rewind- don't call me baby, call me snowflake.

The first time as I walked home, walked home when I was in 6^th grade down the curvy bike path towards my F section home, in my suburb of Rohnert Park, someone started to honk, someone started to yell at me in the four wheel truck motor vehicle. And I was startled. I didn’t know was going on. But little did I know as I begun the brink of adolescence, through my teenage years, and into adulthood, that this thing would never change. Never. The catcalls never have stopped. It didn’t matter if I was a kid, if I didn’t even have boobs or a period. Men began to yell at me. Fucking perverts, I thought. Still do. I used to get really angry. In my head saying is that how you would talk to your mother, your sister, your aunt? Your female in your life that might matter. Matter to you. I remember the first time because I didn’t know what was going on. Anger is now mixed in a cocktail with amusement shaken over the ridiculous.

Now I’m prepared for it to happen. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t showered in days. It doesn’t matter if I am in my PJs. Awfully matched PJs. It doesn’t matter if I am riding my bike and sweaty with my dorky pink helmet, actually the sweat might help with the calling. It doesn’t matter if I’m crying, baby just smile, baby don’t cry your beautiful. Excuse me as I barf. Am I beautiful while I hurl? Probably. It doesn’t matter what I look like, not really. It’s more about power. It’s more about it working one out of million times. I sometimes wonder who would be drawn to the hey baby, hey sexy, hey beautiful, so much they hail over their car and stop for the construction worker or the guy and provide their number, their address, or much more. I think it might be fun to play along and call their bluff but truthfully I’m just too fearful to do it. Part of me thinks it must work or why would they keep trying, trying again and again to no avail. But is it about working or just doing it? Doing it.

So here are some of the highlights over the years:

Animal Noises: Barking

Until last year the only place a man had made an animal noise at me was in Marin County. That made it more interesting that in living in 4 urban cities the only place an animal noise was directed to me was in Marin County. Who would have thought that such harassment would ensue in one of the wealthiest counties in the country? While I was walking my aunt and uncle’s dog, the middle aged man with grayish hair pulled over his bike perfectly helmeted and basketed and said roof, roof, roof, slowly and seductively. Seductively. I couldn’t help but bust up laughing. That being said I told him if he had pegs, I’d be down for a ride. No I wish, I just laughed and walked away. Later I told my aunt who was outraged- that someone in her neighborhood- in her neighborhood would do that. What a travesty. Take notes- there is more.

Animal Noises: Meowing

So then the animal noise happened again. Years later, I was walking down the street in the Mission. The cat calls, the snickers, the clicking noises are pretty frequent in this hood probably because the dudes are actually as taller than me. Probably because of many a reason. As I walked by a man who sat in the storefront window, he said meow, meow, while mimicking a cat's mannerisms and blowing kisses. I felt special. I felt pretty. I felt important. I skipped the rest of the way down Valencia.

Snowflake:

While living near Harlem, I got a lot of attention when walking to work probably because I was the only white girl in the 10 or 20 block radius. My whole life I wanted to be exotic growing up in a predominately white suburb I was the norm and guess what finally I was. Exotic with my white clad skin. Yes! Little did I know what it would entail. Hey snowflake, hey panda, can you be my white panda bear, can you be my snowflake. Hey snowflake, the first time it happened, I looked around, I guess since I was the only white girl it must be me. Me, snowflake. At least it was creative. At least it was more creative than the animal noises or grunts or the sexy baby bullshit.

My Response:

No, I am not here for a modeling convention. No, I can’t smile for you. No, I am not moved by the trivial attempts at your prehistoric noises coming from your mouth. Yes, I have a boyfriend. Yes, I have a husband. Yes, I have a wife. Yes, I have an overprotective father and brother. Anything to make you go away. Go away.

My Unsolicited Advice:

What happened to hello and a smile? So here’s my advice men, men of the world, either make it witty or stick to the standard hello and smile. Don’t’ call me baby, call me snowflake or don’t bother at all. You will go a lot further with that one. Mark my words.

Oh Shit:

My words- still as I stand on this soapbox of femininity, I wonder what would happen to this woman (me) decorated in degrees and pretty enough to be yelled at if as I walk on the catwalk of life it was cloaked in silence. Would the silence be deafening? Would I long for the noises of the populace as I stroll along welcoming me along the way? Is that cheer enough to make me believe I am pretty enough, I am desired enough, I am wanted? Maybe it is easier to complain when men harass you. Maybe it would be harder if I was invisible. And no one could see me. As I melted on the ground falling lightly away spreading into a tiny speck of water. A snowflake forgotten or maybe never seen at all.

happy holidays- time travel back to slamming doors

i found myself on a by accident hiatus based on fatigue from school from fatigue of a cold then flu but i am back. i hope you all had an amazingly great holiday and will be having an epic new years. thanks as always for stopping by.


I found myself acting out. Acting out in the middle of the mountains. In the middle of my parents. In the middle of my family. In the middle of not my adolescence but the beginning stages of a supposed maturity of the 30s. But somehow when I come back here. Here. I find myself teenage again. In my antics. In my ability to respond. By yelling. Pounding my legs down the hall. And slamming the door again. Again. See this is the way I behaved before. It was the norm of me. But never do I anymore. Until there is something about the bringing to together of the family. That makes my younger self re-submerge into me. I drop a few pounds, my hair lightens to a blond and lengthens, my jeans expand to boot cut, flannel tied around my waist, womanhood not budding enough and there she is. I am time traveled back to my old school abilities to cope. In dramatic ways. I am well behaved mostly. In my life. But sometimes even I need to act out.

Somehow in the equation of my father- trying to be caring as always, trying to be the strong one although diminished by disease and age and injury plus my brother-who worships money and power and spews it upon us in his tirades, we wipe our faces but it still stinks and a momentarily sweet pause plus my stepmom-trying to balance the job of peace maker knotting her belly into two, she is the keeper of my father plus me-the one who talks, talks too much, and has learned the boundaries I must draw to survive equals into the mess that we only can know as our own.

