The Great Thing About Irony...?

I knew what irony was before that Alanis Morrisette song came out. I'm not saying I could articulate it, but I knew. I was a cool kid like that. Now, as an adult, I find lots of things ironic and they have nothing to do with cutlery or rain on my wedding day.

Ironic for me is being broke for months and then - the week I'm going on vacation - finally I get a call from the temp service offering me a week long job. It's also still having his car in my drive way, even though we aren't really speaking to each other. Or having him ask me to send his plastic T.V. mounts after I threw them in the dumpster in a fit of despair, and finding I can't even fish them out because two fifty pound plastic bags of lawn clippings have been placed on them.

The ironic things make being alone harder I think. It's like being stabbed in the stomach with scissors and calling out for help from the middle of the desert. I don't know why there were scissors in the desert, but sure enough I fell on them and now that I'm bleeding I could sure use some help. And then, after a significant loss of blood, I no longer have the energy to stand and so fall forward which causes the scissor handles to open and do me in.

Poor Biddy came to visit me this weekend, not long after I left the Frenchman at the airport. She was kind enough not to say anything about the fact that I couldn't see out of my puffy crying eyes and smelt like a fish for lack of showering. I would have loved to have been able to show her my favorite parts of Austin but as it turned out someone had sewed me to the couch.

Today I got an email horoscope that urged me to find peace and joy in my solitude, so I guess I'll try that. Mostly I am just thankful that my mom is coming into town tonight and that I won't have to be in my apartment alone for the next week. I don't know how many nights I can "find joy in my solitude" when there is nothing on T.V except re-runs. And they don't even come in clear.

See, that's ironic.

Disfunction Junction

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately that mention some new fad idea where you are supposed to do at least one fun thing a day. I think it must have come from a book or something, and it doesn't seem terribly ground breaking - yet it's something very few people actually make an effort to do. You know, you get busy with work and chores around the house and Wah Wah Wah he's gone, and you forget that it's essential to your happiness that you do the little things that aren't part of your daily routine. Like paint your toenails. Or go for a leisurely bike ride. Or maybe you love to dance around in your underpants. Whatever gives you a cheap thrill.

So today I decided my fun thing was to put together a model. It's not as fun as the old days when you got to sniff glue to succeed in building the perfect airplane (all the pieces snapped together), but it was a task I could do mindfully. It offered a bit of distraction.

And then, after I was done, I cried.

I think that negates the fun thing I did.

Tonight, because falling asleep is virtually impossible without bursting into awful, heaving sobs I will read the new books I purchased:


This book has keen little bits of information such as where to buy vintage french ribbon and the best way to find a great bistro. (Look for the ones that are closed on the weekends.)

This is a Frommer's guide (which I normally steer clear of) but holds invaluable information such as the variable pricing of food at Parisian cafes (Generally called Tarif des Consommations, these are based on where you sit to take your meal/coffee.).


and then there's this one, which is going to be campy and redundant but is written with enough bitterness that it should fuel the anger I am trying to hone in on to help me move on.

Hopefully they are books I can read until I pass out from exhaustion - a better way to pass out than the alternative which is wasted ass drunk.

No Matter How You Ice It, Break Up Cake Sucks

It's amazing how watching someone you love very deeply leave (and knowing it will never be the same again) feels exactly like this:



Maybe I should put some ice on it.

When You Get Caught Swindling, Pretend You're French

The Frenchman owned an espresso machine.

He'd had it for as long as I've known him and always complained about the smell that came from the plastic reservoir in the machine. It leeched into the espresso, he said. It was true, of course, but what can you do really? It was obviously the plastic and if he called to replace it, the same plastic would be used and the same problem would occur.

So he suffered.

Then one day we were strolling around Crack and Barrel (a term "accidentally" coined by the Frenchman) looking for dinner plates he could take back to France when we came across the espresso machine isle.

There was his Krups machine, standing innocently beside the rest of the shiny Italian ones, hoping we wouldn't notice it.

"I wonder," said the Frenchman, and began taking reservoirs out of the various models, smelling them.

