sometimes things like this happen, but my reserves were stretched and when I was boy wrangling after dinner, dish washing, plate scraping, composting, picking up, rearranging, shoving food into my mouth when I could.

God how I hate that.

I really have grown to like sitting and eating my meals, as mind fully as possible.

I don’t always succeed in completely unplugging from my phone, but I do usually have success with sitting down to eat my meal, rather than cramming in a bite here standing up and trying to multi-task eighteen different things.

I did eat.

I did manage to get through the last hour of the day.

I did make it to Church Street Cafe and sit exhausted and near to tears, and by the end, in tears, at a table in the front and discuss with my person how I need to advocate more help from the mom and dad at certain times and how I can say that without coming off like I’m telling them that I know better, I don’t, I just have the experience I have, and asking for what I need.

“It’s not a confrontation, its communication,” he said to me.

Ah.

Yes.

I still have that old idea in my head that asking for what I want is confrontational.

Nope.

I am just communicating my needs and they have told me before they don’t want me to get burned out.

I don’t want me to get burned out either.

I sat.

Cried.

Prayed.

Held hands and let myself be held.

Then I sat for another hour and in that time felt myself come back into my body, the food had kicked in and I could feel my batteries recharged.

I even enjoyed the bike ride home.

I also notice my God box, the reading I had read out loud tonight, the one paragraph that I had as the book passed into my hands talked about putting a note in the God box and letting it go.

And rediscovering later what I had given over, usually things that I had completely forgot about–because they, the problems, had been taken care of.

I got this God box in Paris about two years ago and had not opened it since. I randomly pulled out notes, mostly about how am I going to pay my rent.

One especially that made me breathe in, knowing I had been so taken care of, even though I could not see it at all at the time, dated 1/29/13–Please help me pay February rent–I don’t know what happened, but I do know I did pay February rent, but on the 29th of January I did not have the funds and didn’t know where they were going to come from.

One slip, 3/9/13, where am I supposed to live?

I had written down Paris, New York, San Francisco?

I found centimes and Euros and pence from when I had gone to London.

I found a note I had written more recently that I had completely forgotten about–Please help me with >>>>>I am miserable–that one was dated 1/7/15.

The next I pulled out?

Dated 1/14/15 Please show me what to do about <<<<<<< I don’t know what to do.

Well.

He broke up with me just days later.

I got my answer.

So I put the bottom back on the bank, my hot pink fuchsia rabbit from the Pylones store in the Marais, and I wrote out a note to God asking him to help me be of service to the family I work for and to advocate for what I need.

And yes, I asked about a sign in regards to a boyfriend.

I damn sure am due one.

Then I got into the shower, oh hot shower, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

I washed my hair and gave it a deep conditioning and then slathered myself in cocoa butter lotion and made a cup of tea.

I feel ever so much better.

My bunny bank God box smiling benevolently on my book shelf.

My sweet home, a home I know I am covered for rent for, a job that I know I am loved and appreciated at.

And God’s got the boyfriend, he always has.

He took care of the last one, he’ll take care of the next.

As long as I take care of myself.

And keep turning it all over.

Again and again.

And.

Again.

You Have Changed So Much

January 14, 2015

He said.

“You are so beautiful, look at her,” he said to the man sitting next to me.

Thank you.

I have grown up a lot.

My heart so tender today that I would rather not write tonight for fear that if it, my heart, were any more on m sleeve, it might burst.

Just the ache that fills me when I look at the ten pink Gerber daisies my boyfriend left on my scooter for me to discover when I got home tonight is enough to make me want to stop writing.

I know the only way through this is to grow through it.

That was not a typo.

I really have to grow more.

Just when I think I can stop stretching my arms toward the sun I find myself needing to reach even harder toward that warmth and light.

The sunlight of the spirit I need more than ever now.

I still feel so new at this thing called living.

I still find myself trying to find my voice.

Last night as I was heading to bed I played the Bach cello Sonatas again that I had been listening to, one in particular that reverberates within me when ever I hear it, Cello Suite in G Menuett 1 & 2, and I cried.

It just filled me with grief and joy and sorrow and gratitude and awe and I was astounded that I could feel so very much, that I could hold all those emotions at one time and feel them each and every one.

