Solitaire

I found this unfinished blog post today, which I started this summer while staying at my brother's place in Arizona. I thought I'd finish it off and post it.

I was sitting in my brother's TV room this morning with my laptop. If my brother had to pay the annual French TV tax, he'd be broke. There are 7 TVs in his house. And yes, you have to pay a TV tax here, whether you're a renter or own your home. Since my TV is my laptop, I can get away with not paying...for now...until the gendarmes get wind of my lawlessness.

My brother was in the nearby office on the desktop computer and my brother visiting from Philly was standing at the kitchen table in front of his laptop. All three of us were silent, while others in the house were chatting and bustling around us. Misc T was probably slaying some bees or driving a rented back hoe into the back yard to dig for a pool. I don't know. I just can't keep up with her. Lovely Reggie was probably doing her hair...again.

I tore myself away from my laptop to make a trip to the bathroom and then get some water in the kitchen, passing both brothers on the way. That's when I realized that all three of us were doing the same thing. Playing solitaire. What a revelation.

I've been playing solitaire on my laptop for years. I play plain old solitaire. I use it in between work sessions to clear my mind. Many, many times when I'm writing, I get stuck. So I just play solitaire until a solution bubbles up to the surface. It always does. Once, when I was still working in corporate America, my boss walked in while I was playing solitaire. I didn't bother to hide it, because it's a productivity tool for me, not a distraction from my work. He burst out laughing, but it was a sardonic laugh. He was really saying, "I can't believe, with all we have to do, that you're playing a game." I said, "You know those 30,000 pages of software specifications that I pumped out in one month while I also tested the software and wrote all the website content and the marketing emails? I did that in between playing thousands of games of solitaire." In other words, shut up.

But, I digress.

My brothers play a more complicated form of solitaire, which requires thought and strategy. I'm not interested in that. Nor do I keep track of my winnings or losses. I just want to click and click and click and I don't care if I win or lose. I need a mindless activity while my subconscious processes my stuckness.

But I suddenly realized, when I saw what the three of us were doing, that my two brothers and I are solitary souls. We keep to ourselves and join others when we're required to do so - out of social or familial or work obligation. Most of the time, we'd like to be left alone. When I used to travel for business and stayed at my brother's home in Philly, I'd wake up at oh-dark-thirty (my Arizona brother's phrase) and find him sitting on the couch in the dark, with a coffee cup in his hand. "Hey," I'd say. "Hey," he'd say. I'd get my own cup of coffee and then go back up to take a shower. I know he was sitting there thinking about his life, hoping his kids didn't have to have a back-breaking job like he had, worrying about paying the bills, regretting his past. Once he said to me, "I'm not a priority in my own home. First there are the kids, then the cats, then the gerbil, then me." Ah.

Staying with my Arizona brother this time, I've gotten up before sunrise to find him downstairs in one of the loungers in the TV room, flipping through channels or watching a movie. Escape. Escape from the worries of his mind. Will his business survive the recession? Will his kids find their way? Will my father fall down in the shower again or what will my mother do when my father is gone? Will that damn sister of his ever get her crap out of his garage? (I just added that because it's one of my early-morning worries.)

Solitaire. It's comforting, mind numbing, necessary. For my brothers and for me. What would our lives be like if we emptied the worry from our minds? Would that new form of silence be deafening? Would we worry that without all of our worrying the world, and all the people we love, would fall down in the shower? Will planes lose their lift and come crashing down into the earth? Is our worrying the only thing left that keeps the world from exploding?

I'm afraid to find out.

Masticate Or Flush: That Is The Question

You will be happy to know that I was able to gather the 92 pages of paperwork required to reinstate my iPhone, bribe my friend G with sushi to help me fill in all the blanks and sign in all the right places, make triplicate copies - one for me, one for Orange and one for God - and then mail 32 of the documents to one place (somewhere in the Alps, I think) and then mail 12.5 documents, plus my bank RIB, canceled check and the last 7 years of my tax returns to another place (somewhere in the catacombs, or under the pyramid at the Louvre or maybe it's Dan Brown's pied-à-terre in Paris, where he writes bestselling books badly), by last Friday. Even though God has not yet received her copy (I'm still trying to find her address - a lifetime pursuit), I had my phone back online on Tuesday. This proves that as long as Orange is happy, God is happy too. Or something like that.

Meanwhile, back at the prison cell...

I told you a while back about my little odyssey of trying to find an apartment after I arrived in Paris in August. And how I was grateful to find an apartment the size of a really cheap hotel room, or in American standards, the size of a bathroom. I was willing to stay here for my one-year lease duration, even though:

• The toilet masticates LOUDLY (It's one of those toilets they use on boats. It goes ERRRRRRR! in the middle of the night for no reason whatsoever. So charming!)
• The shower floods the floor no matter where I put the curtain.
• I can't open the one-and-only window because it's directly on the street. I've opened it before and on good days that just means that all the people on the bus waiting in traffic outside stare down into my life and make decisions about my furniture, my organizational skills and my state of undress. On bad days it means that drunk men can lean in and ask me if I have an open slot. Or something like that. I also have forgotten, several times, that the window is open, and sit down on the toilet, much to the entertainment of the people on the bus.
  
• The lady who cleans the building and takes out the trash in the mornings arrives at 5:45AM shuffling loudly, grumbling to herself, and slams the front door closed, opens and slams the courtyard door, drags the trash cans back down the hall, crashing them into the walls as she goes, grumbling even more because someone didn't put their recyclable garbage in the RIGHT CAN!, and slams the front door again. Then the trash trucks come at 7:00AM and park outside my window while they dump our garbage. Then she comes back and drags the empty cans back through the hallway, slamming doors as she goes. I just gave up on sleeping past 6AM.
  
