It's Sunday morning. T is playing his drums and singing the ABC's. This is a regular gig for him, one he did with much fanfare at the Oregon State Fair a few weeks back. An entire tent of people applauded his performance, while I laughed so hard I cried. I really think this kid has a rock star streak. Look out, Mama.

So much is going on right now that it's hard to keep up. Still, at the end of the day it boils down to the basics: getting T in his jam jams, reading some bedtime stories, putting the little man to bed. He is loud and crazy and difficult at times, but he is a treasure all the same. I am so proud of the boy he is becoming, and sometimes I can't help but wonder where the time has gone.

In other news, I recently made the decision to start going back to school. I love school and honestly don't feel totally well if not pursuing something academic. My last few years of classes were sort of random (linguistics), but now I aim to do something concrete that leads to an actual career path. I am very much blessed in that my employer has agreed to be flexible with me, and we have worked out an arrangement where I will continue to work full-time. Twice per week, I will have class in the morning. The other three mornings, I am required to get in by 7:30. All days of the week, I am to work through lunch, with a hard stop at 5 to get Mr. T.

The timing is intense, but it will cut back to something a little more reasonable in January. School is on a quarter system, so I need to make it through three months of crazy. I know I can do it. I am a little nervous, but it will go fine. I got my textbooks the other day. One class is Neurology, the other is Anatomy and Physiology. The combination means I suddenly have many atlases of the human body in my possession.

A huge part of being able to do this is having someone supporting me in my endeavors. I never realized how little support I received from Teo's dad, both emotionally and just in the daily things. It makes such a difference to have someone who is not only behind me but also excited for me, and who is willing to help out with basics like cooking dinner and taking out the trash. It really is amazing what a difference that makes -- not feeling like you're going into something completely alone.

Anyway, I am both excited and nervous. For now, T and I are going to spend Sunday in the park with a new friend. School starts in a week. Wish me luck.

Are my comments working? Has everyone disappeared? I am back now that we have moved into our house and I got my wireless hooked up.

Know what? Things are good.

Pictures to come. I apologize for the delay. I think people always underestimate how busy things get when a move is involved. The amount of time I have to organize, unpack, rewire, etc is limited by work and child. I feel like I am always on overdrive -- not in a bad way, but in a very noticeable, constant, and rewarding way.

There has been sunshine here the last few days. Good for the soul. Also? I got called in to pick up the Tater on Friday afternoon because he was crying uncontrollably at day care (turns out four days without poop is not fun), and so I made up the hours of work I missed this evening. Working on a Saturday night was weirdly more enjoyable than I thought it would be. It's nice to be in my house, doing my thing.

I had some vacation days left over that I had to use up before the end of the year, so I am taking this entire week off of work.

Teo is in his new day care (more on that in a moment) and I am absolutely ASTOUNDED at the taste of sweet, sweet freedom I get to experience for the next four days. Eight uninterrupted hours to do whatever I like? No child to wrestle in the grocery store? Does this mean I can go sit in a cafe and - gasp! - read???

Well, yes. Except that I spent yesterday at the walk-in clinic, where I waited two hours to see a doctor. I have had a cough that just won't go anywhere, and it has gotten bad enough since Sunday evening that it is waking me (and Teo) up at night. Yesterday morning, I started coughing so hard I almost threw up. I am scared to go somewhere quiet to read, when I am instead loudly hacking in the corner. There is no phlegm or anything - this is a dry, painful cough - so I thought it was nothing more than a cold, but the warnings on the packages say if a cough persists for more than a week, go see someone. The doctor gave me antiobiotics and said that if it's not better by Thursday, I could have walking pneumonia or adult whooping cough. Hilarious.

I feel fine, except that I can't stop coughing. It's amazing how disruptive constant and painful coughing can be to your daily routine. So, to get me through to Thursday, the doctor gave me super powerful cough syrup. The prescription should be ready by now, so I am going to get jiggy with that over the next 48 hours. Also -- NEWS FLASH: over-the-counter cough syrup doesn't work. Verified by my doctor. So stop buying the stuff.

I will, instead, have codeine-powered cough syrup, which means I will probably just zen out extra hard. But, if it will give my poor throat a break, I am all about it. My ribs actually hurt from the coughing, as do my abs.

Health issues aside, here are my projects for this week. Because, yes, this is vacation, so God forbid I relax:

1. Visit some houses.
Didn't know I was house-hunting? Well, I am. I had my eye on three houses, and they were on the list for the realtor and I to visit tomorrow. Funny thing -- all three got sold yesterday. The agent says people who were on the fence about buying are now jumping in, given that the rates have changed and what not. She is very cool about the whole process, with a generally que sera sera attitude, which I can dig.

2. Get my paperwork in order.
If I don't do this soon, April will arrive tomorrow and all my tax info will still be stuffed into the bottom drawer in my kitchen.

3. Organize Teo's clothes
Out with the 18-month stuff and in with the 24. Just in time for his 18 month birthday. Ironic!

4. Cook some food
One of the biggest things I miss about my life pre-parenthood is taking the time to cook, getting to experiment with food and just enjoying the food prep process. Now, I usually have about 15-20 minutes to throw something together on the nights I actually DO cook, and I frankly have no urge to experiment. This means I have gotten my previously reasonably large repertoire of dishes honed down to just 5 or 6 staples, and that's no good. I would love, love, love to be the homecooked meal Betty Crocker of my dreams, but I would settle for just Crockpot Mom for now.

5. See a movie
Matinee, here I come. I have not been to the theater since Teo was born.

6. Sit in a cafe
My master plan, in fact, is to organize my recipes at a cafe. Nothing says H-O-T-T like a woman who has nothing better to do with her time and energy than organize her recipe collection, so I'll be sure to look super sexy. And take some cough syrup, first. Look out, men of Portland!

7. Buy every last one of my Christmas presents
This may be a little ambitious but I have no idea how this is going to happen at any other time. I think my very definition of a nightmare would involve trying to beat the Christmas crowds with Mateo in tow. Since he has mastered walking (and running), he is generally much less content to sit in a stroller than he used to be. This means shopping is hell somewhere around 90% of the time, and most of it is spent trying to keep him from destroying display tables or walking away with a jar of olives. Why can't all stores be toddler-proof?

8. Hang out at Powell's
World's greatest bookstore, here I come! I have not gotten to casually peruse your shelves since moving here.

9. Get my windshield wipers replaced
These wipers I have are crap. Kdogg will attest to that. They need to be replaced, pronto. In a place where it rains so much, it is generally a good idea to have wipers that work.

10. Clean my house
This is an ongoing obsession but it will be fabulous to really give the house a good cleaning without having a Mateo afoot.

10 things. 3.5 days remaining. Mom also mentioned wanting to hit up the outlet stores on Friday, so that might have to get worked in there somewhere. Just sayin.

As for Teo's day care: Kari told me that she went to pick up her little man yesterday, and the Tates was happily playing outside. Upon seeing his aunt, he ran up to her and gave her leg a hug, which makes my heart sort of want to leap out of my chest. It also makes me so happy that we moved here and live so close to family. The two of them then proceeded to sing a song, which Kari in turn taught to the day care staff. When I dropped Mateo off this morning, the girls excitedly told me about their encounter, and then said they are huge fans of the song and are going to sing it all the time. Also? When I asked how his first day at the new place went, one of his teachers said, "He did AWESOME. I was really impressed. He's so smart! "

I laughed and shrugged it off and she continued, "No, really! He was telling us about all kinds of animal sounds... he knew them all!"

"Oh yeah," I said, laughing, "He loves his animals... Did he nap ok? That can be tough sometimes."

"Yeah," responded the other teacher, "He didn't sleep the whole time, but he'll adjust. He was just very quiet, though. He sat in the corner with us and read books. I think he could have done that all afternoon, he just wanted to read and read and read."

"See?" said the other, "He's smaaarrrrt."

I'm not sure the inflection comes across on the screen, but the conversation was super cute and it assuaged any fears I had about switching him to this new center. Today was my second drop-off, and Mateo has pretty much ignored me upon arrival both times. I set him down, take off his coat, and he just plops himself somewhere and jumps right in. I find that encouraging, and I hope it means he's a pretty adaptable little dude.

Alright - time to go pick up my prescription and hit the shops in a codeine induced non-coughing haze.

I received a phone call today that Teo was next up on the wait list at a daycare we had toured in April. It is a perfectly fine and respectable day care, and he is going to make the switch in two weeks.

I love where Mateo is now -- it's an amazing day care and the teachers are fantastic. But, it is 20 minutes out of my way each morning, and another 20 or more added to my commute on the way home each night. I have to cross to the other side of the river and make my way through downtown to drop him off and pick him up. Also? It's expensive.

This other place? Well, it happens to be four blocks from my house. And it happens to be almost $300 less per month. And? And? It's where his cousin Howie goes.

This is going to make my life so much easier. That money is going to revolutionize things. And I'll save money on gas. And I'll be able to get to work earlier. Maybe I'll even be able to work from home some days. Oh good God, what a glorious day.

So many things to do. So little time.

I swear it's still September. And here we are: end of November.

Every Friday, I get a little giddy at the idea of chipping away at my to-do list. It is so very long. Inevitably, every Sunday, I take tabs on my progress and get a little discouraged. I have so many things I would so love to do, and just no time to do them.

But, but. Today I managed to finally replace the two burned out light bulbs (of three) that have been haunting my bedroom light. Good God, my room is no longer the dungeon of despair! I had two table lamps and they just weren't doing the trick. Now? Bright cheery goodness, all around.

I came back from France with a renewed vigor to make my home fully and completely my home. You know what, though? That adds A LOT to the already extensive list.

And finally, a Teo tidbit: two new teeth on the bottom -- check. Two teeth popping through up top? - Check. By the end of this week, I suspect my boy will be all done with evraythin but them molars.

So I feel old now.

I can't believe that this time last year, I was sitting around my kitchen table with some of my closest friends in Paris. Mateo was a few months old and sleeping in the bedroom; the four of us had a lovely dinner and champagne.

Today, I spent my birthday at the office. Two coworkers took me out for a most fabulous lunch, another coworker bought me a cupcake. I went to class, stopped by mom and dad's, picked up Mateo, ate some food. Low-key, no complaints.

But wow -- I am in such a different space now than where I was a year ago.

I wonder where I will be this time next year. It seems that 25 is going to be an exciting year, every year.

This week has been insane and I am so grateful for the upcoming weekend.

On Monday, I started a new class at the university. I'm testing the waters somewhat, and I am also giving myself something other than my job and my son to think about. It's "me time" and something I really, really feel I have needed. Mateo is fifteen months old and this is a first for me.

So far, the class is great. It is thrilling to be back in an American university setting. The enthusiasm is palpable. There are over 100 people in the class, and my professor is still making every effort she can to get us actively participating. This energy was something I always missed in French universities, and it's such a breath of fresh air. Plus, the topic is interesting and familiar territory to me, so I am feeling pretty low-key about the whole thing. People in Portland are also crazy nice; throwing in the conviviality typical of university settings just makes the niceness scale go off the charts.

I am thankful to my parents for helping me out with this. The class is in the evenings, twice per week, so they are picking Mateo up on those days and feeding him dinner. I wouldn't be able to do this without them, or at least not without paying a babysitter and what not.

Starting the class has added a bit of stress to the week, though, mainly because the routine is not yet in place. Work has also been crazy, as a few last-minute projects cropped up and I found myself working at an insane pace most of the week. Adding outside craziness was... well... crazy. On Monday, I had to figure out where the class was. On Tuesday after work, I picked up Mateo and the two of us went through the joy of textbook-buying after hours. Wednesday, class again. Today, Thursday, I left work early to take Mateo to the doctor for a check up. So tomorrow? Friday?

I will do my work and then relax. Right after I get my online account activated during my lunch break. I am going to try riding the office bike over to the university-- I think I'm going to bike to classes to avoid insane parking fees and the general chaos of finding a spot. Plus, hey! Twenty extra minutes of exercise.

I got back from dinner at my parents' tonight after leaving early. Mateo was having a complete breakdown, having skipped his evening nap. He fell asleep within two minutes of driving away from their house. Once we got home, he woke up as I changed his diaper. I fed him some, and the two of us drifted off to sleep. It was not yet eight o'clock.

This keeps happening to me. I am so very tired. Maybe I need to be more careful about my vitamins, I don't know. I think I have been very good at keeping everything together, doing this single mom gig and making it happen for the two of us. My attitude is fairly zen; I have been working hard at monitoring myself and staying in the moment. Some days it is more difficult than others. Yet, in the end, there is only so much one can accomplish, only so much one can take on in each day. And most days, I am ok with that. But every once and awhile, I catch myself feeling pulled by the under toe.

Today I felt a panic rising in me -- thoughts like "I'll never get this all done!" and "Just give me five minutes of peace!" started swimming around amongst my usual mental chatter. I tried quieting my mind but was unsuccessful. I had made myself a to-do list at the start of this weekend that I managed to barely scratch the surface of, and for a moment, I wanted just a glimmer of my old life back where I could tackle everything and anything at whatever rhythm I chose. Of course, that's impossible with a toddler.

We did have a great weekend, though. Mateo has been expanding his vocabulary and it is so, so thrilling. He said his first sentence ("Hi, cat."). I met up with some other local single parents and did the social play group thing. I got *some* work done and my dad helped me build a desk. I don't know why the panic. It was sort of irrational but definitely overwhelming. Eventually, I gave in and asked for help. Luckily, I live near family and they were able to take care of Mateo this afternoon (thanks Kari!) for a bit while I finished up some stuff for work that I absolutely had to get done. I managed to take care of the minimum.

And maybe that's the problem. I am always just getting the minimum of things done. I never feel on top of things, always feel like the checklist before me is crazy long. I fight to accept that this is how I will things will be from here on out -- me constantly aware of how much I need to do and how little time I have to do it. My only survival mechanism is trying to just be in the moment, take things as they come, and not analyze the Big Picture too much.

That and sleep. Which I will go seek out (again) now. Right after I take my vitamin.

Mateo and I got back from a weekend in glorious, scenic Wisconsin, where we attended a friend's wedding. I poke some fun at Milwaukee, but it actually turned out to be a really pleasant town and more of a big-city than I thought it would be. Gooooo Milwaukee!

The wedding was beautiful and it was great to see my friends, but good Lord the trip was a bit of a nightmare. First, our flight boarded at 5:50 am, which required us to leave the house around 4:15. Then, at my layover, I remarked that the airline broke my stroller. It was completely useless. Yet, they told me to lug it to my final destination to make a formal complaint, and that I would be reimbursed. So there I was, lugging two bags, a baby, and a completely defunct stroller (I had to drag it -- the wheels were all jacked up) through the many concourses of the Minneapolis airport. Nice start.

The arrival in Milwaukee was fine and the wedding was beautiful. It was a little rough because Mateo and I were both so tired from our travels that we didn't get to fully enjoy it. Teo was cute, of course, and I have some crappy pictures of him to share. My camera wasn't working right (and naturally I figured out why at the END of the evening). We left early once Mateo seemed to be winding down, and he was asleep in his car seat within a minute of leaving.

The following day, Laura and I strolled along Brady street and somewhere in our wanderings we lost the rental car keys. Awesome. We backpedaled through the streets of our 40-minute walk, and, when we still didn't find them, I called the rental people. They informed me it would cost $300 to replace the keys. $300 and my pride. After much difficulty and a mild degree of panic, we found the keys at Walgreens. I don't know, dude. We were so happy to have found them, but our afternoon was far less pleasant than it otherwise would have been without that hour of fear.

The next morning we left for the airport, strapped for time as always. We had to pay extra for the gas, as we didn't have enough time to run to the gas station and handed over the car a quarter tank short. Next, strolling into the airport, I noticed that my wallet was missing. It turns out we accidentally threw it out. Don't ask how; we just did. It is always a good idea to throw out your wallet the evening before you go to the airport.

Luckily, the security guards had mercy on me and let me through anyway. Mateo played his part by crying as the whole thing went down. I called the hotel and they recovered my wallet from the trash, it is being sent here as I type. So all is well. But still -- NOT the best traveling experience.

Somebody was keeping a mental note on karma, however, because I sat in one of the only seats that had an empty spot next to it. My neighbor was a nice grandma who entertained Mateo for the first hour of the trip, until he passed out for the following two. So at least our return flight was smooth sailing.

I think I am still recovering. My house is a mess and I am exhausted. But still, we are home and getting back on schedule. The insanity has ended. For now.

Originally uploaded by karijean

Sunday, I went over to my parents' sort of early and ate some deliciousness involving the berries that they bought from their fruit-selling neighbor. Then we went on an excursion to Home Depot together, and then Dad and I came over to my house and tinkered while Teo and Mom went to visit my grandma. Mateo was cheerful and back this normal self; he gabbed and chatted most of the day. It was so nice to see Happy Teo again.
It was just relaxing and happy and good.

We have been a little MIA here for no particular reason. I went through a bit of a dark phase over the weekend -- just missing my friends and living somewhere where I was already established and didn't have to think so hard all the time. Nothing major, just a little dip.

On Friday, we went back to the doctor's office where I learned that Teo STILL has a damn ear infection. The doctor says that if he doesn't get over it with this next round of antibiotics, I should consider tubes. She is worried about him missing out on some language development because he can't hear properly. That didn't scare the bejeesus out of me one bit, I swear.

I don't know. He is on his seven zillionth round of antibiotics (which I hate, btw) and we go back (again) in two weeks for another check. I will make a judgement call then as to whether he should see the ear, nose and throat specialist.

Meanwhile, I am noticing him growing in such interesting ways. He has taken to reading books on his own -- sometimes he sits and tells himself the stories. Other times, he pulls out books, hands them to me, and then crawls into my lap. It is the sweetest thing. He tries every day to stand a little longer on his own two feet. He is signing more and more (albeit sometimes incorrectly) and such a nutjob. Right now, for example, he is holding up my shoe and talking into it.

Work is going ok, the sun is coming out, and things are looking better. Plus, my little man is a complete ham:

Laughing dude from odessa on Vimeo.



The Tired is just an integral part of my life these days. I am always active -- always -- until I collapse around 9:30 or 10:00. These last few nights it has been later than that, as the excitement of the new nephew has naturally become a priority. At any moment, I can think about at least five things that I "need" to do. Currently? Get my tire fixed. Send in the fax for Teo's health records. Pay the day care reservation slot. Figure out my childcare reimbursements. Take out the recycling and garbage (this is more of a pain than it should be, as they are around the block from the house). Unpack the last two boxes. Put my clothes in my new dresser. Find bookshelves for the living room. Mop. Buy some bigger pajamas for Mateo. Make some homemade baby food.

Oh wait. Did I say five things? That was definitely more than five.

So with this crazy lifestyle that I am currently living, I suppose I should not be surprised by the piece of mail I received today: a note, from the electric company. With a check. That I wrote. For the gas company. The note said, "We cannot cash your check." Well... yeeeeaaaahhhhh...

I wonder when I will get my check back from the gas company. That I wrote for the electric company.

Two positive things after my last depressing post:

1) I have befriended the girl who works the deli at the grocery store near me. She is just sweetness, all the time, and she loves Mateo. We go through a little routine where he waves at her and smiles and of course she doesn't like that at all. This last time when we went, though, she said, "Can I also just say something? You look great. I would have never known you had a baby -- let alone such a young one."

2) These are my calming evenings after work nowadays. Yes, I have a hole in my sock.

A relaxing evening from odessa on Vimeo.

Today I went to pick up Mateo from his day care and was overwhelmed with sadness. Teo's day care is great, he was ecstatic to see me, all was well on that front. He is, for the record, feeling like dynamite. I realized just how rotten he must have been feeling the last 5 weeks or so because he is suddenly the smiley, enthusiastic dude he has always been. He has done nothing but smile and giggle for two straight days. It is wonderful.

And greatly needed. I have been going through a bit of a dip. I know these will come and go, and it isn't anything for people to start calling me or sending me concerned emails. But I did have a moment today while picking up the babe. There were all these fathers around. Good God, the place was crawling with them. They were so cute, with their bottles in their hands and their obvious excitement to pick up their children. Their eyes danced when they saw their babies squirm with happiness upon arrival. Some parents came to get their kids together. And it just mad me so, so sad. I can't even put into words how tough it is for me to see how awesome some dads are, and how both Mateo and I are missing out on having that huge - HUGE - presence in both of our lives.

I am happy for everybody I know who is in a deep and fulfilling relationship, and especially happy for those with children in such a situation. But damn if it's not hard to be the only one -- really, the only one -- I know who is doing this on her own. I honestly do not believe that anyone can even come close to understanding what it is like without living it. The daily part of it is difficult but manageable. I don't let myself think about The Big Picture too much or I will fully flip out. But even more challenging is dealing with the constant feeling of... disdain? Concern? Judgement?... I get from others when they find out I am on my own. I know that most of you who read the blog don't feel that way -- most of you are super supportive and well, downright awesome. But for each person who is saying, "Oh, you're so badass!" (and thank you for your emails, by the way), there is somebody who gives an overly sympathetic sigh or someone else who says too much with a cutting look and no more. Getting questioned at the doctor's office, at work, at the FREAKIN car dealership about my marital status and having to say, in as few words as possible, that it's just Mateo and me. A single woman without a child does not have to go around talking about her single-dom, but a single mom has to regularly discuss it with people. It is odd. And annoying.

Now I know that everybody goes down their own path, and that we all have our demons to struggle with. I get that. My current demon is just accepting that this is our situation and that Mateo is not at some crazy disadvantage - dad or no dad. But right now Mateo just woke up after falling asleep at 8:30. It is 10:45 and I am in my pajamas, ready to go to bed. He is crying in his room. I spent all night trying to figure out with the morons on Comcast how to get my other computer hooked up to the internet. I finally gave up and opted to take a shower and get a good night's sleep. I cleaned everything, put away the dishes to my admittedly rather forlon meal, prepped Teo's bottles for tomorrow, placed his toys where they belong, packed up my work bag, and took a shower. As I was hanging up my towel and dreaming of sweet, sweet slumber, his loud cry came from the bedroom. Just when I thought I could finally cash in for the night.

I am struggling with the question of when to go to him. He needs to learn to get himself to go back to sleep some time. Occasionally, he does, but most of the time he just gets himself into a tizzy. I have nobody here to help me with this decision, and I am exhausted after a day of work, a trip to the grocery, an evening of trying to get some work done (without any success) and now a crying baby. Sometimes, you don't even so much want the relief of dealing with things, you want the comfort of going through it with someone else.

While I was at work today, we went through these sales training courses that the VP had bought. They were pretty good, and one of the guys on the discs said "When you go home from the course today, what are you going to say about it when you walk in the door?" I was struck by the sad thought that I wasn't going to say anything at all. I have nobody to say it to. Yes, Mateo is here. And yes, he helps enormously. But I can't exactly tell him how my day went. I miss having someone to do that with.

I also miss my friends. I miss them so, so much. I talk to my good friends regularly, and am in email contact with those that I can't call. But it's not the particulars that bother me so much as the big picture. In Paris, I had a nice little circle of friends and was honestly never lonely. It never really occurred to me to be so. Occasionally, I would get bored, but never, ever lonely. I saw my friends regularly, kept a busy lifestyle, and had The Boy. It might just now be hitting me what a big, enormous hole I have in my life when both my friends and my significant other are no longer a part of it. I spend all day with people I hardly know, and that is pretty tiring by the time Friday rolls around.

Anyway, like I said, I know life has ups and downs and that this is all a part of that. I am not worried, but I did want to document this feeling so that in six months, a year, whatever, I can look back and remember how much ADJUSTING I do on a daily basis and how exhausting and lonely it can be sometimes. I also wanted to add that Teo keeps me smiling 95% of the time, so my sadness is usually fleeting. But it is there, and should be recognized. Especially so that one day I can look back and see how far I have come.

Mateo had his nine-month check up. He is in the 80th percentile for height and the 50th for weight -- a huge drop from his six month visit. The doctor said she is not concerned as long as he still has a happy and healthy appetite, as she can sometimes see weight go down significantly once a baby gets mobile. Um... yeah. This dude is on the move in a big way.

It was a bit of a tricky visit, however, as we found out that he has an ear infection. He has had a cold/cough for over a month, and I have been to the doctor three times to be sure it wasn't developing into something more serious. This third visit revealed that the cold/cough that should just disappear on its own instead turned infectious, and he is being treated with antibiotics. It has been two days and he still has a serious cough, and I am nervous about him not getting better by the time we fly. I pray we see improvement tomorrow.

Meanwhile, we also learned that he is slightly anemic, so he is being put on iron supplements. Poor baby.

So overall, not the best visit, what with the poking and the prodding and the testing of the blood. But, developmentally he is doing everything he should be and then some, so the doctor says he is doing great. The poor guy's mouth is just exploding in teeth, which can't help the coughing situation any. The drolling and the jaw ache and then the sore throat -- ugh. It's a miracle he is still his usual cheery self.

Today was my last day at the BCS and I will admit to being a lazy, lazy worker. At one point I just straight up started shopping. About a half hour before I went home, my supervisor called everyone into the office. We have never had a big meeting like this but so it went. I dilly-dallied as per usual and then walked in to find they had a huge cake with "Good luck, Lee Ann!" etched into the frosting. It was so sweet and I was really touched... seeing a store full of people gather around to bid me farewell. I have only known them a few months but there are a few I will truly miss.

In the meantime, we are at 48 hours and counting. I have so much to do between now and then that I hired a babysitter to give me a hand with Mateo tomorrow so that I can get to packing. He will spend his last Friday at day care and then we will leave in the wee hours of Saturday morning.

And then, the insanity will begin.

I always try to talk about things other than Mateo, but my professional situation is under wraps right now so there's no news on that front. I live with my parents, so my social life is not all that thrilling. And even if it had the possibility of being excited, I am on such an early-to-bed, early-to-rise schedule that I pretty much have zero chance of not being in my pajamas by 9:30. So: Mateo it is.

In the space of about 10 days, he learned to stand up in his crib and to crawl. His tooth is also now openly visible and reasonably painful when he decides to chew your finger. He is now official My Big Boy.

In non-Mateo news, I am having a hard time with The Next Step. I spent so much of my time in France agonizing over the "Should I live in France of the US?" question that I thought things would become much more simple once Stateside. Finally, I could let that question drop. But of course, now the question has become "Where should I go in the States?" And also, "Can I get a job?" Most people tell me give it six months, so I am trying not to stress myself out too much. I only really started thinking about this as of 2008. Big Life Decisions are not easy.

I am working a lot this week and we are doing grueling, physical work as we set up and open a new store. I laugh at the little girls on the staff who don't carry around 20-pound wiggle worms all day. My days are from 8:30 to 6:00, so free time will be minimal. Also, we are looking into day care possibilities for the babe, maybe two or three days per week. PRICEY is the main adjective that comes to mind when I consider that possibility, so we shall see. There is no point in working just to pay for his day care...

A coworker of mine accidently said that word "managerize" yesterday, and I sort of love it. I don't just need to manage things, I need to MANAGERIZE! It makes it sound like cardio. Which, given all the big decisions and organization and so forth needed in the coming months, might not be so far off the mark.

See? I managerized to talk about something else for three whole paragraphs.

I am not sure where the time is going. Every day just zips by -- I can't even say how or what it is exactly that we are doing. But here we are, January 10, and I still feel like it's 2007.

So here is a quick update:

1. Mateo is learning to crawl. He has managed to take a few semi-accurate steps, which leads everyone to believe that he will be going to kindergarten tomorrow.

2. We also have the appearance of a toof! A new toof! This meant one very bad night of no sleeping, followed by last night -- which was spent entirely in bed with me, but with much more sleeping. So we will see how night three post-toof goes. That thing is SHARP. Makes me think of puppy teeth.

3. I am getting serious about the job search now. I had applied to a few places before the holidays, but basically felt there was no point in trying. Now, as my efforts become more intense, I am filled with all of those angst-ridden questions typical of the job applicant: how long should I wait before contacting them again? Do I stand a chance at X, Y, or Z company? How much money should I ask for? What is realistic?

Fun times.

4. A young attractive guy hit on me at work the other day. This was fun because I am always amazed at how dating seemst to work in this country. In France, men are pretty open about the fact that they are interested in you. There is no blurring of the friend-or-date lines, a system I think lends to more clarity for both parties' involved. Here, not so much. I have no idea how to go about the dating thing around these parts. So it was sort of nice to have someone just show outright interest. This is a style I am much more familiar with. Of course, it didn't go anywhere -- which is actually part B of the equation, but it was good for the ego if nothing else.

5. I am taking Mateo to Baby and Me swim classes this afternoon. We signed up at the Y and I am sort of in love with the facility. I am already gearing up for the cuteness festival that will be had in the shallow end of the pool today.

6. My manager told me that I have been "absolutely phenomenal" on the job. I love America and its positive reinforcement. We need to export that goodness overseas.

My parents have started watching Teo whenever I go to my new job at the BigChainStore. I am happy with my BCS part-time gig thus far, but I am even happier that the babysitting thing seems to be working out. The first time I left Mateo alone with them, I was all worked up and my stomach was in knots. Never thought I would be that mom, but what do you know? There are lots of things you don't know about yourself until you are forced to discover them.

Mainly, Grandma and Grandpa have been successful at getting Teo to sleep and to eat -- the two biggest concerns of any parent. The other night, however, was apparently a bit tricky. While Teo was crying and crying, I am told that the dog went and picked up one of his toys (a stuffed rabbit) and brought it towards the baby. We think the dog was trying to comfort him. The cuteness is just too much for me.

Happy Thanksgiving to everybody. We are playing it mellow and I couldn't be happier about that. I feel like I have been non-stop for the last few days (10 or so) and I am looking forward to a calm day of food, dad's "projects" and repeating stories to my grandma. For when it gets to be too much, we are all going to watch "Hairspray" together. I've heard it's good...

First, a discaimer: I owe so many people emails and updates that it *almost* keeps me up at night. My goal for this week is to set up the wireless connection at my parents' so that I can start using my own computer again. Photos will be uploaded then, too. I haven't had much success getting everything hooked up to date, and it's sort of disturbing how much activity will be put on hold until then. So for now, a small update.

Our weekend away was wonderful but exhausting. I think Teo and I will be happy to avoid planes for a bit, and to get a chance to establish some sort of schedule. The poor baby was tossed around from time zone to time zone, person to person, and bed to bed. He held up remarkably well, and I was so happy everyone got a chance to meet him. I especially loved seeing my sister and brother-in-law with him; they are going to be great parents.

After the wedding, I spent two days at L's house. It was a perfect visit and I wish it could have lasted longer. I realized at some point that L and I have been friends for almost 20 years, and that is both wonderful and terrifying. Twenty years! Feels like the blink of an eye. We hung out with L's dogs (two sweet and gentle Siberian huskies) and her hilarious boyfriend, eating good food and giggling. We also got to spend the afternoon with her parents, who have known me since I was a little girl. The whole visit was low-key and filled with positive energy. We also discovered Teo's love of drums -- I don't think anything else has ever fascinated him for so long.

Our return flights were exhausting as Mateo cried during both landings. I think his ears might have been bothering him. We made it, though, and then managed to pick up the dog from the kennel just in time. Then we drove to the house, ate dinner, and collapsed for a 12-hour night.

We have already been back for two full days and I am already surprised at how quickly time flies around here. Getting both boys -- Mateo and our dog, Rocky -- out for four daily walks is an enormous task in and of itself. Otherwise I have just been doing some basic things like going to the grocery and so forth. I might become dreadfully bored before my parents' return in just over a week, but for now it is sort of nice to have some down time.

My other daily activity is packing up Teo and driving to my grandmother's "assisted living" center for a visit. Grandma is losing her memory and is pretty confused much of the time, and she is clearly still reeling from the death of her husband of 68 years. Understandably, of course. Dementia is an interesting demon. Grandma spoke to me of the dancing she used to do (and teach) when she was in her 20's in Minneapolis with crystal clear precision, yet she struggles to remember how old Mateo is and asks me several times each visit. Yesterday, I mentioned that this is my first Halloween home in eight years, and she grew deeply concerned about the trick-or-treaters who would stop by her house in Duluth. I told her we would talk to the neighbor about putting a bowl of candy out for them, but she was really worried and repeatedly brought it up. It's strange how important some details are to her.

Last week, my parents and I had gone to Family NIght at the home, which basically consisted of a bunch of women in wheelchairs sitting around listening to a DJ playing tame, familiar hits. There was a sort of emcee running the party who semi-danced with the seated residents, and I was super impressed by the enthusiasm of two of the more "with it" residents who were excitedly waving their pom poms through the air. It was a strange party indeed, but Teo proved to be a superstar by singing along, much to everyone's delight.

When we stopped by yesterday, there was an a capella men's quartet performing in the parlor, so we sat downstairs for awhile and listened. Teo stood, wrapt in attention, and he occasionally joimed in (slightly off-key) the singing. It was a hoot, and I don't think I have seen grandma laugh so hard in years. All of the residents in the home like to say hello to him, and there are two or three who seem especially enamored with him. Grandma sometimes pipes in, "And I'm his great grandma!"

He's portable entertainment.

We made it Stateside in one piece, but I am still adjusting to the keyboards so this will be short. The goodbyes in Paris were painful enough that I don't want to relieve them here anyway, so that cuts down the story significantly. I cried saying goodbye to my friends, cried in the cab, cried at the airport with The Boy, cried going through security, cried getting on the plane. Then I cried again the next day while remembering all of that crying.

But now it's two days later and those memories aren't quite as biting. I have managed to go to Target three times since being home (don't ask) and my parents have gotten in snuggle time with Mateo. They set up an adorable nursery for him, and he managed to almost sleep through the night in his new crib. I have been slow on the unpacking because we have been busy doing other things, but it's coming along. We have been out to see Mateo's great-grandmother twice since arriving and, while it's a hard thing to do at times, it feels good to put a smile on her face. We are adjusting well enough, all things considered.

However, tomorrow morning we are boarding a plane for New Mexico, and we will spend five days there with family and friends. I feel like I just stepped out of one crazy storm and am walking straight into another.

So posts will be sporadic at best, nonexistant at worst.

The good news is that I bought a new camera (with my Target gift card, thankyouverymuch) and will be documenting Mateo's first days in America to the best of my ability. Stay tuned.

Oh -- and just a moment of bragging: Teo was so good on the plane that he got lots of compliments. I couldn't have asked for better behavior, he really was a doll.

I have been so busy that I actually lost my to-do list. I don't normally make to-do lists, but there are so many details to straighten out that it seemed like a good idea. Clearly, not. It was very long and I am convinced there were things on it that I have just outright forgotten.

Yesterday was my 28th birthday. The birthday came and went without fanfare and that is just the way I like it. When I look back on where I was last birthday versus where I am today, I am just amazed at how much a year can do. I am positively drained or I would delve more into that, unfortunately my brain is having a hard time even creating cohesive sentences at the moment.

Anyway, I spent most of my birthday day packing and chilling with Mateo, and in the evening, a few girlfriends came over and we had a wonderful dinner. It was low-key but entertaining, and I was so happy to have spent the night just talking and giggling with them. I went to bed a happy 28-year-old.

I am, for the most part, packed. I have managed to squeeze everything down to four suitcases, two of which were taken back by the LongIslander after her wonderful week-long visit and two of which I am taking with me on Sunday. I am also shipping back three boxes. I am pretty impressed with how ruthless I have been in the packing department. I am maybe not a true minimalist, but I have definetly learned to part with a lot of things in recent days. It's probably really liberating, but I am too fried to even think about it right now. I feel I have been non-stop, and I can tell it is not going to get any calmer in the coming days.

My long lost to-do list includes the remaining:
- bring up stuff from cellar
- make appointment to throw away big objects (people come around to pick up things like dead computers and old mattresses)
- make wireless headset work
- go back to post office FOR THE THIRD TIME in hopes of finally retrieving my package
- go to bank to pick up checkbook and transfer money
- go to embassy for official copy of Teo's birth certificate
- send off clothes sold on Ebay
- pack all but final clothes for last few days
- double check bassinet reservation
- empty fridge
- clean entire house for Saturday's inspection
- take down 5 (and possibly more) bags of garbage
- go to work to reroute mail and explain software stuff to coworker
- scan The Boy's baby photos
- pick up some copies of French books
- social security mail and reimbursements

Every day, I have a few social visits as well, which I think is necessary to my sanity. Still, it is sort of hard to see how everything will fit in somewhere, but it will. I finally feel that I am starting to get a grip on things, and I can see that I am going to make it out of here in a reasonably orderly manner.

So for now, bed time. These next three days are going to be action packed.

New pics on flickr, by the way.

Super busy but doing ok. Will update soon.

Also: Teo rolled over today. Twice. And then just didn't feel like doing it again for any witnesses other than me.

Doing well but busy here. I have a bunch of things to say but no energy to say them in any sort of reflected way. So I will just say that:

1) I have a lot of stuff. Not as much as lots of people I know, but more than I thought I had. Eight years of stuff.
2) My bed collapsed the day after The Boy's final departure. That seemed fitting somehow. Also: it broke on "his" side.
3) Mateo looks like a little boy now. New photos on the flickr page will prove it.
4) He is a really, really good baby. I think I got lucky. It just keeps getting better. (Experienced moms: please don't burst my bubble by saying, "Just wait til he starts (fill in the blank)."). He is trying to figure out how to make a vibrating noise with his lips. It's the cutest thing ever.
5) Anybody in Paris looking for some furniture? I'll be selling a desk, two chairs, a decent-sized rug, A coffee table and a crib. Dishware, too. And other things. All the furniture -- every last piece of it -- is from Ikea.
6) I have a semi-official flight date for my return to the US. This is insane. It's in something like 42 days, but who's counting?
7) Family members: I will now be attending the October wedding. Yay! Looking forward to seeing you then.
8) Jay and Gail: Dino is officially Teo's favorite toy. I have video to prove it. Just no time to tinker with it to get it online. Someday.
9) Boss: I feel really bad about telling you I'm not coming back. Please go easy on me.

I've gotten lots of calls and emails since my last big announcement, and if I haven't thanked you personally yet -- well, thanks. I'm touched by all the people who care. Of course, my friends Stateside discuss the whole topic far more enthusiastically than those who are here in France, but that is to be expected. My parents called me three times in the three days following my post, once or twice to talk "logistics." I think they just want to get me over there quickly before I change my mind.

I won't.

I talked to Vegas today and told him my plans, and there was a bit of an awkward silence on the other end while he absorbed the news (he is a bit dramatic, I might add). Oddly, he told me that he had just been speaking to somebody else, and that somebody else had just spoken to my boss that morning. I guess my boss was raving about me to this guy, and so word got through that I am really the bee's knees. Vegas said, "So I am sure that he'd be willing to do whatever he needs to in order for you to stay..." It sort of hit me just then that, even if it were possible, I wouldn't want to go for it. I am tired of climbing uphill unnecessarily. Now that I have made my decision to leave, I am just done - DONE! - dealing with French administrative bullshit. It's as if the steam just came right out of me, and I can no longer muster the enthusiasm needed to make it even sort of work here. And man oh man, what a relief it is to recognize that I don't have to deal with the administration again. I mean, I'll still have things to do around here and I'm sure I'll run into some paperwork disaster at some point, but at least the weightiness of having to go through so much year after year has been lifted right up off my shoulders. And damn if that doesn't feel awesome.

As for me and The Boy, things are going well. He's still at the apartment; at some point I'll either have to kick him out or set a deadline. I'm just kidding. Sort of. For right now he is spending time with Teo and I think that's his right, but I do think we need to make the separation complete at some point down the road. All things considered, we did this in the best way possible. We still love one another and will remain friends, and we're clearly forever bonded by our son. But I think we both just know it isn't working out between the two of us as a couple, and, now that we have admitted that to ourselves, it's like we can suddenly live easy and get along like normal people should. That feels good and right.

A lot of people are worrying about me and reaching out to me, and for that, I am truly grateful. I am also happy to report that, for right now, I am doing great. I know things are going to be pretty rough at some point down the line, but I feel good about my decisions and am actually getting excited about this next step in my (and Teo's) life.

It's a biggie.

Good thing I can bring my little ninja along for the ride.

The Good:

J & G have come and gone, but their visit was wonderful. It was just great -- very relaxed and low-key. They went off and did their own thing sometimes, but also got in lots of time with their nephew. It was a great balance. I am so happy they could meet him when he is so small, observing such seemingly uninteresting milestones (to everybody but the baby's parents) like learning to touch/grab things with fascination. My brother is a real pro with Teo -- I told him at one point that I wanted to keep him in my closet so I could pull him out when necessary - ie when the little man is crying and needs someone to spin him (Mr T digs the spinning in a major way, and Uncle Jay rocks at it).

Equally as amazing as seeing my brother interact with my son was seeing him with his wife. I love my sister-in-law and couldn't be happier she is a pârt of our family, and I especially love seeing how happy they make one another. It's so sweet, and they are going to make awesome parents. The whole scene just gives me warm fuzzies all around.

The bad:

Mateo had to get some shots and is just not up to snuff today. The doctor gave me some baby tylenol in liquid form, but Teo has learned to spit out more and more with each attempt to give him some. First try (last night), I think he swallowed about 75% of his dose. Second try left about 50% on his shirt. This morning, I think he swallowed about 20%. The vaccine can cause fevers so I am watching out for that, otherwise I get the feeling he's going to spend most of the day sleeping in my arms. I have tried to set him down three times and he is not having it... so he'll just stay close while I type one-handed.

The ugly:

This is a bit of a doozie.

The Boy and I are separating. There are all kinds of details I could hash out here, but they're not important. We're both a little torn up over the decision, but I think we have just hit a point where we can't try to make it work anymore. He's been moving out slowly and we are both adjusting day by day.

On Wednesday we decided to split, and I know the decision is the right one, albeit painful. The blow has been lessened by how rocky things have been lately -- I have already semi-adjusted to the possibilty of a break-up. In some ways, I feel a sense of relief -- now I can open the door to somebody who can love me the way I deserve, the way The Boy loved me for so many years before he decided (and outright told me) that his web site is more important to him than me or his son. In other ways, his departure is terrifying -- eight years of having somebody sleep next to you every night, of having someone to talk to about your day, of knowing he'll come home even when I am already in bed... those things created a presence that kept me from feeling alone, even when he was not home. Just being used to planning your day, week, month, year with another human being becomes a habit, and a pretty comfortable one at that. Dumb shit -- like going to the grocery -- upsets me because suddenly I catch myself buying him oatmeal when there's no longer any need to. It's a big adjustment, and a hard one to make while still getting the hang of being a mama.

Meanwhile, I found out that my boss no longer wants to hire me full-time, as we had planned before I left on my maternity leave. "Things have changed," he said, "I can't promise you anything..." I know it's not wise to talk about your job on your web site, so I'll just leave the story at this: I was counting on him for both money and paperwork, and both aspects have fallen through.

And THEN, if you recall, I have to move out of my apartment by December 31.

Trying to find an apartment, in Paris, working part time, with a baby? Not seeing it happen.

