one line a day in 2011

i have been writing but not posting much. my apologies. sometimes i am not ready to share. i started writing one line or more like a few lines a day during the summer. so the last six months i have captured a snapshot of my life. i thought as the first post of the year- i would share the highlights. happy new year! i look forward to another year of writing and capturing the beauty and complexities along the way. all my thanks always!

July 19- Me: Why do pigeons mate for life? 10 year old: Because there is no pigeon divorce. Good point.

July 22- I love when you put on a pair of shorts (blue corduroy op vintage variety) and find sand in the pocket. It is a reminder you have been somewhere.

July 30- I answered the door in short shorts and braless to jehovah witness who were looking for spanish speakers. They got me instead. I said lo siento, neciesto practicar and they gave me their brochere in espanol.

August 4- I am swimming in a sea of people making reservations for dinner. Outside. In the sun. Writing. Not knowing what I will eat. For dinner.

August 11- Note to self drinking too much beer on a stomach of tuna and chips and kimchi might produce tears on a bar stool and gas the next day.

August 30- Have you ever barfed in Disneyland?, asks the 10 year old upon me seeing her. Strange hello.

September 1- First date canceled. Why can't I catch I break in the love department? Best excuse ever- broken arm. He might be my kind of man- accident prone.

September 12- 8 yr old: I only did my homework so I could spend more time with you.

September 13- Overheard at school- ways to recycle, reuse condoms! 8th grader turns around in shock to see my face as I say, I wouldn't recommend it.

September 15th- Today I saw an awkward group of middle schoolers in a circle- they were staring at girls underwear on the ground. Its underwear they exclaimed. Weird I usually keep mine at home I say. Faces uncertain respond.

September 18th- Perfect morning in the sunset. We rode our bikes to the beach. She escaped death after I said something nice to her. Me on a fixie for the first time. I rode home in a bikini top in the usually foggiest neighborhood in this city.

September 25- Today I went on a date long time coming and wasn't nervous. 7 hours later. We say goodbye. With anticipation. We kiss in my doorway with the door open. Then closed. Then locked. Slammed against the wall- my leg reaching up. We devour each other while standing up.

Sept 27- I walk on clement street at a livable pace while eating a pork bun as the sun beats on me. Fog now foreign. I gave a pork bun to a homeless dude. I see it later. It lays splattered in the middle of the cross walk.

October 1- A surprise to see someone outside and together no hesitation of what has already started. To drinks then shots then me cutting line to go to the bathroom in the men's. High Five. Steal kisses in front of his friends. After hours. To I just stepped in barf. Don't worry everyone did. To kiss me on this street corner to home. No one sleeps. We just explore the maps of each other.

October 23- A sunset as my friend and sand as my bed is a nice way to say hello and goodbye to a weekend.

October 26- Learning how to tango from a 10 year old and a singing telegram from an eight year old entitled you are the best babysitter is a place I call home.

October 27- Sometimes you have to seize the day and drive across town just to see someone for a few moments. Sick or not. Note to self- if you make out with a dude with a fever- you will most likely get sick.

November 9- If you care enough to help the environment to buy a prius, care enough for humanity to stop at the stop sign when in the middle of a crosswalk near a school. I'll take a kind gas guzzler any day.

November 23- By 8 am I smell of pumpkin pie because of a pie mishap. By 9am finish grocery shopping. By 9:30 am realize i did not wear underwear with my yoga pants. Explains the smiles I got. Sometimes you are too busy for your chonies.

November 28- The game of getting it all done. Living in the library. Again. Spotted a woman missing part of her shirt and wearing a purple bra.

December 1- Death planned by my brother includes a family vacation to disneyland- no kids- no alcohol- no thanks.

December 8- There is nothing better than still be invited to a 11 year old party. And being called Kate the Awesome.

December 10- The worst time to get diarrhea is while in a squat during yoga.

December 15- What happens when you put 2 divorced people and their significant others together- you make the nanny- me- sit between the two dudes- the dad and the boyfriend. That sounds like a great plan.

December 17- I love when I run into students and they are still in college and doing well and I get free fries to boot.

December 19- The best way to end a night shift. Solved.

December 22- I go to a corner store to get re-enforcements for a road trip home. Man in a BMW comes inside to sell a tablet. A hot one. Merry Christmas!

