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hello friends- thanks for stopping by. enjoy the double whammy of the world series and halloween. if you live in san francisco it is most definitely on. . . all my thanks-always!
There should be no regret in being a sports fan. No there shouldn’t be. But a few weeks ago when this all started and I donned my bright orange shirt woman’s make in the mission I stood alone. Except a few rogue guys. There is something about the mission that had made its residents think that being monolithic included not caring about sports, but the arts, and fixies, and coffee you pay 4 dollars for, and the next foodie food cart. But the reality is you can rock the mission lifestyle with a giant’s shirt as a female. There shouldn’t be regret in that.
And now now with the change in the climate. I am not alone but in a sea of orange and black. People strangers yell at me go giants and the score without me asking. I am not alone. I stand with the others in the sea of the underdogs. The abyss of my family’s team, the history of the forced games I watched while growing up and dating now by I watch by choice. By choice I have sat at a bar by myself to watch. The history of my father sneaking in our very own hot dogs in a thermos to save money but taking us to the worshipped game. And explaining the ins and outs. I still call him to clarify when I am confused. Sometimes I might know more than my male counterpart bar neighbor- only in the mission- only with the band guys.
But there is a strange sense of community that brews in feeling connected with strangers, with neighbors, with people you might never have high 5ed or picked up or spoke to. Isn’t it strange to believe in a team that dances around dirt and grass and slides and jumps and hits and breaks enough to make us forgot ourselves for a moment and remember we in fact are connected? Connected we always have been. Community in not just the orange and black but everyday, everyday but now we wear our uniforms and say our hellos and I just don’t want it to stop. To have everyone return to looking down at their personal devices or talking loud about nothing or just pretending not to see those next to them.
My own fashion has suffered- I have two giants shirt in rotation and wear my shirt clean or not every time they play. People talk to me. And sometimes there is an edge to their words. Sometimes the go giants especially after a 4 hour game and more beers thrown down their throats slows down and tries to be a come-on. Go giants in this sloppy sultry eyes staring attentively- go giants they say. Those guys outside of the bars. The number one pick up line is go giants for now. The mixture of winning and belonging and beer makes them want to score too. A man tried to exchange numbers with me through a closed window of my car. Go giants. I have been shocked by the ability for the homeless folks to have giant’s gear and wear it on the right game days. Impressive to say the very least.
My city has changed. Maybe only momentarily. But enough for me never to regret wearing dirty shirts to watch baseball games at bars by myself. By myself I won’t be for long.
hello friends- all i can say other than the lovely post below is i believe in you giants!!!!
Learning how to love someone as your own and care in ways you didn’t know possible. Changing your schedule just to pick up a forgotten guitar, for there will be no lessons without that guitar and there will be no surprise and hug and run around the school yard, thank you, thank you, I love you Kate, you are the best.
Somewhere along the line I forgot this was my job. I do things because I want to not because their parents pay me. I go to their plays and talk to their teachers about their progress and their friends know my name and to their parents about how to negotiate in the task of raising kids. Raising kids together. We are learning how.
Because with one house with mom and another house with dad and me in between I am learning how still how to be just their advocate and their foundation. It is not a role that is foreign. Because there once was me in the middle of my parents not in the same way. Between houses. But between them. While they were married. While they fought over us. While I bounced from one relatives house to the next. We never got to the back and forth between houses part. No we skipped that.
Learning how to be there and welcome the attitude I might get from the almost tween. No I am not saying goodbye. Or when the 7 year old refuses to eat his food without coaxing. I know, I am learning that this is part of what happens when you move from being the help to being family. You see more and get more both the good, the bad, and the ugly. If they never said an unkind thing to me they would show me they loved me less. Because in being real, you might not be sugary sweet like the food they desire daily.
I know that when I pick them up after a long day of high school of highs and lows of being a teenager, of heartbreaks, and how to get into college, or how to be a NCAA athlete. Do you want this apple Ms. Bueler- one students offers. I don’t take their food- I give them food- because they usually are hungry. Hungary for so much more than I can give. Than I can give with these almonds or strawberries or z bars. I know that when I see these two faces. I warm up with happiness and the day whatever happened drifts away. Away for a bit. I am there with them. There right now. Right then. Just skipping down the street or chasing the next snack or adventure or game to watch. Or how many of their meal worms have made it at school.
