Pussy Party Aftermath

Well, I went to the party. -And I was really hoping that it would be either A) good, or B), bad in a funny way so that I could write a sarcastic post about it. ..But it wasn't really either of these things. 

Honestly I'm really conflicted about it so I'm not sure how to even proceed describing it. I'm unsure if I'm old, boring, anti-social, and irrational, or if the party was just wildly too childish for me. Or maybe I'm just not a party person. Who knows, but when TMI asked me in the aftermath , 'god, didn't you think Chantal was funny?" -Chantal being a guy dressed as a gogo dancer with big blow up plastic boobs and a gold thong, who, once the party moved to a bar, got on stage to "perform" with the band,) I felt dismayed to think that I instead found it rather gross and completely juvenile. ,,Maybe I would have found it funny under different circumstance?? I dunno!

I'm ashamed to say it but I cried sporadically through the night and the next day. We missed our train home Sunday and had to sleep with a friend and come back Monday morning. I'm totally screwed up about it. I don't know if I'm the victim or the bad guy for not having fun. I don't know if I love my boyfriend or if he's just intensely handsome and I think that I need him to love me. 

Do I need a break up? Therapy? Anti-depressants? A chill pill and  just to learn how to party?

Either way I'm on the couch tonight :/

Pussy Party

So I'm agonizing over a tough decision. TMI wants to go to a crazy costume party for his rather fat and crude drunk friends in the south of France on saturday. He insists that I go. I will have to pay $150 in gas, highway fees, and train tickets, plus a 6 hour drive there and three hour drive to a train station on the way back. We won't be home until midnight on Sunday.(Monday morning, technically.) Sounds like the worst thing ever to me. Enclosed smoking and sleeping in puke on the floor, more or less. But, if I stay here I'll be alone and sad thinking of him going crazy and having fun without me and probably commit suicide from loneliness and insecurity, but at least it will be cheaper and better for my liver. 

Importantly, here's what the invite to the party looks like: 

"Grémaillière de [so and so] et [whats'-his-name] au [distant address]. Veuillez trouver l'obligeance de vous vêtir de votre plus bel accoutrement en G (Gouine autorisé et fortement encouragé). Munissez-vous d'une bouteille (cubi, felissou, villageoise et autres alcools frelatés autorisés et encouragés) et de votre appareil génital (monotesticule ou chatte en sauce et/ou chatte à l'ail autorisés et encouragés de même).

Prière d'arriver le gosier sec et l'esprit clair, aucun débordement ne saura toléré. 

Amicalement, les Grolocs.

PS: bifles et hélicoptères interdits."

Yes, there are words like "monotesticle" and "pussy sauce" in this one paragraph invite. This is the other thing that gets me. One of the two people throwing this costume / house warming party is a girl who regualarly hurles such phrases like those above at my boyfriend in facebook comments and texts, and worse, he responds in the same lingo. I don't get it.I took him for a rather reserved, classy, intellectual type. A friend told me I need to go just to supervise my boyfriend in these vaginal conversations, but I find it rather.. repelling. 

So do I go or do I stay? It should also be noted that as it is a costume party, if I do go, I will be trapped in a two person card board rendition of the Great Wall of China.

..

Opinions anyone? Personally I'm thinking that I'm way too old for this. 

Change of Address, ATTACK

I think changing apartments is generally 457% more complicated in France than in the United States. For example: step 1, call the internet company and ask them to cancel our service. They're speaking too fast in too much French and insisting I tell them "why," so I hang up in fear and have TMI call back. We need to know our landline phone number; somehow our name and address aren't good enough to locate our account. We scramble around to find it on our old paperwork. Once the cancellation is finally agreed upon, we get to pay them a 45 euros cancellation fee. I was prepared to tell them to allait te faire foutre, but TMI insisted that was normal practice in these parts. Then, the internet doesn't actually stop until they mail you a shipping label, you find a box, and stuff all of your hardware (router, modem, etc.) into the box, and then WALK to the other side of town to one of their authorized drop off stations. woo! Setting up a new account in the new apartment was a similar process but in reverse- it also required a 10 day activation period. 

