zinzinish
Sorry, sorry, I know.
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So I’m a terribly bad maman and disregarded the blog at a very crucial moment. For some reason, I just couldn’t muster up the strength to write, maybe because there was too much to sort out, or maybe because I have this horrible head cold. Either way, I’m sorry. And I can’t wait to get better.
I still don’t quite know what to write about everything so far. I really just need to let things settle. The children are adorable, Jeanne is going to be a heartbreaker, I can already tell. Gaspard is so thinky, that sometimes I think we’re really alike, until I pull on his diaper before bed. Although I’ve often considered the convenience of such an arrangement….
I live in this small hallway on the top floor of the building with maybe 5 or 6 other rooms. I know for sure there at least one live creature up there because I hear jingling keys and see a sliver of light when I sneak off to the bathroom, but I haven’t mustered up the courage to say hi. All in due time, I say. Unless they move. Hmmm.
POP!
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My departure date is in less than two weeks and I’m surprisingly un-panicked. I’ve still got a nice long list of things I need to do before takeoff and the plan is to knock them out of the park by this Friday so I can spend next week in lalaland with my friends, daydreaming about how nice it will be.
It does worry me that Parisian women seem to live in Navies and Blacks, whereas my color palate ranges from Baby Blue to Neon. This is okay, I’ve told myself. I will be a flamingo in a land of swans! I will POP!
I will probably let evolution take its course.
I also need a camera for next year. I wonder if I could get away with bulk-buying disposables; I like the grainy look of the pictures better anyway.
PS why do I insist on making bird analogies when I can’t stand them? And then give myself the ickies when I google image search flamingos? Silly.
PPS apparently Men Love Bitches
Fear
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Lots of things scare me. Like pigeons with their beady red eyes, and flying, and really pretty girls and really pretty boys, and fluorescent lights. These are healthy fears; they help govern my life. Like I will probably never get bitten while feeding some dirty bird, and being afraid of flying makes the process of travelling less mundane, more like an adventure.
But I have this crippling fear of separation. When I had my first boyfriend in high school, we would talk on the phone every night, until we ran out of things to say, and then we would sit in silence, sometimes for hours. I would almost always fall asleep this way, incapable of saying goodbye. When it came time to break up with him, it took me months to say the words. It sounds silly and cute now, but I feel like I’m fighting to not be that weak little girl all the time. It’s still a little triumph for me to be the first person to get off the phone, although it always comes with a little discomfort and some guilt. I pretend not to get a little weepy at the end of a week when I finish dogsitting. And this summer, I don’t know what happened, but it’s like I spent the first part of it being so okay with everything, laughing and making jokes out of my problems, that I’ve spent the past few weeks crumbling under their weight. When I left the girls last weekend, it felt a little bit like the world was ending. It feels like that every time I drive away from people I really like. Maybe underneath always being slightly cynical, I’m really this incredibly romantic child, feeling like the whole world is hanging on the ledge of some cliff, and I have the power to save it – like the things I do make a real big difference. Maybe it’s because there’s just been a lot of leaving in my life, like being left by my mother, and then having to leave the country I grew up in, and all of my friends, and my family. And then leaving the little foundation I built here to go to boarding school, and then to college. Now I’m leaving for Paris and I’m completely unprepared. Funny how we’re all made up of all these contradictions, like there’s this almost uncontrollable urge within me to move, to change scenery, yet I’m also so completely paralyzed by the fear of leaving people I love, cus it feels like I’ve slowly and lovingly built this basis of support, just to chuck it out the window as it begins to feel the least bit sturdy.
And practical things scare me. Like looking for a new laptop, or emailing course listings to my advisor, or packing, or exchanging money. I know I’m completely capable of doing these things, but am really afraid of having to deparalyze myself, and eventually leaving, and becoming someone I don’t recognize. Being afraid comes easy, because my bed is so comfortable, and Nerds always lets me cry on him. But I think I’m going to try to grow up a little.
Cute Boys Make Mama Nervous
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I have no desire to post lately as a result of the fact that I will never ever aspire to be even a fraction as cool as she is:
http://cuteboysmakemenervous.blogspot.com/
cute boy
All I really want to do is sit and hit refresh for hours into the night, gazing furiously into my computer screen, while my vision plummets to hell. The fact that I’ve temporarily lost my brain and cannot spot the “insert link” button within a 12 inch screen doesn’t much help my blogging confidence either.
I’ve been having nightmares lately, and I tend to blame everything that’s wrong with my life either on lack of food or lack of sleep, so there’s another excuse for the lack of posts. These nightmares consist of ex-boyfriends, which is unfortunate enough. But instead of lasting the standard minute, these drag for hours, with twisting plots involving disco balls and coming out stories. Good thing I good riddance all of my ex’s so I have no way to, how did she put it, “resolve the deep seated, disturbing issues causing these dreams.” Yes, I have an aunt who’s a Buddhist psychic. I won’t write ‘thinks she’s a psychic’ because I like her too much, and I’d personally like to believe she does have some sort of ESP, and maybe if I stare at the Buddha statue living in our guest room long enough and learn to love the smell of incense, this could become a career path in my non-committal, directionless life. I think she might be right about the issues thing, although God knows I don’t have the cojones to email/phone ambush some guy whose face is still pasted onto a popsicle stick voodoo doll smeared with blood/red marker. Puh.
