Day 184: Je M'en Fou, Je Suis En Paris

Paris, Day 13. The past week here in Paris has been all about people. Parties and lunches and meeting people at the airport. Playing all those ROLES you play when there are other humans involved: new girl, English girl, straight girl, helpful friend, third wheel, martyr, and frequently in my case, nosy and invasive writer.

This week, I’ve taken very few photos. I’ve skipped whole days my journal. I’ve lost sleep. The dishes have piled up and the low table where I’ve spread out all my drawings and ideas has gathered a whisper of dust.

My little Parisian life has gotten away from me.

My first week here, I came to the surprising conclusion that I was here, not to work on my book project necessarily, but to work on myself.

I did my writerly due diligence, of course, by taking notes and snapping pictures – all fodder for my second draft – but it didn’t FEEL like diligence. It felt like play. Evenings, rather than hit the town, I’d be huddled over sketchbooks with Crayola markers listening to Roberta Flack.

I filled pages with multicoloured scribbles and swirls. Plotting out my ideal life. Daydreaming about where I wanted to go and what I want to learn, see, do, experience. I spent hours in states of wide-open possibility and childlike imagination without worrying about what club I was going to hit or what Girl-Writer-In-Paris outfit I was going to wear.

My life stopped being about me being “an artist” or being “in Paris” and became simply about BEING.

I found Dana’s copy of The Vein of Gold – a book about digging down into yourself as a creative being. Finding out who you are and inhabiting your own authentic creative self. It felt like God himself had put that book under my nose, so I opened it up and stepped inside.

And then the phone started ringing. Dates and rendez-vous pulled me this way and that. I rushed out the door in the mornings and staggered home late at night. I got caught in the tractor beam of interpersonal drama and gossip. I stopped seeing the beauty in the city and only saw the shit and spit and grit. I wondered why I came and wished I could go home.

My calendar might be full, but I am emptied out.

And so today, after six days of lifting my skirt for every wayward friend-in-need, I am reclaiming my Paris experience. I’m doffing my Canadian politeness and people-pleasing availability and I’m turning the ringer off the phone.

My journal is open. My camera battery is full. The Crayola markers are beckoning and so are the spring tulips, glaring gargoyles and secret places I’ve yet to discover.

I’m not a chic party girl. I’m not the queer family’s second-cousin twice-removed. I’m not a map-toting tourist or a hard-nosed journalist. I’m someone who spends an afternoon arranging Sharon fruit for photographs. Who’d cross the street to fill her nose with the green smell of a flower shop.

Who could stare at a boat, any boat, for hours on end. Who presses her nose against patisserie windows and for whom the rainbow rolls of leather, fabric and yarn are more interesting than the clothing for which they’re intended.

My Paris is not cloud-scraping steeples or echoing cathedrals. It's not stylish, cultured people who all look fabulous and bored every moment of the day. Nor is it gilded frames around the masterworks of Western history.

It’s the faded dust-smell and polka-dot shuffle of bead bins and button cards. It's capturing mid-afternoon daylight not by F-stop but by feel. It's the tangy thrill of indecision over lemon tart or raspberry. The crush of the Wednesday market. Sudden silence down a tiny stone-walled street. An old lady in a fur hat. A new cheese. A quiet night.

This is my Paris. And I'm taking it back.

Day 183: Fraying at the Fringes

Paris, Day 12. Yesterday was supposed to be Weird Anal Sex Workshop Day, but it has been postponed – I'll admit to some relief on that one – so Ms. Burlesque and I went to lunch instead.

Having only seen her once before, I had no idea what to expect. She arrived sans makeup, sans false eyelashes and practically in her pajamas. But that didn't mean she wasn't in character. We walked into the cafe and she immediately gushed a hello to the owner Marion, curtsied and spun and generally flitted about the establishment for ten minutes while I found a table and sat down.

When the human hummingbird finally came to rest, she told me she was SUPER excited. "About what?" I asked. "I'm FINALLY getting an apartment!" she squealed. I congratulated her and we ordered.

I've been dying of curiosity about the corner of the gay community she inhabits and couldn't wait to learn how it all works.

"So," I began, "how do you identify?"
"Well, I used to say I was bisexual," she said, "but since I discovered the word queer, I go with that."
"What does queer mean?"
"It's auto-defined."
"So it's different for everybody."
"Yeah!"
Great.

She told me if I wanted to get more savvy in the queer lexique, I should check out a new social networking site that just launched in Paris called French Queer Fries(?!). The registration page features an entrance exam worth of questions and checkboxes all about who you are, what you're into and the various shades of grey of your relationship status.

The "Me, Myself and I" section featured no less than FORTY different options including Queer, Trans (and all its variations), Butch, Fem, Futch(?), Grrrrl, Cyborg, Bear, Dandy, Genderqueer(?) and a whole schwack of letters including FtM, MtF, FtX/FtU and MtX/MtU. And at the end of this headspinning list was, of course, OTHER.

"It's very complicated to be the kind of gay I am which is attracted to masculine entities who are not biologically masculine," Ms. Burlesque said between bites of quiche.

Uh. YEAH.

"But I'm just SO excited," she continued. Oh? I said, looking up from my notes. "To pick up the key to my apartment on Sunday!" Oh, right. "Hey! Will you come help paint it?" Um, sure, I mumbled. "GREAT!"

Every word this woman said seemed to be punctuated with an exclamation mark. And that snippet of conversation – I'm so excited! About what? My apartment! – would be repeated approximately ONE HUNDRED TIMES during our time together.

Whenever there was a gap in conversation in which someone would possibly take a breath or swallow their food or, I don't know, just BE SILENT for one second, the mythical golden apartment would re-emerge as a shining (and extremely repetitive) mirage.

It was conversational Groundhog Day.

By the end of my time with Ms. Burlesque, I could no longer muster ONE MORE IOTA of feigned interest about that damned apartment or anything else for that matter. The corners of my mouth REFUSED to budge in the direction of a smile. They were just too tired.

Day 182: Making Paris A Mix-Tape

Paris, Day 11. Have been thinking a lot about love these days. The strange Parisian laissez-faire approach to romance. The day-to-day grind of a relationship, a job, a life. The fact that being in Paris a second time feels like falling in love the second time: less intense, less consuming, less passionate.

Yesterday, I met a fellow Canadian at the airport. She's here to live a Parisian dream and she's filled with that OH MY GOD I'M IN PARIS excitement. The excitement that appears to have exited Stage Left in me.

While I waited for her to come through customs, I witnessed the single sexiest airport reunion of all time. He came through the sliding doors and enveloped his lover in an embrace. They held each other FOREVER and then kissed unashamedly passionately for ten minutes right in front of all of us waiting.

These people basically made love right there in Terminal 2B.

Eventually, they started walking toward their car or whatever, but then they stopped for another make-out break a few feet down the way. They were so into each other, nothing else mattered. Not even leaving the airport.

It was so awesome. So lovely and awesome and I WANT THAT.

Currently, my lover Paris and I are in a bit of a rut. We've settled into a pretty hum-drum routine where all I seem to notice is the dog shit, diseased pigeons and creeps selling contraband.

Don't get me wrong: I love her despite all her flaws. But we're deep in the Sweatpants Stage and, let's face it...I'm looking at other cities.

(I was on this porn site called Facebook where someone had posted all these nude photos of Barcelona. I was all over it and felt guilty afterward.)

But when I met up with Justine From Canada and she spent most of the Metro ride SWOONING over Paris and how this town is basically a menu of deliciousness and how she feels sexy and extraordinary just by BEING HERE...well. I was forced to confront my own apathy.

