Posts Tagged ‘vintage’

Push Button Baby

August 1, 2017

I saw a couple on the side of the road as I zoomed down Lincoln Way frantically trying to kick over the starter on a vintage Vespa.

I chuckled to myself.

The old Vespas look so fucking cool.

I know.

I used to have one.

It was such a pretty girl.

But.

Man.

It was such a hassle to get it started or it would conk out on me out of the blue.

Like coming down Laguna Honda in the fog going 40 miles an hour.

I got tired of that really fast.

That.

And the freaking horrifying sprained ankle that I got when the kick starter jammed and I folded my ankle in half.

That was no fun.

Months, years really, of healing.

The doctor was shocked it wasn’t broken and then told me it was too bad it wasn’t since the sprain is slower to heal and how badly I had injured it I would be lucky if it was healed fully in a year and a half.

He was right.

It took that much time to heal.

Actually closer to two years, if I’m honest, I had to be really careful and there were times when I could feel it was still injured.

It put a bad taste in my mouth for every having something vintage like that again.

Truth too.

I wasn’t prepared for the amount of maintenance and well, it turned out it was a knock off Vespa, despite the registration issued from the DMV, it was a knock off Vietnam Vespa and no body in town would touch it to repair it.

So.

I got rid of it.

I had it recycled.

I got it off the road.

I wasn’t going to be responsible for someone else getting injured on it and when the mechanics at the shop told me all the issues with it I was shocked that I hadn’t hurt myself more on it, I could have easily crashed it out.

Granted.

There were some gleeful moments on it when someone would pull up to me on it at a light and chat with me about it, the scooter really was well done, no one had a clue it was fake.

Certainly not I.

I was a tiny bit bamboozled you could say.

Any way, that’s an old story and not the point.

The point is.

Thank fucking god for my scooter.

I live in the Outer Sunset.

I work in Glen Park.

My internship is in the Mission.

My school is in the SOMA.

I have supervision in Hayes Valley.

And.

Therapy in Noe Valley.

I have to get all over the city.

And the scooter is quick.

Of course, I do have some anxiety about what will happen when the fall comes and the rains that generally come with the fall.

I will either have to get used to wet weather riding or figure something else out.

I can ride in the rain.

I have done it.

I do not like it, but it’s doable.

I was talking to my friend yesterday as she was getting the last of her household packed up for travels back to France and she looked at me and said, “drive safe poulette (her term of endearment for me–sexy girl, although literal translation is chicken, I like to think of it as “chick” or chickadee), maybe it’s time you got a car.”

Yeah.

There’s that.

Aside from the fact that it would be handy to go to Burning Man.

Heh.

Still haven’t gotten a ride yet, still hedging my bets with a rental, but that too is beside the point.

I don’t know what exactly the point is.

I haven’t had a car for over a decade.

I got rid of mine two weeks after moving here in 2002.

Fuck.

Nearly fifteen years with no car.

Lots of bicycles.

And two scooters.

I do like my scooter and I do so appreciate getting around on it.

I just have time concerns now that I didn’t have before.

I mean.

My schedule has always been full, but then I added in graduate school and graduate school added in an internship and um, ha, since, I’m a therapist in training, I have to be on time for my clients.

I get done with work at 6p.m. and I have clients at 6:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesday, Thursdays, and I have been assigned a new client to see on Fridays now at 6:30p.m.

My first child client!

Bring on the child and family hours!

Ahem.

I digress.

This whole blog is a digression.

Sometimes when I don’t want to write about what I want to write about, I can go off on tangents.

Shadrach.

Scooter accident.

Dead.

Today.

10 years.

I had a little contact with his mom today after she posted a photo of visiting his grave.

Add onto that saying goodbye yesterday to my darling French friend.

Great recipe for sadness.

I felt heavy with it this morning when I left my house to go meet with my supervisor.

I got to Hayes Valley early and had a fifteen minute window so I called my person and shared about it and he said, “you sound sad,” and there it was, the sad, the heaviness in me, it was sadness.

Tears welled up and spilled down my face.

Yup.

Sad.

So we made a plan to meet at a church in the Inner Sunset after I got out of supervision.

It was so good.

I got right with God.

Then we went for tea at Tart to Tart and had a good session.

We sent my friend from Paris a good-bye photo of the two of us having tea, my face a little wet with tears, and my person smiling to beat the band, ugh, not all selfies are sexy.

Ha.

Oh.

Sadness.

I had my cry though and things began to shift.

I came home, made a nice lunch and then did some school work.

Because.

It’s that time.

I have two syllabi posted up and I checked them out and ordered books for class.

I sighed and realized I was pretty burnt out with the emotions.

And I decided.

You know what?

Nap.

I need a nap.

And that’s what I did.

It was perfect.

I had a little rest then got up, prepped some food for dinner and I could feel the sad had moved out of my body.

I got my things together and hopped back on my scooter, went to my internship, dealt with progress notes and paperwork and then saw a client.

By the time my session ended I was feeling great.

So nice that.

Go.

Be of service.

Feel better.

I scooted home.

Zipped by the park, rode the curves of Lincoln Way, smelled the bonfires at Ocean Beach and though it was cold and a bit foggy, I felt lifted, carried, loved.

I miss you Shadrach.

But.

You would be pretty proud of me.

Ten years.

You think the grief would have gone out of my body, but sometimes it is still there and needs expressing.

I’m grateful I didn’t squash it.

I just had it.

