Nothing xxx-rated, kinkified, worthy-of-CDOAv3 has happened lately. It's all been bank accounts, varnishing, grocery shopping.
I did get an afternoon of jack-off with the free wifi. And, I did have a lovely time last night at the munch with Wilfried. But telling about that will have to wait (and it's not xxx-rated in any way).
First day of class tomorrow. Yay!
And, don't worry, if you asked for the G-rated blog -- it has yet to be revealed to anyone. And, don't worry again, I'm sure I'll be in the swing of naughtiness shortly so you won't be left in the desert wondering.
xoxo
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Hotspot
My internet cable comes tomorrow and then there will be no hesitation about "Should I start a blog entry only to not be able to publish?" I've also been perplexed about how to start it, how to tell this, what to say and yet be able to include enough and not too much that I could post it on the family-friendly site, too (which I haven't figured out yet so fret not).
I started with this on Tuesday night:
The French invasion
of big bellied men, men in kilts with pheasant feathers in their caps, and a small, sleepy girl
Rugby World Cup 2007 or "Coupe du Monde de Rugby 2007" has invaded Paris.
My biggest suitcase weighed in at 70lbs, and I paid $50 for the 20 extra lbs. Not bad, as I was having nightmares about something closer to $500 and having to fling it open and start just tossing random clothes - so neatly, tightly rolled - to my parents, standing aghast in the middle of the check-in at the airport.
From there was a 52lb, a very heavy carry-on, and a laptop/backpack contraption.
Mom and dad drove me down and waited at the nearest corner to the security lines to wave me through all the way. Through the 100+ people removing shoes and checking boarding passes. The flight was harmless with a lucky viewing of " "Away From Her" (apropos with things happening in my family and discussions between relatives of the impending old age). A bit of sleepy-time drugs and I was off to cramped wonderland.
Of course, I could go on and on about the people on the flight. But I'll keep that to myself for now. Details not so important in the scope of things.
The transition from airplane to apartment went slowly as I adjusted to being awake and foreign. If I can come away with one thing from any of this, it's that the French are not at all in any way rude to foreigners. That is, if the foreigner is not rude to them. I try a bit of French all the time - at the get-go - and it might get me in trouble (the person thinks I speak more than I actually do and continues the rapid French conversation) or giggles ("non, c'est bouteille no c'est pas BOAT"). But everyone seems a lot more receptive to a try than an ignorant "you must speak English, my language, because it is the language of my country and the WORLD!"
So, I was able to use a cell phone in the airport instead of having to buy a 20E phone card offered by the rip-off currency exchange folks. And I called my new landlord to let him know I was on my way. A few snaps from the back seat of the cab of the way in - the futbol stadium which announced the Rugby Cup, me following my map and making brief chat with the cabbie (again, no, not rude, just not bothering to struggle to carry on conversation with a girl who can't speak well anyway and he knows no English).
The landlord, Fabien, who is about my age who is an owner of an art gallery and a dealer in art, a bit of a scruffy 8 o'clock shadow, all black clothes and flat, fashionable, black Addidas. He's leaning over the balcony way up to wave to me. As I get all the suitcases out, he opens the door and helps me in. Jetlagged, sleepy, overwhelmed. Process process whirrr whirrr goes the brain.
So far I count one lie. It is not on the 5th floor, but perhaps the 6th floor with 2 flights between each floor in a tight, narrow, turning staircase - not the wide, ample, slow, big-footed marble I had dreamed when thinking how to get the suitcases up.
He helps me get each bag up the stairs and I am out of breath at the top many times -- despite my days in the gym. His English is perfect as he had a girlfriend who was from Seattle who went to school in Emory, and he does business in NYC. So, I barely speak French which is good because my hair is matted, my face shiny, my teeth scruffy, and my brain still sleep-drugged.
The apartment is exactly how I imagined it from all the photos - except better. It's real. And it's still in rehab, still being converted, still so many things Fabien wants to do and I'd like to add. I'm rather happy he's a welcoming type and is interested in working with me on it and I completely understand that it's going to last beyond my years so it needs to be an investment.
Our conversation flowed from closets to the balcony to the new sink to the water heater to how the stove works to an art opening in his gallery next week to me getting a cell phone to him buying an antique round table to the futon and new sheets to towels and a shower to me brushing my teeth while he cleaned out the closets.
I think it's a perfect fit and I don't think he wants anything in return but someone to actually take care of it - polish the wood when needed, keep clean to keep pests out, water the plants to keep them alive.
ravioles de cepes au coulis de crustaces [what I had for dinner]
But things have gone and moved so rapidly since then. There are still kilts all over this area and big bellied beer drinkers at noon with crazy cock-eyed accents.
Wednesday I walked around a bit in the morning - trying to find a way to eat and drink without sitting down isn't easy. I haven't got a working coffee press yet (the pressure coffee maker furnished with the apartment is missing its handle - broken by the previous tenant / friend of the landlord's) and I can't seem to find a Starbucks -- kidding!! I mean, I would like to keep on with my regular fast pace, grab a coffee and keep going, but I guess this city is telling me to slow the fuck down, sit down, drink your espresso in the sun, etc.. I think I'll buy some oven mitts and try to make this one work though. (If anyone has better instructions than this, let me know!) Coffee before leaving the apartment building just makes more sense to me.
I grabbed a veggie sandwich on fabulous baguette for lunch y'day though it was a tad weird - I think there were like steamed noodles put on it or something. Anyway. Everything I could think I'd need is just outside the apartment - either 1/2 a block away or a bit of a hike (Rue de Lepic) so I won't be going without in anyway.
Then, at 2pm y'day Wilfried came by. I was all nerves when we first met up and we were deciding where to go (silly bottoms - you decide; no, you decide). But soon we were off and about hiking through the gentrified 18th Montmartre. Apparently the cafe where Amelie worked is right on rue Lepic and I hadn't even known! I have a list a mile long of places he recommended and/or pointed out from the swingers club Le Sultana to the lesbian cabaret Chez Moune to L'Art de Rien small gallery to the bdsm shops like Demonia (mainstream) and Phylea (boutique owned by a perfectly charming and biting man).
We ended our 8-hour hang-out at one of his favorite restaurants, talking over wine (and my coughing - man, Madison has spoiled me and my non-smoking lungs!) about the philosophy behind bottoming and the similar characteristics between tops and bottoms, slaves and masters, etc.. Of course, there was also talk about who we are, where we've come from, what we've done, but I am still jet-lagged and not quite aware of where I am or who I am or what I want yet. It makes me a good listening partner right now. Soon I'll come out of the closet and start conversing like a regular person.
So, anyway. There you go for now. You know more than my own family does.
Photos from way back to last month to yesterday will have to wait until I have some more time. Maybe I order in a pizza tonight, buy a nice bottle of wine and use the most of this little hotspot I've found in the apartment.