Time. I am late. Late I am not with her and haven’t been in years. But through a misunderstanding of time. Reconfirmed by a father unable to now keep time. He lives in the abyss of the fox, of the morphine, of the cloud of poker and airplanes on his computer. Are you going to be ready? Her face distorts and words are not needed for her to inflame my wound of a 15 year self. No I am not. But I will be in a few minutes. Dad told me. Now dad sitting in my face, Kate you should get moving. Shit. I am usually the well behaved and hounding they are me. But my brother and dad make everyone wait all the time. But no time out for them. No lecture. Just me. Done. Pounding and slamming. And father coming. And I am saying leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. I am not myself or am I. I walk down the hall of my own childhood to be like the teenagers I work with. Heart starts pounding against my chest the adrenaline of years past pump into my system.

Now my brother is coming in for round 3. Kate what’s your problem. I am sick of you. Leave me alone. I repeat. I do one thing and now it’s the apocalypse. I am sick of being well behaved and somehow she is here as I stare at her in the mirror. The girl I left behind. T you do whatever the hell you want and never make an apology so leave me alone and get out of here and close the door on him. Him.

I guess it doesn’t matter how old we get, or how we work on ourselves to play well with others out in the real world because when you return, return to your roots of home. You are once again. Again as you were. At first very adult, but each adultness layers chips off and fails to the fall, I watch it drift as leaves of the tree. Just as the pimples reappear and my confidence begins to sink. And I am again slamming the door. Door. Running away from them. Running away from myself. Running away from the fact, we can’t grow up when others remind of us of the piece forgotten.

Happy holidays-you say upon your signs and cards and in words or smiles unspoken. Me I cross my fingers and make sure to have prescriptions and see if this year I can make it sober. Sober without the help of numbness. No one wants a drunk teenager. But a slightly sedated one. Maybe. But there is a part of us one before the weathering of life and the tempering occurs. Our younger self. She likes to make appearances. Sometimes. Never with your family. Just with mine. Here in the mountains. But always when I least expect it. But now I walk down the hall. Slowly. I remember. I remember to say sorry. And try again. Next year.

your nemisis is waiting in the line at the bar of underage drinking

hello folks-


a quick write from the word nemesis about me walking into my old undergrad bar of beginnings.
enjoy and thanks always for stopping by!


Nemesis. My own nemesis might not be a spandex clad villain trying to fuck up my ability to do good and fight evil on this earth. No, that might be left to the simplicity of super heros and the story lines in their confinement. No, my nemesis might be me. Me. You wake up, you roll over, you open your eyes to a younger version of yourself. You think you have evolved so much that you now have somehow changed and transformed into a more liberated non-caring this is me kind of lady- take it or leave it.


But one day. One day you walk into a bar. A bar of before. Before. The earlier you. That has exited before. The bar might have a new name. But the smell of beginning adulthood still musky particles of years past drift up to your nose. You breathe in and smell the smell of you. Your younger self. The one who had to underage drink before. In this bar. The room changed. Now with animals heads upon the wall. Expanded -walls taken down. The physical bar-the same-stretches long like the years past. Years. But living in a way right now. Right now. Food now available not left to the confines to the pizza line next store. It stops now. The flooding of what was and drifts away as I order no bud light or heineken or mixed drinks of my younger self. Kahula something-vodka this-all swallowed down in one sitting. Now instead. A more sophistication order of black ipa and a tecate. For I am driving. Shots, shots, spatters around us. No I don’t do shots. But before I did. Did in a way that killed me. Later.


But I was in the midst of figuring it out. Figuring out how to be me in the middle of this bar. In the beginning of being my own. Figuring out how to be. Without apologizing later. Or right now. Time passes quickly away. Away this night. And then its time to go. Go. This would be the first time I left this bar without the non-sober of drunken sway. I walk back up the dirtied wooden floors up the ramp and touch the bathroom door. And as I place my fingerprints upon the green smudged door and press my fingerprints, weight moves it open with it, against it, a downpour of it all comes back. Back. The lines. The lines I stood in. I am standing in again. The dress. The obsession of how to dress. The how to get in. And the nervous-forgotten. The waiting in line in this bathroom I had spent so many moments waiting. Waiting. Making sure to look pretty. And skinny. And happy. And not too bitchy. And not hurl. And not pee. And smile enough but not too much. Waiting in that line. But there is no line. Not now. No line for me to try and dance in and out of and through.


I walk straight to the stall. And lock the door with a bolt. The lock is new and heavy and hits the stall door hard. Hard. It shakes. I hover over the toilet and remember. Barfing here. And peeing here. And crying here. And as I flush, stall door slamming. Wash my hands. Clean. I walk out the door. There still isn’t a line. I didn’t have to wait like I did before. Before. I was thankful. And somewhat relieved to have visited her here. Now. Because there was no line of acceptance I had to wait in. Not again. Not in this bar. Not ever. Again. The line of waiting lived inside of me. I just stopped caring how I looked while I stood there. As I glanced at the mirror out the door. Back into the bar.

ode to the wimpiness of the this californian still yearning for a real snowfall, just one of course

this is dedicated to my lovely roomie who provided me with a british make hot water bottle for my bed to heat up. i was reluctant to believe as well. but it worked. also to all my friends who held my hand through my borrowed east coast winters. thinking about you always. based on the quick write for heating up! enjoy!

Heating up in the warmth of my covers and personal heater and layers. I am frozen. Mostly because I went outside not equipped for this now impending winter. It was 70 something a few days ago and now I am reading mid 50s. I couldn’t warm up all afternoon- all evening. I heated up soup and tea and myself in this bed and nothing seemed to work. But soon I was fast asleep in this cocoon of heat. I did wake up sweaty and realized I was defrosted again.

I am wimp. I realize that I am the northern Californian make and snow angels and snow days were not mine until adulthood. By choice. I was shocked the winter lasted so long sometimes 6 months. I was shocked it snowed on my birthday every single year I lived on the east coast April not too late for snow. I was shocked to learn about wind chill and scarves up your neck with just your two eyes out. I was shocked to leave my house quickly and land flat on my back. Laying there in my apartment parking lot. Not knowing what hit me. Because I was naïve. I am a Californian. Black ice and wind chill and snow storms were left to the movies. Were left to other people’s lives. Hats were for style not for luxury. Winter jackets- never really did I need one. I had to prepare for this new life I was embarking. Buying my first down coat. Heating up.

