[la vie en bleu]

Haikus about men I have slept with: Set Nine

2012-01-23T21:31:00.004-05:00

XIX

Itwas your birthday:

cheesecake,grass, my thighs and your

condoon St Charles

XXIII

Iwent to your bed

Despiteyour girlfriend and

mydisdain for you?

XXVI

MyBelleville sex-pot,

onceI had you in my sights:

inevitable!

(for more of this series, click here or the link on the sidebar)

12

2012-01-06T22:51:00.002-05:00

i miss you my lil blog
i'll be back soon
i'm currently being stuffed in the meat grinder, where litigation sausage is made.
i'll tell you all about it.

luff xx lucie

grateful

2011-11-24T13:31:00.001-05:00

Today I am grateful for you. For the meaning of love currency; it twists my forehead in your shoulder while we embrace-- also, darling, you hang excessively (for a long time). For the discretion [yours],
your skin as leaves under
my fingers
and shovelled -- for the smooth of your ear.

I am grateful for the calm, your balance, and as well and far beyond my spastic meanings.

I am grateful for a beautiful mind (yours) and the beauty in your grin. You are the greatest thing that has reached this space in a lot of years and today I (grateful) am for you.

fort.

2011-11-20T20:53:00.001-05:00

i want to build the biggest blanket fort in the world
(yet still only five feet long)
and crawl into imagination
with you.

i'll brew the tea if you fluff the pillows
so they are as soft
as your kisses and hand;

i'll bring the covers, if you
dim the lights and say 'stay, stay if you can.'

lettuce be kind

2011-10-24T13:28:00.000-04:00

He may have gone to Middle School with us in 6th grade, but the first time I met him was in 7th grade. He was hard to miss, even in our class of about 350 students.

I want to make it clear that I was no fashionista in 1995. I was completely unaware of how to dress my (quickly) budding curves. I do remember wearing my fair share of homemade vests, preciously curated by my mother that often helpfully reflected the season. This is the result of having a mother who worked part time at the local fabric store. My pants consisted mostly of hand-me-down Gloria Vanderbilt jeans from my various aunts, and I do recall that little backpacks and loafers had come into style as a result of Clueless. However, despite my hardcore look, to be fashionable in my little middle school at that time you had to rock Tommy Hilfiger tshirts with designer jeans or anything from Abercrombie and Fitch. These duds were paired with white Nike tennis shoes over long white athletic socks. Clearly our town was the center of southern American fashion.

Regardless it didn't much matter what he wore. In fact, I don't remember at all what he wore. It was probably the same as all the other boys- oversized tshirts and jeans. His name was Jeffrey and he was the most awkward looking person I had ever come across. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was very thin; his thinness was accented by his pale white skin. As he sat in his plastic chair with attached old desk boney knees poked out from under mesh athletic shorts, and boney elbows rested on the vandalized wood of the desktop. I won't say his last name here, but believe me that it was rife with potential for torturous teasing.

Jeffrey was a little blond boy with constantly ruffled hair. He probably had a cute face but it was covered more than 3/4 of the way by thick, plastic glasses that would slide down his nose. The only part of his face left visible were two thin lips, and when he smiled he revealed a massive set of buck teeth.

Looking back now it was almost too perfect of a stereotype. I know plenty of nerdy guys today, many of whom rock thick rim glasses and are proud of their anti-fashion stance. But 12 and completely unaware of how the outside world really sees you is when true geeks are born. This poor boy didn't stand a chance against middle school. When he spoke his voice was high and squeaky. He twitched and moved in his chair, constantly uncomfortable. I can only imagine how the boys treated him. I didn't make fun of him, but then again I didn't not make fun of him.

But the real kicker to this story is when, one day, I don't know how, someone discovered Jeffrey's kryptonite: This boy was afraid of lettuce.

Got that? This boy was afraid of lettuce.

It is a mystery to me how someone figured this out, but once it was out the rest of the year became a battle of Jeffrey vs the lettuce wielders. They would pocket the shredded iceberg from the cafeteria and leave it on his chair, sprinkle it in his hair, or tuck it into his backpack. Each time Jeffrey would jump, shriek and squeal. Sometimes he would shake. We would all laugh and the teacher would yell. Then it would be over, the battle won once again by the iceberg mafia.

I don't remember seeing Jeffrey at all after that year. He may have finished middle school with us in 8th grade but he wasn't in any of my classes. He didn't go on to the high school where the majority of us were funneled, either. I assumed he had been taken out and home schooled.

I don't know what got me thinking about Jeffrey. Maybe because my little cousin is in middle school now and his lanky body and metal filled mouth make me giggle. Maybe it is this new campaign that makes bullying the biggest buzzword. Maybe it was my brother's 30th birthday party last weekend that brought me face to face with some people I knew at that time and haven't seen in 10 or more years. But I started thinking about him, and wondering where he had ended up.

The media tells us what happened to poor Jeffrey. Just look at any teen movie or young adult novel. If popular culture is to be believed Jeffrey has ended up in one of two places:

Jeffrey of 2011 could be a master of technological innovation, rolling in the dough and laughing at the rest of us in this sad economy. Of course he would still be wearing something ridiculous like a leisure suit, but it would be with irony and a firm 'fuck you' to whomever doesn't like it.
On the other hand, Jeffrey of 2011 could have decided, once puberty hit, that he didn't have to live that way anymore. He may have channeled all his anger at 12 year old boys and dentists and lettuce into the gym, where he pumped enough weight to double in size. Of course, this physique would make him irresistible to the ladies.

The power of the internet can reveal all mysteries. So I typed in his name and let google do the magic.

The first thing that I found was a facebook page, revealing that Jeffrey still lives near where we went to school. He got a masters in Information Systems at the local college. His picture shows a man with thinning blond hair, and yes, thick glasses. But he looked positively average. He was neither super geek millionaire nor body builder with a chip on his shoulder. It was pretty anti-climactic. I clicked back to the google search to just give one more glance and that is where I found it: a youtube video of Jeffrey added three months ago.

I opened it to see the inside of an Applebees. Jeffrey strolls up to a microphone connected to a small machine. He is as he was in his facebook picture but we can see his large black Ke$ha t-shirt. He speaks briefly and I immediately hear that old voice from all those years ago. It is so high and peculiar, so difficult to place. He now has no front teeth. His arms still skinny, though now he has a round beer belly above his jeans. He then dives into a passionate rendition of Ke$ha's song "blow" for the captive beer guzzling, mozzarella stick nibbling audience.

Go, go, go, go insane

Go insane

Throw some glitter

Make it rain on him

Let me see them Hanes

Let me, let me see them Hanes

I cringed. Who would put this video up online ? I felt immediately like I was again the girl three seats over, seeing all this mockery and keeping my mouth shut. However, it wasn't the same. This video was posted by Jeffrey himself, from an account proudly stating his full real name.

So I guess that is all that matters, right? So he's still a weirdo. But he's embracing it; it seems like he is getting along just fine. And that is all any of us can really do, right?

blocked

2011-10-16T05:09:00.001-04:00

You know how some people say they can only write when they are sad?
I'm the opposite of that. When I am sad I get a writer's block the size of Wisconsin.
Everything I have written lately is awful. I'm more inspired by blue skies than rain.

Disappointment

2011-09-19T12:40:00.001-04:00

saddening situation, letdown
	bitter pill ; /success.

100 watts

2011-08-26T18:48:00.001-04:00

polka dots
to enter the new game
and vegas slots::
whiskey shots with the huguenots;

we're all harlots
wearing apricot
dresses and hats like
a hipster mascot;

suppose i overshot the cosmonaut,
but the summer is over just the same.

repeat repeat

2011-08-20T20:19:00.000-04:00

i have short fingers
i have short, bitten nails,

i have wide wide hips and a white, bumpy tummy too.

my breasts are too large and my eyes are too small,

and my arms are reminiscent of sausages.

But I will paint these nails periwinkle, and use the short fingers to write and to touch, and to love --
i will use my whole body to love,
and to get love in return. And when i see it with my

too-small blue eyes, i and only
i will remember the map tattooed on my skin....

Help Wanted

2011-08-13T12:57:00.000-04:00

Seeking highly qualified motivated individual

to work 80-100 hours per week

in a dark cave without access to sunlight or other people,

after 1 month free training!

must be willing to do heavy lifting, some travel (by foot), and sometimes pick up dry cleaning.

JD or Masters only!

This is an unpaid internship- only those shortlisted will be contacted. Don't call us. Good luck.

home is where your heart was

2011-08-02T16:25:00.000-04:00

I would like to keep my home in that happy place in my memory- I would like to remember riding my bike to the local library, jumping on the trampoline, walking through the church at high school graduation. It was good here, I swear- I do not even remember the heat or the heartache. I remember just ballet recitals and birthday parties, bike rides and card games, first kisses and kickball.

It is hard to romanticize your home when you are forced back. I do not want those fancy dreams to be tainted by the loss and loneliness I feel here now. I want to keep loving my home forever,

so I better get out of here fast.

haikus about men i have slept with, set eight

2011-07-18T21:58:00.003-04:00

XV.

