Butts and Other Activites

As some of you know, Dear Reader,
my little French village is on the road
to Compostello--which means that all
summer long, hundreds upon hundreds
of peeps flood through on foot, bike,
and, sometimes, horsey.

Two days ago two mecs (guys) rolled in
in a horse drawn covered wooden caravan.

Old School Stylie.

They had 3 lovely horsies with them who they
penned in down by the river.  And they set
up camp and, like true wooden caravan drivers,
started smoking up...which I discovered when
I approached them for a light (since My Beloved
and I are having lighter wars...another story).

I directed them to The Neighbor, who would more
than love them, and went back to construction work.

The next day they were in like, well, flynn. (Is it flynn?)
They were eating with The Neighbor,  My Beloved fixed
their brakes and I rode their horsies around
(being an old cowpoke myself).

Later, over aperitif, The Neighbor, his Prospective
Girlfriend, My Beloved, and I were talking about them.
At this point it may do to point out that I have had
peeps like these mecs in my life for a long, long time.

Travellers, vagabonds, etc etc.

And The Neighbor was talking about how extraordinary
this guy's life was...rolling about the joint in his wood
caravan...and how he "profits" from life...and is really
living life..and it occurred to me:

so many people seem to think that traveling and doing
things that do not include a 9-5 job and kids is the
only way to really live life.

This I already knew: but what then occurred to me
was that what really kills the experience of "living life"
is to fall into hardcore habits that numb you from
feeling and noticing life and all of its quirks and beauties.

And that, in fact, just because you're traveling around
does not mean that you are avoiding habits, as you can
just as easily fall into the "habit" of being in a new place
every day, and the "habit" of dealing with new people,
situations and environments.

Another point: I have moved over 41 times in my life.
As an adult I have lived in, let me see...6 US cities
and 3 European cities.  I know what it is to move,
to travel, to "profit from life."

But I want to smash this idea that traveling is the
only way to "live life," as, if you just become
habitual about it...which I have seen happen...then
you might as well be at home doing the same
thing every day.

So at this point I am going to make a little
list of some of the things that I feel are my way
of living life...things I appreciate..little things:

1.  Coming up behind My Beloved while
he is brushing his teeth and pretending
to do him in the butt. "eeee eeee eeee"

2.  Him playing along with it.

3.  Buying something on ebay and
having it be EXACTLY what it said it
would be....AND WORKING!!!

4.  The extraordinary beauty of the sunflower
fields in the summer.  And they change
place every summer so you never know
where they are going to be.

5.  Watching my cat's butt when she runs. 
She has this awesome and unelegant way
of moving her legs that actually makes
her butt shake.

6.  Bar 34 and 35 of Bach's 4th two part
invention in D Minor.  And playing it.

7.  My Beloved calling me
"my little horsey" pronounced:
"my leetle orseee".  AHHH!!!

8.  Winning a bet!

9.  Waving goodbye every morning
to My Beloved from the kitchen window
by way of using the cat's arm.
(ie: the cat waving goodbye to My Beloved).

10.  CHERRIES ON ALL THE CHERRY
TREES IN THE VILLAGE...AND THEN
IN MY MOUTH!!!  ALL OF THEM!!!!


there.  I am living life.

PS: it has occurred to me that people may
actually be un-inclined to "follow" me in
light of the "sweet sperm challenge" because
they don't want anyone thinking that they
are interested in sweet sperm.

Or is that just the crack talking.

Drunkish

Tonight we spent the evening with
The Neighbor and the new Swiss
man in the neighborhood.

The Neighbor's girlfriend left
him after walking the Chemin
de Compostello and meeting a Belgian
guy.  I knew it was just a way for
her to get out of her situation with
The Neighbor.  She left and went
to the NORTH of France.  which.
is not. pretty.  Now she regrets this.
I know this because My Beloved has
been told by The Neighbor (who is
also My Equal Friend-why hasn't
he told me???)  that she has
called and sent emails.

Being who I am and having left
my husband...I know exactly how
this played out:

She met a guy who made her feel
appreciated like The Neighbor
did not...and so she left.  She hooked
up with New Belgian Guy and things
didn't work out.  Now, in her mind,
she is fucked (which, if you were in
the North of France, you could
perhaps understand).


In my mind: The World Has Opened
Up To Her.  But she is not a particularly
courageous person.  She needed the guy
in order to leave The Neighbor, who,
by the way, is a most excellent, if
conflicted, person.

What is strange is that in this gathering of
me and 3 guys, I felt more comfortable
than if she had been there.  I sang more
strongly when they played guitars, and
when we were writing a song I was not
shy about my chord suggestions.

