Posts Tagged ‘walk of shame’

It Was A Walk of Shame

August 12, 2014

But not that kind of walk of shame.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

But it definitely reminded me of one.

Underpants in my messenger bag, condoms falling out of my pen bag and knocking about in my messenger bag, what were you doing last night lady?

Thank God the family had left when all this underpants and condom hilarity ensued.

I was reminded of a story, in the briefest barest flash of embarrassment, my mom loves to tell this story, it’s in the top three (top two standing in front of the three-way mirror at Macy’s in my lace anklets at age three admiring myself–snuck out of the changing room when mom went to find a dress that fit better, imagine her surprise, empty changing room, no baby, but suddenly hearing a gaggle of old ladies around the corner cooing over how cute I was cued her off.  Top one–standing on top of my desk and yelling at my class to sit down and be quiet because teacher was having a bad day, teacher promptly burst into tears, said thank you Carmen and everybody sat down and was quiet.  Turns out she had just been served with divorce papers at recess) of the mom pantheon of stories to tell on me.

I was six, maybe seven, first grade (older kid, missed the cut off for kindergarten by a month, so always one of the oldest in my class) and I stood up to use the bathroom and my underpants fell out the bottom of my pants.

I was not only mortified, but I was mystified too.

How the hell did they come off?

Turns out my underwear were on, but I had an extra in the leg, probably from the laundry or they hadn’t pulled out of my jeans when I pulled them off the night before.

Which is what happened to me today.

At the age of 41, I was not paying enough attention to notice that my jeans had a little extra padding in the back side this morning when I went to work.

I mean I am utterly mystified how that happened, I was awake, I swear, when I got dressed, but apparently I was not fully present.

ALL MORNING.

I sat where I am sitting now, had breakfast, wrote four pages long hand, I had extra time this morning, I rode the MUNI to work–sat there too–how I did not feel an extra pair of panties back there I don’t know.

I discovered them when I was getting the boys ready to go outside to the park.

I pulled up my jeans and was like, what is that, and reached back and fished out the underwear.

This is what happens when you are so ready and packed to go that you are recycling your pants to get through the week so you don’t have to worry about laundry before leaving for playa.

I re-wore my jeans from yesterday.

The condoms were from my consolidating of stuffs when I went through the underwear drawer and I stuffed them in my pen and pencil bag in my messenger bag.

I don’t know that I need them, I don’t foresee getting lucky before I hit playa–Mister I’ll Bring You Some Frozen Peas never got back at me the last time I sent him a query.

Oh well.

His loss.

Moving on.

Hopefully with only one pair of panties on my person at a time.

It made me laugh and really it was a day full of life and gratitude for what I have.

My friends, my work, the little boys in my life, my recovery, knowing I have a solution to my disease and taking my medicine.

My heart broke when my good friend text me that Robin Williams had committed suicide today in Tiburon.

I met the great man once, he was amazing, heartbreaking, sad, funny, depressed, overwhelmed, sweet, honest, loving, kind.

I got to sit and be five feet away from him for an hour and it was a pretty incredible experience.  And a hug after that hour and an immense gratitude for what I have.

Money doesn’t make you happy.

Fame doesn’t make you happy.

Sometimes there’s just a deep, deep well of pain and it cannot be addressed or dealt with and thank fully I found a way out of it, but the echo in my soul, that unbearable knowledge of what he must have been going through, I can taste it like mercury blood in my mouth, a bitter sucked orange sadness.

I know he’s not in pain any longer and I am glad for that, though for completely selfish reasons I wish he were still here.

I don’t cry at celebrity deaths.

Two to date.

When I heard the news that Jeff Buckley had died.

And today when I got the text from my friend.

I immediately teared up and my heart just hurt, it felt like I had gotten stabbed, perhaps because I share that disease and know that pain, partially because I am so grateful it is not a solution I have chosen.

Although there were times, two years into my sobriety, when it got really, really bad.

REAL BAD.

I was always crying.

And I can cry a lot.

But I was always crying.

I did not know what would set it off and I did not know when it would stop and I wanted to die so bad.

