My Pubic Bone...and other southern encounters

How could I forget!

How could I misplace the memory
of my dear friend K breaking his nose
on my pubic bone??

And that it happened in
a frat house, of all disasterous
and shame-syruped places!!!

And that it was HIS frat house!

What happened to my K??
My K whom I have known since
we were 14??  Tender, sensitive,
...and broken nosed K???

To his enormous credit,and perhaps
temporary insanity, K paused for only
a few moments to recount the flash
of red that passed before his eyes,
before he continued with his expression
of long-held love for moi.

These are memories that scrabble up
and nibble at me as I come out of that
wonder-cocoon of first trimester
sleeping land. 

This go-round with the first trimester
is very different than the fateful first 2.
But as I lay there this morning with
the cat in my arms, musing on the brute
force of a simple pubic bone...I thought
of how the cat tried to comfort me during
the Really Awful Miscarriage..which would
be Miscarriage #1.

I was 13 weeks pregnant and had been in and
out of the ob-gyn/emergency room a few times
already with minor bleeding...but I had heard
the strong heartbeat...and my very Berkeley Hippie
French OB-Gyn seemed confidant that my fibroid
could not, under any circumstances, cause a miscarriage.

Of course I did not believe her.

But I let her think that I did.
I bleated like a good little sheep.
Even though my old friend who is a doctor had
given me the password to the US medical research site
where I spent many a dangerous minute perusing
all that could go wrong with me, my embryo and
my lovely little fibroid.

So again we were in with Hippie Francaise, who
inserted the ole magic wand in my Vaj and....
we both saw an empty sac.

The embryo had dissolved.
As if someone had filled the sac with acid.
It made me think of the movie "The Cleaner."
Which was one of my more disgusting moves
to avoid the very sad truth of the fact that
we had lost this little baby.

Hippie Francaise was appropriately eye-blinkie
and mouth-down-turnedie...my Man really was
in shock.  HF told us that I would probably
miscarry in the next 24 hours and to go home
and wait.  She preferred that I miscarry naturally,
rather than go in for a procedure. I was busy
avoiding my feelings and so I said ok.  I guess
that was what we were going to do.  We stopped
to buy some food and headed home.


At 11pm I started to cramp a bit and bleed a bit more.
I was ready for what I thought would be a pretty
heavy, hard-hitting period.  I could handle it.

Also to note: our house/ruin consisted only of
a kitchen and attic bedroom.  These 2 rooms were
separated by 3 house lengths (our house is actually
4 houses in one) and the toilet was posted right
in the middle of the block of houses in a 60 square
construction site. 

So back and forth I went for the first hour, thinking that
I could sleep my way through the affair...then getting
up to traverse the 2 house lengths to the tiny toilet
in the middle of the huge empty newly roofed room...
then returning back to the bed.

By 4 am I had thrown up all over the joint, was
lying on the makeshift kitchen bed tripled over in pain
with the cat trying her best to comfort me as I wondered
if, in fact, my uterus was trying to push the fibroid out
of me...because, why not since we're at it?

My Man, completely troubled and upset, was lying on
the floor next to me...wondering what the hell to do, when,
at 5:30, I made the executive decision that we were going
the f*ck to the hospital...just in case I was actually dying.
Old School Stylie.

So we drove to the city the hospital (we live in
a tiny remote village) and miracles of miracles we were the
only people to stagger into the emergency room and

This was ultimately important because my French, at that
point, was specifically tailored to My Man and I was not at
all confidant that any of this was going to go well.

It took 45 minutes after they put the IV drugs in me
for me to experience any relief at all from the pain.

Ok.  I'm done for the day.
To be continued tomorrow.
And the finale curls back to a suicidal cat!!!!
I know!!!
You can't wait!!!!!



Rainbow of Poop: My Relationship

Yesterday was the day that the end of the rainbow
produced a golden, steaming, softly stinking pile
of crap in my life.

Dear Reader.
I know I'm not in Haiti (either post or pre-quake)
I know I am one priviledged, lucky ass person.

But.  Also.
Crap was in the House.

Stay with me if you can stand me.  Normally
I do not write of these things, but the frankness
of others in this here, the blogging world, has led
me to uncork the bottle.