And I’m grateful for the emotions.

I get to have them.

Feelings.

It means I am alive.

And after all the death I have been witness to.

Well.

That’s a fucking miracle.

So glad I still get to be around.

Happy.

Joyous.

Alive.

And.

Free.

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Sunshine & Rain

May 17, 2017

I got both today.

Loads of sun this morning and early afternoon.

Perfect for sitting on the deck of the houseboat and writing and drinking cafe au lait, watching the boats go by, flirting with the boat cats–there are three brown tabbies that nestle on the houseboat that is docked next to this one, soaking up the sun.

The rain was forecasted for tonight and the rain will last, according to the weather, but I am hoping there will be small reprieves when the sun comes out again, until I leave on Sunday morning.  There is a chance for sun again on Saturday and I do hope that happens as a friend and I are going to go hit the Clingancourt brocante and vintage market.

I expect that the rain will push me into the Louvre tomorrow to see the Vermeer show and drift about.

I don’t ever have a plan when I go to the Louvre, go in, get out, drop some postcards at La Bureau de Posts–nothing quite like getting the Louvre postal stamp on your postcard.

Slight aside.

I got an amazing congratulations baby card today in my travels about, one that says congrats on twins in French!  Super happy I found it, I will be dropping that off for sure from the Louvre.

Today I did the Pompidou as my museum.

And there was no need to do another.

It filled me up with art.

I saw a Vassily Kandinsky I had never seen before that I quite liked, I love his early works quite a bit, and this fell into that category.

I also saw some beautiful photographs and I took loads of photographs from the top deck of the Pompidou.

I got some great shots of Sacre Couer and also of the Eiffel Tower, the Eiffel Tower ones I am quite enamored with as the storm clouds were coming in dark and fierce.

The down pour that followed was insane.

I had met a friend at the museum and we ran through the streets, well, ok, I didn’t run, not so much, the ankle is getting better, but it is not racing through the wet streets of Paris better, between awnings and eventually we ducked into a Japanese restaurant.

Some hot tea and a little sushi later, semi-dry, and walking back to the houseboat on the Seine in the rain.

Sometimes when it rains in Paris it is fucking desperate and awful.

I remember when I moved to Paris in the winter of 2012 how bad it was, so cold, so dreary, but tonight it was neither, after the deluge, the rains were misty and softer and the streets got that glow from slick water on pavement and the streetlights, green, gold, crimson reflected on the pavement.

So gorgeous.

I got back wet and I had to take a lot of pains to get on the house boat without breaking my ankle, but I did, and I’m dry now and all sorted out.

I took some time to go through my photographs and post those up to my social media and I also took the things I bought today out of their packaging so that I would have more room to smash them all in my carry on.

I am about shopped out.

I spent just about all the money on shopping that I have earmarked for myself.

Um.

Because.

Heh.

I finally let myself buy some French lingerie.

I had to.

I have always wanted to and so.

Well.

I did.

I got two of the prettiest bra and panty sets ever and a body suit.

I couldn’t help myself.

It was trop cher, ma cherie, but I had it in my budget and so I let myself do it.

It felt pretty glorious and truth be told it was really letting myself have a treat.

A treat that I continued to let myself have by also getting a few more Claire Fontaine notebooks and some makeup from Sephora.

Yes.

There is Sephora in San Francisco, but I wanted to buy some here, I try to get a thing or two from the Paris Sephora since it was in Paris in 2002 that I first discovered the makeup store.

I bought a lipstick and some Urban Decay eye shadows.

Sure.

I paid a few Euro more than what I might have at home, but every time I use it, I will think of Paris and that is well worth the cost.

And.

Yes.

I got my tattoo!

C’est très superb!

I got the French word for non-conformist on my left forearm.

“Anticonformiste.”

In script.

It is super pretty and fits well with my other tattoos.

I had fun talking to the artist, Manish, who is visiting from Nepal.

I also got to have some cute conversations with a few gentlemen who walked into the store to get tattoos, one older man who was quite excited by my dragons and then proceeded to show me the one on his arm, beautiful work, and we chit chatted in French about tattoos for a while and where I got mine and how much fun they are.

All the fun stuff.

I have had such a lovely time.

And I still have a few days left for some more.

The rain speaks to me of sleeping in and a slow serene day at the Louvre tomorrow.

A demain, mes amies.

Et.

A bientot!

The Empresses New Clothes

November 4, 2016

I got some hand me downs today.

Let me say it’s been a hot second since that has happened.

I used to get them in elementary and middle school.

High school once in a while too.

Hated hand me downs.

Tossed away, given away, old grumpy clothes that weren’t pretty or bright, that were already tattered.

By the time I was in high school though, I was buying my own clothes.

Mom’s rules.

She paid for school supplies.

And as soon as I started working I paid for my school clothes.

I think I got the raw end of the deal in hindsight, but you know, whatever.

I was frivolous with my first real paycheck.

I bought a brand new leather jacket with a removable rabbit fur collar.

God damn I loved that jacket.

Loved it to tattered bits.

It was my own version of the Velveteen Rabbit.

I spent my entire summer earnings on that jacket and I did not give any of the fucks.

It was mine.

And it was fucking glorious.

Top Gun had come out the that year and it reminded me of the leather bomber that Kelly Mcgillis wore in the movie.

That was probably the last time I wore a hand me down.

At least for a while.

Now.

