Calling All Cars, Calling All Cars!

Countdown to the end of my life on meds. Did some stupid doctor tell me that two weeks on a lower dosage would be considered "weening off"? I would very much like to put this man on a mind altering drug for a year and a half and ask him to jump off in two weeks. I bet he would straight kill himself.

Which brings me to the "OH SHIT!!" portion of this blog: I've got one pill left. I am having a Hallelujah that the Frenchman will be completely unavailable by phone for one whole week of his trip (climbing the ALPS! Have fun baby!! Please don't stab yourself with an icepick!), because I am almost one hundred percent certain that I would try to do something stupid like break up with him via text message. While he's in France. Because, seriously kids, it's about to get bad.

Anyone who's ever gone off a medication can tell you. It's equivalent to jonesing for crack. You're body rejects you, it's all "DUDEEEEEEEE. WHERE'S MY DRUUUUUGGGGGG???" And you have to go through stomach illness and chills and sweats and headaches and spinning. I have been hoping that the "weening off" process - which I have drawn out for an additional two weeks by skipping every other day and Oh! That didn't work! - would make things easier but I can see now that is SOOO not the case. Last night I was all "Biddy, I really hope I don't crash!" And she was all "Oh. Well you WILL." And I was all "OH MAANNNNN. That just ruined my week!"

And so I'm am preparing myself for the worst. Because the very best part about getting off this kind of drug is that you get fecking SAD again. Something you just spent two years trying to rectify. I'm not looking forward to this, as you can imagine I kind of LIKE my happiness. But just in case I am making a phone tree to photo copy and give to my closest friends and my neighbors. The phone call will go some thing like "OMG, lets get this bitch some tea and make her get out of the house!" OR "Can You Please not leave me alone tonight???"

Of course I will be pushing myself through it because the whole thing is its ultimately a good thing (Insert Martha: "It's a good thing."). I mean, I've been eating the things like M&M's for two years now and I think it's time I stop paying Merk (a small fortune!) to poison my babies and take matters into my own hands. I couldn't be in a better emotional place to do it - cause actually when I'm not crashing from these meds I feel amazing about my charmed life!

But you know, I'm just sayin. It's about to get ugly in Evolving's hood. Feel free to check in on my anytime, come visit, bring me a shit ton of chocolate and Amelie which I will watch one thousand times. And dudes? Don't call the Frenchman unless I'm seriously maimed or dead. I don't need to make the man piss his pants while he's tryin' to have a nice vacation. You know? He might panic and accidentally stick himself with the ice pick!

And I don't need two f-ed up people laying around my house...I'm just sayin.

Tough Decisions

Last night I laid awake in bed for a full three hours. What the hell? Three glorious hours of sleep just GONE, like that. My head was spinning from my "B Went Away to France and I'm Not Going To Think About It" party that lasted full two days. I had sobered up and my body likes to wake up once its sober, but this time I couldn't make it go back to sleep. I was laying awake weighing my options for the "Move to France" project. I was counting which pillows I would take, and how I would really miss the weight of my cats at my feet for a whole year. Mentally I packed my most prized possessions into a container. I didn't text B French, because I only send him crazy texts when I'm drunk.

I am currently facing a dilemma I never really saw coming (for whatever reason) and that is choosing between families. Obviously there is a matter of contract negotiation and wage, but there are two very separate opportunities available and I am having some trouble deciding which is more appealing. Do I want to live in the city, or the country? Do I want a little flat in a bustling metropolis with shoes shoes and more shoes beckoning me from each corner (Oh to have a Parisian wardrobe!), or do I want weeks at a time completely alone in beautiful isolation tending to chickens and gardens. Everyone here knows that owning chickens is one of my big wet dreams. And you better bet that I would fully rock the thick leather boots and the apron full of chicken seed out in the yard.

On one hand I would definitely love the chance to dive in and "B French" if you will - learn the language well and join my friends for dinner parties and walk on the Seine and visit the Louvre every fecking day. And on the other hand I could spend a whole year in a French village making friends with the butcher and collecting eggs and sampling the neighbors new wine, and each day after my chores I could work on my book until it's done.

Oh, what's a girl to do???

And then the utility man walked up to my front door and handed me a shut off notice.

"Are you in G?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Sorry, about that."

"Eg, yeah, thanks anyway."

