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:




http://video.mytaratata.com/video/iLyROoafYI9I.html

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

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

WAIT!!!! I'M OVULATING AGAIN!!!!!

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.

THAT. Is the TRUTH

Swear on the head of my crazed cat.

NIGHT SICKNESS...OR WHENEVER

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:

A HEART BEAT IS HAPPENING!
RIGHT NOW AND NOW AND NOW AND NOW!!!!

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
down.

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.

Sigh.

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.

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).