Book Project

So.

Here I am again.

Thinking about publishing a book.

But this time it is different.

This time I am ready.

Ten years ago I moved to Paris.

I moved to Paris to “become a writer.”

The truth was.

I already was a writer.

I had been a writer for decades.

I was on the cusp of turning 40 when I moved to Paris.

I am on the cusp of turning 50 now.

If you had told me that I wouldn’t really be looking at being published for a decade after moving to Paris.

Well.

Fuck.

I would burst into tears and likely thrown myself off the cutest nearest bridge.

Good thing I didn’t know.

Hell.

I had no idea ten years ago that instead of becoming a published writer, which, by the way, I am published–my dissertation was published on ProQuest on August 8th–I was to become a therapist.

I had no idea what Paris was going to hold for me.

It was terrifying, cold, heart breaking, wet–it rained a lot, and it snowed!

I got lost all the time–sometimes literally, often figuratively.

I spent a lot of time in churches–they are heated to a nice toasty warm that I would often find myself seeking reprieve from the weather in.

I wrote.

All the fucking time.

I wrote three, sometimes four, times a day.

I edited and re-hashed and re-organized a memoir.

I wrote short stories, poemss, blogs.

I wrote in my journal (s).

There ended up being many, many, many journals–all of which I still have.

I wrote in the morning.

I wrote in the afternoon–in cafes, my favorite being Odette & Aime.

Which was just around the corner on 46 Rue Maubege, I lived at 18 Rue Bellefond.

I would sit for hours in the cafe and sip at tap water and a cafe Allonge–which is basically a black coffee.

I was so poor.

Tit mouse poor.

Starving artist poor.

Hemingway in A Moveable Feast poor.

But like, Hemingway made it sexy.

I was not sexy.

I couldn’t often afford a cafe creme–thus the Allonge–I would eat lunch from the Monoprix–basically a Walgreens with a bit of a supermarket in it.

Lunch would be a single serving piece of cheese and a packet of peanuts.

Often accompanied by an apple I would buy from the Friday market around Square D’Anvers.

Once I treated myself to sausages, heaven, at the Friday market but only once–they were rabbit and to die for.

Breakfast was apple in oatmeal and milk.

Dinners were often from the roti chicken place down the street by the Metro entrance for the Cadet stop.

Not the fancy place up the road that was Monsieur Dufrense.

But the Halal place, the owner was sweet, the chicken was cheap.

I could make one of those last a good four days, sometimes five.

I worked under the table, nanny, dog walker, baby sitter, English tutor.

I took French classes that a friend in Chicago wired me money to go and do.

I walked everywhere, when I wasn’t on the Metro, which I used frequently as I had a Navigo monthly pass.

There were times, especially when I was doing baby sitting outside the periphery, that I realized, no one, not a single person, not a soul, knew where I was.

I was baby sitting in the ghetto, the low income housing, taking three trains to do an under table gig that basically paid 8 Euro an hour.

I walked past drug deals, prostitution, gambling places.

I walked briskly like I knew where I was going.

Irony.

The place was located on Rue Victor Hugo.

Sounds hella romantic.

Was hella sketchy.

I remember once taking a picture of the street lights reflecting in the rain, once, on a very early morning commute from my place in the 9th arrondisement to outside the periphery, at like 7a.m.

It was a gorgeous shot, the light, the reflection on the sidewalk, the darkness, the sheen.

I got so many comments on social media after I posted it….so pretty, so Paris, so exciting, lucky you, living the dream!

Sure.

The dream.

Which was actually a nightmare.

Scary, cold, intense, broke as fuck.

Taking an elevator up 9 floors in a tenement in the ghetto outside of Paris.

The kids were sweet, but they didn’t have books, they like to watch the Mickey Mouse Club.

The tv was their babysitter, except when I was there, I insisted on taking them outside.

The park in the middle of the low income houses.

I would watch them race around on their cheap plastic little scooters and stare at the clouds in the sky.

What the hell was I doing with my life?

