a block and a half walk down memory lane reminding me i already threw that sandwich away

Try cleaning house. Cleaning house not in the 1950’s housewife manner now planned in between events and meetings and extracurricular but in a real way. Cleaning house of yourself is easy to avoid. You become a prisoner to others wants and desires and live in other things and somehow you have been forgotten. You might wake up one day singing a bad country song out that window and realize I got to clean this house. Not in my bestowed womanly duties but in the reality of the clutter of life, of family, of loves-lost, shared, or desired-are starting to make you look like a serious pack rat. Cleaning house as an adult is hard to do because you have programmed your patterns so perfectly that you think they are yours for life. But what if you did it different? What if developmental gains were not only lost to the younger counterparts? What if you asked what if I was different?

Cleaning house not many people do it. It is easier to keep going on the hamster wheel fast line with or without passengers on the freeway than stop and ask what am I doing. What are you doing? In the cleaning you find the forgotten sandwich, in the brown bag, in the cotton bag, in the plastic bag, in the growing mold of lack of light into the stench of there is not forgetting this sandwich. You held onto to it. Because a lover made it. Because he made it for you. You held on hard and then tossed it to the side. You will throw it away later. You say to yourself. Not now. Now I am not ready. But then you find it months later. Years later. And think I should have cleaned this, cleansed this of myself earlier.

The other day straight out of yoga, I was soppy with sweat and release and contentment and I ran into someone that once upon meant something to me. He sat on one side of the crosswalk and me the other. I said his name and waved. He walked towards me in between the white lines faded and nothing happened. No butterflies grew into a colony in my stomach. My heart didn’t pick up the pace to match my mind. I reached out to hug him. Warning him of the moisture upon my cotton clad body. And he was like you are sweaty. Most men don’t mind touching me sweaty or not. Laughter and then the walk by side. I had forgotten he was so tall. I had forgotten he walked so propelling himself forward. I had forgotten he was selfish. So selfish not to ask how I was. One and half years or so had passed since I had seen his face near mine. Not a how are you or how have you been. Nothing.

As we walked that one and half blocks- I listened and nodded and realized the gift of a short walk with someone who you thought you knew, someone who you thought you could have loved. I realized I was thankful for the eco-cleaning supplies of therapy and the prick of the needles of acupuncture and realizing what I could agree to before could not now. I turned that corner. Thankful for cleaning my house. I didn’t care about cleaning his. My house was the only thing that mattered. I had changed. In a way I could see. What I wanted. Wanted in a way I hadn’t before. Before. A walk so brief. A love affair so brief. A cleaning of the house. Sometimes you find more than a forgotten sandwich. This time I did.

they forgot to put that in the manual

hello friends, have an amazingly great and beautiful thankful filled holiday. i am thankful for so much and since i started this project i have been thankful for your kind words and eyes upon this page. be well. check comments on this piece inspired by the prompt saving it at creative caffeine

As I drive my car on this frigid morning down this one-way street. Leaves fly like paper strips over my head. And then there are few stuck. Holding onto this windshield its tentacles not letting go of the glass. The brownish greenish colors grow and starts making that tick tick tick sound of movement upon the car. I ponder those. As the last one drifts away likes the other. There was no saving it.

I drive. Drive as I am already late. Down market. Behind the train or not. Not going to the right lane. And then the strategically placed makeup in between the succession of the lights. I don’t makeup while driving just like I don’t text either. At the lights, I place the tinted moisturizer upon my face, glasses finding a home upon my head. And then the green light is glowing. Glasses back down to the bridge of my nose. Saving it-the mascara until the next. I need two things this cover up and mascara to feel complete. One over the other. Not so sure. Driving around the freeway of this city to market until Portola to I can’t find parking. I can save me not now. I am late. To a thing where some people know me but the ones in charge don’t. Monday Street cleaning everywhere. Every sign. I see one classmate walk. Late too. And another. I stop to yell out my window. Heat on, air in. As I yell, I roll roll past the stop sign until a woman yells at me with her eyes. Shit. Not saving me. But saving her. From me in my haphazardness of running into her. I need to find a spot. To save myself from being much later. I do.