And the end result of all of this is that I am planning on packing my bags. Without a home, or the job I was counting on, or a relationship to fight for, staying in France does not seem reasonable. I have Little Teo to think about and I want to provide him with the best life possible. Now that his dad has officially jumped ship, I think the two of us should make our way across the ocean where I can (hopefully) make a decent living. I have talked this over with The Boy and he agrees that it is the smart move.

I have no idea where or when we'll go, but I assume it will be before Christmas. This decision has been a long time coming, and in a weird way I am glad to have it out of the way. It makes me cry to think of leaving, and I am terrified of sinking into some sort of horrible depression in the coming months, but I am going to do my best to keep my head above the water.

I never thought that I would find myself a single mom at 27, without a real job and soon without a home. On paper, this whole situation is such a mess. But I'm going to do my best to enjoy these months in Paris, to get to know my amazing son while I still have the luxury of being at home with him and watching him grow. I'll work on the monstrous task of closing up shop here while trying to lay the foundation for a better life elsewhere. Wish me luck.

I have made it a rule not to get obsessed with losing the weight I put on during pregnancy. Nine months up and nine months down, they say, and here I am 1.5 months out with somewhere between 10 and 15 lbs to lose. As a mixed blessing, my scale is either broken or seriously psychotic, as I can gain and lose 4 kilos in the space of a day, so I have given up on weighing myself. Instead, I judge progress by the way clothes fit.

This is not necessarily a good system, of course, because I am still wearing my maternity pants while hoping to get my old figure back (or a modified version of it). This means that everything is baggy, so hey! I've lost tons of weight, according to my clothes. Not really but the maternity pants let me think so.

Yet. Yet. I have one pair of pants that are not maternity pants but that have always been a little loose. I tried them on upon returning from the hospital and nearly cried -- I could hardly get them over my hips! Then I tried them on again three weeks later and could get them up but nowhere near buttoned.

But today, today my friends, I got them up, buttoned, and zipped. And honestly, they look like they fit. I mean, close enough anyway. They're not comfortable like they used to be, but that will come with time. Still -- I am happy to see progress in a concrete way.

Maybe this means that in another 6.5 weeks, I'll be able to wear something other than the two pairs of (maternity) pants I have in rotation. First, I feel gross still wearing the same clothes I felt like such a whale in just a few weeks ago. But second, with a newborn, clothes get pretty gross awfully quickly, and it's been tough to have so few things that fit.

Old wardrobe, here I come!

Ok, I need your help. For the last few days, we have had a problem around here. When we leave a light on and the window open at night, hundreds of bugs come in. They look sort of like gnats, but they are not attracted to fruit or garbage -- just the light. We also have some moths and ladybugs, but those I can deal with. It's these crazy gnat-like things! They're driving me mad. They gather along the ceiling, or more precisely along the corners where the ceiling meets the wall. Then they die and fall into my clean dishes, my sink, on my floor, everywhere. For the last four mornings, I have had to vacuum my entire house -- as well as the ceilings!

What ARE these creatures and how do I get rid of them? We tried just leaving the windows closed but it got way, way too hot in here. Leaving the lights off all night is not an option either. What do we do? Is there some sort of product I can buy?

I feel like I am going crazy -- not a pleasant thing to wake up to! Any ideas?

Today was not a good day. And it's only four o'clock.

1) Mateo woke up at five and did not even consider going back to sleep until 11 -- and that was after getting up three times in the night. He had a very upset tummy, so most of that time was spent either feeding him or soothing him or changing his diaper. Poor baby. He's doing much better now but he was Fussy McFusserson for several hours there.

2) I got a note from the French government telling me that if I don't pay them the almost 300 euros I owe on my taxes from last year, that they are going to come to my house and seize my furniture (they even included a clause about how they will break the lock -- at my charge -- if necessary) on August 1st. For those who aren't aware, that's in less than two weeks. This means I have to solve the situation sometime... oh... now-ish. I don't have 300 spare euros. Bah. Time to go to the taxes people and set up a payment plan, and then I have to call the "huissiers" and notify them of the arrangement. It's going to be fun. Looking forward to tomorrow with the French tax people!

3) I went to the post office to pick up a package and a certified letter that I had gotten notices for in my mailbox. I knew the certified letter would be bad news (they always are) but I was looking forward to picking up the package. Of course, they couldn't find the package and are going to call me when they do. I highly doubt that will ever happen so I am going to have to stop by again in a few days to see what comes of it.

Meanwhile, the letter was from my landlord, informing me that he is going to sell my current appartment as of 2008, so my lease will end on December 31, 2007. The timing is crappy, and as I honestly don't know what I'm doing with my life, it sort of puts on the pressure to make a decision. I have been wavering on the stay-in-France vs go-back-home question for years now, and it has been further amplified by the birth of Teo and the problems with The Boy. My main goal this year was to go back to work for six months and then decide. I think I owe it to my employers to do at least that much, and plus I would like to stick it out there for my own reasons. However, there are all kinds of thoughts and details and issues I don't get into on this site that are involved in this sort of life-changing, should-I-stay-or-should-I-go decision, and finding out my apartment will no longer be available somehow turned the spotlight on all of them in a major way.

So now I'll only be back at work for two months before I have to make a move of some sort, and a part of me thinks that if I'm leaning towards moving to the US at that point, I might as well do it then. But what if I don't know? What if I am still in the limbo I feel now? Where the hell could I find a reasonable apartment again, need be? I guess I was just happy to not have to make any sort of decision just yet -- to just work and take care of Teo and see where things take me. But now I feel pressure to Figure Things Out. Plus, I am super sad about having to leave this place, as it's a major steal and I really love living here. Sadness, all around.

So yay! Poor and homeless as of 2008! Awesome.

Then, while in line at the post office, I also had this dreadful conversation:

Lady in line: Oh! What an adorable baby! Not even a month old!
Me: He just turned one month last week, actually, so just over a month...
LiL: Oh! Just over a month. How precious. :::: turning to talk directly to sleeping Mateo in his sling (thank God, too, because if he had been in his stroller I think she would have touched him) ::::: You were born into a terrible, terrible world.
Me: (trying to make a joke of it) Shh... he'll hear you! He's trying to have pleasant dreams, not nightmares!
LiL: ::: gives me a cold, hard stare and then turns back to Teo ::: Yes, my dear baby... a horrible world. Your generation is doomed.
Me: ....
LiL: My generation had it all, but you are just unfortunate to be born at this time in history. ::: turning to me ::: And you're from the generation between the two. You guys could have made it out ok, but my generation didn't listen to you enough. Now there is no turning back. There was a time when we could have turned it all around, but I'm afraid we didn't react quickly enough. So now these poor souls in the next generation... they are being born into such a terrible place.

Then she went to the window to pick up her package. Thanks for the pick-me-up, lady!

UPDATE: I just complained to The Boy about my problems. His response was, "There are people who don't have enough money to eat, people who are dying on the street." Seriously? I know that my problems are not the end of the world, and that they'll work out, and that it could always be worse. But could you maybe just listen for a minute? Offer some support, some words of advice, anything? Key-riste.

My computer just died. It won't turn on -- it is just completely fried. It was a crappy computer assembled using used parts and The Boy's insane ability to build computers, and it lasted me six years. It was time to say goodbye. But still, what am I going to do now? I am using The Boy's laptop for now, but this is not going to fly as a long-term solution, and I just can't up and buy a new computer any time soon. This really, really sucks.

Second, I baked a loaf of bread last night and then was too tired to put the second loaf in the oven (takes an hour to bake) so I saved the second half of batter to be cooked today. This morning at seven, I thought, "Nice warm bread would be delish," so I popped the remaining batter in the oven and set the timer. I forgot, however, to set the oven's temp and I burned the CRAP out of it. Hence why you should not bake bread at seven in the morning, contrary to what all the Parisian bakeries would have you believe.

The house is still in a bit of a state right now -- I put together the chair and crib and so forth, did some laundry, etc. But I've got more to do today, so that's my plan. Plus, ever notice how doing these sorts of projects makes you realize how many other projects need to be done? Just moving furniture reveals entire universes of dust that you might not have known existed.

So we rented the car and did The Ikea Thing today, which is exhausting in every way possible. It was great, grand even. When The Boy and I went to Ikea a few months back, we made the terrible mistake of going on a Sunday. May I just say, for the record, that I will never again go on a weekend. The place was empty today, and just so much more pleasant. But: exhausting. However, I got away with a few good things and didn't completely bust my pocketbook, so all is well.

That said, I will not get out of bed for the rest of the evening. I will also not, I repeat NOT, attempt to assemble anything until tomorrow. My body is just wrecked from the day, no matter how much I enjoyed it.

Here's my thing, though: Ikea provides a delivery service, which I thought would be worth the 50 euros because I am eight months pregnant, and they delivery the next day. I live up four flights of stairs which, granted, are far better than my previous six flights, but still... I didn't want to be carrying heavy objects up all those stairs.

Kathypath came with me for the adventure and I began wavering on the delivery issue while we were in line. Could I lure her into helping me carry things with the promise of fresh-baked zucchini bread? She is one of the kindest people on Earth, so of course she would have helped me - and smiled while doing it - but still I felt it was a lot to ask. I mean, she already made the whole trek out there with me and everything, why add manual labor the equation? She's my friend and I would like her to remain my friend.

Eventually, I gave up and decided to opt for the delivery, mainly because we were seriously behind schedule and were worried about making it home in time with all of our purchases. Having to add in several trips up and down stairs with the clunkier objects would slow us down even more. So I stood in line, then set up the delivery info, and just a few steps before payment, the Ikea employee says to me, "However, we don't carry items up stairs. We will leave them in your downstairs hallway."

And with that, we left.

Once there was no choice in the matter, we saw that saving the 50 euros was the better option, but still. What good would it do to leave those things in my hallway?

Poor Kathypath was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, thinking she would have to carry the crib up the four flights to my house (yes, bought the cheap-o crib which, oddly, was my favorite crib in the place. I guess I'm cheap.). But then, THEN! My neighbor opened his door and said, "Do you girls need help? She shouldn't be carrying things," (looking at me) and the dear sweet man carried up all of the heavy boxes himself. That left us to carry a few light but bulky items (crib mattress, etc).

50 euros saved and eternal love to the Neighbor Man! What an angel. I might just bake him cookies. We couldn't stop saying, "You're so nice! Thank you! This is really nice of you!"

So tomorrow is going to be a great day. After running around for so many days in a row, tomorrow is my day to "nest," no matter how much I hate the term. I'm going to start setting things up, and run some laundry so that Romulus will have some clean and sparkly new clothes waiting for him. I'm also going to pack my hospital bag, as the midwife has asked me about my bag at my last two appointments and I have semi-lied in saying that it's mostly ready to go (I still have to go get the actual bag out of storage, much less pack it). I'm going to re-wire my computer and TV set up to make room for my new chair, and then I am going to go on an organizational extravaganza with my clear plastic bin goodness picked up from Ikea today.

I've intentionally saved up tons of talk radio programs, so and NPR and This American Life marathon is ready to roll. I feel like this is my first true day off in a long time, and I can't wait to spend it setting up shop around here.

Kdogg has come and gone, hence my lack of updates. I wouldn't say we were uber-busy, but just having somebody else around meant that computer time was limited. We did a lot of lazing around in the mornings, and then by mid- or late-afternoon we would usually start in on some activity (generally involving a lot of walking) which would tide us over to dinner. Of course, I had to go to work or school a few times, but she was able to entertain herself when that was the case (and I had worked around my schedule so that I had Friday afternoon off, so it wasn't too bad). It was a very laid-back visit and the week just flew by. She left this morning and I am spending the day catching up on a variety of tasks, the next of which will be a thorough cleaning of the house.

Kdogg also taught me to sew a little, and we made the cutest little BRIGHT ORANGE outfit for little Romulus. It's not perfect, but I am pretty happy with how it turned out. It's a fleece ensemble with little mitten hands and a itty bitty hat (from the red pattern -- without all those appliqués -- at the bottom of this page). So cute! Plus, it's the first real thing I've managed to sew, and we whipped it up pretty quickly. It's definetly given me more confidence for the future. I've got a second pattern I would like to tackle in the coming weeks, but I am having a bit of a hard time finding the right material. It seems all I can find around town is deco material -- it's hard to find sweatshirt, terry cloth, etc. Any Parisians have a good address?

Otherwise, I went to the doctor last week. Besides gaining a little too much weight, everything looks perfect. I'm still feeling great, and have been able to maintain my activity levels without too much difficulty. I can feel that I am a little heavy on my feet -- my only complaint is that my legs are a little sore where they attach to my pelvis, but the doctor says it's normal and is most likely due to the baby's position. The more active I am, the better they feel, usually feeling the worst when I first start moving for the day. I'm still sleeping through the night, my back is doing fine, and I am able to concentrate and keep with it without any troubles. It's awesome. At this point, I am still enjoying the pregnancy and, from what I gather, it's a bit unusual to still feel so good, so I am counting my blessings.

The Boy has had a bit of a miserable week, however, as he got some sort of toe infection and his big toe ballooned to about three times its normal size. It was completely disgusting, but, mysteriously, despite going to the ER, a doctor's, and a clinic, he was not able to get it treated. At each place, he waited 4 - 6 hours to see someone, only to be told "Sorry, we can't help you." Yesterday, somebody finally had mercy on him and did a sort of mini-operation -- now his foot is all bandaged up and he's hopped up on painkillers. Thank God, too, because he is much more pleasant than he was on the extra-strength aspirin the hospital originally prescribed.

Oh! And! I'm super amazed because I went to the social security office and the woman was REALLY friendly and incredibly competent, and I was able to get all of my paperwork taken care of in one visit. It was totally shocking, and Kdogg said afterwards, "I don't see why you complain so much about French administration, that seemed really smooth..." and I said, stupefied, "Yeah, it was. What was that about?" Fortunately, we went to the post office a few days later and she was able to witness French incompetence at its finest, so she knows I am not making this stuff up. But STILL, I'm so happy that the dreaded social security visit went ok and everything seems to be en route for my maternity leave pay. ALRIGHT!

Can I also say that hot weather + coconut sorbet = deliciousness.

This morning I woke up against my own will at 6 o'clock. I am not into this early morning trend I have developed, but perhaps it is my body's way of preparing me for months and months of sleep deprivation (years?).

But my energy levels have been all over the place lately, and the last 24 hours, I have been brimming with enthusiasm for life. Saturday, that was absolutely NOT the case, and I watched three back-to-back episodes of "House" to prove it. I simply could not get motivated and I felt downright lazy. Sunday, however, I woke up at 7 and reorganized my closet, did three hours of web design, and then three hours of Arabic. By then, The Boy was up and I could vacuum, so I did so and then mopped the floors. I figured I might as well clean the bathroom, too. Then I went back to web design for a few hours and then turned on the TV to watch the election results while cooking chili. When I looked back on everything I had done during the day, I felt accomplished.

This morning, I caught up on some emailing and then went to listen to the RFI broadcast in Arabic (online). This is something I used to do all the time -- figuring listening to Arabic programming couldn't exactly hurt my Arabic skills, even if its benefit is questionable. Any way you slice it, it's additional exposure to the language.

While eating my breakfast, I sort of half listened to the program, and started being able to pick out a few words here and there. Gathering bits and pieces, I was sort of astounded to realize that I recognized a good portion of the words they were saying, although I couldn't get entire phrases to save my life. But once I started putting the puzzle together, I thought, "Oh my God, they're talking about the Virginia Tech massacre!" I ran over to the computer to check which report I was listening to, and sure enough, that's what it was. Granted, it just took understanding the words "college" and "death" and "kill" and "America" and so forth, but DUDE! I was so proud.

Baby steps.

Anyway, it was a great way to start the day. I'm hoping today will be as productive as yesterday, I'm off to birthing classes again now (I showered this time...)

I would like to say, for the record, that I would very much like to stop waking up at 7 am on Saturdays. I feel I only have so much time left where I will be in control of my own sleeping schedule, why does my body not want to cooperate with my brain?

Thank you.

I rediscovered television after seven long years sans. I have already mentioned a slight obsession with "Grey's Anatomy," and I am afraid I followed a good friend's advice and took a liking to "Prison Break" over the past few days. What is it about that Scofield character that I love so much? Anyway, I'm only on Season 1 episode 4 but I can tell I am in this for the long haul.

Sometimes I have a slight problem with the (totally illegal, I'm sure) Chinese web site that has uploaded all of these episodes. I'm not downloading a thing, but I watch on their little player. It's like YouTube, if you will, but with Chinese subtitles.

Occasionally, the site just can't handle its own traffic, I think, and I have to pause the show and walk away for a half hour, twenty minutes, and see if the show is ready to be watched or not. This can be a painful experience after a particularly dramatic moment, and "Prison Break" is full of 'em.

This happened recently in the middle of episode 4. To ease the tension, I thought, "Why not watch a goofy show in the meantime?" See? I am helping my TV troubles with further TV. It's genius.

So I watched an episode of "Scrubs" to kill time. Any "Scrubs" fans would know that J.D. passes out whenever he poops, but I was thrilled to the bones to find out that all of this is due to repeated vasovagal syncope. I got sort of freakishly excited when he was given his diagnosis, because that was actually a medical condition I knew a little something about. I myself was diagnosed with it in 2002, after a year in which I fainted five times for seemingly unrelated reasons. And no, it was not while on the toilet. Turns out, my heart occasionally thinks I'm dying so it starts pumping like crazy, and it sends too much blood to the brain. It's pretty neat, actually, because I get about three minutes' warning before going down for the count. Apparently, I just need to drink more water, which I have been doing for five years and haven't fainted since.

BUT! I got a little aggravated at the "Scrubs" team beause J.D. was diagnosed after Dr. Cox took a blood sample. According to Wikipedia, you can't be diagnosed with vasovagal syncope by blood. You've got five options: a tilt table, a loop recorder (?), a Holter moniter, an EKG, or an electrophysiology study. I know that I had the good fortune of doing a tilt table test, in which the nurses tried out a variety of things that *might* make me faint while strapped to a table. They kept trying and trying until they found something. And that was pretty awesome, especially when I had to interrupt their conversation about paint colors to let them know that I was pretty much destined to go down. The creepy thing about the tilt table is that they don't actually give you the satisfaction of fainting, they just spin the table to a horizontal position so that you never actually fall. I guess that's the safer bet, but it made things worse to feel like fainting and then get spun around 90°.

So anyway. Can you believe it? A little inaccuracy by the "Scrubs" writers, and I caught it. Hard to think such a credible, medical show would be so sloppy.

I have been absent for a variety of reasons. Things have been a little up and down here, but, on a positive note, at least I can officially declare that God decided to skip winter this year entirely. Every year, I feel March is the great disappointment. You feel like it should be spring already, but usually March spends its time clinging to February's cold weather while throwing in unending rain. But here we are, March 5 and it has been sunny and beautiful since late February.

I haven't even been up to much of anything, besides working and then working and then doing some more work. I am finally getting towards the end of the web project for my job. It's tough because it requires some pretty tricky stuff, and I don't really have anybody I can turn to for instruction or help besides The Boy. Luckily, he has been an absolute angel about it. Secretly, I think he enjoys being able to strut his stuff (in php). So it will be finished soon, and I will have a whole slew of new web design tidbits in my brain that weren't there a few months ago. Not a bad thing. It was slow-going, but the end is in sight.

I also got a new crappy sewing machine to replace the sewing machine I fried. It's nothing fancy, but it works. On Saturday, I learned how to thread it and sew my first few stitches using the terribly confusing owner's manuel. It is a French course and a sewing course in one! "Presser foot" and "spool" -- both words I did not know before. Also, the manuel is very poorly translated from German, so there are a few points where the syntax is just a little off. I am going to try to buy some material this week and work on a very simple pattern my mom bought me a few months ago. I'll post the results, however catastrophic they may be.

Finances are super tight right now because my old landlord owes me a significant chunk of money and has yet to pay me back. I was sort of depending on that cash, but she technically has until the end of the month to give it to me. Once she does, I am thinking of enrolling in a 60-euro sewing class I found that's right around the corner from my work. It's a 3-hour class where they give you all the materials and everything, and at the end of the class you walk away with either a baby dress or a baby button-down shirt. A little guidance, plus the satisfaction of having successfully made something (anything) seems worthwhile to me.

Otherwise, I am going to self-teach my way through the sewing in the same way as I did with all this web stuff. It's good to have a new hobby. I remember when I first started learning web design, I felt totally overwhelmed and confused, but I also felt a very calm sense of determination. If I just picked one thing, I would start to dissect it and see where it led me. I spent hours and hours learning .css -- it was so confusing at the beginning. But it was very rewarding to see where concentration, time, and effort could get me, and six years later it's pretty crazy where I've ended up. So I am hoping to employ a similar technique to learning to sew. Pretty soon, I'll have plenty of time on my hands, too...

I met with a midwife last week who I pray will NOT be delivering Romulus. It's not that she was mean or cruel or anything, but she just rubbed me the wrong way. I like hippies as much as the next guy, but there's a certain type of hippie -- the kind that talks with that overly-"soothing" voice -- that I have a difficult time with.

Granted, I was a little edgy going into the office. I was absolutely exhausted as the appointment was at six and I had spent the morning running a bunch of errands and the afternoon at work. I kept drifting off in the waiting room, so I had a bit of a time getting oriented once in her office.

But what really bothered me was that she asked me to take off my shoes so she could weigh me (yay! weight is on track now!) and then, without thinking, I started putting my shoes back on. She had said something about how she was going to examine me, but she had told me to keep my clothes on, and I guess I just put the shoes on as a reflex. As she saw me doing it, she said, "No, I said you need to get on the table. Keep your clothes, but you need to not have your shoes on..."

A little flustered, I said, "Sorry, I don't know why I was putting them back on."

And she walked over to me, put a "supportive" hand on my shoulders and said, "We're just going to take a deep breath. Is everything ok? Slllooooooowwwww down. Am I talking too fast for you, maybe?"

I can't explain why it aggravated me so much. Maybe because I was tired and just didn't think about the shoes, and I didn't appreciate her making me feel like I was a stress basket who needed to take deep breaths. Maybe it was because I really didn't want her to be "comforting" me when really I just hadn't thought about what I was doing. Or maybe it was because, although I had just spent 20 minutes telling her my life story in French, she seemed to think I couldn't understand the language. Not sure.

Anyway. I see a different midwife in a few weeks and let's hope we get along.

So that's it. A very calm week spent mostly working with an occasional foray into the wild world of sewing. Clearly, things are out of control around here.

I didn't watch the Oscars, haven't in years. But I am waiting on a phone call this morning so I am stuck in the house for a bit, and I figured I might as well check out Oscar dresses while sipping my morning coffee. My thoughts are:

1. Props to any woman who wears pants to the Oscars. I think it can be very classy, and so rarely done.

2. I was happy to note the presence of a few ladies who weren't rail thin. But then Gwyneth Paltrow made up for that by wearing a dress that drew ALL attention to her stomach and STILL looking itty-bitty.

3. Eddie Murphy has not aged. That is not normal.

4. Call me crazy, but I sort of liked Celine Dion's dress. It was a little 70's throwback-ish, which is always good in my book, and it was just wacky enough to stand out from the rest (it's green!) but still simple. She's not doing much for the lack of waif-ishness, though.

5. Maggie Gyllenhaal and Kirsten Dunst both always look like they're smirking in an inside-joke sort of way. I love the former and the latter makes me uncomfortable.

6. I've always found Djimon Hounsou to be extraordinarily sexy. Just -- oooo, the sexiness. I didn't realize until I actually thought about it that it might be because he resembles The Boy. Am I the only one who sees it?

I've always thought that if I were a right-wing blogger and I needed a place to get out my ideas, I would buy the domain name elefrants.com or elephrants.com. They're still available, if anybody wants to steal my idea.

And a question for you: what's your favorite animal? I'm serious, I want to know.

I'll start: koala.

I realize this is mean but I can't dish out any news about the baby just yet. I would like to tell a few friends and family "in person" before doing so here, so you might just have to wait a day or two more. I feel sort of scummy doing that -- and I wasn't even going to update were it not for another rather urgent situation (see below) -- so please forgive me for the cruelty. However, the doctor said that the baby is healthy and that I'm/we're growing right on track, which is the most important part, right? Right! It was an excellent doctor's visit and I really love my OB/GYN. I think we have the same sort of attitude towards life, and the two of us get along great. Plus, he's hilarious. I was going to have my next appointment with someone else, but he did some fancy footwork and got me in to see him again. So anyway, just sit tight for a bit, I'll update on the little junebug as soon as I can.

In the meantime, I would like to ask your advice.

My mom bought me a Singer sewing machine as a Christmas present, and I was thrilled, thrilled, thrilled at the idea of becoming a domestic goddess. She also got me a few awesome baby patterns, and I even thought a few of them looked feasible for a semi-beginner like myself. I've been dying to get this apartment set up so that I could give the machine a whirl, as it was just not possible in my former 25m2 closet of an apartment.

Mom bought me an American Singer, as they are far cheaper than their French equivalents (plus: she lives there), and then she contacted Singer about conversion information. Reading it over, I double-checked the converter I had, and all looked good. This morning, inspired by the new square meter of space I have cleared away on my table, I decided to test out the new machine. When I turned it on, all looked good, but then I heard a loud POP and the machine turned off. Clearly, I blew a fuse or something. It's fried.

Freaking out, I called the Singer France store located in the 13th. They are both a store and a repair shop, so I figured they would be able to help me. But apparently they can't - or they won't. Take your pick, as it's hard to tell with the Frenchies sometimes. The lady mentioned something about the warranty not working in France, the fact that the French machines are totally different than American ones so they wouldn't know how to repair them anyway, the issue of course in that even if they DID manage to repair it, they wouldn't be able to test it or know if it was working for conversion reasons, and then to just tie a nice bow around the whole deal she hinted at the possibility that I am a complete idiot. It was exactly the kind of customer service experience that makes me long for my homeland. I am still reeling a little bit from our conversation. I mean, I just broke my sewing machine, lady. Be gentle.

So, my question is: what would you do? Should I bring it in to the Singer store even though they more or less said that the case is hopeless? Does anybody know of some kick ass gadget type in Paris who could have a look at it for me? Is there something I am missing when it comes to conversions? Did I need to get an extra adapter or something (the email from Singer did not mention one)? Do you think - in your expert opinion - that this machine is salvageable? Or should I just spend another good chunk of my rapidly dwindling Christmas bonus on a new machine (keep in mind that my computer is dying a slow but steady death as well... and that I have a baby growing in my belly that is going to want to sleep somewhere at some point)?

I know that a sewing machine could save me a lot of money in the long run, hence why I am sort of anxious to get this problem settled. Plus, I have a friend who is going to India who is going to come back with cheap textiles galore for me, and I can't wait to get my grubby hands on thtem. Baby patterns await! Help!

I consider myself fortunate in that I don't have a lot of habits. I don't smoke, I don't drink excessively (and at the moment, not at all), hell, I even kicked the caffeine.

But lately, I've developed a full-scale addiction. It appears that after seven years sans television, I have discovered the beauty of "24." I might have just watched 19 of the first 24 hours sometime over the last 72 hours. That is way, way too many hours of "24" hours.

Yet every time I swear it's going to be the last episode I watch for a day or two, they stick on that cliffhanger ending. And damn if I don't catch myself watching the next one. I always watch them around 10 at night, when I am too tired to do anything else but not yet tired enough for sleep. But you know, since I watch them on my computer, I have to watch them sitting up, and eventually I get so nervous and wound up that I don't even get in bed until sometime past midnight. That's enough room for 2, possibly 3 (commercial-free) episodes.

So I am sorry for those of you living in 2007, apparently I am still in 2001, season 1. Can I just ask you: Why can't the Serbian brothers just speak in their own language, as opposed to fake-accented English? And also, when are Rick and Kim going to get it on? And finally, is Jack ever going to eat?

I hear the show goes downhill at some point. I really hope it does, because I've got four more seasons stretching out before me like the great beyond. And frankly, that's scary. Somebody tell me I can rest after these first 24 hours are over and done with.

Man oh man, my house is such a mess.

I just talked to my landlord and asked her about renting the place out to the next tenant. The deal back in September was: I give her a month's notice, she's ok with it. Of course, now she's not ok with it because she's not around for the rest of this month, so how can she find somebody for next month? Mainly because I want to both avoid paying another month's rent AND I would like to get my security deposit back by January 31st, I suggested I handle the visits and she can deal with signing the papers on February 2nd or 3rd. This deal worked out well -- we will end our contract in good terms and I will also get out of extra rent.

So today I had to prepare some pics to show my apartment, and it's just ridiculous. I've never felt so pathetic. Just doing my very best to even make the place visible was quite a task, as my own stuff crowded throughout the rooms. For the time being, all of my crap is everywhere and in piles and piles on the floor. The Boy's crap hasn't even budged.

I have to start getting on the move in a serious way, but I also have exams next week (again) and have tons of stuff to do for my job. Naturally, this is when my professor schedules a 3-hour make-up session for a missed class. It's also when I opted to go to the three-hour get-to-know-the-hospital meeting at the birthing center.

I had thought I would move little by little into the new place, but now I'm seeing that might not work. How does one carry a 7-foot plant and a stereo system through the metro? In the end, I am most likely going to rent a small van in a week or two in order to make the new homeowner's (or renter's, in my case) pilgrimmage to Ikea. And as long as I'm renting the van for such an outing, I might as well use it for moving. Or for directing other people while they move things for me.

Remember? I'm not supposed to lift more than 20 lbs. ::: bats eyelashes :::

THAT, by the way, is such a joke. I carry that much every time I come back from the grocery store. However, apparently Monoprix (and maybe others) offer free delivery to pregnant women, so as soon as I don't feel like they're eyeing me suspiciously at the delivery services counter, I'm going to start taking advantage of that. I'm also considering getting my groceries online occasionally. This feels weird -- even to me -- but I figure it's a good plan for things like milk and water.

So anyway, yes. It will be complete chaos around here until van rental day. I'm usually a bit of a neatfreak, but I have just completely given up. It's sort of depressing me and I might have to break down and clean. But how?

I have been MIA because a significant portion of my family was in town, and we were a busy group. My parents, brother, and sister-in-law were able to make it to Paris this Christmas, and then the five of us headed to Amsterdam for two days on Thursday. Sadly, my sister and brother-in-law couldn't be here this year -- we'll have to come up with a way to make up for it next year. Maybe I will spend the entire 2007 holiday fake-speaking in Dutch, because we apparently find that highly amusing. And really, it doesn't get annoying at all.

I loved loved loved seeing my family, and was sad to see them go. The week with them just flew by, and considering how difficult it can sometimes be to travel to foreign lands in large groups, I am happy to say that we managed to not kill one another. In fact, my homicidal tendencies only surfaced when thinking about the biting cold. We did a lot of walking this week (cold!), and it felt good to get out and about (freezing!). It also felt good to take a break from everything and just spend some time with people I love and laugh with constantly.

Also, on Christmas Day, on the way to the airport, I felt genuine kicks for the first time. My mom has just asked me the day before if I had had any movement, and I said I had felt some little flutters and pokings but nothing too concrete. However, at 9am, alone in the train, I got several little jabs that were distinctly different from everything else I had been feeling. Since then, I feel them sporadically throughout the day. This baby must like trains though, because I have felt them on nearly every train or metro I have ridden since Christmas. For now, it's not uncomfortable or anything, it just makes me smile. But I get the feeling that this junebug is a bit of a wiggle worm, so I think I could be in for some seriously dangerous kicks shortly. I am not complaining, though... I love it.

I was also spoiled rotten this Christmas in other ways. I had told my mom that finding maternity clothes here was going to be a challenge, especially for my long-legged self for whom pants are already difficult. Mom picked me up several great ensembles, and after trying them on, I have seen the light. I am 4,000 times more comfortable in maternity pants than I am in normal pants at this point, so her purchases could not have arrived at a better time. I still don't think I'm officially "showing" or anything, but I look and feel as if I have just eaten a big meal at all times.

The other really wonderful thing that happened this week is that I found a new appartment. I didn't want to discuss it here because I am supersticious despite myself; I was afraid I would jinx it. Last week, I went to visit an apartment that I had seen advertised, and the place was absolutely perfect. It's a little far out (towards the edge of the city, near the Bois de Vincennes) but I think that with a baby that will probably be advantageous rather then problematic. It is on a direct metro line to work and to my best friend's house, a direct bus line to school, and another direct bus to the birthing center. It is twice the size of my current place, bright and airy, with tons and tons of light and a generally open feel. It is completely silent inside as well, you would never know you're in a big city when the windows are closed. More importantly, it has a REAL kitchen. A full fridge (a luxury in Paris), a four-burner stove, a real oven, a dishwasher, and a washer/dryer. My current kitchen comes equipped with: a half-sized fridge, a two-burner electric hotplate, and a mini electric oven. This is a huge, huge step up. Also, for the first time in seven years, I will have a kitchen table to eat at.

As soon as I walked into the appartment, I knew I wanted it. It is cozy while still being big. It has everything I was hoping for from an apartment, and then some. And most importantly, I know that I will have enough room for a little crib and some baby stuff when the time comes. Plus, with the delicate nature of baby sleep, I am ecstatic to be somewhere so quiet. And just steps away from the park!

I talked with the landlord and explained my situation to him in detail. My case is a tough one to sell, but I decided I would rather be totally honest with him than anything else. There is no way I would be able to hide the pregnancy at some point, and it would be even more difficult to hide the actual baby. Plus, I told him that I am not sure if I am staying or going, so I did not want to take out a full-year lease. I think this combo is actually what made him choose me: he wants to put the place on the market in December of 2007, so he would ideally need somebody to be out by November 1 at the latest. Also, he doesn't want any smokers or anybody who is going to be throwing wild parties, as he wants to sell the place as-is without having to do any touch-ups. Clearly, a pregnant lady and a chick with a newborn are a reasonably safe (although, unfortunately not always so) choice in that regard.

I am really excited to get the keys, to start the move-in process, to get on with the next step in this adventure. But, I would be lying if I didn't mention a profound sense of sadness somewhere. I have been living on Odessa Street for over five years, and I love this neighborhood and the people in it. Also, I have no idea how this change is going to upset the delicate balance in my relationship with The Boy. He is happy and relieved to know that I have found this place, what is less clear is if he is coming along with me. He has already agreed to pay some of the rent, because he is more worried about my physical comfort than I am. But as I do not know exactly what this move will do to our communal living situation, I can't help but be a little sad about shutting the door on this chapter of our lives. When I told him my fears, he said, "Don't worry. We'll make an effort and see what happens. I'm not going to disappear." In the end, I know that it is better to go towards change and let things develop as they may, and I also know that this move is a positive one. It's just a little hard. I guess I knew there would be huge changes, but this is the first real biggie and I am having a bit of a difficult time of it.

For now, I am not going to dwell on the Big Questions. I am instead going to fully freak out about how much crap I have managed to squeeze into my current closet of an appartment. It's a little frustrating that all of this is falling on New Year's Eve and Day, as I am already getting all pumped about going to give some clothes away and to sell my books. I have no idea how we are going to work this move, but fortunately we have a month to get everything packed up and schlepped across the city. Plus, I don't really have any furniture, so the task is far less complicated than it could be.

So for all of my friends Stateside reading this: you now have a comfortable place to stay, and I have a brand new fold out couch with your name on it. Come visit me!

Here it is. The last day of 2006. Every year, I say, "I get the feeling this year is going to be full of changes. A big year, in lots of ways." This year, however, I have no need to say it. I just know it. 2007 is going to be huge.

I sort of hate today. First, I woke up with a swollen throat and ears that itched so badly I wanted to stick pipe cleaners down my ear canals. "It might not be so bad, just a cold," I thought to myself, but when I sat up in bed, my head greeted the morning grayness by pounding and pounding and pounding. "Great. Sick. Wonderful."

So I lollygagged getting ready for the day, and I had that sick-in-the-clouds thing going on. What was I trying to get out of the fridge again? Did I already grab my keys? Etc.

I skipped class because I couldn't stand the thought of spending 2 hours in a hot, crowded room. I swear we suffocate every time we have class. I'm not surprised I got sick, sharing germs in such close proximity with 50 other people. I wasn't in the mood to be coughing, sniffling girl in the second row, though, so I just avoided the whole debacle altogether.

Instead, I went to work in the late afternoon and, realizing I had lollygagged a bit too much, I suddenly found myself in a mad dash to get all of my paperwork together for a 17.00 rendez-vous for an apartment. My boss said he would be my garant, this weird tradition the French have of requiring somebody write a letter saying they will pay your rent if you won't. He was cool, he offered to do it before I could even ask, but then getting him to write the letter and so forth was a little time-consuming. But it got done, and I made photocopies, typed up another letter, and suddenly saw that I had to be at the RDV in 40-something minutes.

As I dashed out the door, I got a text message on my phone:

Awesome. I received the message at 16.23, and the appointment was at 17.00. Can't beat that.

I went home in a bit of a fury, and angrily did my grocery shopping. But I got to help not one, but TWO shorties get something down off the upper shelves today, and that always puts a smile on my face.

So then I got back home and suddenly started feeling even sicker than I had earlier in the day. I made dinner and let it simmer on the stove, and got in bed. I think I had a slight fever because I certainly had the chills, and before I knew it I had fallen asleep for two hours. Luckily, The Boy had turned down the heat and dinner didn't boil over.

Once I woke up (at nine pm) I was starving, so I ate and sat down to begin my apartment search anew. It dawned on me that I was getting the beginning stages of a cold sore, further proving that I really had had (still have?) a slight fever. Knowing that cold sores can be stopped cold (hah!) in their tracks if you use a product available at my local pharmacy, I creaked my way down the six flights of stairs at 10.15 -- only to realize that the pharmacy I thought was open until midnight actually closes at 10.00.

So here I am: feeling dejected by apartment blues, with a swollen throat and itchy ears, slightly fevery, and festering a might cold sore.

AND? To top it all off? I get to go to the Prefecture tomorrow to work on PAPERWORK. Which is always my favorite way to pass the day... I have to go an hour outside of the city to pick up something that says I am a good student, and then I have to come back to Paris for my 14.00 appointment. Which I will undoubtedly spend sitting around for 3 hours. Sniffling and wanting to scratch my ears.

I hate, with a burning burning passion, that CBS allows you to watch episodes of their shows online... but ONLY IF YOU'RE IN THE US.

Duh. If you're in the US, you have a television for that sort of thing. Even better, you might have TIVO. If you're not in the US, any program you might want to watch has a 60% chance of being on TV, and even then, it's gonna be freakin' dubbed.

They're just FORCING me to find myself some copies elsewhere...

I've been off the map all month. I'll be getting back on it, there's just some weird commotion over here. In the meantime, happy almost-Halloween. They don't really celebrate it here (the Frenchies still think it's a little too commercial and American for their taste, although it IS catching on. Mostly the works of the under-12 bunch who are more than happy to spend a day gathering and eating candy, I imagine) but I would gladly use the excuse to eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. I don't think I've had one of those since I was a teenager.

Things have been a little difficult since my return to France. First, there are some tricky personal problems that I can't get into here, but that I will eventually discuss once designated as discuss-able. Second, my request for paperwork from the French government has been refused -- we are now in the process of a "rebuttal," which is sure to drag out for months. Third, we are financially in some pretty dire straights, and it makes coming home to beans and rice even less romantic than one would think. In positive news, The Boy has started a new job this month, which is absolutely wonderful and makes me so happy I could burst, but a good portion of his first month's salary is going towards money he owes the bank -- and he won't even get paid until the 31st. So we're not doing so well.

Today is my 27th birthday, and I can't help but do a sort of personal checklist to see if I'm where I would like to be in my life. It's a little depressing that the answer is more-or-less "No" -- I am not complaining, but I am being realistic. I know I don't have any specific place TO be - but maybe not living off of 25 euros a week is a start. Or maybe it's the job thing more than anything, as it really was a low blow to find out France STILL doesn't want me to work full-time. My boss is irate about it, though, and is doing his utmost to take care of it. As always, "We'll see..." is all I can say, and I'm sort of sick of living year-to-year like that. Perhaps my parents will be happy to know this, but I am coming to the end of my rope with this making-it-work in France thing.

Last night I went to Kathypath's for dinner and a movie, and for my birthday she gave me a vase that she made (she does ceramics) and a huge bouquet of flowers. The whole ensemble was beautiful, and I really appreciated that she gave me something hand-made. As I am not looking to celebrate my birthday in a any way this year, it was great to just spend the night eating dinner and watching movies at her house; I came home early and was in bed before midnight.

When I walked through the door of my apartment, The Boy said, "Oh, so you're buying yourself flowers now?" upon seeing the Dahlias. "No," I said, "Kathy got them for me..." and he just nodded.

After a moment, I said, "She made me this vase, too. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's nice," he responded, and went back to working on the computer.

I turned to him and asked, "Can you think of any reason why she might have bought me flowers? Any reason at all?"

"No, not particularly," he said, thus confirming that he has forgotten, for the sixth year in a row, my birthday.

Awesome.

Update:

Now it's later in the day and The Boy and I got in a very big, very sad fight. Not about my birthday, though -- I eventually told him about what a moron he is and we both had a pretty good laugh. No, we aren't angry with one another, just a little confused about things right now, and that makes it far more depressing than it would be just to be pissed off. I think our issues, coupled with my paperwork problems, added to my birthday reflections -- well, the whole ensemble was a recipe for disaster.

I got a little depressed (ok, a lot) in the middle of the day, and spent a few hours just resting in bed and reading. The Boy came around and was sad with me a bit, and then my best friend from junior high and high school called and we talked for three hours. It was so nice and refreshing to talk to someone who knew me when I was so young, and I was so glad that we have maintained a solid friendship over all the years and miles. Talking to her really helped me through the day.

For awhile, I thought my parents had also forgotten about my birthday, but they snuck in a call at 11:58 pm. Close one. That would have been a first.

Overall, a very depressing birthday and I am so glad tomorrow is October 9. I wish birthdays could always be as fun as they were when you would bring cupcakes to class for everybody, but I guess some years just have to be a little harder than others. Let's hope 28 is better.

I've been working my tail off for the last few days, getting up early and dealing with administrative crap in the morning and then putting in a full 8-hour day in the afternoon at work. I managed to get a sudden, inexplicable burst of energy this week, and I have been like those multi-tasker types I admire so much.

Besides the work and the banking and the school enrollment (nightmare) and the rest, I have also gone apeshit on the fall cleaning of my home. For some reason, I freaked out over the weekend and absolutely had to make my house less cluttered. If I had any sort of storage whatsoever, I would have locked all my stuff away and turned my house into a minimalist space. But no, I have no storage, so it became a "Do I want this, really?" party and I managed to keep it real and convince myself to let go of a few totally unecessary items.

