self portrait- you find a lot when you clean out the boxes

here is what my teacher posted this week on creative caffeine and don't forget to check out the other posts on the site. . .
http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/2010/05/self-portrait-kate-bueler.html

another 10 minute quick write about me and what i found in the garage when i had to clean it out.

enjoy the long weekend and of course my thanks for reading!

lies we tell about sex

We all lie about sex. We do. Usually women lie about if they have in fact slept with someone. Sure we just made out. Men usually exaggerate. Yes we slept together. The hive fives of high school and college still find it’s way into the years of manhood. See I have paid the price more than once for someone lying about sleeping with me. Once faced with did you sleep with him- I will tell the truth- but I might not offer it all up on a platter without an ask. Because even I have secrets. Because even I sometimes edit. Rarely. Rarely but I do.

So twice I have been caught in the he said she said bullshit. Once in college. Which is just indicative of that time. People hook up. People drink too much. People lie about it. So it shouldn’t have been a shock to my eighteen-year-old self when there were rumors I was sleeping with a guy on the baseball team. But it was because I was a rookie. It was particularly surprising since I hadn’t had sex yet. Yet. A technical difficulty of sorts. And I didn’t want to admit to the said guy or the baseball team or anyone for that matter. Because my college was like high school once a rumor got back to you it had spun around all social circles and when it hit you it was already a cold lead. I was shocked. I was sad. I was a dramatic 18 year old who thought her world was falling on her head- chicken little as an adult. But eventually I got over it. So guys on baseball teams sometimes lie. But I knew the truth. The truth was I was still a virgin. So I sucked it up and kept my secret to myself.

I would lie that I had sex. Sex. In college I lied. By omission, by not saying anything because I didn’t want to feel different or odd or like a weirdo. I wasn’t like everyone and I knew it. So in the library while studying someone asked what my favorite position was. I lied. I said on top. Because I had never actually done the deed. We lie about sex. We all do.

Later, later when it happened again- the guy lying about sexcapades- I was in my late 20’s it shocked me. Again. But this time for a different reason. I would hope in 10 years the same thing would in fact feel somewhat dissimilar. This time I had been causally dating someone, someone who who was in an extended group of friends. Now this said man told everyone we slept together and then I hooked up with someone else. This was a lie you see. This was a man rewriting history. Rewriting history he should have kept to himself. Because of the truth. Because yes I did make out with someone outside a bar on st. patrick’s that wasn’t him but it wasn’t before, after, or during a romp with him. Because you see. We lie about sex. He lied about sex. And I let him. He did in fact try, try he did to have sex with me. But it was a failed attempt. I wondered what was going on down there. In fact nothing. Nothing at all except the movement of the condom rolling off onto my bed. And although how much I wanted to say aloud look beyond my possible drunken transgression, transgression and look at this liar, a liar, who didn’t sleep with me but tried. I said nothing again. Because we all lie about sex. We lie.

I thought it made me a bigger person not to tell the truth. That he had in fact lost his erection and the attempt was failed to say the least. But I said nothing. Because we lie about the truth of sex, we lie about sex itself. I took one for the team. I looked like the slut and the bitch and the whore and the one tearing up this group of friends. I was yelled at. I was called names to my face and behind my back. People stopped talking to me. Grow up, I thought. Because we are still lying about sex like we did in high school and college. But the truth was I did make a mistake. I did in fact make out with a friend of his not so close. But I didn’t sleep with him. I didn’t. But I let him lie. He also lied about dating someone else at the time. Edited out that one too- fiction writing expert. Lies I let him tell. Lies I told. Lie until now of course. Because lies, lies we tell about sex, we don’t have to. So this time I decided not to be silent but tell the truth. Its a few years late. I know. Late but it’s never too late to tell the truth. About sex. About anything. Anything at all.

perfectionist's show and tell of imperfections

Imperfection. Imperfection. I am in fact imperfect. Of course I am. I used to pretend to be perfect. But now I stopped. Stopped pretending. My imperfections are odd to me. I can barely clean my room without a babysitter but I can manage and balance the lives of multiple kids and sometimes their parent’s without blinking, not much. I do things that are embarrassing and things I should have outgrown for instance. For instance, every time I shave my legs- usually with a new razor- I cut myself. Not a little nick-we are talking a serious gash of a novice almost always on the same ankle. Oh shit. Again. My roommates call it back to me. Oh shit. There is a scar there but I never never do shave perfectly. There is always one gash, gash that needs tp for me to wrap around it. Wrap around it. Then I always miss a spot. A spot somewhere along my ankle or knee-a mini forest resides. I sometimes get out of the shower and have to do a second draft of shaving. I have been shaving since I was 12. I have years and years of practice. I am imperfect. Imperfection.