I got home and called Boyfriend. "I need to fall back in love with Paris," I said. "This trip has been all about gritty weirdness and counter-culture. I need to re-ignite the romance. I need to remember why I fell in love with this place. I need candlelight and flowers and..."

"You need to make Paris a mix-tape," he said.

YES, I said. I DO. Passion de Paris Make-Out Mix 2009? Here. I. Come.

Day 181: The English Girl In The Corner

Paris, Day 10. Last night I ended up at a reprisal of the Belleville Bash somewhere in the boonies of Le Marais. A similar cast of characters was assembled, but the vibe was altogether different. Partly because I wasn't on a freight train to Boozetown.

Maybe that would have been smarter.

As it was, I sat in complete silence for more than four hours while everyone spoke French (and nothing but the French) all around me. You become invisible when you don't speak the language. It's interesting. And then it's frustrating. And then it's boring as all hell.

At one point Michelle explained to everyone that I was writing a memoir of all my experiences. "When she doesn't know what people are saying," she explained in French, "she will guess or make it up."

"Ah," said the crowd. Who promptly went back to ignoring me.

So I gouged my eyes out of my effing SKULL while I slowly contracted lung cancer from these French CHIMNEY creatures and their goddamn Marlboro obsession. I spent a full hour wondering how I could unobtrusively exit the scene when I had no clue where I was and how to get to the nearest Metro station.

Which is when someone said (in French): 'We should probably speak English for awhile.' Then, the group of them spend the next TWENTY MINUTES debating (IN FRENCH) what they/we should talk about.

The final decision?

TRUTH OR DARE.

Are. You. Kidding. Me.

Number 1: Truth or dare is for fifteen year olds or Madonna circa 1991.

Number 2: After four hours of feeling like a piece of the wallpaper, a simple CONVERSATION would have sufficed.

Number 3: I would have to be very, very drunk in order to play Truth or Dare at the age of thirty-mumble with a whole schwack of lesbians on the hunt for fresh meat.

(Don't flatter yourself Jones.)

(True. Strike that.)

Anyhoo. The fact of the matter is NO ONE was drunk enough to play this game (except for the hostess who was sloshed off her gourd) but no one had any better ideas. And I, quite frankly, was not in the mood to be the Canadian killjoy who said: HOW 'BOUT WE CUT THE CRAP AND GO HOME?

So most of us just avoided Dare like the plague and stuck to Truth. Which as a writer/undercover spy, I can actually USE. Only, the first question posed to me was in the So Obvious It Hurts category: Have you ever slept with a woman?

NO. Next?

Esmeralda to Dalia: "If you could sleep with anyone here, who would it be?"
Dalia: "Melanie."
Me: "I'm flattered, but I'd be a lousy lay."
Dalia: "Ah, but I would appear to be a master."

Someone asked Gilles what his favourite aspect of sex was. He said, "Le premier fois." (The first time.)

And that's when things got deep.

What do you love most in a woman?
"Sa fragilite." Their fragility.

What turns you on?
"Feeling totally confident with someone...which is very rare for me."

And then people stopped translating, so I sat there for another forty-five minutes dreading being forced to say "Dare" and thinking about jumping out the window or going to the bathroom and never coming back or quickly Googling "do-it-yourself home teleportation," but then it was my turn again.

"Okay, Melanie Jones, truth or dare?"

Both, actually. The TRUTH is I have stage 4 carci-fucking-noma and I DARE you to stop me from high-tailing it to the subway.

Day 180: Urbain...Suburbain

Paris, Day 9. After my cuh-razy night in Belleville, I spent this afternoon on more familiar ground: chatting with a couple of hard-working parents from the suburbs. (Granted, I had to run the gauntlet of Pigalle strip joints to get there...)

I had lunch at Rouge Passion, a wine bar owned by a university friend of Drea's husband, Sebastien and his wife Anne. I sat at the bar and told Sebastien to bring me anything he thought I should try. "Ah," he said. "I like it."

I tucked into my charcuterie as another of their friends sat down beside me. Fathi (pronounced Fati, short for Fathima) and I started with small talk, but quickly got into more important matters. Like why everyone frowns on the Metro. And the fact that her father is Algerian.

I learned about the great influx of the early 60s after Algeria won their independence from colonial France. Fathi's dad felt more French than Algerian, having been raised entirely in French language and culture. But when he arrived in Paris he, along with most other immigrants, was shuttled into a poor suburb and treated like a second-class citizen. Suddenly, he was more Algerian than French. "He was judged by the colour of his skin, not what was in his heart."

Fathima and her brother, though, feel Parisian despite their olive skin and dark eyes. "My father, he protected us," she says. And she feels none of the struggle to belong that her father felt. Now she's the mother of two boys and a girl, living in the suburbs with her husband.

Sebastien and Anne live near her and they all deal with problems that sound all-too familiar. "If you have children, you can't live in Paris. It's too expensive. So you live out in the suburbs and take the Metro. It's very stressful. Everyone is tired."

Sebastien and Anne's restaurant is open six days a week and I can see the toll it's taking on them. It's the same stress I hear about every day with Drea and Gilles: How do we make enough money? How do we get enough time? How can we be good parents...let alone sane people?

They have dreams of traveling, opening a restaurant in Hawaii, maybe. Meanwhile, they struggle with the trials of any couple working and living together: "You have problems at home, you take them to work. You have problems at work, you take them home," Sebastien says.

I sip a red from Cotes du Ventoux and think about how I have one foot in both worlds. Sure, I live in the suburbs, but I am enviably free. I'm able to take off to Paris on a moment's notice. I don't have to lose sleep over whether my kid will resent me working so much or so hard. I may be broke, but there's only one mouth to feed.

I come here feeling like my life is small in Calgary and that Parisians are living the dream. Today, it feels like the opposite is true. But as I keep learning every day that I'm here: it's not one thing or another, it's both. We all have dreams, we all have struggles, and all of us are just...living.

Day 179: Le Hang Over

Paris, Day 8. In France, everything is tiny. Little apartments. Little restaurant tables. Little cars. And teeny tiny wine glasses. As a woman of low alcohol tolerance, I have a system for my wine drinking in North America. It goes: One, Two, DONE. But that doesn't work here. Because the little wine glasses only fit about three sips to begin with and I can't count higher than ten.

So it's quite possible I had a hundred glasses of wine last night at Maud's open house.

"How many people are coming tonight?" I asked Maud when I arrived.

"Maybe ten, maybe fifteen," she said. "I put it out like a bottle in the sea."

Maud has a delicious way of speaking. Her accent is very thick and most of what she says is in metaphor.

She also sells secrets. Elegantly writing something she's never told anyone on a piece of paper, tying it with gold thread and selling it to a stranger. She says she might write a novel, just of secrets. "It's perfume from my life," she says.

I pull out my notebook and write down what she says. "You are a spy," she tells me. I don't contradict her.

When the others start arriving, the English stops completely. For an hour, I sit in silence letting the language and the cigarette smoke wash over me. I drink. And watch the people in the room.

Across from me sits Mélanie, an actress I met last time I was in Paris. Then, she had just broken up with a boyfriend and said she'd like to try a woman next. Now it appears she got her wish. She shares a seat with her lover, a stunning, older woman with a dragon tattoo winding down her arm. Mélanie is dressed like she just walked off the set of Flashdance.

Beside me is Esmeralda, the woman who spoke only John Wayne lines to me last time.

"Esmeralda is a bit of a dandy," a girl named Michelle would tell me later. "She has a persona...it's quite powerful. You should dance with her. Then you'll see."

Esmeralda is seldom seen without Gilles, a brooding straight man, who works for a poker magazine and travels to casinos all over the world. He sits in the corner, saying little for most of the night. He is the first to leave.

