simmering in the kitchen of my heart

Simmer. I watch as it simmers. To a slow pace of a less frequent bubble-warmth still there -but less so and the wonder will I actually get this hot enough to eat. How long can you let something simmer without a return to normal heat or to a boil? I said I wanted something different. And different is what I got. A love affair unlike the disney creation. A love affair unlike the floor falling underneath me. Happenstance of life of meeting might be of fairy tales but the courting. So very different. Not the crash and burn of my before existence. But a slow pace based on life and accidents and schedules and life random events. And the talking and texting until the meetings of the minds and the warming up quickly to a boil for a bit. To medium and back to boil. The spontaneity and flexibility of making time. And then back again to a simmer. A trip. Warmth again. A death. Simmer. And now as I look at this range I wonder if I should give up on this stew. Have I tried to long to stir into something. Had the heat been lost in the simmer. I never threw it away. I kept trying. Because. Because I wanted something different. And this was.

And the times his eyes cross into my path. And the times his laughter becomes mine. And the times when we break bread or burritos. And the times I hear his voice, his words. And feel the warmth of him slowly on my mouth. On me. Not just on my body. But on my mind. The banter of lightness and heavy and light again that I had lived for. Was here. With me. Right now. I didn't have to hide my degrees or love for books and reading research. Or that I spill on myself and I trip regularly on my own two feet both right and left. He thought me being me was enduring. I thought it was embarrassing. The nervousness I feel to shield myself never felt. The pot didn't boil over and no falling apart of him or me. No me trying ever ingredient to save this failed stew. Not a soliloquy of how can I save you with my glittery S underneath. But a pace slowly that I am getting used to.

As I watch the pot as it simmers. I wonder how long this can simmer. How long I can wait. To see him again. For life circumstances keep us from each other. I said I wanted something different. I said I would wait. And wait I do walking in and out of this kitchen of my heart. And wonder what will be next. But I have a feeling in between sleep and awake that there will be more cooking of this stew of us. Its taking time. To make something. Something that matters.

And maybe fear of it all. Scares me more that the shitty soups I used to make. Full of spices and lots of boiling and the desire to make something out of nothing. No stone soup in reality. It is not happening. Not this time. But on simmer. I watch. It all. And wonder when I can turn this up again. I wanted to turn it up yesterday. But as it simmers. Still. I let the worries wash over me. Because I know. I know I tread on the newness of a different story. And no matters what's next I'm playing a new game. A new kind of cooking. An affair of my heart. A new way of me. Being here. And although it stays on simmer. I warm at the thought of seeing him again. Soon.

the saddest taqueria

The saddest taqueria I ever placed my feet upon, the saddest taqueria I had placed an order in, the saddest taqueria I ever paused into to wait for my order, the saddest taqueria of course had its pair of the saddest bathroom is located on the corner of sutter and polk. A strange place for a taqueria. A strange place to find myself trying to order mexican food for I am a frequent flier of the taquerias in the mission. But when push comes to shove and you have been day drinking a taqueria and any taqueria will do.

As I push my hand on the door in. There is feuding- music the beat of latino and the tv telemundo. My face is washed in a cool breeze. I scan the menu and workers and patrons in unison. Everyone looks as if the color has been taken out of their eyes. The spark lifted not recently but years ago. In a robotic fashion people move around as the skin loses their color. Dimming and fading away. At first I thought I might turn around and run away. And find solace in the subway across the street but with courage of beers and hunger my reminder. I stick it out. I order. The woman’s eyes seem to open up for a moment. She must be the cheerleader in this place. I order something I deem safe. I order it hot as always. The man the creator of the food at her side. States we are out of hot salsa. Out of hot salsa. The saddest taqueria I have ever been in ran out of hot salsa. And when this white woman thinks that is unacceptable this taqueria is really in trouble.

I walk over to see what is left given the point of where the salsa that is left lives. I pick it up. It looks like green water. And has no taste. It spills like a green watery mess next to the plastic container. The saddest taqueria mourns the loss of salsa. I mourn it as well. I scan back and froth. Until I find the safety of a tapatio bottle. I find a plastic container and transfer it – it splashes out. No one will deny me heat. Not in this mourning taqueria. I find a seat. It is the glimmer of hope in the darkness. It is the variety of the chair and table connection of my childhood from fast food and diners. I flash back to my old days of sitting in. And playing. And I start swinging back and forth. Warming my mood up. In the darkness of this taqueria. I glance around.

To the patrons. A couple latino sit side by side talk and watch tv. They seem to have not be overtaken by this cult. And next to them. A group of white people co-ed. The girl with a flower in her hair. Her face talks in solemn tones. Her friend, a male starts doing exercises in his sweater. And I wonder do I look like them. Across from me a white man with tacos and tapatio tries to make eye contact with me. But I decline in participating in the duel with the short wearer and nike holder and tapatio eater. Next to me a couple of guys talking. I can't remember their faces now.

