Pretty low-key lately. Chicago was nice with amazingly warm weather and great family. The drive to Minneapolis was giggles and singing '80s songs loudly with my sister and her fiance (who did not sing but deejayed). Then, it's been a slow easing-into-society process. Job hunting a bit online, driving practice to the car wash, dinner with a girl friend.
Then, last night I went out with a guy who worked with me way back in the day when I was working for a local newspaper. We had drinks at some typical bar with wooden interior, a circular and centered bar, TVs blaring sports, and stools supporting all kinds of overweight, boring-looking people. I brought him a 2Euro coin and he brought me 5 scratch-off games, which I've never played before. We won $2. I had a dirty martini and it didn't taste as I was hoping it would. He had grapefruit juice. We've both cut down on the drinking quite a bit during these precarious days of unemployment, when we could be easily subjected to a bout of depression or anxiety. We went to a pool hall to shoot some and I learned that not all pool halls serve booze, and some can feel downright depressing. I won one, he won one. Then, we rounded off the night at a dive bar called Vegas, where some scowly college kids were drunk and singing karaoke. I had a Maker's Mark on the rocks for old time sake. He had a Sprite. Talking came easy. We had exchanged some emails over the past couple of months since finding ourselves via Facebook, so we knew that we could joke about naughty sex, share openly about our depressions, and dream of our evolution.
When he drove me home, he patted my back and let his hand linger. We wished I was wasn't staying at my sister's and that he wasn't crashing with his parents. Then, we kind of leaned into each other and he started kissing my neck. My heart palpitated and my body sighed. We kissed gently until I tightened my teeth around one of his lips. His right hand grabbed my hair and pulled my neck back. His left hand dove into my jacket. I tried to move it into my skirt, under my tights, but he kept pointing out that we were parked in the middle of the street under a street lamp. I didn't care. Who would care? I didn't live there. No one was awake. No one was looking. I am not fifteen. But I was totally prepared to jump into the back seat to get it on. He said he had no condom. We said we'd hang out Friday night. He waited for me to get inside the house and his SMS was "Nighty nigh cutie pie."
Friday, November 13, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
no, no, actually I'm not going out tonight
I have 3 huge suitcases staring at me from the corner of a dark shadow of my apartment. The toilet and shower and closet shelves are clean, although unnecessarily so. I've given more to this apartment than is necessary to clean it, but I'm a bit OCD and a bit fetishy about cleaning, so I take this time to inhale bleach and other toxic chemicals and scrub scrub scrub while think think thinking of what I'm cleaning away.
I am prepping my ipod for the 14-hour flight on Aer Lingus: sexy tunes for when Mr. Flight Attendant asks, in his almost incomprehensible Irish accent, if I'd like "coffee, tea, Michael Collins Single Malt, or Michael Collins cunnilingus?" And then, the tunes for when I pop a sleeping pill and attempt to twist-cramp myself to sleep. (I have lewd fantasies of "accidentally" slipping a hand into my pants to fondle myself while sitting next to a handsome potato-exporter.)
There were fireworks somewhere out in the city, and the Eiffel's light rotates overhead. I know I'm forgetting so many things, just like I knew I was forgetting something when I left Spaniard's apartment this morning. "Thanks for the nice umbrella :-)" he texted. But I know what I'm leaving here, and I know I can't take it, and I know I'll feel short of it for a while.
... Finally.... Finally, the tears are coming. I've been wishing they'd come. A few streams in Spaniard's bed was not enough. A few stiffled droplets during adieus to friends was not enough. Which is why I am not going out tonight. I need to say good-bye - my way, finally. It's been building oh so building. The street line when I turn the corner at my metro, my street line, my chimney stacks to the sky, my grey buildings against hazy, dusky, impressionist skies. The last frustration in BHV, searching for vacuum bags when no one knows where they are and refer you to another floor's department. The fact that my French is good enough for them to understand me, but still not know what I'm talking about. That I'm asked for directions and can turn and point with clarity and sureness. That I know the metro lines and the fastest way to get there. That I can still get lost by a block but then remember what neighborhood, where it leads, what it's next to. This familiarity. The tea had with new friends just yesterday under an awning under the pouring, drenching, loud rain. Our breath seen for flittering seconds beneath the heat stands. The so-not-environmental heat stands.
So, I've said my good-byes to those that need them. And those friends to whom I haven't know who they are and why it might be harder for me to say good-bye to them. For they are the first I knew here. I want to refuse to say good-bye to them. I want to pretend this journey goes on. That my voyage to the US is simply that. A moment of respite from here.
But I know this isn't the case. It never is.
I left Buenos Aires in 1991 after three and a half years of growing up there, and I have yet to return. I rarely return. Even my return trips to the Midwest mean something strange to me.