And as I park. An elderly Asian woman stops to direct me. She moves her hand about and laughs when I do the city tap to the pickup truck in front of me. I get out and see her and thank her. Thank her for saving me. But she doesn’t understand me. She understands my thanks but not the words. She smiles and mumbles and walks on. Saving me she did from another ticket or tow or whatever is the wrath of having a car in this city bankrupt like the rest.

I walk into the room during the discussion of crisis. What to do in a crisis in a school-not even 8:30 am yet. Eyes scan across the room. I see I know half the room. I sit and learn how to save yourself and save others in this thing called life. The manual sits upon our shared table at this training. Saving it, saving comes in forms and in ways that don’t always entails a capitol S under a shirt. Saving nonetheless. In big. In small. Ways. Doesn’t matter. A savior we all can be. Just for a moment. And for a moment I savor that. They forgot to put that in the manual.

befriending my neighbors, my homies

Going at it alone. Today as I woke up to move my car, I saw the reminiscent of a review of garbage for hot items gone terribly wrong. There was debris and shit strewed along the sidewalk. Today as I walked down the street by myself after yoga, I saw a perfectly cut kiwi abandoned on the street. Today as I walked to pick up the kids, alone, I saw the torn bag of mcdonalds stepping into the wrappers and topped off with ketchup smeared on my path. Tonight as I walked home from parking my car, a man who didn’t see me relieved himself not once not twice but three or four times. Huge juicy farts. Shaking with laughter until I couldn’t hold it in my throat any longer, it escaped the clicking noise of my laughter. I smiled and laughed by myself all the way home.

When you go at it alone, the walking, the walking down a city street. You see more. More than if you had a partner walking in unison, chatter would diminish your surrounds. If you had music in your ears to drown out the city swish of cars, sirens, random guys farting wouldn’t be left for your own personal stand up comedy show. You see more. When you are alone. Observe more. Participate more in the ever moving flowing around the current not stopping but you stop and pause and listen. And then move on laughing. Laughing.

After yoga with mat in hand, I crossed the street to my block and 3 men, one I recognized and call kayne west not to his face but to my friends. He is the player of my block. He always has a host of women all different ethnicities in variety of sizes in tow. He either is a pimp or a player or maybe both. I crossed and the three men- kayne with his gold grill and hip glasses and hat, his friend very large and in charge, and another guy with you guessed it a baby pit bull with a mean looking collar with spikes all reside on the corner.

I walk towards them with a semi- street face on-the perks of smile lurking. The large in charge one says- how long have you done yoga? A few years. I don’t pause long and ask have you ever tried it. He doesn’t look like he does much of any exercise. No I haven’t. Does it make you feel good? Yes. Plus there are a lot of girls who do it. And they wear tight clothes so you might be able to steal a glance but not too much or the instructor might say something. They all laugh hard surprised their white neighbor is actually funny and not scared of them. We laugh together and I go up my stoop home. As I walked away they proceeded to argue if a lady in the apartment across the street was available or a single mom or if the guy visits her is just her brother.

When I moved into this neighborhood- when there were groups of men on my stoop as I moved in- I realized you have two choices: you can either be scared of the homies or befriend them. So I choice the later. Going at it alone. I make friends with the dudes who hang out on the street across from the cleaned up projects- these gardens of valencia. Friends to watch out for me and as I come and go. My bike is safely locked up outside because their watchful eyes.

We go alone. And see more. More when we aren’t distracted. When we aren’t looking. When we aren’t talking. When we just are walking. Alone. We begin to see more. More. And see it all. Not all pretty, not all funny. But the wave of humanity only seen by eyes that are open.

watching out for douchebags really isn't that hard

hello friends- this week by accident is dedicated to my anti- technology and anti douchebag sentiments. i hope you enjoy and thanks for stopping by as always. feel free to check out comments on this piece at creative caffeine. have an amazing great weekend and do me a favor and join me in going against the current and do something radical and pick up the phone instead of texting or better yet write someone a love letter!

