This Marks This, That Marks That

Today is a milestone in one or two ways. Importantly, today is the one year anniversary since I met TMI on a drunken rowdy night in the bar below my apartment. Now, one year later, he sits reclined in christmasy red boxers on the bed beside me studying for oenology exams. In one year his presence in my heart has spread like a drop of ink in a pool of water. I'm glad to love him and to be loved- but it hasn't been easy, and our obstacles aren't over yet. 

The two of us are going to Hawaii in July, (Hurray!) to meet my family and spend 5 weeks in my island paradise enjoying warm sand, soft kitties, and green mountains. yyyeeeeessssss. Then, I face two months away from my cozy as he returns to France and I stay in the pacific for my brother's wedding in October. Then I am plagued by a great internal debate.

To be blunt, I've thrown in the towel on this wrestling match with France. No work visa, no close friends, and no mobility has crippled my optimistic outlook and left me a depressed hermit. Two month aways from TMI will be really, really hard on me; (the last five weeks apart were like squirming on a bed of nails) and then I'm faced with the decision to stay in n the US, get a life,  and wash France and TMI out of my hair, or, return to the dreary existence here in Dijon for the sake of love. TMI has one more year of study, after which he will be free. But can I handle one more year of this? Seriously? Lets face it guys, I'm a wimp.

All this aside, tonight we're going out for wine and charcuterie and this morning I gifted him a watch. I thought it was the best thing ever, I spent months trying to pick the thing, but after all he doesn't like it and I have to return it.. Bearing the scarlet mark of a failed gift giver. 

Today was the day I also broke the ice into the first preliminary forays into my novel, a biographical work of my grandmother's life. It was strangely terrifying. My collection of her journals, tapes, and photographs have been perched on my bookshelf for months- and even though I've known it was time, a part of me has been curled up and cowering in my inner corners. I'm just a lost girl- and she's a giant. Confronting her is intimidating. But, I finally came to terms that I'd be damned if her story doesn't get told, and I'll wager she'd be right damned too. So that settled it.  

Now I need a shower. It's warm out there!

Smooth Road, Boring Drive

I can't help but notice the effects a perfect relationship with a gorgeous French man has on my blog. Without the changing sexual partners and scale of sexual quality to complain or boast about, the writing does tend to get a little... domestic.

Last night on Sex and the City, (go ahead, shoot me) someone was complaining about "mind blowing sex" intellectual connection, and the apparent impossibility to have both. I almost thought, with a kind of mild creative dismay, that I do have both: Everyday I have mind-blowing sex, ranging from intimate to dirty and dangerous, and at the same time I have daily affirmations of lasting love, intensive intimacy, and a seemingly infallible connection. That's all great for my well-being, but for my literary life it's been taking it's toll.

The sex is still averaging at 3 times a day, we order take out sushi and eat in front of reruns of Sex and the City and old French filcs, we read in a bed like an old couple and play video games together like a pair of adolescents. As though to damper my present bonheur, however, my mom sent me a bunch of affirmations for the New Year; one of them was "remember, no matter how good or bad a situation is, it will change." Good news for those who are suffering and simultaneously bad news for those having multiple orgasms. Do all good things come to an end? My blog is probably hoping so.

The Schism Approaching

I'm in Avignon with my mother and, at this very moment, sitting on my bed with my computer in my lap, arguing with her about circumcision. My 8-months-ago self would have fought this into the ground with me, but as some will remember from my last post on this subject, I am now pretty convinced that no one should cut off a part of their penis.

But this isn't what I want to talk about. Nor is it my mothers panic attacks, negativity, and contagious fear of adventure of even embarking on the next leg of our trip to Foix. Instead I want to tell you that A) I'm fatter than ever and ate too much salmon this afternoon, and B) mom and I visited the famed Palais de Papes and managed quite a good time. Afterwards we explored the beautiful adjacent gardens but the wind was so frisky and my mom so tiny that she was literally blowing away; we were forced to seek shelter in the indoors where I was assailed by the salmon.

And, finally, the literary news: My grand mother and great hero, Alberta, 102 years old and married seven times, world traveler, accomplished artist, and breaker of many rich and famous hearts, is on morphine in her Hawaiian old folks' home and on her way out. Her adventures are compiled in volumes and volumes of illustrated journals and notebooks- which I, as her equally horny and adventurous prodigy, have decided to digest and turn into her well deserved biography. I can frame it with my current French happenings as well as her humorous but defiant plunge into super-old age.

Lastly, I miss the man I love and dread the ever nearing schism between us when I am forced to retreat to the island chain half a globe away. ..In fact, seeing the worry in words causes a heart ache; so that closes this post.