The Tragedy of the Hawaiian in the Snow

True to form, Christmas came and went. And, contrary to previous worry and despite not being in my warm island chain, I'm mentally sound. I gave TMI a Nintendo 64 after discovering it was his habitually unfulfilled childhood Christmas wish and had my mom mail over all of my old games in a flat rate envelope. He was totally beside himself with excitement even though the games didn't make it time for Christmas day. When they finally did, however, TMI regained his old broken faith in Santa when we discovered so very downheartedly that the games from US don't work on the system from France. welps, thats how the Christmas cookie crumbles :/

As for me I got a French edition of my favorite read, Zorba the Greek, along with a ring with pressed flowers and some oh-my-gosh-the-goodness-of-this-gift-is-awkward-because-you-arent-my-family fabulous red ankle boots from Kookai.

All in all I was holding myself together pretty well until the Wednesday after Christmas ski trip. Dear God, the horror. Let me remind you all that I am from Hawaii; my time to polish my Snowboarding has been.. limited, to say the least. So! There I am, on top of the mountain in the French Alps, strapped into the only Snowboard the resort could dig up for me and escorted by a pack of experts on skis. As if I all ready didn't feel enough the outsider, I was now the American on a snowboard. Naturally, even though he had been reassuring me all month that he was no good at Skiing, TMI was beyond competent and whizzed off down the mountain and over little jumps while I literally rolled down behind him.

The day was mortifying. TMI and a guy pal, his sister and her friend, all having to wait for me every fifty feet as I slowly made my paranoid turns down the mountain where they just whizzed along happily. Finally, half way through the day, I fell one time too many trying to keep up with their speed and hurt my butt. I cried like a pathetic child and insisted I stop.

That night and finally back at home, I peeled off my snowboard pants to discover I had a very unflattering blue butt and an inability to sit. Thrilled with all of this and feeling particularly great about myself, I cried in the shower. I can only hope this weekend in the Alps goes a little easier on my self esteem.. and my rear end :/

Into the Woods

I've been in quaint little Sauzet since Sunday mentally preparing for Christmas with someone else's family. It was a little rough the first day, but things are settling and I'm managing to get into the spirit. It's tough spending a Christmas cooped up indoors with the cold, rain and snow outside when I'm used to sunny mornings, tea on the porch, and Saturday beach trips between present wrapping.

Did you know that in France it's tradition to put your shoes under the tree for Santa to put candy and... oranges in?? Everyone here thinks I'm crazy for not knowing about it.

Today TMI and I went foraging in the cold winter woods above the village to take some clippings from pine trees and red berried bushes to decorate the home. While we were out there I'm pleased to say we couldn't resist the primal urge and made love like the cavemen before us pressed up against a frosty tree; keeping an eye out for mammoths, or.. hikers.

Also TMI's sister shares her brother's good looks and is making me very self conscious about my own physical appearance as she breezes around the house ever day. I think it's karma from how persistently indifferent I was to my brother's girlfriend the first several Christmases she spent with our family. The "I know she desires my approval but I'm going to stay completely smug in the knowledge that my brother is my brother regardless of what ladies may come in and out of his life" syndrome. For the record, she's now prego with my first and future nephew and I love her as part of the family, but still, I didn't make her acclimation easy. I can only hope TMI's sister accepts me without me having to pull the parental card just yet.

The Wish Whisker

I have always been a firm believer in wish making. At 11:11, on every dandelion and every lost eyelash, I very seriously and with an honest conviction, make a wish. For example, TMI, amongst his dark roguish scruff, has a small tiny hair near the corner of his mouth that has a white tip. Naturally I immediately ascribed it with terrible wish granting power. I kiss it gently with my eyes closed and beg, beg, for happiness; for a successful lasting relationship; for a visa, for a way back to France..

Here in Dijon there is a famous landmark called the chouette. It's a little misshapen image on the corner of the Notre Dame cathedral that sort of looks like an owl. It's famous for its wish giving powers if the wish-maker remembers to follow the proper protocol: to place their left hand on the owl and face towards the front of the church. I walk by this beautiful cathedral nearly every day and I almost always find reason to make a very serious wish. I've also managed to convince myself that every wish I've ever made has come true and the owl's power is indisputable and without question. And for the really big wishes, the ones that take more than a few moments, I've decided that you can actually go into the church and sit down to make it. This summons such incredible wishing magic from the chouette and the greater powers that be that there is no way the wish will go unheard.