• The guy across the hall from me starts playing really loud music around 6:30AM, which he ululates to while slapping....something. I just don't want to know what he is slapping.
• There is no closet. A minor detail, unless you're a girl.
  

But then we met Jessica, who lives on the 2nd floor (which is really the 3rd floor in America, because French people call the ground floor zero and Americans call it one). And Jessica happened to be moving out of her 23 square meter apartment (mine is 16), which faces the courtyard, has TWO windows and has a cuisine séparée. This means that the kitchen is its own room, versus what I have now, which is a tiny little corner in my living room (if you can call it that) with two burners, one cabinet and a tiny fridge.

All of this is fine and dandy, but what mattered to me the most is that the toilet in Jessica's apartment is a normal one, that flushes down a drain that's outside of the building, which me and my neighbor G have listened to, fondly, many a balmy summer evening, as we dined on her patio in the building's courtyard. Our conversations went like this:

"Oh, it sounds like The Hot Chick just had a flush."
"Mmmm. No. I think it was The Hot German Guy's Angry Father."
"Why's that?"
"Well, he's across the hall and so it first has to go through that horizontal pipe, and then down this vertical pipe. It took longer and had more force to it."

So, we've become connoisseurs of flush sounds. And, as you can see, we also have pet names for our neighbors. The Hot Chick lives upstairs from G, looks like she's in her 20's, is thin and tan and well... hot. We hate her. But she is very, very nice. I even lost G's cat one day and had to retrieve her from The Hot Chick's apartment. She was so sweet. And we hate her. The men who come and visit us from America love her, and fantasize that she spies on them from her window as they do calisthenics in the courtyard.

The Hot German Guy is the tall, blond son of the old man who lives upstairs, across the hall from The Hot Chick. One night, when we were outside on the courtyard having a great meal with friends and we got a bit LOUD, the Hot German Guy's Angry Father yelled from his window for us to shut the hell up. Later that week, The Hot German Guy came to G's door about something else and I answered the door and almost wept at his hotness, but was also glad to know that he wasn't mad at us for waking his Angry Father. This would have been a shame.

There's also a guy who lives upstairs from my current apartment, who G calls Your Future Husband, where Your means Mine. He is cute, balding, and if we stood face to face, the shiny top of his head would come up to my chin. I might consider tossing him around, but he also has a masticating boat toilet and therefore, I know too much about him already. Besides, he has unwittingly proven to be bad luck for G. Every time she has seen him out on the street, she drops something important. The first time, it was a bottle of Champagne. The next time it was our long-awaited Ramadan soup.

So, Jessica moves out tomorrow, and I move in, and up. My current landlord wasn't extremely happy about me leaving, but in the end, he was very nice about it. He didn't make me honor the required three-month notice. That's because he needs to do some repair work in the apartment. One whole wall of the apartment is bubbling under the wall paper because there's a water leak from the office building next door. I'm getting out just in time, because there's a multi-year, multi-insurance-company fight ahead, and if I had stayed, me and my insurance company would have been in the middle of that fight. Because, believe it or not, once the renter moves into an apartment, it is THEM and their insurance company that are responsible for all damage inside and out of the apartment. If My Future Husband's masticating toilet suddenly falls through the ceiling with him on it, me and My Future Husband's insurance companies fight for three years over who's responsible for the damage, while me and My Future Husband would have to pay to get it fixed and then wait for the fight to be settled to get reimbursed. Just think how well we would know each other by then!

I meet with my new landlord tomorrow morning. He's a little Portuguese man who doesn't get along with many of the other owners in the building, but who loves G. Thank the God-whose-address-I-can't-find, because G recommended me and he didn't bother to try and find anybody else. My move will be easy, with the help of friends.

Once I'm settled, if you're wondering where I am, I'm probably sitting on my new toilet.

Fear & Loathing In The Post Office

Some of you might be surprised to know that I'm a chicken shit. You might think I was brave to change my life at 50 and sell everything and move to a foreign country. But I think it's quite possible to be impetuous... and a chicken shit at the very same time.

The proof of my chickenoscity is in the post office. Or, la poste, as it's called in France.

When I first started traveling back and forth to Paris, I found out that you can't get anything - like a cell phone for instance - without having a bank account. But you can't get a bank account in France, no matter how much money you tell them you plan to deposit in said account, without a long-stay visa and your first-born child. At the time, there were Other People's Children that I would have been delighted to give to la poste, but I didn't have a long-stay visa yet. So I did what any tourist would do, I went to The Illegal Alien Bank: la poste. Yes, you can get a bank account at the post office here, even if you have no children. As a matter of fact, from the looks of the people standing in the ever-long lines at la poste, having many, many children seems to be the norm. But, no matter how many children you have, you can't get any checks, nor can you have automatic deposits or debits. You can get a debit card, but it can only be used at la poste ATMs. So, I still couldn't get a cell phone here, because all cell phone plans must be automatically debited from a local bank account.

I found that out after I opened the account (having stood in a line for three days with Other People's Children).

So, I did what any tourist would do, and went to Illegal Alien Land (Chateau Rouge), to a shop called Le Roi de Barbès (The King of Barbès - Barbès is the name of a nearby Metro stop) to fight my way through throngs of people to buy a pay-as-you-go cell phone for 25 Euros (+/- $35) and a SIM card for 20 Euros. I would actually advise anybody to do this who comes to Paris for more than a week and who wants to have a way to communicate inexpensively with the rest of their travel partners and the locals. You can buy recharge coupons at any tobacco shop. (Good luck figuring out what they're saying in French when you call the number to enter your recharge coupon, but that's another story.) There's actually a vending machine at one of the gates at Charles de Gaulle airport where you can buy one of these phones as you get off the plane, but going to Le Roi de Barbès is an adventure you could definitely write home about. But that is also another post entirely.

