FRENCH SHELTER

BABY SNOWGIRL!!!

2011-12-31T21:50:00.000+01:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

One Reason Why I Want To Eat Beloved's Head

2011-02-21T22:27:00.000+01:00

My French Man In The Shower.

He really doesn't know I'm there....til the end.

And he loves him some Aretha Franklin

(which, of course, he doesn't understand...except, clearly,
the phrase: "in the dark.")

ps: i'm 7 weeks pregnant again.

pps: i found a fantastic French Gyno. Finally.

What. WHAT!

2010-11-30T11:09:00.001+01:00

After Beloved drops in to give me his
before-work/after fire-building cuddle,
and holds his sleepy-eyed zombie in his
lovely arms, the zombie shuffles and scortles
around the bed, absorbing the in-outness
of her heart beat, while reviewing her passions.

The challenge is the new post...and what
to write about. (The Cat believes the challenge
to be teaching me that Miaow Means Miaow!)

Things I want to discuss with myself.

Nicki Minaj.
How music actually works on our bodies.
Dan Savage's ideas about monogamy and jealousy.
Reasons to have a baby.
Reasons to have a life-partner (who is a man).
Why swearing is beginning to bother me in print.
Why I love the tasteful and well-timed us of fucking swearing, and relate to the mouth on Debra in "Dexter" ("Fuck me in both ears!").
Fuck-head French Fertility Specialists
Nicki Minaj
Meditating with Beloved
Was I Chopin's lover in a past life?
Pornography
Will I ever finish "Art and Physics"
Looking at photos of my ex-husband on Facebook at a wedding
My New Nordic-land Friend
"Vowwww!"
Reasons not to have a baby
How my love for Beloved feels like hot spicy chocolate back-flipping through my veins
How I am going to be 42 in a week
How I am sequestering myself away from most of my friends for no reason
And finally: Nicki Minaj. I love me some Nicki Fucking Minaj.

Where is my cat.

On the Loo

2010-11-10T10:17:00.000+01:00

Is it so wrong of me to be sitting on the loo,
looking at my long over-looked bloggy wog?

I need to start up again.

Raise thine flags...!
The rubber is chauffing!!!!!

What?! Again With The Sperm??!!!

2010-06-26T11:16:00.000+02:00

O Yeah!
We can't get enough!
And neither can the sperm examination clinic!

On the fertility road, one comes upon the lovely
opportunity to deposit ones sperm in a little plastic container.

The honor became that of The Beloved just the other day.

Leading up to this I had somewhat horrifying images
of Porno Room in my head, and asked Beloved if he
would mind my going along to Help Out.

"Because you don't want me dealing with porn?"
"Because I don't want you dealing with porn."
"No problem."

I love The Beloved.
Much like his name might suggest.

Planning consisted of me tossing around super-sexed
images of myself performing all sorts of things
to make this the experience of Beloveds medical life.

Added to this was that Beloved was not allowed
to ejaculate for 4 days leading up to said event.

4 release free days for Beloved is an Awful Eternity.

Plus, it was during one of his vacation weeks,
a time where we indulge my favorite time
of day for sex: afternoon hot love time.

(let it be noted that The Cat is yelling at
me for no known reason while I write this.
Jealous!)

So.
Beloved was particularly generous in the
days leading up, and indulged in much
Tantric sex stuff...quite unusual for his
viewpoint on sex...and very, very intimate
space making.

So I wanted fireworks for his payoff.
I mean, how often do you get to bonk
in a doctor's office.

O Dear Reader.
How foolish we are when we think
we can control the Universe.

Beloved ended up getting his first case
of "blue balls," a term which turns
my stomach...and for which there is
no term in French.

The morning arrived.
I showered, dressed appropriately with my
favorite black boots. However, nothing
else beyond the professional. I didn't want
to be a sideshow.

I expected there to be a herd of couples
waiting to expel their accompanying millions
of sperm in the waiting room. This would be
a particularly dangerous situation for me were
we in the US, since I would not be able to resist
pouring on the vulgar jokes in idle chit chat
with the other couples....but in French, my humor,
and theirs, is limited. So Beloved was safe
from that sort of embarrassment.

I was also afraid that the nurses would not let
me into the Rocket Release Cabin with Beloved.
I intended not to ask, and to just stride my 5'10"
self past them, staring them down should I be stopped.

But of course, see above Universe comment.

Let it be said that I was more nervous for
Beloved's sperm deposit than for any other medical
procedure in my life. And it wasn't even MY procedure!

The waiting room was empty.
It seems that the French are quite discreet in this arena.
All couples are timed to be alone in the waiting room.

We filled out paper work and the nurses did not
at all seem surprised to see me with Beloved.

Then a nurse took us into the Rocket Room.
She seemed to take it for granted that I was coming along.

A clean room with a little bed, a tv on the wall,
a side table with drawer, and, my absolute
favorite, a bed side lamp for ambiance.

I was ready for the home made porno moves!
I was going to Blow Beloved's Mind!!

The nurse then pointed to the adjoining
bathroom, and told us to follow the cleaning
instructions there.

I can tell you that Hydrochloric Acid
is a real hot sex mood killer.

Poor Beloved.
Clean Penis with Water.
Then Clean Penis with Hydrochloric Acid.
Then Reclean with Sterile Water.

Beloved, complete with aching testicles,
looked positively forlorn.

While he cleaned up I peeked in the
drawer of the bedside cabinet to see
two sad looking skin magazines.

I then wondered which nurse picked out
the porno that was brimming in the VCR,
and wondered about then men who have
unusual taste...and how they would satisfy
the liquid quota in the face of what had
to be traditional and very unwild moving
images awaiting them.

Beloved plodded into the bedroom.
I washed my hands, since that was all
I could really, ahem, use.

I removed certain pieces of clothing...
and we then proceeded to have the very
least exciting sexual experience of our lives.

Poor Beloved.
Dear Beloved.

7 ml of sperm.
That's what they got of him.

Plus the pleasure of being Right Outside The Door
when we opened it to leave.
3 of them. Complete with smiles.

We passed by the next couple, I noted that the
youngish woman of the couple was dressed in a mini-skirt,
black sheer stockings, and very, very, very high heels
and wanted to rush to them and warn them:
It is never what you think!
Buddhist Detachment!
That is what is needed in this experience,
that is the only thing that will leave you feeling
anything other than flat.

We had a coffee.
We did some shopping.
We went home.

And we celebrated the afternoon.
And then we celebrated again.
And, yes, then again.

Beloved is so cute and sexy

that I could just eat his little nose.

No Funny Shit Here. I think.

2010-06-09T10:00:00.001+02:00

It is doubtful that I will publish this post,
as I am deeply uncomfortable about writing
even to myself when my life feels like it
is shutting down.

There is something of a strangulation
pattern going on in my relationship.

As you may know I had my third miscarriage
3 months ago. A miscarriage at 12 weeks
that stupidly took us by surprise.

Before the miscarriage, we were a couple
who went through tough periods and who
worked hard and felt stronger and stronger
all the time. The tough periods were well
interspersed with periods of joy and bliss
with a hat on. It all seemed very well
wrapped up in circumstances that most
couples would have a problem circumnavigating.

Since the miscarriage, we have been...
how should I say it?

O yes.
Fucked.

I am not someone who shies away from
head to head suffering. I believe that I take
responsibility for my actions, examine my
thought and behavior patterns, and try to
change where I believe I should...and even
in places I believe I shouldn't just to try it out.

But I am very tired.

If relationship bullshit is tiring to you...
and boring.... and visual jokes amuse you...
check this out and be done with
me for today.

I love me a dinosaur.

Therapy with Jane has been good.
Over here they only do couples therapy twice
a month. Which seems odd to me. But we seem
to leave her feeling positive and having learned.

In therapy Beloved has taken a lot of "clacks,"
as they say here. He has a lot of work to do.
This is expected seeing that he is 9 years my junior,
living with a person for the first time, and, of course,
A Man.

He has been brave, owning up to his shit.
It is, it seems, easier for him to hear about it from
a wise old woman who makes a little bit of fun of him
than from me.

I have also been "guided." Which is fine
with me...that is why I am friggin' there.

We leave.
We hug.
We eat a pastry that we buy at the neighboring bakery.

We actually had 1. great. week. up until yesterday.
I felt my heart opening up to him and I felt in love
with him again.

But the miscarriage lives on under the surface.
It is not to be denied.

The first miscarriage, I cried and I cried.
The second, I cried and I cried.
The third...not so much of the crying.
Like, hardly any.

Wow, I thought. I'm doing pretty good.
I congratulated myself to Beloved.
He agreed.
We then proceeded to where we are now...
along an emotionally violent path...

"I think we should talk about the miscarriage"
I said, after one of our battles.

"What is there to talk about? You are
sad, I am sad, I can't do anything to fix
it, I feel helpless, I'm sure you feel helpless."
said Beloved.

"No. I don't feel helpless"
said I,

"I feel like I deserve it. I feel like I will
never have a simple life when it comes to
my sexuality and reproductive system.
I feel this is because I am essentially a bad person.
That has to be the reason for all the sexual and emotional
abuse. And, I destroyed my ex-husband. There's that.
O. And three abortions along the way while I was
playing out all the fucked-upness about my childhood.

Yes. I am a bad person.".....said I.

Yesterday I had my second period since the miscarriage.
My period gets heavier with age (mine) and I feel
low, fat, ugly, and bloody.
Which is nice.

But Beloved was being lovely to me, joking
with me, making dinner, cuddling me.

Then a friend and her two boys dropped by.

The friend likes to argue with me...and I'm cool with that.
Beloved doesn't really like it when I argue with others.
But I had my period, and it was friendly arguing, so
I rolled with it.

Then her 8 year old asked me if
my baby died in my stomach.

So there was that.
On the table.

but, you know...
I handled that shit...

answered his questions,
and those of his brother,
about just about everything,
including how eggs age
and how they will be able
to make babies until their
dead.

The evening continued on.

Then they left.

Beloved reproached me for arguing.
I defended myself.
We sat down to eat.

I talked about how our friend,
who I really like, has a tendency to
push the conversation into very intimate
areas where, perhaps, her nose does
not belong (especially since we have
not known each other so long...).

**note: I am someone to whom the world
pours out their problems. When I meet
strangers it is almost gauranteed that I
will know throatloads of their personal
life within 3 hours. That is to say, I do
not shy away from deep and challanging
personal conversations. But I am sensitive
about it, and about when it is appropriate.

I postulated that perhaps this tendency
teaches her kids that they, too, can
say anything that pops into their heads
regardless of how personal.

Beloved pointed out that kids just
say shit. Which, of course, I know.

But:
1) I don't know many kids who ask
people if their babies died in their stomach.

2) I do think that if one talks with ones
kids about a sensitive subject, such as the
miscarriage of a family friend, it would be
helpful to mention to the kids that perhaps
this is a subject to bring up carefully.

3) Hello! Do I not get at least a mini
"what what" for my smooth and careful
handling of the enormous pile of shit
that they dumped in front of me?

I said this to Beloved (except for #3)
and he said that people said all kinds
of stupid shit to him when I miscarried
("It's fine! She had a miscarriage already!")

and I pointed out that perhaps those
people need to be educated, if not with
a finely tuned baseball bat...at least
a verbal correction.

(like when my friend actually said to
me "don't worry, he can have a baby
with someone else". Yes. Really.
She said that. And she is 63! And
not at all an idiot!)

somehow things escalated very, very
quickly and all of a sudden I started
crying...

...and Beloved imitated my crying.

I can't even believe I wrote that down.

My Beloved.
Who apparently loves me.
Imitated me crying.

I left the house.
I sat by the river and cried
and read Charlotte Bronte
(who, by the way, was a huge revolutionary
as far as women's rights)
I returned in an hour.

I took a shower.
Beloved apologized.
I told him I wanted to be alone.

How can one accept an apology
for that sort of cruelty.

We did not sleep together
in our newly finished bedroom.

He slept on the couch.
I put myself in our old attic bedroom.

I cried on and off through the night.

So there we have it.
What does one do when faced
with such cruelty.

All I feel is that he must not love me.

Aren't you glad you dropped by to read that?

Happy and In Love Dreams

2010-05-20T09:34:00.000+02:00

When I am feeling depressed and disconnected
I dream that I am Happy and In Love with
men other than my Beloved.

In the last week I had three
of these dreams in a row.

Dream Number One:
I am Happy and In Love With
my boyfriend from my mid-twenties.
I loved this boy. He was a big,
masculine and totally cuddly Serb.

We were great.

Then he let another Serb girl
give him a blowjob on a washing machine
in his apartment building laundry room.

That led to my first good sonnet.
And a breakup.

God only knows how because I don't
remember--We finally got back together.

Then I got pregnant.
And he was already going to Brazil
for 3 weeks...so a friend took me
to get the abortion.

I was in his bathroom peeing when
he got back and his "cosmetics travel bag"
was open on the floor....and inside it...
a lot of condoms.

He had gone to Brazil
leaving his pregnant girlfriend
with a armful of condoms in his bag.

Sounds like a very bad country song.

I did not like being a backwoods
stereotype..so I moved to LA.

He has never recovered.
It sounds conceited but it is true.

His next girlfriend looked Exactly like me.
Which is a little difficult to do.

He went from being an occasional
pot smoker to an I-don't-know-whater
and the next time I saw him
he was weeping over me
and weighed almost nothing
and was practically homeless.
He might even be dead now.

However.
In the dream he was healthy
and we were Happy and In Love
and he was swinging an
enormous penis in the breeze.

The next dream was about
James Franco.
Who I know.
But have never been with.

But that.
Is another story.

Sniff. Sherwin.

2010-05-11T09:47:00.001+02:00

I was dampened and saddened
to find out, 8 minutes ago, that
Sherwin Sleeves, the man who speaks
the great podcast "Atoms, Motion, and
The Void" (as recommended by the
sensual La Belette Rouge),

this Sherwin Sleeves is not
a real person...but a character
invented by Mr. Sean Hurley.

I believed he was real because
I believe in experiences like his.

I, too, was pretty convinced I was
an alien when a child. And I still
am not altogether unconvinced.

This was helped along by
two. separate. psychics. who
told me in two. separate. cities
in two. separate. years. that:

I am, in fact, 20% alien.

And believe me, I go into
these things trying to look
as normal as poss. with no
mention of anything like aliens.

So.

When Sherwin Sleeves talked
about his similar feelings I felt,
well, at home. And when he
talks about acting, isolation,
and fissures in reality, I felt
I was there besides the fire.

When he talked about straight
out magical experiences, I thought:
he is writing some fiction or
embellished non-fiction...but he
is still: Sherwin Sleeves.

Now. He is no more. And
I am even more downcast than
I was before I found this out.

The downcast that led me to write
a stupid post yesterday...is in the
downer side of cast-i-ness.

This may have ruined the podcast
for me. I want Sherwin and his
experiences to exist.

there is a solitude that opens
like a sheer box for me every day...
some days more than others...
even The Cat willows in at me from
behind those glassy walls...

it can be bleak being a little
20% alien girl.

but no doubt.
tomorrow.
it will be better.

Now I have to go and buy paint.

The Book of If

2010-05-10T09:54:00.000+02:00

The Book of If is a 389 page book
of questions. Questions about anything
you can dream up. It is perfect for many things:

Playfully fucking with your friends.
Pushing your students to think a little. bit.
Pushing yourself to squint at your darkness.

I love my darkness.
I cuddle up to my darkness.

So here are three questions for you all:
(although not very dark at all)

If you had to physically strike one person
from your past, who would you hit, and where?

If you had to give up one physical sense,
which would it be?

If you could temporarily freeze the world,
and everyone in it (except yourself), what
sexual things would you do, and to whom?

I am too tired from doing hours of joint mudding
in the bedroom to write anything else.

and too sad about my lack of followers...

and, Bernard Werber is seriously lacking
in response to my proposal....sigh

whine whine whine

How Me and The Universe are Boyz

2010-05-07T10:13:00.001+02:00

You're about to leave for work.

Suddenly, your butt itches, sparking
off a memory of a high school dance
and how people laughed at your awesome
sparkly purple heels which, in turn, makes
you decide to change your shoes.

You arrive at the corner coffee shop
6 minutes later than usual.

All the regulars are there, but there
is a new person in line. She is entrancing.

You see her and you Know her.
She is one of your Soulmates.

She just happened to drop in this
coffee shop because her car has
broken down on her way to work.

You do like a match
and strike up a conversation.
You fall in love with each other.

"For want of a horse...."
Thanks to the itch of the buttocks...

That.
Is basically my idea of how me
and The Universe are Hot Buds.

Shit like this has happened to me,
and to you, all our lives. Of course.

If I had not, for example, haphazardly
slept with a distant acquaintance
for no reason known to myself,
I would not have walked into
his living room the next morning
to find one of my Soulmates
sitting on his couch...and I would
not have moved to Chicago...and
I would not have had the soul-freezing
heartache that pushed me into
being a writer...and I would not
have ended up in France...and I would
not have met my Beloved...and...and...and...

Just imagine: My Life Without My Cat!!!!!
And all because of an uncalled for Booty Call!!!

So it was no surprise to me
when I discovered that Bernard Werber's book:
The Encyclopedia of Relative and Absolute Knowledge

has not been translated into English.

Ok. I lie.

I was surprised.

Beloved and I ate dinner at The Neighbor's

(who was testing out his new restaurant recipes

on us again) and the book was right on his kitchen

table. The Neighbor is not a great reader, so

this is not a usual happening.

The book is a whimsical, insightful and fascinating

exploration of a number of topics ranging from

"What do dolphins dream about" to "How to tell

if an egg is hard-boiled or raw."

It led to a multi-facted conversation which

ended with a discussion of what it means that

The Neighbor and I don't like it when people

see us poop...but Beloved, who is much more

uptight than the two of us, is just fine with it.