I even managed to say goodbye to books. This is always hard for me. But two days ago, I gathered up a fair amount and then asked myself, "Why is this still on your bookshelf? Are ever considering reading it again or giving it to someone else to read?" If the answer was no, I brought them to the secondhand store for sale. I had lots of them. They were HEAVY and I carried two bags of them, along with a backpack full of stuff for Vegas that I was also getting rid of. Walking to the store at 10 am, I took a bad turn, and ended up walking for a good ten minutes in the wrong direction. That was awesome, because I had to turn around and go right back the way I came from, and by the time I got to the store, I was postively dripping sweat and had lost circulation in my hands. But hey, 70 euros is 70 euros.

I pretty much destroyed my back and shoulder muscles with that little adventure, and then I managed to further hurt myself by doing some serious heavy lifting at work. I spend a lot of my time carrying piles of books up and down stairs. Anybody who thinks that all that booksellers do is sit around and read has clearly never worked in a bookshop.

On top of the books, I have managed to do almost all of Paris on foot over the last few days. Montparnasse to Chatelet, check. Bourse to Odeon? Check. Les Halles to Gobelins? Check. I walk a lot in my normal life but this is really insane.

And THEN, I also had to enroll in school - a 3-day process. So I have been standing in line a lot.

What all of this comes down to is this: my legs are about to fall off. They HURT. So I have clearly been far too active recently. Time for me to just sit in front of a television for awhile.

And the timing couldn't be better, as I am flying to the US in a few hours. I can't wait to go home this time around; I am freakishly uber excited about this trip. I can't even exactly put my finger on why or how this time is even more thrilling than usual, but I don't care. Border's, here I come. I am also taking a mini-trip within my trip, out to see my sister and brother-in-law on the other side of the country. I love that. It was totally unexpected and thrown together last minute, but I'm absolutely game for that sort of random happiness being thrown my way.

So overall -- this bursting happiness thing is weird and100% appreciated. I've got a few fun things up on the horizon, and I am mentally in a space where I have very little stress and am able to just enjoy the goodness. I'm looking forward to the next two weeks.

Here's the really strange part, and the only drawback to going to the States (besides having to leave The Boy behind, who is, by the way, the sweetest and awesomest boy in the Universe at the moment, but that's a story for another day): I'm going to miss my job. Can you believe that? I am sad about leaving work to go on my vacation. What is wrong with me? Yesterday, I never wanted to leave work. Pinch me, because, damn, I'm lucky to be able to say that. My boss is awesome, the job itself is awesome, and my photo classes are going to start when I get back to Paris in October - so that's awesome. I don't want to discuss my job too much for fear of getting dooced or something, but the good part is that I have only said positive things. And I mean them. How weird is that?

Ok, I'm out. Next time I type, the q's and a's will be in the wrong spots.

So yeah. I'm going to India. In 4 days. Holy shit.

The past five days have been absolutely insane. I hardly slept for four nights, and was finally able recuperate last night -- damn, sleep is a good thing. I haven't been updating here because stringing two sentences together was proving to be more than I could handle.

Highlights from the past week include:

1) A seven-hour wait at the Indian embassy, followed by a mini-revolution executed by 68 pissed off Frenchmen, one angry Brit, and a confused and frustrated American. The Indian solution? Everybody can just put their money and passports in an envelope and hand it over to the embassy personnel, in hopes of getting our visa requests processed. I'm very comfortable with giving them that sort of thing with no proof of said transaction whatsoever.

2) A calm-evening-turned-insane with the fomer bookstore quartet in which I thought we would eat dinner and go home around 11, but instead we stayed up until 4 am putting make-up on one another and having a photo shoot. Frighteningly enough, the boys looked better in the make-up than the girls did, and they were also the last to wash it off. I HAVE EVIDENCE.

3) A 7 am wake-up following the 4 am photo extravaganza

4) A 9 am meeting with the French authorities to request my working papers. After handing in my file, I realized I had given the nice lady at the desk my CV from 2005, which, naturally, did not include the job that I am requesting paperwork for. I zoomed back to my house, added my new job to my CV (since March 2006) and booked it back to her office. I said, "Hi, I just realized while organizing my paperwork that I hadn't given you the right CV..." because that sounds a lot more professional than, "Hi, I stayed out last night until 4 am playing dress-up and forgot to update my CV while I was reviewing it at 5 am. I know the spelling looks great, because of course I checked for that, but I'm sorta missing the most important piece of information..."

5) Renting "Finding Neverland" at 11 am and eating taco salad with Kathypath while getting teary-eyed.

6) Having dinner with my very pregnant friend, and spending a good 60-90 minutes looking at all the baby gear she's gotten in the last few weeks. ELEANOR, GET BACK IN YOUR TRUNK.

7) Thinking I would go to work for 2-3 hours but quickly discovering that it would be more like 6-7. Also, I apparently enjoy going to the post office and back several times in one day, preferably carrying heavy books. Bonus points for doing the whole thing on 2.5 hours of sleep.

8) Returning to the Indian embassy to pick up my visa, and being pleasantly surprised that the envelope method worked! Plus, I got hit on my some rich Indian dude, who wanted to pay a portion of my visa fee for me. He pulled out his wallet and everything...

9) Coming back to the casa and falling sleep after three days of exhaustion. Waking up and going out to dinner with The Boy and The Little Guy, feeling finally that all was right in the world after a good nap.

10) Playing endless rounds of "Flying Hamster" online with The Little Guy, and celebrating when we achieved a new high score. Also? Knowing The Boy was doing the dishes while we were playing. Tag-team parenting is for rock stars.

So between now and Wednesday I have to: fill out my prescriptions, get a shot, pick up my tickets, pick up a book or two, copy my Arabic stuff for the plane, finish EVERYTHING at work, hang out with The Little Guy and get some snuggle time in with The Boy.

I should try to pack sometime, too.

We have a fridge! It is new, and shiny, and white! And we get to plug it in tomorrow! And store water in it! Cold water!!! I am so excited about the new fridge that I might even take the work camera home and take pictures of it! And you all would be like, "Yeah, so... um... that's a fridge..." in acompletely deadpan, unimpressed voice, and I would answer, "I KNOW!!!" followed by an elated giggle and then maybe some more exclamation points!!

And to the rest of the world, I know this isn't exciting, but guess what else? Just guess. Ok, ok, I'll tell you, but only because I know you're dying of suspense: the fridge has a freezer compartment! A FREEZER, people. I have gone five years without a freezer and I am just all a-flutter at the idea of having ice cubes. And sorbet. And fruit smoothies (hello, combo juicer/freezer/food processer... I am going to work that magic!). And best of all....

Margharitas!

In unrelated news: I also just found out that a boy I have had a fourth-grade crush on for-EVER happens to collect musicals. Does this not alarm anybody else? I'm thinking I should stop jabbering on like an idiot and doing "that nervous talking thing" when I am around him because, hello, he collects musicals. They don't call themselves sisters of Dorothy for nothing. Other elements of his person that are suddenly suspect: 1) very close to his mom 2) dresses well 3) is sweet and caring and sensitive 4) laughs easily and openly 5) liked "Marie Antoinette" and urged me to see it asap and 6) is an artist and 7) COLLECTS MUSICALS. He collects them. Musicals. Has a collection. Of musicals.

So what does the jury think? Too hot to be true? I think so.

But I will hook him up with a good friend of mine who happens to know all the words to "The Sound of Music." I hope he likes the tall, skinny, clean-shaven type.

Goddamnit. We are on day 5 sans frigo and I just made a big mistake. Desperate for cold beverage at 10:30 at night, I couldn't resist the lure of the Diet Coke The Boy had bought me to accompany our fifth takeout meal of the week. Oh, don't get me wrong: I knew the dangers of the late-night caffeine. But until you haven't lived without a fridge in 90 degree heat, I don't think you're really well-positioned to judge me.

So yes, I did it. I drank the Diet Coke just before 11 pm.

Now it's 2.30 am and I still have that signature shaking-leg move that results from caffeine overkill. Damn you Diet Coke! Damn you takeout joint with cold beverages!

The worst part, of course, is that I knew I'd regret it. Even as I opened the can, I thought, "Oh, this is a baaad idea." It's not the first time a little voice has said one thing while the rest of me has done the complete opposite. In my defense, I was thirsty as hell and had had enough of the lukewarm tap water.

I find this all fairly amusing, naturally, as tomorrow is the first day in a long while that I actually HAVE to get up early. This was totally well-planned on my part.

As long as I'm over-caffeinated, can I just get something off my chest? Thanks. I have this one pet peeve, and I have been noticing it more and more lately: "I should of" or "I could of" or any variation on that theme. What are people thinking? I know that's what we SAY, but please just write the "have" anyway. I think the very frequency with which I have been spotting this phenomenon around the internet is indicative of my need to spend less time online. We all know that nobody pays attention to what they write on "The Internets" -- myself included. But that's just one grammatical error I cannot let slide.

Another thing? If you're going to spend a good portion of your day riding around in a big truck, don't wear a skirt. Trucks are really hard to get into without flashing somebody. I like to think the guy in that Mercedes was a minister. We were right near all the government buildings after all.

Our refridgerator, which is one of those half-sized kinds that generally suck in all ways possible, broke. Just, boom. One night, we went to bed, the next morning, we woke up and there was brown goo oozing out of the freezer section that never actually worked in the first place. The brown goo gave off fumes that made me think of petrol, but more like rotten petrol that had been hanging out in a sewer for a few weeks.

Naturally, I had just gone to Tang Frères (big Asian supermarket) that day and had stocked up on all the veggies that I can't get in the supermarkets near me. My plan was to make a big Thai dinner, complete with the spring rolls that The Boy eats in terrifying quantities. SURPRISE! Nobody likes eating spring rolls with brown petrol sauce.

So that was something like 20 euros worth of groceries that had to be thrown away.

But wait, it gets better. My apartment is furnished and I dislike my landlord with the sort of simmering hatred one has for somebody who is cheaper than cheap. You all might remember the couch incident (we still, of course, have no couch) as an illustration of her cheapness. Now, however, get this: the landlord is on vacation this week, and she left on Thursday morning. She gets back on Wednesday. I called her to tell her about the fridge, and she first said, "Have you checked to see if it's plugged in correctly?"

Hello, dumbass. Brown petrol goo dripping from your refridgerator's ceiling means the machine is broken, plugged in or not. But to be polite, I said, "The light still works, but the fridge is not cold."

"Ok, well, can you just wait for me to get something when I come back? I know of a few cheap places where we can buy something."

Sure. I can wait a week. A week of not eating food from my own house, a week of not having cold beverages even though it's the middle of summer. A week of waking up in the morning and walking down six flights of stairs to buy myself a yogurt for breakfast. No problem.

Regardless, we're going out on Saturday and we're probably going to buy something. If she doesn't want to reimburse us for it because "it has to be under 140 euros" then she can shove it.

I can't wait to live in a real apartment.

1. I am obsessed with the World Cup and am currently in withdrawal. I know the players need to rest (two days? Aren't they professionals?) but I NEED MY FIX.

1.a. Wasn't the France-Spain game beautiful?
1.b. I can't believe Beckham played for 90 mins and then puked his brains out. I feel like a wuss now. If I even feel remotely nauseous I am in bed and bitching.

2. Reason #4,278 that I love my job: my boss has decided that I need to learn how to become a professional photographer. I'm not sure why he wants ME to be the professional photographer (as opposed to, say, a professional photographer being the professional photographer) but he's all set on it, and it there's one thing I've learned at this job it is that the boss decides things and THAT'S IT. No arguing. He's The Decider, if you will.

So he's decided that I am going to become a professional photographer and that he's going to not only PAY FOR MY CLASSES but also PAY ME WHILE I GO TO THEM. Sweet Jesus, pay me to go to school? For photography? Golden.

Classes start in two weeks, and I will take them for a few sessions in the mornings (before work) and then the professor is going to come back with me to work and help me set up "The Studio." It will be as if I had my own little Sears photo scene, but I'll be taking pictures of lithographs instead of gurgling babies.

3. Often at work I walk a certain stretch that gets a lot of pedestrian traffic. I walk to and from three doors that all correspond to our store. There's a lot of back-and-forth, and I spy a lot of interesting people during my mini-commute.

Somebody caught my eye today, an attractive young man who was obviously there on some sort of construction job-related task. Paint-splattered pants and a typical blue suit gave him away. We made eye contact, and I thought nothing of it, but then I thought that I might have maybe caught him pointing me out to his friend...

Hours later, I was going from door 1 to door 3 (up half a flight of stairs) when I saw him standing next to do the door. The following conversation ensued:

Him: Is this your office?
Me: No... I wish. Are you waiting for her?
Him: Yeah, I was told she would be here, but she's not. She's the only person who has the key to the door up there (motioning three flights up) and I need to get on the roof.
Me: Oh, well... um... normally she's here. We can ask at the store where she might be, they usually know.
Him: What store?
Me: Follow me.

We go down into the hallway and he leans over and says,
"You have the body of a gazelle. Did you know that?"

In certain circles, this is a compliment. And usually I get severely creeped out when people do this kind of thing, but I actually found it very endearing - probably 70% of that was related to the fact that he used the word "gazelle." Plus, I felt gross and was sweating and just overall crusty, so this was a particularly odd moment for me to be on the receiving end of his attention. And? I had already decided he was sort of hot, so the whole exchange was appreciated.

My answer, "Yeah, I've been told that before."

This is a technically bitchy response, but it was absolutely necessary as the conversation could not continue on this train as I walked into the store. I don't think this guy had figured out that we were entering my place of employment, because my boss said, "Can I help you sir?"

And his response was, "Oh, I'm with her."

I clarified the situation and he ended up getting taken care of by the boss, but it was sort of funny for him to come to realize that I worked there. He had been "tutoi-ing" me for the whole previous exchange, and then suddenly he changed (with a bit of a smirk, I might add) to the more formal "vous."

We were both sort of in on the joke, and it was all quite goofy and silly and flirtatious, but fun.

I can only be comfortable in those sorts of situations for a maximum of five minutes before I start to panic and blush, so I eventually beelined out of the store in search of other tasks.

Later, we crossed each other in the hallway as I was leaving work and he was carrying large pieces of heavy metal somewhere (yum...muscles...). "Done for the day?" he said, and I just smiled and said, "Oui, bye bye!"

4. On that same note, I mentioned this interaction to The Boy today and I added that at least three-quarters of the men that hit on me are black (the above not being an exception). This was a phenomenon I had already noticed in the US, but that has postively exploded since I have been in France.

Regardless, I told The Boy that somewhere I think that everybody has a general "type" of person who is attracted to them. Some people I know, for example, attract musicians and artists. Others attract fashionable hipster types. I apparently attract Africans (and to a lesser extent African-Americans).

This lead us to discussing various cultures' ideals of beauty. I like this conversation because The Boy makes it VERY clear that he is not into skinny chicks, which is cool for me because I'm never gonna be one. "You probably just attract Africans because you're round where women are supposed to be round -- nobody's going to mistake your for matchstick."

I sort of got gloomy about the prospects of never being a matchstick (you would think I would have fully accepted this by now), when The Boy turned to me and said, "Africans want their women to have merchandise. No merchandise means no interest."

I'm qualifying "merchandise" as the equivalent as "junk in their trunk" -- and for the rest of the evening he kept saying, "There goes the merchandise!" whenever I walked by.

I think I'm kind of in love with that expression. Because, really, I've got some merchandise. And it's really empowering to think of your ass as your merchandise, let me just tell you that right now.

And then lter, he said, "The spongier the better."

Which sort of traumatized me.

And then he added, "If your ass doesn't go ::::: insert the sound of jello jiggling here :::::: then we're not even going to look your way."

Which I am sort of trying to pretend I never heard.

I have been MIA from everything. Just - seriously - it's pathetic how I have managed to seperate from the rest of the world for the last week or so without even noticing it.

I still don't know what I have been doing with my time. Two big things come to mind: 1) the setting up of a database for the bookstore and 2) the reprogramming of the assistant site. Computers are funny that way. A small task that you start at ten am suddenly finds you still sitting in the same chair at six pm. Mysterious.

But that doesn't explain entirely where I have been for the last ten days, pretty much not phoning or calling or going out or ANYTHING. Yet, I've managed to see people, usually if they call in the middle of the day and I decide to go into work an hour later (TheKnitter did this effectively, as did The Minnesotian). I also had a programmed art contest thingiemajigie with Kathypath, so we grouped several social encounters in one and I packed in five or six coffees/hang-outs/chit-chats in one afternoon.

I apologize to those to whom I owe phone calls (Hi Julie! Hi Vegas!). There's no real excuse for my absence other than that I didn't realize it's almost July.

On a totally unrelated note: I did my laundry for three hours the other day (and was thankful to have some time to sit in the laundromat and think in peace) when I noticed that the dryers said something a little peculier:

I get the meaning. My first thought was, "What a terrible translation!" but then I realized that it wasn't a translation at all. It was the original sticker on the dryer that was then later translated to French. But from then on, all I could see was a little cartoon dryer bitching about how much he hates camping, or maybe how many misquito bites he's gotten.

For years, I have been able to predict the rain. Nobody believes me when I say this, but I say, "Shhhh... listen to your body, it will lead the way..."

Ok, for reals now, I know that not everybody is as gifted as me when it comes to biologically determined meteorological predictions. But I have a secret, dear Intenet:

My feet swell. Every day, before a rainfall, my feet swell -- and I can often feel my heartbeat in them.

I know a lot of people will dismiss this as hippie rubbish. My boyfriend took a full three years of 100% rain prediction accuracy before he came to belive that my feet can determine what the skies will drop tomorrow. By now, he has come to ask ME, before consulting the weatherman, what the forecast is tomorrow.

Last night, however, I doubted. Sometimes my feet have a hard time determining the difference between an excessively humid day and the rainfall. As the last four days in Paris have been very humid, I assumed the throbbing that began around 19:00 was simply due to our 90% humidity problem.

I mentioned in passing that my feet were throbbing, and The Boy said, "Oh là, looks like rain tomorrow!" and I corrected him, reminding him about the humid vs rain difference.

But hélas... this evening things are cooling down and there is a pleasant bit of rain throughout the city.

My feet were right again. It'd be cool if I could fit them back in my sandals, now...

It's awesome having psychic feet!

Well, that was embarrassing.

The couch is still in the hallway. No neighbor complaints. Yet.

However, my landlord freaked. And then she called me back much later, seemingly more calm, and left the following message on my machine:

"Ok, so I talked it over with my husband. We've decided: tomorrow, you and your boyfriend can bring the couch back downstairs. Then, I'll put it in the van in exchange for a couch we will give you -- it's our own couch, from our house, in our basement. It's a nice couch, also with a fold-out bed, and you can just take it and I'll take the one that won't fit in your door. Ok? I think that's the perfect solution. I'll call you to confirm, but it will be at three o'clock tomorrow."

This message disturbed me in many ways. I am trying to be as zen as possible about this, because as annoying and preachy as it sounds, I think I'm finally starting to accept that worrying about things doesn't help them much. And honestly? The things I stress the least are almost always (let's say 99% of the time) the things that turn out best. It's curious.

So in my zenness, I let the fact that she just started making decisions without asking my opinion first just slide. I called her back and said, "I have already taken two half-days off of work. This is a problem because I am currently working six days per week, and I go to school full-time. So taking a half-day off just once is an incredible inconvenience. Three times is impossible. Maybe I could work it out so that I could be home at noon, but three o'clock? No. Absolutely not."

She responded with a message that actually said, "Mademoiselle, you can't say that. There is no other way. We can't get the couch out of the hallway any other day. You have to be home tomorrow at three."

When I finally got in touch with her, I had a variety of things to answer to that. The majority of them weren't very nice. But I remained selective (and zen!) and simply stated that I could not pay the rent if I did not keep my job, and that I don't have the luxury of missing three half days per week. I know my landlord doesn' t work for a living, and that she inherited the money that allowed her to buy two apartments in Paris that she now only semi-looks after. I don't expect her to really understand the words I NEED TO WORK but she does understand the words I NEED TO PAY RENT. So then she suggested I find a friend to come over, bring down the couch, and so forth. Wha? Wait... wha? My friends work, too. And seriously? Not their favorite way to spend a Thursday afternoon.

Am I weird in thinking that this is her responsibility?

Then I dropped a bit of a bomb, and said that I would rather just buy my own couch than take the one coming from her house. I've been living with her shitty, ugly furniture for years. Here's something that she clearly stated is FROM HER BASEMENT and I'm supposed to just say, "Oh, ok!" She got a little upset and said, "Mademoiselle, please don't think that this is an ugly couch, not at all! It's a great couch, and I'm not giving it to you to get rid of it."

I said, "I think it would be better if you just took the couch you bought back to the store, and then I took the time to find something on my own. What if you bring by your couch, and I don't like it? What then?"

"You'll like it."

"Maybe. But if I don't, I'm the one who has to live with it. I've been living with half-broken furniture for five years. I would prefer to sit on my floor for a month while I get the money together to buy a proper couch. I'll just take it with me when I leave."

"This couch is fine... you just have to put a new fabric on it and it's as good as new!"

Right.

So THEN I said, "Well, why don't you keep your own couch and just return the one you bought?"

"I can't," she admitted, which proves my theory that she bought the couch second-hand. "I already bought it."

"I know, " I said, "But a furniture store has to respect the fact that you bought it and couldn't fit it through your door. We never even used it. It's in the exact same condition as it was when you brought it over..."

"Yes, but they won't take it back."

So we're in a bit of a conundrum. I don't want her basement couch. I'll admit that I'm being abnormally unflexible about this whole gig. I just don't appreciate a few aspects to this story:

1. It took her forever to agree to buy a couch
2. It took her forever to find one
3. It took her forever to deliver it
4. The couch she bought was second-hand (nothing wrong with second hand, but don't pretend it's a brand new couch when there are clearly stains on the arm rests...)
5. The couch she bought can't fit through my front door
6. Now she just wants to give me a couch from her basement instead
7. She wants me take another day off to deal with all of this
8. She actually got upset when I told her I don't want her couch

It looks like I'm sitting on the floor for the next few days. I don't mind that in the slightest, actually. But I do mind taking in a musty couch to replace a broken one. So believe me: I will let her know if her skanky-ass basement couch is too ugly for me. I'm not above that. Or below that. Whichever way you look at it.

The Boy and I live in a small (very small) furnished apartment. This is good in some ways: 1) we never had to buy any furniture 2) there's gotta be something else good about it. This is bad in others: 1) I hate the furniture my landlord chose 2) a lot of it needs to be replaced in a serious way and 3) my landlord is an incredible penny pincher.

I finally convinced her that the 7-year-old clic-clac (that's a fold-out couch) in our living room needed replacing. The whole process was extremely long and drawn-out. She had to come over, sit on it, open it, flip the mattress, sit on it again, etc until she finally agreed that, yeah, it should probably go. It's 7 years old, people! It's from Conforama, which is not even as high as Ikea on the quality chain! It's not meant to last seven years!

Even after I told her that I am embarrassed to invite people over because my couch is so jacked up, she still said, "And are you sure it's not just the mattress that needs replacing?"

Finally, she gave in and had to go clic-clac searching, and then she had to go on vacation, and then she didn't have time, and blah blah blah. A month whizzed by and finally she found a couch she liked, and I agreed to it (anything, just give me anything!) and a date was set for delivery.

That date was yesterday, but something came up and she couldn't deliver it. Meanwhile, we had dumped our old couch on the curb at the appointed time for the Parisian cleaning crew to come get it (you actually have to make an appointment with them for it!). I'll have you know the appointment time is six am, which had The Boy and I carrying the couch down several flights of stairs sometime around five am this morning.

So with no couch and little free time, we pushed the new couch delivery date back to noon-ish today. Upon arrival, the Landlady dropped off the couch and ran away to return the rent-a-truck on time (otherwise she would have to pay a late fee). That left The Boy and I to bring the damn couch up to the sixth floor by ourselves. Luckily, the guy who runs the kebab joint downstairs came by, and honestly, he did most of the heavy lifting. I'm still baffled by his generosity.

But six flights later we realized that my landlady might have looked really damn hard for a new couch, but she didn't think the MEASURE it first. Naturally, we couldn't get the thing in our front door. And we never will.

Now the couch is sitting on the little bit of space in front of my apartment door. My neighbors must hate me. My landlady is beside herself. And I am going to eat dinner on the floor tonight.

Because, of course, we have no kitchen table. Could you imagine the chaos that would bring?

1. I've taken to running again. If I wasn't already persuaded, it took but one trip down to the park in my "excercise" pants (aka my "pajama" pants, my "lazy day" pants, and my "run across the street for milk" pants) to realize that my ass has taken on epic proportions. Something needed to be done - pronto! I am still reeling a bit from the discovery, but I am trying to tell myself that this is a temporary thing.

I do, however, have the awesomest boyfriend in the history of all mankind. After I came home from my jog - and corresponding realization about The Ass - I said to him, "Do you see my ass? It has a mind of its own. I walk one way, and it decides to go another. When did it decide to stick out so much? And to make its own decisions?" He looked at me and said, "That's the way we like 'em." Then said something in his own language that translates as "Your body is sexy sexy." (repetition for insistance). Then he shivered and fake fainted as a direct result of The Ass's glory.

2. Everybody! And your mother! You absolutely must go to This American Life and listen to the greatest thing ever. Go to the archives page and find the piece on Neighbors (2006). Skip past Ira's introduction and listen to the first story in which the founder of Found Magazine went to meet Mr. Rogers. And it is the cutest damn thing I've ever heard.

I have started up the most lovely habit of going to work on the weekends when nobody else is around. I positively binge on NPR -- on Sunday, for exampleI listened to back-to-back episodes of TAL, and then two episodes of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me! in which I actually banged on the table two or three times in laughter. Good thing I'm alone in the store.

This is my first week of vacation and I am more exhausted than ever. Ain't that the way?

The Little Guy was here visiting for the last four days - he just left five minutes ago. He's such a great kid, it's scary -- but it's still a bit of a challenge having him around. The linguistic barriers make it difficult, and it wasn't until I brilliantly began incorporating Babelfish into our conversations that we got past the limited vocabulary available to us using gestures. His French is coming along, but our slow-motion conversation via the computer translations revealed that not only is he cute and good-natured, but he also has a quirky sense of humor that would indicate he's also quite bright.

I wrestled with a fair amount of issues this week, getting a glimpse for the first time of what it must be like for working moms. Of course, The Little Guy is nine and can fend for himself. But then again, he was here, alone, in a foreign country, without friends, and was 100% dependent on us not just for basic needs, but also for entertainment. I played tons of "Flying Hamsters" and the three of us had a wrapping-paper roll battle that lasted at least an hour. Legos, Sudoku, and paper airplanes also were important features of the week. It was fun, but mixing all that playing with all that working makes for rather long, tiring days. At one point, The Little Guy was reading a copy of "The BFG" ("Die VGR" or something in Dutch) and I couldn't help but think to myself that it is IMPERATIVE that my children love to read as much as my brother, sister, and I did growing up. It's insta-silence! The recipe for working while at home! Awesome!

But really, I did suffer some guilt issues, and I'm sure The Boy did too. I know he feels pressure for his work, as the project is going to launch soon(ish), and he was doing insane things like getting up at five am just to be able to have some work time. Of course, this system worked until one day when he just collapsed at noon. Coincidentally, noon is when I usually have to go into work, and there we were with a typical parent dilemna.

To make things more difficult, work has suddenly gone from a relaxing, borderline mundane job to a rather intense and stressful one. If I took a good hard look at things, I would probably say I prefer this second option to the previous one, but given that I've been sleeping less and spending a lot of time having thumb wars, this was not the best week to make the switch. I'm staying afloat, but it's been exhausting.

Last night, I went out to eat with some friends -- it was a lovely dinner and they're lovely people. It was pretty striking how hard it was for me - at first - to go back to adult conversation. I can only imagine how difficult it must be for someone who stays home with a two-year-old, alone, all day. And normally, I stay out until midnight, one, two, something to that effect. But by eleven, we were on our way home (I think they were pretty tired, too), and I walked in the door, took out my contacts, and went straight to bed.

So he's gone now, the house is quiet. The Boy and I have already decided that most likely this weekend will be spent inside, listening to the silence. However, I do have to say that the teamwork between The Boy and I this week has been stellar, and it makes me think that if we ever do have kids together, we'd be good at it. That's a cool thing to be able to say.

Lots of commotion over here in the last few days. I've been drinking a lot of caffeine, so naturally this commotion feels even more commotion-y than usual. I'm really going to have to cut back some time soon. I get all extra jittery and insane after 1.5 cups. I guess I have low caffeine tolerance.

First and foremost, my boss gave me the "company" camera so that I could learn to use it over the weekend. He said, "I have no idea how these things work, so just see what you can figure out and then teach me everything you know." Ok!

I said, "Do you have the USB cable?" and he responded by looking at me in that dismissive way and saying, "Now you're just spewing out techno-babble. You've lost me."

I'm a bit of a technology whore despite myself, so of course I started playing with the camera as soon as I could. It's beautiful, it's wonderful!

As proof, I took a picture of my "office."

This is without doing a damn thing to the settings, just letting the camera do it's thang. For having those windows in the background, and only half the lights on inside, I was really surprised by how well the camera regulated itself for the image. Check out my desk: It's gorgeous!.

I think a few things need to be pointed out here. 1) Can you tell I'm a neat freak with the paperwork? I hate having papers on my desk. I also hate having random pens lying about. Yes, there are piles of books - that can't be helped. Fortunately, on Saturdays, the Big Strong Men come and whisk them away. But I must have a completely clean space to work on. My superiors - both of whom are darling but not exactly organized - have already commented on my borderline obsession. 2) Is my computer not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen? I need to name it, I know -- I am open to suggestions. Your call. It's a boy, just for the record. 3) I have already decided that when I have lots of money and my own personal library at home, I am finding the exact wood they used in their bookstore. a) it smells divine, even after four years b) it's sturdy and appears never to scratch and c) holy coziness! Where's my cocoa?

I'm off to do the less interesting things with the camera now, but I have fallen absolutely in LURVE with it. Easy to use, none of this shaky hand business that is such a problem with the other digitals.

Second bit of business: my landlord has agreed to buy us a new couch! This has been a long time coming - at least six months - but we're finally going to get one. I think I'll take a picture of the monstrosity we have had in our living room for the last few years. Then I'll do a compare/contrast. Apparently, the new couch is going to be a deep burgundy of sorts, which could go terribly wrong. However, I am not opposed to masking the Ugly with cushions and various other techniques. The real joy here is that I will finally have a couch with armrests. For the past five years, I have done all of my reading in bed, for lack of a better place to do so. Naturally, this often leads to sleeping instead of reading. Now, however, I will be able to curl up into a corner of the couch and read. Again, where's my cocao?

Third bit of commotion: The Little Guy is on his way once again! This means Monday will be an exciting day: picking up the kid at the train stration (he takes the train all by his lonesome, now), picking up a shit ton of books ordered from a local editor, potentially picking up a new couch, and somewhere in there, going to work.

While I on the phone, complaining to my best friend about possibly putting on some weight over the winter season, I mentioned a little problem with a certain pair of pants. For any woman who gains weight in her lower back/hips (as opposed to the stomach or thighs), this problem - and the way it sort of morphs the body in a certain region - is all-too-familiar.

"Oh, you mean the Muffin Top?" she asked me. "Yeah, the Muffin Top is bad..."

Ok, I have never heard this term before (remember, we don't speak English around here, and getting lingo to cross the ocean is a bit complicated), but I fell in love with it at once. Sure, it haunts me 24/7, but I think it might just be the greatest linguistic creation yet. I might be behind the times, but only by two years or so.

Urban Dictionary suggests this is a "fat chick" problem, but the previously linked NY Daily News (always accurate news source, I know) shows images proving the contrary. My deep, analytic study would suggest that it is often an issue resulting more from the positioning (aka "Low rise") of the pants than from their actual size.

I personally avoid wearing pants that are too small (duh, they're uncomfortable) but have a slight Muffin Top issue with one pair in particular. I can't quite figure out why this happens, but you can be sure I am never wearing those pants again. The constant voice chanting "Muf-fin Muf-fin Muf-fin" is enough to coivince me it's just not worth it.

UPDATE: I just read that the male version of this is called Stud-Muffin Top. This just gets better and better.

I had a killer class this morning. Sometimes learning gets me high as a kite, and today was that type of day. Call me a dork if you want to (I DARE you), I'll say it straight up: my grammar lecture RULED.

I remember when I was learning French, things got really interesting about year three. That was when we started mixing things up a little bit - some subjonctif here, some futur antérieur there. Making the jump from saying, "I have a red house" to "I would have had a red house if we hadn't painted it purple" was such an exciting leap... as I was only 12 or 13 at the time, I remember thinking, "Oh, so wow? Other languages have different layers like that, too?" Please forgive me for being stupid. I just told you, I was young. Regardless, I don't think I conciously was aware of how complicated it actually was -- in all languages I've studied to date, the grammar exercises are usually based on just plugging-and-chugging elements into a formula at the top of the page -- but I DO remember being really thrilled when went from understanding basic phrases to more intricate verb structures.

Which is why today was so cool in class. In one day, we covered the imperfect, past perfect and future perfect. It's so easy in Arabic! (I can't believe I just wrote that) We also dipped a little into the subjonctive, but the prof stopped after his first point for timing reasons. I was like, "No!! No!!! Keep teaching me about the subjonctive!!!" But then I decided not to say that out loud, because I would like to maintain whatever friends I might have made in my class thus far.

However, the excitement of it all inspired a 2-hr Arabic marathon with a coffee by my side. The concentration level was very high, and I almost missed my RDV because I was so absorbed in the subject. The only thing that managed to break my spell was an old Frenchman yelling into his cell phone at the table behind me - I don't know why he had to tell EVERYONE in the café about his plumbing problem. I actually pulled a Parisian on his ass and gave him The Look and then sighed heavily. He didn't know how to read my very clear signals, so I eventually just got up and changed tables for my remaining ten minutes of work.

And then, I met up with TheKnitter for lunch (we work in the same 'hood) before I went to work. Or tried to go to work. Just five or ten minutes before I was to head on my merry way to "the office", my boss called to tell me not to come in today. I was a block away, so good thing he called me beforehand.

But still, I'm not bitter. I wandered over the Chatelet and said hello to Vegas. I was asked to do a voiceover in a film while there, so there was an unexpected purpose (other than a social one) to my visit. Really, it was just that the afternoon was beautiful and I wanted a bit of a walk before going back to the house.

I got home about an hour later, and ten minutes after that, The Boy's brother - GanglyMan - knocked on the door. He came loaded with catalogues from editors, and I spent the next hour or two choosing books for our project. Meanwhile, I organized drop offs for a couple sales I have organized, and I met up with several different buyers. One of them was sort of hot and I couldn't really talk to him without getting all weird, so that was a tricky transaction. The others went swimmingly.

So here it is: eight o'clock and I have already learned three new verb forms in Arabic, visited with a friend, gotten a role in a movie, made some spare cash, and gotten a shit ton of work done. This is my second "day off" in a row, and I am again amazed out how much I can get done. Let me repeat: I need a day off every day! Think of all the work I could do!

Today is an unexpected day off. Yes, yes, the protests are important. But the rate at which life is flying by right now, I am simply delighted to have a day to go to the bank (yeahhhh... I bounced a six-euro check) and do the laundry.

By the way, I dream - simply DREAM - of having a washing machine in my house. I promise, I would never, EVER take it for granted. I love doing the laundry itself -- whenever I am in the US, I throughly enjoy the entire process. But here? With the climbing and the packing and waiting for the machine while the stinky bum tells me about his last trip to Poitiers? If it's not the jabbering bum, it's the old lady who needs me to push the "start" button because she can't see it (although I sort of love her, in a way) or the creepy guy in the corner who is obviously trying to gatch a glimpse of my skivvies as I load them into the machine.

Plus - with that whole bounced-check episode under my belt, I'd really enjoy not paying 20 euros for clean socks.

Anyway, I've spent the morning catching up on news, contacting some publishers, selling some books, yada yada. Very productive morning, and I love feeling semi-accomplished before the day is even half over (or have started?). I've done it all with RFI in the background - first in Spanish, then in Arabic. Adjusting the ear, if you will. The teachers say this is necessary... I don't know how much I agree, but I figure it can't hurt. With Spanish, in particular, it's important, as it's my only regular exposure to the language these days.

So I got to thinking about translations while I was reading the article in Spanish entitled "Los jóvenes franceses no encuentran trabajo". This would translate without any problem into French: "Les jeunes français ne trouvent pas de travail."

But when I went to mentally translate it into English, it didn't work:

- The young French don't find work
- The young French find no work

Both sound weird and off to me. The most natural next step is to say, "The young French can't find work." But then that changes meaning, doesn't it? That would imply they're trying, and I'm not totally sure that's the case, right? At least, not given the Spanish title, or it's French translation.

It's always interesting to spot semantic differences. Can anybody think of making this sentence work? Maybe it's obvious and I'm just missing it.

Anyway. I'm not there yet with Arabic. Maybe by next year, I'll be able to translate that sentence. However, I will say one thing: it is very surreal to listen to a broadcast in Arabic about Johnny Cash "The King of Country Music" (I actually understood that, which is also quite surreal).

UPDATE: I didn't bounce the check. You have no idea how proud I am of myself.
UPDATE II: I get so much done on days where I don't have to go to school or to work. I should do this every day!

This is hilarious. After reading about using your Ipod as a divinatory device (chez Maitresse), I stopped by Nessa's and found a music-player related meme. Needing to waste some time, I did it. And it's funny.

So pull out your favorite music player, put it on shuffle, and record the order of the songs. Each song is the answer to important questions in your life:

How does the world see you?
I Feel Good - James Brown
Well, now, that's snazzy

Will I have a happy life?
Lady Madonna - The Beatles
Not sure how to interpret this.

What do my friends really think of me?
Upside Down - Donna Summers
Ok, so I'm a weirdo, but a fun one!

Do people secretly lust after me?
One Nation Under a Groove - Funkadelic
Again, not sure what that means. Maybe somebody funky secretly lusts after me. Or maybe the whole funky planet does?

How can I make myself happy?
Happiness is a Warm Gun - Tori Amos
I shit you not!

What should I do with my life?
People in the Middle - Spearhead
So I guess I should just love people and stuff

Will I ever have children?
Why oh why? - Spearhead
So apparently I will have a son who likes basketball and mourns his former teammates

What is some good advice for me?
Roxanne - The Police
I dunno... you figure it out

How will I be remembered?
Et Pourtant - Charles Aznavour
Great! One line: "Sans un regret, je partirai..."

What is my signature dancing song?
That's the Way I Like It - KC and the Sunshine Band
Sure. Not the first to come to mind, but ok.

What do I think my current theme song is?
I Get High - Talib Kweli and Mos Def
Um...

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
I Need You Tonight - INXS
Whoa.

What song will play at my funeral?
Thank You - Dido
Ok? But I have already requested "Billie Jean"

What type of men/women do you like?
Shadowboxing - GZA
It appears I like tha gangstas

What is my day going to be like?
Gold Dust - Tori Amos
I don't even know this song

So on Friday night, The Boy went out with his friend Mr. Sarcastic. When the two of them go out,** I usually know he won't be coming home until sometime after three, and most likely not very clear-headed.

I generally hate these evenings, because I can't seem to shake the experience of getting a 4 am phone call a few years back because Mr. Sarcastic had crashed his motorcyle and The Boy was flat on his back at the hospital. I spent the next month nursing The Boy back to health -- pulling chunks of road out of his arm, carrying him to the bathroom because he was in too much pain to put weight on his feet, purééing his food because he had such severe mouth/teeth injuries that he couldn't eat anything solid for three weeks. The Boy pretty much stayed in a codein haze for the first few weeks, and then was finally able to try walking without help after four. I think it goes without saying that my memories of that time were not good ones; I remember having to come back from between classes so that he could go to the bathroom, because otherwise he would just have to go in the bed.

The Boy and Mr. Sarcastic swear it wasn't drunk driving; it was that "the light turned red too quickly." I maintain that they're both in their 30's and should know better, but France just doesn't have the same sort of aggressive drunk driving awareness program as we have in the States. So when the two of them go out, I totally and completely pull that mother hen act, waiting for her teenage son to come back from God knows where. It's a little pathetic, really, but it's something I can't really control or rationalize.

This last Friday, I went to bed around 2 and then tossed and turned until 5.30, when The Boy finally stumbled his way through the door. It was relieving to see him; I had been pulling out all the dwell-on-this topics I could find to distract myself from the terrible visions of what another early morning phone call would mean.

He didn't even seem THAT drunk, which was miraculous for such a late hour. He wandered into the bedroom and got in bed, gave me a kiss and said, "I'm exhausted..." As he put his arm around me, he said, "You're hot" (meaning temperature wise, of course) and I said, "That's because I've been under the covers for hours, but sometimes when I get into bed after you, you're so hot that I feel like I'm swimming in a pool of sweat."***

This was enough to set him off, because I apparently said the word for sweat incorrectly. He laughed, made fun of me some, and then the strangest thing happened: he started a two-way dialogue. With himself.

Him: A pool of sweat. Ha! Sweat. I need to stop swimming in a pool of sweat.
Him: Right, well, then, we should just empty the sweat from the pool.
Him: But how do we empty the pool?
Him: I don't know. Maybe we should just fill the pool with water instead?
Him: We at least have to empty the pool of all the sweat first, though, before we put in the water.
Him: Right, right. Hm... well, this is a problem!
Him: Yes! I know! The pool of sweat is not an easy issue to resolve!

I tried to interrupt at some point and ask him to stop talking (I was trying to sleep of course) but it was as if he just didn't hear me. Or he heard me, but only on some other level. It was at this point that I realized that, although he was speaking perfectly clearly without any slur whatsoever, he was both drunk and exhausted. I think he might have actually have been asleep at this point, but the sleeping didn't prevent him from carrying on an INSANE conversation for at least 45 minutes.

Him: If you would stop talking for a minute I could just think about how to get all that sweat out of the pool.
Him: I need to not stop to not be talking. How can I not stop talking?
Him: No, you need to not stop to not talk to be sure to not be talking when you stop.
Him: Well, that's really clear. Maybe you need to figure out what you're trying to say.
Him: Stop talking, Jesus! You're not talking enough for me to stop talking....

And so on.

When it became obvious that this was not going to end, I eventually just gathered up some blankets and went to sleep in the living room. I could still hear the conversation, but at least I was no longer privy to the details. At one point he yelled out (to himself, of course), "Your breath stinks, man!"

Of course, he doesn't remember any of this.

** The two boys only go out once every month or so. So WEIRD. They're best friends, and they only hang out once a month. What IS that? Boys do that a lot. I freak out if I don't see my friends for three days.

*** The Boy has a real sweating problem at night. Does anyone know how to fix this? He snuggles up under the covers and is so tired that he doesn't move for several hours. It turns out that the covers are too hot for him after a certain point, but he doesn't adjust them for temperature. So he just sweats buckets and buckets. It's pretty gross for me. He says it's a sign of good health, but I still maintain I don't want to sleep next to that. Sometimes, it's like that chalk outline found at murder scenes, except it's a sweat outline. In our bed.