Query another agent, send off another book proposal, watch my thin stash of Euros in my wallet slowly get a tiny bit bigger, after baby sitting, or tutoring, or house sitting, quietly buying my apples and peanuts and Halal chicken, and then have to pay a week’s rent where I was staying–in a one bedroom lofted apartment where I slept in the living room on a fold out futon that must have been 25 years old, it was so hard.

I didn’t usually have the month’s rent.

But I would pay week to week to week.

Living on peanuts and apples.

Like I said.

Hemingway made it much sexier.

So.

Ten years later.

Many adventures since.

So many adventures.

I am sitting in my very cozy, very pretty, one bedroom apartment in Hayes Valley in San Francisco.

I have a successful private practice therapy business.

I own a car.

A new one.

I have traveled back to Paris, and will do so again in December to celebrate my 50th birthday with a new tattoo from my favorite tattoo shop–Abraxas on Rue Beauborg in the Marais, where I will also be staying a beautiful and hip Air BnB, also in the Marais.

I will buy myself dresses this time instead of packets of peanuts.

I will buy notebooks from Claire Fontaine.

I will go to many museums.

And not on the free days.

I will have a lot of cafe cremes, and not a single Allonge.

I will eat a chicken from Monsieur Dufrense and an actual meal at Odette & Aime.

Also.

I will eat my birthday dinner at my favorite restaurant La Cantine du Troquet on Rue de Grenelle.

I will celebrate a dear friend’s wedding anniversary the day before–having become amazing friends in my Master’s in Psychology program, I have stayed at her family home in the Marais and as she will be celebrating, I will be at my Air BnB just a five minute walk from her home.

I will go to my favorite cafe, Cafe Charlot, which is open on Christmas.

I will be there for Christmas as well as my birthday.

I will take photographs and write, like I always do.

Although.

Hopefully I will not be writing agents to query them about a memoir, just writing in general, after scoring a few of my favorite notebooks, a small stack, at least five, maybe more.

I will instead be querying agents now about my book proposal.

Not exactly a memoir, but in a sense very much so, but with a different scope, seen through the lens of my dissertation, with beautiful photographs not take by me on my phone, but by the professional photographer I am meeting with next week for coffee in Petaluma–Sarah Deragon with Portraits to the People.

She did my headshots for my website and I adore her work.

I queried her if she would be interested in collaborating with me and I got a yes.

I’ve got some work to do before I see her.

Sketch out the book better, mock something up.

Cut and paste and write.

See.

I keep coming back to the writing.

Which is what I am doing, here, now.

Practicing.

I’m not exactly out of practice, I still journal every day, did it today, I’ll do it tomorrow.

But.

I haven’t been blogging in a while.

Time to polish the chops and sit at the keyboard and see where my meandering brain takes me.

I had not thought that it would be a time travel back to Paris ten years ago, I don’t often know where this page is going to take me, but take me it does.

I figured that the best way to put together my book proposal and manuscript was to open my blog and write my intentions and start from here.

I don’t know how exactly to get an agent.

But there’s Google for that.

I do know my dissertation is a mighty fine academic piece, but it’s not a book ready piece.

No one, well, my dissertation committee did, wants to read my Method and very few people are going to be interested in my Lit review, but there’s some juicy stuff in there.

Dramatic.

Traumatic.

Sexy.

Sad.

Transformative.

Pain.

Story.

There’s story and it’s good story and it’s got scandal.

And who doesn’t like scandal?

I’m going to risk it all and put it all out there with transparency and honesty and integrity.

And hopefully, someone will bite.

I want to do a kind of coffee table art house photography book with my poems, essays, blogs, memoir excerpts, and pictures of my transformation alongside the story of what I discovered with my research in my dissertation.

I also will write an epilogue with new insights.

The transformative tattoo; Walking towards joy.

Coming to you soon.

Fingers crossed.

I’m Fucked

It’s late.

My brain is on fire.

And I don’t want to do anything tomorrow.