American boys

Want to add a lass, but French

boys share with leur pote.

XXV.

When I needed you

In my heart you were there, and

The playhouse sheets too.

XXVIII.

Face like a dreamboat

And tall slender build- what a

Let down in the end!

all the evening through

2011-07-18T21:42:00.000-04:00

we were supposed
to go see
the film at
the big mall movie theater,
but your bed was so soft
and your
kisses so hard-
we stayed in your little studio apartment
all the evening through.

impatience

2011-07-09T22:29:00.000-04:00

I am waiting

~~for my life to begin~~

~~to meet my soulmate~~

~~for the ultimate inspiration~~

~~for that one phone call~~

~~for my heart to feel whole~~

for you to come and pick me up

are you on your way yet?

coming soon...

2011-07-03T13:24:00.001-04:00

I have so many stories in my head and heart right now. I just need to write them. Thanks for being there for when I do :)

i miss this place

the personal is the political

2011-06-02T00:09:00.000-04:00

My political career

starts

now,

shall I give or take?

To be 28 and

made of modeling clay

is a

wonderful gift;

lets hope the

hands are

soft and kind.

quiet

2011-05-25T20:03:00.000-04:00

I would
like to
be very
quiet
with someone. Very quiet.
To take
a bath, to read
in bed, and to fall
asleep
wrapped together
in a blanket
of quiet.

lessons learned

2011-04-30T18:51:00.001-04:00

you can't

hurry

love

or

risotto.

dress me up, dress me down

2011-04-27T14:30:00.000-04:00

first we went to dinner and never stopped laughing.
i wore my blue sailor dress and red suede heels.

then we went to a picnic in the park, sipped champagne cocktails in the grass:
i wore my blue plaid dress with my blue french kitten heels.

then we went to the movies and shared popcorn with our feet up, hedging bets on the plot;
I wore my white cotton dress and my nude pumps with embroidered flowers.

then we went bowling, how awful was I? and you said you like my hips and called me baby:
i wore my red polka dot skirt and black flats.

new series: faces and names

2011-04-23T16:29:00.002-04:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I love playing with identity. One of the ways I like to do this is by dressing up and playing with all my wigs. so I have decided I am going to write a little bio for each of my characters created from the various wigs in my collection. Little profiles for my multiple personalities. What do you think? Watch this space.

Ps I also added photo links to the various series I include in the blog, as well as the 2010 links for my favorite scribbles. Enjoy!

getting older

2011-04-23T14:26:00.000-04:00

the days are

filled with

wedding dresses

and baby names,

and yet

the cement at my feet

leaves me

a worried observer.

throw a gift at me: anything,

just make the world shake

a bit.

i need a jackhammer

but will

settle for

a sewing needle,

as long

as my hands can move

to free me.

Everything to Everyone

2011-04-22T20:34:00.001-04:00

To Whom It May Concern:

I am interested in your open position for -------------------------------------. Early this year I left a position in a small international law firm in Paris; I have decided to move away from the legal field, as I believe something more policy-oriented suits me better. This job would allow me to channel all my -------------------------------- into something furthering an excellent organization. I hope you will consider me as a choice to join the ------------------------ team.

I love long hours of filing, extended coffee making, keeping up with inter office gossip, and chastising people for using the "reply all" button. I am willing to move anywhere in the world, except maybe Kentucky or Russia.

I feel like the work your organization is doing is of utmost importance in today's volatile world. I have always been passionate about -------------- and would love to make it a priority in my professional life.

I am available any time for an interview. Seriously- any time. Call me, or text me, or we can skype. I'll meet you in Idaho if you want. Maybe not Kentucky though. I am willing to accept any level of pay.

Best Regards,

Lucie

new

2011-04-05T23:39:00.000-04:00

a boy called and asked me on a date.
i will get a dress and
new gloves,
a little clutch with $5 and
lipstick from Max Factor.
Oh dear I hope my hair doesn't go flat
and the
begonias are not
wilted when he comes to pick me up.

my tummy tells me
that it will be fun

5 senses

2011-04-02T12:54:00.002-04:00

he entered the house- immediately warm and cozy as soon as the scent of the rich, heavy sauce and dark red wine, breathing, hit his body

she peeked her head around the doorway of the kitchen, and he could see a glimpse of gingerbread hair in big, soft curls brushing down to the nape of her neck and the straps of her satin red slip dress.

“hi” she said, her voice tonguing his ears. “be comfortable, it’s almost ready.”

ignoring-, he went into the kitchen and stood behind her, slowly kissing her- salt and spice, all , starting at her neck down to the top of her hip,

where he ran one hand up her trembling thigh, the other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her to him,

where the only sense missing was good sense.

only fools fall in love

2011-03-26T21:02:00.000-04:00

The trouble with boys
is that I go for the smart ones-
and the smart ones
tend to be the most socially stunted.

The dumb ones are fun
and you can take them
anywhere.
They adore you and love you and want to live in bed.

I hope one day
I meet a man
who does not
have to choose
between intelligence and passion.
A capacity for love can be as big as an intellect, and loving does not make you a fool.

Then It Happened Even Worse.

2011-03-09T12:21:00.001-05:00

So I was doing my spring cleaning and came across this letter randomly. It was written in 1997, when I was a freshman in high school. I just had to share it. Incriminating names are stealthily hidden.

A bit of background: Colin was my brother's best friend and was the first guy I ever kissed when I was 13. Z was my first boyfriend when I was 14. And, just to add, both of them barely got to first base. After the jump is the rest of the letter and I have rewritten it for you with some corrections. Enjoy!

B (the love of my life)

Hi, let me start off by saying writing this note is not easy. But it is not a bad thing [like I would break up with you] so don’t worry. I was never mad at you. But no use in stalling so let me get right to the point.

But let me start at the start, so you know where I am coming from. It all started on Tuesday when I was talking to C on the phone.

I said, “Hey! C tell me a cool story.” Like always. So she did. Then she said “Why don’t you tell me a cool story for a change.” So I thought and said, “Ok I’ve got a good one. You know who is so cool?” “Who?” “B’s mom. Because she found out about us kissing and didn’t say anything to her dad.” C said, “I know, those things she just doesn’t tell her dad.” I was like that’s so cool.

Then it happened.

She said, “Yeah, her dad didn’t even know that Colin and B were going out.” (A hush fell over me).

Then it happened even worse.

She said, “If her dad found out about some of the things they did, B’s dad would have killed C.” (I wanted to fucking cry.)

It just gets worse.

Then she said, “C was always over there every night because [her brother] and C were so good of friends.”

So if you haven’t already guesses, the question I’ve been wanting to ask you is did you ever have sex with Colin. And if you haven’t what have you done with any boy?

Now you are probably saying ‘Z, you are acting like a 3^rd grader. You shouldn’t care.’ Well damn it, he is over there more than I am. So it does matter to me.

And you might be saying ‘If I tell him will he still love me?’ The answer is I DON’T KNOW.

And you might be saying ‘If I tell him and he does get mad and does something, would it be worth it?’ To me, yes, it would. Because I would like to be the first and the only to be with you. And I have been thinking about this question for too long. So I would really like to know all the details PLEASE!

The farthest I have ever gone is a French kiss, maybe you can change that. And I never had a good one until I met you.

I am not as cool as all the guys think I am.

So I have said what I wanted to say so I end this terrible not with you are the only girl I have ever loved.

PS IT TOOK A LOT OF GUTS TO WRITE THIS NOTE.

PSS write me all the answers in a note and give it to me first thing tomorrow and we will see what happens.

PSSS I HATE COLIN!

28

2011-03-06T13:33:00.001-05:00

they say your soul
is reborn
every 7 years,
now so I have my fourth try.
I'll put
27 in an old
shoe box, and
stash it away in the closet...
Hello 28.
Hello soul.

My friend Mata

2011-03-03T12:27:00.001-05:00

I had Mata Hari over for dinner-- that crazy Mata, who knows what she is going to say?

I said "Mata? What should I do next, huh?"

She replied, "If you wear too many rhinestones, they will kill you prompt. Pass the peas."

Oh that crazy Mata.

things i found in my closet

2011-02-27T11:40:00.000-05:00

Marie Antoinette wig

empty vodka bottle

law school diploma

hookah

box of ballet shoes

prom dress

haikus about men i have slept with, set seven

2011-02-24T13:31:00.002-05:00

XXIX.

In bed you were prime

But real life? Oh Lord please help;

At least you love you.

I don’t regret much,

But taking your body was

way over the line.

XXIV.

You broke my heart

But I would do it over

To kiss you again.

for more of this series, click here.

valentine

2011-02-21T19:38:00.000-05:00

velvet bag
with
golden
heart shaped
nipple tassels
and
assortment of
googly eyes.

say nothing at all

2011-02-21T13:50:00.002-05:00

Betsy met Nigel on the bay on the last day of the year. When she looked into his sea foam eyes she felt like a blanket was wrapped around her tight, trapping in the warmth, fuzzy sweet sanctuary. Nigel could not speak, and Betsy comforted him with hugs and apple pies. Her favorite times were the mornings, when Nigel’s hair was furiously frumpled, and his eyes heavy with sleep. She would kiss his face, his cheeks, his back, the curve of his shoulder, the base of his neck. “I adore you” she would say, and he would stay quiet. “If he could speak,” she thought to herself, “he would say the same.”