December 27- Quality time with my dad entails him flying model airplanes on the high school football field in the boonies. He usually crashes but he didn't this time. What if I shrink you to fit inside? He asks. I would be sick. I'd go slow he responds.

flashback: guess who is coming to dinner: round dos

so my brother didn't bring home another cougar but i revisited this piece and did some flip and flopping for a writers conference app and i thought i'd bring you a new version. this was a fav on a blog and in my class the first time around so let's hope you like the changes. i took into consideration questions such as how can the reader know what you look like kate in comparison? (unless you know me) or what did you parents think?- them being born agains made it all the more interesting. sorry i haven't been posting regularly the end of grad school and the end of the school year caught up with me. i am going to get back to my more regular posts! i promise! thanks as always for stopping by and your support.

What do you do when your brother tells you; he is dating someone closer to your age, someone closer to the age of your stepmother, and also your father? You have two choices after the surprise falls out of you again, to either: 1) throw judgment out the window or 2) judge, judge, and judge some more. Well I wish I could say I did one, but that just isn't part of my older sister makeup. I still want to protect my brother even if he doesn't think he needs it. So I opted for two, plus some lectures later, and to get through some herbal sedatives, lots of herbal sedatives. If I knew what I had in store, I would have gone to the doctor and begged for some prescription freedom. Lesson learned.

All I see is three to four inch heels, well manicured feet, jeans with sequins on the bottom and little on the rear just to make sure you are paying attention, they glisten in the light of the hotel bar against our overpriced champagne. Then the boobs, huge obtrusive boobs, cleavage that makes Pamela Anderson stalkers even swoon. No, it keeps going when I see her face. Her face is covered in makeup, makeup like you used to wear when you couldn’t be comfortable in your own skin. That was when I was 15. She is 42. Very tan skin, almost too tan, and hair, her hair is perfectly done, almost bleached but still shockingly pretty. Not one knot, not one hair out of place. The OC embodied in one woman is sitting next to me, next to me as my brother introduces her to me and me to her.

My younger brother, my brother is 20 years her junior. She tells me as she speaks with her half-British, half-Laguna Hills dialect about her surgeries, “I have had two boob jobs, my ears pinned back, a nose job.” Holy fuck, I just met you 5 minutes ago I think. If I had all that work done, I hope I would be hotter. More unique. Less Barbie, more exotic.

The older sister. Me. Melting in this fancy hotel couch. Mental music plays of why me and fuck my life on repeat. I want to take my brother under this wing to shelter him from this storm of his undoing. I helped raise him for God sakes don’t I get to partake in the all-important role of badgering him and providing unsolicited advice as all parents do. I was once upon a time a child raising a child – a mother role left to a motherless child, me then, and me now.

As we sit next to each other- we are the polar opposites of femininity, of womanhood. My skin is pale and pasty from the fog and mist of winter reality against her fake and bake orange. My body parts all real. My breasts still perky even over the age of thirty without a doctor’s help or assistance, but my lips are fine markers of lines. And no personal trainer to perfectly sculpt me. My dark hair dyed only to hide the gray of an early grayer and it is done up because I didn’t wash it and barely brush it.

It wasn't just our looks, which left us on opposite sides of the line drawn so regularly in womanhood. There was more. The more part never stopped pushing my limits of needing prescription freedom or needed to regress into the fetal. She worked up to the important things when we had known each other a little longer like 24 hours or something. “Have you had your boobs done? They are very nice.”

“Excuse me. No, they are real.”

“Well I’m thinking of getting mine done again,” she sings in a high pitch.

Shoot me. Please take me to my dead place. Whatever I did universe, God, Buddha, in my former life please, please forgive me. I will do whatever penance required, live more simply, be kinder to my neighbor, get rid of material possessions-just make this lady go away. I spew, “If you make them any bigger, you are going to fall the fuck over.” Aloud. Not in my head. She laughed her uncomfortable laugh. Can I vote her off the island of my genetics? This is a joke of the worst kind. She tells us how she renamed herself. Renamed herself? Because too many women in the salon, too many women in the salon had her name. Is anything about this woman real? Anything at all? What does my brother see in her but her boobs her huge boobs? I can barely avoid my eyes from glancing there. It’s hard to concentrate on anything else.