(Pooping: most vulnerable of everyday human

moments: us at our most animal and uncontrolled:

etc, etc, etc---GOOD TIMES!!!)

I woke up this morning and searched the internet

for the English translation. I mean, Werber wrote

"The Ants" which is a pretty famous book. And

while the Encylopedia is well read in Russia,

the English population has yet to get its paws

upon it.

So I am writing to Werber to tell him that

it is a I who am destined to write

the translation of his book.

Here is the first excerpt:

-------------------------------------------------------------

Birthday Cakes

The blowing out of candles on the occasion

of each birthday is one of the most revealing

rituals of human kind.

It is through this ritual that man recalls

that he can create fire, and then extinguish

it with his breath.

This control of fire is one of the rites of passages

that bestows upon a baby the state of responsibility.

That the very elderly no longer possess the breath

necessary to snuff out the candles, however,

illustrates their social exclusion from the

physically active human world.

---------------------------------------------------

This is how it works.
You keep your eyes open.
You jump on that shit.

The End.

I hope you all have many moments of "enjoyment" today.

Awesome Translation Moment

2010-05-05T11:21:00.000+02:00

Jouir: To Enjoy.

This word is used in the same
manner that "to come" is used
in a sexual experience.

Which is to say:

When I am having an orgasm
with My Beloved...he whispers
"Enjoy! Enjoy! Enjoy!"

Fucking.
Awesome.

I wish you all much Enjoyment Enjoyment Enjoyment today!

My Profound Fear Of Poop.

2010-05-03T11:09:00.000+02:00

Pre PS: First of all, what do we think of the fact
that my best friend only has sex with her husband
about once a month. They have a really good
emotional and intellectual relationship and they
both really like sex. And they are not generally
over tired. What does this mean?
I wanna know!!!!!!!

Now.

Poop.

I fell in a sewer when I was 8.
A German Sewer, to make matters worse.

I was exploring the local haunted house,
kicked back a VW Bug trunk lid that was
lying on the ground, and slipped into the
hole it was covering...only to find myself
chest high in shit.

Reader, the only thing that saved me from
drowning in this deep hole of shit
was that I flung out my arms and stopped
myself from completely falling in.

Imagine.
I could have drowned in shit.
And NOBODY would have known where
I was. Floating down a long shit hole.

What the fuck was I doing wandering the
streets at 8 years old anyway????
O Mom...

So I pushed myself up.
Dragged my ass home.
And was put in the bathtub by the
red-headed after school tutor.

Since Then?
Me and Poop?
I am only really able to deal with my own.
(And I do love to take me a poop.)

My first serious boyfriend, who I loved
dearly and am still friends with, is quite
brilliant and can not stop talking.

Even to the point where, horrors of
horrors, he would insist on calling me into
the loo while he was pooping. And what
he was saying was usually so interesting
that I would actually succumb to at least
sitting just outside the open door, managing
my vomit reflex, while listening to him
go on and on about Brecht or Bartok
or Big Giant Black Holes.

Big Giant Black Holes OF POOP!!!!!

Even animals feel my fear of poop.

I was left alone with a baby once.
Once.

This baby was my godchild.
She, like so many other babies, had the
delightful sense of humor that triggered
the Poop Reaction as soon as her mother
left me alone with her.

I HAD TO FACE HER POOP!!!!

"Ok Baby," I said, "It's you and I and
your poop...alone together...we can get
through this. I promise, PROMISE, not
to vomit on you."

As I was changing the diaper,
retching all the way through,
the family cat wound herself around
my feet and encircled and laid down
on them...purring furiously.
"You will get THROUGH this forest of
poop!" she seemed to be purring.

The latest occasion of loveliness was the other
day when Beloved and I were buying building
supplies at the French version of Home Depot
"Mr. Bricolage" (Mr. Putter Around The House).

"O! Beloved! I need to pee" said I.

Into the bathroom I trot...only to find:

THE FLOORS AND WALL COVERED
WITH SPLATTERS OF LIQUID SHIT!!!!!

I could not move.
And then I vomited.

Ok. I exaggerate.
I didn't vomit.

BUT, READER!!!! I DO NOT EXAGGERATE
ABOUT SHIT EVERYWHERE!!!! ON THE WALLS!!!!

Some poor body iller than ill can be
rushed into the bathroom, pulled down their pants,
and (and imagine how fast this must have been)
bent at the waist and wasted the walls with
a horizontal geyser of poop.

That Poor. Dear. Darling of a Person!!!

I was once in such a position.

I had just arrived in LA.
I was feeling confident and happy
and even something thing like attractive.
Everyone was incredibly nice to me
those first couple of weeks.

While looking for an apartment I met
a man with whom I ended up talking and
he then invited me out to dinner with
himself and his boyfriend.

Free Grub!!!

So I dress myself up in a short, tight dress
and heels (very, very rare for me whose
favorite new piece of clothing is still
my Batman Hoodie) and gamboled out
to meet the boys on Melrose Blvd at
a great. thai. restaurant.

Who knew about the horrors of Thai. Iced. Tea.

Clearly not Me.
I drank TWO!

After the dinner we decided to wander
around Melrose Blvd which, at that time, was
a street full of fashion boutiques, tattoo parlours,
indie record stores, and restaurants.

All of a sudden, mid-wander, I am hit,
I mean HIT, with the need to shit.

I am in the middle of the street.
In heels and a tight, short dress.
With two men whom I do not know.

And I feel like a flame is trying to shoot
out of my butt.

I follow the guys into a tattoo parlour
and casually and discretly ask the desk
dude if I can use his toilet.

"HA HA HA HA HA" he basically says...

With ass clenched, we "wander" into
another store...same. fucking. thing.

AND THEN ANOTHER!!!!!!!

At this point, my most sensitive and
dear Reader, the shit in my bowels
is starting to release poison into my system.

I am sweating.
I am sure I am going to faint.

"You look pale!" says one of the lovely fellows.
"Are you ok?"

I have to fess up. "I think I need to pee"
I practically weep.

We are on a mission.
And there is no end in sight.

I am going to die.
Finally.
An Irish pub.

I run in...in a most tight assed way.
I run up to the barman.

"If I cannot use your toilet
I will die in a pool of shit right
here in front of all of your very hip customers"
I say.

Let me tell you.
If I had not arrived when I did.
And not had that extra second to angle
my butt down.
There would have been poop
all over those Irish pub toilet walls.

Later.
While reflecting on the beauty
of indoor plumbing.
I conjured up what I knew would
be an Oscar Winning Performance.

Imagine:
a beautiful restaurant.
dim lighting, soft and tasteful music.
Seated at a table is a couple.
He is in a fine suit.
She is dressed in a long slinky silver robe.

They are very much in love.
Or at least, she believes they are.
Suddenly she understands that he is
telling her that he no longer loves
her, that he never loved her, that he
could never love her, that he is leaving her.

She gets up unsteadily from the table.
She is in total and complete shock.
Her world, as they say, is crumbling around her.

She turns to walk out of the restaurant.

As she totters away we see a stain
start to appear on her dress.

And then a stream
of liquid shit
rushes down her legs
seeping through the silver fabric.

She stumbles from the restaurant.

The actress???????????

MICHELLE PFEIFFER!!!!!!!!!!!!

OSCAR OSCAR OSCAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It would even beat Kate (The Great) Winslet's
amazing pee scene in "Holy Smoke"!!

How many of you felt that way when
you heart had just been unexpectedly
and brutally crushed!!

Where is the director with
enough guts to do this scene!!!!

I know The Pfeiffer would be up for it!!!!

Just like I know so many of you are up
for the Tasty Sperm challange
(hah! you were wondering when that was
going to come up again).

but i digress.

in summary.
poop.
not a thing I want to play with.
but a thing.
that i do like to do.

And.
When any beautiful and elegant
actress shits herself in a movie...
I will be calling for my residuals!

My Ass Is Feeling Much Less Abrased!!!

2010-05-02T02:13:00.002+02:00

Pre PS: I'm a little tipsy. The Neighbor
had the Opening Night of his Cafe.

So.
That was a little bit more like it.
The Other Therapist.

She was 75 and dressed in jeans.

You've gotta be hot for a shrink like that.

AND!!!
She practises EMDR!!!!
(Which, I think I no longer need--
but you never, ever know!).

She quickly broke that shit down
and was all over the cultural differences,
having lived 20 years in France after
living the rest of her LONG LIFE
in the UK and the US (Two Very
Different Cultures Which Share
a Somewhat Similar Language, Yo!).

I was worried that My Beloved
would feel a little overwhelmed
seeing that she was all about the
equality of the sexes. He is, after
all, a French Man...and he is in the
process of discarding some long
believed indoctrinated beliefs

Like. Really. :

It is not acceptable that I put down the
bathroom tiles...even though I am better
at it...and he is better at cutting them.

But he liked her.
HE LIKED HER!!!

And we didn't have a breakdown,
neither singularly nor together.

AND
we didn't want to commit joint suicide
by way of drowning when we left!!!!

AND
in her office block there is a bakery.
SO
PAIN AU CHOCOLATS FOR EVERYONE
AFTER THE SESSION!!!!!

We learned One Very Interesting Thing:

In the relationship (both hetero and non-hetro)
each partner tends to pick someone
who is like their same-sex parent.

ie: I am fucking my mother.

WHO KNEW!!!!!

I always thought it was the opposite.
But, in fact, upon deeeeeeeep reflection,
it appears to be true.

Beloved is sleeping with a version of
his Pops, and I...with my Hot Mom.
(and she is. Hot.)

TERRIFYING!!!!

But also

FASCINATING!!!!
NO???????

Try this out at home, kids!!!
Does your Beloved share similar
traits to your Mom (if female)
or Dad (if male).

It's a hot idea here in the
South of France, and we spent
Saturday further mudding the blossoming bedroom
while pausing to recount the many similarites
that each other had to the appropriate parental
figure.

I can tell you...his dad is something
of an asshole. BUT. an asshole for whom
I have grown to have a lot of affection.

But the fact remains: an asshole.

I share the traits of an asshole.

At times.
The truth can be a real ass-reamer.

I do, of course, according to My Beloved,
have many positive traits that the Pops
has not. I am not like his father.
NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!

But.
I am stubborn.
I am directive.
and a few other things that The Pops is too.

Whilst.
My Beloved has MANY of my mother's
good qualities.
BUT.
Like her, he betrayed my trust when
I was the most trusting....

as well as a few other things,
such as it irritates him when I am
tired in the morning...oh...and the
fact that I always ask "Why?".
(Why doesn't everyone ask "Why!?")

It also helped that I did not wish
to deck this therapist...who did not leave
me completely hanging like the other
therapist when I was weeping my silly
ass away.

CONCLUSION:
We are going with Lady Bilingual.

I hope you are all having a joy-saturated night!!!

Because I Can't Get Enough For My Ass

2010-04-30T09:29:00.000+02:00

O the joys of shrinkhood...

since it was such a glorious experience,
one that I have been torturing myself over ever since,
we are going to verify that this One is The One
we want by experiencing the brain fingers
of another therapist.

And.
She is bi-lingual!!!!!
Origin: England!!!!
Even lived in the US!!!
So she gets the cross-cultural thing tri-ways!!!!!

Of course: she is an hour away.
And: she is not reimbursed by the system.

So who the fuck knows.

But we are going shopping.
I hope she put on her best dress.

IN the meantime:
here is a comic that I follow.
A superpooper comic.
The premise is that the visual
strip never changes...only the dialogue.
I have posted two to thusly demonstrate for thee.

And you all know my fondness for
Les Dinosaurs.
Click on the comic to check in.

In other news:
the sadness increases over the lack of
want in you peeps for Sweet Sperm.

Sigh.

Now I shall go and sand a joint.

Couples Therapy Is WAY DIFFERENT Than Individual Therapy

2010-04-28T10:07:00.002+02:00

Well that was painful.

And I feel like fuck**ing crap.

Beloved and I were doing well.
As we are usually doing well.

We went to therapy to try and learn how to
communicate constructively when we fight.

Because when we fight, while no one
hits or cusses, shit gets hot fast
and nothing
really gets accomplished.

And I'm all for efficiency.

There was one point in the session
when I wanted to smack the therapist.
At that moment, an action such as
that seemed pretty efficient to me.

Probably the only thing that helped
me out of that feeling was the bizarre
fact that if you put a camera vertically in front
of her face, she looked exactly like the
profile picture of "La Belette Rouge."
who is also a therapist (O Belette,
you teleported to the south of France!)

But she was good.
Although her French became very
complicated at just the moment
when I was breaking down.

So.
We learned two things
in our first session.
Which, if you've ever been in therapy,
you'll know is pretty friggin miraculous.

Thing Number One:
I cannot tell Beloved what he thinks.
This is a huge self preserving habit
that I picked up while being raised
by a manic-depressive who would
literally stop talking to me for Months
for the slightest reason-like my arriving
home at 7:30pm instead of 7:00pm.

I became trained in The Watching of
people to try and see what
they were really thinking so that I
could manage any incoming artillery.

This can serve me very well. And
a whole lot of the time I am right.

Beloved has lied to me in the past
and traversed boundaries that
I specifically asked him not:
like looking at naked pictures
of my sister that are all over
the internet.

And while he has apologized and
committed to being honest with
me. And while I pretty much
believe him, this has amped up
The Watching.

"You can't tell people what they
are thinking" she said, staring at
me. My Beloved stared at me.
Their eyes were bloody walls boxing me in.

All of a sudden it occurred to me
that this therapy could take the dreadful
turn of being all about me and my fucked
up past and family...and that he was going
to look like the innocent angel.

So I told her about some of the reasons
why I didn't fully trust Beloved.

That was pretty.

And it felt awful to be in something
like "opposition" to him. I wanted it
to be about our working together.
I love Beloved, and I have witnessed
our growth and progression and honor
his bravery and determination.

But I felt like he was hanging me out
to dry. And so I laid some shit out.

However. I got the point.

Thing Number Two learned:
Beloved sees now that when we fight
he views me as the enemy and goes to
extremes to says things to win...things
that he doesn't mean or agree with...
and that just pisses me off more.
Especially since I am one of those
people who does not say things
that she doesn't mean in a fight.

This complicates the fight and he ends
up having to apologize for things he
didn't even want to say.

This Thing came close on the heels
of my revelations.

However, it took a fucking lot longer
time for me to understand what she had
said...

SINCE SHE WAS SAYING IT IN FRENCH
and I am not Fluent in French.

We are in the bizarre position of his
having to explain (in French) what she has
said some of the time.

This is particularly frustrating because
I am not too bad in English and am accustomed
to debate/discussion on a high level in that
language. I grasp ideas quickly and love
to go much farther with them.
So I'm sitting there trying to understand
what I KNOW is a simple concept,
and I feel like an idiot.

Also, Thing Number Two does not help
Thing Number One as it just makes me
doubt his words, and leaves me trying
to figure out what he really thinks.

Beloved got the point.

I am now going to practise asking
Beloved questions, instead of telling him
what he thinks. He is going to practise
telling me what he REALLY thinks
and I am going to practise believing him.

We were in a great mood going in.
We were like two dead rats dragging ourselves out.

"That was fun" said I.
"Fucking fun" said he.

We went to the store to buy him
tennis shoes. We talked some more
and then ate dinner with The Neighbor
who was delighted to hear that we had
fought in our first therapy session:
"C'est magnifique!"

We then sat around doing "If" questions:

If you had to be sodomized by a donkey
or a cat, which would you choose
(remember, a cat's penis has barbs).

If you had to choose which one of your friends
had to die in order to save the rest,
who would you choose.

The Neighbor and I have a very similar
sense of humor: morbid and fucked up.
This can rankle My Beloved, who, upon
arriving home, began to question why I think
horrible shit can be hilarious. I tried to
break it down and explain it as a
way of transforming into humor what is so
clear in this world: people (while wanting
to love and be loved) have an uncanny nack
for hurting and destroying.

I then expanded the conversation to include
sexist jokes, which I can't abide because
I feel the very real menace behind them.

Why do so many men think sexist jokes are funny?
In my opinion, it is because men are trying to
manage their innate and profound fear of women.

On that note, we went to bed.

Will She Put Her Fingers Into My Brain???

2010-04-27T09:50:00.000+02:00

So.
My Beloved and I are going to see a couples
therapist today. Pronounced in France:
A P-see.

Beloved suffered from depression when he
was a blossoming lad of around 18...and saw
a P-see once a week and took a few meds.

I started seeing a therapist twice a week at 19
when suicide became a truly attractive option.

I loved that therapist.
Pamela was an elegant, long dress wearing,
slender, tall, elf-like angel.

Who was a loving hard-ass with me.
And refused to answer a single one of my questions.
And helped me to save my own life.

Since I graduated college, and Pamela, I
waded through the enormous ocean of completely
crap therapists to find two other therapists of note.

Both were extremely helpful, and one introduced
me to EMDR which was a truly extraordinary
experience that I recommend to every single body.

I was living in LA at the time, very near the
celebrity Scientology center. It became immediately
clear to me that the "clearing" process that the
Scientologists do is actually a form of EMDR!
And they pay thousands of buckets for this!!!

(Note: L. Ron Hubbard was the grandfather of
a friend of mine. He told me that, in fact,
Scientology is the result of a bet that L.Ron
placed with another science fiction writer.
They bet on who would be able to create a
religion. They bet 1 Dollar.
That. Rocks my Sockets.)

So back I go to therapy.
I am feeling quite calm about the whole thing.
Despite that it will be in French.

My Beloved is also doing ok.
Despite his fear that I will discover
that I don't love him and trot out la porte.

Why are you here? She may ask.

Because we are both stubborn as hardened sperm
and we need to learn how to fight constructively.

Also there is that huge culture difference
that brings all kinds of gender roles into
the shining light of societal day.

(He has a hard time doing the house cleaning
while I am doing the construction work).

I have never done couples therapy.
The one thing I am dreading is when she asks
me to tell her about my life. This has always
been the weirdest part of therapy.