I thanked him? What is this world coming to? I'm sure it's all a big misunderstanding anyhow. They just didn't get my check yet. Oh, what? Oh postage stamps. RIGHT....

I lead some kind of messed up, straight charmed life.

I Woke Just Now

Drenched in sweat. It was the pill thing again, I know. Not the new yeast infection I got from trying to wear jeans in ninety degree weather (with ninety percent humidity) while working working outside and walking around town running errands. It was also not the nightmare I was having about hookers murdering their pimps and crossing long lakes of blood filled with human skulls on bridges made out of bone. Even the creepy natives throwing flaming heads at us as we tried to manifest the broken part of the bridge was not enough to wake me up soaking wet from head to toe. Though I suspect the bad dream is a side effect as well.

So, I know, it's not the best financial decision ever, but I am making a solid week of not going to school and crawling back into bed. I have the spins and I smell a bit funky and I have to work a clopen (read: close tonight, open tomorrow) at the cafe which is fine only when your head is not stuffed with large balls of cotton and your crotch doesn't itch like you've got ants in your pants. (Oh how I had forgotten the joys of no car in a Texas summer!)

If any one would like to volunteer to take two tests for me (I think I'll still write the paper, but thanks) I am paying top dollar. Plus a free trip to Austin. Really, that would be swell.

But I Finally Have My Passport

Why is every trip to the post office excruciating? Really, I want to know.

Today I made a trek out to mail some packages - a postcard, something for a Frenchie and the first ever "mailed on time" birthday gift to my nephew - and to get my passport. Already I have postponed the task long enough. I'm "supposed" to be leaving in May for Germany. (But don't get me started on that.)

So I fumble around trying to find a box that is an adequate size for my nephews gift, addressing the box that ended up three sizes too big and cussing not so quietly to myself. By the time I have finally gotten everything together to send, I have somehow managed to include in my purchase international post card stamps, a roll of clear tape and the child of the woman in front of me.

Ahead of me in line a couple that looks like they might be in a band are sending an industrial sized laundry cart full of certified mail. I decide out loud that this should be made illegal. I look around. Which one is the passport line?

"Next!" the lady calls.

"I need to get a passport too," I call two hundred feet down the line.

Her: Did you make an appointment?

Me: What? Appointment? No, I need an appointment now?

Her: Yes, you come down here.

We are still yelling at each other. I step up to her window.

Me: Where does it say I need an appointment, does it say that on the window?

Her: Yes, it says it on the website.

Me: But, outside, does it say ONLY by passport? I thought that was a suggestion. As in "you can also make an appointment to get your passport, if you don't want to wait in line".

Her: Yes, you can only do it by appointment and it says it on the website too.

Me: Well, okay, can I make an appointment?

Her: The next appointment is in two weeks. You have to go to the courthouse.

Shaking my head and cussing some more I pay an absurd amount for my over sized box, small child and duct tape. And then I race to the courthouse, because I don't have two weeks to wait for an appointment and another three to get it processed.

As I am leaving the post office, though, I pass by the notice that supposedly told me I should have made an appointment. There, clear as mud, it reads "As of March 1, 2008, passports can be purchased by appointment Monday through Friday." Bastards. How dare they leave out the very important qualifier that tells me I MUST have a fecking appointment?

I take the sharpie that is stashed conveniently in my back pocket (one should ALWAYS carry a sharpie) and without hesitation write in capital letters "ONLY" after the word "appointment".

By the time I get into an office where I can actually pay money, and actually get the paperwork processed, I look like I have been picking cotton in the Alabama sunshine. I think, at some point during the day, I looked presentable knowing I would have a passport photo snapped, but by now I don't even care. My hair is flying in five directions, the makeup under my eyes has been sweat away to reveal the purple circles beneath and every single blemish is making a star performance.

The passport official shows me the photo, and I cringe.

For the rest of my life I will be eternalized in two inch by two inch form looking like some kind of watered down sun rat. I will not be able to forget what I look like when I lived in the South.

I have the Gret Stet of Texas to thank for that.

When You Live At Two Houses

I am eating Bulgarian Yogurt out of the jar and drinking room temperature Earl Grey from yesterday morning. My house smells exactly like "the litter needs changed", the trash is over flowing into a shopping bag beside it and the laundry I played hooky last Thursday to do has still not been folded.