Meanwhile, after I was able to negotiate enough contracts to be able to support myself here and then get a long-stay visa, I now qualified for a grownup bank account. But I still had to take another grownup with me - who had an account at the same bank - to introduce me. Then, HSBC was just dee-lighted to serve me. It would be an entire post just to tell you how long it took to make even that happen. But, even though I am the queen of digression, I will try to control myself and post about that later... also too. (Just call me Sarah Palin. OK then, don't.)

I never used my la poste bank account. And there were a few thousand Euros in there that I wanted to take out, deposit in the HSBC account, and then close the la poste account, even though I had such great nostalgic affection for la poste. (Snark.) I tried to close the account a few months ago, but they yelled at me, so I went away.

And, I'm a chicken shit. So, I put it off. Until the last minute. Of course.

Meanwhile, I used my new HSBC account to get an iPhone. (Yay!) I bought my phone online from Orange, gave them my RIB (bank account numbers for auto-debit) and an electronic signature agreeing to death by hanging if I defaulted on my payments. (I think that's what it said, but I'm not sure. It was all in French.) They were so happy to have me as a new client, that they sent me reams of paperwork, all in different envelopes, every other day or so. I ignored them. After all, it's in French. And I'm afraid of the mail.

I used my iPhone for a month, and then it was unceremoniously cut off. Finit. Pas du service.

I panicked. I was sure that the auto debit must have failed at HSBC. But I didn't go online to my HSBC account to see if I had money in there or not. And I didn't go to HSBC to ask them. I didn't do anything. I just became paralyzed. Because, I'm a... chicken shit.

What am I afraid of? God knows. Banks, money, debt, debtor's prison, authority, breaking the rules, getting in trouble, policemen, soldiers, French bank employees, French postal employees, French waiters, French people in general, my poor French language skills, getting yelled at in French, my own shadow, and also too, yours. But not swine flu. Not scared of that.

But suddenly, I had to pay rent. I HAD to get that money out of la poste and then go to HSBC and deposit it to cover my rent, and my electricity bill and my iPhone bill.

All of this had me coughing, and then, um, barfing. Yes, I was so scared to go to the post office and then to HSBC that I vomited. I finally called my ex boyfriend. We all have our weaknesses. He has his and I have mine. But at least he knows about my fears and paralysis, and doesn't judge me (too) harshly. I'm not good at reaching out. I usually just hide in my apartment and hope that nobody decides to kill me that day. But at least I knew I could call him. He dropped everything he was doing, rode his bike to meet me and walked me to la poste, talking me down from the 6th floor ledge of my mind, to the safety and predictable shit-smeared reality of a Paris sidewalk. He had me laughing very soon. May the God-I-don't-believe-in bless him.

We entered la poste and got in line. My ex entertained me some more. I had stopped breathing at this point, but at least I wasn't vomiting. Finally, it was my turn at the counter. I handed the teller my latest account statement, and I told him I wanted to close the account and get all the money out. He understood me (amazing) and took my statement and went to the back wall to a huge bank of filing cabinets and dug through there for an hour. Then he returned with whatever he had been looking for. He got on the computer. He started clicking and typing away, then started talking to himself. My ex reminded me to breathe. Then the teller called another guy over to the computer.

Uh-oh. I glanced over my shoulder to see if the police were behind me. Not yet. Only a lot of illegal aliens. And their children.

Then the new guy, obviously a manager, started to speak to me. I had no idea what he was trying to say. He asked me if I spoke English, and then told me in English that I had already closed the account. It must have been done that time I went there and they yelled at me. Oh.

Then I started to worry that there's some rule in France that if you close your account and there's still money in it, that you're not allowed to get your money, that the police will be called, and that your money will be given to President Sarkozy, as a fee for having to put up with us Americans for so long. I started to cough.

He said, "You can't get your money."

I squeaked, "Quoi?"

He said, "Well, at least not all of it."

Then I started to worry that they would give me 42 cents and keep the rest for all the times Americans came to France and demanded weak coffee. I coughed. And gagged.

Through pursed lips I whispered, "And how much can I have today?"

He literally stood there, staring at the computer, stroking his beardless chin, deciding. Deciding. Deciding....

He wrote down the amount, which was almost all the money in the account, except for 6 Euros and 95 cents. He said, "You can get this much today, and then you can come back in two weeks and close the account and get the rest."

Mine was not to reason why; mine was but to nod and sigh.

He told the teller what to do. The teller typed and talked to himself for another hour. Then he gave me a piece of paper and told me to go to the locked door next to the window. We went. We stood there. Nothing happened. I looked around the door. There was a little button. I pressed it. No alarms went off. No police dogs began to snarl. I heard a click and opened the door. There was a bullet-proof window with bars and a teller behind who was counting out my thousands. She made me sign something. She handed me the money. We turned to leave. The door was closed. No button. We stared at the door, willing it to open. It did. She must have had the magic button.

After we reached the safety of the urine-soaked sidewalk outside la poste, I said to my ex, "I wonder what my interest rate is on this account?" He said, "Why?" I said, "Because it would be interesting to calculate how much interest 6.95 Euros will accrue 40 years from now, since I'm never coming back to close this freaking account."

