Monday, December 19, 2011

Baby, Baby, Baby Oh.....

You know how, when you listen to a catchy song, and it stays with you for the next seven thousand hours of your life? Usually just one phrase runs on repeat through your head, which winds up with you filling your gas tank and belting out something along the lines of:

"Baby, baby, baby, ohhhh, Like, baby, baby, baby, Nooo...."

And then when the person across from you gives you the stink eye, you end up vomiting forth a really lame excuse for why you are singing a Justin Bieber song while paying way too much for gas.

"Um yeah....my dumb sister. Totally obsessed with him, and now I can't get his DAMN song out of my head. You know how it is... HAH. Like I would ever listen to Justin Bieber....."

Well, tonight I felt the need for some dance worthy music, possibly because I have not been able to get warm for the past week, and needed to shimmy my way across the living room to get my blood flowing.

The song "Lady Marmalade" from Moulin Rouge came to mind as something I had to listen to.

Don't watch the music video.

You just did, didn't you? Slightly scandalous right?

But it's fun to dance to.

Dancing accomplished, a little warmer, I went to wash dishes, and found myself repeating one phrase over and over again.

Slowly, very slowly I identified the phrase that was stuck in my head, and therefore what I was actually saying.

All I can say is, this song better be scrubbed from my head by tomorrow.

I really, really, don't want to be in a French speaking country and find myself in the produce section of the local supermarket, repeating "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" over and over to myself like a broken record.

The cashier already thinks I am highly questionable since, today, I dared to venture into her supermarket dressed in sweatpants.

That, my friends, is a definite no-no and, since this is France, sweatpants are quite possibly worse than absentmindedly and un-intentionally propositioning the produce clerk as you pick over the apples.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Meaghen


Meaghen has proven herself the man in this relationship.

Yesterday, I lugged a Christmas Tree up the stairs and tried to set it up in the little log stand that came with it. After a few....seconds...of trying to wedge the trunk into the little hole carved into the log-stand, I gave up. My hands were hurting. I was covered with pine needles. I was feeling vaguely depressed.

"Meaghen, I totally can't do this."

She ambled over to inspect my progress. "......right. Ok....I'm not sure what you were trying to do here, but....there you go."

With basically a flick of her pinky, the tree was standing proud and tall.

Today, we thought it would be an excellent idea to get our fire going. Meaghen broke wood kindling apart like a champ, built the fire and got it going roaring quite savagely. Part of me wanted to help. But the other part of me knew I would be next to useless. Snap a board in half with my foot?

Oh please.

Try to light wood on fire?

Let's be honest: I would most likely light myself before the wood caught.

Instead, I made her tea and put out a plate of cookies to show my appreciation for her manly gifts, and then painted my nails as our living room warmed up and the sounds of crackling wood filled the air.

She also sweeps the floor, because she knows it makes me really queasy to even think about doing that.

During the violent parts of Prison Break or whatever else we happen to be watching, I cover my head with a blanket and hyperventilate until she tells me it's OK to look again. Occasionally I grab her arm and squeeze it until her circulation is cut off. She rarely complains.

She fully supports my chocolate addiction. In fact, her's might be worse than mine. She doesn't judge me when I have chocolate for breakfast.

What a friend, right?

Meaghen: Consider this a proposal.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Hunger


The Intermarche down the road from me is a fairly large, well stocked supermarket, which has all the normal supermarket amenities, including about 6 checkout counters. Very rarely, however, is more than one counter going at a time.

A string of about 6 or 7 customers with bulging carts can be lined up waiting patiently, and still, the man polishing the apples, the girl re-arranging the wrapping paper, and the woman counting coins at her (closed) till - all employees of the supermarket - will remain doing what they are doing, leaving one lone cashier to deal with everything.

No one seems to have a problem with this. A half hour wait to pay for your groceries? Not even a ripple of dissatisfaction. They all seem perfectly content to stare into space whistling softly to themselves.

A price check can take upwards of ten minutes. The cashier will pick up her phone and ask for assistance; until help comes, she starts an involved, highly animated conversation with the customer. When help ambles up at a leisurely pace, he proves to be puzzled by what is being asked of him, necessitating a mass exodus of the cashier, the customer, and any other interested parties, to that part of the store from which the item is supposed to have come.