But first, off to open a bank account and fill it with loan money. Then, to figure out a cell phone!
Oh, and my aunt called it a "mouth organ." I imagine my grandpa called it that, too, but I'm not sure I could. Harp doesn't sound right either. Someone's gotta know a hobo who knows a good name.
xoxoxo
I started with this on Tuesday night:
The French invasion
of big bellied men, men in kilts with pheasant feathers in their caps, and a small, sleepy girl
Rugby World Cup 2007 or "Coupe du Monde de Rugby 2007" has invaded Paris.
My biggest suitcase weighed in at 70lbs, and I paid $50 for the 20 extra lbs. Not bad, as I was having nightmares about something closer to $500 and having to fling it open and start just tossing random clothes - so neatly, tightly rolled - to my parents, standing aghast in the middle of the check-in at the airport.
From there was a 52lb, a very heavy carry-on, and a laptop/backpack contraption.
Mom and dad drove me down and waited at the nearest corner to the security lines to wave me through all the way. Through the 100+ people removing shoes and checking boarding passes. The flight was harmless with a lucky viewing of " "Away From Her" (apropos with things happening in my family and discussions between relatives of the impending old age). A bit of sleepy-time drugs and I was off to cramped wonderland.
Of course, I could go on and on about the people on the flight. But I'll keep that to myself for now. Details not so important in the scope of things.
The transition from airplane to apartment went slowly as I adjusted to being awake and foreign. If I can come away with one thing from any of this, it's that the French are not at all in any way rude to foreigners. That is, if the foreigner is not rude to them. I try a bit of French all the time - at the get-go - and it might get me in trouble (the person thinks I speak more than I actually do and continues the rapid French conversation) or giggles ("non, c'est bouteille no c'est pas BOAT"). But everyone seems a lot more receptive to a try than an ignorant "you must speak English, my language, because it is the language of my country and the WORLD!"
So, I was able to use a cell phone in the airport instead of having to buy a 20E phone card offered by the rip-off currency exchange folks. And I called my new landlord to let him know I was on my way. A few snaps from the back seat of the cab of the way in - the futbol stadium which announced the Rugby Cup, me following my map and making brief chat with the cabbie (again, no, not rude, just not bothering to struggle to carry on conversation with a girl who can't speak well anyway and he knows no English).
The landlord, Fabien, who is about my age who is an owner of an art gallery and a dealer in art, a bit of a scruffy 8 o'clock shadow, all black clothes and flat, fashionable, black Addidas. He's leaning over the balcony way up to wave to me. As I get all the suitcases out, he opens the door and helps me in. Jetlagged, sleepy, overwhelmed. Process process whirrr whirrr goes the brain.
So far I count one lie. It is not on the 5th floor, but perhaps the 6th floor with 2 flights between each floor in a tight, narrow, turning staircase - not the wide, ample, slow, big-footed marble I had dreamed when thinking how to get the suitcases up.
He helps me get each bag up the stairs and I am out of breath at the top many times -- despite my days in the gym. His English is perfect as he had a girlfriend who was from Seattle who went to school in Emory, and he does business in NYC. So, I barely speak French which is good because my hair is matted, my face shiny, my teeth scruffy, and my brain still sleep-drugged.
The apartment is exactly how I imagined it from all the photos - except better. It's real. And it's still in rehab, still being converted, still so many things Fabien wants to do and I'd like to add. I'm rather happy he's a welcoming type and is interested in working with me on it and I completely understand that it's going to last beyond my years so it needs to be an investment.
Our conversation flowed from closets to the balcony to the new sink to the water heater to how the stove works to an art opening in his gallery next week to me getting a cell phone to him buying an antique round table to the futon and new sheets to towels and a shower to me brushing my teeth while he cleaned out the closets.
I think it's a perfect fit and I don't think he wants anything in return but someone to actually take care of it - polish the wood when needed, keep clean to keep pests out, water the plants to keep them alive.
ravioles de cepes au coulis de crustaces [what I had for dinner]
But things have gone and moved so rapidly since then. There are still kilts all over this area and big bellied beer drinkers at noon with crazy cock-eyed accents.
Wednesday I walked around a bit in the morning - trying to find a way to eat and drink without sitting down isn't easy. I haven't got a working coffee press yet (the pressure coffee maker furnished with the apartment is missing its handle - broken by the previous tenant / friend of the landlord's) and I can't seem to find a Starbucks -- kidding!! I mean, I would like to keep on with my regular fast pace, grab a coffee and keep going, but I guess this city is telling me to slow the fuck down, sit down, drink your espresso in the sun, etc.. I think I'll buy some oven mitts and try to make this one work though. (If anyone has better instructions than this, let me know!) Coffee before leaving the apartment building just makes more sense to me.
I grabbed a veggie sandwich on fabulous baguette for lunch y'day though it was a tad weird - I think there were like steamed noodles put on it or something. Anyway. Everything I could think I'd need is just outside the apartment - either 1/2 a block away or a bit of a hike (Rue de Lepic) so I won't be going without in anyway.
Then, at 2pm y'day Wilfried came by. I was all nerves when we first met up and we were deciding where to go (silly bottoms - you decide; no, you decide). But soon we were off and about hiking through the gentrified 18th Montmartre. Apparently the cafe where Amelie worked is right on rue Lepic and I hadn't even known! I have a list a mile long of places he recommended and/or pointed out from the swingers club Le Sultana to the lesbian cabaret Chez Moune to L'Art de Rien small gallery to the bdsm shops like Demonia (mainstream) and Phylea (boutique owned by a perfectly charming and biting man).
We ended our 8-hour hang-out at one of his favorite restaurants, talking over wine (and my coughing - man, Madison has spoiled me and my non-smoking lungs!) about the philosophy behind bottoming and the similar characteristics between tops and bottoms, slaves and masters, etc.. Of course, there was also talk about who we are, where we've come from, what we've done, but I am still jet-lagged and not quite aware of where I am or who I am or what I want yet. It makes me a good listening partner right now. Soon I'll come out of the closet and start conversing like a regular person.
So, anyway. There you go for now. You know more than my own family does.
Photos from way back to last month to yesterday will have to wait until I have some more time. Maybe I order in a pizza tonight, buy a nice bottle of wine and use the most of this little hotspot I've found in the apartment.
But first, off to open a bank account and fill it with loan money. Then, to figure out a cell phone!
Oh, and my aunt called it a "mouth organ." I imagine my grandpa called it that, too, but I'm not sure I could. Harp doesn't sound right either. Someone's gotta know a hobo who knows a good name.
xoxoxo
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Leaving on a jet plane
Well, I have not died or fallen off the earth. Since my last post life just got busy. Today I'm spending my last day in the Driftless Zone packing and re-packing (because a girl *can* have too many shoes and not enough room for underwear). Tomorrow my parents drive me over to Chicago. I'm hoping to have some time in the airport during which I could plug in and start dishing a bit more of what has happened in my life over the last few hectic weeks. If not then, I'll have time while I'm hooking into wifi in Paris from my apartment and trying to acclimate to the new timezone.