5 hours later:

I went for a walk along the local canal and discovered,
in fact, that the world is not full of poopy rainbows!!!

And that I love life!!!
And that trees and leaves love me!!!!
And that sunlight wants to make sweet love with me!!!!!!
And that This American Life is a great side dish
to a great walk of joy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Ok.  Tomorrow.  I am going to write the story
of my first miscarriage and my suicidal cat.

And how they are linked.

But for now I am going to take my lucky
ass self and apply for an NEA Grant for 25,000 Duckets!!!!

Because, F*ck it, for once I deserve the D*ckets!!!!!!

Can I get a What What!!!!!!
(and, of course, whichever comment you find easy flowing).



I am So Exited that I may well Shit Butterflies!!

and I will be taking his 86 year old grandmother to the
big city to see, in 3D, AVATAR!!!!



And NOT just any ole 86 year old grandmother!
But!!!  A woman who was born and raised in a tiny
backwoods French mining village in the middle
of the mountains of Averyon!!!

A woman who birthed her twins in the same home
where she, and her mother before her, were birthed!!!

A woman who was as far removed from the niceties
of the modern world as one can get in a "first world country."

A woman who never learned to drive!!!!
A woman who is a fantastic and hilarious example of
energy and longevity in the face of a life that was way
harder than many of us can imagine, regardless of what we think.

This hot ass wonderful, funny, and extraordinary woman
is going to have her ass in a movie seat, a bowl of popcorn
on her lap, and some fine ass 3D glasses perched upon her
lovely little nose--Elbow Deep in the world of AVATAR!!!


Let me make the following note:
I recognized the intense and obnoxious flaws of Avatar.
The bad writing (made worse, no doubt, by translation),
the racism, the whitey saves the day, the straight up obnoxious
army stereotypes...etc, etc, etc....


I will also, and more importantly, note that:
I will be not only taking her, but the memory of my own
grandmother, who raised my mother and her siblings in a
dirt floor, out-house havin', poor little home in the middle
of a Welsh mining village of 200 people.

My grandmother, who raised me every summer
when my mother sent us away and where I ran like
a feral cat with the only instruction being to return
when the streetlights went on.

My grandmother, who would back me up in my many,
and justified, physical fights.

My grandmother, who, when I was 10 and started developing
breast mass behind my nipple, took very seriously and
respectfully my total freak out that I was developing breast
cancer and, with great prudence and tact, gave me a perfunctory
little breast exam, ascertaining that death was not, in fact, immanent.

My grandmother, who, when i asked her if she would mind
my marrying an African-American man, thought for a second and
said: "I don't care who you marry, as long as he doesn't have any
of those funny pigtails" (which put to rest the possibility of Bob
Marley as a husband).

My grandmother, who knew I was divorcing before anyone told her.

My grandmother, who told my mother that I was pregnant
the first time long before I told anyone at all.

My grandmother, who, at 85 years old, did a 3 month car road trip
across the US with my mother .

My grandmother, who made the best f*cking tomato and
sweet vinegar sandwiches and sat with me and watched
"Come Dancing" with as much excitement as I will be
watching The Man's grandmother as she watches

My grandmother finally left her body for good 5 months ago.
We all saw her before she left.  We all held her frail and
trembling hand.  I carried her coffin from the chapel
with my cousins.

My grandmother would have loved AVATAR in 3D!!!!


Ice Cream and Other Terrifying Stories

This Ice Cream is my today's daily calcium intake.
The embryo will be spazztastic!

AND  I am --Batshit Crazy-- about the new Arctic Monkeys album.

And speaking of LOVES of Sweet and Beautiful
and Wacked Out Brilliance, I received a lovely
email from a student I taught when I was
the writer-in-residence at an all-women's
university back in the not so distant day.

Teaching these students was one of the great
joys of my life.  I scared the shit out of these
young women.  They had to enter the class
in silence, sit in a circle, and wait for me to
enter (decked out in dickies and hoodies) at
which point they would rise, we would all
bow to each other, and I would put some music
on the stereo that they for sure did not know
and that would Blow Their Minds.  Heh Heh.
I had a lot of requests for the class soundtrack.