The bay started to go too dark, and Bets could not stay any longer. “I have to go back to Beaumont, Texas,” she thought. “But I will miss my Nigel with the sea foam eyes.” She found him and asked him to go to the bay with her for one last night before her escape away.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

Betsy went to the bay alone, and cried. And he never came to comfort her. She had not realized that he only uses his voice to hurt, and the pierce in her heart stung for years.

the leaving dance

2011-02-18T09:21:00.000-05:00

I am folding each
skirt,
each ribbon-
trying to make them fit
in a too-small bag.
Maybe packing should be something you do alone?

I've been having
nightmares-
always the same.
I am in school and about to graduate, but I did not do all that I was meant to do.
I am afraid I won't graduate. The whole dream is my fear of messing it up.
Sometimes in the dream I realize that I already finished school- several times-
but it doesn't take away the fear.

I walked down the river the other day
and the air was piercing cold on my bare arms. I did not wear a coat. I did not finish the class. I cannot fit the dresses and hats.

I'm trying to fold myself into a too-small world.

I hope this is the last time. I want every time to be the last time.

I'll miss you-- no lover has ever broken my heart so much as Paris.

it is decided

2011-02-12T12:29:00.000-05:00

I will have a girl
named Babette
and a boy
named Friday
and I will make
roasted chicken
every
week.

truth

2011-02-11T07:55:00.002-05:00

I am so
unbelievably
lucky,
because no matter
where I am
in the
world,
I meet the most
amazing
people
to share love with.

just a reminder.

Belleville

2011-02-07T17:10:00.001-05:00

Belleville is the Brooklyn of Paris,
and you can see how the air moves around people there.
As I walked I only felt
the slightest brush of wind on my face-
as if to say
if you weren't here, no one would notice.

Everyone is a stranger in Belleville.
The streets drag on like improv jazz-
sharp words and low dips
and swirls of mini tornados.

One day I will find the man
for whom the wind dances,
and his heart will be swollen with sincerity.
He will be generous with his love, his time, and his experiences...
and will convince the air to move for me.

an apology

2011-01-31T09:12:00.000-05:00

So I dreamt I crawled inside of her ear and sat there in the mushy mush, until I found what I had destroyed and twisted it all around, back to the way it used to be. I looked at my clipboard and put a check mark next to “shattered” and “damaged” and “ruined” and “spoiled”. It was bad. Bad news. Not an easy job.

Skipped over some things and went back to the good stuff, the really really good stuff. (I fluffed it up a little). I put-- I’m sorry-- band-aids all around and kissed it all better. It was good to be close to her.

And when I crawled out she hugged me and told me she loves me again.

leave quickly and come home late

2011-01-26T06:22:00.000-05:00

leave quickly and
come home late.
if you see Josephine let her know that her man was downtown with Clara Lee...
just sayin'
if it is on your way
can you pick up some kisses for me?
assorted. sordid. sure did.
now leave quickly
and come home late
and call me if Josephine starts to cry.

16

2011-01-25T12:35:00.000-05:00

baby, my parents are out of town,
and my older sister bought us some wine coolers.
i put on my finest strawberry lipstick and
non-cotton undies for you...
come over and look at me awkwardly
while i smile because i know what is
going to happen--
and you do too, but you are
too shy to start...
we will kiss and pretend
we are older than ourselves....
as if older people would
kiss violently over
fuzzy navel wine coolers on a cider porch.

Tully Tuesday

2011-01-25T11:42:00.001-05:00

Little Tully Tuesday
was the silliest girl in town.
She stopped to slip her slippers on
and take her body down
to the other side of the tracks where
she could see her dressing gown-
sewn by the sister of her paramour,
Mr. Wednesday Brown.

10 years too late

2011-01-24T06:02:00.000-05:00

i'm really sorry i wasn't wise enough to learn how to fight with you 10 years ago

i couldn't appreciate you for who you are

or communicate with you properly

it feels like coming up for underwater, learning about yourself and life

i really think we should have a romantic trip to china the way it should have been, to see how it feels

i can only imagine us liking each other more than ever now

let's go this summer

let me take you

and treat you like a queen

bises

2011-01-22T14:45:00.000-05:00

his kisses
are
like
soul sushi--

and my whole
body
shivers at his
touch.

if i had my way
i would build the
biggest blanket fort in the world-

and press
against him
forever.

when you come:

2011-01-08T14:38:00.002-05:00

1, rue hautefeuille
sonnez bonavito
code porte 3985
tout en haut- 6ieme etage
au bout
avec la carte postale.

resolutions

2011-01-01T08:11:00.000-05:00

wear more red lipstick.

breathe more.

and stop biting my nails.

a Christmas present to my readers

2010-12-22T18:12:00.000-05:00

It is that time of year again. And, although I know my readership is limited, I want to thank each and every one of you for stopping by my blog to see my little scribbles.

I am a huge fan of The Moth and This American Life, and they inspired me to record a story for you all, as a little token of my appreciation. I want to start experimenting more with reading my pieces out loud. I would love any feedback you could offer. And sorry for the bad quality- my first time!

This is the story of the Johnson family: Ma, Pa, Emily, Clancy and Clyde. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you are feeling the love of the holiday season.

PS I'll type up the written story tomorrow maybe- so you can read to your children all snug in their beds.

Le Cardinal Cafe

2010-12-22T10:43:00.001-05:00

I was just wandering the streets, clearing my mind in the brisk, sharp air. The sky was the color of apathy and the people were all bundled up in scarves and hats. I had already stopped for a coffee near my place- where I sat warm and at ease writing a million letters to a million people. I stopped by the post office and mailed all the little thoughts out across the ocean.

Regretting wearing only my little black ballerina slippers instead of my cushy winter boots, I wrapped myself up tight and started walking. I crossed by Notre Dame- how it was almost camouflaged against the grey sky!- and continued down the Seine towards wherever.

I passed Shakespeare and Company, the cello maker, and two Italian tourists shouting at each other in the road. Before I knew it my watch said it was near 3 and my tummy growled- empty except the coffee and cream. I passed a brasserie, same as any other, and ducked inside from the cold.

As I stripped off all my outer layers and ordered a mulled wine, I realized I had just walked into a 1960’s Goddard film. The bar was long and plated in metal, smudged with the fingerprints of lunch guests. A few men sat there, mid 40s, with glasses full of rosé, discussing something serious in hushed tones, close to each other. Behind the bar was a man with a flop of dark hair and a striped shirt, wiping down the espresso machine and turning the glass jar of Madeleines. The chef stood at the door of the kitchen, bored now that lunch was finished for the say; he surveyed the old men sitting to my right.

They sat, chatting, and one could tell that they hadn’t moved all day. Every time a man with silver hair and a long umbrella would walk in the door with a fresh blast of winter they would say “Hello young man!” and drag him in to conversation for a spell. One snacked on a crème caramel while the other refilled their glasses with wine from a small carafe. A tall, younger man entered and the table shouted “Bonjour Olivier!” but Olivier managed to avoid their grasp, taking a quick coffee at the bar before disappearing back into the latin quarter. A man in shocking red pants and a Burberry scarf joined them at their small table and they cried “Hey bartender! This guy needs a glass of wine! Hurry!”

To my left sat an older couple, resembling each other as many years of marriage will do. She drank a perrier and he had a coca cola, and at their feet was the largest, fluffiest black dog I have ever seen- dozing away happily on the cold tile. “Is he nice?” I asked, then scratched his head, feeling only handfuls of fur.

Beside the cooler displaying chocolate mousse in sundae cups, small crème caramels, a cherry clafouti, a large white bûche de noel, and bottles of Cotes de Provence and Sancerre, a man in small glasses, the owner I presume, sat quietly. He had a large calculator to one side, a large rubber stamp on the other, and a stack of papers in front. He held his face close to the papers as he read, lifting only to sip from his tiny espresso cup.

A Christmas tree blinked in the corner and the speakers buzzed with a quiet jazz piano. The light snow flurries turned to freezing drops of rain and the old men cried “another!” at the man in the striped shirt.

A True Story of Unshakable Naivety

2010-12-17T10:00:00.002-05:00

It was less than a month ago when I first called him. I'm not sure quite why. I wasn't very lonely- I had been seeing some other guys casually. I guess it was curiosity? Maybe I really did miss him, somehow? I do know that I was still angry. It was only two years ago, the last time I saw him, that he had pushed my heart through a meat grinder.

I remember so well when it happened- a hot, humid July day. We had already been on the rocks- his obsessive jealously was so overwhelming at times I would just scream and scream with no release. When he started going through my phone and peeking in my journal, I knew it had gone too far. And I was generally at a really bad place in my life- in the middle of law school, leaving Paris again, questioning my future with him and Paris and life in general. And then came the knowledge, like a shotgun to the chest: he was seeing someone else. And I cried, and cried. I wondered when I had ever decided to let my guard down with a French man anyhow, as I have never known one to be faithful. My rule was easy- I can play the game. Everyone has fun and no one gets hurt. But he told me he loved me, and my tummy needed to feel it so badly that I believed him.