That’s not all. I still get period stains. Yes, period stains although I am not a teenager anymore. You would think I would know how to deal and understand my flow. But no, not me. I am teenager trapped in 30 something body. I am. Once when traveling, I walked up a hill. My friend saw my butt and assumed it was a leaf. No I promptly returned and she realized it was a huge period stain. She thought it was a leaf. I was 23, I was in Spain, no one knew me. But I knew. Or one time in DC. I was standing in my non-profit office in a above the knee skirt tight around the waist flowing out. Down my leg came a drip of blood trickling down. I felt coldness from my thigh to my knee down to down my mid calf. Two co-workers- women- were there. Thank God they were women. I was 28 and had to toss my underwear in the garbage and go commando for the rest of the day. Whenever I have my period and I stay with a guy we share a bed, I pray and double up everything in the hopes I don’t stain his sheets or mine. Imperfect. I am imperfect.

I am messy but can find anything in my own chaos of organization. I don’t write things down. I just remember my schedule and the kids and the classes and the deadlines and the appointments all in my head. No planner, no i-phone, just in my mind. I’ve only missed an appointment twice in years. I can’t figure out shaving or my period but I can tell you how to talk family about DNR or ICU rules or how to pay rent once the house you live in is foreclosed or how to move across the country via only the post office. Or getting kids back and forth to activities the city with minutes to spare, still finding a spot in time, still having snack in time. I am imperfect. I can’t do the simplest things and laugh at myself. Shaving and periods have been mine forever why so hard for me to figure out? But there is something about this imperfection, this messy spilling holding it all together running into things embarrassment that must make me loveable. Loveable. Unique. Imperfect. Imperfection. Easier to love someone else’s. But your own, own imperfection. Imperfections. So. Much. Harder. To. Love.

the price of pretty- one of the lessons learned in the OC

another ten minute quick write about my adventures while in the oc. . .

What I found there, there when I got on the plane, on the plane and arrived just an hour away, an hour away but a world away. Literally and figuratively. What I found there into the abyss of orange county-orange county the land of the privileged, the plastic, the hunter of perfection, the hunter for the next best thing. Uniqueness defined as the same. I found what I found there surprised me. It wasn’t an eating disorder or a plastic surgeon or a sugar daddy to care of me and my growing student loan debt. No what I found, what I found was although I don’t care to be like them because I do in fact like eating and reading books and the like the realness and suppleness of my breasts-slightly uneven-my butt-with a freckle on one cheek and part runner part woman-and my thighs-both a recipe of sports and heredity-and my hips- my womanly hips.

There might be genius, genius in the the stupidity that surrounds, surrounds me at the bars and the restaurants (all chains of course- no local make here), the lines of cars, cars all going the same way, in traffic again. Lines in the bathroom. Lines. Lines. Lines. Everywhere. Is that there might be genius in being good at just one thing, one thing only. Like being pretty, or being smart, or being funny. Maybe it’s too hard and too tiring to do it all. Maybe it is just too hard work to be pretty and smart and funny. Modern bride pretty girl so much easier than modern brilliant beautiful funny woman.

What I found there is much easier to be good at one thing. One thing by focusing on one thing on only your looks, only your looks you can be good at that and you don’t need the wit, the brilliance, because smiling and looking pretty will do. Just that easy. Easy, what I found is it is much harder, harder to do it all. To look pretty, say funny and smart and brilliant things. Things. What I found there surprised me because I got it. I got it. It is easy to buy it. Buy it. It is much harder to do it all. But do it all. I must do. Must do.

The overpriced label whore of clones, no they can’t put me in little boxes on that hill. I got it but I wouldn’t let the peroxide and the plastic get to my brain. My brain that would hurt me too much. Too much. Just like it hurt my neighbor at the bar to pay for her check or use, use her brain beyond her defined beauty. Defined beauty. Beauty defined meant something different to me. No one can buy beauty. Not the one I was looking for. What I found there wasn’t much at all.

lost and found of dating

another 10 minute quick that has been posted on creative caffeine's website, my teacher janis cooke newman's writing website.

http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/2010/05/what-happens-after-kate-bueler.html

p.s. i got back the earrings that i wrote about in this piece- i always do of course.

have a great weekend- fingers crossed for one good beach day soon. happy birthday to two of my most fabulous partners in crime- kara and lauren! amazingly beautiful strong smart women- they do in fact do it all! as always my thanks pouring onto you for you reading!

stay tuned for:

the simplest way to say i love you
inherited alcoholic bones
price of pretty- lessons learned in the OC
i just want my porn (this one is not about me, more like an overheard observation)
and some other embarrassing and heart wrenching stuff i'm sure. . .

