Cave Dreams and Jesus

Last night I dreamt I was Ayla from Clan of the Cavebear and having all sorts of hot pre-historic sex with a blonde, virile caveman. Then, without warning, he turned into a surfer dude and left me for a woman of modernity, driving away in a mini cooper all the while I protested that he would never find another girl who came from the time of mammoths.

Six days since TMI left for his three week internship, and I interpret this dream as the beginnings of some painful sex withdrawals. I know I mentioned an intention to be an honorable girlfriend but promiscuity seems to glitter through my veins regardless of where I firmly set my brain.

I'm spending my mornings pulling espressos and sugaring waffles, trying to pass time and keep myself safely distracted. Everyone who works in this cafe is insane. Firstly because they are all a rare breed of French Jesus-freaks; and secondly for a hoard of individual quirks and eccentricities. Alex, who I'm working with today, is staggeringly cross-eyed. He moves around the kitchen flawlessly, but just looking at him can induce a headache.

We're in a lull at the present moment and he's sitting across from me intently reading "La Bible, Le texte original avec les mots d'aujourd'hui." His computer next to him has the words "Jesus et Alex" rotating in 3D for his screensaver. Meanwhile, and unbeknownst to him, I sit mere feet away reliving sexy pre-historic blasphemy.

Extra-Curricular

I would like to take this time to name my English student "Scratchy," after his late baby squirrel. He is my age, nice looking, a non smoker, and one of those rare specimens known as "French Surfers" from the South. Understandably he comes with an air of nostalgia for the male species back home in the islands, wearing T-shirts and sporting surfer guy hair.

While I have long suspected that the only reason he comes to my lessons, since I'm the world's worst English teacher, seriously, may well be our age proximity and my not entirely horrible cuteness quotient, today he surprised me by offering to take me on a visit to Dijon's surrounding areas "some Sunday," "when he has time."

He also had a lot to say about me potentially finding work in a vineyard. I shall investigate this.

And in secondary news, I've been thinking a lot about dreams this week. Windows to the subconscious? Vast reservoirs of cryptic info about life, spirituality, or human psychology just waiting to be deciphered? Or are we unaccountable for any of the trouble our brains get into when we let em' off the leash each night?

Lately I've been dreaming about having a pug dog puppy and forcing cuddles on his tiny squirming body. I don't generally like dogs; and I've always found ownership of the small pathetic ones kind of a perverse display of a desire to dominate a lesser and submissive being. I've also dreamt of surviving a zombie apocalypse by fleeing to the ocean and staying with a pod of dolphins for 8 days, befriending a tree that had skin instead of bark, and always, alllwaaays, dreams about Harry. He emerges, full of love an reciprocity, and my chest fills up with warm delicious sunbeams; until the the sight of my ceiling extinguishes them with a swift bucket of cold awareness.

French Pizza = Yes

I'd like to put it out there that France has a serious leg up on Italy when it comes to the eating-pizza experience. Here's why: huile pimentee. Olive oil with hot red peppers, rosemary, thyme, and garlic steeping in it. Aka, spicy ecstasy in yum form.

I know what you're thinking- pizza is oily enough, can I please not add more slick to that which all ready stains my napkin orange? I too thought this. Until I experienced the multiple orgasms that come after dousing a pizza in this stuff till its basically drowned and gone to heaven. Pizza in France is now one of my most favorite pass times.

..And today was a rather wonderful day! Here's why: I am now the proud (but also pretty nervous) owner of A: a French bank account, and B: a French apartment. That's right! They keys shall be placed in my hands tomorrow morning! If all goes well, that is. (Time has been showing us that it tends not to, but positive thinking is in fashion these days.)

Secondly it was an incredibly warm and beautiful spring day, and evidently, love is in the air because not one, not two, but three Frenchmen conjured some reason or another to stop me in the streets. The first two ditched upon discovery of the language barrier but the third graced me with the serious and sensual phrase: "J'adore votre accent.." Welp. The day suddenly earned 10/10 for happiness points.

On a completely unrelated note, last night I had a dream about M's that ended in getting pummeld by the backhand of his angry wife. Ok universe! Enough with the subconscious karma stp! It did leave me wondering what disasters (and delicious non disasters) were avoided by moving to France, though.