Painfully so.

Gratefully so.

I held him in my arms and kissed his hair and said, “shhh, I hear you, I hear you, I hear you, it’s ok.”

He sobbed like the two and a half tired toddler he was, overwhelmed with the sugar from a rice crispy treat and a trip to his older brother’s pre-school class for a family share day.

He was inconsolable with feelings.

He wasn’t able to express, without screaming in frustration what he wanted.

He wanted it all.

And he could not find the words to ask for everything he wanted.

I am forty years older than him and sometimes I feel like that too, the words get stifled in my chest and I cannot find the way to have you hear me, to express myself, that my heart is tender, that you have touched it, that I feel you, even when you retreat again and leave me here to stare at pink flowers on an aquamarine table, next to a bunny night-light from Paris, tears well up and then down.

I breathe.

I held him and calmly spoke to him and let him know he was heard and it was alright and he didn’t need to do anything but breathe.

“Take a big deep breath,” I told him and inhaled through my nose and exhaled slowly.

“Again.”

“Baby, try again, you can do it, I’m here, I’m here holding you, you are safe.” I said and held him and swayed next to the sound machine.

It took some time.

It always does when our hearts are so full and there is so much to say and no words to express all the feelings but to holler in a scream, NO!

NO!

He screamed.

The tantrum lasted about 20 minutes.

It felt longer and all at the same time timeless, effortless, the screaming, the heart wrenching holler of a frustrated child.

And when it was done, a snuggle, a story, a song, lullaby my baby, down to sleep.

A two and a half hour nap and it was like the world was a brand new place and yes!

Let’s go to the park and play fire engines and slides and hide and seek and tag and please, more shovels, and diggers, and sand, yes.

Feelings they pass and when I am overwhelmed, I remind myself, this too shall pass.

And.

To thine own self be true.

So I do what makes sense, I make a cup of tea, I arrange flowers in a Mason jar and smile that I have once again been given so much more than what I asked for and that, yes, I am allowed to ask at all.

I don’t have to be a quiet wallflower.

I can keep changing.

I am not the same woman.

I am this woman.

Alive, imbued with emotions, all allowed, intelligent, funny, sweet, beautiful, hopefully more on the inside than the outside–that’s where it counts, really, physical beauty fades, but heart beauty, that which is inside, that only grows deeper in beauty and fullness.

Rich.

That is what this life is, full of flavor and spice.

Salt and pepper, smoked paprika, grated nutmeg, golden turmeric, spicy ginger, sultry cinnamon, spiky mace, sweet Cicely, clove, anise in all its wild glory.

So much.

Tonight as I was riding home through the park, just past the end of the Pan Handle where it ends at Stanyan, I rode by a patch of the park that smelled so pungent I was bowled over with memory.

Wet, dark, damp, sweet, the smell of soft rotting nectarines and the wound of a night-blooming jasmine melded my heart to the here and now and the little girl I was so many moons back.

I did not perhaps have that same comfort and soothing that I was able to give the littlest boy I take care of, but I could connect the woman I am to the girl that I was and see how far I have come and see how tender I can be to that part of myself and know that no matter how open and vulnerable I feel, that I really won’t be hurt be letting others see exactly what there is to me.

All of it.

I am as see through as the pink of a bunny rabbit ears.

Have you seen that?

The translucent light, pearled and pink with blood and the white of a fur softly ringing the tender skin, that shines through a rabbit-ear.

That is me.

Tonight anyway.

Tomorrow?

Let’s not go there, shall we?

Just let me sink, soft, and unbound into the sound of cello rasping away into the evening as the stars shimmer over the woods, deep, wild, and omniscient in their tangled ramble toward the sea.

 

My Internet Is So Slow

November 13, 2014

I could hand write my blog and take a photograph of it and it would get posted via my Iphone faster than the laptop I am on.

Speaking of which.

Why is the site wonky?

I mean, I just got used to the new formatting, please stop changing it up.

I wasn’t grumpy before I tried to get online.

I am now.

However, I am online and I am blogging and all that hoop la, this too shall pass, stuff, shall, well, pass.

I just have a schedule, a plan, man, a timing thing and I don’t want to spend extra time dicking around trying to get online faster.