I always feel like I am opening an enormous
bag of shit and emptying it over the table.

In the past, I have got done with this question
to see my new therapist trying to hold back
feelings of sorrow, pity, and amazement.

Also, there is always a little tint of the carnivore
as though I am a juicy morsel into which they are
just dying to insert their little fangs.

Luckily I can be quite funny.
These helps me to help them feel a little better.
Even my suicide jokes are funny.

I don't think this kind of humor will
pass with a French therapist.

The French tend to enjoy very physical
jokes, including bodily functions....a physical
suicide joke? Could end up in death.

Which could be funny.

I guess.

Meanwhile the cat is outside licking the
torso of a rabbit after having mashed down
the head and throat and chest and front paws.

Next thing you know she'll be wanting a kiss.

How To Hook Him Up

2010-04-26T09:41:00.001+02:00

For a reprieve from building the bedroom this weekend
we went to a valley in Averyon
to fish.

To fish with the above man who is the best friend of
My Beloved and who is one of the loveliest people
I have ever met.

There are no women where he lives.
I am devastated when I think of all the fuckheads
in the world who are running rampant over a boat
load of wonderful women and this. lovely. and. hot. man.
cannot get a lady.

Any suggestions?

And.
I am almost giving up on my Sweet Sperm challenge.
Sigh.

I am now pushing solo
to finish doing the joint work on the bedroom.
Which means hours of NPR listening.
O Terri Gross.
O Wait Wait Don't Tell Me.
O Slate's Political Gabfest.
How you help me to stop thinking
about my fucked up childhood...
which is what I cannot stop thinking
about once you put a mindless job
in my hands.

I have so much to say
about porn and peyote.
But it will have to wait
until I get these joints done.

Now I shall go and poop.

The Seeing

2010-04-24T01:11:00.001+02:00

It is true what so many have said before me.

There are moments that mark us.
Moments when we are truly Seen for who we are.

I was 22 and on my way to the marriage
of the person who sexually abused me
through a period of my young life.

He is a family member.
At the time, no one in my family knew about this.

The family was to meet in a large town
in a small European country where the
marriage was to be held.

I was alone on the connecting flight.
Next to me sat a tall white man of about 50.

A conversation started between us.
As my mother had trained me, I posed
many questions and he recounted his life
to me as the ocean slid by below our
little plane.

He was a television producer.
I do not recall his name.

He was interesting and intelligent
enough to keep me in the conversation
for the flight.

And I seemed to please him.
But this was not unusual as I have found
many people are entirely pleased by
people who show genuine interest in them.

At the end of the flight he gave me
his phone number and insisted that I let him
take me out to dinner.

At this point in my life I was a savage thing.
Just recently embarking on a therapeutic
voyage, I was scraping the dirt off the
tombstone of an idea of a family life.

I was restructuring and rebuilding
my being. I was, as so many do, seeing
who I was and simmering with
the pain of it.

And I had no fear.
I had held the fear by the throat
and was slowly choking it into
a gentle submission.

I called him that night.
He arranged to pick me up
the following night.

He pulled up to the house
in his silver jaguar...sending my mother
into spasms...perhaps she hoped I
would marry rich? I don't know.
That is her business.

Into the car my savage self slid.
I was ready for a night full of my
questions. I knew I would leave
him without his knowing a thing
about me.

And I would get a good meal.

And avoid being with my family.

We drove through the city
to his old stone mansion where we sat
in his garden over looking his
tennis court.

His grass tennis court.

And we drank champagne.
Which I didn't like (another story).
But drank anyway.

And I listened to him tell me
about his life.

We then drove to a fine restaurant.
He ordered for me.
And he was right in his ordering.
We were overlooking the ocean.
I was eating a wonderful risotto.
I felt bizarrely beautiful.

Or at least, that I was in
a beautiful moment.

Toward the end of the meal, he turned on me. Suddenly
he was asking all the questions.
Suddenly I was in a position in
which I had never been.

He seemed sincerely interested
in me.

I don't remember it all.
Just that I was suddenly confronted
with the need for genuine
responses.

It was as if someone was reaching
into my bones...and holding them
with a firm and gentle hand.
All the while looking
right through me.

And just as suddenly.
We were in his car.

He reached into his glove
compartment and slid
a cassette into the cassette player.

The then unknown to me voice
of Nina Simone
laid its tone out upon the light
and friendly air that filled
the car.

He said:
I think this is your song.

And Nina sang:

She takes just like a woman, yes she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.

And I did.
I broke.
There in the car.
Before I man I did not know.
Nor would ever see again.

And he held my hand
while I wept.

And I knew I had been seen.

The Man-Boy

2010-04-15T10:39:00.002+02:00

When I left the Man-Boy in the Toulouse

airport never to see him again, it was as if

billions of tiny hands were ripping apart

not only my heartbeat, but each and every

organ of my body, including the skin

envelope that was stopping it

from splitting apart.

I could not stop weeping.

Triggering type of weeping.

The weeping where your face becomes

a volcanic eruption and you shake

and the cavern of deep suffering

that you manage to keep sealed

is pierced and then flies apart

letting all of the sorrow seethe

through your single true being.

The Man-Boy was shoeless and he was

holding his dog by a piece of old rope.

And he, too, could not stop weeping.

They had to hold the plane for me,

I just could not leave.

In some manner I made it to my seat

with all of the passengers eyeing

me in embarrassed or annoyed ways.

And as the city of Toulouse became

a maze of color and then disappeared

behind the clouds, my heart

pattered, pattered, and then just

seemed to sigh and go cold.

At the end of the trip was my husband,

waiting to take me to my mother's

house where the preparations for

my step-father's memorial were

moving slowly forward.

The minute I saw my husband I knew

I could not stay with him. I knew

that, for both of us, I had to leave.

2 months later I was back in France.

***

I was at one of the village fetes

when I first saw the Man-Boy.

He was off to the side of the dance floor,

watching and most definitely apart from

the rest. His hair was black and thick

and dry and looked as if it had been

in a wind tunnel. He was my height,

(tall) and beautiful, but not in a way

that most people would find beautiful.

I was dancing, and then I wasn't.

I sat on a bench and thought about how

I had had crushes on two other people

since I had been married, and how

painful that had been for me, the person

who was so committed to fidelity in

body and mind. I could feel the pull

to the Man-Boy, and I battled it, talking

to myself and trying to stop looking

at him.

When he came over and sat besides

me I was still and cool. He began to

talk with me and I could see through

my bad french, and through his tender

still eyes, that this could be trouble.

I tried to get the upper hand by asking

him his age, knowing that he was younger

than I and that he thought I was younger

than I was. However, when he told me

he was 19... I just could not stop laughing

from the shock. And when I told him

I was 37, he could say nothing.

I was his mother's age.

In all of my vastly varied experiences,

nothing had prepared me for this situation.

My husband had gone back to the US

for a month. I was alone in the house and,

as some of you know, my husband and I

had as sex life that consisted of my biting

my lip and sleeping with him every 8 or 9

days. Also an unprecedented situation for me.

In almost all of my previous relationships I

was accustomed to sex at least once a day.

Despite experiencing sexual abuse at

a young age, and surviving a rape, I really

liked sex, and had moved to a healthy

place with it. I loved my husband, there

really was nothing not to love, but I had

never really wanted to have sex with him.

I had seen a therapist about this, thinking

that perhaps it was because I was finally

in a healthy relationship and was therefore

subconsciously allowing my pain over

my abuse to surface, cutting off the desire

for sex...but honestly, it just didn't feel

right...and, if I was frank, even the first

time we had kissed felt wrong. I always

felt that my husband was acting out the

idea of what things should be. That he

was so disconnected that he could not

be his real, true self, and that somehow,

that made my desire recoil.

The irony was that the sex with my

husband was actually quite good. He was

the Only person who could give me an

orgasm without any help on my part.

I just did not want him.

So there I was, in the middle of horrible

party music, sitting on a bench dangerously

close to another man. A Man-Boy.

Seeing this, a local man, who also happened

to be a cop, approached and started to talk

with us. I knew he was trying to intervene

in what he felt to be an inappropriate situation.

He stayed and he stayed.

The Man-Boy stayed.

It was now 3am. The night air was still warm,

but a chill was starting to reach its fingers into

my light jacket. I got up to walk to my house,

which was 200 feet away.

The Man-Boy got up.

The cop person got up.

It was clear the cop was intent on seeing me

home. I looked at the Man-Boy. He looked

straight back at me. And then I turned to

walk home with the cop yapping on beside me.

What I thought was a moral concern on the cop's

part, suddenly morphed into something else

as the cop did what no French person ever

does and asked if he could come into my house.

For a beer.

"I don't have any beers."

"Then how about tea?"

"I don't have any tea. And, anyway, it's 3am. I'm going to bed."

He actually started to insist.

And I pushed him out the door.

I waited 10 minutes.

I opened the door.

I looked down the street.

The Man-Boy was waiting besides the corner.

He started to walk toward me.

When he reached me I walked with him

behind the house to the garden.

We sat side by side in separate chairs

and looked at the shock of stars emptied

across the black, black cheek of the sky.

We talked.

And then he touched my elbow.

My elbow.

Just my elbow.

And only by accident.

And I felt more desire for him,

for this 19 year old boy, in that

perfect and terrible moment,

than I could remember having

ever felt in my life.

Butts and Other Activites

2010-04-14T12:06:00.000+02:00

As some of you know, Dear Reader,
my little French village is on the road
to Compostello--which means that all
summer long, hundreds upon hundreds
of peeps flood through on foot, bike,
and, sometimes, horsey.

Two days ago two mecs (guys) rolled in
in a horse drawn covered wooden caravan.

Old School Stylie.

They had 3 lovely horsies with them who they
penned in down by the river. And they set
up camp and, like true wooden caravan drivers,
started smoking up...which I discovered when
I approached them for a light (since My Beloved
and I are having lighter wars...another story).

I directed them to The Neighbor, who would more
than love them, and went back to construction work.

The next day they were in like, well, flynn. (Is it flynn?)
They were eating with The Neighbor, My Beloved fixed
their brakes and I rode their horsies around
(being an old cowpoke myself).

Later, over aperitif, The Neighbor, his Prospective
Girlfriend, My Beloved, and I were talking about them.
At this point it may do to point out that I have had
peeps like these mecs in my life for a long, long time.

Travellers, vagabonds, etc etc.

And The Neighbor was talking about how extraordinary
this guy's life was...rolling about the joint in his wood
caravan...and how he "profits" from life...and is really
living life..and it occurred to me:

so many people seem to think that traveling and doing
things that do not include a 9-5 job and kids is the
only way to really live life.

This I already knew: but what then occurred to me
was that what really kills the experience of "living life"
is to fall into hardcore habits that numb you from
feeling and noticing life and all of its quirks and beauties.

And that, in fact, just because you're traveling around
does not mean that you are avoiding habits, as you can
just as easily fall into the "habit" of being in a new place
every day, and the "habit" of dealing with new people,
situations and environments.

Another point: I have moved over 41 times in my life.
As an adult I have lived in, let me see...6 US cities
and 3 European cities. I know what it is to move,
to travel, to "profit from life."

But I want to smash this idea that traveling is the
only way to "live life," as, if you just become
habitual about it...which I have seen happen...then
you might as well be at home doing the same
thing every day.

So at this point I am going to make a little
list of some of the things that I feel are my way
of living life...things I appreciate..little things:

1. Coming up behind My Beloved while
he is brushing his teeth and pretending
to do him in the butt. "eeee eeee eeee"

2. Him playing along with it.

3. Buying something on ebay and
having it be EXACTLY what it said it
would be....AND WORKING!!!

4. The extraordinary beauty of the sunflower
fields in the summer. And they change
place every summer so you never know
where they are going to be.

5. Watching my cat's butt when she runs.
She has this awesome and unelegant way
of moving her legs that actually makes
her butt shake.

6. Bar 34 and 35 of Bach's 4th two part
invention in D Minor. And playing it.

7. My Beloved calling me
"my little horsey" pronounced:
"my leetle orseee". AHHH!!!

8. Winning a bet!

9. Waving goodbye every morning
to My Beloved from the kitchen window
by way of using the cat's arm.
(ie: the cat waving goodbye to My Beloved).

10. CHERRIES ON ALL THE CHERRY
TREES IN THE VILLAGE...AND THEN
IN MY MOUTH!!! ALL OF THEM!!!!

there. I am living life.

PS: it has occurred to me that people may
actually be un-inclined to "follow" me in
light of the "sweet sperm challenge" because
they don't want anyone thinking that they
are interested in sweet sperm.

Or is that just the crack talking.

Drunkish

2010-04-12T00:44:00.002+02:00

Tonight we spent the evening with
The Neighbor and the new Swiss
man in the neighborhood.

The Neighbor's girlfriend left
him after walking the Chemin
de Compostello and meeting a Belgian
guy. I knew it was just a way for
her to get out of her situation with
The Neighbor. She left and went
to the NORTH of France. which.
is not. pretty. Now she regrets this.
I know this because My Beloved has
been told by The Neighbor (who is
also My Equal Friend-why hasn't
he told me???) that she has
called and sent emails.

Being who I am and having left
my husband...I know exactly how
this played out:

She met a guy who made her feel
appreciated like The Neighbor
did not...and so she left. She hooked
up with New Belgian Guy and things
didn't work out. Now, in her mind,
she is fucked (which, if you were in
the North of France, you could
perhaps understand).

In my mind: The World Has Opened
Up To Her. But she is not a particularly
courageous person. She needed the guy
in order to leave The Neighbor, who,
by the way, is a most excellent, if
conflicted, person.

What is strange is that in this gathering of
me and 3 guys, I felt more comfortable
than if she had been there. I sang more
strongly when they played guitars, and
when we were writing a song I was not
shy about my chord suggestions.

Is this because I did not want to dominate
her when she was here? Or that I feared
her judgement (she was never really frank)?

I know not what.

but I decided 5 minutes ago to try my
first drunkish post.

and, Dear Reader, it has involved many backspaces!

My Beloved is shaving in the bathroom.
The Swiss is preparing to go back to Switzerland.
The Neighbor is missing his girl, that is assumed.

And I.

I am sitting here realizing that My Life
is in France. That a few intense decisions
led me here. That I, if I am honest, left
my husband for the love of a 19 year old
uneducated drug addicted Man-Boy who
made me feel more desire than I can remember.

A Man-Boy who is not My Beloved.

O Man-Boy.
I saw you on the side of the road
the other day and you looked like shit.
You are falling into your heroin addiction.

You are so very beautiful
and no one ever told you but me.

O Man-Boy.
How very different your life could have been.

If you had been well loved.

but it was only me who loved you well.

And one is not enough.

O Man Boy.
How you broke my heart.

And how I survived you...

Drunken PS:
I am very very sad that more people
do not want the secret to Sweet Sperm.
Even the people in Australia?
And Marina Del RaY???

People!
I need a serious What What!!!!!

If I Don't Love These Yeast Infections....then why do I feel married to them?

2010-04-10T18:18:00.001+02:00

My Beloved and I had a beautiful
and harmonious week...capped with
the splendor of a charming Yeast
Infection.

Ladies: Boric Acid!
Get those capsules.
Insert in the VaaJay.
GONE YEAST GONE!!!

Of course, there is that little
unsettling bit about how Boric Acid
is also used to ward off roaches.

O the Roach takes me back to my LA days.

After escaping an ex who morphed
into a psycho (and I'm talking escape
in the middle of the night) my friend, and
roommate, D and I scouted out a cute
and cheap little bungalow just off of
Sunset by Gower Gulch (for those of
my peeps who live in LA). It was
lovely and surrounded by plantage.
In my room, should one merely close
the door, one felt that one was perhaps
on a desert isle...fronds tapping at the
windows. Burdies tweet tweeting
their little burdy hearts about the joint.

However.
We moved in at night, turned on the
lights......to AN ENORMOUS
BLANKET OF ROACHES ON
THE CEILING, ON THE FLOORS,
AND SOON ON OUR HEADS!!!!

3 bombs and camping later, the
roaches trooped back to the center
of the earth, leaving us in peace in
our attempts to read War and Peace,
avoid the carnivorous business of
parties in the "movie scene" and
work on our acting. What?

A particular fond memory of D, who
was a fucking smart and uneducated 19
year old guy, was when I came home to
his announcement that he had a date
with some painter.....

did I know a guy named David Hockney?

PULL THE PRICK OF A PONY!!!!!!

Nothing was more fun then introducing
the "quick to learn" D to a pillow full
of Hockney's work...rushing about to
stores in LA that actually had art books...
(pre-internet time) and coaching him
through major dates, works, etc...

Or: when I would play Moonlight Sonata
on my rented piano and he would very
seriously perform an extensive piece
of interpretive dance around the living room.

D and I had a friendship based on mutual
admiration, trust, and an ass-full of disdain
for Hollywood and the newly blossoming
herds of fake breasted butt lickers.

D was in my bridal cadre, my bridesman.

I was robbed at gunpoint with D and have
held D in my arms while he wept...as he held me.
(And not for the reasons of robbery,
but for the reasons of sexual abuse, another
thing that we had in common).

So it was with great depression and dismay
that I hung up the phone after a pretty
awful conversation with him.

D, it seems, has fallen completely into
the LA way of being. The way of being that
mentions people in tandem with their career
positions. The way of being that doesn't ask
you how you feel after your miscarriage.
The way of being that silently judges you
because you are not involved in what is
important: The Life Of Hollywood.

I am sad.
It seems I am going to lose my friend.

And it was not an "oh, just a weird kind
of conversation" that you know is a one off
thing. It was an "I am 41 and I feel this to
be a turning point in my friendship with
this person. A turning point that is leaving
a vile taste in my mouth and makes me
want to have a funeral for the love and
understanding that we shared" kind of thing.

He is still really smart.
But he is now a rock.

I mentioned that perhaps he needs to keep
his heart open and was met with teeth
and comments about how he could not
respect any woman who would want
to be with him (he is bi, by the by).

