I hate that my mom has put the dishes of Christmas candy on the self-same counter where my computer lives; I've already begun the process of eating, like, all of it. It's 9 a.m. This is gross.
Last night, we watched the episode of Grey's Anatomy wherein Meredith gets her appendix out and, in a morphine-induced high, joyously refers to Derek, Finn, and George as "all my boyfriends!" I feel kind of like that.
Neko's in town (cue Monica: "Who's Neko?"), and on Thursday, he joined me and Pigeon for one of my pin-up calendar photo shoots, then for dinner and Pigeon's last-minute Christmas shopping. He looks much older, and has a new, respectable haircut, but is still the same oversized child he's always been. It was refreshing, walking around downtown San Diego poking each other, laughing at things that shouldn't have been funny (as well as things that should've been - we were in Urban Outfitters after all), flirting like a couple of 10-year-olds. He's also got a serious girlfriend now, but doesn't seem at all changed for it, which is good, because I don't think I would've known what to do with a Neko with monogamy issues. At the end of the night, I gave him a hug, told him it was good to see him and that we should talk more because he always makes me laugh, and then drove home thinking, "Damn. I should've kissed his cheek."
I picked up Lui from LAX on Friday, and he took so long getting through customs that by the time he walked through the gate, I no longer had the energy to run over to him and jump into his arms like I'd planned. He's here legally now, and has until March 20-somethingth to marry me so he can stay. It's a good feeling, knowing that we're nearly through all the government red tape. I think things will be much easier once we're actually married, too: now I have the option of worrying about there being no turning back, but once we actually do it, there's just no turning back. It'll be a fact, rather than a looming deadline, and that just seems so much easier to handle.
We spent the better part of Christmas Eve with the girl-who-I'm-pretty-sure-sent-Lui-that-email (I'll need to come up with a good name for her), as she goes to our church and sings in the choir with us. Since I can't prove she did it, we're still being friends with her, kind of pretending nothing ever happened, and kind of not telling her anything. Example: at one point that night, I left the room, and Lui made some comment about me being a pain in the ass sometimes. Later on, I left the room again, and [Girl] reassured him, "I didn't say anything to Elle, about you calling her a pain in the ass." Como what? Like that was a big secret? But I digress.
Christmas day was really nice; Lui was thrilled with the Sea World Trainer-for-a-Day package I got him, and the calendar also went over really well, twice. He tried to make me promise I wouldn't show the pictures to anyone, surtout W, but I told him I couldn't make a promise that I might not keep. I'll do my best, but I don't ever want to feel like I'm not allowed to be myself. And myself flashes her scantily-clad body around to people who will tell her she's hot. I told him if he tries to stifle the personality he fell in love with in the first place, we won't have anything left. But that I'll do my best not to hurt him. Theoretically, I do see the fine line.
Hopefully it will be better after he meets W, which is probably going to happen today, seeing as how I got suckered into picking him up from the airport this afternoon (and by "got suckered into," I mean "offered"). I'm really excited though. Stupidly excited, even though I know now that it probably isn't going to "go there," since when I tried to ask W, over IM during the height of the calendar crisis, to speculate on what might have happened between us had I not left the country that one time, he refused to have the conversation. "Not now, not ever," he'd said. Further proof (if a bit disappointing) that he's a good guy. But if nothing is progressing, then certainly nothing is changing either, because when I said I hoped we could stay the kind of friends where we can flirt and tease and joke around, but still always come back to the reality of my being in a relationship, he said simply, "I want that." And so I'm already entertaining the idea of, in a few weeks' time, asking him how hot it is to know that there's a married woman out there who totally has a thing for him. Now, I repeat: I wouldn't ever cheat on Lui - even if it comes down to the very last layer of resistance, which is thinking about how much it would break my heart to ever hurt him, that's more than enough to make me keep it in my pants - but I think these little fantasies and flirtations are healthy; they remind me that I'm young and virile and sexy. I know not every married girl thinks this way, but I do, and I'm not alone.
Oh, and to top it all off, I had another dream about Piano Man last night (cue Monica: "Who's Piano Man?"). Not the usual, "we're trying to be friends and it's us against the world" dream, but an actual dream, where we were fucking upstairs at La Paloma, and it was really good, and we made some pact to meet up and do it once a year, for old times' sake.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Because I like to make the same mistake twice.
I'm making another calendar.
This one is more clothed than the last, with sort of a "now you can't say you've never seen me in ___________" theme. And it's coming with a disclaimer: Lui can't see it until he understands and agrees that the pictures are for him, but moreso they're for me, to share with whomever I please.
On Monday, I sent him some pictures that were just for him: I was alone at work, so naturally I photocopied my ass and my breasts (in thong and bra, respectively - gotta leave something to the imagination, right?) But he's in the air now, on his way back here, so I assume these documents didn't arrive in time.
One thing I have learned from all this, besides to seriously limit who reads my blog (there are just five of you now), is that I need to work on my relationship with Lui. When that psychic at the party told me I was going to end up leaving Lui for another guy, well, I did what any girl in my situation would do and had vodka for dinner. And then, the next day, after nursing my emotional hangover by repeatedly apologizing to everyone I'd seen/spoken to/texted the night before, I decided to get proactive. Because my feelings on psychics are this: they're like dogs; they can smell fear. So they pick up on whatever you're feeling at that moment and then capitalize on it, reading how your life will turn out if you continue on the path that you're on. And not only do I already have a tendency to wax nostalgic/wonder about the sliding doors/and repeatedly ask what the hell I'm doing with my life, but I was also staring down having to get married in three weeks (it's now two - the "real" wedding's still in July, but the marriage for the greencard is fast approaching)... So yes. If I continued on that path of completely freaking out about my relationship and general future, I probably would run off with someone else.
But I'm not actually gonna. Lui is, if not quite everything I've ever wanted, definitely everything I've ever needed. God might find it funny that He matched me, a huge flirt with a flair for the dramatic, with someone so oversensitive and stupidly devoted, but He didn't get it wrong. Lui loves me, he takes care of me, he lets me take care of him; he's friendly and charming and has an idiotic sense of humor that makes me laugh whether I care to admit it or not (think punny); being with him is comfortable and secure, he'll make a kickass father. Basically, he's a Husband, not a Boyfriend. And if I mourn the Boyfriend, it's only because we always want what we can't have.
What I have to remember is that it's down to me to make my own happiness: if I want excitement, I have to work to make my relationship with Lui exciting. For all the flirting and teasing I do with other guys, I have to save some of it for him. It's okay to have fantasies, but I have to let him turn me on too, or what's the point? He's the only one I'm going to get to have sex with - lots of good, baby-making sex (but not too much of that too soon) - so I damn well better want to.
And just because I have to say it: shame on whoever sent that email and tried to imply that I am now or would ever cheat on Lui. For fuck's sake.
This one is more clothed than the last, with sort of a "now you can't say you've never seen me in ___________" theme. And it's coming with a disclaimer: Lui can't see it until he understands and agrees that the pictures are for him, but moreso they're for me, to share with whomever I please.
On Monday, I sent him some pictures that were just for him: I was alone at work, so naturally I photocopied my ass and my breasts (in thong and bra, respectively - gotta leave something to the imagination, right?) But he's in the air now, on his way back here, so I assume these documents didn't arrive in time.
One thing I have learned from all this, besides to seriously limit who reads my blog (there are just five of you now), is that I need to work on my relationship with Lui. When that psychic at the party told me I was going to end up leaving Lui for another guy, well, I did what any girl in my situation would do and had vodka for dinner. And then, the next day, after nursing my emotional hangover by repeatedly apologizing to everyone I'd seen/spoken to/texted the night before, I decided to get proactive. Because my feelings on psychics are this: they're like dogs; they can smell fear. So they pick up on whatever you're feeling at that moment and then capitalize on it, reading how your life will turn out if you continue on the path that you're on. And not only do I already have a tendency to wax nostalgic/wonder about the sliding doors/and repeatedly ask what the hell I'm doing with my life, but I was also staring down having to get married in three weeks (it's now two - the "real" wedding's still in July, but the marriage for the greencard is fast approaching)... So yes. If I continued on that path of completely freaking out about my relationship and general future, I probably would run off with someone else.
But I'm not actually gonna. Lui is, if not quite everything I've ever wanted, definitely everything I've ever needed. God might find it funny that He matched me, a huge flirt with a flair for the dramatic, with someone so oversensitive and stupidly devoted, but He didn't get it wrong. Lui loves me, he takes care of me, he lets me take care of him; he's friendly and charming and has an idiotic sense of humor that makes me laugh whether I care to admit it or not (think punny); being with him is comfortable and secure, he'll make a kickass father. Basically, he's a Husband, not a Boyfriend. And if I mourn the Boyfriend, it's only because we always want what we can't have.
What I have to remember is that it's down to me to make my own happiness: if I want excitement, I have to work to make my relationship with Lui exciting. For all the flirting and teasing I do with other guys, I have to save some of it for him. It's okay to have fantasies, but I have to let him turn me on too, or what's the point? He's the only one I'm going to get to have sex with - lots of good, baby-making sex (but not too much of that too soon) - so I damn well better want to.
And just because I have to say it: shame on whoever sent that email and tried to imply that I am now or would ever cheat on Lui. For fuck's sake.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Ice cream, you scream.
Every so often, Squeak & I go out for "ice cream." I've found that "ice cream" is code for many things in this world: Sunshine once explained to me how she and her childhood fuck buddy have an intricate ice cream code, wherein vanilla dates are platonic and chocolate dates are, well, not. In my case, "ice cream" with Squeak is code for gossip, and is even code for ice cream, since we usually really do purchase and consume a vegan variation on the traditional dessert. (Although there was that one time where no ice cream, soy or otherwise, was actually involved.)
Sunday night was a more traditional session: we went to Trader Joe's and bought a quart of vanilla So Delicious (tastes like eggnog), then sat in the cafe area of Ralphs to eat it and discuss our respective quarter-life crises. The conversation was long, and helpful, and we eventually concluded that in some ways, the early-mid twenties can be worse than adolescense.
Yesterday, though, two things happened which I feel are relevant to the concerns we discussed the night before. First, I was at the gym having a PT session for BodyPump (only the coolest group fitness class ever). We're mostly working on my squats and lunges, trying to regain control over my problem knee, but the trainer (nicknamed Mario because she's so compact, with short hair, and when teaching aerobics resembles the famed plumber) thought it'd be a good idea to check my form on all the other exercises as well. So we ran through them - chest press, biceps, triceps, dead lifts and rows, upright rows, clean-and-press, and overhead press - and she kept remarking on how good my form was.
"You're going to be an instructor," she said at one point.
"Funny you should mention it," I answered. "Whenever I get tired of being a secretary, I tell myself the exact same thing."
Then, when I got to work and checked my personal email, as I do, I had a forwarded "List of Rules for being Human" from my mom. And there was a Rule #6. And that rule was this:
6. 'There' is no better than 'Here'.
Wherever you are in life is 'Here'.
From any 'Here' there will always be a 'There' that looks better.
However, this is an illusion.
When your 'There' has become a 'Here', you will simply obtain another 'There' that will again look better than 'Here'.
Well, fuck. That explains W.
Sunday night was a more traditional session: we went to Trader Joe's and bought a quart of vanilla So Delicious (tastes like eggnog), then sat in the cafe area of Ralphs to eat it and discuss our respective quarter-life crises. The conversation was long, and helpful, and we eventually concluded that in some ways, the early-mid twenties can be worse than adolescense.
Yesterday, though, two things happened which I feel are relevant to the concerns we discussed the night before. First, I was at the gym having a PT session for BodyPump (only the coolest group fitness class ever). We're mostly working on my squats and lunges, trying to regain control over my problem knee, but the trainer (nicknamed Mario because she's so compact, with short hair, and when teaching aerobics resembles the famed plumber) thought it'd be a good idea to check my form on all the other exercises as well. So we ran through them - chest press, biceps, triceps, dead lifts and rows, upright rows, clean-and-press, and overhead press - and she kept remarking on how good my form was.
"You're going to be an instructor," she said at one point.
"Funny you should mention it," I answered. "Whenever I get tired of being a secretary, I tell myself the exact same thing."
Then, when I got to work and checked my personal email, as I do, I had a forwarded "List of Rules for being Human" from my mom. And there was a Rule #6. And that rule was this:
6. 'There' is no better than 'Here'.
Wherever you are in life is 'Here'.
From any 'Here' there will always be a 'There' that looks better.
However, this is an illusion.
When your 'There' has become a 'Here', you will simply obtain another 'There' that will again look better than 'Here'.
Well, fuck. That explains W.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Good news: I'm single for the next two weeks!
At least, that's what I've been telling people. Lui is gone back to Wales to have his visa interview, his bachelor party, and an early Christmas with his family. I look at this as the temporary regaining of my freedom; I can go out with my friends without worrying about him being on his own, I can stay in on a night like tonight without him getting antsy to go do things, I can talk to and flirt with whoever I please without wondering if he'll hear me - hence the tagline.
Phrasing it as such - telling everyone that I'm temporarily single, that is - is entertaining and has been working pretty well for me... Except when it hasn't. I tried it on W this afternoon, sent him an IM while I was at work, then, because he didn't answer right away, closed the window, continued working, and forgot about it. About an hour later, my cell phone rang, with a non-number that showed up only as "Call." I almost didn't answer.
"Elle? It's W. What do you mean you're single again?"
"Oh hi. This isn't your number..."
"I'm at work-"
"So am I-"
"I need an explanation."
"Well, Lui's at home for the next two weeks, which I figure makes me as good as single."
"Oh. Well, I'll be there on the 27th."
"Yeah, he gets back the 22nd-"
"I know." The disappointment was almost palpable on both ends of the phone. Not that I even actually look at this time as an opportunity to cheat on Lui, even if W was here, but it felt like we were missing out on something nonetheless.
"We're still on for the 28th though, right?" I asked, trying to change the subject and the mood.
"Yep. It's on the calendar."
"Mine too: 'Save for W' written really big to cover the whole day. No real plan though."
"It's better that way. Alright, bye."
"That's it?"
"Yeah... I just needed an explanation."
"I know." We hung up.
As an afterthought, I sent him a quick email, apologizing for not being able to give the explanation he actually wanted, and asking if he still plans on buying Killer Bunnies for us (I once joked that it would be the only way he'd ever get me to game with him). When I got home, I had two replies. The first just answered the Killer Bunnies question: "of course!" The second, sent a few minutes later, added, "You could always send me a couple more months to make up for it!" (Not too long ago, I sent him a few naked pictures from the calendar I made for Lui last Christmas. Yes, I know what a horrible fiancée that makes me.)
Okay, so remember being a little kid and really having to pee? The whine? The dance? The adrenaline? The urgency? This is how I feel. It's not an altogether bad thing - I'd rather not be so comfortable in my life and relationship as to be bored - but it's not really a nice feeling either, knowing there's nothing I can do to relieve it. Because even if I was a cheater, one stolen night isn't going to fulfill this one, and despite what some may believe, the world doesn't grant parallel lives.
Phrasing it as such - telling everyone that I'm temporarily single, that is - is entertaining and has been working pretty well for me... Except when it hasn't. I tried it on W this afternoon, sent him an IM while I was at work, then, because he didn't answer right away, closed the window, continued working, and forgot about it. About an hour later, my cell phone rang, with a non-number that showed up only as "Call." I almost didn't answer.
"Elle? It's W. What do you mean you're single again?"
"Oh hi. This isn't your number..."
"I'm at work-"
"So am I-"
"I need an explanation."
"Well, Lui's at home for the next two weeks, which I figure makes me as good as single."
"Oh. Well, I'll be there on the 27th."
"Yeah, he gets back the 22nd-"
"I know." The disappointment was almost palpable on both ends of the phone. Not that I even actually look at this time as an opportunity to cheat on Lui, even if W was here, but it felt like we were missing out on something nonetheless.