The walls are moving in old signs fading into the wall wrinkling into what was. I am bored with the chair swinging now. And try and find the bathroom. Past the sadness of the kitchen I make a sign of the cross to be sure as I lift myself up the stairs. Into the partner of the saddest bathroom. One where you look like it might be your last time going. My heart races as I fear rape and death and try to pee. Hard to multitask fear of death and the stream of pee. Someone tries to come in. This is it. I am going to die in the saddest taqueria I have field tripped in. No. Im in here. Its not stranger danger just the woman with a flower in her hair. I walk down the stairs heart still beating and walk. Walk to pick up my failed attempt and of a quesadilla and get out of here.

The saddest taqueria I ever went to reminded me why I only eat in the mission. Full of heat and vibrance and salsas and green sauce that burns my tongue and music playing from guitars and life. I will leave the sad taquerias to live in neighborhoods where taquerias go to die. I eat at taquerias where they live. And I breathe in the life. So thankful to have seen the saddest taqueria to remember. How lucky I am.

betrayed by this good friend along the road of life

hello friends,

thanks for stopping by as always. and don't be alarmed. i am okay. this was written a few months ago after i got some unanticipated test results. i repeat i am okay. but this piece captured the moments of the betrayal of this body.

Unmasked. The unmasked stood before me. I didn't know this. I didn't recognize this. But the unmasked it stood before me. I knew. I knew. I knew. That it wouldn't be good news. I didn't recognize this unmasked barrier of bad news for it was a different kind. But I knew the look. The look of the grayness of the eyes never making eye contact that mattered, the facial figures blending in together, the non-descriptiveness of it all. And inside of me. The remembering of a late night phone call of the worst news. The across country call of coming home because of sickness and fear of death. Starting to pulse in and out of my frame of this body. I knew this unmasked figure. I knew it or he or she was bringing me news. Not the best news as the platter what exposed for me to see.

And I have now crossed over into a place where the healthiness of this body I can't exactly control. And truth be told we never could. We thought we could. It was before the worry of tests. And test results. And genetics. And my ability to make babies. Once I wanted to.

This body, this athletic body, has not failed me once. I didn't always win the race. But it always carried me. But these feet with a high arch and toughness from years of barefoot walking and running had never let me down. These legs. Legs carved muscular through years of sports and running and swimming and now yoga and zumba have held my ground in ways I was thankful. My stomach. My anchor my way of knowing right and wrong was a pretty good team player too. To my chest and heart- the comfort of the heart and know it will beat in and out and hasn't stopped yet. To my breasts thankful that they decided to debut later in life in college but sometimes now wanting to put them on the shelf when not needed. Like when I want to take a run around the block. My arms- my right stronger than the left that has been know to hug and hold and sometimes used in arm wrestling. And these hands. These wrinkled hands of irish inheritance, my hands, my mother's, and my brother's, and a younger version of my grandmothers. The fingers have walked and jumped and spread over papers and keys on computers and the discovering the map of anothers hand or to squeeze an arm in encouragement and connection.

My body. My body I have so much to be thankful for. And we have been good friends along the road of this life. But in the unmasking of results. Test results. Not fatal. Not deathly. But not pleasant. And decisions to be made of next steps. Makes me feel betrayed. Betrayed by this body. Betrayed by my dear friends who have helped me along the way. Betrayed in knowing I can't control it. And never could. And as anxiety sets in I can't help but think I will all be okay. For it always has been. Okay. And a blimp on the radar of health in our modern time could really make the difference in the future in ways it couldn't before. In living in prevention, we sometimes have things unmasked before we are ready. Betrayed I feel but faith in having that this body, this body that has never failed me. Yet. Won't fail me today. Or tomorrow.

ghost of boyfriend past

hello all-

thanks for stopping by as always and hope you are and have been enjoying this sun that we have had shining on us regularly. written from the prompt stillness after a ghost of boyfriend past sighting at yoga. enjoy.

Stillness. I found myself in stillness as I found my place on the last steps to this new yoga studio. For the man who had visited me in my dream last night someone who I hadn't seen in months and haven't heard from either- stood to the right of me. As I look right, I see the shape of a head looking down that could only be his. Tightly shaved and looking down upon a device. And then his stance opened up ever so slightly with the flip flops I would recognize anywhere. Stillness found me as I spoke to register for the class and my last name fashioned more audibly than needed out loud so he could turn around to see me. But Bueler rolled off my lips and no turning of his head. He does yoga now? The inner dialogue begins to quicken. But stillness of should I move to him. Stillness of what to do next. Stillness I want to feel in yoga class is now my heart pounding in and out and in stillness of uncertainty.

I walk slowly. Purposefully. And walk gently past the man. To see his profile, to see him and ready for what might be next. And as I walk he turns his head to mine and my strong eyes he felt and the familiarity of his head and his shape and his dress are just that-they are not him and the things I thought were his but belong to a different man. As soon as he turns to me-both relief and a twinge of disappointment fall out of me. For as much as I don't like the uncomfortable especially in my yoga time there is a piece of me that would like to see him. Again. In a yoga class at that. And just see him. For a few minutes and feel his warm and kind eyes upon me and this time hope that all is more calm for him. And that the rapid pace of our love affair and his life that reflected that would feel different.

