DESPERATE

While chilling through my jet lag I was checking in
with the "mommy blog" world and just over-friggin-whelmed
by the "whiteness" of it all. And there, in the heart
of the plum, I found the exact example of that which
stabs me in the wrist in this world:

"I had my very first outing as a mom of two when my son
was a little over two weeks old. I desperately needed
barbeque skewers to cook the kabobs I planned for dinner."

Who the f*** desperately needs barbeque skewers two weeks
after pushing a person out of their vagina?

Perhaps I'm naive. This is an actual possibility, not
one of those statements intended to imply the opposite.

I have lived in many countries and cities within their
boundaries...and what I would desperately need at such
a moment would be to cook, if my partner was not cooking,
something that was there and easy.

I would never desperately need skewers.
I would desperately need sleep.

There are so many conclusions that one can extract
from such a statement. But white suburbia is the
most high pitched in its "look at me" scream.

Sigh.

Of course I am sure that all of this will be proved
wrong to me if I manage to actually fabricate the person
apparently growing in my uterus.

And: what the hell is up with this rash of "Bad Mommy"
blogs. Why does everyone need to be such a "bad boy".
It's a competition for the Marlon Brando of mommyhood--
We all suck at a lot of things, and being a parent
is most surely one of the biggest.

PS: The cat agrees.
PPS: I dreamed that I had a miscarriage and the baby
looked like the alien who bursts from the belly in "Alien"
I was not dressed in sexy white cotton Sigourney panties
at the time, however. My dreams don't confuse shit like that.

DAHLINGK!!

The cat, with her weight gain, is snaking her way through
one of her many cat doors. And I know this because I
have returned to my sweet sweet home in la Francia!!

To my delicious man who set shit in motion while I was
gone for 3 weeks!

We are rebuilding a large'n'long 500 year old ruin
that was originally constructed from handmade bricks and
stones from the river, held together by dirt. Yes. Dirt.

By large I would say that the living room-dining room
is 645 square feet with 13 foot ceilings. And we haven't
even begun the bedrooms.

By ruin, I am talking roof fallen in, first floor fallen
in, walls fallen in. La Ruin. Older than the United States.

By rebuilding, I mean he and I are on the ladders, on the roof,
on our knees rebuilding this hot mess Ourselves--with the
help of others on brief and quite wonderous occasions!
(Which is to say--my hands could scrape the skin from your nose
and my back needs a solo break in the Bahamas-did I mention I am
41? And my darling: 31?)

It has been 4 years of work for him, 2.8 for me. And we are tired.

In one 2.8 year relationship there has been:

Moving from the US to France.
Learning a new language
(which would be French, from his mind's tongue to mine).
Acquiring a cat. Wild.
Transport of 19 boxes of books and 1 old wedding dress.
Rebuilding of a ruin.
Living in said ruin while rebuilding.
Leaving behind of friends and family (O lawdy la Facebook!)
Scrapping about for way to make money in new land.

and!

3 (official) miscarriages.

I hope your eyebrows raised at least one degree,even if
you are on la Botox, for I can tell you that just learning
how to argue in another language is a strain enough.

So back I am. And the house smells of wonderful burning wood
in the most shitastic new stoves we have in the spot.

A smell I can smell because I left.
Just as my loves lips are that much softer since I returned.

ps: the pinkish discharge continues and did for the entire
travel from the US west coast to France. We are not holding
our breath. Which is to say, i am not, as I have not told
Beloved about the discharge. I shall just wait and wish.
(And be ordered to sit down and do nothing for 3 moths).

He's Just Not Into You

Which I saw tonight. While in bed next to my mother.
And I tried to remember if I had ever had the "will he
call" things happen. I feel like no. But I know I have
ached and yearned along with all the other female animals
(because we are all animals) in the world.

And I wondered if my man will be happy to see me when
I get off the plane. And if he will express it how I would
like him to. And if he doesn't, I thought, maybe I will leave
him...because I will be so disappointed.

And then - or now - I wonder if I am a romance addict.

But while I am suffering through the loss of my dear love,
cigarettes, I won't give up my romance addiction.

Especially while I am pregnant.

It seems the pinkish discharge has abated.

Now I just have to buy more effing presents for my
french in-laws. Really. What the fuck could people
want from America? If it was China, I could get with
it. Or even the foreign land of Canada.

I also found some fiction of my mothers, or rather
a note toward future fiction, where she describes
being in a bathroom stall and hearing a young girl
who seems to have a stomach ache "softly groaning"
in the stall besides here.

It shocks me how disgusting I find this.

But then, while I adore and love my mother, I cannot
abide her smell, her odor. And no one else would
ever say she smells anything other than normal.

What is that crazy shit?
It is the crazy shit that keeps this blog anonymous.

Although no one is using it anyway.

Over and out.

PS: In a stack of books my mother is trying to displace
I discovered her copy of the original Joy Of Sex:
also shocking is how uninteresting it is to me...that
which I once spent so much energy on trying to see.

Here Comes The Red Train: Miscarriage Ahoy!!

ah. Yes. Is that pain in my right leg the signs of
oncoming release of 3 weeks old embryo?

Or perhaps the slight pink discharge?

Anything could be the flag that signals
:the end of everything that was hope for
the little cell freak out in my uterus.

Of course I am a day of plane rides away from
my beloved. Rides that cross large bits of water.

I am scheduled to fly 3 days from now.
Surely I will miscarry at high clicks.
I will join the Mile-High-Scrub.

Sigh.

I am 41.
It is straight to the fertility peeps when I am
done with this one. Clean that sperm up!
Pump out a good egg! We have no problem
getting pregnant....we will do fine with all
the good parts.

Ah I love you unreading reader.

Read me through this catastrophe canal.

ps: should i be more or less upset that my best
friend spent 1/2 an hour looking at facebook
and then headed off to bed at 7:30 when she
had about 15 waking hours to see me (for
this and last year).