Sure enough, just as he suspected, the brand new floor model smelled just like his at home. It was something metallic; very obvious. Just at this moment the cheerful sales girl came up and asked how we were doing.

After twenty minutes the girl had enrolled her manager in the conversation who offered that we bring the machine back, even though it was six months old, and get store credit toward another machine or something else in the store. The Frenchman admitted to me later that he hadn't purchased it at Crap and Barrel, but certainly he would take advantage of this offer.

So He packed up his house and sent it off to France, setting aside the machine for return. He even had the original box. Today we went back to the store, prepared to make use of the $150 bucks credit he would get.

The first sales girl met us and we explained the situation.

"Oh no!" she said, "Go and choose something for exchange and we'll keep this up here."

Tra la la, we skipped away to choose a nice dinner service or two. He decided on these:

Suddenly, a dark cloud descended and the mood changed in the store. All the well dressed sales girls became aloof, cold even. When we arrived at the counter with our plates, three of them were swarming.

"So, um, we want to exchange that for these," said the Frenchman, nervously.

"Okay..." said girl 1.

She began to enter a random cost in the computer. $6.95...

"The other girl said it was $149.99 or something like that."

The first smiley girl had evaporated, or maybe been eaten alive by the three bitter looking ones. The one in front of us - Doris was her name, I think - rolled her eyes back in her head and adjusted the price. The others (Boris and Jill) began to swarm.

"So, um, just for our records," said Boris, "Did one of our representatives approve this item, before you purchased it? Did you get their seal of approval that it was a good product??"

Why would you bother selling crappy products, I thought.

"Well, yes, I think so," the Frenchman stuttered, twitching.

"And you didn't want to exchange it for another machine?"

"Well," I said, trying to look aloof, "He's leaving the country and he can't pack a machine, you see."

Shit, we simultaneously thought, that's a bad lie. They are going to know we're lying.

"Mhhmmm," said Boris, towering over us ominously.

Then Jill piped up, her voice growling like a gremlin.

"This isn't even from here. This is from Bed Bath and Beyond."

The Frenchman and I avoided each other's eyes.

"Oh, really?" I said dryly, "We, uh, they told us they got it from here...it was a gift."

"Yeah, uh..." said the Frenchman, and then cussed under his breath in French.

Boris, Doris and Jill exchanged steely glances.

"I'm really sorry? It was a gift?" The Frenchman repeated, his accent rising like the Alps.

As if hypnotized by this foreigner, Doris, Boris and Jill made the same ugly face at the same time, then mobilized to finish the transaction. I could tell they were all secretly in love, and this alone was the reason they were letting us go, fancy plates in hand.

Wordlessly I stood by while he swiped his card, beads of sweat crowning on his forehead.

The three stared on, feigning a look of dismay. It was pretty convincing, but I could tell they were just jealous.

We waited until we were out of their ear shot before he whispered to me in his best American accent,

"Maybe we should run."

"No," I replied, "Then we'll look guilty."

"We are guilty," he said.

"Nah...they were all bitches anyway."

But I made mental note to, next time I was trying to exchange my busted goods for fresh new ones, always pretend I was French.

A Day At The Lake (A Post for the Frenchies!)

Since the frenchman leaves next week, he decided to have a little party. In the grand tradition of the Friends he rented a speed boat (and a wave runner - woo!) to begin his going away party. Also in the grand tradition of the Friends? Going away parties that last ALL WEEK LONG.

We began the morning at Melynda's house, where a rack of cooling blueberry muffins was awaiting us.


She and Brian set to making breakfast like good little slaves hosts. The house filled with the smell of chorizo and eggs and coffee. (Yes, her baby bump is starting to show!)

The Frenchman said something about stealing Baby Oak.

But then Bloody Marys and Mimosa's were passed around and he forgot all about it.

Baby Oak plotted for his own little party. It involved the Bloody Mary he is wistfully gazing at just out of this shot. The Mimosa's did not interest him. After a good taste of vodka, though, he decided that drinking is so disgusting and he would instead steal the boat, as revenge.