I'm excited and terrified. The stress got inside me again and I got another sinus infection (the last one right before I left Madison for my parents). That's a story in itself. I'm between health insurance (the previous job's insurance and the Frenchy one) so I went over to the free clinic.
It's a big leap and I'm ready but I'm also starting to find myself thinking "What am I doing?! What was I thinking?" Still, there's that automatic tug pulling me down the line to get on that plane.
So, when you come back next, you'll find (hopefully) the beginnings to my weekend with the girls in Madison, the date night with Andy (photos to Flickr will have to wait), the week in Minneapolis (strange sexual activity with old high school friend), and all the commotion emotions for this big adventure.
My family's been so amazing and supportive. My grandmother - 82 years old - is sending me off with an old cowboy belt buckle of my grandpa's, a charm bracelet that we think we gave her from Argentina, and my grandpa's old harmonica. Every time he went on a long trip for the military he learned a new instrument. It's my turn now.
As I've said lately to others I love, See you soon!
Lo.
I'm excited and terrified. The stress got inside me again and I got another sinus infection (the last one right before I left Madison for my parents). That's a story in itself. I'm between health insurance (the previous job's insurance and the Frenchy one) so I went over to the free clinic.
It's a big leap and I'm ready but I'm also starting to find myself thinking "What am I doing?! What was I thinking?" Still, there's that automatic tug pulling me down the line to get on that plane.
So, when you come back next, you'll find (hopefully) the beginnings to my weekend with the girls in Madison, the date night with Andy (photos to Flickr will have to wait), the week in Minneapolis (strange sexual activity with old high school friend), and all the commotion emotions for this big adventure.
My family's been so amazing and supportive. My grandmother - 82 years old - is sending me off with an old cowboy belt buckle of my grandpa's, a charm bracelet that we think we gave her from Argentina, and my grandpa's old harmonica. Every time he went on a long trip for the military he learned a new instrument. It's my turn now.
As I've said lately to others I love, See you soon!
Lo.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Quick and dirty
The weekend was a bit difficult because I felt rather self-inflated. Why should I - a beautiful, sexy, ripe, kinky slut - be trapping myself indoors out in the suburbs while I could go hit the local yokel bars downtown? Sure, I could have but I felt a bit lazy, a bit wary of the drunk drive back to the 'burbs (too many 20-year-old memories of that), a bit penny-pinching, a bit too-good-for-your-hick-town, a bit insecure, a bit conflicted. I know what would have happened if I went out drinking, too. I was feeling very wet and wily. If I had gone out I would have put a few drinks back, found a pinball table, and suggested heavily to the first co-ed that we find a place to fuck: my car, his car, the alleyway, wherever. Not that this would have been bad form, because you all know me to shun criticism when it comes to standards. But it would have a) wrecked my anonymity, b) tarnished my nouveau virginity, c) made me feel a tad empty and slimy for stooping to either Billy College Boy or Jack Hick Redneck or Mike Hippie Tiedye, and d) done me in enough to stumble loudly back to my parents house in slight disarray and guilt.
So, I opted to stay in and catch up on geeky things like fixing my ipod nano and building a good workout playlist. I sorted paperwork and made lists of "to do." It's strange out here in suburbia and semi-retirement land. Days bleed with no punching-in the clock and no internet 24-7. Is it Tuesday? Is it Saturday? What time is it? So far, time is sectioned by the phone alarm at 9am, the hour I take to wake to the cheerfulness of my parents, the 1/2 hour walk/run on their treadmill, the 1/2 hour with my mom's 5lb weights and crunches (honestly, exercise does stave off the starving horny inside me and makes me a more agreeable person), maybe a lunch if you want mom to make something because she's already pulling something together for dad, the errands (more boxes into storage, a visit to grandma, groceries with mom, free stuff to goodwill, 2-3 hours at the wifi coffee shop), the dinner (I've been crowned the Salad Queen), the dinner in front of the TV with a bottle of wine (I've been drinking more consistantly here than I did in Madison), the hour of cable (okay, okay, "Weeds" is cool), and then 2 hours messing around in my bed while the Tylenol PM kicks in.
Where the hell does time go? Where has it gone? I've been a week here and only have 2 weeks and 5 days left.
Yesterday dad and I went up north and east by about 2.5 hours to see some land they bought. They're moving finally after 16 years over by the Mississip. My military-retired dad is contracting to have a house built by eco-friendly builders and is considering a huge vegetable garden, growing some out of control prairie restoration patch, and wants 2 solar panels on his property for all their energy use. My military, strict as a ruler father is turning hippie. He even mentioned perhaps growing a beard and a ponytail!!! Apparently my mother is going along with it willingly and enthusiastically and is learning about canning and how to have a fish pond.
Things are a bit weird up here. But it hasn't been nearly as horrendous as I thought it was going to be.
We all got a bit stressed out this morning though and dad decided to storm off to see about fixing the air conditioner in their house and mom stomped off to see about some groceries. This gave me a quick sneak upstairs alone. Finally, after a week. Alone! And long enough that I could justify pulling out my little naughty bag, popping in a couple of batteries, firing up the erotica stories. I thought I'd be able to sit back, spread wide (even though on the edge of the bed with the laptop on the bureau beside me), and enjoy a slow-building, body-shattering cum. Interesting, it took about 2 paragraphs of naughty older men touching juicy girls and I was buzzing in my panties. Literally about 2 minutes. Good lord! A premature ejac! Quite the first. But understandable no doubt. I took a quick shower (this was after working out and hauling 6 boxes by myself to the storage room) and noted that everyone was still gone. Yes, the little hungry piggie, I sat on the edge of the bed again, laptop in front of me, egg down the thong, and again about 4 minutes this time. Trying to hold off but indulging all the same.
I'm running around like cold barbed wire rolling up my back and cherub cheeks flushed from need. It's impossible. Waking up with wet dreams and ideas of fingers walking down my thighs, wet lips on my belly dimples. It's one eye open and a forced mental block. Push it down. Ignore it. Lock it away.
Meanwhile, Andy and I are making ticklish prep for this Saturday. He asked me via email if I wanted to know the itineray and I thought he was talking about his work schedule that weekend for our out-of-town rendezvous. I guess he meant our itinerary which includes an official, formal, out-in-the-open dinner date - including reservations!
(Taking liberty and posting what I want:)
Me: A real date sounds like a lot of fun... it's not a pity date for your mistress who you haven't ever taken out in public is it?
Anyway... off to use an electric saw on wood pallets between the rains. Man, I can't wait to get my own time and freedom back.
Don't be surprised if I jump you this Sat btw, I've got constant wet dreams right now and am waking up grumpy and frustrated.