It was when I was in the shower contemplating being alone for the rest of my life and never having a family of my own (I don’t know why that thought, I don’t know what had brought it about, but I had a sudden realization that I was never going to have children and I was brought low in devestation), I sank down on the floor of the tub, the shower beating on my head and thought, all I have to do is fill the tub up with water and let go.

There were razors there.

It would be warm.

It would be ok.

It would not hurt for long.

Let go.

I gripped the sides of the bathtub, forced my way to standing, turned off the shower, grabbed the towel from the back hook of the door and screamed into it, broke down crying, wrapped myself up in the towel, went and made a phone call and somehow walked through it until I got professional help.

I don’t know Robin’s pain.

I can’t.

But I know thinking about that very permanent solution to a temporary problem allure.

I hope he is in a better place and at peace.

I hope to not journey there yet for many a day.

I hope you know how much I love you.

I love you.

I do.

 

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


― Pablo Neruda

 

Betwixt and Between

October 8, 2012

“I am fucking terrified,” I said to Joan in the car as we wended up the California One and were passing through Devil’s Slide.

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

There was much spilling of tears today.

None of which had to do with the wedding I was at.  Which was beautiful, the bride took my breath away, the location was stunning, the dinner scrumptious, the decor beyond, and me, well, I was way beyond running around in a bad neighborhood, called my head.

“Honey,” Joan said to me, patting my hand, “if you weren’t I would be worried.”

I am going to make it in Paris.

That is what terrifies me most.

Joan asked me today, as I was waxing on about where I am in my life, what is happening, and not happening in the dating life.

“Does he read your blogs?”

My heart rose into my mouth and I thought, “oh fuck, does he?”

Well, that could explain why I have not heard from him.  Does someone want to date a known out and about sex fiend?

Oh, ok, I exaggerate, but what if he had read my walk of shame post, which, I still defend, was NOT  a walk of shame, I had too much fun for it to be shameful.

But what if?

I was in a dither for a moment.  Then I took myself to the facilities and told myself that it does not matter.  It does not.  I will not manipulate by writing about it, I also said, and here I am writing about it.  But I am writing about my process, myself, and my feelings.

How to express to myself how I feel about what is happening, then add-on to that the obvious–I am just having sex with some one and it is not going anywhere.

How could it?

And it is not for me to know ever anyhow.

Besides, said partner, though lovely, though a good egg, though a brilliant mind, is definitely not looking for a relationship and if he were, I doubt it would be with me, we are at two very different places in our lives.

Not that the thought has not crossed my mind, it has.  It may continue to do so.

However, what I want is what I have gotten from Mister Busy Pants–courtship.

Dates.

Hand holding.

And one sweet, consuming kiss.

Die you damnable romantic.

Die.

OR

Fly to Paris.

The most romantic place in the world.

And it will happen, you will happen, you are happening.

Joan said  I was ‘betwixt and between’.  Actually slowing down before I go.  I have too much time on my hands and yet not enough time.  It is a seriously awkward place to be.

I have to be ok with that and I have to keep myself grounded in my routine–which this action of writing my blog is such a huge part of.

I wonder, sometimes, often, all the time, too much heart on the sleeve?  Too much over sharing?  Too much Carmen Regina Martines?

Then I walk back out of the bathroom, tell Joan that my head has been obsessed now with the “he read my blog” and now he must know I am a great big hooker and of course he will not want to see me again and, and, and.

Breathe.

IT does not matter.

I am going to Paris.

Where I will find a cafe.  I will make it mine.  I will write.  I will be my Parisian self.

And he, it, whatever, will fucking find me.

I am going for myself.  I am not going for anyone else or to illicit a certain response.

Yes, I am still beyond terrified.

Terrified, also because I feel like life is about to get wildly big, something enormous and huge and unexpected is about to happen.  I feel at the nexus.  And it is not my place to step back or to step down away from that.

I rise to the occasion.

I welcome the challenge.

I admit that it will be hard and I will have moments, days, perhaps, of self-doubt, and I will get home sick and have many thoughts of what the fuck am I doing?

What the fuck am I doing?

Embracing my destiny, reaching for my life instead of running away from it.

I am destined to be a great writer.