After the Champagne bottle was licked dry (which is tricky, if you think about it) we moved onto this giant bag of Margaritas.

I'm not sure what was happening here, but I bet it had to do with the fact that their baby was about to become wanted in four states for felony boat theft.

Because that was the first thing Oak did when he got on board. "All who are with me, look like Charlies Angels!" he said.

And so they did. Then the Frenchman and I decided we wanted the baby and the boat all to ourselves and we dumped everybody overboard.

Oh, don't worry, we threw them beers and life vests too!


"Hooray!" we said, kissing victoriously, "The boat is all ours!" But then Carolina and Melynda (who had traded places with Lindsay for this photo) piped up from behind us. "Ahem," they said.

"We're still here, so knock it off with that kissy face stuff, okay?" They resumed looking like models for an American Eagle ad, and B and I took off for land giving up on the stealing the boat plan for a more lucrative future in Snipe Hunting.

The petite familie joined us, wanting a piece of the action. Before you could say "What the &*#! is a 'snipe'??" I was drunk enough to slur off a video of our search. Pay careful attention to the way I completely Americanize Pascal's name (and also to my double chin. Thanks mom!).


SNIPE HUNTING from Juliet Pennay on Vimeo.

Lindsay was pleased with Bay's acting and agreed to pose for this photo for the press release.

All in all it was an uneventful day. No broken bones were had and no arrests were made. It didn't even rain!

After leaving the boating party safely at home, B and I went for a last bite to eat. We were starved from a day in the sun and opted for a little Brazilian restaurant near Melynda's. Here we were served the worlds largest Mojitos,


And the world's smallest toast.

But who could complain?? The both of us knew we'd be together with the Friends again soon, because the Bon Voyage had only just begun.

Do Not Bathe Cats

Even if you think that you have no other choice because their fleas are out of hand. Even if you think "I will lather them up before I even take them to the bathroom and they will love it because it will be like a little massage and then the part where I submerse them will go quickly." Even if you think "If I don't take care of this soon, the fleas will lay eggs in my bed."

DON'T DO IT. BECAUSE CATS DON'T LIKE BATHS. REALLY.

And they will scratch your arm off.

PLUS, you will feel so bad when they squat around the house looking like THIS:



If cats can plot revenge I will die in my sleep tonight.

That's a Great Idea!

So, one of my newest readers emailed me today and asked me if I had bumper stickers. "Bumper Stickers?"I thought. Then I thought "Oooh, yeah, and T-shirts." And so I started this Cafe Press store for anyone who wants to shamelessly plug my blog (or just loves the little freaked out bird in a bubble).

This is the beginner shop, which means I am limited to what I can sell, but I will definitely add different images (and sizes of the images cause the current one is pretty small) as the site, er, evolves. I personally plan to buy one of those cute hoodies in pink!

Look to the left and you'll see a new button that will also link you to the shop. It is right above the (ahem) "Be French" donation button. That one's new and improved, too.

Thanks for the idea Leahbear! I hope your blogger sticker collection flourishes!

Stupid Things I Say to Famous People

To Damien Rice (Holding my head after hitting on a sound monitor [standing on the table sounded like a good idea at the time]): "Its so great to meet you - do you have any advil??"

To Lisa Loeb: "When I was little, my best friend and I used to listen to your songs every Wednesday before going to the pool." (Her response was something to the effect "Wow, NOW I feel old").

To Gwyneth Paltrow: No words here actually, but an obvious obsessed looking stare from twenty feet away for too long not to notice. She looked nervous.

To David Sedaris, last night at his book reading: "Well, I guess you probably do need a box for your nuts!"

In context, that last one turned out to be the least stupid of all the things that I've said (or done) in the presence of a respectable famous person. The conversation went:

David: Would you like a nut? (Offering me a candied almond from a box on the signing table.)

Me (Taking a nut): Thanks, I actually want one of these boxes, where did you get it?

(The plastic box had a screen printing of his book cover on the front.)

David: The hotel made it for me, as a gift.

Me: Hmm, well, I guess you probably do need a box for your nuts.

David: I think I'll give it to a crippled person. They don't have to be physically crippled, emotionally will do.

