Evading the Fat Fate

Last Sunday I placed a bet that I would force myself to the pool EVERY SINGLE MORNING and take a photo as evidence. I did it because frankly I'm getting fatter than ever and am running out of interventional ideas. So, yesterday morning, just like the one before and the one before that, I scooted on Berlioz through town and through the heat to the pool in Grissels- turns out you don't need to wear a swim cap there, so I find it worth the scoot.

Last time, I was informed that on Wednesdays the pool didn't open until 3, so I scooted back. The day before, I was informed that on Tuesdays it closed at 1:30. Dang! So yet again scooted back. (and then enjoyed some french cheese and wine in the evening.) Merde! This morning, I got into the locker rooms, put my suit on, and then my period started. Seriously. Scooted home with some tissues stuffed in my panties. What gives, universe???

me n' Berlioz tearing it up

How Much Compromise for Courtesy?

I've been communicating with some potential Paris roommates who seem like lovable and accomplished kids. So! I sent Handsome Parisian a message asking if I could stay with him for a night while scouting the place. He said I was welcome anytime.

The next step was to ask TMI if he'd stop seeing me if I did the above with the almost-certainly subsequent sex. It was an honest question and, I felt, a necessary one, since whatever the outcome he'd be reading about it on the blog. I said it with a smile and expected a casual "yes" or "no."

He said that if I slept with someone else, he would A) "hate me" and B) "never see me again." Well. As cut n' dry as that answer is, it took all night and a lot of drama just to get it out.

It surprised me how many times my mind returned to attempting to do the whole thing on the sly. What kind of person does that make me? I still have a pretty substantial soft spot for that Paris kid. I told TMI that I'm simply not ready for exclusivity, but that I didn't want to stop seeing him either.

I want to get one thing straight here: I am sympathetic to the concept and perfect plausibility of fidelity. I think it comes naturally with a certain kind of love. And I mean the really good kind. I would have been effortlessly exclusive with Harry. Love just does that. It inspires a team mentality; refusing someone else, even the most handsome of someone elses, just feels like a score or a goal. You go out for pizza afterwords and celebrate.

I'm still unconvinced that TMI is good for me and concerned that warming up to him might be a mistake. "When does the art of compromise become compromising?" How much of ourselves should we be willing to compromise, out of respect, if we risk loosing our own values? Is a potential relationship that may not be a perfect fit worth it? Or, for that matter, are TMI and I already in a relationship and I'm just being a jerk..?

Courage and Karate

In certain forms of martial arts, if you hurt yourself during practice, it's customary to wipe your blood on your belt. The stains are intended to help a student learn from their mistakes, speak to their experience, and strengthen their confidence; proof that they can suffer a blow and fight another day.

A bit morbid, maybe, but I still appreciate that taking a hit earns honor points and the guts n' grit to get back into the fray. If only the blood spill after a kick in the heart came with the same thing. There's a good many of us out there who could use a little assurance that we can roll with the punches.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

My belt earned a smudge of honor this past week when Harry left for England. He was in a hurry to jump on the train, so I was able to throw my arms around him and plant a kiss on his neck in the last fleeting moments, but I didn't have time to say anything meaningful or even look into his eyes. The train door shut between us, and I was assailed by a ninja star to the heart. I took the hit. So here I am, alive to fight another day, but still waiting for the subsequent pride and courage.

Last night, TMI and I had what-could-be-called an intimate experience cozied and naked on the couch until the wee hours, wasting a startling amount of time discussing the potential hurt of learning to love one another. We've both been victim to several degrees of ouch, so while we should be weathered and courageous warriors, we're acting like a pair of teenage scardey-pants.

Harry left me a scooter named Berlioz and I rode him nostalgically home in the early hours of dawn. I thought about courage and karate. Can you imagine how many of us are sneaking around on eggshells while we have belts so drenched in heart break we could have armies pledging their allegiance and masters bowing their heads? I have to wonder: when it comes to our feelings above the belt: why don't our battle scars make us stronger?

