Donkeys and Other Easy Mistakes and Illusions

To start things out:  "Pony" in French is "Poney."

Another delicious thing:
"Soul" is "Âme" and "Donkey" is "Âne".

I have just gotten to the point that I don't say
"My donkey loves your donkey" to my Beloved.

Also:  "Love" is "L'Amour" and "Death" is "La Mort."
They sound almost exactly the same.

Thus the shifting vagueries of French language and life.
One day In Love then !!BANG!! Your ass is dead on a donkey.

Another thing to know:  the French"Weather Women," those
who do the weather on TV, have absolutely fuck all taste
in clothing.  What they drape on their bodies is a reflection
of what is to come weather-wise.   They look like a weather
bus hit them, ate them, digested them, and then spat them all
over the screen. Completely Baffling. 

Also, while I'm at it: Not Every French Woman Looks Like
Amelie Poulin...nor Catherine Deneuve, nor, thankfully, that
little fiend Carla Bruni.  Nor are there squadrons of Vanessa
Paradis' scribbling about the streets.

The average White French Lady in the city is reasonably well-dressed.
Great attention to make-up and hair. 5'5", and always in heels
of some sort. The French White Lady in the Country is often
more portly, less well dressed....and hair is usually tinted or
streaked or some other god-forsaken horrible hair style.

There is very little difference between the features of one average
White French Woman and another White French Woman.

The girls, in general, dress in tight jeans and do the
"I'm shy and staring at you from under my enormously long fringe"
and they are much younger for their age than the American or
English or Welsh girls.  I know this because I teach them.
They tend to blend into a mass of hair, eye, pout and cell phone.

 Dear Reader, It is True:

The illusion that French Women are the most beautiful
 in the world is as well crafted as the illusion that
the French eat only excellent and well crafted food.

The ladies of New York and SF kick the ass of the
White French women in beauty.

And for one big reason: multicultural reproduction.

Peeps having sex with different kinds of Peeps.

Just as my cat, the mutt of all mutts, is the most beautiful
cat in the world, the mutts of America take down the interbreeding
of France.

This, too, will change soon as more and more French White Girls
are hanging, and doing it, with more and more boys from
the Arabic immigrant population.

But for now.  I see the same noses, eyes and cheekbones everywhere.

Sorry to disappoint.

In other news:
I am still bleeding 2.5 weeks after my miscarriage.
I think I may have a thyroid issue which I hope my gold-clad
gyny will take interest in today in between vaginal sweeps.

AND I am sad, and dismayed, that people are not
interested in having, or encouraging,  Sweet Sperm.

Does no one out there swallow anymore???????????


My Cracked Out Dream World

There is a freakin' opera of bird song shaking
the air outside my ruin (read: house).  The sun
has thrown off her shawl, the laundry is flapping
its naughty bits in the fresh wind, and, of course,
the daffodils are doing the funky chicken.

Our cat is careening about the back garden like
she invented the phrase "speed-a-licious puss puss."
Her favorite thing is to race up the laundry line
supports (two slender, transposed, headless trees),
sit on the tiny top, consider and reject the leap into
oblivion (one of my favorite pastimes) and then
slowly back down the tree trunk until she mounts
the courage to SWING her ass into the opposite
direction and, now facing head down, race back
down the tree like the big ole pimp that she is.

One day I'll post a video of this magnificence.

In my dreams last night she caught a rat in my
fathers house (where My Beloved and I were
apparently living) and started bashing it about the place,
only for me to realize that it was a baby fox...which
I immediately started to cuddle, and decided to adopt.
One of my MFA advisors was sleeping in the room
where I, in reality, first learned to masterbate (at 18!
I know!....sexual abuse will do that to a girl) and after
a quick chat with her I noticed the fox was a puppy who
had a name tag "LuLu"--one of the names we were
sort of tossing about for The Baby.  Sadly, I called
the people but they didn't want the puppy back!
Said it was a hazardous puppy who would destroy
everything!  Clearly this was not the case.  But could
I tell My Beloved? Would he believe me? Would my MFA
adviser believe me?  And when would she get out of bed???