But Paris is, indeed, a moveable feast. She will be inside me forever and I in her. If just for a small second, a slight dent in time, an imprint in this historic apartment filled with ghosts previous to me and enjoyed by me and better for me.
This is my good-bye party. This is my moment of hugs and tears and so longs and until we meet agains.
I am prepping my ipod for the 14-hour flight on Aer Lingus: sexy tunes for when Mr. Flight Attendant asks, in his almost incomprehensible Irish accent, if I'd like "coffee, tea, Michael Collins Single Malt, or Michael Collins cunnilingus?" And then, the tunes for when I pop a sleeping pill and attempt to twist-cramp myself to sleep. (I have lewd fantasies of "accidentally" slipping a hand into my pants to fondle myself while sitting next to a handsome potato-exporter.)
There were fireworks somewhere out in the city, and the Eiffel's light rotates overhead. I know I'm forgetting so many things, just like I knew I was forgetting something when I left Spaniard's apartment this morning. "Thanks for the nice umbrella :-)" he texted. But I know what I'm leaving here, and I know I can't take it, and I know I'll feel short of it for a while.
... Finally.... Finally, the tears are coming. I've been wishing they'd come. A few streams in Spaniard's bed was not enough. A few stiffled droplets during adieus to friends was not enough. Which is why I am not going out tonight. I need to say good-bye - my way, finally. It's been building oh so building. The street line when I turn the corner at my metro, my street line, my chimney stacks to the sky, my grey buildings against hazy, dusky, impressionist skies. The last frustration in BHV, searching for vacuum bags when no one knows where they are and refer you to another floor's department. The fact that my French is good enough for them to understand me, but still not know what I'm talking about. That I'm asked for directions and can turn and point with clarity and sureness. That I know the metro lines and the fastest way to get there. That I can still get lost by a block but then remember what neighborhood, where it leads, what it's next to. This familiarity. The tea had with new friends just yesterday under an awning under the pouring, drenching, loud rain. Our breath seen for flittering seconds beneath the heat stands. The so-not-environmental heat stands.
So, I've said my good-byes to those that need them. And those friends to whom I haven't know who they are and why it might be harder for me to say good-bye to them. For they are the first I knew here. I want to refuse to say good-bye to them. I want to pretend this journey goes on. That my voyage to the US is simply that. A moment of respite from here.
But I know this isn't the case. It never is.
I left Buenos Aires in 1991 after three and a half years of growing up there, and I have yet to return. I rarely return. Even my return trips to the Midwest mean something strange to me.
But Paris is, indeed, a moveable feast. She will be inside me forever and I in her. If just for a small second, a slight dent in time, an imprint in this historic apartment filled with ghosts previous to me and enjoyed by me and better for me.
This is my good-bye party. This is my moment of hugs and tears and so longs and until we meet agains.
so long, Spaniard
I hadn't had a drink in five days. He poured Glenfiddich. We talked for two hours, then we went to his bedroom. I held his hand as we stared up at the ceiling, in the dark, clothed, with The Pixies singing from his living room. Small tears slid down my cheeks. But it wasn't long before I rolled a leg over his hips and unbuckled his belt. And it wasn't long after caressing his cock that I was hungry for it. I pinned his arms and bit his nipples. Between his legs, I tickled my lips with the fuzz of his pubic hair and filled my nostrils with his scent - always so clean but still him. His knees retreated to the sky and I wet a finger at his ass. I imagined I could want a strap-on to fuck him - if we had days and days, but we did not, and his arousal was almost too far gone. I am fair play. I get mine, too. He leans up but I am clasped to his body. He lifts me and guides me to my hands and knees, pulls my jeans down but not off. He is my steady fuck and he is awarded my new virginity. His girth prodding steadily for entry, and when his cock is inside me, he speeds up. I move my hand behind me to his abdomen to push him back. "I want to feel you, all of you." The length, the slow, drawn out length of him filling me. I whimper. I hunger. I want him fast and slow and again and deep and barely the tip of his cock touching me and banging me and then slowly slowly like a whisper of nerves. I love my shudders, my spasms, my involuntarily volunteering. I love the sounds he makes when he comes. He pulls out, inch by inch, as I whine heartbroken at his departure. My face in his bed. Again, tears. Elation, relief, relaxation, sadness, I miss him already.
Friday, October 30, 2009
nerve.com
Back in the day, I used Nerve.com for dating and artistic fun:
"a week in DC with lola"
me my goods my habits
I am: a woman
Looking for: a man
Interested In: friendship, dating, play
Age: 27
Location: midwesternly
Area Code: 666
Occupation: political whore
Education: college
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Religion: what have you got?
