Edited to add:

I’m seeing political references in the comments, and I want to be clear about the tone of the parade.  If my daughter hadn’t told me it was a gay parade, I wouldn’t have known.  That was the cool thing about it, everyone was just out to have a good time.  We all danced to the same music.  People were in costume or naked or not, and nobody paid much mind. That was the beauty of it.

I’m in the mood to write [read 2 Jack and Cokes], sitting here all dressed up while my poor, lonely, still-suffering dog tries to get slobber on my knee.  I say still-suffering because I left her today, too.  I figured she probably didn’t have the expectation of a lot of togetherness, me having been gone.  So when Teresa asked me to go to Bridgeport, which I’ve wanted to do for months, even though I’ve been gone and vowed to get to that article that I should have turned in before I left.  Even though I had yard work.  Even though I was going to start the hunt for a concrete (cement) guy.  I could go on.  But my rule is when someone invites me to do something I say yes.

So I got dolled up, just like I have for the last week — Which felt good because the idea of putting on my shitty clothes and hanging around the house working, after a week of fun in the big city — I was more than happy to extend my vacation.  She and I compared trips.  We flew to S.F. the same day but she went to Mendecino for a wedding.  Teresa is my closest friend in Portland now.  And the thing is she is someone I met when I was married and had money.  So when we go out it feels like old times.  Only I can’t afford those times anymore.  But I still go and pretend I can.  Fortunately she is careful with her money and our usual date is a bowl of soup before the matinee.  Today was a fluke.

Bridgeport is a huge outdoor mall.  It reminds me of the one I go to in Palm Beach.  She told me all about it months ago, and I’ve waited for her to show me where it is.  Today was the day.  Great place to look at beautiful stuff.  And it’s right off the freeway so it will be a good place for us to meet.

You asked about the trip.  It was probably the last trip I’ll make to S.F. for a while because the daughter who lives there is moving back.  So I did a lot of touristy stuff I’d always wanted to do.  We took a picnic to Half Moon Bay and laid in the sand.  We went to the LOVE parade.

Okay.  I gotta tell you about this because IT WAS SO FUN.  I didn’t realize it was a naked gay-man thing.  But my daughter steered me downtown, and pretty soon I heard the music.  Then we saw the floats with all the crazy dancing people, and as we got closer people in the streets were lined up.  That’s when I noticed naked men with their penises bobbing up and down as they danced to the driving bass beat filling the streets.  Throngs of costumed people were following floats to the square.  But before we got there my daughter popped into a convenience store and bought a large plastic container of Fanta — One of my new readers talked about Fanta and I couldn’t remember who you were or what it was but I said I wanted some.  I didn’t realize she was then going in search of a liquor store which ended up being right down the street.  She bought two little airplane containers of some kind of rum to put in it – I have to say it was quite good – and we got back in step with the crowd, sipping our giant drink.  I knew we’d arrived when I spotted the line of Porta Potties and from there the floats began to pull in and park like a circle of covered wagons, each blaring their music while the 20 or so people atop the float continued to dance.  My favorite was donned by a mystic in white wearing a long, grey beard.  He sat in the front and used his hands to gesture rhythmically; finger to thumb, looking like a cross between a yoga and a Hindu.

Lines formed for the beer and toilets with people taking drinks to gather ’round their favorite float and dance.  In the middle of these dancing clusters would be a naked man, shakin’ his thang.  Some were harnessed but most were dangling.  Keep in mind I haven’t seen a man undressed in a while, gay or not.  That Fanta was hittin’ the spot and we found we both favored the mystic, she for the music and I for the hand gestures.  Plus there was a young woman dancing whose tush was covered only in fishnet.  She wore white kid gloves and a saucy smile.  I liked the way she moved in her black lace-up boots. 

My daughter raised our arms and twirled me around — I was clutching her hand, afraid of being separated in the crowd.  The next thing I knew I was shimmying, back-to-back with the bare bobbing, this one unharnessed.  I bolted and we left our guru, but not before we got a free CD.  After hitting the line for the toilets we left the Love Parade for the Haight.

Then I spent two days with my best friend and her kids.   She’s the reason I’m a Xangan.  (Hi A and E!!!)  She’d been telling me about Nina Williams and I came to get a look.  That was a year ago last week.  My friend and her daughter, malkamix, who is an 8th grader and a fabulous writer, are two of the three people who know my screen name.  That’s why I use it backwards.

Anyway, we had a great time; she and I took a ferry to Tiberon and ate at Sam’s, and we all went to dinner Sunday night.   I miss them already.  But it’s fall and the fun’s over.

