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have a great weekend and thanks so much for reading! i am in the fuzz of advil pm i took at 4 am because i couldn't sleep. note to self: sleep aids work so well i might still be asleep while posting this.Make believe of adulthood has transformed into forgotten super heros costumes and play fights and lava around the bed into pretending, the faking it until you make it mantra. We all make believe but somehow the creativity of our younger wonder years can be lost in the this thing call adultness.
Being an adult is overrated. If I had only known what was to come I would have stayed in the tree house of childhood longer. I might not had rushed so hard to be an adult and make adult decisions. I might had taken longer to get through the connection from being the child to the adult of college. I might have done a lot of things. But one thing I do know is that I might have built to stay in the comfort of simplicity and lightness of being kate b. in school written upon my books. Because a whole month I was late exiting the womb. And still didn’t want to get out. They had induce my exit into the world through medication pleading me the little one to enter, enter the world of adults. Idealist I was from the beginning.Adulthood is is the responsibility that weighs you down. The inability to give the task to someone else. So as I make believe in my own way, putting on the right dress, and making sure I look the way I should. I am making believe that I haven’t been couch and bed surfing this last week. I am pretending that stress didn’t stop me from eating and sleeping. For I am in an abyss of the solitude of fear and anger and uncertainty all occurring in my home. My landlord nightmare. Monday I was swimming in lake tahoe and by Tuesday I was calling the cops on him due to his threats. Bookmarked the week with an art gallery and a few beers. Because I have to make believe that I am okay. That it will be okay. I got to fake it as I make it. And as I walk into the hipster flat turned into art gallery, I look in the faces most with unruly beards and eyes dilated, as I scan down to the tats art within itself, then the fanny packs, and tight jeans, and biker hats turned upward. I know we are all making believe. In the best way we can. I look around the room of art. Random photo of boobs and butts and beds and scenery and birds all lined up in neat rows. I make believe to look and really understand. Instead I am thinking what if that was my rack upon this wall? And I didn’t know until. Until right now.
We walk outside through the house that is part of the installation. We are out. The air feels good upon my face. PBR and Tecate cans in one hand and burrito in another is the uniform at this party. A dude actually pulled out his balls in the bathroom line to show his friends. Forgetting we are no longer in elementary school of privates comparison. My friend recognized him as her neighbor. And once she said something to him, he promptly replied as he put away his balls one and two, well you recognize me then. Making believe we are grown-ups, some of us are just better at it than others.One man with a beard that needs a trim with a hoodie and burrito double fisted with both his hands interrupts my conversation and says as he sways, have you bought my book yet? No what is it about? I inquisitively respond. It’s about being fucked up on alcohol and drugs. How original- no one has done one that before-comes back up like bad milk spewed upon his face. I start laughing too loud. He laughs too. I am making believe. Believe I belong here. Here.
this was written from the prompt-frozen. you never know where it will take you- from frozen food to family dinners to raising siblings. enjoy and thanks for reading!
Frozen. Frozen food. Frozen tv dinners. It used to be a treat. A treat of my childhood to choose my Stouffer's meal of tuna casserole or lasagna that we baked in the oven. Before the luxury of the microwave. The luxury to make anything in under a few minutes. Frozen food was a treat. Tv dinners were a treat. Going out to eat was the exception to the rule of my family. We ate the homemade meals put in front of us each evening. No grimaces. No ask for anything else. You got what you got. And you crossed your fingers nothing would spill and no one might choke or get upset. But we still sat down together.
