The Red Tape of Love and Marriage

Getting married in France is, well, fricken' complicated. My birth certificate arrived from the land of aloha-style, (aka three weeks late in all directions,) and A and I faced the challenge of getting it translated IMMEDIATELY so that we could dash in the city hall and reserve a date. (Everything is happening in high speed, I remind you, so that we can submit his green card application ASAP.) The only official translator we could find in Dijon was expensive, old, unfriendly, and clearly insane. 

On the day it was supposed to be ready for pickup, I rented a street bike and ventured far and away in the freezing rain to find her hermit-like dwelling. When I buzzed, her wrinkled face appeared peering around a lace white curtain in a window above me. She had tapped on the glass to get my attention. She looked suspicious, so I waved. She disappeared for a moment, then opened the door to demand what I wanted. I said I was there for the birth certificate. She responded with a blank expression. "..The translation? For the birth certificate from Hawaii?" I added meekly.

Finally, signs of recognition. "-I told you after 10am!" 

"...It's 11..?" I offered delicately. She sized me up a few more moments before allowing me in to sit beside a giant, stuffed elephant to wait for my documents.

Couldn't dash away from there fast enough. Then, meeting A at the city hall with our hundred-page dossier, we are told that our attestations of residence, a bank statement for me and an insurance statement from A, were no good. Too old and they don't accept bank statements. We run home and scrounge up a phone bill for me and and a newer insurance statement for A. Then back to the city hall, where we hold hands in the seats across the desk from the mairie, panting. -She tells us they don't take phone bills either and points out that there were two addreses on A's insurance - one ours and one his parents - (which was "confusing,") so no good. We're told to go the office of electricity in town and get one there with both our names. We gather up our dossier once again and run across town to find that the office is closed uniquely that day for re-decorating. Awesome!

At that point we were out of ideas and returned to the city hall defeated. We ended having to photocopy every piece of identify in existence for A so that I could return the next day without him after going back to the electricity office and getting an appropriate attestation. Far from a walk in the park, this business! Luckily, I got it done this morning and we now have an official date: the 25th of May. (-Three weeks after the date we wanted, but beggars can't be choosers.) 

The one enjoyable part of the whole effort was putting a heart on the calendar.  That part felt good. 

 

(Dijon's city hall) 

Paris Perturbé

OH. MY. GOD. If anyone had ever suffered a more miserable day trip to Paris I  would be very surprised. Of course I was mildly excited, I love Paris, (who doesn't) and was looking forward to lunch someplace romantic on a pleasant spring day + getting my marriage paperwork + scenic train ride home with little to no complications.

Well. Ominously just before I arrive at the train station here in Dijon, I get a puzzling text from SNCF telling me that circulation is "fortement perturbé," and that I can exchange or cancel my ticket at the service desk. But, I've just arrived, I'm a bit late, and see on the information boards that my train is at the quai, à l'heure, and ready to leave. So I figure the SNCF people have gone insane and I jump on moments before the doors close and the train starts rolling. 

I text A to tell him how silly the SNCF people are and sit back happily.

As the train moves North, the warm sunlight of Spring turns from pleasant, to gray, to snow blizzard. Before I know it the train is stopped on the tracks in a sea of white, where we sit for the next two hours. I miss my embassy appointment and learn from the chatter around me that the Gare de Lyon is completely blocked by snow, no one is getting in or out, and I start fearing for how I'm going to get home in the evening. I havent eaten and I start thinking I might die. Also, I'm not dressed for snow. 

The train finally arrives in blizarding Paris at 2:30 in the afternoon, two and a half hours after my appointment. (I tried calling the embassy on the train but the operator kept disconnecting me or sending me to an answering machine.) I run down into the metro and catch the subway to rue Rivoli, just beside the gardens at the Louvre. I pop back up into the freezing snow blizzard and see the hazy, gray form of the Eiffel Tower peering through the white and for a moment feel a little burst of butterflies in my heart: I can never see that tower without remembering how in love I am with the city. The moment is short lived however, as I shield my eyes from the snow and skid across the slushy, busy intersections to the embassy. 

