the badge for forgotten popsicles

Good deeds. Good deeds. Sometimes I was told good deeds go unnoticed. Unnoticed unlike the terrible gut wrenching shit someone can do to you. Good deeds it pays off to pay attention to them. Like the view up the hill through Buena Vista. I stop the car every time to look at the hills, downhill, houses scattered closely together, seamless together of the roller coaster of urbanity. Flowing into the ocean the bridges into the east bay. I stop every time. As not to forget. Forget the view. The luckiness of the view. Good deeds are the same. Not the girl scout brownie boy scout eagle make but the subtle things we do. We do that are just good. That are just deeds.

As, I picked K up from his camp of Tree Frogs of hiking and running and superheroes and space camp. He had an excited grin painted on his face. I have something for you Kate it’s a surprise. He begins to slowly check out every compartment in his childhood backpack slowly at first then becoming more rapid, more quickly. He smile has now drifted away. He looks a little anxious. He looks like the anticipation of the camp has faded away. It’s okay K, I say you can look for it later. The virtual hug of nanny love. No Kate. Darn it- with his child like boston accent that speech therapy will one day fix. Eye contact direct and subverted. Darn it. I forgot. I forgot I ate it. It was a popsicle. A popsicle. Laughter erupts. It’s okay K. It probably would have melted anyway. There might not be anything sweeter than a child who saves their popsicle in their backpack for you. Except the good deed of forgetting he ate it. The puddle of the sweet was to be only left. His star wars modern lunch pail would have only held onto the freeze so long. So long.

Good deeds of subtly. Good deeds that are just really good. Yesterday as me and one of my closet friends walked smelling of the park and sun and champagne and beer and super tacos from a taqueria. We stopped. Stopped with the crowd of the bi rite ice cream enthusiasts to let a woman back her car up out of driveway onto the busy corridor of 18th street. We all stopped facing each other one group of strangers and citizens staring at each other waiting for her white lights to dim. Battleship opponents. But alas she began to get dangerously close to. Close to another car. And we told her the right directions and airport directed and baseball signed her out. But we only did everyone else kept walking. They had waited for her. Waited for her. That was enough. But we didn’t think about it. We just did it.

The good deed of strangers. It doesn’t mean more. It just something different than the good deed of intimacy. But the intimacy of two friends moving in unison in a good deed without discussing or vacillating or googling it- is a good deed within itself. That friendship isn’t an accident-it’s the good deed of a connection. We don’t get badges for these relationships or choices. We don’t need them like we once did.

learning about my own glass jar

this is the first time i have written about my own journey with anxiety. i was challenged with the assignment to write about how it felt inside my body so the last paragraph i typed with my eyes closed. this blog is being blogged from Coffee Bar in SF.

great food, coffee, and they let you plug in your computer and work which is becoming a rarity in this city.

Out of oxygen. The first time I was out of oxygen I wasn’t on the bottom of the pool swimming scavenging around. It wasn’t from a race of the circular track or the windy dirt paths of cross-country. It wasn’t from the hike up the hills at summer camp. I was out of oxygen on my bed partially out of the bed sheets and comforters and it was early on a Saturday morning. I had just finished college. Late into Friday had sneaked into Saturday and I lie there out of oxygen. The knocking and running and perfectionism are now in my chest, shaking me from the inside out. I am out of oxygen. I am out of breath. I can’t breath. I feel as if I am dying. Dying. My friend had awoken me. Awoken me from a deep sleep and I can’t breathe-just shake. She clutches onto me as the glass jar of anxiety has found a resting spot on my head and my chest and the jar is moving down, toward my belly, but I am pushing it back up not with my hands but my mind. I am out of oxygen. I am out of time. I am out. I am out of the constant motion. Glass jar of panic it had always been there, I had carried with me in my purse but now it had grown too big to hold and it was sucking me down with it. It’s not like Sylvia’s jar- she couldn’t breathe for a different reason. But the not breathing all the same.

Out of oxygen. My friend is talking in a calm way and as I listen I feel like I am above watching in ER sitcom or flashback of someone’s life. Her words are slow and kind of like the peanuts characters. Kaaatttee, youuuu arrre havvvving a panicccc attttack. The rhythm of her voice reverberates against the jar. I hear her, but it’s muffled. I feel her, but it’s removed. I am out of oxygen. The jar is drowning her out. Drowning me out. I don’t want to drown. So I do what I can and cry, cry hard fast tears that had been buried inside of me and so foreign and such family that they must come out. The crying becomes hysterical harder, harder until the jar has lifted and I could breath again. I wasn’t out of oxygen. Anymore. The tears collected and grew stronger with each that fell until the tide had lifted it away. Away to the ground. But it was still with me. Still with me then. Still with me now.

The one thing I couldn’t say was how it felt. Felt inside. The rapidness of quick fire questions in a deep pool while trying to run. The quickness and slowness felt in succession. The ability to watch from above as I ran quickly on the hamster to wheel to nowhere. I am exhausted. Out of oxygen. Out of control. My mind ping pongs and quebert jumps to fear to panic to fear to I’m dying to breath to make this stop just make this stop. Make this stop. Making it all stop. I wanted to the tightness ball of rubber bands to stop bouncing in my chest and my stomach. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to know I wasn’t going to die. Die in that moment. I had dreamed of many thing. Many things I have been. But the quickness of the train, this train of panic not sure how I got on or where or where I was going or if I was packed or if I have someone with me. I felt alone. Alone. Out of oxygen. Out of the control. Panicking. Breathing. Breathe. The tears had already fallen. The breath. The breath beginning at the bottom of my belly my compass of my heart and moving up first too rapid and then slowly lifting through my ribs rising up to my throat, the water to the top of the drain. The safety of the rubber ducky of the bath bounces moves back and forth again floating again. I can breathe. I can breathe.

this is the musical called my life

this one goes out to nanni- the best partner in crime a lady could wish for. . . there is no one i would have rather met in a waiting room but you.

have a great weekend and thanks all my thanks for reading.