I don’t want to yoga.

I don’t want to homework.

I don’t want to food prep.

I don’t wanna, I don’t.

And.

Yet.

I will.

I was so in denial about how much I needed to hang out with my friends tonight that I really did come awful close to calling the whole thing off.

And things are changing in me.

I can feel this big energy, this big thrust of thought and power and tumult happening.

Fire in the tower.

Change of perspective.

Growing more into my person and light and being.

Or something.

I smashed something today.

I wonder.

Did I do it unconsciously, it was precarious were it was perched, did I, in the moment self-sabotage myself?

Or did I make space, in a dramatic, sweeping way.

For something new.

I broke my brand new bottle of Egoiste Pour Homme.

The same bottle I bought just last week, just last Saturday, at the Chanel on Maiden Lane.

The last bottle they had in the store.

I am sure there will be more bottle of this perfume.

But it felt momentous to buy it.

A bit expensive too.

$100 with tax.

And I opened it two days ago, having used the last of my bottle and lovingly placed the old bottle in the recycle and reverently opened the new box and took it out and sprayed it on me.

And.

I’ve been wearing it for so long.

I couldn’t smell it.

Even a brand new bottle of my favorite scent.

I could barely smell it.

I smelled it tonight.

It was sad and I was upset and I cried on the phone to a friend.

And yet.

There was this very odd, very powerful, and very, very fast, move towards acceptance.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

It’s time for a new scent.

I had actually thought about it before I replaced the bottle, that I might want something new.

Now.

Well.

Fuck.

I love perfume and to not have my signature scent, ok, I can do that, but I do love spraying something on myself, I love how evocative perfume is, scent is important to me.

My signature scent, fyi, is not my favorite perfume.

Second favorite.

Issey Miyake Feu d’Issey was my favorite scent.

They don’t make it anymore and I haven’t worn it for years.

But there was a span, three years or so when it was the one for me.

Fire.

It was a passionate, fire scent that one man told me when I was wearing it that I smelled like “sex and chocolate chip cookies.”

Life was hot and happening.

I was on fire.

I feel like I am on fire again, a lot of energy and thrust and power.

I am not exactly sure where it is leading and I do feel that there will be upheaval, but good upheaval and good change, even if it is uncomfortable.

Change for me typically is, even when it is change for the better.

I feel open to desire.

I feel open to new possibilities and new perspectives.

New loves.

New drives.

New.

I feel scared to get it all done and in and also.

Exultation.

Lifting up.

And a curious letting go as well.

I don’t have to know.

I have some ideas, but I don’t have to know.

I was talking to one of my friends about something I have always thought would be fascinating to write about  and school and studying and the energy and pulse of that.

Academia.

It was and is still a very frustrating place for me to be in.

Yet.

I am alive with ideas and art and poetry and words and theories and thoughts and I am a good student.

I am a student who also has a lot of work to do tomorrow and one for whom the bell is tolling, but I feel I can and will be lead to where I need to go and what I need to write about and how it will happen, well, frankly, I don’t know.

I also don’t know.

Complete sidebar, what the fuck is wrong with my phone.

It won’t turn or on and I can’t tell if it’s doing an update or if I let the battery get too long, but something is not right and I don’t like that.

No.

It’s my alarm clock.

Dang it.

Oh my God.

Thank you interwebs.

I think it’s going to come back on, fingers crossed, let’s see if this works.

Could be time for a new phone.

Just like it’s time for a new perfume.

A new man in my life.

A new perspective.

A new pair of glasses.

Still getting used to the “progressives” and I should be getting back my re-lensed frames next week.

$1,000 out of pocket since my insurance through Healthy SF doesn’t cover optometry.

But two new pairs of glasses and a renewed ability to read all the reading for school and help with all the online work and of course the papers.

I will be fine.

The writing will be fine.

Yes.

It’s late and I’m jazzed up with ideas and hope and recovery and having reconnected to bright, beautiful, smart, capable women.