Together and eventually when I got old enough I had to always call and let them know the status- would I be coming home or not. Or not. Dinnertime was interesting. While I became a teenager- my hair puff in the front of my hair became deflated, my glasses turned into mini lenses that fit in my eyes and the my braces fell away. I was the focus of dinner. The dinner time once kind of a peaceful time until the toddler antics of my brother then the lull and my teenage years crashed into our dinner table. For some reason in the tension of the push and pull of a teenager wanting to be a adult- is where the conflicts of power, struggle, and independence came to a head. God damn it my father would yell after I had pushed his button so long that he couldn’t take it. I left the dinner table of my own choice and my own banishment more often than not. It was something that happened around the oak table with white legs me and my brother on one side-my dad and stepmom on the other. The adults v. the kids. That fueled the fire. I started it more often than not. We fought over privileges and politics and me not being grounded. The unfairness of my ability to creatively think and negotiate. This went on until I left, left for college.
But by the time I returned, the limelight was now my brother’s- he was in the one-man show of rebellion- he shot high. High in ways no one dreamt. My role had changed to the motherly older sister who was trying to help my parents. I should have sat on their side. But no longer I was the focus. My brother never listened. He went to the beat of his own drum. Pounding in a beat so irregular and loud and sporadic we all were holding our ears and rocking back and froth for it to stop. But it never really has. The tempo slows down sometimes, the beat you get used to it and then the roaring banging of pots and pans again. He wasn’t just rebelling against my dad, he was rebelling against me.
It is hard, hard to have not birthed a child but have to help raise one. Raise one at the ripe age of 9. A child raising a child the only way I knew how. I loved him. I mothered him. But did I do it wrong. Did I hold him too tight? Did I tell him how and what to believe? Did I made a mistake? How can a motherless child raise her sibling? I did. I did have mother figures after she went away, my grandmother, and aunts, and stepmother. But nothing is like the embrace of your mother. A love irreplaceable. My love wasn’t a mother’s but it was a sister’s love, love for my brother to be held and feel love. Love that I once felt from my mother. That I mothered him the best way I could. Could as a child.
Playing it cool. I am playing cool on a small tight compacted plane. Playing it cool by remembering to take the prescribed relaxation at the right time. About 20 minutes before the flight. Flying I used to do it all the time. Now yearly. Now every few months. Not every week. Every week being sent to a new place. A new place to try and connect a dc non profit to the state system. It never tied nicely into a bow. Playing it cool in the tightness of my seat- fake leather- seat change for someone else- but still the aisle. I am always in the aisle unless, unless no one sits next to me. I like the freedom to get out whenever I want without the excuse me. And the wait of the neighbor’s movement. The crampness of the tightness of the plane, I feel on my chest as I begin to heat up. Before the drips of cooling off happens, I find the artificial air knob to the lefty lossie. Air sprays on my face. Playing it cool. I am on the first flight ever to last only 20 minutes. It is the first time I am going on a family vacation with an extended family derived from my mother. Playing it cool. It is the first time I am sitting next to a New Jersey firefighter. He wears the appropriate uniform of muscles underneath his shirt and speaks in his accent. He has wrinkles of the shore on his face. His clothes prescribed for a firefighter just preppy enough but not too much. 
Playing it cool. I like to talk to people. People all the time really but especially when I am nervous. I am nervous now. Now I am. Sometimes the fear of the confined space leaves but now, now it does not. I am playing it cool as I begin the back and forth teeter tooter of discussion of who are you, where are you going, where have you been. We only have 20 minutes. I am still hot. And uncomfortable. Let’s cover your bio quickly. As we talk, I can tell in the subtleness in between the chatter in the silences I can feel his glance my way. I can feel more words moving around his head brewing into audible noises. I know he is attracted to me. I am might be to him. I am not sure. Playing it cool. The more I talk I forget, forget about the uncomfortableness of this plane, of this aisle, of the air. I forget. When we get in the discussion of what do you do. Writing comes in. I learn something about him that given my own fear of anxiety of confined spaces I would have never learned. He too has an earring problem. He currently has a collection of women's' earrings at his house. He is a firefighter of course. I am sure he is popular with the ladies. Firefighters and professional athletes and any one with enough fame and power make women forget their first names and that they might have something to do other then open their legs. Some women chase power only in those that they bone. Others search for power on their own two feet.He has an earring problem. He doesn’t collect those earrings on purpose- begging or ripping them off the ears of those he beds. No they leave them behind. They leave them behind as I do, as I have done. Done. But no one asks for them back he says. Why? Why don’t they ask. I always ask for them back. I say. Why do you leave them, why do they leave them. And why do they never ask for them back. I don’t know. I always ask for mine back. I always do. I am intrigued by this man with an earring collection of his own. His own personal history of women who he had conquered or vice versa but never came back for seconds or thirds and never and never do they collect their leftovers of their earrings. They leave those behind. And just as I ask for the earrings every time I leave them behind at a lovers. He never throws them away. Never does he throw them away. We all can’t let go. Let go for different reasons. But holding onto to what is ours and theirs so much that sometimes we forget why. Why we hold onto these things, things that could be forgotten. Things that could have been. Different. In playing it cool you learn everyone has collections. Each one is different and unique but collections of our shoots at love are just so hard to throw away. Away.