But even in the chilliness of months I did find things that heated me up. A snowball fight of childhood lived as an adult. Laying on my back snow angels mine for the first time. The movement of the sand of my upbringing now upon this snow. Back and forth. The walking in the snow before anyone else had. Your foot slowly begins its descend toward the bottom of the pool, the tub of the ground. Days when the snow didn’t get cleaned in time and New York City would slow to a halt. A city yearning for a pause. And walking up and down Amsterdam, people now as cars. Cars not running, no buses, no hustle, no bustle. Just the soft noise of the snow slushy against our feet. And warmth inside and around. We are walking on a New York City street. Where usually you might need a prayer just to cross. To the park. Snow everywhere you can see. The beauty of the whiteness before the cityness gets to it.

I complain about the cold. But I do miss the winters I borrowed for a few years. I do dream of a snow fall outside upon my San Francisco street so I can feel the sand of snow now at home and hear the quietness of sound of my foot steps on the pillow of the snow. The slowing down and the happiness of it when it first falls that would be my request. One good snowfall and back to my cold enough winter in the 50’s. Teasing me first with a few 70 degrees days before it decides to make its entrance. Again.

image: courtesy of life magazine. http://www.life.com/image/56831621

a block and a half walk down memory lane reminding me i already threw that sandwich away

Try cleaning house. Cleaning house not in the 1950’s housewife manner now planned in between events and meetings and extracurricular but in a real way. Cleaning house of yourself is easy to avoid. You become a prisoner to others wants and desires and live in other things and somehow you have been forgotten. You might wake up one day singing a bad country song out that window and realize I got to clean this house. Not in my bestowed womanly duties but in the reality of the clutter of life, of family, of loves-lost, shared, or desired-are starting to make you look like a serious pack rat. Cleaning house as an adult is hard to do because you have programmed your patterns so perfectly that you think they are yours for life. But what if you did it different? What if developmental gains were not only lost to the younger counterparts? What if you asked what if I was different?

Cleaning house not many people do it. It is easier to keep going on the hamster wheel fast line with or without passengers on the freeway than stop and ask what am I doing. What are you doing? In the cleaning you find the forgotten sandwich, in the brown bag, in the cotton bag, in the plastic bag, in the growing mold of lack of light into the stench of there is not forgetting this sandwich. You held onto to it. Because a lover made it. Because he made it for you. You held on hard and then tossed it to the side. You will throw it away later. You say to yourself. Not now. Now I am not ready. But then you find it months later. Years later. And think I should have cleaned this, cleansed this of myself earlier.

The other day straight out of yoga, I was soppy with sweat and release and contentment and I ran into someone that once upon meant something to me. He sat on one side of the crosswalk and me the other. I said his name and waved. He walked towards me in between the white lines faded and nothing happened. No butterflies grew into a colony in my stomach. My heart didn’t pick up the pace to match my mind. I reached out to hug him. Warning him of the moisture upon my cotton clad body. And he was like you are sweaty. Most men don’t mind touching me sweaty or not. Laughter and then the walk by side. I had forgotten he was so tall. I had forgotten he walked so propelling himself forward. I had forgotten he was selfish. So selfish not to ask how I was. One and half years or so had passed since I had seen his face near mine. Not a how are you or how have you been. Nothing.

As we walked that one and half blocks- I listened and nodded and realized the gift of a short walk with someone who you thought you knew, someone who you thought you could have loved. I realized I was thankful for the eco-cleaning supplies of therapy and the prick of the needles of acupuncture and realizing what I could agree to before could not now. I turned that corner. Thankful for cleaning my house. I didn’t care about cleaning his. My house was the only thing that mattered. I had changed. In a way I could see. What I wanted. Wanted in a way I hadn’t before. Before. A walk so brief. A love affair so brief. A cleaning of the house. Sometimes you find more than a forgotten sandwich. This time I did.

they forgot to put that in the manual

hello friends, have an amazingly great and beautiful thankful filled holiday. i am thankful for so much and since i started this project i have been thankful for your kind words and eyes upon this page. be well. check comments on this piece inspired by the prompt saving it at creative caffeine

As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grow and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.

I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it-the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.

And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understands my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest.

I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What to do in a crisis in a school-not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.

befriending my neighbors, my homies

Going at it alone. Today as I woke up to move my car, I saw the reminiscent of a review of garbage for hot items gone terribly wrong. There was debris and shit strewed along the sidewalk. Today as I walked down the street by myself after yoga, I saw a perfectly cut kiwi abandoned on the street. Today as I walked to pick up the kids, alone, I saw the torn bag of mcdonalds stepping into the wrappers and topped off with ketchup smeared on my path. Tonight as I walked home from parking my car, a man who didn’t see me relieved himself not once not twice but three or four times. Huge juicy farts. Shaking with laughter until I couldn’t hold it in my throat any longer, it escaped the clicking noise of my laughter. I smiled and laughed by myself all the way home.

When you go at it alone, the walking, the walking down a city street. You see more. More than if you had a partner walking in unison, chatter would diminish your surrounds. If you had music in your ears to drown out the city swish of cars, sirens, random guys farting wouldn’t be left for your own personal stand up comedy show. You see more. When you are alone. Observe more. Participate more in the ever moving flowing around the current not stopping but you stop and pause and listen. And then move on laughing. Laughing.

After yoga with mat in hand, I crossed the street to my block and 3 men, one I recognized and call kayne west not to his face but to my friends. He is the player of my block. He always has a host of women all different ethnicities in variety of sizes in tow. He either is a pimp or a player or maybe both. I crossed and the three men- kayne with his gold grill and hip glasses and hat, his friend very large and in charge, and another guy with you guessed it a baby pit bull with a mean looking collar with spikes all reside on the corner.

I walk towards them with a semi- street face on-the perks of smile lurking. The large in charge one says- how long have you done yoga? A few years. I don’t pause long and ask have you ever tried it. He doesn’t look like he does much of any exercise. No I haven’t. Does it make you feel good? Yes. Plus there are a lot of girls who do it. And they wear tight clothes so you might be able to steal a glance but not too much or the instructor might say something. They all laugh hard surprised their white neighbor is actually funny and not scared of them. We laugh together and I go up my stoop home. As I walked away they proceeded to argue if a lady in the apartment across the street was available or a single mom or if the guy visits her is just her brother.