Worse than the ex attack are the bunnies (more like one particular giant, yellow, furry bunny head attached to the body of a business-suited man). It was a few nights ago, talking on the phone with Paul, and I’d closed my eyes to doze off when the image of this ungodly creature came creeping around the walls of a cubicle. Aunty didn’t tell me this, but I’m pretty sure bunnyman is a product of my loathing for my corporate-bullshit-overly-air-conditioned internship and those 13 times I watched Donnie Darko when I was a sophomore in high school because I thought it was sooo sooooooo deep. The sad part is that the only reason I keep thinking about bunnyman is because I keep reminding myself not to think about it. And the more I think about it, the more I’m afraid I might legitimately go crazy. Okay, I mean, I like the crazies. They generally seem to be a lot more passionate about life than your average soccer mom working her way through 20 years of polite PTA meetings and a sexless marriage. But if I’m crossing over, that is so NOT the imaginary friend I’m bringing. Can’t I at least delude myself into thinking I’m Elizabeth Taylor, circa 1964, so I can drape myself in crystal droplets I’ve torn from the chandelier in the vestibule, and go around cooing alluringly and burning men with my impossibly long cigarettes? I would SO get my ass kicked if I brought bunnyman to the crazies playground! Boy has got to go.
Oh and I can’t go to Paris. My laptop is broken and I haven’t packed at all and even if I did I wouldn’t be able to bring half the clothes I needed and I can’t afford to buy new ones and I REALLY REALLY like my friends and I heard that sometimes French men make orgasm noises when you walk by them on the street(this one really isn’t much of a problem considering my voodoo skills). So I’m officially freaking out.
EVERYBODY DIES ALONE waaaaaaaaah *cue the Who
Test, test…hello?
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I’ve lost the will to live. Not really, I’ve mostly lost my days to work and my nights to filth like Young American Bodies and searching the internet for student loans.
Note: If you’re looking for money to put you through college and you also like E.T. and Han Solo, perhaps the Writers of the Future contest is right for you. Apparently, L Ron Hubbard set up a contest to encourage a whole new generation of vindictive scientologists (he was not a happy man). Anyway, it consists of a pretty awesome panel, with the likes of Orson Scott Card. UM HOT. I’m seriously considering writing a piece just so I can treasure the knowledge that Ender’s daddy has read my schtuff.
I’ve finally settled on a host family (whoopie) for France. Their last name is LePoutre and they sound super French, their kids are young and chubby-cheeked, and they live in the 5th arrondissement, which, from what I’ve gathered, is home to a lot of young, hip student types.
Christelle, the mother, sent me a couple of pictures of my new life. This is my bedroom in a little flat upstairs from the family’s abode. If you look really closely, you can see the reflection of a bikini clad girl in the window, taking the picture (you pervert!) It’s gotta be Hannah, their current au pair. We’ve emailed each other and she sounds sweet, but apparently she’s also kind of a voyeur. I don’t quite know how to follow that kind of precedence.
This gig also means that I’ll be in France from the end of August 08 to end of July, with vacations sprinkled throughout and the last month spent beachside with just the kids(!) First things first, since I have my own room, come visit me in Paris! After France, I plan to go to China. China is one of those things that I always find myself coming back to. No matter how long I go without reading anything Chinese, as soon as I’ve picked up something China-esque, I seem to get addicted for weeks at a time, bound by nostalgia. I’ve started reading China expat blogs. They seems to be a cool crowd, I mean how could they not be. People who chose to move out to an exotic, propaganda ridden country where you can’t read the Guardian half the month cus it’s blocked out by the gov: they’ve got to be a little crazy or ridiculously cool, but probably both. The point is, I miss China terribly and the plan is to spent my last month of summer 09 there, getting to know it grown up style. Every one of my experience there before, including that little 10 year stint, found me a child. Even my more recent trips, like last winter, consisted of me tagging behind grandma and smiling politely when the lady at the linen stall tells me and I have really pretty skin and also look like I’m 13. Thanks, lady, and nice curtains. Well, this time I’m determined to look 21 and eat abundantly and adventure shamelessly. If you’d care to join, I’d like a buddy for rape prevention purposes when I travel in the country. Here’s what I can provide: free lodging, your very own doting Chinese grandparents, on loan, amazingly greasy food(yea in China we just call it food), and a walking, talking insider’s guide to the Middle Kingdom. Seriously, all you gotta do is pay for your airfare and we’ll be off! And you have a whole year to think about it! Also, we’ll probably be bffs by the end of it. UMMM YUMMM.
To backtrack a bit, I wanna talk about Young American Bodies. First off, just for basis, it’s a web series done by Joe Swanberg about the lives (mostly the sexual aspect) of a group of young college grads living in Chicago. The eps are 5-7 minute installments, little morsels of indie goodness. What I noticed while watching is the sequence of the (numerous, NC17) hookups goes a little something like this: making out, more making out, pause for both parties to remove clothing, then the real thing. Is this what’s happening now? For realz? Cus last time I checked we were still doing that whole awakward let’s-undress-each-other-and-pretend-not-to-be-undressing-each-other-all-the-while-maintaining-lip-contact thing. Is this whole charade up? It all seems a little crass for me. I mean, letting the boy fumble with your bra clasp and secretly enjoying his embarassment was one of the simple, reliable pleasures of high school (and let’s admit it, college). I need you to put in that effort. I refuse to remove my own brassiere, oh yes sir indeed. Oh and Joe, if you’re ever googling yourself and happen upon this: that Sarah chick’s laugh is crazy annoying.
Alright children, peace out. I shall be back, less tired and laggy, hopefully.