"We're still on for the 28th though, right?" I asked, trying to change the subject and the mood.
"Yep. It's on the calendar."
"Mine too: 'Save for W' written really big to cover the whole day. No real plan though."
"It's better that way. Alright, bye."
"That's it?"
"Yeah... I just needed an explanation."
"I know." We hung up.
As an afterthought, I sent him a quick email, apologizing for not being able to give the explanation he actually wanted, and asking if he still plans on buying Killer Bunnies for us (I once joked that it would be the only way he'd ever get me to game with him). When I got home, I had two replies. The first just answered the Killer Bunnies question: "of course!" The second, sent a few minutes later, added, "You could always send me a couple more months to make up for it!" (Not too long ago, I sent him a few naked pictures from the calendar I made for Lui last Christmas. Yes, I know what a horrible fiancée that makes me.)
Okay, so remember being a little kid and really having to pee? The whine? The dance? The adrenaline? The urgency? This is how I feel. It's not an altogether bad thing - I'd rather not be so comfortable in my life and relationship as to be bored - but it's not really a nice feeling either, knowing there's nothing I can do to relieve it. Because even if I was a cheater, one stolen night isn't going to fulfill this one, and despite what some may believe, the world doesn't grant parallel lives.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
(Inter)National Turkey and Alcohol Day
It was kind of strange not being the Thanksgiving initiator/chef this year, after I've spent the past two years bringing the holiday to a bunch of foreigners. And nothing is ever going to top the Thanksgiving of two years ago, when Margot and I left my flat at 7 a.m. and spent the morning roaming the streets of Lyon in search of a turkey, only to be told that it was pas le saison de dindes; one kindly butcher in the Croix Rousse told us that if anyone in the city were to have a turkey, it was a particular butcher a little further up the hill, past the church and around the corner. We found the shop, and the butcher pulled some strings for us, selling us a turkey he'd ordered for someone else, because they didn't need it until later in the weekend and he could get another one. He was also kind enough to cut the head off the turkey for us, but not, we later discovered, the neck. By that point, I was late, and so Margot and my headless, paper-wrapped turkey came to class with me. Then it was home to start cooking at around 1.
We had two electric burners and an oven the size of a toaster oven to cook with, and the turkey fit in this oven at a push, even after Emma's cousin, Jo, had sawed off the neck and tail with the sharpest knife we had (evidently not sharp enough to cut through bird and bone without sawing). Margot and I then banished everyone to Emma's bedroom, where they watched rented movies for the rest of the afternoon while we made: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans with toasted almonds, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie - all from scratch, because France doesn't believe in cans of cranberries and pumpkin, or boxes of stuffing and Potato Buds. Some of our attendees (let's be honest, it was mostly those of us who lived there) started drinking at around 4, and dinner wasn't ready until after 9, which led to everyone being really appreciative of the food, as well as several of us putting on the apron (and not much else) and having photos taken.
There were nine of us total: three Americans (me, Margot, and Libertine, who couldn't help cook but brought a raspberry tart from our favorite bakery), three French (Emma, Jo, and our neighbor), and three British (Sam, Nick, & Lui, who was still just a friend). Margot, Emma, and I made up everyone's plates for them to ensure fair sharing, and Emma claimed the turkey carcass so she could pick at all the dark meat - "the best parts".
I know it sounds stupid, but I really felt like I'd enlightened these people to the spirit of Thanksgiving: food and togetherness. They were my urban family, and it's become one of those nostalgia-saturated memories, the kind that makes me worry that I'll never feel so - proud? content? satisfied, in both the physical and emotional sense? - that I'll never feel so so again.
We had two electric burners and an oven the size of a toaster oven to cook with, and the turkey fit in this oven at a push, even after Emma's cousin, Jo, had sawed off the neck and tail with the sharpest knife we had (evidently not sharp enough to cut through bird and bone without sawing). Margot and I then banished everyone to Emma's bedroom, where they watched rented movies for the rest of the afternoon while we made: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans with toasted almonds, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie - all from scratch, because France doesn't believe in cans of cranberries and pumpkin, or boxes of stuffing and Potato Buds. Some of our attendees (let's be honest, it was mostly those of us who lived there) started drinking at around 4, and dinner wasn't ready until after 9, which led to everyone being really appreciative of the food, as well as several of us putting on the apron (and not much else) and having photos taken.
There were nine of us total: three Americans (me, Margot, and Libertine, who couldn't help cook but brought a raspberry tart from our favorite bakery), three French (Emma, Jo, and our neighbor), and three British (Sam, Nick, & Lui, who was still just a friend). Margot, Emma, and I made up everyone's plates for them to ensure fair sharing, and Emma claimed the turkey carcass so she could pick at all the dark meat - "the best parts".
I know it sounds stupid, but I really felt like I'd enlightened these people to the spirit of Thanksgiving: food and togetherness. They were my urban family, and it's become one of those nostalgia-saturated memories, the kind that makes me worry that I'll never feel so - proud? content? satisfied, in both the physical and emotional sense? - that I'll never feel so so again.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A pendant, for balance
Because when most of my friends were repeatedly watching Moulin Rouge, I was repeatedly watching Mulan.
I know that in our cyber-society, there are a lot of excuses for not blogging or returning emails with any regularity. I would like to state, for the record, that I email religiously. But I do occasionally need blog Metamucil. My current story is that Lui is here, and often comes to work with me, and has a tendency to read over my shoulder while I type.
I've been meaning to post for a while though, because I realize that all of my posts are pretty negative. And while a large part of my psyche is governed by pre-wedding jitters (which was how a friend categorized a recent dream of mine in which I was making out with Squeak even though neither of us was even remotely enjoying the experience; we won't even get into the dream I had the other night, wherein I was skydiving) and the quarter-life crisis (so nicely put by my college roommate, Monica, who, despite still being single and living what I've come to think of as the good life, feels the same way), it's not all bad, as they say.
So I just want to say, again for the record, that since he's been here, Lui has walked to the store to buy me flowers; has come into work with me nearly every day to help out (because an NPO can never have too many volunteers); while at my work, spelled "I <3 U" in paperclips on the glasstop Xerox machine and copied it for me; and has several times insisted on paying for things like ice cream or coffee for us, irregardless of the fact that he has absolutely no source of income for the foreseeable future. Oh, and that the week before he got here, he googled the choir, got the address, googled florists in the same zip code, and had a beautiful arrangment sent to me at work, with the note reading "How's this for international romance?"
So there's that. Ignore my usual whining, because really, I do love him, and wedding plans (though endlessly complicated) are full speed ahead.
I know that in our cyber-society, there are a lot of excuses for not blogging or returning emails with any regularity. I would like to state, for the record, that I email religiously. But I do occasionally need blog Metamucil. My current story is that Lui is here, and often comes to work with me, and has a tendency to read over my shoulder while I type.
I've been meaning to post for a while though, because I realize that all of my posts are pretty negative. And while a large part of my psyche is governed by pre-wedding jitters (which was how a friend categorized a recent dream of mine in which I was making out with Squeak even though neither of us was even remotely enjoying the experience; we won't even get into the dream I had the other night, wherein I was skydiving) and the quarter-life crisis (so nicely put by my college roommate, Monica, who, despite still being single and living what I've come to think of as the good life, feels the same way), it's not all bad, as they say.
So I just want to say, again for the record, that since he's been here, Lui has walked to the store to buy me flowers; has come into work with me nearly every day to help out (because an NPO can never have too many volunteers); while at my work, spelled "I <3 U" in paperclips on the glasstop Xerox machine and copied it for me; and has several times insisted on paying for things like ice cream or coffee for us, irregardless of the fact that he has absolutely no source of income for the foreseeable future. Oh, and that the week before he got here, he googled the choir, got the address, googled florists in the same zip code, and had a beautiful arrangment sent to me at work, with the note reading "How's this for international romance?"
So there's that. Ignore my usual whining, because really, I do love him, and wedding plans (though endlessly complicated) are full speed ahead.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Some Fragments
As much as I may profess a dislike for K.T. Tunstall, as well as for Katharine McPhee who butchered it numerous times on Idol, "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree" is still one of my favorite songs released this year.
Lui's been here just over a week, and already we've been having a lot of Talks, which I guess is what happens when two Cancers are in a relationship, although lately it's been mostly his fault. He's afraid that I'm going to cheat on and leave him like all his previous girlfriends did; therefore he's super jealous and protective; therefore I feel the need to fight for my independence, and my it's-not-even-that-serious attitude has been coming through pretty forcefully. Don't get me wrong, I understand that he's a stranger in a strange land right now, and usually I'm pretty sensitive too, but right now... If we have to have one more conversation about his goddamn feelings, I might barf.
Also, I've decided that I'm suffering from female sexual dysfuntion, namely Sexual Aversion Disorder (note the acronym), so then we have to have more Talks about that, when again, I just don't care that much right now.
Seriously, if it weren't for my ongoing harmless flirtations with What-if Guy (henceforth W), I think I would go crazy. I'm 24. Why does my life feel so tapped out and mundane already? The other day, I was looking through my photo album circa 2003-04, and I could've cried. I look so young and fun and flirty and sexy and happy and single and, well, drunk. I know that on the inside there was all sorts of drama I didn't want to deal with, that I often had a hard time getting up and facing my own life in the mornings, but at least there was adventure. When did we become adults, and for the love of God, why?
Sometimes it's hard working here because I feel like Polly is going to walk in at any minute and pick up where she left off, and fix all the problems we've incurred, and then I can go back to being the 17-year-old I was when she was last running things. I guess the place in my brain that lets me wait for dead people to show up and take over is the same place where in my alternate life, I didn't go to France, I stayed and went on dating W and am now a completely different (and fantastically more interesting) person; it's the same place that lets Sunshine tell herself that "next time" she'll do things differently, i.e. take her CCS classes more seriously instead of putting so much time into her sorority.
Sometimes it's hard working here because it was in this office that Piano Man fucked me up against a filing cabinet; it was the piano in this rehearsal hall that earned him his nickname (thanks to C-List). Sometimes I remember those moments, and want to call or send him a message, just to see what he'd say. But then I get over it.
Lui's been here just over a week, and already we've been having a lot of Talks, which I guess is what happens when two Cancers are in a relationship, although lately it's been mostly his fault. He's afraid that I'm going to cheat on and leave him like all his previous girlfriends did; therefore he's super jealous and protective; therefore I feel the need to fight for my independence, and my it's-not-even-that-serious attitude has been coming through pretty forcefully. Don't get me wrong, I understand that he's a stranger in a strange land right now, and usually I'm pretty sensitive too, but right now... If we have to have one more conversation about his goddamn feelings, I might barf.
Also, I've decided that I'm suffering from female sexual dysfuntion, namely Sexual Aversion Disorder (note the acronym), so then we have to have more Talks about that, when again, I just don't care that much right now.
Seriously, if it weren't for my ongoing harmless flirtations with What-if Guy (henceforth W), I think I would go crazy. I'm 24. Why does my life feel so tapped out and mundane already? The other day, I was looking through my photo album circa 2003-04, and I could've cried. I look so young and fun and flirty and sexy and happy and single and, well, drunk. I know that on the inside there was all sorts of drama I didn't want to deal with, that I often had a hard time getting up and facing my own life in the mornings, but at least there was adventure. When did we become adults, and for the love of God, why?
Sometimes it's hard working here because I feel like Polly is going to walk in at any minute and pick up where she left off, and fix all the problems we've incurred, and then I can go back to being the 17-year-old I was when she was last running things. I guess the place in my brain that lets me wait for dead people to show up and take over is the same place where in my alternate life, I didn't go to France, I stayed and went on dating W and am now a completely different (and fantastically more interesting) person; it's the same place that lets Sunshine tell herself that "next time" she'll do things differently, i.e. take her CCS classes more seriously instead of putting so much time into her sorority.
Sometimes it's hard working here because it was in this office that Piano Man fucked me up against a filing cabinet; it was the piano in this rehearsal hall that earned him his nickname (thanks to C-List). Sometimes I remember those moments, and want to call or send him a message, just to see what he'd say. But then I get over it.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
A moment.
"Want a confidence-boost?" What-If Guy asked me. We'd been chatting online about his plans to briefly return to CA for New Years.
"Why, are you offering one?"
"Sure."
"In that case, I can always use a confidence-boost."
"You're the reason I'm coming out... All my other relationships out there are secondary behind you."
"That's not what your myspace page says," I told him.
I'm glowing.
"Why, are you offering one?"
"Sure."
"In that case, I can always use a confidence-boost."
"You're the reason I'm coming out... All my other relationships out there are secondary behind you."
"That's not what your myspace page says," I told him.
I'm glowing.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Weak coffee and box-building
I never drink coffee anymore. Especially not instant coffee. But it's just been one of those weeks, and now that I'm finally in the office alone with no pressing emergency task, well... I'm tired.
It all started on Monday, as most weeks do. I spent the whole day trying to input information on our South East county kids, which is difficult because a lot of those families are poor, or new immigrants, or generally negligent, and therefore can't or won't give us the information we need to enroll their kids. The longer I work here, the more I see how much these children have to suffer because of the attitudes of their parents, not just by the border, but across the board: the rich, white, upstanding citizen parents can oftentimes be worse. At the very least, I'm learning not to be that way, for the sake of my own eventual children. Anyway, in the middle of this frustrating day, we got a call from one of our teachers saying he wouldn't be able to come to rehearsal that night because he's going blind/has a brain tumor/has meningitis - in any case, he needs an MRI. (They are now pretty sure it's MS, which is no less devastating.) I also found out that day that our City grant application was due by 5 p.m. on Wednesday, and that my priority Tuesday morning was going to be to copy-edit the text for grammar, punctuation, and consistency.
Tuesday morning came, I got the grant app narrative out of my email, printed it, and started marking it with a ballpoint pen and a highlighter - I would've done it straight on the computer, but I like to see what I've changed in case it's called into question later. The woman who was putting together the grant came flying into the office halfway through the day, took my scribbled-on hard copy, and went home to make the changes. When we got it back a few hours later, hardly any of said changes had been made, and the ones that had been were arbitrarily chosen. (An example: "Charters Cathedral" had been changed to "Chartres Cathedral," but "Sperckels Organ Society" had not been changed to "Spreckels Organ Society.")
My boss was up in arms. Apparently, [grant lady] means well, but is like a bull in a china shop as well as always wanting to maintain control over her pet projects - she always sends locked pdf files so that we can't fix her spelling mistakes, presumably because she assumes that whatever she's done is leagues better than any changes we would possibly want to make. So I volunteered to stay late and change the grant proposal in the computer; then on Wednesday, we'd simply have to check her latest "revision" for any major additions or deletions, and adjust my "good version" accordingly. I figured this would take about an hour, maybe two, but in actuality it took four hours. The next day, everything went according to plan: my boss and I eventually wore [grant lady] down and regained control over the proposal, although she wasn't at all pleased when she found out I'd done it the night before; and we even managed to get the thing turned in an hour or so early.
Anyway, here's my point. I was at work for ten hours on Tuesday, and frantically editing until about 3:00 on Wednesday as well. And yes, now that the adrenaline has stopped propelling me forward, I'm exhausted, which is why today, instead of working, I'm blogging; and my plans for actual work mostly involve building music-storage boxes. But the thing is, I hardly even noticed that I was at work for ten hours, because I was having fun. I wasn't filing, or inputting, or copying, or calling angry parents; I was editing. And I was thriving. I've also been working on the newsletter lately (which sadly is overseen by the same flaky woman as the grant), and people seem to be so impressed that my articles sound like real articles rather than the amateur drivel they've been publishing for the past few years (at least, this is my understanding of the situation). From my point of view, I'm just excited to be starting documents with "< Body text >" again.