And still, not even a whimper of despair comes forth from anyone in the line.

I, on the other hand, am basically shaking in an anxious agony. My thoughts start to spin out of control:

"Getting through the grocery store is not supposed to take this long. Haven't they heard of efficiency? Customer service? Oh dear Buddha I am going to DIE if I have to stay in the line a moment longer. Oh my gosh I might start SCREAMING. What if I fall on the floor, foaming at the mouth: would they let me through faster?"

A weirded out glance is directed my way, and I realize I am hopping from foot to foot in my complete anxiety to be rid of the place. I must look like I have to pee about three gallons of fluid.

"Deep Breaths, Mary. You can do this. You don't have to be anywhere. This is fine. Enjoy the wait. Smell the smells of the supermarket. Soak it in. DEeeeep Breaths....

"OH MY GOSH the damn hippy in front of my hasn't showered in about 500 days. This is disgusting. What is WRONG with him? Hasn't he heard of deodorant? I think my nostrils have to be fumigated. I bet I have some airborne disease now. He is probably carrying the plague. LET ME OUT OF THIS PLACE."

The anxious hopping starts back up, and I start to contemplate dumping my basket of food onto the floor in a grand gesture of self-righteous anger at European inefficiency.

Back home, even a 30 second fumble as I try to wedge my debit card out of its wallet garners grumblings of dissatisfaction, anxious glances at watches, and has the cashier tapping her nails against the register in an impatient staccato. And I get it, I totally get it; the number of times I have been behind someone and wanted to grab their wallet and get their damn card out for them are too many to count.

What is this terror of waiting?

If I am behind a line of ten people at Starbucks, and it takes the cashier more than two minutes to get all those orders and process all those payments, why do I start groaning as if death is imminent?

If I take my car for an oil change, and there is more than one car ahead of me, I will pull out and resolve to try again later - even if the oil needed changing about 1500 kms ago.

If I am in a line at the store, and the cashier is being trained, I don't even try to wait. I just dump my stuff and walk out. Too bad, amazing shoes that made my heart stop. You just better be there tomorrow.

It's not just me, either. I know very few people who are comfortable with waiting.

We live in a time where we have to wait for very little. Especially in North America, this is taken to extreme degrees: "If your pizza isn't there in 10 minutes, it's on us!" or "If your plumber isn't there within half an hour of your call, we pay YOU!"

We are encouraged to wait for very little; I can't really think of anything that we are told it is better to wait for - except for, perhaps, having children. Perhaps this is because children really slow you down....those little suckers really make you wait.

(At which point I stared at my laptop for 2 hours, drinking wine and staring into space, randomly answering emails. What did I start out trying to say? What is the resolution of this post - is there one? Where is my brain? Why am I so tired? Is it normal to eat chocolate in place of a balanced meal? Maybe that is why I am tired - my body is dying of nutrient deficiency. Is it possible to drink too much tea? What if there is no other way to stay warm? Am I drowning my organs? Why am I so neurotic?)


And then Meaghen grabbed my laptop because she wanted me to finish so we could watch more Prison Break together, huddled in the couch, screeching at the gross scenes.


From Meaghen:

And all of this just because you were dying of hunger and couldn't stand to wait in line for more than .003 seconds. I think we found the root of Western Impatience right there: hunger. In this case, physical. But in general? Spiritual. At least I think that's what you are trying to say.

Amen.

Thank you.

I'll be here all week.

Until March.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Just Listen

I have too much floating around in my head to pull out anything resembling coherent ideas, so I leave you with two songs. They will be more enjoyable and lovely than anything I could have written. Enjoy!


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Insanity

SO.

So.

The Baths at Lourdes.

I gotta say. Catholics really must look insane to the outside world.

Catholics are the kind of people who, at least once a week on Sundays, and sometimes every day if they are trying to be especially good, eat something which looks like bread, but is apparently Body, alongside something which smells like wine, but is apparently Blood.

..........weird, right?

Catholics are the kind of people who go in a little box, kneel down, and spew forth their dastardly deeds to a man who then tells them everything is a-ok as long as they go say Hail Mary and try not to do any of it again.

And they actually believe him.

Catholics are the kind of people who have a dozen kids and seem to think nothing of it.

You can't make this stuff up.