When we were getting off the phone, and
I was thinking that this might be the last,
he said that he loved me...as he always
does. And I wanted to ask him
who he was and where was my D.

There are those among you who may say
that one can never give up on a friend.
And I do not give up on my friends.

But those of you in LA know of what
I speak. You know that he is in the
Valley Of Death. You know that reaching
him would mean major shaving of tendons,
bruising of hearts, and perhaps the loss
of an eye. Perhaps his.

And I don't think he will call me again.

Another One Falls Prey To LA.
RIP my sweet sweet D.

In other news: two of my pieces
got accepted to a great journal!!
and I am being paid!!!!
and I am not a total failure!!!!!

AND 21 FOLLOWERS!!
ONLY 29 TO GO FOR SWEET SPERM!!!!!

Killer On The Road

2010-04-06T11:05:00.004+02:00

Easter came and did its "I'm dead
and ooo look at me flying away now" thing

and our cat brought us an Easter Bunny. On Easter.

Right outside the back door I happened
to glance. There she was
ROLLING AROUND ON TOP
OF A BABY BUN BUN!!

Little Bunny Fru Fru was prostrate,
eyes open: "Do you think it's dead?"
I asked My Beloved as Our Darling Cat
took the Bunny's head into her gaping jaws?

An unthinkable question...yet of course
I was right. The bunny was alive.
Beloved grabbed the wailing cat.
Bun Bun made a break for it.
I grabbed the cat. Beloved grabbed
Bun Bun AND PUT HER
IN A POT OF BOILING
WATER? no no no no
And put her in a safe,
and fleeable, place.

Above photo is of cat sulking by the locked cat door.
She's just now talking to us again.

It was just a blip in the catastrophe of a weekend.

My Beloved and I are deeply in love.
I know this because I feel it.

And. Sometimes it is the only reason that
we stay together in the face of our sometimes
mangled and soul-defying fights.

As I have noted in another post, we have gone
through perhaps I bit more than the average
western couple since we have been together.

To give you just a little idea of the house
that we are rebuilding, here are a few shots:

This is the bedroom area.

Oh, and you are looking at the ground floor.

The bedroom are now on the second floor.

Which is where the door in the

upper right hand part of the photo is.

My Beloved signing the contract to buy the house.
He is in the dining room.

The Bathroom

The living room space.
And again with that being the ground floor.

The living room is actually above this space.

So Yeah. We are tired.

But I didn't anticipate the 3 days of gut-slogging

fighting from Saturday to Monday.

To our credit. We did manage to have a fantastic

anniversary dinner (which I then ruined later

at home by opening my fat mouth) and we had

wonderful sex 4 times on Sunday (and I am

NOT into make-up sex...which this most

certainly was not).

I will not bore you with the problems except

to say that I am very low maintenance with

anniversaries: I don't expect gifts or even flowers.

However: if you took everyone of your previous

first dates out to dinner--AND NOT LUNCH

because you know very well that THAT is

romantic, do not expect me to be happy if

you propose LUNCH for our anniversary

after I have spent years sharing my body and

heart with you.

Also: after a day of fighting and then having

made up, do not expect me to be happy if you

decide 2am at the end of it all is a good time

to go over to The Neighbor's house to drink

armangac and smoke pot...leaving me at

home because I just took a friggin' shower

and my hair is wet and it's winter in The

Neighbor's house and I thought PERHAPS
we could reconnect physically, you know,

and you secretly don't even really want me
to come because you are afraid I have a crush

on The Neighbor's friend. Which, I might
add, I don't mention so as not to embarrass you.

PLUS: after years of trying to convince

you that I am completely fine with you

going out with your friends and you

don't believe me and so have never

done it, DON'T hold the forementioned

situation as a good example as to why

you don't do it.

AND: I AM FUCKING SICK AND TIRED

OF RENTING FRENCH MOVIES THAT

INSIST ON HAVING NAKED WOMEN

IN THEM: WHICH IS ALL OF

THEM: EVEN KID'S MOVIES!!!!!!!!

WHAT THE HELL

IS WRONG WITH

SUBTLETY AND

WHEN WILL THIS

COUNTRY GROW THE

FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In other news: we are fine now.

We had a wonderful and constructive

talk and have decided to see a shrink.

Home for me is in his arms.

Don't forget the Sweet Sperm Challenge.

(and, yes, you can imagine who
benefited from these experiments!
Mr. Lunch For Anniversary!!)

Doin' It Dino Stylie

2010-04-01T12:19:00.003+02:00

Back when I was a pre-married white lady,
my lovely pre-husband and I had imaginary
animals. They sprung, fully flourished,
from my head when we were on a road
trip in Arizona. Why we were on a road
trip in one of the "Awful American States,"
is simply due to his living in Flagstaff, one
of the less horrible places in Arizona.

I was visiting. We were carrying on a long-
distance relay and he was trying to show me
the splendors of a state which is so hot that
the main city has a Friggin' Sprinkler System
for the sidewalks. Also. There is their
voting record. Also. John McCain. Also...

I digress.

Imaginary Animals.

It started with a huge model of a dinosaur that had clearly
stumbled its way into the desert and seemed alone and, yes, sad.
Of course I felt its pain and promptly let forth with a sound
impersonation of what was to become the vocal expression of:
Baby Dino (who looks a little somethin' like this:)

Baby Dino was a zesty little fellah, prideful, shy, affectionate,
a smidge demanding, and a great teller of jokes which, unfortunately,
neither of us could understand. He was also a pretty poor driver,
seeing that he kept his eyes closed a great deal of the time. After
all, he was only a BaaaBeee.

Soon frustrated with his human help-mates, he went out a-searchin'
for a new companion...and after a full-on traipse through cavern,
mountain ranger outpost, and sea bed...he came home with:

SEA MONSTER!!!!!!

(extraordinarily, this picture swiped from the web is almost exactly what Sea Monster looked like!)

Sea Monster was a charming gentleman, always happy to hold forth
on numerous subjects with vigor and enthusiasm. With a little
speech therapy, he was able to find a way to turn his vocal stylings
into comprehensible utterances. I would often find Sea Monster
quietly and patiently waiting for me to open my eyes in the morning.
"Hi Sea Monster!" "Hewwooo ShuShu!!"

Of all the animals, he was, by far, the most hilarious.

So hilarious that we were thrilled when he one day brought home:

BABY SEA MONSTER;

I joke I joke!!!!!
Baby Sea wasn't Fergie!!!! God!!! Truth be told.
And nor did he pee all over himself while on stage.
(Ok that was mean). However. He was quite the baby.
NEVER opening his eyes. Constantly in a state of feeble
waving of claws coupled with whispery efforts to talk.
To break it down: Baby Sea would grab onto anything
he could and suckle. And no not in a sexy way. He would
grab your nose, your hair, your elbow. Whatever he could
to take care of his Baby Sea needs.

Nothing. Nothing is cuter. Than Baby Sea.

But it was the greatest triumph of all when into the picture bounced:

NIFFLER!!!!!!!!
To see the beauty of Niffler, you must do the following:
Hold your hand up: palm toward you.
Lower your two center fingers down to touch your thumb.
Keep the outside fingers up and away from the two center fingers.
Turn the hand sideways

ET VOILA!!!!!!
NIFFLER!!!!!!!
COMPLETE WITH OPENABLE
AND CLOSABLE MOUTH---
AND TWO ADORABLE EARS!!!!

Niffler went on to mate with Niffletta...who while being
a bit more coy, is just as boisterous and chatty...steals just
as many things...and frequently participates in the age-old
Niffler ritual of : The Dance Of Joy.

At this point I will answer the obvious:
The Animals were never in the room during sex.
(we would never DREAM of exposing such innocents!)

Once the Family was developed there was no turning
asunder. Our mountain of friends were treated to numerous
spectacles of Sea Monster harrassing Baby Dino who was
then comforted by Niffletta while Niffler tried to steal
your drink.

I am not making this up.

My husband and I introduced the Imaginary Animals
to anyone who would listen. People either found them
completely bizarre. Or completely hilarious.

They even had a place in our wedding
(you know, the one where I walked down the aisle
to the theme song from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly").

"I promise to care for all our Imaginary Animals
and send them to good and diverse public schools, exposing
them to Chopin, Bergman, Monk and X Clan"
etc...etc...etc...

At this point you may be thinking I'm just a little fucking nuts.

Or. That this is an April Fools Joke.
(I just noticed that it is April 1. I swear to you.
This is the truth. On the head of my most exquisite cat.)

But, Dear Reader, you, too, could love the Imaginary Animals.
They were delightful. They were imaginative and independent.
And they were great soothers of the soul when we were sad.

Who would turn from a sweet little Baby Dino nuzzling up
against her shoulder when she received yet another rejection
from a journal? Who could resist Sea Monster showing his
sensitive side and wiping away little tears after a particularly
heart wrenching episode of Battlestar Galactica??

ah yes.
but then we got divorced.

In the agreement (verbal, we had no assets)
I gave him Chicago, Baby Dino, Sea Monster, Baby Sea,
and, yes, and, Niffler.

I took France.
And found Niffletta hiding in my luggage.

The French adore Niffletta.
She charms in all cultures since she is completely multi-lingual.

Even My Beloved is starting to laugh...despite his
macho southern meat-eating tendencies.

but sometimes.
sometimes....

i do weep for the loss of the animals.

Donkeys and Other Easy Mistakes and Illusions

2010-03-30T09:57:00.003+02:00

To start things out: "Pony" in French is "Poney."

Another delicious thing:
"Soul" is "Âme" and "Donkey" is "Âne".

I have just gotten to the point that I don't say
"My donkey loves your donkey" to my Beloved.

Also: "Love" is "L'Amour" and "Death" is "La Mort."
They sound almost exactly the same.

Thus the shifting vagueries of French language and life.
One day In Love then !!BANG!! Your ass is dead on a donkey.

Another thing to know: the French"Weather Women," those
who do the weather on TV, have absolutely fuck all taste
in clothing. What they drape on their bodies is a reflection
of what is to come weather-wise. They look like a weather
bus hit them, ate them, digested them, and then spat them all
over the screen. Completely Baffling.

Also, while I'm at it: Not Every French Woman Looks Like
Amelie Poulin...nor Catherine Deneuve, nor, thankfully, that
little fiend Carla Bruni. Nor are there squadrons of Vanessa
Paradis' scribbling about the streets.

The average White French Lady in the city is reasonably well-dressed.
Great attention to make-up and hair. 5'5", and always in heels
of some sort. The French White Lady in the Country is often
more portly, less well dressed....and hair is usually tinted or
streaked or some other god-forsaken horrible hair style.

There is very little difference between the features of one average
White French Woman and another White French Woman.

The girls, in general, dress in tight jeans and do the
"I'm shy and staring at you from under my enormously long fringe"
and they are much younger for their age than the American or
English or Welsh girls. I know this because I teach them.
They tend to blend into a mass of hair, eye, pout and cell phone.

Dear Reader, It is True:

The illusion that French Women are the most beautiful
in the world is as well crafted as the illusion that
the French eat only excellent and well crafted food.

The ladies of New York and SF kick the ass of the
White French women in beauty.

And for one big reason: multicultural reproduction.

Peeps having sex with different kinds of Peeps.

Just as my cat, the mutt of all mutts, is the most beautiful
cat in the world, the mutts of America take down the interbreeding
of France.

This, too, will change soon as more and more French White Girls
are hanging, and doing it, with more and more boys from
the Arabic immigrant population.

But for now. I see the same noses, eyes and cheekbones everywhere.

Sorry to disappoint.

In other news:
I am still bleeding 2.5 weeks after my miscarriage.
I think I may have a thyroid issue which I hope my gold-clad
gyny will take interest in today in between vaginal sweeps.

AND I am sad, and dismayed, that people are not
interested in having, or encouraging, Sweet Sperm.

Does no one out there swallow anymore???????????

My Cracked Out Dream World

2010-03-25T10:33:00.002+01:00

There is a freakin' opera of bird song shaking
the air outside my ruin (read: house). The sun
has thrown off her shawl, the laundry is flapping
its naughty bits in the fresh wind, and, of course,
the daffodils are doing the funky chicken.

Our cat is careening about the back garden like
she invented the phrase "speed-a-licious puss puss."
Her favorite thing is to race up the laundry line
supports (two slender, transposed, headless trees),
sit on the tiny top, consider and reject the leap into
oblivion (one of my favorite pastimes) and then
slowly back down the tree trunk until she mounts
the courage to SWING her ass into the opposite
direction and, now facing head down, race back
down the tree like the big ole pimp that she is.

One day I'll post a video of this magnificence.

In my dreams last night she caught a rat in my
fathers house (where My Beloved and I were
apparently living) and started bashing it about the place,
only for me to realize that it was a baby fox...which
I immediately started to cuddle, and decided to adopt.
One of my MFA advisors was sleeping in the room
where I, in reality, first learned to masterbate (at 18!
I know!....sexual abuse will do that to a girl) and after
a quick chat with her I noticed the fox was a puppy who
had a name tag "LuLu"--one of the names we were
sort of tossing about for The Baby. Sadly, I called
the people but they didn't want the puppy back!
Said it was a hazardous puppy who would destroy
everything! Clearly this was not the case. But could
I tell My Beloved? Would he believe me? Would my MFA
adviser believe me? And when would she get out of bed???

A relatively calm dream. And pretty clear in its meaning.
I remember between 2-3 dreams/night...and have done for
most of my life. They are usually completely wild, one of my
favorites being when my mother, my brother, and I all held
hands and stepped backwards off the edge of the planet
into outer space and a bushel full of rainbows.

I am a Lucky Girl.

Lately I've been having my recurring dream where
my main sexual abuser and I fall in love, make love,
and a huge feeling of joy and peace infuses me.

That. Is Fucked Up.

xoxoxo
XuXu

PS: Don't forget, O How Could You?, The Tasty Sperm Challenge!!!

!!!!!!! FAKLEMPT !!!!!!!!!

2010-03-24T09:57:00.001+01:00

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2010/03/23/behalf-my-mother

!!!!! Weepihood of Joy !!!!!!!!

!!!!! Huge Sigh Of Relief At This Imperfect, But Good Start!!!!!!

!!!!! Enormous Shout-Outs To The Obama!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!! Great Requests For A What-What !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!! Tender Embraces For The Americans Who Can Have Still More Hope !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Loving the Obama

2010-03-22T11:14:00.001+01:00

As some of you know, some days ago
I discovered that my embryo died at around
10 weeks. I continued to carry the embryo
for 2.5 more weeks, until I had a small patch
of bright red blood and a couple of tiny clots.

After 3 previous miscarriages, and uncountable
hours of internet research, I knew it could be nothing,
but always loving to give my Beloved a chance to
speed heroically into the night, we jumped into the
car and careened 25 miles to the hospital.

"Your cervix is tightly closed," announced the mid-wife
who saw me immediately after I entered the ER,
"I really don't think it's anything...but we'll keep
you overnight and you can see your gynocologist
in the morning."

I knew she knew what she was talking about, but
I knew that she was wrong. And my knowing was
confirmed the next morning as my gold-bracelted
and most excellent gyny confirmed that the pregnancy
was over and that I would have a DNC later that day.

He insisted on keeping me another night after the
operation was performed, and I left two days after
I entered having received excellent, prompt and
kind care. (Despite the bizarre encounter with the
anesthesiologist who was annoyed that I wasn't
French and didn't believe me when I said I had had
only one prior surgery : "That's VERY rare." To
which I responded "Madame. I AM very rare!"
That unknotted her little French panties!)

For all of this care, and for all the care that I have
received in my Making-A-Person journey, including:
4 hospital stays, 1 ambulance ride, numerous sonograms
and gyny visits, 3 DNC's, and many blood-tests and a
ton of lab work, how much did I pay you may ask??

50 Euros/Month Insurance.

Yes.

68 Bucks a Month.

And that is how much I pay for all and every piece of
medical attention that I would receive for anything.

50 Euros/Month is what I will pay for all and any
fertility treatment up until I am 43 years old (which
is when the social system stops covering women
who are trying to conceive).

When I think of how much cash so many women
plonk down in their efforts to conceive, and also
to adopt---when I think of Belette at
www.labeletterouge.blogspot.com,
I count my lucky fu*king blessings and thank
all the people who worked their ass off for this
system. (I also thank my voodoo lodestone. Of course.)

If I were in the US my journey would be licking
its wounds and its ass as it would be totally over for me.

But how much would I pay for a doctor's visit if I
was not in the social system here in France?
How much would a foreigner pay for a doctor's visit?

Well, dear Foreigner: You would pay, for a full
and thorough prescription giving visit:
22 Euros. That is to say: 30 Bucks.

Can you, Dear American, even imagine paying 30
Bucks for a doctor's visit if you are uninsured?????

Last time I looked, 30 Bucks is the average co-pay in the US.

And if I don't pay 50 Euros a month extra-insurance?
The government covers me, and every person in the system,
for 70% of the cost of any medical care.

THAT INCLUDES MENTAL HEALTHCARE!!!!!!!!!!!
AND FERTILITY TREATMENTS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is one of the reasons that I love The Obama.
And that I have dreams where he and Michelle are my parents.

His Balls Are On The Table.
And it is so that you, in the US, can have something that
somewhat resembles what we, in France, have worked
to enjoy and are always working to maintain.

PS: don't forget The Tasty Sperm Challenge!!

You may Scoff, or even recoil (as it seems that many of
you are doing), but, frankly, Sweet Sperm tastes....like candy.

Bluntly: Sweet Sperm

2010-03-18T17:47:00.001+01:00

Before I go into any sorry story bits
about the March Miscarriage...
and what is next...as if you all
would even want to know...

I have news!
And a challenge!

In the last two days I have
discovered, drum roll!!!!!:

A Way To Make Sperm
Taste Sweet.

For Real!
From the Body Sweet, NOT in a
Mixing Bowl Sweet.