The electricity was arguably worse. After I had retured the apartment keys to the agency, it was discovered that to cut the electricity  I needed a number on an electric counter somewhere in the apartment. I walked to the agency, got the keys, got the number and walked back. Called the service provider. I needed TWO numbers. I HULK SMASHHED the phone and then walked BACK to the agency and repeated that last steps. 

The complications, mishaps, and cancellation fees were attacking from all sides. Now that it seems to be over, I'm sort of hiding out in the apartment and peering fearfully around the curtains, waiting for some other institution I forgot to deal with to AMBUSH. 

The Perfect Pumpkin Curry

Every week I receive a "panier bio," or,  a burlap sack of organic seasonal fruits and veggies. It's pretty cool. I've been getting a lot of pumpkin lately so my new favorite thing is to cut one in half, bake it, and use one part for a pumpkin bread and the other for a curry. The result is that my pumpkin bread still sucks but my pumpkin curry could slay an army. Oh so ono.

Okay so cutting to the chase:

a chunk of baked pumpkin

400 ml of coconut milk

250 g of white beans

2 baked, russet potatoes

1/2 cup raisins 

1/2 cup shredded purple cabbage

about 3 medium carrots, cut into curry sized pieces

1 medium onion

1 shallot

2 tbs olive oil

1/4 cup water

seasonings:

A LOT of curry powder, about 11/2 tbs, until broth is dark yellow

1 tsp cinnamon 

1/2 tsp coriander 

1 tsp crushed basil

1/2 paprika (mostly to give the curry a nice color)

salt and pepper to taste

Process:

Heat the olive oil in a large wok and then add onion, carrots, shallot, and purple cabbage. Saute until golden. Add coconut milk and spices and reduce heat. Cover and let simmer until carrot is soft when poked with a fork. Taste constantly and ad spices until the broth is to your liking! Add white beans and raisins. Cut your cooked potato and pumpkin into curry sized chunks and add to the pan. Cover and let simmer for about 20 minutes or until you can't stand the amazing smell anymore. Serve on jasmine rice. And save some for lunch tomorrow - it's even better the next day :)

Capacity for Placid Romance

There has indeed been a long hiatus. And I aint sayin' the drought is over, but all the same there is plenty to be said.

First, the bad news: Life is domestic and I'm fidel in a committed relationship.

..Coincidentally that also sums up the good news.

I'm back in France and, after two months apart while I pined in the Hawaiian islands, my French significant other and I have resettled into a normal sized apartment. (-At last casting away our tiny studio.) It is both very French and typically eccentric. Marble fireplace, high ceilings,  wrought iron watch-ma-callit on the terrace, window over the tub that looks into the kitchen, etc.

The first of December will be our 1 year and 6 month anniversary. We seem to be very in love and yet drama still befalls me. Night before last, we sat in a bar having drinks with a feared red head who, I know on good authority,  pursued and made out with my mate mere months before we met. She doesn't know that I know, but dang, I know. And I also know what it's like to be in her situation. It's sort of a sexy, dangerous situation and I don't like it. So let's get even more irrational: She's like, 4'11'', weird shaped, and way smarter than I am. I'm some times a model but mostly a retard. So I got drunk and ate French fries and convinced myself that she was hotter and more spectacular in every way so that when we got home later in the night I locked myself in the bathroom and cried over my piteous self doubt. Damn! I was reading yesterday about eremites and penitents who would go into the desert for 40 years to have a change of heart. If those guys started hating themselves or suffering self doubt, it was demonic possession. No question about it.

My apartment is nice but my capacity for placid romance is next to nothing. 

The Heart is an Idiot but it Always Wins

Friday night, and they day before my brother’s wedding. I remember calculating at the age of like, 8, that possibly by the time I was 16 he could be getting married. I couldn’t wait for the wedding and hoped ardently that I would be right. It kind of adds an interesting aire of nostalgia that tonight, at 24, I am where I am and feeling the way I do hours before the event. -Also that I’ve still, to this day, never been to a wedding.

I’m going back to France on Monday, and I know that in spite of my love for the country, it’s not exactly the responsible or wise thing to be doing. With my current education, (an undergrad in art history and one year into my MA in art admin with a flawless GPA) I could move to San Francisco, Portland, or any US city of my choice and find well paying gallery positions that I am more than qualified to take. Would this make me happy? Yes. Would this be a wise move for my future career? Definitely. Would I undoubtedly meet scads of entertaining people and assuredly fall in love again? My heart squeaks a little here but my brain answers “of course.”