After he goes, the lights go off and the music gets louder. Mélanie and her girlfriend begin kissing passionately and then get up to leave. Someone bring out a riding crop and an S&M paddle and suddenly everyone is getting spanked.

I'm already drunk off the bad champagne and red wine when Michelle pours me a glass of thick, sweet white. The too-sweet wine mixes suddenly with five hours swimming through the blue haze of ten chain-smoking Parisians in a 200-square-foot apartment and sends me careening me over the edge. I say my goodbyes and stagger out into the piss-scented air of the street.

Day 178: Operation Squidlet

Paris, Day 7. After being stared at by dead squid eyes for half an hour of food styling and photography yesterday, my appetite was nowhere to be found. But today, I couldn't avoid the lil' squidies. I mean, I BOUGHT the damn things, now I have to eat them.

Enter Google. Wherein I found a web page entitled How To Prepare Squid. I give you my illustrated version. (VEGETARIANS BEWARE.)

HOW TO PREPARE SQUID
By Melanie 'Squidlicious' Jones

STEP 1:
Rip the little buggers' heads off.
Pull out their (surprisingly silvery) guts and
the clear plastic-looking spine thing.
Place in Bowl Of Gore.

STEP 2:
Sever Sideshow Bob tentacles from googly eyes.
Encounter frightening spiny thing.
Consider aborting mission.

STEP 3:
Make squid water balloons by rinsing out the body pouch.
Dab rinsed squid bits with toilet paper because you have no paper towel.
Chop body pouch into cute little rings.
Avoid looking at Bowl Of Gore.

STEP 4:
Prepare back-up meal.
Select something that doesn't involve eyeballs.

STEP 5:
Gather silver bullet cooking ingredients that
could make fermented monkey brains taste good.

STEP 6:
Melt butter, sautee garlic, begin to pray.

STEP 7:
Moment of truth.
Put squid bits in frying pan.

STEP 8:
Deploy secret weapon.

STEP 9:
Put pink curly squidlets onto contrasting IKEA dishware.
Enjoy!

STEP 10:
Decide that the amount of horror involved in preparing this meal
was in no way proportional to the amount of enjoyment you got out of it.
Decide to become a vegetarian.
Pray those eyes don't haunt your dreams.

Brave Food World

When I went to the market Wednesday, I came away disappointed in myself. There were vegetables and fruits I've never seen before, sea creatures I couldn't imagine eating and exotic foods that called out to me with their spicy smells. The place BEGGED a person to get experimental and I walked away, not with hairy root vegetables, ink-oozing cuttlefish or Middle Eastern delights, but with boring ol' oranges and tomatoes.

Fail.

So this afternoon, I went back with one rule and one rule only: IF IT FRIGHTENS YOU...BUY IT.

I brazenly elbowed my way to the front of the mob at the baker, the fish monger and the olive vendor. I pointed and palpated. I pretended I knew what I was doing. I came, I bought, I conquered. (But I STILL couldn't get up the nerve for the hairy things. What are those anyway?)

I hauled my prizes home and promptly staged a photo shoot that will have me doing dishes for the rest of the day. No matter. It was worth it. I give you my poor-man's version of food porn:

I am certainly not the first person to artfully photograph Sharon fruit. Nor will I be the last. The guy at the stand wouldn't let me buy just one or two. He pointed behind himself, shrugged apologetically and said, "Boss." I am now the proud owner of a CASE of these suckers.



The only bakery in the market is run by a cute Middle Eastern couple. These two treats looked so appealing with the dark swirl of fig and the teardrop shape, I could barely wait to eat them. The fig swirl one is glazed with rosewater.





And I didn't stop there. I got this flat, square date bar thing, which is actually nothing special and this delicious crepe-style unit stuffed with peppers, onions and spices. Greasy as all hell, but freaking delicious.





These are just turnips. They aren't scary, but I coveted the little white and purple ones when I was here last April, and totally chickened out on buying them. So I figured today was the day. Besides they're cute.





It's not that olives or roasted red peppers are frightening, it's that the olive stall is. There are dozens of kinds of olives, sauces, dips and colourful spices. It's the kind of place where you feel you need to have your shit together. You don't. You just have to point.




I'd never seen a melon like this and I wanted one. It's from Brazil and was very heavy to take home on the Metro. It's also not really that sweet. But it's juicy. Meh.







The ballsiest purchase: lil' wiggly squidlets. With eyeballs. Staring at me accusingly. The fish stand is by far the most gory place in the market with massive turbot, scary eels and giant squid covered in black ooze. I'll save those for next week.

Day 177: Les Puces in Pictures

Paris, Day 6. I spent this morning at the city's most famous and most massive flea market, Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, known to most simply as Les Puces (The Fleas).

To get there, go to the end of Metro line 4, Porte de Clignacourt, and wade through stall after stall of young African men hawking cheesy sweatshirts, shiny denim and pirated rap CDs. Beyond all the crap is the buried treasure: miles and miles of delicious (and ridiculously overpriced) antiques.

Once again, I was yelled at for taking pictures, but I was nimble and unrepentant.

The Paris Plan Emergeth

Supposedly I'm here to work on a book.

I've slowly started reading through the first draft of my manuscript, taking nips of brandy to steady myself as I go. I'm about two-thirds of the way through now and am convinced this colossal piece of crap is what led to Thursday's crisis of faith.

C'est la vie as we Parisians say. I could always toss myself in the Seine.

Regardless, a plan is forming itself around me:

Louise gets back next week and we'll begin work on her one-woman show. I've also decided to attend her workshop on anal lovin' – assuming it's not terribly hands-on – because as I learned from yesterday's hammam experience, there's nothing to fear but a room full of breasts.

You can quote me on that.

My other friend Maud has invited me to her home on Sunday for an aperitif with friends, which means a gloriously exhausting evening drowning in French language and French cigarette smoke. The last time I hung out with Maud, one of her friends shouted John Wayne lines into my face at varying intervals throughout the evening. It was the only English she knew. Or perhaps she believes all North Americans are cowboys. One of the two.

The Harmonica Federation dudes reconvene next Saturday and I'll be there with support hose on. This was one of the highlights of my last trip here. I arrived with images of an incense-filled, bohemian literary cafe dripping with turtleneck-wearing poets. It was more like an old folks home on bingo night. Two words: boxed wine.

Also on Saturday, I'll begin to explore the racial/immigrant experience of Paris from the perspective of a local. Dana once remarked that Paris is an Arab country and she's not wrong. You might think Parisians are all willowy model-types, but the hijabs (headscarves) and taqiyahs (skullcaps) outnumber the high heels and skinny jeans by far.

And other than that, my list of activities includes hanging out at La Fourmi, finding a way to surreptitiously observe the contraband cigarette trade at Barbes-Rochechouart and hitting the sex museum (ahem...Musee de l'Erotisme, excusez-moi) on boulevard de Clichy.

So I'm covering old ground, venturing into new territory and hoping to receive divine guidance about whether I should toss this book under the Metro and start from scratch.

Day 176: Who's Your Hammama?

Paris, Day 5. I spent the past four hours surrounded by breasts. I'm talkin' boobies, man, EVERYWHERE. Naked ladies in Paris.

This sounds waaaaaay sexier than it was.

Inspired by friend Shea, I went to a hammam, a Middle Eastern bath house/spa type deal that I'd never heard of until she told me. She chickened out on going to one when she was in Paris and I don't blame her. Hanging out naked with a bunch of strangers is not exactly an average afternoon.

At the front desk, the lady took my money and rattled off the LONGEST set of instructions for taking a bath I've ever heard. I stared at her, took the giant pile of paraphernalia she thrust upon me and stripped down to my skivvies.

Most hammam goers wear bikini bottoms, but as if I brought a BIKINI to PARIS in FEBRUARY. I had to settle for Hanes Her Way. Suck it. I'm from Canada.