I know, I am learning that they know they are loved. Loved in a way that all children should feel. So when Y states don’t worry Kate will protect us. She is strong. And she would never let anyone hurts us. I am learning, still learning, to love someone as my own. And learning her safety she feels with me might be the greatest gift of all.
Freedom. The freedom I thought I would have in getting a period. I would be free from feeling different, free from the feeling that I was the last one standing in childhood among the budding femininity, free from the lack of breasts, free from the feeling I would be a child forever.
I was one of the last girls, last girls to start her period in my population of girlhood in junior high, Rohnert Park, CA. At least out of the ones who told the truth. I would listen to all the talks, the first one from my mother, then later in 5th grade, then in 7th. All the same. About cycles and what to use and expect. I remember looking in my mother’s face- thinking this is all very gross. But by the time I reached the age of 13 and almost all my friends had started. I wanted the drop of femininity. In 7th grade, I was shocked again but not because of the period talk but during the discussion of baby blockers, prophylactics, condoms, contraception- a girl in my class said it’s too late for me I have condoms under my bed. My mom found them. Me without a period. Me without a proper make out. Pretended not to looked shocked in these children becoming adults in ways I knew I wasn’t ready for.
But I wanted that period. Badly. But be careful what you wish for. On the day of school, 8th grade sometime after Christmas but not before my birthday not yet 14, I sat in the portable classroom while my teacher tried to teach us American Democracy. When I felt a wetness that just didn’t seem right. I didn’t know if it was my period. But I knew I needed to get to a bathroom and fast. There was the asking of the bathroom. Remember when we had to ask permission to pee- I don’t miss those days. And the long walk to the closest bathroom. Far away from this black top scattered with portable buildings of public schooling in California. I walked.
And once I found the proof I was a woman, I was woman, I was full of exacerbation because I didn’t have any womanly protection on me and I would have to do the dreaded, dreaded mammoth pad from the school office. First, there was the death of having to tell a grownup I didn’t know that I had my period. Part of my junior high life was on the line, I had to be strategic in who I asked and how. I wouldn’t want someone to hear. And then the box of mammoth grandma pillow pad was in my hands and before anyone could see it was shoved in a pocket-rather gracious fully-rather clumsily. It was hidden.
Starting your period at school the first time was not the freedom I had hoped for. The good news was my dad had remarried and I didn’t have to tell him. I couldn’t face my father and ask him to buy me pads. Freedom to be a woman already felt more limiting than I thought it would. So I tried to walk graciousfully while sitting on a huge pillow through the halls. I was a woman. I would get boobs. I would no longer be the last. I thought. Freedom to be a woman- little did I know that this freedom I had longed for would cause me more problems than I would like ruined pants, made playing sports not very fun, an ER visit, cramps so bad I would throw up, regularly. And the boobs I desired took multiple years to appear. The idea of freedom always seems to play out better than you think.
What she heard. Are you okay? She opened her eyes. And realized the ceiling was above her. A face was next to her talking to her. Are you okay? He says again. Around her black and white checkers evidence that she is on the floor of her kitchen. What am I doing on the kitchen floor? You passed out. Twice. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It had been awhile since she was awoken and jarred awake and found herself on a floor. Napping but not knowing how. How she had laid down for a shut eye. The last time it was a bathroom one. A public one. Gross she knew. But she was sober. And that was 5 plus years ago.
So as he is piecing it together for her. The lean on the corner of the cabinet and then the sliding down. Down to the ground. Gracefully passing out. She did. So she starts to rolodex through the reasons as to why she is sleeping on her kitchen floor and when she should get up. Probably soon. This isn’t the first time. Should she go to the doctor?
She felt lightheaded she remembered that. Something about closing her eyes and making out for the first time in months while intoxicated on a tolerance that would make her ancestors and relatives wince- not good enough for her irish alcoholic bones like hers. There was a half glass of wine served in plastic and beers not sure how many because the guy she just met and his friends bought them from her- the never empty glass of beer gets her every time. She has blacked out once before because she was drunk when she was still in the beginning of her tenure of drinking. She has passed out twice after making out with someone once sober, once intoxicated (this very time). She has passed out once because of stress. Should she get off this black and white floor? Should she die of embarrassment? Should she see a MD? Should she get herself to a meeting? Or just her bed?