hi folks- sorry i have been mia but i went straight from beautiful tahoe to nightmare called a new landlord who thinks the law doesn't pertain to him. so long story short- i am back but had to be a legal eagle instead of writing, blogging, and playing the way i like. but rest assure i am back and the stories of ridiculousness in the landlord arena might appear here in the near future. just some highlights like when the cops came and briefly discussed the issue then hung out at my place for 30 minutes and discussed drinking and handcuffs. believe me they lead that conversations- me and the girls just laughed. because how to kick out the cops? nice-right?
Doing their homework. That wasn’t part of job description. So never have I done it. But I don’t fit the typical description of a nanny. It turned out someone else should have done her homework. Because I used to have a chip on my shoulder about being paid help. But I don’t now. I don’t.
I used to hate how the mom’s would separate into two camps at the school functions and at the performances and the soccer practices. The first camp would befriend me and learn my name and treat me like a human being. The other camp, the 2nd, I refer to them as the assholes, would ignore me, refer to me as Y and K nanny, being introduced 10 times and never once looking me in the eyes. Because I was the help. It used to make my blood boil and I wanted to pull my framed Columbia oh shit I never framed it but I wanted to pull out that diploma. And shove in their faces. Yes I am like you. Or I went to school too. Or I am human. I wanted to give them the prerequisites of the social order of belonging in the world of privilege. Give them my passport of all the cities I lived, all the jobs I had.
I hated being the help. I am a rarity a white educated above 30 nanny. Think if I was a person of color I might have been the leper of urbanity. I used to care. But I stopped. Because because I realized the judgment has nothing to do with me. Because half these women don’t work and half of them get help in raising their offspring. If they choose not to see me, I choose to see them always. Always saying hi and smiling and being jovial because honey always works better than vinegar. Oh it does. I am a domestic like my great grandmother who immigrated at 17 to my neighborhood. She lived a few blocks away doing the same job. The same job of raising other peoples children, part-time. I realized I have freedoms that I never have.
Time to write and lunch and do things I never could do in the office. The children, the freedom of them allowed me to be free of the second camps eyes and raised brows upon their too skinny stature frames for a woman over 40. Judgment might be theirs but freedom is mine. Free to have the luxury to assist someone else in raising great children. Luxury to just be without the credentials. Nothing to prove. Except people should do their homework. Their homework. They should know I matter without the shiny ivy league badge. They should have studied harder that we all matter and the openness of San Francisco has closed their minds to the humanity in front of them. But for me. They are human. Human-failed as I am. In trying to do someone else’s homework. Cheating myself from what could really be. What they could be. My eyes look back to my paper. It’s only for me to do. I don’t need to cover my answers but I don’t need to put the A upon their faces. The pissing contest is over for me. I do my homework. And only pee indoors in toilets. Except it is an emergency or I am camping of course. Rules about homework and peeing all change in the outdoors. They must.