In conclusion, I do have a passion, I do have a purpose, I do have something to fuel me and drive me. It's not about finding the premise for the next Great American Novel; it's about writing and editing wherever, whatever, however I can. And if I could come home every day as invigorated as I have been for the past two, well... Just imagine how exciting my sex life would become!*
*I read recently that positive stress improves the libido every bit as much as negative stress impairs it. Which seems like a really good thing to know.
It all started on Monday, as most weeks do. I spent the whole day trying to input information on our South East county kids, which is difficult because a lot of those families are poor, or new immigrants, or generally negligent, and therefore can't or won't give us the information we need to enroll their kids. The longer I work here, the more I see how much these children have to suffer because of the attitudes of their parents, not just by the border, but across the board: the rich, white, upstanding citizen parents can oftentimes be worse. At the very least, I'm learning not to be that way, for the sake of my own eventual children. Anyway, in the middle of this frustrating day, we got a call from one of our teachers saying he wouldn't be able to come to rehearsal that night because he's going blind/has a brain tumor/has meningitis - in any case, he needs an MRI. (They are now pretty sure it's MS, which is no less devastating.) I also found out that day that our City grant application was due by 5 p.m. on Wednesday, and that my priority Tuesday morning was going to be to copy-edit the text for grammar, punctuation, and consistency.
Tuesday morning came, I got the grant app narrative out of my email, printed it, and started marking it with a ballpoint pen and a highlighter - I would've done it straight on the computer, but I like to see what I've changed in case it's called into question later. The woman who was putting together the grant came flying into the office halfway through the day, took my scribbled-on hard copy, and went home to make the changes. When we got it back a few hours later, hardly any of said changes had been made, and the ones that had been were arbitrarily chosen. (An example: "Charters Cathedral" had been changed to "Chartres Cathedral," but "Sperckels Organ Society" had not been changed to "Spreckels Organ Society.")
My boss was up in arms. Apparently, [grant lady] means well, but is like a bull in a china shop as well as always wanting to maintain control over her pet projects - she always sends locked pdf files so that we can't fix her spelling mistakes, presumably because she assumes that whatever she's done is leagues better than any changes we would possibly want to make. So I volunteered to stay late and change the grant proposal in the computer; then on Wednesday, we'd simply have to check her latest "revision" for any major additions or deletions, and adjust my "good version" accordingly. I figured this would take about an hour, maybe two, but in actuality it took four hours. The next day, everything went according to plan: my boss and I eventually wore [grant lady] down and regained control over the proposal, although she wasn't at all pleased when she found out I'd done it the night before; and we even managed to get the thing turned in an hour or so early.
Anyway, here's my point. I was at work for ten hours on Tuesday, and frantically editing until about 3:00 on Wednesday as well. And yes, now that the adrenaline has stopped propelling me forward, I'm exhausted, which is why today, instead of working, I'm blogging; and my plans for actual work mostly involve building music-storage boxes. But the thing is, I hardly even noticed that I was at work for ten hours, because I was having fun. I wasn't filing, or inputting, or copying, or calling angry parents; I was editing. And I was thriving. I've also been working on the newsletter lately (which sadly is overseen by the same flaky woman as the grant), and people seem to be so impressed that my articles sound like real articles rather than the amateur drivel they've been publishing for the past few years (at least, this is my understanding of the situation). From my point of view, I'm just excited to be starting documents with "< Body text >" again.
In conclusion, I do have a passion, I do have a purpose, I do have something to fuel me and drive me. It's not about finding the premise for the next Great American Novel; it's about writing and editing wherever, whatever, however I can. And if I could come home every day as invigorated as I have been for the past two, well... Just imagine how exciting my sex life would become!*
*I read recently that positive stress improves the libido every bit as much as negative stress impairs it. Which seems like a really good thing to know.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Seperating the men from the boys
This week in work has been weird, because I only have two co-workers (or, shall I say, one boss and one co-worker) to begin with, and the non-boss has been out all week with a very sick daughter. So on Wednesday, boss and I were sitting in the back having lunch together, when the flower delivery man came. Apparently, Lui googled the choir, then googled our zip code and "florist" so he could send me flowers for no reason whatsoever. The card read, "How's this for international romance?" Pretty good, actually, I have to admit. And although he didn't know it when he ordered the arrangment, the vase actually has a pumpkin on it. (Lui's pet name is Pumpkin.)
I don't know how to describe the feeling - it's not butterflies, because we're way past that stage, but it's definitely something. Sort of embarrassment, mixed with "awwww", mixed with a sense of comfort, belonging, and right-ness. Like, "Yeah, you should send me flowers from overseas while I'm at work. Well done for knowing that yourself."
That night was the Tom Petty concert, with Beck opening and Stevie Nicks surprise-guesting. I was on my way down there with Pigeon and some of her friends, when it suddenly occurred to me that it was time to stop being a wuss, call Piano Man, and demand my stuff back. So I did. I was nice, friendly, a little flirty (not sexual flirty, but office flirty, with a smile in my voice); he was civil, blatantly uncomfortable, but trying to play it cool, blowing smoke into the phone.
"So, we should meet up sometime and get me my stuff back," I said.
"Yeah... There's still a lot of stuff in boxes, that's why I didn't get it to you sooner." Boxes? Last year it was "still at his mom's house". Why would it suddenly be in boxes in the house he shares with his wife?
"I sent you that story you wanted, but I don't know whether you got it or not?"
"I don't know."
At which point, I'm thinking, you don't know? Either you got it or you didn't, dumbass.
"I don't know," he said again. "I'll get you your stuff back."
"Okay. [Mutual friend] offered to play delivery boy, if you want to give it to him and he can bring it to me?"
"No... I'll bring it by your house."
"While I'm there? Or while I'm definitely not there?" I mean, do you want to see me or not?
"I'll put it in the mailbox or something."
It wasn't until after I hung up that I realized, he's probably still pissed at me. And rightly so, but I have more right to be pissed at him, and I'm being friendly. This way, he's just gonna make it so it's still awkward when we eventually run into each other at a coffee shop or something.
Pigeon pointed out that now he doesn't really have to give it back - he can say he put it in the mailbox and that it must've gotten lost. So I'm going to try to get ahold of [mutual friend] anyway. And I've decided that I don't have it by next Wednesday, I'm going to make threats. I want this done and over with before Lui gets here, and if I have to cut my losses and give up on getting my stuff back (but we're talking about my final project from college, and I want it!), I will. But not without getting some revenge.
Jeez. Lui and Piano Man. It's like two totally seperate worlds.
I don't know how to describe the feeling - it's not butterflies, because we're way past that stage, but it's definitely something. Sort of embarrassment, mixed with "awwww", mixed with a sense of comfort, belonging, and right-ness. Like, "Yeah, you should send me flowers from overseas while I'm at work. Well done for knowing that yourself."
That night was the Tom Petty concert, with Beck opening and Stevie Nicks surprise-guesting. I was on my way down there with Pigeon and some of her friends, when it suddenly occurred to me that it was time to stop being a wuss, call Piano Man, and demand my stuff back. So I did. I was nice, friendly, a little flirty (not sexual flirty, but office flirty, with a smile in my voice); he was civil, blatantly uncomfortable, but trying to play it cool, blowing smoke into the phone.
"So, we should meet up sometime and get me my stuff back," I said.
"Yeah... There's still a lot of stuff in boxes, that's why I didn't get it to you sooner." Boxes? Last year it was "still at his mom's house". Why would it suddenly be in boxes in the house he shares with his wife?
"I sent you that story you wanted, but I don't know whether you got it or not?"
"I don't know."
At which point, I'm thinking, you don't know? Either you got it or you didn't, dumbass.
"I don't know," he said again. "I'll get you your stuff back."
"Okay. [Mutual friend] offered to play delivery boy, if you want to give it to him and he can bring it to me?"
"No... I'll bring it by your house."
"While I'm there? Or while I'm definitely not there?" I mean, do you want to see me or not?
"I'll put it in the mailbox or something."
It wasn't until after I hung up that I realized, he's probably still pissed at me. And rightly so, but I have more right to be pissed at him, and I'm being friendly. This way, he's just gonna make it so it's still awkward when we eventually run into each other at a coffee shop or something.
Pigeon pointed out that now he doesn't really have to give it back - he can say he put it in the mailbox and that it must've gotten lost. So I'm going to try to get ahold of [mutual friend] anyway. And I've decided that I don't have it by next Wednesday, I'm going to make threats. I want this done and over with before Lui gets here, and if I have to cut my losses and give up on getting my stuff back (but we're talking about my final project from college, and I want it!), I will. But not without getting some revenge.
Jeez. Lui and Piano Man. It's like two totally seperate worlds.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
But Jesus drank wine!
So I just got back from my best friend's Mormon baptism.
I'm really not sure how I feel about this. From a purely selfish point of view, I'm losing my favorite drinking buddy. In fact, that's pretty much how I feel about this.
The Mormon church is... different. The service included a few lessons about the religion, even though all but five of us present were already Mormon. People got up to give testimonies, all of which included "I know this church is the truth". Almost everyone cried, which was convenient because when [friend]'s Unitarian mom put her arm around me after the dunking and said, "I just keep picturing her on stage in a garter belt", we both broke down. Just as long as no one knew why we were crying, we fit right in. Admittedly, losing one's daughter trumps losing one's drinking buddy, but still.
I wonder a little, because [friend] is a bit of a serial monogamist, and this isn't the first time she's altered some part of herself to fit better with the boyfriend of the year. But before it was always little things, like when she was dating a boring guy and became boring - she never changed her religion before. I mean, what happens if they break up? But she thinks this guy is "the one", and she was unhappy with her own religion; I guess the natural progression is to look to a significant other's beliefs, right?
At the hors d'oeuvres reception after, my mom and I were kinda cornered by the missionaries. My mom fared better with that than I did: I always assume people are trying to convert me. But these two girls were nice, and in the end, I learned (via Mom) a lot more about the religion. Apparently I had stumped them by my protest (relayed by [friend]) of, "But Jesus drank wine!", but alas, the Wild Vines is still a no-go. As I was saying my goodbyes to [friend], she gave me a hug and said, "Thanks so much for coming," then added, "Sorry."
That, I think, is unfair. No, I do not understand why one would choose to become a Mormon. Yes, I do think the whole church is pretty bizarre. Yes, I will continue to make fun of it. And yes, I think [friend]'s mom and I will have a bond now that we've experienced this, dare I say suffering, together. But on the other hand, if she's happy and has found a place for herself, who am I to say anything about it? She's still herself; I've seen that since I came home and she told me she was converting. And she's my friend, and I'm going to support her in whatever, however much I might cry at the thought of that garter belt.
I'm really not sure how I feel about this. From a purely selfish point of view, I'm losing my favorite drinking buddy. In fact, that's pretty much how I feel about this.
The Mormon church is... different. The service included a few lessons about the religion, even though all but five of us present were already Mormon. People got up to give testimonies, all of which included "I know this church is the truth". Almost everyone cried, which was convenient because when [friend]'s Unitarian mom put her arm around me after the dunking and said, "I just keep picturing her on stage in a garter belt", we both broke down. Just as long as no one knew why we were crying, we fit right in. Admittedly, losing one's daughter trumps losing one's drinking buddy, but still.
I wonder a little, because [friend] is a bit of a serial monogamist, and this isn't the first time she's altered some part of herself to fit better with the boyfriend of the year. But before it was always little things, like when she was dating a boring guy and became boring - she never changed her religion before. I mean, what happens if they break up? But she thinks this guy is "the one", and she was unhappy with her own religion; I guess the natural progression is to look to a significant other's beliefs, right?
At the hors d'oeuvres reception after, my mom and I were kinda cornered by the missionaries. My mom fared better with that than I did: I always assume people are trying to convert me. But these two girls were nice, and in the end, I learned (via Mom) a lot more about the religion. Apparently I had stumped them by my protest (relayed by [friend]) of, "But Jesus drank wine!", but alas, the Wild Vines is still a no-go. As I was saying my goodbyes to [friend], she gave me a hug and said, "Thanks so much for coming," then added, "Sorry."
That, I think, is unfair. No, I do not understand why one would choose to become a Mormon. Yes, I do think the whole church is pretty bizarre. Yes, I will continue to make fun of it. And yes, I think [friend]'s mom and I will have a bond now that we've experienced this, dare I say suffering, together. But on the other hand, if she's happy and has found a place for herself, who am I to say anything about it? She's still herself; I've seen that since I came home and she told me she was converting. And she's my friend, and I'm going to support her in whatever, however much I might cry at the thought of that garter belt.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Turmoil
Lately, it just seems like everything in my life is questionable, like there's no part of it I'm totally secure with right now. It's a very uncomfortable feeling. Here's the breakdown:
Love/Relationships: Being apart from Lui is a lot harder than I expected it to be. Not because I miss him too much, but because I feel like I don't miss him enough. It's been really easy to get back into the single mindset, and flirt with everyone I encounter. Which is fun - I always did like flirting, and it's nice to be back in an environment where I'm comfortable doing it. But I feel guilty for enjoying the flirtacious conversations (last night I spent over an hour on the phone with What-If Guy) more than I enjoy talking to Lui lately. Probably because he comes across as this needy little child, always needing reassurance that I still love him and miss him, and giving that reassurance doesn't come as easily as it probably should. I'm sure it'll be better once he gets here (a problem in and of itself, thanks to the tightness of our borders and his needing minor surgery that might set back his arrival date), but for now... I'm tempted to call Piano Man and tell him I finally get it, what he was doing, how easy it is to continue loving one person while constantly becoming infatuated with others. I did say tempted - but then I know he won't answer my call.
Work: The other day, after being faced with the hopelessness of the immigration system and suddenly thinking that maybe this whole marriage is more trouble than it's worth (did I mention that I went so far as to ask Lui if he wanted to call it off?), this thought suddenly hit me full force: am I a writer or a secretary? Well, right now, I'm a secretary, and to what end? This is not my career. I know I said it made sense to do this for a year while we figure out where we want to settle, but why am I wasting my time as a glorified PA? My job is stressful, it's frustrating, it's not actually the mindless copying-and-collating work I was hoping for. And my boss is definitely not James Spader.
One of my dad's friends from church is the director of a local news station. So I went down there the other day, took the tour, asked about broadcast writing, filled out an application with the knowledge that I need some serious training before I could really work in that field... Before I left, my dad's friend told me about himself as a young journalism graduate, and how he didn't care what he did - tv, radio, publications - or what he made, as long as it was in journalism. "Find what excites you," he told me. "And if this isn't it, find what it is, and do that." It wasn't until the next day that I realized I'm just like he was: I don't care what I do, or what I make, as long as I'm writing. And taking a letter doesn't count.
Self: I don't know what it is, but suddenly my nose seems big again, in a way that it hasn't since high school. I hate pictures of myself. I'm unhappy with what I see in the mirror. It probably started with that day out with all my beautiful, put-together friends, but now every time I see a pretty girl, it's like it reinforces my own physical shortcomings.
Friends: I love my friends. There's nothing wrong with them, except I feel like I can't talk to them about any of this. They won't understand why I can't leave my job to look for a better one. They'll either think I'm crazy for questioning my relationship with Lui, or they'll see my questioning as the simple end of it - and nowhere in there will they know what to tell me regarding how to feel better and stop questioning. And, friends being what they are, they will never concede that my nose is too big, or that this-or-that high school girl is prettier than I am; I wouldn't want them to.