questions i forgot to ask

I found this photo, photo of my grandparents at my parent’s house in a closet in the guest room. It’s not an original, but that doesn’t matter. For some reason, I love this photo; it found a permanent home in my ribbon board, in my room. I look at both my grandparents, Catherine and Mark, and enjoy a glimpse into their younger years, younger selves, before I ever met them. In this photo, they look like they are getting ready for a formal event- my grandfather with a boutonniere. He still has hair. And is so slim. It is sunny that day and he looks as if he is about to look in the camera or is about to say something to the person taking the photo. I knew him as a photographer. I could see him directing the photographer here. Or maybe he is whispering something to my grandmother, something about the way she looks, or did she remember to call his mother, or something, something shared between a couple, a couple I knew but would never know about those silent whispers between lovers, friends. In this picture they didn’t even know that they would be each other’s until they parted, parted from this earth.

My grandmother, dressed so stylish for the time. Her dress, her shoes, her necklace- all perfectly put together. She always had this ability to accessorize and do her hair. Her hair with curlers. She is thinner too. She looks towards my grandfather; I see the glimpse of a smile about to break. Her eyes, her glowing blue eyes are closed, but I can see them still. See them still. In her face, in my brothers, in my fathers, and sometimes mine. She looks like she might have just told a joke, she was spunky and a spitfire. Spitfire. They stand before a garage, a garage for a house, a house when the people in the home only had one car, one car. The mailbox drop is in the garage similar to their home I knew as a child.

I wonder where they are going; I wonder where they have been. I do know where they ended up. I guess when I look at this photo I remember that these are my roots and remember the potential of love. Love that works, love that lasts. I don’t desire a replication of their love, their relationship- my grandfather’s inability to talk about his feelings would drive me batty, but the core of it, the relationship and the potential of a beginning, a beginning of a life, lives that led to mine. To mine. And when I look around the room, the rooms, at my uncle’s or aunt’s, all those faces are there because of them. I wish I could ask about their struggles now. I wish I could know if they almost gave up, on themselves, on each other. Because from outside, I can only do what I can which is idealize. Idealize but I want to know more. I want to know more.

living up to the title of kissing slut

another 10 minute quick write about you guessed it-kissing- enjoy!

Kissing. I was once a kissing slut. Yes I was. It probably had to do a lot with the fact I didn’t have sex, at least not much beyond the dry humping or sometimes the oral. But I felt safe with the kissing, kissing randoms, kissing boyfriends, kissing friends, kissing guys at bars -in front of bars-in bars -sometimes in bathrooms- in pizza lines without talking first.

Kissing oh how I love kissing. If you can’t kiss, you most definitely can’t do much more well. Be it dancing, talking, loving, holding, cooking, holding a job, whatever. A bad kisser who shoves his tongue down my throat looking for my stomach, or a darter in and out, I hate to touch snakes in or out of my mouth personally. Or the closed mouth, tight lipped kiss of family from the holidays. Passion absent from the equal sign. Oh kissing. If you do it right, it feels like I might faint a little, spinning, a lot, the kissing of each lip, both and once in a while a good suck. The rhythm of quick and slow and quick and slow again. That replicates what might come. I understand how the kissing mirrors other things, know I do. Because I did cross the line to the sex. I had to.

Now kissing, I am a kissing slut. Once my friend told me my ratio to kiss to sex was low. I mean I had only slept with a few guys and kissed well I had forgotten the number. Where she has only slept with a few guys but also only kissed a few as well. She looked at me in all honesty and said. See if you kiss you, you might just give a kiss but with me you most definitely will get laid. We all laughed around the circle of the coffeeshop brought together by the table and childhood melding us together.

Kissing. Once I had a Cuban teach me how to suck lips. I thought I couldn’t since I had smallish pinkish lips of the Caucasian make but no he taught me the way. Latino men do have some things figured out. But I hadn’t had lessons in years. Years when I was first kissed in my parent’s house while I was watching my brother. I tried following the man’s lead of a real French kiss. I don’t know if I followed well enough. Me about to turn 16 him 19. I didn’t know what I was doing but it felt good. So something was right. Until my younger brother walked in.

Kissing. It used to be my favorite pastime-the making out. I could do it for hours and truth be told probably still could do it. But something about crossing into the arena of sex speeds up the making out and sometimes erases it in ways I am not comfortable. I like kissing. Just making out. For the preview. For the fun. And the good part is it is okay if it anonymous, it is okay if I don’t get his number, it is okay because I won’t worry about being a slut. A kissing slut maybe but a real one not so much.

the saving of a life- baywatch made it look so easy

this week of writing is dedicated to a nine year old who cut all her hair off to donate to locks for love. i wanted to join her but alas my hair wouldn't grow fast enough for her hair to be ready for her school camping trip. so here is bravery, to do it alone, to do it all, to say you will do it and do it. chopping off that hair for someone else. brave. yes. simple. yes. important. yes.

another ten minute quick write- it was written while i was waiting in a smog check office. thanks for reading- all my appreciation. . .