Singing. We are signing loudly against the prius exterior songs from the past. A type of singing where you are almost yelling, yelling an old school classic that gets to the gut of the screaming sing and the hand motions and the sphere of friendship. We are there. Singing our hearts, our heads, our throats off while at the stop at Turk and some small cross street next to USF. It is the kind of stop that the other car across the way-our momentarily our neighbor-can see in through our window-a tv of real life. We don’t care we keep going. Singing and the hand motions Of years past when you learned hand motions. Now are in freestyle. The feelings of the prius can’t contain the singing as if no one is looking with someone you love. We really need to karaoke she says. We do. We will suck. Who cares. True. Our stage of the prius and turk street is ours.

Singing. Later when I had the luxury of the BMW instead of the usual nannymobile of the Corolla- I took her. Her on a drive. I wanted to. But instead we ended up at the UPS station to pick up her green shoes. I scroll through the ipod of my employer to find the right one. The right one that will touch that nerve of the combination of I haven’t heard this in years, I know almost all the words, time to sing and yell again. I’m scrolling until I reach- Eternal Flame. She walks back in with her box of anticipation of green shoes- will they fit. Will they fit? In all seriousness with a smile in the backdrop- I say this song is for you. Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling. Then we begin the belting out. The belting out of the lyrics you only know when the song is on. The windows are down and the sunroof is open and the music blasting in the system and we are singing in a bmw outside the UPS station. We don’t care. We keep going. Our stage moves locations like our cars. Like our cars. There is no talking. Just singing. Burning an eternal flame. And laughing. And moving our hands as if we have forgotten we aren’t alone.

Singing. We make up songs to old school ones all the time. Me and the kids. Yesterday, Y began. Hold me now. Please pick me up and spin my around. I continue turn around. Every now and then I want to. I can’t turn her down. She loves it when I pick her up and do some type of tricks we come up with in the fly. I don’t care about my back. I can’t turn her down. Look how strong Kate is- she says to her parents at each of their respective houses. Don’t hurt her they say. I keep picking her up because one day I can’t or won’t be able to.

Singing. We continue coming up with lines back and forth as I pick her up and spin her around the room. Singing and spinning and making up lyrics to the old songs. She used to say Kate can we sing a song in this decade- a tone of a tween. But now. Now we- me, her and her brother- all take turns singing the lines, made up through the tools of creativity or real, all taking a line, a line and singing to each other in our musical. In our musical. Called this is my life. I sing. Horribly. But have so much fun doing it.

the cocktail of normalcy

another ten minute quick write inspired by the word fake. thanks for reading!


Fake. Sometimes I wish I could be more fake. Fake in that way I could lie. In an easy way shedding the skin of the dishonesty easier. It shed off in flakes-I look it and walk away. But I am honest. I don’t edit. Sometimes I should. I should. I think I hold back. Back then eyes are popped up all around and next to me and I realize I have gone too far again. Again. But as I have became a big kid, a grown-up,an adult, I have tempered my jumping over curbs biking, riding without the helmet, and talking to myself too loud, but talking nonetheless.

Like the other day when a film crew came into the place I was shopping on 24th street, the 24th street of my grandmother’s childhood now of my adulthood. The film crew came in and to ask me if they could film me buying something. I just had. I said. They responded you could pretend. Okay. Are you sure I look all right? Of course. They smile. But they are film crew their fake and realness can be identical twins in doublewide strollers. I wish I would have showered today. I say. The woman reporter face flies back and scrunches slightly, you shouldn’t have told me I never would have known- you look great. Like the admittance of the non-shower thing might have been too much. But me pretending to buy something fine. Too real to admit aloud. To strangers. To reporters. No comment, maybe.

Fake. I tried to fake it once or maybe twice. But usually the look shows in my face. I hate pretending. Pretending to care about the importance of identity formed by your husband or boyfriend or your job or husband’s job or how rich you might be. I grow tired and fatigued in moments. What I would give for a cocktail of normalcy? What I would give for a taste of hard work or originality or humanity? Fake. I guess we live in a society that breeds it. We live in families and communities that re-enforce and support it. Keeping up with the Joneses in looks and prestige and education and relationships exists. But I hate being fake. I like to be considered pretty and smart and not living off a man. And to be honest not since I was a child have I. I like to be light and fun and not live in the confined box put before me. I hate being fake.

I hate being fake probably because I had to pretend for so long. Pretend I came from a normal family. Because I was scared, scared what would happen at school if they found out I had a crazy mother. Or I only lived with my dad. Or that my mom had once stolen me away. Or that I once was involved in a custody battle. Or that the cops came regularly to my house. No one knew because I had to pretend. The truth would have ruined me then. The denial of our family, the denying of our family, was the glue of the crazy. It had to be unstuck together. But the truth and saying it big or small is the only way for me to let go. Letting go I usually am holding on, hold on too tight but I am practicing, practicing the letting go. Let go. It takes practice.

test drive of the humidity cloud

what i would do for some heat right now- we are in the midst of a san francisco summer-thanks mark twain for putting it so simply- i had forgotten. and for the brave souls in places where humidity is on speed dial- this one is for you. . .


Heat. You long for it. You desire it. And then it comes in waves so unbearable that the game of toss and turn at night begins. Because this Victorian is not built for heat. I am not built for too much heat either. In my redone attic where my bedroom rests the heat rises to the top and calls my room home-it’s permanent residence- the lease forgotten. At first it feels great until, until the one leg comes out and the tossing, tossing and turn. Oh the heat. I have a love and hate relationship with you I do. I want the sun to shine on my face and my body preferably in a bikini near a beach or pool or in a park. I want the sun and the heat. But then it is too much; too much when the heat surrounds me in a bubble I can’t break. Cold showers I began to take them when I realized what real heat was. Because the mini waves of heat in San Francisco is nothing compared to the humidity of the bane of my existence in the east coast.