With March, the craziness has begun. A friend said to me yesterday that she was sort of down. Why? I asked, and she said it was because she's not really into anything she's doing right now. She's busy, but not with anything she's particularly excited about.

I've been there, and it sucks. But I can officially say I am on the other side of the spectrum: I have TOO MANY things I like that are going on. This is not a good way to live, really, either. I've always had a tendency to spread myself a little thin, but the chaos? That thing I've been sort of swimming in for the last 8-10 days? It doesn't look like it's going to let up for quite a while.

But first off, my new employer has decided to start my contract March 1, instead of Feb 1, because of an electricity problem in my "office." No electricity (or electricity not up to norms) meant no internet, and no internet meant no work for me. Also? No emailing on the company clock. Just kidding, I actually think I'll have enough work and pressure and responsibility that I won't want to waste away my at-work hours. I know, I know... how did I snag a job like that? And is that really a good thing in the end? Not sure. Ask me next month. So the contract is signed. I'm still waiting for news on my internet connection.

Secondly, I am going to London this weekend on "business." Let me say that sentence again, without the self-effacing quotes: I am going to London this weekend on business. Man, it's hard to say that seriously. But it's the truth, and I might just have to wear heels for a half-day or so, just to really let it sink in that that, indeed, is what I am doing there. Business-like things.

(I just got a new laptop bag, too, so I think I'm ready)

Third: The Boy and I are absolute MACHINES right now. We've gotten so much done for the future of his ("our") company that I don't even know how it's all happened. We're also enormous dorks, because the slip of paper informing us our business cards arrived a few days back, and it made us both so goofy and giddy that The Boy ran over to the post office immediately afterwards just in case we could pick them up that same afternoon. We could, and he came running back home to show me, grinning from ear to ear.

We also received our first fax.

These are the types of milestones that actually propel me.

Actually, though, we've crossed some seriously gruesome battlefields over the last two weeks, and I can actually look back and give us some props. I think we both have a hard time remembering to pat ourselves on the back(s), occasionally, but even The Boy has had to admit we've made progress.

Meanwhile, I went to my Arabic class today, not knowing we were having an exam. I don't actually take exams -- there are two types of enrollment and I am in the group of people who just have one massive exam at the end of the year --- but I am a part of the class so I still participate in them on occasion. But not knowing about this exam was a bit of a shocker: it was the first time I sat down and tried to do any Arabic without my handy textbook next to me. Wow! I can't do very much on my own. I actually got up and told the teacher I wasn't feeling well and went outside for the last ten minutes of the exam. I wasn't handing it in anyway, and it was just depressing me. However, it was a great thing to realize. Me and the studying? We have to get friendly now.

So one more thing and I'm out: What's up with the French system of returning change? Cashiers tend to have little dishes out -- I've always found it bizarre - for you to drop your money into. Just to avoid touching the his/her hand. BHV has even developed little rivets in their cashier desks -- they're kind of cute in a totally paranoid-of-strangers sort of way. But I have an ongoing issue at Monoprix: there's no damn bowl. So how do I pay? Do I hand the person the money (like I would in the States) or come up with a way of paying without physically touching the cashier? Sometimes I sort of set the money down on the cashier's little table, and sometimes I hand it directly to the person. Either which way I do it, I always feel like I should have gone with the other method - those Frenchies never seems satisified with my technique. Does anyone else have this problem? Or am I just thinking about it too much? I feel like they are very weird about this whole giving-of-the-change ceremony. I've been here for over six years and I still can't get it right.

The Boy and I have been having lots of fun over the last 72 hours. One of us (me) had the great idea to change our telephone/internet plan. Instead of paying God-knows-how-much for our phone, and then 35 euros/month for our internet, I suggested we mesh the two and sign up with Neuf Telecom. They have a deal: 29,90 euros/month for high-speed internet and UNLIMITED calls throughout France, Europe, the US, Canada, India and China. World powers, unite!

As almost all of my American friends only have cell phones, it costs me so much money to call anyone I love on the other side of the ocean. Neuf is the only company I know of that not only provides unlimited calls to the States, but also to CELL PHONES in the States.

After spending 143 euros on our phone bill last month (80 euros of which was to cell phones within France - not my phone calls, I would like to point out), The Boy agreed to the change.

So I got online a few weeks ago, signed up, and totally forgot about it.

Meanwhile, we had called France Telecom and asked that they switch our internet connection to our "business" line instead of our private, "home" line (the quotes are there because The Boy's "business" phone sits next to our "private" line on his desk in our living room). We knew that the point at which our home phone switched to Neuf, we ran the risk of losing both our phone and internet for a few days.

Remember: The Boy's company is entirely online. Everything he does, he does online. The internet is his IV, his oxygen tank, his asthma thingamajing. He cannot survive without it. Me? I'm not hooked. No. Not at all. I could be just fine without internet for a few days. Really.

So Friday was really great. On Friday, our phone mysteriously stopped working. Then the internet backed out on us. Frustrated, and thinking maybe it was just a blip in the system, I decided to go to the post office and take care of some things before starting to curse at my computer. I picked up a package and sent off several more (yay, Ebay!). The package I happened to have picked up was the Neuf Telecom modem. Huh, I thought to myself, that came earlier than I thought it was going to.

God Lord, am I slow. I didn't make the your-phone-line-will-get-cut connection until our internet was out for a couple of hours. At this point, The Boy was freaking his shit out. Full on freak festival.

It got even better when he called France Telecom to ask for info concerning the switching of our internet connection to our "business" line. This is the really funny part: they never did it. Yeah. They had no record of our call, no evidence of our request. I would even go so far as to say The Boy had never actually called France Telecom to discuss it with them, if I hadn't been in the room right next to him when he had the conversation a few weeks ago.

I think at this point The Boy really saw himself staring down the barrel of that gun that meant no internet for days on end.

So we called the Neuf Telecom support team. Can I just say something? We had to talk to four different "technicians" before we could get anybody to actually help us. One woman actually got in a fight with The Boy on the phone - the two of them hollering and saying things I am sure were not normally in the employee script book. Funniest part? When they said we wouldn't have internet for 19 days. That was only three days longer than France Telecom's required waiting period of 16.

Eventually, we got it all straightened out. Thank God for that fourth person we talked to at Neuf Telecom. He was actually smart about the whole thing, and he referred us to a superior at one point when he couln't help us. It's amazing how people who don't know what they're talking about are willing to say anything at all - but they're never willing to say they don't know what to do. t the end of our conversation with the only smartypants in the place, our 0,30 euros/minute charge was lifted - we had racked up over 25 euros in techincal support calls. I'm convinced that at least five of those euros were spent yelling at that dumb bitch who actually had the audacity to ask "Are you sure you're using Windows?"

The Boy responded, "I'm a computer programmer, not an idiot."

Anyhow, thus far, I am not so impressed with Neuf's service. But ask me again in a week or so, when I get the green light for my unlimited call bonanza. I am going to go haywire. Look out Friends I Wish I Talked to More Often on the Phone! You're gonna hear from me!

Read this question, come up with an answer, and then read below for the result. This is not a trick question. It is as it reads. Generally, only a certain personality-type will get it right.

A woman, while at the funeral of her own mother, met a guy whom she did not know. She thought this guy was amazing. She believed him to be her soul-mate so much so that she fell in love with him on the spot, but she never asked for his number and could not find him.

A few days later she murdered her sister.

Question: What is her motive for killing her sister?

[Give this some thought before you answer]

[Seriously, it's worth it to think about it some]

She was hoping the guy would appear at the funeral again.

If you answered this correctly, you think like a psychopath. This was a test by a famous American Psychologist used to test if one has the same mentality as a killer. Many arrested serial killers took part in the test and answered the question correctly. If you didn't answer the question correctly, good for you. If you got the answer correctly, please tell me so I can ban your IP address.

Everything starts again tomorrow. Arabic classes begin again, my new job starts sometime this week. Responsibility and 7 am wake-up calls. All on Monday.

Which, of course, is why I woke up today with a swollen throat. I can hardly swallow. I wish I were faking it.

But I am also here to tell you that I saw the documentary "Born Into Brothels" (called "Camera Kids" in France - weird, because that's not really a translation from English to French, either, but whatever). It was AMAZING. After doing some research, I read that it won the 77th Annual Academy Aware for Best Documentary, so it better be. But still... so good.

It's about a group of kids in the Calcutta's red light district who befriend an American (?) photographer, Zana. She is interested in shooting images of the prostitues in the district - but soon realizes it's impossible to do so. The prostitutes are afraid of being seen in photos, as prostitution is, in the end, illegal. Over time, she begins giving the kids photo lessons, and the whole thing sort of morphs into a process of discovery for them. Eventually, we get to see their world through their own eyes, which is most definetly more interesting than seeing it through an outsider's. Zana hopes to get them into schools, and she sets up events to sell their photos as a way to pay their tuition. The whole thing is absolutely incredible... see it if you can.

That is all.

I did something weird the other day: I took out my tongue ring.

It was a bit of an impulse thing. I had been thinking about it for awhile - months, sort of, but only vaguely - when I found myself sitting alone in front of my computer, having the following conversation with myself:

Me: Maybe you should take out your tongue ring.
Me: Yeah. Maybe? But it feels like an actual part of me. I've had it for almost ten years!
Me: I know, it's hard to let go. But maybe that's the very point. It's just a THING. You SHOULD be able to let go.
Me: Oh my God, you're right! Shit. Should I? Is this the type of thing where I need to learn to just do it and move on?
Me: I think it is, kiddo. Plus, how many freakin' teeth have you chipped? Remember when you lied to the dentist about it?
Me: Yeah...
Me: Is it really that important to you, in the end?
Me: I don't know.

The secret thoughts that I didn't want to admit to myself I was having were the following:
1. Are you just doing this because your dad hates the tongue ring? Or are you keeping it in for that reason?
2. What is the boyfriend going to think? Is it going to...um... alter anything?
3. What are you going to play with when thinking about something while reading?

Before I knew it, I was pulling the damn thing out. It's still sitting in my special box on my desk, not quite sure of where it wants to be. I guess it's just waiting for a permanent home until I decide I'm not going to re-pierce my tongue (at home, alone, in front of the mirror) like the last time I took my tongue ring out for a month (it hurt).

But this time I think it's really gone.

It feels kinda funny, honestly. Not just on a physical level - because that totally feels weird too... it's like, hello! Fronts of my teeth! - but also on a psychological level. It sounds lame, but that ridiculous barbell really was a part of me in some dumb, teenage way, and I really do sort of miss it.

But I spent the first five minutes after taking it out trying to perfect my rolled Spanish/Arabic R's, which - although not perfect - are far easier to do without a piece of metal getting in the way.

I guess I just wanted to grow up. Get a real job and all that (next thing you know, I'm going to be wearing blazers) Anyway, feels weird, but feels right.

The other piercings are staying, though, man. Damnit.

I managed to pull myself away from the Ebay Devil for a few hours last night and hang with my dawgs. What started as an innocent comment while eating Korean food cooked by Kathypath two weeks ago ("I bet The Boy would really like this") turned into a plan ("Why don't we cook some for him?"). However, "cooking" Korean food involves leaving it to ferment for a long time in a jar, so we had three weeks to waste away.

That's when the boys said, "Well, why don't we cook food for you two in the interim?"

I just about fell off my chair when I heard that. I've known The Boy for 6.5 years. He has cooked "for" me once - and I cooked the meal just as much as he did. So when his best friend - Mr. Sarcastic - told me he managed to convince The Boy to cook the entire meal - just by the power of suggestion - I felt that the universe had done gone and turned itself inside out.

On Saturday morning, The Boy woke up at six am. By nine, he was at the African markets, buying fresh plantains and cassava. By noon, he was at the local market, picking up quail, potatoes, and herbs. By evening, he was in the kitchen, wearing the apron my sister gave me for Christmas, humming and singing and generally causing a ruckus. I was strictly forbidden to intervene - a policy which pleased me enormously in theory, but was not exactly fully executed. He called on me repeatedly to find kitchen appliances/cookware, but I never once touched the food.

By eight-thirty, the four of us - Kathypath, Mr. Sarcastic, The Boy, and myself - were eating an awesome, totally complete and satisfying meal. Everyone cleaned their plate; most asked for seconds. We were blown away by The Boy's cooking - it was a four-star meal. We polished off four bottles of wine and a bottle of champagne (between the four of us, that's no small feat), and played a rousing game of Uno. One of us won the game. Another one of us got a little upset with the winner and accused her of cheating by hiding cards in her bra strap. After leaving around three am, another one of us couldn't find her cell phone when she went downstairs to catch a taxi. She wandered all the way back up the six flights to my house to see if she hadn't misplaced it somewhere inside, but while searching said, "Something's vibrating in my pocket." One of us went to "rest" in the bedroom and ended up falling asleep immediately. Yet another expanded on how happy he was with his culinary achievements for an additional 20 minutes after the "guests" had disappeared in some form or another.

As for me, I just felt good and sort of cozy and maternal like I do sometimes - I knitted while finishing up our conversation, then did the dishes and put the boys in bed, turned off the lights and drifted off to sleep.

But I know I got the best deal out of the thing. I woke up slightly headachy but also knowing that I drank less than my cohorts. Simple logic assumed they would be waking up in a less agreable state than I did. Note to selves: do not mix wine and champagne. At least not in such massive quantities.

Nonetheless, by eleven, I was outside, buying a simple breakfast for the boys and taking in the unseasonable warmth with a smile. At noon, I was reading my Chinese book and sipping coffee. Around one, Mr. Sarcastic hobbled out of the bedroom, rubbing his head. Three hours later, The Boy woke up, still victorious from his labors. The three of us gabbed our Sunday away, sprawled out on the pull-out couch we slept in last night when it was obvious Mr. Sarcastic was too tired (and comfortable) to go anywhere else for the night.

The last 24 hours have been goofy and fun and the way things should be.

And I am SO making The Boy cook for me again sometime. There's no turning back now.

Recently, I've tuned into the Power of the Flirt. My theory is two-fold: 1) you're not young and S-E-X-Y forever and 2) being "charming" can be useful, and one needs to tap into one's natural resources.

I've never been good at this. First, I takes me FOREVER to realize someone is flirting with me. Even worse, my slowness usually works out for the better, because once I am made aware of the obviously present flirtation, I start blushing and hobbling and saying ridiculous and embarassing things.

However, two things have turned this around for me. Now I am convinced that I have to use my mysterious ways more often.

The first event took place two weeks ago, when I had to go to the post office to send out some packages for Vegas. Feeling especially good and confident (isn't it weird how somedays are just "on" days and others are completely "off"?), I waited in the long line as usual, praying I didn't get stuck at the desk of the woman I got in a fight with last summer.

Fortunately, when my turn came, I was happy to see an attractive, 60-something year-old-man call me over. I had seen him in the post office before, but never dealt with him directly. We started taking care of postal business, and I got a little chatty. This is a common occurence for me in the US, but in France, I keep the small-talk to a minimum. I think this is both because French culture (or at least Parisian culture) is generally less friendly, and also because I am overall more shy in French than I am in English. Here, only certain people can bring out the gab in me, and I'm not sure why this particular postal character had such an effect on me.

So, when he started having trouble pulling apart the mailing labels, I joked with him that he needed to grow some nails, and he said men aren't allowed to have long nails, women would find it weird. We both laughed, and I reminded him that he would have the mailing-label excuse to explain the length, but certainly not the color, should he decide to paint them. The whole exchange was light and flirtatious and sort of fun, and in the end, not only did he not give me any shit for any number of things the other post office workers would have barked at me for, but he also gave me buckets of free labels and order forms (so that I can fill things out in advance instead of at the post office desk, duh). It was like a post office Christmas.

I came away from that experience thinking, "A little flirting doesn't hurt anybody, and I'm sure he appreciated his chance to smile after a long day of crabby Parisians."

So I made a mental note to try out the Power of the Flirt when given the opportunity. Recently, I had another chance.

Back in December, I had to go in to renew my working papers. This is a hellish process, but it has recently been made a bit simpler by the renovations done at the student-workers' center. Last time I went there, a middle-aged man took my file, and, in English told me to "chill out" and "have a joint, woman." I thought I was in another dimension. Certainly this was not the French administration! Speaking in English by choice! And being a goofball about it, too? Telling me to RELAX?!?

So when I went back to the office last week and dealt with the same guy, I wasn't quite as surprised when he elected to speak to me in English instead of French. His only slightly-accented English was obviously perfected somewhere on the Left Coast of the US; his regular use of expressions that only Californian teenagers would use was honestly baffling.

Still, after gathering up all of my paperwork, he looked it over and said, "Hm... Lee Ann, huh? I like that name..." and we chatted about the origins and what not before I went along my way. After the exchange, I realized we had been a little flirtatious with one another, and I reminded myself that it made what is usually a really boring, painful interaction actually quite amusing. At home, I read over the paper he gave me (noting reception of my documents) and was crushed to see that my working papers would take around a month to get to me.

Fast-forward to this morning, when I went back to add something to my file after realizing a slight error I had made in my paperwork. Once I had decided to go to the office, I urged myself to also ask about time delay, as I really can't wait around all until the end of February to start my new job. Wandering up to the desk after waiting in the long line, I nervously explained to him why I had come back after just under a week.

"Who gives a shit?" he asked me jokingly in English, "Just sit tight and you'll get your stuff in two weeks..."
"Oh," I answered back in English, "Ok, but I just wanted to provide you with additional info in case my file wasn't complete."
"Are you the American? Lee Ann, right?" he asked, "I remember you. I like that name."
"Thanks," I smiled back at him, "You mentioned that."

So we talked logistics for a minute or two - all the while maintaining the light tone set up early on in our conversation - and then I said, "So you think I have another two weeks to wait?"

He patted the paper and said, "Normally, yeah. But I'll look into it this afternoon, myself. Don't you worry."

So here's where I learn my lessons:

1. In France, always go back to the office if there's a problem.
2. Always talk to a man, if you can.
3. Smile and hope he appreciates it.

I told my friend that I feel a bit ashamed - why should I get special treatment just because I giggled a little with him? Why should girls get any favors just because of sex appeal? She answered that guys get so many advantages in the world, and they don't need to whore themselves in order to get them. So we're really doing ourselves a disservice, but damn if it's not great to be able to use that tool when we need to. I kinda have to agree with her.

I'm making a belated New Year's resolution: I aim not to complain for an entire week.

That means not one ounce of "I'm cold." Not a single comment about being tired, hunry, annoyed, busy, grumpy, and so on. Quite simply: no complaining.

I've been doing it for two hours now. Already, it's proven difficult. This is going to be eye-opening to say the least.
Try it.

The LongIslander has landed. She is here for a week and things have already gotten crazy.

Not really. But we did have a wonderful time last night; the first time in a long while where I've allowed myself to just suck it up and spend some money even though my inner voice was saying "Restraint! Restraint!" with a German accent and a ruler in hand.

But we had a good time, so no regrets.

The evening began at the bookstore, where we collectively downed two bottles of wine without any trouble at all. There were six of us, so it didn't take long. Afterwards, we went out to dinner (three of us) and had another bottle, but I was curiously far less tipsy post-meal than pre-meal. I almost felt as if I had not had anything to drink at all.

Afterwards, we went to a bar where we got goofy. MopHead showed up, and the four of us played darts until five am. Darts are FUN. Where have they been in my life all this while? My brother-in-law is apparently quite good at them (plays in a LEAGUE, my friends). I should have tried playing far earlier. It's amazing how well they kept us entertained. Next up? Bowling. I'm so not kidding about this. I've always loved bowling (maybe the Midwest just does that to people) but I have had a hard time convincing The Boy to go. After our evening of darts, the entire quartet thinks bowling should be our next priority.

All in all, a great night out on the town. Nobody got obnoxiously drunk or stupid, or annoying. For the most part, people left us alone and didn't give us any trouble. We were mellow, but giggly, and it was a fun time overall.

One of the highlights of my evening, however, was sitting in the metro at 5.15.

According to the arrival board, I still had another sixteen minutes. I sat down and listened to some more comedy, and chuckled a little to myself for awhile. At the same time, I watched a group of three friends - two on the other side of the tracks and one on my side - joke with one another and generally have a good time. One of them was obviously the actor of the crew, and he kept hamming it up while doing quasi-breakdance moves and so on. They were cute in the way that three guy friends who are just being dorks together can be cute.

Eventually, the guy on my side of the tracks came over to talk to me, and I was more receptive to conversing with him than I usually am. Could have been a mixture of fatigue and remaining drunkenness, even though I was not really drunk at that point. But we talked, and he ended up being extremely nice - he's studied linguistics and stuff, he also does programming, blah blah blah. Our conversation was actually ENJOYABLE, and at no point did I get any slimy picking-up-on-me vibes. He was Maroccan, and very shy, but clearly quite intelligent. He spoke to me with the ease that it seems that only the non-French have in Paris.

We talked for ten minutes or so and then the train came, so we rode together until my stop. When I got up to leave, he said, "Well, this is your stop. It's been great talking to you. Really. You're one of the few strangers I've met who has just been pleasant to have a conversation with -- maybe that's because you're open minded and doing great things with your life. Don't forget that: you're really doing some great things with your life. I admire that. Have a good night..."

First off - the delivery of this comment was sincere and reflected, and it was obvious to me that he understood our encounter was not going to lead to obtaining a phone number or anything. Secondly, what a nice thing to say! I was really touched, and it just made me happy. Sometimes interactions with strangers can be really great. It seems that Parisians just don't interact with strangers, but in lots of other cultures it's totally normal. Maybe I shouldn't be so wary of people I don't know. They're not always bad.

Dude, I LIKE The Colbert Report. What are the Americans on American soil thinking?

That guy is ballsy in the interviews. Gotta respect that.

I am less graceful than I would like to think.

Today alone, I:

- dipped the belt of my sweater into the toilet. Before I had flushed.
- stepped on a fruit salad sitting on the staircase and made it fall all over the floor. In front of a customer.
- didn't see where my fat ass was going and knocked over an ashtray. In front of a customer.
- Sat down on the wet belt of my sweater

A few days ago, my mom asked me what I would like for Christmas. I couldn't think of much of anything, mainly because our conversation was rather unusual and it didn't feel quite like the moment to be asking for gifts. I said something to the tune of: "I just want my family home - healthy and happy. I don't need anything special. Seeing everybody and being able to laugh together is the best gift I can think of..."

I meant it, too.

However, the day after our conversation, it occured that I DO have some tangible things I would like as well. Making out my mental list, it went a little something like this:

- a sewing machine
- a new set of pots and pans (especially pans, as mine are five years old. And Teflon? Doesn't age so well)
- a cutting board

Then I looked over my list.

Somehow, I skipped the rest of my 20's and just headed straight for my 40's. Because that list? Not hip.

Still. Hopefully there's some Teflon for me under the tree this year.

The bad news? There's a lot of it, and I can't fill up this space with negativity. It's swallowing me up, and I swear I have tried to swim my way to shore repeatedly. I've taken lots of hits in last 72 hours.

The good news? The next generation of Cornellii has arrived. My cousin gave birth this morning to her daughter, Stella, making this the first child of my generation of our family tree. The fact that life continues, and new lives arrive, and people grow and develop and become people who have people and everything just moves along... well, it's comforting at a time when I feel like this. Happy 0th birthday, Stella!

I wouldn't say I'm depressed. I've seen that in others and, fortunately, have yet to experience it myself full-force. No, I guess I'd rather say I'm feeling a little "compressed."

It's as if I were a jar, or a pressure cooker, take your pick. There's only so much room in the jar. There's only so much oxygen in the jar. And yet lots of stuff just keeps on getting crammed in, and it is getting more and more difficult to breathe.

The weekend was a tough one. Sunday was dreadful. It occured to me that most of my friends are wrapped up in their own shit, and maybe they've gotten so used to having others be there for them, that they can't be there for me. Or at least that was the case this weekend.

My sister and I talked on the phone a lot - an entertaining conversation mixed with pain and crying. Odd, really. But I am so happy that we are there for each other.

The cute thing is that she sent me a care package after reading the last post I wrote while feeling down (worse than this time, mind you). Her package is full of gluten-free comfort foods, which means she is not only totally adorable, but also an absolute rock star. On Monday morning - as I set out to do some really awful administrative tasks for the day - I found a slip in my mailbox saying my post office was holding a package for me.

It instantly made the whole day better. I organized myself so that I would get back to my 'hood before the post office closed. Even while sitting in front of The Bitchiest Administrative Woman Alive yesterday, I didn't let the fact that she got up and walked away from me mid-sentence get to me as much as usual because the thought of GF cookies was dancing somewhere in the back of my brain. I still believe that woman should be fired, but oh yes, I forgot, they don't do that in France.

Anyway, hours later, when I got to the post office, the line went out the door. But I wanted my gluten-free brownies, and bad! So I waited.

When I got to the counter, I gave the guy the slip. He shuffled around in the back a bit, and came back with a flimsy envelope.

Wha?

My checks had arrived from the bank. I needed to sign showing I had received them.

How upsetting to think you're going to get brownies, and instead you get checks. Checks that you can't even write because you don't have any money?

I guess that was just a side anecdote to keep me from rambling on about the glumness. There's a guy who is digging up the sidewalk on my street, and he starts jackhammering at 7.30 every morning. I hate him. I need sleep so much right now, and the sleep I have been getting is fitful and restless for the first few hours. It just starts getting good around 6 am. And then gets interrupted again at 7.30.

I know I need to cultivate the good things. I made a nice dinner yesterday. The Boy and I worked side-by-side for several hours last night, and we giggled and were lovey and things were cute. I wanted to stay up and continue, but I've been so tired that I had to give in by one.

I skipped Spanish yesterday, and Arabic this morning. This will all have to turn around tomorrow, because I can't sit here with this kind of guilt sitting on my shoulders -- I always feel bad about skipping classes. But I maintain that my cause was just. I desperately needed to recuperate.

Up early this morning to sneak in some studying time before going to Arabic. The classes are THAT intense, people. I'm on edge the whole damn time. So on edge that I decided to get up at 6.00 AM, as opposed to 7.00, to prep. Not only is that called "crazy", it is also called "extremely motivated."

Anyway - things are getting better and thanks to everybody for their thoughts, emails, calls, etc. There are some lovely people in the world.

Some of the uglier, nastier people might be responsible for this, however. Do you think it's for real? I'm so confused.

Good Lord, am I down! Raining, pouring, whatever the hell you call it... the badness comes in waves, and sometimes they pull me under.

I can't get into much of it here. People, feelings, yada, yada. Don't want to hurt anyone, even if I'm hurting a little myself.

But let's just say things - in almost all parts of my life - appear to all currently fall on an unappealing spectrum going from shaky to extremely turbulant. At the forefront of my problems are some Boy-related issues. I know we love one another and that that should be enough, but sometimes it's just not. Sometimes he makes me furious, and then we get mad and yell and then I feel lonely and sad. I don't really want to see my friends or talk about this with anyone - it's my problem and nobody can understand it but me. Discussing a few key points with a friend last night almost led me to tears: his advice was to move out for a month or two and see if The Boy comes around. Right.

When I start questioning one thing, I start questioning them all, and such is the life of a hardworking girl with no real professional prospects living in a big foreign city. Woo-hoo! I feel like a loser who can hardly pay her own rent. Oh wait, I AM.

I don't know, maybe there's some hormones involved in the mayhem I'm feeling inside. Let's hope so. Mainly, I would just really like for The Boy to stop yelling at his computer and pounding his fist on the table. After a ten-hour day on a busy boulevard, I would really like to just come home to some peace.

Also? I have a 70-year-old client whom I like a lot. He's nice and quiet and timid and a little sad. Last week, he asked me if we could go out to dinner some time. He's lonely, I can tell. I didn't know what to do, and in an act of desperation I gave him my number and told him I'm busy for at least the next two weeks, thinking that I could tell him I wasn't interested on the phone with greater ease than I could in person. That was Thursday.

He called me three times on Saturday, once on Sunday, stopped by the store on Sunday (and I hid in the back), and then called again this morning before stopping by the store again this afternoon.

Um. Worrisome? Just a little.

So I had to tell this poor little old man off, as gently as I could. The conversation was soooo painful, I almost wanted to cry. He asked if we could go to dinner, and I said that I was really sorry, that I'm really busy, that it's going to be hard to find time, that I hardly even see my boyfriend anymore. As it is, the only time I see my friends is when we go out for a quick drink after work, around ten o'clock. Dinner, I said, would be almost impossible.

Undeterred, he said, "Well, that's no problem, I can come and pick you up after work around 10.00, and we could just go get a drink, if you want."

He's a 70-YEAR-OLD man, people. So, realizing he didn't get the point when I didn't call him back, didn't agree to dinner, told him I was "monumentally busy", and so on, I finally just gave up and told him that I didn't think it was a good idea if we went out, ever, at all, no matter what time of day.

He got the point and actually said, "I have to go for a walk to think about some things..." afterwards, which totally creeped me out.

It also just made me sad.

Wearing glasses all day sucks. I don't know how you people do it.

The last 48 hours have been a little hellish and annoying on a completely mundane and superficial level. After getting ridiculously "drunken" a few nights ago because the bar owner gave us two free carafes (when we had already had three bottles of wine), I got up early the next day to see the physical therapist (slightly hungover, too) and then go to work for eight hours. On three hours of sleep, physical therapy and standing all day is just not so fun. I had also woken up with a slightly irritated eye, an element which continued to irritate me further throughout the day.

Around six, I thought I might collapse, but by seven I had gotten my energy back in that speedy sort of way a lack of sleep can induce. This was handy, as I had a social engagement I could not back out of, and the energy was going to be needed for the trek out of town to get to our friend's party. A group of us met up at work and took the trains together, which was a good thing.

Except, of course, that we got horribly lost out in that suburban Paris wasteland of trucks, weed-covered train tracks, and warehouses. At least it wasn't raining; we spent about an hour trying to find our friend's place. Even when I called her on the cell phone, it wasn't very useful. She was already drunk and not so clear, asking things like, "Ok, so what are you in front of?" and I answered, "Um, some trucks. And a big building," to which she said, "That's where I am!" and I said, "Yeah, um... there's lots of buildings and lots of trucks."

Anyway, we found our way (eventually) and we all had a nice enough time once we got there. I lasted about an hour before I started waning, and I let it be known that I was hoping to go soon. I had wanted to leave early because I was exhausted, plus I knew I had to get up early the next morning. The problem was that there was NO way I was walking through the unlit truck-and-warehouse zone alone, at night, with the further risk of getting lost again. It was creepy enough in our little gang of five.

So I waited, and then waited some more, and then ShaggyHair said he was going to be leaving soon, and that he could drive me home. Even better, I thought, and resolved to enjoy the last twenty minutes or so.

But twenty minutes dragged out to an hour, and I don't know ShaggyHair well enough to pester him about that ride he was nice enough to offer me. Plus, he's newly dating my friend, and they kept disappearing to have "alone" time, and Lord knows I'm not going to interrupt that. But um, it was getting late and I just wanted to be in bed. To make matters worse, The Boy and I had gotten in a big argument two days prior, and I hadn't seen him since. Part of me just wanted some time to sit with him and feel better about things.

So finally, over two hours later, ShaggyHair and I say goodbye to everybody and start on our merry way. But wait! Now everybody wants to go back to Paris to check out some bar or another. So they all have to clean up, get their stuff, and clear out. So we wait again. I start to fall asleep in my chair. Thirty minutes later, we're ready to go.

By this point, it's almost three am, and I keep thinking about how I have to get up (again) in four hours. Meanwhile, everybody else is drunk and excited about continuing the evening elsewhere, and I know I'm being a drag but goddamn, I'm tired and just want to go home. And I've been trying to do so for three hours now...

All of that is to say that I finally made it, crashed immediately upon arrival, got in almost four hours of sleep, and I was less tired this morning than I had been expecting. Still, I had only slept seven hours in two nights, and sitting through five hours of lectures is pretty grueling in those conditions. However, I was fortunate: the EXTREME fatigue waited to hit me full-force until I was on the metro going home.

For that I am thankful. I am not thankful, however, that in my spaced-out, train-riding stupidity, I left my book - in which I only had fifty pages left - on the metro. I can't buy the damn thing again just for one damn chapter, but Jesus, I do wonder what happened. The book was not great, but there's some big mystery to the whole thing, and it is apparently revealed in the final chapter. I was two chapters from the end.

Sigh.

And? And? My eye infection is just getting worse. I went to the pharmacy (because eye doctors aren't available on Friday nights) and she said I can't wear my contacts for at least a week. This puts me in a funny situation because I don't have any glasses with my correct prescription - I've been meaning to get some but just haven't gotten around to it. Now, in a moment of emergency, I realize I need to get some tomorrow, because the beginning of next week is a holiday and the stores won't be open. Great.

So I need some glasses, and pronto. Naturally, I can't find a single one-hour glasses lab in the city. I've decided to tackle this demon tomorrow. Oh, yes, the tomorrow where I am going into work two hours earlier than usual.

I'm going back to bed.

1. Have you ever finished a book and felt lost afterwards? I have six books awaiting my reading. Which to choose? Maybe I just want to sit with the other (finished) one for a little while longer?

2. What's the point of wearing footies with your heels? Either suck it up and wear the nylons, or don't wear anything at all. That's my feeling, alright. That little trace of nylon skimming the rim of your shoes is most unappealing. Cute shoes, too. Why did you go and ruin a good thing?

3. I've been thinking a lot about money and how I need more of it. I have already confided in my closest friends - and now, here, to you, dear Internet - that I believe in my past life I was a noble. I think I had nice, pretty things and was surrounded by luxury. I have always had an overly strong appreciation for all things clean and new. However, I have accepted that in this life, I might not lead the life of the noble I believe myself to be (at heart). Yet, I would still like to come as close as possible to living in comfort as I can. While discussing the issue with a close friend (who dresses well) for several hours, we left her house this evening in the nice (leather-interiored) car of her boyfriend. Driving through the artistically-lit streets of Paris in his car, with Serge Gainsbourg as the background, my urge to be loaded down with cash became an almost physically tangible feeling. Oooo... to not have to compare the prices of the different types of tomatoes! How I would love to no longer add water to my dish soap! The Boy and I have had an informal yet monumental discussion concerning our finances, and we have stumbled upon the unspoken agreement that we will now drink our semi-daily (does that mean every-other-day?) coffee at the bar. Sitting at the table, it costs twice the price, and we just can't afford to continue throwing a precious 2,30 euros two or three times per week. I have, in fact, become the person I could never understand: the one for whom every euro counts. This is a tough life, for a noble. I have never been up such a shitty financial creek as I am right now, and I find myself hoping that my thread, needles, and generally positive outlook will get us through this rough patch that could last anywhere from a year to an eternity. Wish us luck.

Here's the snaps:

1. I got back into the swing of things today. In my morning classes, I met two random guys who are both very silly (said as a compromise between the other two adjectives I considered - "awkward" and "cute") and I kept finding myself trying to restrain my tendancy to over-giggle.

2. Started Arabic again on Tuesday and have re-learned as much in two days as I learned in my first six months the first time around. In other words: Lovin' it. I got a little high in class today, when I actually followed the insane, totally random path our professor took us down. I can tell this is going to be absolutely NUTTY, but I am already sad it's Friday, because it means I won't have class again for FOUR more days. And that, my friends, is exhibit A, proving me completely guilty of dorkiness.

3. Opted out of a party for this evening because things have been too insane lately for me to handle the overwhelmingness of lots of people and loud music. Preferring not to do the drunken galvanising so typical of those in my circle, I came home to my man and am about to set to reading. He opened a bottle of wine (VERY rare occurence around these parts since 2003) and it's so nice to sit and chat, or to sit in silence and not care. I made the right decision, for sure.

4. Went to buy a cheap dinner at the kebab joint, where they know me in a neighborhood-y way. We joked about getting a frequent customer card for The Boy, as he eats there whenever I am not around to cook dinner (read: 3-4 times per week). It was all cute and fun, but then the workers all smiled, got a little serious, and said, "Really though, he's a nice guy... we like having him around," and I got a little teary at knowing these people in my neighborhood and them offering me free tea. When I stepped out of the kebab joint, the guy at the pizza place up the street yelled out "You are adorable!" as he does every time I walk by (it's his thing - not sure why that particular phrase) and I giggled the whole way home at my neighbors and their cuteness. My apartment drives me crazy, but I love my 'hood.

5. Got an ipod as a present from my parents to celebrate my achievement at The Sorbonne, and I have already set it up to get NPR podcasts. That would be exhibit B.

I'm in love with this game. Soooo satisfying. Use your mouse for added kicks.

(via Crooks and Liars)

See what a wonderful world this is without a thesis hanging over anyone's shoulder?

So I was trying to fall asleep last night when it suddenly hit me that a character in an 80's sitcom's name was Boner.

I was sure it was "Charles in Charge", but then I remembered Charles' best friend's name was Buddy. I also thought that "CinC" was way too classy to pull that kind of stunt, because I think Scott Baio would have called red light on that.

I figured it out. Mike Seaver's best friend's name was Boner. So that's "Growing Pains" for you. Remember Boner?

So my question to you is: how did that go down in the meeting? Was some big shot like, "Ok, guys, and then we've got Mike's best friend. I was thinking we could name him Boner?" as if that were totally normal. And then everybody else stifled laughter out of respect, maybe somebody else laughed but then pretended it was a cough, and then the name was just sort of approved? Because I'm just trying to wrap my head around how that name could ever get the thumbs up from the show's writers. What made them think that was a good idea?

Of course, I watched the show for years before I found the name at all strange. In fact, it didn't hit me until September 15, 2005... probably almost a decade after the show got cancelled.

The French have a thing with washcloths. The kind to be used in the shower, I mean. I'll never get it. My theory on soap is: soap is clean. I don't mind sharing soap with you. Yes, even you, Dirty Homeless Woman, Washing Your Feet in the Public Restrooms. If I really feel like your dirty self destroyed the precious soap in some way, and I can't stand it, I'll rinse the soap. And then, boom! Whaddya know? Clean soap.

For a time, The Boy and I used liquid Palmolive soap. I was recently informed that this is the ghetto soap in France (I forget who intimated that to me, but it came as quite a blow), in much the way White Rain has ever been imprinted as crappy shampoo in my mind (am I the only one? And who gave me that idea? Television?).

I stuck to the Palmolive because it was cheap and could be bought in earth-friendly tubes that refilled the plastic dispenser bottle. I still don't understand how people can justify continuously buying their soaps in bottles when refills are RIGHT BELOW. Cheaper, too.

One day, I was at the natural foods store and I decided to pick up some Sweet Almond Oil soap. I don't know exactly what came over me, maybe the fact that it was on sale, or that it smelled like scrumtious baby headness, or that I knew it was made of all natural ingredients. Maybe it was my newfound obsession with Almond Oil. Or maybe I just needed to get my total to over ten euros so that I could use my card to buy the stuff in my basket. Regardless, I splurged and spent almost two whole euros on three whole bars of soap.

At first, it was TWOO WOVE, in its highest form. My skin is super soft when I use it, and The Boy loves, loves, loves the smell. Also, bars last WAY longer than liquid soap, and I have forever been converted back to the bars of my youth for cost efficiency reasons. I honestly don't know what I was ever thinking going the liquid route (especially since I'm anti-washcloth).

However. We have a problem.

This soap is racist.

It's the weirdest thing. Every time The Boy takes a shower, the bathtub is filthy afterwards - it's a sort of ring-around-the-collar effect, but the bathtub version. With The Little Guy, it was the same story. Me? Nada. Nothing. Clean as a whistle.

We're convinced the Racist Soap is peeling The Boy's skin off, layer by layer, whitening him up for the winter. We even ran tests, to see just how racist the stuff was. Man, it is some racist soap. After two or three of The Boy's showers, I just break down and HAVE to clean the thing. It's disgusting.

So now I'm torn: Get rid of that racist shit? Or keep the cheap, good-smelling, skin-softening delicious soapy goodness, knowing it means I have to clean my bathtub at least twice per week? (side note: The Boy is completely for the new soap, he just doesn't like its racist attitude. Otherwise, he thinks it's great for the skin and quite a bargain. He, I might add, has yet to clean the bathtub once).

I still have a whole bar and a half left to decide.

It is amazing how not having a fever can be so liberating.

I woke up after 13 hours of sleep and wanted to do jumping jacks. Still a little crampy, sure, but damnit, the fog had lifted!

I pondered what I could do with my hour before work. Knit? Read? Write a letter? I opted for the age-old dishes-and-mild-cleaning bit, although it was slightly greater than usual because of a 24-hour gap in services from the day prior.

But man. Dynamite. It feels so great to feel so normal.

Plus: 13 hours of sleep? Makes a huge difference. Every time I do this whole "sleeping" thing, I'm reminded of what a good idea it really is. It's on my Things to Investigate When I Have the Time list. Right between numbers 22 and 24, snake-raising and homemade hair cutting techniques, respectively.

We have a little population of silverfish in my kitchen. Is that their real name? I have no idea. Regardless, they are like silver worms with legs, a crossover between maggots (my favorite) and high-speed caterpillars.

Apparently, The Boy got up in the middle of the night for water, and was surprised to see lots and lots of them crawling and zipping around our trashcan. If he emphasized that there were TONS of them, I'm sure that in my version of the story, that would equal about 1,000; he is not so squeemish about the things but they really put me over the edge.

We discussed the details of what they look like, and I said, "Oh, are they a little bit argentin?" Argentin was my, admittedly, uneducated way of guessing how to say "silvery" in French. I of course, however, forgot that it is instead the word used to describe someone from Argentina.

One of the added incentives to dating a foreign person is that you can laugh at their expense. The Boy continued on as if nothing was wrong and we had the following conversation:

Him: Yeah, they are. I think all those Argentinians are actually living behind the refrigerator
Me: Man, I HATE Argentinians. They give me the willies. How do you think we got so many in our kitchen without seeing them before? Sometimes I find them under the dish drainer, though.
Him: I don't know, maybe there's a special Argentinian spray?

I still don't know how he got through the first few sentences with a straight face, but he eventually caved in after I said, "I wonder if there are Argentinians in the walls?"

After clarifying the error and having a good laugh, our problems with the people of Argentina has become a household joke. Meanwhile, however, The Boy still doesn't know what the creepy crawly creatures are really called. I have to go into a drug store and ask for a product that will get rid of them one of these days Good thing he told me about my faulty French before I went shopping. Could you imagine?

"Hello, sir. I have a serious Argentinian problem in my house, there are tons and tons of them living in my kitchen. I need a powerful anti-Argentinian spray. Do you have anything that is sure to get rid of them?"

I've had the last two days off. They are my first full days off since July 5... I have had a few half-days but have managed to work every day since then. If you'll notice, today is July 28. That's lots of working.

I should have spent my days off working on my thesis (T minus 8 weeks, people!), but I am waiting for a book from Amazon and feel at a bit of a standstill until I can read two of the essays in it. Do you believe that excuse? Well, I'm sticking to it, because it's at least a truthful way to avoid researching. I've dabbled, but would never dare say I actually got anything of substance done.

