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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my very own abbreviated quirky list of vices

Based on the quick write from the phrase guilty pleasure- enjoy!

Guilty pleasure. I have many the guilty pleasure. Who doesn’t? It doesn’t matter if you were trademarked with catholic guilt or the woman’s need to be accepted and liked and not rock the boat. We feel guilty in doing what we want, sometimes. Others we glow in it the bask of pleasure and let go of the guilty. For a moment or a second the rays of pleasure permeates into our core until the self talk babble bullshit and rationalization takes us for another round on the merry go round. Here you go.

An excerpt from my guilty pleasures include:

1) A sweet at least once a day- dark chocolate preferred, half a croissant, a full if I get crazy, morning bun, ice cream, chocolate cream pie, frozen yogurt. I just found dark chocolate gogi berries they might the death of me.
2) I buy a coffee out once a day. Even if I have coffee in the house.
3) A drink. At least one most days. It takes the edge off. But where it really gets interesting when I multiply that by a higher number. Pleasure I feel until the guilt seeps in.
4) Chips and Fries. I love those salty things. I have started on the baked kettle train. That might be my saving grace for me and my ass.
5) When I drive. I make sure to turn up the sound too loud, sing off key and for some reason snap my fingers. That might be my dad or whiteness coming out.
6) I know how to find a public bathroom anywhere. And I can get in it and use it no matter what the signage says. Only for costumers doesn’t apply to me. Every fucking time. With our without the kids in tow.
7) I know how to smile and turn up the nice when I have too. I took note when my father told me vinegar didn’t work as well as honey. Works best with men. But I love the accomplishment of stealing that extra chair or getting in on someone’s plug at a café. No one usually denies me. So I feel accomplished in the feat.
8) I sometimes do things like judge someone unmercifully in my head. Like the girl last night with the glitter on her face and fake blonde wig and flight attendant uniform who kept talking about how free she was and how burning man changed her life. The guilty pleasure of talking shit in my head. I don’t feel like a bitch but only for a moment.
9) The play with kids. To know I can play with them and forget what is happening in the craziness of my head or heart or around me in this world. I press pause and we play. Play and I forget. Play and I remember. Remember why.
10) Telling a know it all they are wrong. When they are. Except when I am that said know it all.
11) Saying I love you. Sometimes I say it more for myself to hear the words. For the person to know. I might say it too much. I do feel guilt for not saying it. I do feel pleasure for saying it.
12) I love walking around without a bra in my house. My boobs are just too big to rock outside the confines of my home. But in sf maybe I should. Should tomorrow.
13) Talking to someone I shouldn’t. But still doing it.
14) The guilty pleasure of getting dressed up or wearing yoga pants. Just feeling good in what you are in that moment.
15) Sometimes when I’m in a crowd and can’t exit. I fart and pretend it wasn’t me.
16) Trashy mags and tv- I need junk food for my brain. Not everything can be heavy and these things are not.
17) I flirt when I can. Even if I don’t know if I have any intentions behind that moment. I like listening to people’s conversations and finding a spot in. A spot for me.

confessions of a hoarder in training

hello my friends-thanks for reading. i am shooting for two posts a week now that i am grad school (again) plus other fun stuff i am signed up for so it's the best i can do. but am i writing and will keep doing so. please keep reading- i will try my best to keep it interesting. all my thanks always!


What I found under my bed during my move does warrant a visit from the TLC hoarders show. I have a few friends who observed the aftermath and they might be talking to the producers as we speak. I might be in training or so I think since you could still walk in the room without a mask or a gps but a mix of intervention and hoarders might do me some good.

I used to hide things under my bed when I was younger, homemade lunches I didn’t want to eat, treasures I found in my adventures through the neighborhood, myself during times of hide and seek. Now it would seem underneath my bed has taken on a life of its own and I don’t have the faintest how everything got down there. Sometimes baggage is behind us, sometimes it is just underneath us.
Disclaimer- if you already love me I’m sure you will be okay with this laundry list of imperfection. If you think you might like to- love me or date me or like me this might be a show stopper. But here it is. I am human.