A relatively calm dream.  And pretty clear in its meaning.
I remember between 2-3 dreams/night...and have done for
most of my life.  They are usually completely wild, one of my
favorites being when my mother, my brother, and I all held
hands and stepped backwards off the edge of the planet
into outer space and a bushel full of rainbows.

I am a Lucky Girl.

Lately I've been having my recurring dream where
my main sexual abuser and I fall in love, make love,
and a huge feeling of joy and peace infuses me.

That.  Is Fucked Up.


PS:  Don't forget, O How Could You?, The Tasty Sperm Challenge!!!


!!!!!!! FAKLEMPT !!!!!!!!!


!!!!! Weepihood of Joy !!!!!!!!

!!!!! Huge Sigh Of Relief At This Imperfect, But Good Start!!!!!!

!!!!! Enormous Shout-Outs To The Obama!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!! Great Requests For A What-What !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!! Tender Embraces For The Americans Who Can Have Still More Hope !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Loving the Obama

As some of you know, some days ago
I discovered that my embryo died at around
10 weeks.  I continued to carry the embryo
for 2.5 more weeks, until I had a small patch
of bright red blood and a couple of tiny clots.

After 3 previous miscarriages, and uncountable
hours of internet research, I knew it could be nothing,
but always loving to give my Beloved a chance to
speed heroically into the night, we jumped into the
car and careened 25 miles to the hospital.

"Your cervix is tightly closed," announced the mid-wife
who saw me immediately after I entered the ER,
"I really don't think it's anything...but we'll keep
you overnight and you can see your gynocologist
in the morning." 

I knew she knew what she was talking about, but
I knew that she was wrong.  And my knowing was
confirmed the next morning as my gold-bracelted
and most excellent gyny confirmed that the pregnancy
was over and that I would have a DNC later that day.

He insisted on keeping me another night after the
operation was performed, and I left two days after
I entered having received excellent, prompt and
kind care.  (Despite the bizarre encounter with the
anesthesiologist who was annoyed that I wasn't
French and didn't believe me when I said I had had
only one prior surgery : "That's VERY rare." To
which I responded "Madame.  I AM very rare!"
That unknotted her little French panties!)

For all of this care, and for all the care that I have
received in my Making-A-Person journey, including:
4 hospital stays, 1 ambulance ride, numerous sonograms
and gyny visits, 3 DNC's, and many blood-tests and a
ton of lab work, how much did I pay you may ask??

50 Euros/Month Insurance.


68 Bucks a Month.

And that is how much I pay for all and every piece of
medical attention that I would receive for anything.

50 Euros/Month is what I will pay for all and any
fertility treatment up until I am 43 years old (which
is when the social system stops covering women
who are trying to conceive).

When I think of how much cash so many women
plonk down in their efforts to conceive, and also
to adopt---when I think of Belette at
I count my lucky fu*king blessings and thank
all the people who worked their ass off for this
system. (I also thank my voodoo lodestone. Of course.)

If I were in the US my journey would be licking
its wounds and its ass as it would be totally over for me.

But how much would I pay for a doctor's visit if I
was not in the social system here in France?
How much would a foreigner pay for a doctor's visit?

Well, dear Foreigner:  You would pay, for a full
and thorough prescription giving visit:
22 Euros.  That is to say: 30 Bucks.

Can you, Dear American, even imagine paying 30
Bucks for a doctor's visit if you are uninsured?????

Last time I looked, 30 Bucks is the average co-pay in the US.

And if I don't pay 50 Euros a month extra-insurance?
The government covers me, and every person in the system,
for 70% of the cost of any medical care.


This is one of the reasons that I love The Obama.
And that I have dreams where he and Michelle are my parents.

His Balls Are On The Table.
And it is so that you, in the US, can have something that
somewhat resembles what we, in France, have worked
to enjoy and are always working to maintain.

PS:  don't forget The Tasty Sperm Challenge!!

You may Scoff, or even recoil (as it seems that many of
you are doing), but, frankly, Sweet Sperm tastes....like candy.