So blessed with that.

Really.

I don’t know how long this change will last nor what will come out of the inner upheaval, but I feel like it will continue to light me up and lighten up my perspective.

That through all the awareness and acceptance that I can take more action to become even more flexible.

Not just on the yoga mat.

But in my life and how I live.

I can allow a little down time or play time.

Or.

God please.

Some sexy time.

And just by showing up today, to the mat, to the coffee shop, to that one place over there at 7th and Irving, to my friend’s house to go to a birthday celebration up in the Marin Hills–Mt. Tamalpais, the Mountain View Inn–I showed up to my life with a tiny bit of trepidation, suspect and sad and overwhelmed, then accepting and joyful and gleeful and all powered up.

I am ready for whatever tomorrow brings.

And excited too.

The journey continues.

the heart open more.

Love, fecund, rich, deep, and abiding.

Shall see me through.

It always does.

Date Night, For Realz

Should equal not writing a blog night.

This is how I justify skipping out of writing a blog tonight.

Except.

Well.

Fuck.

It’s sort of how I unwind.

Like an after sex cigarette.

Not that there was any sex tonight.

A sweet, some what chaste kiss.

A very nice and cozy first date.

A getting to know you sort of date.

A possibly interviewing for a second date.

There may be one, not sure yet, and that’s ok.

I’m just supposed to be light and having fun.

I had fun.

And that’s all that’s important.

A good practice and a lot of honest conversation and there’s some chemistry there and that was nice.

It’s always nice to be told you’re sexy too.

That does not hurt.

More will be revealed.

The best part about it was that I didn’t have an agenda, I didn’t have any expectations and I didn’t have any plan on how it was going to go.

I just showed up.

And the date happened.

In one sense of the word it was really educating, like, oh yeah, the whole point of going on a date is to get to know a person and find out if you want to spend more time with them.

Or not.

Sometimes.

Well.

Sometimes I know right away.

Yes!

I want to spend more time with this person.

As my friend Juan says, “girl do I need to get a tux?”

After my first date.

Heh.

Which is a great indication to me that the date was too hot, too heavy, too fast.

I didn’t feel that tonight, it was just sort of a getting to feel what this dating thing could be about.

Not a hook up, we both made that clear.

We also both made it clear where we were at in our lives and in our dating lives.

That was great.

Loads of transparency.

Anywho.

I’m not interested in reporting every detail, that’s not going to be what my blogging is about, I have learned, the hard way, that I can’t write about other people, only about what I am feeling and doing.

And that if I so choose, yes, I can skip a night blogging if I want to.

I didn’t want to tonight.

I wanted to blog.

I also wanted to be honest in my day, in my person, and in my life, which, often times I can’t always quite get to that point without a bit of self-reflective writing at the end of my day.

I usually have a great idea where I stand in regards to my day, but it is still nice to come home, light some candles, make a cup of tea, and sit here, at my little blue table in my tiny kitchen, under a glowing globe, next to some fresh bought flowers that I got for myself today and write out my day.

Sometimes I feel the most “me” here.

Sometimes, a lot of times, although I don’t always seem to be with holding information, I don’t write about things in my day.

There’s a lot that doesn’t make it into my blog.

But there’s enough.

Enough self-honesty.

Enough awareness, enough of my heart, of my journey, of my experience, that I feel good when I am done with the writing, the work, the getting clean of my day, the unloading and sending it out into the universe to live its little life long after I have forgotten what I have written down here.

So much of what I write seems to be a repetition of themes, ideas, or thoughts about certain aspects of my life that I would appear to be able to substitute one blog for the other in regards to nannying or dating or Burning Man, or what’s up in my recovery this week.

Yet.

I find there is always some fresh perspective or feeing.

Some new growth or learning.

That it doesn’t matter if hey, look, there’s Carmen, writing about dating again.

And yeah.

I’m going back to the way back board.

And just asking out guys again.