So what this boils down to is that I’m being an idiot. I love France and yes, I’m in love with someone in France. But neither he or the country are particularly likely to become home or family, so nesting there and biding my time just in case one or the other should become a reality is romantic, but probably 100% retarded.

What am I doing and how many people are wondering when I'm going to snap out of it? 

Exclusivity Before Commitment

I thought girl talk was supposed to clarify, sort through, and expand on man issues. In France I've missed out on this kind of banter for the past 2 years, and now I can say, returning from an evening of presque non-stop man/dating/interpreting of hidden messages chatter, I have never been more confused. 

Tonight I was told that the "girlfriend/boyfriend" thing works for guys, because they can date a woman for years and never consider marrying her, but it doesn't work for women. Women apparently don't have monogamous sexual relationships without attachment and a goal of commitment. The open-ended intimacy doesn't work with us. So! What is the solution according to my gal pals? No committed relationships until marriage: in other words, no exclusivity until someone is willing to offer commitment in exchange. 

Apparently it's ok to stop having sex with other people, but dating should remain open until the one "steps up" (I prefer sacks up) and is ready to give you commitment in exchange for  your fidelity and exclusivity. (Which, as the theory goes, would work since women can't give that without getting attached.)

This tends to go against my current belief system which tells me good love and good relationships come from monogamy and intimacy, so go for it, but my attached and insecure side wonders if I'm doing it all wrong.  

Is it ok to give it all? Or are we giving it all to soon? 

Yell if You Have To.

My honey has been working in a vineyard in the boonies for the last several weeks with no internet connection and no international cell phone plan. I send him daily love messages anyway, knowing they won't be read, but I'm sorrowfully starting to feel like "my honey" is imaginary.

In other news I have been fitted with my IUD. Yes, as yahoo answers will tell you and the thousands of other girls posting "will it hurt?" it will just about ruin your day. A second nurse actually came in and gave me a stress squeeze ball and her hand to hold, saying, "yell if you have to." For the record, I probably made the people in the waiting room very nervous. 

I've been consistently campy for the past few days, but I will say that going off the pill has lead to an increase in libido, (hard to believe since I was already in the maniac devision) and, TMI here, more intense orgasms. Just throwing it out there as one of the potential pros. -For anyone potentially in the decision making process.

One week and counting to my brother's wedding, which means 1 week and three days before I return to France and survey what damage two months apart has done to my once perfect relationship. I hope it's all repairable. 

Oh! And lastly, cancer news: I get to stay in limbo for the next 9 months. I'm told it's at a stage where my body may kick it on its own with "yoga, a multivitamin," and probably karate lessons. I have to come back next year for a second biopsy to see if it's gone, the same, or worsened. 

Live in the moment!

Marriage and Cancer

Today at Kukio there was another wedding. I swear someone is getting married there every weekend, often consecutively on saturday and the someone else on sunday. All this beach wedding action plus my brother and future sister in laws' frantic wedding prep has really put me off to the whole thing. I may be desperate to make the man I love my family, but I have zero interest in wearing a pouffy dress and holding his hands in front of a crowd while some over-charismatic speaker leads us through a cheesy, religious, or cliche ceremony. 

Ideally: discreet but classy dress; an intimate party of 10-15; there's excellent liqueur and great food; I'm cozy in my partner's lap while people laugh and drink; sometime at the end we sign the papers with no show whatsoever. No photographer, no vows, no cake, no bouquet, and definitely no pouffy dress.

Before I fell in love, I was all about the party. Now that I'm there, I just want spend my life with this guy. Screw the festivities. 

In totally unrelated news I have high risk HPV and mutated cells on both my cervix and vagina. So there goes the IUD option. Instead of the 5 minute installation I'd been sweating about, I had a half hour biopsy where chunks of  me were snipped out while I cried into a tissue on the doctors table. Girls are so sensitive. At least I am. You spend so much time meditating on the position that the only person you want anywhere near that area is the man you love, exclusively, and then you have to lie on a table for thirty minutes and get violated by sharp objects. 

The conclusion is that I may have cervical cancer, I don't know what I'm going to do about contraceptives, and I don't think I want a wedding.