Today was one of those days. I placed my hand on the ice cold chouette, and, afterwords, just to make sure, I went inside. With every ounce of my being I wished to be happy. I wished for my relationship to make it even with all the obstacles ahead of us.

But then, tonight, something overdue occurred to me. Regardless of what you believe of higher powers, a Goddess, a God, a wish granting chouette, the idea of a higher power of any kind is that it is omnipresent. The same power that I have given to the little owl on the Notre Dame cathedral exists inside of me as much as it exists in eye lashes, holy relics, and ancient cathedrals. I can make a wish on me. And, unlike the stone chouette or TMI's wish whisker, I can do something about it.

So tonight, for the first time, I started a wish with my name. And I asked myself to see me through the storm. And, unlike my other wishes, this time there was a response. "Yes."

The Storm

Somehow, in my last relationship, even though the man was completely wrong for me and we had almost nothing in common, in the beginning I managed to convince myself that we were perfect; that he was perfect for me. It's amazing how people can bend their beliefs about themselves, about who they are, and what makes them happy when it could mean having someone love you.

I have to consider this when looking at the current rough patches in my relationship with TMI. Yes, I'm much older now and no, he's nothing like my last relationship: but I know my capacity to convince myself that someone is the one just because I want them to be.

Several nights ago after the Christmas dinner party, I told TMI, finally in a moment of truth, that often being entrapped at parties and wine tastings with raucous 20-21 year olds at 4 am, tired, usually intoxicated, and aching to go home, then being told that I have to leave alone and "I don't know when I'll be back" maybe "tomorrow afternoon sometime" is sincerely not the kind of relationship I want to be in. Maybe I can't explain why, but hearing "you go, I'm going to stay here on the couch" hurts. Like seriously. Hurts.

Then, mere hours after I expressed this concern, I discover that starting in July or August of next year, TMI is expected to do a 5 month internship somewhere in France and probably no where near Dijon. As if my visa expiring and being exiled to Hawaii on the other side of the Earth for 3-6 month weren't bad enough. Assuming I don't get the work visa and have to wait for the student one, that could mean a combined time of some 10 MONTHS apart. Not to mention no roommate when I come back to France.

What gets me is that after all of my effort: the studying for French exams, the paperwork, the job searches, the old people meetings, the tears and stress and money all so that I could get back to France, he tells me that he might be gone for 5-7 months? And he tells me this now??

...

Why is this happening?

Sometimes I feel sincerely like the universe is doing it's absolute best to keep my relationship from working. It's like maybe in the future he and I would bear a child who would become a warlord or bring forth the apocalypse. Do the international governments and wine education circuits somehow know about this..??? Honestly I wouldn't be surprised after how many obstacles have been relentlessly hurled at two people in love.

I have to wonder if the right thing really is to march into the haze armed with optimism, or listen to the signs and give up. When faced with such a struggle my first instinct is to submit to despair and climb under the table. When does it stop being romantic and start being foolish to stubbornly whether the storm? He's too young; the odds are against us; we face 10 months of separation; our families are oceans apart; what is keeping me clinging on?

By Hook or by Crook

I have reached the point of complete desperation. Also, I'm completely hung over.

There is a creepy middle aged man with a comb over who comes into my cafe from time to time and has in the past asked if I might be interested in being a translator for his association for old people. Supposedly, they help with organizing activities and outings as well as keeping families in touch, which is from time to time an international affair. He's such a weirdo and so creepy I mainly try to keep my distance from him and serve him his espresso with a wide bubble of personal space, but, as I've said many times on this blog, desperate times...

So several days ago I opened a dialogue with him about possibly working for his association and, essentially, getting a work contract out of him. He seemed optimistic and invited me to a meeting last night at the old person head quarters to discuss the contract. So, hopeful for my future in France, I braved the rain, cold, and unknown and found my way to the office. ...Where I sat for 2 hours listening to old people talking about their lives and families and daughter in laws and heard not A WORD about a contract. Finally I said I was late for something and escaped.

