milkshakes and fries

It's snowing outside, and I'm reading a book about international law statutes. I'm holding a cup of hot tea between my hands, warming them, trying to concentrate. I like his desk, but I work on his dining room table, with art books and novels scattered about, and the Harrowgate Toffee I brought back for him from Cambridge. Just slam the door when you leave, he told me, before going to the movies. I like working in his flat, surrounded by his things.

I took him to his first classical concert. He overtipped the usherette, so that she moved us to wonderful seats in an empty theatre box, full centre, and we listened to Beethoven together. Then we drank lots of champagne and I forgot the entire conversation we had. I was afraid I had said something wrong, something mean, something scared, but the next morning he was there, and he hugged me. He was there.

Let's take this day by day. I said, OK. I don't know what that means, but I'm going to try. We have our own lives, our own things, and when we go out together to have dinner with friends, we never stay too close. But then he smiles at me from the other side of the room. There's a tacit convention between us: this is who I am, this is how I am. I'm not better than this. Day by day.

For my birthday we're going to have milkshakes and fries in the best milkshake place in Paris.

You're strange, he said. And it's strange how well we get along. We're very different.

I like him.

Almost Birthday

The 14th of February was never about Valentine's day for me. It's the day before my mother's birthday.

My mother is funny, irritating, loving, giving, obstinate, insane, beautiful beyond compare, sad, giggly, a card-player, an adventuress, a stay-at-home internet nerd, someone who loves Bach and Mozart and Queen and the Beatles, someone who took in my sick father after their divorce so I wouldn't have to take care of him all by myself.

My mother is amazing.

She gave me my best friend: my sister.

She taught me to stand up for myself.

Never to depend on someone else for material comfort.

To hug people, when in doubt.

She forgave my painting on the walls of my room with lipstick. And the time I cut my own hair. The time I tried to take my own life. And the time I came home with a broken heart. She always knows when my sister and I call her. She always knows how I feel and why. And when she went out to parties when J and I were little, she would leave a sugary confection on the side of our beds so we would know that she had thought of us and come to check on us before going to sleep.



Happy Birthday Mums.

I love you.

SRSLY

I'm learning that I don't have enough time ever to do all the things I want, but that it's OK, really, not to be able to do it all.

I'm learning how to play poker. First poker night today, and I'm equal parts nervous and excited. Which prop should I use to bluff??? A pair of glasses or a baseball cap? After watching some World Poker Tour footage, I'm guessing both.

I'm learning that life with my sister so far away isn't as much fun as when she's around, but then I always kinda knew that.

I'm learning that some movies should be watched late at night, when you can't sleep, because they take all sorts of strange meanings.

I'm learning that it's wonderful dating a 6'2 man, especially when I'm wearing heels and I'm 6'1.

I'm learning that Environmental Law is very interesting.

SRSLY interesting.

Photo credit: X took this a few months ago when the weather wasn't SNOW SNOW SNOW and it cracks me up. We both love stupid LOL Cats and so when we espied this fun fair sign, I just had to ham it up. Also hilarious to me is the fact that I am, as usual, eating some sort of cake.
He sent it to me a few days ago. Thanks, mate!

Fat talk

Murky waters, here, but I've been hearing a lot of annoying, misinformed and poorly worded comments on fat people lately. Cases in point:
1) Discussion with an acquaintance. She is very slim and barely 5 ft tall, and I am 5'10. She was telling me that she could only find cute clothes that fit in vintage shops since she is so petite. We shared horrible shopping experiences, and then she said: I never understand why some shops sell XXL miniskirts or sequined jackets. I mean, why would fat people emphasize their body?
What really got me was that she had just as much difficulty finding nice clothes that fit than fat women! NO empathy there.

2)Discussion with my track and field group: my coach was telling us to have a healthy diet while training, and I ruefully admitted that I eat lots and lots of candy, chocolate and consume litres of lemonade. The coach then said: Oh, as long as you don't get fat, you're OK.
Hmmmm...so health means being thin, right?

I am a recovering bulimic. I know what it means to hate your body, to treat it like crap, to punish it for existing. Did shaming myself transform me into the thin person I wanted to be? No. Yet this is what we try to accomplish with fat people, shaming them into becoming acceptable in our eyes.