I want to blame it entirely on the Frenchman, but the truth is it's more to due with my work schedule and guilty avoidance of school (which involves getting wrapped up in serious naps and emailing families in France) than living at his place as well as mine. Though it certainly doesn't help to leave every four or five days.

It's weird to be at his place now - not because of the whole break up debacle, but because he's selling it. It's so clean it feels un-lived in. There is the distinct scent that he will be leaving soon, and no more fun is to be had in this house by him. In a way its a blessing that I've not had a car since Easter because it would be unbearable to be domestic in that house now that I can not deny he is going back. I'm more than happy to treat it as a sort of giant, lovely hotel for my disposal on the weekends.

Meanwhile I have seven hundred thousand nine hundred and sixty two different reason each day not to make the four block trek to school. Today it's a crazy need to get a passport (seriously, can I wait until tomorrow afternoon? What would happen??) and the completely awful disarray that is my apartment right now. Then there is that little stomach ache and the spins from going off the meds.

Oh, can we talk about that for a second? Internets, how is halving a dose of medication for two weeks "weening" yourself off it? I've been spreading it out by taking one, skipping a day, taking one, etc., but I can tell by the spins I've got this morning that, by the end, I will still feel like someone is speeding me around a wobbly merry-go-round while asking me to do calculus in my head. I am almost glad that I don't have health insurance right now because I don't think I would want to keep going to this wacky doctor anyhow. Did I ever tell you he tried to put me on Lamitcol? Because I couldn't sleep. Bastard.

And now I have a delightful ten minutes in which to get ready for school. Someone mark this, because it's totally going to be the end of my blogs for the next two and a half weeks.

It's Finally Thursday and I Should Be In the Shower

I may have to bribe my neighbor to get me out the door for school for the next three weeks. Three weeks ya'll. And then I can put this whole crazy school mess behind me and get on with my life.

Yesterday I had many an entertaining thing to write, but now it's all sort of fuzzy and soft focused. I think lots and lots of sex does that to you. The make up sex, yes. It's been amazing. We are training for a marathon. No, you are so not invited.

Oh yeah, I remember now. I was going to update my blogroll! It's a bit outdated; I've not refreshed it since the days of NaBloPoMo, and most of those people no longer post. I read so many delightful things these days and I should ought to share them with you, you know?

In other news - I have surpassed the 10,000th page read. And I think I might throw a little party. Maybe I'll get on the merch band wagon and design a T-shirt. I'll make the Frenchman model it.

Keep an eye out for upcoming featured goodness: Red Wine Teeth with guest posters, the return of Bonus Blog Tuesday and other gimmicky goodness.

Now I'm late for class. Shit.

A Quick Post

While eating hummus and Tostitos, reading ma favorite blogs. I've decided that after the Frenchman decides to move on from my emotional roller coaster, I am going to change age groups and marry Bossy's Son. I hope he is open to being an Au Pair in France.

P.S. to the Frenchman: Just kidding. You know I can only date men at least eight years older than me.

The Cat Came Back

Me (via text): It's a good day for wildflowers...

Him (in return): It's a good day to come to meet you after work and kiss you.

The end of my shift came and I fished the high heels from my work cubby to try and feel less slouchy. I fluffed my hair and worried about the bags under my eyes. Outside the big picture window the little white corvette rumbled up.

I felt nervous and fumbled with the heavy steel door, knowing he was on the other side - wondering what it would be like. The CD player shuffled to Al Green "Let's Stay Together".

I fell out the door and smiled shyly. We were alone under the naked yellow bulbs, and we kissed.

"Are you sure?" I asked, into his neck. He smelled amazing, like soap and clean and man.

"I am not grey anymore," he replied. "I am in all the way now."

I kissed him again.

And Evolving was happy.

Ain't Too Proud to Beg

I asked him to come back, ya'll. When I weighed the "Life is short" hand against the "Isn't this your old I'm-afraid-of-your-leaving-so-I'm-going-to-cut-it-off-first trick?", I realized what a marvelous idiot I've been. I messed this one up, for real. Worst part? Now all of the stuff that has been returned to me from his house smells just like him.

Stab, torture, wound, pain.