Frustrated and feeling hopeless about my French future, I let TMI drag me to a fellow wine student's birthday party. The activity for the night was presenting bottle after bottle of champagne, white, rosé, and red wines hidden in a sock so the experts could taste and then guess the region, year, etc of the bottle. Since I'm completely ignorant to all that I just drank everything put in front of me until I realised I couldn't stand for nausea. I stumbled into the bathroom and, sitting sick on the toilet, shed a few tears for my state of embarrassing drunkenness. I wish I could say it was the first time it happened to me, but man, dating a wine student is dangerous. Despite my state TMI got me home and into bed where he took off my shoes, watered me profusely, and cuddled me through my sick night. -And morning headache.

That boy loves me. I mean really loves me. It makes me happy even while sitting here at work with a hangover.. and motivates me to never give up on getting this visa figured out. Next time comb-over comes into the cafe I'm getting the contract out of him by any means necessary! ...and now, another aspirin.

Fashionably Punctual

So like a woman to trade a bit comfort for beauty. Prague may be replaced with Brussels and the new coat was replaced by the below Free People party dress. There's a Christmas dinner party this weekend and it is my intention to be absolutely, ridiculously, gorgeous. So I sacrificed a bit of winter insolation and emptied my Christmas present funds on this dress; let's just pray that it get's here before this weekend. Seriously, if it shows up on Monday and misses the party I'm apt to kill someone.

Also I'd like to mention that TMI and I are now living together. ..And have been for some 4+ weeks. The move-in is traditionally a big relationship milestone, and usually is, if you remember to pop the "let's live together" question, but in our case it sort of went unnoticed until his mail started showing up in my box. We share a laundry basket, brush our teeth together, and take turns coming home to one another and kissing each other good bye in the mornings. It's perfect; and I'm actually startled by how happy I am.

While sometimes loving a human can be a scary thing, (loving a cat or a pair of shoes doesn't bear the threat of a change of heart,) I feel an ever-growing sense of gratitude and, cheesy as it sounds, awe; amazement that I could ever have been this lucky. And as I happily complete the transformation from single to settled, I can only hope that my luck lasts. ..Be it for lasting love, or a just a dress in the mail.

Why Don't You Just Go Gush About it

It's a little early to spill the beans on this, but I'm getting a bit too excited not to share. The previously mentioned me and 5+ drunk French guys in Prague adventure: just been potentially transformed into exclusively me and TMI romantic Prague adventure. Score! The result: I'm thrilled out of my mind.

I'll be honest, I was getting pretty excited about going with friends too, so if that option comes roaring back I won't complain more than expected, but romantic Prague under the snow with handsome TMI is just too wonderful a package to not gush a bit about. Plus, overly religious co-workers hopeful that I will redeem myself insist he's going to pop the question. I LOVE that people are gossiping about this, yes, but my young/wiser-to-the-situation self knows very well that's not what's going down.

But here's the really exciting part: a cold winter is on the way and, according to several reliable sources, winter in Prague is particularly chilly. This means I'm in the market for a new coat! Anyone have any advice for a Hawaii girl when facing the Old World in January? I've been sort of lurking around this navy blue Moment coat from Gentle Fawn the last week.. what do you guys think? What are your favorite looks this winter? ..And favorite coats you can share with me? I promise some classy Prague photos! (artistically anonymous, of course <3)

Snow

Well, after all that scurrying and worrying, the plans have changed and yet a few more French adventures (and naps and sex and boredom and challenges) lie ahead. The airline prices never went down and I wasn't able to cushion my emotional turmoil with a return plan before Christmas, so it appears I will be in France with TMI and his family after all. It will be my first Christmas without warm Hawaii sand and temperate outdoor dinner parties, and the consequential homesick of this reality has been pelting me like a sudden hail storm, but the good news: I will be here until February and thus have time to endure necessary French exams, scary phone interviews, and essay writing that could get me into a Masters program here in Dijon; granting me the ever sought after student visa and means to come back to the country I love. This means I can weather the 18 hours of flight time without attempting lost-love-themed suicide in the bathroom.