A northern California transplant in a foreign city. The first time I felt it. The humidity. I said to my friends. My friends. What is going on? Why does it feel this way? I remember I was sticky and sweaty and miserable and hotness permeated from the sidewalk the cooked egg done in less than minute. It seeped out of my armpits and crotch and face. I was miserable. I gave them my puppy dog beach desiring west coast greens and they said Kate it’s humidity and then they laughed. Laughed. Because see. They hadn’t had the luxury of heat without humidity but I had. I have. They were midwestern folks so they were well aware of the springs and summers friend and companion of humidity.

The heat killed me that first summer. It did. Nothing I could wear without sweating through. I had go from the T to a school site back to the T back to the office. Smoldering humidity cloud followed me everywhere until the reprieve of the over air conditioned box of the train or the office again. My only refugee then was the nights- the warm nights of running around and seeing my first fire flies- I thought they only lived in my books my parents read to me at night- fiction like the rest. The nights without a sweater and playing as a child while becoming an adult in a place where I could be anyone. My other refugee was dunkin donuts. I had tons of vanilla iced coffees- they poured the coffee, the ice, the milk and sugar to your liking. The heat of the night and coldness of the iced coffee got me through.

The heat. The heat was the worst right after I finished grad school and with no job in sight meant there was no air conditioner in sight either. On my fourth floor upper west side on the color line next to Harlem apartment, it cooked. I had a fan. But a fan can’t cool off heat like this. Humidity like this cooked in the sprawling repetitions of building and asphalt and movement hitting you in your face. I took cold showers and put ice in my armpits and swore to remember this. This that when I had money, when I had money I would buy an air conditioner. And the luxury of the heat and the humidity and the relief from it would be like the test drive of my new vehicle one day.

searching for the mint condition man without the cliff notes

another quick write chosen by my teacher as my best- better writing for last week. check out her comments here: http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/2010/06/mint-condition-kate-bueler.html#comments
and also some other talented writers http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/.

the prompt was mint condition- no cars for me- just men. . .

I have been thinking lately that I might want to do an ad maybe an old school one on the print you read in your hands or the new age one that of craigslist that you read on your lap. It doesn’t matter which one I’ll choose, but I do know this it will say something about finding a date, a lover, a companion who is in mint condition. Almost perfect but not of course. Because perfection can be daunting and only exists in airbrush pictures in the magazine pages turned by us all.

No, I am looking for a relatively normal guy in mint condition. I am starting to think this might be asking a lot. A lot. I am kind of sorta okay-really sick of dealing with guys that would actually be served more from a boot camp in therapy individual or group than dating me. I have grown tired the once awhile recreation really are habits. I have habits. I habitually date men who are serial monogamists but they don’t serially date me. They don’t commit to me. But given my track record. I guess I am lucky. Lucky. Because who wants someone to commit to some of them that could be more broken, so broken the super glue versions will not do enough. Your super glue isn’t super man’s or wonder woman’s it is just store bought.

I want a man in mint condition. I want a man who is strong. Strong enough for me to lean on not all the time but once in a while. I want a man who thinks outside of himself. Not a ghandi wannbe but somewhere between oprah and wanting to be a reality television star might do. Might do.

I want a man in mint condition but when I found one, found one. I realized he was in mint condition only because he was too young to be damaged. At 23 he thought community college was like the maze of high school and waiting for me outside my class each day. It reminded me of my high school boyfriend that my friends used to make fun of since he made me lunch. It was endearing. And truth be told no one packs me brown bags anymore. I miss those bags. Like the love letters I used to get. Lost somewhere is sexting and emails and some other technological deterrent from the reality of the love, the letter. It was sweet. Sweet like a puppy dog.

But then I realized he is 23, I am not. I seemed interested in him by asking questions as we drove, I hated the shyness of radio silence between us. But he liked me because I talked to him when I gave him a ride home. Home. Really it felt just like high school. Because I soon found out, found out he was in fact living with his parents, no ride or license to call his own, no job to speak of, and he never left city college or sf for that matter. What universe did he reside where he thought there was a real potential. He was in mint condition but he was a baby, I needed a man.

But show me a man in his late 20’s early 30’s or beyond that could be in mint condition, mint condition and still has lived. Maybe I am wishing, wishing for fairy tales upon fairy tales- god mother save me from this step mother of orders, disappointment, and it never being good enough. Save me from the pretend at reading the cliff notes, skimming and then finding out so much more later. Later. Maybe a mint condition man wanting one is liking wanting a perfect life, or perfect job. It is fleeting. It is childish. It's not real. But how about more like I am looking for someone who might have been a mint once but dropped a few times but is still in one piece. Is that too much? Too much to ask? Because a story of the heartbreaking potential, the heartbreaking stories, the heartbreaks the heartbreaks have just grown too much. I don’t want a fairy tale. I just want a better ending. Or maybe I should really read the book instead of the cliff notes.

message of love- cupid took a detour

today i received this in my mailbox written on a blank white part of a greeting card. this type of delivery is just too good not to share. me and my roommates might send him a reply. . .

unfortunately billy none of us are asian but we do dig food and thanks for the laughs and making me speechless.

it said in all caps and in black and blue ink and i quote. . .

Billy* XXXXXXXX 32XX Vallejo Street, SF, CA

YOUR AD IN THE B.A.R CAUGHT MY ATTENTION. I'M 34, 5'8", OVERWEIGHT AND LIKE ASIANS. ALSO, LIKE FOOD (BOTH COOKING AT HOME AND RESTAURANTS) WINE, MUSIC, BALLET, AND SUCH. PLEASE CALL (411-XXXX OR 722-XXXX) SO WE CAN MEET AND TALK ABOUT THIS.