A Love Worth Waiting For

The $1000 Chip

I'm seemingly going through a dark place. In the day I can't remember what our intimacy was like or if it even existed. Sometimes I get a little flashback in my dreams, and wake up elated, but as I rub the sleep out of my eyes it's overcome by this ache in my stomach. Kind of a fear and misery with no real base, just a persistent and defiant continuity. 

Now, even if he tells me he loves me and wants to keep me, the words can't penetrate me. I wan't them to, terribly; I want to feel that and be confident of it, but the fear and discomfort has built up such an immense and resilient endoskeleton of distrust that my pining, delicate entrailles can't be reached or soothed by words.

On top of this, the IUD is upon me any day now, and the internet has terrified me with stories of uncomfortable sex, spotting, and worst of all, the discovery that my dad's first wife had one, got an infection, and was left sterile in the aftermath.

This anxiety for the new presence in my most delicate and intimate areas plus the fear for my relationship has left me awake and weeping several consecutive nights now.

I know love is a gamble. A leap, a courageous and sometimes risky investment. You've got to take that part of you that you've worked on all your life, the most sensitive, delicate, and passionate chunk of you and place it on the table. The $1000 chip we've spent our lives creating in the hopes that we'll win big. History tells us that the stakes are against us and, in all likelihood, that precious chunk of yourself you've given to someone else is gonna get swept away. 

When so much is on the table, how do we conquer the fear, and enjoy the game?

Nymphotine

In spite of the deprivation that likely awaits me abroad, I'm itchin' to get back to France. Or, more appropriately, back under my French man. The sexual withdrawals are staggering, I may soon loose my ability to walk, and I have seemingly no outlet. Living in my parent's household under my infamous and non masturbation friendly picture windows, even my once sympathetic lover, the Skype chat window, has gone frigid.

I know it couldn't possibly replace real sex, but it has to be better than nothing, right? TMI, whose dreadful faux title no longer means Too Much Info but The Man Intime, has ruled it out as frustrating.. -and I'm ruled as utterly frustrated. 

Do they make a chewing gum for this?

Bitchn' Bout Birth Control

I'm highly considering getting an IUD. The hormones from contraceptives make me crazy and give me cysts in my boobs. Not working. Anyone who knows me and knows this blog will also know that condoms ain't gonna cut it. The IUD sounds ideal, lasting 5-12 years either without hormones or just keeping them where they belong, in (your uterus,) but it's very expensive and apparently terrifying. Horror stories plague the internet of women who havent had children, like myself, and endure terrible pain, bleeding and cramping through a scary procedure involving a cervical clamp. *shudder*

It's not like I'm doing it because I WANT to- this is the other thing that's getting me- I'm doing it for my relationship. So we can continue to have sex, avoid conception for the time being, and not assail our union with emotional outbursts. I hate that I have to deal with all this and also keep it partially to myself. Taking hormones? Invasive procedures? Ouchy boobs and emotional roller coasters all because apparently BEING A WOMAN SUCKS, and contraceptives are completely our responsibility. 

If your guy was getting something painfully shoved up his penis for $500 dollars just to make monogamous sex with you safe wouldn't you feel like you should pitch in for the price? Or at least say thank you? 

I'm sorry, I'm angry. I blame the pills. I have an appointment on Thursday and my nerves are off the charts.

Kicking It: Frogs in the Face and Relationships in the Butt

In the more forested and wet regions of Hawaii there live a number of bufo toads. They like to hang out on my parent's driveway and watch danger wizz by, which rarely happens because they end up flat on a daily basis. Perhaps they're more suicidal than thrill seekers. Anyway, yesterday I didn't think of this being a pedestrian hazard and, tramping merrily along, accidentally kicked one and sent it flying upwards to hit my knee before spinning off into the grass. 

I at first thought it was a weird glob of plant matter so left it be, but then reflecting on the unusual sound and feel, and turned around to find a brown, leathery guy struggling in the grass.I righted him to discover that I had exploded his right eye and hurt or broke his front right leg. Ugh! I felt so guilty I hung around petting the shocked little fellow until it started to rain, where upon I moved him away from the driveway and under a tree so he wouldn't get flattened. 