Is this because I did not want to dominate
her when she was here?  Or that I feared
her judgement (she was never really frank)?

I know not what.

but I decided 5 minutes ago to try my
first drunkish post.

and, Dear Reader,  it has involved many backspaces!

My Beloved is shaving in the bathroom.
The Swiss is preparing to go back to Switzerland.
The Neighbor is missing his girl, that is assumed.

And I.

I am sitting here realizing that My Life
is in France.  That a few intense decisions
led me here.  That I, if I am honest, left
my husband for the love of a 19 year old
uneducated drug addicted Man-Boy who
made me feel more desire than I can remember.

A Man-Boy who is not My Beloved.

O Man-Boy.
I saw you on the side of the road
the other day and you looked like shit.
You are falling into your heroin addiction.

You are so very beautiful
and no one ever told you but me.

O Man-Boy.
How very different your life could have been.

If you had been well loved.

but it was only me who loved you well.

And one is not enough.


O Man Boy.
How you broke my heart.

And how I survived you...


Drunken PS:
I am very very sad that more people
do not want the secret to Sweet Sperm.
Even the people in Australia?
And Marina Del RaY???

People!
I need a serious What What!!!!!

If I Don't Love These Yeast Infections....then why do I feel married to them?

My Beloved and I had a beautiful
and harmonious week...capped with
the splendor of a charming Yeast
Infection.

Ladies:  Boric Acid!
Get those capsules.
Insert in the VaaJay.
GONE YEAST GONE!!!

Of course, there is that little
unsettling bit about how Boric Acid
is also used to ward off roaches.

O the Roach takes me back to my LA days.

After escaping an ex who morphed
into a psycho (and I'm talking escape
in the middle of the night) my friend, and
roommate, D and I scouted out a cute
and cheap little bungalow just off of
Sunset by Gower Gulch (for those of
my peeps who live in LA).  It was
lovely and surrounded by plantage.
In my room, should one merely close
the door, one felt that one was perhaps
on a desert isle...fronds tapping at the
windows. Burdies tweet tweeting
their little burdy hearts about the joint.

However. 
We moved in at night, turned on the
lights......to AN ENORMOUS
BLANKET OF ROACHES ON
THE CEILING, ON THE FLOORS,
AND SOON ON OUR HEADS!!!!

3 bombs and camping later, the
roaches trooped back to the center
of the earth, leaving us in peace in
our attempts to read War and Peace,
avoid the carnivorous business of
parties in the "movie scene" and
work on our acting.  What?

A particular fond memory of D, who
was a fucking smart and uneducated 19
year old guy, was when I came home to
his announcement that he had a date
with some painter.....

did I know a guy named David Hockney?

PULL THE PRICK OF A PONY!!!!!!

Nothing was more fun then introducing
the "quick to learn" D to a pillow full
of Hockney's work...rushing about to
stores in LA that actually had art books...
(pre-internet time) and coaching him
through major dates, works, etc...

Or: when I would play Moonlight Sonata
on my rented piano and he would very
seriously perform an extensive piece
of interpretive dance around the living room.

D and I had a friendship based on mutual
admiration, trust, and an ass-full of disdain
for Hollywood and the newly blossoming
herds of fake breasted butt lickers.

D was in my bridal cadre, my bridesman.

I was robbed at gunpoint with D and have
held D in my arms while he wept...as he held me.
(And not for the reasons of robbery,
but for the reasons of sexual abuse, another
thing that we had in common).

So it was with great depression and dismay
that I hung up the phone after a pretty
awful conversation with him. 

D, it seems, has fallen completely into
the LA way of being.  The way of being that
mentions people in tandem with their career
positions.  The way of being that doesn't ask
you how you feel after your miscarriage.
The way of being that silently judges you
because you are not involved in what is
important: The Life Of Hollywood.

I am sad.
It seems I am going to lose my friend.

And it was not an "oh, just a weird kind
of conversation" that you know is a one off
thing.  It was an "I am 41 and I feel this to
be a turning point in my friendship with
this person.  A turning point that is leaving
a vile taste in my mouth and makes me
want to have a funeral for the love and
understanding that we shared" kind of thing.

He is still really smart.
But he is now a rock.

I mentioned that perhaps he needs to keep
his heart open and was met with teeth
and comments about how he could not
respect any woman who would want
to be with him (he is bi, by the by).

When we were getting off the phone, and
I was thinking that this might be the last,
he said that he loved me...as he always
does.  And I wanted to ask him
who he was and where was my D.

There are those among you who may say
that one can never give up on a friend.
And I do not give up on my friends.

But those of you in LA know of what
I speak.  You know that he is in the
Valley Of Death.  You know that reaching
him would mean major shaving of tendons,
bruising of hearts, and perhaps the loss
of an eye.  Perhaps his.