SINCERELY, First and last name (in cursive)

IF NOTHING ELSE, WE MIGHT BECOME FRIENDS. * pseudonym

the show goes on- our cat killed a baby turkey says my father

this is a tribute to my dad. happy father's day to all the dads out there.

thanks for reading and keep coming back for more. to date: i have been read in every continent and almost every state in the good old usa- oh my! my pain is your joy. my embarrassment is shared. i am still in awe. keep reading, keep sharing, and keep telling me what you think. all my thanks as always! have a great weekend!


And the show goes on. It always does. I remember once upon a time my parent’s told me that time would fly the older I got. The older I became they were right. As I spoke to my father today. I realized the last time I saw him was Christmas. Christmas is all of a sudden 6 months ago. The show goes on. I used to only see my family only twice a year but that is when I lived, lived 3,000 miles away and had to brave the plane although confided spaced phobic to arrive home for a visit. How is it I only live 2.5 hours away and six months had passed? Passed. No planes to keep me from coming. I could jump on the train or in the car. But why haven’t I gone?

The show goes on and you wake up and it is summer. I had promised myself to be better. To visit more. Visit him more. Because I love my father more than anything. He has the ability to make me laugh. Today when I talked to him on the phone- still shaking off the slumber in my pjs of tank top with hair dye left over and old school track shorts american apparel make. I talked to him while preparing a smoothie for my new blender. Our last roommate took hers to live on a farm. I tell my dad. My dad says what the hell is she going to do on a farm? How is she going to use that blender there? I needed to own a blender of my own for I am in my thirties.

The show must go on. My father tells me. Milton killed a baby turkey. I stop. What? Milton is our cat. Our cat we adopted from my x-best friend who had the tendency of taking on responsibilities she couldn’t fulfill she took on the kitten and couldn’t keep it so alas our family swooped in and supermaned and took the cat. Milton used to be Amelia. After Amelia Earhart she used. The adventurer. Used be a girl. No not because she had a sex change. We didn’t know she was a he until we took her to the vet. I asked my dad- how didn’t we know? He is still growing. Growing as if Milton’s manhood of feline variety was in jeopardy.

I hate that cat. It scares dogs, it kills mice, it attacks me while eating on the kitchen bar or when I am on the computer. He sits on the table next to my food as if I am taking up space. He claws and scratches me. I hate that cat. That cat only loves my father. Be nice to your brother he says. Dad it’s a cat. I hate him. Kate he can hear you stop that. That cat of course is possessed. Spoiled rotten- It gets food feed in its mouth and has a curfew when he has to be home. My dad is worried if he doesn’t get back by 10pm.

See he was worried when they moved to the foothills of tahoe that Milton couldn’t make it, but Milton terrorizes other animals and brings them home to brag. When we lived in the suburbs of birds and mice and now living in the wilderness of deers, mountain loins, and turkeys. Milton killed a baby turkey. And brought it home and left it on the porch. I had to bury it. He continues. Then I didn’t let Milton out because it was past his curfew. Then he scratched me not once but twice. The show must go own. And does. Dad did you hear what you just said. Replay I repeat his words. Dad that cat is insane. We laugh. The cat has a curfew dad. He is like a problem child.

The show goes on. And I miss more dad more anything. I miss these stories and seeing his hands move and hearing his dorky laugh that is my own. The show goes on and I am missing this. I want nothing more to stop the show. Because the quicker it goes, the quicker he will. He will leave to. I need the slow the show down to keep him here longer. Longer. The show going on fast forward the fear of losing my father is my greatest. I fear tons but the show going on means that I am getting older and so is he. He and how can I play in this game called life without hearing his voice on the other end. The other end telling me about our possessed cat or his relationship advice- kate no one puts on a marriage hat and becomes someone different- or his camping advice- make sure you go somewhere safe. I need him. I know the show must go on. But I need to hear, hear him to know I can safely keep going with it.

grown-ups chase milk cartons

Grown-ups. I am a grown up or I play one regularly on this show called my life. Sometimes my job as a nanny. Sometimes in my family. But the kids think I am a kid adult. And I am not sure if it is because I don’t have grown-up things like a house or a husband or kids to call my own. But actually it is probably because I am a grown-up but still childlike. The kids write me notes and cards that say- Kate’s number one rule- Have fun! Y will say you remember how it is to be a kid. How important street cred and reputations are- I laugh. I let them play and laugh in the safety of not running while chewing or terrorizing each other too much.

For I am still a grown-up but it is nice to take off the veil of adultness that seems to squelch the fun of living. I let it go, go until K starts skipping with his mouth full. Or when he runs with both his hands in the pocket- power hand out I remind. I am a grown-up again. But grounded in the sand of the playground, throwing the water in the play fight, allowing the kids to have whip cream poured in their mouth from the can sometimes. Sometimes. Once a month I allow them to. I tell them stop having fun. Having fun is not allowed in a serious tone with a smirk coming through. Then we laugh. Laugh. And I splash the kids with water, water, water from the dishes sprayed from the sprinkler of my hand.

It is hard to be a grown-up and not forget the childhood ways, the ways we were, the lightness of when the next game of pretend of super hero, when the next ice cream run would happen, when we might play doctor or school or store again. I forgot about water fights, water fights until last weekend. Last weekend when I was watching a set of twins and their sister. All together with tupperware and plastic cups and hoses. I sprayed them like my childhood sprinkler I used to run into back and forth up and down on the damp grass-it was the solitude from the heat. Laughter reverberated into my heart. Into theirs and we decide, I decide that water fights should be required. Required. So as grown-ups we don’t forget.

Grown-ups. As a grown-up, I have learned what matters most other than the chalk of the line of boundaries is modeling. Psychology reports this, cognitive and behaviorists analyze this, studies support this, parents and child givers try and do it. Model. Model my clay of humanity. Of how to be a grown-up, how to be a kid, how to make the right choices. As I run after, after the empty milk carton gallon down the Cole Valley Street. I run after recycling because I shouldn’t litter of course. But I run more and more as it tumbles pounding it’s plastic against the pavement springing up and down it keeps going.