Drowning. I never have seen anyone drown. But I have seen children begin to drown-the flapping, the floundering and as you scan back and forth across the water. Back and forth. You see it and wonder if it is a splash or kick but once you look again you realize, you realize this kid is in trouble. Trouble. So the blowing of the whistle, the double whistle. Jumping into the water. And then the picking up, picking up the child because they are only in 3 feet of water. In a pool. Pool. With a bottom. You can stand on. I lift the child, almost every time in the 3 feet of water. But they were drowning-for them. They were. But it seems easy just to pick someone up. Someone up. I used to fear deep water saves. But never did I have to do one. Not once. I think the deepest I did jump in for someone who was drowning was 5 ft. It was my first save and the first question was can I come back to the pool. Not thank you, not can I get information for lesson, but the family asked can we come back to the pool. Or the time I jumped in, the mother had turned her back to her daughter. My child wasn't drowning. Okay she wasn’t but she was on her tippy toes and water was covering both her mouth and nose. You are right- she wasn’t drowning. The job of lifeguard at a public pool. It was my first job, job other than the occasional babysitting. It is a job that stayed with me. I still scan even now in every body of water I am near. Back and forth.

Drowning I didn’t think much of it myself but sometimes in the ocean or the lake or river when swimming my own personal creation of a stroke, I think about it. What if I drown? But I know what to do. Don’t go out to far. Or you could also float on your back for air. Once at camping, I was scared to jump in between two rocks- everyone around me thought I couldn’t swim. But really I just feared drowning. Drowning. But I was a competitive swimmer at one time. At one time. And a lifeguard. And I have saved people scratch that children. I still fear it the drowning. The drowning could be just the loss of control, which I fear more than anything.

So not too long ago I dreamt of drowning. But this time, I was called by my parents’ eyes to save my brother. Save my brother, who in the dream was a toddler. A toddler. No one was moving but I was. I was. So I dove deep to get him. I grabbed his hand but it slipped out. I didn’t know what to do. My brother was drowning. Drowning and there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do at all.

Drowning. It is part of my family. It is part of me. It is how we lost my grandmother long ago. It might be why I fear it now. The drowning kept me from knowing her as my own. My own memory. Because accidents do happen. People do drown. My grandmother who feared water drowned. But I love water. Why would I drown? Why do I fear it? Maybe because maybe because I fear the letting go and nothing bad happening. To me.

dear, hallmark, your mother’s day cards suck. love, me

another 10 minute quick write. . .

Mothers. Mother’s Day hasn’t been a big holiday for me in recent years ever since my grandmother passed away. I have come to the conclusion that I should write a letter to hallmark to let me know my thoughts on the limits of their mother day’s cards.

It would go something like this:

dear hallmark, I think you need to revisit the creative department and add a specialist or a focus group to help out in the creation of your mother’s day cards. For instance, I need a more appropriate card for both my mother and stepmother. The you changed my life. The I am so thankful for you. Thanks for being there. Just doesn’t work for me. Me. I am sure I am not alone. How about something like Mom, thanks for being there. Okay cross out the there and just put being. Being. More appropriate for someone who hasn’t been much of a mother in years -since I was a child-but hard to count. Years. Or for my stepmother- instead of thanks for the inspiration, or making me who I am. More like thanks. Thanks for dealing with our family and taking care of dad. We live in a new world, Hallmark. The typical family no longer exists. So your cards need to reflect this. Reflect the evolution of the family, of motherhood, of parenting. I am more than willing to provide my services to assist in this update to your mother’s day cards. Please don’t make me walk down the aisle another year and feel depressed and opt for the blank card yet again. Again.

So that would be my letter. Because mother's day just reminds me I am different. That everyone has a mother who supposedly changed them for the better. That’s what the cards say, the cards say. But the voices, the looks, the stories, say something different of course. No one writes the truth in those cards. But the truth we do tell each other, sometimes. Sometimes we do. Cards don’t always tell us what we need to say. Say to those who should mean so much and do and mean so little.

So this mother’ day, I did what I could and sent my blank card to my stepmother with the vibrant red flower on it. For my mother, I did nothing. Because although she was found. Because what could I say. Say. Say that would be the truth and not like the hallmark card. Thanks for being. Would be a start. I want you to be happy. Better. I wish I could know you. Know you and not be scared of how you might destroy me. Destroy me again. Say. Saying. Saying the truth doesn’t fit in cards.

my cultural exchange of the korean massage- an anatomy lesson of a different kind

Now I have done the New York massage in tent of a room full of strangers. Acupressure melded into an Asian dialect-I am not sure exactly which one. It’s singing and loud in a rhythmic beat. It is cheap and I can walk more straight once I leave out the side street up the stairs onto the well-beaten path.