But that was two years ago.

So I called him. I think I wanted an apology, finally. Or at least some satisfaction. And expecting anything from him was the second mistake. I heard his voice and my heart died all over again. I cried, I asked why, I yelled. I hung up the phone, the release unsatisfactory. He called again and again. "I want to see you" he said. "I want to say I am sorry and I missed you" he said. A few weeks later, in a moment of weakness, I gave in.

It was late and cold, too many clouds to see any stars. He arrived and I poured us both a strong glass of whiskey. It started with more yelling. I tried to be cold to him but I could not control it. So much anger, like a rolling ball of fuzz and dust, smashed into my stomach, not budging. And then I cried. And he held me. And then hours later I was still crying, but now not because of him, but because of myself and my uncertainties and my own little demons. And he was still holding me. And when we kissed it was like two years ago, before everything went bad, when he could still make me blush and giggle.

In the morning we went for coffee like we always did- he his espresso with plenty of cigarettes, and me with my cafe creme, leafing through the paper. It was cozy and comfortable and I felt my body relax as it hadn't in a while. When he left I tried to analyze the situation but it was much easier to push it out of my mind. We started talking on the phone, meeting for a glass of champagne, and sweet text messages late at night.

**

Then he showed up one afternoon, with take out and coca cola and all smiles. We snacked and talked and cuddled, then stayed in bed all afternoon. We made love and kissed each other and talked about our lives for the last two years and life in general. We listened to music and he flicked cigarette ash out my window. An endless stream of dressing and undressing. I remembered every centimeter of his chocolate eyes. He kissed my nose and called me old pet names. The window turned from bright to dark as the day turned into a grey evening. "I should go" he said.

"Lets go out and have a cocktail," I suggested. "I haven't left the apartment all day and it is apero hour."

"Just one," he said, and we took the tiniest elevator in Paris down to the street and then out to the square and down the street to a pub. Typical pub, all dark wood and smelling of Guinness and fried foods. We sat at the bar and chatted and ordered, a beer for him, a gin and tonic for me- extra limes. When he left to smoke outside the door an English guy next to me struck up a conversation. At his return, I felt his mood change immediately. "I'm just talking," I said. "Do you want to go soon?"

"I want to go" he said, "but I can see you want to stay." I had no intention of staying without him but regardless he ordered more drinks and stood by me like a bulldog. But every time we would finish a round, and he would go out to smoke, a new guy would start talking to me, and his jealously would compel him to stay at the pub with me and make himself angry anew each time he walked back through those doors, smelling of smoke and hops. When we finally left, much later, after several rounds and an order of french fries, he walked me back up to my apartment, both of us full of kisses and spirits and nostalgia.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"You can," I said. "But if you come in you have to stay the night."

"I can't do that," he said. "I can't stay here."

"Why?" I asked, twirling my fingers in his hair and looking at him with teasing eyes.

"I can't stay" he repeated. His face had now changed.

"I have to go home.

I have to go home because I live with my girlfriend."

2010-12-11T14:05:00.000-05:00

things that are cold:
winter

things that are warm:
tongues
bodies
breath
lust

the perks of European pre-paid phones

2010-12-04T21:54:00.002-05:00

When you have
exhausted
every breath in your body
trying to explain that he is
mean
and awful
and selfish...
it clicks off.

and you cannot redial
because the minutes
have expired.

met my match

2010-11-23T13:37:00.000-05:00

I answered the phone with a short "I'm about to go out."

He said "Can I come stay with you tonight?"

I said "Well you've called me so late, you are taking the chance that I might find someone else to take home."

He said "If you find someone better than me, go ahead."

It isn't love but it sure is fun.

karma

2010-11-19T06:37:00.001-05:00

I'm stacking up
my karma
in barrels-

I am
ready to
trade it in.

today

2010-11-15T10:57:00.001-05:00

is the

worst

day.

when I am in love again

2010-11-14T16:41:00.000-05:00

When I am in love again

I will take him to the Pont des Arts
and place a lock, marked with a heart and
with a kiss, we'll reminisce,

and toss the key in the Seine.

when an ex boyfriend calls

2010-11-13T06:24:00.001-05:00

Message reçu: le 11 novembre à 23h14

hi blue.

i was just calling to say...

...

whatever.

click

2 years ago, from email

2010-11-10T17:11:00.000-05:00

Situation this afternoon:
I am opening the door to the hallway and I see someone coming down the stairs and so I close the door really quickly to hide because I look like hell. So its my upstairs neighbor, he comes up to the room- door still jarred and says "Is someone there?" which is embarrassing because he obviously saw me avoiding him.

So, I am thinking he is about to kill me for all the noise in the apartment last night. So I sheepishly open the door and say "Oh hi! How are you? You know, I'm really sorry about all that noise last night. I was having a dinner party that didn't really start until 11 and we had some wine and anyway I'm sorry. I hope I didn't keep you up."

He's like "Oh, I just wanted to ask if I could crawl out your window to get something that fell on the roof."

So I say ok and I'm standing there, in my sweats, yesterdays makeup,hair a tangled mess, with my fucking SHEETS in my hands about to go to the washer, after randomly confessing to inviting people over last night,

and thinking this is the first time in history someone took a walk of shame in their own apartment.

failing

2010-11-09T11:32:00.001-05:00

i told him
i failed
and in a
short, sweet moment
amidst my
naked
vulnerability,
he was

kind.

Wanted

2010-11-04T10:22:00.000-05:00

Young
clean
responsible
American girl
and one orange cat

seek
small studio or one bedroom flat,
central Paris,
with internet,
oven,
and bathtub.

Maximum 700€ per month-

including big, bright windows,
endless closet space,
kitchen to accommodate dinners for up to 12,
quiet, private courtyard.

willing to negotiate higher rent
to include
cute french boy making breakfast,
chandeliers,
a king sized comfy bed with floral linens.

please contact
and mention
whether the housekeeper does laundry,
if the wine shop makes deliveries,
and if the closet comes complete with Chanel.

I look forward to your response.

before dinner

2010-11-02T06:27:00.000-05:00

The sky was the strangest shade of purplish grey. They sat at a café table, enjoying one of the last days of the year warm enough to sit outside. As the sun snuck into hiding over the horizon a breeze, like tiny fingers, nipped at ears and bare ankles.

"I'm trying to live in the moment" she said to him. She immediately put her hand to her lips, as if she wanted to push the cliché back into her throat. "Well, you know, I mean..."

Her name was Lita and her hair was a short crop, decorated by a tiny white bow on the right side. She was pretty, though her face had become rounder in the past few months. When she wasn't speaking she was peeling the polish from her fingernails or toying with a stray yarn on her multicolored, thick scarf. She wore no makeup other than mascara and magenta lipstick, which transferred itself slowly from her lips to her wine glass every time she raised it for a sip.

"I just want to feel like what I am doing is worthwhile. I want to be proud of something. I want to be in love with someone who makes me a better person, not a distorted version of myself. I want to start sculpting again, and watercolor." She looked up at Paul to see how he was reacting to her confessions.

Paul had green eyes and thick black eyelashes. He sat slouched in his café chair, one leg outstretched into the sidewalk, the other slightly bouncing under the table. His apparent apathy gave him a youthful aura, though he was older than Lita.

The waitress passed by and the two ordered another carafe of wine. The waitress gave them a quick glance, acknowledging the request, then disappeared inside. She probably thought they were a couple. They seemed to be. Lita, fidgeting and wide-eyed, seemed a good match for Paul's laid back vibe. But they weren't a couple. In fact, they were hardly even friends. They had met by chance at the park two weeks ago, when Paul's friends had forgotten to bring a corkscrew, so they requested one from nearby Lita and company. The two picnics then converged and Lita and Paul found that they lived in the same neighborhood.

The first time they had seen each other after that day was when they ran into each other at the weekend market, and sat down for a cup of coffee afterwards. Lita thought Paul was a bit of a bore, in a way that she couldn't quite explain. Paul found Lita amusing in a condescending fashion. Yet they found themselves together again, drinking red wine on the banks of the Seine, filling their bellies with Bordeaux and fresh air.

The waitress returned with the carafe and set it down sloppily on the small, worn; wooden table. "Voila" she said.

"Well?" implored Lita. "What do you think? What makes you feel like what you are doing is worthwhile?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't really think too much about that kind of thing," said Paul. "I mean, I work, I make money, I find pretty girls to kiss... That all seems worthwhile to me. I'm pretty alright happy."

"Pretty alright happy?" asked Lita. "Don't you want to be really happy?"

"Of course I do. It happens in moments, not large spaces of time."

Lita paused, looked down at the newly refilled glass of wine marked by magenta smudges, and sighed. She ran her finger over the rough tabletop, noting its dips and curves. She saw the light from the inside of the café bounce off of the rounded sides of the carafe. The air smelled like leaves, and tobacco, and river water. The sun was now completely hidden and small groups of people were huddling around the posted menu of the café, pondering dinner.