Watching out. Watching out for douche bags really isn’t that hard. Not when they text you things like- and I quote- “hey if you’re still interested give me a shout, you cool.” It was as if one of my high schoolers was crank texting me-no this is real folks this is an attempt at trying to hang out with me. Me: a grown ass woman. Me: someone who could be considered attractive and funny and at this point I got better attempts at hanging out with me when I was in the 6th grade. This shit is pathetic. And this attempt at courting or dating or bumping beautifuls is just so shameless ridiculous I can’t help but feel this might be the dating low of a lifetime. Oh, but it’s not because there has been others.


So I have decided that my ass, my pretty nice ass, is not going to take a date with a man or attempt one unless he takes off his underwear with action heroes and see if his balls have actually dropped and then picks up the phone. And calls me. Call me old fashioned. But if that type of game, that type of grammar works on someone- please show me because I think it is almost beyond words. I would rather do about a million things like clean my room, talk to myself in the mirror, job interviews. It’s nice to date; date adults but boys in adult’s clothes shoes too big and their dad’s jacket just can’t cut it anymore. I don’t have time for this shit. But really my patience has just worn thin.


Years ago maybe I might had fallen into some ball of mush when I got a text but not anymore. I guess the attempts at effort fall short when they fall short line by line. You cool. You ain’t that cool. I don’t know where I am going in this thing called dating. But it is sad to think that my younger self got some better ask outs then now. I shake my head and roll my eyes and say seriously. Because this is not as good as it gets folks. Nope. There is more. More than this I am sure. Because I have had those before. Words that meant more than dropping the lure to see which one of the girls you might have meet at a giants game will respond. Respond I didn’t. I just laughed. And told my friends. And thought what a douche. A douche I didn’t have to date to realize he was a loser. He did me the luxury of typing it out in a memo. A memo sent to me and some other chicks. You cool. I am. Thanks for the heads up-you aren’t.

Thanks for not allowing the intrigue of you to grow into other than this. Because I have been fooled before but how can you be fooled when it is so blatantly typed before your eyes. I read it more than once just in case I was confused. Nope. Not confused. Just watching out for douche bags. I am done dating the selfish and the problems and the lackadaisical lifestyle of trying pursuing me. I don’t need rose pedal lined doorways or 5 star anything but what I do need is the buzz of my phone in my back pocket. And a growing smile against my face as I put the words the words of you in my ear. Hearing you out loud. Asking me. Me to see you again.

technology killed the love letter- in my mind and in my car, i hope we can rewind and we haven’t gone too far

This is what changed when I realized there had been a death. A death of love letters. A mourning of flowers. A forgotten paid dinner. All of sudden one day I realized there was once a time when I got love letters regularly and cute notes. Letters of childhood passed turned into boyfriends official or those who longed to be pinned by me. I found more than one in my attic. And it hit me I hadn’t gotten a good love letter in years.

When I was younger I got them regularly. Typed on a typewriter, hand written, hand delivered, dropped off with a mix tape. The love letters have died. The art of them might have. If I only I would have known-I might had basked in those words longer, I might have read the words more carefully. But there will be more or so I thought. But the written word. The written word from someone’s heart to mine it doesn’t happen as it once did. Love letters are now read on screens and the more smiley faces from a guy on a text the more your friends will roll their eyes. The flirtation on the screen is still a letter but not the same as before on the binder paper lined with an arrow at the end. Turn me over.

I have been texted lovely things. I have been emailed words that made me stop and close my eyes. Words like I do adore you with or without your clothes off- although I am a mess right now- I am dedicated to us. Or the question answered in I too wonder what would have happened to us if our lives hadn’t changed. See the words still matter they do. But the delivery of a love letter just feels different and reminds me of what was. What was. What was before. Maybe what has changed is me. Maybe I have changed.