When I moved into this neighborhood- when there were groups of men on my stoop as I moved in- I realized you have two choices: you can either be scared of the homies or befriend them. So I choice the later. Going at it alone. I make friends with the dudes who hang out on the street across from the cleaned up projects- these gardens of valencia. Friends to watch out for me and as I come and go. My bike is safely locked up outside because their watchful eyes.

We go alone. And see more. More when we aren’t distracted. When we aren’t looking. When we aren’t talking. When we just are walking. Alone. We begin to see more. More. And see it all. Not all pretty, not all funny. But the wave of humanity only seen by eyes that are open.

watching out for douchebags really isn't that hard

hello friends- this week by accident is dedicated to my anti- technology and anti douchebag sentiments. i hope you enjoy and thanks for stopping by as always. feel free to check out comments on this piece at creative caffeine. have an amazing great weekend and do me a favor and join me in going against the current and do something radical and pick up the phone instead of texting or better yet write someone a love letter!

Watching out. Watching out for douche bags really isn’t that hard. Not when they text you things like- and I quote- “hey if you’re still interested give me a shout, you cool.” It was as if one of my high schoolers was crank texting me-no this is real folks this is an attempt at trying to hang out with me. Me: a grown ass woman. Me: someone who could be considered attractive and funny and at this point I got better attempts at hanging out with me when I was in the 6th grade. This shit is pathetic. And this attempt at courting or dating or bumping beautifuls is just so shameless ridiculous I can’t help but feel this might be the dating low of a lifetime. Oh, but it’s not because there has been others.


So I have decided that my ass, my pretty nice ass, is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.


Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-you aren’t.

Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.

technology killed the love letter- in my mind and in my car, i hope we can rewind and we haven’t gone too far

This is what changed when I realized there had been a death. A death of love letters. A mourning of flowers. A forgotten paid dinner. All of sudden one day I realized there was once a time when I got love letters regularly and cute notes. Letters of childhood passed turned into boyfriends official or those who longed to be pinned by me. I found more than one in my attic. And it hit me I hadn’t gotten a good love letter in years.

When I was younger I got them regularly. Typed on a typewriter, hand written, hand delivered, dropped off with a mix tape. The love letters have died. The art of them might have. If I only I would have known-I might had basked in those words longer, I might have read the words more carefully. But there will be more or so I thought. But the written word. The written word from someone’s heart to mine it doesn’t happen as it once did. Love letters are now read on screens and the more smiley faces from a guy on a text the more your friends will roll their eyes. The flirtation on the screen is still a letter but not the same as before on the binder paper lined with an arrow at the end. Turn me over.

I have been texted lovely things. I have been emailed words that made me stop and close my eyes. Words like I do adore you with or without your clothes off- although I am a mess right now- I am dedicated to us. Or the question answered in I too wonder what would have happened to us if our lives hadn’t changed. See the words still matter they do. But the delivery of a love letter just feels different and reminds me of what was. What was. What was before. Maybe what has changed is me. Maybe I have changed.

Because I miss the simplicity of what was on those papers, those lines, those words. Maybe the love, the possibility of it confined in a letter or an email is just getting harder, harder for me to do in a way I once did. Maybe I long for the simplicity of the written word being enough. Being enough for me. But stupid-me my younger self-didn’t realize that the love letters and the mix tapes and the flowers would stop. Stop.

A text asking me out is not like a phone call. A phone call of hours is how most of my love affairs have started. Conversations where you realize shit its been hours. Maybe there is no replacement for what was before. The words, the words that take effort, the words that stop this busy world and make me pause to say yes, yes I would like to do this. I should be honored, I should feel lucky for my many chances. Queen of potentials-I might be. But maybe I want to remember the love that was before. How it felt. The simplicity of someone truly adoring you enough to sit down and think about their words. Words to you and press send in the licking of the envelope.

lemons dirtied by the street find a way into my pocket

in the words of tim lincecum- fuck yeah! sorry the giants hysteria grabbed a hold of me as it did this city. i'd like to report i danced in streets, i screamed, i high fived strangers as did most of our residents the last few days. a few people aka assholes didn't behave well but the majority of us did. no one will report that but i will. but now i am back!

People like me to travel back with them. Travel back in the moment they just had. They just tried to have. Or process. It wasn’t long ago I walked upon 18^th street in between the birite- which I heart- the pizza place everyone else does- and tartine which I have been known to have love affairs with. When a man starting saying I can’t believe this- I can’t believe this- Oh my God. I am not green in the city world no but not jaded enough to look back. Look back to see what might be this guys worry was. Because I roll with no device in my ear. No I pod to google map me away no. I hear more than I should. Like then. Travel back with me he throws my way. And I stop. I stop and look at him. Then he is talking to me. He isn’t the typical crazy you usually encounter, he has a laptop carrier and is semi dressed up but reeks of alcohol. I just dumped him. I can’t believe. I can’t believe. I wanted to but still. I am standing traveling back into his world. For a moment. I wanted to but he doesn’t get it. Heartache. Heartache. I get it. I hate it. I understand it. Goodbyes fucking suck.

So when he looks at me and says- let’s hug it out, without a moments options of what I should do or should I be doing I am hugging this man on the corner of 18^th and guerrero pastry smells surround us, cars whizzing by and we hold each other for a moment. We hugged it out. And then said goodbye. My friends said to me only to you shit like that happens. True. Only to me. Because I travel, I travel in way that my eyes and ears are open. And I can’t help but listen even when I am not supposed to. This has happened for as long as I can remember. For others, it might feel strange but it has been me. And my walk on this pavement for so long.

So last night as I tried to park fit the corolla in a spot maybe too small. I asked the dude who came out of the house. If it was okay. The giants had just won. He wore all black. And said no worries lady. Ya know. Boom. Too close. I was on the phone. He spoke into it. And my best friend said only bueler, only people like that talk to you. We are laughing and now he is back. Back he is walking. Listen lady better yet how bout you come with me to the liquor store. Me now realizing he is drunk. He grabs my elbow and pinches it. No thanks. Lame-he says as he proceeds to jaywalk across guerrero in all black the cab screaming at him to move. I got to get out of here. I say to her. To my companion on the phone. That dude is drunk and actually touched me and pinched me. Fucking weirdo. He didn’t turn around because I wowed him, instead, it was because his original location of liquor store was closed. Typical.