Bluntly: Sweet Sperm

 Before I go into any sorry story bits
about the March Miscarriage...
and what is next...as if you all
would even want to know...

I have news!
And a challenge!

In the last two days I have
discovered, drum roll!!!!!:

A Way To Make Sperm 
       Taste Sweet.

For Real!
From the Body Sweet, NOT in a
Mixing Bowl Sweet.

This may be one of the most disgusting
things you could think to be reading
about over your morning coffee/
afternoon joint/ late night fix...

But.  Dear Reader.  It is True.

This information is for to you to
use in whatever way you deem fit.

My challenge is this:
I will tell you all when I manage
to cobble up 50 Total Followers.

Am I an Asshole?

But I am a sweet asshole.
(Not that I HAVE a sweet asshole.)
And I want to see if I can get
some new followers.
And I'm hard-core like that.
Which is why, I might add, I have
discovered how to make sperm sweet.


That is my news.

In other news:
I am half-way through learning a
new Schumann piece on my lovely piano.


Love and How It Helps Me To Tell Beastiality Jokes

Another gag-worthy post:

Why do people write "love you," and
not "I love you," when they sign
a letter/email/facebook post, etc?

Especially when it concerns deeply
sad and emotionally poignant times?

Especially Christians.
(note: I wasn't even baptized.)

What is it about the commitment to
the "I" that freaks people's shit out?

In my mind, one of my most important
moments happened when I was 10.

The thought smacked me upside the head
that other people did not live in the state of
loving-the-world that I did.  How stupid
and naive I was / still am.

I had experienced people fucking with me
and trying to destroy me in their way for
years, and I never could understand why.
It really just confused me. It seemed like
such a fucking waste of time.

I was deeply conscious, even then, that
the most important thing was love.
It was the only thing.

I remember the precise moment
when I said out loud to no one at all:
"They don't know that love is the most important thing."

This was a real mindfuck of a moment.

And somehow, it helped me to understand
and "hold" why they did, and continued to do,
the things that they did.

Of course that did not stop me from doing
one of the worst things one can do to a person:
leaving my husband and crushing his heart.


That's my thought for the morning.

If I haven't me made you gag too much,
I hope you find the ice-cream you most
need today.

PS: South Park is a sublime example of Love!!!

PPS: My Beloved's parents, from whom
we live down the street, have never
told him that they love him--How Fucked
Up Is That!!! 

PPPS: He tells me he loves me all the time.
And I cover him and cover him with little kisses.
And Unicorns.  And Fairy Dust!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PPPPS: Have you ever noticed that there are 2 camps
of people: Those who Love "Moulin Rouge" and those
who Hate "Moulin Rouge."

It's True!
which are You?


The Pony of Doom

The French word for "pony" is "poney."
which.  of course.  is adorable.

Less adorable are the enormous
maxi-pads that I am wearing everywhere.

Apparently the bleeding will stop soon.

Makes me want to lay a great white ribbon
down the road to my house upon which I perch
myself and drag my ass along, leaving a brilliant
red streak long and wide enough to be
spotted from the airplane from which I
soon intend to jump.

Skydiving: one thing I wanted to do
that I thought I wouldn't be able to do
because I don't want to die too soon if
I have a child.

My beloved and I are going skydiving.

We holed up and watched movies all
weekend.  Windows covered and all.
"August Rush" killed me.  Especially
considering that we are both musicians.

So I was on my back in bed waiting for
the impetus to get up and wondering what
I am doing wrong in the world because
I need to feel that I actually can control
this situation, and the following occured to me:

I always come extremely close, but never land
on the target.  And this is in unusual circumstances
as well as farly normal ones.

And I just spent 30 minutes typing out examples
and after reading it, I don't want to post it.
It all just sounds like my whining in the face of
what most would think was some pretty awesome
shit.  So I will just leave two examples up.

And before you read: Let it be known that I feel
I am a very fortunate person.  Despite difficulties I have
been blessed with ridiculous optimism.  I am willful,
capable, full-bodied, and I feel like I am on a path.
I feel like life is a magical place.

Stop Gagging.

I just need one little key to unlock the final door.