As relief pours out of me more than the disappointment. Stillness becomes me again as I sit down on my mat and remain still. Breathing in and out even though the edge of anticipation is still moving through the rivers of my body to my heart. This heart where it all has lived. Always. I become more still in being here. In this class. And as I move through the breathing and legs up and down, I can't help but notice this man, the man who I thought was someone else, a person away from me on his mat. As I lean into my poses on my right side of my warrior, I study the back side of this man. While breathing of course. In and out. His build- wide and coming down- his muscles toned but not daunting are the same. The dusting of leg hair and arm hair and the hands-the hands-I used to hold , held onto too long are the same too.

I used to study the man, the man I had a relationship with until I knew him in ways we didn't anticipate. And here in yoga stands a man from behind that looks exactly like him. A reminder of what was is breathing and in stillness lives with me. Right now besides me on a yoga mat. Before in a bed where we laid together. But he no longer resides once where he did in this heart. In and out breathing until I am looking down. To the next pose. The reminder of what was lives inside of us and sometimes in stillness we see someone who used to mean so much and now we can see from afar and in the reminder and in the stillness, we breath and move and know that it is time and has been to look forward. In stillness, I do as I push down my hands to the earth.

when chasing dreams, it is hard to stay in the back of this boat

What I finally decided to say was ask if he still wanted the dream we had all been working towards. I finally decided to ask him what he wanted. Right now. You see this happens sometimes. We get excited over a student who is dreaming big especially one who had not had the opportunity before who dreams had not been allowed for him in this way. Not by choice. By the accident of being born in a neighborhood with different pressures. No he could dream. But only so big. His dreams could not expand into others or be bigger than himself. And there he went along in life. Making choices. And when he finally got to me. It turned out this student who never thought the words college would cross across his lips, a student who never thought he could say it without someone laughing. He after multiple high schools and a path I allowed to stay in the past. He could still go to college.

So once we found out and he said the words. We jumped in the boat and all started paddling fiercely. For we could not let this new dream die. The death of it. Would kill us too. The obstacles so great, so big, that he needed the extra assistance through the rough waters around this school, around this home. The waves kept on trying to capsize us. But every time we braved it. And peaceful waters would return. His father would drive over the bridge just to bring some money for his college application. He would decide to go to a safer location for the SAT-these are realities you might understand, I might not understand.

But you see somewhere along the line I realized I was in the front of the boat with a colleague and I wasn't sure where the student was. If he was on board at all. Had we lost him on the this last ride against the current? I looked back and saw his face. His eyes distant. His face solemn. The excitement of the dream was dwindling. I realized I had to ask him what he wanted. I realized I had to tell him we wouldn't be disappointed. I realized we could support him in his next step and that didn't have to be a four year college. And once I realized-I had to tell him. The dream didn't die it just changed. And his face relieved in thank you and I didn't want to disappoint you.

We are still on that ship. We just needed to change our positions of the rowing. We still have to go against the current for the temptations are great. The greatest gift of all was the dream. That he could dream and we could believe in him. But in not asking him. We forgot him. But once we remembered it wasn't our dream and our life but his. We did what we could to keep that ship destination bound. Knowing it can stay afloat with our help but he needed to be manning the ship.

The dream didn't die. It just changed. For a dream outside of the street quickness is the dream of most of my students- it looks different and feels different and it is hard work for them and for us. But really what I had to say was I made a mistake when I decided to get in the front of that boat and not move. That is what I said. That is what he heard. And together we still paddle. In unison.

the winds of change blowing me still

The wind of change. The wind of change blew hard and fast shaking the aluminum of cans and cars. The trees sway as if they have lost their bones. As you stand on this street. This one way street home. You just watch it all. And wait. Wait for how you should feel. What you should do. The taking in and holding. Instead of the movement going-just to move. And then. There might be a reprieve.

The wind of change comes rapidly sometimes shocking you. Or sometimes it is a whistle reminding you. A melody that is easier to heard inside of your head. Because when you change-if you start to. People don't want it. They want the bullet points and cliff notes on you to stay the same. Every time. But people change they can. It takes work. The wind makes it so you need protection.

As I sat in the chair and held myself from running after him. Again. I had made it through the tough part or so I thought. Because we play roles in our lives sometimes over and over until. One day the wind blows down the street lighter and we say maybe lets play this a little different. As the weights of my soul held me glued to the seat. I was relieved that although maybe he still ran away. Early. And never saw to see what would be next. That this time I could do something different. And I did- I was. And I thought the wind of change would comfort me. And it did. I was tempted to contact him and reel him back in. But thought no. The wind had taken hold of me and made me lighter.

It wasn't until yoga. The next week as I lay on my back in the last pose of this class. That he came back to me. And remorse I had for it being over. Done. The wind wasn't with me. I didn't feel light. I felt sadness for a goodbye never said. And the heavy of words only heavy because they were never said. And no longer did I want to be different. I wanted to be the same. I wanted to move towards him. And say words that have been trapped in my throat for years. Not to hear answers but to say the words aloud to the face that brought them to be. Wind of change blowing again. For I had given up on a future. But maybe I hadn't given up on letting the words free from my mouth to travel slowly and quickly to his ears in the hopes they would blow into his head and down the long way down into his heart. Just for a moment.