Good thing he didn’t come back into the phone I say. I wouldn’t have to kick his drunk ass. How with a computer bag, yoga mat, and purse? No I put those down. And then my lemon dropped onto the street. Only to me. Because I travel and talk and make friends and find weirdoes to entertain me. I travel back to where they live just for a moment. And then I proceed on my way. Picking up that lemon. Dirtied by the street.

there is no regret in wearing a dirty shirt to watch baseball at a bar

hello friends- thanks for stopping by. enjoy the double whammy of the world series and halloween. if you live in san francisco it is most definitely on. . . all my thanks-always!


There should be no regret in being a sports fan. No there shouldn’t be. But a few weeks ago when this all started and I donned my bright orange shirt woman’s make in the mission I stood alone. Except a few rogue guys. There is something about the mission that had made its residents think that being monolithic included not caring about sports, but the arts, and fixies, and coffee you pay 4 dollars for, and the next foodie food cart. But the reality is you can rock the mission lifestyle with a giant’s shirt as a female. There shouldn’t be regret in that.

And now now with the change in the climate. I am not alone but in a sea of orange and black. People strangers yell at me go giants and the score without me asking. I am not alone. I stand with the others in the sea of the underdogs. The abyss of my family’s team, the history of the forced games I watched while growing up and dating now by I watch by choice. By choice I have sat at a bar by myself to watch. The history of my father sneaking in our very own hot dogs in a thermos to save money but taking us to the worshipped game. And explaining the ins and outs. I still call him to clarify when I am confused. Sometimes I might know more than my male counterpart bar neighbor- only in the mission- only with the band guys.

But there is a strange sense of community that brews in feeling connected with strangers, with neighbors, with people you might never have high 5ed or picked up or spoke to. Isn’t it strange to believe in a team that dances around dirt and grass and slides and jumps and hits and breaks enough to make us forgot ourselves for a moment and remember we in fact are connected? Connected we always have been. Community in not just the orange and black but everyday, everyday but now we wear our uniforms and say our hellos and I just don’t want it to stop. To have everyone return to looking down at their personal devices or talking loud about nothing or just pretending not to see those next to them.

My own fashion has suffered- I have two giants shirt in rotation and wear my shirt clean or not every time they play. People talk to me. And sometimes there is an edge to their words. Sometimes the go giants especially after a 4 hour game and more beers thrown down their throats slows down and tries to be a come-on. Go giants in this sloppy sultry eyes staring attentively- go giants they say. Those guys outside of the bars. The number one pick up line is go giants for now. The mixture of winning and belonging and beer makes them want to score too. A man tried to exchange numbers with me through a closed window of my car. Go giants. I have been shocked by the ability for the homeless folks to have giant’s gear and wear it on the right game days. Impressive to say the very least.

My city has changed. Maybe only momentarily. But enough for me never to regret wearing dirty shirts to watch baseball games at bars by myself. By myself I won’t be for long.

the real nanny diaries- they don't call me the help, they call me family

hello friends- all i can say other than the lovely post below is i believe in you giants!!!!

Learning how to love someone as your own and care in ways you didn’t know possible. Changing your schedule just to pick up a forgotten guitar, for there will be no lessons without that guitar and there will be no surprise and hug and run around the school yard, thank you, thank you, I love you Kate, you are the best.

Somewhere along the line I forgot this was my job. I do things because I want to not because their parents pay me. I go to their plays and talk to their teachers about their progress and their friends know my name and to their parents about how to negotiate in the task of raising kids. Raising kids together. We are learning how.

Because with one house with mom and another house with dad and me in between I am learning how still how to be just their advocate and their foundation. It is not a role that is foreign. Because there once was me in the middle of my parents not in the same way. Between houses. But between them. While they were married. While they fought over us. While I bounced from one relatives house to the next. We never got to the back and forth between houses part. No we skipped that.

Learning how to be there and welcome the attitude I might get from the almost tween. No I am not saying goodbye. Or when the 7 year old refuses to eat his food without coaxing. I know, I am learning that this is part of what happens when you move from being the help to being family. You see more and get more both the good, the bad, and the ugly. If they never said an unkind thing to me they would show me they loved me less. Because in being real, you might not be sugary sweet like the food they desire daily.

I know that when I pick them up after a long day of high school of highs and lows of being a teenager, of heartbreaks, and how to get into college, or how to be a NCAA athlete. Do you want this apple Ms. Bueler- one students offers. I don’t take their food- I give them food- because they usually are hungry. Hungary for so much more than I can give. Than I can give with these almonds or strawberries or z bars. I know that when I see these two faces. I warm up with happiness and the day whatever happened drifts away. Away for a bit. I am there with them. There right now. Right then. Just skipping down the street or chasing the next snack or adventure or game to watch. Or how many of their meal worms have made it at school.

I know, I am learning that they know they are loved. Loved in a way that all children should feel. So when Y states don’t worry Kate will protect us. She is strong. And she would never let anyone hurts us. I am learning, still learning, to love someone as my own. And learning her safety she feels with me might be the greatest gift of all.

the freedom in being a woman, so i thought. another judy blume moment, are you there god- it's me, kate

Freedom. The freedom I thought I would have in getting a period. I would be free from feeling different, free from the feeling that I was the last one standing in childhood among the budding femininity, free from the lack of breasts, free from the feeling I would be a child forever.

I was one of the last girls, last girls to start her period in my population of girlhood in junior high, Rohnert Park, CA. At least out of the ones who told the truth. I would listen to all the talks, the first one from my mother, then later in 5th grade, then in 7th. All the same. About cycles and what to use and expect. I remember looking in my mother’s face- thinking this is all very gross. But by the time I reached the age of 13 and almost all my friends had started. I wanted the drop of femininity. In 7th grade, I was shocked again but not because of the period talk but during the discussion of baby blockers, prophylactics, condoms, contraception- a girl in my class said it’s too late for me I have condoms under my bed. My mom found them. Me without a period. Me without a proper make out. Pretended not to looked shocked in these children becoming adults in ways I knew I wasn’t ready for.