Instead, I have: taken a nap, cleaned the bathroom, gone to the grocery (yay! first time in two weeks!) , seen "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" (trippy!), had a drink with a friend I've missed dearly, made fresh-squeezed watermelon juice, dropped off a video that was long overdue, comparison-shopped for sewing machines, sampled some music online, read, went to physical therapy, and spent quality time with The Boy.

I've been a little under the weather but otherwise the break has been a much-needed taste of heaven.

Fortunately, I'm just now starting to go a little stir-crazy, and I look forward to heading back to work tomorrow. It feels good to think I've gotten the system back in balance. I'm going to make a nice, slow dinner tonight, and around midnight I am going to curl up with my book again. A great way to close a two-day vacation.

It's incredible for me to read my last entry. Posted just six days ago, it feels as if I were in an entirely different headspace altogether. Maybe we really grow in fits and spurts, and this last week has tested me enough to cause some emotional/intellectual development.

I'm ok, but lots of people around me are not. It's funny, too, how when bad things happen, I tend to notice how little other people care. I'm not blaming them, I understand that everyone has their own thing going on. It's just a little alienating to be tossing and turning a strange variety of unpleasant thoughts in my head all day, and then have everybody else still talk about the weather.

Fortunately, I am remaining oddly zen throughout this moment of discomfort. Between the visit from The Little Guy (ending today after almost a full week), losing an employee at the bookstore for a week, and the odd social turn that has recently taken place, I haven't had a minute alone. That's not entirely true: two days ago I got smacked with food poisoning (or something equivalent) and spent a few hours at home in bed. I was alone, then, but far too delirious to think.

Sometimes that's for the better.

I got up extra early this morning, and decided to waste away my Sunday morn (before going to work) by watching the much-discussed clip of Tom Cruise talking with Matt Lauer about psychiatry (mini-transcript here, full clip can be watched on MSN).

Essentially, Tom discussed his opinion that nobody should ever use psychiatric drugs to treat, well, psychiatric problems. He even went so far as to say that "chemical imbalance" does not exist. He's taking a lot of heat for saying that Brooke Shields shouldn't have used drugs to help her post-partum depression (something for which she has gotten a lot of approval for coming out and talking about). The response from much of the female community is that once he grows another human being in his body and then pushes it out his crotch, then we might want to listen to what he has to say on the issue. In the meantime, shut the hell up.

What I found so appalling in the interview is not so much what he said (which was just completely ridiculous and embarrassing), but how he said it. He continuously said to Lauer, "You gotta understand" or "You don't understand" or other variations on that theme. How belittling. Or another particularly beautiful exchange (on Brooke's use of drugs for her depression, again):

The other thing I walked away with this interview with was a newfound respect for Matt Lauer. I have never disliked the guy, but he has always left me neutral. Watching the interview was incredibly painful, but it was enjoyable to see Lauer's interviewing skills. Even when the conversation became heated and Tom started accusing Matt of being "irresponsible" for not reading psychiatric reports on the use of Ritalin in children, Matt kept a straight face and came back with pertinent, pointed questions. Bravo to him.

In sum, heros of this interview: Brook Shields, Matt Lauer.
Dumbasses: Tom Cruise, and smirking Katie Holmes in the corner that the camera repeatedly kept showing.

Also? I just had no idea that Tom Cruise was so stupid. The intelligence difference between the two men was so obvious it was almost visibly suspended in the space between them as they talked.

If you don't like what Tom had to say, go here. It's amusing.

Hello! If I know you in RealLife (TM) and you don't live in the same country as I do, will you do me a HUGE favor? Will you go download Skype (www.skype.com), install it on your computer, find yourself a headseat, and give me a ring?

This is free calling, people. This could potentially change our lives forever. Sign up and call me! I love and miss all of you, but cannot call your damn cell phones from here. So let's have a conversation over our computers instead...

Quick Poll: How many people under the age of 35 - nah, make that 40 - actually balance their checkbook? I'm saying, you write down every amount you spend, every withdrawal you make, EVERYTHING. How many of you do this?

I think I have two entries in my checkbook from 1999, in a checkbook I used to write a total of four checks. That is how often I "balance" my checkbook.

We were talking about this over lunch in Slovenia. All but two of the people at the table balance their checkbooks; one of the 'nays' being yours truly. I mean, c'mon. That's what the internet is for, right?

My mom told me that she caught the bank messing up twice. One time they randomly charged her fifty bucks. Another time they accidently gave her forty-five. Seriously, that five dollar difference is not enough to convince me that all that writing and adding and subtracting is worth the money-saving catch-the-banking fun. Of course, she called the whistle on one and not the other. I told her that, depending on which came first, I think the bank was just trying to get back its own cash.

I'm still baffled people actually keep track of this stuff.

One thing I don't really appreciate is when perfect strangers (as opposed to imperfect ones?) make comments on my life without knowing me.

I say this because, for some unknown reason, I have been picked up semi-frequently lately. I'm not sure what this is about, maybe it's just the hot weather, but I don't mind. I've had some interesting conversations, and have actually met some men I would like to be FRIENDS with.

Anyway, yesterday I got picked up by some guy who apparently has a rich father. He was tall, reasonably good-looking (but not so much as my WonderBoy of course) and very, very dark-skinned... so black he was almost blue. Our conversation was actually really amusing because we established quickly that both of us are in serious relationships, although he obviously has a different definition of serious than I do. Regardless, once he found out that my man is African, the conversation turned drastically towards the surreal:

Him: Oh, have you ever dated black men before him?
Me: Sure. I don't do it on purpose or anything, but yeah.
Him: What about Arabs?
Me: No.
Him: Do Arabs pick you up in the street?
Me: Sure.
Him: Would you date an Arab?
Me: I don't exactly date people based on their background. I would date anybody who I found interesting.
Him: Do you live with your boyfriend?
Me: Yes, we have lived together for a couple of years.
Him: Where do you live? I mean, in whose apartment?
Me: It's our apartment.
Him: But whose apartment was it originally?
Me: Oh, mine. But he still has his apartment, his brother lives in it now, and he pays the rent for his brother.
Him: See, now that's just wrong. Let me tell you this. You shouldn't be with a Congolese man. I'm saying this to you as a warning. French people look down on Congolese people a lot. They have a very bad reputation in France. As soon as you tell someone your boyfriend is Congolese, they're going to say, "Ohh..." and think differently of you.
Me: Well, I don't think I would want to be friends with anybody who thinks that way anyway, so I won't worry about it too much.
Him: But it's true. They have a very bad reputation.
Me: I don't care about the group's reputation. I love my boyfriend and think he's a good person, regardless of what we say about people from his country.
Him: Well that's good. But just letting you know how negative people feel about the Congolese in general. Although there is one positive thing: my girlfriend says that Congolese men are really good in bed! (he laughs)
Me: Ha ha ha...

Conversation turns to his dance troupe and their upcoming performance. Then it comes back.

Him: Is it true, though, what my girlfriend says?
Me: About what?
Him: About Congolese men being good in bed?
Me: I don't know, I haven't slept with lots of Congolese men.
Him: Well, she said that they can have sex several times per night. Is that true?
Me: I don't know.
Him: Well, in your case, is it true? I thought she was kidding.
Me: I suppose it's happened...
Him: (he shrieks!) Twice in one night! I could never do that! I need to work on my endurance! (he laughs)
Me: You might want to. (wondering why we're talking about this)
Him: So what, when my girlfriend says 'several times a night' she doesn't meant ten or twelve, does she?
Me: I doubt it.
Him: I bet that bothers the neighbors, though. Twice per night! Three times! Man...
Me: Maybe.
Him: Do you bother the neighbors?
Me: Why are you asking me about this?
Him: (reflectively) I don't know. Yeah, I'll stop.

Later

Him: So you said there's a ten-year age difference between you two?
Me: Yeah.
Him: That's not right.
Me: What do you mean?
Him: That's too much.
Me: Fortunately, I'm the one in the relationship, and I think it's ok.
Him: No, but it's too much.
Me: Really, it's fine.
Him: But it's weird. I can't get my head around it. That's just too much. You shouldn't do that.

The funny thing is that the rest of our convesation was really great. These three parts were just really, really off somehow - especially the sex conversation. The guy is obviously just really outgoing and has no real limits on what is ok to talk about and what isn't. Still, I didn't appreciate being told who I should date by someone I didn't know. Just strange, really...

I've been wanting to write for a bit, but things have been a little rough since my return from Italy/Slovenia (great trip, though... hopefully more on that when I can concentrate better).

I don't want to just bitch, bitch, bitch, so I won't go into details. I wish I were the type of person who could string humor through the badness, lightening the load a bit. But I can't seem to do that...

Still though, things aren't terrible. I still can leave my house and laugh during the day and concentrate in my classes. They're just a little off-kilter and it's throwing me into a funk. Not the danceable kind of funk, more the kind you find on the underside of your kitchen sink. Maybe I'll write about it when I come out on the other side.

In the meantime, while in the throes of sadness this early evening, I ran into the metro and stepped onto the line one to head towards my Spanish class. I hadn't eaten all day and was quite hungry, and I had picked myself up some pre-packaged lentils. I sat down on a metro seat and ate some, but gave up when I realized they tasted like ass. Moments later, a 40-something guy walked by one woman and yelled, "It's not couscous, lady!" in her ear as he beelined towards my seat. That had me a little worried, not knowing what he was referring and fearing the lentils had something to do with it.

Of course, he was referring to something in his head, but no matter - he was on to a new topic and letting everyone know about it. Shortly thereafter, he began singing opera-esque songs at high volumes, with sweeping motions of the arms and the whole deal, while most of the train turned to see who the hell was making such a racket as I dodged his flailing arms.

Then a young man got up to get off the train, and apparently my Crazy Friend liked the looks of this guy, or at least found them highly amusing. For the next two minutes, maniacal laughter poured from the Crazy Friend as he made the "PPpphhhh" sound that little kids make after they say, "Nani-nani-noo-noo" and then stick out their tongues. This guy dropped the preface and went straight for the act, doing 10- to 15-second-long "Ppphhhhh" sounds, followed by his own laughter. The guy getting of the train didn't appreciate it all that much, though.

Next the Crazy Friend whipped out a brochure from his pocket: Fez, Morocco. He began reading the brochure out to the train, adding little commentaries as he pleased (maybe it all related back to the cousccous comment, I don't know... but there was a picture of couscous in the brochure). The train got to know all of the details of his upcoming trip, and which parts he found more amusing than others.

It was pretty cool sitting next to him for more then ten stops. My ears actually hurt afterwards from the yelling.

Other odd things I have dealt with today include:

1. A man at the bike repair store who yelled at me when his phone rang, as if I were somehow responsible
2. An hour-wait in a doctor's office with no air circulation, followed by a six-minute visit with the doctor that cost me 50 euros and ended with a "let's see one another again in four months"
3. A Boy who yelled at me this morning for asking him if he would come to the doctor's with me.
4. A crying fit in the middle of the street while talking on the phone with said Boy several hours later.
5. A very hungry stomach.

Bad, bad Thursday. Praying for Good Friday.

So I have been working all day, comparing French neuter pronouns, but I decided to take a break. I watched two snippets from "The Daily Show" - because I have to get my fix. Then I noticed there was an advertisement for "Ellen," and I found myself wondering if SHE has snippets of her show online.

Boy, does she ever.

But here's a little heads up. If you have PMS, do NOT watch the clip about making a ten-year-old recovering cancer patient's dream come true. I cried all over my pronoun notes.

World, meet Rizzo. Rizzo, meet World.

Yes, it's a girl. And yes, she's named after the head of the Pink Ladies (there's pink writing on the side). I just hope she doesn't get accidently knocked up, too.

I had been hemming and hawing about buying a bike for at least a year, but I have spent the last two weeks going from used bike store to used bike store. Unfortunately, everything was over 250 euros, a price I couldnt justify. Finally, I went to Go Sport and saw a bike I liked, but at 179 euros. I didn't try it, opting to dream instead. The next day, however, I thought I should at least try it, to see if the dreaming was wortwhile. I went to a different Go Sport, one that is right next door to my house, and lo and behold, the bike was on sale there! For 139! I jumped on it and bought the damn thing... now I am completely in love.

So in love, in fact, that I way overdid the bike riding and now I have a mega sore ass. Still, what fun it is to ride through the deserted streets of Paris at night. It's a great way to get some exercise, and an added bonus is not even having to worry about making the last metro.

I only have two friends at school. I realize that's rather pathetic, but you have to understand the degree of bitchiness in my 20-something-member program.

My buddy, let's call him Ahmed, is a quiet, kind, considerate type who remembers to get papers for me when I am absent. He's Algerian, and we spend a lot of time exchanging French administration stories. Our friendship has rarely gone outside the doors of our classroom, but we are comfortable calling one another and grabbing coffee between classes from time to time.

Last February, Ahmed came to class a little more quiet than usual. He told me that he had recently found out that his mother had breast cancer, and that she had been hospitalized. They hadn't wanted to tell him about her health problems, so as not to distract him from his schoolwork, but he found out through an uncle.

I tried to comfort him by saying that I understand what it is like to be far away from home and worried about someone you love. He took comfort in my telling him that my own mother had had breast cancer a few years back, but now she is alive and well, five years down the road.

Once he knew that he could talk to me about it, he began giving me weekly updates. I could tell that he was relieved to have someone - anyone - who would listen and could understand. Worry shadowed his otherwise clear and smiling face. He said he regularly went out to the "taxiphones" (special phone booths with reduced calling rates) to call home. News was encouraging, and, after a few weeks, he even began talking about other things. He had a visit planned to go back to Algiers to see his mom for the first time since she had gotten sick, and he was feeling positive about the trip.

We didn't talk over vacation, and I was surprised to see he was absent the first day back. I sent him a text message, warning him about a date change for our final exam, and he didn't respond. Two weeks later, I still hadn't seen him.

Today he came in and we said our usual hellos before class, and I admitted that I had worried a bit when he was not back immediately after vacation (he has never missed a class). "Were you back in Algeria that whole time?" I asked, fearing the upcoming conversation.

"Yes," he said, "For a month." He was quiet, and then said, "It's over, she's dead. She died on Friday."

His eyes teared over and I couldn't think of what to say. He has only been in France for 18 months; he assured me that he is handling it ok, and has friends surrounding him most of the time. But I could see that his eyes didn't match what his mouth was saying, and I pathetically murmured something about how sorry I am.

I have been sad all day because of it. Obviously, this has made me reflect on my own family quite a lot as well. As we were leaving class today, he said, "If there's one thing you can take from this, I hope it's that you only have one family, and you need to hold on tight to it." He told me that his mother and him had gotten so much closer in that last month that he realized how much they loved one another without showing it beforehand.

I wish there was something I could do... Oddly, I felt as if I had been along for his journey somewhere, and it was such a jolt to hear she had passed on. What do you do for someone - especially someone you know in the way we know one another - in these sorts of situations?

Feeling a little grody from a weird-night's sleep (I went to Berlin in my dreams) and a shit-I'm-late wake-up disaster, I hurried along to my appointment to take care of (yes, even more) French paperwork.

I wasn't really paying attention to anything except the time quickly ticking away, when a man walking past me suddenly stopped, turned around, and said, "Excuse me..."

Me: Yes?
Him: You just walked by me and I wanted to know if you ever do any modelling.
Me: (laughs in his face)
Him: I guess that means no?
Me: (Still laughing) Yes. That means no.
Him: Well, I'm a painter, and I am interested in your cheekbones - I look for with really defined, angular faces as subjects. Are you an artist of some sort?
Me: (laughing again) No. I study linguistics.
Him: Oh... wow, that's great. Ok, well, I don't know if you actually would ever feel comfortable modelling for me, but I'm serious about the offer. I'll give you my telephone and you can call me if you're interested.
Me: Ok. But I'm in a big hurry so we'll have to make it quick.
Him: Oh, I'm sorry! Ok, here... here's my number (hands me a paper that he just wrote it on) and, well, are you familiar with the neighborhood at all?
Me: Not really. I just come here to do paperwork on rue Miollis.
Him: Oh! Right around the corner. Ok, my atelier is just three blocks from here, on avenue de Breteuil... hopefully you'd be willing to come by sometime during the week?

We exchanged a few more words and that was that. I actually have no doubt in my mind that the guy is legit; I don't think it was a complicated way to pick up on me or anything. He seemed genuine and very professional. I also don't think he was looking for nude work, but one can never know. Regardless, I'm obviously not going to call him, because I am too self-concious to sit and have someone paint me for hours on end.

Still, nice to be stopped by an artist interested in your cheekbones, anyway.

I got in a bit of a tif(f?) with The Boy today. I asked, "I'm going to the store, do you need anything?" and, apparently, he's tired of that question. He got outrageously mad at me for asking him, and I got equally so for how mad he got. I said, "Already I do your shopping for you, don't get pissed when I ask you what you need!" His reasoning? I should just know, and not have to ask.

I still maintain that he was wrong to be so pissy, but I think he was just feeling crabby and needed someone to take it out on.

Anyway, as all conflict makes me cry (and usually slam doors), I left the house - to do the laundry, no less - in tears. Walking up the street feeling sorry for myself, I finally managed to stop crying by the time I got to the laundromat. I hate crying in public. I'm not a huge fan of doing it in private, either.

I dumped off the clothes and put the coins in the slot, then headed down the street to where the madre is going to stay during her time in Paris. I needed to change her reservation.

I felt crummy and gross and a little hateful towards the world. Then I walked into the lobby, took one look around me, and walked right back out.

Dressed in my laundry day clothes, with my tear-stained face and my runny nose, I just couldn't confront what was happening in the hotel lobby:

A young models' meeting.

These girls were probably 17 or 18, and they were all sitting around waiting for their turn to be interviewed in what I assume was one of the hotel rooms. I don't know how many there were, but they were all beautiful and too skinny and dressed in great clothing. Most disgusting was that they weren't wearing any make-up, but still managed to be gorgeous. I have, in general, gotten by over the years by saying that models, in real life, are ugly once you take the make-up off. But not these girls.

Instead of joining that circus, I opted to go to the grocery and stop by the hotel on my way back. Of course, I didn't buy anything for The Boy, because I am spiteful and hold a grudge like that. I was, however, asked if I was shoplifting because I had my laundry bag with me.

Twenty minutes later, I stopped by the hotel again, and the girls inside were still there. Two of them were talking about the awful clothes they were asked to wear during the interview, and they both had charming German, or maybe Eastern-European accents. I couldn't exactly tell, which probably means they're from somewhere random like Denmark or Hungary. That, of course, only adds to their charm.

Regardless, they were annoyingly cute and even seemed friendly and half-intelligent, so I had to get out of that situation as quickly as possible; I talked to the hotel people and was out.

I left feeling even more sorry for myself.

I'm ok now, of course, but of all days to walk into a lobby full of young models, I wish I could have done so while feeling great about my life... Just twisting the knife, that's all those smiling little twits were doing.

This activity train? It can slow down now. The "alone" time I have had to do silly things like check email and read headlines has been confined to: a) breakfast time or b) the space of time after I take my shower but I'm not fully dry yet, but prefer air-drying (as opposed to towel-drying) before putting on my clothes.

So, yes. Very busy. It's been great, but a bit of a whirlwind. Lots of shmoozing and running from a to b. I've been working every day and my feet are throbbing enough to prove it. One of these days, I'm going to study for the final I have in two weeks. The Madre is coming next Wednesday, and I am fully dedicating the days she is here to all-out mother-daughter time, so I'll be damned if I try to sneak in any studying while she's here. Gotta do it ahead of time, folks.

For right now, though, I don't have the time/energy/desire.

Instead, I will waste this moment (while the rice is cooking) to I leave you with a ridiculous meme found at Yvonne's that made me laugh despite myself. Do it yourself; it's fun.

40 things:

1)My uncle: once gave our family a chemistry lecture at his university as an "activity" to do when we were visiting. It was awesome at the time, but I now realize how dorky this really means our family is.

2)Never in my life: will I integrate canned peas into my dinner.

3)When I was five: I frequently worked out the adventures of the imaginary people who lived in the painting on our living room wall (the adventures involved hopping from shore to shore on my finger that served as a transporter)

4)High School was: way less of a big deal than I thought it was, but was good to me in the end.

5)I will never forget: the meaning of the word "ignominious"

6)I once met: Joshua Jackson.

7)There’s this girl I know who: actually boasted about being called The Blow-Job Queen in high school.

8 )Once, at a bar: I named all the capitals of Africa for a free drink.

9)By noon I’m usually: nothing usual about me.

10)Last night: I gave one homeless guy some pizza and another smoked salmon and speghetti.

11)If I only had: my bracelet back.

12)Next time I go to church: I will try not to sneeze.

13)Terry Schiavo: was yet another thing that I was not in the US to experience. Media circus.

14)What worries me most: regret.

15)When I turn my head left, My stereo and Fela records.

16)When I turn my head right, I see: Dictionaries of various languages, conjugation books, and a couple folders.

17)You know I’m lying when: I tell you I am. (Hah! So when am I lying?)

18) What I miss most about the eighties: Michael Jackson's human face.

19)If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I’d be: One of the three Double Double Toil and Trouble witches.

20)By this time next year: I better speak some fluent Spanish, yo.

21)A better name for me would be: I like Yvonne's response ("Dances with Self in Mirrors") and cannot think of anything that beats it, so this question is being skipped for pride reasons.

22)I have a hard time understanding: Why people always have to get on the metro before everyone else has gotten off. There's a SYSTEM to this madness, people.

23)If I ever go back to school I’ll: I'm in school.

24)You know I like you if: I call you a dork.

25)If I won an award, the first person I’d thank would be: the awarder, probably. Or my parents, because they're awesome.

26)Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: Is there a connection I'm missing? Is it ok that I don't know the last two names?

27)Take my advice, never: eat moldy bread.

28)My ideal breakfast is: goat's milk yogurt and muesli, fresh juice of some sort.

29)A song I love, but do not have is: "I'm Too Sexy"

30)If you visit my hometown, I suggest: Hometown, or where I am now? Hometown: go in September. Paris: find good (but fashionable) walking shoes.

31)Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: Ok, this shit's fucking with my head.

32)Why won’t people: just unplug the tv already?

33)If you spend the night at my house: I'll carry your bag up the six flights.

34)I’d stop my wedding for: a parade of monkeys dressed in togas.

35)The world could do without: blisters. They're just unpleasant. After blisters, though, comes intolerance, hatred, and ignorance.

36)I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: do anything involving maggots.

37)My favorite blonde is: :::bats eyelashes:::

38) Paper clips are more useful than: Doritos.

39) If I do anything well, it’s: The Moonwalk.

40) And by the way: The Boy won't stop clearing his throat again.

My beautiful juicer - Harry - came last week. Harry has been soooo good to me over the last few days. I've been working up a variety of cocktails. My favorites include: apple-pear, carrot-celery, and orange-ginger juice. I feel like I have been mainlining vitamins directly into my bloodstream. I'm sure it's at least 75% psychological, but there is a definite energy boost involved, and nobody can tell me to the contrary, damnit.

I'm working my way up to the super green, super deluxe vitamin booster galore types like beet-garlic-broccoli-spinach-carrot-radish concoctions that Crazy Jay (Jay Kordich) thinks change people's lives. I just made that shit up, but I'm sure some juicer-crazed fool has given it a whirl. I'm just a few steps away.

Seriously, though, everybody needs a juicer. Tomorrow I'm going to make some homemade soy milk. Even though the juicer itself was a bit of an investment, I think it will pay back heftily in other ways. Example: I spend 75 cents on soy beans, do some ca-bang, ca-boom, and I've got myself a pretty severe supply of soymilk. Do you people know how expensive that shit normally is?

Non-juicer-related news:

I'm currently working at a bookstore that a friend of mine runs, filling in for another friend while she is on vacation. It's a great gig, replacing some of the money gaps where the French administration left me hard-core hanging.

Meanwhile, I'm making headway in hallucinating ways (the French use the term "hallucinating" a lot: "His hairdo is hallucinating!" and so on... I love it. I like it so much that I am importing it back into English in a completely incorrect form. You all better just get used to it so that you don't wonder what the hell I'm talking about in futre posts) in upcoming plans. I can't get into it on this site, because damn if I'm going to jinx the good luck train that choo-choos past my little life's cabin, but let's just say I've walked into two seperate little goldmines in the last two weeks. We're talking enormous fucking goldmines here, people.

Besides the lost bracelet and the four extra kilos, things are going well. Tomorrow morning's menu consists of: homemade soy milk with puffed rice and quinoa, a fresh glass of orange-ginger (again) juice and perhaps, later, a mango smoothie. Sound dandy?

I'm so pathetic. I go to bed before 1 every night now. It's incredible. The Boy thinks I've aged twenty years in three months, but I'm just exhausted. I can't help it - I get up earlier every day, and have to go to bed earlier as a result. I prefer it this way: today, for example, I got all of my correspondance, grocery shopping, and bill-paying done before I even had to leave to go to work. Glorious. Plus, I'm out and about in time for the cheap veggie markets. More juice!

The Little Guy has come and gone. It's always sort of sad and empty in the house after he leaves. No more jumping on the bed, no more laughter at high volumes just because it's even funnier that way, no more making farting noises with your armpit. Nope. When the kid goes, it supposedly time to go back to being an adult.

Sometimes when The Little Guy is here, I get a little annoyed at The Boy. You have to understand that The Boy is a workaholic, and if he spends 15 minutes away from his computer, it's a freakin' miracle. So of course, after spending the day going to Belgium, picking up The Little Guy, missing the train, spending the night in Belgium, and then coming back the following morning, well... he really wanted to work. That's fine and all, I like hanging out with his son, but sometimes I think, "Why did you want to bring him here if you're not going to chill with him?" If we don't plan activities OUTSIDE of the house, The Boy is just going to stay glued to the machine.

So we went to go see "Robots" which was funny enough. Good for little kids, plus we got a cinematic version of the Happy Meal: popcorn, drink, and toy. It was a watch.

Last night, while The Boy was working, I started knitting. The Little Guy asked me if he could learn, too. We pulled out the dictionnaries and I started explaining. Within an hour, The Little Guy was knitting pretty well, much to The Boy's disdain. "Little Guy! That's for women!"

I just had to laugh and laugh at his machissimo.

He did make the valid point, "Have you ever seen a man knit?" Well, no, but that doesn't mean 8-year-old boys can't learn, right?

The Little Guy really took to the knitting, and he kept asking me to teach him more. So after he had done four solid rows of knitting, I taught him to perl. Then I taught him to add colors. Granted, his little hands had a hard time with the needles, so he improvised and did the whole thing with one needle between his knees... hey, it worked.

This morning, before the two of them headed out for their train, I showed him how to bind off and weave in ends. Then he started putting on his mini-scarf, and rubbing the soft wool on his neck.

Dad really did not approve, but I thought it was great. He was so proud of what he had done. I was pretty proud of him, too.

It's amazing how quickly kids pick things up. He learned how to do all the major knitting techniques in 24 hours. Just... boom! We set up a system where each stich required four steps, and so when he had a problem with one of them, he would say, "Problem! Three!" and I would see where he went wrong. It's great to see how we get around language barriers.

I think my previous Fantasyland list is getting to me.

Under the excuse of "I have to look for a song my students know," I spent at least an hour today getting hip to music again. I can't believe how easy it is to be so out of it without a television or a radio. It makes perfect sense, but I guess I figured I had just gotten music through osmosis. Actually, I probably did. I had more friends in high school than I do now (curious, I know) and we spent a lot more time singing at the top of our lungs in cars than I do now. No worries, I still sing at the top of my lungs alone in my bedroom. It's just not the same.

Anyway. My point is: MUSIC IS TERRIBLE nowadays. I know I sound like my parents (who, in all honesty, were too hip to bother saying that, they just nodded patiently and waited for me to stop talking), but I couldn't get through more than half of the songs on Billboard's Top 100 before spitting at my computer screen and stopping the song mid-play (on Rhapsody).

I did, however, fall slightly in love with AKON, so that's a bonus. I know, I'm pretty mystified by it myself.

The good news is that I found a song to do. I think the kids will really dig it because it's got all the important words - namely "ghetto" and "girls" - but the message is a good one and it's not all about violence. I considered taking the number one song, and vetoed it. Why? Well, the words of wisdom from 50 Cent just seemed a little too strong for 15-year-olds:

Of course, it goes on, but I think I turned it off after that (I so didn't).

The other way I implemented a little piece of Fantasyland was by making my first official loaf of gluten-free bread. 100% from scratch, yo. This has been something I have been semi-working on for awhile, trying to get the right flours and what not. My bread concoction came from Cooking Gluten Free! (their exclamation point, not mine), which is a pretty good book. I've already done a few recipes out of it, and they have all turned out somewhere between good and excellent. I'm down with that.

Today's bread required the following products which I have never used in my life prior to this week: tapioca starch, potato starch, brown rice flour, sweet rice flour, and xantham gum. You can imagine what a party it was finding this stuff in a French supermarket. The trick was to buy it all in the Asian markets. I found everything but the xantham gum there.

Anyway, woo-hoo, the bread was a success. I'm happy it wasn't a huge failure or I might have written off funky flours forever.

Tomorrow, The Boy is bringin The Little Guy from Belgium to stay with us over the weekend. I hope the rain lets up so we can all go to the park together.

Aside from being a good person, with a steady job and a booming social life, there are a few frivolous daydreams I regularly have about the type of person I want to be. For the embarassment of it (for some reason I like to keep record of these kinds of things), I will list them here in no particular order.

In Fantasyland, I am the type of person who...

1. Gets up at six am and goes for a jog. A few days per week. Occasionally partipates in "fun runs" because they're actually fun, not painful.

2. Knows about random home remedies for aches and pains. Bonus points if I have whatever necessary products are needed on hand (ie aloe vera, ginger, etc) and can whip up a concoction.

3. Doesn't feel at all intimidated if you have a more impressive job than I do, because I am fully happy and content in what I do.

4. Is quadrilingual.

5. Can cook Indian food.

6. Gives professional massages.

7. Does yoga but isn't all, "Oh, yeah, yesterday? in yoga? we were..." and so on (the question marks represent the upturning sound at the end of words as in the California accent). Has the elongated yoga body, though. And being able to do some serious splits or something would be a plus.

8. Makes her own clothes. Regularly gets complimented on said clothes for their funky/groovy look that is unique and original, but not too "out there" (aka "ugly"). Gets asked, "Where did you find that?" to which I answer, "Oh, I made it," as if it's not hard or anything, because in Fantasyland, whipping up a new wardrobe is easy-peasy.

9. Bikes to and from work (I realize having a real job is a prerequisite, but we're in Fantasyland, here, so that part is obviously already taken care of. Duh.)

10. Can totally pull off headscarves to hold up her hair in that sort of hippie-ish look, but modernized.

11. Has a house that is always clean but lived-in, with wood floors and comfortable furniture, a fully-functioning washing machine, and that damn tea set I still regret not having bought in Cambodia.

12. Eats all organic food, isn't preachy about it, and doesn't mind the excessive price. Along that note: gets all her vitamins and nutrients.

13. Regularly bakes homemade (gluten-free) bread.

14. Can pull off the librarian look with glasses.

15. Is totally up-to-snuff on the music scene. Maybe plays the guitar on the side?

16. Travels regularly to faraway places not frequented by most tourists. Remembers to take photos during said travels. Photos are artistic and beautiful, hopefully put in cohesive albums in order, not just thrown in shoeboxes.

17. Handwrites letters to friends.

18. Looks good in a bikini (Fantasyland is GREAT!)

19. Has a garden. Cooks from things grown in garden. Gives neighbors fruits/veggies when growing in abundance. Knows a lot about planting techniques, seasons, soil, and so on.

20. Can squat for long periods of time.

It occured to me that Hip Hop has really made its way into mainstream when people start using it for Easter celebrations.

Also: I got hit on by three different people working in the same restaurant while picking up a pizza for The Boy. That does good things for my self-esteem in the hot-or-not department, but even better was how I shot them each down. I'm not evil, really, but I like to play the icy bitch from time to time. Anyway, the fellas love it. You know, it adds mystery.

Third: Million Dollar Baby? Well, it was ok, but The Daily Show had given away the ending to me, so I was really grimacing during that last fight. Hope I didn't give anything away, there. Hahahahahahahah!!!!

I've written and erased three entries this week. My life is missing its usual flair. And I can't use that word without thinking of "Office Space."

Things that are happening include:

1. I just got a letter from the French government telling me they can't authorize my work visa because my employer should have set it up for me. I find that ironic because I WORK FOR THE FRENCH GOVERNMENT. But, details. They were also upset because last year's authorisation expired, and yet I continued to work. That's funny ha-ha to me because they were the morons who sent me a 9-day work authorisation form for a SEVEN-MONTH contract, and I received the authorisation two weeks before the end of my contract. I am going to have to stir up the Inner Bitch a bit over the next 48 hours, just in time to get her fiesty and vicious for my government encounter early Thursday morning.

What was that? You were all thinking that would be your favorite way to spend the your only day off, too? What a coincidence because I'm so digging this not-having-any-freedom on Thursdays thing. I like to spend my hours of non-teaching or non-listening-to-droning-professorsing at the government office for foreign employees. Watching the numbers switch on the automatic number caller thing is invigorating.

2. I read in a book about what kind of appliances one should buy if one wants a non-toxic kitchen. I'm thinking of chucking the whole Peru trip and just spending all of my money on new appliances, because now I am officially scared. Teflon=bad. Hot plastic=bad. Aluminum pots= very bad. If anybody has any spare, stainless steel pots/pans from the 1920's, I could really be your friend. Also, apparently one needs some sort of special vegetable wash soap. Because nowadays, water isn't enough.

3. This woman brought in her baby to work today. I don't know her, nor do I know her baby, but the urge to hold the little man was pretty severe. I think that babies that don't cry or shit for more than 15 minutes should not be allowed near me.

4. TheKnitter and I went to see "Hitch" yesterday. There was a point in the movie ("Yeah, my sister once fell through the ice...") that I thought I might hurt someone because the writing/directing/acting was so bad, but luckily that moment was saved by some French person sitting in the front who started laughing REALLY hard and REALLY loud at the "deep" moment of "truth" shared between Will Smith and whoever that ho-bag playing opposite him is (Eva something?). Of course, his laughter resulted in ripples of giggles spreading throughout the theater, and at that point I think we all felt more comfortable knowing that everyone in the theater thought the film was lame as hell and we could laugh at inappropriate moments. Seriously, it made the film a lot more funny and enjoyable. It was a little like Mystery Sciences Theater 3000 but with one hundred perfect strangers. And minus the robots.

5. Only in my house could we get in a fight over whether or not it's ok to select "URGENT" when submitting a ticket for technical help on a web site. This led to a comment about karma, and how this is going to get him in the ass in the future. He responded by screaming to me about the fact that he paid for a service and can put "URGENT" whenever he damn well pleases.

We didn't speak for three hours after this.

Then, seriously, I had to let it go. Like, what the hell? Did we actually fight about that? Did we really let it get to the non-speaking point? Are we that pathetic? That we argue over which priority level to choose when asking for technical help online?

I think that must have been a new low.

No worries, folks. We've had a good laugh over it since.

6. I want to buy a juicer. Oh, and an entirely new set of kitchen appliances (see above). Oh, and a trip to Peru.

7. What's up with people stealing other people's posts/photos online? I feel pretty sad for even having an online journal in the first place. But I would feel really, really lame for having one that ISN'T EVEN REALLY ABOUT ME. That's about SOME OTHER PERSON that I am just PRETENDING to be, but ONLINE. Just, like, wha? I don't... just... no... I don't get it. Maybe it's because I'm blond.

I love waking up refreshed and feeling like a million bucks, ready to start the day!!!

That so didn't happen today.

I have been a very, very naughty girl.

My upcoming trip to London has me a bit financially depressed, mainly because I couldn't know for sure if I would get next Monday off until last Monday - ie six days before my departure. Naturally, train tickets doubled in the two weeks between when I decided I would go and I finally knew it was feasible. A 90-euro difference for two weeks of deicision-making time is pretty unnerving.

Nonetheless, I did have that whole thought-I-bounced-a-check fiasco a few days ago, when it really turned out that my bank sucks even more than I had previously thought. That's saying a lot, because I have always had a sort of seething hatred for my bank, but I believe it's intensified to the level of full-blown contempt.

When I finally realized that I actually did have money in my account (and more than just ten or twenty euros), I was sort of pissed. It meant my bank had been at fault for the whole annoying grocery incident - not me and my bad financial planning skills. It also meant my bank had caused me a weekend of stress and worry, wondering how the hell I had slipped 400 euros without knowing it. Of course, on Monday, when I checked my account balance and everything was hew-howdy dandy, I sort of wanted some sort of acknowledgement on their behalf that they had done a bad, bad thing. So I went in to the bank to ask if there had been some a network problem or something, you know, just to rationalize how something so absurd could happen (I realize this is a slight overreaction, but what if I had been travelling and that happened? I'd have been FUCKED).

Interaction:

Me: Hi, I just checked my account and I have some money in there. Nonethless, I wasn't able to charge anything or to pull out any money on either Saturday or Sunday. Was there some sort of problem?
Bank Bitch Who Obviously Hates Me: No. (French ppfpfthhh noise) No. (ppfpfthh noise again). No problems that I know of.
Me: Oh, well, it is pretty inconvenient to not be able to have access to one's own money, so I thought the bank might send out a warning or something.
Bank Bitch: (Ppfthff noise) Nobody said anything to me.
Me: Yeah, me neither. I suppose that means I'll have to change banks. You know, if every time I want to pull out my money my bank doesn't warn me, and beyond that, doesn't apologize when they've inconvenienced me, I figure it's time to go elsewhere.
Bank Bitch: (Suddenly turning very nice) Oh, well, I don't know, maybe there was something, but I wasn't told about it...

then she went on and on (sans pffthpffth noises), and Iinterrupted by saying, "Yeah, I'm still going to change banks."

That felt sort of good, like really getting her in the gut.

Anyway, I digress.

So why am I a naughty girl?

Because finding out that I didn't bounce any checks made me suddenly say, "No problem, then, kiddo! Go spend, spend, SPEND!"

I believe I have been influenced by the planets, because the urge to spend is far stronger than my usual willpower. Bizarrely, The Boy is on a bit of a splurge as well: He Who Has Never Bought A Damn Article of Clothing in Five Years just bought himself a new laptop, network card, laptop bag, pair of boxers, three pairs of socks, wireless keyboard and mouse. All in the last two weeks.

I am very excited about one my purchases, which is a black tank top dress that I snagged for thirty dolla. If you are all very nice to me, I might put a picture up.

I also bought a gluten-free recipe book (how to make GF granola is what sold me on it. Although I am finding the diet more easy to follow than I had expected, I miss my morning breakfast routine more than anything else...) and some yarn to make new mittens. I spent two hours knitting today while The Boy ran back and forth between the computers, trying to hook all three up on the same network (he figured it out in the end and whooped and hollered around the house like a madman afterwards). After twenty rows, I realized I had fucked up pretty severely on row THREE, and I just undid the whole damn thing.

So hey. Handy activity for the train.

Here's the thing: I bet you that if I'm grumpy enough, your comment that goes to the tune of "Oh my God... are you ok? Why do you have such big circles under your eyes?" is not going to please me.

Sure, I could answer that the problem is that I only slept three hours the night before and I spent six hours with screaming teenagers all day, but the truth of the matter is that I was born with these racoon eyes and people ask me the same damn question even when I've had a full night's sleep. A good idea would be to not aggravate the situation by saying, "And not only do you have big, black circles, but you seem really pale... are you sick or something?"

Because you know what's crazy? I actually feel better right now than I have in a loooong time. So, I'm not totally sure what to respond to you. The easy answer would be, "Yeah, I'm tired and sick." The true answer would be, "Well, I'm sorta tired, but I feel like I have a new sense of energy, and it has come leaping out of me in the last four days. Despite this, however, my genetics are such that I have racoon eyes, and apparently pale skin to boot, and so people naturally think I'm sick or just miserable. Regardless, I'm neither one nor the other, and I feel just dandy! So, um... I don't know how to explain the circles under my eyes or the paleness of my skin other than by expressing that THAT'S JUST WHAT I LOOK LIKE."

This happens to me about once per week.

Can you really answer by saying, "Well, actually, I feel great! Thanks though!"?

Random thoughts:

1. I saw "Ray" last week and thought it was pretty good. Mainly, I just enjoyed seeing a musician I've always admired portrayed so accurately. Apparently, Jamie Foxx really played the piano in all of the scenes. I find that incredible. More interesting trivia here.

2. I saw "Finding Neverland" a few days back and cried so much I heard the tears dripping down onto my synthetic coat like raindrops on my roof. Great, great movie.

3. I think I bounced at least one, if not two, and possibly three checks. NOT COOL (in my defense, one of the checks was written at the beginning of January, and I wrote in my planner the date they told me they would cash it, which was over three weeks ago. Unfortunately, I don't think they did, and thus my bank account was 500 euros off. Oops.). It's really too bad because I want to join the gym, but um... looks like that's going to be put off for awhile, at least the time it takes for me to get my banking straightened out.

4. Work starts again tomorrow and I'm very unexcited about that. However, I have lesson plans coming out my ears, so at least I have some new things to try out in the classroom.

5. Speaking of bounced checks, Kdogg and my's new plan is Peru and Bolivia. Anybody been?

6. I have a great boyfriend. It's been nice to be able to wake up with him and do the morning routine thing with him (breakfast, tea). It is going to hurt very seriously at 5.30 in the morning when he is still sleeping soundly, and I am trying to find matching socks in the dark.

7. Somebody just drove past my house with their music so loud that my windows literally shook. I'm SIX FLIGHTS UP people.

I have always had issues with repetitive noises. People who tack tack tack credit cards on counter tops, for example. If it goes on for more than a minute, I'm going to start to get a little edgy. Or this one time, this guy on the plane next to me kept snapping his pen open and closed, open and closed, open and closed. I had horrible visions of trying to live through that for the entire flight. The worst was when this guy next to me in the library did this weird tapping thing with the heel of his shoes - first his left, then his right. Then he would pick up the speed. Then do a little drumbeat. Then take it down a notch. The sound was resonating throughout the library and I was thinking, "My God, how can you not be aware of how annoying that is to everyone around you?"

The problem for me right now is that The Boy clears his throat literally every 30 seconds. We're both working (in silence) and I keep hearing the "ahahahaeemmmm" of the clearing. I cannot freakin stand it. But how do you ask somebody "OH MY GOD COULD YOU PLEASE STOP CLEARING YOUR DAMN THROAT ALREADY???" without coming across as aggravated and psychotic as you really feel?

The worst part is that I have totally made clear to him that he needs to stop doing that or I am going to explode/implode (we're not sure which, yet). My theory is that people who make repetitive sounds cannot possibly be aware of what they're doing, or they would know to STOP THE MADNESS.

Usually, I try to egg him into drinking some tea, because it makes him do it less. The technique is not working today.