this week has been light because i am going on my 3rd and i think last getaway for the month and the summer. i am blogging from the oh my god i can't believe my view, i think i just pissed my pants of excitement in a beyond wonderful home in the tahoe keys. i have fallen in love with bloody mary's and seeing the lake upon me waking up.here is my psa announcement to people who give love advice to strangers unsolicited. it was fourth of july and i was pissed. now i am not but the sentiment still lives on. it was written from the prompt i am love. have a great weekend and all my thanks for sharing in my trials and tribulations through this thing we call life. okay back to the beach. . .I am love. I am love. Love to me to you is not entirely the same. I wish I could have said more elegantly piss off to the fat lady at the bbq. She conveniently over tanned with permanent lipstick too bright. See I want love like any lady or man and I have beat myself up in the game of why don’t relationships work for me in the long term. I have analyzed, I have therpaized, I have tried to make sense of it all. So when the fat lady at the bbq says why can’t you find someone? Well she yells across the bbq without even introducing herself interrupting a conversation. I wish I would have told her. Her some dieting advice. Because my “weakness” is being a spinster or a singleton but I don’t go around giving diet advice to fat people. No I let them be fat. Because let’s face it, it really is none of my business.Do I tramp around the pool shaking my muscular ass and yoga-toned body and say I can eat whatever I like? No. Because I am love. I desire love like everyone but. But to be told. Why can’t you find someone? Do you try? Have you tried online dating or eharmony? Do you even want to get married? The spitfire of judgment- she doesn’t care about my answers. I just don’t fit into her world of perfectly matched couples. Throw my glass into her pool.She stands now up from her perch. She has on sunglasses and white terry visor with a rather large terry cover-up to boot. She stands up and walks closer. Her boobs take up more real estate than her legs. One boob probably weighs as much as my calf and knee. She walks closer to tell me. You know the older you get it is harder to find someone. Coming closer with her cautionary tale of the fear of aloneness, a woman alone. Oh dear. Oh my. The travesty. Closer almost a whisper. Do you know once you are over thirty it goes does down and the chances are less and less?I stare at this woman who didn’t bother to introduce herself in all her knowledge of 60 years spewing on a stranger. Next please I want to say. Instead- do you really want to tell me this statistics? Well I don’t know how old you are. I nabbed my husband at 19 and we got married before college was through. See this lady doesn’t know shit about finding love in the real world. Beyond the age of 19. There are some statistics I could slam her way like how lucky she made it- given that most marriages that start that young don’t anymore. I would have told her the higher the age of the first marriage, the more chance you might make it. I would have thrown in some stats on obesity and fat around the middle too.I am love. I do want love. I was a leper for this lady. No success for me because I don’t have love, not in her eyes. But I do. I have. A stranger. A stranger spewing advice but hit at the core of my insecurity. Because I do want a partner and husband one day. I do want love. A love that lasts longer than I have. I do want children. And my fear is time might be running out for me. I know it’s irrational. But I have enough yells and screams in my own head about making the right choices in the love department I just don’t need to hear it from a judgmental bitch that hasn’t lived. My life. See it would have been like me giving her dieting advice unsolicited. It doesn’t matter what I have done, or did, or what I have accomplished I am zero without a man, a family. I want those things. One day. But a lifetime is a long time and I want to not settle for something just to have something. I would have done anything for a set of balls and a penis to avoid this abuse.I am love. I do want love. But for now I a free agent. Trying on shoes before buying sometimes taking them out for a spin. I am love. I will find love. Love that will be more. More than this. More than that. With a man who would never speak to me in a condescending tone in front of strangers or alone or in silence. Contempt he will not have for me. So this is my psa keep your advice to yourself unless you are ready to hear some truth unloaded about your fat ass. I mean you do try don’t you to lose weight? I mean you do want to lose weight don’t you?
