What. WHAT!

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

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

Things I want to discuss with myself.

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

Where is my cat.

On the Loo

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

I need to start up again.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4 release free days for Beloved is an Awful Eternity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But of course, see above Universe comment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beloved, complete with aching testicles,
looked positively forlorn.

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

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

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

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

Poor Beloved.
Dear Beloved.

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

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

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

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

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

Beloved is so cute and sexy

that I could just eat his little nose.

No Funny Shit Here. I think.

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

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

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

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

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

O yes.
Fucked.

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

But I am very tired.

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

 I love me a dinosaur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No.  I don't feel helpless"
said I,

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

Yes.  I am a bad person.".....said I.

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

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

Then a friend and her two boys dropped by.

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

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

So there was that.
On the table.

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

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

The evening continued on.

Then they left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...and Beloved imitated my crying.


I can't even believe I wrote that down.

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

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

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

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

We did not sleep together
in our newly finished bedroom.

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

I cried on and off through the night.

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

All I feel is that he must not love me.


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

Happy and In Love Dreams

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

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

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

We were great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds like a very bad country song.

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

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

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

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

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


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

But that.
Is another story.

Sniff. Sherwin.

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

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

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

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

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

I am, in fact, 20% alien.

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

So.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but no doubt.
tomorrow.
it will be better.

Now I have to go and buy paint.

The Book of If

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and too sad about my lack of followers...

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

whine whine whine

How Me and The Universe are Boyz

You're about to leave for work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

has not been translated into English.

Ok. I lie.

I was surprised. 

Beloved and I ate dinner at The Neighbor's

(who was testing out his new restaurant recipes

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

table.  The Neighbor is not a great reader, so 

this is not a usual happening.  

The book is a whimsical, insightful and fascinating

exploration of a number of topics ranging from

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

if an egg is hard-boiled or raw."

It led to a multi-facted conversation which

ended with a discussion of what it means that

The Neighbor and I don't like it when people

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

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

(Pooping: most vulnerable of everyday human

moments: us at our most animal and uncontrolled:

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

I woke up this morning and searched the internet

for the English translation.  I mean, Werber wrote

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

while the Encylopedia is well read in Russia, 

the English population has yet to get its paws

upon it.

So I am writing to Werber to tell him that 

it is a I who am destined to write 

the translation of his book.

Here is the first excerpt:

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

Birthday Cakes

The blowing out of candles on the occasion

of each birthday is one of the most revealing

rituals of human kind.  

It is through this ritual that man recalls

that he can create fire, and then extinguish

it with his breath.

This control of fire is one of the rites of passages

that bestows upon a baby the state of responsibility.

That the very elderly no longer possess the breath

necessary to snuff out the candles, however,

illustrates their social exclusion from the 

physically active human world.

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

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

The End.

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

Awesome Translation Moment

Jouir:  To Enjoy.

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

Which is to say:

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

Fucking.
Awesome.

I wish you all much Enjoyment Enjoyment Enjoyment today!

My Profound Fear Of Poop.

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

Now.

Poop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Giant Black Holes OF POOP!!!!!

Even animals feel my fear of poop.

I was left alone with a baby once.
Once.

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

I HAD TO FACE HER POOP!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could not move.
And then I vomited.

Ok.  I exaggerate.
I didn't vomit.

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

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

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

I was once in such a position.

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

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

Free Grub!!!

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

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

Clearly not Me.
I drank TWO!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AND THEN ANOTHER!!!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


She turns to walk out of the restaurant.

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


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

She stumbles from the restaurant.

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


but i digress.


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


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

My Ass Is Feeling Much Less Abrased!!!

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

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

She was 75 and dressed in jeans.

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

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

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

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

Like.  Really.  :

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

But he liked her.
HE LIKED HER!!!

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

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

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

We learned One Very Interesting Thing:

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

ie: I am fucking my mother.

WHO KNEW!!!!!

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

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

TERRIFYING!!!!

But also

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

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

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

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

But the fact remains: an asshole.

I share the traits of an asshole.

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


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

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

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

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

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

CONCLUSION:
We are going with Lady Bilingual.


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

Because I Can't Get Enough For My Ass

 O the joys of shrinkhood...

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

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

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

So who the fuck knows.

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

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

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

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

Sigh.

Now I shall go and sand a joint.

Couples Therapy Is WAY DIFFERENT Than Individual Therapy

Well that was painful.

And I feel like fuck**ing crap.

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

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

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

And I'm all for efficiency.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was pretty.

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

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

However.  I got the point.

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

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

This Thing came close on the heels
of my revelations.

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

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

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

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

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

Beloved got the point.

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

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

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

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

We then sat around doing "If" questions:

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

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

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

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

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


On that note, we went to bed.

Will She Put Her Fingers Into My Brain???

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why are you here?  She may ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which could be funny.

I guess.

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

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

How To Hook Him Up

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

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

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

Any suggestions?