After 1.5 years living in my house I found the following under my bed (make sure you have time this list is embarrassingly long):

6 water bottles varying in side, 3 cups- 2 glass, 1 plastic, tons of feathers from a un-cooperative down comforter- no time outs worked on this one, a pair of slippers (covered in those fucking feathers), 5 socks all mismatched, tampons (ob)all unused., condom wrapper (no contents- it was used but I don’t know when or with who but I have some guesses), 2 books (sederis and chabon), 2 magazines and newspapers- natural health and the guardian, one tupperware, one rice bag (for the sore muscles made for Christmas), one syllabus for a photo journalism class I dropped, vicks vapor rub( from my bout with bronchitis and heartache and applying for grad school, again), 2 business cards for a hair stylist and a chiropractor, change (some unlucky, some not), bobby pins, a package of birth control with just the last row left, pens: 5, candy wrappers: 3, 2 from england one from these states (kashi healthy bar or something like it to make you feel better and then the good stuff two cadburys- european chocolate is the best), receipts, 4 lotions all half full, homeopathic medicine wrappers (the stuff I give to peps to feel better- I am dealer of the natural shit), a bank receipt (don’t read- you might get scared), unknown items: a pill that is undetermined, a pumpkin seed maybe and a ice like looking glass thing smallish, a piece of mail, a parking voucher from downtown where I have therapy when I am too lazy to ride my bike, another plastic cup, one earring (no match), a bottle cap, boa feathers, more feathers, a cranberry pill for my bladder, brown paper bag, lighter, tag from clothes (crossroads), makeup sponges, small brown box, and finally with much ado hand sanitizer, the natural and lavender flavor.

Currently what is under my bed: nothing. But I have only been here in my new place for 2 and half weeks. Give me time. I wouldn’t want those camera crews to have nothing to film once they get here.

you haven’t lived until you go barefoot on a city street

Going barefoot. I am barefoot right now as I sit upon my pillow-lined chair placed there by me in my emergency dress bought in the OC but really it was a nightgown. Who knew? It was the cheapest thing to buy at the anthropologie. I have a hoodie around me to keep me warm in this newfound fog not forgotten for long. But I am barefoot. Barefoot with my two feet resting on each other. My left in the crease of my right finding a home between my big and second toe comforting each other as they do.

The other day as I walked across the street to my car. I was going barefoot. And in that moment as I walked across church street I remembered how nice it felt. How nice it feels. I wasn’t looking for memories of days past as I walked down my wooden stoop softly patting my way to the sidewalk and then braving the street slightly diagonal. I walked pausing for each train track-one and two-and then I reached my car. See I crossed the street without shoes, going barefoot I was, but I did it because I left my shoes in the car.

In the process of a move-your shit is scattered everywhere- quarter of my wardrobe was in my house in noe, the other in my new place, and probably the other half in that car or lost somewhere in space. But as I walked across that street-that street that was mine for awhile-I borrowed if it for awhile. I felt the coldness of each material as I walked in the morning. The freshness that is exiting on this city street. In the morning. While going barefoot. The texture of the wood of my stairs warmer than the sidewalk but not as icy as that asphalt of the road. But if felt good and refreshing and it reminded me of going barefoot.

I used to do it all the time. Through my neighborhood, through my house, I even tried it at school, the park wherever. Going barefoot until my black feet of my travels could be seen by all. There is something to be said for the safety of walking barefoot, barefoot in a city and not being scared. Scared of what is to come. See you don’t remember how it feels or how it felt and how it was part of you until you wrap many layers on to hide away from feeling the ground under your feet. I wish I could walk barefoot more often maybe always. But if I did I would long for the feeling of newness that I have forgotten.

I will reserve it to my bed-the two feet rest on each other as lovers, my house as wood of the old house pushes back on me as I walk on it, at yoga against my mat as I hold the poses and stretch my toes wider than when walking, at the park on my blanket and maybe brave the grass dampness of dew or city sludge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have the perfect manicured feet, the nail polish greenish like a mermaid now rubbing off. I take off those shoes. When I can. When I want to. Going barefoot.

summer begins in my home, my home of weirdos

have a good weekend folks!

