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.

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.

sin of liberalism #5,980- i stole a homeless man's shopping cart

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.

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.

sin of liberalism #6,234- i ate the food at chevy's but not my daily caloric intake

I don’t usually walk my body into the chains. No I don’t. I used to think going out to dinner revolved around the Red Lobster, and Chevy’s, and Olive Garden and and and. See that is what we had in the lovely planned community I grew up in. They had more drug stores per capita and now today starbucks holds that title. They did things like tear down the Price Club just to rebuild a Costco years later or it was planned but they forgot to plan a downtown. Probably no accident there. There were no places. Really family owned. Everything was big, everything fluorescent, everything was manufactured just as the track houses in the sections split off by letters. I used to think this was going out to dinner but now.

So when I walked into Chevy’s for the first time in years probably 10 or more. I had my stepmom, father, and her church friends in tow. My usual partner in crime was smart and conveniently hailed her cab of an exit. I walked in and it seemed dull. Less light. But the scene was perfectly constructed. The certain phrases in Spanish, such as banos and cocina written in the mexican flag colors across the walls. And then the stereotypical things all mexican sombreros, blankets, pictures of mexican men looking revolutionary, and probably ceasar chavez. They didn’t have a picture of a burrito but they should have. Maybe a map just to make sure. You know where you are. In a mexican restaurant.

It was like a white person sat down and thought hmm how to make this feel more mexican for a white person who has never been to mexico or ate in a proper authentic taqueria. If you surround someone with the “artifacts” of what it means to be a mexican then you will want to eat the food and feel like you are in some coastal town in the baja not on 3rd and howard. Fail.

The plates, the portions literally blew my mind. The plate of “mexican food” was double the size of me. My waist. Double. I am not a big girl but I am not so tiny that this would warrant a sad comparison. I pushed my plate/ food around and made sure to only eat a third. The calories were listed on the menu probably deemed necessary by the city of rules. No way I was wasting almost all my daily caloric intake on this.

I was going to take my ass to get a proper burrito in the mission. With mexican people working and eating there. There won’t be many whites there except the tattoo clad hipsters and me. But I feel more at home in the realness of it all. Even if burritos are an american creation. Dad do you have a pen? I say. And I start writing. Writing it down before I forget.

the real nanny diaries: sin of liberalism #2,450- being educated paid help

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.

sin of liberalism #7- i went to wal-mart. and bought something. a pregnancy test.

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.

san francisco sin #7, 238- the fumble of going to mcdonald's

The fumbling over the words the words-yes I have gone to Mc Donald’s. Mc Donald’s. The urban San Franciscan guilt, the guilt of the liberal, the pickle of I have read Fast Food Nation. It is in our smirks, in the expression in our hands, in our whispers at the bar. But now we can yell it. Because we all admit we indeed fumbled into Mc Donald’s for breakfast sausage biscuit or maybe chicken nuggets or a cheeseburger. Fumbling in the words because we aren’t supposed to go there- anti-corporation, anti-whole foods movement, anti-small farmers, anti -chemical, anti-local business, anti-San Francisco. We have said it aloud like the sin of Wal-mart or owning a oversized hummer or buying non-organic or leaving lights on or not tipping your barista.

We have broke one of the cardinal sins of going, going to Mc Donald’s. Then the rationalization happens, I say I only go once every two years. Or the guy, the guy we just meet Q says it’s about convenience we had this job, job right next to the Mc Donald’s but I would hide the evidence until my boss found a receipt and reprimanded he was. They build music studios. Studios. He fumbled and went to Mc Donald’s. He fumbled and left the receipt. His boss wrote him up for his own freedom of choice-not free in a place where your decisions must always always reflect the norms of the pc society.

I once read in the paper would you judge me if I had a vanilla milkshake from Mc Donald’s. I thought I wouldn’t unless you went there every day. Every day. We are sitting at the bar and are now bonding over the fact we will admit out loud we have gone to Mc Donald’s. Mc Donald’s armed with the information it is bad and wrong and now we might be bad and wrong. Remember when our choices were easy, easier. And the liberal educated guilt didn’t silence our real wants and desires because once in a while a cheeseburger from Mc Donald’s won’t kill me. I fumbled and admitted it but in the bonding over being radical in a place that used to be. We decided we should go to Mc Donald’s. Not then but another time. Another time.

I understand the marketing, the marketing for the happy meals and the kids I watch beg me to take me there for the toys. But I would rather take them to in and out or barney’s or somewhere more real. But is my liberal conscious depriving them from their God given right to a happy meal. My friend N would lose her job as a nanny if she took the kids she watched to McDonalds. Get fired. Donzo. Extreme you would think. But now McDonalds is wrong but overpriced couches and personal assistants and needed a nanny when you don’t work is just fine. Just fine.

I am fumbling, fumbling, fumbling over my choices because they usually support the local, the real, the organic, but sometimes by falling falling into the gray of the black and white of choices is where we learn. Learn. Learn. I learned from the two guys at the bar that they sneak McDonalds sometimes too. A fumble maybe. But there is a cheer, a cheer of acknowledgement between strangers at a bar.

Our local bar. With local beer. With local folks. Like you and me. Local. Fumble. Might be whole foods down the street.