Well, fuck, we just call it a clothing swap and throw all our stuff in a pile and go hog wild and wow, this will work great at Burning Man!

I have gotten some sweet pieces from clothing swaps.

And.

Today I got a bunch of clothes from my boss.

It’s funny, I don’t always have a real good feel of my size, I think I’m bigger than I am and then I obsess about how I look and who the hell wants that?

I try to stay off the scale.

And I have felt that I put on a little weight over the last few months.

And I did.

Like two pounds.

OH NO!

I laughed my ass off when I weighed myself, not something I do very often, it’s not necessary for me, I can get all wrapped up in the stupid number and then be wrapped up in the idea that I’m not enough, and well, that shit is shit.

I’m a beautiful woman.

I’m not stupid.

But.

Often times I just don’t see it.

Oh, I see it, but I don’t act it.

I remember an ex boyfriend years ago looking at me from across the kitchen table at his house.

“What?” I asked him, “what are you staring at?”

“You really have no idea how beautiful you are do you?” He asked.

I blushed.

He got up from the table, straddled my lap and smashed me with his mouth.

God.

He was a good kisser.

We could make out for hours.

I miss make out.

It’s been a while since I have been properly kissed.

Anyway.

I digress.

I was two sizes larger than I am now.

But I was perfect and beautiful and he couldn’t keep his hands off me.

Note to self.

You are exactly the way you are supposed to be, the body is exactly how God wants it, relax.

So.

My boss has money.

Obviously.

And nice clothes.

And good taste.

Granted.

Not my taste.

And we’re not the same size, but we’re not that far off either.

She’s maybe two sizes smaller.

So.

Her jeans.

Not a fit.

But I took them anyway.

“Take them, try them on, give them away, sell them, they’re yours,” she said and dumped a huge pile of clothes on the table.

Fuck yes.

And she was totally correct.

A lot of them are not my style.

The jeans are so not a go.

She’s shorter than me too.

But.

They’re Vince Camuto.

I can sell that shit.

I also scored a sweater that surprised me, I wasn’t expecting to like it, but I was thinking, hey lady, you’re going to Wisconsin for Christmas time, a sweater might be a nice thing to have.

I mean I have two.

But I’m there a week and it gets cold and I’m going to want more than a couple.

So I tried it on, also a Vince Camuto.

And it fits!

And it’s cute on me.

Score.

I also scored three super cute long skirts that I thought, yes, these too, I will wear them in Wisconsin.

Skirts in winter?

Fuck yes.

Layered over wool tights or fleece lined tights, which I do in fact own quite a few pair of, paired with my black engineer boots and some layered thermals and a sweater.

Perfect.

Super stoked for the new clothes.

“New.”

Heh.

I’m not so picky anymore, nor so tied to it being new.

I have plenty of re-sale shop clothes, clothing swap clothes, vintage clothes.

I’m happy to accept the gift.

And I may not get much for the clothes, Crossroads doesn’t always take what I bring in, but they usually take a few things, and I’ll get a free lunch from it or a manicure.

I’m down with a free manicure.

Any old day of the week.

I might do some clothes shopping this month, I thought to myself this morning as I was sitting and sipping some delicious coffee.

I was sent a package of Stumptown Holler Mountain from a friend who commiserated with my grad school and full-time work hours.

Thank you my friend.

So good.

I “splurged” on the second cup and heated up unsweetened vanilla almond milk and made a cafe au lait and sprinkled it with raw cocoa and cinnamon and nutmeg.

Swoon.

I was happy.

Just a little.

Then I did my numbers for the month of October and tallied my expenses.

After that I did my spending plan for November.

Not bad.

Not too bad at all.

I may even have a few ducats to actually buy some new clothes.

Not much.

I don’t need much, especially after the windfall today.

But I could use a new pair of jeans.

Perhaps this weekend I’ll do that.

I was invited to go dancing tomorrow night and that’s a possibility.

And I have a coffee date and MOMA visit on Saturday.

Which makes me laugh.

I think folks have finally figured out that I have a membership.

In exchange for a coffee in the Sight Glass Cafe that’s inside the MOMA I will happily escort you into the museum for a free companion ticket.

I can take up to two people in with me at a time.

I can always handle doing another stroll through the 7 floors of galleries.

Always.

And perhaps I will get dressed up too.

I have some options.

And tomorrow.

Yes.

Is Friday.

Yay!

Making it through the week.

One

Little.

Baby.

Step.

At.

A.

Time.

 

Sashay

June 25, 2016

Ooh.

The good timing.

“Are you dressed up for Pride?” My friend asked as she stopped in front of the cafe on Church Street that I was hanging out at doing the deal with another lady before going to Our Lady of Safeway and doing that thing I do on Friday nights at that spot where they do those things.

Wink.

Wink.

Nudge.

Nudge.

I mean.

I always knew I would be a part of a “secret society” but not this one.

Ha.

Oh.

I love it.

“How come you know so many people?” One of my charges asked when we were walking around the Mission and I ran into a friend.

I get around kid.

And I digress.

Back to the original conversation.

“Nope.” I replied to the young woman, herself a portrait of fierceness, “I’m just dressed for me.”

And I was.

And I will continue to be.

Even when I wonder what the fuck people will think, then, I remember, oh yeah.

It’s none of my fucking business what people think of me.

Only what I think of me.

And I like the way I dress.

Twirl girl.

Oh my gosh.

I got two new dresses in the mail today.

I had a feeling they would arrive and I was super happy to see the box in the hallway when I got home tonight.