But I keep going, keep going because she is watching me. Watching me run after the milk carton. I keep running because she is watching. And I know, I know she values recycling. And would be heartbroken if we littered the family trash. I run praying that it will stop down its windy hill. My bouncing ball of modeling keeps going until it stops in the bottom half of a bmw. Alas, I reach down to grab it and my reefs begin to slip from under me.

I am sliding and catching myself and now flashing the cars and their passerbys my world from underneath my dress. Flying up. I catch myself and catch the carton and turn around running up the hill. I know I did it because I am a grown-up. I know I did it because I am still a kid. I know I did it because she was watching. Modeling and laughing is what I try to do. Try to remember what was fun so I can teeter tooter between responsibilities and the freedom. The freedom. I laugh. But I still run after that carton. But alone I might have let it go. You can’t let it go when they are watching.

As I drive, I remember they are watching. As I remember my father yelling. Yelling at the cars. I willed children super powers for him to stop. Heart rattling my chest. And not get out of the car. But I still talk to the drivers. It wasn’t your turn. I say. Come on dude drive. I say. Seriously. I say. For the quest and calling of urban driving is a map of routes in my head of the best way to go. Best way to go. Then I hear her say. It wasn’t your turn. It wasn’t their turn she was right. They are always watching. Even when we forget we are grown-ups.

the narrow escapes of sex

i blog usually from my bedroom, living room, or a coffee shop. today i am blogging from bernie's. great story of a local noe valley girl running a coffee shop after tully's was to close down. http://www.yelp.com/biz/bernies-san-francisco

prompt of sex and lies and narrow escapes. you have been deprived too long of a sex post- so here it is my friends.

Sex and lies and narrow escapes. Narrow escapes of love. Narrow escapes of hurt. Narrow escapes of procreation. The narrow escape to lie next to someone after the commingling of sex. Because everyone needs the escape of sex. We lie, lie about how we might like it or who we want it from but sooner or later you will crash into each other. Crash narrowly escaping each other but finding each other nonetheless. Sex the quest to get it, the desire to have it regularly.

Once you have found it, found it, you want to hold onto it. It as you hold your childhood blanket to your chest. You don’t want to let it go. Because what if there is no more rain for you and you awake to the dreaded drought of sex again. The monsoon how I live for the regularity of it. I long for the good stuff. You desire a combination of athleticism, creativity, slowness, passion and most of all some connection other than the penis and vagina repetition. A connection of something more than just sex. Sex lies to us though it does. You can have wonderful amazing sex with someone but nothing else will be on your menu of shared meals between lovers. You are indeed under the spell of sex.

The spell of sex- I have been under it more than once. The spell made me see in rose-colored glasses and cotton candy and ponies and chocolate all day long. The spell of sex erases the ability to see. See the lies of narrow escapes. The narrow escapes of safety. I pull away to my side of the bed breathing deeply- feeling better- holding my lovers hand.

The narrow escape of love. The narrow escape of a future. I keep narrowly escaping what I want, what I think I want. It might be the spell of sex, the smell of it. It might be the lies, the lies, I tell myself about what I want. Maybe it is the narrow escape, the narrow escape of commitment. Commitment. Committing to someone. I think, I think the commitment phobic like me, the serial monogamist only mongamize others. But really, really the spell of sex, the spell of sex is me, me seeing maybe I can’t commit either. Can’t commit either. What happens after? After. The relationship reaches longer than I can stand. I have stood. What happens when my breath is shared? Shared. The sex, the sex, the sex, how I live for it. The narrow escape of love-from love-I can’t escape it. Narrowly. Spaciously. Not at all.

Sex lies narrowly escaping again. Again. Stop lying I say. Say to myself. The spell of sex I am under again. The spell of love I desire. Desire beyond the temporary. Beyond this. But how I forget, I forgot that I am alone while you are inside of me. The spell. The spell. The spell. The spell is my own.

there is no crying in chocolate croissants

another ten minute quick write from the prompt the particular sadness of lemon cake. enjoy and hope you had a great weekend! in sf it actually became summer. . .

The particular sadness for me in a lemon cake is that it exists. I feel like it is a waste of space, sugar, butter, flour, and love wasted on a beautiful cake. Cake of lemon. See I don’t despise lemons all the time. I am fine with them taking up real estate in my water or ice tea or squeezed over my fish or on top of my salad. But in my cake, in my dessert, in my little piece of heaven, I would have to say thanks but no thanks. See as I walk into a bakery one of my favorites like tartine or sand box- the lemon cake, the lemon tart, the lemon anything doesn’t exist for me. I am addict of chocolate, my solace is morning buns, I would probably give up a good conversation for an almond croissant. I love these. They bring me nothing but happiness, pure- bliss- pure- joy.

So the particular sadness I have lemon cake isn’t for the lemon cake itself but for the sadness I feel for it not being what I love. What I truly love. Love that complements my day, my hour. I love the feeling when the bakery smell hits my face. Eyes glisten in anticipation. It smells like home. It smells fresh. It smells new. It smells nothing of lemon.

The sadness I feel for the lemon cake is it doesn’t complete me like the others. You sign up for a long night of dancing and drinking and fun and instead are sitting at a group dinner table arguing over who owes what on the bill. The lemon cake tartness reminds me of the lemons, the lemons, the lemons I thought were lemonade or belonged it my water or ice tea. I thought they were like me. I thought they would make me happy. Make me happy. But alas it wasn’t the chocolate of my dreams. My dreams. It just was lemon cake and there I sit again alone reminiscing on what was, what could have been, what I did wrong. What I did right. I try to forget the memories of the morning buns the cinnamon and citrus perfectly perfectly blended together. But it doesn’t last long, long before it’s gone again. Gone again. I try to remember the memories of the good sweet stuff without feeling the urge of running to my nearest bakery to revenge these feelings for what was. My desserts idealized into, into, into the beginning. The sweetness of the beginning.