She liked to flash her goodies to all. Even to my family. She wore a nighty around my uncles and parent’s homes, homes against their own judgment they welcomed her in, and didn’t pause for one moment to evaluate the appropriateness of it all. Here is a tip- black lace and silk and seeing the top of your thighs or maybe your thong not so good for the family visits especially not the first one.

The cougar didn't just advertise she took it to the next level. With my brother as a willing participant of course. While we try to act “normal” around the wildlife dating my brother, she and my brother cuddle like teenagers so much my parents had to intervene. See my parents- my father and stepmother are born again Christians so they are not really down for making out or semi-dry humping on their couch. In their home, they require a prayer before meals and the four minute discussion/lecture entitled: Why don’t you go to Church as part of their list of duties as Christians. “I don’t want to be speeding up around in heaven and not see you,” preaches ever so subtly my father. My father has given himself a timeout in his bedroom listening to his peace of blaring Fox news and flying airplanes on his computer. As my brother and the cougar rest on each other’s bodies upon the coldness of the leather sharing a square reserved for one. My stepmom has to request backup from my father to deal with their inappropriateness; my father yells from down the hall, annoyance reverberated against the walls of our family home.

No one tells you how to deal with this, no one writes books about what happens when your brother or son brings home a cougar. Maybe I should write one. It would include the following topics in the series: How to deal with your brother when he brings home a cougar, or becomes part of the conservative movement and is on the O’Reilly Factor before he can drive or gets deported from Africa and you are notified by the Drudge Report and Huffington Post not your next of kin. The cliff notes on my brother are as follows: this isn’t the first stunt he has pulled- and it most defintiely won't be his last. I am in shock. In shock about myself. Why am I as surprised as much as I was at his first attempt at oppositional defiance disorder?

The surprise of me, his mini-mother, is fueling the fire of this rebellion. I want to protect him. I want him to be okay. I want to know my attempt at motherhood was not failed. Even if it was a result of circumstances beyond my control that I became his mother. And as this visit ends, something changes inside of me. I grew distaste of course for OC woman with fake tits who are orange, but also I need to let go and realize the shock will keep happening. If it isn’t a cougar, it will be something else and it will be soon.

So next year, next Thanksgiving, I’m going to my local coffee shop or nursing home or senior center or maybe I’ll just make a house visit to Hef’s mansion and really take it up a notch. I mean I might not be the girl next-door kind of girl material- me being a brunette and all and don’t forget with no silicone or saline to call my own. Hey it is worth a try. I hope to find my own boyfriend to borrow, to rent, to fall in love with and to take home. He might be 70 or 80, but it’s my turn to be the talk of my family.

the freedom in being a woman, so i thought. another judy blume moment, are you there god- it's me, kate

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.

alcoholic bones- by accident napping on a a black and white checkered kitchen floor

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.

born again, by accident

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.

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.

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.

perfectionist's show and tell of imperfections

Imperfection. Imperfection. I am in fact imperfect. Of course I am. I used to pretend to be perfect. But now I stopped. Stopped pretending. My imperfections are odd to me. I can barely clean my room without a babysitter but I can manage and balance the lives of multiple kids and sometimes their parent’s without blinking, not much. I do things that are embarrassing and things I should have outgrown for instance. For instance, every time I shave my legs- usually with a new razor- I cut myself. Not a little nick-we are talking a serious gash of a novice almost always on the same ankle. Oh shit. Again. My roommates call it back to me. Oh shit. There is a scar there but I never never do shave perfectly. There is always one gash, gash that needs tp for me to wrap around it. Wrap around it. Then I always miss a spot. A spot somewhere along my ankle or knee-a mini forest resides. I sometimes get out of the shower and have to do a second draft of shaving. I have been shaving since I was 12. I have years and years of practice. I am imperfect. Imperfection.