Her mind felt still, her body relaxed. She turned toward the city and the ornate stone buildings lining the streets. The trees were gradually dropping their now yellow leaves, creating piles of crunchy fragile stepping stones down the sidewalk.

If time could be stopped, she thought, this time would be wonderful. She took the dusk, wrapped it carefully in fallen leaves, placed it in her skirt pocket.

She looked towards Paul who was following a woman in a purple pea coat with his eyes.

"I guess I'll take what I can get," Lita said, discovering a new stray yarn on her over-picked scarf. And the clock kept ticking, and the metros kept running, and the waitress stepped outside to smoke.

her name was Dot

2010-10-26T09:01:00.001-04:00

My little Parisian pied-a-terre used to belong to a woman named Dot. In fact, I think it still does. Dot is not on Earth anymore, technically, but I think she has yet to leave her little home.

She had many properties- maybe Paris was her favorite? I read some letters from her friends and they were often reassuring: "Its ok, Dot. You are moving on to new things." and "You have excellent taste in art and friends- you have collected a great deal of both."

She was a traveler and an artist. She was one of our clients, so I looked up her file...

In the inventory for her other Paris home, her belongings read like poetry. And "under the bed" is the best random listing of luxuries I could imagine.

Under the bed:

2 suitcases

3 good long dresses
1 sari

long gloves

various silk stoles

2 old sari dresses

red hotelplan bag with winter mittens, earmuffs, and hiking stockings

gloves: white beige, black satin, purple, summer

beaver fur coat

And my favorite listing from her closet:

scarves- dozens.

She's not a bad flatmate at all. Who wants to drink coffee alone anyway?

grow up

2010-10-20T05:18:00.002-04:00

crying at work count: 1

home:alone

2010-10-19T10:23:00.000-04:00

Open the door and go inside. It is tiny and warm, stuffy but clean.

See those windows with the balcony up there? I ask. I live above those.

Throw yourself on the ancient bed, small as a mouse and creaky. Pour a glass of cheap wine into a jelly jar and kick your shoes off into the corner.

It is quiet, no? And still. Except for the humm of the groups down below in the square, chattering at the cafes and gossiping at bars.

No matter how many times you close your eyes it is still there.

Nothing,

not even candle flame,

can be as sweet as this.

thoughts in the summer before law school

2010-09-16T20:29:00.002-04:00

March 3, 2006

I miss my bicycle. I've been thinking, if I don't get accepted to any law schools, I want to find a city to live and work in-- a new city, where I can ride my bicycle and live within limited economic means with lots of ethnic restaurants and weather where I can grow daisy bushes and maybe some water nearby? I could wait tables until I get some sort of 'real' job and I could volunteer at the woman's shelter and take up some adult ballet classes. And maybe get my ESL license?

I have no plan/I have no future/I am free and oh-so trapped.

PS Tomorrow is my birthday. Yay for 23!

first love

2010-09-16T19:31:00.000-04:00

I've only ever really been in love once, when I was with my first college boyfriend. While packing I came across this journal entry I wrote shortly after meeting him:

September 14, 2001

I am so fucking smitten. Last night was absolutely wonderful. I met Armon just two days ago, but I feel like I've known him forever.

He came over to study. When I first saw him I stopped a little- he was so hot in the middle of the lobby of the dorm. I was thinking "I really hope he thinks I am pretty" because I was feeling awfully self-conscious, but I got comfortable with him so quickly and his vibes were just so good. Everything about him was good.

We went downtown and walked around, stopping by Junkman's Daughter and Smoothie King and Blue Sky for coffee. I knew that even if he didn't like me we were going to be great friends because we just went so well together.

We went to his dorm to get his books and I saw his pretty guitar, then we went back to my dorm room to start studying. We met his friend Bob there, and let me tell you- Bob is an awesome guy. I really hope we become good friends. He lives in the same dorm building as I do.

So we started studying kind of, but kept talking about music and other things. It was fun and silly and how I had imagined college to be: sitting around, studying and listening to music and laughing....

After Bob left I talked to Armon for a long time. I was pulling super heavy flirting mode with him. I guess it worked because we kissed and it was soft and sweet and delicious. It was getting late, around 2 i think, so I told him he had to go. We went into the hall and I couldn't stop thinking about his lips.

We were absolutely going at each other like crazy. We kissed together perfectly, we meshed. We took the stairs the 6 flights down and kissed on every landing. It felt so nice and I wanted to write about it so badly.

something nice

2010-09-16T07:22:00.000-04:00

hmm? what's that?
really?
oh well,
thanks.
thanks very much..... beam

subdued

2010-09-12T15:39:00.002-04:00

in old hollywood
they would put lens filters on the cameras

to shoot the starlets
close-up

i drink vodka before I see my mother
for
the same reason.

everyone looks better in a fuzzy light.

love

2010-08-30T19:25:00.002-04:00

i'm ready to be

in love

with

a lot of

things.

feast

2010-08-12T22:10:00.002-04:00

one cannot

live

 on kisses      alone,

but i would

be

willing 

to give it

a try.

go

2010-08-10T09:21:00.000-04:00

turn around three times and touch your toes-

comb your hair and pretend you are never ever hungry. 

if the voodoo doesn't work//

just let it go, dear,

keep calm and carry on: waiting is a waste of time.

heart

2010-07-31T19:55:00.000-04:00

i would have put you behind my ribcage

if i knew you'd

run

so far. 

day one of the bar exam

2010-07-27T21:22:00.004-04:00

Big tests inspire a very visceral reaction in me. I have always feared them in a way that is not normal. Probably because I am not very good at them. There are a few reasons for that. One is I just don’t test well on those large scale exams. Another is my aforementioned insane fear. Another, I think, is based in my diversion from competition. I don’t like being competitive. It doesn’t make me happy. It is kind of amazing I did so well in law school considering this fact, since law school is a bastion of competition where no one stops until they are standing in a pool of bloody bodies, covered in sweat with a smug look on their face. Not everyone is like that, of course. But it is a culture that is fed by the schools themselves. Can we have a new word for law school now? I feel like it is cursing my happy little blog each time I use it. You know how when people go to prison, after they get out, they talk about it like “you know, during the time I was away…” That’s how I feel about law school.

This time last year all of my fears about big tests became entangled with my fears about life and destiny and direction. I was so lost, just out of school after being a student for 21 years (not counting one year I escaped: then I was the teacher). I was afraid of loving and I was afraid of my instincts and I was afraid of the big bad world but mostly I was afraid of that test. The big one, you know? The one that sounds like a fun place just to mess with you? I was afraid of the bar. Very afraid.

So I just quit. I quit the bar, I quit New Orleans, and I quit life for a little while. I had a constant feeling of falling, as if I just kept going deeper and deeper and I didn’t have the ambition or energy to get back to the top, or even look towards the sky. I convinced myself that I was taking time to figure things out, but nothing could be farther from the truth. I was hiding. I was ignoring everything in my life- the debt that weighed so heavy on my shoulders, the job market and it’s never ending stream of rejections, my friends and family, myself.

Now I’m starting to peek out again. And part of that is facing what I am afraid of. So I reached out to Paris, and guess what? It worked out. I reached out to my friends and family and they were all still there and supporting me. And of course, I reached out to the bar. That pesky debt however…

So this morning I woke up in my hotel room a block away from Times Square and opened my toile curtains to a lovely view of a brick wall. I carefully placed the items I was allowed to take with me to the testing center. I was slightly terrified that accidentally bringing one too many pens, or the wrong flavor of chapstick, or a note with my walking directions would get me thrown out of the exam immediately so I packed only one pen, a water bottle, my wallet, and my laptop. I left the hotel around quarter of 7, which was a nice calm time- even in Times Square. The air was not too heavy yet and people were rolling up the shutters on their shops. I felt calm and a bit dazed, oscillating between feeling blessed to be able to experience a walk in New York in the morning when it is still waking up, and petrified of the small booklet of test questions that awaited me.

The testing center was huge and disorganized. The tension was palpable from a mile away. People were everywhere drinking coffee, reading notes, and glancing around uncomfortably. We lined up for a lifetime, and were finally let into what I can only call a glorified airline hanger.

The room was huge, very huge. I am bad a guessing sizes but I will tell you there were about 2500 candidates taking the test in there, at rickety plastic tables for two, and a proctor for about every ten people with their own wobbly white table. I was 694. It was freezing. The entire room was concrete, the walls and the ceiling and the floor. Everything was grey. Everything. It was one of the saddest rooms I have ever seen. There were no windows. Just rows and rows of those white tables, two chairs each, in never ending lines. The test began and it was four and a half hours of essay writing. I tried to write and write but my brain kept drying up. I understood what they wanted but the words were just not in my head. I trudged through the three essay questions with a half an hour to spare. This is one of my test-taking faults. I always finish early. In law school it was a blessing because I could unplug my laptop and high-tail it out of the room before all the others finished and started commiserating about the test questions in the lobby. I like to think I always finish early because I can quickly organize my thoughts and have a good grasp on the material, but it could be that I just want to get away from exams as quickly as possible.