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

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

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

Now I shall go and poop.

The Seeing

It is true what so many have said before me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I would get a good meal.

And avoid being with my family.

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

His grass tennis court.

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

And I listened to him tell me
about his life.

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

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

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

He seemed sincerely interested
in me.

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

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

And just as suddenly.
We were in his car.

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

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

He said:
I think this is your song.


And Nina sang:

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

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

And he held my hand
while I wept.


And I knew I had been seen.

The Man-Boy

When I left the Man-Boy in the Toulouse

airport never to see him again, it was as if 

billions of tiny hands were ripping apart 

not only my heartbeat, but each and every 

organ of my body, including the skin 

envelope that was stopping it

from splitting apart.

I could not stop weeping.

Triggering type of weeping.

The weeping where your face becomes

a volcanic eruption and you shake

and the cavern of deep suffering

that you manage to keep sealed

is pierced and then flies apart

letting all of the sorrow seethe

through your single true being.

The Man-Boy was shoeless and he was 

holding his dog by a piece of old rope.

And he, too, could not stop weeping.

They had to hold the plane for me,

I just could not leave.

In some manner I made it to my seat

with all of the passengers eyeing

me in embarrassed or annoyed ways.

And as the city of Toulouse became

a maze of color and then disappeared

behind the clouds, my heart

pattered, pattered, and then just 

seemed to sigh and go cold.

At the end of the trip was my husband,

waiting to take me to my mother's

house where the preparations for 

my step-father's memorial were

moving slowly forward.

The minute I saw my husband I knew

I could not stay with him.  I knew

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

2 months later I was back in France.

***

I was at one of the village fetes

when I first saw the Man-Boy.

He was off to the side of the dance floor,

watching and most definitely apart from

the rest.  His hair was black and thick

and dry and looked as if it had been

in a wind tunnel.  He was my height,

(tall) and beautiful, but not in a way

that most people would find beautiful.

I was dancing, and then I wasn't.

I sat on a bench and thought about how

I had had crushes on two other people

since I had been married, and how

painful that had been for me, the person

who was so committed to fidelity in

body and mind.  I could feel the pull

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

to myself and trying to stop looking

at him.

When he came over and sat besides

me I was still and cool.  He began to

talk with me and I could see through

my bad french, and through his tender

still eyes, that this could be trouble.

I tried to get the upper hand by asking

him his age, knowing that he was younger

than I and that he thought I was younger

than I was.  However, when he told me

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

from the shock.  And when I told him

I was 37, he could say nothing.

I was his mother's age.

In all of my vastly varied experiences,

nothing had prepared me for this situation.

My husband had gone back to the US

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

as some of you know, my husband and I

had as sex life that consisted of my biting

my lip and sleeping with him every 8 or 9

days.  Also an unprecedented situation for me.

In almost all of my previous relationships I 

was accustomed to sex at least once a day.

Despite experiencing sexual abuse at

a young age, and surviving a rape, I really

liked sex, and had moved to a healthy

place with it.  I loved my husband, there

really was nothing not to love, but I had

never really wanted to have sex with him.

I had seen a therapist about this, thinking

that perhaps it was because I was finally

in a healthy relationship and was therefore

subconsciously allowing my pain over

my abuse to surface, cutting off the desire

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

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

time we had kissed felt wrong.  I always

felt that my husband was acting out the

idea of what things should be.  That he

was so disconnected that he could not

be his real, true self, and that somehow,

that made my desire recoil.

The irony was that the sex with my

husband was actually quite good.  He was

the Only person who could give me an

orgasm without any help on my part.

I just did not want him.

So there I was, in the middle of horrible

party music, sitting on a bench dangerously

close to another man.  A Man-Boy. 

Seeing this, a local man, who also happened

to be a cop, approached and started to talk

with us.  I knew he was trying to intervene

in what he felt to be an inappropriate situation.

He stayed and he stayed.

The Man-Boy stayed.

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

but a chill was starting to reach its fingers into

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

which was 200 feet away.

The Man-Boy got up.

The cop person got up.

It was clear the cop was intent on seeing me 

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

straight back at me.  And then I turned to

walk home with the cop yapping on beside me.

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

part, suddenly morphed into something else

as the cop did what no French person ever

does and asked if he could come into my house.

For a beer.  

"I don't have any beers."

"Then how about tea?"  

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

He actually started to insist.

And I pushed him out the door.

I waited 10 minutes.

I opened the door.

I looked down the street.

The Man-Boy was waiting besides the corner.

He started to walk toward me.

When he reached me I walked with him

behind the house to the garden.

We sat side by side in separate chairs

and looked at the shock of stars emptied

across the black, black cheek of the sky.

We talked.

And then he touched my elbow.

My elbow.

Just my elbow.

And only by accident.

And I felt more desire for him,

for this 19 year old boy, in that

perfect and terrible moment,

than I could remember having

ever felt in my life.