I get there and only one guichet is left open. I take a number and wait. After 20 minutes, the person abandons their post and I'm seemingly left alone in the American Embassy. A janitor eventually approaches me and asks what I'm doing. I tell him about my appointment and he tells me that everyone in notarial services is gone and that I'll have to come back another day. I muster my most miserable, helpless little girl face and tell him I don't live near Paris and can't come back. It seems to work and he takes pity on me and gets on the phone. Thank goodness, someone was still there for me and they met with me at one of the desks. Straight away they asked me if I had cash. I said no. Then they proceeded to tell me that they couldn't give me my marriage documents because the cashier had left and I couldn't pay with a credit card. I give her my miserable look I used earlier on the janitor. Again she takes pity on me and produces a map of the area. She draws a little path on it to an ATM, and tells me to hurry, because everyone was trying to leave.

Back out into the snow blizzard. I'll remind you here that I had bronchitis, was wearing spring clothes, and was running through a freezing wet blanket of white in a complete panic. Long story short, after stopping and asking several people in the streets,  I found the ATM, got back to the embassy in time, and got my paper work. By now it was time for my train home, so I turned on my heels and dashed directly back to the train station.. where all the trains were still delayed or canceled. Snow was falling in the station and I was freezing and still hadn't eaten. I took shelter in an expensive station cafe and made a hot chocolate last for the rest of the evening until finally, a train heading south appeared on the info board. I got home at 8 feeling victimized. Dieu merci, A had made me a bath and a cocktail. 

Sitting in the hot tub and sipping my drink, I thought, at least I'm marrying the right guy. 

Change of Address, ATTACK

I think changing apartments is generally 457% more complicated in France than in the United States. For example: step 1, call the internet company and ask them to cancel our service. They're speaking too fast in too much French and insisting I tell them "why," so I hang up in fear and have TMI call back. We need to know our landline phone number; somehow our name and address aren't good enough to locate our account. We scramble around to find it on our old paperwork. Once the cancellation is finally agreed upon, we get to pay them a 45 euros cancellation fee. I was prepared to tell them to allait te faire foutre, but TMI insisted that was normal practice in these parts. Then, the internet doesn't actually stop until they mail you a shipping label, you find a box, and stuff all of your hardware (router, modem, etc.) into the box, and then WALK to the other side of town to one of their authorized drop off stations. woo! Setting up a new account in the new apartment was a similar process but in reverse- it also required a 10 day activation period. 

The electricity was arguably worse. After I had retured the apartment keys to the agency, it was discovered that to cut the electricity  I needed a number on an electric counter somewhere in the apartment. I walked to the agency, got the keys, got the number and walked back. Called the service provider. I needed TWO numbers. I HULK SMASHHED the phone and then walked BACK to the agency and repeated that last steps. 

The complications, mishaps, and cancellation fees were attacking from all sides. Now that it seems to be over, I'm sort of hiding out in the apartment and peering fearfully around the curtains, waiting for some other institution I forgot to deal with to AMBUSH. 

Bitchn' Bout Birth Control

I'm highly considering getting an IUD. The hormones from contraceptives make me crazy and give me cysts in my boobs. Not working. Anyone who knows me and knows this blog will also know that condoms ain't gonna cut it. The IUD sounds ideal, lasting 5-12 years either without hormones or just keeping them where they belong, in (your uterus,) but it's very expensive and apparently terrifying. Horror stories plague the internet of women who havent had children, like myself, and endure terrible pain, bleeding and cramping through a scary procedure involving a cervical clamp. *shudder*

It's not like I'm doing it because I WANT to- this is the other thing that's getting me- I'm doing it for my relationship. So we can continue to have sex, avoid conception for the time being, and not assail our union with emotional outbursts. I hate that I have to deal with all this and also keep it partially to myself. Taking hormones? Invasive procedures? Ouchy boobs and emotional roller coasters all because apparently BEING A WOMAN SUCKS, and contraceptives are completely our responsibility. 

If your guy was getting something painfully shoved up his penis for $500 dollars just to make monogamous sex with you safe wouldn't you feel like you should pitch in for the price? Or at least say thank you? 

I'm sorry, I'm angry. I blame the pills. I have an appointment on Thursday and my nerves are off the charts.

The South, Spain, and The Fish Crisis

One week down in Perpignan, and though I've spent a good deal of time on the couch, in bed, and in the reading chair while TMI works in the vineyard, the time here has also been embellished lightly with some perfect Southern France and Spain exploration. 

Last Tuesday I went with TMI's mom to work and had a day to myself wondering the walled medieval city of Carcassonne. It felt a bit like Disney Land with the streets all stuffed and colored with flamboyant summer shirts and hairstyles of plump aging tourists, but the novelty of the scene was worth it.