Love/Relationships: Being apart from Lui is a lot harder than I expected it to be. Not because I miss him too much, but because I feel like I don't miss him enough. It's been really easy to get back into the single mindset, and flirt with everyone I encounter. Which is fun - I always did like flirting, and it's nice to be back in an environment where I'm comfortable doing it. But I feel guilty for enjoying the flirtacious conversations (last night I spent over an hour on the phone with What-If Guy) more than I enjoy talking to Lui lately. Probably because he comes across as this needy little child, always needing reassurance that I still love him and miss him, and giving that reassurance doesn't come as easily as it probably should. I'm sure it'll be better once he gets here (a problem in and of itself, thanks to the tightness of our borders and his needing minor surgery that might set back his arrival date), but for now... I'm tempted to call Piano Man and tell him I finally get it, what he was doing, how easy it is to continue loving one person while constantly becoming infatuated with others. I did say tempted - but then I know he won't answer my call.
Work: The other day, after being faced with the hopelessness of the immigration system and suddenly thinking that maybe this whole marriage is more trouble than it's worth (did I mention that I went so far as to ask Lui if he wanted to call it off?), this thought suddenly hit me full force: am I a writer or a secretary? Well, right now, I'm a secretary, and to what end? This is not my career. I know I said it made sense to do this for a year while we figure out where we want to settle, but why am I wasting my time as a glorified PA? My job is stressful, it's frustrating, it's not actually the mindless copying-and-collating work I was hoping for. And my boss is definitely not James Spader.
One of my dad's friends from church is the director of a local news station. So I went down there the other day, took the tour, asked about broadcast writing, filled out an application with the knowledge that I need some serious training before I could really work in that field... Before I left, my dad's friend told me about himself as a young journalism graduate, and how he didn't care what he did - tv, radio, publications - or what he made, as long as it was in journalism. "Find what excites you," he told me. "And if this isn't it, find what it is, and do that." It wasn't until the next day that I realized I'm just like he was: I don't care what I do, or what I make, as long as I'm writing. And taking a letter doesn't count.
Self: I don't know what it is, but suddenly my nose seems big again, in a way that it hasn't since high school. I hate pictures of myself. I'm unhappy with what I see in the mirror. It probably started with that day out with all my beautiful, put-together friends, but now every time I see a pretty girl, it's like it reinforces my own physical shortcomings.
Friends: I love my friends. There's nothing wrong with them, except I feel like I can't talk to them about any of this. They won't understand why I can't leave my job to look for a better one. They'll either think I'm crazy for questioning my relationship with Lui, or they'll see my questioning as the simple end of it - and nowhere in there will they know what to tell me regarding how to feel better and stop questioning. And, friends being what they are, they will never concede that my nose is too big, or that this-or-that high school girl is prettier than I am; I wouldn't want them to.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
This town ain't big enough for the two of us.
It's official: I'm blogging from work. Next thing you know I'll be myspacing from work, and I'll have downloaded AIM on my work computer...Maybe not. Blogging is writing and writing is also work, albeit not the kind of work they're paying me for here. But I'm the only one currently in the office, and everything I have lined up to do this afternoon involves the same copy machine that's currently printing 300 copies of an 18-page handbook. Incidentally, I was telling my boss about Secretary earlier today, and although she's a little wary of the S&M aspect of it, she wants to borrow it from me. She also asked if I picked up any good tips - you know, learned from this movie. The answer is no. Not about being a secretary anyway.
Back to the point I hadn't started making yet. Last night, I went out to dinner with some friends - we called it a double date, but really it was one gay couple and one mostly-straight pair of teenyboppers - to a Chinese restaurant that has "meat" options (vegans: you can't take them anywhere). I'd had this sinking feeling all day that I was going to run into someone I knew there, because there just aren't that many vegan-friendly Chinese restaurants around, and everyone likes the novelty of tofu that really does taste just like ham.
Sure enough, when we were about halfway through our meal, talking about how awkward it was when Amanda & I went to this party with a bunch of Rocky people a few weeks ago. Then I saw two of Piano Man's friends come in. Speaking of awkward...
Ok, so I kind of stared the one guy down, half to make sure it was him, but also to say "I know you know what happened, and I'm back whether he likes it or not". Then they smiled, came over and started talking to us, or, should I say, mostly to the people who weren't me.
I was: embarrassed, vindictive, self-righteous, guilty, angry, haughty, traumatized - you name it - but I tried not to let it show too much. Still, a little awkwardness hung in the air. I'd like to think that it would've been worse if it'd been Piano Man himself that was there, but I think, in a way, that would've been more gratifying, because it would've ended in words, or tears, or fisticuffs, or someone getting a cup of green tea (for lack of a cocktail) thrown in his face. Even more exciting if Mrs. Piano Man had showed up too. What can I say? I'm a sucker for drama, and this is going to have to come to a head eventually.
But let's just say this: Round 1 is over. It seems to have been a draw. But it was only his friends - just a preliminary - and there will be a Round 2. Like I've said so many times before, this town just ain't big enough for the two of us.
Back to the point I hadn't started making yet. Last night, I went out to dinner with some friends - we called it a double date, but really it was one gay couple and one mostly-straight pair of teenyboppers - to a Chinese restaurant that has "meat" options (vegans: you can't take them anywhere). I'd had this sinking feeling all day that I was going to run into someone I knew there, because there just aren't that many vegan-friendly Chinese restaurants around, and everyone likes the novelty of tofu that really does taste just like ham.
Sure enough, when we were about halfway through our meal, talking about how awkward it was when Amanda & I went to this party with a bunch of Rocky people a few weeks ago. Then I saw two of Piano Man's friends come in. Speaking of awkward...
Ok, so I kind of stared the one guy down, half to make sure it was him, but also to say "I know you know what happened, and I'm back whether he likes it or not". Then they smiled, came over and started talking to us, or, should I say, mostly to the people who weren't me.
I was: embarrassed, vindictive, self-righteous, guilty, angry, haughty, traumatized - you name it - but I tried not to let it show too much. Still, a little awkwardness hung in the air. I'd like to think that it would've been worse if it'd been Piano Man himself that was there, but I think, in a way, that would've been more gratifying, because it would've ended in words, or tears, or fisticuffs, or someone getting a cup of green tea (for lack of a cocktail) thrown in his face. Even more exciting if Mrs. Piano Man had showed up too. What can I say? I'm a sucker for drama, and this is going to have to come to a head eventually.
But let's just say this: Round 1 is over. It seems to have been a draw. But it was only his friends - just a preliminary - and there will be a Round 2. Like I've said so many times before, this town just ain't big enough for the two of us.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
It was so long ago, but it's all coming back to me.
Let me start by saying that I have, like, 12 best friends. My bridal party alone consists of eight bridesmaids and two flower girls, and that's not even including the people I've gotten super close to in more recent years, like Emma, C-List, and Libertine. So believe me when I say that this weekend, I went to lunch with five of my best girlfriends (plus one child, one cousin, and one of my best friends' other best friend).
In a way, it was great: I hadn't seen most of these people in at least a year, and our long table at Buca di Beppo managed to talk and laugh for the entire two hours we were there. But then we started walking through the mall, and suddenly I was back in high school again. Or maybe college - I know these people from different walks of life. Anyway, suddenly I was worried that if I was walking with one person, would the others think that she was my best best friend and that I was ignoring them in favor of her? Suddenly I was aware that my friends were all wearing outfits, while I, ever the low-maintenance, fashion-challenged Barbie, was wearing shorts, a tank top, and wash-n-go hair. Suddenly, I began to feel self-conscious and generally inferior.
I took our little band into the store where B works. B is my male best friend, whom I also hadn't seen since last summer, and our little reunion was everything I'd hoped it would be, with long, hard hugs, and kisses just shy of the mouth: I thrive on male affection, and B is a safe person to give it to me without Lui freaking out too much. Then he noticed just how many of us there were (eight and a half), felt that he'd been backed into a corner, and went into defense mode: charm. Don't get me wrong, B is a generally charming guy - he's a salesman, he has to be - but I had never seen this B before: he was in full used-car salesman mode, you could almost see the slime dripping off him. So of course all my friends who hadn't met him before, and even a few of the ones who had, decided he was smarmy, sleazy, and various other unflattering s-adjectives. In the meantime, he's asking me to set him up with my friend who we'll call Suzy Highschool (because she's my best friend from high school, and is kind of, you know, like that). B's on this quest to reform his manwhore ways and find someone to date seriously. Is making girls shudder with disgust at his flagrant come-ons the way to find this person? Probably not, but he wanted me to feel Suzy out for him anyway. I did. She was disgusted.
But I digress. I went home that night feeling inferior, both because of the previously mentioned lack of style, and because I know I'll never be the girl who stands out in a crowd of friends. Suzy is beautiful, bubbly and outgoing, and ever since we were 16, I've felt like I'm in her shadow when we're out together, like no one will ever prefer me to her, like I'm the sidekick - you get the idea. The fact that B, who is mine in a way, seemed to prefer her to me as well... Well, it hurt a little, and definitely made me feel 16 again. I mean, I know what her faults are, and I know that there are ways in which I definitely measure up and even surpass her. But on first impression... I am in jeans, I haven't styled my hair, my nose is too big, I'm quiet and shy, I can't walk in heels, and there's a good chance I'm wearing glasses that don't quite fit my face anymore because I've lost a bunch of weight since I got them. It's not a good combination if I ever want to wow people.
And yes, I know I shouldn't be jealous of or competing with my closest friends, but I'm a girl and we do that. And I know that Lui loves me just as I am, and tells me so on a daily basis, but sometimes I just want to blow people away. And I feel like I can never do that, and then I wonder if I just might be totally devoid of charisma.
I got over it, of course. B and I talked on the phone, I told him of all these concerns, and he reassured me by talking shit about Suzy (he gave up trying to date her after I told him that her aversion to him might be something as superficial as his height - he's 5'8") and told me that I have the best body of all my friends, which may be true from a conventional standpoint - and if it is, good! I deserve it after all the working out I've done. Like I said, I thrive on male affection, so typically if I need to be reassured about something, I call boy-friends rather than girlfriends. But really, eventually, I need to get to the root of this problem and solve it (it's all in my head, I'm sure), or I may end up feeling second best to my maid-of-honor on my wedding day.
In a way, it was great: I hadn't seen most of these people in at least a year, and our long table at Buca di Beppo managed to talk and laugh for the entire two hours we were there. But then we started walking through the mall, and suddenly I was back in high school again. Or maybe college - I know these people from different walks of life. Anyway, suddenly I was worried that if I was walking with one person, would the others think that she was my best best friend and that I was ignoring them in favor of her? Suddenly I was aware that my friends were all wearing outfits, while I, ever the low-maintenance, fashion-challenged Barbie, was wearing shorts, a tank top, and wash-n-go hair. Suddenly, I began to feel self-conscious and generally inferior.
I took our little band into the store where B works. B is my male best friend, whom I also hadn't seen since last summer, and our little reunion was everything I'd hoped it would be, with long, hard hugs, and kisses just shy of the mouth: I thrive on male affection, and B is a safe person to give it to me without Lui freaking out too much. Then he noticed just how many of us there were (eight and a half), felt that he'd been backed into a corner, and went into defense mode: charm. Don't get me wrong, B is a generally charming guy - he's a salesman, he has to be - but I had never seen this B before: he was in full used-car salesman mode, you could almost see the slime dripping off him. So of course all my friends who hadn't met him before, and even a few of the ones who had, decided he was smarmy, sleazy, and various other unflattering s-adjectives. In the meantime, he's asking me to set him up with my friend who we'll call Suzy Highschool (because she's my best friend from high school, and is kind of, you know, like that). B's on this quest to reform his manwhore ways and find someone to date seriously. Is making girls shudder with disgust at his flagrant come-ons the way to find this person? Probably not, but he wanted me to feel Suzy out for him anyway. I did. She was disgusted.
But I digress. I went home that night feeling inferior, both because of the previously mentioned lack of style, and because I know I'll never be the girl who stands out in a crowd of friends. Suzy is beautiful, bubbly and outgoing, and ever since we were 16, I've felt like I'm in her shadow when we're out together, like no one will ever prefer me to her, like I'm the sidekick - you get the idea. The fact that B, who is mine in a way, seemed to prefer her to me as well... Well, it hurt a little, and definitely made me feel 16 again. I mean, I know what her faults are, and I know that there are ways in which I definitely measure up and even surpass her. But on first impression... I am in jeans, I haven't styled my hair, my nose is too big, I'm quiet and shy, I can't walk in heels, and there's a good chance I'm wearing glasses that don't quite fit my face anymore because I've lost a bunch of weight since I got them. It's not a good combination if I ever want to wow people.
And yes, I know I shouldn't be jealous of or competing with my closest friends, but I'm a girl and we do that. And I know that Lui loves me just as I am, and tells me so on a daily basis, but sometimes I just want to blow people away. And I feel like I can never do that, and then I wonder if I just might be totally devoid of charisma.
I got over it, of course. B and I talked on the phone, I told him of all these concerns, and he reassured me by talking shit about Suzy (he gave up trying to date her after I told him that her aversion to him might be something as superficial as his height - he's 5'8") and told me that I have the best body of all my friends, which may be true from a conventional standpoint - and if it is, good! I deserve it after all the working out I've done. Like I said, I thrive on male affection, so typically if I need to be reassured about something, I call boy-friends rather than girlfriends. But really, eventually, I need to get to the root of this problem and solve it (it's all in my head, I'm sure), or I may end up feeling second best to my maid-of-honor on my wedding day.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I've been tagged!
The Book Meme
Sorry, I don't know how to embed pictures of the covers and then put the text over to the side of them. So I'm just gonna text it.
1. One book that changed your life:
The Sound & the Fury by William Faulkner. My class was reading this in 11th grade, while I was going through one of my schoolwork abstinence phases. I listened to my teacher's explanations of the incredibly difficult material, and thought it was so cool. So I read the book and caught up on all the work. That may have been the exact moment when my already-suspected lit-nerdiness was confirmed: here was this book that my classmates all hated, and I just couldn't get enough of it: I thought what the author was doing was so brilliant.
One book you have read more than once:
Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie. My copy is all dog-eared and yellowed and crumbling, and you know I don't disrespect my books. It's one of those kids' books that you don't realize is also for adults until you are one. The messages about faith and trust and magic are so good, and so believeable.
One book you would want on a desert island:
Poems on the Underground or any other large poetry compilation. Something to read, something to think about, and, assuming I also had a pen & paper on my island, I'd be able to write imitations and inspired pieces as well.
One book that made you laugh:
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I was living in the UK, and this book was subtly making fun of the British. It was like having 782 pages of inside jokes. And the book is so good too - I don't even like fantasy (haven't bothered to read Harry Potter or LOTR), and I couldn't put it down.
One book that made you cry:
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. But they were tears of happiness at the end. This is one of my all-time favorites. Clever chick-lit - who would've thought?
One book you wish had been written:
A bestseller. By me.
One book you wish you had written:
Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. I'm a diary person. There was a gap in the market for a good diary book. The gap has now been filled, both by a good diary book and by several bad diary books inspired by the success of the good one. Damn.
One book you wish had never been written:
The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown. I just can't stand all the hype over something so poorly written. Not that I've read any of it. But the few sentences I've glimpsed over people's shoulders are enough.
One book you are currently reading:
Airman's Odyssey by Antoine Saint-Exupéry. I've only read the introduction. But I love Le Petit Prince. I'll let you know.
One book you have been meaning to read:
My aunt just gave me Sex & the Married Girl: From Clicking to Climaxing - the Complete Truth About Modern Marriage by Mandi Norwood. I can't wait to read it.
------------------------------------------
I tag C-List and Libertine, and whoever else reads this blog regularly (which may be no one).
Sorry, I don't know how to embed pictures of the covers and then put the text over to the side of them. So I'm just gonna text it.
1. One book that changed your life:
The Sound & the Fury by William Faulkner. My class was reading this in 11th grade, while I was going through one of my schoolwork abstinence phases. I listened to my teacher's explanations of the incredibly difficult material, and thought it was so cool. So I read the book and caught up on all the work. That may have been the exact moment when my already-suspected lit-nerdiness was confirmed: here was this book that my classmates all hated, and I just couldn't get enough of it: I thought what the author was doing was so brilliant.