Simple everyday example:
my writing has been published in many reputable journals,
but my first book just is too...something to be published.
In contests I get honorable mentions, I get runner up,
but no one wants to commit.

Another example, more bizarre?  I was living in Italy right after
college in '91when I was approached in a club by a rapper who
asked me if I wanted to be in his video.  This was before rap was
so huge in the US.  I said yes, and it ended up being just me, him
and another dancer.  This was also in the MC Hammer dance
era when dancing in a rap video was super athletic, not at
all skanky ho stuff.  The video went well and, it turned out,
he was huge in Brazil.  He asked me to accompany him and
the other dancer on his tour of Brazil.  We rehearsed like wild
beasts and one month later touched down in Brazil where,
in fact, we were met by a large entourage and it turned out
to be true: he was a huge star.  Bizarre.  I had a bodyguard.
We did a 3 week tour of concerts where we played to up to
10,000 people.  (I have the pictures as proof.)  However...

He had a huge cocaine problem.  He would continuously fire
and rehire me 5 minutes before we were to go on stage.
He would go into blackout and threaten to leave me in Brazil
without a passport.  On the way back to Italy, where he was
completely unknown, he asked me to stay on and do a mini-tour
of Europe to help him launch his European career.  Of course,
I said no.  He said nothing.  When we got back to his
apartment he threw all of my clothes down the apartment
building stairs and kicked me out, refusing to pay me for the
tour.  I made my way to the train station where, at 4 am,
I sat my ass down on my suitcase and sobbed and sobbed
while the transvestites who were picking up johns took turns
in comforting me.  They were very kind.  Especially considering
how much more difficult their lives are.

Somehow I made it back to the US.

It could have been simple.
We could have gone on to work together
and made many duckets with which I could
have helped many people.

Two little examples.

and now:

Pregnancy:  I make it, twice, to 12.5 weeks but I just can't
get over that 13 week barrier (there was another pregnancy that
was a blighted ovum....let us not forget).

I don't wish to further bore you.
I know I sound sorry for myself.
I know.
I am going to vomit over this, I am sure.

I am just one little person.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, ALL of my close friends
are successful.  Some have had hard lives, some have had relatively
easy lives.  But they all have made it over the final barrier
and are launched.

And then there is me.
With my relatively difficult childhood and extraordinary adulthood.
I am not without hope so what is the "issue!"

WHAT is it that stops me from making this last step.
What do I need to understand that will allow me to obtain
the real, and extraordinary, goals of which I feel I am capable.

I am convinced this is all wrapped up with the miscarriages
and pregnancy path.

Any Answers Are Welcome.
I see the problem.  But am in the fog.

Thank you for indulging me.
I am aware of all the flaws in this post.
I am now sick of myself.


Miscarriage & How I Would Like To Be My Cat

Should it ever become possible.

For those of you whom have never set
your little eyes upon her:

Note the languidity.
The touchableness.
The fluid music of her fur.

But I am not my cat.
I am me.

And while many tremendous, fantastical,
and bizarre things have happened in my life
by way of dropping into my little lap...also, too,
things have been terrifically hard through
long periods.

and just this once, I am asking the universe,
if I may do something "normal" that many
"normal" people seem to be able to do.

Something that I was apparently put on
this planet to do, according to various
groups of "theorists." 

Something that is done both in and out
of the movies with not a single second thought.

I would just like for once to be normal
and, like so many others, make a person.

Just One Normal Thing.
I want to be normal Just Once.

And I really mean it this time.

Not like the times when we moved from
country to country and city to city
and I wanted so badly to fit in.
And failed.

Not like the times when I went
to other people's homes and thought
"Holy Ass Cap, THIS is how normal
people live??  Being so Nice to each
other, with no alcohol, and no signs
that anyone is sexually abusing anyone

Not like Wednesday, when I drove
to Bordeaux to have an interview with
a "real and normal" job with "real and normal"

No.  I know I will never be that girl.

But just This One Thing.

This One Normal Thing.

This one Biologically Programmed Thing.

Just let me fit in this Once.

On to the Specialists.


Well. There It Is.

"God" apparently loves my brother more.