The next day, having been fortified by my success at la poste, I went to HSBC alone, to deposit the money. I didn't vomit, but I was terrified. I saw forms on the counter and figured they must be the deposit forms. Except, I was totally confused because the place where I had to write the deposit amount had a thick line separating the Euros columns from the cents columns. But there were three slots in the cents column. With Eurocents, are there actually three integers after the decimal point? Is there a 1/2 cent? Did I need to deposit 1450.089? I was so confused. Finally, the impatient clerk asked me what the hell I was doing and I told her in my bad French that I didn't understand the 3rd integer slot. She looked at me like I was crazy. My stomach turned. Then the man who opened my account for me walked over, smiled, listened to me and her, and then said, "Oh, just put the amount anywhere. Ignore those slots. It doesn't matter."

In France, the land of rules, I continue to be surprised when the rules that they so fervently demand you follow, actually don't matter.

And the iPhone? It was shut off because I never opened my mail from Orange and filled out the triplicate contract form and mailed it back with a voided check and a copy of my RIB. Oh. So all that stuff I did online didn't matter either. Et voila! Perhaps, when Orange receives my contract, voided check and RIB next week, I'll have my iPhone back.

And my 6.95 Euros at la poste will surely generate 450 pieces of mail, very formally and politely threatening me with death, or at least a very long wait in line, until I come to close the account. I won't open those letters, either.

What's The French Word For Deer Balls?

I've been to Ikea about five times in the last month. It's on the outskirts of Paris, close to Charles de Gaulle airport. You can take a train there, I think. Then you have to get on a bus. Way too complicated pour moi. And why should I go through all that when I have my long-legged friend and her Mercedes hearse? OK, it's not a hearse, but she's definitely long-legged. And you could fit a body in there. In the hearse.

The first time we went, it was a dirty hearse. And my friend decided it must be washed. As always with her, I panicked, inwardly. She's the kind of girl who thinks, "Well when I first came to France, I was thrown to the wolves and had to figure it all out myself, so you have to do it too." So she's constantly telling me to do things and running away before I can say, "You want me to do wha...?"

I'm the kind of girl who thinks, "When I first came to France, I humiliated myself so many times, that I'd like to save you from doing the same thing." So I lead people around by their noses and tell them how to do everything (at least the minuscule amount of things that I've learned so far).

She says that nobody learns using my method. I say that's not true, they learn, but maybe more SLOWLY than she would like. I think we're both right. But her method is more painful than mine. And I'm too old for pain. Right?

Nah.

Somehow, with this whole hearse washing idea, I knew at the acidic pit of my stomach (which was churning because she made me read the tiny little map at the back of the Ikea catalog when she got lost, as we were barreling down the freeway at high speed, with her hands gripping that wheel as if her life depended on it, except when she took a hit off her cigarette, and then blew smoke into the hermetically sealed tomb of that hearse) that I'd end up driving that fucking tank. And driving in France? Where the people shooting out of a side street to the right have the right of way, except on Sundays between 6:13 and 9:48.6 or on Holy Days of Obligation or after midnight during Ramadan? Nuh-uh!

So, we pulled into a gas station, where they had an automated car wash in back. She stopped beside the station and my gut lurched as I anticipated her saying, "Go ahead and go in there and buy a car wash ticket, let's see, get the one without wax but WITH the filtered, non-scratching water and then ask the attendant if the brushes will scratch my wheels and also ask if I have to take my antennae off and could you also get me a blah blah, you know, those special cheeses I like so much? But ask and make sure it's BIO but NOT pasteurized, I hate pasteurized. And while you're at it, ask if they can give you directions to Castorama because I know it's somewhere near Ikea but I'm not exactly sure where."

"Uh?" I would say, my eyes as big as saucers, "What's the name of that cheese again? Putain something? And what's the word for car wash and ticket and scratchy and filtered and wax and wheels and antennae and NOT pasteurized and Casto-what-what?" And she'd answer, with a sadistic sparkle in her eye, "Oh, you'll figure it out!" As she drives away and leaves me standing there, probably with my pants down and no money and she'll forget she left me there and I'll have to hitch hike back to Paris.

Actually, she only said, "I'm going to go in and get a ticket for the car wash. If anybody honks or yells at you for parking here, just drive the car down to the entrance of the car wash."

Whew! Uh...

Nobody honked and nobody yelled at me and no small (or large) animals were tested while the car wash ticket was being purchased. However, I smelled like an animal by the time she came back to the hearse. She didn't notice. After all, we're in France.

So she drives the hearse to the back 40 and I get out of the car and she moves that low-ridin' midnight-blue beast with the fat (and somewhat flat) balding tires up and over the tire grip. I stood at a safe distance and watched a swarm of yellow jackets swoop down and sip the water on the ground from the last car wash, then swoop back up to what I'm sure is the complete hivenation of the walls of that car wash. If I get stung by a bee, and I don't have an epi-pen handy, I die rather quickly. Somehow, that appealed to me, when weighing it against all the future times when my long-legged hearse-driving friend says, "Go ask that woman if she's leaving her parking space... or Go to the hardware store and get some of these rubber things that go into the drywall so you can screw things into them (hell, I don't even know what they're called in English!)... or Go to the post office and get a lettre recommende and make sure it's sent overnight."

We both stood in front of the machine and listened to the automated voice leading us through the step-by-step entry of the ticket. The problem was, though, that the sound of the car wash as it kept going back and forth each time we cancelled the ticket entry, drowned out her cheery little computer voice. It didn't matter. I didn't understand her anyway. And she didn't understand me, either. The ticket just wasn't working. The dirty little hearse was anxiously, impatiently waiting to be cleansed and there was no water spray in sight. The bees hovered and buzzed overhead, talking about how stupid these American girls are. They can't even enter a few numbers into a computer.