Catholics are also the kind of people who travel to small towns in France in order to get dunked in ice cold mountain spring water that supposedly has healing properties.

I mean, who DOES that?

Well, this girl for one.

It was the craziest experience ever.

After about a 45 minute wait outside a low stone building, I was called into a curtained room along with 5 other women, and led to a chair where I was told to put my bag. I turned expectantly to my guide, eagerly awaiting my next instructions.

She started to help me take off my jacket. Fine, good.

That accomplished, I turned to her again.

She looked at me like I was an idiot. In a flurry of motion, and a flood of French sprinkled with bits of English, I was informed that she wanted it all off. Every last bit of clothing. And underclothing.

HERE? In a room full of STRANGERS?

I am a repressed Canadian girl. We don't do public nakedness. We are the kind of people who don't kiss others on the cheek in greeting; we gingerly stick out a cold hand for a brief hand shake. And then we surreptitiously dump hand sanitizer on our hands. For the germs. Obviously.

I just stared at her. She sighed and motioned to the cloak she was holding. She would hold it up as I stripped down. No worries.

No WORRIES? I was expecting a little change room, and some sort of disposable bathing suit.

Clothes stripped, wrapped in a long cloak, I was then pushed through another curtain. Three women awaited me there, smiling angelically....which did not prepare me for what happened next.

The cloak was stripped from me and there I was, naked as the day I was born, but without the benefit of being unaware that I was, shivering in front of three elderly French women. I felt like delivering some sort of tirade:

"What is this place? Why don't you get change rooms? Can't I just walk into the water with the cloak on? Only my doctor gets to see me naked, and then only in bits, never all at once. And we always deflate the situation by talking about traveling. He tells me where I should go, and I tell him where I want to go, and they are never the same place, but that's ok because at least it's a distraction. WE, ladies, don't even speak the same language!"

I talk when I get nervous. A lot. Even if it's just in my head.

I also laugh. So, I laughed.

"Shhhhhhh, Mademoiselle. Shhh......."

I was distracted by the towel they then proceeded to wrap around me. After that it was a blur. I was pulled into water the temperature of barely melted ice and told to say a prayer of my choice. I could barely concentrate because I was shaking so much. It must have partly been the cold, but it also felt as if huge amounts of adrenaline were coursing through my body. In spite of the frigidness, it felt as if a bolt of warm energy was pulsating through every fiber of my being.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a chair, wrapped in the trusty blue cloak, still shaking, but not at all cold. I put on my clothing in a numbed silence, and walked out into the brisk fall air.

----------------------------------------------------

I didn't get exactly what I asked for; I think I got more. It is as if joy is bouncing through my soul, and peace has been abundantly bestowed on me. There is also a strong stirring of hope that while I did not immediately get what I requested, it will happen. The miracle is that I am ok with that. I am fine with waiting.

This from someone who gets really, really, punchy if she is made to wait for anything.

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A priest I talked to on Sunday morning told me that healing is not always what one expects.

God desires us to be whole, and sometimes the suffering we carry allows us to be more whole and contribute to his glory in a way that would not happen if it was taken away.

Healing, then, is when his will and our will collide in a joyful one-ness that breeds an inexplicable happiness.

What more could one ask for?

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Pink and Gold Sparkles

It's been a very long day. But.... beautiful and amazing.

Lourdes is a gorgeous little town surrounded by the gently mountainous Pyrenees - it has all kinds of charm and story-bookishness to recommend it. This time of year finds it not completely besieged by tourists, and it definitely has a rather sleepy relaxed vibe to it.

Our train got in just before noon, and we spent the next...two hours trying to find our hotel. Technically this should have taken about half an hour. Max. When we did find it, we collapsed in relief, and barely stopped short of kissing the ground. Both of us were puttering to a complete halt after having gotten only about 4 or 5 hours of sleep.

We had even decided in our desperation prior to finding the hotel, that if we took one more wrong turning we were just going to give up and embark on a path of self destruction that would possibly end in our deaths.

"How should we go about it?"

"....I think we should start by ingesting our own weight in chocolate."

"Perfect."

"Followed by a 60 of vodka. Each."

"Done!"

At which point we turned a corner and saw our hotel. Fortunately.

I collapsed on my bed, put my ear plugs in and conked out for an hour, while Meaghen showered and tried to rid herself of the terrible stench she kept insisting her feet were carrying.