The wind of change was-I still did nothing. I left my mat. And let these thoughts just be. Instead of acting. Not moving for me. Not moving hard and fast. And making sure to never let things simmer. Is one of my greatest challenges. I blow back and forth about what I want and how I would like this all to end. A long traveled journey down halls and roads and aisles and lines we have seemed to find each other more than once. But when I saw him again after years and after the hospital which I had called this match over. I couldn't help but think I can say what I want. Out loud. To him. But he already knows. Just like his words. His words he had told me over and over as he walked or ran away down the street as the wind picks up behind me. It used to propel me to follow. But this time. It willed me. To stand still. And see what happens. Next. The wind stopped. On its own. At least for now.

please change the reel

written from the quick write shadows. have a great weekend! and all my thanks!

Shadows. The shadows grow from the ground, the pavement, the grass into full formed features growing into a person. I look and see. Quickly. Take my diagnosis in and keep walking. Walking. Away. Down. The street. Home. But sometimes its hard to shake the shadows of my neighbors , of my friends. The shadows of people and the what they might do. What they are doing. Makes me want to turn off the film reel in my head. It makes me want to stop seeing. Because once I see. I can't help but think. Think about that shadow of that person. The darkness. The sadness. In what could be.

The other day. I had a day at school. A day full of running up stairs and meeting of kids and learning things I would rather not and keep going up down the stairs across the hall and the listening and supporter of dreaming and planning and shaking of hands and hellos along the way. Hi Ms. B. So as I leave my day. I need some quiet. Some solitude. A pause from the reality that is. And sometimes I get. At a cafe. With a trashy mag and sun beats on my face. Or walking. Walking to the next thing. The world somehow looks different and so am I. In pausing. I see tv slowly around me as I walk into it more real than reality tv or a sitcom crafted. And I don't long to speak to anyone. Which is for me the rarity of all rarities.

As I picked up K from school. From guitar. Excitement to see his face still dosed in exhaustion of giving to others. We walk down the street. Home. To get the car. And I glance ahead and to the left to take in the scene. What me and K with his new glasses and guitar upon his back might be walking into. I see a group of man on the corner. Typical for my hood. And as I glance to my left. I see a shadow. A shadow of a man. A glimpse of a family. The woman seems upset and is lifting her child up the stairs who still resides in a stroller. She is speaking to her husband or boyfriend. Some reassurance. I look to this shadow of a man. And he has a knife open. Open in his right hand. He is upset. I look once and twice. And his shadow is growing. Growing on his porch with his family. In front of his house. My face might not have stayed street. I tried not to look shocked that on a Tuesday afternoon most people hang with their fam with a knife open. All I know is get out of here fast. For K is attached to my arm.

So we walk hard around the corner. He didn't see the shadow. But I did. I exhale once we turn the corner. Open the car. K runs to the car. I get in. And sit there. I didn't want to see what I just saw. I never what to see it. The shadow of a person's potential haunts me. I close my eyes. Breath from the bottom of my legs. And turn the ignition. And keep going. Going home.

built with love: the safety of a picture window

Dreaming. I lay upon my back upon the small piece of grass in front of my duplex home in the f section and stare above. Above me- the clouds move. Just watching the movement of the clouds- cotton balls that I always dreamed I could walk on. My younger self- stared up wishing to walk upon the clouds even though I was told I would fall through. That the clouds would not hold my weight even as a small child. But somehow I thought if I ever got that high I could walk, walk upon those large drifty cotton balls. Cotton balls of cotton candy pinkish sometimes when the sun is drifting away. I dream of jumping between the clouds not falling through. Where to. I didn’t know. Then or now.

I still find my self looking up at the clouds. Today. And stopping and watching the quickness of the changing canvas along the blue. I alert the kids to the good clouds ahead while driving up and down the hills to our next destination. At the stop light, I say I have always wished I could go up to the clouds. K responds, you can you just need the right ladder. Dreaming.

Dreaming. I used to dream there were witches under my bed. And in my closet. So often that I couldn’t sleep in my bubble gum ice cream pink smeared room. Pink everywhere upon my request. Then. I couldn’t sleep and found refugee down the long hallway in between the two parts of me- my mother and father. Darkness around me. I thought. But the nightlight never forgotten to be put on by him or her after my reading. I found them each time.

Dreaming. Of witches. My witches dream. Became a problem. They kept coming. And my father did what he could to bring me comfort. In my closet- one of the locations where they would come in my dreams. He built the safety of a picture window only a father could. In it was a picture of trees and sun and clouds. Drawn by him in pencil and then in color. Lined in the only color I thought should exist pink, pink window panes. He pulled down the string of the light he had lengthened so my five year old hands could reach.