Now I have done Calistoga. The massage of politeness and English and crisp whiteness still near the mud. In your own private room of politeness. The mud. And the naked ladies. And then the spa last time I went to that it seemed you had to obese to work there. Which made me and my friend feel like they must be saying I hate them, those skinny bitches.

I have done the yoga massage studio massage. Which is a zen haven with the correct emblems out, smell of openness and acceptance, as you hear the yoga class next store in the yoga room. The jumps of the poses. The let go and breath. Then the telling of me how I walk wrong and I should work on it. It. Thanks ohm lady for that. How do you re-teach yourself to walk when you are in your 30’s? Namaste I say.

It all started in college. In a basement of my college surrounded by the fellow sweaty college athletes where I tried to relax amongst the baseball and soccer players. My table next to theirs. I closed my eyes to not see their ogling. But I could still hear the snickers. The bright florescent lights blinding and beaming. As I turned the corner after, I heard nice ass and tons of laughter.

So that is to say I am somewhat of a veteran at this massage thing. Massage thing. So the Korean massage. The Korean massage was unlike anything I have yet experienced. I gave over my clothes and received a pink oversized top and long cotton shorts stopping at my knee with an elastic waistband for ladies over 60’s. It left red and white indents around my midsection. I felt like I was in gym class in jr. high. No at a spa. There is a women’s section and men’s section.
Women go around naked in their section. I am assuming the guy’s room bottomless on their side.

We meet in the middle-the common area. The common area has small tinyish tables and food menus in Korean and English not proofread, group saunas clothing not optional, an ice room, and a room full of burberry pillows on a refrigerated floor with a huge plasma tv where people lay. I don’t know where I am but there is no windows, no whiteys but me oh and my brother, but he will be on his side, me on mine. I hear the background noise of languages I don’t know and the looks of others sometimes the quick look away and then the staring. Staring. I’m exotic again. In a windowless spa, in a common room with food and pillows, in my gym clothes of years past. Time to relax.

I walk into the women’s locker room to go the bathroom. The women who work there look at me like I’m lost. No, where can I find the food I ask. Where’s waldo I must look like. They smirk. I eat too much kim chi and spicy things I have no idea what they are which I will pay for later of course.

I went into the warm pool, which was the hottest pool I have been in. It is time for the treatment. Everyone is naked here and what I learn is- okay-I learn a lot. First of all, I am thankful for my body. And being comfortable with it, in it. Second, vital information such as observing others pubic hair regions occurred. I see there is a range of hairiness of the danger triangle from somewhat normalish hair to 1960’s freedom funk to the mohawk. I learn that although most Asian women are not hairy throughout their whole bodies, like us whiteys that they do in fact make up for lost ground downstairs. Now this might just be middle aged or older women of Korean decent or Asian decent. Not many youngins were there for my sample size of my research study. I was shocked by the amount of hair so distracting that it was hard to not stare. But I forced myself to look away. Away.

Another thing I learned was that nipples really vary. I know my own well. I know my friends sort of. Guys will love that. Ladies change in front of each other. And sometimes on spring breaks in Mexico maybe shower together not for an sexual revolution in the making but to get ready more quickly, to save water, to take advantage of the group shower. But some of this nipples were shocking. Shockingly big and wide and long, one woman almost took me out with hers. Yes sir, I was taking out by a massive nipple to the eye. I was in a Korean spa. Oh good, to hear, this happens a lot. My ER visit plays on the reel of my mind. I look down-mine felt small and pinkish and childlike in comparison. But they are mine.

So the massage, the massage was kind of sort of out of this world. I told you I was a veteran but never, never did I ever experience anything like this. First of all you are in a group room, room with drains and water and tubs of water in huge plastic trashcans. There are towels and smells and constant movement. Bright lights. Tables-plastic-are grouped together in a sardine fashion and the ladies taking care of you wear black bras and underwear and don’t speak English. Now I’ll be honest but little was left to the imagination and this wasn’t a dream sequence out of a western man’s fantasy, no these ladies weren’t. They start with the scrub. The scrub I thought would be relaxing hurts like hell. It’s like someone took a brillo pad a brillo pad to your entire, I repeat ENTIRE, body. I close my eyes and smell the smell of my own dead flesh. Gross. Water rushes over me. I turn over and over and once I start to get used to the burning until the brillo is going for my crack my butt, I jump, and scream, and clench my cheeks and my lady laughs. We are laughing, the universal language translator, the laughter. Every time I would laugh, everyone-workers and clients all laughed. When she was scrubbing my bikini area or my feet. The laughter again and the rounds would begin.