I would then assign them tasks to inform their
art of awareness and we would write, or do
Meisner repetition techniques, or go and
talk to strangers on the campus,  or a whole bunch
of other shit.  They had no idea what to do with
me.  But by the end of the semester we did a
mess of closing rituals, ending with the release
of a huge bouquet of balloons into the southern
sky (I know, I know, the environment) and with
everyone in a heap of tears.

It was one of the most satisfying teaching
experiences of my little life.

It also was a large contributor to the end of my marriage.

While at the university, nesting in a provided
furnished apartment thousands of miles from my
husband, I had the most horrifying experience of
developing a full-on, hard core crush on one of the
students.  NOT one of my students.  Swear on my cat's
head.  But still.  A student.  A person who wasn't my
husband.  And.  A woman.  She was a super hot,
butchie, 19 year old southern girl whom I discovered
in the yearly talent show where she mimed and danced
to " Your Body Is A Wonderland" by what's his face Mayer.

So Tacky.

But the girls went friggin' wild!  I mean, this woman had
serious sexual power.  And there I was, a youngish
professor, from the big city (Chicago), completely smitten
with this person.

Everything about it was terrifying or surprising to me.

I was no cheater, first of all.  I loved my husband.

Also: I had tried it with the ladies earlier in my life, and I just
couldn't get with the whole vagina thing.  I mean, they are
all so different! Nothing like my own!  And so easy to do wrong!

What the f*ck are you supposed to do with them?
Men have it hard, as far as I'm concerned.
Le Penis is such a simple beast, so straightforward. 

Nope: The Vagina, sadly:
Completely not my thing.  Although I love me some lady
friends, and have a blessed number of them.

And of course:  the power position which I was in made
it even more completely horrifying to me.  It was everything
the feminist in me protested against in college, in my
adult life...everything.  The abuse of power by professors
was unforgivable.  Yet, there I was in a situation where
I understood the impetus, regardless of the resistance.

I would see her in the hall in her t-shirts and jeans and
just tremble.  I would have all kinds of hotass dreams
about her.  I would fight everything in me to not talk
to her.  Even though it would have been easy as
I apparently ended up being a popular (if weird)
prof on campus, and it seemed like quite a few of
the girls were crushing on me.

But, Dear Reader:
I made it!  I made it to the end of the semester
without being a complete f*cking dickhead!!!

I did not abuse my power,  and, 
I did not cheat on my husband (although I most
certainly did in my dreams and in my head).

It scared the sh*t out of me.
And it made me aware that despite our deep
friendship, the lack of sexual energy I had with my husband
was, perhaps, a serious problem--seeing that I am a lady
who loves the sex and has had a lot of it in my life.

This was the opening of the door to the end...
even though the end, as completely dramatic as it
turned out to be, was not to come for 2 more years.

And when it did, it involved a 19 year old,
drug-addicted, almost illiterate amazing French man.

Wait.  Did I just write that down?
I did.

I hope you stay with me, peeps.
Life is a long and dirty and hot and beautiful road.


Love Is A Plastic Baggie Of Poop Scraped From The Ground Of The Local Doggie Park

Instead of elucidating on why, today, Love is a Pile
of Poop...I shall illustrate 10 charming and bizarre
little facts and differences about France--namely the
south of France--that you perhaps did not know.

1.  There is a southern accent even in France.
It is slower, wider, more nasally, and pronounces all
of the letters with gusto.  If bread in Paris is: Pan,
bread in Toulouse is: Paing

I speak French with this southern accent.
 Imagine, if you will, a French woman speaking 
English with a Mississippian accent.

Adorable.  I know.  I know.

2.  Vous ne pouvez pas passer la serpillièreYou may not mop!!
 In France, "mopping" is the measure of all activity.  
It is understood here that all women do the mopping.
And apparently (something I never understood as I had never
actually mopped, but am of the old school where one gets
down on one's hands and knees and scrubs the kitchen floor)
this is a somewhat boisterous activity.  If, like me, you are a
somewhat high-risk pregnancy, you can depend on it: you will
be forbidden to mop.  And sweep.  That "to sweep" is the Italian
slang term for boffing is a deliciousness not lost upon me.

Neither is the deliciousness of boffing.

I am, however, permitted to pick up a few dishes, walk around
a bit, cook certainly (hah!),  and spend hours in the bathroom
obsessing over possible blood debutants.