I didn't know how to respond to that so I laughed, thanked him for signing my books and refrained from shouting back "Can I get your address so we can be friends in Paris?!!"

I thought that might be pushing it.

I also refrained from asking any questions about Paris during the Q&A post reading. Even though I was DYING to know if French School really WAS that awful, I couldn't figure out how to phrase my question without "accidentally" throwing in that I was leaving for Paris in two and a half months. I imagined it falling out of my mouth like a piece of half chewed food, and then having every David Sedaris fan in Austin looking at me with some kind of annoyed scorn. ("Oh you're one of THOSE people," they would think.)

Regardless, the reading was really great, David (we're on a first name basis, remember?) is really that funny. I can't imagine being that funny all the time, but I decided that I wish I could be. I wonder if it's possible for highly emotive people to also be deadpan. For some reason I think I would find this difficult.

He did sign my book, however (and one for the Frenchman it said "I'm so 'fache' I missed you!"), with a little drawing that may or may not be Abraham Lincoln.


I came home and read halfway through the book before going to sleep. (Its really good, you should buy it when it comes out in paper back.)

My Head Might Explode

I have been doing a really good job of not thinking about all the things that are happening at one time. I sift carefully through the move outs and move ins, try not to worry about the packing, don't obsess about the leaving. And then WHAM - like a Mack truck - it all comes crashing in on me and exactly what I knew would happen does. I am paralyzed, despite the million things I know I need to mobilize and do there is nothing I am capable of except to sit and stare at my walls. I can't even cry, I'm so dumbstruck. I have stacks of lists, broken down and put aside, waiting for me to address their next item.

I have very suddenly become the exact picture of my own tag line. Evolving revolver exactly, because I'm definitely changing and I'm surely moving forward but it feels an awful lot like Russian Roulette when moments like these slide into the round. Evolving into what? A Parisian? A nanny? A writer (finally)? A certifiable nutjob?

And then I do cry and thank God because the pressure inside my body is building so much that I worry my thin frame might buckle under the stress. Thinking gives way to sobbing which gives way to feeling lighter and remembering that even though it's all happening really fast, its a seriously good thing.

Just put one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, one day, you look up to find you're there already.

Between Phones

It's hard to keep a solid train of thought answering a multi-line phone system at a real estate office (if you're me, anyway), and so I'll write the rubbish from my head in the momentary breaks of silence. Try to follow, okay?

Today I saw a bum sitting on a bus bench, sleeping. He was lolling back and forth, trying to stay upright for some reason. I didn't get close enough but I knew that he smelled like piss and alcohol. From inside a very cold Starbucks I watched as another transient passed behind him. With a great show of disdain she sloshed her coffee on his slumped body. For some reason I thought it was hilarious to know that even homeless people hate each other.

While I sat enjoying my overpriced soy latte and a tasteless bagel (dry, with barely enough cream cheese to make it tolerable) a man came in from outside and handed over a pencil drawing he'd done from the other side of the window. He had clearly just sketched it wasn't bad but I was taken off guard so before he could even speak I answered his offer to give it to me with "I'm sorry I don't have any money." Clearly, I had some money - or else I wouldn't have been sitting in a grossly air conditioned Starbucks drinking a four dollar latte.

"I didn't ask you for money, I said 'I hope this doesn't offend you'." He replied, obviously offended.

"Oh, thank you," I said, flustered. And proceeded to feel terrible. I vowed that if he was still hanging around when I left I would buy him a bagel or something. He was not.

-- Apparently, it takes three and a half hours for my body to process 32 ounces of Starbucks coffee. I didn't really need that second one, but the smarmy barista took a liking to me, I guess, and so I got it for free. To me, Starbucks is an amazing colonic.

-- I find it interesting what people expect temporary employees to do. Everyone has a different view of it. Yesterday someone asked me to make a mailing label for him. I'm perfectly capable of making labels except the desk I am using does not have a printer at it (or near it). As he has obviously worked here longer than I, you would think he might know that I don't have a printer or the labels, at the front desk. No one even showed me where the printer IS in the office. And so I wonder if he maybe thought, as a temp, that I carry around a printer and adhesive mailing labels. Or maybe he thought they print out of my ass. I don't really know.