The guilt runs deep, as last night I dreamt of giant, half dinosaur half frogs thundering through the forest and tearing my family's house to pieces, all of us running and screaming and diving for shelter. 

In closing kicking frogs is the most exciting thing happening in my life right now. For all TMI and I have been through together I can see there's no way we're going to get through this time apart. Affections are waning. It's very painful and I'm tempted to just cut it off rather than watch it sizzle out. The truth is I think hanging on to something hopeless may be more painful than actually losing it. 

Fonder or Forgetful?

No one makes me happy like he does. Or so miserable, arguably. If some younger girl asked you "what is love like?" Would you be the French actress from Coco Before Channel and say "ça fait mal," or the mother from that cheesy Casa Nova movie and say "It's like good weather every day, even when it's not."

How can something eventually develop to this level of value and preciousness in your life with not also brining with it a stinging fear of losing it? The Dali Lama said in some pocket size gift book somewhere: 

On a plane ride I had the pleasure of tasting a particularly delicious and special chocolate. It was the most wonderful and luxurious sweet I had ever tasted, and I will not forget the pleasure of eating it. However, should I never have the opportunity to taste it again, I will remain content; having had the good fortune of tasting it the one time. 

Doctor Seuss actually said the same thing with "don't be sad that it's over, be glad that it happened."

All this wisdom and I still don't see how anyone can go on blithely with so much to lose.

My beloved went back to France two weeks ago after 5 with me and my family here in Hawaii. We could have had better weather and he seemed to have been allergic to my parent's house, but all in all things went well and I relished having him home, in my arms on sandy beaches and in my bed in the cold mountain nights. I'm not going back until October, staying in the islands for my brother's wedding. Two months of wondering how much time and distance a relationship can take. Any advice on staying happy in long distance situations? Is the hen in Robbin Hood right when she says "Absence makes the heart grow fonder!" -or Maid Marian when she says forlornly out the window, "or forgetful!" 

True

People will tell you that infatuation, lust, and love are not the same things. Last night I heard that "the only true love is unrequited." While growing up and learning love from barbies to disney, from crushes to dating and dating to relationships, I've resolved that there is one kind of love, to many kind of loves, and lastly, no two kinds of love that are alike. 

The one that most of us are familiar with is butterflies and infatuation. My previous experiences with this engulfing sensation all had me convinced that I was in love.  

Here, once again in Hawaii and with my boyfriend far away on the other side of the Earth in France, I noticed a new feeling. While looking at his face on my computer screen, as is the only way for me to see him during our separation, there was no fluttering or tightening in my throat, but instead a deep warming purr, as though someone had strung a steal chord from my collar bone to my pelvis, running through my core, and struck it. 

Is it really fair to say that one kind of love, infatuation, lust, obsession, friendship, domestic, forbidden, unrequited, is any more real than any other? While each offers a new sensation or new feeling as you experience growing attached to another human being, perhaps what is most important is finding the one that is right for you- not the one that is "real."

The South, Spain, and The Fish Crisis

One week down in Perpignan, and though I've spent a good deal of time on the couch, in bed, and in the reading chair while TMI works in the vineyard, the time here has also been embellished lightly with some perfect Southern France and Spain exploration. 

Last Tuesday I went with TMI's mom to work and had a day to myself wondering the walled medieval city of Carcassonne. It felt a bit like Disney Land with the streets all stuffed and colored with flamboyant summer shirts and hairstyles of plump aging tourists, but the novelty of the scene was worth it.

Thursday TMI's mom took me yet again on an adventure and we crossed the border into Spain and spent the late afternoon in Gerona. Loved it. We sat under flowery trellises and sipped melty melon flavored shave ice-like drinks.I think we were supposed to be female bonding, which I tried sooo hard to do, but the language barrier is still fighting our having a comfortable relationship like a feral cat on a leash. 

The weekend the whole family went back down to Spain, this time to a town called Figueres, where TMI and I explored the Dali museum. We kept very close to one another and I adored exploring the inside of all those slides I'd seen while studying art history in college.