She knows, knows something is going on but she isn’t sure what. The heart beats too hard too fast sometimes with or without the help of alcohol. The tingling reaching up higher to her head, felt upon her ever moving hands. Now lay still. As she got up taking his hand, she wasn’t sure what was going on inside of her. But she knew it was better to pass out on her kitchen floor than in a public bathroom in a bar while sober. What she heard. She heard. She heard she should wake up. Wake up and stand on this black and white floor. Stand on the black and white square smudged kitchen floor.
Calculating. It wasn’t a calculating choice. Like I need this to happen. I need to be born again. I am born again by accident. No rain has poured on my soil in months. This might seem misleading because I have dated, dated more men this summer than last. But somehow along the way I forgot how to seal the deal. There was a calculating choice of slowing things down. Getting to know someone before I show them my world of my vagina. But I didn’t intend for it to go down like this. But you see this isn’t the first time.
The isn't the first time I have fallen upon such a drought. California baby I must be. Because it either a monsoon of sorts or just a drought. But somehow this born again by accident status is different than the others because I am still getting some moisture, some perception, some 90% chances but somehow it does come down in a full rain. The last time I had the opportunity to play we had a bout of passing out and asthma attack- not in the cards I’d say- no rain just a drizzle.
Sexuality and how we decide to play in the game of it is and always will be personal with a dash of political. See I am bad at the casual with sex. Almost my all my too quick encounters had landed me boyfriends, which have landed me heartbreak because I am in too deep with someone I probably shouldn’t be. Someone I should probably get to know beyond the perfection and acceleration of beginnings. So what is a woman in her 30’s who have needs beyond her own mind but biological left to do?
I don’t know but I do know when I hit this mark. It becomes to a point where I feel like a teenager boy. I start to undress bartender and baristas with my eyes. Men who sit next to me in somewhere on the stop in life-in lines, in cafes-I start to smell them and they smell good. My sexual energy steps up a notch so much I know I can’t be born again for long. I try to embody the lady gaga that this is a choice I don’t want to lose my creativity through my vagina. But a lot of creativity has come from my affairs and escapades with my vagina.
Born again I might be for now. But it won’t be long. It never is. And then you remember how to do it. Like last year around this time when sun had shone but no rain had fallen and you do what any normal woman would do and found a Halloween costume just revealing enough. Just enough skin. Just enough super hero. All you have to do is take off your clothes in a tasteful way. It is easier to do it on the Halloween. And I don’t break all my patterns and I just can’t. So as I walk out of the door American Apparel on the fateful haight street, last year leaving with wonder woman gear, this year with a scantly clad cat woman outfit. It isn’t calculating, it is just the reality of someone who is born again by accident.
hello friends,
thanks for stopping by. i have been trying to balance the writing, the posting, the grad schooling, and the listening and sometimes helping of high schoolers. its a balancing act and juggling of life that i am working at it. i get you two posts a week, i promise. this was written from the prompt- being mean. enjoy-have a great weekend! all my thanks always!
Being mean. I wasn’t being mean today; today but I did steal a homeless person’s shopping cart. Now before you turn your head slightly to the right and get that parental look in your eyes- what type of liberal are you?- what type of person are you? You say with the look that only a good teacher or caregiver can give. Yes I did steal a homeless man’s shopping cart but I didn’t know it was his. No there was no said man in sight. No attachment to this transportation of his things. I didn’t take all his belongings out or anything dramatic like that. That would have been being mean. No, I took a homeless man’s cart-his home-by accident. It was an accident.
I went to TJs to buy a few things that somehow multiplied into needing a cart. You go in for one thing or a few things and they procreate into to a whole lot of shit. So there I am falling over holding onto the basket while the things on top balance back and forth. And I still needed more. TP and cat litter for roommate and paper towels. I needed a cart. Earlier I had by accident thrown a lemon out of my hand. It flew down and a worker caught me. Watch out he laughs. Thank god I am not on the Giants I respond. I work out the timing of grabbing my cart and keeping my spot in line just right as a man with a mets hat and ear plugs of music sits behind me. Brave man I think to wear that hat here, today.