I put on my robe and walked fearfully down a curved staircase. Through a glass door, I could see dozens of topless woman lounging around on a marble platform. I didn't recall the front desk lady saying anything about a marble platform, so I ran back upstairs and asked her to repeat everything.

I ventured back downstairs, avoiding eye contact (and eye-to-other-people's-boobs contact) as much as possible. I put my stuff in a cubby and handed my number to a lady dressed like she was just about to do an Aquacize class. Then I took my little tub of weird-looking green jelly into the shower room.

In the corner of the shower room, a mud wrestling match was in progress.

A woman in a pink bikini slathered grey slop all over the line-up of women waiting. She grabbed handfuls of the stuff out of a plastic bucket, smearing it on their heads, legs, arms and bellies, chattering joyfully all the while. I looked at my little tub and couldn't imagine it would turn into mud by just adding water, but I took it over anyway. "Non," said Pink Bikini.

I learned I had to smear my jelly on myself and opened the lid. It STANK. This stuff reeked of something from a fetid swamp mixed with something from someone's butt. I gamely slimed it all over my body, trying not to gag.

Then I went into the actual hammam, a.k.a. the steam room. Naked ladies were splayed all over the place, their shapes barely visible through the thick steam. I sat awkwardly. Then laid down awkwardly. One of the hot-ass drips from the ceiling dripped into my eye and the stank soap got in it. I booked it out of the steam room.

I hit the sauna next, where a 50-something woman was lying on a lower bench. I climbed to a higher bench and...sat awkwardly. I couldn't lean back because the wood walls were effing MOLTEN. The 50-something kept lifting her legs up and lowering them down. I couldn't tell if she was minimizing contact with the fiery wood, exercising or just showing me her ass.

The heat was making my face throb, so I thought I'd chill on the marble platform thing. I sat down to discover it, too, was heated. No wonder the ladies had been basking on it like so many sealions. Topless sealions.

Okay, let's deal with this.

You know how in the movies (both X-rated and otherwise) all women look pretty much exactly the same from the neck down? It's like you get to Hollywood and they issue you your pair of regulation breasts, regulation legs and a regulation ass.

REAL LIFE ISN'T LIKE THAT.

When you get a crowd of naked female bodies in the same place you suddenly and unavoidably realize everyone is completely different. Big boobs, little boobs. Saggy boobs, perky boobs. All nipple, no boob. Boobs that seem emptied out. Boobs so full they overflow into back fat. There are so many combinations of body parts that you actually start to forget WHY one thing is supposed to be more attractive than another.

They're just...BODIES.

And they all seemed to be headed towards the Aquacize lady. I followed them. I watched as everyone's number got called except for mine and then I realized I probably screwed up somewhere along the line.

I sheepishly asked Pink Bikini about my number. "Oh," she said, raising her eyebrow. "Vous." She led me past a curtain and toward a sketchy-looking bed. "Couchez-vous." It took me a second to translate that in my head, but it was too long for Pink Bikini.

"English?" she asked almost incredulous. "Yes," I said. "Sorry."

"LIE DOWN," she yelled, as though English also meant deaf.

I obeyed, lying down on my stomach as she proceeded to flay me with a blue scrub mitt. "TURN," she yelled. I did. Then she flayed me some more.

This part of the hammam is called gommage, which to my mind translates as "gumming." This sounds very pervy and is not at all an accurate description of what was happening to me. I now believe it is more akin to gomme as in eraser.

Because clumped all over my body were the gross grey eraser bits of my exfoliated flesh.

"STAND," demanded Pink Bikini. I stood. She sprayed me down and I watched the majority of my epidermis float away along the tile floor. Then she handed me back my skin-covered flaying mitt and said, "GO TO THE POOL."

I did. It was freezing. But it also felt amazing and I got out of there feeling like a million dollars. I headed for my massage.

The massage ladies gathered at the front of the waiting room and chatted like sisters, giggling and patting each others' legs. One of them scanned the sign-up sheet with all our numbers, while us patrons sat up expectantly, wondering which would be "ours."

I have to admit, it reminded me of a brothel. The one looking at the numbers was the Madam and the rest of the girls waited around to get their 'assignment.' It didn't help they were all Russian.

I got the Madam, who led me to a room shared with two other people. I got on the table and she rubbed my back and chatted to her friends. It was the most half-assed massage of my life. But even a half-assed massage is better than no massage and I eavesdropped as she gossiped about the other girls' massage techniques. I tried to imagine the brothel equivalent, but didn't have time. "C'est tout," the Madam said abruptly.

Oh. Okay. Was it good for vous?

Day 175: The God in Small Things

Paris, Day 4. So, I was just writing my friend an email about how weird it felt not having existential crises every five minutes and apparently that was like hand-painting a giant target on my back because BOOM I woke up this morning after three hours of sleep feeling like a cannon had blown a hole right through my faith in things.

I've been asking the kinds of questions that a person shouldn't be asking. The kinds of questions that have no answers, that can make the swirling rabbit hole of oblivion shriek open in front of you, that are all too common when surrounded by unfathomable amounts of history. Questions like: Who am I?

Questions of that ilk are for when you're teenager and lost, expecting some kind of pithy response to come down from the sky. Something like, "YOU ARE A POET LAUREATE WHO WEARS RED SHOES." As though a person can be summed up in a sentence. As though God has enough spare time to call you up and tell you that.

But for whatever reason, that was the question rattling around in my brain and hauling me from sleep at 3 am. WHO AM I? It's the kind of thing that can ruin your day, so the only sensible reaction is a very long walk.

When you are being tortured by epic questions, however, the last thing you need is epic architecture. Marble-crusted palaces or gratuitously gold-plated statues are really not going to help when you're already feeling small and slightly messed up. If anything Paris can alienate the shit out of you on a day like today.

So my strategy instead was to find little things that made me happy. And also water. Water calms me when not much else will. ("YOU ARE A PERSON WHO LIKES WATER.") I went to the Seine and on my way there, I started collecting these small things. Fresh peas. The kind you have to shell yourself. The funny round trees lining Jardin des Tuileries. The gentleman sleeping outside in the chair, head thrown back, mouth wide open.

The boats moored to the side of the river: one named Andrea. The little bathtub rowboat dangling off the side of the Zephyr, half full with water. The old woman limping along the top of the Jean Bart, wearing pale blue leggings, silver shoes and a mint green dress. Barges: Anna, Mutualiste, Mexicale, Mustang and Aubepine.

Her pink coat and matching pink nose. His white teeth and brown skin. Two teenage girls with identical frizzy hair, identical sunglasses and identical scowls. Seeing the Samaritaine department store sign just as I was beginning to feel stupid for giving the Kenyan guy money to "help out in Darfur."

The old man on the bicycle: grey trenchcoat streaming behind him. The Asian man with the long, black cape. A shop called Aux Paradis des Oiseaux (Paradise of the Birds) with tall bird cages, tiny bird houses and two open-mouthed alligators made of bronze.

Graffiti: Othershit, Hello My Name is Real.

Smells: macaroni near the Grand Palais, the lady's perfume by Jardin des Tuileries, the man with the moustache's cigar, the fresh green smell of the flower stores on rue Aube.


The cute old couple opening their stand near Pont Neuf. The garden stores along Quai de la Megisserie. The beautiful couple kissing near the Chatelet Metro.

The man walking through Notre Dame hand-in-hand with his young son, looking UTTERLY unimpressed. 'This is it?!' his face seemed to say. Sitting in the cathedral, looking up and feeling closer to something. The way the ceiling curves. A fresh crepe so hot I could barely eat it. The drunks fighting the park. The pigeons fighting in the park...or maybe mating, I wasn't sure which. Coming home. Talking to you.