One book you have read more than once:
Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie. My copy is all dog-eared and yellowed and crumbling, and you know I don't disrespect my books. It's one of those kids' books that you don't realize is also for adults until you are one. The messages about faith and trust and magic are so good, and so believeable.
One book you would want on a desert island:
Poems on the Underground or any other large poetry compilation. Something to read, something to think about, and, assuming I also had a pen & paper on my island, I'd be able to write imitations and inspired pieces as well.
One book that made you laugh:
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I was living in the UK, and this book was subtly making fun of the British. It was like having 782 pages of inside jokes. And the book is so good too - I don't even like fantasy (haven't bothered to read Harry Potter or LOTR), and I couldn't put it down.
One book that made you cry:
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. But they were tears of happiness at the end. This is one of my all-time favorites. Clever chick-lit - who would've thought?
One book you wish had been written:
A bestseller. By me.
One book you wish you had written:
Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. I'm a diary person. There was a gap in the market for a good diary book. The gap has now been filled, both by a good diary book and by several bad diary books inspired by the success of the good one. Damn.
One book you wish had never been written:
The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown. I just can't stand all the hype over something so poorly written. Not that I've read any of it. But the few sentences I've glimpsed over people's shoulders are enough.
One book you are currently reading:
Airman's Odyssey by Antoine Saint-Exupéry. I've only read the introduction. But I love Le Petit Prince. I'll let you know.
One book you have been meaning to read:
My aunt just gave me Sex & the Married Girl: From Clicking to Climaxing - the Complete Truth About Modern Marriage by Mandi Norwood. I can't wait to read it.
------------------------------------------
I tag C-List and Libertine, and whoever else reads this blog regularly (which may be no one).
Friday, August 18, 2006
Jiggety-Jig
My hair is officially long enough to cover potentially embarrassing hard nipples again. Which is awesome.
The highlight of the trip home (flew out of Heathrow a day before the attacks were supposed to happen) was when the lady checking boarding passes on the way into the security line tried to confiscate my Burt's Bees. I mean, she did confiscate my Burt's Bees after I'd asked her whether it was okay to take on board (the AA website had said it was), but then she didn't throw it away so much as leave it on her desk where I could see it shrinking in the distance, and when I nearly started crying (it had been a pretty emotional morning, saying goodbye to Lui and all), my dad went back and got it for me. I put it in my bag and the actual security people either didn't see it on the x-ray, or didn't care. The other highlight was the irony of one of the people operating the x-rays being a middle-aged Arab man, beard, turban and all. Ah, racial profiling.
It's not as weird to be home this year as it was last year, which is weird in itself because last year was a vacation and this year is kind of permanent. I haven't seen any of my friends yet though, and I think what shocked me most last summer was how little their lives had changed while mine was progressing so rapidly. So it may get there yet.
I've been seeing a chiropractor as of yesterday, and he's promised that he can help fix my digestion problems and my infertility problem. I think I'm going to like this. Like, a lot.
Oh, and I didn't tell you, Libertine, that the dreaded thing happened: Lui accidentally clicked on the wrong bookmark and stumbled across my blog. He knew it existed, he knew where it was, he'd just always told me he had no intent of reading it, which allowed me to write things I wouldn't necessarily tell him. But he landed on it, so he read the last entry, the one about Sex & the City and like all of my exes and how they still play into my life... It was bad. But not as bad as it could've been. But still pretty bad, and I got to tell him all sorts of fun things like how he betrayed my trust. Usually when we argue, it's my fault. So I guess this was a nice change.
That's about it for now. I've been ridiculously busy, but mostly with boring things like chiropractors and haircuts and orthodontists and Target and bra-shopping. Oh, the bra shopping. I opened an Angels card yesterday. I can see this being a problem.
The highlight of the trip home (flew out of Heathrow a day before the attacks were supposed to happen) was when the lady checking boarding passes on the way into the security line tried to confiscate my Burt's Bees. I mean, she did confiscate my Burt's Bees after I'd asked her whether it was okay to take on board (the AA website had said it was), but then she didn't throw it away so much as leave it on her desk where I could see it shrinking in the distance, and when I nearly started crying (it had been a pretty emotional morning, saying goodbye to Lui and all), my dad went back and got it for me. I put it in my bag and the actual security people either didn't see it on the x-ray, or didn't care. The other highlight was the irony of one of the people operating the x-rays being a middle-aged Arab man, beard, turban and all. Ah, racial profiling.
It's not as weird to be home this year as it was last year, which is weird in itself because last year was a vacation and this year is kind of permanent. I haven't seen any of my friends yet though, and I think what shocked me most last summer was how little their lives had changed while mine was progressing so rapidly. So it may get there yet.
I've been seeing a chiropractor as of yesterday, and he's promised that he can help fix my digestion problems and my infertility problem. I think I'm going to like this. Like, a lot.
Oh, and I didn't tell you, Libertine, that the dreaded thing happened: Lui accidentally clicked on the wrong bookmark and stumbled across my blog. He knew it existed, he knew where it was, he'd just always told me he had no intent of reading it, which allowed me to write things I wouldn't necessarily tell him. But he landed on it, so he read the last entry, the one about Sex & the City and like all of my exes and how they still play into my life... It was bad. But not as bad as it could've been. But still pretty bad, and I got to tell him all sorts of fun things like how he betrayed my trust. Usually when we argue, it's my fault. So I guess this was a nice change.
That's about it for now. I've been ridiculously busy, but mostly with boring things like chiropractors and haircuts and orthodontists and Target and bra-shopping. Oh, the bra shopping. I opened an Angels card yesterday. I can see this being a problem.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Facing my fears
So I finally did it. I finally watched the last episode of Sex & the City. I'd been putting it off. I'd been dreading it. I'd been downright avoiding it. But I've seen it now, and lived to tell the tale.
Here's the thing: I knew Carrie was going to end up with Big. Someone had spoiled that for me long ago, although it wasn't the spoiler itself that bothered me; they never do, except in the case of American Idol results. It was this actual plot twist that bothered me; I knew that if I watched that final episode, I would see this thing that I didn't want to see.
It's because Big has always reminded me of Piano Man; in fact, there was a time when Piano Man was actually saved in my phone as "Big". It's the situation: man who is bad for you but whom you somehow cannot resist, who flits in and out of your life at the worst possible times, breaking your heart and so many false promises. It's the mannerisms: calling at ungodly hours, calling you "kid", apologizing with puppy dog eyes before fucking it up yet again, cheating on you and with you and thinking almost nothing of it. And it's even the looks, a little: the eyebrows, the hair, the expressions formed by the nose and mouth, the overall body shape. All too similar for my tastes.
And aren't I a little bit Carrie? Less-extravagent wardrobe aside, aren't I the writer who keeps no secrets from her friends or, come to think of it, the general public? Aren't I the one so ready to let herself fall back under his spell, to denounce him one minute and defend him the next, to watch herself trapped in these patterns of romantic destruction?
Carrie couldn't end up with Big because I couldn't end up with Piano Man. I wouldn't have wanted to. I told myself time and time again during that non-relationship that if the opportunity ever presented itself, I would've said no - I am not one to be cheated on, and like fuck he could ever stop cheating. But in truth, I'm glad that the opportunity never presented itself, because I'm not sure I really would've been strong enough to say no. That's a big part of why I hate him so much: because of the hold he had over me and probably still could. It was always him calling the shots, really, even when I thought it was me. And what I hate even more is that I am not unique in this; I am by no means the only girl so ready to cater to his whims: commit, back off, go down, get tied up, lie, apologize, sit, stay, roll over... I guess it kind of goes without saying that he makes me hate myself as well, even now that I'm dead to him and so much better off.
But really, Piano Man turned out not to be Mr Big, in the end. Carrie went to France, Big followed her to get her back. I went to France, largely to escape my destructive relationship with Piano Man, and he did not come after me, although he did call me long-distance and continue generally tormenting me long after I'd tried to cut him out of my life. Big appealed to Carrie's closest friends for their blessing, and got it. One of my closest friends has been known to have said of Piano Man, "Not enough bad things can happen to that person." Carrie admitted to wondering what her life would be like had she ended up with Big. Well, we all know that for me, that person is What-If Guy; when I fantasize about Piano Man, it usually involves me punching him. Obviously there was a lot more forgiveness - and forgiveableness - in the show than there could ever be in my reality.
Which is to say nothing of my subconscious. I dreamt about Piano Man again last night, yet another version of the recurring dream where we run into each other somewhere, and he says, "Elle, I want us to be friends again," and I say, "Me too," and then we wonder just how we're going to figure our significant others into this picture, knowing how much each of them hates the other of us, and how we're going to figure our friends into this picture, knowing how strongly they disapprove of us having anything to do with each other, however platonic, because of how much our personalities magnify each other, and how horrible we really are for each other. And then we're running, usually hand-in-hand, away from anyone who might find out, and it's us against the world, and we are obstinantly determined to make this thing, this simple, always-should-have-been friendship work, because we know how good we really are, in spite of what everyone else seems to think. This dream always leaves me feeling sad, nostalgic, and a little guilty, and momentarily diminishes my desire to hit him in the face. But somehow I can't make myself stop having it.
Today I move on to Desperate Housewives, which I'm sure will only open a whole new can of proverbial worms.
Here's the thing: I knew Carrie was going to end up with Big. Someone had spoiled that for me long ago, although it wasn't the spoiler itself that bothered me; they never do, except in the case of American Idol results. It was this actual plot twist that bothered me; I knew that if I watched that final episode, I would see this thing that I didn't want to see.
It's because Big has always reminded me of Piano Man; in fact, there was a time when Piano Man was actually saved in my phone as "Big". It's the situation: man who is bad for you but whom you somehow cannot resist, who flits in and out of your life at the worst possible times, breaking your heart and so many false promises. It's the mannerisms: calling at ungodly hours, calling you "kid", apologizing with puppy dog eyes before fucking it up yet again, cheating on you and with you and thinking almost nothing of it. And it's even the looks, a little: the eyebrows, the hair, the expressions formed by the nose and mouth, the overall body shape. All too similar for my tastes.
And aren't I a little bit Carrie? Less-extravagent wardrobe aside, aren't I the writer who keeps no secrets from her friends or, come to think of it, the general public? Aren't I the one so ready to let herself fall back under his spell, to denounce him one minute and defend him the next, to watch herself trapped in these patterns of romantic destruction?
Carrie couldn't end up with Big because I couldn't end up with Piano Man. I wouldn't have wanted to. I told myself time and time again during that non-relationship that if the opportunity ever presented itself, I would've said no - I am not one to be cheated on, and like fuck he could ever stop cheating. But in truth, I'm glad that the opportunity never presented itself, because I'm not sure I really would've been strong enough to say no. That's a big part of why I hate him so much: because of the hold he had over me and probably still could. It was always him calling the shots, really, even when I thought it was me. And what I hate even more is that I am not unique in this; I am by no means the only girl so ready to cater to his whims: commit, back off, go down, get tied up, lie, apologize, sit, stay, roll over... I guess it kind of goes without saying that he makes me hate myself as well, even now that I'm dead to him and so much better off.
But really, Piano Man turned out not to be Mr Big, in the end. Carrie went to France, Big followed her to get her back. I went to France, largely to escape my destructive relationship with Piano Man, and he did not come after me, although he did call me long-distance and continue generally tormenting me long after I'd tried to cut him out of my life. Big appealed to Carrie's closest friends for their blessing, and got it. One of my closest friends has been known to have said of Piano Man, "Not enough bad things can happen to that person." Carrie admitted to wondering what her life would be like had she ended up with Big. Well, we all know that for me, that person is What-If Guy; when I fantasize about Piano Man, it usually involves me punching him. Obviously there was a lot more forgiveness - and forgiveableness - in the show than there could ever be in my reality.
Which is to say nothing of my subconscious. I dreamt about Piano Man again last night, yet another version of the recurring dream where we run into each other somewhere, and he says, "Elle, I want us to be friends again," and I say, "Me too," and then we wonder just how we're going to figure our significant others into this picture, knowing how much each of them hates the other of us, and how we're going to figure our friends into this picture, knowing how strongly they disapprove of us having anything to do with each other, however platonic, because of how much our personalities magnify each other, and how horrible we really are for each other. And then we're running, usually hand-in-hand, away from anyone who might find out, and it's us against the world, and we are obstinantly determined to make this thing, this simple, always-should-have-been friendship work, because we know how good we really are, in spite of what everyone else seems to think. This dream always leaves me feeling sad, nostalgic, and a little guilty, and momentarily diminishes my desire to hit him in the face. But somehow I can't make myself stop having it.
Today I move on to Desperate Housewives, which I'm sure will only open a whole new can of proverbial worms.
Friday, July 21, 2006
24 (not the TV show)
Oh sweet Jesus, I'm as many years as there are hours in a day. I feel old. Well, maybe not old, but grown-up in a way that's fairly disturbing. Like I should be wearing business suits. Or having babies. Odd considering that I still kind of think I'm too young to be getting married, but as my childhood friends will tell you, I always did insist that the two don't have to go together. (Marriage? Ew. Boys have cooties.)
In any case, my birthday was yesterday, and was probably one of the better birthday's I've had (21 was pretty exciting, 22 would've been good if I'd drank a little less, 23 isn't really worth mentioning since we had camp that day so my birthday was kind of a non-event). I even managed to accomplish my preferred trio of birthday indulgences: pedicure, chick flick, & hamburger. So here's how the day went.
I woke up to the doorbell, postman delivering a little package from my sister. Then I got lots of hugs and cries of "Bunny's birthday!" from Lui, who gave me a sweet card wherein he spells "love" wrong ("loye" for some reason) and then chides himself for it, and two presents: a CD of "summer favorites" (basically more of the American jazz classics that I love), and a full day at what, according to his research, is the nicest spa in Wales. (I saw this one coming; I did ask for professional pampering, and he's had a bookmark called "Wales's best day spas" in his football folder for a while now. Yes, I snoop a little, but really he should've renamed it "Newcastle" or something to throw me off course.) This is all taking place on Sunday (he's booked a massage for himself too so he's not there all day with nothing to do), and I have to admit it's a little scary. What kind of a facial takes an hour and a half? What if I have to pee mid-body-wrap? What are some of these other things I'm booked in for?
Lui went to work, and I went with his dad and sister to see The Break Up. So I'm kind of striking out with chick flicks recently; this is another one without the requisite happily-ever-after you expect (see: My Best Friend's Wedding, The Object of My Affection, Kissing Jessica Stein, Lost In Translation - ok, so that last one isn't really a chick flick, but still). I liked it, Lui's dad & sister didn't. Oh well, my birthday.
Came home in time for my 5:00 pedicure appointment with a girl I worked with at the restaurant for like five minutes. She's really nice - it would figure I find someone here to be nice to me like a month before I leave. She claims she can do toe art, but she can't really. I ended up with this dot pattern on my toes that's cool in it's own way, but is totally not flowah. I need a Korean immigrant; those women are gifted.
Lui came home sometime in the middle of this, but hid upstairs playing Playstation. We got dressed up, his family came over and gave me presents (series 1 of Desperate Housewives, which I still haven't seen, a little jewelery box so I don't risk losing my rings amid all the stuffed animals on my nightstand every night), and we headed off to my ex-place-of-employment for dinner.
I'd managed to swing the hamburger (usually a lunch item) by asking ahead. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to ask ahead for a margarita, or maybe that was just my attempt at not being too demanding, and so was unable to have one. We had a good meal though, in spite of the service being pretty bad - I'm not just saying that because I recently found out that one of the girls doesn't like me because I'm American (seriously? racism? that's the best reason she could come up with?) - we were literally waiting half an hour for our plates to be cleared so we could order dessert, and there were only three other tables in the whole night. After we'd asked for the bill, though, they surprised me by bringing out a cake that Lui's mum had dropped off beforehand, and my ex-bosses gave me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in all my favorite colors (bright ones). So then I didn't feel like complaining about the service anymore, although I am seriously considering emailing said ex-bosses and letting them know that - for once, mind you - it was below average.
