Tag Archives: coffee

watching you sleep

Posted on by
1

My E is done with school.  And he’s finished his trainingship (or whatever you call it) and this is the first morning he gets to sleep in.  He’s so exhausted.  The only noise in the room is a cat licking something on its body, tapping on a keyboard and his heavy sleeping (and the occasional slurp of coffee.)

I love quiet mornings, but this is the one where everything changes for him and I honestly have no idea and no guess what next could be.  What does his next look like?  What will next feel like?  I have only been direct witness to his grad school path for the last year and a half directly.  He’s worked so hard, learned so much and grown immensely.  I am so proud of him.

I watch you stir and snore a little bit even though you swear you don’t snore, and I see you in our bed.  Our nest.  I’ve never felt safer in my life than with you.  ever.  And it’s amazing how at times I fight against the feeling.  Not trusting safe, believing it must me the calm before the storm.

I think it’s just the calm.

In a book about PTSD, they say that people suffering from it are accustomed to such high levels of adrenaline and emotional intensity that they often have chaotic lives so that they can feel normal and safe.  Only feeling comfortable if there is something to dread.

You and I both suffer from PTSD: yours from Bosnia and Iraq and mine from spiritual abuse.  It’s amazing to see how similar the symptoms we share are.  We’ve put a lot of infrastructure in place to stay safe, that is slowly coming down.  Leaving a beautiful, sometimes raw vulnerability.

I love you.  I am so proud of you.  I can’t wait to see what you do next.  I hope you get a big ol break.  And I feel so lucky and thrilled to walk this path with you.

I am going to try to quietly make my breakfast and slip out so that I can have my day.  Sleep long and deep, you’ve just finished an epic journey, my lover.

35th birthday

Posted on by
Reply

Part 1  (Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves)

Friday the 13th, I took the day off of work.  And I got my hair did.  Then E and I drove into San Francisco to have a fantastic dinner, see a show and spend the evening at a lovely hotel.  We checked in and got settled in the room.  E needed to get some new jeans and so we left the hotel to go shopping.  We were near the wharf and headed toward it so  we could catch a cab.  I wanted to go to the Levi’s in the Castro.  As we walked near th wharf an old lady grabbed my hand.  She said that she wanted to read my palm for free and I said ok.  A younger woman grabbed E’s palm and proceeded too.  She said a few things and asked if I wanted to proceed.  I said sure, and I guess that was the secret code for “it’s not free anymore”.  She said mind shattering things like, “I need to follow my heart”.  A few minutes later she demanded $80 from us.  I told her I thought it was free.  We argued back and forth and said this was how she made her living.  I said that she should be clear and upfront about her charges.  I gave her everything in my wallet which was $16.  It was the best I can do.  I can’t believe that we totally got touristed 10 miles from our house.

We caught a cab.  I asked him to take us to the Levi’s in the castro.  He took us to the Levi corporate headquarters.  They don’t sell pants there.  I was irritated and so we got out of the cab because that was easier than communicating with the driver.  We walked from Levi’s corporate to Union Square Levis.  Shopping there was awesome and we were running late.

A quick triple shot at Starbucks and then we have the best cab ride ever back to the hotel.  We shower and dress and call the front desk to hail us a cab.  When we run down the front desk says we’ve got a half hour late.  We had already moved our reservation back a half an hour.  A towncar stops and we get in.  And that 4 miles cost us $30.  Damn it (again)  We go off to Yoshi’s for dinner and Alice Russell was performing.  The food was fantastic and she was even better.  It was a profound experience because this was my first sober birthday.  E doesn’t generally drink.  And I didn’t, and it was a great experience to be on the same chemical level.  It was wonderfully connecting.  During the show we shared a pot of tea and it was divine.

This was not recorded at the show we attended but thanks youtube…

We cab back to the hotel without incident.  And turned off the lights and chastely bid each other good night.  We chastely bid each other good morning after a nice sleep in.  (there were a few lies in this paragraph).  After a breakfast we got back to Oakland for…

Part 2  (Gondolas, Hummus and Trees)

coming soon…

moving right along

Posted on by
Reply

I’m not packing.  We have a new apartment and will be moving on Monday, but I’m not packing-I’m writing.  It’s almost 11:30am but it feels like a quiet morning.  I have my coffee and laptop.  My sweetheart is still asleep.  I am alternately petting his cats and telling them to stop doing something that they shouldn’t be doing.