The Burlesque Dancer Has Landed

The phone-that-is-a-fax-machine rings. I answer. A small-sounding, tentative female voice says, "Um, hi? Is Dana there?"

I say no, Dana's out of town, can I take a message. She says, "Oh! No. Um. Is this? The girl? From Canada?" I say yes.

"Oh, hi. It's Dana's friend, Louise."

"Lessa?" I ask after a moment. She says yes and tells me she has hot food waiting for her and she'll call me back.

I hang up the phone and remember the first time I met Louise/Lessa in a lounge in Le Marais. I accidentally head-butted her in a Parisian kiss-kiss gone wrong and she yelled at me really, really loudly. And then she proceeded to napalm, carpet-bomb, atomic-hydrogen-Nagasaki ANNIHILATE my lil'-Canadian-girl-from-the-suburbs comfort zone into a pile of steaming rubble.

This is the woman who only dates non-biological men. The woman who teaches bondage workshops. The woman who, when she's not doing strange things with vacuum cleaners onstage, is a part-time dominatrix.

Only during that phone call, she sounded more like Minnie Mouse on downers. Weird.

I putter around the flat, making dinner and learning the hard way what Cru Bourgeois means. (Bad wine.) She calls again. I ask if she's performing anywhere while I'm here.

"Well, I'm in Dublin until Monday," she says. "Then on the 26th, I'm running a workshop on anal lovin' and...oh! On March 8th I have a performance."

Anal. Lovin'.

Now, THIS is the girl I came to see.

I tell her I hear she's doing a one-woman show. "Yeah, I'm working on the text now. It's a real departure for me...because I've been working in more visual mediums." Like porn shows in Berlin, says my Inside Voice.

I offer to help her with her show, which she accepts excitedly. We make plans to meet up next week when she returns from Dublin.

"One question," I ask her. "What should I call you?"

"When there's false eyelashes involved, call me Louise."

Day 174: Marche vs. Supermarche

Paris, Day 3. Okay, so yesterday I copped out and hit the supermarket. If I was truly in the parisien spirit of things, I would have trundled around to the boulangerie for my baguette, the fromagerie for my cheese, and on and on until I'd been to seventeen shops.

This works well if you are shopping for one day or one meal, but when you're stocking up on essentials for the month, it's a little high maintenance. So, I supermarched it. Only I forgot the one rule of Parisian supermarkets: you weigh and price your own vegetables. I did not do this and was was scolded at the check-out before having my bananas, apples and tomatoes abruptly confiscated.

I never had to learn the supermarche vegetable lesson because when I was here last year, I lived next to the Barbes Metro station where the cheapest market in the city happens on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Today would be Wednesday.

I hit it Barbes style and walked the kilometre-long gauntlet of yelling, singing, yodeling vendors while getting body-checked by tiny African women with rolling carts. To call this experience sensory overload would be selling it short: the Barbes market takes years off your life. As most illicitly pleasurable experiences do.

The stalls line both sides of a cattle chute where hundreds of humans jostle and jockey for position while the Metro clatters overhead. It's a solid wall of people from about 7:30 am until 3 pm. Line-ups are thick at the cheese vendor and the fish monger, and if you're caught sleeping, you'll lose your spot at vegetable and fruit stands, too.

The produce is GLORIOUS, stacked high into pyramids and piles, propositioning you like street-walkers dressed in shiny orange, red, indigo and green, green, green. As you walk, you pass through scents of juicy clementine oranges, roasting meats, fresh cilantro and the dry tang of cumin wafting up from the spice seller's table – a pallette of cinnamon, chili, turmeric and pepper.

Dozens of chalkboards hang above each stall. Navet 1,80. Carrotte de Sable 1,00. Piment fort. Endive. Courgette. Haricot vert. You watch a vendor wipe his nose before cutting thick slices from a massive orange poitron (squash).

As you move along, the vendors calls ebb and flow in a throbbing crescendo: "Un euro, un euro, un euro. Oh lalalala loooooo! Deux pour les deux! Cinq, cinq, cinq. Yella yella YELLLLLAAAAA! Un kilo, cinquante! ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ! Monsieur dame, just for you! Au choix, au choix. Madame! Madame! MADAAAAAME!" They flirt shamelessly. They sing. They dance. They whistle and plead and beg. They foist slices of oranges and melons on you. They goad each other's voices louder and louder in a form of tomato/zucchini/lettuce oneupmanship.

Someone tries to push a bottle of Chanel No.5 in your hand as you walk. Muslim ladies roll carts over your toes, playing bumper cars with their strollers and your shins. A man walks by carrying several sticks of lit and smoking incense.

At the fish stand one of the vendors, an old man in an apron, stands outside the stall arranging pink shrimp with one hand. His other hand hangs dead and limp beside him clad in a blue rubber glove, slick with fish juice, woodenly clutching a smoldering cigarette.

My camera incites screams from the men behind the stalls. Half of them hate me, the other half use it to boost their sales pitch to even higher intensity. One hands me a piece of the sweetest orange I've ever tasted. "Je veux un photo," he says. I want a picture. I photograph him and buy a kilo of the oranges.

After an hour, I'm freezing. Clouds of breath billowing out and my hands too stiff to count out my change. These men have been here since 6 am and will stay another four hours after I leave. Most look grim, their energetic calls coming from stony faces – faces that don't hide their frustration as you walk away with only two dollars worth of food. The old timers: the spice man, the olive vendor, the stooped man selling radishes and lettuce near the end of the line, they stand silent and watching, unmoved by the maelstrom around them. I climb the stairs and wait for the familiar rumble of the Number 2 line barreling down the track.

Sometimes I'm Afraid To Leave The House

Okay, let me be perfectly honest with you. Paris is a very intimidating city. It's like the prettiest girl in school who really doesn't really REQUIRE your EXISTENCE and therefore is highly unlikely to be nice to you or tell you where the Science room is or play tether ball with you. It's not that she's mean. She's just busy, important and extraordinarily beautiful.

Yesterday with Angry Metro Lady was a perfect example. This Metro lady sits in a tiny Plexiglas box all day. No one talks to her. While that is actually a very miserable sounding experience, she makes it work for her and, at the end of the day, she doesn't WANT people to talk to her. Because invariably that will mean "putting in some effort" which someone who lives in a box should not have to do.

So stupid Canadian women who cannot speak French and therefore will take up A LOT of Life Energy Tokens by forcing her to explain, demonstrate, re-demonstrate and explain one more time how the Metro pass works...are beyond the pale.

Adding insult to injury, this particular Canadian woman will try to squeeze her massive suitcase through the Metro turnstiles instead of going through the gate thing. The result of this is total suitcase sausage machine entrapment, forcing the customer who has been waiting not-so-patiently-or-quietly for the Metro lady's attention to yank the suitcase free and haul its 45 pounds up and over the turnstile, swearing all the way.

FYI? Paris, as a city and as a people, does not CARE if you have traveled 4,500 miles in one day just to see her. She has bigger problems.

So because of that and because I have an intense fear of STARTING anything – relationships, writing projects, conversations, jobs, the exploration of foreign cities with 5,691 baffling cultural RULES all of which are learned by the French People Yelling At You method – I am sometimes afraid to leave the house. Or answer the phone.

THIS IS NOT AGORAPHOBIA.

I don't think.

And so, today's To-Do list was modest, but terrifying in its own right:

• Figure out how to work my hard-won Metro pass
  
• Go to La Fourmi (my cafe from before) for dirt-cheap lunch and possible tranny sightings
• Get groceries at cute little supermarket across from La Fourmi
• Call burlesque dancer
• Maybe – if very, very brave – look at first draft of book
  

It's just before 6 p.m. and I've accomplished all but the last. I also read two graphic sort-of-novels, journalled, Skyped x 3, drew a fun Stuff I Want To Do In My Life thing (pictured), questioned the water quality in Paris, remembered that article which chided: "Why does everyone ask about the drinking water in Paris?!" and took a nap.