Thursday TMI's mom took me yet again on an adventure and we crossed the border into Spain and spent the late afternoon in Gerona. Loved it. We sat under flowery trellises and sipped melty melon flavored shave ice-like drinks.I think we were supposed to be female bonding, which I tried sooo hard to do, but the language barrier is still fighting our having a comfortable relationship like a feral cat on a leash. 

The weekend the whole family went back down to Spain, this time to a town called Figueres, where TMI and I explored the Dali museum. We kept very close to one another and I adored exploring the inside of all those slides I'd seen while studying art history in college.

In other words I've been managing alright in the occasionally awkward 2 weeks in Perpignan with TMI's parents situation. But, just to complain about something, we have been eating A LOT OF MEAT. As in, every day, every meal. Before moving to France I'd been vegetarian for several years, namely because I couldn't handle the violence of eating something that once walked and talked- picking bones and avoiding fat has always made me squeamish, but also because I'm a strong animal rights advocate. I'd been handling the meat eating well enough, but last night,(and I know you guys are gonna barf at my wimp out factor here) we had fish, the kind where it's the whole fish, gaping mouth, steamed eyes and all, on the plate.

I picked around the bones and tried my best not to look at the face.. the little teeth, the white eyes, etc, and I was trying to work my way around the vein covered spine, when I pulled at it and a slimy red fish brain slipped out of the head. That was it. Trying not to attract any attention, I tried to pile the fish in a way that looked like I'd eaten it and left the table the first chance I got. It was a big reminder that for a year I'd been doing something I didn't feel good about; but also that I'm ashamed of not wanting to eat meat and afraid that TMI won't be able to understand.

Please, Spice Up My Life

How weary I have grown of the mild cream and butter flavors of France! I'm desperate for cinnamon, turmeric, ginger, clove, basil, masala! Spices!!! I made the grave mistake today of daydreaming of a world of zesty veggies: Indian food- and I nearly went mad. My body is aching for zest. Burning for spice. Hungry for heat!! Citrus! Peppers! Uuugghhhh. A girl who found her earliest culinary loves in Thai and Indian cuisine should never have chosen French as her heart's lacking language. 

In desperation I sent a message to a friend and San Francisco dweller begging that she send me a flat rate of boxed Indian foods. Incomparable to restaurant quality of course, but oh so much better than nothing. 

Lately I've been facing a heightened awareness of the lack of flavor in my life. I went on a quest to not 1, not 2, but 3 super markets seeking jalapenos, a grocery store staple in the states, but couldn't find the elusive buggers anywhere. Here food is seasoned with butter, salt, oil, herbs; garlic occasionally, but the slightest pick to your tongue you are hard pressed to find. My desire for saucy spicy burritos; steaming coconut curries, and colorful vegetable stir fries has just about pushed me out the window and to an un-timely and overly dramatic death. 

And I wont even mention Kombucha. !!!

First person to mail me a spicy care package gets an authentic Eiffel tower key chain. who's in? Anyone?

A Chance for Escape

The new blogger layout is actually discouraging me from posting. Very unpleasant. 

The news of the month is that I am returning to my island paradise on the 4th of July and I'm taking the best part of France with me. That's right, thanks to my favorite student travel website, I'm finally living the dream and am taking TMI home with me to meet the parents and the tropical lieu of my naissance. 18 hours of flight time, but who's counting when your lover is there with you, right? 

On the downside, after the chimerical wonder of having my mate in my homeland has expired,I'm faced with the usual "where in the world am I supposed to be?" dilema. France is expensive, lonely, and lets face it, impractical for someone with roots on the opposite side of the globe. Not to mention unhealthy. I can't seem to stop gaining weight here and my boredom and loneliness are heavier each passing day. The signs all point to a more normal settling ground, which, thanks to my online studies could be just about anywhere, but the human I'm in love with happens to live here, in Dijn, France. Rats. 

Seriously about the getting fat, btw, I was 104 when I left the US a year and a 3 months ago, now I think I'm pushing about 112, roughly a pound a month in this butter cream haven. When I lived in Hawaii or on the West coast it was easy to be a vegetarian, and freedom of mobility as well an employment and same-denomination currency made gym memberships easily attainable. 

But still, I'm thrilled for the coming adventure. Between then and now I have 6 more weeks of Dijon, 3 of which TMI has an internship in the South, so I may get to spend some weekends away. meeeeeh.