But the real problem is trying to figure out who is who. Because wouldn't you know there are two Russ' and two Travis'. There's a Davis AND a David, as well as a Tracy, Theresa, Terry and a Tiffany. Each of the T women are of the same approximate age and blonde, and I am pretty sure that I was paging Terri's office while she sat in front of me talking with a client.

No one showed me how to dial out and so I couldn't call so and so to let them know some one or other was on their way. I have a very nicely put together resource handbook (made by the receptionist I am temping for) but it's information is slightly contradictory.

A tall blonde broker walked through the office and asked me (or at least asked in my direction) where all the assistants were. Considering that I have no idea who the assistants are (and only an hour ago learned the name of the President of the company) I can't imagine I could have answered him better than I did.

"I have no idea." I said.

Luckily, I am jacked up on six gallons of rocket fuel and I'm feeling fairly resilient. After lunch when the food coma sets in? That should be a whole different ball of wax. Maybe I should go back to Starbucks.

Baking

While Frenchman worked hard on the task of consolidating and organizing three years of a home, I decided not to wallow in the morose sensation of leaving (because I could have, easily) and baked him a cake. The contents of his fridge were limited in weird ways and so I didn't have much sugar and no butter at all. So in lieu of a simple vegan / depression cake, I made due with the extravagant contents of the emptying house. Here is the recipe:

Depression Substitution Chocolate Cake

1 1/2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cayenne pepper
8 ounces melted Valrhona or equivalent dark chocolate
3/4 cup oil
1+ tablespoon Calvados or 100 proof alcohol

Stir the entire mixture and bake in 350 degree oven for approximately 30 minutes. Frost or glaze as desired.

This turned out a very flaky brownie like cake. Serve with a huge glass of milk (or milk type product, if your intolerant like me) and a heaping dose of "OMG there's so much to do!"

Enjoy!

I Lost My Man This Weekend

Surely most of you are familiar with this loss. We've all felt it at some point.

I knew it was coming. He's been talking about it for over a month now, but I wasn't expecting it to be like this. And then, after five hours, four Best Buys, one CompUSA and a Fry's he had in his possession a new laptop computer.

It was fancy, sleek and copper colored. It's HP logo gleamed from the top of it and the flashy video card laughed and danced before his eyes. I think he may have been drooling.

"Hey baby, you want to go to dinner tonight?" I walked into the dining room, stomach grumbling.

Crickets chirped in the dead silence.

"Baby, I was thinking of stripping in a few minutes."

"Hrmmm???" He replied from behind glossy eyes. It was clear he did not hear me.

"I'm pregnant."

"What did you say?!" He looked up from the screen, distressed.

"Nothing," I smiled. "I was just wondering if you were hungry."

"Oh, um, yeah yeah." He nodded and went back to installing his flight simulator.

I knew from that moment that I wouldn't do for me to fight it. He was just gone.

So I did what any respectable women would do, and watched a chick flick on his 42 inch HDTV. I mean, I'm no victim. I gotta take a stand somewhere.

Manifest Destiny

I'm not talking about America's flawed justification for their divide and conquer tactic. I am talking about the hippy mumbo jumbo that divides this concept into two words to express that one might Manifest their own Destiny. I don't mean this heavy metal band, but rather a phrase that goes along with concepts like The Secret and Quantum Physics.

It's always worked pretty well for me. I struggle with it, because like everyone else in the entire world, I really like to feel like I am in control. But we're not, are we? Oh yeah, in case you don't know - we're not.

Yesterday I employed every tactic I had to fight off the anxiety attack that wanted to overwhelm me because I didn't know what was going to happen today. I didn't completely fail. Mostly, but not completely. And when I woke up this morning I found that despite my best efforts to screw myself with unnecessary waves of emotion I had, indeed, manifested my destiny.