Outside I go choose my cart. And as I walked in. One of the baggers- shot me a glance and a smirk that isn’t our cart. Oh shit. Really. No. And it’s got a tool in it. I look down. The cart isn’t red team of Traders Joes it is painted black and Safeway is imprinted where my hand rests. Leave it to me to choose the one cart out of the village that is not there's. And there is a tool some type of wrench or screw or something. The only tools I know are the hammer and the screwdriver. Tools are foreign. To me. We all are laughing the bagger, the checker, and me. The checker says in a solemn tone it actually is a homeless man’s. Great, I stole a homeless man’s shopping cart. Well he is a mean homeless man if that makes you feel better. We laugh at the randomness of choosing the cart and I hand a cough drop to each while one needs one the other just gets one. It is the least I can do-I stole a homeless man’s shopping cart.
I wasn’t being mean. In the randomness that is life sometimes we make mistakes. I just hoped the man didn’t spot me on my way up the elevator. I even ask the bagger for backup if I need it. To unload my belongings from what he calls his home. His home. That I stole. By accident. Mean or not- this man- no one should steal your home. He needs a lock. A lock so other unsuspecting shoppers don’t borrow it. I drive away and wonder if he will be back for it. Or will it be replaced. Replaced like so many things that are supposed to last forever.
Out of order. We live in an out of order world. A world that moves backwards while roller skating forward. Moving out of order through the ending into the beginning of things. And then we wonder why it all doesn’t work out, as it shall. Out of order. There are many a symptoms to show we live in an out of order world. One is missed connections. The concept might have had its place, maybe. Craigslist where you can buy a bed, find an apartment, a date, a lay, and a job. Crazy. She -my friend and me began to read the missed connections as a hobby. As a pastime. And laugh. And secretly hope we would be on it one day. Why? I am not sure. Maybe it is the part to be seen from a far. For someone to long for you. And care so much not to say hello- hello to your face but play some fate roulette spinning around until.
I had a joke that you aren’t anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you. About you. But that was after someone had written one about me. You can’t really say that unless you have. So the time it happened to me.
I was in a café. I spoke to a man. And I realized while I was speaking about sharing the plug-I glanced backwards to realize he was actually attractive and been sitting there all along. Out of order. We had a momentary conversation that stretched longer than it should. It sat in the room bubbling above us as he walked away. As he walked away he glanced back. And in his hat and his semi smile I knew that he would write a missed connection about me. I just knew. Knew until. I forgot.
The next day as I sat in that same café. I remembered. And on the internet I jumped. Onto the craigs. And searched the café’s name. Que tal. Ready for nothing. And there it was. Brunette woman speaking of acupuncture blah blah blah. It was me. I felt naked. I looked around the room to see if he was there again. I didn’t know what to do. I felt flattered and strangely watched in unison. The out of order of attraction. The out of order of hello. What is your name-what is your number- left to the silenced words on the screen.
So I replied. Very short. Just to make sure it was me. I asked what we had talked about. And I watched the cursor flick on and off. Until I press send. Let fate run its course backwards, with your eyes closed, in a bad romantic comedy where gestures are not grand. I press send. And checked and checked but nothing.
Out of order. The out of order connection. It is out of order way to get to know someone. Someone. I guess if you aren’t willing to put on your big boy pants and say something more before you go on your way in this thing called life, but take the time to write it all down and put it on the internet that might just be your gig. Your game. Your mo. You might just idealize and love from afar.
I recant you aren’t anyone until someone missed connects you, you are someone when you know its better for someone just to sit a little longer-longer than out of order connecting through a device. The out of order of courting. I want to flip around and go the right away on the track. Still my way. But not backwards. Not with my eyes closed. Not texting my way into romance. Just starting with the hello. Out loud. To each others faces.
hello friends- thanks for stopping by. enjoy the double whammy of the world series and halloween. if you live in san francisco it is most definitely on. . . all my thanks-always!