But I wanted that period. Badly. But be careful what you wish for. On the day of school, 8th grade sometime after Christmas but not before my birthday not yet 14, I sat in the portable classroom while my teacher tried to teach us American Democracy. When I felt a wetness that just didn’t seem right. I didn’t know if it was my period. But I knew I needed to get to a bathroom and fast. There was the asking of the bathroom. Remember when we had to ask permission to pee- I don’t miss those days. And the long walk to the closest bathroom. Far away from this black top scattered with portable buildings of public schooling in California. I walked.

And once I found the proof I was a woman, I was woman, I was full of exacerbation because I didn’t have any womanly protection on me and I would have to do the dreaded, dreaded mammoth pad from the school office. First, there was the death of having to tell a grownup I didn’t know that I had my period. Part of my junior high life was on the line, I had to be strategic in who I asked and how. I wouldn’t want someone to hear. And then the box of mammoth grandma pillow pad was in my hands and before anyone could see it was shoved in a pocket-rather gracious fully-rather clumsily. It was hidden.

Starting your period at school the first time was not the freedom I had hoped for. The good news was my dad had remarried and I didn’t have to tell him. I couldn’t face my father and ask him to buy me pads. Freedom to be a woman already felt more limiting than I thought it would. So I tried to walk graciousfully while sitting on a huge pillow through the halls. I was a woman. I would get boobs. I would no longer be the last. I thought. Freedom to be a woman- little did I know that this freedom I had longed for would cause me more problems than I would like ruined pants, made playing sports not very fun, an ER visit, cramps so bad I would throw up, regularly. And the boobs I desired took multiple years to appear. The idea of freedom always seems to play out better than you think.

alcoholic bones- by accident napping on a a black and white checkered kitchen floor

What she heard. Are you okay? She opened her eyes. And realized the ceiling was above her. A face was next to her talking to her. Are you okay? He says again. Around her black and white checkers evidence that she is on the floor of her kitchen. What am I doing on the kitchen floor? You passed out. Twice. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It had been awhile since she was awoken and jarred awake and found herself on a floor. Napping but not knowing how. How she had laid down for a shut eye. The last time it was a bathroom one. A public one. Gross she knew. But she was sober. And that was 5 plus years ago.

So as he is piecing it together for her. The lean on the corner of the cabinet and then the sliding down. Down to the ground. Gracefully passing out. She did. So she starts to rolodex through the reasons as to why she is sleeping on her kitchen floor and when she should get up. Probably soon. This isn’t the first time. Should she go to the doctor?

She felt lightheaded she remembered that. Something about closing her eyes and making out for the first time in months while intoxicated on a tolerance that would make her ancestors and relatives wince- not good enough for her irish alcoholic bones like hers. There was a half glass of wine served in plastic and beers not sure how many because the guy she just met and his friends bought them from her- the never empty glass of beer gets her every time. She has blacked out once before because she was drunk when she was still in the beginning of her tenure of drinking. She has passed out twice after making out with someone once sober, once intoxicated (this very time). She has passed out once because of stress. Should she get off this black and white floor? Should she die of embarrassment? Should she see a MD? Should she get herself to a meeting? Or just her bed?

She knows, knows something is going on but she isn’t sure what. The heart beats too hard too fast sometimes with or without the help of alcohol. The tingling reaching up higher to her head, felt upon her ever moving hands. Now lay still. As she got up taking his hand, she wasn’t sure what was going on inside of her. But she knew it was better to pass out on her kitchen floor than in a public bathroom in a bar while sober. What she heard. She heard. She heard she should wake up. Wake up and stand on this black and white floor. Stand on the black and white square smudged kitchen floor.

born again, by accident

Calculating. It wasn’t a calculating choice. Like I need this to happen. I need to be born again. I am born again by accident. No rain has poured on my soil in months. This might seem misleading because I have dated, dated more men this summer than last. But somehow along the way I forgot how to seal the deal. There was a calculating choice of slowing things down. Getting to know someone before I show them my world of my vagina. But I didn’t intend for it to go down like this. But you see this isn’t the first time.

The isn't the first time I have fallen upon such a drought. California baby I must be. Because it either a monsoon of sorts or just a drought. But somehow this born again by accident status is different than the others because I am still getting some moisture, some perception, some 90% chances but somehow it does come down in a full rain. The last time I had the opportunity to play we had a bout of passing out and asthma attack- not in the cards I’d say- no rain just a drizzle.

Sexuality and how we decide to play in the game of it is and always will be personal with a dash of political. See I am bad at the casual with sex. Almost my all my too quick encounters had landed me boyfriends, which have landed me heartbreak because I am in too deep with someone I probably shouldn’t be. Someone I should probably get to know beyond the perfection and acceleration of beginnings. So what is a woman in her 30’s who have needs beyond her own mind but biological left to do?

I don’t know but I do know when I hit this mark. It becomes to a point where I feel like a teenager boy. I start to undress bartender and baristas with my eyes. Men who sit next to me in somewhere on the stop in life-in lines, in cafes-I start to smell them and they smell good. My sexual energy steps up a notch so much I know I can’t be born again for long. I try to embody the lady gaga that this is a choice I don’t want to lose my creativity through my vagina. But a lot of creativity has come from my affairs and escapades with my vagina.

Born again I might be for now. But it won’t be long. It never is. And then you remember how to do it. Like last year around this time when sun had shone but no rain had fallen and you do what any normal woman would do and found a Halloween costume just revealing enough. Just enough skin. Just enough super hero. All you have to do is take off your clothes in a tasteful way. It is easier to do it on the Halloween. And I don’t break all my patterns and I just can’t. So as I walk out of the door American Apparel on the fateful haight street, last year leaving with wonder woman gear, this year with a scantly clad cat woman outfit. It isn’t calculating, it is just the reality of someone who is born again by accident.

sin of liberalism #5,980- i stole a homeless man's shopping cart

hello friends,


thanks for stopping by. i have been trying to balance the writing, the posting, the grad schooling, and the listening and sometimes helping of high schoolers. its a balancing act and juggling of life that i am working at it. i get you two posts a week, i promise. this was written from the prompt- being mean. enjoy-have a great weekend! all my thanks always!