I also totally screwed up at the grocery store, but I will have to save that for another post because it's a quarter past cocktail hour.

Day 173: Jet Lag 1, Me 0

Paris, Day 2. I was wide awake at 2:30 a.m. It's 4:30 now and there is a bird singing outside. I also just heard some poor sucker's alarm clock go off.

Even though I will likely be comatose by this afternoon, I do love this aspect of jet lag. I am wide awake and fully functional by four in the morning. From a productivity perspective, this kicks serious ass.

Only "being productive" is a habit I'm kinda trying to kick, so instead I'm just padding around the studio, taking it all in.

This photo is the first of my Taxidermied Animal Series. I shall call him Cecil Lucius "Brutus" von Balthazar III. Although he's now employed as a bearskin rug, he was once one of Southern Bohemia's most famous silent film directors. He is lovingly (if a little boredly) watched over by this massive photo of a trust fund kid turned model.

This installation is located in the atelier part of Dana's studio, an airplane hangar type deal with 20-foot ceilings and, currently, a house made of cardboard which I am considering napping in later.

Day 172? Paris Part Deux

Well, I made it, folks. I sit at this moment somewhere north of the wall: exhausted, starving, not functioning well mentally, but in Paris once again.

I am clunkily deciphering this French keyboard. I cannot find the apostrophe. I will need that. Otherwise the blog will sound oddly formal for the whole month. It took me 45 minutes to figure out the @. It took me 2 minutes to realize I should have brought my wireless router so I could use my own damn machine.

But these are the ONLY complications so far in my journey.

Last time I traveled here, everything that could go wrong DID. This time (except for the Metro lady who got very angry with me) everything was like buttah. Maybe THIS is the benefit of going in without expectations - which is my new word for PLANNING.

Day 171.5: I Have No Freaking Clue

On the way to the airport this morning, Boyfriend asked if I'd brought the mini Lonely Planet travel guide he'd bought me the last time I went to Paris. I said no and stared at him blankly. And then it dawned on me: I have no effing clue what I'm doing.

I haven't looked at a map. I haven't opened a book. I haven't Googled a damn thing. I spent more time thinking about what I'll be WEARING in Paris than what I'm actually DOING in Paris.

This? Makes me hyperventilate.

(It also makes me stylish.)

The last time I went to Paris, I made a Google map and dotted it with more than 20 stupid placeholders of places to go and things to see. I had a folder FULL of bookmarked web sites and reference pages. I had a book about writing in Paris. Not just BEING in Paris, WRITING there. I can't remember a thing about it...was it a how-to manual? I have no idea.

This time, I have an address where I pick up my keys. That's it.

Total. Barking. Uncertainty.

"This is good for you," Drea said when I called her in a panic from gate A15. "You usually plan EVERYTHING and then your expectations make you all weird."

She's right.

But, I'd credit most of the comedy in my book to off-the-charts expectations meeting the pimp-slap-in-the-face of reality.

Maybe this time the funny bits will be due to a shocking lack of planning meeting the big pimp-slap. Here's hoping...

TGIM #7

Lucky seven y'all! This week's TGIM is my friend Steve, recent recipient of an ungracious pink slip and master of making a totally crappy situation work in his favour. Also, he's dating my friend Clare. So we love him.


Name: Steve LePan
Age: 31
Occupation: Urban Buddha

Sadly, Steve's taken down the blog where he came up with this occupation. It was part of a series of posts called 9 Lives in which every day he imagined various fantasy occupations including Full-Time Amateur Athlete. I think it was Day 4 or 5, he came up with Urban Buddha...and then made it happen, beginning with a 12-week self-transformation. Here's the moment the idea took shape:

"I've been kicking around the idea of opening a studio/gym/wellness centre for some time. What better way to live a healthy life than to make it your career? My vision is a balanced approach. An East meets West type of thing seeing as that is really a mirror of myself. Part Urban - part Buddha. I love yoga, but I also love barbeques and beer. I appreciate a good sunset and I also appreciate a crisp 100-dollar bill. Anyway, you get the point."

Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Him:

• He grills a mean steak and used to be a raw foodist.
• He keeps two hockey trophies on the top shelf in his living room for 'Top Goalie" Men's League Weeknight Division II.
• Two years ago he spent a month in ICU on life support for some random freak throat infection.

What are you grateful for?
My health. I can now say I truly appreciate life. My girlfriend. She rocks. My friends. We have more memories than most.

What is the most awesome thing in your life right now?
The freedom. The unpredictability. The challenge. The adventure.

Day 171: While I'm Eating Bad Airline Food

You get eye candy! When I uploaded photos from my Five Dolla Date with Robert, I realized I had around 20 photos from Paris left on my memory card. It was like Christmas morning! They were all from my last full day in the city and I must have been too distraught to upload them when I got home.

Psst. Dudes...when you see me next, I'll BE THERE.

On her last day in Paris, Girl Writer got very emotionally
attached to things like big pillars with eagles on them.

She walked south towards the Paris Opera and wondered
why she didn't get her sh*t together enough to see a show there.

She thought about all the famous people who had
sweated and screamed on that stage.

She fell more and more in love with the building.
It was like they were meant to be but the building didn't realize it.

Ultimately...
like all love stories...
security escorted her off the premises.

She kept walking south and passed the cafe where, about a week
into her stay, she had a weird 'We Are The World' epiphany
during the Paris Marathon. Marathons do that to a girl.

She flirted with a churchy cathedral, but it didn't say much.

She photographed a fountain at a jaunty, tipsy angle
reeking of the desperation she felt.


She went to some contemporary galleries with a strange
Italian woman whom she neglected to photograph and
whose wedding she now has a standing invitation to...
Should it ever occur.

Eventually she couldn't deny the truth any longer.
Heartbroken, Girl Writer got on a plane and went home.

Day 168: The List, The Sequel

Annnnnd we're back. I totally, shamelessly BAILED on the idea of cramming my stuff into a carry-on. It's a LOVELY idea, but it's not gonna happen. And so, filling out a much larger (but still manageable) suitcase is What I'm Taking To Paris.

Guys. Men. Male readers. Again, I'm sorry. I promise things will get more interesting soon. For example, Valentine's Day is coming up. The day where I am expecting a dress made of diamonds and romantic surprises from morning 'til night. Bet you can't WAIT for that, huh?

Anyhoo. My list (including way-too detailed descriptions of my clothing):

PANTS
Jacob dressy jeans
Wide leg jeans
Tight-ass tuck-into-boots jeans
Ben Sherman casual jeans
OMG ALL I WEAR IS JEANS
Black pants

SKIRT (that I will not wear)
Black frayed casual

T-SHIRTS
Black rocker x 2
Long navy + white tank
Striped ribbon fancy
Camisole tank
Green button

LONG SLEEVED
Brown/white striped
Black/Blue striped turtleneck
Black turtleneck
Navy/cream striped 3/4

FANCY TOPS (that I doubt I'll wear)
Black Victorian
Teal cowl neck
Dk. green Asian

SWEATERS
Black sweater vest
Black shawl sweater
Black cardigan fancy
Brown cardigan
Green cardigan
Grey hoodie

DRESS
(that I might actually end up wearing)
Little Black Dress

SLEEP
Sleep shirt
Yoga pants

SHOES
Black shiny boots
Brown Walk-All-Day boots
Black heels
Runners

WORKOUT
Running tights
2 Tops: merino wool and grey light
Sports bra, socks
Lulu toque, black gloves
Wind/rain jacket

JACKETS
Black long
Striped blazer
Roxy vest

MISC
Thick black wrap shawl
New pair of tights
6 undies, 6 socks, 2 bras
Black & turquoise scarves

OTHER
Revolutionary Road book
Journal
iPod + cords
Laptop + cords + Mac adapter dealio
Camer + cords + battery charger
Electrical adapter
Hair dryer/Curling iron
Euro $$$
Passport
Glasses
Makeup, toothbrush, etc.
Beret!

