Pussy Party Aftermath

Well, I went to the party. -And I was really hoping that it would be either A) good, or B), bad in a funny way so that I could write a sarcastic post about it. ..But it wasn't really either of these things. 

Honestly I'm really conflicted about it so I'm not sure how to even proceed describing it. I'm unsure if I'm old, boring, anti-social, and irrational, or if the party was just wildly too childish for me. Or maybe I'm just not a party person. Who knows, but when TMI asked me in the aftermath , 'god, didn't you think Chantal was funny?" -Chantal being a guy dressed as a gogo dancer with big blow up plastic boobs and a gold thong, who, once the party moved to a bar, got on stage to "perform" with the band,) I felt dismayed to think that I instead found it rather gross and completely juvenile. ,,Maybe I would have found it funny under different circumstance?? I dunno!

I'm ashamed to say it but I cried sporadically through the night and the next day. We missed our train home Sunday and had to sleep with a friend and come back Monday morning. I'm totally screwed up about it. I don't know if I'm the victim or the bad guy for not having fun. I don't know if I love my boyfriend or if he's just intensely handsome and I think that I need him to love me. 

Do I need a break up? Therapy? Anti-depressants? A chill pill and  just to learn how to party?

Either way I'm on the couch tonight :/

Pussy Party

So I'm agonizing over a tough decision. TMI wants to go to a crazy costume party for his rather fat and crude drunk friends in the south of France on saturday. He insists that I go. I will have to pay $150 in gas, highway fees, and train tickets, plus a 6 hour drive there and three hour drive to a train station on the way back. We won't be home until midnight on Sunday.(Monday morning, technically.) Sounds like the worst thing ever to me. Enclosed smoking and sleeping in puke on the floor, more or less. But, if I stay here I'll be alone and sad thinking of him going crazy and having fun without me and probably commit suicide from loneliness and insecurity, but at least it will be cheaper and better for my liver. 

Importantly, here's what the invite to the party looks like: 

"Grémaillière de [so and so] et [whats'-his-name] au [distant address]. Veuillez trouver l'obligeance de vous vêtir de votre plus bel accoutrement en G (Gouine autorisé et fortement encouragé). Munissez-vous d'une bouteille (cubi, felissou, villageoise et autres alcools frelatés autorisés et encouragés) et de votre appareil génital (monotesticule ou chatte en sauce et/ou chatte à l'ail autorisés et encouragés de même).

Prière d'arriver le gosier sec et l'esprit clair, aucun débordement ne saura toléré. 

Amicalement, les Grolocs.

PS: bifles et hélicoptères interdits."

Yes, there are words like "monotesticle" and "pussy sauce" in this one paragraph invite. This is the other thing that gets me. One of the two people throwing this costume / house warming party is a girl who regualarly hurles such phrases like those above at my boyfriend in facebook comments and texts, and worse, he responds in the same lingo. I don't get it.I took him for a rather reserved, classy, intellectual type. A friend told me I need to go just to supervise my boyfriend in these vaginal conversations, but I find it rather.. repelling. 

So do I go or do I stay? It should also be noted that as it is a costume party, if I do go, I will be trapped in a two person card board rendition of the Great Wall of China.

..

Opinions anyone? Personally I'm thinking that I'm way too old for this. 

Capacity for Placid Romance

There has indeed been a long hiatus. And I aint sayin' the drought is over, but all the same there is plenty to be said.

First, the bad news: Life is domestic and I'm fidel in a committed relationship.

..Coincidentally that also sums up the good news.

I'm back in France and, after two months apart while I pined in the Hawaiian islands, my French significant other and I have resettled into a normal sized apartment. (-At last casting away our tiny studio.) It is both very French and typically eccentric. Marble fireplace, high ceilings,  wrought iron watch-ma-callit on the terrace, window over the tub that looks into the kitchen, etc.