Mom Says, "it's Usually the Woman Who Sacrifices"

It occurred to be while standing on the landing to my building, fumbling for my keys in desperation to get off the noisy, smoke filled sidewalk, just how much I'm willing to give up. TMI is coming home this evening with the news that he has agreed to take an internship here in France instead of on the West coast, as we had initially planned.

Several days ago and after months of trying, we recieved a postive email from a Napa Valley vineyard that wants TMI for his required dates. I should be celebrating, but, in this last week before TMI's deadline to secure an internship, he's suddenly deciding maybe he doesn't want to go for it. In a case of cold feet, fear of the unknown, and allure of the safe and secure, he's this very afternoon meeting with a wine maker in Beaune to discuss his internship.

I'm poised to stay with him. And, in doing so, giving up another year with my family, missing my brother's wedding, (mere months after I missed the birth of my nephew,) an opportunity to work, my friends, and my plans. More commonly called "everything."

Everything, and I am on the thresh hold of giving it for the man I love. -Which of course makes even the tiniest chance that he may not be the one a very real and very frightening danger, in light of the sacrifices.

Maybe it is always the woman's job to wait and to follow. -And, for the record, I would never ask TMI to do his internship on the West coast if I didn't believe it would effect his career for the better. Is it just my lot in life to go where he goes? And, if so, is the love going to be big enough a pay off? He does mean everything to me. But is right for me to give him everything?

Back in July I was apparently a much tougher cookie. I'd do well to listen to my own advice.

What's it Worth?

I'm sitting and sniveling in my best girl-friend's bed in San Francisco, preparing for my 11 hour flight back to France. I am sick, true to form: I manage to be heroically resilient against cold and flu until a flight shows up within the 24 hour range. -Then I'm seemingly set upon by throat-seizing microbes. I was sick on the way over and it looks like I'll be sick on the way back.

But this isn't what I want to complain out. I want to complain that I'm on the verge of devastated because this week is the last week my significant other has to find and secure a vineyard on the West coast for his 6 month internship arriving this summer. If he doesn't manage, he'll have to get one in France. Meaning, if I want to stay with him, I may have to move to a smaller town, miss my brother's wedding and Christmas with the family yet again to lead a moderately lonely life abroad. -Especially if I only get to see my guy on weekends.

Naturally, I'm apprehensive about staying by his side. Yes, I love France, but I'll have to fight the visa battle again and endure our shared social life which honestly, makes me cringe. I don't really enjoy his wine student contemporaries and facing another 6 months of choosing between late nights with them or staying home lonely depresses me.

But I love him. Do I somehow go home and enjoy the 4 months we have together, then when the internship starts, pack up with a straight face and leave? Go to the states, or Hawaii with my family, and plot out a new future without him? Or do I figure love is worth everything, which I'm beginning to think it is, and stay?

p.s: if you haven't all ready, please remember to Fight for the Phoque, and send a message to the Canadian prime minister.

Addict

February 27th. Four days (but technically five since France is ten hours ahead) since I've cuddled with the man of my life. Roughly 1/9th of the way, and my body is freaking out. I'm desperate for the deep comfort that comes from being pressed up against his warm body; my face in his neck; his smells, his sounds, his breath. The loving sentiments expressed just from his hands on my shoulders or hips as we dose off together. Sometimes I suspect habitual physical intimacy is among the world's most difficult addictions to come down from, and the withdrawals are kicking my ass.

Four weeks! We're only young and hot and this sex crazed for a short period of our lives. I hate to be wasting even these weeks of what could be a sexual/cuddle & nuzzle marathon. And let me tell you, I think there are teenage boys currently thinking about sex less times in a day than I am.

I'm exhibiting all the symptoms of withdrawals: scratching, teeth grinding, irritability, nail biting.. Bottom line, I'm physically addicted to my boyfriend.

And, throughout all of this, I'm getting dad time. Yes, yes, family before all else. But in my case "dad time" means a constant but futile attempt to escape his flatulent blast radius in a too small ski-resort lodging, changing in the bathroom, igniting arguments, and sleepless snore-interrupted nights.

Tough times.

The Tragedy of the Hawaiian in the Snow

True to form, Christmas came and went. And, contrary to previous worry and despite not being in my warm island chain, I'm mentally sound. I gave TMI a Nintendo 64 after discovering it was his habitually unfulfilled childhood Christmas wish and had my mom mail over all of my old games in a flat rate envelope. He was totally beside himself with excitement even though the games didn't make it time for Christmas day. When they finally did, however, TMI regained his old broken faith in Santa when we discovered so very downheartedly that the games from US don't work on the system from France. welps, thats how the Christmas cookie crumbles :/

As for me I got a French edition of my favorite read, Zorba the Greek, along with a ring with pressed flowers and some oh-my-gosh-the-goodness-of-this-gift-is-awkward-because-you-arent-my-family fabulous red ankle boots from Kookai.