Yesterday I miscarried my baby who
had been dead for 2 weeks inside me.


I Want To Be Positive.

 I do.  Like This Guy.

But, Dear Reader, after a great two rounds
of sex yesterday...followed by some cramping
and a touch of bleeding that sent me clawing
through the wisdom of the internet gawds...

I received this news:

My brother's wife is pregnant and due
the Same Week as I Am.


Know This:
I am the Friend who is happy for all of my
friend's successes.  ALL of my very close
friends are very successful published authors,
richly practising psychiatrists, tenured professors,
Hollywood producers and actors, architects &
world-renown visual artists and musicians.

All of them, except the two who do not wish
it so, have the children they desire.

I am honestly and purely thrilled for them with each
success.  A book prize?  You Rock!!!!!  You're
in the Whitney BiAnnual???  I am So Lucky
to know you!!!  You won that Golden Globe??
You look hot in your last commercial!!!!
A great review in the New York Times??
Let me email the article to everyone else!!

I don't know why this is how it is, but it is.
My friends are amazing.
I don't know why they have chosen me.
But they have.

And, except for one of them, I think they are
amazing parents and am glad they are populating
the world with their influence and offspring.


You'd think I'd be thrilled and excited that my very,
very nice, if a bit bland and brainwashed sister-in-law
is due to have a baby in September.  Just like me.:
"O how neat...neat neat neat....we can compare
leaking breasts while having sex--stories, etc"

But no.

I am furious and horrified.

Let me elaborate:

My brother came out to our family as a
hard-core born again Christian 20 years ago.

The family suffered through years and years
and years of conversion attempts.  We suffered
through his complete lack of humor.  Someone
who was once a hilarious punk, now only listened
to sad-ass Christian rock and got up at 5am every
single day to pray.  We suffered through his
judgement--my mother was a sinner for divorcing
my horrible father, etc.  After my first miscarriage
I heard not one single peep of condolence from him.
Neither after my second.

He has grown.  He is funnier.  He listens to
Johnny Cash.  He has stopped with the God Squad
routine around us.  I don't want to kill him after
10 minutes.

He congratulated me over my (unmarried!) pregnancy.




FOR GOD'S SAKE SHE JUST HAD A BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Not only do I see this as a complete affront to the
environment.  Not only do I see this as a complete spit
in the face of all the children who need homes.  Not only
do I wonder how in the goddam hell he is going to support


all I'm sayin'
is this:

if i miscarry.

i will cry.

a lot.

and if she then has a baby.

on my due date.

i do not know what i will do.

You know, we wake up in the morning
and we do not know what the hell
is going to happen to us.

kiss the ones you love.
congratulate the ones who have good luck
which, most of the time, comes from hard work.

And some of the time?  Fertility and Youth.


How Tired Of "Men" Am I ?? HMMM???

Now. Let us break it down.

I love Men.
I do. 

I see how difficult it is to be a Man.
I see that the expectations that this fuckhe*d society
curdles up does men in the Butt in a terribly unelegant
way that makes them frightened of women.

I see how Men are terrified by our:
"I can push a person out of my vagina and you can't"

Plus: "you want to get INTO my vagina!  You Know!
The place from which I can push you out with some
sweat and blood and higher than thine pain tolerance!" 

I mean imagine if their nightmares came true and
the curtain was pulled back and we all banded together
and threw away the spine contorting high heels,
the plastic surgery knives, and withdrew sexual activity. 


Would be Fuck*d.  Sideways.

I. Get. It.

i feel very sorry for poor little men.

And I admire all the more those few who battle against
the slime and sloth produced by those who just can't face
their fears and want to stick us in a corner.

All of those with whom I am friends and were married
and were lovers who think Women are the Nuts,
and couple a lovely awe with an ability to give it
to us hard when we want it that way.


I shall now say this.  (and I am holding back, way back):

Men who make films that are funded by large production
companies are, generally speaking, complete Ass Ripping Suckers.

I am so fucking tired of seeing breasts and pussy in
movies for no fucking reason at all.


And FRANCE is one of the worst guilty set of muthafuckas.