Summer’s end. As the summer ends here it doesn’t-it just turns the page into more summer or our summer it would seem. See we don’t live in a normal place. A place with a typical schedule of the weather. Weather people do not bask in the regularity of our lows and highs for it will be 95 one day and 55 the next. The unpredictability makes it so when it’s nice- when sun is shining in the am. The am. When there is no fog protection or breeze a building you best get your ass outside and quick. Because it might be gone tomorrow.

It might be the only way to live in this city. And get enough vitamin D. Get enough sun to grow your roots. Get enough play in. Because the sporadic piece of our weather- I would love to be a weather person by the way the ability to never be held responsible for your predictions would be amazingly great. The sporadic weather is reflective of here and now of the summers end now beginning into the summer again.

Because the rest of the country mourns the loss of summer-it is just our beginning. Just like in other places people might where clothes during the day- thanks random naked man walking around the castro with a black backpack and small flaccid penis and shoes. Shoes-why ? In other places there is not every listing of 420 this and that on the craiglist search for roommates. And there probably aren’t communal bed requirements in their listings either. Beds. And in other places I am not offered to do a threesome at a bbq when I am sober with my best friend from a mutual friend. And it wasn’t a joke. And and and. I could go on. Because what drives me crazy about this city is the same thing I love about it. Love about it. Because I can never be weird here. No matter what I do. What I do. Never.

I was a weirdo in the suburbs and sometimes in Boston and DC- NYC not as much. But here never. Can I be weird. Shit sometimes I am conservative in my drug use and my bedding repertoire and that I decided to wear a bra or shower or just something risky like befriend a Republican. The craziness in San Francisco is that I am not crazy or weird or strange. No leopard print dyed into my hair or a neck tattooed or wearing all black head to foot on the hottest day of the year- I can’t be weird with these people here.

Or that when I spend one of the last days of summer in the park, Dolores park, breathing in and out the green stuff that if you didn’t know, didn’t know thought it was legal like the public drinking or urination or or or. I sat on the coined hipster hill even though I don’t think I am. Am one. Not yet. I sit upon the blanket surrounded by friends some new and old but we are not signing anthem of the the childhood rhyme song of our past instead. We share our chips sour cream and onion the ruffle variety are the best, the tecate and pbr, the bottle variety of the summer ale. We do the duck duck goose of talking and laughing and shocking and nicknames all inappropriately perfect.

We watch our fellow friends and neighbors. And the choices they made to wear a swimsuit-nice ass we say. Or 7 different layering prints, my friend’s eyes bulge out as she walks by in shock of her outfit. I laugh because I can see her thoughts upon the teleprompter of her mind. I say my butt I don’t have to worry about it as I look around. These people rock whatever even if their butt isn’t perfect. As we drink and play and eat and then new friends old sharing the one pint of salted caramel of the prized birite. Round and round it goes. As the summer ends it begins. And we are watching the summer end and begin around this blanket. Around this place we call home. We might be weirdos but we are normal here.

sin of liberalism #211: judging armpit hair in yoga

thanks to nancy for sending me this link to this wonderful uk commercial for a razor with trimmer. we need better commercials here- someone get on it!

Shame on you I think. Shame on you for the false advertising. When the woman next to me at yoga lifts her sweaty arm against her leg twisting in the standing pose and I am welcomed with a huge not small even masculinity worthy armpit of hair- the hair of the armpit- it is coming towards my face. I don’t care normally I don’t. But shame on her for false advertising. When I placed my mat next to her for a moment. For the moment of class. I saw a typical yogi in the sf-any city for that matter. She is white. Curly hair a top her head. Short tight spandex shorts. Tank top with the sports bra exposed just enough. And two nicely cleanly shaved legs, perfectly done. False advertising. I say. See why you would shave your legs and not your pits is beyond me. Completely beyond me.

See your legs are hard to shave. The shape and curve of a woman’s leg-I am sure a guys-are hard to maneuver without a nick or miss of spot of hair. I remember once a guy I dated told me I had bristles on my legs. Don’t girls shave everyday? No I said. Not every day. It’s not as simple as a face and a dude can get away with out shaving that at all. So I don’t know why you would spend such time on the legs and say screw the easy part- the pits.