Star Sign: are you one?
Relationship Status: Single
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 125 lbs
Hair color: not a hamptons blonde
Eye color: firey pools of observation
Cigarettes: sometimes
Booze: often
Drugs: never
Self-deprecation: never
you your goods your habits
Age: 18 - 88
Education: college, grad school, post grad
the tip of my iceberg
Last great book I read:
Let's Go Guide to Washington, DC... or how to make your own party in the nation's capital.
Most humbling moment:
a tie: talking to the inner demons of a homeless man in front of the white house - or - when my step-cousin leaned over and kissed me while drunkenly watching Apocolypse Now
Favorite on-screen sex scene:
a 1970's anti-feminist porn shown at the Women in the Arts museum
Celebrity I resemble most:
chandra levy.. only, alive.
Best (or worst) lie I've ever told:
to the congressman who offered to show me places i wouldn't normally have access to: 'i'll call you tomorrow!'
If I could be anywhere at the moment:
back in DC ass-fucking in the hilton, in richmond fucking, in the elevator of the rayburn with that hot lefty intern, in arlington finishing off where my cousin and i were interrupted, in the limo with the Honorable Reps.
Song or album that puts me in the mood:
WASH!ING!TON!DC - the magnetic fields
The five items I can't live without:
condoms, a guide book, metro map, camera, business cards
Fill in the blanks:
mingling is sexy; networking is sexier.
In my bedroom, you'll find:
i'm unpacked, maps of DC, undeveloped film, unpaid bills, unfulfilled desires, business cards, a shot of maker's mark, a pile of mail unread, clean sheets, the next campaign director for the next greatest thing
why you should get to know me
who else do you know who can fly into a new city and come away with 4 new lovers, 9 new potential employers, 3 new bruises, and a million new stories? i'm fun, fearless, friendly, you can dress me up for the kennedy center, you can undress me with your eyes and i won't take offense, and i don't wear khacki.
more about who I'm looking for
the next president of the states
editor's note: this is one of many stories created using a personal ad, for further information on the author, please see her other profile: lola990.
"a week in DC with lola"
me my goods my habits
I am: a woman
Looking for: a man
Interested In: friendship, dating, play
Age: 27
Location: midwesternly
Area Code: 666
Occupation: political whore
Education: college
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Religion: what have you got?
Star Sign: are you one?
Relationship Status: Single
Height: 5'6"
Weight: 125 lbs
Hair color: not a hamptons blonde
Eye color: firey pools of observation
Cigarettes: sometimes
Booze: often
Drugs: never
Self-deprecation: never
you your goods your habits
Age: 18 - 88
Education: college, grad school, post grad
the tip of my iceberg
Last great book I read:
Let's Go Guide to Washington, DC... or how to make your own party in the nation's capital.
Most humbling moment:
a tie: talking to the inner demons of a homeless man in front of the white house - or - when my step-cousin leaned over and kissed me while drunkenly watching Apocolypse Now
Favorite on-screen sex scene:
a 1970's anti-feminist porn shown at the Women in the Arts museum
Celebrity I resemble most:
chandra levy.. only, alive.
Best (or worst) lie I've ever told:
to the congressman who offered to show me places i wouldn't normally have access to: 'i'll call you tomorrow!'
If I could be anywhere at the moment:
back in DC ass-fucking in the hilton, in richmond fucking, in the elevator of the rayburn with that hot lefty intern, in arlington finishing off where my cousin and i were interrupted, in the limo with the Honorable Reps.
Song or album that puts me in the mood:
WASH!ING!TON!DC - the magnetic fields
The five items I can't live without:
condoms, a guide book, metro map, camera, business cards
Fill in the blanks:
mingling is sexy; networking is sexier.
In my bedroom, you'll find:
i'm unpacked, maps of DC, undeveloped film, unpaid bills, unfulfilled desires, business cards, a shot of maker's mark, a pile of mail unread, clean sheets, the next campaign director for the next greatest thing
why you should get to know me
who else do you know who can fly into a new city and come away with 4 new lovers, 9 new potential employers, 3 new bruises, and a million new stories? i'm fun, fearless, friendly, you can dress me up for the kennedy center, you can undress me with your eyes and i won't take offense, and i don't wear khacki.
more about who I'm looking for
the next president of the states
editor's note: this is one of many stories created using a personal ad, for further information on the author, please see her other profile: lola990.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Hence, why it's good to have a sense of humor
Celine's last day in Paris and she wanted to grab lunch at a super hotspot in the Marais (where she's seen models and the famous).
