How to B the Worst Kind of Guy

Today I was terrified to step out of the credit union and into the direct path of B. Considering that we live on the same street, it's a wonder that it doesn't happen more often, but, being that he's a hermit with psychological problems, I can usually come and go as I please from my rustic street without fearing horrible encounters such as these. 

I wasn't sure if he was soar that I'd at last deleted him from Facebook.. or if he'd even noticed. I didn't know what to expect. He was as slimy and as infused with cigarette smoke as ever and had been walking home with another, creepy looking guy. To my horror he introduced me as his ex, then insisted he go along with me to the bakery, where I was going on a daily baguette mission.

I was friendly and upbeat. He was a total slime ball. "You are looking good!" He tells me, "not fat or ugly." He asks me if I am still with the same man. I say yes and he is very surprised. "Have you been fidel?" I shoot him a shocked look. "No, you havent!" He says with a greasy smile. "I'm sure!"

I'm boiling inside but I shrug it off. Later he actually has the gaul to advice me to "take the pill" and to suggest that TMI is probably a chauvinist who wants me only for baby making. (dear god.) When I finally ditch him to duck into the bakery, he ices the cake by saying "call me if you want sex," and winking. How dare he? First off, what business is my private life of his and how could he possibly think it would be appropriate to talk to me in such a way when he knows I'm in a committed relationship? How could I resist but give him a horrified and disgusted expression before turning away. Quelle connard! 

Honestly how rude and crass. Ugh. Just ugh.

The Weekend, and the Story of B

I had the good fortune to spend the weekend yet again in the colorful South with TMI's family in Sauzet.

Between delicious and drawn out meals, we went on walks, runs, bike adventures and gallery visits, plus one outing to a river to swim around in the icy water. We made our usual constant and creative love on every rock, table, park bench, and physically possible place that turned up throughout the weekend.

Despite all this goodness, about half of the time, I was totally plagued by two extremes: A) I really love this guy and am insecure and think he's gonna break my heart and this makes me miserable, or, B) I'm not really in love with this guy, and, if I stay with him, I'm just missing out on something better and this also makes me miserable.

While problem A can be jotted up as typical insecurity and latent desire to keep a little turbulence in the romance, problem B is a little more complicated, and, well, embarrassing.

Last summer, when I first came to France and fell head over heals for the repulsively unattractive, smoking, and foie gras farmer, B, I somehow convinced myself I wanted to marry the guy and invited him to Hawaii to meet my family. I incessantly gushed to my parents about how great he was and how much I loved him. (uuugghghhh this makes me want to puke now) Then, he shows up in Hawaii, and, in the harsh light of my own reality: my family, the island where I grew up, my friends, my language, I saw B for what he really was: a completely wrong for me, stinky, dirty, and dull French guy who I could barely communicate with. I had to break his heart in a drawn out, pathetic, and hugely uncomfortable drama that continues to nauseate me to this day. The man had brought a diamond ring with him which he gifted me in front of the entire family christmas morning. Yeah. Messy. I no longer trust my own eyes, heart, or brain.

The B incident proves that I'm insane. So now, with christmas visible on the horizon and TMI and I discussing love, the prospect of him visiting me in the Pacific has surfaced and filled me with subsequent terror. I want to be in love, but I don't want a repeat!

Indepedance

This month is a slightly unusual month for me. Normally, like hundreds of thousands of other women, as I approach the 4th week of the month I start gripping my sheets and whining and kicking like a little kid, pleading that the universe grace me with just one more week, one more day, one more hour, before the dreaded menstrual cycle.

But this month, something flat out magical is happening. As I tweeted a few weeks ago, Yasmin oral contraceptives are around €5-8 a month in France. Without health insurance, one packet in the US is gonna cost at least $60. So! Before heading to the South week before last, I made a doctor's appointment, pretended to understand a bunch of medical French, picked up my prescription at the pharmacy, and have since been literally rocking on my heels waiting for the cramps to kick in so I know I can start the first pill.

I took oral contraceptives when I was younger and here is what I'm pretty much ecstatic about getting again: 1) WEIGHT LOSS. Dear god, yes. Just, yes. 2) Bigger Boobs. 3) Easier, more regular periods, and, the reason that started all of this, 4) TMI and I can have sex anywhere, everywhere, and all over the place. It turns out a mutual turn on is going for it where we absolutely should not go for it, (trains, stairwells, movie theatres, crumbling architecture from the times of antiquity) and fumbling with a condom is a serious mood breaker.

But this is all "silly and inappropriate for blogging." Ahem.