The first of December will be our 1 year and 6 month anniversary. We seem to be very in love and yet drama still befalls me. Night before last, we sat in a bar having drinks with a feared red head who, I know on good authority,  pursued and made out with my mate mere months before we met. She doesn't know that I know, but dang, I know. And I also know what it's like to be in her situation. It's sort of a sexy, dangerous situation and I don't like it. So let's get even more irrational: She's like, 4'11'', weird shaped, and way smarter than I am. I'm some times a model but mostly a retard. So I got drunk and ate French fries and convinced myself that she was hotter and more spectacular in every way so that when we got home later in the night I locked myself in the bathroom and cried over my piteous self doubt. Damn! I was reading yesterday about eremites and penitents who would go into the desert for 40 years to have a change of heart. If those guys started hating themselves or suffering self doubt, it was demonic possession. No question about it.

My apartment is nice but my capacity for placid romance is next to nothing. 

By Hook or by Crook

I have reached the point of complete desperation. Also, I'm completely hung over.

There is a creepy middle aged man with a comb over who comes into my cafe from time to time and has in the past asked if I might be interested in being a translator for his association for old people. Supposedly, they help with organizing activities and outings as well as keeping families in touch, which is from time to time an international affair. He's such a weirdo and so creepy I mainly try to keep my distance from him and serve him his espresso with a wide bubble of personal space, but, as I've said many times on this blog, desperate times...

So several days ago I opened a dialogue with him about possibly working for his association and, essentially, getting a work contract out of him. He seemed optimistic and invited me to a meeting last night at the old person head quarters to discuss the contract. So, hopeful for my future in France, I braved the rain, cold, and unknown and found my way to the office. ...Where I sat for 2 hours listening to old people talking about their lives and families and daughter in laws and heard not A WORD about a contract. Finally I said I was late for something and escaped.

Frustrated and feeling hopeless about my French future, I let TMI drag me to a fellow wine student's birthday party. The activity for the night was presenting bottle after bottle of champagne, white, rosé, and red wines hidden in a sock so the experts could taste and then guess the region, year, etc of the bottle. Since I'm completely ignorant to all that I just drank everything put in front of me until I realised I couldn't stand for nausea. I stumbled into the bathroom and, sitting sick on the toilet, shed a few tears for my state of embarrassing drunkenness. I wish I could say it was the first time it happened to me, but man, dating a wine student is dangerous. Despite my state TMI got me home and into bed where he took off my shoes, watered me profusely, and cuddled me through my sick night. -And morning headache.

That boy loves me. I mean really loves me. It makes me happy even while sitting here at work with a hangover.. and motivates me to never give up on getting this visa figured out. Next time comb-over comes into the cafe I'm getting the contract out of him by any means necessary! ...and now, another aspirin.

The Agony of Andouillette

Last Thursday I was suddenly informed that I could hop a train Friday evening and spend the weekend with TMI. Since I had been suffering some serious intimacy and sexual withdrawals I was very happy to spend the 30 Euros on a ticket and head into the country.

TMI is staying in an old run down boarding house with two other boys also finishing their summer internships. As one can imagine, the old house habited by two 20 something boys and one shy (and very much the third wheel) 18 year old, was a complete disaster. Old sausages hung on window clasps, socks were balled up on the kitchen counter, a loaf of bread with a collection of cutlery stabbed into it was stuffed in the freezer, an enormous murdered arachnid terrorized the bathroom floor, and a single vegetable was no where to be found in the whole house.

Despite all this I was lovingly received, lovingly cuddled, cared for and made love to with the utmost attentiveness for most of my stay; and while the boys worked I took refuge in TMI's bedroom with a book.

The second night some Dijonaise friends drove out and we had a barebeque. I ate something a little too French and mixed it with a little too much wine and spent the second half of the night puking miserably in the bathroom, at this point sort of befriending the huge dead spider at the toilet side.

Despite all of this it was predominantly pleasant and saturated with sentimentality. I don't think I've ever been loved the way I feel I am now. -Even with my relationship which lasted years. Maybe every love is different? Or maybe I'm just learning how to pick em' and starting to hit a little closer to home? One can hope.