Short and Sweet

Dear Harry: I'll miss you well after I'm back in the Pacific and probably love you long after that. From the girl who fell for you in France, Summer 2011.

The Last Sunday of Team Olympia

Today was my last Swimming Sunday with the boys.Harry hops on the train tomorrow and I'll be left to contemplate loneliness and distance with a full heart. Have I just come out and said it yet? I have, right? If not, here it is: I love Harry.

Jonas and I pitched in and replaced his last pair of shoes, which were destroyed by our tri-person cycling practice, with a pair of converse sneakers for a good-bye present. Thats them in the last photo above. I'm so proud. With any luck he'll think of me when he looks down at his feet.

It's going to be hard to pat him on the back and watch him get on the train. I'm an island girl and he's from England; it's very possible that it's the last time I'll ever see him. I predict tears.

Cautious and Cruel

My apartment is perfect for me. It's affordable, exactly my taste, and in the perfect location. I accredit our fulfilling relationship to having taken the time to visit all potential living spaces thoroughly and patiently. While I could well have settled for the 5th or even the 10th place I visited, I held out and invested the extra month to finding a compatible match before I agreed to be apartment-monogamous.

Imagine how much easier things would be if men were so willing to allow us in the front door, pull the curtains back, and run our hands over the counters before we make a decision about commitment. It seems that on the relationship frontier, once you've shown the initial interest to get you into the building, you're all ready expected to take the key and sign the lease.

What ever happened to dating? Is this just happening in France or have the singles of today started to phase out the concept of the test drive?

My adamant desire for a trial run is not only straining my relationship with T.M.I, but it has all but pushed E.D completely out of the picture.

If a person can't be allowed to take the time to develop feelings for their partner before they agree to monogamy and commitment, how can any of us hope to make it through a relationship without drama, heartache, or infidelity? And, since I seem to be getting a lot of male disapproval lately, I have to wonder: women taking the test drive: are we being cautious, or just being jerks?

((the lovely view from my apartment))

Matters of the Pu'uwai pt. 2

Re the indecisiveness of the last post: I did go for the exam, but I passed up the night out. A girl's heart can only take so much. (And for those of you wondering, I went for the painful option C: neither bise nor handshake.)

As I've warned, he's no Handsome Parisian. I've been completely seduced the good ole fashion "beauty-is-only-skin-deep" kinda way; nothing to sneeze at when reviewing my romance track record, I might add.

During the last piece, which I wish I'd recorded because it was also his best, Harry broke a sweat and I found myself a bit distracted from the music and transfixed by a rivulet working it's way down his forehead and the subsequent fantasies of licking it off. Oh yeah, I'm waaaay beyond help.

Matters of the Pu'uwai

I desperately need to give TMI about TMI but I can't help but be censored. I'm getting the impression that things are getting too serious too fast and thus too dangerous. If only I could write in some indeciperable language that ni google translate ni a meticulous English level 2 student could decipher. Any ideas? I'm tempted to do a phrase or two in Hawaiian/pidgin. ...ok, why not.

The hana ma'i stay totally kolohe, spooning is like try sleep wit your okole in one cactus patch cuz he cut da hulu around his uli, and even worse, he start ah-redeh come supah clingy-kine. Bra, I not redeh start one supah serious pilina but I no want break the haole's pu'uwai. .. You guys following me here? Now if only there was Hawaiian slang sufficient to complain about foreskin and the need to keep it clean. (aww no she di'int! groooossss!!!)

Right so the art of literature I mentioned a few posts back: turning in its grave.

But all jokes aside, I just had my heart broken: it hurts, and I'm not leaping at the thought to do it to someone else. I wan't to be careful. I suppose it's possible that I just need some down time to lick my Harry induced wounds. Love can really pack a punch, and frankly it's starting to look like I'm down for the count.