Sorry, Meaghen.

By the time we got our act together, it was late afternoon, and more than anything we wanted to see the Grotto.





So we did. (Not my own picture. Because guess who forgot her camera? And her cellphone? And extra underwear? And toothpaste?) <---- But none of this matters because....

What peace. What an overwhelming sense of heaven touching earth.

From the moment I touched the side of the Grotto and for the next, oh, fifteen minutes....all I could do was cry. And cry. And maybe also cry.

Not gentle ladylike tears either.

No no no. This was something more along the lines of one's soul being torn in two and emptied of woundedness.

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Tomorrow sees us heading for a triple whammy of holiness in various forms.

I don't know if I will be able to handle it. My soul might expand to a bursting point of monstrous proportions.

I just got a mental image of that: pink and gold sparkles. PINK AND GOLD SPARKLES is what my soul would spit forth.

.....my soul in a completely happy state is an Elton John concert?

Oh dear.

I think I need to sleep.

Friday, December 9, 2011

Lourdes

Tomorrow - listen to this - we go to Lourdes.

O.M.G.


*Girlish squeal of delight and excitement.*


Do you believe in Miracles?


Because I do, and am asking for one. Bold move? Perhaps. But maybe my Chutzpah will get me somewhere.


Can I use "Chutzpah" in this context? Or is that just way too ecumenical? Is ecumenical even the word I want in this context?


I don't even know. My mind is distracted by other things.


Send up a little prayer for me that it is answered, and in the comments leave me any and all prayer intentions YOU have, and I promise on my own mothers life, that I will place them at Mary's feet.

As Meaghen played for me today.....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgAIwP5vpPQ

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Accents

My pajamas did not leave my body yesterday, until about four p.m. At that point, I transferred into yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

I have a vague recollection of being driven to brush my teeth because my own breath was bothering me, but that was the extent of any attempt at personal hygiene.

I didn't bother to brush my hair at all.

Meaghen and I might have watched one too many espisodes of Prison Break. As in three. Perhaps four. In between, we fell into deep comatose sleeps.

In other words, we were both struck down with a bizarre and vicious flu. It was fatigue and aches taken to the trillionth degree.

Midway through the day, someone knocked on our door.

We really didn't want to answer it, and so pretended not to hear.

A few minutes later the knock came again, only this time it sounded as if the person trying to get our attention had keys, and was actually going to enter our sacred space.

In a moment of completely blind panic, we hurled ourselves from the couch, and raced into the bathroom. We stood there for a moment, by the toilet, clutching each other in some bizarre fit of fear, each telling the other one to shut up and stop breathing.

Suddenly our eyes met, asking an unspoken question: What the hell is WRONG with us?

Typically, we are not this incredibly strange.

I think vanity fueled our bathroom bolt. We really did not want anyone, anyone at all, seeing us slumped on the couch, under piles of blankets, gnawing on chocolate, sighing over Wentworth Miller.

Add to this pathetic scene the fact that Meaghen's hair looked like she had stuck her finger in a light socket and left it there for a few hours, and that I - beyond the fact that my sallow skin and dark circles were giving me a striking resemblance to someone from Twilight - was wearing bright pink pajama bottoms with white polka dots, and you can understand our panic.

In a moment of sanity though, I realized that it would be much, much, much, much more embarrassing to be found in the bathroom with my best friend, than to actually answer the door in a complete state of hideous disarray.

It was the caretaker of the property, eager to inform me that he had dropped off a pile of wood for our wood-burning stove.

He is very friendly and very talkative, and.............has this accent. British. Beautiful.

I stood there in the door, trying to look somewhat dignified in my gorgeous pjs, as he maundered on, until I realized that I wasn't actually paying attention to anything he was saying. I was just listening to the melodious sound of his voice.

At one point I heard the word "donkey," and I tried to focus, but I couldn't. It was like being hypnotized.

Donkey? Why was he talking about donkeys?

Every once and a while, he would pause, as if trying to assess my mental condition, and I would pipe up with one of the words I had somehow held on to "Donkeys? Tell me more about this!"

Since he likes talking, and seems keen about these Donkeys, he continued and I listened; I still have only a vague idea of what he was trying to convey.