Andy: So after about 2 weeks in Paris I wonder if this phrase will come back to haunt you, "Man, I can't wait to get my own time and freedom back. "? I mean I know you'll enjoy the private space and time to keep your sexual sanity, but I'm betting you'll miss some of those demands on your private time as well (like me, I hope).
< and now for some whiplash subject changes! .>
The date is not pity, no. Atonement, maybe a bit. Last chance, most definitely. I'm very much looking forward to it... as in scary, weird, heart pounding, sweating palms, deliriously looking forward to it way too much. My chance to show you what you've missed. What I've missed.
Me: RE: Coming back to haunt me: I'm sure it will. The grass is always greener, right? I know what homesickness is. But, honestly, I think I've grown to become pals with homesickness b/c I've never really had a 'home.' What is it that my myspace page says again? Home is where I rest my head. I'm a more frustrated and affected by loss of freedom/solitude/personal space/privacy. I will most definitely miss certain 'demands' although I never looked at you, or other playmates, as demanding of my time. You were someone to look forward to, and perfectly timed usually. I realize that I probably masturbate 3-8 times a week and have actual physical contact 1-3 times a week. Without either for a month is frustrating and not having that privacy/space to even get off is insanity-driving. I know I'll at least have the latter in Paris, but my wonderful lover(s) will take a lot more work. It's almost like we've built a very reliable but spontaneous connection and that will be hard to find again.
Atonement is an interesting word to use. I am not about to read into it. ... I've been thinking and daydreaming about it. First, I woke up thinking that your wife would come down to surprise you and there we are, in the lobby, small overnight bags. We'd chat and then you'd walk in and be a bit taken aback. We wouldn't get any time together and you'd have to rush to hide the condoms. Then, there's the other spoiler where the US military plans a surprise and it's been hurry up and wait and then is all cancelled. Then, there's total heart pounding, wondering what we would actually do together while dressed with time to converse (does the whole dynamic get squashed when we realize we aren't good conversation partners or does it all improve by 200%), excitement, already running through my closet in my head (ball gown like I'm a princess, secretary wear like you like, a casual dress and boots, underwear or no underwear), how long will we be able to stay dressed and in public - after all, we do have time but not too much time.... all these things. ... What have we missed? I can't wrap my head around it.
Andy: Ok. Atonement. Our... umm.. relationship/affair/tryst thing has been wonderful (what the hell do we call this thing?). But I can't help feeling that I've somehow marginalized you, or just not given you the attention and affection you have so richly deserved. (And I suspect that you feel that by my giving you no strings attached, good sex, that you've gotten what you wanted. But from a guy's perspective that just seems way-too-good-to-be-true.) I just want to make that up to you in some small way. To atone for every second I may have taken you for granted. Not much else to read into it. You don't know what you've got until it's gone...
[complications addresses]
Conversation: Are you kidding me? A little bit of nervous banter, yes. But we're both talkers. And incurable, incorrigible flirts. This will be fun.
Wine: [reminding me] Your bottle of Spatlese, the note and the wine glasses were at the height of my infatuation with you. V1.0. You were on webcam with me, drinking a white wine from a tumbler and I had to chastise you. Will the pallets and woodchips be protecting those glasses?
Ugh: I sometimes snore. Sometimes not. Please think of it as cute and endearing, and not a stain on your memory of me.
Morning: I anticipate needing to leave the hotel by about 7:30 to 8:00. You'd be free to stay until checkout which I think is at 11:00. We can have breakfast sent up if you like.... although I think I recall your not being much of a breakfast person? Too bad we're 12 blocks from the lake... it'd be nice to take a walk on the shore at sunrise....
%%%%%%%%%%
It's sure to be a delightful evening and morning. Although, we will be skipping the early AM walk, I'm checking to see if he'd enjoy an early quickie instead with some room service on the way.
And for some of those reasons I'm glad I skipped going out this past weekend. Sometimes the wait is worth it -- granted, not like a virginity pledge wait, of course. But a little bit of romantic, sexual, sensual tension inside me and outside in the air between the Mississippi and Lake Michigan might end up just raining a bit of desire across this wet state.
So, I opted to stay in and catch up on geeky things like fixing my ipod nano and building a good workout playlist. I sorted paperwork and made lists of "to do." It's strange out here in suburbia and semi-retirement land. Days bleed with no punching-in the clock and no internet 24-7. Is it Tuesday? Is it Saturday? What time is it? So far, time is sectioned by the phone alarm at 9am, the hour I take to wake to the cheerfulness of my parents, the 1/2 hour walk/run on their treadmill, the 1/2 hour with my mom's 5lb weights and crunches (honestly, exercise does stave off the starving horny inside me and makes me a more agreeable person), maybe a lunch if you want mom to make something because she's already pulling something together for dad, the errands (more boxes into storage, a visit to grandma, groceries with mom, free stuff to goodwill, 2-3 hours at the wifi coffee shop), the dinner (I've been crowned the Salad Queen), the dinner in front of the TV with a bottle of wine (I've been drinking more consistantly here than I did in Madison), the hour of cable (okay, okay, "Weeds" is cool), and then 2 hours messing around in my bed while the Tylenol PM kicks in.
Where the hell does time go? Where has it gone? I've been a week here and only have 2 weeks and 5 days left.
Yesterday dad and I went up north and east by about 2.5 hours to see some land they bought. They're moving finally after 16 years over by the Mississip. My military-retired dad is contracting to have a house built by eco-friendly builders and is considering a huge vegetable garden, growing some out of control prairie restoration patch, and wants 2 solar panels on his property for all their energy use. My military, strict as a ruler father is turning hippie. He even mentioned perhaps growing a beard and a ponytail!!! Apparently my mother is going along with it willingly and enthusiastically and is learning about canning and how to have a fish pond.
Things are a bit weird up here. But it hasn't been nearly as horrendous as I thought it was going to be.
We all got a bit stressed out this morning though and dad decided to storm off to see about fixing the air conditioner in their house and mom stomped off to see about some groceries. This gave me a quick sneak upstairs alone. Finally, after a week. Alone! And long enough that I could justify pulling out my little naughty bag, popping in a couple of batteries, firing up the erotica stories. I thought I'd be able to sit back, spread wide (even though on the edge of the bed with the laptop on the bureau beside me), and enjoy a slow-building, body-shattering cum. Interesting, it took about 2 paragraphs of naughty older men touching juicy girls and I was buzzing in my panties. Literally about 2 minutes. Good lord! A premature ejac! Quite the first. But understandable no doubt. I took a quick shower (this was after working out and hauling 6 boxes by myself to the storage room) and noted that everyone was still gone. Yes, the little hungry piggie, I sat on the edge of the bed again, laptop in front of me, egg down the thong, and again about 4 minutes this time. Trying to hold off but indulging all the same.
