Screwed (and not lauging)

To answer my last blog post question -- which I temporarily took down because I had a paranoia moment in which I thought that I shouldn't be telling the whole world that I will soon be in France illegally -- there is a whole lot to fret about. I decided to re-post my horrible disregard for serious situation's today because I'm already screwed so what does it matter if everyone knows about.

I really shouldn't have been so flippant in my last post. It's karma. Earth is screwing with me because I jokingly forecasted a dire future for myself and wrote all kinds of fun things about alcohol, cigarettes and sex.

Honestly, I wasn't too worried in my last post because I have -- HAD an open flight paper ticket to get back home at the end of my three-month journey here, which is creeping up on me. Yes, had.

When I wrote the previous post, I was warned by a friend of mine that my time is running out and I should leave soon, so I freaked out a bit because I wasn't sure if the date had passed, wrote a fun "what if" post after reading horror stories online, and began packing and gathering my documents that have been camping out on Soco's desk. I searched calmly for the paper ticket that should have been with my ticket to France. I searched, I searched and I searched. Oh, yes, time to freak the fuck out!! All I could find was the empty envelope that I used to carry my plane tickets to France. What the hell! I sat down and tried to relive the past three months and pinpoint exactly where I may have put the tickets. Uh, oh...I vaguely remember doing a major clean up of the desk and throwing a bunch of useless papers. Royally screwed.

As I sit here writing this blog, I'm picturing a crisp plane ticket worth a thousand dollars lying somewhere in a dump or wherever trash goes to in France. I'm sitting here, knowing that I will have to pay for my stupidity when I leave the country. I'm sitting here, trying to figure out if I can afford another ticket to the island in the pacific in the next three days to avoid breaking the law. I'm sitting here, and I want to cry all over again.

I've tried to contact the U.S embassy in Paris with no luck. Tonight I'm going to purchase the cheapest and earliest flight home I can find, which will probably have me overstaying my welcome. All I can do right now is hope for the best and enjoy my last days in Europe because I probably won't be back for about 7 years or so.

Today's lesson: Karma is a bitch.

Tourist Visa and all that Jazz

After realizing that I could be gagged, tortured, belittled, reprimanded, pay a fine and/or banished from this country at either the European airports or the American airports for leaving after my three-month tourist stay, I searched every drawer, purse and crevice in the apartment for a cigarette to calm me down -- I even sifted through the ashtrays for a half-finished cancer stick. Yes, I know, I'm a disgusting little chimney puffer.

I finally had to give in and pull on my jeans and coat, check my face in the mirror to make sure it looked presentable in public and walk to the nearest Tabac. "Hmm," I thought as I walked past the grocery store of my favorite Arabian man, "What would go great with Marlboro lights at a stressful time like this? A bit of nipple eye fondling, maybe? No, too much effort to unbutton my coat. Perhaps, the smooth, creamy texture of liquid slithering down my throat? Oh, yeah, that's it." I snatched me a bottle of Kasteel bier, brewed in Belgium and oh, so yummy! It's better than sex. Far surpasses the taste of -- come on -- did you really think I was going to write that. Too easy.

The alcoholic in me also begged for a bottle of red wine, so I submitted to her...his...it's request and purchased a cute, curvy bottle of JeanJean Merlot. Don't ask me why I bought it or how I come to choose such a fine wine because, um... I don't. My wine choosing system works like this: "Wow, that bottle is really pretty. It's less than 5 euros, too. And, people have been buying it. OK, I'll go with that." Usually they taste like crap, but after two or three glasses, you're not drinking it for the taste, right?

As I sit here writing this blog, sipping my second glass of wine at 5 p.m. in the afternoon, I'm not too worried about paying a huge fine at the airport, being deported from France and/or banned for seven years. Wanna know why? Because I have my cigarettes, my wine, the cold air nipping at my frozen toes...and I'm gonna get laid tonight, and tomorrow, and every other day until I leave. So, what's there to fret about?

Nicky Larson is my Lover

At least twice a week, I have to sit through two back-to-back episodes of Nicky Larson, the handsome, strong manga cartoon, who saves the lives of the female manga population while continually trying to get laid, because SoCo can't get enough of his lover Nicky Larson.