I ordered them thinking about New Orleans and wanting to have a couple of cute dresses to sashay around the French Quarter in.

Or just, you know, be dolled up in to sit around on the veranda at the HISTORIC MANSION I’m staying in.

I showed my person a photo of the Air BnB and she was like, “you have to take a bath in that tub! You just have to.”

Oh my God.

Yes, yes, I do.

In fact, I was thinking about doing a photo shoot in it.

I have a photo of myself from a few years back, must be six now, in Texas, at a wedding in a mansion in the Hill Country, outside of Austin.

I was wearing this navy blue retro vintage dress with small white polka dots and coral colored espadrille wedges.

I had short hair that was a little retro flip and I was wearing a white head band with a big flower in it.

I looked fabulous.

And skinny.

Fuck.

What was I doing?

Oh!

I must have just come off the AidsLifeCycle ride, yup, my calves look crazy.

Heh.

A good reason to do some bicycle training again.

Fuck.

I also look so young.

It was only six years ago.

Damn.

Time, it does fly.

So.

Maybe I’ll do another photo shoot with me in a dress in a bathtub in a mansion.

I mean.

Why not?

I’ll have to get someone to come back to the room with me and help me out with that though, not really able to do a full bodied selfie.

Not that I wouldn’t try.

Especially considering the two new dresses I got.

They are hella cute.

The first is not going to work for me right away.

The color does not quite work with my hair.

It will, the color just needs to soften a tiny bit.

Right now it has too many magenta pinks going on, it will fade off a little and be the perfect pastel pink in about a week I think.

Then the kelley green dress will look gorgeous with my hair.

Ooh.

I can’t wait.

Until then, though, the other dress works perfectly with my hair color right now and I believe with any and all colors I may do with my hair in the future.

It’s white, has a square cut bodice, A-line skirt, and a large cobalt blue rose pattern that is feminine and fabulous and all that.

Totally on point.

I tried it on and twirled and sashayed down my little hallway.

I threw on a black crinoline underneath.

Fuck.

Even more fabulous.

Added a black cardigan and it looks incredible.

Very cute.

Very sexy.

Very femme.

My curves look good and I didn’t have any sort of upset about that, that I have curves, that I’m not some skinny little thing.

I have been thinner, smaller, but not by much, but I don’t know that I have ever felt quite this relaxed and at ease in my body.

I love my body.

Nope.

It’s not perfect.

And thank God for that.

I would be boring.

I like my flair.

“Your hair looks even better in person,” he said to me tonight, “and the pink flower, you put flair in your hair.”

Yes.

Yes, honey I did.

Later tonight when my friend gave me a hug goodnight he whispered in my ear, “you looked beautiful tonight.”

Aw.

Thanks darling.

It was a nice thing to hear.

I was wearing one of my favorite Modcloth numbers, a swing dress with heart shaped pockets, a heart shaped bodice, and behind the neck halter tie top, my hair, the mountainous pink of it, up off my neck, curls falling all over the place, bright pink rose clip and a sequined star in there too, and I felt really good.

I love being glamourous.

I love wearing makeup and being fabulous.

Sometimes it takes me a minute to get there.

But get there I do.

And I love that I don’t do it for anyone else.

Just myself.

I’m not doing it for Pride, although, I am more than happy to be thought of in that way, I’m doing it for myself.

I’m not dressing for a man.

Although, should I attract one, I’m not going to be upset with that.

As the case may be, tonight I thought I would probably have a date, and it didn’t happen.

But considering I was on three this past week, really not too upset about that, and the weekend is young and I have time.

Especially since the podcast canceled.

And I have a fabulous new dress to wear out and about.

Sashay.

Work, turn to the left / Work, now turn to the right / Work, sashay, shante / Work, turn to the left…

Happy Pride family.

I love you no matter what day of the year it is.

I mean.

Seriously.

xoxoxo

It’s A Lawn Ornament

May 11, 2015

Nice to hear if you’re the proud owner of a flock of pink plastic flamingos.

Not so much if you’re the (sort of not so proud anymore) owner of a 1965 Vespa.

Ugh.

I just keep repeating to myself, bless it or block it.

And man.

This is blocked.

I met with my friend who sold me the scooter.

I talked with my friend who just finished rebuilding his own Vespa.

I texted back and forth with another friend about his current rebuild at Scooter Centre.

And I am done.

Done.

I keep also hearing keep it simple stupid.

I will drop the stupid part, but I do own up to my part.

My part–taking on something that is vintage, that I don’t have the band width to tinker with, that I don’t have enough passion for to keep.  Thinking something is cute and posing by it is not the passion that will keep it running.

Nor do I have deep enough pockets.

My hopes, expectations, and needs were never met with this scooter.

Which is not the experience my friend who sold it to me had and I understood his point of view and his offer of help.

But in the end I left the coffee shop in tears and I just felt over it.

I talked with another friend on the phone a few hours later, lunch, a cup of tea, a call to my mom to wish her happy mother’s day, a walk along the Great Highway staring at the dunes and the sun poking out valiantly from the clouds, and he said, be up front, tell whom ever decides to buy it point-blank it’s a Vietnam scooter and you’ll probably get $1200.

Fact is.

I don’t want to deal any more.

I don’t want to spend any more time thinking about it.

I don’t.

Perhaps that is me being a baby.

But I prefer to think that it is me be simple, direct, and absolutely to the point.