Finally, the topic of firewood and donkeys exhausted, we said goodbye, and I stumbled back upstairs to Meaghen, who had forced her hair into a braid and was brushing her teeth, just in case Paul had decided to actually come in.

"What did he want?"

"Wood. He dropped some off."

"Ooh! Where is it?"

"Um......I'm not sure."

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Probably. I....can't really remember."

"You were down there for a while. What else did he have to say?"

"Donkeys. There is a trail ride with Donkeys."

"That sounds awesome! Where?"

"Ummm.......he told me. I think he spelled it out. G....something."

"That doesn't help."

"We could call him and ask."

"Nahh....I think email would work better."

"Whatever. More Prison Break?"

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

A Small Act of Usefulness

Today was one of those really weird days where you feel stuck in a giant bubble of sluggishness and unmotivation. The kind of day where you have a list of things planned, and not one of them gets done.

You know the kind of day where you sit on the couch drinking tea, with your laptop warming your legs, and you basically don't move for hours at a time, and when you do, it is only to go pee?

This was one of them.

It was the kind of day where you keep attempting to get up to accomplish something, but when you do the only thing that you can even remotely contemplate doing is to sit back down and watch another episode of Scrubs.

Or gaze into Wentworth Millers eyes via Prison Break.

It was the kind of day where, even though you are on a very healthy very strict cleanse for the next three weeks, all you want is chocolate. So you eat it, even though it is not allowed, and justify it by telling yourself that chocolate is very healthy. It possesses the most magnesium content of any food on earth. SO there.

It was also the kind of day where, in your random meanderings through the small alleyways and byways of the web, you find this and start bawling.

As my one useful act of today, I pass it on to you.



Monday, December 5, 2011

Puppies

Yesterday, after Church, Meaghen and I walked to Espereza in order to partake of the fabulous farmers market that is held there.

It was like hippie kingdom.

People in organic cotton and scratchy hemp dyed all sorts of terrible earth tones sat around in circles playing instruments, or waltzed around in erratic circles, completely out of time with the music.

The smell of pot was pretty overpowering.

Since it was way past lunchtime we attacked the first food stand we saw, which happened to sell crepes and quiche. Perfect. We stood there arguing with each other about which one would attempt our order, until the guy behind the counter interrupted us. "I can speak English if you want."

*Blush*

As we wound our way through dreadlocks, drums, and nag champa incense sticks, we happened upon a lady seated on the ground, possessed of a lap full of puppies. We almost lost it, because we had made a deal on the way over that if we found a puppy at the market, we would buy it.

We often make deals like this.

This one didn't even have to be bought. It was free!

Meaghen was ready to scoop up the dog right then and there.

Suddenly though, the thought of so suddenly becoming a parent started to freak me out. I haven't read any dog parent books. We hadn't prepared a welcoming space for him. What was the best kind of diet? Low Carb? High Carb? Vegetarian? Paleo?

Should we give it shots - What if he has an allergic reaction to them? Is there a trusted vet in the area - How does one know whether or not to trust a vet?

What about haircuts? How often is that supposed to happen? Are their doggie hair style trends? And shampoo - what would be best for his skin and fur? Surely one has to be careful not strip him of all his essential skin oils.

This, you understand, was all for a mongrel puppy.

Imagine me with a human baby coming my way.

I told Meaghen we had to discuss it over lunch.

We did, and came to the conclusion that we would spend a week doing research on puppy care.

This is definitely is not long enough to figure out the majority of my questions, but it does give me sufficient breathing room to pull the idea of a dog into my psyche.

Truthfully, it probably will not happen. The logistics of who would keep it and how we would get it back to North America are a little sketchy. Then again, sketchiness has never deterred us from anything.

We even have a name. Just in case: Bomer. As in Matt. As in him:


Our puppy might not be that scrumptious, but we will treat him as if he is.



Saturday, December 3, 2011

Grace


I have made reference to my love of Reality T.V.

It might be a part of my life that is here to stay.

Like dark chocolate. And tea. And heels. And Michael Buble.

The past few times when I have needed a minute or forty of downtime, I have ended up watching Millionaire Matchmaker.