We came home, and I had an email from What-If Guy - just a short one saying happy birthday and asking what he could get me (wink) - and then I really smiled, and then I really felt guilty, because it's becoming more and more obvious to me how big of a crush I actually still have on him. Then Lui took me upstairs and gave me a massage that was nearly every bit as good as the one I got from my beauty/holistic therapist friend - massage to me is like sex: why should I have to pay for it when I can get better for free? Sadly, to Lui, it's like oral sex: reserved for special occasions - and I fell asleep in his arm's and forgot about What-If Guy and his damn flirtacious email.
That was my wonderful yesterday. Today is just another day, except I'm still 24 and wondering why I'm not barefoot and pregnant yet.
In any case, my birthday was yesterday, and was probably one of the better birthday's I've had (21 was pretty exciting, 22 would've been good if I'd drank a little less, 23 isn't really worth mentioning since we had camp that day so my birthday was kind of a non-event). I even managed to accomplish my preferred trio of birthday indulgences: pedicure, chick flick, & hamburger. So here's how the day went.
I woke up to the doorbell, postman delivering a little package from my sister. Then I got lots of hugs and cries of "Bunny's birthday!" from Lui, who gave me a sweet card wherein he spells "love" wrong ("loye" for some reason) and then chides himself for it, and two presents: a CD of "summer favorites" (basically more of the American jazz classics that I love), and a full day at what, according to his research, is the nicest spa in Wales. (I saw this one coming; I did ask for professional pampering, and he's had a bookmark called "Wales's best day spas" in his football folder for a while now. Yes, I snoop a little, but really he should've renamed it "Newcastle" or something to throw me off course.) This is all taking place on Sunday (he's booked a massage for himself too so he's not there all day with nothing to do), and I have to admit it's a little scary. What kind of a facial takes an hour and a half? What if I have to pee mid-body-wrap? What are some of these other things I'm booked in for?
Lui went to work, and I went with his dad and sister to see The Break Up. So I'm kind of striking out with chick flicks recently; this is another one without the requisite happily-ever-after you expect (see: My Best Friend's Wedding, The Object of My Affection, Kissing Jessica Stein, Lost In Translation - ok, so that last one isn't really a chick flick, but still). I liked it, Lui's dad & sister didn't. Oh well, my birthday.
Came home in time for my 5:00 pedicure appointment with a girl I worked with at the restaurant for like five minutes. She's really nice - it would figure I find someone here to be nice to me like a month before I leave. She claims she can do toe art, but she can't really. I ended up with this dot pattern on my toes that's cool in it's own way, but is totally not flowah. I need a Korean immigrant; those women are gifted.
Lui came home sometime in the middle of this, but hid upstairs playing Playstation. We got dressed up, his family came over and gave me presents (series 1 of Desperate Housewives, which I still haven't seen, a little jewelery box so I don't risk losing my rings amid all the stuffed animals on my nightstand every night), and we headed off to my ex-place-of-employment for dinner.
I'd managed to swing the hamburger (usually a lunch item) by asking ahead. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to ask ahead for a margarita, or maybe that was just my attempt at not being too demanding, and so was unable to have one. We had a good meal though, in spite of the service being pretty bad - I'm not just saying that because I recently found out that one of the girls doesn't like me because I'm American (seriously? racism? that's the best reason she could come up with?) - we were literally waiting half an hour for our plates to be cleared so we could order dessert, and there were only three other tables in the whole night. After we'd asked for the bill, though, they surprised me by bringing out a cake that Lui's mum had dropped off beforehand, and my ex-bosses gave me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in all my favorite colors (bright ones). So then I didn't feel like complaining about the service anymore, although I am seriously considering emailing said ex-bosses and letting them know that - for once, mind you - it was below average.
We came home, and I had an email from What-If Guy - just a short one saying happy birthday and asking what he could get me (wink) - and then I really smiled, and then I really felt guilty, because it's becoming more and more obvious to me how big of a crush I actually still have on him. Then Lui took me upstairs and gave me a massage that was nearly every bit as good as the one I got from my beauty/holistic therapist friend - massage to me is like sex: why should I have to pay for it when I can get better for free? Sadly, to Lui, it's like oral sex: reserved for special occasions - and I fell asleep in his arm's and forgot about What-If Guy and his damn flirtacious email.
That was my wonderful yesterday. Today is just another day, except I'm still 24 and wondering why I'm not barefoot and pregnant yet.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Like a sieve
Maybe it's because I've always had such a good memory when it comes to things people say; it's called dialogue, and is a useful tool to have as a writer. Oftentimes, I'm able to write down a conversation I've had nearly word for word, sometimes as late as a few days after it's taken place. I pride myself on this skill, and am only now coming to terms with its downside: because I can remember what's been said to me, I now expect people to remember what I say to them.
I guess that's not so much to ask anyway: we all like to think that our lives and opinions hold some importance to the people we're close to; we all hope they're actually listening when we tell them things. But the fact of the matter is that Lui has a really selective, if not downright poor, memory, and I'm sick of him using it as an excuse.
Example: It took well over a year for him to actually register my dislike of being slobbered on. And we're not just talking accidentally sloppy kisses in the heat of the moment; we're talking downright licking me because the one episode of Sex & the City he remembers is the one where Charlotte is dating some face-licker, and he thinks it's funny.
A few nights ago, we had an argument to the effect of "you never listen to me," "yes I do, but I forget things." The apologies to this were actually rather cute. I asked him what he does remember that I tell him, and made him give example after example: "I know you like small dogs." "I know you don't like the word 'nasty.'" "I know you like kisses on the nose."
And then yesterday there was this misunderstanding, the details of which are too trivial to even post here, but the end of which was us talking in circles in the car on his way to work/drop me off at his Mum's house. And because I kept using the same argument, and he kept not getting my point and trying to tell me that it was my own fault I was upset, I eventually raised my voice for emphasis. I raised my voice a lot. I raised my voice so much, my throat still hurts 30 hours later.
"Don't scream at me, Elle," he said. "I've told you I don't like being screamed at."
To which I replied, "Sorry, I forgot."
As I got out of the car, I tried to apologize, but he wasn't ready to hear it yet. We both went about our days, apologies were eventually made via text message, and when he came to pick me up last night, everything was fine.
This is something nice about stability. I remember the days where I'd argue with Piano-Man (read: ex I want to hit in the face) and how I'd let whatever it was ruin my day/week/whatever until we'd "fixed" it. How I'd think that this was the end of the world, the relationship, my very life as I knew it. When I take it into account that all that anguish, nausea, loss of concentration, and melancholy are part of the "excitement and drama" I've been mourning, I start to think that the boring life isn't so bad after all.
But wait! I have another story!
I got an email last night, from my senior year roommate, Flower: a big stoner as long as I've known her, always a little spacey and a little flaky, now also engaged to the guy she was dating since before we lived together. This email said:
"hey girlie girl! wud up? well, my wedding is officially set for July 14, 2007...so mark your calendar!!!!!! Peace."
Um, hello? My wedding is the 7th of July, and has been officially set as such for months! She knew this! We've exchanged planning details before, and last I heard she was looking at September 07. Of course, the chances of her flying across the country for my wedding have always been slim, and theoretically our mutual friends could attend both (if not, I've already claimed C-List, and obviously Sunshine, who is my maid of honor), so really the only change here is that I now can't go to her wedding. But still! I would expect her to take my date into account when choosing hers, and truth be told, I kind of hate her right now. And her goddamn drug habit.
Somehow, this incident, much more than my fight with Lui, felt like one of those world-ending dramas from my Piano-Man days. Which is just fine with me.
I guess that's not so much to ask anyway: we all like to think that our lives and opinions hold some importance to the people we're close to; we all hope they're actually listening when we tell them things. But the fact of the matter is that Lui has a really selective, if not downright poor, memory, and I'm sick of him using it as an excuse.
Example: It took well over a year for him to actually register my dislike of being slobbered on. And we're not just talking accidentally sloppy kisses in the heat of the moment; we're talking downright licking me because the one episode of Sex & the City he remembers is the one where Charlotte is dating some face-licker, and he thinks it's funny.
A few nights ago, we had an argument to the effect of "you never listen to me," "yes I do, but I forget things." The apologies to this were actually rather cute. I asked him what he does remember that I tell him, and made him give example after example: "I know you like small dogs." "I know you don't like the word 'nasty.'" "I know you like kisses on the nose."
And then yesterday there was this misunderstanding, the details of which are too trivial to even post here, but the end of which was us talking in circles in the car on his way to work/drop me off at his Mum's house. And because I kept using the same argument, and he kept not getting my point and trying to tell me that it was my own fault I was upset, I eventually raised my voice for emphasis. I raised my voice a lot. I raised my voice so much, my throat still hurts 30 hours later.
"Don't scream at me, Elle," he said. "I've told you I don't like being screamed at."
To which I replied, "Sorry, I forgot."
As I got out of the car, I tried to apologize, but he wasn't ready to hear it yet. We both went about our days, apologies were eventually made via text message, and when he came to pick me up last night, everything was fine.
This is something nice about stability. I remember the days where I'd argue with Piano-Man (read: ex I want to hit in the face) and how I'd let whatever it was ruin my day/week/whatever until we'd "fixed" it. How I'd think that this was the end of the world, the relationship, my very life as I knew it. When I take it into account that all that anguish, nausea, loss of concentration, and melancholy are part of the "excitement and drama" I've been mourning, I start to think that the boring life isn't so bad after all.
But wait! I have another story!
I got an email last night, from my senior year roommate, Flower: a big stoner as long as I've known her, always a little spacey and a little flaky, now also engaged to the guy she was dating since before we lived together. This email said:
"hey girlie girl! wud up? well, my wedding is officially set for July 14, 2007...so mark your calendar!!!!!! Peace."
Um, hello? My wedding is the 7th of July, and has been officially set as such for months! She knew this! We've exchanged planning details before, and last I heard she was looking at September 07. Of course, the chances of her flying across the country for my wedding have always been slim, and theoretically our mutual friends could attend both (if not, I've already claimed C-List, and obviously Sunshine, who is my maid of honor), so really the only change here is that I now can't go to her wedding. But still! I would expect her to take my date into account when choosing hers, and truth be told, I kind of hate her right now. And her goddamn drug habit.
Somehow, this incident, much more than my fight with Lui, felt like one of those world-ending dramas from my Piano-Man days. Which is just fine with me.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Somethin' about tha party!
I swear I'm not really that much of a jet-setter, but I went to London this weekend. It's another city where I class myself as a tourist-local: I'm clueless enough that I have to follow the signs in the tube, but have been there enough not to need to see any sights, or stand in people's way in the middle of the sidewalk... Er, pavement. Sorry.
It was nice to see Marc again - or, more likely, it was so nice just to have a friend again. I'm sure that's part of why I think my life is so boring, even while embarking on the biggest adventure of it. (That is what they say about marriage, right? Or is that parenthood? Or college?) On Saturday, we sort of wasted a lot of time, then went to see Avenue Q, which was everything I'd always hoped it would be. We both fell a little in love with the guy playing Princeton. He looked a little like my ex, my What-If Guy, which prompted a late-night conversation wherein I argued that the stable life is boring (see previous post) and Marc argued that the single life is more sad-making drama than exciting excitement. When it comes down to it, we're jealous of each other, and probably, above all, need to just learn to enjoy the lives we're in. Still, this didn't stop me from dreaming I was kissing What-If Guy, and waking up all hot, bothered, and guilty. (I could have called him in that moment, in the middle of my night and his, to demand the answers to my what-if questions, but that's really something I'd rather do in person.)
On Sunday, we met up with some of Marc's friends for sushi in one of those restaurants with the rotator belt, then abandoned them to seek out the opposite of football, which a certain Carlsberg commercial had taught us is "cheek fleek" (that's "chick flick" with an Eastern European accent). We went to see Imagine Me & You, which is a new British rom-com with a twist: girl getting married falls in love with her lesbian florist during wedding ceremony. It was like the anti-Kissing Jessica Stein, and vaguely saddening - not quite a cheek fleek, in the end. We walked back along the river - I got my first coffee in over a year, and it didn't make me sick - and made a vegetarian feast, then watched Bright Young Things, which is not a cheek fleek either, while smoking hookah, drinking red wine, and eating melted ice cream. Before I left, I borrowed Muriel's Wedding from him; I haven't seen that since I was like 12, and maybe it'll put me in the right mindframe about this whole stability thing.
To come back to that briefly: an old flame and longtime friend, who has always been incredibly gifted at making me laugh, and who is now also in a healthy and stable relationship, put it this way: "Yes. I miss playing the game of flirting and fooling around and trying to get down pants. But I am happy too."
When I got home, Lui gave me a hug, and immediately said, "Your hair smells different." (I'd left my shampoo at home and had been using Marc's all weekend.) If that isn't true love, what is?
It was nice to see Marc again - or, more likely, it was so nice just to have a friend again. I'm sure that's part of why I think my life is so boring, even while embarking on the biggest adventure of it. (That is what they say about marriage, right? Or is that parenthood? Or college?) On Saturday, we sort of wasted a lot of time, then went to see Avenue Q, which was everything I'd always hoped it would be. We both fell a little in love with the guy playing Princeton. He looked a little like my ex, my What-If Guy, which prompted a late-night conversation wherein I argued that the stable life is boring (see previous post) and Marc argued that the single life is more sad-making drama than exciting excitement. When it comes down to it, we're jealous of each other, and probably, above all, need to just learn to enjoy the lives we're in. Still, this didn't stop me from dreaming I was kissing What-If Guy, and waking up all hot, bothered, and guilty. (I could have called him in that moment, in the middle of my night and his, to demand the answers to my what-if questions, but that's really something I'd rather do in person.)
On Sunday, we met up with some of Marc's friends for sushi in one of those restaurants with the rotator belt, then abandoned them to seek out the opposite of football, which a certain Carlsberg commercial had taught us is "cheek fleek" (that's "chick flick" with an Eastern European accent). We went to see Imagine Me & You, which is a new British rom-com with a twist: girl getting married falls in love with her lesbian florist during wedding ceremony. It was like the anti-Kissing Jessica Stein, and vaguely saddening - not quite a cheek fleek, in the end. We walked back along the river - I got my first coffee in over a year, and it didn't make me sick - and made a vegetarian feast, then watched Bright Young Things, which is not a cheek fleek either, while smoking hookah, drinking red wine, and eating melted ice cream. Before I left, I borrowed Muriel's Wedding from him; I haven't seen that since I was like 12, and maybe it'll put me in the right mindframe about this whole stability thing.
To come back to that briefly: an old flame and longtime friend, who has always been incredibly gifted at making me laugh, and who is now also in a healthy and stable relationship, put it this way: "Yes. I miss playing the game of flirting and fooling around and trying to get down pants. But I am happy too."
When I got home, Lui gave me a hug, and immediately said, "Your hair smells different." (I'd left my shampoo at home and had been using Marc's all weekend.) If that isn't true love, what is?
Friday, July 07, 2006
Sevens
Today is weird.
Two years ago today, Lui's beloved Nan died, which means Lui will spend the day in a state of mourning and reflection. He's asked to have a nice evening when he gets home from work, maybe watch a movie or something.
A year ago today was the London Underground bombings, which means the whole of the UK - including, it would seem, the weather, is also in a state of mourning and reflection.
Today is hanging under the cloud of all these people's sadness, and I'm not really sure what to do with it. I have no direct connection to a past traumatizing event on this day, but somehow the pervading gloom is making me reflect on my own past events and sadnesses, which usually just results in me wanting to punch my ex in the face.