The scooter was blocked for me from the beginning.

I had misgivings the minute I saw it and it didn’t have so much to do with the ideation of it; that made me feel wonderful, how sleek and sassy and cute the Vespa is; but that I realized that I had bitten off far more than I could chew.

The having to mix motor oil with gas.

The choke.

The cold engine.

The kickstart.

Damn that thing.

Only eleven months later and I still get an ache in my ankle if I walk too hard on it without enough support.

Maybe it looks like I’m rolling over and showing the world of scootering my pink, vulnerable, belly.

But I have heard, more than a few times, that surrendering means going over to the wining side.

It’s not a loss.

It’s just money.

I got hurt once trying to use the scooter.

But I wasn’t in an accident on the road, I didn’t lose my life, like my best friend who was hit while riding his scooter nearly eight years ago.

I didn’t have to donate my organs to science, make my mother cry, or be cremated to have my ashes scattered over the wide world.

I had an experience.

I don’t want to have it any more.

I told my friend who was advocating talking to Chris Ward again, making a case to Barry Gwin again, trying this tack or that, that I really was done.

As far as I am concerned I would happily sign over the title to him and let him tinker with it for the next few years.

He’d have fun.

I find it frustrating.

This is not the first time I have invested in something that has not worked out, but really, in the end, I got to have some great experiences.

I learned how to use a throttle on a scooter and what it felt like to climb over the top of 17th Street, terrifying, and up Castro and over Twin Peaks.

I rode out to Sea Cliff twice.

I got to have the experience of stalling out in the fog and crying.

I got to see how badly my ankle could get mangled.

I got to have the experience of setting up insurance and registering through the DMV and learning how to ride at the Motorcycle Safety Course.

I got to almost get hit twice on Lincoln Avenue when someone changed lanes without looking.

I got whistled at once stopping to park it and taking off my helmet and shaking out my hair.

I felt all sorts of Charlie Girl around that.

Suffice to say.

I believe I’m done.

I really meant what I texted to my friend, he wants it, it’s his.

I give it away.

It certainly wasn’t doing any good sitting in the foyer at the house collecting dust and providing a cute place for spiders to spin webs.

The mechanic at Scooter Centre said it was a lawn ornament and he’s right.

That’s what it’s been since my accident.

I can stop banging my head against the door that does not open.

Or if you will, banging my ankle on a kick starter that won’t turn over.

Or I can walk, ride my bicycle, take MUNI, or pogo stick through the one that is open.

I don’t know what God wants for me as far as transportation goes; probably my bicycle since that seems to be in great working order, but it’s not this Vespa.

And when I am honest with myself.

It never was.

So friends.

You want the Vespa I’ll sign that title right over to you.

Wash my hands of it.

Wipe away the tears.

Say lesson learned and look for new and more entertaining ways to have another experience in this great big game of life.

I am an experiential creature after all.

I want to feel it all.

Just not maybe around this particular scooter anymore.

I’m done with it.

Next experience please.

I concede.

All Grown Up and Shit

March 31, 2015

Not sure if what I am writing is even going to make it out into the world as a blog.

It may.

It may not.

I am actually a bit incredulous that I am actually utilizing my computer after the epic fail of trying fruitlessly Saturday to fix the problem.

There was no fixing.

And I resigned myself to the fact that the time had come for me to hang up the towel on my lovely little laptop, it has seen me through so much–multiple trips to Burning Man, Paris and back, London, Rome, Oakland, ha–I was loath to let her go.

But it was not working and I don’t know how long it will work tonight.

I feel like I am pinching myself to even be in my blog.

I couldn’t get into my Facebook, which is probably a blessing.

Nor into my Gmail account, which is an annoyance, but I can access both via my phone.

A dear friend told me Saturday as I was freaking out about how I had fucked up my computer and I didn’t know what to do and the damn thing is vintage, obsolete, won’t support the newest platform for browsing, so Safari won’t load and bah!

She talked me off the ledge and said maybe I needed a weekend away from the computer.

What?!

No.

Yes.

NOOOOO!

Yes.

Yes.

YES!

Oh, this is good.

I mean, the weekend is over and I am online and I did just do some big girl stuff, because, as I said, I don’t know if this blog will post, but man I miss writing them, the only thing I really missed over the weekend was the not posting, the rest of the internet trolling I was able to let go of.

Instead I read a lot.

I mean a lot.

I finished the Stephen King novel that I had been trekking through, he’s lost a little of his bite for me, but it was still a decent read and then on Sunday I picked up Althea and Oliver, a novel, a first novel at that, by Cristina Moracho, and read the whole thing.

The WHOLE thing.

I cannot remember the last time I read a book cover to cover in one day.

364 pages.

Not bad.

Not bad at all.

The book was great and I got loads of sunshine and I was reminded that it was ok to be sad.

I hate to admit it.

But I have been sad over the weekend.

I miss the ex and that took me a little by surprise.

I think I miss the being with someone.

I liked being a couple.

It’s not an experience I have had much of over the last ten years and I was feeling a little lonely hearts club.

“You are so noticed,” he said to me on the phone as I spelled out my woes, “and make sure you call and let me know when you are feeling sad about >>>>>> there’s probably something underneath it.”

There usually is.

I told someone this weekend after listening to her share a pretty indepth inventory that one of my greatest fears is that I am fat and ugly and will be alone for always.

I mean.

In a nutshell.

That’s the fear.

She looked a goggle at me.