So the actual massage did little to relax me. After the skin was scrubbed off my body and washed off my table and down the drain it went. Round and round. Yes now for the massage. But I had a
preview of what was to come and it wasn’t pretty-no it wasn’t. I’m fucked. The woman next to me is the largest and in chargest Asian woman I have ever laid my eyes upon. Her areolas are the size of my one breast- they are huge. And they are shaking next to me. Back and forth they go. She has been shaken by her masseuse next to me. The flesh back and forth. Her breasts shaking rapidly. I close my eyes tight.

Now it’s my turn, the oil is rubbed, rubbed all over my body actually splashed and thrown. Then the shaking and the intermittent pounding. I need a seatbelt, a sports bra for this ladies technique. It’s so slippery I am fearful I might slide right off the table. The shaking, the constant shaking is making me nervous and I might have a panic attack. This is the polar opposite of relaxing, this is cultural exchange gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Then there is the flipping back and forth. And a mask that is making my face itch. But I can’t tell her softer or what is the strange stuff you put in my face. What I would do for a waterproof pocket Korean dictionary or as the modern folk would say a waterproof I phone or droid, what I would do. She takes the mask off and all she keeps saying is irritation, irritation, irritation and pours milk on my face. She knows irritation. Does she understand stay away from my butt hole, or bikini area or please don’t tenderize me like meat. It’s over and I feel strangely relaxed or relieved I’m not sure which.

Off to put on my gym clothes and try and find my brother who was banished to the male section. He probably has lost his shit and returned to his mobsteresque car for relief of his womb. No he feel asleep the only white man in sight in a sea of yellow and brown- he was easy to spot, he looked like a giant with long curly hair. He had a burberry pillow under him, he actually was asleep. We went into the co-ed sauna- there in Korean letters and in English-no talk here-which means whisper. And grade your papers here. Yes, I saw a man, a professor, grade his papers, final exams for a college class in a co-ed sauna with a blue gym suit, spa issued on of course. I started laughing so hard I had to leave. It made me think about all the weird places my professors might have graded my papers. So I left soon after my green tea bubble tea. It had been four hours. Day almost over.

When I told people I went to get a Korean spa people laugh and ask about happy endings. The happy ending didn’t come in their over-sexualized hasty generalized racialized assumption of a question or a statement- I am sure it would cost more than 70 dollars if that was the case-no my happy ending was the end and I was happy.

dirty laundry

this week is dedicated to the loss of my dinosaur computer, rest in peace dear friend and the fact i got into grad school- again! it is strange how you get where you are going. to date in my undergrad and grad school apps, my only two rejections have been harvard and sf state, pause for laughter, more on that later. . .

thanks so much for reading! and without further ado- dirty laundry- a ten minute quick write i did a few weeks back.

Dirty Laundry. Dirty laundry is my arch nemesis. It always has been. My dirty laundry has a tendency of finding it’s way onto my floor, onto my bed, and the to the chair, and back to the bed but not where it belongs. In the hamper. In the washing machine. Cleaned and put away. This has been a problem as long as I can remember. I hate cleaning my room. My father would yell at me about it all the time. I would promptly say dad other girls my age are doing drugs or getting pregnant using my teenage rhetoric. He always responded I don’t care about them, I care about you. Get up there and clean your room.

Laundry is boring to me. I never knew the luxury of having a washing machine in your house, in your apartment, in your home until it was taken away from me. Taken away from me. Since I left my home, my childhood home, twice I have had a washing machine in my house. Two whole times. I would probably give something up to have one now. Maybe my first born, no a wise woman in her 30's would never but maybe one of my "educated" eggs on ebay. Better.

So the dirty laundry. It gets bad when I am busy. It gets bad when things are going too good. That I am not home. It gets bad when things aren’t going well. It is an indication that I need to slow down. That I need to do some cleaning. I hate laundry so much that when I can I send it out to be washed. The trip to the laundry mat takes longer than you always would imagine. The back and forth, the hoping no one steals your underwear, or cool jeans. Sometimes you drop your wallet in the washing machine and think it is stolen. Sometimes strange people talk to you. So lately I send it out as not to deal with it. I cope through buying tons of underwear so that I don’t have do laundry except once a month. I look at my room most of the time and wonder how I can still have clothes hanging, hanging in my closet.