3.  The French are almost horrified when one brings up 
Prenatal Vitamins.  They don't even sell them except in very 
small quantities in the pharmacy.  When I was pregnant
with my first miscarriage adventure, I called the gynecologist
to schedule a check-up and after a bit of chatting with the
assistant I said, ok, so I should start taking my prenatal
vitamins now, right?  And she said: Why would you do that?

And for all you future commenters (hee hee, hint hint),
the French like to put forth the idea that their diet is varied
and healthy...and if you believe that, you have not eaten in
a French country home as of late.  Certainly the produce is
the best...but even the happiest carrot loses all of its vitamins
once beaten into submission by tons of heat and butter.
And a few leaves of lettuce does not a salad make...at least
not in Cali.  AND how many amongst us can brag of being

4.  The French refer to their cats not as "kitty kitty," but
rather "le chat, le chat!" or "the cat, the cat!!!"
I find this hilarious.  
My Man does not understand why.
And then he continues to chase the cat around yelling-whispering:
"le chat le chat le chat le chat." 

Our cat is the most mature item in our house.
5.  At the French Ob-gyn office you will not be offered a delicate
paper robe.  You will not even be invited to fully undress.
Instead you will find yourself dressed in whatever shirt you were
wearing, legs spread and bare, bottomless from the waist down
on the old torture bed.  I am quite sure and positive that I am the
absolute ONLY pregnant woman in France who has been ass naked on
an ob-gyn table while wearing a Batman Hoodie!  Yeah Boyeeee!!!!!

6.  Many French women feel that it is more stressful on the fetus to
quit smoking than to continue smoking.  I need not go any further
with this particular curiosity.

7.  It takes 3 times longer to say anything in French.
Let Please be your example: S'il vous plait.

8.  People do not smoke joints made up solely of pot.
All joints are mixed, thoroughly, with tobacco.  One calls
to mind a Blunt (LOVE that term), except cigarillos are
not involved in the mix.  Incidentally, they think the
American race indecent to smoke weed as we do.  
And, considering my own attempts and failures-due-to
paralysis-and-paranoia at smoking weed in the US, I 
can see their point.

9.  If you ask a room filled with French people what their favorite
type of food is they will all ALL say, without hesitation: FRENCH!!

This was a particularly shocking event for me, coming, as I do,
from the cities of america where we love all kinds of food.
My confusion and surprise was not understood, however.
All my friends, all of whom are French, are now on a mission
to convince me, by their own hand, of the superiority of the
French cuisine.  I particularly enjoyed the Indian sandwiches
The Neighbor man made for us last night (Quoi!!).

10.  French women are the absolute most jealous nation of women
I have encountered.  This includes Italian women.  If you are at
all attractive, the French women at the party will diss you and 
spit their eyes at you.  EVEN IF THEY DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND
FOR YOU TO STEAL!!!  They are just, in general, jealous.
Of your height, of your looks, of your life experience, of your
foreignness.  It's pretty impressive.  I tell no French woman anything
about myself now, as it will in no way be celebrated...but rather
fodder for future hatred.  This in complete contrast to my experience
with american city women who band together and push each
other forward with pride.  It is very very sad.  And I believe, after
much questioning and pondering, that it is the result of a very
macho (though covertly so) society that constantly pits women
against each other.  I mean, stick my head in the toilet, French
women were not given the vote until 1948!!!!!!!!!!

So I feel for my French sisters, and I wiggle my way into their
graces with genuine complements and thoughtful attention.


HOWEVER: I do love living here.
And I found that, on a my recent trip to the US, I truly and
deeply missed the level of politeness and friendliness that now
seems to be missing from the streets of the US city.

Bonus Item: The above photo is NOT a stereotype.  I have
seen this image, and varieties of it, frequently in my 'hood.
This could have been taken 2 minutes from where I live.

(More later on why love is poop...if I can muster the energy).

Also to note:  Pinkish Discharge has Ceased and Desisted.
Unable not to note:  My Porno Boobs.


Envy Me Not My Pinkish Discharge!!!

This is a spider foot!!!!

Christ on a Cracker!  I was just sitting here
choosing between posting possibilities when
I remembered my dream!