I'm running around like cold barbed wire rolling up my back and cherub cheeks flushed from need. It's impossible. Waking up with wet dreams and ideas of fingers walking down my thighs, wet lips on my belly dimples. It's one eye open and a forced mental block. Push it down. Ignore it. Lock it away.
Meanwhile, Andy and I are making ticklish prep for this Saturday. He asked me via email if I wanted to know the itineray and I thought he was talking about his work schedule that weekend for our out-of-town rendezvous. I guess he meant our itinerary which includes an official, formal, out-in-the-open dinner date - including reservations!
(Taking liberty and posting what I want:)
Me: A real date sounds like a lot of fun... it's not a pity date for your mistress who you haven't ever taken out in public is it?
Anyway... off to use an electric saw on wood pallets between the rains. Man, I can't wait to get my own time and freedom back.
Don't be surprised if I jump you this Sat btw, I've got constant wet dreams right now and am waking up grumpy and frustrated.
Andy: So after about 2 weeks in Paris I wonder if this phrase will come back to haunt you, "Man, I can't wait to get my own time and freedom back. "? I mean I know you'll enjoy the private space and time to keep your sexual sanity, but I'm betting you'll miss some of those demands on your private time as well (like me, I hope).
< and now for some whiplash subject changes! .>
The date is not pity, no. Atonement, maybe a bit. Last chance, most definitely. I'm very much looking forward to it... as in scary, weird, heart pounding, sweating palms, deliriously looking forward to it way too much. My chance to show you what you've missed. What I've missed.
Me: RE: Coming back to haunt me: I'm sure it will. The grass is always greener, right? I know what homesickness is. But, honestly, I think I've grown to become pals with homesickness b/c I've never really had a 'home.' What is it that my myspace page says again? Home is where I rest my head. I'm a more frustrated and affected by loss of freedom/solitude/personal space/privacy. I will most definitely miss certain 'demands' although I never looked at you, or other playmates, as demanding of my time. You were someone to look forward to, and perfectly timed usually. I realize that I probably masturbate 3-8 times a week and have actual physical contact 1-3 times a week. Without either for a month is frustrating and not having that privacy/space to even get off is insanity-driving. I know I'll at least have the latter in Paris, but my wonderful lover(s) will take a lot more work. It's almost like we've built a very reliable but spontaneous connection and that will be hard to find again.
Atonement is an interesting word to use. I am not about to read into it. ... I've been thinking and daydreaming about it. First, I woke up thinking that your wife would come down to surprise you and there we are, in the lobby, small overnight bags. We'd chat and then you'd walk in and be a bit taken aback. We wouldn't get any time together and you'd have to rush to hide the condoms. Then, there's the other spoiler where the US military plans a surprise and it's been hurry up and wait and then is all cancelled. Then, there's total heart pounding, wondering what we would actually do together while dressed with time to converse (does the whole dynamic get squashed when we realize we aren't good conversation partners or does it all improve by 200%), excitement, already running through my closet in my head (ball gown like I'm a princess, secretary wear like you like, a casual dress and boots, underwear or no underwear), how long will we be able to stay dressed and in public - after all, we do have time but not too much time.... all these things. ... What have we missed? I can't wrap my head around it.
Andy: Ok. Atonement. Our... umm.. relationship/affair/tryst thing has been wonderful (what the hell do we call this thing?). But I can't help feeling that I've somehow marginalized you, or just not given you the attention and affection you have so richly deserved. (And I suspect that you feel that by my giving you no strings attached, good sex, that you've gotten what you wanted. But from a guy's perspective that just seems way-too-good-to-be-true.) I just want to make that up to you in some small way. To atone for every second I may have taken you for granted. Not much else to read into it. You don't know what you've got until it's gone...
[complications addresses]
Conversation: Are you kidding me? A little bit of nervous banter, yes. But we're both talkers. And incurable, incorrigible flirts. This will be fun.
Wine: [reminding me] Your bottle of Spatlese, the note and the wine glasses were at the height of my infatuation with you. V1.0. You were on webcam with me, drinking a white wine from a tumbler and I had to chastise you. Will the pallets and woodchips be protecting those glasses?
Ugh: I sometimes snore. Sometimes not. Please think of it as cute and endearing, and not a stain on your memory of me.
Morning: I anticipate needing to leave the hotel by about 7:30 to 8:00. You'd be free to stay until checkout which I think is at 11:00. We can have breakfast sent up if you like.... although I think I recall your not being much of a breakfast person? Too bad we're 12 blocks from the lake... it'd be nice to take a walk on the shore at sunrise....
%%%%%%%%%%
It's sure to be a delightful evening and morning. Although, we will be skipping the early AM walk, I'm checking to see if he'd enjoy an early quickie instead with some room service on the way.
And for some of those reasons I'm glad I skipped going out this past weekend. Sometimes the wait is worth it -- granted, not like a virginity pledge wait, of course. But a little bit of romantic, sexual, sensual tension inside me and outside in the air between the Mississippi and Lake Michigan might end up just raining a bit of desire across this wet state.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The bluffs of the driftless zone
Well, here we are, kids. 45 minutes ticking down on the free wi-fi access code countdown at the Caribou Coffee shop on County Road PH. It sounds all hick like, but I'm actually staring at a Famous Dave's sign just stretching up toward the furry, green bluffs beyond the parking lot.
So, really there's no reason to cry for me.
I wrote the slumber party entry on Monday night. Tuesday morning I stripped and sold the mattress and boxspring. I had pretty much cleaned as much as I could and as much as I had to. The new tenant had revealed to me that she was coming from a 6-person house where the toilets had to be flushed by reaching a hand into the tank to jiggle the lever/flusher. So, my apartment - with a few smudges or stains or burns - would be a paradise in her perspective. It's all relative, isn't it?
With the cleaning slowing down I had time to email back and forth with Andy. In the middle of vacuuming the closets I realized, if he had this much time to chat back and forth for an hour he must be in town. What the hell? So, instead of grabbing lunch, he grabbed me a bit over his lunch hour. It was rather high school with a bedspread on the carpet and 2 couch pillows. But my how I needed to get fucked and how I needed his cock fucking me. He spent a good 20 minutes making me cum over and over again by sucking on my clit and licking me between my legs. I got the royal fucking, wondering if the next door neighbors could see us through the curtainless window. A last one for the road.
I was out of the apartment by 3pm. Who gets to hug their landlord? I loved that guy. We found Ze dead next door. He let me be 5 months late on rent, and let me catch up on my pace (with James's help). He fixed things when I needed them fixed and didn't say a word about the 3 eyelet holes in the baseboard (where James and I drilled eyelets for rope for the head of the bed).
Stopped by the old office, grabbed the girls for a beer, and hit the road to the west. I haven't really let myself stop going going going since.