My friend TRIED to get me to go to the office and tell the woman the ticket wasn't working. I said no. Defiant little brat, aren't I? So my friend walked back there and was followed a few moments later by a very large and silent African gal who did all the same things we did (thinking all the time that we were stupid American gals), and also failed. The bees are now wondering if they judged us too quickly. The attendent returned to the office without saying a word to us. A few seconds later, out came a not-so-silent, even larger African gal, who was mutter-yelling to herself alllll the way to the machine. She tried, and also failed. She and my friend blah-blahed (or maybe in French it's pew-pewed?) for a while and they both decided that my friend should get her money back.

On her way back to the office to get her refund, my friend casually yelled back at me over her shoulder, "Oh, can you bring the car back around to the front?"

Where in hell are the bees when you need them?

It's been a while since I started a diesel. I somehow remembered that I had to hesitate in between turning the key half way and then turning it farther to start it. Baby steps! Then, feeling like my ass could be dragging on the wet pavement at any moment, I applied a bit of gas and chicka-chicka-chug-chugged that thing over the tire grip and out the end of the building, where I faced a hairpin curve to go back to the station (if I wanted to stay within the parking lot, which I DID) OR I had to pull out onto the street and drive back around to the front. Which is what I did. I only had one semi truck honk at me because a) I didn't realize how fucking LONG that car was and ended up in his lane (only for a second, I swear!) and b) I forgot how LONG it took for a diesel to go from zero to fifteen in 40 minutes or less.

I arrived back at the front of the station, sweating like a farm animal, yet again. My long-legged friend said into the window as she approached. "Where were you? Why didn't you just come right back through the parking lot?"

"I felt like throwing myself to the wolves this time instead of waiting for you to do it for me, OK?"

She rewarded me with deer balls at the Ikea cafeteria. Friendship is a wonderful thing, n'est-ce pas?

Where In The World Am I?

Sometimes I think I can't write a blog post unless it's a lovely, perfectly-shaped essay. But I miss writing and want to catch you up on what I've been doing so you won't think I fell off of that slow boat to Paris.

I was in the states for 6-ish weeks and was able to see some people, but not everyone I wanted to see. This was my own fault, since I had just left a pressure cooker in Paris with a deadline for my game writing job, a deadline for my university work, a breakup of my relationship and packing, moving & storing everything I own, twice. When I left for Arizona, my stuff was stashed at a couple friends' places and I had no home to come back to. I was pretty exhausted and brain dead. On top of all that, the left side of my body was numb because of the position I put myself in while writing on those two deadlines. I got some excellent chiropractic adjustments and massage as soon as I arrived in Arizona and am back to normal. But after all that... I just wanted to hang out in silence and drift while the French government reviewed my new visa application. Anyone I bumped into along the way was a delight, but because I didn't sit down and plan things down to a rat's ass, I didn't get to see everyone.

You'll all just have to come visit me in Paris.

I can't tell you how excited I am about my visa. I wanted a special visa, called Arts et Talents, which lasts for three luxurious years and is renewable. I was able to get it through a collaborative project with a private Paris university, where I will be helping them develop their online video education curriculum (undergraduate and MBA business courses), including course development, script writing and on-camera work. I'll also be teaching live classes. In addition, I'll be filming regular insider updates for the university's clients in the travel, hospitality and luxury products industries. I've already been building a new eCommerce course and I meet with the school this afternoon to start planning everything else. Yay!

You'll be happy to know that I quit smoking while I was in America, with the loving help of my therapist friend, Jeri. She's the one who cured me several years ago of my sudden fear of flying (me, who got a pilot's license at the age of 21). At that time, she cured me over the phone, using a reprogramming method that involved eye movement. This time however, to help me quit smoking, she used the TAT method. One day I was a very addicted smoker and the very next day I had absolutely no physical, mental or emotional desire to smoke. Gone! I even left Jeri's cosy place in Laguna to spend more than a week with my friend Rebecca in Los Angeles, who smokes all the time. No problemo. If you want to learn more about TAT and use the same methodology for free, go to TATLife.com and download their How To Do TAT booklet. TAT therapy centers around healing negative events in your life, without having to drag yourself through the memories or pain of the event. So, I didn't focus on quitting smoking during the TAT session. I focused on the event, or series of events, which led to my smoking. I believe that this method can be used to heal many of my past traumas and I plan to use it often.

When I returned to Paris, I was originally going to stay with my friend Lisa in her summer rental in the Marais until I found an apartment to rent of my own. It would have been tight, as she would have had to step over my bed to get to the bathroom or kitchen. But then a friend called and said she had an overlap between her former apartment and her new one, and would I be interested in renting the former apartment so she wasn't stuck paying double rent. The idea of being alone after staying for six weeks in other people's homes was appealing, but I made sure that there would be internet at that place, as I had a lot of work to do on my university programs. So, I arrived at CDG and took a cab to my other friend's apartment. I ran into Fiachna on the street and he told me to meet him and his girls at one of our favorite restaurants, L'Homme Tranquil. There, I was lovingly greeted by Antoine, the proprietor with a huge personality and an even bigger heart. It was a wonderful return home.

The next day I schlepped my stuff to the empty apartment and was thrilled to be there. I shopped for groceries and settled down to my work. Two days later, the internet died, and couldn't be fixed. I had to move again. By this time, Lisa had another friend coming into town, so I couldn't go there. I called G, whose apartment I stayed in prior to my trip to the states. She said, "I was expecting you!" I was so grateful. So, I schlepped my stuff to her place. A few days later, G got a call from a friend from LA who was coming into town and needed to stay with her, so I had to go somewhere else. G's friend S rented me her lovely flat in the 9th for two glorious weeks. But, the internet was as slow as molasses. Sigh. Can't win for losing.