That’s not all. I still get period stains. Yes, period stains although I am not a teenager anymore. You would think I would know how to deal and understand my flow. But no, not me. I am teenager trapped in 30 something body. I am. Once when traveling, I walked up a hill. My friend saw my butt and assumed it was a leaf. No I promptly returned and she realized it was a huge period stain. She thought it was a leaf. I was 23, I was in Spain, no one knew me. But I knew. Or one time in DC. I was standing in my non-profit office in a above the knee skirt tight around the waist flowing out. Down my leg came a drip of blood trickling down. I felt coldness from my thigh to my knee down to down my mid calf. Two co-workers- women- were there. Thank God they were women. I was 28 and had to toss my underwear in the garbage and go commando for the rest of the day. Whenever I have my period and I stay with a guy we share a bed, I pray and double up everything in the hopes I don’t stain his sheets or mine. Imperfect. I am imperfect.

I am messy but can find anything in my own chaos of organization. I don’t write things down. I just remember my schedule and the kids and the classes and the deadlines and the appointments all in my head. No planner, no i-phone, just in my mind. I’ve only missed an appointment twice in years. I can’t figure out shaving or my period but I can tell you how to talk family about DNR or ICU rules or how to pay rent once the house you live in is foreclosed or how to move across the country via only the post office. Or getting kids back and forth to activities the city with minutes to spare, still finding a spot in time, still having snack in time. I am imperfect. I can’t do the simplest things and laugh at myself. Shaving and periods have been mine forever why so hard for me to figure out? But there is something about this imperfection, this messy spilling holding it all together running into things embarrassment that must make me loveable. Loveable. Unique. Imperfect. Imperfection. Easier to love someone else’s. But your own, own imperfection. Imperfections. So. Much. Harder. To. Love.

my cultural exchange of the korean massage- an anatomy lesson of a different kind

Now I have done the New York massage in tent of a room full of strangers. Acupressure melded into an Asian dialect-I am not sure exactly which one. It’s singing and loud in a rhythmic beat. It is cheap and I can walk more straight once I leave out the side street up the stairs onto the well-beaten path.

Now I have done Calistoga. The massage of politeness and English and crisp whiteness still near the mud. In your own private room of politeness. The mud. And the naked ladies. And then the spa last time I went to that it seemed you had to obese to work there. Which made me and my friend feel like they must be saying I hate them, those skinny bitches.

I have done the yoga massage studio massage. Which is a zen haven with the correct emblems out, smell of openness and acceptance, as you hear the yoga class next store in the yoga room. The jumps of the poses. The let go and breath. Then the telling of me how I walk wrong and I should work on it. It. Thanks ohm lady for that. How do you re-teach yourself to walk when you are in your 30’s? Namaste I say.

It all started in college. In a basement of my college surrounded by the fellow sweaty college athletes where I tried to relax amongst the baseball and soccer players. My table next to theirs. I closed my eyes to not see their ogling. But I could still hear the snickers. The bright florescent lights blinding and beaming. As I turned the corner after, I heard nice ass and tons of laughter.

So that is to say I am somewhat of a veteran at this massage thing. Massage thing. So the Korean massage. The Korean massage was unlike anything I have yet experienced. I gave over my clothes and received a pink oversized top and long cotton shorts stopping at my knee with an elastic waistband for ladies over 60’s. It left red and white indents around my midsection. I felt like I was in gym class in jr. high. No at a spa. There is a women’s section and men’s section.
Women go around naked in their section. I am assuming the guy’s room bottomless on their side.

We meet in the middle-the common area. The common area has small tinyish tables and food menus in Korean and English not proofread, group saunas clothing not optional, an ice room, and a room full of burberry pillows on a refrigerated floor with a huge plasma tv where people lay. I don’t know where I am but there is no windows, no whiteys but me oh and my brother, but he will be on his side, me on mine. I hear the background noise of languages I don’t know and the looks of others sometimes the quick look away and then the staring. Staring. I’m exotic again. In a windowless spa, in a common room with food and pillows, in my gym clothes of years past. Time to relax.

I walk into the women’s locker room to go the bathroom. The women who work there look at me like I’m lost. No, where can I find the food I ask. Where’s waldo I must look like. They smirk. I eat too much kim chi and spicy things I have no idea what they are which I will pay for later of course.