Or at least, as I talked it over with my person earlier this afternoon when he asked me what my motives were in regards to my date and I was honest and said, I actually had no agenda, no motives, I was not looking of a quick hook up or to get my ego stroked I was just exploring.

That.

And I also mentioned how I had run into said guy from the past this week and how I was sort of toppled over by some attraction to him and my person was like, so ask him out.

And I know that’s a good thing to do.

Because I don’t want to live in fantasy land.

I’m not looking to be on the prowl and ask out anyone I run into, instead, if I do happen to find myself attracted to someone I just get it the hell out of the way.

Ask, find out, and then go from there.

No stories in my head about the person is probably not attracted to me, no manipulations, just me being me and if you like it, hey, let’s hang out.

Me being me can be a lot.

Although, I dare say, I am a good time.

Not many deep thoughts for me this time of night.

I’m about ready to pull the plug on the day, have a little more tea, an apple, an e-mail check in with a few people.

Then off to bed and the weekend.

Yay!

I made it.

I have a few plans.

But mostly flexibility.

I’m excited to see what it brings.

More fun.

More light.

More joy.

More love.

I.e.

More.

Living.

 

While Not A Disaster

It was not the date I was hoping for.

Oh well.

I acted with integrity.

I was nice.

I engaged and I knew pretty much from the first minute it was a no go.

Despite that.

I was courteous, polite, funny, I showed up and I had a date.

I am dating.

Not anyone in particular, obviously, and I turned down the second date ask, it was not going to happen and I was not going to even sugar coat it with a maybe.

I just replied thank you for coming out and I really appreciate the effort, he came from West Oakland and on my time frame–I’m heading into a long school weekend and my weekend will not be for dating–but no thank you.

Nice and succinct.

I got a nice reply back and then.

Ugh.

A barrage of text messages.

Hey.

Look, listen, and learn.

Nobody owes anyone anything.

It’s nice to meet and talk and get to know someone, but hell, people, we all know when we’re not attracted to someone and despite my atrocious behavior last week I wasn’t going to tell this guy to assuage his feelings, sure, let’s try for another date.

I have done a double dip with a few guys that I was pretty much like, I don’t think there’s a connection, but I one guy, well I super respected the man, and he was a friend of friends and we were nice friends slash acquaintances, but after two dates, it did become so obvious that I wasn’t attracted that it didn’t seem fair to even try for a third.

But this guy?

Nope.

Dude.

I said no thank you and was kind.

Don’t make me go down the rude road because there were red flags, a lot of them.

Things I am learning.

Make the date on my time, in my hood, in an well lit area with friends in the background.

I felt a lot more secure in myself knowing the cafe was full of faces I knew.

Granted.

I was sitting with my date outside, I didn’t think it would be fair for him to be scrutinized by the crew, but it was a nice feeling knowing the crew was there in the background.

Especially since, well, you know, I’m on a date with a person I have never met before.

I guess what has surprised me, and it shouldn’t, is that I am myself on this silly app.

I am just Carmen, flaws and all, I’ve got full body shots, you get to see me in my curvy glory, in my silliness and my pink hair at Burning Man.

I am up front immediately about not drinking or using.

I am transparent.

So.

Not every body else is going to do that.

And that’s ok.

I’m just trying.

I had an interview and wasn’t interested in having a second date and said so and I am hella happy with myself for trying on a semi-school night.

I don’t have to figure out how to date.

I just have to do it.

So.

Tinder hello, I’m trying.

And maybe I will give OkCupid another shot, I’m dipping my toe back in.

I am also absolutely not opposed to being asked out in person.

That would be the bees knees.

The cat’s pajamas.

That would rock.

“Carmen, when I grow up I’m going to figure out how to marry you,” my little six year old prince said to me as he sat snuggled in my lap having “dessert,” Greek yogurt with frozen blueberries.

“You’re the best,” he said emphatically, wrapped his arms around me and kissed my face.

Oh sweet jesus, little boy, you are breaking my heart.

I am so lucky to have this job, to care for these boys, my heart so full of love for them today.