It started with a woman suspended inversely-like
an upside down spider-by her arms and legs,
from a set of basement water pipes while a man
was slowly penetrating her vaginally. 
She had a serene look on her face and she was dressed
(half dressed) in the fashion of the 20's.

what the hell!

The dream then proceeded to portray a story
of a brothel (the 500 year old ruin which we
are rebuilding and in which we live was a brothel)
and how the women and men who work
there have a murder mystery to solve.

Note: I always have fantastic and frequent dreams. 
But the whole pregnancy dimension brings much
greater clarity and storyline fluidity.

When I awaken from dreams like these I know
better than to recount them to my Beloved. 

There he is, faithfully recurled around me after
my many trips to the chamber pot, and all i want
to do is kiss his sweet cheek and pour hallucinagenic
dreams into his ear in less than perfect French. 

He worries for my sanity.  But at least he no longer
worries that I am secretly, and really, chemically imbalanced.

He just sees me as a precious and individual flower.


In other news:  the pinkish discharge is back
and I'm puffing around wondering whether
or not I still feel pregnant and balancing anxiety
with chocolate and wild cat cuddles.

Makes one want to buy a sonogram machine.

In cheerier news:
I don't shop or buy clothes unless my old clothes
are squealing from the smell or filled with holes.  That
said, my new favorite piece of clothing that I picked up
in Brooklyn is THIS!!!!!!!!

That's Right!!!!!
You know you want it!!!!!!!!

Envy me not my pinkish discharge! But Envy Me, Envy Me my BATMAN BOY'S HOODIE!!!!!!!!!


Where My Chamber Pots At!!!!

Video killed the radio star.  Perhaps.

But indoor plumbing massacred the chamber pot!

And we are not the better for it.

Forget the idea of a poo-filled pot! 
I'm talking peeing in the middle of the night.
What luxury to reach beneath the bed mid-dream,
pullout the pot, edge your lovely butt over or onto
said pot, and pee without barely awakening!


The Lovely Man came home with one and I've not
looked back!  It will be a permanent being in our bedroom.
And with its lid, no odors.  And with a little water in before
one pees, so easy to clean!

Also to note: the man continues to panic.  My mother will
probably come out in August if I continue to successfully
carry the, as of now, 9 week old embryo.  His quote of
the night: Oh sh*t!  We have to finish the guest room
[which is not even started]!  It may be snowing in August!

I love love love love love love love The Man.

And I love love love love love the comments and followers!!!!
It is so friggin' exciting!!!! I feel like my little hands are
branching out over the planet!!!! 

A tango of ovaries!!!!



With Whom Does A Girl Have To Smoke Crack To Get A Follower?

That is all.

Plus a picture of my porno cat.
This is how they do in France.


How Sexual Abuse Can F*ck You Up (and other delightful musings)

It is true that our village is a small one.

And beautiful with Roman bridges (tiny), 12th
Century chapels, and all you can eat brick work.
It is also true that over 8000 people a summer
pull their aching feet (and sometimes their mules)
through the village toward the Chemin de Saint
Jacques de Compostelle in search of: themselves,
themselves, their health, spiritual enlightenment,
themselves, but mostly, it seems, something to do
in their retirement.

Before I met The Man, and after I left my husband,
I took a break from my desperate and melted-chocolate-
lake-in-the-dead-of-winter depression to walk the
Chemin for 2 non-consecutive days with my beloved
friend L.

L had ex-patted herself to France after coming home
from a yoga class to find her Thai apartment absolutely
emptied of all things, including her clothes and her man.

Enough to down even the sturdiest of vagabonds, this
was particularly difficult when one takes into account
her being on the moonlit side of 55. I am looking at my
hands as I type this, and while no one has ever correctly
placed my age, it is true that the hands hardly ever let
you down in the physical facts arena, whether years or gender.

I am sure that L looked at her own hands a lot as she
went from shock to sympathy to horror to fear from the
death threats she began receiving from her man’s new Thai
girlfriend. The south of France seemed safe, and she took
up hiding in the “holiday home” of a former student.

It is there that I met her and instantly disliked her.
She was absolutely incapable of looking into my eyes
and always on the edge of a freak-out, while being
invasive and thoroughly incapable of listening.

2 years on, as L was in the process of saving my life,
and as I became less and less capable of going a day
without seeing her, and as I thanked my lucky starbeams
for her existence upon laying my head down each night,
I thought on this reaction and how deliciously wrong
wrong wrong I am most of the time.