And there was my very own picture window. My own blanket. My own safety. From the witches. See Katie he said you don’t have to be scared anymore. My picture window. A picture window from my father. Was the only thing that kept me from the witches in my dreams. And got me to dream. Again. In my own bed. In my own room. Light on in the closet. So I could keep the window. In my view.

i am an imposter- a charity walking one

I did it. I impersonated a charity walker on day 3 of raising awareness and money for the breasts, to fight the cancer. But I did not mean to. I swear. It started innocent as always. I do hate that saying the road to hell is paved to good intentions ringing in my ear. I hate hearing it all. I was busting ass to meet a friend. Wearing my purple clad jersey t- man make x-small v-neck of my American apparel and jeans and my toms. Typical outfit for meeting of the friends. For hearing of the bands. In the park. I am doing the speed walk when you swing your hands up and down the swim stroke of walking I am doing that the freestyle sprint of walking. My pool lane my sidewalk. A flip turn might be interesting.

I see a crowd and cheering. And think oh there must be an event. Until I am in the sea of the pink and release the cheers around me are cheers those around me. Yay for them. But wait no one is walking through the crowd but other than me. The cheers are for me. The sea of the crowd surrounds both sides of the street. Eyes full of admiration are mine. Oh shit. I am look down I am not wearing pink. I speed walk faster and try to get the hell out there. It doesn’t help. They cheer louder. Now people are offering me waters. I refuse and they insist. Please take it- it has been a long day. They say. With their eyes. Cheers resound for me. The imposter. I am offered a power bar but decline. Although my stomach rumbles. I want to shake my hands around sporadically around-no not me glowing in the redness of embarrassment as I laugh uncomfortably and quieting underneath my breath. Stop. Please stop. I am just late.

The guilt I am feeling to mistaken for someone, someone who actually walked for three days and raised money someone who might have lost one of her lady lumps or lost someone who did. My face squeezes tightly wincing for these cheers and faces and free food and water would disappear. You can’t stand in the middle of the crowd and start yelling No stop cheering me on. That would be weird. No this is weird. So I do what I can. I speed walk fast up the hill almost running- running in the race of me against the cheers away from my cheering squad.

Safe. I am. There was nothing to do. But tell via the device the text of my friends about my monkey in the middle game of perfectly bad timing. They cheered me on. When I found them sitting outside that café on divisadero. And asked where was the water and power bars were. Left for the real walkers. Not the imposters like me. By accident. Of course. But I can’t steal from someone who actually making sacrifices. God Kate you could have least got some water. I couldn’t bear the immorality of it. Stealing water from the real walkers- the real do gooders. Do the right thing is doing the right thing when no one is watching.

That was the day. The day I was mistaken for a 3-day walker, when I had only been walking for a few minutes. Good story. Over coffee or beers. Everyone laughs for this one. But the cheers without the work felt empty and embarrassing and reminded me how much the working matters. Even in our world that praises be the best at all costs. In anyway possible. Cut corners, screw people over, do what you can to get ahead we all sing in unison as we walk to nowhere fast. Follow the leader gone terribly wrong. Unless we stop to think. So many people walk in charity walks for just a few minutes and collect the prizes and giveaways and glow from the accomplishment. But it’s not real like so many things. That day.

That day I felt what other people might feel when they do things. That they do for others to only see. Some people live for the eyes of others. Sometimes I might be like them. But I do the work. And I do want the cheers of others. But not as an imposter. As the real thing. And most of the time. I will be cheering someone else on. In my purple shirt. In a sea of pink. Handing out waters, and hall passes, and advice and, time, and listening to those passing by.

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

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

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

So here are some of the highlights over the years:

Animal Noises: Barking

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

Animal Noises: Meowing

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

Snowflake:

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

My Response:

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

My Unsolicited Advice:

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

Oh Shit:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

the mini vacations of the mind might be the only way to make it in high school, again

Going away is now left to mini vacations of separation and buffer. Buffer from what is. What just happened and what will be next. I am beginning to learn how to go away in my mind and in my body without departing in a vehicle or airplane or a magic carpet of childhood dreams lost. I am in the midst of a new life of meetings and intensity and crying and listening and helping and listening and asking and it would seem I would have 5 minutes to process before my next thing.

Before, before when I tried to be the helper in the schools last time as a teacher I just rushed through. Hard and fast. And thought vacations were only left to proper vacations. But this time. Time had passed. Things have changed. And the air mask must be first be put on to help the others breathe. So much so I have to go away after the intensity of a mother crying real tears over the injustice of what is. A teacher tears up. And I see the intensity opening and expanding in this classroom. Classroom. And then it is over and we say our goodbyes and I have 7 and ½ minutes to get to my next thing-no processing time.

So I go away. I breathe deeply as I walk slowly to down the hall at lunch time. Kids bubbly with energy for it is lunchtime-bumping and running and sporadically moving down the hall to freedom. For them. I walk slowly to the bathroom. And I sit there. And hunch over and go away. I need to go away for what just happened to be present for what will be next. I need to go away so it will not be mine. My own beach and cocktail and repetition of waves I found within myself. Within this public school bathroom. Luckily an adult one.