The sadness I feel for lemon cake is sadness I feel for the end. The end. Because at the end of it all I’m always eating something I hate. I hate. But I force down each bite, each bite like an anorexic being watched by her support group or family at dinner. I swallow it done. I mourn for the loss of the pastries and cakes that completed my soul. My soul in the moment in the day, in the months, but never does it stretch to the years. Lemon cake for me is mourning. Mourning what was, mourning the walk into the bakery. Mourning, mourning, mourning. I hate it but I still eat it. But there is also the lining of my chocolate croissant of the future. The commingling of the almonds and pastry dough does exist for me. The future that will make me feel complete again. Again.

the summer delivery of happiness

Delivering happiness is simple. I have found a way to kill the depression of any adulthood woos. I have a way to throw out the zoloft and alcohol or xanax. I have a way to not seep into the cracks of sadness. It is so simple. It is so easy. I was delivered happiness twice this week in an unexpected way. I feel like I should share it with others because it is so simple. Simple it is. Walk into a school preferably an elementary school-a k-8 will do-I’m sure there is still the excitement within a jr or high school type, but different it might be. But there is something about when you walk in the walls of the last day of school. The last day of school.

The excitement felt by those running around to say goodbye, to get in line for ice cream, for no more school, no more homework. Once they buzzed me in, through the first door and then the second, I felt something different unusual. As I walked into the sea of occasional runs into the hallway and hi kates and sitting down waiting for your parents or nannies or grandmas to pick them up. No this time I found myself in a wave of energy that makes you want to do shake your hands and feet in excitement. I was delivered happiness this anticipation and excitement delivered to me that there was nothing else than to smile. Smile not the forced smile of nice to meet you- who the hell are you- or the smile of someone wanting something- no it was the toothy open grinned-open mouth-parting of the lips into the genuine. The genuine.

The sea of the last day of school dodge balled me back to my own time when my life was in the confines of parents and walls and boundaries. How I love the last day of school. How I had forgotten until. Until. I was delivered happiness for what was to come. Come. No one knew. But the ending felt great. Because you would be back. Back you would. Delivering happiness just by being there. Not doing anything but opening my hands out and taking it all in.

We all take in shit we shouldn’t but this felt like a happy elixir unlike the usual, it was different. I was different. But it wouldn’t be my own taste of nostalgia for the past. If you ever need to stop multitasking or put down that phone or detach-go see kids perform in a end of the year celebrations. To hear their little voices stretched out loud to try and be booming, the practiced choreography sometimes remembered, sometimes forgotten. You sway back to back to the beat. And look around. Smiles abound. Movement abound.

Delivering happiness is easy. So simple. It is not just delivered by children. Maybe around kids, kids at the end of the school year it is just easier to see. Because it is so loud and you can be deafened for the high kicks and dosidos and standing ovations for teachers who are leaving. Maybe we forgot the way it was. The way it could be. To start a new summer and only think of the good. To start over and not be sad for what was. What was. Because what was to come seemed like it would be better. Better than this. Delivering happiness. Nothing is better than that.

the home sweet home search on craigslist

for my readers who only choose to read one or two paragraphs- i would read paragraph 3, 4 or 5.

It was a test. The test of finding the right fit. The right fit for a roommate. A roommate in an urban area. A test. It always is. Because it doesn’t matter how well you read the craiglist ads or find a friend who has a place or use your guts to decide you can in fact live with someone, live with someone. The test of urban living is one no matter how long you do it, is a test within itself. I started to think about the other day about the passing the test of being chosen as the roommate. The roommate- I have passed the test- the initial smiles, and interview like questions, and the formality of the first date of cohabitants without the cocktails without food in the formal dining room or one room bedroom. Some perfectly cluttered others messingly clean. Still awkward always is. I have passed this test, test to be chosen. Because I seem to have a good first impression. I am chosen they will write or call. And always I have thought this time it will be different. Different. Because I passed the test. But the multiple choice of city college or community college of roommates is easy to pass and study for but the blue book essays of graduate school no way you can pass through without studying, without trying, without making concessions and making friends.

And after living in urban domain for the last few years 14 to be exact- I have lived through the test and trials and tribulations of urban roommates and what you will accept for a place to live a place to live in the city, the city of new york, or san Francisco, or boston, or dc. What you will put up with to have a place to live. Live. Fuck the suburban space of conformed spaces. I want to live in the city and swallow what I will to have my own room in a victorian or on the upper west side or on the u street corridor.

I have came home before to find, find my roommate an older jewish woman walking around the house at 3 am after my night of drinking she stayed in. Braless in an oversized t-shirt- leggings with holes in the crotch and not just kneepads but also elbow pads on her walking around, around the house. Now I if she had a guest and they were being adventurous in the bedroom that would make sense but no she was just walking around the apartment like that. But for an apartment on the upper west side for under 700 dollars you will accept crotchless leggings and kneepads.

For my first noe valley apartment- I accepted notes, emails, and requests from a man, a man who was a self-proclaimed fashion designer but not once did I see him make anything. Anything except maybe a bowl he perpetually smoked or the “love” he made to a different lady each night. See he was also a narcissist and a possibly closeted gay man. 4 black and white pictures of him framed in dramatic poses around his room. Throughout our apartment sorry more like his he hung his dresses- with attention to detail and work of a child around the house. He wrote me emails I needed to put down the toilet seat- I am a female- no one needs to tell me. Or I should wear flip-flops in the shower because I have dirty feet- well you have a dirty crotch. Or my dirty laundry caused ants. Ants to come in the house. And I should return from Sacramento to fix it. Or how he awoke me with his lady friends who thought my room was his more than once. They were lost. Lost. See we take what we can to live in a good neighborhood for good rent.