Through all of this, I was:

• Trying to find a permanent apartment to rent
• Trying to open a bank account (I'm grateful to my friend M for taking me into her bank and gittin 'er done)
  
• Trying to gather the documents I need to go stand in line for 3 hours (3 times) at the local police station to get my Carte de Sejours, which includes getting an official French translation of my birth certificate
• Trying to build my university courses

And everyone that I needed to see or work with, was on vacation. After all, it's Paris in August. Not a soul around. It's been difficult, to say the least. And I'm so tired of schlepping my luggage, so tired of living out of a suitcase, so wanting to have a place of my own. sniff! whaaaaah!

When S came back, I was going to move into Fiachna's apartment while he's on tour in America. But then G called and said she was going out of town and asked if I could stay back at her place and watch her cat and...my bird. Yes, my bird (who G finally named Charlie) has been at G's place since last February or so.

Meanwhile, I looked at a bunch of apartments and was disheartened at all the documents and proof of whatevers that the landlords demand here. The fact that I'm an independent business person without a regular paycheck deposited into the bank (that bank that I didn't have yet), is a big problem. It doesn't matter that I have a solid savings account in America to point to, they just want to see regular money deposited into a French bank account, along with a mound of other documents that basically lets them know every detail of my past and current life.

In the end, I rented a tiny studio on the other side of G's living room wall. I'll be in the same building with her. We can borrow sugar and stuff, and I can keep my bird on her lovely courtyard patio and let it toss its seed all over the place while she and I drink wine and eat cheese. Best of all, I'll share her WiFi internet. Woohoo! The apartment is DIRT cheap, but it's also the size of your dining room table. At least I don't have to go down the hall to pee in a communal toilet room. Life does have its blessings. But it's all ok. I really like my landlords, a Tunisian couple. And they have gutted the apartment and are putting in an ALL NEW bathroom and tiny kitchen and new tile and painting everything. So, as I sit on G's couch, I can hear the guys on the other side of the wall working. Never has pounding and construction sounded so good. When I go to the grocery store and pass by my soon-to-be window, I lean in and watch the guys work and they are so friendly...all or most of them are relatives or friends of my landlord. They show me everything and I ooh and ahh and compliment them on the speed and accuracy of their work. You know how important that is to men.

So, if all goes well, I'll be in there on the 1st of September. I just have to order some furniture and perform some origami to fit it all in there. As soon as I unpack and find my freaking camera charger, I'll take some pics.

So, that's that.

Cougar UP!

Cougar Up! That's the name of a new line of products created by the girlfriend of an old friend of mine. She told me all about it over dinner and wine a few nights ago. She was driving home one day and saw a bumper sticker with "Cougar Up!" on it and she said, "Damn! Why didn't I think of that first?!!" (I don't know. I honestly don't know.) Then she got closer to the car and realized it actually said, "Cowgirl Up!" So she rushed home to see if anyone else had coined the Cougar Up phrase and decided nobody had. Thus, a new product line was born, for older ladies of, well, sexual means.

I have to admit that I plastered a smile on my face as I listened to her tell this story. And I politely (fakely) said, "Oh Wow!" in all the right places when I was shown "the merchandise." And I graciously accepted the gift of my very own Swarovski crystal-studded Cougar Up! black t-shirt (with a peace sign in the "o" of the cougar, no less). I was told that it retails for SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS!! But my older, yet somewhat perky breasts were not aching to make those crystals sparkle. I drove home with that thing growling at me from the back seat.

I guess I qualify as a cougar. But I don't want to be one. I have this judgment about older women (like me) throwing down really young men. It's just fine, I suppose, as long as nobody gets hurt (And who is usually more vulnerable...hmmm?). But, I still think it's cheesy and tacky and undignified and... desperate.

But I've had my comeuppance. Yes, I have. It happened to me in Vegas, as all things tacky and desperate should. I didn't throw down a youngster, nor have I changed my mind about my own lack of cougar tendencies, but I certainly have softened my judgment about other women indulging in this wild-cat sport.

That t-shirt remained in my car as I drove up to Las Vegas, burning a paw print into the fine Corinthian leather. I figured Vegas would be the perfect place for me to unburden myself of the thing. After all, I was going there for my friend Sandee's 60th birthday. Surely I'd find the perfect demographic for that shirt at her party. Hell, I thought I might even just package it up and give it to Sandee for her birthday, since I (and all her friends, family and Santa Claus) had grown so very tired of that antique she'd been dating for 45 years who refused to ever come to her house to pick her up for a date (she had to meet him everywhere), who never, ever slept in her bed and who was a millionaire cheapskate who left the $2.95 price tag on her birthday presents (If he ever remembered to give her one). If anybody needed some "fresh meat" in her life, it was Sandee. Besides, "cougar bait" boys don't wear yellow polyester double-knit sans-a-belt pants and saddle shoes, nor do they have dandruff on their stubbly, age-spotted cheeks. Gag.

The night of my arrival, Sandee invited one of her girl friends over to her house so that I could meet her. Sandee thought we'd hit it off, and she was right. She's a gorgeous redhead whom I'll name Ginger, after the exotic movie star character from Gilligan's Island. Ginger was loads of fun and we connected immediately. She was smart and witty and full of energy. Then this conversation happened:

Sandee: So, have you seen cougar bait recently?
Lisa: (WTF is cougar bait?)
Ginger: Oh honey, yes I have!
Sandee: What's his name, anyway?
Ginger: I have no idea! Don't even care! At one point I said to him, "Maybe we should have a conversation sometime."
Sandee & Ginger: (gales of laughter)
Me: hehe?

So, I can be a little slow, especially with this whole new vocabulary and all. Cougar. Cougar UP! Cougar bait. My oh my. But I slowly started to get the picture. Especially when Ginger said "He's a fireman!" I got quite a picture, then.

