rewind- don't call me baby, call me snowflake.

The first time as I walked home, walked home when I was in 6^th grade down the curvy bike path towards my F section home, in my suburb of Rohnert Park, someone started to honk, someone started to yell at me in the four wheel truck motor vehicle. And I was startled. I didn’t know was going on. But little did I know as I begun the brink of adolescence, through my teenage years, and into adulthood, that this thing would never change. Never. The catcalls never have stopped. It didn’t matter if I was a kid, if I didn’t even have boobs or a period. Men began to yell at me. Fucking perverts, I thought. Still do. I used to get really angry. In my head saying is that how you would talk to your mother, your sister, your aunt? Your female in your life that might matter. Matter to you. I remember the first time because I didn’t know what was going on. Anger is now mixed in a cocktail with amusement shaken over the ridiculous.

Now I’m prepared for it to happen. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t showered in days. It doesn’t matter if I am in my PJs. Awfully matched PJs. It doesn’t matter if I am riding my bike and sweaty with my dorky pink helmet, actually the sweat might help with the calling. It doesn’t matter if I’m crying, baby just smile, baby don’t cry your beautiful. Excuse me as I barf. Am I beautiful while I hurl? Probably. It doesn’t matter what I look like, not really. It’s more about power. It’s more about it working one out of million times. I sometimes wonder who would be drawn to the hey baby, hey sexy, hey beautiful, so much they hail over their car and stop for the construction worker or the guy and provide their number, their address, or much more. I think it might be fun to play along and call their bluff but truthfully I’m just too fearful to do it. Part of me thinks it must work or why would they keep trying, trying again and again to no avail. But is it about working or just doing it? Doing it.

So here are some of the highlights over the years:

Animal Noises: Barking

Until last year the only place a man had made an animal noise at me was in Marin County. That made it more interesting that in living in 4 urban cities the only place an animal noise was directed to me was in Marin County. Who would have thought that such harassment would ensue in one of the wealthiest counties in the country? While I was walking my aunt and uncle’s dog, the middle aged man with grayish hair pulled over his bike perfectly helmeted and basketed and said roof, roof, roof, slowly and seductively. Seductively. I couldn’t help but bust up laughing. That being said I told him if he had pegs, I’d be down for a ride. No I wish, I just laughed and walked away. Later I told my aunt who was outraged- that someone in her neighborhood- in her neighborhood would do that. What a travesty. Take notes- there is more.

Animal Noises: Meowing

So then the animal noise happened again. Years later, I was walking down the street in the Mission. The cat calls, the snickers, the clicking noises are pretty frequent in this hood probably because the dudes are actually as taller than me. Probably because of many a reason. As I walked by a man who sat in the storefront window, he said meow, meow, while mimicking a cat's mannerisms and blowing kisses. I felt special. I felt pretty. I felt important. I skipped the rest of the way down Valencia.

Snowflake:

While living near Harlem, I got a lot of attention when walking to work probably because I was the only white girl in the 10 or 20 block radius. My whole life I wanted to be exotic growing up in a predominately white suburb I was the norm and guess what finally I was. Exotic with my white clad skin. Yes! Little did I know what it would entail. Hey snowflake, hey panda, can you be my white panda bear, can you be my snowflake. Hey snowflake, the first time it happened, I looked around, I guess since I was the only white girl it must be me. Me, snowflake. At least it was creative. At least it was more creative than the animal noises or grunts or the sexy baby bullshit.

My Response:

No, I am not here for a modeling convention. No, I can’t smile for you. No, I am not moved by the trivial attempts at your prehistoric noises coming from your mouth. Yes, I have a boyfriend. Yes, I have a husband. Yes, I have a wife. Yes, I have an overprotective father and brother. Anything to make you go away. Go away.

My Unsolicited Advice:

What happened to hello and a smile? So here’s my advice men, men of the world, either make it witty or stick to the standard hello and smile. Don’t’ call me baby, call me snowflake or don’t bother at all. You will go a lot further with that one. Mark my words.

Oh Shit:

My words- still as I stand on this soapbox of femininity, I wonder what would happen to this woman (me) decorated in degrees and pretty enough to be yelled at if as I walk on the catwalk of life it was cloaked in silence. Would the silence be deafening? Would I long for the noises of the populace as I stroll along welcoming me along the way? Is that cheer enough to make me believe I am pretty enough, I am desired enough, I am wanted? Maybe it is easier to complain when men harass you. Maybe it would be harder if I was invisible. And no one could see me. As I melted on the ground falling lightly away spreading into a tiny speck of water. A snowflake forgotten or maybe never seen at all.

happy holidays- time travel back to slamming doors

i found myself on a by accident hiatus based on fatigue from school from fatigue of a cold then flu but i am back. i hope you all had an amazingly great holiday and will be having an epic new years. thanks as always for stopping by.