Whatever the outcome, I am still leaving this country. That was happening whether he wanted me to come or not, though I'm not sure he really understood that. I'm not chasing you down, seriously! I'm finally nutting up to live my dream, that's all.

Two small problems with leaving for at least a year: 1. The Cats. My babies! No Host Family is going to let me take them. Where will my children live? Am I a horrible cat-mom? 2. How do you tell your mother that, oh the French guy you thought was going to steal me away to France actually doesn't want to do that at all but, um, I'm totally going anyway. And not completely break her heart.

Really kids - "evolving into what" indeed.

Happy Trails

Dear the Internets,

I cried for twelve hours straight. Do you know what that is like? To cry those hard, biting tears for twelve mother@#(*ing hours straight? Well, it's not fabulous for the complexion, let me tell you that.

So, I woke up this morning refreshed feeling like someone ran over my face with a Mack Truck and I decided: I can't lay in bed listening to the sound of the train in the distance and thinking it's his car pulling up. I can't watch for him at the door. I have to get the HELL OUT OF HERE.

Of course, though, I'm broke. Which is why I've added that spiffy paypal "DONATE" button to the right. There, see it? Please, my lovely bloggy friends, slosh your extra change into my tip jar and get me the @#)& away from this town ASAP.

Think how much more entertaining my writings will be abroad. Don't you want to support the international economy? Everyone who donates gets a free signed copy of my book. As soon as it's written and published.

Much Love,
The New and Improved, Hardened Heart Girl

Finale

Thus ends the saga of the Frenchman and Evolving.

The first of the two Frenchies went home, and the reality set in: "This one that I have, that I think is mine, that one will leave too. Soon."

And I spilled onto the floor like a porcelain basin of warm milk, curdled from the exposure to the sun and lost in the carelessness of the night. He left just as effortlessly as he crept in; the closing of a car door, the soft caress on my shoulder. But no more to kiss. No more to laugh with. He cannot be in love.

I would like to think he doesn't know how. Or maybe it's some old calloused wound he is holding on to that I can't break through. But I know the truth. I have seen into the compassionate heart of this man and I know what love he is capable of. Just not for me. Not for me, not now, not ever.

Five days till his birthday. What fun he will have. What emptiness will be filled by his friends - there before me and there still after.

I will bake him a cake. I will write him a love letter. I will shave my legs and get dressed up and make his favorite dinner. But he will not be there to receive it.

One more gone. I have still not learned my lesson I guess. Perhaps this was the one to teach me. Perhaps this was the one that will stick. Like a thorn in my side. Like each time I see a white corvette or hear a french accent murmuring in the line at the bank.

Time will dull the pain. One more down. Seven hundred million to go.

Nose Dive

So, don't freak out people. It's not worth freaking out over.

After a year and a half (almost two years? {it's really bad that I can't even remember how long its been}) I have decided to try to be alive and happy without the aid of my anti-depressant. It wasn't a snap decision. In fact it came with a long series of growing "hmmmm, I'm not so sure that's right" feelings I've been having with the drug including (but not limited to) night sweats, terrifying dreams and the complete inability to afford an extra 150 bucks a month. The feeling was solidified by a bit of over consumption this weekend and a very scary hour on the bathroom floor complete with Pink Floyd-esque hallucinations screaming at me that my inability to move was because of the pill I take daily to make me "normal".

Anyway, the short version of that story is that I'm going off (and not consuming like that ever again!).

Thus begins the fun that is drug withdrawals. Last night I soaked the bed with sweat. By this evening I had begun to feel the delicate sway of completely losing my equilibrium. Now I have chills and exhaustion and an inability to make full and complete thoughts into sentences.

Seriously ya'll, this is so fun.

And yet, I feel I am safe. B has agreed to help me fund whatever acupuncture and or Chinese herbs I choose to help the next few weeks not make me want to start madly popping pills again. I have told my friends who know my disposition and these days I know better than to go into hiding when I feel the blues. There is little danger of repeating what was two Junes previous. I am loved. I am supported. I happy and unafraid.

But, fair warning, this whole wonky withdrawal phase might make my posts look a little like skjdhgkjhghjtkh!!2@Qa. I'm just sayin. They don't call 'em drugs for nothin.

Here is a link I totally stole from my favorite Dutch illustrator Camila Engman. She is fabulous and so are these photographs. It kind of exemplifies how I am currently feeling...