Dirty laundry. Dirty laundry it haunts me even when it is washed. It haunts me when I put it away. It haunts me now. It’s the things we say, we don’t say, we aren’t saying, we should say. Haunting me right now. I try to hide and forget the things too big to admit. But they reappear they always do. The dirty laundry of the past and present are mine. Mine. Mine. I want to share with you. I want to share the burden. I can’t carry all these on my own. The best news about the dirty laundry is I know how to hide in my closet. I know how to make it clean temporarily. I know how to look at and say you drive me crazy. Why can’t I just put the laundry, the dirty laundry, where it belongs? I don’t know. Belonging. Belongs. Finding out where it all belongs. Belongs. Or if it is mine in the first the place.

awkward am

Almost everyone has experienced the should I stay, should I go, should I kick him out, should I ask her to stay-the inner dialogue of the tug of the war of the morning. It’s hard, hard to know when to have someone stay, stay as long as they want, as long as you want, maybe until the next day. Next day. Awkward ams come in all forms and I learned this past Tuesday as I began my day. Awkward Tuesday was brought to you by no other than me. It wasn’t the typical awkward a.m. of new lovers-no it was me reliving embarrassment of a teenager. It was a reminder I too have blown off guys. I felt 15 again. Taking hours to figure out to wear and do my hair, and turning red at the wrong times, and just desperately wanting to be accepted. We all need reminders we too can be dicks. So I got mine this week. Thanks so much for that memo, duly noted.

I walked into to my local stomping ground of a coffee shop to get my coffee to begin my day. As I poured the makings of a great coffee together, I saw a man in the light, a man who I blew off. Shit is all I can think. And my face tightens into a uncomfortable pretend smile smirk. He asked me out in person and in text. I had made plans but then lied to him about some other responsibility I had. He asked me to come over to house for a fire for a first date. Which didn’t settle well with me. I must not have be into him. But really I was just into someone else- limbo again we were in. I don’t know why I planned a second date. Date. But I flaked on that one too. I should have just said, said something like I am seeing someone else or I’m busy or something. But instead I let his last text of I was thinking of you go to my response of radio silence. So when I saw him, I felt awful because what do you say. Say. I said nothing, I left without a lid on my coffee and prayed and laughed nervously while speed walking across the street dodging the cars and the J church and hoped he didn’t come after me. He didn’t. I felt like a dick. I guess I blow off people too. It is easier to remember when someone has stopped taking your calls or emails or breaks things off via myspace or stands you up or dumps you double-parked. Those are easier to remember. Funny how that works.

So I thought I was free of running into my most recent second possibility of stretching my dating muscles into becoming a puma-a cougar in training. First a 26 year old. Which might be worth an attempt at rationalization. But this guy was 23. I know you guys do it all the time. Go for a younger counterpart. But my brother is 23. I even have limits. He asked me out via text. Text. Somewhat of a generational divide of sorts. I wanted to respond to him in person. I am an idiot. I should have texted him back. Oh no worries, right after the coffee incident I went to class and there he was sitting in my seat, my seat and it wasn’t even his class. I am reliving high school in my 30’s. Then there was an awkward exchange of hi, what are doing here, and me tripping on my desk. I was red again. In high school. Again. He promptly left. I felt like an asshole again and it was only 11 in the morning. This time I wanted to face the music, but not like this.


In my self-reflection I too must admit that I have in fact blown off people, blown off the opposite sex, guys that have liked me, and my actions have not always been as gracefully as I would like done to me. And I have been doing it for years. Years. Guys used to write me love letters and show up at my work and do sweet amazing things like a surprise of flowers or a drawing. I would break up with a man on the phone. Just to not face him. I would break up with them and date someone they knew immediately. I would blow them off. Coldly. Callously. I realized I had forgotten I have done this, that I have done this. Maybe that is why shit goes down the way it does. I could only see myself be wronged. Wronged. This is an open apology to men of my past that experienced the radio silence because I was too much of a wimp to say anything even goodbye or something a self-help book would advise, I don't know. Maybe instead, instead I could come up with something that would make it all less uncomfortable. Uncomfortable it is. Truth is this awkward a.m. had more to do with me then anyone else. I can finally say it's not you, it's me and really mean it.

the beach of me

Traveling. Today when I was watching this chick flick that was set in London, I thought, I thought, it has been awhile since I have been traveling. It’s been awhile. Now I don’t usually watch chick flicks on Mondays, but since it was my day off I decided to partake in junk food for my mind and body. I also had lots of chips, fours types, some baked some not, some pickles, and some dark chocolate. All you have to do is add ice cream and maybe you might think I was pregnant. I am not. At least I don’t think so. I just had a conversation about this with a friend, my friend about babies, pregnancy and how we spend our lives trying not to make them and one day we will decide it’s time and then we will try, we will try and no one really knows what will happen.