So finally finally I got to my current residence. Which is great except for the white board. The white board- I wanted to take the passive aggressive token and break in two. People would write shit like whose dishes, whose compost, who took my, who, who, who. It drove me crazy. I never played the white board game and finally it went away. Away. Relief. But the other morning. Went I went to the bathroom first thing in the am and not only peed but took a shit and I saw that someone in fact had not replaced the tp again- again- and no one was at home- to help me, as I walked around the house with my panties and pj bottoms around my ankles, with an ass that needed a wiping. I thought about how much how much I wanted the white board. The white board to say who took the last of the tp. But the white board was not longer. No longer. I found toilet paper wiped my ass and accepted it. It.

san francisco sin #7, 238- the fumble of going to mcdonald's

The fumbling over the words the words-yes I have gone to Mc Donald’s. Mc Donald’s. The urban San Franciscan guilt, the guilt of the liberal, the pickle of I have read Fast Food Nation. It is in our smirks, in the expression in our hands, in our whispers at the bar. But now we can yell it. Because we all admit we indeed fumbled into Mc Donald’s for breakfast sausage biscuit or maybe chicken nuggets or a cheeseburger. Fumbling in the words because we aren’t supposed to go there- anti-corporation, anti-whole foods movement, anti-small farmers, anti -chemical, anti-local business, anti-San Francisco. We have said it aloud like the sin of Wal-mart or owning a oversized hummer or buying non-organic or leaving lights on or not tipping your barista.

We have broke one of the cardinal sins of going, going to Mc Donald’s. Then the rationalization happens, I say I only go once every two years. Or the guy, the guy we just meet Q says it’s about convenience we had this job, job right next to the Mc Donald’s but I would hide the evidence until my boss found a receipt and reprimanded he was. They build music studios. Studios. He fumbled and went to Mc Donald’s. He fumbled and left the receipt. His boss wrote him up for his own freedom of choice-not free in a place where your decisions must always always reflect the norms of the pc society.

I once read in the paper would you judge me if I had a vanilla milkshake from Mc Donald’s. I thought I wouldn’t unless you went there every day. Every day. We are sitting at the bar and are now bonding over the fact we will admit out loud we have gone to Mc Donald’s. Mc Donald’s armed with the information it is bad and wrong and now we might be bad and wrong. Remember when our choices were easy, easier. And the liberal educated guilt didn’t silence our real wants and desires because once in a while a cheeseburger from Mc Donald’s won’t kill me. I fumbled and admitted it but in the bonding over being radical in a place that used to be. We decided we should go to Mc Donald’s. Not then but another time. Another time.

I understand the marketing, the marketing for the happy meals and the kids I watch beg me to take me there for the toys. But I would rather take them to in and out or barney’s or somewhere more real. But is my liberal conscious depriving them from their God given right to a happy meal. My friend N would lose her job as a nanny if she took the kids she watched to McDonalds. Get fired. Donzo. Extreme you would think. But now McDonalds is wrong but overpriced couches and personal assistants and needed a nanny when you don’t work is just fine. Just fine.

I am fumbling, fumbling, fumbling over my choices because they usually support the local, the real, the organic, but sometimes by falling falling into the gray of the black and white of choices is where we learn. Learn. Learn. I learned from the two guys at the bar that they sneak McDonalds sometimes too. A fumble maybe. But there is a cheer, a cheer of acknowledgement between strangers at a bar.

Our local bar. With local beer. With local folks. Like you and me. Local. Fumble. Might be whole foods down the street.

the science behind the census of our flesh and blood

we are at three months of this journey of me sharing myself, my writing, and my blog. thanks so much for reading and sharing and please keep coming back and share with others! i am beyond humbled by the positive feedback and those who have become daily readers. . .

have an amazing weekend. and as always all my thanks!

another ten minute quick write- the prompt flesh and blood turned into the science behind the census of our flesh and blood. enjoy!

Flesh and blood. The flesh and blood is supposed to matter more. But it doesn’t. Not always. The family that you have inherited may not be the family you desire. Desire. But still you forgive more, more because they are flesh and blood. As they forgive you of course. Forgive you and welcome you without a moment’s notice and remember things about you that you have forgotten and would have forgotten without the reminder.

Remember when, remember when kate threw up pink. Pink at the ice cream shop because she choked on the bubble gum ice cream. Do they even make that anymore? Probably not, since too many kids choked on it in the 80’s. My aunt tells this story with humor in her eyes- it was funny after we realized you could breath of course, because you barfed pink and pink was your favorite color. It was my favorite color. But then I hated it. Hated it and then gradually I let in back into the repertoire like I allowed tomatoes and pears and yogurt once I decided that my childhood dislikes weren’t mine for a life time.

Flesh and blood. They tell you who you are, who they think you are, and that they love you. Remember when katie would say rubber eggs and rubber butter about her play kitchen, with this speech impediment boston like that speech therapy would mend and fix. Fix. Flesh and blood. Your flesh and blood is the pounding of your heart and head and your genetic makeup but the ability to love and drive you insane is so innate it’s a wonder it’s all a wonder. Because I have friends. Friends that are like flesh and blood. The friends have become my family. My family my flesh and blood of choice. Which when you make the choice sometimes you feel like you did better. Do better than the choices made for you. You.

Because I didn’t choose a crazy conservative 3,000 dollar suit wearing label whore look at me brother. But then he does the best thing and shows up in a way you need him to. And then you would choose him in a second. A second. But then you remember the shoe rules and the patio rules and the rules driven by the ocd and order and denial and you hate him again. I wouldn’t have choosen a mother who couldn’t be one. Be one. Be one entirely or for a lifetime. But I couldn’t choose anything different because who would I be without her. Without her being my mother.