I went into the warm pool, which was the hottest pool I have been in. It is time for the treatment. Everyone is naked here and what I learn is- okay-I learn a lot. First of all, I am thankful for my body. And being comfortable with it, in it. Second, vital information such as observing others pubic hair regions occurred. I see there is a range of hairiness of the danger triangle from somewhat normalish hair to 1960’s freedom funk to the mohawk. I learn that although most Asian women are not hairy throughout their whole bodies, like us whiteys that they do in fact make up for lost ground downstairs. Now this might just be middle aged or older women of Korean decent or Asian decent. Not many youngins were there for my sample size of my research study. I was shocked by the amount of hair so distracting that it was hard to not stare. But I forced myself to look away. Away.

Another thing I learned was that nipples really vary. I know my own well. I know my friends sort of. Guys will love that. Ladies change in front of each other. And sometimes on spring breaks in Mexico maybe shower together not for an sexual revolution in the making but to get ready more quickly, to save water, to take advantage of the group shower. But some of this nipples were shocking. Shockingly big and wide and long, one woman almost took me out with hers. Yes sir, I was taking out by a massive nipple to the eye. I was in a Korean spa. Oh good, to hear, this happens a lot. My ER visit plays on the reel of my mind. I look down-mine felt small and pinkish and childlike in comparison. But they are mine.

So the massage, the massage was kind of sort of out of this world. I told you I was a veteran but never, never did I ever experience anything like this. First of all you are in a group room, room with drains and water and tubs of water in huge plastic trashcans. There are towels and smells and constant movement. Bright lights. Tables-plastic-are grouped together in a sardine fashion and the ladies taking care of you wear black bras and underwear and don’t speak English. Now I’ll be honest but little was left to the imagination and this wasn’t a dream sequence out of a western man’s fantasy, no these ladies weren’t. They start with the scrub. The scrub I thought would be relaxing hurts like hell. It’s like someone took a brillo pad a brillo pad to your entire, I repeat ENTIRE, body. I close my eyes and smell the smell of my own dead flesh. Gross. Water rushes over me. I turn over and over and once I start to get used to the burning until the brillo is going for my crack my butt, I jump, and scream, and clench my cheeks and my lady laughs. We are laughing, the universal language translator, the laughter. Every time I would laugh, everyone-workers and clients all laughed. When she was scrubbing my bikini area or my feet. The laughter again and the rounds would begin.

So the actual massage did little to relax me. After the skin was scrubbed off my body and washed off my table and down the drain it went. Round and round. Yes now for the massage. But I had a
preview of what was to come and it wasn’t pretty-no it wasn’t. I’m fucked. The woman next to me is the largest and in chargest Asian woman I have ever laid my eyes upon. Her areolas are the size of my one breast- they are huge. And they are shaking next to me. Back and forth they go. She has been shaken by her masseuse next to me. The flesh back and forth. Her breasts shaking rapidly. I close my eyes tight.

Now it’s my turn, the oil is rubbed, rubbed all over my body actually splashed and thrown. Then the shaking and the intermittent pounding. I need a seatbelt, a sports bra for this ladies technique. It’s so slippery I am fearful I might slide right off the table. The shaking, the constant shaking is making me nervous and I might have a panic attack. This is the polar opposite of relaxing, this is cultural exchange gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Then there is the flipping back and forth. And a mask that is making my face itch. But I can’t tell her softer or what is the strange stuff you put in my face. What I would do for a waterproof pocket Korean dictionary or as the modern folk would say a waterproof I phone or droid, what I would do. She takes the mask off and all she keeps saying is irritation, irritation, irritation and pours milk on my face. She knows irritation. Does she understand stay away from my butt hole, or bikini area or please don’t tenderize me like meat. It’s over and I feel strangely relaxed or relieved I’m not sure which.

Off to put on my gym clothes and try and find my brother who was banished to the male section. He probably has lost his shit and returned to his mobsteresque car for relief of his womb. No he feel asleep the only white man in sight in a sea of yellow and brown- he was easy to spot, he looked like a giant with long curly hair. He had a burberry pillow under him, he actually was asleep. We went into the co-ed sauna- there in Korean letters and in English-no talk here-which means whisper. And grade your papers here. Yes, I saw a man, a professor, grade his papers, final exams for a college class in a co-ed sauna with a blue gym suit, spa issued on of course. I started laughing so hard I had to leave. It made me think about all the weird places my professors might have graded my papers. So I left soon after my green tea bubble tea. It had been four hours. Day almost over.