I attribute it wholly to letting go. I know as well as any that if you pigeon hole your vision of the future you will never achieve anything close to it. In fact, the result is usually the polar opposite (at least for me). Sure enough, almost immediately after I stopped fighting it, things started to fall into place.

And when I googled this new town where this new family lives - just outside of Paris on the RER - I not only found pictures, I was given a virtual walking tour. I got a confirmed YES in my inbox and a date to start the paperwork this weekend.

Now it's really true. Really honestly truly true - I have a family. I'm moving to FRANCE, ya'll. Who's gonna be the first to visit??

Out of The Frying Pan

When I was six or seven my mom used to take me to one of her friends houses to be watched while she was at work. The woman had girls about my age and a little bit of acreage that she made work as a small farm. They had horses and ducks and chickens. I loved going there. I loved the smell of the fresh manure, the mud and the old farm house.

If we were good, her daughters and I were sent to get the find the eggs in the chicken coop. It was a sort of game for us - to find which eggs had been abandoned behind old boards pile of hay and to steal the warm ones from under the hens without getting pecked by them. The rooster would chase us the whole time we were in the coop, guarding his little biddies fiercely.

Giggling, we would bring back the dozen or so brown and green and white eggs, placing them in the kitchen for their mom to separate and chill. She would set apart a carton for my mother, and the rest she would place on the shelf in her fridge, the speckled eggs waiting patiently to be devoured by us children.

One day she decided that she would make an omelette for our lunch and plucked a few from our basket to be prepared. I watched eagerly as she split them on the sizzling pan.

"You have to go slowly, and watch for blood," she said. "Sometimes there are baby chickens inside."

As she spoke her hand was cracking eggs, not looking for blood, focusing on telling us this very important detail.

CRACK. SPLAT.

And there lay a bloody chicken fetus, right before my eyes.

I didn't understand this event at all. I watched on horrified as she calmly scraped the frying chicklette off the pan into the trashcan. As a farmer she was not unfamiliar with this kind of death, but for me it was traumatic. I will always remember that unborn creature limp on the cast iron. And to this day I check my eggs for blood as I crack them, lest some factory worker has forgotten to cull the baby chickens from the good eggs.

So it is with counting your chickens before they hatch. Most people can't tell which ones are going to be fluffy yellow peeps and which ones will SPLAT on the pan. Perhaps they will go to market or perhaps they will be an new hen in your house, but me, I'm no farmer and so my eye can't discern this just by holding an egg in my hand.

In case you are completely lost, I am talking about France. And no, I'm not giving up. I'm just...changing my perspective. Once I let certain ideas about the whole thing go I found that my options opened right up. Which tells me a few things about pinning your hopes in certain ways on certain people. ...You know, to be completely vague.

After spending the whole of Monday in bed feeling sorry for myself, I decided that it would behoove me to let some things go. It felt amazing, almost like I was in control again. I even put on makeup. It's a miracle what a little mascara will do for your perspective.

So today I will tidy up my space because I STILL don't have work. I will pick a few things to sell and post them so I don't feel like a total loser for not going to a job. I'm going to bake some banana bread with these lovelies

and do some writing and then have a Sex and the City party with my girlfriends. If I get really ambitious I may even do some art work. Remember way back when I used to do that? Yeah, I discovered that I still really love it. (SURPRISE!)



And all this sure makes the time go by more quickly while waiting for my eggs to hatch.

I Had Depressing Things To Say

This morning I woke up because I had a dream that I was begging the Frenchman to stay and I just couldn't stop from crying. So I tried to write a post and it was all "I'm depressed because he's not in love with me" and "I don't have a job WAH" and "I'm 26 and all I got was this lousy T-shirt". Then I went back to sleep.

Now I am awake again, and I'm still depressed but less so inclined to write all about it. Instead I want to post THIS:



Which is HILARIOUS, unless you have a miserably slow computer like mine and then it won't make any sense at all.

And if that doesn't make you laugh, then you might be dead. I'm just sayin.

Bloke in A Dress!

I LOVE Eddie Izzard. Do you know who he is? WHY NOT? He is the most amazing comedian I've ever met. And I've never met any.