So this means my first Christmas day with my significant other's family, possibly a New Year's adventure in Prague, (which could require all night partying, death, and sharing a hostle room with 5 French guys) and a ski trip in the Alps. Probably all wrinkle inducing but at least blog material, right?

Last but not least, yesterday I ate raclette with TMI and two of his friends. It's this crazy grill + cheese melter thing that you put charcuterie and maybe mushrooms on while cheese melts- than you sort of pile it all together on potatoes on your plate in one big fat festival of social weight gain. I don't know if it was the comfort food or just common sense, but Mr. J finally eased off a bit and the happiness that's supposed to come from good love seems to be peeking out from all that icy insecurity and worry. There's still a lot of snow shoveling to do, I mean, but hey at least there's hope.

That Jerk Mr. J

I waited up for him till 4 am then gave up. I succumbed to sleep while feeling I had left him to the wolves. In my mind I was hearing him laughing and chattering while I huddled alone in the dark. Of course he came home, and of course everything was all right, and yet the weekend left me feeling like a new person. I feel weird. The wine tasting plus the night left alone with my imagination totaled my brain in a crash of jealousy.

I keep thinking of the girl I had the misfortune of watching all of Saturday, the one who had him momentarily before he had me; had his virginity in fact, and I see his hands that I love moving over her skin, I hear his passionate breathing while he moves over her body, kissing her mouth, being inside of her.

And suddenly I feel like I don't know the guy. Of course every one has a past. Mine is much more populated and involved than his certainly has been and there's no reason I should be letting it affect our present. Except there she was: a physical, tangible, real person in front of me and no longer something I could pretend was imaginary or safely in forgettable history.

I have loved, but I've always managed to keep a rational distance from that jerk Jealously. And now, somehow, I've let him get so close to me that he could slip his hands around my neck and cut of the oxygen to my brain. I no longer feel love, I just feel possessive and skittish. How do I get out of this and back into the air?

More Than Love

"I wish you had a favorite beauty spot that you loved secretly because it was on a hidden bit that nobody else could see"

-The Nicest Thing

I am deeply in love. But things are chemically and mentally difficult for me. Last night I went out and attempted to be social with TMI and his friends; we danced and laughed and drank and I desperately sublimated the fact that two of the girls we were passing the night ever so amicably with were previous persons of interest in TMI's physical life. Not. So. Easy.

We were up most of the night, slept for some 3 hours, then awoke in the morning to catch a train to a wine tasting with the same gang. I managed to stay for 6 hours before my feet, exhaustion, and the sight of the rear end of a previous squeeze of TMI drove me away. I tagged along with a couple leaving early and left him with his friends at the event, where they remain still.

I'm so exhausted and just want to go to sleep- but they plan to have a party at one of the girls' apartments tonight starting at 11:30 and going till who knows when. I seriously don't have the physical stamina for this kind of thing. I hate retreating and leaving my boyfriend to those I am jealous of for the whole night while I cower at home, but I also hate to feel like I need to make myself uncomfortable just to prove something / be fabulous when I'm not feeling fabulous to keep my partner.

Sometimes I worry I love his love more than I love him; maybe even more than I love myself.

Beyond the Hormone Hurricane

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The latest from the Etsy:

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Updates from the battle field: Turns out getting a student visa to study for a Masters degree in France is yet even more complicated than the work visa. You have to register through a website called Campus France and undergo an exam and phone interview long before you even go to the embassy to apply for the visa. This is particularly strenuous for me because, as you all know, I am from Hawaii: the nearest French embassy, aka the French Embassy of San Francisco, is not exactly a hop skip and a jump away. (more like 7 hours and $1000, actually)

You can see for yourself what the process looks like here:

http://www.usa.campusfrance.org/en/page/applying-a-french-master’s-program-–-all-disciplines-hors-dap

In the meantime I'm doing my very best to keep a stiff upper lip, keep calm, and carry on. I want to thank those of you who have commented and messaged me with your positive thoughts and affirmations; the majority vote from outside the hormone hurricane is that love stands a good chance. Thank you for that.