In other words I've been managing alright in the occasionally awkward 2 weeks in Perpignan with TMI's parents situation. But, just to complain about something, we have been eating A LOT OF MEAT. As in, every day, every meal. Before moving to France I'd been vegetarian for several years, namely because I couldn't handle the violence of eating something that once walked and talked- picking bones and avoiding fat has always made me squeamish, but also because I'm a strong animal rights advocate. I'd been handling the meat eating well enough, but last night,(and I know you guys are gonna barf at my wimp out factor here) we had fish, the kind where it's the whole fish, gaping mouth, steamed eyes and all, on the plate.

I picked around the bones and tried my best not to look at the face.. the little teeth, the white eyes, etc, and I was trying to work my way around the vein covered spine, when I pulled at it and a slimy red fish brain slipped out of the head. That was it. Trying not to attract any attention, I tried to pile the fish in a way that looked like I'd eaten it and left the table the first chance I got. It was a big reminder that for a year I'd been doing something I didn't feel good about; but also that I'm ashamed of not wanting to eat meat and afraid that TMI won't be able to understand.

Couch Surfing

OK so... I don't wanna go on about this since I promised everyone I was actually ok with it, but I can't resist. Yesterday I caught a train to Perpignan to spend some time with TMI, he's down here doing an internship. The train ride was at first a disatser, but then ending with me drinking too much wine with the train staff; so that will be the next post. 

Today, my first day with TMI in a week, an old friend of his tagged along and spent the day with us. It was nice, but I was looking forward to having my boyfriend to myself and getting cozy with him at night, since I havent been able to so in a long while... well, the friend drank too much this evening, so he had to stay with us. -And I'm on the couch, and he is at this very moment in bed with my boyfriend.

...

.....

WHEN AND WHY WOULD THIS EVER HAPPEN?

sigh, like I said I won't go on about it. But there it is. 

bonne nuit :/

Pliancy and Weakness

Today as I dried dishes in the cafe, gritting my teeth and grumbling because I am neither employee nor slave but treated as both, a plain looking girl, my age, received a wedding gift across the table. She had been married in Paris a week before.

My heart shrunk and sank to the back of my chest. The same thing had happened several weeks ago when watching the film The White Ribbon. The subtitles read: "That I would soon call this beloved creature my wife filled me with such elation.." the rest escapes me, but not the tightening in my chest. I kept repeating the words to myself the week through.

I know, I know. Every independent, self proclaimed woman of modernity and a true sense of self should be too wise to whimper and whine for marriage. But there is no secret to this anymore: I'm a young soul. In fact I'm firmly convinced that this is my first go at being a human, (if one is to believe such things) and was more likely drifting space dust in my last incarnation than anything dealing with human relationships and the task of loving one's self. I cry at music, laugh and clap at a bird taking a bath, blow every dandelion, am wildly superstitious and believe everything the first time I hear it.  The result is I'm a slave to my biology. Jealously lays me on the floor boards and insecurity walks all over me like a throw rug while my mind hasn't the vaguest idea how to conquer either.

Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being, which leads me to believe my soul is squirming in a state of infancy. Long story short, I want desperately to be loved deeply, and, perhaps more over, with constant affirmation. I want someone to want to spend the rest of their life with me, and to prove it with paperwork. 

Micro Gardening

No job, car, friends or lover on a Sunday in France is a boss level in keeping occupied. Everything is closed, TMI is gone to the South for a three week internship, the cafe is closed, and my tiny pool of friends is dispersed, hungover, or distracted with a new girlfriend.

So! What can a girl in a tiny studio apartment do?

1) I'm fish sitting a blue fighting fish named Johnny. I spent an alarming portion of my day putting different cups and bowls in his tank to watch him pick fights with / explore.

2) Cleaning. Vacuuming, taking out the recycling, beating the rug, etc.

3) And finally, the most fulfilling: micro gardening. Little succulents are a great choice for a city apartment life as they don't need a great deal of.. well, anything. You can lock em up in your bathroom, leave them in the sun, forget to water them ,ect, and they hold up pretty well. Plus, they're awfully cute little guys and very space efficient.

A few days ago I bought some and, inspired by the jars I was discovering while taking out the recycling, repotted them and decorated the more dreary corners of my apartment.

Just remember to stick a piece of burlap or a layer of stones in the bottom to help with filtration so they don't get to saturated. 

How to B the Worst Kind of Guy

Today I was terrified to step out of the credit union and into the direct path of B. Considering that we live on the same street, it's a wonder that it doesn't happen more often, but, being that he's a hermit with psychological problems, I can usually come and go as I please from my rustic street without fearing horrible encounters such as these. 