The way we talk about fat, the way we treat people who are fat is disgraceful and wrong. Better people have said it much better than I could, but fat discrimination in terms of health care or travel or anything really is an infringement of human rights.

And I want to talk back.

I hate group work

Pretty self-explanatory, I think. In my uni program it is required to do a lot of group work. Probably to prepare us for the WORLD, which means the WORLD is only composed of bored people sitting at tables doodling while "listening" to the brain-storming session. I hate group work.

Now I don't mean to say I hate the groups I work with. Quite on the contrary. They are all clever and interesting people. I just hate the waffling around, the ordering of drinks, the way I have to forward emails all the time.

I wish I have some coping mechanism not to just want to blow the building during any session.

Friends with the ex

People around me are breaking up. It's that time of year. Good resolutions or something. This makes me really sad because there is always the problem when you have two friends together, that your friendship with one of the couple will crumble after the separation. When X left me, we joked that we would share custody of the friends we had in common, and never make them feel they had to choose. And this worked out pretty well.

Now the tables are turned, since the man I'm seeing is best friends with his ex. After years of explaining to people that it was foolish to feel threatened by my exes, and that we now only shared friendship, I'm on the other side of the fence.
And...I have no problem with this. Shocking, yeah? I like it. I like that he can go beyond tension and sadness and create a great bond with someone really awesome. And yes, I've met her.

Somehow I feel this sounds stereotypically French. I should be wearing a stripey T-shirt with effortless style, while eating croissants with my ex-husband's new wife, and smoking filterless cigarettes while accordeon music wafts through the open window.

Anyone here friends with their ex(es)?

I hosted a stew party (and I liked it)

Or should it be, lived to tell the tale.

I wanted to reciprocate all the kind invitations I've got these past few months so I invited sixty people to my parents' house, coaxing them with the sweet, fragrant promise of stew (vegetarian and goulash), masses of cheese and homemade cookies. Twenty-five people accepted and since I am still a student, still at the stage where forcing people to sit on the floor does not automatically mean dislocated disks or terrible pain, and since I appear to be completely wacked-out insane , I thought this would work out quite well.

Being a hostess is hard, y'all. Not only are you supposed to slave to make your place look nice, cook batches of food for famished and often allergy-ridden ingrates, but you are then to enjoy your own party, or at least, make it look effortless. This three-tier cream cake with sugar rosebuds? Oh, it's so easy to bake! That Ming vase your kid just wrecked? Just an annoying knick-knack that was a pain to dust. Oooh, look: someone is lonely and bored in a corner of the living-room! Must entertain them! You then abandon Promising Hot Man and go talk to Shy Young Lady while your erstwhile prospect goes away.

Plus we had the following situation: I invited people from my new university and old friends together. As we all know, this doesn't always work out. The old friends arrive full of inside-jokes, the new ones want to talk about classes the old ones don't know anything about, and you're in the middle, trying to pelt new conversation topics at people randomly, hoping one will stick. This usually means a newsworthy topic which annoys half your guests and creates a screaming match.

We also had my ex-boyfriend turned best friend and my oldest friend (thirteen years, people) meeting my Fling for the first time.

A recipe for disaster, you say. I was curiously calm during the whole thing, especially considering that I was fresh off the Eurostar, so to speak. I made huge amounts of food. I bought amazing cheese. I baked cookies (but, ahem, not from scratch. Give me a break! I was tired!). I opened the wine bottles to let them breathe. And then I put on clean trousers, smudged my eyeliner and waited for people to come.

It went really well. Everyone loved the party, and I did not turn into a Tazmanian Hostess, whirling around snatching plates from people, forcing dessert on everyone and laughing in a manic way. "HAVE SOME MORE? NO? ARE YOU SURE? HAHAHAHA!"

Magic moments of being a grown-up party-person:

* The wine talk. People talk about wine, instead of comparing cheap beer experiences. We're OLD.
*Someone asked me if they could smoke pot in my apartment and I said no problem. No one wanted to share though.
*No one started necking in my bathroom.
*No one robbed me.
*No one drunkenly slow-danced and then passed out into a coma.

OLD.

I am officially a hostess.