The One's Shelf Life

The work visa fell like a stone giant and crushed beneath it lay the quivering remains of my hope for coming back to France. Last night I had to look at TMI and know that we had a finite number of kisses between us; a dwindling number of times I would open my eyes to his in the morning.

Of course, I cried like life was a lost cause long into the night and again this morning. It doesn't help that I'm visiting with TMI's family in the South, wanting to be well liked but sitting silent at each meal with a trembling lip.

Hurled yet again into post-graduate-obscurity. I hate not having a path, and for a few horrific moments I didn't even know what hemisphere I was going to commence my life as a hopeless hobo in.

Fortunately, this afternoon, TMI took a determined eye to the internet and found me some Masters programs I could pursue here in France, assuming that my French were good enough and that I could find the money. There are none in the city of Dijon, so we would only see one another on the weekends, and I wouldn't be starting until September of next year; meaning 9 months of separation.

Does love, realistically, have that sort of endurance? I mean everything has a shelf life, right? This is the one you guys; this is the one I want to make babies with and wake up to every morning. The one and only one I want to kiss before brushing teeth or feel smooshed against me when I'm falling asleep. This is a scary time and I want to know: can I put the One on the shelf, and does it have to hurt this much?

The Driving Force

Late last night I went out dancing with TMI and his friends. As is the norm of my life abroad, I had to overcome my shyness and discomfort of being in a group of someone else's French speaking friends, but I somehow managed to be at least part-way to comfortable. I was wearing a big sweater and not feeling particularly attractive, but I convinced myself to dance away my inhibitions and relax. I kept it up for 30 or 45 minutes and I was under the impression we were having fun. TMI is a wonderful dancer: fun and creative, and I was feeling overcome with pride and love. Finally, to avoid sweater + dance floor induced heat stroke, I stepped off to the side to take a break. He came after me.

...To tell me that I was dancing too provocatively and "sending a message" to all the other men in the club that I was "easy" and "wanted sex."

There I was: standing in a sweater amongst scantly clad French girls, admiring TMI for his dance moves when suddenly I learn that he is, in fact, aggravated and "embarrassed" by me. I told him I wanted to leave and I didn't want him to come with me.

I was furious, but also tired and feeling hurt, so I didn't have it in me to fight or yell when he insisted he leave with me. At home, I was fixing to go to sleep without talking about it, but he said: "I feel like if we don't talk about this now we'll just continue our relationship always feeling like there was a problem we didn't solve." I conceded, but naturally, the talking just made things worse.

Here are the straight up facts: I love him more than I've ever loved anyone. He's gorgeous and talented: I'm courageous and beautiful; but we are both detrimentally jealous and insecure. In the end I almost suspect the fear of loosing one another is what will drive us apart.

Past Cats and Passed Family Members

Honeybees depend not only on physical contact with the colony, but also require its social companionship and support. Isolate a honeybee and she will soon die.

- The Queen Must Die: And Other Affairs of Bees and Men.

Typing in the cafe where I work, I can see three French girls sitting together outside on the terrace. Each holding a white tea cup and sharing a large pot of tea with honey, I can see them chattering: moving their hands expressively, laughing, leaning a chin on their palm while they listen to one another's stories.

Last night I was overcome with such intense nostalgia that I couldn't sleep. I lay there dissecting memories of childhood, school, past Christmases and beach camp-outs, ice cream cones with girl friends after school and granola in the morning with my dad. I thought about past cats and passed family members, old infatuations and home-town landmarks. In my mind I drove my little car along the main road in my tiny mountain town, trying to recall every roadside detail that once outlined my every day.

I've been gone from all of that for a long time. I haven't had a proper girlfriend since coming to France and I scarcely talk to my closest friends from Hawaii. Yes, I am in love with both my boyfriend and with France, but it's time to face the music: I am homesick.