Last night we watched a film with 4 women who thwarted
the Nazi's attempt to stop the Normandy invasions.
--True Story--

Everyone of them, except Sophie Marceau, is at least
needlessly topless in the movie. 


These real life women probably saved Europe, and paved
the way for this idiot filmmaker to be able to make
this film.  Do they get any better treatment??
Does their memory get the honor deserved???
Oh HELL NO!!!!

(Sophie, while not a great actress, still has way too much
power to take her bra off.  Also.  Her breasts are
probably no longer "camera ready."  muthafuckas.)

I am so tired of seeing what few talented young actresses that
are out there having to take off their fucking shirt.  Tired of
thinking of the casting session where finally it comes down
to "can you take off your shirt so we can see your breasts" and
see if they're "camera ready."  Tired of the fact that besides
pornography, there is NO JOB WHERE IT IS OBLIGATORY
THAT A MAN GET NAKED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SUCH BULLSHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And most of all, I am so tired of explaining things to men
who just don't get it.  Why the fuck am I on this earth?
To educate men?  Dear Man: Let me explain to you why
it is purile and adolescent and pathetic and demeaning
that my mechanic has a fucking titty calendar on his wall.

And Why It Makes Me Want To Destroy Him With
All The Tools I Have.      DEAD.

Dear Man.  This is my argument for you.



No. Man.
You. Would. Not.

to all of the most excellent humans out there:

this.  Is the ultimate argument.
It is the ultimate way to restore humanity to all
of the women who have been reduced to pieces of
two dimensional flesh so that they may eat.


works like a charm.


i feel a little bit better.

though nothing will ever change.

have i mentioned that i'm pregnant lately?


Dear Reader: Save My Sandra Liking Soul.

The guts of the sky are opened
and pouring snowflakes all over
the South of France.

It is winter here in the South of France.

yes.  In March.  Sigh.

Ok.  This is just a quick post on
what happened last night in the USA.

Many things happened last night in the USA
Also, a bunch of people got together
to clap happily and grimace (Quentin-HAH!)
all over each other while prancing
about in borrowed jewels and gowns.

I have one thing to say besides the
obvious YIPPEE CAMERON LOST!!!!!!!!!

and that is this:

I love me some Sandy Bullock.
I do.

But I have not seen this movie.
And from the looks of the trailer it is,
just about, the most appalling example
of "White Lady Saves Poor Disempowered
Black Teenager" that I have ever even
imagined thinking of imagining as an
actual film created.

Dear Reader: Am I wrong?

Can you look me in the screen
and tell me that I am wrong?

Can you look me in my porno-breasts
and tell me that I am mistaken?

Can you please, please, please save me
from hating La Sandra-whom I currently like.
A lot.???????????????

ps: week 13 begins.


Marriage: And How It Will Do You In The Butt.

I'm not saying that no one should get married.

I also am not going to get into the profound
philosophical arguments about marriage, nor
am I going to touch on Gay Marriage which
I support...on a basic human rights platform.
I am ALSO not saying that what I am about
to be saying applies to the gay community...
nor am I saying that it applies to anything
other than my experience as a european
heritaged, living in the western world,
culturally diverse, economically lower-class
person such as myself.

I'm just sayin'...that They never tell you how
"society" (whatever that bag of bones is) will
look at you completely differently once you
sign that abstraction which says what exactly?
That in the eyes of whom you will stay with
this person for the rest of your life.

If Divorce was illegal, you can bet your
Gramma's Fanny that the marriage rate would
dwindle like my porno-breasts (which seem
to be making a come-back, thankfully).

I NEVER wanted to get married.

This, it must be said, was a natural response
to being tied down (I only like it if I have a good
safe word-"ketchup", for example) and also a profound
understanding that nobody would want to marry a freak such
as myself. 

So when my boyfriend asked me to marry him,
after 2 years of living together, I was pretty
fucking surprised that I said yes. 

He is a lovely person.
He is smart, funny, kind, giving, handsome,
charming, lovable....does anyone want his number?

Also, bizarrely enough, he is a White American Chap.