I have learned a lot about my process.  A lot of preparation.  All resources are lined up.  Everything is ready to go, I just have to pack now.  The work of it seems like such a detail.  And I am feeling far less anxiety about it than I used to.  The goal is to pack today.  We both used to live in houses and now all of our belongings fit in one bedroom of an apartment and a storage unit.  The storage unit is already packed and I think the bedroom will take us three hours of focused effort.  So knowing us, it will take 6.5 hours of unfocused effort with a nap in there somewhere.

Life is slower.  Life is sweeter.  We’re going to get from here to there and it’s going to be fine.  We will finish packing today (or not) and then spend tomorrow in San Francisco.  We may go to the gay pride parade and then we will go on a sailing trip.  If we need to pack more before or after that we will.  But I’m not going to cancel the fun like I used to.

I hired movers to move my personal stuff for the first time.  So muscley people with equipment and trucks will show up and the storage unit and apartment will be emptied out and put into our new super adorable place in 4 hours on a Monday morning.  Awesome.

It’s a big step, shacking up with my love.  Just us.   Well, just us and his cats.  I am noticing which parts of my past negative relationship habits are mine.  I am noticing which positive ones are mine too.  I was with someone for 11 years and she and I had a lot of good and bad times, good and bad communications.  It’s been so enlightening to see some of that come up for me again with another person.  To see in stark contrast, how my patterns contributed to our past environment.  My part of the good and the bad of my past relationship was huge.  And so was hers.  I definitely feel humbled knowing how much I contributed to the negative.  But I also can look at us through another light (thanks therapy!) and see how we both tried so hard and did the best we could do at that point.

I am excited to move into our new place.  I am excited about my new relationship.  And there’s still this part of me that wishes I could have been perfect for her.  And that wants to take care of her. This new transition has me feeling very introspective, sorting through past and present.  Really looking at everything.  Loving what is and what was.  Loving me.

cost of a life lesson is one dollar and eighty seven cents

Posted on by
1

I make breakfast in a very precisely-timed fashion.  I try to make it so that all parts are done at the same time.  Meal timing amuses me.  It’s a fun puzzle to get everything finished all together.  I get in this autopilot mode.  I feel like a Rube Goldberg device.  Until it goes wrong…

We have an ultra awesome snobby low tech groovy coffee vacuum press thing.  Last week I was sick and off my breakfast game.  I was pressing one cup of coffee,  I stirred it and waited for the vacuum to suck.  I flipped eggs and popped the bagel into the toaster.  Our toaster can be a little sketchy (especially since the frosting incident).   Back to the coffee-add more water.

The bagel pops up and it’s burnt.  Damn, I throw it away.  Put another bagel in.  I hate wasting food.  Add black beans to the eggs. Empty grounds out and start next cup of coffee.  Get goat cheese read to go on eggs, green onions and black beans.  Bagel pops up burnt.  I was trying to do the rhythm differently so they didn’t burn but they did.

I felt dumb.  E walks in and I say I burned two bagels.  He turns down the toast setting on the toaster and gives me a kiss on the cheek and grabs his coffee and walks out.  I boggle.

Isn’t it funny that I thought that I was the problem?  I tried to change my rhythms.  I must be wrong.  I am toasting wrong.  Didn’t even occur to me to look outside of myself at the device and see if it needed adjusting.  I frequently try to alter myself to a situation to make it go ok.  I do it a lot less than I used to since I turned in my resignation for being the stage manager of the world.

But it’s my first impulse-what needs to change about me to make everything else ok.  If only I could be better than everything would be ok for everybody.

I burned two bagels and wasted $1.87.  But the price was well worth the reminder.

Jesus Christ, I’m not a whore

Posted on by
10

I am not taking anyone’s Lord’s name in vain.  Believe me.  This is a memo to the heavens.  I am not a whore.  I am frustrated about this name that so many Christian men call me.

So, on Friday my sweet E and I went out.  I had a very hard day.  I wasn’t right in the head.  I got really triggered and was having a bad day PTSD wise.  Someone was talking about stalkers in a weird way and as someone who has been stalked multiple times, it was hard to chill my overtapped adrenal system.  Welcome to PTSD, it blows.

