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 :)

Rabbit Fur Shoes

So no post yesterday; I'll admit my chipper and resiliently optimistic outlook failed me and I had a minor B-like break down. I spent the day in bed and cried like a teenager. B had had shrimp several nights before which meant that there was a mountain of heads, legs n' tails piled by the door- and mixed with some old garbage and rotting meat I couldn't even even go near the area to escape. B spent the day in front of the tv, in itself infuriating, and, with no friends, no job, seemingly no direction and the smell of old shrimp creeping up the stairs, I lost it.

The sporadic moments I spent out of the bed and not so teary-eyed I passed desperately looking for something to get involved in. I looked at schools in Paris and sent emails to distant family members and French guys and girls via dating websites. Though I may be feeling better today, one thing is clear; I've got to get out of here.

Fortunately today had a rosier opening. I woke up to an email from appartager.com, a French website for searching for roommates. Four young people in a beautiful old house a few minutes out of centre ville had expressed a mild interest in my illiterate self to be their fifth. What an uplifting thought! A social life! A place away from shrimp carcasses! I sent them an email and am now waiting for the best.

In other news today B was suddenly overcome with a desire to paint his apartment. He uncharacteristically launched himself into the world and returned with a gallon of white paint. No complaint here, the orange of his living room had long burned my retinas. I spent the better part of the day helping him paint, and he paid me back with a veggie pizza in the soir. It's a big improvement I think; anything to make this place less shrimpy I'm gonna be in favor of.

a good roommate to the bitter end.

And a final interesting tid bit: while I sang French Disney songs for B, we some how got on the topic of Cinderella. Turns out, the "glass slipper" is actually a bad translation from an original French story. Don't quote me on this now, but apparently Cinderella originally left a rabbit fur slipper at the ball :)

Worried Mothers

Today, while I was taking a shower, or rather, attempting the freezing uncomfortable struggle that B calls "a shower," the buzzer started going off at our front door. Weird, you can't even get to our door without a key to open the one downstairs in the street. I'm naked in the tub though, so there isn't much I can do about it. While I cling to life against frost bite the person outside, seemingly very impatient, is pressing the door bell over and over and over again. B is, of course, asleep- and, as I've said before, if it don't wake the dead it aint gonna wake B.

By the time I was out of the tub and had a towel around myself the person was gone but had left a note under the door. It was from B's mom. oh yeah.. I did send her an enraged email last night about B lazing about all day.

The night before I lost my usual chipper and caring composure when B was still asleep at 9 pm. I was SO FRUSTRATED WITH HIM that I screamed and kicked a box across the room at him. He still didn't stir.

I simmered down a little, and, like I used to do with K when he was in a similar funk, I prepared an offering of food. That finally got him up. Then, while he ate, I asked him if it was his medication that made him so tired. When he said yes, I told him that he needed to change his prescription. The drugs weren't helping him if they were making him sleep away his life. He explained that they were good because he didn't have stress and worries while he was asleep. I insisted that the only cure for his depression in the long run is to lead an active lifestyle.

Then he gets irritated and whimpers "Pleeease Lea, I iz knowing what iz good for me, okay?"

Then I loose it. I yell at him that "No, you obviously have no idea what is good for you!" I try to explain further that drugs that make him sleep instead of facing his problems are only prolonging his depression. Then I storm out, cry, and write a frustrated letter to his mom. whoops.

So I send her text saying that the door is unlocked and she comes back. I hide upstairs while I hear her crying in the kitchen with B. Dang! Looks like I stirred things up a bit.

Fortunately when I showed my timid face in the door I learned that she had come for other reasons as well. While B had been spending his life asleep, he'd been neglecting his adult duties; paperwork involving hospital stuff and rent stuff and work stuff that I couldn't really understand, so his mom had come to get some of it straightened out.

I ended up having to take her around the town to various places in centre ville to drop off paper work for B. She tried to talk to me about his problems and I explained the best I could, but she doesn't speak any English and my French is still terrible.

Anyway! I did notice when she jokingly called me B's nurse. So that's my life abroad, I guess. Laaaaaame. I mean, hurray, I'm helping someone by living with them, I suppose, but I'm starting to feel like I've been baby sitting depressed jobless men for the last 6 years of my life.

So, to perk myself up, I posted some more adds around town as an English tutor and sent some emails to piano teachers asking if any would risk giving lessons to an illiterate. I look forward to a more active life! I do I do!!!