I found myself acting out. Acting out in the middle of the mountains. In the middle of my parents. In the middle of my family. In the middle of not my adolescence but the beginning stages of a supposed maturity of the 30s. But somehow when I come back here. Here. I find myself teenage again. In my antics. In my ability to respond. By yelling. Pounding my legs down the hall. And slamming the door again. Again. See this is the way I behaved before. It was the norm of me. But never do I anymore. Until there is something about the bringing to together of the family. That makes my younger self re-submerge into me. I drop a few pounds, my hair lightens to a blond and lengthens, my jeans expand to boot cut, flannel tied around my waist, womanhood not budding enough and there she is. I am time traveled back to my old school abilities to cope. In dramatic ways. I am well behaved mostly. In my life. But sometimes even I need to act out.

Somehow in the equation of my father- trying to be caring as always, trying to be the strong one although diminished by disease and age and injury plus my brother-who worships money and power and spews it upon us in his tirades, we wipe our faces but it still stinks and a momentarily sweet pause plus my stepmom-trying to balance the job of peace maker knotting her belly into two, she is the keeper of my father plus me-the one who talks, talks too much, and has learned the boundaries I must draw to survive equals into the mess that we only can know as our own.

Time. I am late. Late I am not with her and haven’t been in years. But through a misunderstanding of time. Reconfirmed by a father unable to now keep time. He lives in the abyss of the fox, of the morphine, of the cloud of poker and airplanes on his computer. Are you going to be ready? Her face distorts and words are not needed for her to inflame my wound of a 15 year self. No I am not. But I will be in a few minutes. Dad told me. Now dad sitting in my face, Kate you should get moving. Shit. I am usually the well behaved and hounding they are me. But my brother and dad make everyone wait all the time. But no time out for them. No lecture. Just me. Done. Pounding and slamming. And father coming. And I am saying leave me alone. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. I am not myself or am I. I walk down the hall of my own childhood to be like the teenagers I work with. Heart starts pounding against my chest the adrenaline of years past pump into my system.

Now my brother is coming in for round 3. Kate what’s your problem. I am sick of you. Leave me alone. I repeat. I do one thing and now it’s the apocalypse. I am sick of being well behaved and somehow she is here as I stare at her in the mirror. The girl I left behind. T you do whatever the hell you want and never make an apology so leave me alone and get out of here and close the door on him. Him.

I guess it doesn’t matter how old we get, or how we work on ourselves to play well with others out in the real world because when you return, return to your roots of home. You are once again. Again as you were. At first very adult, but each adultness layers chips off and fails to the fall, I watch it drift as leaves of the tree. Just as the pimples reappear and my confidence begins to sink. And I am again slamming the door. Door. Running away from them. Running away from myself. Running away from the fact, we can’t grow up when others remind of us of the piece forgotten.

Happy holidays-you say upon your signs and cards and in words or smiles unspoken. Me I cross my fingers and make sure to have prescriptions and see if this year I can make it sober. Sober without the help of numbness. No one wants a drunk teenager. But a slightly sedated one. Maybe. But there is a part of us one before the weathering of life and the tempering occurs. Our younger self. She likes to make appearances. Sometimes. Never with your family. Just with mine. Here in the mountains. But always when I least expect it. But now I walk down the hall. Slowly. I remember. I remember to say sorry. And try again. Next year.

your nemisis is waiting in the line at the bar of underage drinking

hello folks-


a quick write from the word nemesis about me walking into my old undergrad bar of beginnings.
enjoy and thanks always for stopping by!


Nemesis. My own nemesis might not be a spandex clad villain trying to fuck up my ability to do good and fight evil on this earth. No, that might be left to the simplicity of super heros and the story lines in their confinement. No, my nemesis might be me. Me. You wake up, you roll over, you open your eyes to a younger version of yourself. You think you have evolved so much that you now have somehow changed and transformed into a more liberated non-caring this is me kind of lady- take it or leave it.