Now.
This may be one of the most disgusting
things you could think to be reading
about over your morning coffee/
afternoon joint/ late night fix...

But. Dear Reader. It is True.

This information is for to you to
use in whatever way you deem fit.

And.
My challenge is this:
I will tell you all when I manage
to cobble up 50 Total Followers.

Am I an Asshole?
Peut-etre.

But I am a sweet asshole.
(Not that I HAVE a sweet asshole.)
And I want to see if I can get
some new followers.
And I'm hard-core like that.
Which is why, I might add, I have
discovered how to make sperm sweet.

So.

That is my news.

In other news:
I am half-way through learning a
new Schumann piece on my lovely piano.

Love and How It Helps Me To Tell Beastiality Jokes

2010-03-16T10:40:00.000+01:00

Another gag-worthy post:

Why do people write "love you," and
not "I love you," when they sign
a letter/email/facebook post, etc?

Especially when it concerns deeply
sad and emotionally poignant times?

Especially Christians.
(note: I wasn't even baptized.)

What is it about the commitment to
the "I" that freaks people's shit out?

In my mind, one of my most important
moments happened when I was 10.

The thought smacked me upside the head
that other people did not live in the state of
loving-the-world that I did. How stupid
and naive I was / still am.

I had experienced people fucking with me
and trying to destroy me in their way for
years, and I never could understand why.
It really just confused me. It seemed like
such a fucking waste of time.

I was deeply conscious, even then, that
the most important thing was love.
It was the only thing.

I remember the precise moment
when I said out loud to no one at all:
"They don't know that love is the most important thing."

This was a real mindfuck of a moment.

And somehow, it helped me to understand
and "hold" why they did, and continued to do,
the things that they did.

Of course that did not stop me from doing
one of the worst things one can do to a person:
leaving my husband and crushing his heart.

Anyway.

That's my thought for the morning.

If I haven't me made you gag too much,
I hope you find the ice-cream you most
need today.

PS: South Park is a sublime example of Love!!!

PPS: My Beloved's parents, from whom
we live down the street, have never
told him that they love him--How Fucked
Up Is That!!!

PPPS: He tells me he loves me all the time.
And I cover him and cover him with little kisses.
And Unicorns. And Fairy Dust!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PPPPS: Have you ever noticed that there are 2 camps
of people: Those who Love "Moulin Rouge" and those
who Hate "Moulin Rouge."

It's True!
which are You?

The Pony of Doom

2010-03-15T11:45:00.001+01:00

The French word for "pony" is "poney."
which. of course. is adorable.

Less adorable are the enormous
maxi-pads that I am wearing everywhere.

Apparently the bleeding will stop soon.

Makes me want to lay a great white ribbon
down the road to my house upon which I perch
myself and drag my ass along, leaving a brilliant
red streak long and wide enough to be
spotted from the airplane from which I
soon intend to jump.

Skydiving: one thing I wanted to do
that I thought I wouldn't be able to do
because I don't want to die too soon if
I have a child.

My beloved and I are going skydiving.

We holed up and watched movies all
weekend. Windows covered and all.
"August Rush" killed me. Especially
considering that we are both musicians.

So I was on my back in bed waiting for
the impetus to get up and wondering what
I am doing wrong in the world because
I need to feel that I actually can control
this situation, and the following occured to me:

I always come extremely close, but never land
on the target. And this is in unusual circumstances
as well as farly normal ones.

And I just spent 30 minutes typing out examples
and after reading it, I don't want to post it.
It all just sounds like my whining in the face of
what most would think was some pretty awesome
shit. So I will just leave two examples up.

And before you read: Let it be known that I feel
I am a very fortunate person. Despite difficulties I have
been blessed with ridiculous optimism. I am willful,
capable, full-bodied, and I feel like I am on a path.
I feel like life is a magical place.

Truly.
Stop Gagging.

I just need one little key to unlock the final door.

Simple everyday example:
my writing has been published in many reputable journals,
but my first book just is too...something to be published.
In contests I get honorable mentions, I get runner up,
but no one wants to commit.

Another example, more bizarre? I was living in Italy right after
college in '91when I was approached in a club by a rapper who
asked me if I wanted to be in his video. This was before rap was
so huge in the US. I said yes, and it ended up being just me, him
and another dancer. This was also in the MC Hammer dance
era when dancing in a rap video was super athletic, not at
all skanky ho stuff. The video went well and, it turned out,
he was huge in Brazil. He asked me to accompany him and
the other dancer on his tour of Brazil. We rehearsed like wild
beasts and one month later touched down in Brazil where,
in fact, we were met by a large entourage and it turned out
to be true: he was a huge star. Bizarre. I had a bodyguard.
We did a 3 week tour of concerts where we played to up to
10,000 people. (I have the pictures as proof.) However...

He had a huge cocaine problem. He would continuously fire
and rehire me 5 minutes before we were to go on stage.
He would go into blackout and threaten to leave me in Brazil
without a passport. On the way back to Italy, where he was
completely unknown, he asked me to stay on and do a mini-tour
of Europe to help him launch his European career. Of course,
I said no. He said nothing. When we got back to his
apartment he threw all of my clothes down the apartment
building stairs and kicked me out, refusing to pay me for the
tour. I made my way to the train station where, at 4 am,
I sat my ass down on my suitcase and sobbed and sobbed
while the transvestites who were picking up johns took turns
in comforting me. They were very kind. Especially considering
how much more difficult their lives are.

Somehow I made it back to the US.

It could have been simple.
We could have gone on to work together
and made many duckets with which I could
have helped many people.

Two little examples.

and now:

Pregnancy: I make it, twice, to 12.5 weeks but I just can't
get over that 13 week barrier (there was another pregnancy that
was a blighted ovum....let us not forget).

I don't wish to further bore you.
I know I sound sorry for myself.
I know.
I am going to vomit over this, I am sure.

But.
I am just one little person.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, ALL of my close friends
are successful. Some have had hard lives, some have had relatively
easy lives. But they all have made it over the final barrier
and are launched.

And then there is me.
With my relatively difficult childhood and extraordinary adulthood.
I am not without hope so what is the "issue!"

WHAT is it that stops me from making this last step.
What do I need to understand that will allow me to obtain
the real, and extraordinary, goals of which I feel I am capable.

I am convinced this is all wrapped up with the miscarriages
and pregnancy path.

Any Answers Are Welcome.
I see the problem. But am in the fog.

Thank you for indulging me.
I am aware of all the flaws in this post.
I am now sick of myself.

Miscarriage & How I Would Like To Be My Cat

2010-03-13T12:16:00.000+01:00

Should it ever become possible.

For those of you whom have never set
your little eyes upon her:

Note the languidity.
The touchableness.
The fluid music of her fur.

But I am not my cat.
I am me.

And while many tremendous, fantastical,
and bizarre things have happened in my life
by way of dropping into my little lap...also, too,
things have been terrifically hard through
long periods.

and just this once, I am asking the universe,
if I may do something "normal" that many
"normal" people seem to be able to do.

Something that I was apparently put on
this planet to do, according to various
groups of "theorists."

Something that is done both in and out
of the movies with not a single second thought.

I would just like for once to be normal
and, like so many others, make a person.

Just One Normal Thing.
I want to be normal Just Once.

And I really mean it this time.

Not like the times when we moved from
country to country and city to city
and I wanted so badly to fit in.
And failed.

Not like the times when I went
to other people's homes and thought
"Holy Ass Cap, THIS is how normal
people live?? Being so Nice to each
other, with no alcohol, and no signs
that anyone is sexually abusing anyone
else??"

Not like Wednesday, when I drove
to Bordeaux to have an interview with
a "real and normal" job with "real and normal"
hours.

No. I know I will never be that girl.

But just This One Thing.

This One Normal Thing.

This one Biologically Programmed Thing.

Just let me fit in this Once.

Sigh.
On to the Specialists.

Well. There It Is.

2010-03-12T13:29:00.000+01:00

"God" apparently loves my brother more.

Yesterday I miscarried my baby who
had been dead for 2 weeks inside me.

I Want To Be Positive.

2010-03-10T10:12:00.000+01:00

I do. Like This Guy.

But, Dear Reader, after a great two rounds
of sex yesterday...followed by some cramping
and a touch of bleeding that sent me clawing
through the wisdom of the internet gawds...

I received this news:

My brother's wife is pregnant and due
the Same Week as I Am.

------long-----------silence--------

Know This:
I am the Friend who is happy for all of my
friend's successes. ALL of my very close
friends are very successful published authors,
richly practising psychiatrists, tenured professors,
Hollywood producers and actors, architects &
world-renown visual artists and musicians.

All of them, except the two who do not wish
it so, have the children they desire.

I am honestly and purely thrilled for them with each
success. A book prize? You Rock!!!!! You're
in the Whitney BiAnnual??? I am So Lucky
to know you!!! You won that Golden Globe??
You look hot in your last commercial!!!!
A great review in the New York Times??
Let me email the article to everyone else!!

I don't know why this is how it is, but it is.
My friends are amazing.
I don't know why they have chosen me.
But they have.

And, except for one of them, I think they are
amazing parents and am glad they are populating
the world with their influence and offspring.

------so------

You'd think I'd be thrilled and excited that my very,
very nice, if a bit bland and brainwashed sister-in-law
is due to have a baby in September. Just like me.:
"O how neat...neat neat neat....we can compare
leaking breasts while having sex--stories, etc"

But no.

I am furious and horrified.

Let me elaborate:

My brother came out to our family as a
hard-core born again Christian 20 years ago.

The family suffered through years and years
and years of conversion attempts. We suffered
through his complete lack of humor. Someone
who was once a hilarious punk, now only listened
to sad-ass Christian rock and got up at 5am every
single day to pray. We suffered through his
judgement--my mother was a sinner for divorcing
my horrible father, etc. After my first miscarriage
I heard not one single peep of condolence from him.
Neither after my second.

He has grown. He is funnier. He listens to
Johnny Cash. He has stopped with the God Squad
routine around us. I don't want to kill him after
10 minutes.

And.
He congratulated me over my (unmarried!) pregnancy.

BUT HE ALREADY HAS 3 FRIGGIN' KIDS!!!!!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

ONE TWO THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FOR GOD'S SAKE SHE JUST HAD A BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not only do I see this as a complete affront to the
environment. Not only do I see this as a complete spit
in the face of all the children who need homes. Not only
do I wonder how in the goddam hell he is going to support
FOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUURRRRRR KIIIIIIIIDDDDDDSSS!!!!!

But WHY DEAR GAWD IS SHE
DUE THE SAME MONTH AS ME!!!!!

all I'm sayin'
is this:

if i miscarry.

i will cry.

a lot.

and if she then has a baby.

on my due date.

i do not know what i will do.

You know, we wake up in the morning
and we do not know what the hell
is going to happen to us.

kiss the ones you love.
congratulate the ones who have good luck
which, most of the time, comes from hard work.

And some of the time? Fertility and Youth.

How Tired Of "Men" Am I ?? HMMM???

2010-03-09T11:10:00.000+01:00

Now. Let us break it down.

I love Men.
I do.

I see how difficult it is to be a Man.
I see that the expectations that this fuckhe*d society
curdles up does men in the Butt in a terribly unelegant
way that makes them frightened of women.

I see how Men are terrified by our:
"I can push a person out of my vagina and you can't"
Super-Powers.

Plus: "you want to get INTO my vagina! You Know!
The place from which I can push you out with some
sweat and blood and higher than thine pain tolerance!"

I mean imagine if their nightmares came true and
the curtain was pulled back and we all banded together
and threw away the spine contorting high heels,
the plastic surgery knives, and withdrew sexual activity.

Men.

Would be Fuck*d. Sideways.

I. Get. It.

i feel very sorry for poor little men.

And I admire all the more those few who battle against
the slime and sloth produced by those who just can't face
their fears and want to stick us in a corner.

All of those with whom I am friends and were married
and were lovers who think Women are the Nuts,
and couple a lovely awe with an ability to give it
to us hard when we want it that way.

But.

I shall now say this. (and I am holding back, way back):

Men who make films that are funded by large production
companies are, generally speaking, complete Ass Ripping Suckers.

I am so fucking tired of seeing breasts and pussy in
movies for no fucking reason at all.

HIDE ALL YOU WANT BEHIND YOUR:

"IT'S FOR THE STORY!"
                                   BUL*SHIT!!!

And FRANCE is one of the worst guilty set of muthafuckas.

Last night we watched a film with 4 women who thwarted
the Nazi's attempt to stop the Normandy invasions.
--True Story--

Everyone of them, except Sophie Marceau, is at least
needlessly topless in the movie.

THERE IS EVEN A PICTURE OF ONE
OF THEM DEAD AND TOPLESS!!!!

These real life women probably saved Europe, and paved
the way for this idiot filmmaker to be able to make
this film. Do they get any better treatment??
Does their memory get the honor deserved???
Oh HELL NO!!!!
SHOW YOUR TITS GIRLS!!!!!!!!!

(Sophie, while not a great actress, still has way too much
power to take her bra off. Also. Her breasts are
probably no longer "camera ready." muthafuckas.)

I am so tired of seeing what few talented young actresses that
are out there having to take off their fucking shirt. Tired of
thinking of the casting session where finally it comes down
to "can you take off your shirt so we can see your breasts" and
see if they're "camera ready." Tired of the fact that besides
pornography, there is NO JOB WHERE IT IS OBLIGATORY
THAT A MAN GET NAKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SUCH BULLSHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And most of all, I am so tired of explaining things to men
who just don't get it. Why the fuck am I on this earth?
To educate men? Dear Man: Let me explain to you why
it is purile and adolescent and pathetic and demeaning
that my mechanic has a fucking titty calendar on his wall.

And Why It Makes Me Want To Destroy Him With
All The Tools I Have.      DEAD.

Dear Man. This is my argument for you.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER
HANGING OUT NAKED ON THE MECHANICS WALL??

IF YOUR DAUGHTER WAS AN ACTRESS AND SHE
CONTINUALLY HAD TO DECIDE BETWEEN WORK
AND ETHICS, WOULD YOU SAY "THAT'S LIFE???"

No. Man.
You. Would. Not.

to all of the most excellent humans out there:

this. Is the ultimate argument.
It is the ultimate way to restore humanity to all
of the women who have been reduced to pieces of
two dimensional flesh so that they may eat.

WOULD YOU WANT YOUR DAUGHTER
IN THAT SITUATION???

works like a charm.

ok.

i feel a little bit better.

though nothing will ever change.

have i mentioned that i'm pregnant lately?

Dear Reader: Save My Sandra Liking Soul.

2010-03-08T12:06:00.000+01:00

The guts of the sky are opened
and pouring snowflakes all over
the South of France.

It is winter here in the South of France.

yes. In March. Sigh.

Ok. This is just a quick post on
what happened last night in the USA.

Many things happened last night in the USA
Also, a bunch of people got together
to clap happily and grimace (Quentin-HAH!)
all over each other while prancing
about in borrowed jewels and gowns.

I have one thing to say besides the
obvious YIPPEE CAMERON LOST!!!!!!!!!

and that is this:

I love me some Sandy Bullock.
I do.

But I have not seen this movie.
And from the looks of the trailer it is,
just about, the most appalling example
of "White Lady Saves Poor Disempowered
Black Teenager" that I have ever even
imagined thinking of imagining as an
actual film created.

Dear Reader: Am I wrong?

Can you look me in the screen
and tell me that I am wrong?

Can you look me in my porno-breasts
and tell me that I am mistaken?

Can you please, please, please save me
from hating La Sandra-whom I currently like.
A lot.???????????????

ps: week 13 begins.

Marriage: And How It Will Do You In The Butt.

2010-03-05T13:39:00.000+01:00

I'm not saying that no one should get married.

I also am not going to get into the profound
philosophical arguments about marriage, nor
am I going to touch on Gay Marriage which
I support...on a basic human rights platform.
I am ALSO not saying that what I am about
to be saying applies to the gay community...
nor am I saying that it applies to anything
other than my experience as a european
heritaged, living in the western world,
culturally diverse, economically lower-class
person such as myself.

I'm just sayin'...that They never tell you how
"society" (whatever that bag of bones is) will
look at you completely differently once you
sign that abstraction which says what exactly?
That in the eyes of whom you will stay with
this person for the rest of your life.

If Divorce was illegal, you can bet your
Gramma's Fanny that the marriage rate would
dwindle like my porno-breasts (which seem
to be making a come-back, thankfully).

I NEVER wanted to get married.

This, it must be said, was a natural response
to being tied down (I only like it if I have a good
safe word-"ketchup", for example) and also a profound
understanding that nobody would want to marry a freak such
as myself.

So when my boyfriend asked me to marry him,
after 2 years of living together, I was pretty
fucking surprised that I said yes.

He is a lovely person.
He is smart, funny, kind, giving, handsome,
charming, lovable....does anyone want his number?

Also, bizarrely enough, he is a White American Chap.

This, I never, ever thought would happen.
Permanent settlement with a White American?
My serious boyfriends, to that point, had been English,
Serbian, and Non-White Americans.

Ok. He is half-Jewish...which, in some deconstructionist
circles, would remove the "white" label.

But really, he is the perfect husband.
Even down to his being almost a decade younger
than I and loving every little part of me.

So I said yes.

We had the best fucking wedding of all time.
I walked down the "aisle" to the themesong for
"The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly."
We had all the family members put on an
excellently tacky cabaret show. And we got down
to living a totally harmonious life.

And then I realized:
In the eyes of the American World,
I was now ....... A Nun.

I did not know it, but in the western hetro world
there is a wave of sexual energy upon which one
floats in the social circles. Even if there is no chance
for sex with any male friend, the male friends actually
do, whether or not they know it, carry you along on
a little moving sexual vibe tidepool.

The MOMENT you are married.
It is DRY LAND FOR EVER!!!!!