And with a lucky break in the rain we actually got out to the park with a couple of baseball gloves, the t-ball bat and some bouncy balls

It was such a nice time.

Just getting to be outside, in the fresh washed air, the clean smell, the light grey and pearly, the sun pushed through the clouds momentarily and we all basked in it.

Super lit up with golden light and the glossy pearlescent love carried me up into the clouds.

I am graced.

And.

Hey!

I got my psychodynamics reading done!

Yes.

I still have my Ethics class to read for and I need to print off my revised papers, but I am almost ready for this next weekend round of classes.

I am also looking forward to seeing my friends in the cohort and getting caught up.

I like having this community and new found fellowship.

I’m not best’ies with everyone, but I feel a great deal of mutual respect and compassion for the work that we as a whole do.

I also had one of my classmates reach out to me in regards to Burning Man.

He has never been and wants to pick my brain, so we’re going to hang out Saturday and I’ll drop the down load on him.

Although it can be challenging explaining it to someone, I do love talking about my experiences there and it’s home.

I had some one on Tinder get a hold of me and say, hey, “you going home this year?”

Yup.

So is he.

Group sales for Burning Man tickets happened today and he got his ticket.

We compared some notes, it was cute.

No date.

But I think there may be.

And I’ll get better at it.

And I’m sure I’ll mess it up too and that’s ok as well.

As long as I’m trying to have fun and not be too serious about it and when I’m not attracted, to not agree to spend more time with the person.

And if they’re not attracted, to not pursue.

Walk away and leave him alone.

Stop banging my head (heart, really, it’s always my heart) on the closed door and walk to the open one.

There is an open door.

And it’s just waiting for you to walk through it.

I just have to keep walking.

Because I have no clue which door is going to open and when.

But when it does.

Well.

I’ll be ready.

Because I’ll have been trying.

I don’t get the results unless I do the work.

Here’s to trying.

Putting it out there.

And accepting that it’s not always going to be great.

But.

I bet it will be.

And sooner than I think.

Life.

Yup.

It’s pretty god damn good.

 

 

A Room Of Ones Own

I was reminded how lucky I was tonight to have the small, sweet, kind space that I have made into a room of my own.

A space to dream.

A place to dance.

A restful place.

“I would never leave,” my friend sighed as she walked in my room.

I smiled.

I sometimes feel like that.

I might get a little lonely though.

We re-connected in class and decided we would be coming out here to my side of town to hang out, she’s staying in a place in the Haight.  Like a surprising number of people in my cohort, she commutes into school once a month.

There are folks from Miami, Fl.

Nevada.

Mexico.

All up and down the Western Coast line from Santa Cruz up to Portland.

There are lots of folks in the Berkeley, Oakland, Bay Area too.

I feel like there may be more folks from out of town than in town, but I may not be correct in that, although if they don’t outweigh the in town students, it’s a darn close call.

Anyway.

My friend came out here to spend time with me tonight.

It was a great Friday night date, girls night out.

We met here, I dropped my books off and prepped my notes and readers and texts for tomorrow (they are in the fridge, I kid you not, I have a large insulated liner bag for the basket on the back of my scooter, I pretty much packed my lunch and dinner for tomorrow in the bag, put my readers and books and notes on top, zipped it up and put it on the bottom shelf.  There may be more text books than food currently in my fridge) and we scooted down the street to Java Beach.

It was perfect.

Apple cinnamon tea, the sunsetting down by the beach, the locals coming in and out, the hum of the cafe, my dear, sweet, kind friend, all ears and eyes and heart.

It is so good to have girl friends.

“Well,” I said defensively, hands on the hips of my periwinkle blue dirndl (this was way back in the olden days when I worked at the Essen Haus in Madison and all the staff wore traditional German costumes.  I used to joke that the dirndl was the German’s idea of a Wonder Bra) “it is a mom cut, she totally looks like someone’s mom,” I repeated back to my friend.

“You’re not used to having girlfriends are you,” my friend said to me.