Tomorrow, were I still comfortably the Hermione in the H and J threesome, aka, team Olympia in the tri-person cycling olympics, I should be going to Harry's final violin exam, followed by a goodbye night-on-the-town. These last 30 minutes I've been rolling around in bed and subduing cries of agony and frustration into my pillow because I don't know if I should attend either.

I'm embarrassed, anguished, and ashamed. Last time we went out Harry rubbed my heart against a cheese grater. Worse yet, when and if I see him, I don't even know how to say hello: Bise? Awkward handshake? Even more awkward none of the above??? oouuchhh.. seriously! Ouch!

Below the Skin and Above the Belt

A few nights ago TMI came up to my place with a bottle of crémant. We did something that was sort of like making love, in that it took all night and it was a personal and highly communicative process, but also a lot not like making love because I was thinking about, and even talking about, Harry.

The night before I had sent him the end-game of all desperate would be/should be/kinda aughta be/but aren't gonna be relationships: the “I love you” txt. More specifically, the “you may have noticed I have no self restraint, so against my better judgement, I have to tell you kid, I love you” txt. ugh.

72 hours of painful silence later, aka last night, I went out for La Fete de la Musique with Harry and J after promising good behavior. It was painful. He looked and sounded better than ever and I felt like a nut case. At the end of the night, I passed up the bise and even our more traditional hand shake and tried to walk away with a "bye." I hurried to get around the block in case I did something embarrassing like let out a sob. By the time I reached my stairs, I couldn't help my self and sent:

"I'll be in debt to you the rest of my life but I'll give you a million pounds if you follow me." After no response, I tried: "..or just 100 if you say something comforting." Finally, I got back " U could put your savings to better use, there's no point wasting them on me."

Welp. That looks like the end of that.

All n' all, I’m not nearly as upset as I could be. By all means, let the records state that I've been sleeping till noon and crying on the toilet, but, I’m treating it with a respectful salute to life’s lessons. I appreciate that my incessant philandering with the exclusively handsome received a slap on the wrist by some overdue sentiments. The good stuff really does come from somewhere before the first kiss, below the skin, and above the belt.

When it comes to heartache, rough relationships, and unrequited love, it’s important to remember that between two people, you’ve got a 50% chance of getting the short end of the stick. So if we're gonna gamble, we'd better learn to roll with the punches.

This is Getting Harry, pt. 3

Despite all of my relationships, suitors, dates, romantic mishaps and famously frequent French sex, I'm half-way-to-confident to say that I've experienced real love only twice. And to address the scoffing in the audience I will concede that there are different types of love, etc etc, and that this type is suspiciously frequent with men that are not particularly handsome. Very, very, unusual for me, I might add, as my current incarnation is shamefully preoccupied with the physical.

Last night, in the back of a dimly lit bar sometime after midnight, I was sitting on a table and Harry was standing within reach. For the moment we were alone, and there was absolutely no part of me that could have let me escape the situation without breaking some social boundaries. I reached out and touched Harry's stomach. When he didn't protest, I stood up and put my hands on his chest. Still no effort to escape, so I rubbed his shoulders. Then I moved a hand to his neck. Still no running away, so I stepped closer to him and, very slowly pressing my body up against his, cautiously lifted my face until our lips were brushing. I didn't quite have the strength of conviction to go the last millimeter, so I waited, lips parted, for Harry to loose self control and fall into the kiss. Instead, against my mouth, he said so very tragically in his irresistible accent, "I can't."

It was all very Thorn Birds. When I didn't retreat he turned his face slightly and I tormented him further by planting a line of open mouth kisses on his neck, hopefully leaving him at least partially as weak in the knees as I was, before we were interrupted.

When we left the bar, Stephan, the owner and mutual good friend, shook Harry's hand and insisted in a thick French accent: "Harry, you are a very stupid boy." To which he replied. "I know."