WHY NO ONE EVER TOLD ME ABOUT THIS
IS JUST DOWN RIGHT CRIMINAL!

To make matters more complicated:

While I loved my husband (and hate the word "husband")
I just was not attracted to him.
I have no idea why, with all of his
qualities. I even loved the way he
smelled. But I could not get far enough
away from him in bed...sleeping, sexing,
the whole thing.

He, however, was all about my booty.
And sensitive enough to see that I was not
into his. I assumed that it must be due to the
safety of our relationship bringing up all of my
sexual abuse issues. I went to therapy. I read
tons of books. I did EMDR.

STILL I DID NOT WANT TO DO EL NINO WITH HIM.

This, Dear Reader, is one of the worst emotional situations
in which one can find oneself (and, again, I know very
well that I am not in Haiti, post or pre earthquake).

So. I did what was right. After two years I left.

But not before complete sexual drama in the
hands of a 19 year old.

However. That. Is not the point. The point is:
LADIES: if you are thinking about getting married,
look at what you really need emotionally.

Perhaps you don't think you need outside sexual vibe
support. Perhaps you think that you are immune.
That you are capable of riding your own self generated
sexual wave into the empty hands of eternity.

If so. You are a better lady than I.

I'm just saying.....!

Holy God In A Bucket!!

2010-03-04T11:28:00.001+01:00

Have I mentioned the joy
of AVATAR WITH LA GRAMMA??

She was, by 40 years, the oldest person
there...which she kept mentioning while
we waited in line, being smiled at a great
deal by all the French peeps who are all
over the inter-generational bidness.

We went with The Neighbor Man, who's
heart is broken and whose ass you would all
want to bite for the yum. My auntie, from
Wales, has declared him her boyfriend.
La Gramma loves him too...and is a regular
at his Sunday afternoon picnic.

The 3D glasses were old school....La Gramma
was resplendent in her brown wool overcoat
and tan little pill box hat...and the 3D glasses
perched delicately in front of her own bi-focals.

I managed to extract her from the hat and coat
and then...for 2.? hours....she moved not a single
muscle except to turn to me or The Man to
say "Oh, ca c'est joli!"..."C'est tres belle!"

The Man and his family were afraid she would
have a heart attack in the middle of the film from
the force of the visuals...but I had faith in the
fortitude of La Gramma and felt her quivering
between us with excitement, despite the
violence (which she deemed inappropriate for
me in my current "state").

in short:
GREAT CULTURAL AND GENERATIONAL
CROSS DRESSING BOUNDARY TRAVERSING
SUCCESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In other news:
It seems that porno-breasts are back.
(small moment of grateful silence)

However:
Perhaps they will stay that way if you,
Dear Readers, would post your favorite
Gramma Memories!!! Don't be shy!!
Remember, I'm the one who pees nightly
in a chamber pot!!!

And:
if you have not checked out and fallen in love
with the Great Sister Wolf , do so now.

And maintenant. I must pee.

On a real toilette.

My Dwindling Breasts...ADVICE?

2010-03-03T10:01:00.000+01:00

Alright.
I'm rushing out to hi-jack
a doppler machine! I need a
sonogram!!!

MY BREASTS ARE DWINDLING!!
THEY ARE NO LONGER PORNO BREASTS!!
THEY ARE NOT AS SORE!!!!

What does one do to calm the
fears of another horrendous miscarriage in
the face of flagging pregnancy symptoms?

Why-- one turns to the one thing
guaranteed to give joy through brilliant
unintended ass smackin' funnyhood.

THE CHRISTIAN SIDE-HUG

Expect to see the Christian Side-Hug from time to time
throughout this pregnancy...if I am lucky enough to
continue with it.

To whom would You like to give a Christian Side-Hug?

Pregnancy Orgasms!!!! A Continuation of the Previous Post...

2010-03-01T11:00:00.005+01:00

And Also!!

Another thing I did not know!!!

How hot is KD Lang!!!

I mean, had I not an aversion to the Vaj
I would be all ovah that hotness!!!

And: She's the dude-lady version of John Cusack, no?
And who doesn't love a good dose of the Cuke?
(More on that story later...)

K.D. LANG : Constant craving - MYTARATATA.COM

She would write a soothing and long-noted ballad about

My First Miscarriage, Part II:

After entering the hospital and suffering hours
on my back with things torn on and off, needles
stuck in and pulled out...I finally saw the on-site
OB-Gyn who withheld none of his scorn over my
full-blown foreignhood and stick-shifted his way
through the underworld of my reproductive
system with vigor and, almost, glee.

Fury is a dish served up when your legs are
jacked in the air, you're exhausted, and you can
do nothing more than swear in English at some
F*ck who gives more of a shit about a pile of
molding hedgehog feces, then about your health.

He reported that there was still "stuff" in
my uterus and ordered me to a hospital bed with
a bunch of pills to heighten my contractions.

"Don't you think it would expediate the matter
to have a DNC?"
"No. You'll be fine. And you can always come back"

yes, because my f*cking idea of fun is multiple racing-car
visits with you stretched over days of uncontrolled bleeding.

So I cramped my way into whatever state they
deemed fit, made as much friends with the nurses
as I could, ate croissants when permitted...

and exited the hospital 24 hrs later.

(Of course I was back a month later with aforementioned
uncontrolled bleeding and more "stuff" to evacuate.
....But when do doctors ever listen to a sister??)

However, more importantly, we make our way
home to our little ruin and who should be outside
crouched by the garden wall but The Cat.

The same Cat who was cuddling up to me, trying to
lick my face, trying to heal me with full throttle
purrs. I reached down to thank her and
she screeched. Shit.

This. Was more than I could handle. Not only
had we lost the baby, but it was in a particularly
Dickensian manner involving loads of vomit,
blood, dirt, malevolent doctors and heaps of pain.

Now my first baby may have a broken back?
The day that I get back from the hospital?

Did I mention that it was Sunday?
And you know, of course what happens on
sunday in France? Shit F*ck All.
Which is great when you have absolutely
no emergency of any kind going on in your life.

We manage to wedge her shivering body
onto a plank and My Man tells me the story of how
his sister's cat fell 4 stories and was prescribed
a long stay in a shoe box to heal her internal and
external wounds and breaks...and look at her now!

We put her in a box.

The next day we take her to the vet, although I don't
remember how we managed that. But the X-Rays
were so sexy, I almost forgot about the whole thing.

No bones broken (X ray still on fridge)...apparently
The Cat had been pierced in some way by the neighbor's
chickens (for whom she cleans away mice) and the
wounds, unseen to us, became infected and burst.

So. The vet cleans them up. Sends her home.

Two days later, one wound that HE missed explodes.

What happens then is the most horrifying happening
on an animalistic level that I have ever witnessed,
and that includes any Discovery channel shit.

Our Cat.
Begins.
To Eat Herself.

Imagine your beloved feline friend reaching back
around to her lower spine and RIPPING pieces
of skin off herself while shrieking.

You are trying to chase her around the kitchen to catch
her and she is running away from you . While shrieking.

The vet is closed.
Put the fucking cone collar on the cat!!
The neighbor's small dog collar!!!
Yes That One!!!!!!!!

Now!!!! take the cat and place
her in a large rolling shopping cart that you ganked
from a too-rich-and-tacky shopping mall inorder
to have a rolling tool box.

Cat in Collar in Cart.
Water and Food in Cart.
Plywood top wired shut over Cart top.
= Cat in Jail and Unable to Scream her way
through the house with no doors and Out into
the Countryside, Never to be Seen Again.

A Lovely Ending Flourish to a Miscarriage.

BUT! One could not end a story without
a leap from a two story window...which is what
The Cat, after 2 months of confinement in
the kitchen, performed while wearing her collar,
found crouched in the bushes, wondering
what the hell she had done in a former life
to deserve this bountious hell.

We started healing together...

...taking many naps...

and before the river could flood, we were back at work...

Let Us Hope That Things Go Smoother This Time.

My Pubic Bone...and other southern encounters

2010-02-27T12:47:00.000+01:00

How could I forget!

How could I misplace the memory
of my dear friend K breaking his nose
on my pubic bone??

And that it happened in
a frat house, of all disasterous
and shame-syruped places!!!

And that it was HIS frat house!

What happened to my K??
My K whom I have known since
we were 14?? Tender, sensitive,
...and broken nosed K???

To his enormous credit,and perhaps
temporary insanity, K paused for only
a few moments to recount the flash
of red that passed before his eyes,
before he continued with his expression
of long-held love for moi.

These are memories that scrabble up
and nibble at me as I come out of that
wonder-cocoon of first trimester
sleeping land.

This go-round with the first trimester
is very different than the fateful first 2.
But as I lay there this morning with
the cat in my arms, musing on the brute
force of a simple pubic bone...I thought
of how the cat tried to comfort me during
the Really Awful Miscarriage..which would
be Miscarriage #1.

I was 13 weeks pregnant and had been in and
out of the ob-gyn/emergency room a few times
already with minor bleeding...but I had heard
the strong heartbeat...and my very Berkeley Hippie
French OB-Gyn seemed confidant that my fibroid
could not, under any circumstances, cause a miscarriage.

Of course I did not believe her.

But I let her think that I did.
I bleated like a good little sheep.
Even though my old friend who is a doctor had
given me the password to the US medical research site
where I spent many a dangerous minute perusing
all that could go wrong with me, my embryo and
my lovely little fibroid.

So again we were in with Hippie Francaise, who
inserted the ole magic wand in my Vaj and....
we both saw an empty sac.

The embryo had dissolved.
As if someone had filled the sac with acid.
It made me think of the movie "The Cleaner."
Which was one of my more disgusting moves
to avoid the very sad truth of the fact that
we had lost this little baby.

Hippie Francaise was appropriately eye-blinkie
and mouth-down-turnedie...my Man really was
in shock. HF told us that I would probably
miscarry in the next 24 hours and to go home
and wait. She preferred that I miscarry naturally,
rather than go in for a procedure. I was busy
avoiding my feelings and so I said ok. I guess
that was what we were going to do. We stopped
to buy some food and headed home.

NOT ONCE DID SHE MENTION THE PAIN!!!!!

At 11pm I started to cramp a bit and bleed a bit more.
I was ready for what I thought would be a pretty
heavy, hard-hitting period. I could handle it.

Also to note: our house/ruin consisted only of
a kitchen and attic bedroom. These 2 rooms were
separated by 3 house lengths (our house is actually
4 houses in one) and the toilet was posted right
in the middle of the block of houses in a 60 square
construction site.

So back and forth I went for the first hour, thinking that
I could sleep my way through the affair...then getting
up to traverse the 2 house lengths to the tiny toilet
in the middle of the huge empty newly roofed room...
then returning back to the bed.

By 4 am I had thrown up all over the joint, was
lying on the makeshift kitchen bed tripled over in pain
with the cat trying her best to comfort me as I wondered
if, in fact, my uterus was trying to push the fibroid out
of me...because, why not since we're at it?

My Man, completely troubled and upset, was lying on
the floor next to me...wondering what the hell to do, when,
at 5:30, I made the executive decision that we were going
the f*ck to the hospital...just in case I was actually dying.
Old School Stylie.

So we drove to the city the hospital (we live in
a tiny remote village) and miracles of miracles we were the
only people to stagger into the emergency room and
I KNEW THE ON-DUTY NURSE!!!!
WE DANCED IN THE LOCAL COUNTRY
DANCING TROOPE TOGETHER!!!

This was ultimately important because my French, at that
point, was specifically tailored to My Man and I was not at
all confidant that any of this was going to go well.

It took 45 minutes after they put the IV drugs in me
for me to experience any relief at all from the pain.

Ok. I'm done for the day.
To be continued tomorrow.
And the finale curls back to a suicidal cat!!!!
I know!!!
You can't wait!!!!!

WHERE'S THE ICE CREAM!!!!

Rainbow of Poop: My Relationship

2010-02-26T16:12:00.001+01:00

Yesterday was the day that the end of the rainbow
produced a golden, steaming, softly stinking pile
of crap in my life.

Dear Reader.
I know I'm not in Haiti (either post or pre-quake)
I know I am one priviledged, lucky ass person.

But. Also.
Crap was in the House.

Stay with me if you can stand me. Normally
I do not write of these things, but the frankness
of others in this here, the blogging world, has led
me to uncork the bottle.

5 hours later:

Well.
I went for a walk along the local canal and discovered,
in fact, that the world is not full of poopy rainbows!!!

And that I love life!!!
And that trees and leaves love me!!!!
And that sunlight wants to make sweet love with me!!!!!!
And that This American Life is a great side dish
to a great walk of joy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

12 HOURS OF SLEEP A NIGHT IS THE ANSWER
TO MY FIRST TRIMESTER PRAYERS!!!!!!!

Ok. Tomorrow. I am going to write the story
of my first miscarriage and my suicidal cat.

And how they are linked.

But for now I am going to take my lucky
ass self and apply for an NEA Grant for 25,000 Duckets!!!!

Because, F*ck it, for once I deserve the D*ckets!!!!!!

Can I get a What What!!!!!!
(and, of course, whichever comment you find easy flowing).

A TOILET BOWL OF FLUTTERING BUTTERFLIES

2010-02-23T15:06:00.001+01:00

I am So Exited that I may well Shit Butterflies!!

On Thursday, THIS THURSDAY NO LESS, The Man
and I will be taking his 86 year old grandmother to the
big city to see, in 3D, AVATAR!!!!

YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CROSS CULTURAL GENERATIONAL
ORGASMIC EXTRA-HOTNESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And NOT just any ole 86 year old grandmother!
But!!! A woman who was born and raised in a tiny
backwoods French mining village in the middle
of the mountains of Averyon!!!

A woman who birthed her twins in the same home
where she, and her mother before her, were birthed!!!

A woman who was as far removed from the niceties
of the modern world as one can get in a "first world country."

A woman who never learned to drive!!!!
A woman who is a fantastic and hilarious example of
energy and longevity in the face of a life that was way
harder than many of us can imagine, regardless of what we think.

This hot ass wonderful, funny, and extraordinary woman
is going to have her ass in a movie seat, a bowl of popcorn
on her lap, and some fine ass 3D glasses perched upon her
lovely little nose--Elbow Deep in the world of AVATAR!!!

I AM SO EXCITED SO EXCITED SO EXCITED I MIGHT
JUST HAVE ANOTHER MISCARRIAGE!!!!!!!!!!!@@!!!!!!

Let me make the following note:
I recognized the intense and obnoxious flaws of Avatar.
The bad writing (made worse, no doubt, by translation),
the racism, the whitey saves the day, the straight up obnoxious
army stereotypes...etc, etc, etc....

SHE GETS TO SEE 3D!!!!!!!

I will also, and more importantly, note that:
I will be not only taking her, but the memory of my own
grandmother, who raised my mother and her siblings in a
dirt floor, out-house havin', poor little home in the middle
of a Welsh mining village of 200 people.

My grandmother, who raised me every summer
when my mother sent us away and where I ran like
a feral cat with the only instruction being to return
when the streetlights went on.

My grandmother, who would back me up in my many,
and justified, physical fights.

My grandmother, who, when I was 10 and started developing
breast mass behind my nipple, took very seriously and
respectfully my total freak out that I was developing breast
cancer and, with great prudence and tact, gave me a perfunctory
little breast exam, ascertaining that death was not, in fact, immanent.

My grandmother, who, when i asked her if she would mind
my marrying an African-American man, thought for a second and
said: "I don't care who you marry, as long as he doesn't have any
of those funny pigtails" (which put to rest the possibility of Bob
Marley as a husband).

My grandmother, who knew I was divorcing before anyone told her.

My grandmother, who told my mother that I was pregnant
the first time long before I told anyone at all.

My grandmother, who, at 85 years old, did a 3 month car road trip
across the US with my mother .

My grandmother, who made the best f*cking tomato and
sweet vinegar sandwiches and sat with me and watched
"Come Dancing" with as much excitement as I will be
watching The Man's grandmother as she watches
AVATAR IN 3D!!!!!

My grandmother finally left her body for good 5 months ago.
We all saw her before she left. We all held her frail and
trembling hand. I carried her coffin from the chapel
with my cousins.

My grandmother would have loved AVATAR in 3D!!!!

Ice Cream and Other Terrifying Stories

2010-02-20T16:56:00.002+01:00

This Ice Cream is my today's daily calcium intake.
The embryo will be spazztastic!

AND I am --Batshit Crazy-- about the new Arctic Monkeys album.

And speaking of LOVES of Sweet and Beautiful
and Wacked Out Brilliance, I received a lovely
email from a student I taught when I was
the writer-in-residence at an all-women's
university back in the not so distant day.

Teaching these students was one of the great
joys of my life. I scared the shit out of these
young women. They had to enter the class
in silence, sit in a circle, and wait for me to
enter (decked out in dickies and hoodies) at
which point they would rise, we would all
bow to each other, and I would put some music
on the stereo that they for sure did not know
and that would Blow Their Minds. Heh Heh.
I had a lot of requests for the class soundtrack.

I would then assign them tasks to inform their
art of awareness and we would write, or do
Meisner repetition techniques, or go and
talk to strangers on the campus, or a whole bunch
of other shit. They had no idea what to do with
me. But by the end of the semester we did a
mess of closing rituals, ending with the release
of a huge bouquet of balloons into the southern
sky (I know, I know, the environment) and with
everyone in a heap of tears.

It was one of the most satisfying teaching
experiences of my little life.

It also was a large contributor to the end of my marriage.

While at the university, nesting in a provided
furnished apartment thousands of miles from my
husband, I had the most horrifying experience of
developing a full-on, hard core crush on one of the
students. NOT one of my students. Swear on my cat's
head. But still. A student. A person who wasn't my
husband. And. A woman. She was a super hot,
butchie, 19 year old southern girl whom I discovered
in the yearly talent show where she mimed and danced
to " Your Body Is A Wonderland" by what's his face Mayer.

So Tacky.