I would haven’t chosen these people to call family but then they are my flesh and blood. They are part of me and when I choose my flesh and blood I find family that is present and there and shows up in ways that my genetic counterparts just can’t . They can’t. There is a beauty in the cards you are dealt in flesh and blood but the choice is in who you choose to be your flesh and blood of friendship because. Because the choice, the choice of family, the way your family, family is, is all yours to decide. To decide. I decided my flesh and blood. My own flesh and blood. My own for a lifetime.

champange hands

so it was not intended that i would write /post about cocaine twice in a week but this is the piece my teacher choose to post on creative caffeine as my best piece written last week. another ten minute quick write- so without further ad0. . . champagne hands.

http://creativecaffeine.blogspot.com/2010/06/bubbling-over-kate-bueler.html

gentrification is the new cocaine

The secret that would have ended everything. Everything. Brought it all to the end. Was. Was the emptiness of this party. This lifestyle-this work hard play hard. Play hard work hard life style. Lifestyle. See some can be appeased by the big paycheck and the limitless lines of coke or the bottles of whiskey passed amongst friends or any of it or all of it. Because. Because. Because. As I looked around at this party, party it wasn’t a big blowout at night of some great celebration because I can get that but on a Sunday afternoon, at 2:30pm, in the afternoon at a barbeque, I am indeed at a loss. I mean call me crazy but a good bbq for me is two hotdogs, some chips, and maybe a guy’s number. I didn’t realize that it would entail the not so secret bumps down the hall. The whisper in the ear, the ear so very not a secret, but then the smile and wrinkle of the eyes and the familiar walk down the hallway. They always think it’s a secret but it’s not. Never is. Back before you know it and the rubbing of the teeth, the twitches.

The secret that would have ended everything is that it is not a secret at all. We are in this glass house of late twenty something’s thirty something’s, I shouldn’t throw rocks I know I shouldn’t. The secret that would have ended everything is that this is as empty as you can get. Can get. It all means nothing but it somehow has became their everything. I almost played a game of stand on one foot and pick up a paper bag with your mouth. But then I thought of the dentistry. The tooth I just got fixed and I passed. A guy named B, my formers _____ name, tried to tell me I was special and touch my ass. I passed on that too. I glanced at the couch to see the gloss glaze of too many beers wrapped in a bow of some type of drugs overpriced like their time and I know I could bang each one and I pass on that too.

The secret that would have ended everything is that meaning, meaning, meaning meant everything. Everything and this meant nothing. Nothing at all. Because let’s talk about how I am helping the neighborhood (deep in the Mission) the host announces at 150 lbs wet and in his khaki shorts- how his gentrification ways are good for his brown neighbors because they are rich now because of me. He then takes a bump up his nose. Alive again. So dead to me. Dead to me. I bite my tongue until, until I say do you believe in Adam Smith too. Half the circle gives me crickets. Adam Smith is confused by someone else they met, they laid, they bought something off of. Invisible to them. Then one lawyer guy tall and goofy and somewhat ogre like who had cilantro in his tooth until I told him. Said I believe in the invisible hand. Of course you do. I say you are a lawyer you have to. A woman asked if we had a tampon- we didn’t, she said this always happens when I roll. If something made me bleed from my vagina other than my womanhood- I might stop. Just saying.

The secret that would have ended everything. Ended everything. A guy told me in his plaid. Plaid- that is was unique for a hipster it was from barney’s. The secret that would have ended everything. Everything was the secret. The secret. The secret that they all were searching for. Searching for sobriety. Sober to see it all. It all. That a search for the freedom in this type of freedom would be. Would be a bunch of people pretending. Pretending. The secret that would have ended everything. Everything. I was throwing a rock. A rock in their opaque houses. I didn’t care. Care because my house was glass. Glass translucent. You can see me in it. I couldn’t see them. Them at all.

hey hot stuff- what's in your u-haul?

Pairing up. The pairing up it is so easy. It has been, hasn’t it? But the staying paired up is the hard part. The beginning stages of the laughter around the room of childhood, my friend likes you, he thinks your cute has became mini-crushes of adulthood, some more serious then others. Sometimes in the room of a party and the whispered hushes of he is cute. Or she is. And the pairing up. The pairing up it is easy in the beginning or at least it should be. Because if it isn’t easy in the beginning it never will be. Never will it be.

The pairing up. Once I decide that I have chosen my partner and the dance of attraction, lust, begins into limboing into my heart my head. The beginning part of pairing up how much I truly love it. How much I might love it more than the love itself. Because the pairing up and staying. Staying put is hard.

In the pairing up- intensity happens and conversations about where we are each other separately, together are going. When I pair up- I nod my head and listen with my eyes but I don’t listen. Don’t listen. Because they always tell you where they are and what they can give. But in the pairing up I think it will be different. Different. When he told me- don’t ask where this is going, going I just want to have fun but I didn’t think I’d feel this way. I can’t commit. Or when another said, Kate I can’t do this but want to to. Or when the second to last time, he told me to be patient that he was emotional mess but just needed time. If he was somewhere else I would be his girlfriend. Girlfriend. Grayness into blackness of the defining us. I never listened, not really. The truth was there and I didn’t have to take the turn around the dance floor with them sometimes a few sometimes more to figure it out. Listening. Dancing. Spinning.

So this time, this time around when he told me he was damaged and sorry that he was. I decided that although pairing up is so fun and so much worth living. That I might just want to listen when someone told. Told me they were damaged. Because they were telling the truth. The truth. They usually do. But we don’t listen. I never listen because I believe it will be different that what we carry in our u-haul won’t stop the potential of a lust/love affair. But it will. It will.

We will go along pairing up until we hit, hit that spot of again of the damage. But I told you Kate he would say. But I didn’t want to listen. Because the truth is we all are damaged, we are. We are have a u-haul behind us in tow. We do. Some a mini trailer, some just a van, some the smallest truck and the others that take up half the block. It’s not the u-haul and it’s existence that kills the pairing up. It’s knowing what is inside and who is driving. It’s knowing how to pack some of the contents out and put them in storage or give them away entirely. To feel lightness. To let go.

I drive my u-haul. I know what is inside. Believing that it will work. Work out is inside. It’s inside. But listening to the want for that can’t diminish the damage and the truth someone will say to you. If you will listen. Listen. This time I listened.