I don't mind it that much. It's funny -- when I can catch one or two of the French phrases. Nicky's friend, girlfriend, partner, I don't know what she is to him -- she flattens him with a gigantic hammer each time she catches him flirting with someone, in a compromising situation (naked in bed, hands on boobs, etc.), or drooling after a young woman.

My infantile boyfriend MUST watch it when he returns from work or his lips start quivering and the puppy dog eyes come into play. So, I deal with it.

Nicky Larson is his hero. Each time after the show ends, he flexes his non-existent muscles and boasts, "Je suis comme Nicky Larson. Je suis beau, fort et intelligent." ("I'm like Nicky Larson. I'm handsome, strong and intelligent.")

Riiiggghht...whatever you say, honey.

This past weekend I started messing around with a face transformer software that I found online. This site is awesome! Take any photo of yourself and turn it into a baby, child, teenager, old adult, Caucasian, Afro-Caribbean, east Asian, west Asian, male, or female. You can even see yourself as the muse for Botticelli, Modigliani, or Mucha.

And, if you are like my boy and fantasize daily about becoming a manga, you can even do that! When I transformed SoCo's photo, the first thing he said with a huge smile on his face was: "Wow, I look like Nicky Larson!! I told you."

So, there you go! Teema and SoCo as manga cartoons. Hope you likey.

Old Age Around the Corner
SoCo(a.k.a Nicky Larson) also thinks that he looks rather fabulous as un vieux (old man). After transforming my photo into une vieille (old woman), he slightly cringed, than quickly recovered, hoping that I didn't notice as he declared sweetly, "You'll still be ma cherie even if you look like that."

Thanks. Really. That just warms my heart.

Seduction

I am not departing this world of strange guttural sounds and high pitched female whining.

Firstly, the odor of stinky cheese constantly permeates from my wine-clogged pores and I wouldn't want to offend innocent passengers by that, would I?

Secondly, because I've been drowning in self pity the past few days, the Arabian owner of the food market down the street hasn't gotten his daily ogle of Mrs. Lolo and Mr. NeNe, who try unavailingly to stay warm behind thin fabric. It would be terribly selfish of me to suddenly strip the poor man of his eye medicine.

And, finally...

I'm horny.

I could go onto yahoo Farechase right now and book a flight to the island in the Pacific infested with young, randy military men ready to bump uglies...

But then I'd be a contender for the "Most Likely to Contract Gonorrhea and Chlamydia" list.

I could arrive Sunday evening and still have time for a night of hard-core drinking and pelvic rubbing with random boys I befriend in the shady bar down the street from the transgendered hookers...

But then I'd just get drugged, raped and sold to the highest bidder to be shipped to a whore house in Thailand.

I could get my kicks by calling a former "vagina time" friend from my uni years for a night of uncommitted, please-go-home-now-I-want-to-sleep, mediocre sex...

But, then I'd just have to masturbate after he left.

I could scramble around frantically searching for my special vibrating hoppety-hop friend buried beneath scraps of old fabrics and sewing utensils.

But then I'd just run out of batteries.

So, I am therefore obligated to stay in France and continue the sexual adventures with my little frog as returning to the island of woes would only be disastrous for my safety, health and sexual well-being.

Sabotage Part Deux

Subsequent to a mangled French argument upon arriving back from my "sabotage" (refer to last post) moment, I decided to sleep on the couch. It doesn't make a huge difference as the apartment is a studio and I can hear SoCo breathing five feet above in the loft.

So, what did we argue about? About an hour after I took off, he found me sitting at a cafe sipping on a glass of red wine and inhaling a newly lit Camel light. He wanted to know what was wrong.

"Rien," I said. "J'avais besoin de promener. C'est tous."

If you know me personally, you already know that I have some trouble expressing my feelings. And, honestly, I never know what it is. There's this little bug inside of me that pinches at my nerves from time to time. I know that something is bothering me, but I can't exactly pinpoint the what it is, only the person I know who to lash out at it. And, that night, it was him.