This van says hell sucks, and I'm going there

This van says I am going to hell. I am making a very serious face.

We are walking in Walnut Creek where we live and there is a very colorful van, covered in angry condemning words.  Telling the queers, the fornicators, the drunkards, the idolators, etc etc that they are going to hell.  I mean, that we are going to hell.  Because, well, I’m a queer fornicator who imbibes on occasion.  Actually, I’m a drunk, queer fornicator with chronic PTSD from spiritual abuse from people who espouse beliefs such as this.  And, dear readers, I am one of the nicest drunk, queer fornicators you may ever meet.

We find the people with the signs, and they are yelling at kids.  Yup, apparently the way to introduce Jesus’s gospel of love, grace and forgiveness is to scream at kids and froth at the mouth.  Didn’t Jesus say “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”?  He did, it’s Matthew 11:28.

Which brings me to a problem I have.

I don’t think Jesus wants people who only believe because they are terrified of the post death mystery.  When I renounced my faith, I was 15.  Christianity didn’t mesh out for me.  And I still don’t believe.  This is one of the reasons things got very hard in the cult for me at that time.  Because they really didn’t like people who thought outside of their dogma.  It can get threatening.  I told my mom that I quit.  I didn’t believe.  I have compassion, empathy and a moral compass.  I think to say you believe something is true when you don’t is hypocritical.  And I am not a hypocrite.  To call myself Christian would be a lie.  And I don’t think Jesus wants people lying on his behalf.  I also think claiming a faith that you don’t actively practice is treating your faith as death insurance.  I am betting eternity on this belief of mine.  I also give myself permission to take up my Christianity again, should I believe.  But if I do it will be real and sincere.  It won’t be because of the guilty shadows of my upbringing or social expectations.  So there.

Security was video taping the show.  The preacher folk were video taping. (Is it still called video taping?)  I went into the throng and asked who was preaching and a bunch of kids pointed me at one of the guys.  This guy was frothing at the mouth.  I went up to him and asked him where the love was.  He screamed at me.  “ARE YOU A CHRISTIAN?”

“Um no” says I.

“Do you have sex out of wedlock?”

“I totally do.”

“HE’S USING YOU!  HE’S LYING AND GOING TO LEAVE YOU!!”

“Oh crap!  E, are you lying to me and going to leave me?”

E smiles and rolls his eyes and says, “No, sweetie.”

“Oh thank god.”

“YOU WANT TO BE THE MAN!  LOOK HOW HE’S IN THE BACKGROUND!”

“What do you mean I want to be the man?  How do gender expectations play into this?”

“MY WIFE IS A GOOD WOMAN, SHE DOES MY LAUNDRY AND BAKES ME COOKIES AND SUBMITS.  YOU’RE A WHORE AND HE’S A WHOREMONGER.”

I swear that is what he said.  That’s when I got pissed off.  Don’t assume what kind of woman I am or man I want to be.  We are all precious unique frickin snowflakes.  And some of us are drunken, queer, fornicating snowflakes with hearts of gold.  I started to yell. Lots of stuff was said that I don’t remember.  We are toe to toe, screaming at each other.

“YOU’RE NOT A WOMAN, YOU’RE A DEMON!”

“THAT SOUNDS FAMILIAR!  MY CHURCH PERFORMED SEVEN EXORCISMS ON ME!”

“WELL, THEY DIDN’T DO A GOOD ENOUGH JOB!!!”

Lots more words are exchanged that I don’t remember.  He turns his back away from me.  E is watching them tell a 12 year old Jewish girl that she’s going to hell for not believing in Jesus as the messiah.  I leave the throng and we look at each other.  He in his calm sensibleness says, “it’s cold, the security guard is shivering.  Let’s go buy her a hot chocolate.”  “ok”.  As we walk to Starbucks, E says… “I know what a cheesemonger does.  I know what a fishmonger does.  Dude, did he call me a pimp?  I should put on my green suit.” (adorable)

After cocoa, I grabbed a quick pose. (Knee high purple socks and tall black boots)

As we leave, several people identifying themselves to the preachers as Christian are pleading with them to stop screaming hate.  Telling them that Jesus is love.  And they are told they are going to hell for their permissiveness.