I looked around and everyone was serious. They were all slightly hunched over their computers, gazing intently at their screens. I could see some screens and it looked like they had written a lot more than me but it was hard to tell. The proctor was filing her nails and casually glancing up every once in a while, looking as bored as I was. What a terrible job, I thought, sitting there for five hours looking at stressed people facing a life altering exam.

When we were let loose for lunch, and that is pretty literal as we were herded out of the room and into the food court, I was torn between going outside to defrost my bones or forcing down some terrible cafeteria food. I chose the latter because I had been too nervous to eat breakfast. I swiped a hamburger that gave me instant flashbacks to middle school because of its pure non-appeal and asked to sit at a table with a brunette snacking on a sandwich. After being seemingly surprised that I was talking to her she started to release a stream of negative comments. She is from New York, got a firm job, hates it, is avoided her other former classmates, ending it all with youknowhatimean and a knowing glance. I told her I am working in Paris even though I don’t like telling people that because it sounds like I’m bragging I think, even though it shouldn’t. But no one wants to know the nitty gritty about my fanatical life-long commitment to living in Paris, they just want to tell me about how they went there last summer and had really good mussels. Which is fine. I like to hear people’s Paris stories. And it means I don’t have to talk about my crazy situation.

Anyway, after lunch we were hoarded back into the room. I went in early to my seat while everyone was lining up outside of the bathrooms. I figured I would take a little break during the exam to freshen up, which is a huge perk of the early finish- breaks aren’t stressful. So I sat down at the table who had seen so many stressed elbows and I laid my head down and…. Well I do something I never do… I prayed. I tried to make the room as quiet as possible and I said in my head

God, whoever you are, and if you exist or not, I hope you aren’t mad that I don’t really believe in you. And when me and Beth make all those baby Jesus jokes, we’re just kidding, you know? I mean I definitely don’t believe in Jesus but just in case you take that personally, I’m sorry. I need your help because this is really important to me. Just let me pass this test. Please. I don’t want to do this again. Just let me find all my knowledge and all my skill and make it through. I’ll never again ask for anything else.

Well it just seemed like all I could do. The second half of the test started and I hammered away on my computer until time was called. We all filed out of the building looking vaguely drugged and slightly tight, as when you stay up too late drinking with people who aren’t really your friends but you end up telling them your life story. It was that kind of morning, but in the New York evening. I felt like saying “Don’t worry, guys, we’ll never speak of this again.”

When I walked back to my hotel the city was breathing gusts of hot air. It was awake and ready to sizzle. The roads were packed with yellow taxis and the sidewalks were flooded with people walking to and fro. Half over now it didn’t seem so scary, but who knows? Tomorrow is day two, then I’m off to Brooklyn to knock any memory of this exam out of my mind for a while, with the aid of martinis and cute boys. And I’m tired.

three weeks.

2010-07-20T18:00:00.001-04:00

new orleans where gigi says "i'm so glad you're here" and i believe it,

it is hotter than sin but we love it-- 

in the driveway at my old house there is a car from new mexico and i wonder if they repainted my bedroom? all the flowers are dead, including my giant hibiscus, though i prefer to think it left to another home after i moved out. 

next week new york and for bar, boy and bride, baby. 

pretty pizzas and central park. 

 then a big bus will carry me to washington dc, to see the lovely lass zaza,

with every weight off my shoulders, every worry from my mind, every insanity settled....

we'll have cocktails on the hill and cupcakes in the cafes. 

summer is its own planet. three weeks in space.

post script

2010-07-17T16:59:00.000-04:00

Attn: Mister Buchanan,

This letter is to alert you to the fact that you reneged on the oral contract formerly created. 

According to Section 8, B, ii: Neither party may be " roguish idle-headed hugger-mugger." 

According to my records, you have breached this agreement. Our relationship is henceforth terminated and I will be contacting my attorney about any future punitive damages.

Sincerely,

Lucie

post

2010-07-16T16:26:00.000-04:00

Dear Mister Buchanan,

I am writing to thank you for taking the time to meet with me yesterday evening. 

I quite enjoyed the delicious dinner and selection of fine wines. 

Your performance and presentation was more than satisfactory. 

Please contact my secretary soon- I hope we can continue to build on what looks to be a promising future together.

Best regards,

Lucie

haikus about men i have slept with, set six

2010-07-16T15:53:00.002-04:00

IV.

We couldn’t have been

more different, in bed or

after gaps of years. 

XXII.

I robbed the cradle 

and will blame it on the bar

and despondency. 

XVIII.

I dressed up for you

In make up lace high heels

And it fooled us both.

(for more in this series, click on the label in the cloud)

its really happening

2010-07-14T14:30:00.000-04:00

it is really happening.

i'm moving back to paris- Permanently- with one of my dream jobs.

September can't come soon enough!

my head is exploding with butterflies.

please excuse the absence

2010-07-12T11:41:00.000-04:00

Sorry to say
I cannot make it to your
impeding nuptials. i
have some hair washing
to do and more
toe nails to be painted
maybe red this time.
i really would have loved to have made it
but i have plans
that day, plans with
someone very attractive and...
polish. he is polish.
perhaps i can make it
to your next wedding if
my schedule turns out to be
more open,
in the future,
if i am not in africa or baton rouge.
so please excuse the absence-
it appears you may have
forgotten to mail me an invitation--
but out of politeness i want you to know
that i wouldn't have been able
to make it,
anyway.

user instructions

2010-07-11T16:01:00.001-04:00

when feeling crazy lost and impulsive:

drink wine, call meaningless boy (who you may or may not actively dislike), drink more wine while stripping and kissing in the yard,

lament lack of stars and inadequate kisses loudly (to make sure he knows you dislike him), roll around on a thin blanket over the grass, under the trees...

wake up in his bed at 2:00 with a throbbing head and many mosquito bites.

dares and defies

2010-07-11T13:00:00.000-04:00

july poem

2010-07-05T16:10:00.001-04:00

a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that...

a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that is capable or becoming posessory possessssrie possessory 

 a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that is capable of becoming possessory upon the expiration of a prior possessory estate created in the same conveyance....

sigh

a remainder is a future interest in a grantee that is capable of becoming possessory upon the expiration of a prior possessory estate created in the same conveyance in which the remainder is created.

time for tea.

where it all began

2010-07-04T21:13:00.002-04:00

I received my first diary from my mother on Christmas Day, 1989. It was pastel and had a princess on the cover. The pages were scented with some sort of floral baby powder, and it was fitted by a small lock. To this day I think it is the best present I have ever gotten. I thought you might be tickled by my first entry:

A transcript:

DATE: 12251989 WEEK: Mon WEATHER: snow

Dear Diary my name is Brandy I am 6 years old. I love Jack. My favorite ant* is Jean and ant beth.

I love brian.My big brother is a pest. I go to kennesaw ELEMENTary school. My best friend is Amber. The best brbe** I have is holiday Brbe. From Brandy.

*-aunt

**barbie

{ps i specifically remember that diaries were for writing down the names of the boys you liked and was obsessed with my brother finding the book, breaking the lock and reading it with his friends (meaning I secretly really wanted it to happen...}

my feet are tender

2010-07-02T19:07:00.003-04:00

Today I stepped out onto the front yard, and a sharp pebble stuck my toe. I squeaked and jumped. 

When I was a little girl, I played barefoot kickball in the cul-de-sac with the neighborhood boys. You had to run fast because of the steamy black asphalt. 

There was no way to cross the creek in shoes. You had to remove them and grasp them in your hand, and cross keeping balance on the slippery river rocks. 

Feet were used for kicking away branches as you made a path through the woods, for poking at the neighbor’s dog, for jumping high in the air over the lake, landing with a splash.

Later my feet were manipulated like crazy. Smashed into pointe shoes 3 times a week, and taps and bare feet slapping the wood floor to move modern. The pointe shoes bent my toes and twisted my ankles, I would wear them for days. 

My feet have become soft: blistered from impossibly high heels, and polished with pink. They aren’t for barefoot playing anymore, they are used to tromp through airports, press the gas petal, run for the elevator.  

New motto: be barefoot as often as possible. 

deep breath

2010-06-25T13:08:00.001-04:00

Not far from this time 2 years ago I broke up with Paris. 

Now she wants me back. 

my head is spinning, rather

ridiculous- thinking of papers and housekeys and netgross

the bathtub gave me no answers-

my head and my heart are in a deadlock.

stories I wrote in high school: Skinny Dipping

2010-05-23T23:18:00.002-04:00

[ed note: This is my favorite story I wrote in high school: not because it is amazingly written, or a wonderful short plot. I love it because when I was young my best friend was a military brat and moved to Mississippi when I was just 12 or 13. Thereafter I would go to see her every summer- by myself! When I think of being young in the summer, I think of Mississippi times. This story just brings everything back for me- I remember that night so vivdly- though most nights ended the same way. Hope you like it <3 ]

Click!

“Shhhh, they’ll hear you!”

“They are asleep. Its 3 AM.”

“But they’ll wake up!”

“From one little click?”

“Yes!!”