And I don't think he will call me again.

Another One Falls Prey To LA.
RIP my sweet sweet D.


In other news:  two of my pieces
got accepted to a great journal!!
and I am being paid!!!!
and I am not a total failure!!!!!

AND 21 FOLLOWERS!!
ONLY 29 TO GO FOR SWEET SPERM!!!!!

Killer On The Road

Easter came and did its "I'm dead
and ooo look at me flying away now" thing

and our cat brought us an Easter Bunny.  On Easter.

Right outside the back door I happened
to glance. There she was
ROLLING AROUND ON TOP
OF A BABY BUN BUN!!

Little Bunny Fru Fru was prostrate,
eyes open: "Do you think it's dead?"
I asked My Beloved as Our Darling Cat
took the Bunny's head into her gaping jaws?

An unthinkable question...yet of course
I was right.  The bunny was alive.
Beloved grabbed the wailing cat.
Bun Bun made a break for it.
I grabbed the cat.  Beloved grabbed
Bun Bun AND PUT HER
IN A POT OF BOILING
WATER?   no no no no
And put her in a safe,
and fleeable, place.

Above photo is of cat sulking by the locked cat door.
She's just now talking to us again.

It was just a blip in the catastrophe of a weekend.

My Beloved and I are deeply in love.
I know this because I feel it.

And. Sometimes it is the only reason that
we stay together in the face of our sometimes
mangled and soul-defying fights.

As I have noted in another post, we have gone
through perhaps I bit more than the average
western couple since we have been together.

To give you just a little idea of the house
that we are rebuilding, here are a few shots:

 

This is the bedroom area.  

Oh, and you are looking at the ground floor.  

The bedroom are now on the second floor.  

Which is where the door in the 

upper right hand part of the photo is.

My Beloved signing the contract to buy the house.
He is in the dining room.

The Bathroom

The living room space.
And again with that being the ground floor.

The living room is actually above this space.

So Yeah.  We are tired.

But I didn't anticipate the 3 days of gut-slogging 

fighting from Saturday to Monday.

To our credit.  We did manage to have a fantastic 

anniversary dinner (which I then ruined later 

at home by opening my fat mouth) and we had 

wonderful sex 4 times on Sunday (and I am 

NOT into make-up sex...which this most 

certainly was not).

I will not bore you with the problems except

to say that I am very low maintenance with

anniversaries: I don't expect gifts or even flowers.

However: if you took everyone of your previous

first dates out to dinner--AND NOT LUNCH

because you know very well that THAT is

romantic, do not expect me to be happy if

you propose LUNCH for our anniversary

after I have spent years sharing my body and

heart with you.

Also:  after a day of fighting and then having

made up, do not expect me to be happy if you

decide 2am at the end of it all is a good time

to go over to The Neighbor's house to drink

armangac and smoke pot...leaving me at

home because I just took a friggin' shower

and my hair is wet and it's winter in The 

Neighbor's house and I thought PERHAPS
we could reconnect physically, you know,

and you secretly don't even really want me
to come because you are afraid I have a crush 

on The Neighbor's friend. Which, I might
add, I don't mention so as not to embarrass you.

PLUS:  after years of trying to convince 

you that I am completely fine with you 

going out with your friends and you 

don't believe me and so have never 

done it, DON'T hold the forementioned 

situation as a good example as to why 

you don't do it.

AND:  I AM FUCKING SICK AND TIRED

OF RENTING FRENCH MOVIES THAT 

INSIST ON HAVING NAKED WOMEN

IN THEM: WHICH IS ALL OF 

THEM: EVEN KID'S MOVIES!!!!!!!!

WHAT THE HELL

IS WRONG WITH 

SUBTLETY AND 

WHEN WILL THIS

COUNTRY GROW THE

FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In other news:  we are fine now.

We had a wonderful and constructive

talk and have decided to see a shrink.

Home for me is in his arms.

Don't forget the Sweet Sperm Challenge. 

(and, yes, you can imagine who
benefited from these experiments!
Mr.  Lunch For Anniversary!!)

Doin' It Dino Stylie

Back when I was a pre-married white lady,
my lovely pre-husband and I had imaginary
animals.  They sprung, fully flourished,
from my head when we were on a road
trip in Arizona.  Why we were on a road
trip in one of the "Awful American States,"
is simply due to his living in Flagstaff, one
of the less horrible places in Arizona.

I was visiting.  We were carrying on a long-
distance relay and he was trying to show me
the splendors of a state which is so hot that
the main city has a Friggin' Sprinkler System
for the sidewalks.  Also. There is their
voting record.  Also.  John McCain.  Also...