The next night was the 60th birthday party and Ginger came over early to help us get all the food and other stuff set up. She paused on the couch long enough to let us know about her date the previous evening with The Fireman.

Ginger: (I must take poetic license and imagine that she's stretched out on the bed, or perhaps bent over the kitchen counter, in some level of undress, panting in a snaggle-toothed, tongue-lolling, cougary kind of way...)
Fireman: (hesitating) Um, you do take birth control, don't you?
Ginger: (working hard not to laugh) I don't have to take birth control.
Fireman: (confused) You mean you use something else?
Ginger: No honey, I can't get pregnant.
Fireman: Oh. ... Why not? (This is a good indication of how little these young men know about women's bodies)
Ginger: Because, I stopped having my period a long time ago.
Fireman. (still confused) Oh.

Later......................................... (I had to draw it out because, from what I hear, this cougar thing is rarely a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm kind of thing. It's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm-let's-do-it-a-fifth-time kind of thing.)

Fireman: So, how old are you?
Ginger: How old do you think I am?
Fireman: Well, how old do you think I am?
Ginger: 38.
Fireman: Close. 37. So, seriously, how old are you?
Ginger: Old enough to be your mother.
Fireman: Get out!
Ginger: Would you like to come to my 60th birthday party in September?
Fireman: OMG! This is my BIGGEST FANTASY!

Well, now. I won't go any further because you can imagine that by this time, The Fireman's hose was primed again and he was ready to get back to work on one hot and burning red house.

Guess who I gave the Cougar Up! t-shirt to? Ginger. She wore it proudly the next day. There isn't a hint of tackiness, cheesiness or desperation in Ginger. She's just got a healthy lust for men life and she's having lots of fun. She's happy with her "cougar bait." He's delighted with her. There are no strings and no last names. Just some wobbly legs and mussed up (thinning) hair in the wee hours of the morning.

Courage

more photo's of todays chaos #iranelection
Originally uploaded by .faramarz

Women of Iran, you are my sisters. We hold the power of NO.

No to violence. No to killing. No to suppression. No to lies.

Of Soylent Green And Love Blankets

I was pumping gas into my car yesterday when I heard a woman's voice very close to me. I looked around and there was nobody but the dusty wind. Then I looked up and saw the TV screen atop the gas pump, playing an infinite loop of advertising. I felt like I was in the movie Soylent Green, and Big Sister was repeating the litany of what I should believe and what I should buy. Her voice, a little out of sync, echoed simultaneously from the tops of every gas pump.

Many men in Arizona shave their heads. Is this a new trend?

Men have a distinctive uniform here. Casual: Long baggy shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. Dressy: Large Tommy Bahama or Hawaiian shirts worn untucked over slacks... and flip flops.

Women dress in corporate mall wear. While I sneer at that, I'm wearing the jeans I bought at Monoprix in Paris, and the top I bought at Target in Carefree. Oh... and the flip flops I bought at Target as well. Arizona women - feel free to flip me a bird right now.

Rubio's is still my favorite Mexican food chain (or possibly the only food chain I would ever set foot in), with the freshest made-to-order mahi-mahi tacos and chipotle salsa. I went there after the car wash yesterday and the woman behind the counter was so incredibly, genuinely, direct-eye-contact-big-smile friendly, that I became shy and looked down at my wallet as she beamed at me. I lingered after eating, thinking I might ask her where exactly in her heart and mind all of that love comes from. But she was very busy pouring it, like fresh salsa verde, all over the next customer in line.

I had my second experience meeting a virtual blog friend a few days ago, Rich from The Daily Husband and Mister Richard's Bloggerhood. I enjoyed it very, very much. The first time I did this was with The Wishful Writer, who I don't have to talk to or read about, in order to know she's still my friend. Rich and his lovely wife met me at a Starbucks, where he said he had 501 questions for me. We only covered about 42, but that just means I get to see them again so we can cover some more. They graciously invited me back to their home and fed me scrumptious Chinese food and we sat outside in the unseasonably cool air and talked about politics and blogging, and why we both kind of feel like it's been a useful release of pent-up rage for us, but perhaps not something to do long-term. He quit his political blog; I haven't yet. I must have some lingering rage to express...

I love my family, even though we are all so different.

One of my friends from waaaay back in the early '70's drove all the way over to my brother's house to see me. She said, "This was a huge stretch for me. I rarely leave my house." I was honored she would overcome her fears just to see me. Then I told her that I am just as afraid to leave my home as she is. We're all afraid at a certain level. We just express it in different ways. The world would be so much better if we believed more in the power of grace in our lives, than in the false power of darkness and doom.

I would like to invent a magic cloth that I could drape over people's heads and shoulders, snuggle them into it. And the cloth would soften their brittleness, calm their fears and most of all, allow them to forgive themselves. I would buy one for myself, after I watched the people I love begin to love themselves as much as I love them.

I miss Paris like a new lover. It's that bittersweet feeling - a painful tug in my heart followed by an excited thrill when I imagine the next time we meet. With my eyes closed, I conjure up memories so I can believe that she's still in my life.

Sun-Kissed Mouse Pad

I love my friend T. She has the strength and energy of 40 he-men packed into an eentsy beentsy little body. She mows the lawn, slays bees, climbs ladders, reattaches window screens, empties the trash, cleans the house, chases down car thieves (and attends all their trial hearings) and lets me sleep in her smiley-face guest room.

She also washes her mouse pad. Have you ever washed your mouse pad? And set it out in the Arizona sun so that it dries properly? I certainly haven't. This is why I love my friend T.