“Shhh you, they’ll definitely wake up if you want to get angry about it!”

She threw a pillow at me. I held it against my face to keep from giggling too loudly. It smelled like eucalyptus. Everything in the room smelled of faint eucalyptus and watermelon. It was a pleasant smell- a comforting smell.

The click had come from the window. It clicked each time it was slid open. The air from outside started penetrating the room: hot and sticky, but in a good way. There was a tiny breeze that would blow your hair just a little if you stood the right way, and it always felt amazing.

She went to the nightstand and turned on the stereo very softly. She pushed ‘repeat’ and the CD was spinning.

Round here... We all look the same...

“What good will that do?” I asked.

“It’s... important.” She answered.

“Well are we going? You are letting all the mosquitoes into my room!”

“Fine, lets go. But be quiet!”

We climbed out the window, slowly and carefully. I gasped as my foot brushed a pine cone and she giggled. I took a hair band out of my pocket as she closed the window almost all of the way. I pulled my hair into a sloppy bun at the nape of my neck. It was tangled and dirty, but I just wiped it out of my face without a thought, brushing a mosquito off my shoulder.

“Is it secure?” I asked.

“All systems go,” she replied.

We ran around the side of the house. The sky was covered with a million silver stars and the moon was full, directly above us. The damp grass flirted with my feet as I dodged ant piles. As we walked past the driveway the motion detector lights went of. We squealed; she grabbed my hand and we ran across the yard. My bun slipped out of the elastic band and my hair bounced as we stumbled into the darkness.

We met the road. The rough asphalt was a harsh change from the soft, tickling grass. We continued running for a few strides but stopped when our bare feet began to sting. We then slowed to a nervous walk.

“It’s kinda chilly” I said.

“Not really.”

I tugged at my sagging, worn jeans and pulled my tiny camisole tank top over my tummy. “Do you have a hair band? Mine must have fallen out.”

“Nope, sorry, this is the only one I have,” she said, pointing to the mess of almost white-blond hair piled on her head.

Besides our quiet talking, it was almost silent. The bugs were screaming as usual. The mosquitoes were buzzing, like always. The streetlight we were almost under was emitting an annoying bizzzzzz every few seconds. I looked down at my shadow. It dances in front of my on the road. I lifted my hand just to see its bent equivalent.

We reached the end of the road and climbed the rusty gate. Now the road had turned to gravel and my toes creamed at me. “Why didn’t I bring sandals?” I asked aloud, to no one. The serenity was getting to me. I had too much energy to be encompassed with silence. She just laughed as we walked onward, until finally we reached the lake.

“Come sit on the pier,” she said. She motioned for me to join her by the water. It was very still, as if I could have stood still on the gentle waves. I sat down.

“Did you bring the oreos?” I asked.

“Yup! Here,” she handed me a few. “Ask a question.”

“You first,” I said, adjusting my legs under my body.

“Sure. Ok, if the cream is on the right side of the cookie then I am going to meet the man of my dreams in the next fifteen days. If it is on the left side I’ll be marrying that guy from McDonalds when I’m forty.” She twisted and discovered the cream filling on the left side.

I laughed. “I’ll still be your maid of honor,” I said.

“Come on, lets go swimming.”

“Are you sure its not cold?” I ate an oreo and dangled my fingers over the top of the water.

“Of course it isn’t cold, it was like 200 degrees today! Lets go!” she squeaked.

We stood up, slid off our clothes, and jumped in the water. A million bubbles floated around me as I swam to the surface. I looked around for her. “You’re right, it feels good,” I admitted. She splashed me with the murky water. “Hey! Don’t get my jeans wet on the pier,” I said.

“They’re going to get wet when you put them back on anyway, unless you plan on walking back without them.” She laughed and dipped under the water. I waved my arms to stay afloat and eyed my surroundings. The lake seemed so much larger once inside it. A house far across the water had a light on in an upstairs room and it glowed yellow through the glass. I could hear a few cars zooming by on the road just past the trees.

Everything felt, and smelled, like summer.

I climbed out of the lake, pulled on my tank top and underpants, and stretched out on the pier. “Getting out so soon?” she called out from the water.

“I’m going to take your clothes and run!” I mocked, as I gently lifted then set down the heap of fabric splayed next to me. “What day is it?” I asked.

“Ummmmm... Thursday.”

“Oh.”

“Well, technically it is Friday,” she said, swimming closer to me.

“Oh, yeah. What time is it?”

“I dunno, look at my watch.”

I shifted her pile of clothes and a watched fell onto the pier. 4.32. I called out to her: “Are you tired?”

“No! I could do anything right now!”

“Okay, lets go to Italy,” I suggested.

“No-

Mexico

,” she said as she climbed out of the water. “We can get cheap tequila there.”

“Eww I don’t even like tequila.” I squinted my nose.

“Yeah, well, you aren’t supposed to like it. If the frosting is on the right, we go to Italy. If it is on the left, then its Mexico.” She stuck an oreo in her mouth as she pulled on her Old Navy jeans and then twisted the cookie.

“Guess I better get used to tequila,” was my defeated reply.

She tugged at her hair as I zipped up my jeans and then we began to walk back to the house. We took our time, to dry off as much as possible in the night air. For a few steps we both left faint footsteps on the road behind us. By the time we reached the window we were both fighting a losing battle with drowsiness.

I yawned. “What do you want to do now?” I climbed over the windowsill. “Tired?”

“No, you?” she replied.

“Not at all. Lets play cards.”

The cards had already been sprawled out on the bed and we joined them. The blankets smelled like eucalyptus. We both slid asleep, with the CD player still spinning:

Round here.... something radiates...

2010-05-14T22:36:00.001-04:00

honesty on Friday night

2010-05-14T22:04:00.016-04:00

I’m staring at the cursor go blinkblinkblink.

It is Friday night. A Friday night like any other. Except I sit on my father’s torn up old couch, next to a lounging black cat. The air conditioning isn’t working and it is so muggy for this time of year.

My father’s home is perpetually half-constructed. This is partly because he is in construction by trade, and partly because he is a hopeless dreamer who much prefers imagining, sketching, and hypothesizing to actually living in a reality.

I haven’t said it too much, because I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I haven’t said it much, because it hurts when the words stop up my throat:

I hate it here.

This is the last place I ever wanted to be after all the hard work I’ve done. Do you know...? I think this place tells me:

“This is where you came from.

How dare you think you could be

Anything

Else.”

Life here is Not Normal. And it is Not Healthy. And I’ve fallen into this despondency beyond all reasonableness.

This past year has been difficult. Very difficult.

I’m staring at the cursor, because I need to type. I need to do things to prepare. I am going to Washington DC next week to be interviewed for a Really Big Thing. At least in my life, it is a Really Big Thing.

My mind is in the suburbs but my heart is in the sky. Honestly, darling, I don’t want self-sabotage but old habits die hard.

(Anything else? ... whispers in my ear)

i'm not dead

2010-05-13T21:45:00.005-04:00

and neither is my computer.

i've been to japan for a joyous family occasion.

now i have a sister!!

it was mind-boggling.

i hope someday i can find the right words to share it with you. i'm trying. word drought is in full-swing...

Dear lovelies,

2010-03-25T22:21:00.003-04:00

My poor laptop is in critical condition. Please clap your hands if you believe in laptop resurrection! I was working on so many stories, and now it has been in laptop emergency for almost a month!

Thanks <3

27

2010-03-03T19:14:00.003-05:00

27 is the atomic number of cobalt.

tomorrow i will be cobalt.

hang your hat on that, sugar. my life in blue.

cupid is getting older

2010-02-14T16:56:00.005-05:00

for valentine's day i will
sip tequila
and try to remember what it felt like
to be kissed
for the first time
by my
brother's best friend
in the back yard
while my parents watched
TV inside....

true true true love. like fresh puffy snow on green grass.

metro boulot dodo

2010-02-02T19:03:00.003-05:00

the french say
metro boulot dodo
and i understand that now...
but i promise that
even though i am a 3 on my scale of 10
and even though
I spend hours in a job I don't care about...
there is something exciting
(and international)
on the horizon

but i don't want
to
jinx
it.

cross your fingers for me, please!!

here's to a new year

2010-01-03T13:21:00.001-05:00

sometimes i forget
and build a house
on quicksand,
feed peanuts and shellfish
to those with
weak immune systems,
swear in front of my grandmother
and sometimes
i move from cities
and countries
at inopportune times...
sometimes i ruin absolutely everything
and i can usually
admit when i am (disastrously) wrong...
it was wrong to paint
that room cantaloupe colored,
it was wrong to
sleep with that boy from
great britain,
it was wrong to wear black legwarmers
with green tights
in college that one time....
i should not have

i won't call old M any more.
i won't drink until my birthday-- okay, perhaps start that one tomorrow....

PS

2010-01-02T18:29:00.003-05:00

My first post of the New Year was my 300th post of the blog. Thanks for all my new readers! My little piece of the internet means a lot to me, and I love sharing it with you.

haikus about men i have slept with, set 5

2010-01-02T16:29:00.003-05:00

X

You were perfection

on paper, but in real life:

Frustration defined. 