Day 167: The List

Okay, I don't know how to make this post look good, but the information is GOLD, so forgive the completely ungainly extendo-list format. This is The List: exactly what to pack for any trip a week or longer. The List is from my friend Renee whose partner works for an airline and therefore travels all over the world all the time.

What? A weekend in Mendoza? Sure!

This is her life.

Renee has the added challenge of having to pack everything in a carry-on because they fly stand-by wherever they go. So, THEORETICALLY everything you see below fits into one of those little rolly suitcases. How she does that is a miracle of physics I have not yet unlocked. I took a first crack at it, but with the seventeen sweaters I have yet to pare down, my stuff may fill the entire cargo hold of the plane.

This version is specific to a hot holiday – she just left on a cruise yesterday. And it is obviously specific to a WOMAN. Guys...you are S.O.L. Sorry. My list will also be specific to a woman – albeit one who hates dresses and skirts – and also specific to frozen-ass Paris in February. I'll post it as soon as I deal with The Sweater Issue.

PANTS
Trouser jeans*
Black dressy
Jean capris

SHORTS
3 Pairs casual
Swim shorts

SKIRTS
1 Casual
1 Dressy

SHIRTS
5 Casual tees
1 Tank top
1 Fancy tee*
3 Long sleeved
3 Fancy tops

SWEATERS
1 Casual
1 Fancy*
2 Others

DRESSES
Bathing suit cover up
2 Casual
1 Fancy

SHOES
2 Pair flip flops
1 Pair casual
1 Pair high heels*
Runners

WORKOUT
Pants
2 Tops
Bra
Socks

JACKETS
1 Overcoat
1 Blazer

MISC
Black cover up shawl*
Nylons, nylon socks
6 undies, 6 socks, 2 bras

OTHER
Book
Journal
Ipod
Camera
Computer
Chargers
US/Euro $$
Passport
Waterproof watch

For my list, I would also add:
Glasses
Electrical adapter

* What she wears on the plane. Because they are representing the airline when they fly, Renee and her guy need to look nice. I've always fantasized about looking like Elle MacPherson when I get off a plane – all Evian-fresh and stylish. Instead, I tend to look like Courtney Love on a bad day in rehab. Maybe The List will help me overcome my transatlantic schlubbiness.

Day 166: 25 Things

On Facebook, there's this thing going around called 25 Things. It's 25 random facts about a person and in order to do it, you have to get tagged by someone else. Like a chain letter or Red Rover. I've been waiting and waiting to get tagged and NUTHIN'. So I'm taking it upon myself to give you my 25 Things...whether you want 'em or not.

1. I was born in Montreal and so it has become my answer to the question 'Where are you from?' But I was born while my parents were in the process of packing up the yellow Camaro to move to Ontario. So I don't think I'm actually "from" Montreal. It just sounds cooler than "a variety of shit towns in Northern Ontario."
2. My guilty musical pleasure is Kelly Clarkson.
3. I constantly check to see if I have anything hanging out of my nose. I am nasally paranoid and obsessed.
   
4. My eyeliner smears every single day.
   
5. For the past five years, my favourite chocolate bar has been Kit Kat. Now I've fallen out of love and I don't know why.
   
6. I stole some jokes from my ex. I use them regularly to this day and never credit him.
7. I cry a lot and I'm sort of comfortable with that.
8. I laugh a lot and I'm very comfortable with that.
9. When I was a kid, I found several diamond rings on the floor in Sears. The store had been robbed and the thief had dropped some of his booty on the way out. I gave the manager the rings I'd found, but he barely thanked me. The lesson there was: doing the right thing gets you NOTHING.
   
10. I lived in Rochester, Minnesota for three years when I was small. Those were the best years of my life. Mostly because they involved tornados, garter snakes and creepy attics.
11. I was a tomboy when I was 12. I wore nothing but Calgary Flames sweat suits for a whole year.
12. I am actually very shy.
13. Unless I have a microphone in my hand.
14. I love early mornings...all peaceful, unspoiled silence and untapped potential.
15. But I also love my snooze button. I press it at least five times every morning.
16. I don't like televised sports. But sometimes I get compelled by the drama of man-against-man or man-against-himself. During these circumstances I've been known to get incredibly emotional, nervous and weepy.
17. I've run five marathons and completed one Ironman triathlon. Before that I was always known as the non-athletic one in my family.
18. The dating advice segments I did for CityTV and the dating column I wrote for Avenue was my version of 'making lemonade' after my divorce. But now dating as a topic bores me to tears.
19. I want to believe in magic and faeries, but find it hard to keep this stuff alive without going all weird and Wicca. Maybe I need more children in my life.
    
20. I am totally a starter – all fired up and excited at the beginning of a project, but severely lacking in follow-through.
21. I got my nose pierced during the Rebellious Teenage Tears. I still have a little scar.
22. I was a contemporary dancer for seven years. I loved it and miss it terribly.
23. Patient is not a word I would use to describe myself.
24. I am a cold-blooded killer of plants.
25. The ability to be extremely silly is necessary to be part of my life. All the members of my 'inner circle' are deliciously dorky and childlike and I value this beyond measure. (If you are applying for a position in the inner circle, keep this in mind.)

TGIM #6

Maybe not a dollar short, but definitely a day late. Please meet Matt Palmer, the 'film guy' I refer to during my periodic rants about the depression project.

I ran into him yesterday at the coffee shop and we were talking about one of my depression scripts where I go all tough-love about not playing the victim. Matt said something about how he learned the victim lesson the hard way. I said I had too. We high-fived. That's the kind of dude he is.

Name: Matt Palmer
Age: Unknown, but old enough to have had two kids and a mid-career crisis
Occupation: Producer/Director of Asante Sana Films (Asante Sana means 'Thank you very much' in Swahili, I think it is. Appropriate, no?)

Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Him: Hangs out at Caffe Beano with all the other cool film guys, is a graduate of UCLA's screenwriting program, would win Man Most In Touch With His Emotions Award if such a thing existed, is training for his first marathon, has a new blog about things beginning with 'Fuh.'

What are you grateful for?
I used to spend money on a lot of dumb stuff that I thought would make me happy. So I ended up with a lot of stuff and, you got it, The Big D, depression. It's been a long road to finding balance in my life, and setting intentions and manifesting good things in my life. Now, every night when I get into bed, I close my eyes and I feel gratitude for all the abundance in my life. I feel gratitude for my wife, my sons, our wonderful home, tremendous wealth and success, and for my Quadrinity (my body, intellect, emotion, and my spiritual self).

What's the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
There are two awesome things in my life right now. Sorry, can't do just one. The first is my family. My wife and I have so much fun watching our two boys develop and grow. There are not enough words to describe how awesome that is. The second awesome thing is the coming release of my feature documentary "Letters From Litein." We beat the odds with this film. It was done with little money, and despite a long search, we finally got a Canadian distributor (Kinosmith) who was willing to give us a show at releasing the film theatrically in Alberta. We are just waiting for our dates which should be in April.

Day 165: Plan Your Work, Work Your Plan...NOT

Last time I went to Paris to write, I kind of did it wrong. I got all obsessed with deadlines (who me?) – with finishing the screenplay and justifying my existence through constant action. And although I got some great work done and had creative epiphanies every second day, I really didn't need to push that hard.