Don't tell me twice. Don’t tell me twice. That it is stupid. I know this of course. Of course I know this. But it’s not something I need to be told. Out loud. For I already know. I have known. Known all along. So. I only told someone as not to lie anymore. To myself. To you. To anyone. So how does one get this the first time around? So how does one get this a second time around?
Don’t tell me twice. It’s stupid to have unprotected sex. I know that of course I know. And it usually isn’t a problem. A problem for me. Me it isn’t. It isn’t something I do. Do until I usually know someone. Someone. But how well do we know anyone? Anyone. So I had unprotected sex with someone. Someone I probably shouldn’t. Shouldn’t have. Don't tell me twice. I already know. I already know. Now it was someone I knew. Someone I had been dating for awhile. But it happened. And the good news was. The good news was it was only the beginning. Not the end. The end could make all the difference.
Don't tell me twice. I know I could still be pregnant. I know about the possibilities- and the pre-ejaculation stuff- and all the things I am supposed to. Because those are easy to know. But to actually take them into consideration, consideration all the time, all the time is hard. Hard it is to be rational during sex. During sex to be rational is like to ask a woman to stop her love for chocolate or chips or good conversation when she most needs it- yay right.
So I fear pregnancy. Not because I really think I am pregnant. Because not once have I been. Don't tell me twice-I know birth control works-for I almost always use it. Use it. When I tell my acupuncturist that I am feeling emotional and she asked me could I be pregnant. I say well yes but no. And then as I lay back as I am poked with the needles in the same spot to calm my mind, to ease the pain in my mouse hand, to stop the possible headache, and to ground me. I wonder, I wonder what if I am pregnant? What if I am pregnant?
When I hit IKEA later with my friend and she drags me literally drags me to Wal-mart. Because I stopped going to Wal-mart- I am a good educated liberal of course. It is a sin, a sin one must not commit. Killing someone might be okay- but going to Wal-mart unforgivable. I decide instead of allowing this to play around in my head on the ping pong table or pin ball around, that I will find out in this Wal-mart, this Wal-mart bathroom in Oakland if I am pregnant or not. Pregnant or not. How white trash? How worth writing about? Producing material while going through the motions as not to freak myself out. Freak myself out. Because peeing on a pregnancy test on Wal-mart isn’t scary. I don’t feel alone. Think how many women have peed on the test and waited and waited and waited. Wait I did. Wait I will to be pregnant that is.
My father leans over our family home’s kitchen sink as he cuts the raw meat into pieces. The flesh raw and bloody but I know with some tlc and recipeing it will be soon the tri-tip I call home. He is cutting away. As he listens to the pounding of the television against my ears. The beloved fox news. It is always too loud. It is always too o’reilly. It always is. Fucking annoying. He cuts the meat and attentively stares at the tv yelling at certain times. Then asking me questions about things I don’t know about because I stopped watching the news. I stopped watching the news after the doom of the economy the sky was falling was my reality so I no longer needed to read about it. I am learning a lot and nothing from these stories.
My father just got done. Just got done showing us his legs that are swollen. Swollen from we aren’t sure what. But they are turning black and blue. My father once a marathon runner, once a all night over time worker supporting his family of four, my father who was a father- a single father at one time- who used to ride his bike from Sonoma County to Marin to work- has a host of the al a carte of residual issues due to two work related injuries. Injuries he was lucky to survive. But with the cocktail of medicine of the morphine and the codeine and the oxycontin, his body doesn’t operate- it doesn’t work as it once did. His legs are swollen we think due to salt. But he hasn’t even had much salt. At least not today. Have you drank water? she asks him. Have you rested your feet?
My father stands there hunched over full of remorse for a body that has betrayed him. I chime in when appropriate. Because who wants people telling you what to do to get better when all you want to do is get better. Better. He is hunched over in the doorway between the deck where P and me reside and his room. The phone rings interrupting our family meeting time of how to get healthy once again. If it is for me. Tell them I am dead he sighs. I start laughing not my snort laugh but my quiet non-dorky laugh not of my ancestry but my own. I can’t stop laughing. I don’t know why I am.