The three of us spent the next few hours practicing our new Olympic sport, Tri-Person Cycling, laughing up a storm rolling through my beloved Dijonaise streets. When I slept I dreamt of blissful hand holding. I'm both elated, a little sad, and increasingly worried. Whatever I'm feeling, it's formidable, and with Harry about to leave France, probably a little dangerous too.

emotional love song >>link<<

La Bise that was Heard from Space

"Et pour les amoureux.." Says Stephan as he rings up our drinks at the register. Harry smiles nervously as I'm a little slow to pick up the French, like always.

The bad news: Scratchy the squirrel died night before last when the little heater in his night-time box inexplicably ceased to work. The following day, his owner and my English student, broke three fingers, one on one hand and two on the other, at his construction job while building a wall. The result: a teary eyed student struggling through the past tense for one painfully awkward hour on a rainy Dijonaise evening.

While recovering with a glass of wine with Harry in the aftermath, we talked about music and where it stops being music and starts to be noise- and art, and when it starts to be art and stops being stuff. (Any art student like myself or music student like Harry can answer "never" or "always" to the above and can easily spend an evening arguing about why either, neither, or both are dumb answers)

After words, in the street, I rubbed Harry's arm. He joked about some people being inefficient on bikes as they passed, seeing as there was only one on each and we'd recently become experts at piling on three. We shared a laugh. Then I asked if we could faire la bise. With a smile I added that it was "platonic enough."

So faire la bise we did, and, like usual, as my lips brushed against his left cheek my heart fluttered into space, and when I kissed his right it was all ready lost somewhere beyond Europa. He had touched my arm lightly. It was more poignant and more electric than all the kisses I've had in France to date. Then I dragged my sorry self up my formidable spiral stairs like I do every single night, wondering about love, about sex, the calories in a glass of wine, space travel, etc.

When to Look the Other Way

Turns out the kid that kisses like a teenager needs a code name. Also turns out that he's found the blog and, through the magic of google analytics, I'm also graced with the information that he's made himself a regular and avid reader. Well. After a deep breath and a solemn salute to the art of literature, I decide to plow forth uncensored and unashamed. (Risking the loss of a friendship and a conversation with a straight face almost certainly.) That said, we'll call him TMI. Teenager-Man-Impersonater. Also the other more obvious meaning.

Last night I allowed the above to my apartment where we did shamefully teenager-like-things like wear big sunglasses, listen to music, and talk about insecurities. We did have sex. And frankly, this time I shall refrain from detail because I'm well aware these passages are being heatedly searched and meticulously deciphered for a review. Tragic. I’m making frantic faces to encourage reading between the lines here. So much for my pride. I think the aforementioned “art of literature” just fizzled away piteously in a cloud of smoke.

What I really want to mention is that, when I re-entered my little medieval sky nest at 1 am this morning, (I was at a movie,) I found that I could see B's head through his skylight... pacing. I watched him with a confused facial expression for a good 20 min to be sure that was, in fact, what he was doing. Pacing. 4 steps to the right, a quick turn, and 4 steps to the left. This looks decidedly unhealthy. Even more so than the plates of partially eaten white rice that are piling up on his dining room table. I haven't visited in about a week and when I do it's brief and infrequent; frankly that whole scene depresses me viciously. Do I need to.. do something? Or is this one out of my hands?

Hit or Miss, and Delicate All Around

There is of course a part of me that sometimes feels sharply like giving up. Today, Sunday, I marched alone through town, up the main road, and ventured into the modern part of the city. The part that looks much less like romantic old France than where I live and so rarely leave. I actually continued out into the rolling fields and took myself to the olympic swimming pool, (yes oddly located,) and went for a lonely impromptu swim. After that I took myself to a lonelier lunch, and then to a lonelier still movie. [[Pirates of the Caribbean dubbed in French. Jack Sparrow has a certain charm rambling in the language of love but still I felt I was being a bit jipped on the real deal.]]

