ma vie francaise

Today was great. I felt good about the way i looked (which is a rare occasion here, as everyone generally makes me feel as though I'm dressed like an orphan who just got robbed) and confident in my classes. There's nothing quite like walking up a crowded street when you feel good. when the people around you are beautiful and you have the time to stop at an interesting display and take in the scene. my truly french experience though, was one of embarrassment. nearing my house, I was surprised and a little confused when a man on a motorbike honked his horn and waved at me. I thought he was greeting the two children I happened to be passing at the time, that maybe he was their father. However, the look in his eye and the fact that the kids did not seem to recognize him told me i was wrong. following the waver was some innocent passer-by in a car, who was perhaps going a bit to fast, as the gust of wind they created blew my skirt up and into my face. Though gravity made sure I was exposed for but a split-second, and I was wearing (thankfully) opaque tights, I was still a little taken aback. Once I reassembled my outfit, I smiled to myself. Is this some sort of french joke? skirt blown up by a gust of wind? honked at by some (old) man on a vespa? laugh out loud.

My host mother winked at me today. good sign

she also told me to refer to her and m. dromard in the vous form. disappointing sign.

c'est la vie, jchpose.

I made a joke in french today with them at dinner. It felt good.

i'm surrounded by beautiful things, in a country that i now see to be just as magnifique.

my host is someone who likes to watch tennis after she has a home prepared meal after she returns from mass after she does the shopping for the week, perhaps. she is married to someone who was photographed as a handsome young teen in algeria...and who is concerned about africa, about what teenagers are thinking today. and about american police television.

I'm very happy.

Yesterday Annie told me that she doesn't think anything will ever be normal again.

I think she's right, and I'm rather shaken.

I'm going to france. not normal. When I get back to school my neither my dearest friends nor my love will be near. definitely not normal.

the next year I'll be writing a thesis and graduating. what?

after that, graduate school? marriage? a home?

I want to puke.

I feel as though things are moving too quickly, that I can't remember yesterday well enough, and that my past has become so disintegrated that I can't quite tell what's real or what I've invented.

I love driving by libraries at night. Seeing the shelves lit from behind, the stories and knowledge and wonder shielded by the shadow of soft light. I love knowing that maybe tomorrow, or the next day when the library opens, that a child might check out their first book. That an adult might resign themselves to learning how to read, or that some woe begotten teen might crack open my gatsby.

Really, I love libraries all the time. the freshness in the morning, the familiarity of mid-day, the warm comfort of sunset behind the glass and beside the countless books. I love being there all night, and of still being there in the morning when the sky begins to change.

Of all the misery of homework, paper writing, and finals, I will never hold those grudges over the head of any library. They've loved me too much.

In middle-school, I made a pair of pants. Strike that, I destroyed some perfectly good denim.

I took some jeans, cut some holes, sewed (by hand, and a shaky one at that) some patches, splattered some paint, and VOILA! Art.

So bad. I probably wore them once, I wasn't fooling anyone.

Well here I am again. I've decided to take some Goodwill trousers, make them into shorts, and them make the leftover material from the cut-off into a sort of satchel... or an elephant-trunk-warmer. Heh.

A bag is just the easiest thing I can think of for the leftovers, but I would like to produce something nice. In times like these, I wish I possessed a sewing machine. Harumph.



I've given up keeping detailed lists of what I was eating. I keep in mind what I've had in a day, but obsessing over every detail led to just that, an unhealthy obsession. Instead I've done a few crunches and put in a few miles on the treadmill, and I have to say, I'm much less concerned.

peeves to pet

I don't get why people are so insistent about washing their cars. They just get dirty again.

acne.

not getting my check when I'm supposed to due to lazy bookkeeping.

how full of complaints I am, and how dissatisfied I am with myself. I feel like Eeyore, and I always hated him.

I have the most beautiful friend. and the most beautiful godson.

;akjdf;akdsjfads. I return to thee, my long lost self-inflicted solitude. At first I thought I only blogged when I was bored, isolated, and feeling generally dreadful. BUT. I think maybe I'm inspired by the summer. Despite the fact that I have more time to myself in the summer, and that when i do have this time I generally like to write (however silly it may be), and here I am. who knows. hu nos. lols.

anyways, I've returned to my materialistic roots. I bought some carpet-bag boots today and couldn't be more pleased. I've told myself that I will no longer buy things online, that it's a waste of time and usually money, but these were simply too whimsical to pass up. c'est la vie.

practical? no. stylish? not really. inspired by a septuagenarian and totally me? YES.

Oh, to escape the cliche

I really wanted to start this, or even dub the subject as, 'Hello Darkness, my old friend.' I'm so original it kills me sometimes. But often, I really like it when i make these little jokes, obvious as they may be. It amuses me. But it's really not funny. Perhaps this is why I feel like I can't go into a room full of people I consider my friends. I feel like I'm intruding, that I wasn't invited and am not welcome. I also do not want to enter the room. I don't find them funny right now, amusing or intriguing. Just another solemn blogger.

I haven't felt the same since coming back to school. Je n'ai pas la joie.