“You are so not!”

Thank you doll.

I know that, but fear, like faith, is a belief in something that is not there.

It is not logical and it doesn’t make sense.

Most of the time I choose to ignore it or walk through it.

I was in fear about the laptop.

I can’t afford to replace it!

My head hollered at me.

What am I going to do!?

Um.

Self.

You know that online savings account that you have?

Yeah, the one that is titled “MacBook Savings,” yeah, that one?

You have enough.

“It’s hard to part with it, isn’t it?” My friend soothed me on the phone.

It is!

I don’t know why.

I just paid rent.

I just bought nice groceries for the week.

I have a job.

I have clothes on my back and a way to get to work and back.

My phone bill is paid.

My student loan is paid.

And.

I have money in a savings account for a new laptop because I knew this one was going to bite the bullet soon (nothing like having the guys at the Genius Bar at the Apple store chuckle and call your laptop an antique to give one the idea that it is time to upgrade) and shell out the dough.

So.

I put on my big girl pants and I transferred the savings account money into my checking account.

I still have some money in my savings account too.

Which I will have to re-title.

Since I did it!

I pulled the trigger and I bought a new MacBook Air.

The 13″.

I asked my employers today about theirs and marvelled at how light they were, the dad has a MacBook Air and the mom has a MacBook.

Both the same size, but the Air was much lighter and the dad sold me with the battery has a longer life than the MacBook.

Done.

I also chatted with an Apple service center person and made sure I got the educational discount.

Which, you know, since I’m going to graduate school, pinch me, I actually qualify for.

With the savings I got from the discount I turned around and really acted like a grown up and bought the three-year AppleCare warranty.

My total cost with tax $1234.05.

I transferred $1200.00 from my savings account to my checking account yesterday.

I will receive my new MacBook Air in the mail, free delivery, thank you Apple, on April 2nd.

I don’t know if this dear old dinosaur of a computer will make it through tomorrow and the next day, fingers crossed, but if it doesn’t, I’ll be back properly by April 2nd.

All grown up and shit.

Grown ups swear.

Shut up.

Boom

February 8, 2015

And like that.

I’m back.

I’m in it.

I’m Okstupid’ing.

I’m Tinder’ing.

I’m wearing heels.

I’m on fuego.

I don’t know who I’m fooling.

I’m hanging out alone in my room blogging.

But I gots some date offers on the table.

Holy moly batman, Tinder is at once wildly unnerving and aggressive, just because I swiped that way does not mean I’m ready to bend over and be all Clan of the Cave Bear.

Jesus people.

Simmer down.

Then a friend explained to me it’s rather like the straight version of Grinder.

It’s an immediacy app and there’s some up front people out there.

I’m not sure I’m made for it.

However, it’s nice ego feeding, I won’t deny that.

What it is though, is distraction.

Distraction from the present, distraction from the hard work of making relationships work, dating, being human, meeting people, interacting.

That’s so much the thing about social media, it’s all-encompassing and it’s all fantasy.

Just because you’re smiling on a beach in Hawaii doesn’t mean you aren’t sad somewhere else in the world.

I don’t know you until we sit down and engage.

So with that in mind I took some of the other suggestions I received yesterday and I actually reached out to someone in my community who I have always thought was attractive and funny and has some interesting things going on in his life.

And what do you know?

We’re going to go out and grab a coffee in the near future.

He was on the list of ten guys I would be interested in going out with.

I have to say, that list took me a hot second to put together.

I had some difficulty arriving at ten.

I did, however, write it out and I was able to reach out to one of the guys, via Facecrack, I’ve known him for years, but never well enough to have exchanged phone numbers.

That has been rectified.

A few texts.

A few jokes.

A plan to grab some java and hang out.

I also made it clear that I was practicing dating and that I was reaching out in that capacity.

Not as a hang out and have a cup of coffee with a friend.

But a date.

Or rather.

An interview.

Let’s see if something’s there.

We have some really strong common ground and he’s got some awesome tattoos, so there’s that.

He’s also my age, which I really like, actually, I think he’s a couple of years older, which is good, I seem to attract and be attracted to guys a bit younger than me, which is cool, but I want someone who has a little more life experience, I realize that quite well now.

I’m not ruling out dating younger guys, but my track record hasn’t been the best with them.

I also crossed another guy off the list tonight when I saw him up in Noe Valley.

He’s attractive, there’s some chemistry, known him for a few years, he’s sweet, but oh, lord, he’s a smoker.

I mean, heavy.

And I had some reservations when I put him on the top ten list.

I knew as soon as we walked out of the Starbux and headed up the hill that I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

I can’t date someone who is a heavy smoker.

I just can’t.

And I used to smoke, but I haven’t in 9 1/2 years and I don’t intend to start ever again.

It’s just gross.

Hella gross.

Hecka gross.

Gag.

So, off the list with you.

I thought about reaching out to another guy on the list, and I will, but I think for tonight, for today, I did pretty well.

I took a lot of actions.

I re-opened the OkCupid.

And I deleted all the old messages therein and blocked my ex.

Ayup.

His profile immediately popped up in my matches.

Ack.

I did not look.

But I read a message he had sent me and I realized I was about to fall down the rabbit hole.

Nope.

No.

Don’t go there.

I’ve been cleaning house and making room for the new and I don’t need any of that hanging out in my closet.

I have done my inventory and he’s not in the stock room any longer.

And when I did that.