Truth is I've been here 4 months and don't have a job; and I promised my family that were that the case after only two months I would return defeated with "my tail between my legs."

Not that I'm not nostalgic for beaches and ocean and grass and trees and Hawaii green and my Hawaii girls, but I hate to regress into living with my family in the middle of the Pacific. I want to be living my twenties to the fullest, and, quitting the France dream would be pointedly painful. This is a scary time for me, a time that feels dangerously hit and miss and delicate all around. I don't want to end up a starving artist, or a mooch off my family; do I go back to school for my Masters? Where? How do I afford it? What can I do with the degree that I have? Do I go back to the islands and look for work there? Do I stay in France, or do I leave and risk putting it back on the unreachable, seemingly phantasmal side of the Earth where it has been all of my life till now?

Steppin Out, June 11th

time to be girly and indulge in steppin' out saturday :) The heat wave is fast approaching so I'm bustin out the mini's.

floral mini

+ boxy Divided blouse

+ cinderella slippers

= summer in France

The Right Kind of Courage

I consider myself moderately courageous. I can approach a stranger, initiate a date, ask for kiss or toss a compliment; I can move to a foreign country where I don't know anyone or speak the language. I can fall in love. But, like most silly human beings, I can't, for the life of me, talk about my feelings with someone I care about.

Yes, I have brazenly asked Harry if he wants " to go make out." I've even casually tossed the "welp, lets go have sex" card on the table, which, granted, wasn't terribly easy. (Nor did either go over particularly well.) But when it comes to telling someone that you have feelings for them beyond friendship or physical attraction, something most everyone hopes to be told, why is it so impossible to find the right time, the right words, and the right kind of courage?

Last night, after giving an English lesson to a nice French guy that showed up with a squirrel in his pocket, (a soft, wonderful, baby squirrel named Scratchy) I went out with H and J for some drinks and squirrel talk. The night ended with the two of them "giving me a ride home" by all of us spending an hour giggling in the streets trying to pile onto one bike. It was a profoundly good time. We were so proud of ourselves and our team spirit when, finally, with me on the handle bars, Harry on the seat, and Jonas on the peddles, we managed to swerve around the Chapel St Michel laughing up a storm the whole way. That's some lovely novelty right there: a Hawaiian, a Frenchie, and a Brit rolling around an ancient French cathedral at 3am.

It's fun but it's starting to get a bit ouch inducing as well. And not just from the bruised butt after the handle bars. Each evening when I faire la bise with Jonas and give Harry a defeated handshake my heart gives a little whimper. Hiding affection seems so gosh darn criminal. Every inch of me wants to scream "YOU ARE LOVED! thank you for being you!" in the universal language of kissing, but instead, the laws of relationships force me to walk up my spiral stair case each night with an added ouch on every step.

I seemingly have no trouble with love and loving all sorts of people, all over the place. Why, when we have naturally so much love to give, is it so decidedly against the rules to be loved by more than one person?

"I wish I could tell you face to face instead of singing this stupid song, but yeah, I just think that we might get on..">link<

The World's Worst Short Film

So yesterday I met up with the réalisateur of the wonderful film I performed in a few weeks ago and got a copy, as well as the director's cut and a trailer uploaded onto my computer. What can I say. I only projectile vomited three times throughout the 7 minute duration, so all in all, better than I was expecting. The team seemingly cut most of my dialogue, which I imagine was indecipherable as I was expected to improvise in French, and tried to make up for it by adding a few subtitles to the exasperated English I was evidently spurting around 4-5 in the morning. One may also notice that the lighting on my early morning and up-all-night complexion is particularly flattering. Eh. Thems the breaks.

On the other hand, the trailer only made me faintly nauseous. Not bad.