Until P explains her voice lightly to the person on the other line that my dad is supposed to be dead but she thinks he can take the call. The call for a potato recipe, his potato recipe. He is awakened again and breathing and reciting the potato salad once his mothers but now his with the dashes and spices of his own make. His own liking. Then I am shaking. Shaking with the laughter because my dad said he was dead but is alright with the potato salad recipe giving. Giving. I guess we all trying to give enough but we don’t know how. And sometimes the humor. The humor of self-deprecation and total defeat is our only solace. For now. For ever. As he hangs up the phone, You can’t give that recipe to anyone, unless they pull out your finger nails out of course. I sit on the deck and look through the sliding glass door the tv into his world. He starts to cut the meat. A smirk of a cook who knows. Knows the recipes by heart.
Making it up as I go along. As I found a new home in the driver seat for the first time in my parents red Toyota truck extended cab, now my father sits in my regular spot in the passenger seat. But he is no passenger. And I am no driver.
Driving. I had to make it up as I went along. I think the driving, the driving is tough but you add to the equation of puberty rite of passages-a stick shift, your father, and sweat dripping down your back. Well that is not a pretty site. As I drove and continued to listen and remember the book manual of how to drive and the class I took, my dad begins slowly to bark the orders. The push and pull of the clutch and my foot and the balance of the brake and gas, I wish I had another foot. Just to drive with. Too many balls in the air to juggle at 15 and a half with the pressure of success and the start and stop and hydraulics of cars left to the LBC or rappers or low riders. They look cool in the mtv music videos when mtv actually played videos and not exclusively reality tv junk food. But my dad isn’t amused at the soundtrack of let me ride in the background, he is more the baseball game or oldies or sixty drug music more his style.
Kate do it again. I start and stop and jerk. Shit. This is much harder than I thought. He starts to get louder as he barks. Just make this car go. Go. Without the killing. Of the gas. Again. Again. I push in the clutch and begin, begin the gas to overpower at first. I feel the drips of sweat becoming a waterfall, my father is yelling too much gas. I can’t do this I start to let go of the gas, the gas until the clutch comes slowly open as my book. Slowly it is happening, the yelling, the driving, I am in first but the second part is coming more easily. Shift he yells. I ram my foot into the clutch again. Moving more with less resistance on the stream of my driving. I am going now not a rapid white water rafting pace but going nonetheless. The sweat is still there. How to stop. How to go. And stop at the same time.
I am thankful for my learning how to drive stick. Stick in a world where most women don’t. It like the typing classes I took in public schools- it might be some of the best skills given to me in jr. high and high school. Other than how not to get my ass beat or asked to dances or how to get elected to something and get away with drinking at dances and tping all the popular kids houses. I knew those well too.
It wasn’t until my ass had parked itself in the driver seat of a BMW, my usual home of the Toyota Corolla automatic. I open the sunroof and the windows and drive with power and control and juice and control and more power than I was used to. I am more thankful than ever I could drive stick so I could inherit my employer’s car for a moment or moments.
As I drive up the hills, there is an acceleration and movement of before but now older, older I am. Sweat is gone. Father isn’t next to me. But still with me. It is like riding a bike. I had forgotten the fun of the newness of it. Of new toys. Of new things. Until. I drove stick again. Again up the hill. I like the going but the stopping and parking. Parking. Standing still- I am still working on and making it up as I go along.
alright party people i'm back from the mountains and back online. in my week at home in the sticks still with internet and cell service surprisingly i did a lot while relaxing. i taught my parent's newly adopted dog how to swim, we saved a baby turkey but lost it when bird rescue went mia on us, i survived both a born again church service, fox news near my ears, and a crazy lady giving me dating advice at a bbq. i also had a love affair with one of chelsea handler's book and decided i needed to increase my sodium intake to 4 hot dogs a week. i was glad for the wilderness and family time but now i'm back in the city and without further ado- here is a quick write from the prompt- taking care of it.