“What are you talking about,” I tried to knock the defensive tone from my voice, now I was just curious, how did she know that.

“You just don’t tell a girl friend that her new hair cut makes her look like her mom, it’s just not kosher,” my friend explained.

“Oh, I was just telling the truth,” I said.

“I know, she probably knows that too, but it’s just not the nice way to say it,” my friend continued, “you didn’t really have girl friends in high school did you?”

“Nope,” I said.

And to a point that was true.

But there were girls I really wanted to be friends with, some whom I actually got to reconnect with after high school that was really quite amazing, the power of social media, girls who I thought were smart or kind or funny, girls I wanted to hang out with.

And it happened sometimes, I got to be with a group of girls, I was in a peer group, I can see that, but my family dynamic was so messed up, I could never really have friends over.

The friendships that might have developed never really had a chance to flower.

Then there were times, when looking back with some perspective, that I just didn’t trust women, I had a mom who didn’t have a lot of girl friends and if she did, they tended to be women she was partying with.

It has taken time and effort.

I have had some girl friends too that were not good for me and I saw myself needing to get out of the mix.

I have learned.

And loved.

And lost a few relationships, but also kept a few too.

That one dear friend, the one who was so insightful about my not having girlfriends, well, going on 21 years now, 22 maybe.

Not bad.

And new girl friends at school.

Having classmates I want to hang out with and who want to hang out with me is a huge gift.

Women who want to hear my story and I theirs.

It is a lovely reciprocity.

We all have stories.

Some I connect with better than others.

“You just have such a big heart,” my friend said over tea.

To be seen.

To be validated.

To be known.

It is a powerful thing.

And to be told that I am attractive for being my colorful, exuberant, authentic self is such a gift.

First, it encourages me to continue acting from that place of self-love, if only to show other women it’s doable, commendable, and available for them too.

You want to dress as a princess?

Please get the hell on it.

I was in the shower, just now, washing my hair and wondering when I was going to have to retire the hair flowers.

I wore a white daisy in my hair today.

And a chiffon shirt in dandelion yellow with white polka dots.

I felt light and free and full of spring vibrancy.

I realized that I was never going to be too old to wear flowers in my hair and that I was going to give myself the permission to buy some more flowers for my hair if I felt like it.

I digress.

It was just nice to be myself and to spend sweet time with a dear new friend.

We also had dinner and I felt so warmed and lightened.

Blessed, really.

I am such a lucky girl.

Really.

The luckiest girl in the world.

I have the best friends.

Ever.

I do.

 

I Raise You One Sick Day

For ten vacation days and….

Actually.

I got six sick days.

And.

Clarification that I did not have the last time I negotiated with the family I work for.

I get the sick days, six, to be actually sick.

Um.

I never get sick.

But I do have accidents.

And doctors appointments.

Which reminds me, note to self, my Healthy San Francisco expires this month and I either need to re-up or look at Medical or Obama Care.

I haven’t experience with either, but they are true health insurance from what I can gather and Healthy SF technically is not health insurance, although, really, it feels just like it.

Suffice to say, I am not going to be covered either way here in a matter of days and it’s time to get aboard that boat now.

“Girl, you have some loose boundaries around your money,” my person said to me tonight with a fierce look in his blue eyes.

I know!

I know.

I really do.

But I am learning and also, to give myself some credit, all this stuff is really new for me.

Despite having been a nanny on my own, sans agency, for a long time, it still takes time for me to figure out everything I need and to than go forward and ask for it as an independent contractor.

That’s what I am in a sense.

I am self-employed, but I have contracts.

I have learned that having a contact brings clarity.

So.

Last night when I realized that I needed some more clarity I took it upon myself to reach out to the family and discuss the next step in our figuring out how to best move forward.

I got great clarity and I am grateful.

I did not get a raise.

But.

I got a raise.

It just doesn’t look exactly how I expected it to look.

I am not getting an hourly increase.

But.