And, in other news, (or non-news, really) I’ve been feeling like a seriously lonely kid lately. One week I have 5 French boyfriends + 1 in the street sending me texts below my window at 1 am, and the next, I’m spending the nights alone with a box of cookies and Sex and the City. Lame and vaguely depressing. Particularly so that E.D seems to be silently exiting the scene. I haven’t seen him since he so sweetly reassured me in French “tu n’est pas seul,” ironically. le sigh.

this is called grinning and bearing it

Stepping Out, June 4th

Steppin out Saturdays is a blog tradition too much fun not to take part in.

Inspired by the over-three-hundred-dollars Free People outfit seen on the left, I combined a few items from the closet to make an under 40 dollar spin off seen on the right :)

free people ruffled layers skirt

+ scrunchy thrift store tube dress

+ favorite pair of brown pumps found one magic day in Buffalo Exchange

look out France ;)

Seven Years Bad Sex

There are some who believe that forgetting to look into the eyes of the person who's glass your clinking during a toast results in seven years of bad sex.

Last night, lying once again on the sexual battle ground that is the futon in my apartment, while I was once again being treated to an onslaught of apologies from a very embarrassed and very nervous French guy, I was reminded that I was only graced with this piece of information some months ago.

Having ignored the obvious warning signs that this particular French man kissed like a teenager, after two and one half pleasant dates I foolishly invited him upstairs.

The effort struggled along with incessant interruptions: he would here and there stop to express some shyness about a body part: his back, for example, which I saw nothing wrong with, or a pause for him to remind me that he couldn't relax , and finally, one BIG interruption that ended with a subdued spasm and a whole lot of French cursing, followed by an entire night and early morning of apologies.

So up and at em’ Saturday morning. Today I’m making the rounds again with my resume', followed by a classical music concert with H and J.

In the meantime I don't plan to take any more chances when it comes to a sante, cheers, or chin chin. Eye contact! Here's to hope! *ching*

I Attempt 4am French Improvisation in an Action/Thriller

Some of you are wondering what happened to the independent film I claimed to be portraying the leading lady in about a week ago. As I've been licking my physical and emotional wounds from that ordeal for the past several days, I've needed some serious down time and herbal tea to face this story of tragedy a second time.

While I was expecting to give Saturday DAY to the film crew, (and perhaps a lovely French dinner out with E.D in the evening,) I was dumped off in front of my door step a tired, cold, and abused little creature at 8AM THE NEXT DAY.

When we hadn't started filming by midnight I was getting a little worried, so I asked one of the light crew who matter-of-factly told me he suspected we could be done by 7 if "all went well." Had I only known. I may have brought a toothbrush. A tampon. A bag of chips. Perhaps a coat or a blanket. But alas. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in the city outskirts in this empty, under-construction apartment that had no furniture save for a stinky dog bed (and one stinky dog) that I climbed dejectedly into at various hours throughout the morning seeking shelter form the cold and the harsh reality of my situation. Which was this, btw:

The film had no script. I was expected to improvise in French. So it's 5 am, I'm tired, ugly, and cold, 4 cameras get stuck in my face and someone yells "Action!" So I stand there looking victimised while the French guy playing the detective takes off in French at me about monkeys and murder suspects and who the hell knows what until suddenly there's an awkward silence. Right. Time to say something! If only I could have understood what the detective was saying. I give a pathetic look to the camera and we have to start all over again.

The worst part was the imposed objects. Each film had to at one point or another have a pot of mustard seen somewhere on camera, and, the phrase "vas y, fais moi plaisir" Which is like, "go ahead, make my day." Any rational film crew would of course think I should be responsible for both of these. The result is me awkwardly smearing mustard on to a slice of white bread while I fervently try to decipher the detective's French in time for me to pick the plausible place to tell him to make my pleasure.

uuuughhhhhhhhhhhhhh

And, after my day of recovery, which I will say was pleasant and snugly and consisted of yogurt cups and Sex and the City, I get a message that says the film was not created in time to meet the festival deadline, so it wouldn't be shown anyway. A waste, but all n' all probably better for my reputation around town.

The film crew + 1 blissfully unaware American, the morning before.