When I told people I went to get a Korean spa people laugh and ask about happy endings. The happy ending didn’t come in their over-sexualized hasty generalized racialized assumption of a question or a statement- I am sure it would cost more than 70 dollars if that was the case-no my happy ending was the end and I was happy.

learning the lessons of the all important squat

i'm back and i survived the trip to the land of county de orange. i did not return with a sugar daddy to take care of my growing student loans or a surgeon's number. but i did come back to the comforts of my northern home where i can be an individual again slightly tan, slightly burnt in strange places, and more thankful for san francisco then before. i read tons and laid next to bodies of water. tons of material down there to write about- everywhere i went there was a story including a korean massage experience- the cougars and sugar daddies- the glitter, peroxide, & plastic- valet at the mall during happy hour for millionaires & more. and to start it off light for the week. . .

It was hell. It was hell to be experiencing the feeling she was having. Having. It was her first trip away from home as a child. First time away from home. And now this, this. She was full of excitement because she would be away, away from her parents. Excited for the buildup, the buildup, the anticipation of this trip. Outdoor education. The fundraising, the car washes, the pep talks, the packing, the freedom of no family, only friends and teachers in the redwoods. On the school bus there, we all sang, sang loud, talked too loud, and probably ate the treats we had snuck on before, before they would be confiscated. We probably swore too. Probably because we could. I learned MC Hammers Can't Touch This word for word on this trip. Someone in our tent, no bunks, just tents burnt herself on a curling iron. A curling iron. What the hell were we doing with a portable curling iron in the woods? Being uncomfortable adolescents playing dress up, playing adult, but still children all the same.

The bus did stop. And I of course during the stop I paid a visit to bathroom. The bathroom outhouse variety. The kind you aren't so sure when someone cleaned it and when it was erected but you are so so very glad it's there that you can have a release. So I went to the bathroom. I wasn't aware then of the importance of the squat over public toilets or especially outhouses for that matter. I didn't receive the handbook from a woman in my family or a friend or a older mentor. I went into it blindly. Blindly because why would one need to squat? Squat. Oh I will tell you.

It was hell once I got on the bus. The itching started. It was hell when we arrived at the campsite. It kept multiplying and burning. My little 6th grade ass was most definitely on fire. The itching and burning was spreading not just on my gluteus maximus but my strongish chicken leg thighs. I had no other choice than to investigate. It was hell because I didn't know what was going on. I didn’t know my body. It was hell because I was 12 and away from home. So I looked. I had a massive rash all over my butt and the beginning of my legs. Red, inflamed. Oh shit, I thought. Well what would you do? This is hell. I had no other choice that to tell my closest friends and beg them not to say anything. Not a wise move. Wise move. Everyone knew within moments I had itchybuttitis. Those clever 6 graders had a diagnosis for me with minutes and then the game of telephone began and I was one that would pay.

It was hell. Because I know I needed to tell an adult. An adult. My teacher. It was hell to pull down my pants and have her see my underwear- the horror. I in fact had a rash. We deducted from that toilet, toilet in the outhouse. Someone had cleaned it. But never got rid of the product. My ass wiped it off instead of the sponge. It was hell because the embarrassment of the itchybuttitis. It was hell because of the embarrassment. But it was funny. It was funny. And I learned that the hell then could just be amusement later. And the importance of the squat of course and not just in yoga. Not just in yoga. I am a squatter for life.

be careful with the lasso of truth

We all have to make decisions. Some important, others not so much. But when it comes to Halloween- the choice of what to be, what to be, what to be is an important one and shouldn’t be taken lightly. It doesn’t matter if you are beyond the years of trick or treating- because the costume will make all the difference. So this past year, I went back and forth and I decided to be wonder woman. Now anyone who knows me probably wouldn’t be entirely surprised because I have been know to participate in some wondrous maneuvers over the years. I have been known to balance, balance a lot. I have been known to have my own type of lasso of truth. I have always thought wonder woman was kick ass but truth be told I wanted to make out with someone and the best way to make out with someone is wear little to no clothes and being a super hero just was a bonus. And it being Halloween and all I stepped it up.