That last bit, I didn’t even know it was there to be done, it felt right.

Clean.

Clear.

Free.

Moving on.

Thank you God for this experience.

I have grown so very much and learned so much more of love and of myself and I stepped it up today.

I dressed up.

I did my make up.

I wasn’t planning on going anywhere spectacular, but you know, San Francisco.

And just because half to three-quarters of the women here are running around in lululemon yoga pants does not mean I have to wear my sneakers out in the world.

I wore my heels and it felt grand.

I dressed for myself.

I also found myself in a store in Noe Valley buying a super over the top vintage wicker purse for myself that I had absolutely not planned on buying.

But it was so fabulous and I was in heels and I felt like I could just stand on the corner and kick back a foot and dangle that purse from my hand and Vogue would be shooting me with Grace Coddington nodding her head in approval in the back ground.

I mean, it’s stupid cute.

The owner and I fawned over each other and as I ran my fingers longingly over it, knowing I really wanted it, I set it back down.

It was more than half of my clothing allowance for the month.

I wandered over to look at something else, and run my hand across a spectacular black cardigan with large paillettes, my mind clicking the numbers in my head, I am getting a tax refund after all.

The owner of the store came out and said, “you know, I just can not have you leave without that purse, I’ll take $40 off it.”

Hello.

Sold.

A purse does not make the girl, but oh la la, it certainly put some swagger in my walk this evening.

I think I’ll be doing a lot of swaggering around town in the next weeks.

I’m back in the mix.

Bring on the dating.

My heels are out of the closet.

And I am fabulously accesorized.

Whistling in the Dark

February 1, 2015

That was the thought I had when I suddenly food myself crying into a bowl of beans.

Nice beans, mind you.

Slow cooked pinto beans with onions and garlic and chicken breast, carrots, turmeric, sweet corn, simmered down tender and paired with some organic brown rice and the smallest, most perfect Haas avocado I have ever seen.

Adorable.

So cute I almost could not cut it up to eat it.

But I did.

And then I watered it with my tears.

I saw my ex today on his motorcycle.

In fact, I did something rather inane, or so I thought as soon as I did it, I waved in traffic from my scooter.

I then blushed with mortification as I killed my scooter.

Then flooded my scooter.

Then killed it again.

Yeah.

That was me, on the side of the turn by Great Highway and the gas station, praying and trying to breathe and not sprain an ankle getting the thing started again whilst all the traffic in the Western world streamed by after a day of sunshine, high 60s temperatures, and beach action.

No fog today, despite the horns blaring melancholic last night around midnight.

“What are you doing up?”  The message, almost indignant, read, this morning when I checked my phone.

I was up late last night, slight insomnia, trolling the internet for hotels and bed and breakfast’s and AirBnb’s and the like for Atlanta, then I just had a hard time going to sleep.

Social fucking media time stamps.

Yes.

I was up late.

I heard those fog horns, but they were not to be heard today, today was all about that California sunshine.

And the joy I had taken in riding my scooter earlier today up to Tart to Tart to make my usual Saturday appointment to get right with God and do some reading about humility, oh, humility, we meet again; all that joy was gone.

I was miserable.

On the side of the road with two half gallons of unsweetened vanilla almond milk and bottle fizzy water in my messenger bag, trying to start my scooter and just get home.

I didn’t realize I was sad.

I didn’t realize that I was missing my ex-boyfriend.

Then I did.

And cue waterworks, adding that finishing touch of salt to my meal.

Tears are so tasty with avocado.

Ugh.

I knew the sad had to come out and I was a little taken aback, I really thought I was done with the grieving of the relationship and ready to move the fuck on.

MOVING ON.

It’s a huge bulletin board in my brain.

Let’s go, lady.

MOVE ON.

As though there isn’t merit in acknowledging that for a little while I had a passionate relationship with someone who meant something to me.

Yeah.

We needed to break up.

That was the right thing to do, the relationship was not working for either one of us, but to deny the experiences that did work is not fair either.

There was something there and it was delirious fun for a little while.

Then it wasn’t.

Then it was uncomfortable.

Then it was out right painful.

And, well, my pain tolerance is nowhere near as high as it used to be.

Anyway, I belabor the point, which is that I am allowed to have sadness for the passing relationship.

Thankfully I also have some smarts and intuition that I have worked hard on developing and I knew, knew deep in my heart and body, that I was done with the scooter for the day.  I was not going to ride her up to Noe Valley for my evening commitment.

Do not pass go.

Do not collect $200.

Do not ride up and over 17th street and kill yourself to make a point.

Get on the MUNI and let yourself be carried where you need to go.

This also allowed me time to check in with a dear friend and just let it out and then see how she was doing and commiserate on the wonkiness that happens with our emotions and brains and thank God for girl friends and perspective.

The actual ride on MUNI was quick and the transfers easy, and I was to my destination much faster, and quite safer, than if I had taken my scooter and did something silly.

The fact was I was not in a place to be riding around the city at night with my heart on my sleeve.

That’s a way for me to really cause some havoc.

When emotional do not operate moving machinery.

Especially not touchy, vintage, 50 year old scooters that need a little babying.

“Do you still have your Vespa?” A dear friend asked me last night.

“I do!”

We talked and it turns out he just got a vintage, BRG (British Racing Green) 150, 2 stroke Stella.

We’re going out next Sunday.

And he’s going to help me adjust the idle so that it’s not so jumpy and I feel like I just need a little someone by my side for a few minutes and I will work out all the kinks.