When we get back from our hot chocolate mission. The security lady can’t accept the cocoa because of terrorism.  I keep it, it was delicious.   A 16 year old girl comes up to me and remembers me from before when I was yelling at him.  She says, “He told me I’m going to hell cause I’m bisexual.  And he says I need to go to church and bake cookies.”  E asks her if she likes to bake cookies.  She says yeah, but doesn’t think anyone should force her to.  And she’s right.  She doesn’t have to bake cookies or go to hell if she doesn’t want to.

I am still pissed.  People use the expectation of shame about sex and sexuality to harm and control each other.  I am not ashamed about the fact that I am a lovely, hot sexual being.  And sex is a creative force.  Sex does not diminish you.  I walk back up to him and he’s screaming the old if you’ve thought of the sin, you’ve done it and you are going to hell spiel.  And I yelled, “NO!  THAT IS BULLSHIT!  THAT IS NOT RIGHT!  I have been abused and suffered because of that!  When I was accused at 16 years old for masturbating I never had!  One of the elders in my church had a dream that I was masturbating.  I had never touched myself.  Because of that non-sin all of my hair was cut off.  I was beaten and ignored for weeks.  I had to tell anyone who asked me about my hair cut that it was cut because I was a sinner.  You are spinning legalistic mind-control. But don’t worry, I got out of that church and I have since learned to masturbate and it’s been very healing.  I mean, if god didn’t want women to have sexual pleasure, he wouldn’t have given them clits.”

For the first time he was quiet.  I don’t think anyone won.  He wasn’t there to talk or debate.  There are probably now videos online with me screaming like a banshee about my clitoris.  It was cathartic, but not productive.  A lot of people came up to me afterwards and hugged me and said I was inspiring.  I didn’t feel that way.

I want to close this post by saying no matter what you believe, be groovy about it.

There are other thoughts and opinions in the world.

Talk about yours.

Listen to other people.

But let respectful dialog prevail.  I will endeavor to do better next time.  I think the heroes of the day were the Christians, who peacefully asked them to stop their assault.  The Jewish girl for holding her ground.  And E for putting up with an angry Leo and buying nice people hot chocolate.

Oh, and I think the preacher guy has a baking fetish or something.

relaxation

Posted on by
2

At 18 I had the best job in the world.  I was managing a coffee shop in downtown Sacramento.  Duke’s was on 16th between X and Broadway.  There aren’t a lot of jobs that you can show up to open at 4:30am wearing last night’s club make up because your friends dropped you off at work on our way home from dancing all night in San Francisco.  Good times.  I tried to play the part of the surly gothy coffee girl, but the punk industrial Goths said I was too damn perky.  So, I tried to temper my perky with angsty – it was not convincing – at all.

On my third day of this job, I was taking angsty coffee girl smoke break 2 of 15.  I sat on a chair in front of the shop and lit my clove.

The store next door was a tanning salon.  A customer walked in, he was a nice looking African American guy.  I finished my cigarette and went back in to wrangle lattes.  An  hour later, on smoke break 4 of 32, I noticed another customer walking in.  He was a very dark Latino guy.  I thought about the previous customer and thought that tanning salons would normally cater to females of the pigment impaired variety.  (This was 1993, before the metrosexual insurgency.)

I asked the owner what was up with next door.  “Oh, yeah… they are um… well… prostitutes… I guess.”

Fascinating.  Then I started to notice that the ladies next door came over for coffee around 10:45 because their shop opened at 11:00am.  They generally ordered 5-shot mochas with extra whipped cream.  They were super sweet.

Once I was working alone on a very slow day.  A “customer” saunters into my coffee shop.  He looks at me and asks me how much some relaxation costs.  I realized he’d walked in the wrong shop.  I looked at him and said, “chamomile tea is a buck twenty-five.  If you need more than that you should go next door.”  I never saw a guy run so fast.

I enjoyed talking to the ladies, as they had a very interesting outlook on life.  When you work at the oldest profession you know a thing or two about humanity.  They told me about their service.  Some guys come in for company, for touch, for connection.  Some come in because there are parts of their psyche that are dark – too dark for them to share with their spouses and girlfriends.  They provide a channel for that dark energy, for a fee.  I really liked them.