We headed back to the apartment together without speakin, he on the left, me on the right, five feet of space between us. I jammed my hands into my coat pockets and took in a breath of tension.

The mood was awful in the apartment. The air was thick of unspoken words and when we talked to each other about what was on telly or what we were going to eat, it all seemed so scripted. Finally, he went to bed while I sighned on to skype to call family in Hawaii, across the U.S. and in Iraq.

Around 3 a.m., I noticed a missed text message on my cell phone as I searched for the battery plug to recharge my laptop. Scanning the text message, I knew that things were going to ignite: Are you coming to bed. I'm fed up. Then, everything went to hell:

“Teema?”
“Teema?!”
“Oui. What is it?”
“Are you going to come to bed?”
“Yes, after I talk to my sisters.”
“It’s 3:00 a.m. in the morning!”
“So.”
“You can’t talk to them tomorrow?”
“No. Don’t you understand the time differences?”
“What difference does it make?”
“3 a.m. here is 3 p.m. in Hawaii and around 7 p.m. in Kansas. Both my sisters are off of work and we can talk altogether.”
“C’est chiant! Why can’t you call early tomorrow morning.”
“Are you not listening to me?! I want to talk to them now!! I don’t talk to my family often because of the time difference. Your family is here. You don’t understand anything.”

The next day.

I woke up early to only one thought. I need to leave. I didn't say a word to him as I started collecting all my clothes and packing them into my suitcase. Tight lipped and nonchalant, I grabbed my cosmetic bags in the bathroom and started arranging my makeup, hair products and bath products into the blue and green striped Soho bags. From the corner of my eye, I could see him staring at me as I turned on my laptop that was on the kitchen table and typed in the address for yahoo farechase.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm preparing my stuff to pack in my suitcase," I said dryly, still typing in dates on the website.
"Why?" he replied slowly. "Where are you going?"

I looked up at him across from me on the other end of the table. Nothing came out for about two seconds. It was a moment that the good bug that had been sleeping on it's job finally decided to wake up and bite some sense into me.

"I'm leaving Friday or Saturday." He lost the biting battle.

SoCo quickly said, "I leave tomorrow for Berlin. I won't be back until Saturday afternoon. I won't be here to take you to the airport."

"I know," I threw back. "I can take the metro or take a cab."

It's Thursday morning. He left at 5 a.m. I finally understand what has been bothering the past couple of days. If I leave tomorrow, Saturday, next week or next month, it won't make a difference. I'm still leaving and this entire relationship will be over. I'll be in Hawaii. He'll be in France. Look at a map. There you go.

Isn't it easier to leave someone behind, to forget them, to keep the past in the past when you hate their guts? Won't it be a lot easier if I just pick up and go without saying goodbye? Without the whole mushy crap at the airport?

I think that a part of me wanted him to say, "please stay a little longer," "please don't go," I want you to stay." Or at least let me know what would happen after I left. Would we still be together? Would we try to make it work until we can finally live in the same city?

Well, he didn't say any of that, did he? Do you want to know what he said? Do you really? He said, "I'll remember our time together forever, thank you." Oh, wait, I'm mistaken. He emailed it to me.

What a bunch of crap!!

I'm leaving. On a jet plane. And I won't be back again.

Sabotage

I try. I try so hard to keep my emotions tamed.

The day before yesterday I was happy, bouncing around, initiating a quickie during lunch – yeah, that was fun. *sigh*

Yesterday, I was annoyed. The sight of SoCo made my skin crawl.

I could feel my hands begin to tremble as he walked toward me where I was sitting in front of the laptop that was placed on the sea blue glass table. I had to clench my right hand tightly to calm myself. His voice sent waves of hatred throughout my body.

I had to get out of there. Teema was going to snap.

My answers to his questions were curt. I thought he would get the hint. I want to be left alone. I'll cook dinner. Just leave me alone for a moment. Don't stand behind me while I'm on the computer and ask me what I'm doing when you can obviously see what is open in the window.

I had to get out of there. Despicable remarks slithered up my throat. Hold them back. You'll sabotage your own relationship.

I grabbed my jacket and my purse. I snuck out the door.

