Dreams After Breakfast

It's in those moments when, tossing in bed at 5am because of a fever or menstrual cramps or nightmares or headaches or any other self-pity inducing symptoms, and your significant other, even though they too are trying to sleep and probably bothered by your restlessness, rolls over and pulls you close to their body, coos sympathetically and kisses your nose, that any doubt melts like the memory of your dreams after breakfast.

Is it normal to doubt when the words "I love you" are flying out of your mouth 100 times a day? I seem to be irreversibly prone to wonder if really I'm not being deluded by insecurity, good looks, soft skin, etc, and I worry that I shouldn't dare make any sacrifices for what my young brain thinks is love.

And yet, last night, feeling totally sorry for myself since I'm on some pretty heavy antibiotics to fight my endless onslaught of urinary tract infections (awesome!) which make my skin rosy red as I roll around with fever all night; plus my boobs are hurting like crazy because of my contraceptives, while expecting TMI to be totally pissed off with my tossing and turning, he comforted me so effectively that I experienced a moment of complete doubtless bliss. And I'll be honest, its been happening a lot.

So what's with the second guessing?

I'm considering staying here with TMI's family for Christmas this year to put off our dreaded separation and give me more time to move out of my little apartment. But, it would be my first Christmas away from my family in the Hawaiian islands, and let me tell you, I am a serious family girl. And while all young adults face that first Christmas without their immediate family, my parents are older than most, and, my Robert-Redford-sailing-legend of a father had a difficult year with skin cancer. My family Christmases no longer seem like a forever given.

I said it in the post before last and I'll say it again: how much is love really worth these days? There are sacrifices on both ends of my plane ride and at present I don't know which is worth being more panicked about.

After some restless hours of light sleep in the morning, I awoke in a sweat, totally terrified. Nightmares. ..But by the time I sat up I'd forgotten them.

Skirting Danger

My leg looks like I've suffered a zombie attack. And what's worse, so does my new boot. First time wearing them out: I had paired them with a cold weather dress and over the knee socks which left a band of exposed skin about 5 inches wide below the hem of the skirt. Apparently that was enough to attract injury.

TMI and I were biking home after having drinks at a friends place. I use the term "biking" lightly as I was balancing precariously on the seat whilst he suffered by standing on the peddles the whole way and pulling us along. We were slightly drunk, really cold, sharing some kind of ever-strengthening virus we seem to be incubating between us, and very tired. Welp, A + B = C and all that, so we crashed.

Middle of the street; everyone saw; the contents of my purse were strewn in a trail of shame behind us, and I cried and was a total girl about it.

I was all ready feeling down about myself for not exactly being the life of the French party. I was tired from getting up early to eject my mother from France and couldn't follow much of the conversation or ad much. So I was all ready feeling like a lower grade girlfriend.. then I went and fell off the bike. Oh, and ruined my new boots.

But seriously the resulting wound looks like something out of a Science Fiction. Thats kinda cool, at least. It's a long scratch with a bruise around it. Straight up Zombie claw. Or Dinosaur attack. Or Alien Invasion.

But that's nothing compared to the stair incident

Worry Never Saps Tomorrow of its Sorrow...

My new haircut is SO BAD I seriously can't go outside or see my boyfriend. I've never felt so terrible about my appearance. The hair stylist literally mugged me. Drive by hair thievery. My bangs had gotten just a little too long, and, even though I still thought they looked great, I decided to go in just to have them neatened and she just shwacked them right off over my eyebrows like a thick hedge.

I'm bed (and hat) ridden with grief.

In actual news my mom leaves France in three days which will grant me the freedom to go back to work in the French Jesus-freak cafe as well as recommence with sex in my apartment, but I suspect a brief and possibly lonely adjustment period to motherlessness.

Also, I'm now only two months away from leaving France to return to Hawaii for Christmas. It could be a good-bye-forever with the man I love. Which I know for him is equally as daunting because in a gesture sweeter than I think any living man today is capable of, he asked if my mother would "mind" if he married me. I love TMI: but marrying me to help keep me in France by solving my visa problems would just feel like taking advantage of him. And, just to kick a dead horse, I'll say the words one more time: exceptionally too young.