Wednesday I went through boxes to re-pack for storage permanence, parental use over 2 years, donation to Goodwill, and onward to Paris. Yes, it took a day. Thursday dad and I went to a big box store and got 4 bags of cedar chips and dried them out on a tarp in the driveway. If you know my military father, you will understand this. If you don't know him, but know a retired military man or someone with a bit too much aim for perfection, then you can understand the drying of the cedar chips. Meanwhile, we got the electric table saw out and tweaked the 4 pallets he got from the local co-op. You know, items in storage for 2 years - pallets to lift the boxes to avoid flooding, cedar chips between the pallets to ward off the bugs. I looked pretty hardcore with ski goggles, ear plugs, and the saw going off. Then, the work colleagues came to town and picked me up to go leaflet around a bad legislator's neighborhood - guerrilla warfare by freaking them out that we've flyered his whole district when really we just got the 4 surrounding blocks. Then, an evening work meeting for supporters in the area.
Today is a lot more mellow. Lay the pallets and cedar out, stack the boxes. Dad has earned the nickname Tetris - I need to show him the game so he gets more appreciation. He told a neighbor, as we were packing up the Uhaul to bring my stuff out here, that as the oldest son of 4 kids in a military family (his dad, my grandpa, could be a dick back then) it was his job to arrange all the suitcases in the station wagon for family trips. Now, he's an expert at fitting squares together. How that applies in retirement, I have no idea other than to help his daughter move.
We drove out to a small town to have lunch. Then, I got the skinny on bike trails and costs. There are a few nice ones along the Mississippi that I'll go for - good 10-25miles one way if I choose.
But it's a bit frustrating now. It's been years since my hormones have had to be inconvenienced. Wet dreams are starting and I'm waking up a bit frustrated. With both parents retired there's not a lot of private time at their house for me. I've noticed that they kind of bounce between the upstairs office/computer, the living room/reading, the kitchen/eating, the downstairs/tv, and mom into her "Ebay room." They are hoarders and it's getting a bit out of control so I'm not letting them keep much for the next 2 years. Nothing I have they really need or have missed. I was up late on Wednesday night watching their millions of cable channels (it's hard to skip the softcore porn - I want to watch b/c it's funny; or the Real Sex on HBO - I want to watch b/c it's interesting -- but my parents are right upstairs and despite the low volume anyone can make out moaning). All of a sudden a brown mouse ran out in front of the floor and ditched back into hiding.
Too much junk in their house. Too many boxes. Too much stuff.
And then there's me. I'm just trying to make it all work. I'm not junk yo. I'm temporary. This is all temporary. I can handle this. Repress the surge and swell of hormones in my brain working their way down to my young body. I'm too young and pretty to let a month of ripe sexuality and eager sensuousness go to waste, but alas, I just don't know how to go about scoring the quickie in a small town. I suppose it is Friday today.... Yeah, but how cheap am I?! After all, if I can wait just a little bit, Andy and I will rendezvous in a week and a day. All I have to do is repress and suppress. And, then, after that, all I have to do is wait 4 days for Minneapolis. And then after that, just a wait for Paris. And, let me tell you, I will be quick for finding there. But if I've not landed a bedmate, at least I'll have private time to wank myself off as I wish.
Things are good in semi-retirement land. There really are no complaints. The town is small but I'm not entirely bored. My parents aren't totally driving me crazy and I don't think I am them either.
I'm running low on time here in the wi-fi. I think I'll make it a habit to stop here though. Get some free space, some juice smoothie, some breathing space.
So, really there's no reason to cry for me.
I wrote the slumber party entry on Monday night. Tuesday morning I stripped and sold the mattress and boxspring. I had pretty much cleaned as much as I could and as much as I had to. The new tenant had revealed to me that she was coming from a 6-person house where the toilets had to be flushed by reaching a hand into the tank to jiggle the lever/flusher. So, my apartment - with a few smudges or stains or burns - would be a paradise in her perspective. It's all relative, isn't it?
With the cleaning slowing down I had time to email back and forth with Andy. In the middle of vacuuming the closets I realized, if he had this much time to chat back and forth for an hour he must be in town. What the hell? So, instead of grabbing lunch, he grabbed me a bit over his lunch hour. It was rather high school with a bedspread on the carpet and 2 couch pillows. But my how I needed to get fucked and how I needed his cock fucking me. He spent a good 20 minutes making me cum over and over again by sucking on my clit and licking me between my legs. I got the royal fucking, wondering if the next door neighbors could see us through the curtainless window. A last one for the road.
I was out of the apartment by 3pm. Who gets to hug their landlord? I loved that guy. We found Ze dead next door. He let me be 5 months late on rent, and let me catch up on my pace (with James's help). He fixed things when I needed them fixed and didn't say a word about the 3 eyelet holes in the baseboard (where James and I drilled eyelets for rope for the head of the bed).
Stopped by the old office, grabbed the girls for a beer, and hit the road to the west. I haven't really let myself stop going going going since.
Wednesday I went through boxes to re-pack for storage permanence, parental use over 2 years, donation to Goodwill, and onward to Paris. Yes, it took a day. Thursday dad and I went to a big box store and got 4 bags of cedar chips and dried them out on a tarp in the driveway. If you know my military father, you will understand this. If you don't know him, but know a retired military man or someone with a bit too much aim for perfection, then you can understand the drying of the cedar chips. Meanwhile, we got the electric table saw out and tweaked the 4 pallets he got from the local co-op. You know, items in storage for 2 years - pallets to lift the boxes to avoid flooding, cedar chips between the pallets to ward off the bugs. I looked pretty hardcore with ski goggles, ear plugs, and the saw going off. Then, the work colleagues came to town and picked me up to go leaflet around a bad legislator's neighborhood - guerrilla warfare by freaking them out that we've flyered his whole district when really we just got the 4 surrounding blocks. Then, an evening work meeting for supporters in the area.
Today is a lot more mellow. Lay the pallets and cedar out, stack the boxes. Dad has earned the nickname Tetris - I need to show him the game so he gets more appreciation. He told a neighbor, as we were packing up the Uhaul to bring my stuff out here, that as the oldest son of 4 kids in a military family (his dad, my grandpa, could be a dick back then) it was his job to arrange all the suitcases in the station wagon for family trips. Now, he's an expert at fitting squares together. How that applies in retirement, I have no idea other than to help his daughter move.
We drove out to a small town to have lunch. Then, I got the skinny on bike trails and costs. There are a few nice ones along the Mississippi that I'll go for - good 10-25miles one way if I choose.
But it's a bit frustrating now. It's been years since my hormones have had to be inconvenienced. Wet dreams are starting and I'm waking up a bit frustrated. With both parents retired there's not a lot of private time at their house for me. I've noticed that they kind of bounce between the upstairs office/computer, the living room/reading, the kitchen/eating, the downstairs/tv, and mom into her "Ebay room." They are hoarders and it's getting a bit out of control so I'm not letting them keep much for the next 2 years. Nothing I have they really need or have missed. I was up late on Wednesday night watching their millions of cable channels (it's hard to skip the softcore porn - I want to watch b/c it's funny; or the Real Sex on HBO - I want to watch b/c it's interesting -- but my parents are right upstairs and despite the low volume anyone can make out moaning). All of a sudden a brown mouse ran out in front of the floor and ditched back into hiding.