So what I really want to say is that, yesterday, I put myself on a bus that led me out of the medieval bubble I live in and into the civilized world, where, at the French equivalent of Walmart, I bought a printer. This is important because now I no longer have to venture into the stinking cave of B to print my exercises each week for my English lessons. This IS NOTHING TO SNEEZE AT. When I arrived in France, I was completely dependent on the guy: I needed him for food, French, a place to stay, moral support, everything. Now, with the purchase of this printer, I have at last snipped that last shred of umbilical cord that kept me connected to that mess of a person. And it feels great.

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?

The Good, the Bad, and the Disgusting

(and you guys thought I was exaggerating)

I knocked on B's door for 15 minutes today trying to pick up my laundry. I was trying to wake him out of his usual comatose, so 15 minutes wasn't bad, but it was a HORRID experience because there was a pile of rotting shrimp in front of his door. The air was putrid and I was trying to hide my nose in my sleeve while I knocked. When he finally answered I was so enraged and disgusted I yelled and swore at him that he had "fucking psychological problems" and his shrimp were disgusting etc, then ran up stairs to gather my laundry while I cried. He went out side and smoked, his feelings obviously hurt.

uuuugghhuughh. I know, I shouldn't be so hard on the guy... ? Right? Everyday I go over there and ask him if he wants to go out and if he reeeaaally wants to stay on the couch all day every day, but he's seemingly hell bent on wasting his life.

And now, finally, THE GOOD NEWS! Handsome Frenchi from Paris is spending a small fortune of 80 Euros to catch a train to visit me this weekend in Dijon. Hurray! I'll be very very happy for his sane company, (as far as I know anyway) and much needed handsome male physical contact. (Which we're pretending like were not committed to, but my apartment is the size of a walk in closet, so I'd say our intentions are pretty obvious.)

And last but not least I'm adding a lovely oval shaped standing mirror and loft bed to my mini abode, which I shall stop at nothing to make a feng shui haven. Photos soon :)

The French Twenty Third

It's my birthday! ..And a lonely one. I've thus far spent the day cooped up in B's gross apartment feeling sorry for myself and avoiding his unpleasant face at all costs.

The good news! Maybe. I'm moving out of here at long last! I have found a studio. No larger than a walk in closet, mind you, but free of rotting shrimp shells and boasting some charming workability. See for yourself:

Oh! And, amusingly, guess what I see out that window?? Could you believe it, it's B's windows across the street! Yup. All the searching and I find my studio right across the street.

So back to the birthday. I spent most of it moping  so finally I convinced B to "take me out" for dinner. At the restaurant, all he did was stare vacantly into the distance while he twirled his hair. He is a compulsive hair twirler by the way. It drives me crazy. And if he cant get his hands on his hair, he does it with the hair on his neck. Always lovely while sitting in a restaurant. It's a little disconcerting, actually. It's just a little more obsessive than natural human habits. It absolutely can not be stopped.

I had a a great plate of salmon, but was unpleasantly surprised afterwards to learn from B that I was paying. Great. So now my eyes are tired from a day of intense feeling sorry for myself. ..But adventure is on the way! I can feel it!

The Last Egg

So Hawaii's not too much worse for the wear. My home town's a little flooded, a few people have their houses floating in Kealakekua bay, there were some sea creature casualties, but all are fine and aloha spirit stubbornly remains.

boat house.

Ali'i drive.

I chickened out and cancelled my train ticket to Paris because I was having trouble finding a place to stay. I'm authentically terrified of how my sensitive and irrational self will handle a birthday friendless and moneyless, so I let images of me weeping solitarily in a Parisian hotel room the night of the 16th scare me into cancelling the trip. For now.

I'm also sorely aware that staying here with that wretched stinking creature who lies on the couch ALL DAY and watches tv, (rising every 30 min to don his coat and smoke in the stairwell) is no good for me either. It's so depressing. How does a person like that live with themselves? Why does a person like that even have a name?? In my fury he shall be an "it" for this and potentially the next few posts.

In other negative news I'm turning 23. No longer with the sexy dangerous ring of 22. How I love the number 22. As I'm explaining/complaining to a Greek friend over facebook chat this very moment:

"Aging is much easier on men. You guys are fertile all your lives; aka: women find you sexy all your lives. Women loose it along with the last egg, condemned to a life of non-sexyness."

yes I waste time on worries comme ca.

And last but not least, I transferred some money to K tonight. I talked to him over the phone and he had given his "last dollar to a guy on the street." He drawled on about wanting to die and kill all who worked at insurance companies and banks.