Speaking of The Boy, I just walked in on him doing these really pathetic stretches in the living room.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Computer doctors suggest that you do exercises, so I will..." he said, as he bent to touch his toes.

"Yeah, well, it's no good to sit for TWELVE STRAIGHT HOURS," I offered.

He then proceeded to lift his new keyboard (wireless) and read, from a small sticker on the underside: "Doctors believe that sitting for extended periods of time can lead to back, shoulder, elbow, and wrist pain. To keep from suffering from these problems, be sure to stretch regularly. Take pauses twice every hour. Walk around for a few minutes."

Does that seem weird? I mean, people should do that anyway, but isn't it strange to have a WARNING LABEL on keyboards?

This has been a weird couple of days. I have a lot of work to do, but things keep popping up and I haven't been able to get half of the stuff I have on my plate finished. Sometimes work goes smoothly, sometimes it doesn't.

First, I found out yesterday that I tested positive for gluten intolerance on two counts, and that I also have two genes for gluten intolerance. So, by all counts, I'm considered gluten intolerant. That's a crazy thing to me, because I got tested on a hunch due to some advice from these women in an online support group that I'm a part of. They suggested there might be a link between gluten intolerance and some other problems I'm having, but I thought it was a bit of a stretch. I didn't think I would actually come up positive, but I wanted to eliminate the possibility before investigating into different possible causes further. It's pretty insane that those women were right to have suggested I get tested! I don't have full-blown Celiac disease, although my score for intestinal damage was dangerously close to the limit (285 out of 300), so there's that.

This news is likely going to change a lot of things for me, which is sort of weird. For now, the task is a little intense. I'm seeing a doctor on Friday for a different problem, but I am going to ask her about a possible gluten link, and see what she says. Meanwhile, I'm going to try to slowly phase gluten out of my diet. I don't feel that I have to stop eating gluten full-stop this week, but I am going to go gluten-free once I finish the last box of cereal on my counter. I think I will try the diet for six months and see if it helps. All of the mysterious health problems I have had over the last few years are symptoms of gluten intolerance... it's sort of weird to have them all link up as an auto-immune response to something as simple as a slice of bread or some pasta.

Sigh. I am going to miss chocolate chip cookies and baguettes, but if eliminating gluten can answer a few other issues, I'm willing to give it a try.

Second, I won a great set of needles on E-bay. It was my first win, and I feel deeply satisfied. I figured out that you have to not bid at all until the last minute, and then sneak up and steal the sale out from under some poor, unsuspecting soul's feet. That's how I lost my big lot of 100's of needles from some dead lady. So I instead won a beautiful set of wooden needles for 40 bucks. The price seems ridiculously reasonable to me because one pair of wooden needles here is automatically at least 7,50 euros. Multiply that by eight, and I believe you have more than 40 dollars.

I'm waiting to see about a sewing machine and a tortilla press. After that, I will have to stop the E-bay party. I might just let the sewing machine go, and buy a cheap one in a real store. However, I haven't been able to find a tortilla press anywhere here, so I'm pretty intent on winning one. And knowing now that I can't eat anything with gluten, I'm all about the corn tortillas.

Third, my vacation is already more than halfway over and I haven't done much work at all! I'm not too happy about that.

So, on that note, I have to go run to the cinema right now to go see "Ray."

Do you ever get cotton brain? I call it cotton brain - the term is fashioned after the ever-famous cotton mouth - but cotton brain is far more serious.

About once or twice per month, I have a few hours, sometimes even an entire day, where I feel as if I have cotton stuck between my skull and my brain. The cotton makes it hard for things going on outside of my head - conversations, lectures, movies, what have you - to get inside my brain. I see them, alright. I hear what you're saying. But it's just not registering. There it is. I see it. Yes, yes, I'm nodding in recognition. But, oops. Now it's gone, and I forgot what it was we were even talking about in the first place. It's like the pathway is blocked, and things. just. can't. get. in.

I absolutely HATE cotton brain. It's a very specific feeling, and as far as I can tell, it's not really related to anything I can pinpoint.** It's not fatigue-related, because I generally get it after a good night's sleep. It's not due to a long day's work, because I get it most often around noon, long before the day can really be considered over. It's not drug- or alcohol-related, because I'm a good girl. I just can't figure it out.

Anyway, today I went through a good five hours of cotton brain time. I was so off in so many ways: absent-minded, incapable of following conversation, generally clueless as to what was going on. When this happens, I really, really feel out of sorts.

A perfect example of how this affects me: I went to a wine-tasting shin-dig (another article to write, but the experience was so great I'm afraid my words are going to come bubbling off the page and into readers' faces) and left afterwards to go to the bathroom. When I finished, I flew out of the bathroom in a rush to catch a movie with a friend. Once I reached the door to leave the restaurant, however, I looked in my bag for my mittens and realized they were missing.

Do you know where I found them? On the bathroom floor, right in front of the toilet, sitting on the ground as if I had peed in the position of a track runner just before the starting gun shot. My mittens were my handprints, turned in towards one another about a foot away from the toilet base.

Who forgets their mittens THERE of all places? Who even puts them there in the first place?

After the wine tasting/mitten fiasco, I missed the movie, so I instead hung out with my friends and tried to follow their conversation. Annoying, I just kept falling behind. I really could not keep up.

I remember I used to know this girl in high school who was perfectly nice, reasonably pretty, and very athletic. The problem was that she was stupid. I still respected her because she fully admitted to it, and not in a ditzy way ("Like, I am so dumb!") but just in a really upfront, honest way ("No. I just don't get a lot of things sometimes..."). I've thought of her from time to time when I get cotton brain because that must be how she feels ALL THE TIME. How does she manage?

I fully knew today that I was just incapable of being the slightest bit witty or bringing anything extra to the conversation. I was a dead weight this evening, adding a general slowness to the group dynamic. God, the slowness of my brain was so painful.

In the end, I gave up. I came home around ten and took a bath. I still feel a little cotton-y but I'm sure it will clean up by tomorrow.

In the meantime, do you know what I've discovered? E-Bay. I know, I'm really behind. But dude, you can get knitting needles from dead people for really, really cheap, and I totally don't have issues knitting with a dead woman's needles for $12.95 (for 100!).

----

**I have a medical expert friend who theorizes that the cotton brain-ness is a food allergy. I'm waiting on allergy tests to come back from the lab, so it will be interesting to see if I have any, and if they get rid of the cotton. My internet research has shown that my medical expert friend was not totally full of shit, and that it is a possible side effect. So at least I know I'm not just having fits of dumbness.

I spent last night in a hotel as a sort of "test drive" for a review I'll be writing up. The place was nice, but I'll spare you the details - you'll be able to get them, eventually, by reading the review, if you should so desire.

Instead, I'd rather talk about something else I (re)discovered is interesting: television.

Ok, I know it's pathetic. Staying in the hotel was nice. Their heating works, which is automatically a step up from my own home. There was a full bathtub there, yet another plus. And? Really freaking quiet there. I sort of missed The Crier and his nightly screaming, for a brief moment, but my sleep really approved of the lack of interruptions. My sleep was whispering in my ear all night, "See what I mean? This is how to do it... you've been getting it wrong all these years, don't you see?"

And then I woke up to a beautiful snowfall in Paris. The room was warm and cozy and bright, and I saw huge, comforting snowflakes falling from behind the pale yellow curtains of my hotel room.

I tried to sit and just appreciate the happiness of warm, friendly luxury. I mean, there I was, all bundled up in my nice room with a fresh cup of tea. Cozy and calm, that's how everything felt.

But I couldn't resist. The TV called.

So I'll admit it. I got my CNN fix (Bush in Germany, More Bush in Germany, and Oh My God! Do You Know What? President Bush Meets with Chancellor Shroeder!). What's wrong with that?

Oh, and last night I might have watched "Boyz in the Hood" on some cable channel. It was dubbed, which, granted, it's a film that doesn't really work so well in French. But I watched the whole thing and marvelled at how much spandex people wore in the early 90's. Those women were bold as hell, man. And they weren't exactly lean, either. And their spandex was in less-than-flattering shades like bright green and red. Oh, and you know what else I had forgotten about from back in the day? Those dresses that actually had shorts as the skirt part. No, not skorts. But the full-on dress version of the skort. Seriously. What a wild fashion concept. It looked hideous even on a cute girl with a nice body. What were people thinking?

I also watched a really bad reality show about a woman who comes into houses and observes parents for a few days before telling them everything they're doing wrong and correcting all their problems by teaching them how to parent properly.* I'm not totally sure how that managed to keep my attention for a whole hour, but I'm not going to dwell on it. I have, however, learned that children need limits, that nutrition is important, and that parents need to remember to have fun with their children. As you can tell, the show was highly informative and taught me many important lessons that I couldn't have learnt any other way. My favorite part was when The Nanny (aka Kathy or Cathy, I don't know) lectured the dad about how bad television is for children, and how it is not a substitute for bedtime stories or Quality Parent Time. How it's not an informative means of communication, either. The irony of having a television personality lecturing a dad about how television is bad was not lost on me, but it went right over the head of the good man with the grave face who just wanted to learn how to treat his kids right, no matter what Kathy or Cathy said.

I cannot believe I could just spend a whole paragraph on that show. Surprisingly, I've thought about it a lot since seeing it. I'm not exactly proud of that.

What I am happy to say is: a good night's sleep is a great thing. Television is the ultimate vixen, luring me so sweetly yet treating me so wrong. It's great that I don't have it at home. Can you think of all the wasted hours I would have on my hands - juggling BOTH distractions of television and internet? I don't know how you people do it.

Anyway, this post is going nowhere. It's 3.00 am and I'm on vacation, so I'm not even worried about only getting two hours of sleep. Life is so beautiful sometimes...

--------------
*I love this run-on sentence. I refuse to change it.

Ok, so. In your opinion, which is worse?

1. Spending 30 minutes with 18 year-olds and repeatedly telling them to stop talking over you - a conversation that eventually lead to a shouting match, that then culminated in your leaving the room with the students sitting in shock behind you (for what it's worth, they came an apologized in the teachers' lounge, but their behavior was beyond rude, and I don't regret making my point, even though the whole thing felt shitty... I can still feel their surprise as I got up and left. I had been sitting for five minutes - literally - just waiting for them to recognize how out of line they were. Unfortunately, they just never stopped talking and yelling and acting like animals in the zoo)

or

2. Going to send my frozen poop at the delivery place and realizing, when the woman asks me "specifically" what is in the box, that I don't know a better word for poop in French other than "shit" or "ca-ca." I opted for the latter. She handled it all quite gracefully, I might add, although I felt like a dumbass. Of course, on the way out, I came up with the medical term, which would have been quite a bit better, but what can you do? Ah well...

I have to get tested for gluten intolerance, and the best way to do so is to send your poop to the lab.

This is a little unconventional, I realize, but it's all in the name of medecine.

So here's the dilemna. I have to send my poop - which is now safely in a lab container, sealed and then taped for security - to the lab tomorrow via express shipping. Until then, I have to keep it frozen.

Ok, so it's already rather degrading to have to poop into a plastic lab container. It's equally as belittling to have to seal the container and tape it up. But I think the freezing-of-my-poop has brough me to a new low.

In a normal house, poop freezing would probably be no big deal. Just plunk the poop right into the freezer, making sure to keep the ice cream far to the right.

Our problem, however, is that our freezer is inaccessible. It gets whatever that snowy, icy crap is that freezers sometimes get, except it takes over our entire freezer within three days, creating a freezer-wide chunk of impenetrable ice. I have a defrosting party every summer, emptying the fridge and leaving the door open for two or three days, letting the sumer heat eventually melt the massive block of ice.

Unfortunately, there's no summer heat and I don't have a couple of days to keep the door open. I really need the freezer today. I was hoping it would get below freezing tonight, and I would just use my windowsill as my "freezer," no de-frosting necessary. But alas, Paris is having an unusually warm winter, and no forecast goes below 7°C for this evening. If I were to be able to send my poop first thing in the morning, I wouldn't care, but I work until 14.00 tomorrow, so the poop isn't going anywhere before 16.00. That shit needs to get frozen in the meantime.

And really, do you know? Nothing feels more pathetic than sitting in front of your freezer for two hours, holding a book in one hand and a blow-dryer in the other, hoping to clear enough space in your broken, crap-ass freezer to keep your poop in it overnight.

Even worse? I can't even take a shower when this whole fiasco is over.

I swear, one day I will have a house that functions.

I've been getting up very early and being all extra go! go! go! ever since the weekend. I just can't seem to stop.

Today, I had to stop.

So I slowed down and got in bed at 15.00 and took a nap. I woke up at 16.00, ran into the living room, and said, "SHIT! I missed my class!"

"What?" said The Boy, "What do you mean?"

"I had a class at 9.00, but since I don't normally have classes on Wednesdays, I just slept right through it! I feel awful!"

...

"What?" said The Boy.

"I can't believe I slept through my class!" I said, really upset.

"But, um. It's Tuesday. You were taking a nap," he responded.

"What? Tuesday?" I asked. "You mean it's not Wednesday, yet?"

"No..." he said.

And I got back in bed. I woke up again an hour or so later and went to Spanish, but I was fully disoriented for a good half-hour after waking up. I must have needed the sleep more than I had realized.

I did it. I ate the whole damn chocolate bar.

Granted, I ate 3/4 of it this afternoon, and 1/4 of it three minutes ago, but the fact remains: the entire chocolate bar is now in my stomach.

I haven't bought - let alone eaten - an entire chocolate bar since I was probably 8. That was crazy. But damn, it was good.

I'm levelling with myself by saying, "Self, if you went out to dinner this evening like everybody else who doesn't have to work at 8 am on a Saturday morning, you would probably have gotten chocolate cake for dessert. So it's no biggie. That was your once-a-week treat, you just you gave it to yourself outside of your normal treat window."

Apparently, I have "treat windows" much like my dog does. I didn't know that about myself, but that must be part of this quarter-life-crises discovery shit I keep hearing so much about.

Meanwhile, I haven't had dinner yet so I suppose I'm going to go fix myself a healthy tuna-and-rice combo. Trying to relieve the guilt. Got a problem with that?

On a side note: I just got a phone call from the head of the English department at the high school I work at. They have been trying to change my schedule for the last TWO WEEKS, but couldn't seem to get it together. She finally called today to let me know, and they now have me coming in for ONE HOUR (and only one hour, although it takes me an hour to get there and an hour to get back) on both Wednesday and Thursday. I'm going to raise some holy hell, because this shit is not flying in my universe. Oh hell no, it isn't. In my universe, people who work while going to school don't spend ten hours/week on a train in order to work their twelve scheduled hours/week. My school last year was so understanding of the fact that I actually had more to my life than sitting on trains, but apparently these people think that I'm a train girl, through and through.

So stay tuned. This could get very exciting. Monday is big confrontation day, and heads are going to fly. Seriously. I'm not very into the whole standing-my-ground thing, but when I get riled up I can get pretty ferocious about it.

Because really, did they not think this through? Not only do I work on Saturdays (freaking crazy, I know, but I decided to let it slide because the best classes are all on Saturday), but they also want me coming in for ONE HOUR ONLY two days per week (while I still come in all day Mondays and Tuesdays)?? They all know full well how far away I live.

I'm not happy with this. Not. One. Bit. Because guess what folks? I have research to be doing, and my research has zip, zero, zilch to do with public transportation and all its inner-workings. So that leaves us with the following equation:

Time in day - time spent on trains = Not enough time left over to go to the library

Last night when I went out with my Spanish class, I mentioned a situation in which I rented a car and accidently put normal fuel in a diesel-powered Mercedes. Naturally, the thing broke down and I was called an idiot by the passanger (The Boy) in the car, and we had to have the thing towed at six o'clock the following morning. Worse, we knew we would have to pay a huge late fee at the rental place, plus whatever expenses were required to clean out the engine and make the car work again.

Oddly, The Boy called the place the following morning, explained what had happened, and we walked away from the whole nasty experience without paying an extra dime.

When I told this story, everyone gasped and I said, "That's just the way The Boy is. Things always work for him. If it had been me, I would still be paying off that car rental..."

My best friend from high school is this way, too. She's been known to weasel her way out of the strangest situations in the most creative ways. The weirdest part is that she's not really even trying; she just says the first thing that comes to mind, and before you know it, she's getting free deals and 20% coupons instead of paying the required $90 late fee. It's mysterious.

This golden cloud doesn't follow me around like it does those people in my entourage. I don't know if it's that I'm disorganized (no), stupid (I hope not), or just unlucky (what I resort to as an explanation), but things often go wrong for me. Not Big Important Things like jobs or school or health insurance, but little things like buying the walkman that breaks down after two days or having the post office lose my packages.

So the car episode got me thinking of karma and how somewhere, somehow, some miracle thing is going to happen and I'm going to think, Oh, right. Something's finally working for me!

But then I realized that's already happened. I don't know why I'm going to tell this story, because I know my parents read this site, but I figure what's done is done and hopefully they'll get a good laugh out of this:

When I was 14, I don't know what came over me one summery afternoon after school but I did something extraordinarly stupid. Let's blame it on new and conflicting hormones that made logical reasoning impossible, shall we?

Yes.

So that particular afternoon, I got the brilliant idea to try to drive the car. I had never driven before, of course, but that seemed like a small obstacle at the time.

I have no idea why we had an extra car at home when I was there alone, nor whose keys I took when this light bulb went off in my head. But the facts clearly show that the minivan was parked on the driveway, and I had keys to use.

Our driveway was on a huge, huge slant, so sharp that sometimes we couldn't get up it in winter if there was enough snow/ice. The front door to our house was up a flight of stairs that sort of jutted onto the driveway at an angle, with a final step slightly bigger than the rest that cut off right at the driveway's edge.

Now, I recall turning the car on without any trouble. I also recall figuring out reverse vs drive, which is an important step in learning to drive (by yourself).

But what I don't think I figured out was that reversing quickly on a very steep hill makes a car go very quickly. The back wheels went down fine, but when I realized I was more or less heading towards our front garden, I started turning. This put the car at the strangest angle to the driveway itself, and I found myself in the awkward position of having the middle part of the minivan stuck on the bottom step up our stairs. Oddly, the car could not go forward or backward. Somehow, I managed to really lodge the van unto that step, and I still to this day would not know how to replicate the act if forced.

Naturally, I freaked out. It would be pretty hard to explain how the minivan got stuck on the staircase in my parents' absence, and it would be even harder to explain why the hell I thought I could just take the car for a spin without ever having learned how to drive in the first place. Panicked, I turned off the engine and got out of the car.

I walked back into the house and sort of paced the living room for awhile, and then I came back out and considered the situation again. Yeah. The car was pretty stuck. And no, I didn't know how to unstick it.

Just then, I heard the sound of construction from up the street. I don't know if they were building the new house on the corner or doing some other sort of repair, but I know there was definetly a reasably-sized crew working up the street. It took me about .036 seconds to realize what I had to do to save myself from a rather awkward parental encounter.

I marched up the street and called over two of the construction workers. Because I was 14, four came over instead.

Me: Hi, I have a sort of embarassing situation and I was wondering if I could use your help.
Guy 1: Um... what kind of help?
Me: Well, I just got my license and I wanted to take my parents' minivan for a drive, but somehow I managed to get it stuck on the staircase...
Guy 2: Yeah?
Me: Well, I was just wondering if maybe you could lift it off for me?

I shit you not, a group of four burly construction men came down the street and lifted my parents' minivan off the steps. For good measure, one of them asked if I wanted him to straighten it out on the driveway. Blowing my entire just-got-my-license act, I nodded and thanked him vigorously.

They all had quite a laugh, but can you believe my luck?

Oh my God, I have made the craziest discovery. Did you know that if you sleep a full night, that you can concentrate ALL DAY? Did you also know that you'll be way better at everything you do, and that you'll have a bounce in your step, and that you'll say wild things to yourself like, "Well, I've got a free hour, why don't I just go run 1,227 errands right quick?"

Today was great in all ways. I'm going to have to keep testing out this whole sleeping thing a litte bit more. It seems to work for me.

I had an interesting class with my older students this morning, where I got an a-ha moment out of three - yes three! - people. I feel on top of the world when that happens. They literally went, "Oooooohhhh... I get it!" and I literally went, "Oooooooohhhh... I kick ass."

That class was followed quickly by my worst class. The kids are terrible; they spend all hour talking and I have had to seperate them and yell and threaten in the past. Today? One girl began talking while another student was reading. I did what any self-respecting teacher would do and made a bit of a spectacle out of Ms Chatterbox by asking her a direct question about the passage. She freaked out, said she didn't know, then tried to get out of it. I just sat down in a chair in the middle of the classroom and waited. I think that freaked the Frenchies out, because anything unorthodox really throws them for a loop: What is this??? Teacher sitting at a student desk?!! The world as I know it is over!!!

Everybody was silent while Ms Chatterbox re-read the paragraph we had all just read outloud together, and then she answered me. After that, nobody said a word, everyone raised their hands, and we had a great discussion. It was amazing. Like night and day, or like Ashlee Simpson and Bob Marley.

My last class was with the other older kids, and today was our last day. They asked me why, and I said "Because you never come to class, and your head teacher has decided it's stupid for me to teach you when there are other kids asking to have classes with me. Why should people who aren't interested get priority?" I felt a little bad because the five that were there were the five that always come, and the rest are the ones who caused the decision to be made. But still...

So I did a class where I laid out some really simple stuff that they obviously needed to review. They all started understanding halfway through the class, and once they caught on, it was quite a party in there, let me tell you. And English grammar review party. It can get pretty jumpin'.

After class, one of the students came up to me and said, "Could we please continue with you? I learn so much more in your class than I do with the other teacher. Isn't there any way we could work it out?"

Hearing that, I think I might have high-fived myself in my head at some point. Maybe.

Then I got home, ran some errands, did the dishes, wrote my Spanish essay, took a bath, and then left for Spanish class. Yes, it's sorta weird to take a bath at 17.00, but my house was cold and I wasn't home long enough to bother putting on the heat. Getting in a big tub of hot water really does the trick in those situations.

And Spanish was great, as always, except for the fact that in the middle of class I said something in English and didn't even realize it. Just poof! Said it, kept going, and stopped only when I noticed people were giggling at me. After class, we all went out for drinks and talked shit about the people who were in the class but dropped out after two weeks. Those losers don't know the fiesta they're missing.

Ok, I'm going to bed now. I'm going to go for a whole eight hours tonight. Just watch me.

The Scene: Three girls in a pizza parlor. Two single, one taken, and the second bottle of wine recently opened.

Girl One: Did you see those photos?
Girl Two: Yes, freaky.
Girl Three: I wanna see them!
One: No you don't! I can't believe the boys were so... naked! And in front of the cameras! So much, um... how can I say this? Dangling. Ach!
Two: I know, I know... too much detail!

Pause.

Two: So, did you guys hear about Barbara Boxer during Rice's confirmation thingamajig?
Three: Yeah, she laid the smack down.
Two: I listened to it on the radio. She was mad.
Three: So I heard.
Two: Then John Kerry up and said, "Dude, Rice, what's your problem? Can't you admit to a freakin' mistake, fool?"
Three: Oh yeah, I heard that excerpt. Pretty riled up for Kerry, huh?
Two: Totally.

Pause.

One: Can we go back to talking about penises now?

I'm having lots of strange coincidences come together, and some of them are almost creepily unexplainable. The list from the last week alone would be really long, but just believe me that something cosmic is in the air.

The weirdest coincidence, however, happened today.

This morning, in the shower, I got to thinking about random things as I tend to do if not given something to concentrate on. My reverie took me back to a day when I was 17, and a man named Max came to my door. Door-to-door salesmen were pretty unheard of in our suburban neck of the woods, mainly because the houses were sort of spread out and I can't imagine people were very receptive to having anyone other than Girl Scouts come search for cash on their doorsteps.

Max was a tall, young, good-looking black man with a gold tooth, selling magazine subscriptions as a way to pay back for something in lieu of doing community service. I remember not entirely listening to his spiel because I was too busy trying to keep the dog from jumping on him,so those are all the details I can provide today.

I also remember thinking that something was off, but then trying to convince myself that I was only thinking that because black men never came to our neighborhood, and I'm a racist bitch. Trying to shake off the racist assumptions, I convinced myself that Max's unexpected visit was normal despite my gut telling me it was sort of strange.

It was sweltering hot, and Max asked if he could have a glass of water. I told him I would have to shut the door behind me so the dog wouldn't run out, so could he just wait on the porch? He obliged, and I went and fetched the water.

He thanked me, drank it, made small talk, and left. But I felt really, really weird about the whole thing.

If this were to happen today, I know I would handle his visit differently. It was weird to have someone knock on the door at 4 pm. It had never happened before, and I was thrown. I was also 17 and midwestern, and didn't really know how to say no to people.

I've since learned that, in these situations, a lot of times people are really selling something. I've also learned that a lot of other times people are just using the door-to-door scheme to case out houses to rob. So, in retrospect, knowing what I now know, I probably wouldn't have entertained him for fifteen minutes on my doorstep.

Under ordinary circumstances, I also probably would have forgotten this story and Max would have not played any part in my memories of being 17.

However, three or four days later, I was home alone at night. Our house had three floors - two main floors and then a furnished semi-basement. I say "semi-basement" because our house was built onto a hill, so only one half of the "basement" was really in the ground. On the opposite side was a back door that led to our yard.

On this particular night, I took a shower early in the basement bathroom and then headed upstairs to get something to eat. I watched some TV while eating and, when finished, turned off the TV. Oddly, I heard the television downstairs from the kitchen, and so headed back down to turn it off.

However, when I got into the den, there was no TV on. Surprised (I'm not one for hearing things, nor am I one for investigating things if I'm not sure I hear them), I thought it must have been the TV on in my parents bedroom on the main floor. I trucked back up the stairs, into my parents room, and saw the TV wasn't on there, either.

At this point, I started to get a little worried. I had definetly heard voices. I tried wildly to convince myself that this was something electronic on in the house: another TV? A radio? Music? What?

It must be music in my room then, I decided, and I quietly edged my way back down the stairs and into my room.

Nope, nothing there either.

I walked back out into the den to think, and it was then that I noticed our patio door was open. I mean, fully. Like, two feet. It had not been open when I had come down a few minutes prior. I am still to this day convinced someone was in the house.

Whether or not the weirdness of Max's visit was related, I obviously can't be sure. I like to think not. However, I always link the two abnormal events in my mind regardless, especially since people told me that often door-to-door salesman aren't really looking to sell anything.

I was thinking about this, and all of it's creepiness, this morning in the shower. For old time's sake, I went over the graphic details of how I went around the house and turned on all the lights I could, holding a phone in my hand as I made the rounds, locking all the doors. Then I stayed up in the main room until my parents came home.

Replaying the scene was sort of fun in the same way watching horror films in the dark can be: it gave me the shivers and lots of feelings of dread. I turned over, again and again, the possibility of the Max connection, and thought about how creepy it would be if he really HAD been casing out the house.

After I finished my shower, I got dressed, ate some breakfast, did some stuff, blah blah. Then the doorbell rang.

Oddly, it was a young man who was selling drawings to get money to pay for his stay in a shelter. I live on the sixth floor, we have no elevator. People do not come here to sell things. His name was Lionel, and he was tall, good-looking, white, with a silver tooth. Silver, people!

Forgive me for not opening my door any further than I could fit my face through. Not that we have anything to steal, but you can understand my caution. Had it been any other day, I might not have given it a second thought. But today, there was no way I would even give him a glimpse of what was inside.

I just did so much with my day that it is 20.30 and I think I'm going to go to bed. This is probably a good thing because I have to work at 8.00 tomorrow. The Jenhen is in town (crazy, crazy!) so we'll be hanging manana, and I wanna be fresh and lively when we meet up.

I reorganized all my paperwork today, cleared out a closet, and moved a bunch of stuff around. I also vacuumed, dusted, and emptied out the bathroom madness that was all over our miniscule tile floor. I also attended three hours of lecture this morning, went to the bank, went to the natural foods store, and hung out with a friend. Feels good, feels real good.

Kathypath and I have both been in a funk for the last few days without any real explanation. Maybe it's the post-Christmas blues, maybe it's the pain of going back to work. Maybe it's just the fact that the sky is always that depressing gray. The new method to get over the funk is to just keep moving. Keep cleaning, keep writing (wrote a big Spanish essay yesterday) and keep getting things done. If it doesn't solve all your problems, it can always help them in small ways.

But now, it's time to stop. Tea and bed for yours truly.

The Boy and I just finished reading Genesis (as in the first book of the Bible). I told my parents they hadn't done a proper job of raising me, because I can never answer any Bible questions on "Jeopardy!" If I'm going to get by in the second Bush empire, I need to at least pass for a quasi-Christian, and I've got a lot of catching up to do.

The Boy was an altar boy in his mom's Catholic church, so he knew all the stories as a young lad. But when he walked in on the pastor fucking the nun one day, he decided that everybody at the church was a two-faced liar, and promptly forgot all the stories and who begat who and what not.

I decided to take matters into my own hands and buy us a Bible. We already had one that some Mormon guy at The Boy's mom's church gave him, but the writing is so small and I can't keep my attention span going if there aren't any pictures. I also bought some sort of Hey-I'm-Young-Hip-and-Christian Bible because I thought the dumbed down language would help me stay focused, but even that didn't work. In the end, "La Bible Illustré pour garçons et filles" was my saviour (The Illustrated Bible for Boys and Girls).

I read the first part alone last night, but read a whole lot more this morning.

Here's when you know you've found somebody really special:

"Hey, I'm gonna read Genesis to you now, ok?" (as he's waking from his sleep)
"No, I don't want to hear it..." he says, face still smushed against the pillow.
"Yeah you do. I'm already past Adam and Eve, and Noah and his arc, so we're moving on to Abraham and Sarah, mmkay?"
"..."

Fifteen minutes later, The Boy interrupts me, "Wait, just stop reading for a second."
"Ok," I say, figuring he's had enough, and surprised he hadn't been sleeping the whole time.
There is a reflective pause, and then he says, "So, what I don't understand is, if Jacob was the bad brother, why do we only hear about him for the rest of the book? Shouldn't God be favoring Esau? Technically, Jacob's the liar and the one who resorted to dirty tricks. Why are we on his side? I mean, Esau comes back briefly, but..."

And we spent the next hour or so reading (still from a children's bible, but no matter) and discussing some of the strange things. I might go to hell for wondering why there's so much incest, but um... there's a lot of it. What's up with that? And what about the brief mentioning of Ismael, son of Abraham and some slave, who went on to lead the Arabs? Could I get some more details please? And anyway, this is all taking place in the modern-day Middle East and Egypt. Why are all the pictures in the book of blond people?

We had a good time. Tomorrow's Exodus. I'm gonna be so up to speed soon, I'll be itchin' for the "The Bible" category in "Jeopardy!" when I go home.

I have decided that I am going to have my life together enough by this point next year that I will actually send out Christmas cards. Maybe even on time.

I know, I'm not married and I don't have children, so what the hell am I thinking?

But I feel it could be an important milestone for me, so let me dream. Thanks.

So I had written this entire post that was published for about ten hours before I decided it was too personal to leave online for my dad's boss to stumble upon. I had visions of hanging out with his coworkers at a dinner party sometime, with somebody having background knowledge that I didn't want him to have, and me realizing this only after he says something that hints to this knowledge. Then I would have to avoid him for the rest of the evening.

Let me, instead, speak slightly more abstractly. Here is the problem: I have some medical issue that is pretty freaking sensitive. It has affected my health, my feelings of well-being, and my relationship. I have worked for over two years, and seen at least ten doctors, in an attempt to get a diagnosis. I have been falsely diagnosed with a variety of mild-to-serious illnesses, diseases, viruses, and "issues." Each diagnosis has since been proven to be inaccurate. I cannot tell you how much money, energy, and time I have spent in doctors' offices since I began suffering, and how many doctors I have had to have a follow-up visit with when treatment wasn't working.

Last Tuesday, I went to see a super duper specialist, the one who was to be the light at the end of this infernal tunnel. Her conclusion? "Yes, something's wrong. I can see that..." When I asked her what it could be the result of, she said plainly that she had no idea. Her suggestion was "psychological trauma." In other words, that this is all in my head.

I am at the end of my rope. I don't know who to turn to or what to do now, and I am really, really getting down about it.

Luckily, I have an extremely understanding boyfriend. He says and does all the right things, and I wish I could express in words just exactly what it means to have him standing by my side through all of this. I cannot talk about these problems with most people because of the nature of the condition. It's a horrible cycle of pain and shame and fear and frustration, constantly on repeat and with little relief.

I have been referred to the Mega Specialist in France. I can't get any higher up on the scale for these kinds of issues. I'm a little nervous to see her, because if she can't help me, no one can. At least not in this country, where health care is still reasonable and I am still covered. Meanwhile, I have been researching quite a bit on my symptoms and situation, and have found a tremendous relief in reading other women's stories like mine. Some had to go ten, twelve years before getting a diagnosis. I cannot imagine it, but at least I know I am not a complete freak.

It is truly frustrating when the one person who you look to for help turns around and suggests it's all in your head. It's crushing. I broke down in her office and wept. She was understanding about it, but I felt ridiculous trying to tell her that I am in no way traumatized while crying uncontrollably. I pray that my next visit goes better, and that I might be able to get some answers.

Yesterday I pissed Eleanor off. I mean, she was livid.

The Boy and I went to Belgium to visit The Little Guy for his eighth birthday. Did you hear that? Eight. When I met The Boy, TheLittleGuy was not yet three. Aka STILL A BABY.

Freakiness of how-quickly-time-flies aside, we had a pleasant Belgian day. There were lots of legos involved in much of the afternoon, and at some point the boys decided to put on their rollerblades and start a competition. Later, The Boy wrestled with TheLittleGuy and his brother while TheLittleGuy's mom - hereby known as FreakishlyTinyforRecentlyHavingaBaby - and I looked at baby pictures.

Baby pictures. Let me just say this: FreakishlyTiny has three beautiful, beautiful children. TheLittleGuy is going to hurt women soon with his gorgeous eyes and pensive manner.* His (half) brother, SuperBlondBoy (6), has gorgeous, gorgeous eyes that laugh genuinely. He is an incredible sweetheart, sort of like a walking, talking cherub.

And then there's the baby. Oh my God, the baby, Mini SuberBlondBoy.

This baby is 9 months old, and is at the phase where he can crawl and can grab things and try to stand, but can't quite hack it. He is also a natural smiler and he'll just look around the room and smile for hours. I think he cried twice in the entire afternoon. I wanted to take Mini SuperBlondBoy home with me, but I had to content myself with just watching him for hours on end with a stupid, stupid grin on my face.

Of course, FreakishlyTiny caught me and said, "Don't you want one?"

"Yeah, most definetly," I responded.

"Yeah. I want another one, when I see him." Modest? Not really. But I agree with her. Mini SuperBlondBoy is the breezy type of baby, who makes having kids look as simple as it does on sit-coms.

But then you know what was really bad? It managed to get worse. My ovaries actually started sorta pulsating and twisting in agony when they saw The Boy holding Mini SuperBlondBoy. All women agree on this one point: a man is at the pinnacle of sexiness when holding a baby juuuuuuust right. Jesus.

Eleanor just winced again in memory.

Of course, I talked with FreakishlyTiny about the hells of motherhood, and she successfully made it sound pretty hellish. But then she turned it all around in that annoying way that young mothers can by saying, "But it's all worth it. One smile, one cuddle, one second with him, and it's worth it." As an added stab to Eleanor, she said this as she held him in her arms, and he was starting to get sleepy. Just then, he dipped his head into the crook of her neck and fell asleep as she gave me the knowing look: "Aww... he's tuckered."

Eleanor was yelling and breaking dishes by this point, but I put her back in her trunk quickly so as not to wake the baby. Eleanor, of all people, should understand that kind of reasoning. Still, I don't know what I'm going to do to shut that bitch up for the next few weeks. I feel like I have a perpetual cute baby film turning in my head. Somebody needs to switch it back to "Working Girl" or some shit.

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

*TheLittleGuy has recently confessed to his mom that he has a crush on a girl in his class. She wouldn't tell us (just because she promised she'd keep her identity secret, and she didn't want to break the promise) but tried to lure the information out of him.

"LittleGuy, do you have any girl friends in your class?"
"No." he answered, pretty pissed.
"Really?" she asked, holding the picture of his class in her hand,"Which of these girls is your friend??"
"Nobody." he said, strongly and with a scowl.
She stifled a giggle and said, "But, I thought..."
"NOBODY!!!" he yelled back at her, "There's NOBODY! STOP ASKING!"
The adults all gave one another a knowing smile, and, in French, we said to one another, "Yeah, he's got it baaaad."

Like the burritos we ate just a few hours ago.

So I started teaching again yesterday. It went well, but what isn't going to go so well is the fact that I have four classes from 8-12 on SATURDAYS. Shouldn't that be illegal? Yes, French high school students go to school for a half-day on Wednesday and Saturday, and that means that teachers have to work then, too. But having my weekend be Sunday and Wednesday is not going to work so well for me. Even worse? I just found out that my thesis director has scheduled an informal class (that we are "highly" encouraged to attend) on Wednesday mornings. So, I'll have a one-day weekend for the next few months. Too bad everything is CLOSED in Paris on Sundays, or I might actually be able to have some fun with my lone day off.

Scene: The Boy and I are sitting on the couch at a party with about twenty people. A seat opens up next to me, and Sketchy sits down. We have not yet met Sketchy, so he begins his introduction.

Sketchy: So, where are you from? I mean, originally.(to The Boy)
The Boy: Where are you from?
Sketchy: No, I mean, what are your origins?
The Boy: ...
Me (thinking): Oh my God this man's breath smells like vomit.
Sketchy: I'm really interested in Africa, that's why I'm asking.
The Boy: What are your origins?
Sketchy: No, I mean, I lived in Abidjan for ten years, and I worked all throughout Black Africa, and I defend a lot of Africans in their causes, so I wanted to know where you're from. With everything that's going on in the Ivory Coast right now, I just feel like I need to talk to some Africans, because I don't feel comfortable with white people.
The Boy: ...
Me (thinking): Oh my God could this guy please stop talking? Every time he opens his mouth I smell vomit.
Sketchy: I just can't believe the way white people treat Africans. They're trying to kill them, and Africa is going to die off. Africa is finished.
The Boy: No, Africa is not finished. Give me an example of how it's finished.
Sketchy: AIDS, for example.
Me (thinking): Oh shit. Not the AIDS conversation...
Sketchy: Rwanda has an 80% infection rate. In one generation, the entire population of Rwanda will be gone.
The Boy: 80%? Where are you getting your numbers?
Sketchy: They're not my numbers, man. They're from people who research this stuff for a living. But I know, I lived in Africa for ten years. These are real doctors going down and taking tests, seeing how many people are infected. These are researchers who study this for a living. You don't believe me? Come down to the CNRS (research center) and I'll show you the documents myself! Rwanda is finished! You can see the proof tomorrow!
Me: Tomorrow is Sunday.
The Boy: You have gone to Rwanda and witnessed it firsthand? How can you be sure that what some people are saying is true? 80%? That's insane.
Sketchy: FUCK YOU!!! I'll take you down to the CNRS tomorrow and PROVE it to you!!!
Me (thinking): This guy is fucking crazy. (saying, a little louder) Tomorrow is Sunday.
Sketchy: Where are you from, fucker?
The Boy: Nowhere. Where are you from?
Sketchy: I'm from France. Where the hell are you from, you little shit? Why won't you tell me? Are you French?
The Boy: No, I'm not French.
Sketchy: So you're from Africa. Why won't you tell me where the hell you're from, you prick?
The Boy: Because I don't see why it matters.
Sketchy: Because I'm interested in Africa, and you're obviously African. C'mon, man! Tell me where the hell you're from.
The Boy: No, because I don't think I want to have a conversation about Africa with you.
Sketchy: Why? Why won't you believe what I tell you? You asshole!!!
The Boy: ...
Sketchy: Fuck this! Fuck it if you don't want to hear about the future of the continent! Let your people die, I don't care!

And he stormed off.

The Boy and I just looked at each other and started laughing our asses off.

An hour or two later, Sketchy had knocked over a table, offended one of the girls pretty severely, and unsuccessfully attempted to begin three conversations with me.

And he still smelled like vomit.

I just signed up for Rhapsody. The idea is so practical for me. I have no radio access, and radio stations in France suck anyway. However, my lack of knowledge about the music scene for the last five years would put my sixteen-year-old self to shame. Something needed to be done.

Enter Rhapsody.

Having access to new music, commercial-free stations, and a surf-able, sample-able place to test the waters is a great thing for my embarrassing dilemna.

And frankly, I am obsessed. It's as if I just walked into the gingerbread house on a day with intense sugar cravings. I just can't stop skipping around, saving things to my library, reorganizing my playlist, and letting my ears have their way with things.

And DUDE. How could I have not known that Mos Def released a new album? Seriously, guys, I'm wondering where I've been since 2000. I know, I know, in Europe. But that's no excuse.

Anyway. I am very happy with Rhapsody thus far. I would like to see a bigger "international" section (especially Middle Eastern and African stuff) but I have faith that it will come. Until then, I have several thousand new artists to listen to.

*NOTE

I have been checking out the "commercial-free radio" and was surprised to find out that my favorite kind of music falls under the following category:

Something about the title of it upsets me, but I like the description. Tribe, Pharcyde, etc. Nice to have a playlist prepped for me.

Women of the world, I have a message for you: if you have a baby, put it away. That's right. Just leave it in the old wooden trunk in your attic or chain it to the bathtub. Anything to keep the babies off the streets. I have seen too many cute ones in the last few weeks, and it's hurting my womb - so much so that I have had four baby dreams this week alone.

My sister and I talked about this the other night and decided we needed to name the womb. Kari suggested Eleanor, and I guess both our wombs are named Eleanor now because sisters can do that and it is only mildly creepy.

My Eleanor needs stay in her usual place - back in her closet with a deadbolt. That's where she sleeps, eats, and screams. The sounds can't be heard beyond the extra-thick iron door because I had the closet sound-proofed. I wouldn't want Eleanor's tantrums to start causing a stir at inappropriate times. We certainly can't have her upsetting the guests at dinner or creating a sharp turn in the middle of my quasi-life plan.

Because, honestly folks, Eleanor is nothing but a bother right now. I'm 25, not-fully-independant, a little lost in life, and living in a tiny-ass apartment on the sixth floor of a building with no elevator. Were Eleanor to have her way, I would be even more up shit creek financially... and I'd have a lot more weight to lug up all those stairs every day.

So ladies, please. Put the little baby booties in a shoebox under your bed. Hide the itty bitty scarves and little hats. Stop dressing the boys in little carpenter boots and the girls in petticoats. And please, if your two-year-old likes to jump in puddles, please stop parading around in front of the cafe terrace and laughing as she does it. Eleanor can't take those kinds of displays of cuteness, and Lord knows I need to keep Eleanor locked up just a little while longer.

I am sad because my parents arrive tomorrow, and I want to be in tip top form for them, but I woke up this morning with something akin to bronchitis.