But one day. One day you walk into a bar. A bar of before. Before. The earlier you. That has exited before. The bar might have a new name. But the smell of beginning adulthood still musky particles of years past drift up to your nose. You breathe in and smell the smell of you. Your younger self. The one who had to underage drink before. In this bar. The room changed. Now with animals heads upon the wall. Expanded -walls taken down. The physical bar-the same-stretches long like the years past. Years. But living in a way right now. Right now. Food now available not left to the confines to the pizza line next store. It stops now. The flooding of what was and drifts away as I order no bud light or heineken or mixed drinks of my younger self. Kahula something-vodka this-all swallowed down in one sitting. Now instead. A more sophistication order of black ipa and a tecate. For I am driving. Shots, shots, spatters around us. No I don’t do shots. But before I did. Did in a way that killed me. Later.


But I was in the midst of figuring it out. Figuring out how to be me in the middle of this bar. In the beginning of being my own. Figuring out how to be. Without apologizing later. Or right now. Time passes quickly away. Away this night. And then its time to go. Go. This would be the first time I left this bar without the non-sober of drunken sway. I walk back up the dirtied wooden floors up the ramp and touch the bathroom door. And as I place my fingerprints upon the green smudged door and press my fingerprints, weight moves it open with it, against it, a downpour of it all comes back. Back. The lines. The lines I stood in. I am standing in again. The dress. The obsession of how to dress. The how to get in. And the nervous-forgotten. The waiting in line in this bathroom I had spent so many moments waiting. Waiting. Making sure to look pretty. And skinny. And happy. And not too bitchy. And not hurl. And not pee. And smile enough but not too much. Waiting in that line. But there is no line. Not now. No line for me to try and dance in and out of and through.


I walk straight to the stall. And lock the door with a bolt. The lock is new and heavy and hits the stall door hard. Hard. It shakes. I hover over the toilet and remember. Barfing here. And peeing here. And crying here. And as I flush, stall door slamming. Wash my hands. Clean. I walk out the door. There still isn’t a line. I didn’t have to wait like I did before. Before. I was thankful. And somewhat relieved to have visited her here. Now. Because there was no line of acceptance I had to wait in. Not again. Not in this bar. Not ever. Again. The line of waiting lived inside of me. I just stopped caring how I looked while I stood there. As I glanced at the mirror out the door. Back into the bar.

ode to the wimpiness of the this californian still yearning for a real snowfall, just one of course

this is dedicated to my lovely roomie who provided me with a british make hot water bottle for my bed to heat up. i was reluctant to believe as well. but it worked. also to all my friends who held my hand through my borrowed east coast winters. thinking about you always. based on the quick write for heating up! enjoy!

Heating up in the warmth of my covers and personal heater and layers. I am frozen. Mostly because I went outside not equipped for this now impending winter. It was 70 something a few days ago and now I am reading mid 50s. I couldn’t warm up all afternoon- all evening. I heated up soup and tea and myself in this bed and nothing seemed to work. But soon I was fast asleep in this cocoon of heat. I did wake up sweaty and realized I was defrosted again.

I am wimp. I realize that I am the northern Californian make and snow angels and snow days were not mine until adulthood. By choice. I was shocked the winter lasted so long sometimes 6 months. I was shocked it snowed on my birthday every single year I lived on the east coast April not too late for snow. I was shocked to learn about wind chill and scarves up your neck with just your two eyes out. I was shocked to leave my house quickly and land flat on my back. Laying there in my apartment parking lot. Not knowing what hit me. Because I was naïve. I am a Californian. Black ice and wind chill and snow storms were left to the movies. Were left to other people’s lives. Hats were for style not for luxury. Winter jackets- never really did I need one. I had to prepare for this new life I was embarking. Buying my first down coat. Heating up.

But even in the chilliness of months I did find things that heated me up. A snowball fight of childhood lived as an adult. Laying on my back snow angels mine for the first time. The movement of the sand of my upbringing now upon this snow. Back and forth. The walking in the snow before anyone else had. Your foot slowly begins its descend toward the bottom of the pool, the tub of the ground. Days when the snow didn’t get cleaned in time and New York City would slow to a halt. A city yearning for a pause. And walking up and down Amsterdam, people now as cars. Cars not running, no buses, no hustle, no bustle. Just the soft noise of the snow slushy against our feet. And warmth inside and around. We are walking on a New York City street. Where usually you might need a prayer just to cross. To the park. Snow everywhere you can see. The beauty of the whiteness before the cityness gets to it.

I complain about the cold. But I do miss the winters I borrowed for a few years. I do dream of a snow fall outside upon my San Francisco street so I can feel the sand of snow now at home and hear the quietness of sound of my foot steps on the pillow of the snow. The slowing down and the happiness of it when it first falls that would be my request. One good snowfall and back to my cold enough winter in the 50’s. Teasing me first with a few 70 degrees days before it decides to make its entrance. Again.

image: courtesy of life magazine. http://www.life.com/image/56831621