So, I was in a shop on Friday trying to cure my blues with some retail therapy (thankfully I left my wallet at home!) and I hear this conversation happening.

"So, you're going to Eddie Izzard tonight and then what? Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?"

And my ears pricked up like a cat's and I stopped moving in case they saw me. They couldn't be talking about Eddie Izzard HERE, could they?

"Oh, yeah, we'll probably just go to Town Lake and then..."

But I didn't hear the rest because I was too busy peeing my pants.

"Excuse me!" I said, "I'm sorry to butt in, but did you say Eddie Izzard is playing HERE?"

"Yeah, at Friday, Saturday and Sunday."

"SHUT THE F*** UP! WHERE???" I shouted.

"Well, since you told me to shut the f*** up, I don't know if I should tell you!" He giggled. And then he must have considered that I might not leave if he didn't just tell me already and so he told me the Theatre.

At which point I RAN to see if there were tickets left because how did I not know this was happening???


Of course there were not and I nearly cried, but the Frenchman (who is a recent convert to the Church of Eddie) assured me that we would try to get tickets.

Saturday night we went downtown, ready to buy whatever anyone had to sell. We waited patiently (Well, he waited patiently, while I had anxiety over whether or not there would be tickets for sale) and took a drink. We ate some sushi at a bar across the street and I had a Lychee Martini that looked decidedly like a floating brain, one eagle eye fixed on the line forming at the ticket window.

At fifteen till open I dragged the Frenchman across the street to see if tickets had become available. People were already standing at the window, waiting for the ticket girl to announce if any seats had become available. I qued up, third in line making small talk about how amazing Eddie was and how I would have his babies even if he was wearing a dress at the birthing. The lady in front of me called him a Transsexual (He's a transvestive lady. He still has a penis!) and I thought about shoving her out of line, but just as I moved forward for the punch I saw B slip off toward a man in a doorway.

Nervously I watched to see if - YES! - the man had tickets! and B went quickly to the ATM to get him his cash. He returned to me smiling and I left the line by the window squealing like a drunken pixie. WE HAD TICKETS!


(I was so excited I couldn't take a still picture.)

I almost cried when the music began to introduce the man of the night, and then proceeded to split my sides in laughter for two full hours. As I imagined, the show was amazing.

And NOW, I can die happy.

Not Counting My Chickens

When I search for The Little French Village I may be living in next year, via google I find out virtually nothing about it. It has an aerodome nearby (read: air field) and I have reason to believe it has a castle, but this isn't all that unusual for the little towns around Paris. Google images brings me this:

This guy (Could he be more French??):

And this:
Flickr shows me images of the countryside,


but little of the village itself.


I do know Versailles is nearby (and Paris is thirty minutes north east, in case you are wondering) and there are a few other small villages in the area but that's about all I can find. The Frenchman will live somewhere to the east and a little further south, about an hour away. I will be a very good friend of the train in France.

All that currently stands between me and my new family with their mystery village is the visa process. Gathering paperwork is tedious, but soon (God willing!) I will be able to jump the pond and become a Frenchie.

There are only a few weeks until the Frenchman packs up and leaves America for good. We've agreed that neither of us can say what will happen once I'm over there (which means he won't think about it and I don't want to know if he does) so there is a certain melancholy that hangs on me. Luckily, I have a million and one things to do before I then leave the country, and that excitement over powers the other feelings quite. a. bit.

In other completely non-related (and not sad) news, I have to share this with you, because I find it at once horribly disturbing and hilarious. Thank you MgFgTg for your love of squirrels, and for giving me something to laugh at today. I only wish I made such constructive use of my time!

200 Million Years Ago I Went To Big Bend National Park and Promised to Tell You About It

Actually, if I had gone to Big Bend 200 million years ago, it would have looked something like this:

Because it would have been the late Cretaceous period and the whole place was an ocean.

In fact, I went to Big Bend only two weekends ago for Memorial Day, but it took me what seemed like a million years to upload the photos so it's all the same, I guess. So. Here's the story of how I broke myself in the desert. A Photo Presentation*:

In the beginning man invented fire charcoal grills and lighter fluid. (No arm hairs were singed in the making of this photo).