A tremendous and freeing thing it is to be so wrong!

So we walked the Chemin together. Or at least, we
walked a bit of the way, then a bit of the way separately,
and then again together, and then she stopped to point
out a poisonous, if flattened, snake. And we reached
a point where we sat and ate chocolate while she sketched
a little drawing of the site and then we returned to
walking as before.

And I began to feel, by the 4th hour, as I did when I
would get out of a Greyhound bus for a meal break in
the middle of absolutely f*cking nowhere except a Burger
King, a gas station, and some broke-ass restaurant thing
with electrical wires zooming over my head and I would
look out over the desolate horizon and fight down the push
to just start walking and never stop until I dropped
f*cking dead thank you very much.

Just walk on by. Foolish pride. Sing it, Dionne Warwick.
And how I would think of Keroac, Jack, and how much I loved
“On the Road” at 18, and how disappointed I was to find
that he only actually wrote one book except maybe I just
wasn’t smart enough to see the differences and nuances
and how it deeply sucked that Ginsberg was a card-carrying
member of NAMBLA and how sexual abuse is cyclical and kicks
in an often uncontrollable urge to control others through
the same means, an urge that gets siphoned into the sexual
neural pathways and how afraid I used to be that I, too,
would turn predator and sexually abuse a child, as I had
been abused, and so I decided to never have children and
then all of a sudden, I turn my back on the wasteland and
I am just off the Chemin and walking out the door of my
gold-chain wearing French ob-gyn and I am pregnant with
my own personal Sack of Cells.

Who the F*ck would Ever imagine That!!


I'm All About The Panties. Yo.

And that is why I am so de-lighted with my new pinkish
moulin rouge-esque boy-shorts! ALL HAIL THE BOY SHORT!!!!!!
For whom does the bell toll? Let it be for the thong-thong-thong!!!!

There are those who would bow down to Spanx...and I can
understand why...but I just cannot get with paying 30 bucks
for a pair'o'panties.

The boy short, while certainly not cinching and packing
your feminine extras, does away with the dastardly pantie
line and presents one in an "I can escape you if I need to"
kind of light. And that, combined with their "old timie" feeling,
launches me straight into a world of fantasy that the modern
world just cannot bountifully enable with its flash and vigor,
its already stretched sexual limits, its sex-ting
and "as much as you can eat" porn.

Speaking of porn, I dreampt that The Neighbor Man
invited The Man and me over and porn magazines
were strewn around his toilet.

A note about where we live: I moved to this tiny beautiful
French village (900 people) to get relief from my broken
marriage, and, within 1/2 a year, I fell for, and moved in with,
The Man who has lived here for many years. The village is well
traveled, being on the Chemin de Compostello, and it has all
the modern thingie bobs, but it is definitely lacking in height
(everyone is pretty short) and a certain cultural curiosity.

I speak in huge generalities, to be sure, but it is a cause for
celebration when I come across a local house that has actual
"art" on the walls. Mostly you find posters or paintings of
seascapes, countryside...and family photographs.

So, to have the friggin' amazing luck to fall upon The Neighbor Man
is beyond, dahlingk! He is of the same make as the people with
whom I lived for years in a Chicago where house. Scruffy, Stinky,
Guitar-Playing, Dumpster Diving, Art Making, Fun Having,
Roll-Up Cigarette Smoking, Light Drug Using.

And Ladies, like many of these types, he is hot, too.

We became fast friends, he and I, when my heart was
a frog frying on a river rock. I spoke hardly any French
but I would sit by his fire while he and his posse played
and sang Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel and smoked
out the dog and the neighboring chickens. He was part of
my life being saved. I love him.

Since that time his beloved has left him cold.

But that is a another story for another time.

He, I am sure, would appreciate the panties.

As does The Man.

The sexual world of whom I plan on rocking tonight.

Now I shall take a walk in the snowy paths of France
(ha! Vancouver----crazy ass sh*t!)

And I leave you with a little beauty:


PS: class issues regarding art and culture
to be addressed in later posts.

Worry. Not. Y'all.
The captain will land the plane.



My First Comment!!!!!

A Girl Could Ovulate While Pregnant
In The Face Of Her First Real Comment!!!!!