Click. The door creaked opened as I descended the second flight of stairs.

Run. Run.

Party French Style

This past weekend was exhausting! We went to a friends place to watch the England France Rugby match. Sadly, France will not be in the final match of the Coupe du Monde. It was disheartening to watch England score a try in the first 2 minutes of the game.

Although the French got their tushes whipped in rugby, the party didn't stop. After the game and several aperitifs, we munched on quiche and salmon sushi that I directed Mr. Bit Bit in making. I think that he's got the hang of rolling the sushi, but he's having a hard time with the preparation. Oh, we also made chicken brochettes that were delicious. I think an Oriental/Polynesian/French restaurant is in the making. I still have to teach him how to make Sapa Sui, a samoan dish that he adores and is pretty simple to make. It's a mixture of vermicelles, veggies and a secret sauce! More to come about that later.

Hmm...Where was I? Mr. Bit Bit turned down the lights, turned up the music and then, we commenced the guzzling of (in chronological order): tequila/orange soda shooters, gin/orange soda shooters. Somehow during the night, we started playing rugby in living room. The couch acted as the "try" location where myself and the other two women there got crushed into several times. I have two round bruises on my left arm and carpet burn on my elbow to prove it.

Everything about Saturday night is a bit blurry, but I do remember hours of random dancing. I love the way Frenchmen dance. They have absolutely no rhythm!! At all! But, it's the most fun because you can do anything that your heart desires. Jump on one foot, it's dancing. Scream and wave your arms around like a lunatic, it's dancing. Reach over the table for sushi, it's dancing.

We also dosey-doed. I don't know how that all started. I bet it was my idea. It didn't really work with five, extremely drunk people. We kept ramming into each other and grabbing onto anyone available. Finally, we hit the sack at 5 am.

9 am: Wake up. Brush teeth. Say "ciao et merci" to Mr. and Mrs. BitBit.
10 am: Get some much needed water and a quiche jambon from the boulangerie.
10:30 am: Jump in the car for the hour-and-a-half drive to Roanne to have lunch with SoCo's parents.
11:30 am: Try to cover up the face of death with loads of liquid foundation before arriving to the house.
12:30 pm: Try not to fall asleep while eating the yummy potatoes and pork SoCo's mom made.
2:00 pm: Get cozy and comfy in SoCo's old bed while he heads off to play soccer.
2:01 pm: Pass out and don't wake up until 5 pm. Oh, the joy!

9 pm: Vow never to drink tequila again while I stuff the following into my mouth: salmon and spinach quiche, two slices of leftover kebab pizza, 2 eggs sunny side up, 1 bowl of salad (gotta eat healthy, ya know), and 1 litre of grape juice.

ALLEZ LES BLACKS!!

Another Saturday has passed in France. Another painful two hours of football (*rolling my eyes) and another crotch-grabbing match of rugby. Another 24 hours of understanding a quarter of the conversations and adding to even less.

SoCo and I spent Saturday night at his buddy's home in the countryside of Saint Etienne. First SoCo and SySy stared at the TV for two hours as Saint Etienne's football team challenged Marseilles. Oh, god, it was so boring. It was difficult to refrain from scratching 'save me' into my arm. Then, we watched France's unexpected and rather annoying win against New Zealand. I still don't understand how they beat All Blacks. France played ridiculously shoddily in the past three games. What a bunch of crafty Frenchies! I'm still grinding my teeth at the thought that All Blacks won't be playing this Saturday, but I have to admit that les Bleus (France) cleverly clawed their way to the semi-finals against les blacks (New Zealand.) Playing like crap in the premier games took a lot of attention away from them. They were the underdogs. Everyone thought that they sucked, and they did – until, that is, they were in a game that really matters, which so happened to be against the team with the most hype and who has won games with huge score differences. I lost 5 euros because of that loss, dammit!

Mais, c'est comme ça.

This Saturday: ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!

I've been told that I cannot cheer for England just because they speak English, nor can I cheer for England while in France.

OR

I will not be allowed back in the house if I disobey.

Still Lost

Still in France.
I love being here. I love this country.
Still missing Hawaii.
Still missing my daddy.