I am in the process of getting there and  I know that it will happen.  And perhaps this is pompous and arrogant and I am deluded and mislead.  Then I remember all the people I hear that say, ‘I wish I had half the discipline you do or I never write, but I think about it all the time’.

I write twice a day.

There are people that spend their entire lives talking about doing the writing, but they do not actually do it.  I do not have to have that be my experience.  The gift to myself is that I let myself write.  I over ride the fear of it not being enough and just do it anyway.  I get past that point of it is not what I should be writing or how I am writing or that my writing is not published and I just let the process happen.

I show up for it.

That will make me as a writer.

That will get me published.

“I am afraid that I will come visit you in Paris and you won’t have space for me,” Joan said.  “That your life will have gotten so big and brilliant and amazing, that you won’t have room in it for me.”

That will never happen.

My life will get bigger, and wilder, and stranger, weirder, and full, that is certain.

I say yes too often for it not to.

I say yes to trying new things.

Nudist colony.

I say yes to new experiences and places and people.

I say yes.

But I will never not have room for my beloved friends.

The Universe puts things in my way or I get onto that path and go, but I go with a friends hand in mine, regardless of whether or not they are actually with me, I have amazing friends and I know they support me and love me and are inspired by me.

Like I am inspired by them.

My life is blossoming out and instead of trying to pick at it, I will leave it be to further grow and bloom.  For the time now, I slow down.  I pause and I continue to practice what I am doing right now.

I once spoke with a room-mate who was impressed that I had picked up the cello again (I put it back down and do flirt with the idea here and there to pick it up again–writer, cellist, Parisian).  He said that it did not take talent to become a master, it took time.  That it was a pretty known fact, how known, fuck if I know, but he sounded assured, that all it took was time.

50,000 hours of practise is what it takes to master something.

I do not know how many hours I have spent writing over the last few years, but I do know that this is blog post number 646.

I do know that every morning I wake up and I write three pages long hand.

I do know that I will continue to do so.

I feel bound by the words and within that self-imposed restraint I have the freedom to express myself and my being and my artistry.

Some times boundaries allow for more freedom.

I cannot fuck this up.

The only way I fuck this up is if I don’t get on that plane.  But every day I cut a little more out and prepare a little more–mostly mentally, there sure are not a lot of details left to cover materially–I know that I am severing any thing that holds me here.

I will not be held by the possibility of a relationship.

Nor the impossibility of a relationship.

I will not succumb to the terror of being successful either.

I allow myself to feel overwhelmed and scared and I do not roll over to it.

I just keep moving forward, riding my bicycle down International Avenue in Oakland, right up until that moment when I roll my suitcase onto the plane.

I just have to go get one first, a suitcase that is.

I already have the dream.

It Wasn’t A Walk of Shame

October 6, 2012

Until I got to work.

Damn it.

I spent the night over at the lover’s house in the Mission.  I feel all relaxed and easy in my skin.  I slept soundly.  I had packed my over night bag.

It’s not a walk of shame if you pack an over night bag.

I saw some walks of shame this morning.  Most noticeable the girl on 14th street with no shoes on, dress on backwards, carrying a pizza box.  At least she was getting her breakfast on.  If I had my camera ready I would have gotten a great shot.  It really was the classic walk of shame.

But this, what I was doing?

Nah.

I had brought my toothbrush and my nice lotion, a change of clothes, don’t want the co-workers to see you in the same duds as the shift before.

No thanks.

Although, I did forget an extra pair of socks, so I am a little bit of a dirty girl, despite the morning shower.  And the boy bath products.  I was prepared for the Irish Spring scenario again, so I brought a little bottle of coconut papaya lotion with me and a bag of makeup.

What I was not prepared for was the gigantic mess my hair had become.

Sex equals bed head.

Serious bed head.

He said I could blame him, but I think I may have had a little something to do with it.  Writhing around on a bed doesn’t make for a nice blown out hair do.  And I have so much more hair than I used to.  The last time I had a lover I had very short-cropped hair.  Then I had no nookie for over a year, you, know, I was busy, “Calling in the One,”  much to my chagrin and the statement I made earlier last year, “I will get married at Burning Man next year.”  My hair has grown out a bit since then.