This, I never, ever thought would happen.
Permanent settlement with a White American?
My serious boyfriends, to that point, had been English,
Serbian, and Non-White Americans.

Ok.  He is half-Jewish...which, in some deconstructionist
circles, would remove the "white" label.

But really, he is the perfect husband.
Even down to his being almost a decade younger
than I and loving every little part of me.

So I said yes.

We had the best fucking wedding of all time.
I walked down the "aisle" to the themesong for
"The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly."
We had all the family members put on an
excellently tacky cabaret show. And we got down
to living a totally harmonious life.

And then I realized:
In the eyes of the American World,
I was now .......  A Nun.

I did not know it, but in the western hetro world
there is a wave of sexual energy upon which one
floats in the social circles. Even if there is no chance
for sex with any male friend, the male friends actually
do, whether or not they know it, carry you along on
a little moving sexual vibe tidepool.

The MOMENT you are married. 


To make matters more complicated:

While I loved my husband (and hate the word "husband")
I just was not attracted to him.
I have no idea why, with all of his
qualities.  I even loved the way he
smelled.  But I could not get far enough
away from him in bed...sleeping, sexing,
the whole thing.

He, however, was all about my booty.
And sensitive enough to see that I was not
into his.  I assumed that it must be due to the
safety of our relationship bringing up all of my
sexual abuse issues.  I went to therapy.  I read
tons of books.  I did EMDR.


This, Dear Reader, is one of the worst emotional situations
in which one can find oneself (and, again, I know very
well that I am not in Haiti, post or pre earthquake).

So.  I did what was right.  After two years I left.

But not before complete sexual drama in the
hands of a 19 year old.

However.  That. Is not the point.  The point is:
LADIES: if you are thinking about getting married,
look at what you really need emotionally.

Perhaps you don't think you need outside sexual vibe
support.  Perhaps you think that you are immune.
That you are capable of riding your own self generated
sexual wave into the empty hands of eternity.

If so. You are a better lady than I.

I'm just saying.....!


Holy God In A Bucket!!

Have I mentioned the joy

She was, by 40 years, the oldest person
there...which she kept mentioning while
we waited in line, being smiled at a great
deal by all the French peeps who are all
over the inter-generational bidness.

We went with The Neighbor Man, who's
heart is broken and whose ass you would all
want to bite for the yum.  My auntie, from
Wales, has declared him her boyfriend.
La Gramma loves him too...and is a regular
at his Sunday afternoon picnic.

The 3D glasses were old school....La Gramma
was resplendent in her brown wool overcoat
and tan little pill box hat...and the 3D glasses
perched delicately in front of her own bi-focals.

I managed to extract her from the hat and coat
and then...for 2.? hours....she moved not a single
muscle except to turn to me or The Man to
say "Oh, ca c'est joli!"..."C'est tres belle!"

The Man and his family were afraid she would
have a heart attack in the middle of the film from
the force of the visuals...but I had faith in the
fortitude of La Gramma and felt her quivering
between us with excitement, despite the
violence (which she deemed inappropriate for
me in my current "state").

in short:

In other news:
It seems that porno-breasts are back.
(small moment of grateful silence)

Perhaps they will stay that way if you,
Dear Readers, would post your favorite
Gramma Memories!!!  Don't be shy!!
Remember, I'm the one who pees nightly
in a chamber pot!!!

if you have not checked out and fallen in love
with the Great Sister Wolf , do so now.

And maintenant.  I must pee.

On a real toilette.


My Dwindling Breasts...ADVICE?

I'm rushing out to hi-jack
a doppler machine! I need a


What does one do to calm the
fears of another horrendous miscarriage in
the face of flagging pregnancy symptoms?

Why-- one turns to the one thing
guaranteed to give joy through brilliant
unintended ass smackin' funnyhood.


Expect to see the Christian Side-Hug from time to time
throughout this pregnancy...if I am lucky enough to
continue with it.

To whom would You like to give a Christian Side-Hug?


Pregnancy Orgasms!!!! A Continuation of the Previous Post...

And Also!!

Another thing I did not know!!!

How hot is KD Lang!!!