Smokin' In The Parking Lot

I've been in Arizona since Memorial Day, hanging out with my family and taking care of bidness, both Uhmerkin and Françaises. It's been interesting, so I wanted to write a few observations before they slip out of my brain.....

I have never been a chain restaurant kinda gal. Can't do corporate America. Can't do prefabricated corporate food. But when hangin' with the relations,  I go (mostly) happily wherever I'm taken. These restaurants remind me of a few things...

America is like Disneyland. We fabricate fantasy environments so we can pretend we're in a 50's diner or a Mexican cantina or a thatch-roofed beach-side Bahamas burger joint or a British pub. None of these incarnations come vaguely close to the real thing, either in decor or food. But we get to "escape" the reality of our lives and pretend we're on vacation for a moment or two. The problem is, this escape is a temporary fix, and not a very satisfying one to boot.

We also create fake little "villages" and gated "communities" to create an illusion of neighborhoodiness where none can possibly exist. There's nobody sitting on their front stoop, sipping an ice tea and playing their accordion, waving and saying, "Hi Mabel! How's your granny doing? And Hank? How's his lumbago?" Even though you've been going to the same Walgreens for years, you have no idea who the checkout girl is. (She's your next-door neighbor by the way. You pass each other in your cars every day, but never notice.) There's nobody walking along the fabricated village pathways. There's nobody outside at all. Everyone is hiding in their houses and cars.  Watching really bad TV. All 395 channels of it. I will bet you a million dollars (chump change these days) that they are also saying, "395 channels and not a fucking thing to watch." But they continue to pay an exhorbitant amount for the privelege of that "entertainment."

OK...back to the restaurants...

There's no possibility of a lingering lunch or dinner spent with friends and family talking about life. Everything in American restaurants is built around turning the table as fast as possible. The chairs are purposely uncomfortable, the music makes it impossible to talk, the bussers are constantly asking if you're finished yet so they can take your plate. I keep saying, "No." I half expect them to say, "Well, when will you be done then? You've got to get moving, you know."

The freaking waiter never leaves you alone. I know from experience that this intrusion is restaurant policy ("touching the table"), but it's the single most annoying thing I've experienced. Not only do they ask if "everything is ok" within two minutes of delivering the food, but they ask you that question after the appetizer is delivered, after the wine is delivered, after the main course is delivered and after the dessert is delivered. It's as if I have an overprotective mother who is also a complete stranger, pretending to be my friend for a few moments and then discarding me, and his/her "concern" for me, as soon as I disengage my ass from that rock-hard seat and pay the bill.

The amount of food on a plate is horrifying to me. (America is obese because why?) I went out to breakfast in my tiny little town of Carefree and I ordered eggs and bacon. I got two eggs that were the size of soccar balls. I feel sorry for that damn chicken. I got 5 pieces of bacon that were about 9 inches long. They were thrown on top of a 3-inch-high mound of potatoes that was the thick dividing line between the huge eggs and four 1-inch-thick pieces of raison bread slathered in butter. I ate the eggs and some of the bacon. I never tasted the potatoes and had one bite of toast. The rest? Thrown out. Terrible waste. You can take it home in a container (a big no-no in France, or most of Europe), but those containers sit in everybody's refrigerator for weeks until somebody opens them out of curiosity, gags, and throws them out.

During this same breakfast outing, I just wanted an espresso. That's all. But here's how the conversation went: "I'd like an espresso." "OK, sure! You probably want a Latte." "No... an espresso. You know... an espresso?" The waitress looks at my friend for assistance with me, the weird woman, and says, "You mean a double shot?" My friend just smiled at me, knowing what I was thinking. I said, "If you only serve espresso as double shots, then double shot it is." Incredibly, the conversation continued. "You don't want cream or sugar with that?" She was actually kind of puzzled. I said, "No. Just black." Incredibly (did I say that before?), the conversation continued. "You don't want any flavoring like vanilla or amaretto or..." My smile was now glued to my face. One cannot punish the child for the errors of the parent, I reminded myself. "Nope. No flavors. Just black. Thanks!" I bet she's still telling her side of the story, too.

When she walked away scratching her head, I finally looked down at the menu. I saw that one entire page was dedicated to coffee. One entire page.

All alcoholic drinks come in giant glasses. Giant. Humongous. Herculean. When my flight arrived in Phoenix around 6pm, my brother whisked me off to a really fabulous (non-chain) restaurant owned by his friend, Eddy Matney. Most of my family and a few close friends were there to greet me. It was wonderful. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. My wine glass was almost too big for me to pick up, and it contained a half bottle of wine. I'm not kidding. And I had two! Holy Moly. The next morning, I was hung over beyond redemption.

You'd think I would have learned from the wine experience. But... I went to the office with my bro to go through my mail and do some copying and stuff, and he asked me if I wanted to go have Mexican for lunch. When he ordered a Margarita, I said, "I'll have the same." It was the size of a urinal. With salt. I needed two hands to pick it up. I also needed to go directly home to bed after lunch. Jet lag my ass.

And of course, I'm still smoking. But I have to say, and you'll be surprised at this one, the French smoking laws are much nicer than American smoking laws. In France, you can slip out the front door of the restaurant and light up. You can even stand in the doorway and continue chatting with your friends at their table or the owner behind the bar, as long as you blow the smoke out the door. Or, you can sit at an outside table and light up. That night at Eddy Matney's, the night I arrived, I stepped out on their patio and lit up. This is what I heard: "CAN'T DO THAT HERE!" I looked up from my bic lighter. All the people at the tables were staring at me. This cute little waitress said, "You can't smoke here." "Can I smoke out there on the sidewalk?" "Yes, but you have to be twenty feet from the front door." That would put me in the parking lot. Which is where I went.