My voice is several registers lower than it should be and there is a patch of my esophagus that feels as if it were being scraped with a spatula like burnt shit in a pan.

Cough, cough. Oooowww. The rhythm of my life at the moment. Cough, cough. Ooowww.

I went to my doctor today (already had made an appointment for a check-up two weeks ago, bizarrely) and she listened to my lungs. Then she said, "When the fever starts, you can begin taking these antibiotics."

So I'm spending my Friday night waiting for the FEEEEVVVAhhhh.

I need a book to read. I would go to my bookworm list, but I'm not in the mood for anything serious. Thus far, everything I've read off that list has been pretty good, but I'm looking for something a little more "light entertainment" and a little less "serious litterature." It's my last week before both school and work start up again. So let my brain fully turn to mush just this once, and I'll whip it back into shape in no time.

I'm going to London this weekend and will pick something up there. What do you suggest?

No Nora Roberts, Tom Clancy, or other crap fiction allowed. Just something good, if maybe a little light.

Good news! I talked to a professor at school and he agreed to be my research director. This is a freakin' miracle. The first guy I talk to, and he says, "Yeah! Great idea!" I couldn't believe it. Nothing is that easy in France. He even gave me some references and some ideas of his own. Plus, we sat for awhile after our "business" was done with and gabbed about the structure of the American higher education system. He's a nice professor, and I'm so glad he agreed to my pitch for an idea.

So that's great news. It means I can enroll, pay my school fees, get insurance, sign up for Arabic, and feel efficient, all within the next two weeks. The relief is incredible.

I also learned that, although nobody thought to tell us, linguistics students don't start their classes until Nov 1. Hello, extra month of vacation. I'll also refer to it as intensive, quality job-searching time.

The next step to today's happiness was running into a friend from last year whom I haven't seen since January. I've always liked him, and as a matter of fact, he was the first person I ever spoke to at the Sorbonne. Sometime last winter, I changed cell phones and lost everyone's phone number, his included. So we re-exchanged and hopefully we'll chill again sometime.

Two minutes after saying goodbye to him, I received a call from ANOTHER friend I haven't seen in forever. I explained the phone situation, and she said, "Oh God! I'm glad I called then!" We're hanging out tomorrow.

Right afterwards, I went to grab a coffee with another American suffering through France's bureaucratic mess, and shortly afterwards I went to meet Kathypath at the movies. She ended up being late, I waited around in the rain, and when she called me from a 15-minute subway ride away, the movie had already started. We scratched the movie idea, and now I'm back at home. That was a pretty shitty part of the day, because I had had to run home to pick up my movie pass and run back - all in the rain - in order to be at the theater on time, but it ended up all being in vain anyway.

Last night, The Boy finally remembered my birthday. He's stupid like that, but is attempting to redeem himself by taking me out to dinner tonight. Although it's rainy and gross and I've been hobbling around like a madwoman all day, it will be nice to spend a few hours with my man.

Good, bad, good. I'll take it.

Another birthday has come and gone. I guess you can't help feeling a little let down that there are no longer any pinatas and scavenger hunts.

On my birthday, I woke up after three hours of sleep and left to go to class. It took all I had to force myself out of bed, and when I got to school, they had changed the classroom. I hiked up several flights of stairs (the Sorbonne has sooo many!) in search of the right room. When I finally got there, I waited around for half an hour with several other students, and the teacher never showed up.

So I tredged back home in the rain and got in bed around noon (after reading the news and eating a little something), feeling a little sorry for myself.

I woke up at three and just did nothing special... Mom and Dad called to wish me a happy birthday, I got a few birthday emails, and so on. The Boy forgot, as usual. The ironic thing is that we had a conversation on Wednesday in which I reminded him my birthday was on Friday. I even added that I just wanted to go out to dinner and then watch the presidential debates as my big birthday activity.

I ended up making a quiche and then watching the debates. He watched them with me, but STILL didn't remember. I think in a day or two, he'll say, "Happy Birthday, baby!" He does that every year, usually two days late. I'm used to it.

Anyway. I'm just a little down. A good friend has had her heart broken, another good friend is having big problems at home, and a third good friend is miserable where she is and thinks she's going to throw in the towel and go back to her home town. I got my job yanked out from under me, my school problems are just getting worse, and I still haven't written the article I'm supposed to be working on. It's not the end of the world, but everything feels sorta drab and gray. Quite a letdown after such a glorious summer.

I think 25 is going to be hard, hard year. Leaving people and a place I love to go to the unknown. Scary. Hopefully it will start picking up soon.

Sometimes it's so hard to focus on the positive. I know from years of comparison that I can be annoyingly positive. Cynical sometimes, but positive most of the time. And I don't know what's happening right now, but I feel that negativity is everywhere I go. I'm not depressed - thank God - I'm more just irritated and fed up with other people's bullshit. It's getting in my way.

Some examples:

I got a letter from the woman who gave my job away. The Crazy-Ass Bitch - hereby known as the CAB - actually asked ME to apologize. Oddly, on the same day I sent a letter to her superior telling him of the situation, she miraculously "found" all of my paperwork that she had accused me of never sending (and without the paperwork, she couldn't give me the job... or so she argued in the email). I'm soooo unbelievably bitter. So today the CAB sent me a note, saying she didn't "appreciate [my] tone" and that, were I to write her a handwritten letter apologizing for how I addressed her, she might be able to find me another position "now that she has my paperwork." (Mind you, my paperwork has been there for three whole weeks.)

First of all, Crazy-Ass Bitch, you're not my momma. Second of all, I have nothing to apologize for. I called you on your bullshit, and that's the end of the story.

I wrote back saying that I refuse to apologize for something that is not my fault, and that I am deeply offended she would even suggest it.

Seriously. Where does that CAB get off?

I think she thinks I am a short fuse. And honestly, I know most of you don't know me, but I'm seriously not. I just think she wrongly accused me of something, gave away my job because of it, and then tried to shove it all off as being my fault. To me, that's just not ok. And now that CAB thinks that it's MY turn to effing apologize? Hells no.

In other negative zones, because I'm in the mood for whining, I was standing near a doorway yesterday waiting for a friend. This friend has been going through lots of troubling times, and I was sort of lost in thought about her, and about how seriously men can dick people over without remorse, and I was just sorta standing there dwelling on the fact that I hope things start to look up for her. Right then, a group of guys, maybe around 30 years old, walked by.

The shortest, ugliest one of the bunch turned to me and said, "How much?"

"What?" I said, although I had heard him perfectly fine.

"I said 'How much?'"

"That's not funny." I said, my eyes ice-cold. I'm never mean like this, but I was feeling negative, and I knew what he was insinuating. What's the other response? Laugh?

"What?" he asked.

"I said that's not fucking funny." I responded, even more coldly.

"Oh, Madame, I was just joking." he pathetically pleaded.

"I don't find being called a whore very funny." I answered back.

"Don't pay any attention to him, Madame," said whoever must have been the wisest of the group, while the other guy said to his friends that I was just a bitch who needed to get a sense of humor.

Look. Here's why it pisses me off: If a man stands in the doorway waiting for a friend, he's standing in the doorway waiting for a friend. If a woman stands in a doorway, well, she must be a hooker. I just don't think he realizes that being a woman is just that much (holding index near thumb) more difficult, on a daily basis, than it is being a man. Why can't I stand in a doorway at 9 pm in peace? All I'm trying to say is, don't force your sexist macho-ism on me. I'm not going to be pleased. And then, really, don't plead with me to have a sense of humor about it. I'm 25-years-old. It's never been funny to me, and I doubt it ever will. Pinch my ass in public, trap me in metro cars, or call me a whore. I've experienced it all - and then some - and the guys in question always wonder why I can't just lighten up and realize it's just them "having some fun." I wonder how they would feel if the tables turned. Delighted maybe, at first, just because they're so freaking immature. But I'm sure they would eventually learn to see it as degrading as it actually is.

There are other fucked up things going on, too. People I need to respond to me about Big Important Things are taking Their Sweet Time. Friends are suffering. I'm not sleeping enough and I haven't been able to spare two or three free hours in order to do my laundry that is getting stinky in the corner. I cannot wait for this whirlwind of negativity to pass... I need to get back to my own groove.

I am also bitter that I live so many time zones away that I have to watch these debates at 3 am. Friday is my birthday, and I am so lame that I am going to go out to dinner and then stay up for the debate. I feel as if someone who puts that much effort into all of it should be able to request they air at 6pm EST, not 9. But alas, I don't hold that much political power. And according to a NY Times article, I might not hold any: my absentee ballot still hasn't shown up, and it seems that 28 states aren't going to get their overseas voting ballots in time for the election. As if by magic....

In unrelated news, I went back to Spanish class today. I can't believe we held a whole two-hour class entirely in Spanish and I followed along. Speaking was not so hot, but I actually think this time it will start coming back to me. I can already tell that this teacher is going to be a good one - she managed to put me at ease within the first 15 minutes of class, which must be some sort of record. By next semester, I should be in the uber-advanced class. And at that point, I will be one excited cat.

So there's something positive. Finally.

Oh, and my sister is writing about positive things. Go visit her. It's uplifting.

Jesus, the drinking. I'm awake now, and luckily I don't feel hungover. I just feel the throbbing pain in my right foot from when I fell and missed my chair.

Ok, so I am absolutely the most social person on the planet when I drink. I had forgotten this because I don't really drink all that much anymore. My sister says that most people - except some people with drinking problems or bad reactions to alcohol - just become more exagerrated versions of themselves when they drink. That means that I am the most outgoing, chatty, friendly, laughing person ever. I made seven new friends last night. Seven! I don't even think I have seven friends not from the bar.

ANYway, I'm really upset about my throbbing foot because I don't think I can do any yoga in this condition. If the swelling doesn't go down by tomorrow, I think I'm going to have to skip class. Kathypath fell down the stairs yesterday (not drinking-related) and fell on her elbow, so I guess we're in the same boat.

So I was thinking we were going to have a big party next week but now I'm thinking that that's way too expensive. I invited my seven new friends to the party (I also learned Polish) but without info on where or when. Lordy. I think it would be fun to do the party but I just don't think I'm built for these kinds of events anymore. Still, maybe I'll have to find an excuse to hang out with the two Pierres again. They were nice boys.

I am drunk as a skunk. I hate drinking to this extent, and I did not realize how drunk I was until I walked in the door to my house. I am afraid to get into my own bed because I do not want to watch he world spin around me. Honestly, watching the screen is not much better.

I tried to finish my New Yorker article on Al Gore but I am having a hard time. I am drinking tons of water while trying to ignore the shivers because it is almost winter here.

Tonight was nice, even despite the excessive drinking. I met two really nice boys. They are studying to be physical therapists, and they offered me some help with my elbow. I am thinking of having a big party with a bunch of people next week. I am tired of everybody being seperated and disjointed. In my ideal world, we would all get togeter in one big fiesta and boogie down. Hopefully next week that will happen. I will invite my new friends Pierre and Pierre Orléans (that is so not his name, I can't even fucking remember it!) next week. Jesus Christ. I can't believe people actually enjoy the feeling of being drunk. I have made so many damn typos and have had to go back to change them seven hundred times. And I don't even think I am all that drunk. Just really drunk for myself, which is maybe minimally drunk compared to most people.

I have had three cups of water and am determined to have a forth before cashing in for the night. I am so goddamn tired but I know I'll regret it tomorrow if I go to sleep in this condition.

What a strange and interesting night. I missed my stool at some point and fell flat on my ass. The strangest part was that I wasn't even very drunk at that point, but thirty minutes prior I had been talking about that one time where the stool just wasn't where I had thought it would be in another bar. It was some sort of Murphy's Law thing: if the stool could be placed in the wrong place, it would be.

Kathypath and I had a long dinner convo this evening. It left me confused, but feeling better. Then I fell on my ass, and hurt my foot. Kathy hurt her elbow falling down the stairs on the bookstore. Overall, we were quite a mess.

But I have five new people to invite to my 'can't the world just get along' party next week.

Oh, and before all the drinking chaos began this evening, I learned to knit the afternoon. You guys... I can actually do the knitting and pearling! It's a big milestone for me. I realized that I had been doing a certain step wrong when I tried to learn before, hence all the problems. Now, eventhing is crystal (or at least sea-blue) clear. Tomorrow we are going to hang out and watch ER together while we knit.

In another coupla years, we'll be talking about our grandkids, but I'm ready. Bring the knitting on!!

I'm feeling a little scared about my future. You know what the best advice I can give someone who is afraid of their future might be?

Don't look to the internet for answers.

I know, it might seem simple. But really, folks, you might be able to find out about admission requirements or how to buy a used car, but you can't find out what your heart really wants. You have to go to an astologer for that.

For reals, though, I'm tired of wondering, wondering, wondering. I feel like I've been wondering for years. Maybe it's more like I've been wandering for years. I just don't know where to put my feet down next, and I fear that if I make the "wrong" decision, I'll get stuck somewhere I hate. So, I turn to the internet because I believe that if I do enough research, I'll know a thing or two more about whatever the hell it is I get myself into. The real truth is that whatever I do, I'm going in head first.

I can't discuss the details because the whole plan could fail miserably and I could bellyflop hard core, and boy would that be embarassing.

In the meantime, I'm going to tell this site's faithful readers that a thought crossed my mind today: odessastreet won't really be an appropriate name once I no longer actually live on Odessa Street. It would just be too sad, pretending I haven't left my precious Parisian niche. I love my little street so much. Just today I ordered pizzas from the guys downstairs and they all said, "Oh, Mademoiselle! I know you! You haven't been in here in so long!" I laughed and another said, "It's ok though, because you walk by every day..." I love those encounters, and I know I'll have them elsewhere, but my street is magnificent. I am absurdly attached.

So the site name is going to have change (along with everything else in my life) just to spare me the heartache. But that will be sometime in the distant (but dangerously close) future. I have a name all picked out and everything, like my little internet baby.

I seem to be losing my hair. I am on the verge of getting worried enough about it to go see someone. Two people have commented on how much hair I had on my shirt, and I have found tons of my hair on my desk/bed/etc. I have never lost hair in my life. I have no idea what is going on.

At first I thought it could be stress-related. But besides the fact that I just took a practice GRE and got a 900 (oops), I don't have much to be stressing over at the moment. I doubt it could be food-related, either. I've been eating really well and staying pretty healthy. My shampoo hasn't changed. Nuthin'.

I don't know.

Meanwhile, could somebody remind me how square roots and exponents work again? I seem to have forgotten in the eight years since I was last enrolled in a math class. Further proof that if I haven't used the damn stuff in my normal life, I didn't need to learn it in the first place and I don't need to re-learn it for the GRE.

I just talked to a good friend whom I haven't spoken with in months. She is almost eight months pregnant, and thus is going to have the baby very soon. I hung up with her, went to yoga, and came back to check my email. A good friend of mine whom I haven't spoken to in few weeks recently got a new job. She says she likes the job but she misses her baby boy while she's away so much it physically hurts. Then I went to Dooce's site, and all she talked about was her baby. Then I went to Yvonne's, and she talked about her baby.

What the hell is going on here?

I think I need to start corresponding with people my age. Preferably people my age who are still living with their parents. None of this I-got-my-master's-and-am-just-chillin-at-my-'rents stuff, either. You have to be going nowhere and have never left your parents. Then I'll feel all right about where I'm going with my life.

I did, however, line up all but one of my recommendations for next year. I've got a sneaky, sneaky plan, but I hope it will work out. By God, if it works out, I am going to flip my shit.

You know what else I really want in life? A Honda Civic Hybrid. Is that too much to ask?

I realized today (well, I calculated today, but realized long ago) that if I move back to the States, I am going to be seriously indebted to my parents for awhile. There is just no way I can function without a computer, and I am not going to have the money to buy myself both a computer and a bed. And something to eat. I might be able to scrounge up enough cash for like, a tatami mat or something. That's bed-like enough for me. But I'll need all that other shit too: new bank account, new phone, deposit on an overpriced place to live.

So the computer thing will have to be done by the parents, somehow, until I can pay them back. I always try and ask for these things as combined birthday/Christmas/President's Day presents, but Mom always goes to the Limited anyway, just to have something to wrap. I really would understand if I had no presents under the tree this year, if it meant that come summer I would have a shiny new laptop.

I'd really like to start saving now. It would be nice if the people I supposedly work for could tell me if I have a job or not.

It's lame but I was really looking forward to getting back to my computer. I got home and it was all effed up. WTF? It's still acting screwy, and that pisses me off.

The Boy told me he cleaned the house because it was a mess before I came home. I'm confused as to what exactly his definition of "cleaning" is. Either he thinks swiping down countertops with a sponge - while leaving coffee rings on all the tables - is cleaning, or I'm the most anal girl on earth. Sometimes I think I should have done the Freudian thing and found somebody just like my father. If anybody knows what clean is, it's my dad. This house is not clean! Are you crazy?

The Boy did, however, tell me that he went to change the vacuum bag and it was crawling with maggots. I'm willing to do all the cleaning for the next few months in order to avoid the maggots. I am so glad he was the one to have discovered them, because although I am great with most insects (spiders, bees, etc), the two creatures in this world that creep me out the most are maggots and rats. Well, cockroaches and maggots are sort of on the same level for me, with rats just a wee bit higher on the freak-me-out scale.

I've got my short- and long-term goals semi-mapped out in my head, which is a relief. I had a bit of an anxiety attack about it all this morning when I woke up in the middle of the night (4 a.m. ish - what is that? morning or night?) because of jet-lag. Hours later, I can't remember what I was freaking out about, but at the time, the fear felt quite real. Luckily, my sister was online and we IMed a bit about my boyfriend (that's really Shawn Crawford's body, and I don't care how much I insist that I don't like big, muscly guys, if Mr Crawford were to shave his 'stache and ask me out to dinner, I would not turn him down) and then all was right with the world.

I'm reading Anna Karenina right now, because people say it's one of those books that everyone should read. I mentioned to Kathypath that Tolstoy is a little heavy on the details, and she said, "That's Russian authors for you. You can skim, sometimes." I took that as a green light and now the book is going much faster. I'm almost three hundred pages in and Levin is still brewing over Kitty, and unfortunately the Oprah's Book Club already informed me that they're getting married at some point (no, I didn't join the club! Jesus! It was just a bookmark that came with the book, and that's how I found out that September 2, Oprah's Book Club will be discussing the novel. I should be done by then, but I won't be discussing jack).

Meanwhile, I am making myself write two pages per day of what will be my best-selling piece of shit book. If it ever does get published, I'll have to do it under a fake name so that nobody makes the link between me and that horribly raunchy story. But Lordy, Lordy, is it fun to write.

Yoga starts next week. I bought some tofu. I have my linguistics classes schedule. The environmentally-safe laundry detergent was bought and will be used tomorrow and my clothes will smell lemon-fresh. I am enrolling in Spanish this week and Arabic next week. I have some Indian recipes I am anxious to try out. I'm busy prepping letters to send to some publishers. I'm signing up for the GRE, and eventually will start preparing for it. And I still have to go see Farenheit 9/11.

It feels good to be back. I miss my family, but I like getting on with my projects, too. First up, I have to clean this damn house.

Apparently I upset some people with the last entry. That's ok. I was crying and a bit hysterical, so it didn't come across as it should have, but I'm leaving it up for honesty's sake.

I didn't want to make it sound like any of the things I was feeling were because my family is cold or inconsiderate. I have a great family, and I am happy to be spending time with them. I am also happy that my parents and siblings are happily married. I really, really did not want it to sound like that wasn't the case. I also don't want to sound like they're not doing something they should be doing, or doing something they shouldn't. Their actions are perfectly fine. The situation has just got me thinking and I freaked out.

But I'm doing much better now. My sister came in while I was in the middle of a badly timed breakdown. We cried a bit, which helped clear the air. She was right in that I hadn't voiced any of the things that were upsetting me, and I was pretty much coming across as a bitch instead. I can see that. I didn't mean to do that. My bad.

I would also like to say, for the record, that Kari is a great big sister. I was thinking about that this morning (hours before the breakdown, I swear) and she only further confirmed it today.

Anyway, there are no simple answers to any of the things I was crying about. I don't know. A few things add up and I get a little overwhelmed. It's always like that. I think the problem this week is that I had nowhere to turn to: nowhere to go, nobody to call, no movie to lose myself in. Now I know a bit about my dealing techniques, and I know that walking around a cruise boat with my family did not make the list of healthy ways to deal with life crises.

But that's ok. You live, you learn. Tomorrow we head to Vancouver and I'll be back on solid ground. I feel bad, like I've been a horribly moody, grumpy bitch this whole time. Hopefully that can get turned around.

PS One totally creepy thing about this boat is that it was 'christened' by the Olsen twins. Their photos are up everywhere and that gives me the willies. But, anywhere that has free homemade chocolate chip cookies available at all times is ok with me. Olsen twins and all.

Something broke in me last night. I was doing fine until yesterday, but everything just started adding up: The constant noise. The lack of alone time. The 24-7 family fun.

But I broke at the photos. Already, I hate getting my picture taken in the first place. But when the photo guy went around the table, taking pictures of each of the couples, I just sat dumbly in my corner while everybody else posed with their respective spouse. Then the family decided that more pictures were needed, so we posed for a group shot near the staircase. Naturally, it was decided that that the men should stand behind their spouses. So again, I sat dumbly on the outside. Eventually, people realized this would probably look off, and we rearranged ourselves accordingly. I don't know if the rearranging made me feel better or worse, but now we have photographic evidence of how shitty I felt at that moment.

This trip is not all about me and how crappy I feel about things in general. I really am having a good time. But when the feeling of loneliness strikes, it hits me really, really hard, almost as if I got the wind knocked out of me. Last night was one of those moments.

I know it seems stupid that I care so much about this whole couple business. Really, were it a one-time deal I could probably be fine with it. But each time I come home, it gets worse. I hate that we play cards and I upset the balance. I hate that people have to make an effort to include me. I hate that I can feel that either people make that effort because they feel sorry for me or they just don't think to make the effort at all. Mostly, though, I hate that I actually let this shitty feeling get to me.

I'm realizing that much as I love my man, most likely he will never be able to come on family vacations with us, will never be home for Christmas, will never get in on family fun. I feel like I'm being pulled in two directions, and I'm not entirely happy either way. In one direction, I sacrifice my family. In the other, I sacrifice my relationship. Added into the equation are questions of career and my future and what I really want out of life, and in the end I am just left feeling confused and surprisingly frightened.

I got really grumpy and angry with my family last night, but none of this is their fault. They just happen to be the people around. Instead of being a snappy bitch (which I might be anyway), I usually try to just retreat in these situations. The trouble is, I can't seem to retreat. Every time I go back to the room, someone knocks on the door. Today, I decided I would go to lunch a little while after everyone else so that I could spend some time alone while everybody was eating, and mom made some comment about how she's 'worried I'm not eating enough.' Believe me, that is the last thing she should be worried about. I snapped at her, which I shouldn't have, but I'm tired of not being able to be upset when I want to, to go away when I want to, and to be alone when I want to. I really, really don't think people realize how hard this has been on me. Everything feels like it is coming into question at once: where do I want to live? Do I really want to upset my life as I know it right now in order to maybe simplify it in the future? Where exactly DOES The Boy fit in my life? And am I ready to make the kinds of sacrifices it takes to stay with him? Or am I ready to make even scarier sacrifices and not be with him at all? I can't imagine the repercussions to any of the answers of these questions, and they keep running through my brain all day, every day. I just feel alone, and lost, and really freaking anxious to get off this boat and try to sort some of this shit out.

Something funny is happening: this time in the US, I want to stay here.

The last few years, I have really been struggling with where I want to be and why. I have been under the Parisian spell for five yeas, and now I consider that city my home. But being back in the US, talking to friends and family, feeling the ease of life here... I don't know. I wonder why I make my life such an uphill battle all the time, and I'm starting to think it's time to come home.

Mostly, this newfound appreciation for America is job-related. I could get a job - a real one - here with mild difficulty, as opposed to the extreme problems finding a real job poses in France. It's exciting to me to think about working on that whole career thing (that's about how vague it sounds in my head) and maybe going somewhere with myself. The idea of a steady income, maybe total financial independence... I could really get into that.

But there's more to it than that. I also like that things actually seem to FUNCTION here. America feels like a well-oiled machine. If I approach a person in the bookstore about a book I am looking for, he or she will be able to tell me where to find it. LORD, IT'S A MIRACLE! They have huge, natural-foods emporiums in this country, most homes appear to have sufficient storage space, and good God almighty, there's also a Target on every corner. Life in America isn't all about shopping, but the ease of the task is mind-boggling. And really pleasant. Because it works.

Wanna know why? It's that whole the-customer-is-always-right thing. It's a strange concept that also happens to be the most brilliant idea to date. I'm in YOUR store, yet it is ME, not you, who reigns. BEHOLD, the power of the shopper's credit card!

Seriously, though, I've had a love-hate relationship with this country ever since I left it. Now things are tipping in the general 'love' direction. My family and friends, for the most part, are all here. I know how this country works, and I vote in the presidential elections. I could potential be an active part of some American community. This is my home.

I'm worried about this realization, but I take a strange comfort in it. I'm ok with leaving France eventually - I've always seen it as more or less inevitable. But where would I go? What would I do? And what about The Boy?

I talked to my best friend last night. She's a bit of a metaphysical freak (in a good way) and she said, "Just live in the question for awhile. Not knowing is usually a lot more fun than knowing exactly where you want to go and what you want to do when you get there." She's right, but it's so easy to let the unknown lead to anxiety. So, I'm trying let the fear go and just allow all these questions to dangle in front of me for awhile as I entertain a few possibilities.

What a strange year this might turn out to be.

My house if a fucking mess and I have to pack. I'm leaving Paris tomorrow and I have yet to catch my breath since my return from Asia. I'm tired and sick and not looking forward to my flight tomorrow. I am, however, looking forward to seeing my parents and my dog again. Mom says the Rockster just got a haircut, and he's always so handsome when he comes back from the beauty parlor.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of a very long journey. In three weeks, I will: take a plane to Detroit, spend a few days in Ann Arbor (which will be spent a) going to Borders b) watching Jeopardy c) jogging and d) driving), take a plane to Minneapolis, spend a few days in Duluth, take a plane back to Detroit, spend a few more days in Ann Arbor, take a plane to Seattle, drive to Vancouver, take a boat to Alaska, fly to Seattle (?), somehow get to Portland, fly to New York (via Detroit) and then fly to Paris (via Amsterdam).

I'm seizing the insanity of this trip as a chance to mentally prepare myself for this year. I asked Omar the other day if she thinks I like to spread myself too thin. Her response was silence, which obviously means "yes," and I asked, somewhat exasperated "So you think it's too much to learn two languages, to write a master's thesis in a third, to do intensive yoga, to do some freelance writing, to teach English, and to insist on biking everywhere I go while still finding two hours or so a day to down the basic groundwork for my top-selling novel?" In my Fantasy Land, I could totally swing all of this, while still managing to go out to dinner every once in awhile and to see my man. But I think we all know that Fantasy Land is called Fantasy Land because it's never fully attainable. I've started thinking that maybe I should try to get more focus, ie pry-or-it-ize.

It's a tough balance. I don't *think* I want to repeat the insanity of last year (two jobs, full-time school, intensive Arabic), but looking back, I realized that's how I thrive. Last year was the second-happiest of my adult life (first being my first year in France, where everything was hunky dorey at all times and, on top of it, I got to fall in love with both a place and a person) even though it was exhausting and way over-the-top sometimes. Maybe I actually like overexertion. Maybe I do better in those situations. Maybe I really am as masochistic as I fear at times.

I don't know. I can't think of any element I want to eliminate. I think I'll just go ahead and get in over my head.

Luckily, no decisions have to be made today. I've got a lot of time in planes to think about it and make lists that I will never refer to again. Why is list-making such a rewarding thing to do? I probably come back to only 1/3 of the lists I ever make. It must be something type-a about me.

Blech, I'm in a terrible mood. I never get in bad moods... now I understand how shitty it must be to be a naturally moody person. I can recognize that my bad mood is totally irrational and not tied to anything in particular, but I'm still feeling crappy. I have to go clean the house and pack and cook some quiche and find my passport. Really, I just want to sit in front of my computer and read the news all day.

Ah, well. Body movin'. That's the only way I'm going to get out of this funk. I'll kill two birds with one stone and clean while listening to NPR.

PS You'll notice that the site looks different. I went the simple route and just made everything as streamlined as possible. This site has lost all its bells and whistles, but it works now, which is something. I don't know. I just had to make it not look like total shit for the entire time I'm in the States. Something had to be done.

My first days back were tough, mainly because I couldn't eat. Something wicked had anchored itself in my stomach, and it meant that every time I ate, I felt nauseous for half an hour and then spent the next three hours running to the toilet.

BUT, the good news is that I went to the pharmacy and the nice man gave me some pills to "clean out the system," as he put it. My insides are all sparkly now, and I managed to eat some rice pudding today, which means things are pretty much back on track. Yesterday, I even managed to stomach a screening of "Super Size Me," a flick that I found pretty entertaining and not an entire waste of money.

Now that I'm better, I'm all about projects. I have two days before I leave for the US again, and apparently I need to wash my floors, reorganize all of my paperwork, pay all of my bills, and end world hunger before I leave.

I've applied to a few jobs in the last few days, in case the assistantship thing falls through this year. I'm also thinking I'm going to give freelancing a try this year... the worst that can happen is I can get rejected multiple times. I have a few ideas for articles, and I'm thinking I'll write them when I get back to Paris in September. Then I'll try to sell them. I don't exactly know how to go about query letters and all that mumbo-jumbo, but that's what online guides are for. Oddly, I feel like something might pull through. I really never feel that way when it comes to jobs, so this is a strange thing indeed.

Meanwhile, I really need to make this web site look better, and I need to fix the assistants site. I don't know what's wrong with it, and it's really hot in Paris right now. It's breaking my usual concentration.

Come to think of it, so is the seven-year-old who is living with us semi-indefinetly. A good kid, but I'm spending all day tomorrow at the waterpark with him, so I don't see how that world hunger thing is going to get done before sundown. There's always Wednesday, though.

Maybe it's the age. Maybe it's the place. Maybe it's just the people I know. Whatever it is, I feel as if I'm always saying goodbye. And pretty much, I am.

Last week I wished Pennsylvania Boy bon voyage, after four years of friendship. In a rare moment of closeness, we looked at each other all goofy-like when I said, "Damn. Do you realize I've known you since you were 18?" He was straight out of a catholic high school for boys, young and a little naive, but determined and quick to learn. And now here is, twenty-two, world-travelled, and one of the most respectable people I've had the pleasure of knowing in France. I know we'll stay friends. I know we'll talk. But I'll miss him.

Today I said goodbye to BrooklynBabe. She's been working past her assistant job while waiting on word for another. Deadlines kept getting pushed back and the starting date looked like it wouldn't be for another few months. I secretly kept my fingers crossed that she'd still be here in October, even though I knew there was a risk she would leave in July. Last week, the July date was looking more promising, and tonight she told me that she'd be leaving in a few weeks. I'll still be in Asia, and she'll be gone. She thought of me and lent me a book and slipped me a job possibility. Hopefully I'll be able to give her back a little something when I see her - for a mere afternoon - in New York this August.

It gets old really fast, constantly saying goodbye. My dad tells me it happens everywhere in life, but I look at my sister, for example, and to a lesser extent my brother, and they are still surrounded by college friends. Yes, it's my "fault" for living abroad, but my "college friends" are from here. But now they're always somewhere else.

I just miss everyone, and hate saying goodbye. I've had to do it so many times in the last few years that you would think I would get used to it. But I never do. It sucks, every single time.

The doctor told me to start taking the Larium ahead of time. This way, if I experience any negative side effects, I could come in and change my prescription. So last night I started taking it.

Common side effects are: nausea, dizziness, headaches, depression, fatigue, hallucinations, and nightmares.

Thus far, I haven't puked or fainted, and it's been almost 12 hours. I figure I will wait and see for the next 24, and call my doctor tomorrow if anything seems suspicious. I bought the Larium because it's only taken once a week and is far cheaper than the daily pill I took in Senegal. But in Senegal, I was only there for one week and was able to pay for fifteen pills (you have to take them for a few days afterwards, too). Since I'll be in southeast Asia for almost 40 days, the price would have been outrageous. So Larium it was.

I feel ok but holy moly! The dreams I had last night were so insane. I remember Andy saying something about his dreams getting all whacked up, and now I believe him. They weren't really nightmares, per se, but they were strange and disconnected, very bizarre dreams.

For example, in my last dream before waking up this morning, I was in a bar with a bunch of people from high school. We were on the third floor of a three-story bar. I needed to use the restroom, so I went downstairs to the second floor where the toilets were. Oddly, when I got there, there was no music and there was a hazy stillness in the air. Nobody moved. In fact, everyone on the second floor had cut off their fingers at the knuckle, and they were silently writhing around on the floor in pain, bloody finger stubs strewn about haphazardly. Shocked, I tried to ask them what had happened, and they just looked at me, dazed. One girl held up her hand, chopped at the thumb, index, and ring finger. Horrified, I ran downstairs to the main floor and told them that we needed first aid people immediately. Britney Spears was there (I don't know why celebrities always find their way into dreams) and said something to the effect of, "I just don't get this cult of finger-cutters." I was surprised to see Britney there, but in the dream I knew that she had been the one to incite them into massacring their own hands. The varsity volleyball coach was the first aid lady, and, upon inspection, she sadly proclaimed that nobody would ever be able to sew back on their fingers.

I had other, just as wacky dreams. Also, at one point, I felt my legs disconnecting from my body. They felt lightweight and super energized, and I seriously considered going for a run (I think this happened in the middle of the night). Later, I put my arms over my head, and felt them lifting, lifting... as if they were resting on something very bouyant in the air. I don't know if that qualifies as hallucinations.

This is going to be a strange, strange month.

Dad called me to announce that Nalbandian was losing. But I informed him that he had already lost. Damn those time differences.

Anyhow, apparently I bring no luck to tennis men. Safin and Kuerten went down in a qualifying match and a quaterfinal respectively. Then I threw my support to Nalbandian because he was responsible for their fall, and he went down in the semis. Henman, my back-burner boyfriend, also just suffered a tragic loss to Coria.

Even my half-hearted love for Moya was wiped clean by Coria.

I suppose I could just support Coria because he'll probably win anyway, but he's too short. Listening to the Roland-Garrros radio stream (shut up, my tv can't be set up because the antennas broken. And yeah, shut up, I still use rabbit ears. And yeah, so whatever, tennis is really not the kind of sport you can listen to on the radio), the announcers said, "I mean, he's not a midget or anything, but he's pretty short." They were actually pretty funny sportscasters, which made the whole fact that I have to resort to listening to the matches instead of watching them at least semi-bearable.

Anyway, I don't know what to do anymore. Who do I choose? Gaudio with his long hair and wanna-be Spanish architect's name? Or Coria, the almost midget?*

It's a lose-lose situation here.

Meanwhile, I'm rather sick and have the perfect excuse to not study and instead watch the games. But I can't. I haven't watched television in my house in over two years, and the one time I want to, I discover that my television doesn't work. Someone has it in for me this year when it comes to tennis.

*Actually, they're both 5'9. Still shorter than me, but by no means short by Argentine standards.

Warning! Etam (French) has slimming mirrors in its dressing rooms.

As does Express (American).

Slimming mirrors should be made illegal universally. I'm always so amazed at how hot I look in certain articles of clothing when I try them on in the store. And then I find myself wondering why the hell I bought something that makes me look like a fat cow once I come home. Then, of course, I am angry I spent money on something I don't even like.

Maybe I should only wear the clothes in the dressing room.

Which I guess is another way of saying I shouldn't buy them.

Life is just constantly turning over itself. I believe women are more in touch with the constant ebb and flow of it all than men.

I found out yesterday that the Bostonians gave birth (well, one of them did, while the other anxiously paced around, I imagine) to a beautiful baby boy. A few hours later, I learned that Blondie is pregnant. I'm so happy for my lovely friends... they will both make excellent mothers.

At some point it will be my turn, but today is certainly not the day. I am just so glad to be able to smile at the thought of those close to me bringing kids into the world. It makes me think the future might not be as dismal as it seems whenever I read the newspaper.

Then again, I read today that Phish is breaking up this summer. So that gives me hope, too. Looks like all those Phisheads will soon be swimming belly up. Praise Jesus.

Making the world a better place, one day at a time.

I'm back from my Saturday dinner with Kathypath and am slightly drunken. I have this little black book that I want to begin using as a journal, but I have promised myself that it won't be done until I take off for southeast Asia. The trip is only four weeks away... I can't fucking believe it. In the meantime, Odessa Street is going to have to be the place for my completely pointless ramblings when I've split a bottle of wine with a great friend.

What a nice evening. I am so happy to have good friends, to be able to have people I fully trust and can share lives with. Kathypath is such a wonderful person: full of life, wisdom, and reflection. I don't know what I would do without her.

Lately, I've been weighing big decisions and trying to make the most of everything. I'm happy where I am, and I am wondering where I will go. It's not the worst of positions to be in. Everything feels frighteningly wide open, but I am getting more and more comfortable with the uncertainty every day.

For now, I am just going to go to bed and finish my great book about inbred Greeks in Detroit. Dude, it won the Pulitzer, so I'm not the only one who thinks it's fab. Tomorrow brings a morning breakfast with friends and catch-up time with Brooklyn Babe, whom I haven't seen in ages. Oh right, and I gotta study at some point. There's that, too.

So Wednesday was the chance encounter with a former "enemy" of sorts. We resolved things, or at least I feel we did. One peg down.

Thursday was ten hours spent with The Boy's former girlfriend and her family. That meant over ten babies, several little kids, and lots and lots of Belgians. Mind you, ex-girlfriends are always rather sensitive subjects. But when the ex is also the mother of your man's child, it obviously complicates the issue quite a bit.

Going into it, my main feeling was that I wanted resolution on my relationship with his ex. Let me explain:

Last time we had met - almost three years ago - I wasn't doing so well emotionally (this was long before the days of this web site). The Boy and I were going through a rocky period, I didn't know what I was doing with my life, and I was wondering why the hell I was staying in France for a school career I wasn't sure of and a man I was constantly fighting with.

So, feeling that way, when The Boy suggested we take the train up to see Angie and Daniel - her boyfriend of six years - and hang with the kids (one being A and The Boy's and one being A and D's), I had said yes more out of duty than out of any sort of desire to go see them.

To this day, I still don't know what went wrong. Everyone was snappy. I got tears in my eyes at the way Angie spoke to me on several occasions. The Boy was being cold and distant. The only person who made the weekend worthwhile was Daniel, who was nothing but nice to me. I couldn't understand why the two people who should want everything to go as smoothly as possible were also the only ones who seemed to want to make an already difficult situation more difficult, while Daniel and I were the ones trying to make everyone get along and play nice.

Looking back, I realize that maybe I was also somewhat too sensitive, and that maybe I had misread things because I was rather insecure about the whole thing. Or maybe I didn't appreciate that Angie might have just not liked having a new girl in the picture and was having a hard time with it herself.

Whatever the problem, I had resolved to make this time count. I'm doing so much better, in so many ways, than I was the last time we hung out. My main purpose in going to see them yesterday was just to clear whatever foul air was hanging between us since our last encounter several years ago.

Oddly, I think she must have felt the same. I can't explain what happened. There was a definite, almost palpable, change in dynamic between the two of us. We got along, we laughed, we made jokes. She never once made any of the underhanded, sneaky comments she had made last time. She seemed open and kindhearted, unlike our last visit when she had come off as a cold, manipulative bitch.

But the really important moment was when the family decided to take a walk to the local park. We walked away from the rest of the crowd, and she began talking to me about her relationship with The Boy: why it wouldn't have ever worked, why she's happy to see that he's with someone who is better for him, how she can look back and realize how immature they both were. And while I might not have appreciated hearing some of the details about their sex life, I was glad to hear the rest. I told her a little bit about how things are between us, she gave me some advice. I felt that for the first time, we spoke to each other as friends, and that really, really, meant a lot to me. And honestly, I could see how we could be friends, now that I know her better. That's a great feeling.

It's funny: when confronted with uncomfortable situaitons, we still have the same fight or flight mechanism as we do when in the face of life-threatening danger. The last two days have given me the chance to face some of my fears, to talk to people I had some serious problems with. In both cases, I had honestly felt that I was being mistreated for no reason. While I still stick to that today, I also recognize that clamming up and shutting the offenders out of my life was not necessarily the best way to handle the situation, either. Amazingly, by opening myself up a bit, both situations are considerably better now than they were 48 hours ago.

I'm just so happy to not have those dark clouds hanging over my head.

The crazy thing is that things are never the way you imagined them. You're never prepared for the good, you're never prepared for the bad. Life is funny like that.

Something's in the air right now. I remember when I was in high school, I thought so much about existence and what are we all doing here? I thought about chance and randomness and decisions and how it only takes a single drop to start a waterfall. These thoughts almost consumed me. I often had a hard time getting out of my head, and only The Doors or Cypress Hill seemed to be able to get me out.

But I loved living with that intensity. Often, I've wondered where it went. When did I get so fascinated with the practical, instead of the mystical? When did things stop touching me spiritually? When did I stop questioning in the way I used to? In a weird way, I miss that part of myself that was so fascinated with the underbelly of life, the things just below the surface.

While we were in Senegal, we sat under a tree with some maraboutage. Someone had wrapped up a shoe in very intricate system of string and leaves, and the supersticious Senegalese I was with made low, disapproving humming noises and warned me about the power of this kind of magic. I remember at the time glimpsing at it, and wondering if really there was something evil in it.

But I think it was good stuff. Something has definetly happened to me ever since I went there. I still can't put my finger on it... it's this strange sort of peace. I just can't explain it. I have so much going on. So many strange things happening to me. So much I can't control. But. I don't know. I'm ok. And I feel good. And I'm even ok with the times I don't feel good. It's coming from inside, and that's so different than it all coming from within my head.

It made me realize: that questioning is back. It's a sort of soul-thinking. Instead of the cold, mechanical thinking of the brain, it's warm and sort of ether-like, but just as powerful. Thoughts of chance and destiny and what-does-it-all-mean have been invading me, and I feel so calm in their presence.

I just ran into an old friend. We had had a terrible falling out about three years ago, and it was never resolved. It was sort of a constant stain on my otherwise rather cheery Parisian canvas, one that I almost always hated revisiting.

Often, I would think I saw her and my heart would skip a beat. Oh God, I'd think. What the hell are we going to say to one another? Without fail, the person I saw would turn her head another 15°, and I'd realize it had been a false alarm. But it would be enough of a reminder of her to make me re-hash the whole story over again in my mind. Almost immediately afterwards, I'd get really angry, and then I'd just slump back in my chair/bus seat/whatever and just feel the ugliness of the situation all around me. I hated feeling like that.

But I saw her today and we talked. We caught up, we had coffee, we went over what happened. I think we've both grown. I think it'll be ok. I've said my piece, and she was receptive. That's all I really can ask for.