Biting the Mother @&%#*@$ Bullet

This is the new five dollar bill.


Beautiful isn't it? It's interesting to me how we're trying to make it look like the Euro, but it's still only worth half as much. Can we actually afford to be printing new money?

Anyway, after a depressing trip to the bank yesterday I discovered that I am in possession of just sixty-six of those lovely new fives. If it actually were the Euro I would be able to pay rent. But it's not. So I can't.

So I took two more shifts at work. This means I will be working full time for the last five weeks of school. That's really going to suck, but at least I will be able to eat.

Pray to Baby Jesus I pass at least one of my classes.

In Which I Take My Head Out of My Ass

Maybe it's the new bed. Or maybe it's the fast approaching end to the semester and the urgent need to make a decision that is causing me to feel motivated to work again. Ew. I hesitate to say that out loud, because in the next instant I will surely take it back. Motivated? Not so much. Whatever it is, it's better than the alternative, which is feeling like an asshole for pissing away the money I spent on school this year.

I have to say, my teachers have a lot of faith in me. I met with my History professor today to talk about dropping and he actually referred to me as "an excellent student". To which I promptly laughed in his face. Seriously? I mean, I'm intelligent, I can grasp things but "good student" I'm not. Excellent writer? Yes. Talented procrastinator? Most certainly. Not good student.

SO. Night two on the new bed? Not as restful as night one. I think just as comfortable, but I kept waking up. I blame B for this, because he wasn't there. I don't know why but that seems like a good reason.

On further research I discovered that the "New Mattress" smell is quite common. I still think it's creepy as hell. I mean, I'm cool with them making my bed flame retardant - wouldn't that be an awful way to go! - but I like my chemicals like I like current events and politics: I know they're there but I don't pay attention so I can pretend they don't exist. And it's hard to ignore the smell of burning plastic as you try to slumber peacefully each night.

The good news is it's only supposed to last a week at the most.

In other, not so related news, I really wanted to link you to some awesome websites I found through another blog several weeks ago. But now I cannot find the blog, or any of the websites. Let this be a lesson in always bookmarking stuff I like.

It's cold(ish) out today, and that makes me crave a hot sandwich and a big bowl of soup. It makes me miss Philadelphia and, in particular, this little bakery I discovered on Chesnut Hill. All of the tables were small and stacked together on eachother so you were forced to sit with strangers. The place was lit only by lamps and served up the most delicious, fresh-daily soups. I went there on a day like today that was chilly and overcast. Sitting so near someone and sharing a meal on a cold day was one of the nicest experiences I had in that city.

No such thing exists in Texas because, as you all know, everything is bigger here.

To The Mattress!

New Mattress, Night One:

Well, first let me tell you a depressing little story about my old bed (Aside from that it was sagging and stained.). Once upon a time I was depressed. And then I had two - count 'em two - bad relationships (what involved a lot more crying) while owning this bed. I fought in that bed. I agonized about the meaning of my life and contemplated dying in it. I burned approximately seven hundred sage sticks over the top of it to try to cleanse all that shitty shitty energy out. And then yesterday, two men hauled it away for me, replacing it with a brand new luxury sleeper named "Aspiration". And we had the most incredible --

NIGHTS SLEEP! HA. You think I'm going to tell you all the details about our amazing sex life? Because I just did. And that's all you're going to get.

The nights sleep was, indeed, incredible. No back pain!! No tossing and turning! No nightmares! (Unless you count dreaming about horses giving birth a nightmare, but I don't because they weren't just giving birth they were giving birth to pristine white foals. I told B this and he said I was freaking him out and left for work as fast as he could.)

There is one small problem with my amazing new mattress though, and it comes in the form of whatever chemical treatment they used to make it flame retardant, stain proof and capable of space travel. All night I drifted in and out of perfect sleep smelling my bed. And not in a good, smelling-the-febreezed-carpet kind of way. In a What the F! is that burning peanuts and mushroom scent. Some nights the smell under the covers is me, and I did make a shiitake mushroom sauce last night, but this time I could tell the scent was not coming from my body and it disturbed me.

Kids - how am I going to get this smell out? Please, someone have a miracle remedy. It's almost too weird to sleep on, and you know how I hate losing sleep.

Stay tuned for night two.