But the girls went friggin' wild! I mean, this woman had
serious sexual power. And there I was, a youngish
professor, from the big city (Chicago), completely smitten
with this person.

Everything about it was terrifying or surprising to me.

I was no cheater, first of all. I loved my husband.

Also: I had tried it with the ladies earlier in my life, and I just
couldn't get with the whole vagina thing. I mean, they are
all so different! Nothing like my own! And so easy to do wrong!

What the f*ck are you supposed to do with them?
Men have it hard, as far as I'm concerned.
Le Penis is such a simple beast, so straightforward.

Nope: The Vagina, sadly:
Completely not my thing. Although I love me some lady
friends, and have a blessed number of them.

And of course: the power position which I was in made
it even more completely horrifying to me. It was everything
the feminist in me protested against in college, in my
adult life...everything. The abuse of power by professors
was unforgivable. Yet, there I was in a situation where
I understood the impetus, regardless of the resistance.

I would see her in the hall in her t-shirts and jeans and
just tremble. I would have all kinds of hotass dreams
about her. I would fight everything in me to not talk
to her. Even though it would have been easy as
I apparently ended up being a popular (if weird)
prof on campus, and it seemed like quite a few of
the girls were crushing on me.

But, Dear Reader:
I made it! I made it to the end of the semester
without being a complete f*cking dickhead!!!

I did not abuse my power, and,
I did not cheat on my husband (although I most
certainly did in my dreams and in my head).

It scared the sh*t out of me.
And it made me aware that despite our deep
friendship, the lack of sexual energy I had with my husband
was, perhaps, a serious problem--seeing that I am a lady
who loves the sex and has had a lot of it in my life.

This was the opening of the door to the end...
even though the end, as completely dramatic as it
turned out to be, was not to come for 2 more years.

And when it did, it involved a 19 year old,
drug-addicted, almost illiterate amazing French man.

Wait. Did I just write that down?
I did.

I hope you stay with me, peeps.
Life is a long and dirty and hot and beautiful road.

Love Is A Plastic Baggie Of Poop Scraped From The Ground Of The Local Doggie Park

2010-02-18T13:12:00.002+01:00

Instead of elucidating on why, today, Love is a Pile

of Poop...I shall illustrate 10 charming and bizarre

little facts and differences about France--namely the

south of France--that you perhaps did not know.

1. There is a southern accent even in France.

It is slower, wider, more nasally, and pronounces all

of the letters with gusto. If bread in Paris is: Pan,

bread in Toulouse is: Paing

I speak French with this southern accent.

Imagine, if you will, a French woman speaking

English with a Mississippian accent.

Adorable. I know. I know.

2. Vous ne pouvez pas passer la serpillière! You may not mop!!

In France, "mopping" is the measure of all activity.

It is understood here that all women do the mopping.

And apparently (something I never understood as I had never

actually mopped, but am of the old school where one gets

down on one's hands and knees and scrubs the kitchen floor)

this is a somewhat boisterous activity. If, like me, you are a

somewhat high-risk pregnancy, you can depend on it: you will

be forbidden to mop. And sweep. That "to sweep" is the Italian

slang term for boffing is a deliciousness not lost upon me.

Neither is the deliciousness of boffing.

I am, however, permitted to pick up a few dishes, walk around

a bit, cook certainly (hah!), and spend hours in the bathroom

obsessing over possible blood debutants.

3. The French are almost horrified when one brings up

Prenatal Vitamins. They don't even sell them except in very

small quantities in the pharmacy. When I was pregnant

with my first miscarriage adventure, I called the gynecologist

to schedule a check-up and after a bit of chatting with the

assistant I said, ok, so I should start taking my prenatal

vitamins now, right? And she said: Why would you do that?

And for all you future commenters (hee hee, hint hint),

the French like to put forth the idea that their diet is varied

and healthy...and if you believe that, you have not eaten in

a French country home as of late. Certainly the produce is

the best...but even the happiest carrot loses all of its vitamins

once beaten into submission by tons of heat and butter.

And a few leaves of lettuce does not a salad make...at least

not in Cali. AND how many amongst us can brag of being

ABLE to eat 9 SERVINGS OF BREAD STUFF PER DAY!!

4. The French refer to their cats not as "kitty kitty," but

rather "le chat, le chat!" or "the cat, the cat!!!"

I find this hilarious.

My Man does not understand why.

And then he continues to chase the cat around yelling-whispering:

"le chat le chat le chat le chat."

Our cat is the most mature item in our house.

5. At the French Ob-gyn office you will not be offered a delicate

paper robe. You will not even be invited to fully undress.

Instead you will find yourself dressed in whatever shirt you were

wearing, legs spread and bare, bottomless from the waist down

on the old torture bed. I am quite sure and positive that I am the

absolute ONLY pregnant woman in France who has been ass naked on

an ob-gyn table while wearing a Batman Hoodie! Yeah Boyeeee!!!!!

6. Many French women feel that it is more stressful on the fetus to

quit smoking than to continue smoking. I need not go any further

with this particular curiosity.

7. It takes 3 times longer to say anything in French.

Let Please be your example: S'il vous plait.

8. People do not smoke joints made up solely of pot.

All joints are mixed, thoroughly, with tobacco. One calls

to mind a Blunt (LOVE that term), except cigarillos are

not involved in the mix. Incidentally, they think the

American race indecent to smoke weed as we do.

And, considering my own attempts and failures-due-to

paralysis-and-paranoia at smoking weed in the US, I

can see their point.

9. If you ask a room filled with French people what their favorite

type of food is they will all ALL say, without hesitation: FRENCH!!

This was a particularly shocking event for me, coming, as I do,

from the cities of america where we love all kinds of food.

My confusion and surprise was not understood, however.

All my friends, all of whom are French, are now on a mission

to convince me, by their own hand, of the superiority of the

French cuisine. I particularly enjoyed the Indian sandwiches

The Neighbor man made for us last night (Quoi!!).

10. French women are the absolute most jealous nation of women

I have encountered. This includes Italian women. If you are at

all attractive, the French women at the party will diss you and

spit their eyes at you. EVEN IF THEY DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND

FOR YOU TO STEAL!!! They are just, in general, jealous.

Of your height, of your looks, of your life experience, of your

foreignness. It's pretty impressive. I tell no French woman anything

about myself now, as it will in no way be celebrated...but rather

fodder for future hatred. This in complete contrast to my experience

with american city women who band together and push each

other forward with pride. It is very very sad. And I believe, after

much questioning and pondering, that it is the result of a very

macho (though covertly so) society that constantly pits women

against each other. I mean, stick my head in the toilet, French

women were not given the vote until 1948!!!!!!!!!!

So I feel for my French sisters, and I wiggle my way into their

graces with genuine complements and thoughtful attention.

Exhausting.

HOWEVER: I do love living here.

And I found that, on a my recent trip to the US, I truly and

deeply missed the level of politeness and friendliness that now

seems to be missing from the streets of the US city.

Bonus Item: The above photo is NOT a stereotype. I have

seen this image, and varieties of it, frequently in my 'hood.

This could have been taken 2 minutes from where I live.

(More later on why love is poop...if I can muster the energy).

Also to note: Pinkish Discharge has Ceased and Desisted.

Unable not to note: My Porno Boobs.

Envy Me Not My Pinkish Discharge!!!

2010-02-16T10:31:00.001+01:00

This is a spider foot!!!!

Christ on a Cracker! I was just sitting here
choosing between posting possibilities when
I remembered my dream!

It started with a woman suspended inversely-like
an upside down spider-by her arms and legs,
from a set of basement water pipes while a man
was slowly penetrating her vaginally.
She had a serene look on her face and she was dressed
(half dressed) in the fashion of the 20's.

what the hell!

The dream then proceeded to portray a story
of a brothel (the 500 year old ruin which we
are rebuilding and in which we live was a brothel)
and how the women and men who work
there have a murder mystery to solve.

Note: I always have fantastic and frequent dreams.
But the whole pregnancy dimension brings much
greater clarity and storyline fluidity.

When I awaken from dreams like these I know
better than to recount them to my Beloved.

There he is, faithfully recurled around me after
my many trips to the chamber pot, and all i want
to do is kiss his sweet cheek and pour hallucinagenic
dreams into his ear in less than perfect French.

He worries for my sanity. But at least he no longer
worries that I am secretly, and really, chemically imbalanced.

He just sees me as a precious and individual flower.

Huh.

In other news: the pinkish discharge is back
and I'm puffing around wondering whether
or not I still feel pregnant and balancing anxiety
with chocolate and wild cat cuddles.

Makes one want to buy a sonogram machine.

In cheerier news:
I don't shop or buy clothes unless my old clothes
are squealing from the smell or filled with holes. That
said, my new favorite piece of clothing that I picked up
in Brooklyn is THIS!!!!!!!!

That's Right!!!!!
You know you want it!!!!!!!!

Envy me not my pinkish discharge! But Envy Me, Envy Me my BATMAN BOY'S HOODIE!!!!!!!!!

Where My Chamber Pots At!!!!

2010-02-14T15:09:00.000+01:00

Video killed the radio star. Perhaps.

But indoor plumbing massacred the chamber pot!

And we are not the better for it.

Forget the idea of a poo-filled pot!
I'm talking peeing in the middle of the night.
What luxury to reach beneath the bed mid-dream,
pullout the pot, edge your lovely butt over or onto
said pot, and pee without barely awakening!

PREGNANT WOMEN EVERYWHERE
GO GET YOU A POT!!!!!

The Lovely Man came home with one and I've not
looked back! It will be a permanent being in our bedroom.
And with its lid, no odors. And with a little water in before
one pees, so easy to clean!

Also to note: the man continues to panic. My mother will
probably come out in August if I continue to successfully
carry the, as of now, 9 week old embryo. His quote of
the night: Oh sh*t! We have to finish the guest room
[which is not even started]! It may be snowing in August!

I love love love love love love love The Man.

And I love love love love love the comments and followers!!!!
It is so friggin' exciting!!!! I feel like my little hands are
branching out over the planet!!!!

A tango of ovaries!!!!

WOOF WOOF!!!!

With Whom Does A Girl Have To Smoke Crack To Get A Follower?

2010-02-13T14:32:00.003+01:00

That is all.

Plus a picture of my porno cat.
This is how they do in France.

How Sexual Abuse Can F*ck You Up (and other delightful musings)

2010-02-12T12:15:00.007+01:00

It is true that our village is a small one.

And beautiful with Roman bridges (tiny), 12th
Century chapels, and all you can eat brick work.
It is also true that over 8000 people a summer
pull their aching feet (and sometimes their mules)
through the village toward the Chemin de Saint
Jacques de Compostelle in search of: themselves,
themselves, their health, spiritual enlightenment,
themselves, but mostly, it seems, something to do
in their retirement.

Before I met The Man, and after I left my husband,
I took a break from my desperate and melted-chocolate-
lake-in-the-dead-of-winter depression to walk the
Chemin for 2 non-consecutive days with my beloved
friend L.

L had ex-patted herself to France after coming home
from a yoga class to find her Thai apartment absolutely
emptied of all things, including her clothes and her man.

Enough to down even the sturdiest of vagabonds, this
was particularly difficult when one takes into account
her being on the moonlit side of 55. I am looking at my
hands as I type this, and while no one has ever correctly
placed my age, it is true that the hands hardly ever let
you down in the physical facts arena, whether years or gender.

I am sure that L looked at her own hands a lot as she
went from shock to sympathy to horror to fear from the
death threats she began receiving from her man’s new Thai
girlfriend. The south of France seemed safe, and she took
up hiding in the “holiday home” of a former student.

It is there that I met her and instantly disliked her.
She was absolutely incapable of looking into my eyes
and always on the edge of a freak-out, while being
invasive and thoroughly incapable of listening.

2 years on, as L was in the process of saving my life,
and as I became less and less capable of going a day
without seeing her, and as I thanked my lucky starbeams
for her existence upon laying my head down each night,
I thought on this reaction and how deliciously wrong
wrong wrong I am most of the time.

A tremendous and freeing thing it is to be so wrong!

So we walked the Chemin together. Or at least, we
walked a bit of the way, then a bit of the way separately,
and then again together, and then she stopped to point
out a poisonous, if flattened, snake. And we reached
a point where we sat and ate chocolate while she sketched
a little drawing of the site and then we returned to
walking as before.

And I began to feel, by the 4th hour, as I did when I
would get out of a Greyhound bus for a meal break in
the middle of absolutely f*cking nowhere except a Burger
King, a gas station, and some broke-ass restaurant thing
with electrical wires zooming over my head and I would
look out over the desolate horizon and fight down the push
to just start walking and never stop until I dropped
f*cking dead thank you very much.

Just walk on by. Foolish pride. Sing it, Dionne Warwick.
And how I would think of Keroac, Jack, and how much I loved
“On the Road” at 18, and how disappointed I was to find
that he only actually wrote one book except maybe I just
wasn’t smart enough to see the differences and nuances
and how it deeply sucked that Ginsberg was a card-carrying
member of NAMBLA and how sexual abuse is cyclical and kicks
in an often uncontrollable urge to control others through
the same means, an urge that gets siphoned into the sexual
neural pathways and how afraid I used to be that I, too,
would turn predator and sexually abuse a child, as I had
been abused, and so I decided to never have children and
then all of a sudden, I turn my back on the wasteland and
I am just off the Chemin and walking out the door of my
gold-chain wearing French ob-gyn and I am pregnant with
my own personal Sack of Cells.

Who the F*ck would Ever imagine That!!

I'm All About The Panties. Yo.

2010-02-11T13:50:00.006+01:00

And that is why I am so de-lighted with my new pinkish
moulin rouge-esque boy-shorts! ALL HAIL THE BOY SHORT!!!!!!
For whom does the bell toll? Let it be for the thong-thong-thong!!!!

There are those who would bow down to Spanx...and I can
understand why...but I just cannot get with paying 30 bucks
for a pair'o'panties.

The boy short, while certainly not cinching and packing
your feminine extras, does away with the dastardly pantie
line and presents one in an "I can escape you if I need to"
kind of light. And that, combined with their "old timie" feeling,
launches me straight into a world of fantasy that the modern
world just cannot bountifully enable with its flash and vigor,
its already stretched sexual limits, its sex-ting
and "as much as you can eat" porn.

Speaking of porn, I dreampt that The Neighbor Man
invited The Man and me over and porn magazines
were strewn around his toilet.

A note about where we live: I moved to this tiny beautiful
French village (900 people) to get relief from my broken
marriage, and, within 1/2 a year, I fell for, and moved in with,
The Man who has lived here for many years. The village is well
traveled, being on the Chemin de Compostello, and it has all
the modern thingie bobs, but it is definitely lacking in height
(everyone is pretty short) and a certain cultural curiosity.

I speak in huge generalities, to be sure, but it is a cause for
celebration when I come across a local house that has actual
"art" on the walls. Mostly you find posters or paintings of
seascapes, countryside...and family photographs.

So, to have the friggin' amazing luck to fall upon The Neighbor Man
is beyond, dahlingk! He is of the same make as the people with
whom I lived for years in a Chicago where house. Scruffy, Stinky,
Guitar-Playing, Dumpster Diving, Art Making, Fun Having,
Roll-Up Cigarette Smoking, Light Drug Using.

And Ladies, like many of these types, he is hot, too.

We became fast friends, he and I, when my heart was
a frog frying on a river rock. I spoke hardly any French
but I would sit by his fire while he and his posse played
and sang Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel and smoked
out the dog and the neighboring chickens. He was part of
my life being saved. I love him.

Since that time his beloved has left him cold.

But that is a another story for another time.

He, I am sure, would appreciate the panties.

As does The Man.

The sexual world of whom I plan on rocking tonight.

Now I shall take a walk in the snowy paths of France
(ha! Vancouver----crazy ass sh*t!)

And I leave you with a little beauty:

http://video.mytaratata.com/video/iLyROoafYI9I.html

PS: class issues regarding art and culture
to be addressed in later posts.

Worry. Not. Y'all.
The captain will land the plane.

WAIT!!!! I'M OVULATING AGAIN!!!!!

2010-02-09T18:24:00.004+01:00

My First Comment!!!!!

A Girl Could Ovulate While Pregnant
In The Face Of Her First Real Comment!!!!!

This is all kinds of extraordinary when
you think that my lame ass has just posted
this thing on Twitter from time to time
in an attempt to pick up from the posse over tharn!!

Thank you Lady Duchess for your comment...!
and be not offended by the "Lady," I add
it to many of the favored females in my
little life.

The Duchess must have come across these
missives by pressing the "next blog" button...
which brings me to the mystery of the "next blog"
organization! When I first started this up
all of the "next blog"s were Christian themed!

What is up with that business!!!!

Not once I mention ole Jesus boy ...I mean
I'm sure he was as pleasant as anyone could be given
the sandals and lack of sanitary options...in
fact, my person-in-the-making was conceived on
Xmas night of all things...and I surely would
love to hear Jesus' play list ... (any ideas?)

but why did the Mixing Machine on high decide
that my little blog should be followed by
The God Squad ??? I was bemused...confused...
perhaps my born-again little brother had a hand
in it??? Perhaps it was....a message???

But shortly thereafter the machine deemed to have
completely changed its mind about me.

Now my blogs are followed, invariably, by the
"I'm a crazy person" blog. Manic-depression,
drugtastic, freaking on the knife edge peeps
who are celebrating their trueblooded selves
in a frenzy!!! HOT SH*T!!!!

The two ends of the spectrum that so closely
resemble a snail eating its tail!!!!

Note: apparently one of the most beautiful
things to witness is the love making act
of the snail! This according to my wood sculpting
friend who's duty it is to carve out beauty from
other forms of beauty.

Me, I spend the later hours of the winter rainy
nights running behind the snails that venture
out when it is wet...I run behind them pushing
them onwards in their unaware escape from the
hordes of French villagers chasing behind
them with plastic sacks by the light of the
full moon, all a-ready for a hot plate
of escargot avec persil et beurre.