But the good times never last.  One night when I was closing after a second Saturday drunk fest, there was an incident.  (We served free champagne on second Saturday)  A drunk guy staggered to their window and was pounding on it screaming for them to come out and offer a particular service.  There were cops in our shop at the time.  The tanning salon was shut down shortly afterward.  It is now a tattoo place.

Boxes of me

Posted on by
1

A year ago I packed up all of my possessions and put them in my 1991 white Volvo station wagon.  I drove away.  I have to say that I love only having one vehicle worth of possessions.  A new theme in my life is definitely “decadent minimalism”.

So, I was looking at my stuff.  I had all of these containers: survivor, wife, tech business owner, friend, public speaker, spiritual being, event coordinator, party girl, and leader.  I only had one me and I couldn’t stuff all of me in all of these boxes at the same time.  I have always been a lousy packer.  Completely unbalanced.  I mean, I’m the girl that showed up for a week in Florida with some sweaters and no pants.  I’m glad they have stores in Florida.  Anyway, I distracted myself.

In the last year, I’ve emptied everything out of all of those boxes, and dumped it on the floor for me to take a critical look. (someone help me, my metaphors are really bad here.  Maybe its just too many of them?  I think they are now metaphives.  New rule, no blogging before coffee.) I’ve purged so much.  Some of these things I’ve burned out on and so I will trim them down.

How did I get this much stuff?  OK, if I toss out a lot of this party girl I will have a lot more room for friend.  Business owner took up a lot of space, I’ll put that in storage and see if I need it later.  I really liked public speaker and event coordinator, I’ll leave more room for that but I’m going to need another container.  Need to leave space for survivor and spiritual being because that’s constantly evolving.  There are a lot of memories, pain and joy in this wife box.  That one’s going to take a lot of time to work through.

All the segmented parts of me are being integrated, and I am finding there is more space than I thought.  And that there is joy and wisdom in keeping it simple and light.

PTSD A PSA

Posted on by
5

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder feels like a lot of things.  Here is what it feels like today:

An overtapped nervous system

Physical shaking and twitching

Paranoia

Anxiety

Insomnia

When sleep comes, nightmares

Overall sense of doom

Depression

Restlessness

Distraction

Forgetfulness

I feel like there are waves of spiky energy coursing up and down my body.

Distraction

Forgetfulness

I used to plough through.  I used to work anyway.  Now I try to be gentle and take care of myself.  Whatever that means.  I feel like such a wuss.  God, Feisty get over it.  I try to tell myself that there are parts of my brain that are different.  Some coping isn’t possible for me.  And so, take it slow a minute at a time.  Cut down on the coffee.  Stretch.  Go for a run.  Don’t eat ice cream.  Don’t drink booze.  Just chill. 

The plough through it mentality only made it worse, and my body is still trying to recover from that.  I wish I could stop shaking.  The doctor stopped prescribing the meds that make it better because I might get addicted.  However, there is nothing in it’s place.  So, yay…I’m not addicted.  I’m just suffering.  Is that better?  Maybe…

these are the people in my neighborhood

Posted on by
2

I am so inspired by the magical people in the magical world of 24th and Mission in San Francisco.

Johnny Cash Guy:  Amazing voice, he sings in the BART stations and plays guitar.  He’s tall, tattooed and made out of pure 100% rockabilly badass.  I know my friends A&L would melt in the knees.  He gets on the escalator and lights a cigarette, he rises out of the station, turns around and walks down the stairs.  You can’t smoke in the station, so he takes a lap and keeps an eye on his gear the whole time.

Tropical Girl:  You walk past her coconut stand and she catches you in her stare.  Then she screams, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO HAWAII WITH ME?  TO GO ON A TROPICAL VACATION RIGHT NOW BUY A COCONUT AND DRINK THE JUICE!  HAWAII IS IN THE MISSION!  BUY MY COCONUTS!”  I’m terrified of all 5’3 of her.

Life Story Coffee Guy: “OK that’s a triple soy latte, no problem.  You know I got here early for work today and I forgot the keys.  So I had to go back home, but it’s cool cause I don’t live far.  You said soy, right?  Cool.  But I couldn’t find my keys and then they were in the kitchen.  So I got on my bike and raced back and was only a little late.  Do you know how hard it is to open a coffee shop by yourself?  Oh, you do?  Cool.  You’re lattes almost ready.  Then the pastries weren’t here so I had to call……………….”