And to add to the bizarrity that is today, is the fact that a year from today, I'll be getting married, which I still haven't quite come to terms with. So maybe what I'm mourning today is that spark, the new relationship energy, the nervous "is he going to kiss me?" feeling, the butterflies of waiting for a phone call, the cocktail-tinted expectations of a night out... the drama, the heartbreak, the desire to punch someone in the face - and wouldn't it be nice if it were someone other than the guy I stopped seeing two years ago and still can't manage to forgive?
Life seems so predictable now that I'm settled, in a real relationship for the first and last time; oddly, the fact that I would never ever even consider cheating on Lui, having been on the wrong side of cheating myself before, is sort of disappointing too, because it reinforces that I've given up all of those above feelings in favor of (God forbid!) the love and security he gives me. I can have sex whenever I want it, which largely means that I don't want it that much. And what's even worse is that he does: he still gets that here-and-now feeling about me, he wants to sneak off to toilets together, he wants me to slip my thong to him under the table at the restaurant, he wants to carry me upstairs and throw me down on the bed, he wants a lap dance. My feeling on all this? Pretty much, "Meh. If I'm not too tired/feeling sick/busy doing something else." It's horrible, and I hate myself for it.
Because here's the other side of the story: I love him. I look at our inevitable two-month separation when I go back to America and he stays here working, waiting for visas to coincide with life, and I'm devastated. I look at this weekend's trip to London to visit Marc, and what I focus on is not all the fun we're going to have, not the excitement of finally getting to see Avenue Q; no, I'm focused on those two nights of sleeping in a bed by myself. I know I couldn't live without Lui; I don't even want to try. But I need to figure out how to get those feelings, that Monica-and-Chandler-sneaking-around-behind-everyone's-backs excitement back. And we used to be just like that: discovering each other, revelling in each other, not giving a fuck about what anyone else thought (sorry Trish), constant PDA that makes some go "Aww" and others go "Eww". Now we're still happy, but significantly more boring, and it's all my fault.
My childhood best friend, Beth, is also getting married next year, and wrote to me in a letter, "Sometimes I think that I am never satisfied in the moment I am in, I am always wishing for the past or longing for the future, and I can forget to just enjoy the now. I think it is perfectly natural with every new beginning to grieve the ending that precedes it. But... our lives will be enriched with wonderful firsts and amazing moments, because we are blessed to experience them with people that we love with all our beings, and who share and return that love. How lucky are we!" This is comforting. Perhaps even more comforting was when, during our engagement photo shoot, we asked our 25-year-old photographer what married life is like, and she replied simply, "It's great. He's my best friend."
Lui is my best friend. Sometimes I forget that; other times I remember it and it surprises me. I know that we'll be happy together forever. We never get sick of each other, never run out of things to say to each other, never argue unless we're tired or hungry, and even then only about shit that doesn't matter. He makes me laugh. He takes care of me. I take care of him. When he's upset, I'll stop at nothing to make him feel better. When I'm mad at him for whatever stupid reason, or throwing a tantrum like I do sometimes, I mostly just can't wait for it to be over so I can hug him again. We talk about names for our children, and how we'll raise them. I never even thought about having children with anyone else, except in the malicious, "What if I got pregnant? Then what would he do?" sort of way. It's all nearly perfect (some visas would help right now), and it is exciting, just not in the same way.
What can I say? I'm a drama queen. I miss my drama. There's gotta be a way to make my life feel like a TV show again...
Two years ago today, Lui's beloved Nan died, which means Lui will spend the day in a state of mourning and reflection. He's asked to have a nice evening when he gets home from work, maybe watch a movie or something.
A year ago today was the London Underground bombings, which means the whole of the UK - including, it would seem, the weather, is also in a state of mourning and reflection.
Today is hanging under the cloud of all these people's sadness, and I'm not really sure what to do with it. I have no direct connection to a past traumatizing event on this day, but somehow the pervading gloom is making me reflect on my own past events and sadnesses, which usually just results in me wanting to punch my ex in the face.
And to add to the bizarrity that is today, is the fact that a year from today, I'll be getting married, which I still haven't quite come to terms with. So maybe what I'm mourning today is that spark, the new relationship energy, the nervous "is he going to kiss me?" feeling, the butterflies of waiting for a phone call, the cocktail-tinted expectations of a night out... the drama, the heartbreak, the desire to punch someone in the face - and wouldn't it be nice if it were someone other than the guy I stopped seeing two years ago and still can't manage to forgive?
Life seems so predictable now that I'm settled, in a real relationship for the first and last time; oddly, the fact that I would never ever even consider cheating on Lui, having been on the wrong side of cheating myself before, is sort of disappointing too, because it reinforces that I've given up all of those above feelings in favor of (God forbid!) the love and security he gives me. I can have sex whenever I want it, which largely means that I don't want it that much. And what's even worse is that he does: he still gets that here-and-now feeling about me, he wants to sneak off to toilets together, he wants me to slip my thong to him under the table at the restaurant, he wants to carry me upstairs and throw me down on the bed, he wants a lap dance. My feeling on all this? Pretty much, "Meh. If I'm not too tired/feeling sick/busy doing something else." It's horrible, and I hate myself for it.
Because here's the other side of the story: I love him. I look at our inevitable two-month separation when I go back to America and he stays here working, waiting for visas to coincide with life, and I'm devastated. I look at this weekend's trip to London to visit Marc, and what I focus on is not all the fun we're going to have, not the excitement of finally getting to see Avenue Q; no, I'm focused on those two nights of sleeping in a bed by myself. I know I couldn't live without Lui; I don't even want to try. But I need to figure out how to get those feelings, that Monica-and-Chandler-sneaking-around-behind-everyone's-backs excitement back. And we used to be just like that: discovering each other, revelling in each other, not giving a fuck about what anyone else thought (sorry Trish), constant PDA that makes some go "Aww" and others go "Eww". Now we're still happy, but significantly more boring, and it's all my fault.
My childhood best friend, Beth, is also getting married next year, and wrote to me in a letter, "Sometimes I think that I am never satisfied in the moment I am in, I am always wishing for the past or longing for the future, and I can forget to just enjoy the now. I think it is perfectly natural with every new beginning to grieve the ending that precedes it. But... our lives will be enriched with wonderful firsts and amazing moments, because we are blessed to experience them with people that we love with all our beings, and who share and return that love. How lucky are we!" This is comforting. Perhaps even more comforting was when, during our engagement photo shoot, we asked our 25-year-old photographer what married life is like, and she replied simply, "It's great. He's my best friend."
Lui is my best friend. Sometimes I forget that; other times I remember it and it surprises me. I know that we'll be happy together forever. We never get sick of each other, never run out of things to say to each other, never argue unless we're tired or hungry, and even then only about shit that doesn't matter. He makes me laugh. He takes care of me. I take care of him. When he's upset, I'll stop at nothing to make him feel better. When I'm mad at him for whatever stupid reason, or throwing a tantrum like I do sometimes, I mostly just can't wait for it to be over so I can hug him again. We talk about names for our children, and how we'll raise them. I never even thought about having children with anyone else, except in the malicious, "What if I got pregnant? Then what would he do?" sort of way. It's all nearly perfect (some visas would help right now), and it is exciting, just not in the same way.
What can I say? I'm a drama queen. I miss my drama. There's gotta be a way to make my life feel like a TV show again...
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Quincampoix toujours m'inspire
After a hot and stuffy backwards train ride, we arrived at the gare de Rouen Rive-Droite where we were met by Isabelle, who has a new short haircut that Dominique doesn't like. She took us straight back to the house, which, as always, was under some form of construction. This time it was a new driveway being put in, resulting in us having to enter and leave the house by way of the back yard - fine in the day, a little awkward in the dark. Last month's project, expanding the pond in the back garden, is nearly finished; Isabelle now has upwards of 20 fish, including a sturgeon named Chirac, and has picked out a pair of ducks from what I understood to be a Bizarre Pets Catalogue. The ducks will be officially ordered once the pond remodel is officially finished.
We watched the Germany-Argentina match on TV before Isabelle and Dominique had to leave to go rehearse for the concert they had that night. (She plays the trombone in a jazz ensemble; he plays the tenor sax in a harmonie [brass band]; her ensemble had a concert and their tenor saxophonist was out of town.) Clément made us a quick dinner of soft tacos - I introduced him to the wonder that is sour cream in Mexican cuisine - then drove us to the church where the concert was taking place.
I have to admit that old French churches don't make the best concert halls. The straightbacked wooden pews are fine for hearing about how you're going to hell, but not so accomodating for enjoying music. We got there late, and so had to sit all the way in the back, which was fine in accordance with my need to know I can get out of any given room at any time (it's not claustrophobia so much as what-if-I-suddenly-have-to-pee-ophobia), but meant that we couldn't see the musicians. Still, we could hear them, and that was all that really mattered as they played songs such as "Sentimental Journey", "L-O-V-E", "Smooth", "Mambo #5", and "Tuxedo Junction" (something I learned with my choir once, but never performed and don't really remember). The concert was long, we were tired, and Lui started complaining towards the end, but I loved it anyway. I theoretically know the value of music from years of singing, but it still surprises me every time I experience it up close.
We had juice and cookies at the after party in a nearby hall, then headed back to the house and went to bed, windows open, no blankets. A few hours later (I think), I woke up completely panicked from a dream that my dreams were being haunted by a demon, and I couldn't remember the words to any prayers to expell him. It sounds silly now, but at the time, I woke up Lui and made him say the Lord's Prayer with me, then hold me tight in spite of the heat.
Saturday afternoon, we headed into Rouen to go shopping: I wanted to find a Fossil watch I'd seen online (I rarely buy things online because I can't try them on), and Lui wanted to replace some sunglasses he bought in France last year, then promptly lost. We'd made the mistake of reminding Isabelle and Dominique that our birthdays were coming up, so the understanding became that we would not be purchasing these items ourselves.
The watch hunt was fairly simple. We went into a few shops before finding the exact model I wanted, but find it we did. I tried it on, debated as to how well it fit (two links off is too loose, three links off is borderline too tight), then decided I wanted it anyway. Isabelle bought it for me, and we walked on.
The sunglasses hunt was slightly more complicated. After going into a few actual glasses shops, which Lui said put too much pressure on the buyer, we ended up back at the same men's clothing store where we'd gotten his glasses the year before. Miraculously, we found the same pair, but when Isabelle saw the price (€30), she declared they weren't fit for his 24th birthday present, so he bought them with some birthday money his aunt had given him.
We met Fabien and Thomas for lunch; I had a big salad and a Mystère - I'm devastated that I can't get them outside of France, by the way. So many good memories of eating them with Emma while watching Sex and the City in her messy room. Afterwards, we went to another men's clothing store so Thomas could get a new suit for the summer, and after a few minutes of standing around there, Dominique suggested that Lui and I accompany him to the Fnac... where he insisted on buying Lui a digital camera for his birthday. Isabelle and Thomas soon joined us to help pick out the right one, and after much argument on Lui's part (I'm reluctantly used to this open-wallet policy by now, and quietly excused myself to go find a French-language Bible: we're having a reading in French at the wedding), bought him a nice little €300 appereil.
Back at the house, we watched the devastating England-Portugal match (there is no justice), had a lovely barbecued dinner outside on the terrace, then watched the fantastic France-Brazil match. It ended just after 11, which meant we still had time to go back into Rouen and see the Cathédrale de Monet spectacle. Some background info: Claude Monet painted a series of, um, paintings of the Rouen Cathedral. In order to get the best view of the cathedral, he sat in the window of the shop facing its front. That shop is now a pharmacy, but used to be a women's clothing store, and Monet painted from the dressing room. Anyway, during the summer nights, the city puts on a show wherein these paintings - and other artists' interpretations of the cathedral - are projected onto the actual front of the building. It is awesome.
What was even more awesome was the reaction of the French to France's quarter-final victory. Horns were honking, people were singing, flags were flying out of car windows. We heard several chants of "Allez les bleus!" and even one "Qui ne saute pas n'est pas français", which is totally not how I learned that song. After the spectacle, and a quick drink at the self-same cafe where my dad and I had a post-SDCC-concert drink with Isabelle and Dominique's family eight years ago, we drove back through the celebrations to my last night in Quincampoix.
Maybe I haven't quite been clear. The city of Rouen means a lot to me. The village of Quincampoix, with its delicious bakery, cheeky shop owner, and boules court, means a lot to me. These people, who have adopted me as their American daughter in a family of French sons, mean a lot to me. Their house, their dog, their cat, and all those fish, mean a lot to me. The electric toilet in their upstairs bathroom means a lot to me. This environment inspires me, it is the France I was thinking of and looking for when I first decided to learn French. This is where I came last year, whenever I needed a break from my English-speaking city life. I am constantly in awe of every aspect of this place, and never leave it without stories to tell. If ever there was something to write a book about, it's Quincampoix.
I'm just sorry I haven't been able to spend more time there. God only knows when I'll get a chance go back.
We watched the Germany-Argentina match on TV before Isabelle and Dominique had to leave to go rehearse for the concert they had that night. (She plays the trombone in a jazz ensemble; he plays the tenor sax in a harmonie [brass band]; her ensemble had a concert and their tenor saxophonist was out of town.) Clément made us a quick dinner of soft tacos - I introduced him to the wonder that is sour cream in Mexican cuisine - then drove us to the church where the concert was taking place.
I have to admit that old French churches don't make the best concert halls. The straightbacked wooden pews are fine for hearing about how you're going to hell, but not so accomodating for enjoying music. We got there late, and so had to sit all the way in the back, which was fine in accordance with my need to know I can get out of any given room at any time (it's not claustrophobia so much as what-if-I-suddenly-have-to-pee-ophobia), but meant that we couldn't see the musicians. Still, we could hear them, and that was all that really mattered as they played songs such as "Sentimental Journey", "L-O-V-E", "Smooth", "Mambo #5", and "Tuxedo Junction" (something I learned with my choir once, but never performed and don't really remember). The concert was long, we were tired, and Lui started complaining towards the end, but I loved it anyway. I theoretically know the value of music from years of singing, but it still surprises me every time I experience it up close.
We had juice and cookies at the after party in a nearby hall, then headed back to the house and went to bed, windows open, no blankets. A few hours later (I think), I woke up completely panicked from a dream that my dreams were being haunted by a demon, and I couldn't remember the words to any prayers to expell him. It sounds silly now, but at the time, I woke up Lui and made him say the Lord's Prayer with me, then hold me tight in spite of the heat.
Saturday afternoon, we headed into Rouen to go shopping: I wanted to find a Fossil watch I'd seen online (I rarely buy things online because I can't try them on), and Lui wanted to replace some sunglasses he bought in France last year, then promptly lost. We'd made the mistake of reminding Isabelle and Dominique that our birthdays were coming up, so the understanding became that we would not be purchasing these items ourselves.
The watch hunt was fairly simple. We went into a few shops before finding the exact model I wanted, but find it we did. I tried it on, debated as to how well it fit (two links off is too loose, three links off is borderline too tight), then decided I wanted it anyway. Isabelle bought it for me, and we walked on.
The sunglasses hunt was slightly more complicated. After going into a few actual glasses shops, which Lui said put too much pressure on the buyer, we ended up back at the same men's clothing store where we'd gotten his glasses the year before. Miraculously, we found the same pair, but when Isabelle saw the price (€30), she declared they weren't fit for his 24th birthday present, so he bought them with some birthday money his aunt had given him.
We met Fabien and Thomas for lunch; I had a big salad and a Mystère - I'm devastated that I can't get them outside of France, by the way. So many good memories of eating them with Emma while watching Sex and the City in her messy room. Afterwards, we went to another men's clothing store so Thomas could get a new suit for the summer, and after a few minutes of standing around there, Dominique suggested that Lui and I accompany him to the Fnac... where he insisted on buying Lui a digital camera for his birthday. Isabelle and Thomas soon joined us to help pick out the right one, and after much argument on Lui's part (I'm reluctantly used to this open-wallet policy by now, and quietly excused myself to go find a French-language Bible: we're having a reading in French at the wedding), bought him a nice little €300 appereil.