Still confused.
About my future.
Still can't decide on a path.
Still in debt.

Still unemployed.
I hate having nothing to do.
Still need something to focus on.
Still don't know what I want.

Ratatouille: Black Beret-wearing Frenchies

First of all, do any of you all even know what "ratatouille" is? Or, what it tastes like? Can you even pronounce it? Open mouth. Repeat after to me. Raw-taw-too-ee. Not Rat-a-too-ee. "How zu you sez zit, eet eez tres American!"

Before living in France, I didn't know what it was. So, I'm guessing that none of you do either. Ratatouille, according to Wikipedia, is a traditional French Provençal stewed vegetable dish, originating in Nice.

According to me, it's just a bunch of vegetables sauteed in olive oil. At the markets, you can by a packet of vegetables specifically called, "Legumes de ratatouilles." I haven't had a home-made version of it, yet, but the canned version, costing you 0.25 centimes (cents), isn't that bad. Tomatoes is an important ingredient and the base taste. So, kinda like Ragu but with more veggies. Low blow. I'm disparaging the yummy flavors of Ratatouille. It is really great, it is.I'm digressing.

So, while watching Ratatouile, I noticed a bunch of stereotypes that we Americans have about the French. I found it a bit funny that I was watching all these stereotypes on a huge screen with French people all around me. I wondered what they thought about the way Americans depicted Paris, the people and the culture in the film. As SoCo said, "Oui, c'est tres americain."

1. Berets galore! Almost every character that wasn't a rat or a chef was sporting a black beret. Hmmm...wait, was there a beret on one of the rat's in the cafe at the end of the film?

False: While living in Lyon, I haven't seen one French person with a black, red, purple, or pink beret! In Paris, no baguette-carrying, beret-wearing Frenchies trodding past the Eiffel Tower.

2. According to Ratatouille, the French love to wear horizontal black and white striped shirts.

Again, no, no, no! Not spotted: French male, short, taut mustache, black hair, black and white striped tee, carrying a paint brush in one hand and a canvas in the other.

3. If they weren't wearing stripes, they were clad in all black, from head to toe: black shoes, black pants, black shirt, black beret and even black shades.

Alright. I have to admit. The French love their black. And, frankly, they look great wearing it! Fashion a la Francais!

4. Standing around (in all black or stripes) sipping on wine and immersed in intense conversation. They're not talking about the weather. Or, the last episode of American Idol. Or, how much they love Goerge W. Bush and how he has positively influenced their lives.

Mark. Try. Score.

5. "I'm sorry to be rude, but I'm French." -- the female cook. Stereotype: French people are rude and arrogant.

Absolutely, not true. Everyone I have met in Lyon has been extremely polite and friendly. Rude isn't the word. Matter-of-fact, candid and frank are accurate terms. Especially, if you insist on being the all-knowing, good, christian American battling the axis of evil. However, Parisiens aren't as friendly as the Lyonais. Oh, and the old women who always seem to pay no mind that I've been waiting 10 minutes for the changing room, and waltz right past me and into the stall that should have been mine!! Grrr!! Down girl.

**I watched the film in VF - Version francais, and I don't think that she says that line in the movie. I might have missed it because the cook spoke hella fast, so I'll check with SoCo. However, I don't think the French would have appreciated that joke the way, let's say, Americans would.

Many films, especially Disney films, perpetuate French stereotypes. Do you remember the cook from The Little Mermaid? Hee-Hee-Hee. Ho-Ho-Ho. I don't think stereotyping is all that bad. Most people know nothing about another persons culture and by categorizing, it gives them an easy way to place these cultures. When we Americans think French, we think striped shirt, baguette, mustache, beret, oui, oui. When Frenchies think Hawaii or Polynesia, they think beautiful women. Well, that's not a real stereotype. It's the truth!

However, continually bashing another culture according to generalizations and stereotypes is not right. Except when discussing loud, obnoxious mainlanders with their matching aloha shirts and muumuus, lobster-colored skin, and massive cameras suspended from their necks. I kid. I kid. I truly adore our island tourists. Truly.