I mean, had I not an aversion to the Vaj
I would be all ovah that hotness!!!

And: She's the dude-lady version of John Cusack, no?
And who doesn't love a good dose of the Cuke?
(More on that story later...)

She would write a soothing and long-noted ballad about

My First Miscarriage, Part II:

After entering the hospital and suffering hours
on my back with things torn on and off, needles
stuck in and pulled out...I finally saw the on-site
OB-Gyn who withheld none of his scorn over my
full-blown foreignhood and stick-shifted his way
through the underworld of my reproductive
system with vigor and, almost, glee.

Fury is a dish served up when your legs are
jacked in the air, you're exhausted, and you can
do nothing more than swear in English at some
F*ck who gives more of a shit about a pile of
molding hedgehog feces, then about your health.

He reported that there was still "stuff" in
my uterus and ordered me to a hospital bed with
a bunch of pills to heighten my contractions.

"Don't you think it would expediate the matter
to have a DNC?"
"No.  You'll be fine.  And you can always come back"

yes, because my f*cking idea of fun is multiple racing-car
visits with you stretched over days of uncontrolled bleeding.

So I cramped my way into whatever state they
deemed fit, made as much friends with the nurses
as I could, ate croissants when permitted...

and exited the hospital 24 hrs later.

(Of course I was back a month later with aforementioned
uncontrolled bleeding and more "stuff" to evacuate.
....But when do doctors ever listen to a sister??)

However, more importantly, we make our way
home to our little ruin and who should be outside
crouched by the garden wall but The Cat.

The same Cat who was cuddling up to me, trying to
lick my face, trying to heal me with full throttle
purrs.  I reached down to thank her and
she         screeched.     Shit.

This.  Was more than I could handle.  Not only
had we lost the baby, but it was in a particularly
Dickensian manner involving loads of vomit,
blood, dirt, malevolent doctors and heaps of pain.

Now my first baby may have a broken back?
The day that I get back from the hospital?

Did I mention that it was Sunday?
And you know, of course what happens on
sunday in France? Shit F*ck All.
Which is great when you have absolutely
no emergency of any kind going on in your life.

We manage to wedge her shivering body
onto a plank and My Man tells me the story of how
his sister's cat fell 4 stories and was prescribed
a long stay in a shoe box to heal her internal and
external wounds and breaks...and look at her now!

We put her in a box.

The next day we take her to the vet, although I don't
remember how we managed that.  But the X-Rays
were so sexy, I almost forgot about the whole thing.

No bones broken (X ray still on fridge)...apparently
The Cat had been pierced in some way by the neighbor's
chickens (for whom she cleans away mice) and the
wounds, unseen to us, became infected and burst.

So.  The vet cleans them up.  Sends her home.

Two days later, one wound that HE missed explodes.

What happens then is the most horrifying happening
on an animalistic level that I have ever witnessed,
and that includes any Discovery channel shit.

Our Cat.
To Eat Herself.

Imagine your beloved feline friend reaching back
around to her lower spine and RIPPING pieces
of skin off herself while shrieking.

You are trying to chase her around the kitchen to catch
her and she is running away from you .  While shrieking.

The vet is closed.
Put the fucking cone collar on the cat!!
The neighbor's small dog collar!!!
Yes That One!!!!!!!!

Now!!!!  take the cat and place
her in a large rolling shopping cart that you ganked
from a too-rich-and-tacky shopping mall inorder
to have a rolling tool box.

Cat in Collar in Cart.
Water and Food in Cart.
Plywood top wired shut over Cart top.
= Cat in Jail and Unable to Scream her way
through the house with no doors and Out into
the Countryside, Never to be Seen Again.

A Lovely Ending Flourish to a Miscarriage.

BUT!  One could not end a story without
a leap from a two story window...which is what
The Cat, after 2 months of confinement in
the kitchen, performed while wearing her collar,
found crouched in the bushes, wondering
what the hell she had done in a former life
to deserve this bountious hell.

We started healing together...

...taking many naps...

and before the river could flood, we were back at work...

Let Us Hope That Things Go Smoother This Time.