I wasn't sure if he was soar that I'd at last deleted him from Facebook.. or if he'd even noticed. I didn't know what to expect. He was as slimy and as infused with cigarette smoke as ever and had been walking home with another, creepy looking guy. To my horror he introduced me as his ex, then insisted he go along with me to the bakery, where I was going on a daily baguette mission.

I was friendly and upbeat. He was a total slime ball. "You are looking good!" He tells me, "not fat or ugly." He asks me if I am still with the same man. I say yes and he is very surprised. "Have you been fidel?" I shoot him a shocked look. "No, you havent!" He says with a greasy smile. "I'm sure!"

I'm boiling inside but I shrug it off. Later he actually has the gaul to advice me to "take the pill" and to suggest that TMI is probably a chauvinist who wants me only for baby making. (dear god.) When I finally ditch him to duck into the bakery, he ices the cake by saying "call me if you want sex," and winking. How dare he? First off, what business is my private life of his and how could he possibly think it would be appropriate to talk to me in such a way when he knows I'm in a committed relationship? How could I resist but give him a horrified and disgusted expression before turning away. Quelle connard! 

Honestly how rude and crass. Ugh. Just ugh.

Stepping Out: Flower Shorts!

The heat has once again settled in to Dijon, and, though a year in France has rendered me way too fat to do so, I'm desperate to don shorts. And what luck, flower prints are in. I picked up these flowery little guys from HnM and am loving them. Now it's just time to do some.. I dunno, squats or something. 

Today I wore them with an embroidered tank top, a crochet fedora, and some white lace flats. 

Its been like, a year since I've done Steppin' Out Saturday. When I Fight for the Phoque went anonymous it made posting outfit photos difficult. But Polyvore more or less solves the problem :)

This Marks This, That Marks That

Today is a milestone in one or two ways. Importantly, today is the one year anniversary since I met TMI on a drunken rowdy night in the bar below my apartment. Now, one year later, he sits reclined in christmasy red boxers on the bed beside me studying for oenology exams. In one year his presence in my heart has spread like a drop of ink in a pool of water. I'm glad to love him and to be loved- but it hasn't been easy, and our obstacles aren't over yet. 

The two of us are going to Hawaii in July, (Hurray!) to meet my family and spend 5 weeks in my island paradise enjoying warm sand, soft kitties, and green mountains. yyyeeeeessssss. Then, I face two months away from my cozy as he returns to France and I stay in the pacific for my brother's wedding in October. Then I am plagued by a great internal debate.

To be blunt, I've thrown in the towel on this wrestling match with France. No work visa, no close friends, and no mobility has crippled my optimistic outlook and left me a depressed hermit. Two month aways from TMI will be really, really hard on me; (the last five weeks apart were like squirming on a bed of nails) and then I'm faced with the decision to stay in n the US, get a life,  and wash France and TMI out of my hair, or, return to the dreary existence here in Dijon for the sake of love. TMI has one more year of study, after which he will be free. But can I handle one more year of this? Seriously? Lets face it guys, I'm a wimp.

All this aside, tonight we're going out for wine and charcuterie and this morning I gifted him a watch. I thought it was the best thing ever, I spent months trying to pick the thing, but after all he doesn't like it and I have to return it.. Bearing the scarlet mark of a failed gift giver. 

Today was the day I also broke the ice into the first preliminary forays into my novel, a biographical work of my grandmother's life. It was strangely terrifying. My collection of her journals, tapes, and photographs have been perched on my bookshelf for months- and even though I've known it was time, a part of me has been curled up and cowering in my inner corners. I'm just a lost girl- and she's a giant. Confronting her is intimidating. But, I finally came to terms that I'd be damned if her story doesn't get told, and I'll wager she'd be right damned too. So that settled it.  

Now I need a shower. It's warm out there!

Please, Spice Up My Life

How weary I have grown of the mild cream and butter flavors of France! I'm desperate for cinnamon, turmeric, ginger, clove, basil, masala! Spices!!! I made the grave mistake today of daydreaming of a world of zesty veggies: Indian food- and I nearly went mad. My body is aching for zest. Burning for spice. Hungry for heat!! Citrus! Peppers! Uuugghhhh. A girl who found her earliest culinary loves in Thai and Indian cuisine should never have chosen French as her heart's lacking language. 