Creepy Restaurant Guy: I’ve never been in this restaurant, but every time I walk by it’s before hours and there’s a guy there.  He knocks on the windows, pacing me as I walk by.  He hits the windows and yells.  I don’t make eye contact.  And I don’t know what to do about it.

The Smokers: Sit on the front porch sharing joints as I walk away from the office after work.

Ironic 70’s Porn Moustache Coffee Guy: Makes one hell of a latte, and he rocks the porn stache.  Total sweety and even his skinny jeans and ironic tshirts don’t bother me.  Maybe that’s the real irony?

Mango Guy: He stands by his fruit stand holding a mango out, but never says a word.

Screaming Preacher:  A couple times a week he holds up a bible and screams in Spanish at everyone walking by.  I don’t know what he’s saying but I feel like I’ve probably done something wrong.  He’s accompanied by a small, old, toothless woman who hands out fliers that I also can’t read.

The Activist:  This is a different person with a different cause every day.  They are always thin and they stand in about the same spot.

Floras y Rosas: This beautiful old woman sells flowers and tamales at the BART station every afternoon.

The Old Guys:  A flock (a pride, a murder?) of older men at the donut shop day and night joking around with each other and everyone that passes by.

Screaming Zombie Parade:  People walking alone and yelling into their Bluetooth phone devices not really watching where they are going.  Everyone knows their business, they don’t know they look like douches.  They frequently trip over curbs and make every happy.

Baby Girl Guy:  I see him once every two weeks or so as I am walking.  He looks me up and down and says, “damn baby girl, let me buy you a drink”  I keep walking.  I wonder if he knows it’s me every time because I’m sure he says that to all the girls in tall boots.  I don’t stop to ask.

Crazy Guy: He’s one guy who is in either the streets or alleys, he likes to jump out at people.  He begs for money.  Once he approached me and touched my shoulder.  I faced him and said, “I don’t know you, never touch me again”, in my scary voice.  He hasn’t touched or approached me again.  I’ve seen him since in an alley talking to his wife on his cell phone.

a playful gesture

Posted on by
2

We’re dog-sitting.  He’s playing with the dog in the living room.  I am making coffee in the kitchen.  Another sweet and peaceful Sunday morning. The dog toy is a cat toy, but the dog isn’t speciesist and doesn’t care.  It’s one of the flicky toys on a stick that you make them chase and jump for.  That dog loves it.

When I am doing something I am generally focused and engrossed.  Especially when I am making coffee.  Maenadic hordes have hunted me down for lessons on ritual because they’ve heard of my coffee.  (OK, that last part was a lie.  I am stalling cause this is hard.  Wanna ride bikes?)

I see in my peripheral vision.  I turn my head as the toy playfully grazes the back of my leg.  I froze and looked at him and against my will, my eyes fill with tears and the tears pour out.  I see his expression evolve and mutate from impish and playful, to confused, to realization, to horror, to sadness. He holds me.  He’s sorry.  I sob and shake.  I can’t talk.  He apologizes over and over again.  I know he hasn’t harmed me.

I feel.

I feel sad.

I feel scared.

young

disappointed that I still feel

angry that it’s still in me

still an issue

grief

shame

and guilt.

Guilty that my damage spills over to him.  Shame that I’m not over it yet.  Even when I think I’m over it in my head, my body gets triggered and betrays me.  Like I was betrayed.

He says he didn’t mean to sneak up.  He didn’t sneak up, I just didn’t see him.  He should be able to feel safe being fun, spontaneous and playful.

But when I was stood against that wall for eight hours a day for two weeks straight and randomly wailed on with a pvc pipe that I couldn’t see coming… it broke a part of me.  I remember one of the days I felt like my head split in two and I’ve had to make a conscious decision toward sanity since then.

I just wish it could be better now.

Last week I was in a room of women.  One of them said she used to wonder if she was the only one who felt broken.  Everyone nodded their heads.  Everyone felt and is that broken.  It was a beautiful and sad feeling to see the walking wounded walking together and owning it.

Owning it is important.  I don’t want to just own it.  My tolerance and awareness has changed.  I want to see if there’s a way that a playful gesture can be a playful gesture.  Not a trigger.