Because shame on you. I think you should own it and have hairy legs so that I can know that in the preview of looking at you that armpit full of hair might be heading toward my face when we are in yoga while you have a good sweat abrewing. It is just common courtesy. To let me know. You are a card carrying liberal but sometimes say non pc things when in the solitude of your home. Or you eat non organic on sundays or something. I guess shame on me to judge someone else’s armpit hair. All I could think was- wonder what she had going on downstairs. Because of her false advertising of her legs and the puff of sweaty hair at my face. I wonder what she does for her womanly area. If I was a dude and found two nicely shaved legs and then happened upon the 1970s show I would be pissed.

Shame. I guess body hair makes us feel shameful and judgeful and everyone is full of advice of how and when to shape it and shave and get rid of it and to grow it. I get it. We don’t have to wear bras. We don’t have to shave. We don’t have to marry. We don’t need to procreate. We can work. We can play. Women’s liberation still might have limits. Limits I don’t want to know or say. Aloud. Or in my head quietly yelling.

As I shamefully judge the pit next to me. I wonder what is it really about. The smell, the shock, the false advertising, the uncertainty, the not fitting in the box, or me not getting why you would shave your long whitish curvy legs and forget those pits. It doesn’t matter why because I have done my own examination of my body hair. And how I keep it.

I am a terrible shaver. Of my legs. I still miss spots and cut myself it doesn’t matter if I am over 30. I shave my pits more often than not-my pits have never gotten bushy like my mr. rodgers friend of the moment. And for my danger triangle. It depends a lot on what I have going on in terms of extracurricular. If I have a regular visitor, I keep things trim and shaved my own little personal triangle of love. I have tried shaving it all but it just got itchy from the shaving- kind of a buzz kill past the first day. Red bumps all you’re your vag not cute. Plus I felt naked like a 12 year old. I have waxed but never the whole thing that includes in between the checks of my ass- it freaks me out to have a stranger up there under bright florescent lights- saying open up more- might be worse than the gyno. That is saying a lot. And this is an open call to those in the universe in charge of the waxer and gyno services- please serve a cocktail at both this affairs from now on-thanks.

I remember once a guy who I dated told me you should trim and I thought I had. Fucking pornos and girls who shave it all the time that makes it hell for my little bit. A little bit or a little bit more a travesty. See I believe if you are lucky enough to be there you shouldn’t complain. Not at all. Just enjoy the ride. Because we all have bigger worries than how to shave this and that. We just want someone who loves us either way. But know know if you have taken a vacay from the shaving, you will in fact find someone to bed. When you least expect it. It happens. Every time. Maybe I should stop shaving.

jumping trains- from the bullet to the slow

enjoy your weekend- i hope this amazing weather holds. and as always thanks for stopping by- all my gratitude. . .

Comfort. I left the comfort of the bullet train of endeavors of love recently. It was a conscious choice. Not like many I have made in the love department. But I was once comfortable in the quickness of the fall in love or lust or like and it was so fucking exhilarating that I just kept doing it. I didn’t care if the moments didn’t stretch out. I wanted more. Just another hit. Maybe I just was meant to have moments and brief love affairs and the happily ever after would just be reserved for me in mini infatuations or relationships and my I do would happen more than once.

But as I started thinking, as I do, I realized, the comfort of the bullet train of heartbreak was starting to wear on my soul. Wear me down thin. I started taking in the research and the facts for I was once a researcher. Lapsed maybe. I was once a sociologist- not sure if you can retire from that. But an analyzer of my own life as well as others might be my favorite pasttime. Sometime. So once I begun to realize that the movement was too quick I kept on falling and then forgetting to put out my hands. I started to review the scratches and scrapes and bruises. Not just the ones on the outside but the inside.Those are the hardest to look at it and understand.

So after 2 plus years in San Francisco after my east coast tenure: 1) I had survived-not used loosely-dating a married man- I didn’t know and just to make it extra creepy he was cop. So when I broke it off with him he actually had a gun on his person. Not the best scenario for safety emotional being the least of my worries. 2) I survived dating a man who most definitely had something going on in the mental department for he and I broke things off and not soon after he tried to swim to angel island. 3) I dated a man who I thought liked me enough to be pleased by me. He wasn’t. I found out I was one of many. And then he got back together with his x right after he made me met her. 4) I fell in love with someone, someone I thought I knew. Until his once in awhile habit of cocaine became a binge. And I tapped out. Well not right away I tapped back in and jumped back into the ring until I couldn’t anymore.