Too much junk in their house. Too many boxes. Too much stuff.
And then there's me. I'm just trying to make it all work. I'm not junk yo. I'm temporary. This is all temporary. I can handle this. Repress the surge and swell of hormones in my brain working their way down to my young body. I'm too young and pretty to let a month of ripe sexuality and eager sensuousness go to waste, but alas, I just don't know how to go about scoring the quickie in a small town. I suppose it is Friday today.... Yeah, but how cheap am I?! After all, if I can wait just a little bit, Andy and I will rendezvous in a week and a day. All I have to do is repress and suppress. And, then, after that, all I have to do is wait 4 days for Minneapolis. And then after that, just a wait for Paris. And, let me tell you, I will be quick for finding there. But if I've not landed a bedmate, at least I'll have private time to wank myself off as I wish.
Things are good in semi-retirement land. There really are no complaints. The town is small but I'm not entirely bored. My parents aren't totally driving me crazy and I don't think I am them either.
I'm running low on time here in the wi-fi. I think I'll make it a habit to stop here though. Get some free space, some juice smoothie, some breathing space.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Slumber Party!
Remember how the bed in St Elmo's Fire seemed like it was the only thing in the whole room - smack in the middle of the room? Well, that's how I feel right now.
Got the boxes to my parents and realized that, after the 2.5 hour drive, that maybe just maybe this next month won't suck ass because they've calmed down and I've calmed down so maybe it will work. Got the boxes into storage. Got back to Madison to clean and found my remaining objects, whether the TV to be sold via Craigslist or the mattress to be sold via the same, or whether other furniture to be sold to the next tenant, it was all smack in the middle of the room under tarps so they could paint the walls around.
Ten hours of sweat and cleaning. Bending, squatting, scrubbing. It sounds sexy. It should be sexy. It is not sexy.
But it's very fun to sleep in the middle of the room and I'm looking forward to it.
For some reason I thought everything would remain unchanged when I got back and they'd just paint around in such a way. I thought maybe I'd find a lazy clean and then a maybe lazy jack off - despite the period. After all, when will I have the next chance -- my bedroom is next to my parents, there is no wireless so I can't even sit on my bed and type away. Nope, the next month is not about indulgence in feelings. It will be health, cutting down the spare tires (boxes), and letting in on secrets. My dad already leaked one to me that they finally (after 11 years) bought land to build their dream house (all solar panels and earth friendly --- the military dad turned hippie dude, I guess). I'm so fucking thankful that they're going to move from the house of high school memory horror! I guess, in turn, I shared a secret when a photo fell out of a box that my mother found and then promptly moved the box out of my father's view. I have yet to find out which one it is.. for some reason I keep thinking it's this one of pdh and hellboy, naked, at the end of my bed. A polaroid when I tried to get them to do me. Or something.. we were drunk.
Nothing is ever unchanged is it? The boys next door are moving. The paint inside my apt is drying. My sinuses are now stuffy. The clouds are moving overhead. Yeah, nothing stays the same or unchanged.
Rove. That's enough.
I hope some things change.
Well.. I am.. so maybe other things will.
I almost cried tonight. In the shower. I have loved this apartment. I have loved living here, it's true. I'm not running from something, I'm running to a new idea.
Got the boxes to my parents and realized that, after the 2.5 hour drive, that maybe just maybe this next month won't suck ass because they've calmed down and I've calmed down so maybe it will work. Got the boxes into storage. Got back to Madison to clean and found my remaining objects, whether the TV to be sold via Craigslist or the mattress to be sold via the same, or whether other furniture to be sold to the next tenant, it was all smack in the middle of the room under tarps so they could paint the walls around.
Ten hours of sweat and cleaning. Bending, squatting, scrubbing. It sounds sexy. It should be sexy. It is not sexy.
But it's very fun to sleep in the middle of the room and I'm looking forward to it.
For some reason I thought everything would remain unchanged when I got back and they'd just paint around in such a way. I thought maybe I'd find a lazy clean and then a maybe lazy jack off - despite the period. After all, when will I have the next chance -- my bedroom is next to my parents, there is no wireless so I can't even sit on my bed and type away. Nope, the next month is not about indulgence in feelings. It will be health, cutting down the spare tires (boxes), and letting in on secrets. My dad already leaked one to me that they finally (after 11 years) bought land to build their dream house (all solar panels and earth friendly --- the military dad turned hippie dude, I guess). I'm so fucking thankful that they're going to move from the house of high school memory horror! I guess, in turn, I shared a secret when a photo fell out of a box that my mother found and then promptly moved the box out of my father's view. I have yet to find out which one it is.. for some reason I keep thinking it's this one of pdh and hellboy, naked, at the end of my bed. A polaroid when I tried to get them to do me. Or something.. we were drunk.
Nothing is ever unchanged is it? The boys next door are moving. The paint inside my apt is drying. My sinuses are now stuffy. The clouds are moving overhead. Yeah, nothing stays the same or unchanged.
Rove. That's enough.
I hope some things change.
Well.. I am.. so maybe other things will.
I almost cried tonight. In the shower. I have loved this apartment. I have loved living here, it's true. I'm not running from something, I'm running to a new idea.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Late at night
I'm so sick of packing. Pack this, pack that, re-pack for a better fit. Pack for my parents, pack for the storage, pack forhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif re-packing for Paris.
But, ahhhh, Paris. I'm finally starting to get excited. I might have landed an awesome 30m2 (=323 feet2) efficiency on the top floor (5th) of a building just off of the Moulin Rouge in Pigalle. How apropos would it be for me to live in the heart of the red district?
Anyway. I have to get to packing some more. I'm down to 1 spoon, 1 fork, 1 knife, 1 coffee cup (the coffee maker is staying until I walk out the door), 1 glass, a few bathroom items, my bed, my laptop, the gin, the fridge is full. I'm almost all done. Almost. Dad comes tomorrow at noon, we haul into the trailer and head off into the sunset - literally, driving west. Then, we unpack some of it, collapse, sleep, and run the storage stuff over at 7am Monday. I head back to my 1 spoon, fork, knife, etc and start the god-awful clean. I'm outta here on Tuesday at 1pm-ish. Might stay in town for a last hurrah with the colleaguey friends or might just leave.
I've said a few additional goodbyes, but it sure feels weird. Thanks for stopping by yesterday, a. It was nice to see you. Not sure we can have that drink at this point, but I'll keep you in mind next Monday night when I'm scrubbing away.