I got almost all of my gear at american apparel not in a costume section-but the regular one- because you might need gold spankies to have on hand for everyday use. Don’t you? Don’t get me wrong I like american apparel but when I looked at those gold spankies and the red body suit I thought I needed an extra-extra large. The woman at the store reassured me that no,no I was of course a medium, a solid medium at american apparel. She was of course was an extra-extra small- they all are at that store- meaning she hadn’t eaten in months and just had her breakfast of a line of cocaine in the back room. It’s hard to be skinny. It’s hard to starve yourself. It’s actually much harder to do it the right way. Much harder. Starving yourself and cocaine is the easy way out. Easy way out.

Back to Halloween, there is a thing about the big night celebrations like Halloween and New Year’s- it’s either going to be life altering or suck ass. So that being said I always keep the bar low as not to be disappointed. Some of my favorite nights have never been nights where anything great was supposed to happen. You end up at the beach swimming in your party dress and ask a guy who is walking a dog to join you and voila- a man has stripped his clothes off and is running fully nude to join you. Not a pretty sight. But definitely fun, definitely.

This Halloween I was rallying to go, go and once I got there I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. Last Halloween, the Halloween before I had drunken myself into oblivion and got into a fight over chips and after a few discussions and much reflection I realized had to slow down the alcohol down the throat and soon. Since then I have been drunk times I can count on one hand, I used to do that monthly and then it got to weekly. Hence the chips fight and how I got to now. The night had a slow start and I wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure until someone caught my attention. As I walked through the crowd to go, to go to the bathroom, I am blessed with a small bladder. No, it really sucks. The moment he looked at me again I knew he was interested. Interested. Then there was the touching on my arm and lower back and I knew for sure. If it was only this easy I would wear this costume all the time. Note to remember later- if you need to make out either wear wonder woman outfit or little to no clothes. Got it.

So the night had a series of unfortunate/fortunate events. We- the rather large group we were with- ended up at a yacht club-my name tag read kathy or candy. They pretended to close and promptly kicked us out and the median age was 45 and hotness factor on the scale was pretty low on the scale. Until we got there and then the kicking out. Then we walked, walked for a while to a houseboat. A houseboat with tons of alcohol and left over food. I was hungry but didn’t know when this food had been birthed so. I ate the standby you guessed it- chips. And then all of sudden I think due to a time change it was 3 or 4 and everyone was leaving. Leaving

I ran inside to catch up with the man of the night, he was in the bathroom, soon I am too. The cab is already here so I have to talk him while I go the bathroom. The bodysuit is coming down and the gold spankies- I ask him to look away- while we decide our next move. It’s not everyday you meet someone and pee in front of them. One usually works up to such closeness. We had a time crunch so. . . Multitasking at it’s best. I am running to the cab- and either have to let my roommate go, go with me, or without me. With him or without him. I am going back and forth. Because he has this friend. This friend he supposedly can’t leave, who is really drunk and passing out. Passing out. Then he is falling down and there is screaming of the friend. I finally tell her to go. That I will stay with him. The lights of the cab pulls away rapidly. The gate in is locked. Locked. I am standing alone on the dock in a wonder woman outfit. It’s cold. Shit did I make a mistake. I see him.

So now it’s time for triage- his friend- well really we aren’t that close. He is on the ground screaming something about his knee. A grown man reigning from Oakland screaming on the pier and now the tears. Holy shit. He really is hurt. But he won’t take help from anyone. Trying to calm him down. Breath I say. Why the fuck did I stay? Is the price of kissing and possibly more worth it really? Probably, probably. Now neighbors are complaining. We are calling cabs. Calling for help. A guy on a bike shows up to help. Help. A coke dealer on a bike can’t really help. I thought coke dealers had a lot nicer rides. The coke dealer is useless-shocker. Everyone is crowded around the injured one- who is still yelling and now walking- adrenaline now his best friend has kicked in it would seem. I can’t get a cab to come, we are somewhere near the giants stadium pretty much death cab for me, for him, for us.

Then, then because it can always get worse, my roommate calls and is locked out. Locked out. And I am the only one with keys. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why can’t my super powers kick in now, the invisible device she rode around in would really help us right about now. I could block some bullets- something. We are totally screwed and not in the good way. We resolve, resolve after to figure out what to do that we will walk to his house, get his car, and save my roommate. We keep laughing sporadically. Laughing about this situation. Because it is funny. Very funny. And really we just wanted to be with each other not in this mess. But there is something about someone who laughs through the trauma-something really attractive. His “friend” we will figure out that later.