Then they packed the trunk of the little white corvette with camping gear and drove into the sunset sunsrise. Don't we look excited to be awake at 5a.m. on a Saturday?

Round about noon, we stopped off a this little diner in Dirt Poor, Texas. The name implies that there is an El Torito #1 somewhere, but I have no confirmation of this. Perhaps they really meant "This restaurant is second best!"

After we ate I discovered with a certain a mount of displeasure ("Cuss, Cuss, Expletive, Cuss!") that I had a urinary tract infection. And so instead of going to Big Bend we just went to Wal-Mart instead. The End.



No, I wouldn't give up my trip to the desert in the middle of nowhere with blazing hot sun, so I got some "Fast Relief!" and we trudged on. Ooh look! Mountains! We must be getting close!

Five and half An hour later we arrived at the visitors center. The temperature was around seven hundred degrees Farenheit, and this little bird wanted inside pretty badly.

"Hey, isn't this the canteen?? I need a smoke." We went back onto the surface of the sun and drove to our campsite.


After we unloaded the HUGE metal bear box from the back of the corvette (No bears ate our food, but those boxes are NOT apparently ANT PROOF), we settled in for a nice dinner of tomato, avocado and ants.

DELISH! (No, really. This was quite scrumptious. [Yes, I just used the word scrumptious.])

We went for a little hike on Window Trail.



And the view at the end was okay, I guess. Then we both got kinda drunk watching the sun set and counting constellations. We got lost when we reached six trillion and two.

In the morning we rose early to set off on another adventure. Today was all about an awesome 12.5 mile hike up to the South Rim where we would reportedly be able to see all the way to Peru.

Up up we went. Tra la la la la. I'm hiking and happy.

Then just after this point and the Black Tailed Rattlesnake we saw on the trail, and just before this random exhibition of lumber

My hip went "I'm done! That's cool, right? If I just stay here? Oh, oh..no? Okay well good luck with that!" And for the next nine and a half miles I dragged my right leg up any incline like the dead weight it was. But it was all totally worth it, because when we got to the South Rim, the view was all:

And:


It was a bit hazy, so we could only see as far as Mexico, but I'm not complaining. No, I saved that for the hike down the mountain. And for the middle of the night in the tent. And for the next morning. "WAHHHH!!! My hip hurts!" So instead of doing another hike what would lead us to more amazing views, we opted to pack up camp and drive to McDonald Observatory before heading home.

Here we looked at the back of this guys head sunspots, via a very special lense piped into a theater inside the museum part of the observatory. Really, these were just slides of moldy cheese, but we oohed and ahhed anyway.

The really cool part was the HUGE GINORMOUS TELESCOPE we got to see move around.

(this German guy would NOT get out of my shot. It turns out I needed him for perspective, anyway, so Thank You German Guy.) Then they opened the dome doors and we were all abducted by aliens.

This is what it looked like on their home planet. A lot like the Hobby-Eberly Telescope doesn't it? Oh, yeah, cause it is.


It was really that bright outside. I promise. After we left the observatory, we were able to make it to the interstate in plenty of time to catch THIS:

THAT is HAIL. And it pulled us over just past Nowhere At All, Texas, threatening to break the removable glass top on the corvette. I cowered in fear, but I was able to take some pictures.


We drove out and past the hail storm, but still had seventeen hours to go. Okay, it only felt like seventeen, because the AZO had stopped working and I was fairly certain that my kidneys were beginning to fail. We made it home by midnight, wherein I promptly DIED. In the morning, the Frenchman revived me and sent me off to the we're gonna screw you cause you don't have insurance low cost clinic. I took these photos during the forty five minutes I waited in the room alone while they dipped my pee stick and generally ignored my existence.


But I was home! And I had a great adventure to upload to to the internet and share with all my friends via my blog! But wait...where is my camera cable...?????

The END.

*Presentation absolutely no thanks to blogger and its stellar photo uploader. It took me three hours just to get these pictures up here. I fully intend to write a scathing letter. Seriously.