It reminds me of Obi-Wan when he had to fight Anakin and sever his heart strings for his young apprentice because he had gone to the dark side. Obi-Wan still loved Anakin, but he had to accept the the fun loving person he cared about was gone.

I haven't seen the side of K that's the spiritual creative and cuddly man I fell in love with when I was 18 in a year.

"The boy you trained.. gone he is! Consumed by the dark side, young Skywalker has become!"

French Family, French Broken Legs

If you don't take cheese seriously, you're doing it wrong.

So! I somehow agreed to going on a road trip and staying the night in the French town of Voujeaucourt. Comme habitude, I didn't know the details until I was all ready there. We were staying with B's sister, brother in law, and their new baby Eliza.

Lets get one thing straight here. I have NO PROBLEM with babies. As far as I can tell they're just innocent bystanders. It's the relentless cloud of high pitched nonsensical sounds and songs that surround said baby that leads me to pray for nuclear holocaust. That said, I suffered greatly throughout the afternoon and evening. Prolonged hours of the usual baby treatment compounded with a group of 5 adults speaking French at the speed of sound lead to sweating and serious headaches.

It didn't help that Stephane, B's brother in law, found it perfectly pertinent to inflate the air mattress for us with a hair dryer. Bien sur, the thing melted and developed holes. So while I was curled helplessly on a bean bag, freezing, stinky, and hung over after the day of eating and drinking, the boys scurried around trying to make us a bed out of sofa cushions, blankets, and yoga matts. OK, whatever. I was so scared of Aliens the night before I hadn't gotten to sleep till 5, so I was ready for anything.

But then! In the night! An enormous crash. Tout le monde (sans B of course, since you could wake the dead before you could wake him) jumped out of bed and bumped into each other frantically looking for the meteor or tree or whatever it was that had crashed through our ceiling. Turns out, it was a car in the street literally right outside the door.

I still don't get it; there was only one car, I couldn't figure out what it had hit. Regardless, the driver side was totally smashed. We called the police and watched as Stephane and some neighbors ran out and addressed the driver. At first I couldn't understand why they weren't pulling the poor guy out. Then I realised that you could see that the motor has been pushed through the front of the car and was smashed against his legs. I was dismayed to hear that he was a young kid and thought sympathetically for his mother who would at any time be receiving a terrible phone call.

It took the better part of an hour to get the guy out and I watched nervously through the window the whole time. I wanted to see that he was ok. They had to cut the top of the car completely off. When they finally lifted him out vertically, I was relieved to see he still had both legs, but they were both, obviously, very very broken in all sorts of unpleasant ways. Ugh. Poor guy.

This whole episode passed while B slept. It worried me because I got to thinking what would happen if, perhaps some time in the night here in Dijon, the ceiling of this old monk tower caved in on me or something. If B were sleeping downstairs I'd be without hope! Bombs could be dropping and you can't wake him up!

Medieval Ghosts

B with pretty much the coolest French car I've ever seen

Things are for the most part peaceful at the close of my second week in France. B has been been incredibly helpful in the effort to find me an apartment; we've been popping in and out of places all over town for the last few days and I've found it to be amazingly fun. Everything is so old! I love wandering up the spiraling staircases to reach the front door, wondering what kind of romantic possible future home awaits me.

I've found a few wonderfully eclectic and charming old medieval mouse holes, but I'm being forced to face a rather serious problem: I'm terrified of the dark. Last night I suffered several night terrors in which I was convinced I was being abducted by aliens, tormented by medieval French ghosts, and possessed by demons all at the same time.

Does that ever happen to you where you wake up a few moments before you body does? Your eyes flick open and for a few terrible seconds you can't move your limbs? The first time this happened to me I was 100% convinced that I was being abducted by aliens and I since have never been able to sleep alone.

Last night, I had one such episode, and to make things ten billion times worse it happened at 3:33 am. I don't care who you are or what you believe but thats a dang creepy coincidence. So! I ran down the stairs and hopped on the couch with B, absolutely scared out of my wits. He ended up coming upstairs and sleeping with me. Cured my anguished fear but caused several other problems:

A) It makes me have second thoughts about seeking out an apartment to live alone in.

B) It may well complicate the just now becoming comfortably platonic relationship I've managed par extensive negotiations with B.

C) He stinks, snores, steals the blankets, can't be awakened no matter how I push, slap, shout or struggle, and, like some formidable French glacier, creeps every so slowly towards the edge of the bed throughout the night; pushing me like a doomed animal towards the edge of the continent.