Going away. The boundary and buffer and space to be able to be be connected but then move on to the next thing. And be okay. So for that I am working. Working to do my job now mostly of observing but while observing you see so much, sometimes too much and then. Then you most either run to the next thing. Or slowly walk. Walk and breathe. And have a vacation of the mind.

I thought these things lived outside of myself. Myself. But they live inside of me. Me. So when I have the extra time. The day before I had to pick up the borrowed kids. I sit. I sit in the sun. At one of my favorite cafes. And just go away. No computer. No book. Just a coffee and sun. And I might befriend a table of former band dudes next to my table. For a few moments. Going away. I love getting away. But sometimes the only vacation in my grasps is the one inside of me. Inside of me that allows me to go away. Go away while standing in the same spot.

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.

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: purple or otherwise- go stomp in it

this is being blogged from martha & bros. coffee- one of my second homes, a cheers of sorts, everyone in deed knows my name. check them out they are around the city and all owned from the decents of the same family. and family they will treat you as there own. 10 minute quick write for the word- disorder-written after a good few days of rain. kind of how i feel in this fog. 3 days in a row of sun. please universe send me one more day. i need it. there are no puddles to stomp in.


Disorder. I forgot about the disorder of the rain, the raindrops, the disorder of cabin fever of the young. I used to get it all the time when I was a kid. That feeling of both nostalgia and crazy into one. You want to run outside and jump in the puddles and get wet. Lift your eyes up into the air full of rain. The moisture feels good at least at first it does. It does. But then you get too wet or someone doesn’t let you outside and then you are stuck indoors for hours -sometimes days. I forgot about the disorder caused by rain until today.

Today when I walked into Kid Space a place for occupational therapy, therapy kids style. The type that most kids with extra privilege learn how to grow muscles and multi-task and hold a pencil. As I walked into the waiting room, I remembered the disorder. How I had forgotten? All these kids, kids were losing their shit. You could feel the energy of the raindrop disorder everyone is miserable-everyone crying visually or with looks in their eyes. Everyone wants something they can’t have. Have. They long for either a run outside, a stomp, or just a juice box, or a game of heads up 7 up. They want their parents to stop talking and telling them what to do. I am sick-they say. Give me fresh air- they mouth to me. Let me jump in a puddle-they sign. Bring out the sun lady. Because this raindrop rain cabin fever disorder makes you batty, makes you crazy, and the adults around you don’t know what to do. To do.

So I looked around the room and I remembered. This disorder will only last so long and soon these kids and these adults will be normal. Again. Normal. The disorder only strikes when we aren’t walked properly or watered enough or sun hasn’t shone on our roots. There is no way to get rid of it. Rid of it. Except the disorder will pass, pass like many of the disorders I study. Have studied in myself, in others, in strangers. I try to understand the order of those around me. The disorders of those around me. We name them, we say them, they pass, they come back. But what are we really talking about? About.

With the rain, it’s about freedom of the air. Freedom itself. But the other disorders might not be very different. The freedom to not worry about about the ills of life and what you have inherited or your childhood or your love life or any of it. Maybe the disorder is trying to organize it all perfectly. We can’t stop the rain, we can’t stop heartache, we can’t stop the laughter. The disorder might be the controlling. Instead let us let the drops fall down on our heads. Cabin fever is our enemy and the air of rain filled cloud our friend. Some might call it a disorder but it might be the only order I have ever known. Splish. Splash. I say.

the quest to stay out of the fog in my island of home

hello all-thanks for reading! this was inspired by the lovely word paradise. enjoy and have an amazing weekend- i am signing off for a spa day of sorts tomorrow. paradise will be mine. again.

i want to give a shout out to my former professor and dept. head at Columbia's Teachers College. I am humbled to know he reads this thing i call a blog. he was brave enough to tell me. i am glad to be expanding my target audience- Aaron Pallas- sociologist i will always be. . .


Paradise. What was paradise yesterday is not my paradise today. My paradise before was a beachfront property in a miami style vice house. My paradise was falling in love with bloody marys. It was the first time we took a run on the dance floor of drinking. I loved them so much- I took the orders from all the family members- first one then multiplying until one day I had more glasses lined up in a row, bartender I had become. I tried to perfect it each time. More family members kept coming back for more. My cousin’s husband said my final one rivaled zeitgeist. I took a moment of silence. A comparison to a godfather of bloody mary makers. I only was in the ring for a week.

Paradise for me was waking up eating and coffee along the lake and then reading, swimming, and making a bloody mary for me and co. Then repeat again. And again. That was my paradise. Paradise was swimming in the lake so much it became my bath. I was a mermaid again on my back floating-my hair back and forth-the heaviness of the hair weighing me down and freeing me all at once. My childhood habit of being a mermaid still mine as I lay on my back floating and my head and the weight of it to and fro. It was my paradise to sit along the hot shore with a towel small or big and the waves crashing rhythmically as the screen doors opens and closes and opens and closes and opens and closes. I sat there by myself. I laid there and could have laid there forever sun beating on my irish german skin brown. I took off one of my 5 bikinis to see a tan line I hadn’t had in years. It was my paradise. Bloody marys and swimming and white bottoms and family and kids running around saying they are robots and wrestling on the damp grass.