Traveling for me. Is freedom. It is the escape. It doesn’t even have to be that far. I sometimes feel like I am traveling when I leave my neighborhood or one where I work and play mostly. Like today, I found a café in a neighborhood, I never go to, to write. To travel away out of the norm, a vacation of an hour. When I go to the beach, I feel like I am traveling, traveling far away. Just left to my own thoughts and simplicity of nothingness. I didn’t realize what the beach meant to me until it was taken from me. I abruptly awoke one morning and it was no longer a ten-minute drive, or a 45-minute drive. Okay I did move to the other coast. It would take hours and once I would arrive I wasn’t welcomed by the solitude of the waves, the radio of my peace, no it was a lake with ripples. The east coast beaches left much for me to desire.

I used to travel to the beach with my parents. My parents met at the beach, pt. reyes to be exact. Whenever anyone talks about pt. reyes and it’s beauty, I say, that is why I am here. Maybe that is why I like traveling there so much. Once when my parents were long and finished, my dad took me to a spot, he used to go with my mother before me and after me, and then just me and him, and then me, him, my brother, and stepmom. The great thing about this spot is that it is a lagoon, a lagoon that allows you to swim and not fear sharks, or undertow, or coldness. Just calm enough for a swim. As we hiked there, we hiked there together, we took pictures there, and did my favorite thing swim until cold or tired, back to the beach, to eat and cook on the sand and repeat. Repeat. One day I found photos, photos when it was just my mom and dad, I laughed at their funny bathing suits and their skinniness and for the lightness that once was. Traveling back to a time, a time when it had just started for them, that would eventually lead to me. Traveling back to the beach to the beginning, again, and again.

learning the lessons of the all important squat

i'm back and i survived the trip to the land of county de orange. i did not return with a sugar daddy to take care of my growing student loans or a surgeon's number. but i did come back to the comforts of my northern home where i can be an individual again slightly tan, slightly burnt in strange places, and more thankful for san francisco then before. i read tons and laid next to bodies of water. tons of material down there to write about- everywhere i went there was a story including a korean massage experience- the cougars and sugar daddies- the glitter, peroxide, & plastic- valet at the mall during happy hour for millionaires & more. and to start it off light for the week. . .

It was hell. It was hell to be experiencing the feeling she was having. Having. It was her first trip away from home as a child. First time away from home. And now this, this. She was full of excitement because she would be away, away from her parents. Excited for the buildup, the buildup, the anticipation of this trip. Outdoor education. The fundraising, the car washes, the pep talks, the packing, the freedom of no family, only friends and teachers in the redwoods. On the school bus there, we all sang, sang loud, talked too loud, and probably ate the treats we had snuck on before, before they would be confiscated. We probably swore too. Probably because we could. I learned MC Hammers Can't Touch This word for word on this trip. Someone in our tent, no bunks, just tents burnt herself on a curling iron. A curling iron. What the hell were we doing with a portable curling iron in the woods? Being uncomfortable adolescents playing dress up, playing adult, but still children all the same.

The bus did stop. And I of course during the stop I paid a visit to bathroom. The bathroom outhouse variety. The kind you aren't so sure when someone cleaned it and when it was erected but you are so so very glad it's there that you can have a release. So I went to the bathroom. I wasn't aware then of the importance of the squat over public toilets or especially outhouses for that matter. I didn't receive the handbook from a woman in my family or a friend or a older mentor. I went into it blindly. Blindly because why would one need to squat? Squat. Oh I will tell you.

It was hell once I got on the bus. The itching started. It was hell when we arrived at the campsite. It kept multiplying and burning. My little 6th grade ass was most definitely on fire. The itching and burning was spreading not just on my gluteus maximus but my strongish chicken leg thighs. I had no other choice than to investigate. It was hell because I didn't know what was going on. I didn’t know my body. It was hell because I was 12 and away from home. So I looked. I had a massive rash all over my butt and the beginning of my legs. Red, inflamed. Oh shit, I thought. Well what would you do? This is hell. I had no other choice that to tell my closest friends and beg them not to say anything. Not a wise move. Wise move. Everyone knew within moments I had itchybuttitis. Those clever 6 graders had a diagnosis for me with minutes and then the game of telephone began and I was one that would pay.

It was hell. Because I know I needed to tell an adult. An adult. My teacher. It was hell to pull down my pants and have her see my underwear- the horror. I in fact had a rash. We deducted from that toilet, toilet in the outhouse. Someone had cleaned it. But never got rid of the product. My ass wiped it off instead of the sponge. It was hell because the embarrassment of the itchybuttitis. It was hell because of the embarrassment. But it was funny. It was funny. And I learned that the hell then could just be amusement later. And the importance of the squat of course and not just in yoga. Not just in yoga. I am a squatter for life.