Then, she wanted to do a pedicure/manicure thing. I have never done a pedicure/manicure thing. First, for the ethical reasons that these shops are horrendous on the Asian employees (why are they almost all Asian?). Second, I'm just not girlie enough for it. Third, I'm very aware that my feet are not my best feature - and they're ticklish.
When the Asian lady lifted up my foot from the tub to do some scrapey scrapey thing on the bottom, the 4 teen girls behind her cracked giggles and popped their eyes. One even leaned over to get a better look.
No, my feet are not clubbed. But yes, it's why I always wear sexy thigh-highs or cute knee-socks on dates.
For dinner, I went over to an international affair of all these kids from my grad program. And, who did I run into but the classical guitar player.
Ahhh, life.
Then, she wanted to do a pedicure/manicure thing. I have never done a pedicure/manicure thing. First, for the ethical reasons that these shops are horrendous on the Asian employees (why are they almost all Asian?). Second, I'm just not girlie enough for it. Third, I'm very aware that my feet are not my best feature - and they're ticklish.
When the Asian lady lifted up my foot from the tub to do some scrapey scrapey thing on the bottom, the 4 teen girls behind her cracked giggles and popped their eyes. One even leaned over to get a better look.
No, my feet are not clubbed. But yes, it's why I always wear sexy thigh-highs or cute knee-socks on dates.
For dinner, I went over to an international affair of all these kids from my grad program. And, who did I run into but the classical guitar player.
Ahhh, life.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
1,383
Total documents from 1987 until 2009. It's mostly 2005 onwards. I know I have notebooks and notebooks from 1986-2005. Only 1/10000 of them have been logged into a computer.
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
I'm overwhelmed with where to start. I don't think I want to be this kind of editor. It all seems interesting to me because it's my own history. Could it be another girl's life? Would someone relate to this? How boring is this? The latter, I've decided to follow the principle that if I feel like it's a dreary task to spell-check and capitalize, then I should move on to the next more interesting bit. Whether any of this is good is beyond me. Hell, I have no idea why I'm doing it, except there's just so damn much of it!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Reine des Reinette
They're not Gala or McIntosh apples.
Harvest: late September; Season: October - January
Description: Gourmet dessert apple. Flavor on the sweet side.
Wikipedia's French page translated:
The queen is a variety of apple relatively old, whose maturity occurs in late summer - early autumn.
The INRA d'Angers got around 1975 a mutant characterized by a more intense staining and early maturity. His name is Belrène.
Description of the fruit
The medium fruit has a thick enough skin, slightly rough, heavily dotted with gray, yellow streaked with dull red. Her pale yellow flesh, fine juicy, crisp and tart is very pleasant to chew. This is an especially suitable for pies, especially the tarte tatin.
* Shape: cylinder-conical, slightly depressed on one side at each end.
* Peduncle: medium length, strong, especially at the base, obliquely inserted in a narrow and deep basin.
* Eye: large, half-closed, very large cavity whose edges are generally united.
* Water: sufficient, sweet, tangy and deliciously scented.
* Maturity: December-March
* Quality: First.
* Wood: hard [1].
* Palm: generally small, slightly spreading, the largest and longest, very geniculate and very fluffy, green tinged with red red slate.
* Lenticels: elongated, very large, abundant.
* Pads: very emerged.
* Eyes: large, ovoid, obtuse, clad in bark and downy.
* Leaves: excessively large, oval, somewhat hairy and brownish green above, greenish-white below, shortly acuminate and deeply toothed.
* Petiole: Short, very heavy, tomentose, often fluted.
* Stipules: the longer and wider.
* Fertility: Ordinary. Bon pollinisateur. Good pollinator.
Culture
For full wind, graft flush with the ground, this apple is admirably suited and makes trees rod straight. Dwarf forms, it thrives quite well but needs to be budded on apple Paradise, about making it more productive by lessening the excess vegetation. The variety is particularly susceptible to aphids and has a strong tendency towards alternation.
Obtained in Holland, the tree is hardy and bears the very cold climates of Northern Europe.
The Queen of pippin is particularly recommended in all the orchards because they can pollinate many other varieties. It reached full flower 2 days after Golden Delicious and is pollinated by 'Granny Smith', 'Golden Delicious',' Starking Delicious.
History
Our Queen of Reinettes - whose original name seems to have been "Kroon Renet", belonging to the Batavian language and meaning "Pippin Crown" - was born about 1770. The Netherlands, where it has long cultivated several varieties of apples Kroon, is regarded by the pomologue Diel German as the source country of the latter, he described in 1802. He had received from the Hague under the label Kroon Renet.
In English, the variety called "Queen of the pippin" distinct variety of "King of the pippin", even if the two are often confused.
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I just ate one of these drizzled in the honey from my love affair last year with the Economist Beekeeper Sex God.
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