XVI

We kissed by the Seine,

But you were such a man-child

it was always doomed. 

III

You kissed me so hard

that my lip was bruised; I thought

it was hot back then.

wish jar

2010-01-02T15:49:00.003-05:00

When I was in college I stared a "wish jar." I guess I've always been a worrier, and sometimes I get so intensely into my own thoughts I could stay up all night racking my brain for solutions to my little hiccups in life. I painted an old pickle jar and started writing my wishes on little pieces of paper and sticking them inside... It was so cathartic. It did not put things completely out of my head but it did feel like a tiny weight was off of my shoulders. When I moved away from college in 2005 I read all the little papers, and they seemed so silly: "I wish he would call me back" "I wish I would get an A on this French test" "I wish I could fit into my blue dress"

I need to start the wish jar again,

but oh dear how the wishes have changed...

stories i wrote in high school: a hitchhiker's hour

2009-12-16T23:42:00.003-05:00

"The whole world looks different from the back seat of a convertible," she said as she slipped on her black studded sunglasses and shifted gears. Her words floated back to me. "Where are you headed, honey?" She lifted her hand just off of the steering wheel for a second to check her nails.

It was a huge old convertible. Canary yellow. The paint was chipping and the leather of the seats was cracked.

"San Francisco" was my reply.

She was old. Her face had wrinkled from years of tanning and dark roots peaked out from beneath her heavily bleached hair. It didn't look soft. Nothing about her looked soft- her hair, her face, her synthetic clothing... I leaned my elbow on my bag.

"Oh. Another aspiring actress, are ya? I see," she said, checking me out in her rear view mirror.

I didn't want to be an actress.

"Well, honey, honestly, you aren't even going to pull commercials with a nose like that." She waved around her hands when she talked. Her long plastic nails clicked together, her clunky gold rings twisted around her fingers.

I liked my nose.

"Well, one tip for ya- don't ever let them talk you into taking your clothes off! No matter how much they offer you. You'll never live it down. I know I haven't." She looked at me again. I could tell she wanted me to ask her what she had acted in and who had wanted her to take her clothes off. After a few seconds I humored her. "Is that so?" I said flatly.

"Oh yes doll. It'll follow you forever. You see, I played a stripper in a movie in the eighties. It was called Candlelight. I'm sure you've heard of it."

I had never heard of it. "Oh, yeah, of course," I said.

She let out a loud, short laugh. "You were probably a baby!" she snorted. "Well, let me tell you, people still ask me about it. I hear it still makes its rounds in the dorms. Just last week a young guy came up to me and said 'hey aren't you the stripper from Candlelight?' So I said 'yeah' and we had a few drinks..."

I could tell that was a lie but I smiled a little anyway. The dusty air was spinning past me and the sun was blaring down- I could feel it on the part in my hair.

"But you gotta be careful of people like that, honey. They think just because they've seen you naked in a movie once they can have you then and there! But that's men for ya... Gotta boyfriend, girlie?"

"No, no I don't," I said. I leaned my head back and let the sunshine bounce off of my cheeks.

"Oh.. Well... you aren't one of those... lesbian girls, are you?" She whispered the word lesbian as if it were a curse. "It is supposed to be hip these days, you know, to be like that. Doesn't make any sense to me. Crazy- these people are. Next thing you know they'll live right next door to you."

I just smiled. I was as much a lesbian as I was an actress.

"You running away, sweetie?" she then asked me, lowering her glasses with a fake expression of worry. "You look awfully young."

"I'm not running," I said. "Just taking a break."

"Who is it, honey? she asked. "Do your parents treat you bad? Hate your teachers? Bad break up?"

I just ran my hand over the weathered interior and sighed as she pulled over to the side of the road.

"I'll just let you off here, hun, but I'll tell you- I've run away before. Its no good. Just go find yourself a nice rich man, honey, someone who can take care of your pretty little face." She smiled a wide, toothy smile at me. I got out and stood next to the car. Her lips were an obnoxious shade of pink.

I pushed my windblown hair out of my face, and looked farther down the road into the distance. "Thank you very much," I said as I pushed the door closed.

tragic

2009-12-11T16:33:00.003-05:00

WHY do I drink too much vodka
and spend the night
with a guy I couldn't care less about,
the night before a date
with a guy who
I really really like?

My self-sabotage knows no bounds.

new york/ paris/ berlin/ ect....

2009-12-09T21:38:00.004-05:00

when I think of cities
I think of independence

you can never really be alone in the city-
that's the lovely thing about it, in the end.

that's why,
i think,
you should live in the city
and escape
to the country--

better to escape being overwhelmed,
than to seek fake companionship.

eulogy to a failed relationship

2009-12-04T18:53:00.003-05:00

Perhaps you can only be upset with the ones who pray at inopportune times and then take advantage, because at the end of the day I know it was I who was in control.

Thanks for showing me New York and your heart.

I miss ~~you~~ sometimes.
I miss something sometimes.

haikus about men i have slept with, set 4

2009-11-29T21:40:00.003-05:00

XIII.

It is funny how

We can share so much, quickly,

And then disappear. 

XVII.

We were both lonely

And desperate for loving: 

Guess you found too much?

IX.

In the hot morning

We kissed, went to the beach:

It was so easy.

A Thanksgiving Story

2009-11-25T21:21:00.002-05:00

The year I spent on La Réunion was the third Thanksgiving I spent internationally, and the first where I tried to make a real Thanksgiving dinner abroad.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I like that it is unique to America (pay no mind to the Canadian Thanksgiving, the designer imposter Thanksgiving). I like that there are certain foods that you eat at every Thanksgiving, making the tastes and smells unique to the experience. I like that there are no presents involved, just good food and wine and conversation. It is a pretty day, at least in the south, where the leaves have changed but the sky is still autumn-blue before shifting to winter-grey. And I like that it’s a day, when taken separately from its rather gruesome historic past, about evaluating life and being thankful for whatever blessings you have.

So naturally, even though I was on a little foreign island, I was excited about the 3rd Thursday in November. Of course, the turkey was the first obstacle. We had only two options for “la dinde”: we could go to the market and buy a turkey—a whole turkey, alive, or buy turkey cutlets in the grocery store. Carrying on the American tradition of choosing to completely ignore where my food comes from before it is shrink wrapped in my local chain grocery freezer case, we could not possibly buy a live turkey. But the cutlets also seemed so sad. So we went to the local Géant and bought the only bird that was intact for roasting: a rooster. A large frozen rooster.

My roommate and I were actually enthusiastic about this idea, since the island roosters had been terrorizing us by crowing at odd hours throughout the night. In keeping with the culture of the island, they had absolutely no sense of time. So we took a twisted pleasure in roasting one for our dinner.

We got as much Thanksgiving goodness as we could fit in our hands and our bags and hiked back up to our apartment, Le Chateau. It is not easy to haul a Thanksgiving feast up those island hills in the island heat, but we were determined. We invited all our friends: the Spanish teacher, the German teacher, my French boyfriend, and of course myself, my roommate and two others - the English teachers.

The day before Thanksgiving, tragedy struck. You see, we had in our little kitchen what I like to call our Easy Bake Over, a miniature stove with a gas bottle attached. Unfortunately, shortly before Thanksgiving I had chosen to make boiled peanuts for all my friends. As any good southern girl knows, boiled peanuts take many hours to cook. So many hours, in fact, that I depleted our gas supply in the process. Because hunting down our landlord’s maintenance man (who could restock our gas can) was a mere impossible task, prospects looked gloomy for the big day.

I was shattered! Not Thanksgiving! How can you have Thanksgiving without a stove and oven? I cried.

I didn’t have much time to lament the oven issue, because I had to work on the big day. I was excited because I got to share my favorite holiday with the kids at the university in their English class that day. It started well, with my first class. I laughed that when I asked them about Thanksgiving they immediately thought of the episode of Friends when Joey ate a whole turkey.

But, unfortunately, my third class was not in the mood to speak in English that day. And instead they decided to snicker and whisper for the whole class. Finally they broke out laughing about I-don’t-even-remember-what, and I lost it. My eyes watered up, and I stood silent in front of the class. The boys looked at me, still smirking. “Get out!” I said. “If I were home today I would be eating Turkey with my family and not working! I would be baking pumpkin pie and not staring at a frozen rooster!!” Of course, based on the blank stares I was getting I could tell that the slackers did not understand my English out-burst, so I just said “Sortez!” and shot daggers out of my eyes until they all left the room.

I walked home in the humidity and cursed all the stupid palm trees and stupid sunshine and stupid salty air and stupid hills. By the time I got to the apartment I was sad and homesick and ready to dissolve into the mattress on the floor that I called my bed.

But no! I opened the door, and all my friends were there. The table was set! They had made a raw Thanksgiving- with salad, and fruit, and nuts and packaged cookies and pretzel sticks. Of course we had lots of red wine and rum. We ate and drank and talked all evening, and everyone said ‘thank you’ in their native language.

Danke

Merci

Gracias

Thank you

And we drank wine in front of Star Academy until we all passed out exhausted, and it was a wonderful Thanksgiving after all.