That, Burning Man prediction, by the way, was this past Burning Man and I, Jesus, did I even get a kiss?

Oh, yes, that’s right, Dubble’s friend North kissed me.

That was lovely, but pretty much a not going to go anywhere scenario as the gentleman had a girlfriend back home.

I don’t know about you, but I think that a kiss can be more intimate than most people allow and I would not want my boyfriend kissing other women, but that’s just my opinion.

Back to the walk not walk of shame.

Which, I have had me some.

Ooh yeah.

The time I was living on 22nd and Alabama and dropped some really good E and it hit harder and faster than I was expecting and I was getting ready to go out to the club and suddenly I HAD to change my outfit, it just would not do for the night that was about to go off.  Out came the glitter, the flower hair clips, the ribbons, the sparkles, the flowy shirt and god only knows what else, the platform Steve Madden buck leather shoes–I remember that–I could hardly walk the next day, although I did do walk my in my heels, I won’t do the barefoot walk, no way, no how.

I had gone to 1015, then to the End Up, then to an after party, then to an after, after party.

About early afternoon, somewhere high up in the Castro, or lower Twin Peaks, the view was astounding, I also remember that.

I never really did do black outs, sometimes to my great chagrin, I do have an astounding memory.

As I looked out over the bowl of the city the sun twinkling sharply of the towers and spires and the water, I realized it was time to go home.

I said good-bye graciously to my hosts and began to gather my things.

“Girl, where do you think you are going,” one of the fabulous gay boys said with a wry chuckle.

“I’ll just go flag a cab,” I said, shouldering my bag and fishing out my sunglasses.  This was during a time that I discovered that I always needed sunglasses and would often buy them at the gas station kitty corner to the End Up when I was making cigarette and gum runs over from the club.

“Honey, have you seen what you look like recently?”

Ah no.

I went to the bathroom.

Oh my god, what the hell has happened to me?

My very long hair had been “artfully” braided by someone at some point in the night, entwined with god only knows what, ribbons, flowers, was that a glow stick in my hair?

It was.

I had put on more glitter eyeliner at the club.  Apparently I was just not fabulous enough when I had left my house on Alabama Street the night before.

I had various in and out bracelets from the clubs on my arm as well as door stamps, one of which was on my cleavage.

I was a hot mess.

I tried to wash, but it really was no good.

I came out of the bathroom and the whole room clapped.

I got a ride home.

That may win the walk of shame walks.  And there were a few.

This turned into an inadvertent walk of shame, or ride of shame, as I was on my bicycle this morning.

Come by the shop!  I am working.

Ugh.

After lazing in the sun for a while–there is nothing like waking up in a puddle of sunlight.  Good morning light is almost as good as good morning wood.

Did I just say that?

Ok, so I did not get as much sleep as a girl could get.

Hush.

I had a hot shower, put on my change of clothes, made the bed, did my morning get centered rituals and went to Rainbow to grab a little light breakfast and the stuff to make lunch today at work.

I do not know why  I was craving sour kraut.  But man, it looked really, really good in the cold case.

Maybe it was that damn blog I wrote the other day about making apple pies, I had cooking in the house of Windsor on my mind and one year we did this retardedly huge batch of sour kraut, over ten 5 gallon pickle buckets of sour kraut–the garden put out a lot of cabbage that year and I believe my step-father also supplemented with some extra from the farmers market.

We had kraut for years.

It was stunningly good.

I saw it at Rainbow and I wanted.

I had an after sex craving, I guess.

I got my black chai spice tea and almond milk, a couple of bananas, a raw bar, a Naked smoothie (ha), and some stuff to make for lunch, including sour kraut.

I hopped on my bike, chuckled when I saw the girl walking home with the bare feet and dress asunder carrying the pizza box.

No one will know, but me and my “tousled” hair.

Then I got to work, why is my stuff wet?  What is that smell?

That is not I just had sex smell, I mean yes, those are my panties and damn they are wet, but, what the?

OH

Fuck my mother.

The sour kraut opened in my bag.

Walk of shame.

You got me anyway.


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