Being mean. I wasn’t being mean today; today but I did steal a homeless person’s shopping cart. Now before you turn your head slightly to the right and get that parental look in your eyes- what type of liberal are you?- what type of person are you? You say with the look that only a good teacher or caregiver can give. Yes I did steal a homeless man’s shopping cart but I didn’t know it was his. No there was no said man in sight. No attachment to this transportation of his things. I didn’t take all his belongings out or anything dramatic like that. That would have been being mean. No, I took a homeless man’s cart-his home-by accident. It was an accident.

I went to TJs to buy a few things that somehow multiplied into needing a cart. You go in for one thing or a few things and they procreate into to a whole lot of shit. So there I am falling over holding onto the basket while the things on top balance back and forth. And I still needed more. TP and cat litter for roommate and paper towels. I needed a cart. Earlier I had by accident thrown a lemon out of my hand. It flew down and a worker caught me. Watch out he laughs. Thank god I am not on the Giants I respond. I work out the timing of grabbing my cart and keeping my spot in line just right as a man with a mets hat and ear plugs of music sits behind me. Brave man I think to wear that hat here, today.
Outside I go choose my cart. And as I walked in. One of the baggers- shot me a glance and a smirk that isn’t our cart. Oh shit. Really. No. And it’s got a tool in it. I look down. The cart isn’t red team of Traders Joes it is painted black and Safeway is imprinted where my hand rests. Leave it to me to choose the one cart out of the village that is not there's. And there is a tool some type of wrench or screw or something. The only tools I know are the hammer and the screwdriver. Tools are foreign. To me. We all are laughing the bagger, the checker, and me. The checker says in a solemn tone it actually is a homeless man’s. Great, I stole a homeless man’s shopping cart. Well he is a mean homeless man if that makes you feel better. We laugh at the randomness of choosing the cart and I hand a cough drop to each while one needs one the other just gets one. It is the least I can do-I stole a homeless man’s shopping cart.

I wasn’t being mean. In the randomness that is life sometimes we make mistakes. I just hoped the man didn’t spot me on my way up the elevator. I even ask the bagger for backup if I need it. To unload my belongings from what he calls his home. His home. That I stole. By accident. Mean or not- this man- no one should steal your home. He needs a lock. A lock so other unsuspecting shoppers don’t borrow it. I drive away and wonder if he will be back for it. Or will it be replaced. Replaced like so many things that are supposed to last forever.

you aren't anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you

Out of order. We live in an out of order world. A world that moves backwards while roller skating forward. Moving out of order through the ending into the beginning of things. And then we wonder why it all doesn’t work out, as it shall. Out of order. There are many a symptoms to show we live in an out of order world. One is missed connections. The concept might have had its place, maybe. Craigslist where you can buy a bed, find an apartment, a date, a lay, and a job. Crazy. She -my friend and me began to read the missed connections as a hobby. As a pastime. And laugh. And secretly hope we would be on it one day. Why? I am not sure. Maybe it is the part to be seen from a far. For someone to long for you. And care so much not to say hello- hello to your face but play some fate roulette spinning around until.


I had a joke that you aren’t anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you. About you. But that was after someone had written one about me. You can’t really say that unless you have. So the time it happened to me.


I was in a café. I spoke to a man. And I realized while I was speaking about sharing the plug-I glanced backwards to realize he was actually attractive and been sitting there all along. Out of order. We had a momentary conversation that stretched longer than it should. It sat in the room bubbling above us as he walked away. As he walked away he glanced back. And in his hat and his semi smile I knew that he would write a missed connection about me. I just knew. Knew until. I forgot.

The next day as I sat in that same café. I remembered. And on the internet I jumped. Onto the craigs. And searched the café’s name. Que tal. Ready for nothing. And there it was. Brunette woman speaking of acupuncture blah blah blah. It was me. I felt naked. I looked around the room to see if he was there again. I didn’t know what to do. I felt flattered and strangely watched in unison. The out of order of attraction. The out of order of hello. What is your name-what is your number- left to the silenced words on the screen.


So I replied. Very short. Just to make sure it was me. I asked what we had talked about. And I watched the cursor flick on and off. Until I press send. Let fate run its course backwards, with your eyes closed, in a bad romantic comedy where gestures are not grand. I press send. And checked and checked but nothing.


Out of order. The out of order connection. It is out of order way to get to know someone. Someone. I guess if you aren’t willing to put on your big boy pants and say something more before you go on your way in this thing called life, but take the time to write it all down and put it on the internet that might just be your gig. Your game. Your mo. You might just idealize and love from afar.


I recant you aren’t anyone until someone missed connects you, you are someone when you know its better for someone just to sit a little longer-longer than out of order connecting through a device. The out of order of courting. I want to flip around and go the right away on the track. Still my way. But not backwards. Not with my eyes closed. Not texting my way into romance. Just starting with the hello. Out loud. To each others faces.

the mini vacations of the mind might be the only way to make it in high school, again

Going away is now left to mini vacations of separation and buffer. Buffer from what is. What just happened and what will be next. I am beginning to learn how to go away in my mind and in my body without departing in a vehicle or airplane or a magic carpet of childhood dreams lost. I am in the midst of a new life of meetings and intensity and crying and listening and helping and listening and asking and it would seem I would have 5 minutes to process before my next thing.

Before, before when I tried to be the helper in the schools last time as a teacher I just rushed through. Hard and fast. And thought vacations were only left to proper vacations. But this time. Time had passed. Things have changed. And the air mask must be first be put on to help the others breathe. So much so I have to go away after the intensity of a mother crying real tears over the injustice of what is. A teacher tears up. And I see the intensity opening and expanding in this classroom. Classroom. And then it is over and we say our goodbyes and I have 7 and ½ minutes to get to my next thing-no processing time.

So I go away. I breathe deeply as I walk slowly to down the hall at lunch time. Kids bubbly with energy for it is lunchtime-bumping and running and sporadically moving down the hall to freedom. For them. I walk slowly to the bathroom. And I sit there. And hunch over and go away. I need to go away for what just happened to be present for what will be next. I need to go away so it will not be mine. My own beach and cocktail and repetition of waves I found within myself. Within this public school bathroom. Luckily an adult one.