I digress.


Imaginary Animals.


It started with a huge model of a dinosaur that had clearly
stumbled its way into the desert and seemed alone and, yes, sad.
Of course I felt its pain and promptly let forth with a sound
impersonation of what was to become the vocal expression of:
Baby Dino (who looks a little somethin' like this:)

Baby Dino was a zesty little fellah, prideful, shy, affectionate,
a smidge demanding, and a great teller of jokes which, unfortunately,
neither of us could understand.  He was also a pretty poor driver,
seeing that he kept his eyes closed a great deal of the time.  After
all, he was only a BaaaBeee.

Soon frustrated with his human help-mates, he went out a-searchin'
for a new companion...and after a full-on traipse through cavern,
mountain ranger outpost, and sea bed...he came home with:

SEA MONSTER!!!!!!

  
(extraordinarily, this picture swiped from the web is almost exactly what Sea Monster looked like!)


Sea Monster was a charming gentleman, always happy to hold forth 
on numerous subjects with vigor and enthusiasm.  With a little 
speech therapy, he was able to find a way to turn his vocal stylings 
into comprehensible utterances.  I would often find Sea Monster 
quietly and patiently waiting for me to open my eyes in the morning.  
"Hi Sea Monster!"  "Hewwooo ShuShu!!"  

Of all the animals, he was, by far, the most hilarious.

So hilarious that we were thrilled when he one day brought home:

BABY SEA MONSTER;

I joke I joke!!!!!
Baby Sea wasn't Fergie!!!!  God!!!  Truth be told.  
And nor did he pee all over himself while on stage. 
(Ok that was mean).  However.  He was quite the baby. 
NEVER opening his eyes.  Constantly in a state of feeble 
waving of claws coupled with whispery efforts to talk.  
To break it down:  Baby Sea would grab onto anything 
he could and suckle.  And no not in a sexy way.  He would 
grab your nose, your hair, your elbow.  Whatever he could 
to take care of his Baby Sea needs.  

Nothing. Nothing is cuter.  Than Baby Sea.

But it was the greatest triumph of all when into the picture bounced:

NIFFLER!!!!!!!!
To see the beauty of Niffler, you must do the following:
Hold your hand up: palm toward you. 
Lower your two center fingers down to touch your thumb.  
Keep the outside fingers up and away from the two center fingers.
Turn the hand sideways

ET VOILA!!!!!! 
NIFFLER!!!!!!! 
COMPLETE WITH OPENABLE
AND CLOSABLE MOUTH---
AND TWO ADORABLE EARS!!!!

Niffler went on to mate with Niffletta...who while being
a bit more coy, is just as boisterous and chatty...steals just
as many things...and frequently participates in the age-old
Niffler ritual of : The Dance Of Joy.

At this point I will answer the obvious:
The Animals were never in the room during sex.
(we would never DREAM of exposing such innocents!)

Once the Family was developed there was no turning
asunder.  Our mountain of friends were treated to numerous
spectacles of Sea Monster harrassing Baby Dino who was
then comforted by Niffletta while Niffler tried to steal
your drink.


I am not making this up.


My husband and I introduced the Imaginary Animals 
to anyone who would listen.  People either found them 
completely bizarre.  Or completely hilarious.


They even had a place in our wedding
(you know, the one where I walked down the aisle
to the theme song from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly").


"I promise to care for all our Imaginary Animals
and send them to good and diverse public schools, exposing
them to Chopin, Bergman, Monk and X Clan"
etc...etc...etc...


At this point you may be thinking I'm just a little fucking nuts.


Or. That this is an April Fools Joke.  
(I just noticed that it is April 1.  I swear to you.  
This is the truth.  On the head of my most exquisite cat.)


But, Dear Reader, you, too, could love the Imaginary Animals.
They were delightful.  They were imaginative and independent.
And they were great soothers of the soul when we were sad.


Who would turn from a sweet little Baby Dino nuzzling up
against her shoulder when she received yet another rejection
from a journal?  Who could resist Sea Monster showing his
sensitive side and wiping away little tears after a particularly
heart wrenching episode of Battlestar Galactica??


ah yes.
but then we got divorced.




In the agreement (verbal, we had no assets) 
I gave him Chicago, Baby Dino, Sea Monster, Baby Sea,
and, yes, and, Niffler.


I took France.
And found Niffletta hiding in my luggage.


The French adore Niffletta.
She charms in all cultures since she is completely multi-lingual.


Even My Beloved is starting to laugh...despite his
macho southern meat-eating tendencies.


but sometimes.
sometimes....


i do weep for the loss of the animals.


 
 

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.


xoxoxo
XuXu

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