This is all kinds of extraordinary when
you think that my lame ass has just posted
this thing on Twitter from time to time
in an attempt to pick up from the posse over tharn!!

Thank you Lady Duchess for your comment...!
and be not offended by the "Lady," I add
it to many of the favored females in my
little life.

The Duchess must have come across these
missives by pressing the "next blog" button...
which brings me to the mystery of the "next blog"
organization! When I first started this up
all of the "next blog"s were Christian themed!

What is up with that business!!!!

Not once I mention ole Jesus boy ...I mean
I'm sure he was as pleasant as anyone could be given
the sandals and lack of sanitary options...in
fact, my person-in-the-making was conceived on
Xmas night of all things...and I surely would
love to hear Jesus' play list ... (any ideas?)

but why did the Mixing Machine on high decide
that my little blog should be followed by
The God Squad ??? I was bemused...confused...
perhaps my born-again little brother had a hand
in it??? Perhaps it was....a message???

But shortly thereafter the machine deemed to have
completely changed its mind about me.

Now my blogs are followed, invariably, by the
"I'm a crazy person" blog. Manic-depression,
drugtastic, freaking on the knife edge peeps
who are celebrating their trueblooded selves
in a frenzy!!! HOT SH*T!!!!

The two ends of the spectrum that so closely
resemble a snail eating its tail!!!!

Note: apparently one of the most beautiful
things to witness is the love making act
of the snail! This according to my wood sculpting
friend who's duty it is to carve out beauty from
other forms of beauty.

Me, I spend the later hours of the winter rainy
nights running behind the snails that venture
out when it is wet...I run behind them pushing
them onwards in their unaware escape from the
hordes of French villagers chasing behind
them with plastic sacks by the light of the
full moon, all a-ready for a hot plate
of escargot avec persil et beurre.


Swear on the head of my crazed cat.



It comes and goes...but it is reassuring, and not too difficult
compared to the throngs of vomiting mommies-over-loos spread
throughout the world...

But more excitingly:


I still don't understand why smaller things have faster
heartbeats. Wait, I just understood it. Taken care of.

I also just finished reading "Invisible Man" for the first,
and most definitely not the last, time.

So the heartbeat viewing/hearing was hallucinogenic.
My beloved was a little reserved about the whole thing
and, while seemingly happy, I believe he has stepped up
the panic mode.

Which is tiring if it leaks out as all his stress does:
picking fights with me.

I try to manage them.
He comments and rails a little, I sit on my tongue's hands,
he continues with raising voice, I sit and sit, but my
brow clearly furrows, he pushes and pushes...and finally,
I snap. He then goes and smokes a cigarette, or joint,
and feels better whilst I am left with a smoldering ball
of anger in my stomach.

The last one of these incidents was over "The Hurt Locker"
which he deemed too upsetting for me to watch.

Let it be noted here that I am 9 years his senior and
have much, much, much more life experience than he.

So. Tedious as his proclamations are, I have told him that
the next 8 months with be filled with "yessuhs" and me
just doing what the hell he needs me to do for him to calm

He does not like this idea.

But I am doing it anyway.

Our first visit to the ob/gyn was much more successful
than the last, empty egg revealing, visit. Even the Irish
looking assistant managed to scrape up a smile when I joked
with her. The doctor, in his gold-spangled glory, seemed
surprised at my amount of info. I am not telling him that
I am taking prenatal vitamins as the French do not do such
a thing, believing, hilariously, that they eat a varied enough
diet to take care of all nutritional needs.

Let them not fool you.
No one knows how to kill a vegetable more thoroughly than
a French country cook...except a Welsh one.

Broccoli is mush here...as are green beans...and salad is
minimal. Though not any kind of meat you can imagine...
including, of course, horse.


I love me some horses.
My man loves to eat him some horses.

Sometimes I feel that this relationship is doomed.

Then I try to remember that I am pregnant and nothing
should be decided when in such a state.

Also: I am thinking of quitting my best friend of
26 years as she is becoming a grey and self-absorbed
misery guts. On a recent visit to the US she spent
half an hour of the 7 waking hours I spent with her
looking at facebook. I doubt she would even note
the irony.

Fire her or not?

I know no one is reading.
But feedback is welcome.