In desperation I sent a message to a friend and San Francisco dweller begging that she send me a flat rate of boxed Indian foods. Incomparable to restaurant quality of course, but oh so much better than nothing. 

Lately I've been facing a heightened awareness of the lack of flavor in my life. I went on a quest to not 1, not 2, but 3 super markets seeking jalapenos, a grocery store staple in the states, but couldn't find the elusive buggers anywhere. Here food is seasoned with butter, salt, oil, herbs; garlic occasionally, but the slightest pick to your tongue you are hard pressed to find. My desire for saucy spicy burritos; steaming coconut curries, and colorful vegetable stir fries has just about pushed me out the window and to an un-timely and overly dramatic death. 

And I wont even mention Kombucha. !!!

First person to mail me a spicy care package gets an authentic Eiffel tower key chain. who's in? Anyone?

A Chance for Escape

The new blogger layout is actually discouraging me from posting. Very unpleasant. 

The news of the month is that I am returning to my island paradise on the 4th of July and I'm taking the best part of France with me. That's right, thanks to my favorite student travel website, I'm finally living the dream and am taking TMI home with me to meet the parents and the tropical lieu of my naissance. 18 hours of flight time, but who's counting when your lover is there with you, right? 

On the downside, after the chimerical wonder of having my mate in my homeland has expired,I'm faced with the usual "where in the world am I supposed to be?" dilema. France is expensive, lonely, and lets face it, impractical for someone with roots on the opposite side of the globe. Not to mention unhealthy. I can't seem to stop gaining weight here and my boredom and loneliness are heavier each passing day. The signs all point to a more normal settling ground, which, thanks to my online studies could be just about anywhere, but the human I'm in love with happens to live here, in Dijn, France. Rats. 

Seriously about the getting fat, btw, I was 104 when I left the US a year and a 3 months ago, now I think I'm pushing about 112, roughly a pound a month in this butter cream haven. When I lived in Hawaii or on the West coast it was easy to be a vegetarian, and freedom of mobility as well an employment and same-denomination currency made gym memberships easily attainable. 

But still, I'm thrilled for the coming adventure. Between then and now I have 6 more weeks of Dijon, 3 of which TMI has an internship in the South, so I may get to spend some weekends away. meeeeeh.

Le Respect, la Relation, et le Risqué

Dad I know you read my blog from time to time and this is one of those posts that I ask you avert your eyes and skip over. Seriously.

Keeping an anonymous blog is harder than one may think. That said, I want to again address something I mentioned lightly before. Respect, and the risque. Can we objectify in the bedroom and retain respect in a relationship? Specifically, must we only make love to stay in love, or can we also have sex? Where is the correct medium between slipping into the banal and crashing into the unacceptable?

I'm currently in a very sexual relationship, and I find myself regularly conflicted about what's the most healthy for us. I worry that if we don't have enough sex, or enough exciting sex, things will get boring and we'll cool off into a typical long term; or that we'll go too far and loose a necessary respect for one another. I'm not sure if the later is even possible - granted I haven't seen signs of it, but, (and now for the not-dad-safe sentence) could any amount of oral or anal sex somehow skew our positive feelings for each other? Admittedly, we aren't worshipping one another in these situations; we're objectifying one another. In spite of how much we enjoy it, I can't decide if this is wildly healthy or flat out detrimental.

On the other end of the spectrum, a friend who volunteers with me in my little Dijonaise cafe faces relationship problems amusingly inverse to my own. She's passionately God-fearing, and refuses to have sex, or even extensive physical contact, before marriage. (I know, I know! I thought France was predominantly devoid of that!) This is a kind of love I know nothing about, and, for that matter, can't even begin to imagine. Sex is such an immense part of romantic connection; an integral facet of truly knowing someone, and the final frontier of openness and trust to your partner. Yet she, like me,

-I just found chocolate smeared on my keyboard and have no idea how it got there-

Yet she, like me, spends hours hoing, humming, and heart-aching over what she believes is love.

How much does sex define a relationship? Does it make it or break it? And, if it's such a powerful element, as I believe it to be, can it govern our feelings outside of the bedroom?