All in all I was holding myself together pretty well until the Wednesday after Christmas ski trip. Dear God, the horror. Let me remind you all that I am from Hawaii; my time to polish my Snowboarding has been.. limited, to say the least. So! There I am, on top of the mountain in the French Alps, strapped into the only Snowboard the resort could dig up for me and escorted by a pack of experts on skis. As if I all ready didn't feel enough the outsider, I was now the American on a snowboard. Naturally, even though he had been reassuring me all month that he was no good at Skiing, TMI was beyond competent and whizzed off down the mountain and over little jumps while I literally rolled down behind him.

The day was mortifying. TMI and a guy pal, his sister and her friend, all having to wait for me every fifty feet as I slowly made my paranoid turns down the mountain where they just whizzed along happily. Finally, half way through the day, I fell one time too many trying to keep up with their speed and hurt my butt. I cried like a pathetic child and insisted I stop.

That night and finally back at home, I peeled off my snowboard pants to discover I had a very unflattering blue butt and an inability to sit. Thrilled with all of this and feeling particularly great about myself, I cried in the shower. I can only hope this weekend in the Alps goes a little easier on my self esteem.. and my rear end :/

The Storm

Somehow, in my last relationship, even though the man was completely wrong for me and we had almost nothing in common, in the beginning I managed to convince myself that we were perfect; that he was perfect for me. It's amazing how people can bend their beliefs about themselves, about who they are, and what makes them happy when it could mean having someone love you.

I have to consider this when looking at the current rough patches in my relationship with TMI. Yes, I'm much older now and no, he's nothing like my last relationship: but I know my capacity to convince myself that someone is the one just because I want them to be.

Several nights ago after the Christmas dinner party, I told TMI, finally in a moment of truth, that often being entrapped at parties and wine tastings with raucous 20-21 year olds at 4 am, tired, usually intoxicated, and aching to go home, then being told that I have to leave alone and "I don't know when I'll be back" maybe "tomorrow afternoon sometime" is sincerely not the kind of relationship I want to be in. Maybe I can't explain why, but hearing "you go, I'm going to stay here on the couch" hurts. Like seriously. Hurts.

Then, mere hours after I expressed this concern, I discover that starting in July or August of next year, TMI is expected to do a 5 month internship somewhere in France and probably no where near Dijon. As if my visa expiring and being exiled to Hawaii on the other side of the Earth for 3-6 month weren't bad enough. Assuming I don't get the work visa and have to wait for the student one, that could mean a combined time of some 10 MONTHS apart. Not to mention no roommate when I come back to France.

What gets me is that after all of my effort: the studying for French exams, the paperwork, the job searches, the old people meetings, the tears and stress and money all so that I could get back to France, he tells me that he might be gone for 5-7 months? And he tells me this now??

...

Why is this happening?

Sometimes I feel sincerely like the universe is doing it's absolute best to keep my relationship from working. It's like maybe in the future he and I would bear a child who would become a warlord or bring forth the apocalypse. Do the international governments and wine education circuits somehow know about this..??? Honestly I wouldn't be surprised after how many obstacles have been relentlessly hurled at two people in love.

I have to wonder if the right thing really is to march into the haze armed with optimism, or listen to the signs and give up. When faced with such a struggle my first instinct is to submit to despair and climb under the table. When does it stop being romantic and start being foolish to stubbornly whether the storm? He's too young; the odds are against us; we face 10 months of separation; our families are oceans apart; what is keeping me clinging on?

That Jerk Mr. J

I waited up for him till 4 am then gave up. I succumbed to sleep while feeling I had left him to the wolves. In my mind I was hearing him laughing and chattering while I huddled alone in the dark. Of course he came home, and of course everything was all right, and yet the weekend left me feeling like a new person. I feel weird. The wine tasting plus the night left alone with my imagination totaled my brain in a crash of jealousy.

I keep thinking of the girl I had the misfortune of watching all of Saturday, the one who had him momentarily before he had me; had his virginity in fact, and I see his hands that I love moving over her skin, I hear his passionate breathing while he moves over her body, kissing her mouth, being inside of her.