Because I miss the simplicity of what was on those papers, those lines, those words. Maybe the love, the possibility of it confined in a letter or an email is just getting harder, harder for me to do in a way I once did. Maybe I long for the simplicity of the written word being enough. Being enough for me. But stupid-me my younger self-didn’t realize that the love letters and the mix tapes and the flowers would stop. Stop.

A text asking me out is not like a phone call. A phone call of hours is how most of my love affairs have started. Conversations where you realize shit its been hours. Maybe there is no replacement for what was before. The words, the words that take effort, the words that stop this busy world and make me pause to say yes, yes I would like to do this. I should be honored, I should feel lucky for my many chances. Queen of potentials-I might be. But maybe I want to remember the love that was before. How it felt. The simplicity of someone truly adoring you enough to sit down and think about their words. Words to you and press send in the licking of the envelope.

lemons dirtied by the street find a way into my pocket

in the words of tim lincecum- fuck yeah! sorry the giants hysteria grabbed a hold of me as it did this city. i'd like to report i danced in streets, i screamed, i high fived strangers as did most of our residents the last few days. a few people aka assholes didn't behave well but the majority of us did. no one will report that but i will. but now i am back!

People like me to travel back with them. Travel back in the moment they just had. They just tried to have. Or process. It wasn’t long ago I walked upon 18^th street in between the birite- which I heart- the pizza place everyone else does- and tartine which I have been known to have love affairs with. When a man starting saying I can’t believe this- I can’t believe this- Oh my God. I am not green in the city world no but not jaded enough to look back. Look back to see what might be this guys worry was. Because I roll with no device in my ear. No I pod to google map me away no. I hear more than I should. Like then. Travel back with me he throws my way. And I stop. I stop and look at him. Then he is talking to me. He isn’t the typical crazy you usually encounter, he has a laptop carrier and is semi dressed up but reeks of alcohol. I just dumped him. I can’t believe. I can’t believe. I wanted to but still. I am standing traveling back into his world. For a moment. I wanted to but he doesn’t get it. Heartache. Heartache. I get it. I hate it. I understand it. Goodbyes fucking suck.

So when he looks at me and says- let’s hug it out, without a moments options of what I should do or should I be doing I am hugging this man on the corner of 18^th and guerrero pastry smells surround us, cars whizzing by and we hold each other for a moment. We hugged it out. And then said goodbye. My friends said to me only to you shit like that happens. True. Only to me. Because I travel, I travel in way that my eyes and ears are open. And I can’t help but listen even when I am not supposed to. This has happened for as long as I can remember. For others, it might feel strange but it has been me. And my walk on this pavement for so long.

So last night as I tried to park fit the corolla in a spot maybe too small. I asked the dude who came out of the house. If it was okay. The giants had just won. He wore all black. And said no worries lady. Ya know. Boom. Too close. I was on the phone. He spoke into it. And my best friend said only bueler, only people like that talk to you. We are laughing and now he is back. Back he is walking. Listen lady better yet how bout you come with me to the liquor store. Me now realizing he is drunk. He grabs my elbow and pinches it. No thanks. Lame-he says as he proceeds to jaywalk across guerrero in all black the cab screaming at him to move. I got to get out of here. I say to her. To my companion on the phone. That dude is drunk and actually touched me and pinched me. Fucking weirdo. He didn’t turn around because I wowed him, instead, it was because his original location of liquor store was closed. Typical.

Good thing he didn’t come back into the phone I say. I wouldn’t have to kick his drunk ass. How with a computer bag, yoga mat, and purse? No I put those down. And then my lemon dropped onto the street. Only to me. Because I travel and talk and make friends and find weirdoes to entertain me. I travel back to where they live just for a moment. And then I proceed on my way. Picking up that lemon. Dirtied by the street.