THAT. Is the TRUTH

Swear on the head of my crazed cat.

NIGHT SICKNESS...OR WHENEVER

2010-02-03T10:47:00.002+01:00

It comes and goes...but it is reassuring, and not too difficult
compared to the throngs of vomiting mommies-over-loos spread
throughout the world...

But more excitingly:

A HEART BEAT IS HAPPENING!
RIGHT NOW AND NOW AND NOW AND NOW!!!!

I still don't understand why smaller things have faster
heartbeats. Wait, I just understood it. Taken care of.

I also just finished reading "Invisible Man" for the first,
and most definitely not the last, time.

So the heartbeat viewing/hearing was hallucinogenic.
My beloved was a little reserved about the whole thing
and, while seemingly happy, I believe he has stepped up
the panic mode.

Which is tiring if it leaks out as all his stress does:
picking fights with me.

I try to manage them.
He comments and rails a little, I sit on my tongue's hands,
he continues with raising voice, I sit and sit, but my
brow clearly furrows, he pushes and pushes...and finally,
I snap. He then goes and smokes a cigarette, or joint,
and feels better whilst I am left with a smoldering ball
of anger in my stomach.

The last one of these incidents was over "The Hurt Locker"
which he deemed too upsetting for me to watch.

Let it be noted here that I am 9 years his senior and
have much, much, much more life experience than he.

So. Tedious as his proclamations are, I have told him that
the next 8 months with be filled with "yessuhs" and me
just doing what the hell he needs me to do for him to calm
down.

He does not like this idea.

But I am doing it anyway.

Our first visit to the ob/gyn was much more successful
than the last, empty egg revealing, visit. Even the Irish
looking assistant managed to scrape up a smile when I joked
with her. The doctor, in his gold-spangled glory, seemed
surprised at my amount of info. I am not telling him that
I am taking prenatal vitamins as the French do not do such
a thing, believing, hilariously, that they eat a varied enough
diet to take care of all nutritional needs.

Let them not fool you.
No one knows how to kill a vegetable more thoroughly than
a French country cook...except a Welsh one.

Broccoli is mush here...as are green beans...and salad is
minimal. Though not any kind of meat you can imagine...
including, of course, horse.

Sigh.

I love me some horses.
My man loves to eat him some horses.

Sometimes I feel that this relationship is doomed.

Then I try to remember that I am pregnant and nothing
should be decided when in such a state.

Also: I am thinking of quitting my best friend of
26 years as she is becoming a grey and self-absorbed
misery guts. On a recent visit to the US she spent
half an hour of the 7 waking hours I spent with her
looking at facebook. I doubt she would even note
the irony.

Fire her or not?

I know no one is reading.
But feedback is welcome.

DESPERATE

2010-01-22T09:58:00.002+01:00

While chilling through my jet lag I was checking in
with the "mommy blog" world and just over-friggin-whelmed
by the "whiteness" of it all. And there, in the heart
of the plum, I found the exact example of that which
stabs me in the wrist in this world:

"I had my very first outing as a mom of two when my son
was a little over two weeks old. I desperately needed
barbeque skewers to cook the kabobs I planned for dinner."

Who the f*** desperately needs barbeque skewers two weeks
after pushing a person out of their vagina?

Perhaps I'm naive. This is an actual possibility, not
one of those statements intended to imply the opposite.

I have lived in many countries and cities within their
boundaries...and what I would desperately need at such
a moment would be to cook, if my partner was not cooking,
something that was there and easy.

I would never desperately need skewers.
I would desperately need sleep.

There are so many conclusions that one can extract
from such a statement. But white suburbia is the
most high pitched in its "look at me" scream.

Sigh.

Of course I am sure that all of this will be proved
wrong to me if I manage to actually fabricate the person
apparently growing in my uterus.

And: what the hell is up with this rash of "Bad Mommy"
blogs. Why does everyone need to be such a "bad boy".
It's a competition for the Marlon Brando of mommyhood--
We all suck at a lot of things, and being a parent
is most surely one of the biggest.

PS: The cat agrees.
PPS: I dreamed that I had a miscarriage and the baby
looked like the alien who bursts from the belly in "Alien"
I was not dressed in sexy white cotton Sigourney panties
at the time, however. My dreams don't confuse shit like that.

DAHLINGK!!

2010-01-21T12:27:00.001+01:00

The cat, with her weight gain, is snaking her way through
one of her many cat doors. And I know this because I
have returned to my sweet sweet home in la Francia!!

To my delicious man who set shit in motion while I was
gone for 3 weeks!

We are rebuilding a large'n'long 500 year old ruin
that was originally constructed from handmade bricks and
stones from the river, held together by dirt. Yes. Dirt.

By large I would say that the living room-dining room
is 645 square feet with 13 foot ceilings. And we haven't
even begun the bedrooms.

By ruin, I am talking roof fallen in, first floor fallen
in, walls fallen in. La Ruin. Older than the United States.

By rebuilding, I mean he and I are on the ladders, on the roof,
on our knees rebuilding this hot mess Ourselves--with the
help of others on brief and quite wonderous occasions!
(Which is to say--my hands could scrape the skin from your nose
and my back needs a solo break in the Bahamas-did I mention I am
41? And my darling: 31?)

It has been 4 years of work for him, 2.8 for me. And we are tired.

In one 2.8 year relationship there has been:

Moving from the US to France.
Learning a new language
(which would be French, from his mind's tongue to mine).
Acquiring a cat. Wild.
Transport of 19 boxes of books and 1 old wedding dress.
Rebuilding of a ruin.
Living in said ruin while rebuilding.
Leaving behind of friends and family (O lawdy la Facebook!)
Scrapping about for way to make money in new land.

and!

3 (official) miscarriages.

I hope your eyebrows raised at least one degree,even if
you are on la Botox, for I can tell you that just learning
how to argue in another language is a strain enough.

So back I am. And the house smells of wonderful burning wood
in the most shitastic new stoves we have in the spot.

A smell I can smell because I left.
Just as my loves lips are that much softer since I returned.

ps: the pinkish discharge continues and did for the entire
travel from the US west coast to France. We are not holding
our breath. Which is to say, i am not, as I have not told
Beloved about the discharge. I shall just wait and wish.
(And be ordered to sit down and do nothing for 3 moths).

He's Just Not Into You

2010-01-18T10:40:00.000+01:00

Which I saw tonight. While in bed next to my mother.
And I tried to remember if I had ever had the "will he
call" things happen. I feel like no. But I know I have
ached and yearned along with all the other female animals
(because we are all animals) in the world.

And I wondered if my man will be happy to see me when
I get off the plane. And if he will express it how I would
like him to. And if he doesn't, I thought, maybe I will leave
him...because I will be so disappointed.

And then - or now - I wonder if I am a romance addict.

But while I am suffering through the loss of my dear love,
cigarettes, I won't give up my romance addiction.

Especially while I am pregnant.

It seems the pinkish discharge has abated.

Now I just have to buy more effing presents for my
french in-laws. Really. What the fuck could people
want from America? If it was China, I could get with
it. Or even the foreign land of Canada.

I also found some fiction of my mothers, or rather
a note toward future fiction, where she describes
being in a bathroom stall and hearing a young girl
who seems to have a stomach ache "softly groaning"
in the stall besides here.

It shocks me how disgusting I find this.

But then, while I adore and love my mother, I cannot
abide her smell, her odor. And no one else would
ever say she smells anything other than normal.

What is that crazy shit?
It is the crazy shit that keeps this blog anonymous.

Although no one is using it anyway.

Over and out.

PS: In a stack of books my mother is trying to displace
I discovered her copy of the original Joy Of Sex:
also shocking is how uninteresting it is to me...that
which I once spent so much energy on trying to see.

Here Comes The Red Train: Miscarriage Ahoy!!

2010-01-17T09:57:00.000+01:00

ah. Yes. Is that pain in my right leg the signs of
oncoming release of 3 weeks old embryo?

Or perhaps the slight pink discharge?

Anything could be the flag that signals
:the end of everything that was hope for
the little cell freak out in my uterus.

Of course I am a day of plane rides away from
my beloved. Rides that cross large bits of water.

I am scheduled to fly 3 days from now.
Surely I will miscarry at high clicks.
I will join the Mile-High-Scrub.

Sigh.

I am 41.
It is straight to the fertility peeps when I am
done with this one. Clean that sperm up!
Pump out a good egg! We have no problem
getting pregnant....we will do fine with all
the good parts.

Ah I love you unreading reader.

Read me through this catastrophe canal.

ps: should i be more or less upset that my best
friend spent 1/2 an hour looking at facebook
and then headed off to bed at 7:30 when she
had about 15 waking hours to see me (for
this and last year).

In Brooklyn

2009-12-30T17:20:00.000+01:00

So here, in Brooklyn, I am wondering

why am I one of the only people in the world,
it seems, who is not really into The Michael Jackson.

I've just spent a normal morning with my friend
who is a killing tenor sax player, recognized world
round, and he cannot explain to me why he is into
the Michael and why I am not.

All I know is that Michael is not booty boffing music.

And I like the booty boffing in my music.

Also: I can't stand friendly dogs.

Give me a wolf or give me nothin'.

And now to walk around in the New York.

New York City

2009-12-29T17:56:00.000+01:00

Brooklyn!

I am in Brooklyn!!!

I am not in the south of France!!!

Many Americans may not get why I am glad to be back in the US,
and, many years ago, for years after I moved from Europe to the US, I had
a terrible time finding a space for myself. I couldn't get with the American
kids who were mean (note: German kids are the nicest that I have encountered:
interesting.) And I had the habit of trashing America. Much to the
fatigue of my hard-won American friends.

When I was about 30 I started to understand and appreciate the particular
cultural national identity that is, despite its size, America.

And now I am lovin' me some America.

For sure, it is the big city America.
When America is back woods, it is most definitely more dangerous and
soul-crushing then small town Europe.

I live in a village in France, and it beats ANY small town in the US.

But nothing gives me what NY or Chicago gives me.

I will be walking my ass around the city with its sharp corners,
couture, culture and GREAT FRIGGIN' FOOD!!!!

Ask a room of French people what their favorite food is and they
will look you dead in the eye and without a pause: "French Food"

In US cities you can never guess the response.

And this, I love.

However, there are good things about French country living.

But that. Is for another post.

NOW FOR SOME INDIAN FOOD!!!!!!

I am Tenderly Lucky

2009-11-29T12:23:00.000+01:00

Actually. I was until my boyfriend opened his mouth.

He bought me breakfast in bed.

We made love, and it was lovely.

And I was dreaming about that sentence:

" I am tenderly lucky," and how light and

all everything it was. I got up to put it

down on this blog. Just the title. And he

walks in. He starts to talk to me and then

I ask him if he could let me be for 5 minutes

to do this. He speaks only French. I can't think

in English if he is speaking French to me. And so

he belittles the blog with one sentence. Knowing

that I am not writing poetry right now because we

have a house that we are building. Knowing that it

is rare indeed that I write at all.

But he just can't shut his mouth.

In my heart I know he is good.

In my heart I know he is mean, as well.

I am a sensitive girl.

Now what was going to be an interesting and

joyful blogpost, is a shitty blog post.

Thank you.

Boyfriend.

O But The Joy of the Christian Side Hug

2009-11-26T09:28:00.000+01:00

This. Has given me so much reason to live today.

Before I make my foie gras (by microwaving it, yes!)
I just have to give a huge "what-what" to the alien
invasion that is having a massive chortle on
our behalf up there in the starry starry night.

It just can't get any better than this:

Who've I Gotta F*** to Lose a Kilo

2009-11-21T10:28:00.000+01:00

I've always been an athlete-artist personage.

Tennis, horse-back riding, running, swimming,
dance, music, writing, acting--and all of that on my mom's
single mother with two kids salary--no country club action.

Now that I'm 40 my exercise is running. 3 + miles/day.
And I know how to eat. But this summers fete action has
not been peeling off like the winter fete action did.
I've been running like a flea for 6 weeks and the scale
will not give up the goods. The goods are staying on me
in an all-over cuddle sort of way and that would be ok
except:

in 5 weeks I am going to be face to face with a full on
very hot movie star with whom I was friends 10 years ago
when we were in the same acting class and I weighed
20 pounds less. I haven't seen him in all of those 10 years.

this is not going to be good.

No one would call me fat, being 5'10".
But I gain all over which means my face, as well.
It is all a little disheartening. Like I am going to full
on see my physical demise in a close-up shot from
a straight woman's hell. The falling face of a handsome man.

My own man loves my body. And shows me. Every day.
For this I am grateful and thankful. And I show my thanks.
Every day.

But who've I gotta f*** to lose at least one friggin' kilo?

the good news: suicide moment is over and the very large
dining room ceiling is painted as the floor awaits the
positioning of the wood face it will sport into eternity.

also: Barack is going to pull out of Afghanistan.

And: my scrabble score is up.

so there's that.

Porn and Sadness and Suicide

2009-10-22T09:24:00.001+02:00

Since starting this "blog" I have been trying to write
only when energized so as to hit the marks.

Thinking about suicide, or dying in general, does
not fatten any energetic tonal possibilities.

But it is something I do fleetingly throughout
the day. I think about it and how tired I am of
living and how sad I am that I feel nothing right
now which leads me where.

I know that I love my man. I know that feeling
is somewhere in some soular closet smothered
under my hats and socks. And that feeling is the
one that leaves me open and red and completely
vulnerable. He has been doing what he can to
close that space up. I think that it is too much for him.

We see only the beautiful things in ourselves when someone
looks at us with that golden massive glow of love and acceptance.

If you don't love yourself, how can you accept that
love? My man thinks it is not a good idea to love
oneself. This is a cultural difference.

I don't like porn. It makes me feel out of control and drugged
and I don't want my man looking at other women and getting off.

When I was back in the US he used it.
This is so disappointing to me and so deadening.

But what frustrates me is that he says he is not jealous,
or he tries to play it off like that, and really it may be because
I have never given him reason to be jealous. And, frankly,
maybe I should. Maybe I should make him feel how I
feel when I think of him jacking off to the images of
someone else.

It would be so very simple and easy.
Regardless of the dust I can be quite beautiful sometimes.
Although when I was a model, that was when I got the
least amount of men.

But I am starting to not give a fuck.
I'm leaving behind even being sad.

So I'm listening to Girlyman.

That Pussy Rocks

2009-10-21T09:36:00.000+02:00

The cat is a buddha on the kitchen stool.

Should the end of the meat packing world arrive,
the cat will feed us with mice, doormice, birds, lizards
and, of course, rabbits. My little vampire.

When the rain falls she runs into the house crying
for us to dry her. When we say hi to her she returns
the welcome and adds some opinionson the political
situation or the health care crisis.

When I stay in bed too long she prances in, kisses me
with her whiskers, and then reports on how lovely it is
outside and that I should really get up. She only drinks
water from the bucket we keep by the shower for runoff
water. She eyes intruding cats with curiosity and blinking eyes.

Let me reach for a smoke.

The cat is my first child.

On Hotting Oneself Up

2009-10-17T12:11:00.000+02:00

I am all about the beauty sleep.

Being 40 and taken for younger all my adult life has more to do with
sleep than my cheekbones. Fo Sho Yo. Give me the juicy 9 hours
and 3 dreams a night and I will leave my man high and juicily dry.

Give me less: haggard. Sad. Spiritually disemboweled.

My man drew me a bath last night, and I stepped onto the page
and right through to the hot, hot water with a beer and a cigarette
and Jaimie Cat Callan's "French Women Don't Sleep Alone,"
which is sweet, if a report of French city women, and got me thinking about lingerie.

So to complete the experience I perfumed and smoothed myself
and then hotted myself up with a slip, matching red lingerie
and a skirt and sweater before sliding into the kitchen.

Let this be understood: I spend most of my time in dust filled
clothing while sanding, tiling, painting and generally filling
my life, and hair and skin, with dirt.

I do not spend my time being obviously hot.

It felt good.

A Big Sheep

2009-10-16T11:07:00.000+02:00

An enormous sheep is cattily eyeing me from her perch on our kitchen island.

Nevermind the sheep...just the idea of a "kitchen island" and me is a bit of a shock.

As is the 500 year old brothel that I am rebuilding from a ruinous state with my French lover here in the south of France. All of which would suggest that I am rich and an adult.

Yet 40 years have not yet conferred any feeling of adulthood upon me. Nor has it brought in the duckets. What it has given me is years of various lovers, an ex-husband, and enough knowledge to leave me feeling that I know nothing.

Scruffy person.
Working on making a person.
Laying aside 2 miscarriages and 3 abortions.
Wishing for a place in this French thicket
where I could throw down to a little XClan.

The soul cleansing left me feeling something like neutral.
Now when we argue I feel distant. But fixed to point making.
And sorrowful for the suffering of the heat that beats in my darling.

Am I proud of my past and it's suffering?
Am I clinging to that flag as it whips in the fat breathed air?
If I let go of the occasional jealousy and the idea that I cannot trust
will there be anything left of me?

If it is I who start the chess game, without no initial reaction
to someone else' s pawn, will I win and do I care to win...
since I don't care if I lose?

Paulo Coelho + Angels + Me?

2009-10-15T13:02:00.000+02:00

Could it be that I have been bitten in the ass by my angel?

For months I have been thinking of pushing it through with this blog.
No real matter that the word "blog" annoys me as much as the word "drizzle."

Dooce, and all of her kind. I like it?

So I talked to a man who talks with angels (archangel Michael shows up for him, it seems...
along with chats with the souls of Obama and Sarkowsy).

He cleared the excess morsels of souls that had attached to my own little portable soul.

Two days later the book "The Valkyries" showed up on the arm of my couch.

And today I subscribe to Paulo's blog and the clearance word for the subscription
(that wavy nonsensical word in the box) is DOUCS.

So here I am typing.
Listening to my angel.

How can I change this font to Garamond and get my ass to the gym?