Like it works.

Me yelling does not work.

Me wanting to throw my laptop won’t work.

Me letting go, might work.

Letting it go when I have an agenda is super difficult.

Plan was to come home and do my household stuff and roll out my back on the yoga roller and make some tea, get online and get to the blog.

I would preface the blog by going to the e-mail thread between myself and a few friends and go buy the ticket to the Opulent Temple dance party, Gratitude, for Saturday the 22nd, but I couldn’t get the e-mail to load.

Then when I did, finally, I couldn’t get the site to access the ticketing window.

I have my debit card ready, let’s spend some money!

Alas.

Nothing.

I am amazed I was able to get this site loaded.

Not that I had anything to do with it, more sitting, sipping tea, letting my nails dry.

Maybe that’s all it was, God saying, don’t destroy your manicure typing, let those pretty paws dry for a moment.

Things they tend not to go my way and usually I am alright with that, my way is usually pretty narrow-minded and I never give myself the benefit of the doubt or the wide view, I wear some pretty heavy blinders.

I don’t see what’s good for me, nor do I often believe that the best is going to happen.

And that usually changes pretty quick, that perspective, because I do have faith and I have walked through a load of things.

I don’t have to be the perfect blogger with perfect internet connection or the perfect body or the perfect job, I’m doing pretty damn ok, despite my best efforts at undermining myself.

Life really is lovely.

And I am really grateful.

I am.

I think I am just a tiny bit tired.

The job is such full-time high energy I have to remember to pace myself.

It’s Wednesday, I have two more days to go, don’t throw it all at the wall.   Fortunately, the mom and I have a pretty good system worked out and I did have a nice sit down lunch today and some time to relax, but it’s still a push, by the end of the day I am tired.

I even had a coffee in the afternoon, which is unlike me.

The coffee-house stops before noon usually during the work week, I don’t want to be up with a brain going 80 mph before I go to bed.

But I have noticed, this week and last week, grabbing a cup of coffee at three, even four in the afternoon to give me a boost to finish the day out.

Tomorrow happens to be a favorite day, a busy day, granted, but it’s market day, Bartlett Street Farmer’s Market, and that’s a nice time with the boys and usually a sit down at the music area while they dance and a friend may join me for a coffee and that would be pretty great.

And today is done.

I’m pretty burnt toast, it’s coming across in my blog, I know, I don’t feel like I have a whole lot of juice in me, but the habit is so hard to break, that being write a blog that is 1,000 or more words.

So.

Kicking it out.

Not obsessing over dating.

Just doing the waiting for the next opportune time to get out there.

I will fess up, I tried to do Tinder last night, but my account information wasn’t syncing with the site and I couldn’t get it to process.

Rejection.

God’s protection.

Rejected from Tinder.

That’s some sad news.

Not really.

Probably just saved myself a month of hideous dates.

Who can say.

I do have some hope, the internet has not crashed, the ibuprofen is kicking in, my blog is getting written, I will go dancing soon, life isn’t all so bad.

I amuse myself.

Life, as I said earlier, really is good.

I have a good, steady, secure job.

I met a nanny today at the park with no health insurance, angling to get on her boyfriends, who works for four different families in and around the Mission.

No thank you.

Super glad, so glad, over the moon glad, that I have a job with one family that pays my bills and I like them.

It’s a relief to know where I am going and when the money will be deposited to my account and what days I work and what hours and what I am expected to do.

And.

I take a great deal of satisfaction from doing my job well, I am doing a great job and I know it.

That is a good feeling, to do a job well.

I don’t even need feedback, I know that I am living up to and beyond expectations.

This pleases me, even when I do get tired and feel like I need to regroup and rejuvenate.

I have a way to do that, too, go to bed a little early tonight.

I got up a little early to take a shower before (and her hair was perfect) work.  That is probably why I am a little more tired than normal too, I forgot I got up early.

I wanted to write before I went to work and take a shower.

That takes time.

And time, well, it all takes time.

Sometimes quickly.

Sometimes slowly.

I seem to get there slowly.

But me oh my.

The view is fine along the way.

Come On Girl

July 25, 2014

Get your sexy on.

Honestly.

All I really want to get on right now is some tea.

Sigh.