I'm surprised. I had always thought that running into her would be so painful, but I'm so glad it happened. I feel the air has been cleared. I feel lighter. There are still things to work out, but I don't have to go on being angry at someone for the past.

That's a good feeling. And a healthy one. Like I said, you never know when good things will happen. Surprisingly, you never know what forms good things will come in, either. The best thing today came in the form of a past "enemy." I'm glad that today I can call again call her, however hesitatingly, my friend.

The title of this post is also the title of one of my favorite songs ever written by Funkadelic. Download it now. It is beautiful.

The good thoughts: My parents are coming to visit me next weekend, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. I just finished one job. I have two weeks left of another. Andre The Crush lurves me. The weather is beautiful. Tomorrow I will take at least two hours to enjoy myself because I have worked 14-hr days for the last two days and I effing deserve some effing peace and quiet. I like the new book I am reading right now (Middlesex). I promised myself to read at least 40 pages in the sunlight tomorrow, without feeling guilty about the work I should be doing. The Little Guy was told to do a school report on a topic of his choosing. He chose Paris. The Boy and I will bring him small Eiffel Towers and postcards and such on Thursday, when we go to Belgium for his first communion. I have beans soaking overnight in preparation for more red beans and coconut desert. Tomorrow I get to sleep past 7.30 am. Inch'allah.

The bad thoughts: My flight to Vietnam lasts 23 hours. It is a smoking flight.

Kdogg called me today so we could talk SEA (Southeast Asia) and stuff. We've realized that we are leaving in five weeks, and have essentially prepared nothing.

As a matter of fact, until just a few hours ago, we feared that Kdogg was not arriving an hour after me, but in fact an hour and a DAY after me, which would have left me sleeping in the Bangkok airport all night. I would have just slung a sign around my neck that said, "Skank Ass Ho" and hope she would have found me. I fear people would have thought I was just labelling myself, though, when really it would have been a joke on her, done in the style of the taxi people hoping to give a ride to the business executive named Mr. Johnson or Mr. Rodriguez.

In the end, however, things worked out. No need for the ridiculous taxi sign. We'll get the misquito nets over there. I'll be the insect reppellent here. She'll buy film in California. Etc. This is a very international operation, here.

I spent the entire day talking. For people who know me, you also know that this means I've had a wonderful day. After yesterday's insanity, I was so happy to live a day where I smiled more than I cried.

Beccarah came over and she distracted me from the "homework" I was doing. I had told her on the phone that it was an intense study day, but that she should come over and that I would take a short "break." When she knocked on my door, it turned out that I was in the middle of rearranging my closet (homework my ass). It was easy for her to sway me into getting a quick coffee that lasted two hours.

Then I headed home and Kdogg called. We talked for over an hour. Pricey, by our standards. Then my sister IMed me, and I told her I'd call. So I did. And we talked briefly (for us... which means about 20 minutes).

Then the Boy and I went out to a healthy dinner where I taught him about realistic rubber torsos for male pleasure and dildos. He was fascinated. The conversation lasted at least an hour.

Overall, a good day. Coffee, travel, and masturbation toys. Nothing gets more exciting than that.

I told Kathypath about a realization I had the other day: Andre the Crush is slightly duckfoot.

We, of course, had to get into the grammatical issues surrounding the word "duckfoot." Is he duckfoot? Or duckfooted? Or do we just say he has duckfeet?

Regardless, the issue here is that his right foot is slightly ducky.

Kathypath told me I am not allowed to use the term "slight" when talking about duckfeet. Either you are are you aren't duckfoot. Or you do or you don't have duckfeet. Or, in Andre's case, you have duckfoot. Just one.

Anyway, it's a disheartening realization. Such a cutie, too. I just can't stand the duckfeet. Or one duckfoot. So all those Andre fantasies have gone out the window. Good thing for The Boy. He's gotta be pretty happy about that, even though he doesn't even know it.

Kathypath and I had the following conversation:

K: Do duckfoot people just not realize they have duckfeet? Or do they realize it and not care? Or do they think it's ok? Or can they just not fix it?
Me: Well, what about unibrows? Do people with unibrows not realize they have them? Or do they realize it and not care? Or do they think it's ok?
K: God, no. Nobody thinks unibrows are ok.
Me: So do you think they just don't care?
K: No. That's impossible. Unibrows are so wrong, on so many levels.
Me: So are you telling me they don't know they have a unibrow?
K: No, that's even more absurd. How could they look at themselves in the mirror every day and not realize they have a unibrow? They must know.
Me: Look, K, we're stuck here. Do they know and not care or do they not know?
K: I don't know!
Me: Me neither. But I still see unibrows everywhere so it's one or the other.

So which do you think it is?

The Plan for today was to get up early, get the second series of shots I need before heading to Asia, run some errands and then head to my six o'clock class. But I had ten hours of missing sleep to make up for from the previous night, plus the required eight hours of sleeping per night, which lead me to sleep a mere 12 hours (note: six hours short of what I needed). This meant I woke up shortly after noon.

The shots place was out of the question by the time I had spent two more hours wandering around my house, cleaning and eating granola, so by 14.00 when Beccarah called, I felt that her idea of getting a coffee sounding dandy. With a 14.30 meet-up set in place, I headed out the door.

I was home-free until 18.00, when I had class. But we got to talking, and then to bookshopping, and then she told me that she had some Italian chocolate at home....

So I didn't go to class and instead I sat drinking/eating Italian hot chocolate. We spent the rest of our time telling ghost stories and looking at maps of the world. We learned about life expectancy, literacy, and GNPs. So I don't feel the evening was entirely lost, educationally, either.

All I had to do after that wild party was sit down and study Arabic for three hours. But somehow we talked straight through to 11.00 pm, and lo and behold, here we are, midnight-thirty and I haven't cracked a book. And now I'm going to bed. I still have six hours worth of catch-up time left, and I have an eight o'clock class tomorrow morning. Tomorrow should prove to be interesting.

Andy put this up on his web site, so I had to have fun and do it on mine. Life has started again, folks. I feel a little braindead.

1. What time do you get up?
Between 6 and 7 on weekdays, between 9 and 10 on weekends. I can always surprise myself by going beyond those boundaries when it's incredibly inconvenient, though.

2. If you could eat lunch with one person, who would it be?
Noam Chomsky. Shut up. I know it's trite, but I would.
Another cool but impossible thing would be to eat lunch with your future self, twenty years down the road. I don't want to know my future, but I'd be into getting a few tips. Many tips. Many excellent tips. 555-1342. (Does anybody know what I'm talking about?)

3. Gold or silver?
Silver, for sure. Gold is trashy.

Thirty more questions...

4. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Gerry.

6. What did you have for breakfast?
Muesli and yogurt

7. Who would you hate to be stuck in a room with?
A dead person.

8. What/who inspires you?
This question is very broad. How bout we break it down a bit?

What inspires me: magnificent, unbelieveable panaromas only found in nature, revolutions, medicine, how wildly different the world can be even though it's all the same planet.

Who inspires me:
My friends and family, Michael Jordan, my Arabic professor, and the old lady who lives in my neighborhood who is the most outgoing, social, flamboyant 80-year-old I have ever seen.

9. What is your middle name?
Ann

10. Beach, City or Country?
City for living, country for vacationing. Although, I'm starting to tip the scales the other way, oddly enough.

11. Favorite ice cream?
I can't eat ice cream.

12. Butter, plain or salted popcorn?
What happened to sugared popcorn, fool?

13. Favorite color?
Blue

14. What kind of car do you drive?
I don't.

15. Favorite sandwich?
Tomato basil bagel with sundried tomato pesto cream cheese and a slice of tomato.

16. What characteristic do you despise?
Hypocrisy and backstabbing in others. Overexcitability in myself.

17. Favorite flower?
Birds of paradise.

18. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
I don't know. Besides upcoming planned vacations, on the list are: Syria, Lebanon, Italy, Tanzania, Mozambique, Congo, Burkina Faso, Myanmar, Argentina, and Peru. But you could suggest something else and I'd say, "Ooo... yeah... I totally want to go there." Provided that other place isn't Israel. Not that I have anything against Israel personally, it's just that you can't travel to a bunch of places in the Middle East with the Israeli stamp.

19. What color is your bathroom?
A pleasant blue.

20. Favorite brand of clothing?
Zara. It's the only store that makes pants long enough for me.

21. Where would you retire to?
I cannot answer yet. I haven't been to enough places to know.

22. Favorite day of the week?
Sunday.

23. What did you do for your last birthday?
I don't remember what I did on the specific day. I know Kathy took me out to dinner at some point, though

24. Where were you born?
Nashville TN

25. Favorite sport to watch?
Women's gymnastics, basketball, tennis, and volleyball. I usually catch one of those things once a year. Last year was women's gymnastics. I hope this year is volleyball.

28. What fabric detergent do you use?
The kind that you get out of the machine in the laundromat. Although, next time, I'm going across the street and buying the all-natural kind so that I stop destroying the environment with those toxic detergents running through our laundromat's pipes and into our rivers.

29. Coke or Pepsi?
Diet Coke with a slice of lemon. Although I just heard a terrible story on NPR that's making me think that I will never drink Diet Coke again.

30. Are you a morning person or night owl?
I can go both ways. I prefer morning to night overall, provided I slept enough the night before.

31. What is your shoe size?
11

32. Do you have any pets?
Just plants

33. Shoes or barefoot?
Barefoot when possible.

Dawn posted this at some point. She stole it from some guy name Chris at a place named Rude Cactus, but the link doesn't work. So you can google it if you like. Meanwhile, I think it's very fun, and it's late on Sunday and I've read too many news magazines. I think my head is about to implode. Therefore, I present to you this nonsense.

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4.
"On ne doit pas prononcer la voyelle d'un mot quand on fait la pause (en fin de phrase, par exemple)" from my Arabic grammar book in the introductory chapter.

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?
Two binders: one with all of my schoolwork from second semester, and the other with all of my Arabic notes.

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Luckily, I can actually answer this question because I just got back from Marseille, where there was a television. Otherwise, the last time I watched TV was way back in December, and I have no idea what I watched. Anyway, I watched the news last Saturday while waiting for everyone else to get pretty before we went out to dinner.

4. WITHOUT LOOKING, can you guess what the time is?I just looked a little bit ago, so it's somewhere around 12.15 am.

5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time? Hah! 12.15 exactly!

6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear? Some drunk people yelling in the street (laughing or arguing, I can't really tell), cars going by, someone kicking a can, more yelling. I think the yelling person may be who The Boy and I refer to as The Yeller (Le crieur): a local drunk who has a co-drunk and they often stand in front of the lingerie shop in front of my house and yell for the hell of it. Nice guys, but loud.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing? I just got back from eating crepes up the street.

8. Before you came to this website, what did you look at? I was at mightygirl.net.

9. What are you wearing? Gray, fucked-up pants, a black v-neck sweater and a black hoodie. The same shit I've been wearing since September 2000. No joke.

10. Did you dream last night? Yes. That I had a baby who kept shitting his diaper.

11. When did you last laugh? At dinner tonight with The Boy.

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in? A big map of the world, a copy of the phonetic alphabet, a framed photo taken by Kathypath, an African wall hanging. That's it.

13. Seen anything weird lately? An 80-year-old (ish) prostitute with bright, easter-egg-colored purple lipstick and dyed blond hair. Her outfit was also very purple.

14. What do you think of this quiz? This is fun.

15. What is the last film you saw? In a movie theater? I just saw Monster this afternoon. On Saturday, The Boy and I watched New Jack City on DVD because S had it at her house.

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first? A trip around the world and tickets for people I love to go to places they've always wanted. I'd meet them there.

17. Can you tell something about you that no one knows? Probably not. Someone is bound to know anything I think of. I don't have any secrets that I can think of.

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do? This question is too big for me. I've already answered it and erased my answer three times. I don't know. Food, water, medicine, human rights, environmental protection... all things that matter and aren't getting the attention they deserve.

19. Do you like to dance?
Yes.

20. George Bush: is he a power-crazy nut case or some one who is finally doing something that has needed to be done for years?
What? He is nothing to me. It's his administration we should be talking about. He's just the puppet.

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
I have many names. Off the top of my head: I like Nadja and Kezia.

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?Again, I have many names. I recently saw a Russian film where the main character's name was Andreï. I love that.

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?
This question is already answered, so I'll answer it's opposite. Yes, I would consider returning to the United States. I'm considering it right now, actually.

Back from Marseille, and I thought I'd just do a reduced version of the things that have been on my mind. They range from mild to extreme, but I'm just going to clump them all together in one big post for you.

The Post-Marseille Realization List:

1. I am an official news and radio junkie. Three days without either and I was scratching at the walls, trying to hear the neighbor's broadcast in Arabic. Every coffee I drank out on S's mini-terrace, every time I toasted a piece of bread, I couldn't help but think about how much better this all would be if I could listen to the news in the background. This is a dramatic 180° from a kid who used to bitch and moan every time her Dad put on NPR during family car trips.

2. I can be happy almost anywhere as long as I have sunshine, tea/coffee, good bread, a terrace, and a radio. I had all but the final item in Marseille, but I had good company, so things went fine.

3. Monster is a very good film. I will never watch it again, though.

4. My parenting skills are not what I would have thought. I'm the mellow, let-him-do-handstands-on-the-wall-60-times-if-he-wants-to type. But maybe that's just 'cause I just spent a week with one of the coolest kids on the planet. I've got drawings of his to prove it. Just like last time The Little Guy came to visit, I couldn't get enough of doing the things kids think are fun: jumping off of five-step staircases, competing to see whose wind-up car goes further, beating up The Boy when he farts. I spent a whole week with The Little Guy and I never got tired of him or any of his crazy kid ideas. How many games of Go Fish can your average Jane take? I don't know, but I played at least 60. Scary thing? Most of those were my own suggestion. I am also a Lego fan, a wrestler, and one helluva paper-airplaner.

5. Returning from vacation is a mixed bag. Sometimes it's nice to get back to your own bed, your own kitchen, your own rhythm (and radio). But Christ, do NOT check your mailbox and answering machine before enjoying your home for a bit. Bills, bills, bills. Messages from people wondering why the hell you're not answering your phone. Reminder that you have mad shit to do. Welcome back to real life. Good thing I like my life, and am ok with some of the shit that comes attached to it. What a pain in the ass.

6. I have a crush on the Lebanese restaurant guy. It's been brewing for awhile. Now it's full-on. I hope he reciprocates my love by giving me some free baklava (is that how it's spelled?).

7. I would be happy to live in a smaller place with more sunshine, where the rent is reasonable and I could have a nicer house. It was great to be able to stretch, to have two people in the kitchen at once, and to sit in a bathtub. These are things that one can learn to live without, but man, I repeatedly reveled in the wonder of it all while staying at S's house. What? Four burners on your stove? Are you for real? A seperate office? Really? Closet space? Woo-hoo!

8. I like French pizza better than American pizza. Less grease, less crust, less crap.

9. People in Paris really are more hip than other places. I guess I had just gotten acclimated or something. Every time I leave, I realize what a little fashion bubble this city is. Sometimes it's good to get to normal people again, but I always feel relieved to get back to the city where I'm just an anonymous face in a sea of more-fashionable-than-me bodies.

10. Don't push my buttons. I'll react by just shutting down. It's easier on everyone that way.

Disclaimer: I realize this post may sound pompous to some of you. Please don't read it as such. Read it with the tone in which I wrote it, which is just one of delighted but puzzled thoughtfulness.

I don't know what's come over me. Suddenly I have friends. Out of nowhere, I have almost too many social engagements. Randomly, I keep running into people I know around town (three people in the last 24 hours alone!). I didn't really plan to be a social butterfly in this way, and I never recall thinking to myself, "You should really go out and meet some people," but somehow things have picked up.

It feels great.

I've never really minded not having a lot of friends. I usually have two or three really close friends, and then peripherals. And while, sure, maybe that's still the case, I feel that my "peripherals" need to be upgraded. What would be a better, more high-status name for them? Because, really, I've met some pretty cool people this year and hope to keep them all as friends in the future.

It's sort of strange to look back and realize that you didn't have something that you have now. Mostly, it's just cool to rediscover that my social skills don't totally suck ass, and that I can actually get by when meeting new people.

One of my good friends did a tarot reading for me over a year ago and said that 2004 would be the year of learning. She said, "Not necessarily in the book sense, although it can be that, too. Mainly, this is a year focused on learning more about yourself and your surroundings. A student of life, of sorts." Between a new, difficult school, a new, intense job, and a bunch of new friends, she couldn't be more dead on. I'm learning so much about myself and others that sometimes I wonder how I spent my previous years. Was I lazy? Unaware? Or did I just not have the opportunities I've had this year? Why are so many good changes happening at once? Is there a bad moon on the rise?

I'll stop being paranoid and take the good weather while I can.

One more good thing: comments are working again.

Damn. I slept 13 hours last night. To bed at 8.30, to rise at 9.30. That is insane. I've been running around so much and have had so many things going on, I suppose I don't let myself fully acknowledge my fatigue. I feel so much better this morning.

The Boy and I have decided on a mini-vacation this April. We're going to head to Marseilles to visit some friends down there, and hopefully catch some sunshine while we're at it. Before we leave, the Boy is going to go to Belgium to pick up his son (aka The Little Guy) and maybe his son's half-brother, and then we're all getting on a train together to head towards the beach. The Little Guy's mom just had another baby, so we were thinking that taking the older kids off her hands for awhile would be a nice gesture. Plus, the boys would probably like to hang out together on the beach.

I'm excited for the break. And to be around kids again. I always find their presence refreshing in a way that makes you realize that paperwork, paperwork, paperwork does not make life complete.

AND... I also found out that I get an extra week of vacation from work because the high school kids are taking exams. That means no teaching for me for three weeks starting next Monday. Conclusion: this is my last super-intense week before spring break. Things are looking up.

Meanwhile, a student asked me yesterday how to hit on American women. I told them that I wouldn't give them any specific sentences, but then I asked them what they think would work. One boy said, "I don't know, what if I said something like 'You are very beautiful.'" I couldn't help myself. I snapped back, "No. No, that's very bad. American women get that daily from anyone who finds out they're American. Of all things, don't say that sentence!!!" The kid looked insulted - probably because everyone else laughed at his suggestion once they heard my reaction - but I had to put a stop to that sort of nonsense today so as to save him some pain tomorrow

And finally, an apology: my comments are still on crack. I keep posting in the support forum and my questions keep going unanswered. Hopefully this will get figured out soon enough.

The Boy is at the US Embassy right now to see if he can deal with the paperwork. Did you know that, just to CALL the embassy for an appointment, you have to pay 14 euros? It's a 14 euro phone call! No sex included! I guess they do it to deter people from calling just to get information. I bet the US phone lines would be swamped, otherwise. But still, 14 euros seems a bit excessive to me.

Meanwhile, I myself spent yesterday morning dealing with my papers with the pleasant French administrative personnel. The incompetence of these people is truly astounding. After dealing with idiots, I finally fell on a very nice, older, smoky-voiced woman whose personal motto seemed to be "Why complicate things?" She may be the only woman working for the French government who embraces such a philosophy, and I say more power to her. She even smiled at me and gave me a free envelope. Her kindness was way over the top, considering her working environment. I almost want to send her flowers.

Yesterday was the first truly beautiful day in Paris: warm, sunny, great. The weather is affecting my students in a terrible, terrible way. I held what was probably the worst class yet on Tuesday. The boys have gotten all hormonal and act like panting dogs. The girls talk even more than they usually do about fashion and hair. And combined, it means that both sexes don't give two shits about learning in the classroom. I honestly don't know how these kids are going to make it in the world. Sometimes I feel like I only have two or three students who know how to concentrate for anything more than five minute spurts.

Most days I'm cool with it, but yesterday, running on two hours of sleep and with absolutely zero patience, I cracked. Two of my students were being obnoxious and I finally just refused to talk to them. After class, they kept apologizing and saying, "Can't we make it up to you?" and I said, "No. You pissed me off and that's that. I don't appreciate when 23-year-olds act like five-year-olds in my classroom. I warned you once, then twice. You boys need to grow up. It's painful to watch you act like that." They both felt like dumbasses, and I suppose it was a bit harsh, but seriously. These boys are both in their TWENTIES and are in high school.

Anyway. I skipped my classes this morning in favor of sleep. I don't even really feel guilty about it, mainly because I feel I have been kicking my own ass all over town. I'm just so tired. A typical day involves four hours of teaching and then four hours of lecture, with three hours in a train somewhere in there. It's too much. I have an entire notebook full of notes that I have yet to type out/rewrite, and I'm way behind in the research project I'm helping out with for money. Most days, I feel like I'm able to stay afloat. But sometimes, I need to just stop and not feel guilty about taking a moment for myself. I decided that moment would be this morning. It feels good.

In other news, I'm considering moving to New York in 2006. Or maybe Boston. I have a few projects lined up. I would be 100% about it if it didn't mean leaving The Boy. Choosing between love and career is nowhere near as fun as it looks in the movies.

Sometimes days can turn around.

I woke up this morning just wanting to stay in bed. Even the smallish tasks I had to do today - the laundry, the grocery, six hours of data entry - seemed unbearable.

So I got up, took an aspirin, ate some food, and got back in bed. I finished a book (and I have since updated the book page accordingly) and then felt semi-ready to face the day.

By then it was already noonish, so I decided to move quickly. I gathered up the laundry, sorted it by color. Headed to the laundromat around the corner, thinking about how I'd like to be able to write a novel one day, even if I don't have the discipline or the talent. So much crap is published, why couldn't some of my crap be as well? I don't care about the money, just the thrill of seeing something I wrote wrapped up in a respectable-ish cover. I suppose I should write something longer than 15 pages, in that case...

Rounded the corner into the laundromat and stepped in the door. Four people already in line for the next available washer; that'll teach you not to go to the laundromat on Saturday afternoons. The bum in the corner can't figure out how to open his machine, and he smells so bad nobody dares go near him to lend a hand. As he bends down to grab his laundry bag, he reveals his ass crack, which is disturbingly filled with his own shit. I guess that explains the smell.

Vetoing the idea of waiting around in the laundromat, I head for the grocery. In, out, I buy what I need with my massive laundry bag slung over my shoulder the whole while. I pick up some ridiculous cookie things that I need to stop eating soon. I decided I will stop as soon as my period comes, which seems like a reasonable and responsible limit. Then the cookies will officially join The Banned List, alongside such delicacies as Nutella and Mikado cookies.

Back home, I do four hours of data entry before I decide I'm going insane. Phone calls from friends interrupt me, and I'm happy to have them there. Invitations to several events make me feel loved; just a few months ago I remember feeling that I didn't have enough friends in Paris. I smile at the thought of how much things have changed since then. I cook dinner (tacos, nothing spectacular) while listening to Nat King Cole's Spanish albums. Once we sit down to eat, The Boy eats five tacos. He loves them, and even clears the dinner plates after the meal as a sign of his appreciation. We split some wine with dinner, and finish off the bottle as we sit and catch up on things on the couch before he says his typical, "Ok, I gotta work." Tonight, however, I'm fine with it. I want quiet time with my projects and my music.

I update my flicks page while listening to hip hop from my high school days. Walking back from the grocery today, some guy had been blasting rap from his car. The rhythm changed my steps within milliseconds. I love hip hop, and I still can't put my finger on why. Being overseas, I don't get to develop me hip hop knowledge as much as I would like, so please share if you all have some must-have albums on your hip hop lists that I should know about.

Tomorrow morning I'm getting up early to listen to some Gregorian chants at Notre Dame. It will be the first time I actually go inside the cathedral. Then I'm off to coffee with a friend I haven't seen in awhile before heading to an afternoon movie on the Cambodian genocide with Kathypath. As a special treat to myself, I think I might even go to an early evening flick alone - something sentimental and sappy, to fit my rather pleasant, nostalgic mood right now.

At least when I come down from these clouds, I'll have a record of it online. I'm glad I spent the night at home: I got some work done, hung out with The Boy in a way we haven't been able to for awhile, and had some alone time with my thoughts. I wish every day felt this good. There's a lot of pleasure to be had in many small things.

Due to a significant turn of events in the last 12 hours, I now have a dog living with me. Before you all get huffy and puffy on me about having a dog in a Big City, I'll just let you know that it's not permanent. I picked Bastien up at C's house because he was eating her floors (they're wood, mine are carpet). She was taking care of him while Pennsylvania Boy was away, and he had given her my number for a in-case-you-in-can't-stand-this-dog-any-longer type of emergency. Although she still loves the B-Man, she also loves her floors, and doesn't want the puppy taking them away from her anymore. C and her boyfriend tried to keep him from eating the particular wood corner he seemed so fascinated with by covering it with tabasco sauce. They soon learned that he likes tabasco sauce even more than he likes brand new wood floors. So he's living with me now.

And yes, Pennsylvania Boy will be back in a few days. So yes, this is very short term. But Bastien and I just sat on my twisty chair together, reading the news online, and I sighed a little happy sigh. So did Bastien. And now he's sleeping. This is my idea of dog ownership heaven.

The only problem I have with this dog is that he farts a lot. Not sure if that's the food or the inbreeding or what. But Christ. We used to say that my sister's dog, Jupiter, could clear a room with his gas. I think Jupe would be up for some tough competition around these parts, though. The difference is, Jupiter was a big, huge Greyhound. Bastien is a midget bulldog. If we're talking proportionally, Bastien packs way more bang in his punch.

A and I took the little feller on the bus to get back to my place from where we picked him up. It was too far to walk, what with the bags and the dog food and the dog FREAKING OUT on the street every two steps. And he's small enough that you can hold him for awhile without getting tired. So I thought, Eh, we'll take him on the bus and then get home. No problem, right? The ride is what, like, fifteen minutes?

Bad move. The little guy let one rip that was so foul that the guy next to us stopped reading his newspaper so he could cover his face with it. A and I couldn't contain our laughter, so it became obvious that it had come from the dog (or one of us, which I suppose is worse). We wisely decided to get off a the next stop, out of fear that Bastien would get a "second wind."

Anyway, farting aside, dog ownership (I know, I know, I'm only babysitting. But let me live out the fantasy to its fullest, here. Thanks) is really fun. Thus far today, we have discussed appropriate and inappropriate places to pee (he's paper trained), how to best walk on a leash when on a crowded sidewalk, and why the hell so many stupid-ass democrats keep voting for John Kerry. Oddly, it seems that Bastien is an Edwards fan. Who'd have known?

A list, of sorts:

1. I'm on vacation (from the high school) for two weeks now. I still have classes next week at the Sorbonne, but this little break will allow me to take care of a few important things. I have decided to begin my quasi-vacation by spending my Friday night in bed as I do not expect to last until midnight.

2. A and I met up this morning (I'm becoming the person who actually suggests, "Why don't we meet up around 10 am?" when I have free time. What's happening?) and she gave me all kindsa good Senegal tips. After my zillionth question, she said, "Dude, I gotta come over and help you pack. For reals." Then I reminded her: "Dude, I'm only going for a week." Still, she reminded me to buy some hand sanitizer, so Lord knows what other Very Important Shit I would forget were she not looking over my shoulder.

3. Yesterday, while listening to my Arabic cassette, I had a moment where I wasn't actually thinking about the words, but I was understanding the sentences nonetheless. No effort involved, just pure understanding of the language. Fascinating. It was a first for me, and therefore rather thrilling. I'm hoping to really get good at this. Eyes on the prize.

4. The Sorbonne said they would have all of the grades posted today. I swung by there around 16.30, right before heading off to Arabic. The bastards didn't post them. Only half. What is that about?

5. They also fucked our schedules up royally this semester, so that even obligatory classes for linguistics students overlap. All linguistics students are being forced to choose between a lecture and a lab on Wednesday nights. We've collected together and declared our wishes, vowing to share notes and do some informative sessions from time to time. But dude. So not cool.

6. I was really crossing my fingers last night that Kerry was going down. But alas. Democrats are screwing themselves over by voting for him.

7. It's been gorgeous in Paris for the last two days: sunny, blue skies, and almost warm.

8. The rumor has gone around the high school that I have dancing skillz. This may or may not be due to a moonwalk competition I had with Mohammed the other day. He's a good kid, and a Michael Jackson fan, so the two of us got to moonwalking just before the bell rang some time last week. Word spreads like wildfire in that high school, I tell you. I've gotten several moonwalk requests in the last 72 hrs.

I guess when my exams ended, I just disappeared. Well, the real truth is that I spent less time in front of the computer, and thus had less of an urge to "update" (aka procrastinate).

So here's what's been happening:

1. Dooce had her baby! Congrats to the Armstrongs. This has to be one of the biggest events in the blogosphere. Certainly bigger and more thrilling than the firing incident that catapulted Dooce to blog fame in 2001.

2. The Cowgirl and I felt so bad about missing out on a truly American experience that we went on a search of Janet's boob revelation. That is hilarious. In the search, we also learned that the incident marks the most-searched-for topic, ever, in the history of the internet.

3. I have seen two movies this week: 1) The Last Samourai. I don't recommend it, unless you like Hollywood crap and war films. The Cowgirl and I both kept laughing at various random lines, because of the combination of Tom Cruise's bad acting and the gloriously bad script writing. We couldn't help ourselves ("Tell me how he died." "No, I'll tell you how he lived."). and 2) 21 Grams, which I was pleasantly surprised by. I thought it was excellent, and was nothing like I had thought it would be.

4. I tried raclette for the first time at a fête thrown by a friend from the Sorbonne. Man, raclette is good! I think I'm going to have to introduce the family to it, providing a fondu alternative. We drank far too much and I spent all day Sunday recovering. The Cowgirl had also had a party of her own, both of us stumbling back home in the wee hours of the morning. This meant that we both slept until 5.30 on Sunday evening. We were completely outta whack. I was still feeling the effects of my fucked-up schedule on Monday, when I had to work at 7 am.

5. The last three days have been beautiful in Paris - very sunny and almost warm. I would place this sort of weather to be early April-ish. It's having a positive effect on almost everybody, but the high school kids seem to think it means they have to yell for me to hear them. I'm right in front of you, kiddo. No need to scream. Really, though, this weather is fabulous. I can't believe this is happening in February. I just hope it doesn't mean either an extended winter or another heat wave come June.

6. I can't believe how quickly my semi-vacation has gone (vaca from school, but not from work). It feels impossibly speedy. So Monday, it's back to square one.

First and foremost, today is my big sister Kari's second 29th birthday. Everybody go wish her a happy day! She's had a crazy, crazy year, so here's to hoping that the next one brings nothing but good times and happiness. She deserves it. I love you, Kari!

Hopefully, with the time difference, I'm officially the first to get on this happy birthday bandwagon, as I believe it's only 2 am in Portland.

Second, and this really has absolutely nothing to do with my sister or her birthday, but I've seen five midgets in the last 24 hours. And four of the five, I have seen in the train station. What gives? This has thrown my midget rate through the roof. I usually only see five a year.

And finally, third. I really need to start sleeping. At night. No more democratic primaries for me. a) they're too intense, b) I'm far too emotional about how much I can't stand Kerry, and c) I have to stay up until 3 to watch them. When you have to get up for work at six am, that's just not cool.

I counterbalanced my shitty day with a good one! Yay.

I woke up early and went to my review session for a class. I flipped because I don't feel prepared, but at least a few things became a bit clearer. We got out around 10.30 and I grabbed a coffee and studied Arabic for two straight hours. That made me feel pretty good about myself. Good enough to brave the waters and go back to Arabic at least semi-confident about my capacities to stay afloat after our month-long break.

At quarter to one, I headed off to teach my afternoon classes. The first class was full of sweethearts! They were so shy but eventually got into it, and I can tell I'm going to like the group. I was sitting amongst the students when the bell rang, and one of the girls turned to her friend and said, "That was a great class." She caught me hearing her and smiled sorta sheepishly, but I said, "Thank you. It's good to hear students say positive things."

My next two classes got cancelled because of some scheduling mishaps. The kids from the class I was supposed to have at 16.30 saw me in the hall and said, "Who are you seeing today?? Which group???" all excitedly. I said, "Sorry. Actually, I won't be seeing anyone until next week. There was a scheduling problem, so it'll be another week." Their teacher came and clarified the situation and said, "Group B will be with Lee Ann next week, though." The Group B kids cheered and the Group A kids sulked. That felt good.

Then some boy I've never met before came running after me in the halls. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" he said in English, before continuing on in French, "I just wanted to know: in our class, would you mind if we studied some American music? I mean, if we studied the words of certain songs? Can we do that together?"

How can anyone refuse an excited 10th grade boy who looks like he usually tries to play it cool (he must have been 6'3")? I certainly can't. I laughed and said "Sure." I wonder what class I'll have him in.

So I got off work two hours early and headed down to Les Halles to meet up with Pennsylvania Boy. I was waaayy early, so I stopped by Mango to check out their sales. Everything was 50% off, and in just under half an hour, I had found three things I liked and was standing in line to buy them. I hardly ever buy myself clothes... and it was so exciting to find three things that fit, and so quickly, and none costing more than 20 bucks! Two sweaters and a pair of pants. Great stuff.

And finally, Pennsylvania Boy and I went out to dinner and had a lovely time as always. We laughed so hard we cried, and by the time the dinner was over, we weren't ready to call it a night. So we took the metro and headed towards the new Starbucks that opened. I have mixed feelings about the affair, but it was interesting to check it out (we didn't go inside because it was some special person soirée and we weren't considered special enough). Then we went back to his place and played with the pup. Good times, good times.

I'm in high spirits. Now it's 1.30 and I have to get up in five hours. I'm going to call it a night. Today was a perfect mix of accomplishment and entertainment. I can go to bed smiling.

I had a not-so-good day at school today, both teaching and learning.

I have two classes back to back that are like night and day. In one of the classes, it's absolutely insane: the kids are so immature and obnoxious that they're already starting to wear on me. As all of this is new to me, I have a hard time knowing what sort of disciplinary action I should take. Talking about it in the teachers' lounge with collegues, I can hear that I'm already getting jaded. Two students had to see the principal today because of their poor academic records, and they left class early. Another teacher asked me if I had kicked them out of class, because he had seen them leaving early.

"No," I said, and explained the situation. "Honestly, I don't know what time their appointment was at, but I also didn't care. If they didn't want to be in class, I didn't want them there anyway. They were just causing a scene."

"Yeah," he said. "It's like, 'Good riddance!'"

I didn't like realizing that I was already picking out some kids who were "troublemakers" and bitching about them, but it's pretty hard not to do. I'm fine with the kids who have a hard time paying attention, or who are easily distracted, or whatever, as long as they're reasonably respectful and they do their work. But I don't like the kids who try to test me, who disrupt the class, or who insist on only speaking French. I corrected exercises today by several boys who thought it would be hilarious to do the whole thing using the verb "to fuck." Fine, I thought, and didn't flinch, just correcting their grammar in the same way I did everyone else's. But I don't know if that's the right sort of action to take: should I ignore their attempts at destablizing me, or should I make a stir about it? My opinion is that I didn't get to play games and talk about life in France with a college-age French person when I was in high school, and, should the occasion have presented itself, I'm sure we all would have been really excited about it. These kids make it seem like it's such a drag to have a conversation, and they're driving me insane. Their alternative is to sit and do grammar exercises, and I can't see why they would prefer that. I imagine they're even more hellish in their normal classroom.

On the other hand, right after that class, I have a group who comes of their own will. They're not required to be there, and they come during their "free" period because they want to practice and improve their English. I was so touched to learn that they were interested and saw the class as wortwhile. They are also very talkative, they participate a lot, they ask questions in English. I love them. Walking into that classroom after being with the other group for the first hour is so refreshing I can actually feel my body relax the first few minutes.

I also feel bad because there are several girls in the first, unruly class who want to learn, but who are constantly overshadowed by the boys. Sometimes it gets on my nerves that they don't speak up for themselves: they're almost freakishly quiet all hour. But mostly I feel that I'm not doing something right, that I can't handle the class and that the girls are suffering because of it. I talked to their normal teacher about it and she said, "Oh, well, if it makes you feel any better, I can't handle the class at all, either. It's been this way for those girls all year, and I don't see it changing any time soon."

No, actually, that doesn't make me feel better. It just makes an already bleak picture seem bleaker.

Anyway, it was a bad way to start the day. I'm just happy that my other classes were all kind and respectful, or else I might have lost it at some point. I went from teaching all day to my evening class at the Sorbonne, where I promptly fell into a pretty deep sleep. That marks the first time I have fallen asleep in a class, which I think is pretty impressive (almost four months of classes!), but man did I sleep! My sleep was so deep that I started dreaming. I hope I didn't start talking, too.

I managed to wake up for the last hour of the class, where we did a practice test for the exam. I was so totally lost it was frightening. Walking out of class, I just felt an enormous weight fall on my shoulders. How the hell am I going to prepare for these exams? I am very afraid of not passing this semester - a fear I have never experienced in my life. I've been afraid of not getting a good grade, but never have I feared just all out failing. I'm just angry because I feel I've done all the work: I've been to 95% or more of all my classes, I've taken notes, I've paid attention. But for some reason, things just aren't clear to me. It might be just a difference in the systems. I don't know.

Anyway, the only good thing is that I know I'm not alone. I came out of class and talked to a few other students who seem to be even worse off than me. Misery loves company, I guess.

Lately I have been feeling pretty good about myself. I've been getting a lot accomplished, juggling several intense tasks at once, and still managing to get out and have a good time every now and then. The general happiness in my everyday life has spilled over into a sort of quiet contentment I've developed with my bod... a rare feeling that comes and goes regularly.

Still, I'm glad to be able to recognize it while on an upswing. Yesterday, before going to meet a friend for coffee, I tried on some lesser-worn items in my closet. I never try on my clothes, for fear of suddenly realizing what a fat cow I look like in them. But suddenly, I had the urge to try on the most intimidating of them all: the falda.

Kdogg and I used to exert what we called "Falda Power" (falda is Spanish for skirt), wherein we make use of the often-underestimated power of the falda. It's amazing what a little falda can do to your walk, and consequently to your talk and to the talk you get. People treat you differently when you're in a falda, which is normal, because you act differently as well. You just can't be sloppy and gross when wearing a hot, snazzy falda. Maybe you haven't been aware of it, but pay attention next time. You'll experience what we call Falda Power. And it's a magnificent thing.

I've decided to embrace the power of the falda once again, and am thus determined to wear more of them during this period of bizarrely well-balanced self-esteem.

Meanwhile, my hair has gotten to a point where I wear it down from time to time. It's past my chin, at a comfortable stage where it can get tucked behind my ears, need be. Thus far, it's gotten positive reviews from everyone but The Boy, who doesn't even notice when I get my haircut anyway. Kathypath lent me a blowdryer (on loan until her blowdrying American friend comes to visit again), and I've been experimenting with my new head. After wearing my hair in a ponytail every day since April, I'm pretty excited to be able to comb it and style it and stuff. It's the little pleasures.

So today, I woke up thinking: "Yes! Treat yourself to luxury! Wear the falda, blowdry your hair, and live it up! You're babilicious, baby!"

So I blowdried my hair (blewdry?) and convinced it to go in the places I wanted it to go. I also considered the falda, but vetoed it because my nylons needed some serious washing (they are currently drying on the clothesline). Although the falda was postponed until tomorrow, I still got on some nice clothes and even considered putting on some mascara before giving it the thumbs down. One thing at a time, folks. Last Friday was the first time I've gone out with my hair down, so going to work for the first time with my hair down felt like it would be a big enough event in and of itself. Mind you, it's only an event in my own head - my coworkers won't even notice. But still, I didn't need to add the mascara to the mix. It might have been too much for one day.

I headed out for work at 8.45 (first class was at 10.30), feeling groovy. But the second I stepped out of my building, I frowned: It was pouring rain. Somewhere in my excitement over such crucial fashion decisions, I had managed to remain totally oblivious to the rather serious Parisian downpour.

In hopes of salvaging my hairdressing effort, I bolted down the half-block to the metro. I would have been fine, if, when I got off the bus an hour later (I take a metro to a train to a bus to get to work), I didn't have a five-minute walk in the rain to the high school.

Argh. By the end of my journey, my hair was curling in all directions, creating a fantastic frenzy of frizzies all over my head. My masterpiece! Ruined!

So I sat down in the teachers' lounge, grabbed myself a coffee, and, defeated, put my hair back into a ponytail. I also resolved to buy myself an umbrella, even though I hate the damn things. Why not just call them Eye Pokers? Because that's what they really are. Screw the Eye Poker; I can't wait for my hat to arrive in the mail.

Now, I'm really not a superficial cat. Any female who knows me knows that:

1. I have fewer clothes than she does.
2. I have fewer shoes than she does.
3. I have less make-up than she does.

It's just the way it is. But I was pretty pissed off that the excitement of dolling myself up - for the first time in a long, long time - was so quickly and so completely shot down. As a result, I spent my classes feeling ugly and gross, with my frizzy head of rain-beaten hair stuck in a ratty ponytail that I hadn't even been able to do in front of a mirror. In my head, my students were thinking, "Dude, what's up with her hair today?" even though, let's be honest, it looked much the same as it does every day.

Walking back to the bus stop from work, the rain was coming down even harder. I decided God was trying to tell me something. I don't know, something like, "You get more split ends when you blow dry" or "Skirts are for hos" or "Stop thinking about such mindless nonsense. People in the world are dying!" I resolved to never consider such superficial crap again. To stop the madness right then and there. To just wear my ragged pants and button-downs on the daily. Forget falda power. Forget hair styling. Forget sexy babe-ness.

I was listening to Outkast, which was getting me suitably pumped up and grumpy. I bent my head against the rain and stomped my way towards the bus stop. So much for living my moment of postive self-esteem to its fullest.

But right then, I tell you, a fire truck pulled up beside me. An entire fire truck full of firefighters. They are sexy beasts, let me say. The driver leaned down from his perch and said, "Do you want a ride?" The other fireman looked on inquisitively.

Dude! Firemen wanted to drive me to the bus stop! I thanked them and said no (they were going in the wrong direction), and the driver said, "But it's pretty cold out there. Are you sure?"

I only had about half the parking lot left to walk across, so I pointed and said, "I'm just going to the bus stop. Thanks though!" and laughed. It's a good thing I refused, too, because they pulled out of the lot, drove up to the traffic light, went right, and then turned on their sirens and headed out to save somebody's life. If I had been in the truck, they would have had to drop me off before heading towards heroism, and you know, every second counts in matters of life and death.

They saved my day, though. Which is worth something. Just when I was beginning to doubt my newborn superficiality, divine intervention told me, "Aw, go ahead! Live up your hot babeness to the max!" Or at least, that's the message I got from the firemen.

It's on, baby. Tomorrow, it's falda time.

I've been telling people about a little crush I have developed on this boy I've recently met. We'll call him Andre. I met him about a month ago and from day one, there was obvious chemistry. While devlishly enjoying the fact that a certain (attractive) someone seems to have developed the hots for me, I was also feeling guilty: should I really be enjoying it so much when I'