Taking care of it. We have begun to take care of it. Lately we have. Me and my partner crime of my fellow nanny, my fellow survivor from accidents and crazy families and raising siblings and parenting parents. We take care of it. We always do. But lately we have been taking care of the bar. It is this new thing. We roll in by ourselves and we roll out with new friends, new numbers, and texts about how we will have to do it all again. It all started a night not too long ago. Where we parked ourselves in two bar stools ordered our beers and ate our sausages. We usually just talk to one another but. But this time the ratio was in our favor, more guys per capita and most woman taken, 7 ft tall or lesbians. So score. They kept paying us visits. Round one, round two, round three, round I lost count. It seemed so easy to sit at the bar and the men came to us so easily. Taking care of it is what we do during the day. During our day job. And sometimes in our respective families. But now we were taking care of it. Taking care of it. We are running our own show of fun. Our own show of laughter and touches and chugging and standing still and talking of something and nothing and laughing. Always laughing.So the other night, the other night at the bar on her birthday we took care of it once again. I wasn’t sure if her growing definition of a boyfriend would cock block our party of male attention. No he didn’t. We befriended our pool mates. By screaming loudly and inappropriately in the bar. Woooooo! They started to join in before long. After each play or shot in the wooo hoo! Loud obnoxious inappropriate but people are smiling including the rugged, the reggae, the women, and the men. Breaking the rules so much fun. Taking care of running the table. Running the bar. I like this game. Shaking of the hips and point our fingers up to dance. I yell whose your mama to a guy I don’t know who was just on jeopardy. Everyone is rolling. Next we shake our asses next to the balls to make sure they don’t win. Don’t score. We aren’t even drunk. We just are taking care of it. Taking care of the fun. They let lose too. Shaking their asses and other downstairs movements. Whose your uncle? Jeopardy guy yells. Laughing again.Somewhere between the hooting and hollering and saying random things we are all friends. One guy is a psychiatrist at san quentin. He tells me I talk to a lot of girls but you seem to know more than most. Thanks I think I will be here all week tip your waitresses. What a sad state of affairs than a shrink can’t find a smart woman to date. But how fun it is to take care of it in this night and make friends with shrinks at san quentin and guys who wins things on jeopardy. By taking care of it and just being fools is how you really do it. By being the loud one, by saying watch your privates or vagina when the pool stick gets too close. It usually is darker and i am not in a bar and I have had more to drink- when jeopardy guy gets too close to my world of my vagina with the pool stick feet away but too close for comfort. Watch your vagina becomes the new tag line of this round of pool. Taking care of it. Is just taking care, care in it. In it. Even if it seems stupid or ridiculous or childish. Taking care of it is playing pool with strangers who become your friends, friends for the night.
gone fishing, swimming, sleeping, eating, reading into the mountains and refugee of home. this is being blogged from the foothills of tahoe.i will be on my vacay til next week. enjoy the fourth. as always thanks for reading and sharing in my pain, my joy, and in me figuring it all out very beautifully and awfully at the sometime. come back again soon next week. i’ll be back online by Wednesday.
stay tuned for some good stuff including:
sometimes you meet a jeopardy guy and a shrink from san quentin at the bar
real men & period sex
alcoholic boneslose my email
coming cleanstalking on facebook- google thisdear lover, dear boyfriend
are you going to lunch or is he your boyfriend?
nanny diaries- the real story
equal opportunity dater
you aren’t anybody until you are laid off twice in 3 months
imaginary friends of adulthood
sin of liberalism #7- i went to wal-mart. and bought something.
have a great weekend and thanks so much for reading! i am in the fuzz of advil pm i took at 4 am because i couldn't sleep. note to self: sleep aids work so well i might still be asleep while posting this.