Going away. The boundary and buffer and space to be able to be be connected but then move on to the next thing. And be okay. So for that I am working. Working to do my job now mostly of observing but while observing you see so much, sometimes too much and then. Then you most either run to the next thing. Or slowly walk. Walk and breathe. And have a vacation of the mind.

I thought these things lived outside of myself. Myself. But they live inside of me. Me. So when I have the extra time. The day before I had to pick up the borrowed kids. I sit. I sit in the sun. At one of my favorite cafes. And just go away. No computer. No book. Just a coffee and sun. And I might befriend a table of former band dudes next to my table. For a few moments. Going away. I love getting away. But sometimes the only vacation in my grasps is the one inside of me. Inside of me that allows me to go away. Go away while standing in the same spot.

the arrival of a brief love affair with my new eye doctor. . . during our appointment

An arrival of a new but brief love affair occurring between the hours of 2:45 and 4 pm on Saturday afternoon. Warm but not too warm. I wore my jeanskirt and v neck American apparel tee. I walked to get exercise. This love affair was short lived. It was over before my departure out the door into the real world. With eyes wide open. Dilated they were. No sunglasses to block out the sun.

The love affair was brief with my new eye doctor. I was pleasantly surprised when he would be the one to look into my eyes and say one or two. One or two- clicking the lenses between good and better. I am going to push you. Can you read this line? Our faces next to one another looking into one another eyes but separated by his contraption to get the look underneath the green coral shell eyes to the surface. Of things. I did the standard look subtle for a ring. Nope. I was okay. I was laughing. He was laughing. This was the best first date I had in awhile.

He talked me into things like dilating my eyes. And was so sweet when he broke the news- my eyes were finally different and there was a beginning of the astigmatism in one. He gave me tissues as I teared up. Back and froth. There was banter of more than a doctor or patient. An arrival of possibility. Growing inside of my chest and my stomach. My eyes opened and closed and glistened. As he looked into my eyes or didn’t. Oh you are a April baby too. Making small talk beyond the typical or so I thought. I kind of have a soft spot for smart man who is bilingual and donates his services. It’s kind of like a gold digger finding out she is panning in an unlimited place on the river.

Dr. Gonzalez * wants to see me again and soon. I repeat the words to receptionist. He leans out perfectly framed by the door and says. Call me Jose*. I smile. I wave. I skip. Yes it has to be soon. He says the man of fixer of eyes. Before Saturday. Saturday I am getting married.

The arrival of the possibility died in the time span of doctor’s appointment. It might be a world record of potential and ending so quick. Of course. Typical. So very typical. How else could a smart, attractive man, who does charity work not be taken? I am an idiot. Arrival of disappointment. Because all I have in my grasps are potentials. Even if it is a school girl crush where the police might sing don’t stand too close. I try not to skip a beat. Congrats. And just to add to it. He is marrying a woman with my name. My name. Come on. I don’t know what to say except. One day if I do it- I am going to get a taco truck at mine. Funny thing- we are doing that and it was my idea. Keep going the arrival of my idiocy now frosted on my own cake. I let him talk me into things like different eye solution and contacts and the dilation of my eyes.

I walked out. With a smile on my face. Face full smeared laughter of disappointment and potential. The light hit my eyes and I couldn’t see. It is what happens normally when I crush on them. I can’t see. See more than I want to. More than the potential of them. More than I should. I couldn’t see.


* name has been changed to protect the identity of this eye doctor as well as my own embarrassment.

an afterschool special of adulthood- i learned it from watching you

it might be my beginning to work at a high school that made me remember those after school specials they used have when i was growing up. they were bad even then. enjoy the weekend and thanks for stopping by! all my thanks always!

Telling the truth. I am attempting to tell the truth to myself. I am attempting to see the truth and recognize it for what it is. See I see things. I see them all. But then I ignore. Or pretend. Or remember the warmth of another and forget. So the other night, the other night I had met this man and we were off to go to the next thing. After this event to a bar. It seemed like I should go. That I should follow on the path of undetermined of where this night would lead until. Until as I walked them to their car (him and his friends) I was getting the directions. Just google it. I don’t have an I phone. I like to actually talk to people wit thrown their way. But makes it hard to find directions. Laughter. I will just follow you. No we got a stop.

Stop. See telling the truth I knew the stop was not a gas station, or someone had to pick something up at their house, or something normal. They were getting drugs. Drugs and they would of course be the variety that would lead to such secrets. Pot smokers-not so secret- they wear their pride upon their eyes, their shirts, their subtleness of discussion- the intentions in their voice- they share. But the cocaine folks no they are all about secrets. Secrecy of having it and who they will share with it, trips to the bathroom and they don’t wear the shirt of user. But in their behavior they always do. See telling the truth I saw it. And as I walked back to my car more slowly than needed. Each step I heard it. And I knew. This isn’t a world I want part of. I tired once to play the game of outsider in the the blowing of the lines. And failed miserably. I can’t fall in love again with someone who uses and lies. And lies and uses. Even if it was for the night. Even if it was for this moment.

I called my friend and retold her the details but she said just go and see what happens. Telling the truth I knew what would. Telling the truth I knew. I knew that these aren’t the type of folks that I would like to call my own. So we went from bar to bar and I stayed with my drug of choice alcohol and I tried to stay present but remain detective and still get to know this guy. Telling the truth- I am good at it when it isn’t mine. But there is no secrets here. So the moment I knew the truth was when I heard the words of stop.

I saw the slip to the back pocket and I love you and then the run to the bathroom. I envisioned the movement never slowing down- next stop keep moving- I couldn’t even finish my beer. When the night went on the secrets became less- if you have xanax ill trade you some cocaine. Out loud. No secrets. Telling the truth. They tell the truth when they need to.

As I walked in to the last place, the last place on my list of destinations, the man from behind the bar who had befriended me and had shook my hand boomed-who the fuck is she? Staring at my 5’2 and ½ stature in my vintage dress. I didn’t get the aggression until I looked down and saw his own father reaching down to blow a line. Telling the truth. Is we know the truth-we don’t need to dive in the depths of others realities to see it. As the father and son blew lines during quality time. I am nobody. Nobody to you. But nobody really is. I left to buy beers and never came back. Telling the truth is I like to hang out with drunks anyways. There are no secrets with them. Telling the truth is I knew. I knew. I knew.