Hey, I’m in San Francisco, back Wed.

In a few hours I will turn 55.  I like the sound of that:  solid.

I’ve been naughty, and I hope to God that guy really buys the beach lot because I’ve been on a two-day shopping spree.  It looks like it’s a for-sure deal, the only catch is the city councel has to approve widening the road.  The people at city hall told our buyer it would be no problem.  So instead of starting on the house repairs I bought shoes and pants, a sweater, one blouse, and a shell — Oh, and some socks and hiking boots.  I have long feet and I only wear well-made, comfortable shoes so when I find a pair I like I just keep replacing the soles and heels. 

The shoe salesman was British and just a doll.  It was like one of those movies where he kept bringing more and more shoes.  He even had a pair of sandals like the ones my dog ate.  I couldn’t find them anywhere but when I described these favorite shoes he rooted around in the back and came out with the same black slip-ons.  They’re Munros and I can walk for miles in them they’re so soft and cushy.  The only thing I regret is the pointy-toed pair he talked me into.  They do look great with these cuffed, tweed slacks so I might not take them back.  But I don’t think I could walk more than two blocks in them.

I scored with the pants, too.  I have long legs, and it’s hard to find just the right pair so when something fits I get two or three of the same brand and wear them until they have holes.  Then they become gardening pants.  I’m going to San Francisco for a week and all my pants got retired this summer.  So it was reasonable to go shopping.  What was unreasonable was the amount of money I spent.  The clothes thing is an obsession I inherited from my mother.  Last night, as I was putting everything away, I was aware of the unwarrented amount of time and money I spend on my wardrobe, considering I mostly wear the retired clothes.  It almost seemed sick they way I covet the beautiful colors and textures.  I pulled out a silk top I bought from a designer in Seattle, then carefully replaced it back inside it’s protective plastic, knowing I could never afford to shop like that again.  I barely even go out anymore and when I do it’s no place I’d wear silk. 

Now that I’ve duly chastised myself I can move on to the glee with which I bound up the stairs with my haul.  I had an all-night fashion show, just me and the mirror, with all the ways I could mix and match my finds.  There’s something about fall that gives me a boost.  I feel like there’s greater potential for being glamorous in the coming year.  I make the rounds, seeing what in; what colors are hot. Then I go home and see what I need, and if somethings going to be hard to match I bring it with me.

 The sweater I bought – brown seems to be in this year — matched a blazer I got last year, which sat in my closet because it didn’t match anything.  The brushed denim pants I found looked great with both.  So now I have a whole new outfit.  Same story with a skirt I found at the end of last winter — nothing to wear with it.  So I brought it with me and had a sale’s girl find its match.  And the top she found just happened to match another jacket I had not been able to wear.  That’s how I shop.  I find these odd-ball things I love but forget to complete the outfit until the season comes around again.  How do you shop?

“the times they are a changin’…”

I like change, which is fortunate because not much stays the same for me.  When I was 20 I was engaged and living on my own. My fiance was away at school, and it was the first time I’d supported myself or lived alone.  I remember shopping a lot and listening to Joni Mitchell.

Once I married and moved to be with my husband, we listened to his music that first year.  In my 20s we seemed to move a lot because of his job.  I had odd jobs and met people I’d call acquaintances but mostly I hung with my first dog, Emily.  I especially remember the winter I spent in the fog, at the beach with no car.  I read and did puzzles, listened to the Allman Brothers, and drank red wine after long walks to the jetty.

We moved back to Portland and had children in our 30s.  My husband worked in Seattle but I was back with our family and a few friends I’d kept in touch with.  Mostly I entertained my children’s friends.  No more pot but large gin and tonics before dinner, sitting in the living room amidst a sea of stuffed animals, I watched children’s TV.  The only music I remember listening to was the car radio.  Those years were rich, though we felt poor.

That changed overnight, with an inheritance.  We bought a big house and new cars and had another baby.  Our 40s were frought with change, but we went in different directions.  All that rich food and gin probably had something to do with my gall bladder being removed.  I started eating healthy, quit drinking, took up belly dance and switched to Eastern medicine.  I listened to Middle Eastern music, and my family thought I was nuts.  I went back to school to be a court reporter so I could support myself.