End of week school night slumber party may not have been so well advised, but this was it, tonight, or nada.

I have to say eight hours into a ten-hour day I was pretty much contemplating cancelling, I have a share tomorrow when I normally have a single and it will not be a late start to my day, but my normal 8:45 a.m. start.

Which means a 6:30 a.m. get up time.

Then I got a text asking if we were still on tonight and well, my body responded and said, shut up brain, all a tingle and a glow, “yes!”

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, please.

And so, yes, we are on.

Of course when I got home just minutes ago I was back to the, I want to cancel mode, I don’t feel sexy, I feel like a grungy nanny who has been doing grungy nanny work all day long.

I feel like someone who worked a ten-hour day and spent an additional two hours of my day on MUNI.

First the N-Judah to the 24 to work, then the 24 up to the Castro from the NOPA after my nanny share was over, with a solo monkey, who’s folks were going to be late with work, so I ferried him home on the bus.

Then eventually, after dinner time, bath time, snuggle time, and song time, I left to get back on the 24 to the N-Judah to home.

Sigh.

I get home and the first thing I do is disrobe.

I mean.

I don’t know what it is, along with putting up my hair (which is down, since I have a date), I strip down and climb into my yoga pants and a night-shirt.

Then I make tea, thinking about what I am going to blog, and I ice my ankle down.

Which, thank god, was not so bad today, not sure what it was, I did take it easy today and only went to Alamo Square park with the charges and I rested while they were napping.

I even got in a little nap snack, maybe twenty minutes or so, to rest up.

I am starting to feel my mojo come back, I think I was just frustrated too, with the later start to the date than we had previously discussed.

Things happen and when I got the text with the eta it was later than we had discussed.

I wanted to throw a temper tantrum.

Not sexy.

Ugh.

What am I going to do?

I bemoan my fate.

Ok.

Perhaps I am a little dramatic, I mean, really, I am complaining because my lover is going to be taking a little extra time to do something for himself that will probably make our experience better anyhow, so, chill ladybug.

Chill.

I also realized that I was uncomfortable with being dressed when I got home, I like to relax, I want to put my feet up, at least one of them anyway, I want to drink my tea and change into my comfy clothes.

So I did.

Sexy is not what you wear, or what I wear, it’s how I feel.

And if I feel grumpy and frumpy and nanniefied, I won’t be putting out a sexy vibe even in my cute outfit which I picked out this morning specifically because I figured it could weather a ten-hour nanny shift and still bear a resemblance to be sexy.

Besides, the man has seen me naked for Pete’s sake.

I don’t think he’s paying much attention to what I am wearing.

Hell, the first time I was in a walking boot and hobbling around on crutches, I already look sexier than that.

And you know, I am feeling it now.

I stopped my blogging, I striped out of the work clothes, spritzed a little perfume on myself, mussed up the hair, took it down, and slid into some Hello Kitty pajama pants and my new  Day of the Dead night-shirt.

I felt better immediately.

And no surprise, much sexier.

The other thing that is sexy, is taking care of myself.

Which means, having my night-time snack, making myself a little tea (a balance for sure, no one wants to feel overfull when imminent coitus is about to occur, nor do I want to get out of bed fifteen times to pee), writing my blog and taking care of my things.

I have my alarm set.

I have my lunch and dinner set out for tomorrow.

I wrote out a check for Healthy San Francisco and balanced my check book.

I tidied up, not that there’s much to tidy, I am a pretty neat person, and now that my ducks are in a row and my blog near writ and my pajamas on (I did concede to still wearing my bra, I just don’t know that I can meet a lover at the door without one on, that feels too casual, which is again, a hoot, I don’t think he cares, but I do.  And I like the slowing down a bra provides and it’s not the bra I wore to work, it’s hot pink, matches the Hello Kitty pants, heh) I feel better and I know that as soon as he texts.

“I’m here”

I will get a jolt.

And as soon as he kisses me.

I will forget the world, the work, the MUNI, the unsexy and I will unspool and unwind in the best relaxation anyone could ask for, happily provided by the letter “O” and the number “More.”

Tomorrow will take care of itself and I will get through the day just fine.

Probably with a happy smile on my face for most of it.

Who’s sexy now?


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