I am sustaining my current benefits despite working less.

35 hours a week when I am not in school.

28 hours a week when I am in school.

With some flexibility to add or subtract.

Like next week the boys have off for Columbus Day.

They actually have Columbus Day and the day after off.

Who the hell gets Columbus Day off?

I don’t remember this as a kid, but the school is a private school and it seems that they have a lot more holidays than I ever remember having.

Anyway.

Next Monday I will work 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. as well as Tuesday.

This is a big shift for me since school started for me and the boys relatively at the same time and I have been working 1 p.m. to 8 p.m. for the family.

I go in at 1 p.m. clean up the breakfast stuff, unload the dishwasher, tidy up, do the boys laundry, recycle, compost, trash, prep snacks, meal plan with the mom, go grocery shopping and marketing, mail stuff, pick up stuff, run errands, make dinner.

Then the boys come home at 3 p.m. and we have our afternoon together, then dinner, baths, then bed time when the parents take over.

Although both mom and dad work out of the office at home, so there is much interaction with the parents.

It took me a little while to get used to that, I’ve typically worked for families that were working away from home, but there’s been enough exception to that rule that when it presented with this family I was not completely unprepared for what that entailed.

But I can handle the shifting hours and it does make it possible to see my person again next week who I normally would not have been able to do.

God it was good to see him.

Those twinkling eyes.

Those wise words.

The shared experience.

And a person that I am genuinely myself with, no masks, no hiding, even when I want to hide, I can’t and I am grateful for his love and guidance and I don’t know how I would have gotten through the last year and a half without him.

I digress in gratitude.

Which for digression is not a bad thing.

We talked about the process of asking for clarity, of what it was like for me to ask for the raise, what it has been like being aware of what I need, also the acknowledgement of how I am moving forward completely above-board and all my tax stuff is transparent and how grateful I am for that.

Frankly, it’s a relief.

I still have fear of getting audited for years that I worked under the table as a nanny.

Be that as it may, I needed to do it that way to get by.

I couldn’t have lived in San Francisco had I not.

I have no regrets about it.

But I do have a choice now to stay in the clear and what with school and financial aid, it just feels right.

Needless to say.

It’s called being an adult.

It’s taken me awhile to grow up and grow towards my financial ideal.

I am still short.

But.

I have come so far.

When I think about the lack of guidance I had in money matters growing up, how lacking my family of origin experience was in regards to financial knowledge, despite watching my mother and step-father have hair pulling, knock down, drag out fights, with tables that got flipped over in the dining room, over the monthly budget, I never learned how to handle my finances.

I’ve learned most of what I know in this last decade.

I really have grown up.

There’s still plenty of growth.

But.

I will acknowledge the growth that has happened now.

I accepted the package the family proposed.

I stay at my current hourly.

But.

I get all the perks that I had before when I was working full-time.

I.e.

I still get the same vacation days!

Which is awesome.

As in I get Thanksgiving and the day after Thanksgiving off.

Hello four-day weekend!

I also get the 23rd-25th of December off for Christmas.

Five day weekend!

Hell.

I could actually make some travel plans.

Plus.

I accrue my vacation days the same way, which means, I get the same ten I got last year and I still get the six sick days, which I now know to actually use when I get sick or need time off for doctors appointments, etc.

I’m getting full-time benefits without working full-time.

This is a really nice perk.

And.

We will follow-up with a review at the end of the year where the family has agreed to look at giving a raise at that time and negotiating moving forward from there.

I think it’s a win.

I certainly learned a lot about myself and my process and I am very proud of myself for the work I did.

Albeit I could have done without the unnecessary drama I brought on myself through anxiety and miscommunication about my vacation days and sick days.

Growth.

There’s always more to do.

But I have to acknowledge the work I did too.

That’s a part of it all as well.

Grateful for the experience.

Even when it was painful.

They say pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth.

I can second that opinion.

And raise my sick days to that notion.

Plus a couple of long delicious weekends in the not so distant future.

Winning.