About the time I left, I got cancer and had to do chemo.  I had just turned 50 so I sought to embrace the crone years.   Having been used to the admiring looks of strangers, I had a hard time accepting their pity.  But it toughened me up.  I listened to a lot of Mozart; it cheered me up.  The rest of my 50s have been nothing but change.  I had to put my 14 year-old Brittany down this summer and am trying to live with a new puppy.  I am trying my hand at fixing up houses while I live in them.  I tried out enough relationships to know I don’t care for one just now.  And with each new man and each new house I seemed to take on a slightly different identity.

I filled in for a woman last week and this was posted above her desk:

“I’ve learned how to not be broken from life’s unwanted things by watching a willow in the wild wind tossing and bending rather than pushing back against the storm.”  –Joyce Rupp in “The Cosmic Dance”

I just bought the same Joni Mitchell CDs I used to listen to all those years ago, in that apartment every morning.  And, today, listening to her over breakfast, I was surprised to discover not much has changed. I may not look the same but I feel the same.

Those notes are mostly to myself.  “FIX THIS” will mark the place where I put sjfslfj when I copy it back to my word file.  That way spellcheck will find all the places I have to rework.  I also copy and paste your comments, if they were instructive, so I know what direction to take when I fix it.  Thanks again for all your help.  I decided to post the bellydance stuff publicly so that I might clear up some misconceptions about the nature of the dance. 

As I watched Farahazad woo her audience, I came to understand what it was to be a bellydancer and why it held such a draw for me.  I couldn’t think of a more complete form of self-expression.  She might have been hiding behind that mask of make-up but the song gave her away.  She shared her story with her hands, showed us her passion with her hips. This public unfolding, such an intimate part of the soul, your sensuality; the very core of your being, was a form of intimacy I new would be my salvation.  WRONG

Her music, her dance, her love permeated the room.  I’d heard so much about Goddess but it wasn’t until I watched these women giving themselves up to us that I understood the word.   There was a woman selling Goddess necklaces and I bought the figure of a dancer.  I put it around my neck to remind myself I was a Goddess, too.

The fabric lady sent me over to the booth to buy the forms for a belt and bra.  The belt fits over the top of the skirt and rides at the hipbones.  There are different shapes but they generally cover the abdomen and sacrum and are decorated with beads that dangle well below the belt.  I had a hard time tearing myself away from all that trim, everything you’d need to adorn a Goddess. FIX  THIS

Back with the yardage, I measured and bought extra.  Then the fun began.  I laid out the belt and bought a length of two kinds of trim (long strands of beads) so that, with each thrust of my hips, these two layers of beads would whip around.  The trim  picked up the same shades as the sequins.  They suggested I use a glue gun and stick a packet of glass beads on the midnight blue.  What pulled it all together were the appliques, which just happened to be in the same hues.  The bra would have one on each breast, and the belt would have a big one in the center front with two overlapping, smaller ones on either side and the biggest for the center back.  Predominantly purple, the beaded petals splayed out towards my navel.  The red costume I could see, hanging across the room, was starting to look boring. 

Now it was time for the jewelry.  I hit the jackpot when I found a basket of  tarnished gold bracelets in varying widths.  Choosing a mix, I got three for each arm, plus this adjustable one for my upper arm, in the form of a ruby-eyed snake.  The tail sat just above my elbow, it’s body winding around my bicep.  I went to the big mirror to try a pair of long but lightweight magenta earrings, enjoying the gold riding up my arm as I reached up to pull my hair back.  I startled at the sight of me: this exotic woman in the mirror.  I was glad I’d worn make-up, though it was barely enough for this Goddess in gold.  I smiled, knowingly, and turned to begin the search for a suitable necklace when Iliana found me. 

Back to the book.  It’s too late to finish editing but I posted it anyway.  I’ll work on it in the morning.

There’s a party goin’ on.  I struck out on foot to find it.  The music sounded like it was coming from the back, maybe three doors down.  It’s a solid strip of woods separating our backyards so I had to go around.  As soon as I rounded the corner I saw the cars.  Must be a wedding I thought.  The band was awfully good, though. 

I approached a woman, not seeing the headpiece.  She was on the phone but needed help directing a friend to the party.  People have no idea this area exists.  I supplied all the street names, and she told me the party was a fundraiser for Katrina.  Turning to head back home I noticed the nicest-looking man about my age.  I would have crashed the party had I not had potatoes boiling on the stove.

The band’s taking a break and you can hear all the kids playing.  It looked like an ice-cream social back there but the band was playing blues, with horns and everything.  I wonder who they are.  It’s the perfect place for a huge party.  They must have a couple acres behind their house.  What a great way to raise money; neighbors and friends coming together.  I wish they’d start up again, I’m in the mood to dance.