Back at the house, we watched the devastating England-Portugal match (there is no justice), had a lovely barbecued dinner outside on the terrace, then watched the fantastic France-Brazil match. It ended just after 11, which meant we still had time to go back into Rouen and see the Cathédrale de Monet spectacle. Some background info: Claude Monet painted a series of, um, paintings of the Rouen Cathedral. In order to get the best view of the cathedral, he sat in the window of the shop facing its front. That shop is now a pharmacy, but used to be a women's clothing store, and Monet painted from the dressing room. Anyway, during the summer nights, the city puts on a show wherein these paintings - and other artists' interpretations of the cathedral - are projected onto the actual front of the building. It is awesome.
What was even more awesome was the reaction of the French to France's quarter-final victory. Horns were honking, people were singing, flags were flying out of car windows. We heard several chants of "Allez les bleus!" and even one "Qui ne saute pas n'est pas français", which is totally not how I learned that song. After the spectacle, and a quick drink at the self-same cafe where my dad and I had a post-SDCC-concert drink with Isabelle and Dominique's family eight years ago, we drove back through the celebrations to my last night in Quincampoix.
Maybe I haven't quite been clear. The city of Rouen means a lot to me. The village of Quincampoix, with its delicious bakery, cheeky shop owner, and boules court, means a lot to me. These people, who have adopted me as their American daughter in a family of French sons, mean a lot to me. Their house, their dog, their cat, and all those fish, mean a lot to me. The electric toilet in their upstairs bathroom means a lot to me. This environment inspires me, it is the France I was thinking of and looking for when I first decided to learn French. This is where I came last year, whenever I needed a break from my English-speaking city life. I am constantly in awe of every aspect of this place, and never leave it without stories to tell. If ever there was something to write a book about, it's Quincampoix.
I'm just sorry I haven't been able to spend more time there. God only knows when I'll get a chance go back.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Paris, je t'aime
I'm just back from my last time in France for an unspecified period. I had so much to say while I was there, so many descriptions of things planned out in my head, waiting for the inevitable creation of this blog. And somehow they've all been reduced to fragments again. But I'll try.
We flew into Paris on Thursday, in accordance with the expiry date of my visa. Our usual hotel hadn't been offering discount rates this time, and would've put us on the wrong side of town anyway, so we'd reluctantly booked a different one, and I have to admit I was a little disappointed when we checked in. The hotel was under renovation, and although the room was impeccably furnished - the usual selection of French channels and fuzzy CNN were presented on a flatscreen TV this time - the hallway was still pretty torn up. And I couldn't help but make comparisons: "our other hotel has bigger rooms", "our other hotel has a fan in the room", "our other hotel has a bigger window with a better view". (If you ever go to Paris in the summer, you'll know how important space and air truly are.) But it wasn't that bad. I lay down on the bed while Lui went out to get some bottles of water, then down to the lobby to iron our clothes for the evening (he wasn't allowed to bring the iron up to the room) with what he reported was a several-year-old, barely functional machine. By the time he got back, it was time to turn our sweaty, traveling selves into classy French tourist-locals.
Binga arrived just as I was trying to figure out how to secure the belt on my cheaply made but oh-so-classy red dress, and I was somewhat relieved to find that she, with all her fashion-consciousness, couldn't find a better way to manage it than I could. So I prepared for a night of tugging on the end of the belt, as it would repeatedly be coming loose every time I sat down or breathed, and we left.
I have to say, and this may be a little mean, that I am constantly amazed by the fact that Binga has never been mugged or attacked in the streets (of France). She speaks English so loudly, stands in the street looking around so cluelessly, and is so generally vulgar, I just find it surprising that she hasn't attracted attention as a prey-worthy tourist, even if she does actually live in France. Of course, it did happen once that she made herself a target, but unfortunately, I was with her that night, and it was my bag that was torn from my hand, while she looked on dumbfounded.
Still, it was good to see her again, as it's good to see all ex-roommates after the "I hate you for not cleaning the kitchen" period has passed. And last time I was in Paris, her boyfriend had suddenly broken up with her less than an hour before my arrival, so this trip found her in much better spirits than the last. The three of us walked to where we would be having dinner, at the Café des Deux Moulins (of Amélie fame). Unfortunately, the new owners of the place have taken out the Tabac counter, to make room for more tables, so the scene isn't exactly as it was in the film. (For instance, in the film, there isn't a giant, signed Amélie movie poster hanging on the wall.) But the bar is the same, and the toilets are the same - and so incredibly filthy that it makes the raucous sex scene even more enjoyable.
I wasn't planning on drinking - we were all so dehydrated, and Lui and I had a bottle of champagne to look forward to - but Binga ordered a peach kir, then Lui said to make it three (I don't even like peach kir), and so the two of them ended up splitting most of mine. For a simple brasserie, however, the food was fantastic. Lui had filet de boeuf (fillet steak), Binga had magret de canard (duck), and I had piccata de volaille (some sort of flattened chicken, that may not have really been chicken, as "volaille" just means general "fowl"). But what I was most impressed with was the little salad that came on my plate: layers of iceberg lettuce, tzatziki, and apple slices - something I never would've thought of myself, but will definitely be making now. God bless the French.
We had dessert (I got the requisite crème brûlée), paid and left in search of the epicerie (produce stand) from the same film, which was only a few short Parisien blocks up the road, but couldn't find it; it was late and most things were closed, and none of us could remember whether our waiter had said to turn right and it's on the left, or to turn left and it's on the right. So Lui and I said goodbye to Binga, then headed over to the Moulin Rouge.
We waited in line for what seemed like forever, and eventually found that there was no reservation list and that payment would be taken at the table during the show - they claim the thing sells out nearly every performance, so why let people walk in off the street and possibly take the seats that others have called ahead for? But we'd gotten there early enough to not only get in, but to get really good seats: close, but not too close, and right by the waiters' station. Some people would be annoyed by this, and a woman at our table blatantly was, but I thought it was fascinating to watch the staff carrying bucket after bucket of champagne, or to overhear them making fun of their tourist clientèle (it's good to understand French), so I really didn't mind that my view was occasionally impaired. It's not like there weren't enough boobies to go around.
Don't get me wrong, the show itself was really entertaining, and I did appreciate the multitude of boobies. What I didn't so much appreciate was the multitude of anorexic-chic bodies on the stage, and Lui even remarked that not many of the boobies were very sizable. At least I now know how far I want to go in my "must lose the belly" resolution: not that far. But the music was catchy, the costumes were fantastic, the talent was so far above and beyond anything I could ever dream of doing... It was a truly captivating show, which I know sounds cliché and sort of stupid, but can I really describe something like the Bal du Moulin Rouge in words? No, no I cannot. And cameras were strictly interdits. (We did go back to the boutique the next day and buy a 30€ book of photos; I just couldn't justify walking away from something as once-in-a-lifetime as the Moulin Rouge with nothing but memories that I can't even describe. Unfortunatly, the entractes - the acrobats who held each other up by their heads, the juggler, the weird guy who brought people up from the audience and made them do a scene - aren't in the book.)
The show ended just after one a.m., and we thought we'd get a taxi back to the hotel. But, as is the case with late nights and big cities, the illegal taxi drivers outside the theatre wanted 35€ for what would amount to a 15-minute walk in painful shoes. So we walked back to the hotel, had sex quickly (because, hello, Paris, cabaret show, you kind of have to), and fell asleep outside the covers, the window wide open to fight off the heat.
The next morning, as I said, we went back for the book, then had an hour to kill and so decided to check out the Musée de l'Erotisme (Museum of Erotic Art). It was interesting, to say the least: some of it laughable, some of it tasteful, some of it completely tasteless, and some of it kind of hot. As usual, I was drawn most to the black-and-white photography and simple drawings, which I guess is what you get for spending some time as an art model. On most floors (there were seven), comment books had been left open for visitors to sign, and most visitors had either drawn funny cartoon penises or gone on about how turned on they were. I can't honestly say that the museum really turned me on - I checked with Lui, he agreed - but it was a fun way to kill the afternoon, and I can now say that I have a thing for the work of a certain erotic artist (named Barbé), which is so much cooler than loving, say, the Impressionists.
I have to admit, I like Paris more every time I go. On my first visit, I was 15 and a non-French-speaking tourist, required to do all the required touristy things. When I next went back, six years later and speaking French, it just seemed too big, too full of people picking up on my accent and answering me in English. But it's gotten better since then: it's all about going places where the tourists don't go, or going places where the tourists do go and quickly and forcefully establishing yourself as not one of them. (I think my accent has improved as well, which probably helps.) It's about accepting Paris as Paris, and not trying to make it into somewhere quaint and French and able to be claimed as one's own. Anyway, I've already claimed another French city, and I'd hate to cheat on her with her promiscuous bigger sister.
After our tryst with the museum, we collected our bags from the hotel, walked to the nearby Gare de Saint-Lazare, and caught our train to Rouen.
We flew into Paris on Thursday, in accordance with the expiry date of my visa. Our usual hotel hadn't been offering discount rates this time, and would've put us on the wrong side of town anyway, so we'd reluctantly booked a different one, and I have to admit I was a little disappointed when we checked in. The hotel was under renovation, and although the room was impeccably furnished - the usual selection of French channels and fuzzy CNN were presented on a flatscreen TV this time - the hallway was still pretty torn up. And I couldn't help but make comparisons: "our other hotel has bigger rooms", "our other hotel has a fan in the room", "our other hotel has a bigger window with a better view". (If you ever go to Paris in the summer, you'll know how important space and air truly are.) But it wasn't that bad. I lay down on the bed while Lui went out to get some bottles of water, then down to the lobby to iron our clothes for the evening (he wasn't allowed to bring the iron up to the room) with what he reported was a several-year-old, barely functional machine. By the time he got back, it was time to turn our sweaty, traveling selves into classy French tourist-locals.
Binga arrived just as I was trying to figure out how to secure the belt on my cheaply made but oh-so-classy red dress, and I was somewhat relieved to find that she, with all her fashion-consciousness, couldn't find a better way to manage it than I could. So I prepared for a night of tugging on the end of the belt, as it would repeatedly be coming loose every time I sat down or breathed, and we left.
I have to say, and this may be a little mean, that I am constantly amazed by the fact that Binga has never been mugged or attacked in the streets (of France). She speaks English so loudly, stands in the street looking around so cluelessly, and is so generally vulgar, I just find it surprising that she hasn't attracted attention as a prey-worthy tourist, even if she does actually live in France. Of course, it did happen once that she made herself a target, but unfortunately, I was with her that night, and it was my bag that was torn from my hand, while she looked on dumbfounded.
Still, it was good to see her again, as it's good to see all ex-roommates after the "I hate you for not cleaning the kitchen" period has passed. And last time I was in Paris, her boyfriend had suddenly broken up with her less than an hour before my arrival, so this trip found her in much better spirits than the last. The three of us walked to where we would be having dinner, at the Café des Deux Moulins (of Amélie fame). Unfortunately, the new owners of the place have taken out the Tabac counter, to make room for more tables, so the scene isn't exactly as it was in the film. (For instance, in the film, there isn't a giant, signed Amélie movie poster hanging on the wall.) But the bar is the same, and the toilets are the same - and so incredibly filthy that it makes the raucous sex scene even more enjoyable.
I wasn't planning on drinking - we were all so dehydrated, and Lui and I had a bottle of champagne to look forward to - but Binga ordered a peach kir, then Lui said to make it three (I don't even like peach kir), and so the two of them ended up splitting most of mine. For a simple brasserie, however, the food was fantastic. Lui had filet de boeuf (fillet steak), Binga had magret de canard (duck), and I had piccata de volaille (some sort of flattened chicken, that may not have really been chicken, as "volaille" just means general "fowl"). But what I was most impressed with was the little salad that came on my plate: layers of iceberg lettuce, tzatziki, and apple slices - something I never would've thought of myself, but will definitely be making now. God bless the French.
We had dessert (I got the requisite crème brûlée), paid and left in search of the epicerie (produce stand) from the same film, which was only a few short Parisien blocks up the road, but couldn't find it; it was late and most things were closed, and none of us could remember whether our waiter had said to turn right and it's on the left, or to turn left and it's on the right. So Lui and I said goodbye to Binga, then headed over to the Moulin Rouge.
We waited in line for what seemed like forever, and eventually found that there was no reservation list and that payment would be taken at the table during the show - they claim the thing sells out nearly every performance, so why let people walk in off the street and possibly take the seats that others have called ahead for? But we'd gotten there early enough to not only get in, but to get really good seats: close, but not too close, and right by the waiters' station. Some people would be annoyed by this, and a woman at our table blatantly was, but I thought it was fascinating to watch the staff carrying bucket after bucket of champagne, or to overhear them making fun of their tourist clientèle (it's good to understand French), so I really didn't mind that my view was occasionally impaired. It's not like there weren't enough boobies to go around.
Don't get me wrong, the show itself was really entertaining, and I did appreciate the multitude of boobies. What I didn't so much appreciate was the multitude of anorexic-chic bodies on the stage, and Lui even remarked that not many of the boobies were very sizable. At least I now know how far I want to go in my "must lose the belly" resolution: not that far. But the music was catchy, the costumes were fantastic, the talent was so far above and beyond anything I could ever dream of doing... It was a truly captivating show, which I know sounds cliché and sort of stupid, but can I really describe something like the Bal du Moulin Rouge in words? No, no I cannot. And cameras were strictly interdits. (We did go back to the boutique the next day and buy a 30€ book of photos; I just couldn't justify walking away from something as once-in-a-lifetime as the Moulin Rouge with nothing but memories that I can't even describe. Unfortunatly, the entractes - the acrobats who held each other up by their heads, the juggler, the weird guy who brought people up from the audience and made them do a scene - aren't in the book.)
The show ended just after one a.m., and we thought we'd get a taxi back to the hotel. But, as is the case with late nights and big cities, the illegal taxi drivers outside the theatre wanted 35€ for what would amount to a 15-minute walk in painful shoes. So we walked back to the hotel, had sex quickly (because, hello, Paris, cabaret show, you kind of have to), and fell asleep outside the covers, the window wide open to fight off the heat.
The next morning, as I said, we went back for the book, then had an hour to kill and so decided to check out the Musée de l'Erotisme (Museum of Erotic Art). It was interesting, to say the least: some of it laughable, some of it tasteful, some of it completely tasteless, and some of it kind of hot. As usual, I was drawn most to the black-and-white photography and simple drawings, which I guess is what you get for spending some time as an art model. On most floors (there were seven), comment books had been left open for visitors to sign, and most visitors had either drawn funny cartoon penises or gone on about how turned on they were. I can't honestly say that the museum really turned me on - I checked with Lui, he agreed - but it was a fun way to kill the afternoon, and I can now say that I have a thing for the work of a certain erotic artist (named Barbé), which is so much cooler than loving, say, the Impressionists.
I have to admit, I like Paris more every time I go. On my first visit, I was 15 and a non-French-speaking tourist, required to do all the required touristy things. When I next went back, six years later and speaking French, it just seemed too big, too full of people picking up on my accent and answering me in English. But it's gotten better since then: it's all about going places where the tourists don't go, or going places where the tourists do go and quickly and forcefully establishing yourself as not one of them. (I think my accent has improved as well, which probably helps.) It's about accepting Paris as Paris, and not trying to make it into somewhere quaint and French and able to be claimed as one's own. Anyway, I've already claimed another French city, and I'd hate to cheat on her with her promiscuous bigger sister.
After our tryst with the museum, we collected our bags from the hotel, walked to the nearby Gare de Saint-Lazare, and caught our train to Rouen.
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