Initially this was because I went "Millionaire Matchmaker? Yes please!" When it comes right down to it, I really want one of these:






This for the during the week:



This for the weekend:



And her, or possibly half a dozen of her, because I do not think you can over-estimate how much I loath cleaning:




Attaining all of that would just be way easier with my very own millionaire, right? My sugar daddy. My Mr. Moneybags.

So. OBVIOUSLY, Millionaire Matchmaker spoke to some small part of my soul. Or the majority of it.

I am just kidding. I have a lot more depth than that. I would be quite satisfied with these:


And him:


Even if we just lived in this:


It's not really much of a sacrifice, because....if you have Louboutin shoes and Ryan Reynolds........I dont think you need anything else.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let's get serious, though.

As usually happens, after the first episode or two of any new show, I started observe a few things and then mull over them for the next week. Or two.

Don't judge. Mulling is part of my melancholic nature.

One of the most interesting things to me is that at some point, it seems that there is a realization that comes up, which whacks people in the face. The men (and sometimes women) who come to this matchmaker have "everything." They have multiple houses, cars, a plane or two, and the ability to do whatever they want.

They talk about being able to snag a different girl every night, and partying it up at the best places in the world, with the glitziest celebs. Yet, they go to a loud Jewish woman who yells at them and makes them sign a contract before joining her Millionaires Club which insists on "no sex before monogamy (monogamy = at least three months).

Why?

Well, after re-capping their fabulous lives, after describing in glowing detail how amazing their lifestyle is, a cloud passes over their faces. They have "everything," but no one to share it with. They might party it up every night, never with the same date, but at the end of a tough day they have no one to talk to. Most of them admit that their life is just kinda empty.

These men, who until this point in their lives have been just great with being lone wanderers, can't run away from the natural human inclination to truly share yourself with someone. They end up realizing that it would be just awesome to have someone who really knows them, who they can trust, who actually truly cares. It might also be great to have a few little someones to play with their vast vintage toy collection, or in their pool, or on their basketball court.

As the Beatles, those great philosophers of the Modern Age have said...."All You Need is Love."

And that is precisely what these searching millionaires lack. The snag is that no amount of money can buy it - something which, in a darkly hilarious way, they seem to struggle with.

The one thing they want most, after years of building up fortunes so that they can buy whatever they want, can't, after all, be bought.

God sighs darkly at the irony.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

A team of therapists and life coaches is usually brought in, and these men are taught about how to truly connect with a woman and enter into something with her that lasts longer than a night, or - let's face it - a few hours.

At 40 or 45 or 50, or whatever age they are, though, their habits are so ingrained, their way relating to the world such a firm part of their character, that they seem to quite literally need to tear themselves down in order to build themselves anew.

It is really, really hard. Most of them fail.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

This is all very scary.

As a society, we are so far removed from that which would make us truly happy: connection, self-giving, family, vulnerability, openness - that when we realize that we want all of that, it is SOMETIMES TOO LATE.

Our habits are our character: how damn hard is that to change, especially after 40 or 50 years?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I guess the good thing happens to be that Grace - that completely free and utterly unmerited outpouring - can make anything possible.

Good thing, right?



Discretion

There are so many awkward things about not being able to speak the local language

The Junior High years I spent poking away at French did a very minimal amount for me.

Yesterday, Meaghen and I stopped by the bakery around the corner to get a croissant for her. We thought this would be a great way to welcome her to Couiza.

France. Croissants. Local Bakery. Makes sense.

On walking in however, we saw this amazing PIZZA with goat cheese, mushrooms and toasted almonds on it. We decided we had to have that instead.

We pointed to it, while doing a passable job (or so we thought) reading out the name on the card in front of the pizza.

The girl shoved a pizza into the box, threw it over the counter at us, told us the total, and barely stopped short of telling us to get the hell out of there.

She had put the wrong pizza in the box, though.

Meaghen and I looked at each other. Should we SAY something? She was really grumpy. It did not seem like a wise idea.

However, the flute like call of the goat cheese, mushroom, almond pizza was too irresistible. Like the Sirens hailing Odysseus. Or something like that.

So, hesitantly, we tried to tell her that she had given us the wrong one.

She glared at us, spewed forth a flood of French that probably damned us to hell and in the meantime cursed us to a life of being around her, and then finally, with the air of a long suffering martyr, exchanged the pizza for the one we wanted.

We sneaked out apologetically.