It was my paradise until I came home. Home to a forgotten feeling of despair and anxiety. And after I was able to shake the familiar feeling away. I found paradise again. Again I did. Today while driving. I left my friends home in the richmond the fog melted away into the sun of the haight. As I drove, I saw two kids on their bikes on the corner bubbling with summer. I drove behind a person with a red party cup plastic type out the window. I slowed down. I saw a tall man walking a toddler across the street. Paradise again.

As I sat sitting in the sun no bloody mary but a espresso with spice. No beach but sun. And my companion the laptop. I sat and heard. Heard paradise again. I had saw paradise. But paradise was listening to three different people talk about boobs in unison. Paradise was talking to a man from cork. Paradise would be getting proper cocktails with friends and searching for sun tomorrow. I had left my paradise-my lake-my love but now I found home. Paradise all along. All long it was. I just had to drive to the sun and leave the fog. The fog that is.

the make believe of adultness: round 500- the hipster art show

have a great weekend and thanks so much for reading! i am in the fuzz of advil pm i took at 4 am because i couldn't sleep. note to self: sleep aids work so well i might still be asleep while posting this.

Make believe of adulthood has transformed into forgotten super heros costumes and play fights and lava around the bed into pretending, the faking it until you make it mantra. We all make believe but somehow the creativity of our younger wonder years can be lost in the this thing call adultness.

Being an adult is overrated. If I had only known what was to come I would have stayed in the tree house of childhood longer. I might not had rushed so hard to be an adult and make adult decisions. I might had taken longer to get through the connection from being the child to the adult of college. I might have done a lot of things. But one thing I do know is that I might have built to stay in the comfort of simplicity and lightness of being kate b. in school written upon my books. Because a whole month I was late exiting the womb. And still didn’t want to get out. They had induce my exit into the world through medication pleading me the little one to enter, enter the world of adults. Idealist I was from the beginning.

Adulthood is is the responsibility that weighs you down. The inability to give the task to someone else. So as I make believe in my own way, putting on the right dress, and making sure I look the way I should. I am making believe that I haven’t been couch and bed surfing this last week. I am pretending that stress didn’t stop me from eating and sleeping. For I am in an abyss of the solitude of fear and anger and uncertainty all occurring in my home. My landlord nightmare. Monday I was swimming in lake tahoe and by Tuesday I was calling the cops on him due to his threats. Bookmarked the week with an art gallery and a few beers.

Because I have to make believe that I am okay. That it will be okay. I got to fake it as I make it. And as I walk into the hipster flat turned into art gallery, I look in the faces most with unruly beards and eyes dilated, as I scan down to the tats art within itself, then the fanny packs, and tight jeans, and biker hats turned upward. I know we are all making believe. In the best way we can. I look around the room of art. Random photo of boobs and butts and beds and scenery and birds all lined up in neat rows. I make believe to look and really understand. Instead I am thinking what if that was my rack upon this wall? And I didn’t know until. Until right now.

We walk outside through the house that is part of the installation. We are out. The air feels good upon my face. PBR and Tecate cans in one hand and burrito in another is the uniform at this party. A dude actually pulled out his balls in the bathroom line to show his friends. Forgetting we are no longer in elementary school of privates comparison. My friend recognized him as her neighbor. And once she said something to him, he promptly replied as he put away his balls one and two, well you recognize me then. Making believe we are grown-ups, some of us are just better at it than others.

One man with a beard that needs a trim with a hoodie and burrito double fisted with both his hands interrupts my conversation and says as he sways, have you bought my book yet? No what is it about? I inquisitively respond. It’s about being fucked up on alcohol and drugs. How original- no one has done one that before-comes back up like bad milk spewed upon his face. I start laughing too loud. He laughs too. I am making believe. Believe I belong here. Here.

psa from my heart to yours- please don’t offer me love advice until you introduce yourself

this week has been light because i am going on my 3rd and i think last getaway for the month and the summer. i am blogging from the oh my god i can't believe my view, i think i just pissed my pants of excitement in a beyond wonderful home in the tahoe keys. i have fallen in love with bloody mary's and seeing the lake upon me waking up.

here is my psa announcement to people who give love advice to strangers unsolicited. it was fourth of july and i was pissed. now i am not but the sentiment still lives on. it was written from the prompt i am love. have a great weekend and all my thanks for sharing in my trials and tribulations through this thing we call life. okay back to the beach. . .

I am love. I am love. Love to me to you is not entirely the same. I wish I could have said more elegantly piss off to the fat lady at the bbq. She conveniently over tanned with permanent lipstick too bright. See I want love like any lady or man and I have beat myself up in the game of why don’t relationships work for me in the long term. I have analyzed, I have therpaized, I have tried to make sense of it all. So when the fat lady at the bbq says why can’t you find someone? Well she yells across the bbq without even introducing herself interrupting a conversation. I wish I would have told her. Her some dieting advice. Because my “weakness” is being a spinster or a singleton but I don’t go around giving diet advice to fat people. No I let them be fat. Because let’s face it, it really is none of my business.