None the less he hasn't seen this hair cut yet and it may well be the end of our relationship. I'm not sure I even have the guts to see him until they grow back; which may as well be when I'm leaving France.

My future is so tangled up I don't even know where to begin to make sense of it. The whole project seems like turning a scrambled egg into a hard boiled one. Coming back to France will be a huge and timely undertaking; other life paths include the West coast, graduate school, and old college roommates.

How much is love worth these days, anyway?

The Schism Approaching

I'm in Avignon with my mother and, at this very moment, sitting on my bed with my computer in my lap, arguing with her about circumcision. My 8-months-ago self would have fought this into the ground with me, but as some will remember from my last post on this subject, I am now pretty convinced that no one should cut off a part of their penis.

But this isn't what I want to talk about. Nor is it my mothers panic attacks, negativity, and contagious fear of adventure of even embarking on the next leg of our trip to Foix. Instead I want to tell you that A) I'm fatter than ever and ate too much salmon this afternoon, and B) mom and I visited the famed Palais de Papes and managed quite a good time. Afterwards we explored the beautiful adjacent gardens but the wind was so frisky and my mom so tiny that she was literally blowing away; we were forced to seek shelter in the indoors where I was assailed by the salmon.

And, finally, the literary news: My grand mother and great hero, Alberta, 102 years old and married seven times, world traveler, accomplished artist, and breaker of many rich and famous hearts, is on morphine in her Hawaiian old folks' home and on her way out. Her adventures are compiled in volumes and volumes of illustrated journals and notebooks- which I, as her equally horny and adventurous prodigy, have decided to digest and turn into her well deserved biography. I can frame it with my current French happenings as well as her humorous but defiant plunge into super-old age.

Lastly, I miss the man I love and dread the ever nearing schism between us when I am forced to retreat to the island chain half a globe away. ..In fact, seeing the worry in words causes a heart ache; so that closes this post.

The Mom Effort, and my Heart's One True Bag

If my last post about sex under my mother's bunk bed lost a good portion of my readers, I suspect my week long hiatus lost the rest of them.

My apartment is literally bursting at the seams with bodies. With my mother and often TMI both living here, and, for the last week, a guy-friend from the states who is studying in Germany and decided to visit, I've been overwhelmed with feeding and entertaining house guests. One needs a lot of sex, cuddles, and attention, another needs sight seeing, salad and tea supply, and the third wants someone to get stoned with at all times of the day.

Mom, despite everyone's best efforts and the should-be-magic of a first time trip to Europe, is largely unimpressed and predominantly homesick. We spent a week in beautiful Sauzet with TMI's family in the South, and are now putting together an impromptu trip to Avignon and then to a little village further south called Foix. It's more out of olbligation than an authentic envy to tour France; mom has just grown too much into a Hawaii-home body in her later years.

Foix

As you can imagine, the steady house guests have left TMI and I stranded with no safe place for sex; which frankly seems to be messing with both of our minds. Yesterday, six times, I asked him to marry me. -And yes, I really do think I love him that much. But it's a fairly harmless question coming from me, since I'm too young and he's exceptionally too young, and we're of different nationalities and I've virtually no direction in life. ... I'm giving the screen a serious look and asking: "What's the point of falling in love below 25, anyway?"

Lastly: I have it. Every day for the past month, a girl younger, Frencher, more beautiful and more stylish than I has come into my cafe and ordered something offensive to my weight like a milkshake. She totes an unthinkably fabulous bag and each day I assail her with questions of where she got it and how I can find it. It was a gift and its origins were unknown. But! Finally! After weeks of searching and slightly-related-but-getting-very-creative key words, I tracked it down. I bought it while squealing in excitement and can now happily model it for you. Please, seriously, please, be jealous.

Say what you want about object fetishism, I'm very content to pull my happiness out of this bag.