And if the kinks don’t get worked out, well, I sell her, I’m not super mechanically inclined and I love how sweet she is and how sexy and cute, but I also don’t want to be constantly killing it and stalling out in traffic.

Tonight I am just going to give myself gentle props for having the soundness of mind to know that it wasn’t safe to ride it out at night and that I don’t have to be a hero about it.

I had some feelings.

They reminded me of what a great experience I had dating my ex, even when it went south it was a fantastic learning curve for me.

I learned so much about myself, and I learned that I get to continue to speak up for myself, to be myself, to step further into my personality and really embrace all that is me.

The sweet, the sad, the joyful, the glitter, the me of it all.

With no reservations and with complete faith that I am right exactly where I am supposed to be.

Even when I stall out on the side of the road.

I am still being perfectly held.

Cared for.

Loved.

My scooter always starts up again.

So shall I.

It’s Your Scooter

February 5, 2014

And I’ll cry if I want to.

Wait.

What?

Ha.

My friend basically said it’s yours, and we worked out a plan of attack on how I will be paying for it, nothing set completely in stone, but 95 % a go.

It’s a vintage black Vespa.

VESPA.

VINTAGE.

BLACK.

I don’t think I need to put sexy in caps, but I just might.

SEXY.

Yes, that too.

Eek.

So.

Excited.

I also just registered to take the Bay Area Motorcycle course, it’s the course that the San Francisco Police Department sanctions, so I won’t have to take the driving part of the test, I can complete the course, take the written exam and bam!

I will be scooting through town.

My friend suggested that all I needed to do was some practice and then just get the permit from the DMV.

I weighed the pros and cons of that.

I have loads of experience being on the road on my bicycle, I am aware of the traffic laws (painfully so since I just got that ticket on my bicycle), I know about hand signals and traffic conditions, how slick the roads get when it’s not necessarily raining, but just foggy and misty.

My gut says take the course, though, I think I will be a lot more comfortable doing it.

I just reserved my class spot and paid for the course a few minutes ago.

I will be sitting in the class room Wednesday night, February 19th, then taking the riding curriculum that Saturday and Sunday, the 22nd and 23rd.

My friend and I have not confirmed sale of the Vespa or when I will get it, but basically he said it’s mine.

And the terms he laid out for it were truly tight.

I can put a down payment on it and I can make payments.

I am still sticking money into my savings account for a laptop, that is nowhere near off the burner, but since my friend is being generous with the time frame and he trusts me to pay him.

“I think what really firmed it for me, not to say that you’re not a person of you word, is when you told me you had paid back Barnaby the money for the plane ticket back from Paris,” he told me over the phone tonight as I gleefully clapped my hands at the idea of going grocery shopping on a motorized vehicle.

Yup.

I paid that money back four months sooner than Barnaby had asked me to and full in cash.

I am a person of my word and that feels really good.

I will probably end up giving my friend a little more than the down payment he asked for and I will try to pay it off faster than the terms he gave me.

I like the idea of having that all settled.

We will be meeting for coffee soon and I will be hopping in the driver’s seat.

And this is not a sale unseen.

I know the scooter.

I was actually with him the first time he saw it and I have ridden on the back of it a few times.

He also is a gear head kind of guy.

It’s in total top shape and worth more than what he is willing to part with it.

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Rally!

I think that’s what you say.

Heh.

I had this crazy fear pop up today when I was riding my bicycle into work.

Not that I would get hit on the scooter or hurt or that I wouldn’t be able to navigate it or afford it.

Nope.

My worry, if you will, was that I would not be getting as much exercise.

Really?

That’s the best you can do brain?

Ha.

I raise you one scooter and say I can take yoga classes anywhere in the city now.

Not that I couldn’t walk up the street either to the studio two blocks away anyhow.

I may miss the exercise of being on a bicycle, but that is getting ahead of myself and frankly I won’t miss the wear and tear to my body or my knees.

This is all in the future and not of my fucking concern.

Just have to take the next steps in front of me.

Which is basically, show up for the class and pass it.

Then go take the written test at the DMV.

I will need to get insurance as well.

I will need to talk to my landlord, although, having done so prior to this blog, she’s already aware that I was really contemplating taking the course.

Fact is I have been contemplating it for years.

Years.

Like ever since I moved to San Francisco.

Sometimes quickly.

Sometimes slowly.

Life is unfolding in some really nice little ways and this is just another way I say yes to being here, yes to San Francisco, yes to being a career nanny, yes to living my life.

My very sexy life with my very sexy scooter.

I am just going to keep saying sexy.

Riding gloves, leather, black, I mean, come on, Italian vintage scooter, me with my tattoos perched on the saddle, got to say I like the image.

I also like the way that I know it will open up my experience of San Francisco and I will be able to do more, get around more, literally cover more ground.

I will get to see the city in a way I never have.

I like this embracing life and abundance thing, it’s working.

Even when I have a hard day at work.

Oof.

And today was a shit storm.

Literally.

And a puke storm.

Literally again.

Poor kid.

But I got through, he got through, laundry was washed, two loads, stroller was hosed down, literally, I had to take it to the back yard and hose off the vomit from it, faces cleaned, little bodies wiped and bathed and lotion’ed right back to perfection.

Anyway, no need to dwell in the poop.

I have better things to think about, like how big of a helmet am I going to need to get to shove all my hair under.

Giggle.

 

 


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