---------------------------------------------

Then, there is the mistaken assumption that because you are in a foreign country where you do not speak the language, no one can understand the language you do speak.

Today we made a much needed visit to the supermarket and after wandering around, picking up absolute essentials like wine and chocolate, we ended up at checkout, trying to decide which line was moving fastest.

The checkout line to our left was filled with two women who seemed to be glaring at the world in general.

"Those women are kind of scary."

"I think they are lesbians."

"Mhmm. The one on the left is particularly butch."

"I just don't understand why they can't make an effort to actually dress well and have nice hair."

We moved into the checkout line across from the two lovely ladies.

At which point I heard them bitching to each other.

They were British. and quite possibly heard every word we said, judging by the death rays directed at us.

Whoops.

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This reminds me of the game I used to play with my friends when we were in Roma.

We liked to play "Gay, or just Italian?"

We would pick a man and assess his clothing, hair, skin, and the way he walked or sat, and from that point put him in one of the two categories. Or sometimes both. The glory of the game was that it was always SO HARD TO TELL.

One day on the bus, we picked a prime suspect a few rows ahead of us.

"Hmm. His clothes are pretty perfect. Look at the way he has tied his scarf."

"His hair looks like he spent most of the day on it. How did he get it to spike so perfectly?"

"I dunno though, those shoes are pretty ugly. I don't if any straight guy would choose those."

"True, but look at the way he has crossed his legs. And his hands. Look at the way he has folded his hands."

At which point, the gentleman uncrossed his legs, unfolded his hands, stood up abruptly, glared at us, and stormed off the bus.

We felt pretty bad about that one.

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I have no idea where I am going with this, except, perhaps, that life is easier when you know the local language.

Also, when analyzing those around you, discretion is always advised.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Friendship

Yesterday I almost fell down two flights of very steep stone stairs in my eagerness to open the front door, squeal in high pitched delight, and jump on a girl with wild curly hair.

The darkened street was filled with shrieks, there was jumping up and down, and the taxi driver who dropped her off might have stared at us with a completely slackened jaw, cursing whoever let such insanity into his beloved country.

That is right.

Meaghen has arrived.

She is the first friend I have seen in just over three months. I have made friends of course - but this is a FRIEND. The kind of friend who knows ridiculous stories about me, like when we made a pit stop at the ocean at midnight. I decided I had to go in the water right at that very moment, and so stripped down to my underwear. Only to have a lifeguard spotlight beamed on me.

I guess you now know that story too.

She is the kind of friend who has seen mascara running down my face as I struggle between hysterical laughter and desperate tears.

She is the kind of friend who has let me see her in the throes of an allergic reaction which made her eyes swell shut and made her lips look as if they had been pumped with a vat of collagen.

I might have laughed hysterically.

But I did not reject her, in spite of her profound ugliness.

I'm loyal that way.

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The other part of our trio is not here - unfortunately she has met a boy which, for some reason, means that she wants to be around him a lot.

What is up with THAT?

Boys. They get in the way of everything.

Thanks for the rejection MICHELLE.

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The three of us have no reservations about sharing our fears, no matter how absurd. This has turned out to be one of the best things about us.

"I saw this woman on the train today, and she was so gorgeous I stared at her for the whole train ride. Is that weird?"

"Why? Because she was a women? That happens to me all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I am a lesbian."

"......me too."

"Yeah. It used to worry me, but I've just come to the conclusion that there is a universal aspect to beauty that appeals to and attracts everyone, regardless of sex. So we are probably not lesbians. Plus we like guys too much. Like...Ryan Reynold's abs. They count as a separate entity all their own, right?"

"Ioan Grudffud. Michael Buble."

"Matt Bomer."

"Oh my GOSH Matt Bomer."

"Yeah. I don't think we are lesbians."

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The three of us, especially over the past couple of years, have marveled quite frequently at how our friendship has been one of the greatest growing experiences of our lives.

We have no qualms about informing each other when one of us is really screwing up and needs to shape up.

Our friendship has shown us that you can be open and trusting and absolutely vulnerable, and have that treasured and respected.

It has taught us that you can let down you defenses completely, and not get battered in the process.

We have unquestionably become better, just for being in each other's lives.

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Michelle, you better be constantly logged into video chat so you can keep up with the awesomeness that is going to go down.