Will you promise to protect me if someone tries to hurt me. Because I am still partially clothed as wonder woman. Of course. So we walk. It’s not as close as I hoped. I have to pee. I am hungry. We are still laughing. Rats take over this city in the wee hours. I had no idea. Rats groups of rats almost touch my red toms. I scream. We laugh. A family of rats lives near his house. A mini city within a city.

We are driving- we are saving my roommate. She feel asleep, feel asleep on the back porch. She tried to pick the lock and almost climbed her way up, to the roof. Making pasta at 6- holy fuck what a night. It was a night that other people when I ran into them would say we talked about that night for awhile. It was a night we talked about for awhile too. It is strange, strange, to have choices like getting in a cab, or a friend getting stuck in an elevator which can change your night. Change your night. Change. Changing. Changing. We all get to change sometimes. I was given a new love for dark beer- porters and imperial stouts- I had always stuck to the light. I gave him, him although fearful of germs the new addiction of second hand shops and thrift stores. Immediately washed of course. I was given 2 new places to roam, roam away from it all and still in the city. I gave him him kombucha that didn’t make him hurl and homeopathic medicine to fight off colds. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. During the chaos. During the quiet. Still the same. Be careful with the lasso of truth, you don’t know what ways it might change you.

breaking toilets on birthdays

One of my favorite stories for one of my closest friends to tell is how I broke a toilet. It is true, there is a part of me that likes to hear her tell it. So I broke a toilet. On my birthday. Not years ago when I was young and stupid but last year to be exact. Now it wasn’t what you envision for the typical toilet breaking one might find themselves in, no mine is different. Mine is special.

So this is how I happen to break a toilet on my 31^st birthday. Every birthday I choose a different venue a bar with dancing- a house with alcohol and the possibility of dancing and that is where I usually get into a host of trouble which can include a) making out with random boys maybe in pizza line maybe not b) arm wrestling a dude and actually winning c) throwing up and returning to the party d) my nose v. asphalt fight e) usually a lot of fun. Always e, always e. So my last birthday, I found my way to the make out room. I partook in many things that night mostly some very possible deal breakers shot of tequila, a few margaritas, a few okay a lot more beers. The thing is on your birthday before you are done with one drink there is another in your hand. It’s like magic. But the kind that will hurt the next day. Still there is this momentum of it. I have the alcoholic bones so those think go down more quickly that I would like to admit. Next thing I know the lights are on and we are out the door.

Walking not very quickly, walking not very straight, but walking nonetheless. So after we-me and the friend the storyteller (R)-decided to hail a cab for some dudes who were bothering us. There are tons of inequalities in the world that favor men over ladies but hailing cabs, hailing cabs, sorry fellas that is our domain. So we hail the cab to ditch the guys and decide we will walk home. Walk home. We get into conversations on the way. With randoms. With each other. We turn onto Dolores. And I see a toilet. We see a toilet. Toilet standing alone. Alone on the sidewalk. In front of a fancy Victorian that you dream you might get invited to.

It seems like the best idea in the world to pretend to use the toilet. That is what R thought. But me I was going for the gold- I thought it would be funny to actually pee in the toilet. A thought that would only make sense to a drunken birthday girl at 3 am. Yes it made sense then, now it doesn’t of course. I have a laundry list of drunken ideas that I thought would rival Bill Gates genius only to learn later not so much. So down come the panties pulled around and down my legs. R is pulling out her camera to take a picture not knowing how far I am going to take it. I am taking it too far. I am squatting and the moment I am about to sit. The crash. Crashing down at 3 am in a silent dead very nice neighborhood. I am running. She is running. I am trying to pull up my panties while sprinting at a shameful miserable pace. I used to be a sprinter but never drunk did I run. We are laughing. I look back, we look back to see the toilet in a million pieces. Million pieces on Dolores. I just turned 31 and I am disturbing the neighbors because I broke a toilet, a freestanding toilet on the sidewalk. We laugh all the way home and every time she tells the story. It’s not everyday it’s your birthday. It’s not everyday you break a toilet.