I finally found sleep cozied against TMI who, I might add, totally pissed me off by stealing the blankets in the night and then sort of.. sleep yelling when I tried to steal them back.. but all the same when in complete consciousness he made his best effort to ensure I was cozy. I'm only 23 and all ready regularly body slammed by nostalgia. Does it get worse? Or do we eventually figure out how to embrace Dr. Seuss and not be "sad because it's over, but happy because it happened?"

Dreams After Breakfast

It's in those moments when, tossing in bed at 5am because of a fever or menstrual cramps or nightmares or headaches or any other self-pity inducing symptoms, and your significant other, even though they too are trying to sleep and probably bothered by your restlessness, rolls over and pulls you close to their body, coos sympathetically and kisses your nose, that any doubt melts like the memory of your dreams after breakfast.

Is it normal to doubt when the words "I love you" are flying out of your mouth 100 times a day? I seem to be irreversibly prone to wonder if really I'm not being deluded by insecurity, good looks, soft skin, etc, and I worry that I shouldn't dare make any sacrifices for what my young brain thinks is love.

And yet, last night, feeling totally sorry for myself since I'm on some pretty heavy antibiotics to fight my endless onslaught of urinary tract infections (awesome!) which make my skin rosy red as I roll around with fever all night; plus my boobs are hurting like crazy because of my contraceptives, while expecting TMI to be totally pissed off with my tossing and turning, he comforted me so effectively that I experienced a moment of complete doubtless bliss. And I'll be honest, its been happening a lot.

So what's with the second guessing?

I'm considering staying here with TMI's family for Christmas this year to put off our dreaded separation and give me more time to move out of my little apartment. But, it would be my first Christmas away from my family in the Hawaiian islands, and let me tell you, I am a serious family girl. And while all young adults face that first Christmas without their immediate family, my parents are older than most, and, my Robert-Redford-sailing-legend of a father had a difficult year with skin cancer. My family Christmases no longer seem like a forever given.

I said it in the post before last and I'll say it again: how much is love really worth these days? There are sacrifices on both ends of my plane ride and at present I don't know which is worth being more panicked about.

After some restless hours of light sleep in the morning, I awoke in a sweat, totally terrified. Nightmares. ..But by the time I sat up I'd forgotten them.

Skirting Danger

My leg looks like I've suffered a zombie attack. And what's worse, so does my new boot. First time wearing them out: I had paired them with a cold weather dress and over the knee socks which left a band of exposed skin about 5 inches wide below the hem of the skirt. Apparently that was enough to attract injury.

TMI and I were biking home after having drinks at a friends place. I use the term "biking" lightly as I was balancing precariously on the seat whilst he suffered by standing on the peddles the whole way and pulling us along. We were slightly drunk, really cold, sharing some kind of ever-strengthening virus we seem to be incubating between us, and very tired. Welp, A + B = C and all that, so we crashed.

Middle of the street; everyone saw; the contents of my purse were strewn in a trail of shame behind us, and I cried and was a total girl about it.

I was all ready feeling down about myself for not exactly being the life of the French party. I was tired from getting up early to eject my mother from France and couldn't follow much of the conversation or ad much. So I was all ready feeling like a lower grade girlfriend.. then I went and fell off the bike. Oh, and ruined my new boots.

But seriously the resulting wound looks like something out of a Science Fiction. Thats kinda cool, at least. It's a long scratch with a bruise around it. Straight up Zombie claw. Or Dinosaur attack. Or Alien Invasion.

But that's nothing compared to the stair incident

Worry Never Saps Tomorrow of its Sorrow...

My new haircut is SO BAD I seriously can't go outside or see my boyfriend. I've never felt so terrible about my appearance. The hair stylist literally mugged me. Drive by hair thievery. My bangs had gotten just a little too long, and, even though I still thought they looked great, I decided to go in just to have them neatened and she just shwacked them right off over my eyebrows like a thick hedge.

I'm bed (and hat) ridden with grief.

In actual news my mom leaves France in three days which will grant me the freedom to go back to work in the French Jesus-freak cafe as well as recommence with sex in my apartment, but I suspect a brief and possibly lonely adjustment period to motherlessness.