And suddenly I feel like I don't know the guy. Of course every one has a past. Mine is much more populated and involved than his certainly has been and there's no reason I should be letting it affect our present. Except there she was: a physical, tangible, real person in front of me and no longer something I could pretend was imaginary or safely in forgettable history.

I have loved, but I've always managed to keep a rational distance from that jerk Jealously. And now, somehow, I've let him get so close to me that he could slip his hands around my neck and cut of the oxygen to my brain. I no longer feel love, I just feel possessive and skittish. How do I get out of this and back into the air?

Beyond the Hormone Hurricane

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The latest from the Etsy:

If you are ever in need of a banner, button, or custom illustration please remember to think of IFFTP <3

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Updates from the battle field: Turns out getting a student visa to study for a Masters degree in France is yet even more complicated than the work visa. You have to register through a website called Campus France and undergo an exam and phone interview long before you even go to the embassy to apply for the visa. This is particularly strenuous for me because, as you all know, I am from Hawaii: the nearest French embassy, aka the French Embassy of San Francisco, is not exactly a hop skip and a jump away. (more like 7 hours and $1000, actually)

You can see for yourself what the process looks like here:

http://www.usa.campusfrance.org/en/page/applying-a-french-master’s-program-–-all-disciplines-hors-dap

In the meantime I'm doing my very best to keep a stiff upper lip, keep calm, and carry on. I want to thank those of you who have commented and messaged me with your positive thoughts and affirmations; the majority vote from outside the hormone hurricane is that love stands a good chance. Thank you for that.

Past Cats and Passed Family Members

Honeybees depend not only on physical contact with the colony, but also require its social companionship and support. Isolate a honeybee and she will soon die.

- The Queen Must Die: And Other Affairs of Bees and Men.

Typing in the cafe where I work, I can see three French girls sitting together outside on the terrace. Each holding a white tea cup and sharing a large pot of tea with honey, I can see them chattering: moving their hands expressively, laughing, leaning a chin on their palm while they listen to one another's stories.

Last night I was overcome with such intense nostalgia that I couldn't sleep. I lay there dissecting memories of childhood, school, past Christmases and beach camp-outs, ice cream cones with girl friends after school and granola in the morning with my dad. I thought about past cats and passed family members, old infatuations and home-town landmarks. In my mind I drove my little car along the main road in my tiny mountain town, trying to recall every roadside detail that once outlined my every day.

I've been gone from all of that for a long time. I haven't had a proper girlfriend since coming to France and I scarcely talk to my closest friends from Hawaii. Yes, I am in love with both my boyfriend and with France, but it's time to face the music: I am homesick.

I finally found sleep cozied against TMI who, I might add, totally pissed me off by stealing the blankets in the night and then sort of.. sleep yelling when I tried to steal them back.. but all the same when in complete consciousness he made his best effort to ensure I was cozy. I'm only 23 and all ready regularly body slammed by nostalgia. Does it get worse? Or do we eventually figure out how to embrace Dr. Seuss and not be "sad because it's over, but happy because it happened?"

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.

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 French God of Health and Wellness Does Not Give His Blessing.

So... I'm having a problem. Since starting to take my oral contraceptives which I was once so very excited about starting, my boobs have grown voraciously to such an extent that they hurt terribly, and, even worse, my right one has staggeringly outgrown my left one. I HATE IT. I sent an explicit photo to most of my friends asking for advice. All conceded that the right one was definitely disproportionate and that I should see a doctor, -which I tried to do yesterday AND FAILED.

On my way to my appointment, literally, while walking to the office, I was suddenly assaulted by a pain in my pelvis. I was pretty sure I knew what it was, since I just recovered from one about a month ago, and ran to a near by health food store, (coincidentally the one and only in Dijon,) bought a jug of cranberry juice, and downed it en route. Evidently I was too late, because by the time I'd arrived I was so afflicted by the burning and insatiable need to pee it was all I could talk about with the doctor. I squirmed in my chair while announcing my sudden UTI and practically tore the prescription out of his hands and went running to the pharmacy.. unable to even MENTION my boob problems.

I sadly drank my medecin back at home while I mourned the fate of my ever growing boob. I really, reeeaally hope it chillaxes before too much longer. Also, what is up with the onslaught of urinary tract infections? I'd never had one before in my life and suddenly I've had two within the last three months. Obviously, the French god of health and wellness has it out for me.