So needless to say the bullet train has stopped working for me. I decided to get on a slow train that makes all the stops and doesn’t leave on time and sometimes sits and idles for hours because someone tried to cross the tracks at the wrong time or it was too hot or the acela was slowing things down. There is time to walk around and write. And look around and see it all. I can even grab a beer or some bad food-overpriced of course. It’s nice.

Because the slow train for me meant that my heart couldn’t jump into something until I actually stopped and saw it. Because I just kept jumping on and off the train not paying attention to the stops or the signs. I just kept going. The slow train can be lonely and not as exciting of my love for the train of the bullet. I miss that train. Slowly I travel. Slowly I begin things. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Still I miss the quickness of falling. Falling. But maybe I can fall more slowly. And pull the stop when I am ready to get off. Get off this train.

how to leave on a jet plane while walking

to my dear friends, to my dear readers, to my dear i got here by accident. my apologies for not posting much. i had two life changes. nothing like a sex change or eloping with a dude i have been dating for only a few moments. no, but that might good for writing material. . .

my two life changes- i moved and i started grad school (for the 2nd time). both these things weren't planned but ending up somewhere great isn't always.

so bear with me- i will be posting, i will i promise.

this one is dedicated to my friends i leave behind- all the folks at marthas both owners employers and patrons. pour a little coffee out for me- but i will visit. to my friends at sun valley market aka chucks- i bummed not to see your faces regularly when i forget to grocery shop and need emergency wine or beer. to george- you provide good alcohol recommendations but your neosporin prices are off base my friend. thank god your mom was there to provide me with a proper amount. so without much more here it is. . .

The other side of the world. I am moving to the other side of the world. For as we write or speak, I am packing up my room in the redone attic after a serious heat spell to move from the pleasantville of noe valley to the urbaneness of the mission. It is in fact the other side of the world. What I leave behind is part warmth and the roll of the eyes for the neighborhood I sometimes I belong in. Nostalgic I am for where my great grandparents immigrated to a few blocks away-for the streets my grandmother walked and rode the cable car down the street-for the church where my grandparents married. For my father playing here as a child. All near me welcoming me home. My grandmother beginning and stories all felt today as real. I feel she is still with me especially when I walk upon the tree lined quietish streets even if people “forget” to clean up their dog poop and to stop at stop signs. See I belong here. Here in that this is my roots. Roots grown through my own ability to befriend my neighbors. I know storeowners names and they know mine. They mourn for the loss of me my face on a regular basis as I mourn for their yours.
But there are times I hate this neighborhood. When I can’t get by the doublewide strollers across the sidewalk. Twins all not natural I am sure. When I don’t have a dog. A dog because without a dog or kids you might be a leper in this hood. I get to borrow kids, the ones I nanny, but that can only get me by for so long. Also how everyone gets worked up over the little things so quintessential I am urban but still a yuppie. Like the movement to stop a street closure for people to roam. A place where there are so many pedestrians its hard to get through. But home this is-with my love and hate for it-is still home. And know I am moving to the other side of the world. The most suburban urban place will no longer be mine.
Soon my neighbors will be a non-practicing dominatrix and drag queen couple with a habit for hoarding sequin dresses. Oh and also the projects. Not the big large ones that are scary but the ones that look like condos. My neighbors will now be the hipsters and their tats. I am leaving the cheers of home a mayor where everyone in fact knows my name. For convenience. For proximity to all the places I hang out anyway. For the peace of mind from a crazy landlord. For a backyard. And hardwood floors. And a bear claw tub. And so much.

But moving to the other side of the world really isn’t so far away. But the end. The goodbye. Not by my choice always feel the same. The same. I was put in a corner until I had no other choice but out. Out. I am leaving to the other side of the world. But this time I want to feel it all differently. In the new world of me. I am trying. Trying to not weep for loss and rejoice for the new day of school of beginnings. For I have moved to the other side of the world but this time I am just moving to the neighborhood next to me. Next to me. Goodbye could be just a see ya later. Which feels so much better than the end.