Also, I'm now only two months away from leaving France to return to Hawaii for Christmas. It could be a good-bye-forever with the man I love. Which I know for him is equally as daunting because in a gesture sweeter than I think any living man today is capable of, he asked if my mother would "mind" if he married me. I love TMI: but marrying me to help keep me in France by solving my visa problems would just feel like taking advantage of him. And, just to kick a dead horse, I'll say the words one more time: exceptionally too young.

None the less he hasn't seen this hair cut yet and it may well be the end of our relationship. I'm not sure I even have the guts to see him until they grow back; which may as well be when I'm leaving France.

My future is so tangled up I don't even know where to begin to make sense of it. The whole project seems like turning a scrambled egg into a hard boiled one. Coming back to France will be a huge and timely undertaking; other life paths include the West coast, graduate school, and old college roommates.

How much is love worth these days, anyway?

The Schism Approaching

I'm in Avignon with my mother and, at this very moment, sitting on my bed with my computer in my lap, arguing with her about circumcision. My 8-months-ago self would have fought this into the ground with me, but as some will remember from my last post on this subject, I am now pretty convinced that no one should cut off a part of their penis.

But this isn't what I want to talk about. Nor is it my mothers panic attacks, negativity, and contagious fear of adventure of even embarking on the next leg of our trip to Foix. Instead I want to tell you that A) I'm fatter than ever and ate too much salmon this afternoon, and B) mom and I visited the famed Palais de Papes and managed quite a good time. Afterwards we explored the beautiful adjacent gardens but the wind was so frisky and my mom so tiny that she was literally blowing away; we were forced to seek shelter in the indoors where I was assailed by the salmon.

And, finally, the literary news: My grand mother and great hero, Alberta, 102 years old and married seven times, world traveler, accomplished artist, and breaker of many rich and famous hearts, is on morphine in her Hawaiian old folks' home and on her way out. Her adventures are compiled in volumes and volumes of illustrated journals and notebooks- which I, as her equally horny and adventurous prodigy, have decided to digest and turn into her well deserved biography. I can frame it with my current French happenings as well as her humorous but defiant plunge into super-old age.

Lastly, I miss the man I love and dread the ever nearing schism between us when I am forced to retreat to the island chain half a globe away. ..In fact, seeing the worry in words causes a heart ache; so that closes this post.

The Mom Effort, and my Heart's One True Bag

If my last post about sex under my mother's bunk bed lost a good portion of my readers, I suspect my week long hiatus lost the rest of them.

My apartment is literally bursting at the seams with bodies. With my mother and often TMI both living here, and, for the last week, a guy-friend from the states who is studying in Germany and decided to visit, I've been overwhelmed with feeding and entertaining house guests. One needs a lot of sex, cuddles, and attention, another needs sight seeing, salad and tea supply, and the third wants someone to get stoned with at all times of the day.

Mom, despite everyone's best efforts and the should-be-magic of a first time trip to Europe, is largely unimpressed and predominantly homesick. We spent a week in beautiful Sauzet with TMI's family in the South, and are now putting together an impromptu trip to Avignon and then to a little village further south called Foix. It's more out of olbligation than an authentic envy to tour France; mom has just grown too much into a Hawaii-home body in her later years.

Foix

As you can imagine, the steady house guests have left TMI and I stranded with no safe place for sex; which frankly seems to be messing with both of our minds. Yesterday, six times, I asked him to marry me. -And yes, I really do think I love him that much. But it's a fairly harmless question coming from me, since I'm too young and he's exceptionally too young, and we're of different nationalities and I've virtually no direction in life. ... I'm giving the screen a serious look and asking: "What's the point of falling in love below 25, anyway?"

Lastly: I have it. Every day for the past month, a girl younger, Frencher, more beautiful and more stylish than I has come into my cafe and ordered something offensive to my weight like a milkshake. She totes an unthinkably fabulous bag and each day I assail her with questions of where she got it and how I can find it. It was a gift and its origins were unknown. But! Finally! After weeks of searching and slightly-related-but-getting-very-creative key words, I tracked it down. I bought it while squealing in excitement and can now happily model it for you. Please, seriously, please, be jealous.

Say what you want about object fetishism, I'm very content to pull my happiness out of this bag.