Do I tramp around the pool shaking my muscular ass and yoga-toned body and say I can eat whatever I like? No. Because I am love. I desire love like everyone but. But to be told. Why can’t you find someone? Do you try? Have you tried online dating or eharmony? Do you even want to get married? The spitfire of judgment- she doesn’t care about my answers. I just don’t fit into her world of perfectly matched couples. Throw my glass into her pool.

She stands now up from her perch. She has on sunglasses and white terry visor with a rather large terry cover-up to boot. She stands up and walks closer. Her boobs take up more real estate than her legs. One boob probably weighs as much as my calf and knee. She walks closer to tell me. You know the older you get it is harder to find someone. Coming closer with her cautionary tale of the fear of aloneness, a woman alone. Oh dear. Oh my. The travesty. Closer almost a whisper. Do you know once you are over thirty it goes does down and the chances are less and less?

I stare at this woman who didn’t bother to introduce herself in all her knowledge of 60 years spewing on a stranger. Next please I want to say. Instead- do you really want to tell me this statistics? Well I don’t know how old you are. I nabbed my husband at 19 and we got married before college was through. See this lady doesn’t know shit about finding love in the real world. Beyond the age of 19. There are some statistics I could slam her way like how lucky she made it- given that most marriages that start that young don’t anymore. I would have told her the higher the age of the first marriage, the more chance you might make it. I would have thrown in some stats on obesity and fat around the middle too.

I am love. I do want love. I was a leper for this lady. No success for me because I don’t have love, not in her eyes. But I do. I have. A stranger. A stranger spewing advice but hit at the core of my insecurity. Because I do want a partner and husband one day. I do want love. A love that lasts longer than I have. I do want children. And my fear is time might be running out for me. I know it’s irrational. But I have enough yells and screams in my own head about making the right choices in the love department I just don’t need to hear it from a judgmental bitch that hasn’t lived. My life. See it would have been like me giving her dieting advice unsolicited. It doesn’t matter what I have done, or did, or what I have accomplished I am zero without a man, a family. I want those things. One day. But a lifetime is a long time and I want to not settle for something just to have something. I would have done anything for a set of balls and a penis to avoid this abuse.

I am love. I do want love. But for now I a free agent. Trying on shoes before buying sometimes taking them out for a spin. I am love. I will find love. Love that will be more. More than this. More than that. With a man who would never speak to me in a condescending tone in front of strangers or alone or in silence. Contempt he will not have for me. So this is my psa keep your advice to yourself unless you are ready to hear some truth unloaded about your fat ass. I mean you do try don’t you to lose weight? I mean you do want to lose weight don’t you?

my father knows recipes by heart

My father leans over our family home’s kitchen sink as he cuts the raw meat into pieces. The flesh raw and bloody but I know with some tlc and recipeing it will be soon the tri-tip I call home. He is cutting away. As he listens to the pounding of the television against my ears. The beloved fox news. It is always too loud. It is always too o’reilly. It always is. Fucking annoying. He cuts the meat and attentively stares at the tv yelling at certain times. Then asking me questions about things I don’t know about because I stopped watching the news. I stopped watching the news after the doom of the economy the sky was falling was my reality so I no longer needed to read about it. I am learning a lot and nothing from these stories.

My father just got done. Just got done showing us his legs that are swollen. Swollen from we aren’t sure what. But they are turning black and blue. My father once a marathon runner, once a all night over time worker supporting his family of four, my father who was a father- a single father at one time- who used to ride his bike from Sonoma County to Marin to work- has a host of the al a carte of residual issues due to two work related injuries. Injuries he was lucky to survive. But with the cocktail of medicine of the morphine and the codeine and the oxycontin, his body doesn’t operate- it doesn’t work as it once did. His legs are swollen we think due to salt. But he hasn’t even had much salt. At least not today. Have you drank water? she asks him. Have you rested your feet?

My father stands there hunched over full of remorse for a body that has betrayed him. I chime in when appropriate. Because who wants people telling you what to do to get better when all you want to do is get better. Better. He is hunched over in the doorway between the deck where P and me reside and his room. The phone rings interrupting our family meeting time of how to get healthy once again. If it is for me. Tell them I am dead he sighs. I start laughing not my snort laugh but my quiet non-dorky laugh not of my ancestry but my own. I can’t stop laughing. I don’t know why I am.

Until P explains her voice lightly to the person on the other line that my dad is supposed to be dead but she thinks he can take the call. The call for a potato recipe, his potato recipe. He is awakened again and breathing and reciting the potato salad once his mothers but now his with the dashes and spices of his own make. His own liking. Then I am shaking. Shaking with the laughter because my dad said he was dead but is alright with the potato salad recipe giving. Giving. I guess we all trying to give enough but we don’t know how. And sometimes the humor. The humor of self-deprecation and total defeat is our only solace. For now. For ever. As he hangs up the phone, You can’t give that recipe to anyone, unless they pull out your finger nails out of course. I sit on the deck and look through the sliding glass door the tv into his world. He starts to cut the meat. A smirk of a cook who knows. Knows the recipes by heart.