So, I've started a Paris blog which will be viewable by my family, friends, and maybe some of you - if you behave. (Although I have a feeling I'll have to invite you individually and not post a direct link here.) Late last night I wrote about going to graduate school and how that process started and happened. And then, I got a bit personal. Here's that, and I'm off to ... yes, pack:
So, yeah, on a totally personal note, I haven't really cried too much yet. I've lived here for 6 years and have made some amazing friends and have loved my job - I'm quitting to further my career not because I want to escape it.
It hasn't felt too hard to leave, but leaving feels hard. I've been tempering my excitement and have rather blushed when telling folks around here that I was going to Paris for grad school. I say that it's a departure for me - knowing full well that I've traveled all my life except for spending the longest amount of consecutive time here. I say that, knowing full well that my supervisor always reminds me of the time when we were interviewing her - about 3 years into my job - and I informed her that I wouldn't be here much longer and that I was going to go to grad school. I guess there's something to be said for incubation.
It's kind of odd though. Once you tell people you're leaving there's a window of time for your welcome and spotlight. After about a month people tire of hearing about you leaving and after 2 good-bye parties they're ready to see you to the door. For the movers-on it's a bit harder. Although it's always been said that it's more difficult for the left-behind. While it seems that everyone around me has moved on and keeps trucking, I feel a little stagnant - packing, seeing the same walls day after day, wondering what they're doing, spying on my colleagues through the secret leftover passcode-entry email. And I know what it's like to be left. You gotta pick up and move on, continue on, feel the sting of the pain of sadness and then keep going. If the sting keeps reappearing over and over it makes the separation harder.
I got new glasses and showed my ex-boyfriend (now good friend). I went from thick rimmed glasses to no rims. "What's different about them? I can't remember what you wore before." The after-work drinks I was going to get a week after I quit suddenly dissipated into one person going on early vacation, another having her parents in town, and suddenly I slip off the calendar because life continues.
I don't expect to be noticed or remembered. I just wasn't ready to be forgotten so soon.
I've been looking forward for a long time though. I think that's why I haven't cried much yet. I will feel that homesickness when I get there. I will want to look back and thank god for online photo albums so I can cry over this and that back then.
But there are these odd little things that make me tear up:
I didn't wash the towel my last lover used and when I packed it I felt sad. In cleaning and packing I found a few things my ex might want. It's almost like break-up all over: these should be your things. The last Friday in town when the sun is setting so perfectly rosy over the buildings and lakes. The sound of the buzzing cicadas on fire. The slow yellow glow added to the green leaves as a sign of autumn. The last dive weekend where each block hosts a pile of used couches, clothes, desks, cookery, tvs, more clothes, books. The last time I visit my local liquor store.
I did my tarot cards last night. No, I'm not a hippie but I got it as a gift and tried it once and it was dead on. So, every now and then, I tap in. It confirmed only good things in the future, only good lessons in the past.
We shall see. Nous verrons.
But, ahhhh, Paris. I'm finally starting to get excited. I might have landed an awesome 30m2 (=323 feet2) efficiency on the top floor (5th) of a building just off of the Moulin Rouge in Pigalle. How apropos would it be for me to live in the heart of the red district?
Anyway. I have to get to packing some more. I'm down to 1 spoon, 1 fork, 1 knife, 1 coffee cup (the coffee maker is staying until I walk out the door), 1 glass, a few bathroom items, my bed, my laptop, the gin, the fridge is full. I'm almost all done. Almost. Dad comes tomorrow at noon, we haul into the trailer and head off into the sunset - literally, driving west. Then, we unpack some of it, collapse, sleep, and run the storage stuff over at 7am Monday. I head back to my 1 spoon, fork, knife, etc and start the god-awful clean. I'm outta here on Tuesday at 1pm-ish. Might stay in town for a last hurrah with the colleaguey friends or might just leave.
I've said a few additional goodbyes, but it sure feels weird. Thanks for stopping by yesterday, a. It was nice to see you. Not sure we can have that drink at this point, but I'll keep you in mind next Monday night when I'm scrubbing away.
So, I've started a Paris blog which will be viewable by my family, friends, and maybe some of you - if you behave. (Although I have a feeling I'll have to invite you individually and not post a direct link here.) Late last night I wrote about going to graduate school and how that process started and happened. And then, I got a bit personal. Here's that, and I'm off to ... yes, pack:
So, yeah, on a totally personal note, I haven't really cried too much yet. I've lived here for 6 years and have made some amazing friends and have loved my job - I'm quitting to further my career not because I want to escape it.
It hasn't felt too hard to leave, but leaving feels hard. I've been tempering my excitement and have rather blushed when telling folks around here that I was going to Paris for grad school. I say that it's a departure for me - knowing full well that I've traveled all my life except for spending the longest amount of consecutive time here. I say that, knowing full well that my supervisor always reminds me of the time when we were interviewing her - about 3 years into my job - and I informed her that I wouldn't be here much longer and that I was going to go to grad school. I guess there's something to be said for incubation.
It's kind of odd though. Once you tell people you're leaving there's a window of time for your welcome and spotlight. After about a month people tire of hearing about you leaving and after 2 good-bye parties they're ready to see you to the door. For the movers-on it's a bit harder. Although it's always been said that it's more difficult for the left-behind. While it seems that everyone around me has moved on and keeps trucking, I feel a little stagnant - packing, seeing the same walls day after day, wondering what they're doing, spying on my colleagues through the secret leftover passcode-entry email. And I know what it's like to be left. You gotta pick up and move on, continue on, feel the sting of the pain of sadness and then keep going. If the sting keeps reappearing over and over it makes the separation harder.
I got new glasses and showed my ex-boyfriend (now good friend). I went from thick rimmed glasses to no rims. "What's different about them? I can't remember what you wore before." The after-work drinks I was going to get a week after I quit suddenly dissipated into one person going on early vacation, another having her parents in town, and suddenly I slip off the calendar because life continues.
I don't expect to be noticed or remembered. I just wasn't ready to be forgotten so soon.
I've been looking forward for a long time though. I think that's why I haven't cried much yet. I will feel that homesickness when I get there. I will want to look back and thank god for online photo albums so I can cry over this and that back then.
But there are these odd little things that make me tear up:
I didn't wash the towel my last lover used and when I packed it I felt sad. In cleaning and packing I found a few things my ex might want. It's almost like break-up all over: these should be your things. The last Friday in town when the sun is setting so perfectly rosy over the buildings and lakes. The sound of the buzzing cicadas on fire. The slow yellow glow added to the green leaves as a sign of autumn. The last dive weekend where each block hosts a pile of used couches, clothes, desks, cookery, tvs, more clothes, books. The last time I visit my local liquor store.
I did my tarot cards last night. No, I'm not a hippie but I got it as a gift and tried it once and it was dead on. So, every now and then, I tap in. It confirmed only good things in the future, only good lessons in the past.
We shall see. Nous verrons.
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