In fact, I'd go way out on a limb to say NOT writing in Paris is more valuable than writing.

Think about it: EXPERIENCE is my source material. Hammering at my keyboard all day is not.

So, as much as I'm going to Paris to work on my second draft, I have a feeling much of the 'work' won't be writing. It will be wandering and staring at people. Eavesdropping. It will be going to strange burlesque shows and cabarets. It will be taking copious notes about being body-checked in the customs line and getting snubbed at the patisserie (which won't actually happen this time because I KNOW THE RULES NOW).

Maybe I'll even get brave enough to ask Surly Manager at La Fourmi what her freaking PROBLEM is.

Last time, I thought the writing was the core of my Parisian experience. Now I know the reverse is true: the experience is the core of the writing.

And YOU dear readers are going to benefit from this fact. Get ready for a daily account of Gay Paree as it really is.

Well...as it is from perspective of a girl who knows no one but lesbians and dominatrixes (dominatrices?). Who refuses to stand in line at anything resembling an Eiffel Tower or a Louvre. Who will be the only Caucasian living in a certain government-subsidized housing block across the street from the cemetery – in a studio full of taxidermied animals and 1960s nostalgia. And for whom a successful day is one where I get invited to a drag show or transsexual coming out party.

Oh, DAHLINGS...it's gonna be a trip.

Day 164: T-Minus Seven Days

Pardon me, but do you people realize I leave for Paris Part Deux in seven sleeps?! Are you kidding me? I've been so blender-drinked by this depression project that I haven't had one second to let this fact sink in. Which is probably a good thing because Paris? Brings out the crazy.

The jungle drums have been beating loud in my head for the past two days. Basically, everything I look upon – my house, my car, my clothes, my lifestyle, my shoe options, my hair cut – is now foreign, questionable and altogether NOT GOOD ENOUGH. Poor Boyfriend...he's subject to my withering gaze, too.

Not Parisian enough. Not sexy enough. Not adventurous and romantic and Calgon-take-me-away enough.

And I'm thinking: 'You leave for Paris in seven days...all things adventurous are coming. So why don't you take a frickin' POWDER Jones and relax?'

Sorry. When the jungle drums kick in, logic and reason are OUT.

I emailed Shea, who is a new friend and therefore not sick to death of my constant overanalysis and questioning.

Here was her reply: "OF COURSE it makes you crazy. It's totally supposed to. If I were running off to Paris for a month, I would seriously be questioning everything in MY life, too. Dude. You'd have to be some kind of MACHINE to avoid this. We're talking Paris, dude. City of Light. City of Romance. The whole reason to go to Paris is to change your life."

Shea has this new business where she is your wing woman as you ride the swells of insanity that creative process or dream-living entails. I did not fully understand the depths of her talent until this morning. I predict ridiculous amounts of success for her.

And I already feel better knowing my insanity isn't the STRANGE kind of insanity, just NORMAL kind. Whew.

Day 162.7: To The Victor Go The Abs

Being freelance for the last year and a half – and 'unemployed and crazy' for the past six months – has really decreased the thrill of a good, old fashioned Friday night. But tonight? I FEEL IT.

Because I did it. I got them all done.

If I wasn't so thoroughly exhausted I'd be grabbin' a six pack and hittin' 'er hard. But I'm an old broad and that would make me sleepy. And really, I hate beer in a can. Which is what I think when I think 'six pack.' Unless the context of the conversation includes Erik Dane. *Shudders with pleasure*

ADHD sidebar: FOX News runs a story (last August) on who has the best abs in Hollywood (David Beckham). But they show me NO ABS in the article. A picture of Becks' FACE?! I don't want to see his face. Help me help you FOX News. Gawd. I mean granted, the story was about a story from In Touch Weekly. *Blinks* On second thought, FOX News, you can't be helped.

Back to the brownies. Which is my version of a six pack.

Wait. I bet you're wondering where the FOX News diatribe came from. Well, when I thought about Erik Dane, I spontaneously Googled 'best abs in hollywood' and that's what came up.

So what if I'm shallow?! I've been thinking about depression for two weeks straight. A girl needs to CUT LOOSE.

Brownies and Becks. That's what I call cutting loose.

Oh hey, cool. Look what happens when you Google 'david beckham abs':


Um. Waitaminute. I'm not looking at his abs.



Are you looking at his abs?

Day 162: What I Think When I Write About You

I think very, very hard before I write about someone in this blog. Before I name names or blab about what Boyfriend did last Wednesday. Because, as you might understand, I actually have to LIVE with these people.

These aren't random strangers who pop out of nowhere and provide funny material for me to use. These are people I love who have feelings and who have to walk around knowing that the Internet knows about that thing on their face or how their feet smell.

These are the hazards of loving a writer. And these are the hazards of being one.

There are certain people I won't write about. I am, for example, terrified to write about my father. Even though his over-grim demeanor, aversion to uncertainty and ghastly toenails would provide pages of hilarity.

I'm just not there yet.

(Because he's still alive.)

I can write about my mother more easily. I don't know if this is because she rarely reads my blog or that she's more open to it than Pop. But I feel bad poking fun at her because she's also the type who takes it to heart. The mole hair thing comes up in conversation every second week. I don't know how much more she could take.

Drea I rarely worry about, but that's mostly because it's almost impossible to say something bad about someone that thoroughly good. Damn her. Other friends and family I deal with on a case by case basis, knowing I should mostly err on the side of shutting the hell up.

Boyfriend is a tough one, partly because I literally have to live with him and partly because I respect the man's intense need for privacy. The other side of that coin is his refusal to censor me or limit my expression in any way. He lets me be me on the page and in the world and suffers the consequences of that more than he'd like, I'm sure.

I've come to the conclusion with myself that I write out of love. I write about people from a loving place, even if it does involve fever dreams or mole hairs, and that's the best I can do. I can't NOT write and I can't NOT write about people because THIS is my style. I've not been called to write obituaries or Harlequin romance. My task is to use my experiences to entertain and, perhaps, enlighten. To speak the truth as I see it and try to make life feel a little bit lighter. So, be ye warned all those who cross my path. But be ye flattered, too.

Day 161: Spin Around Three Times and Tug Your Right Ear

So I wrote that big group-hug of a post about the Crazy Train, but I never actually TOLD you what kind of crazy I was dealing with. But that's because I would have cried if I did. I'm better now.

Here goes. 'Member that depression project? 'Member the seven scripts I needed to write? 'Member how I killed myself all last week writing them and forgoing things like dinner and sleep in order to stay one step ahead of the barking, ravenous dogs at my heels?

(You probably didn't know about the dogs.)

Well. Turns out most of the work I did last week was for NOTHING because we (meaning me) were on the COMPLETELY WRONG TRACK. So I spend 30-something hours writing stuff that I will now be deleting. I'm starting from scratch.

And it's all due Friday.

Which would be tomorrow.

Are you feeling the crazy? I'm feeling the crazy.

So after that super-fun conversation with my client, I had a wee cry. And then I made a massive cup of tea and went back to the drawing board.

My mom contributed a thought, which I used not only in the script but to get me through this desperate holy-crap-I'm-screwed moment: "Sometimes the big picture is too scary. Just look at one corner."

I worked through the script moment by moment and I started to feel that weird kind of efficient flow people get when they have to plan funerals for their loved ones and you think how the hell are they STANDING let alone ordering flowers and printing invitations and shaking my hand?

I sent it off and I huddled in front of the fire, rocking back and forth and drooling.

The next morning, I got the email. They loved it. Like LOOOOOOOVED. I had to read the email seven times to believe it, but it's true. I effing NAILED it.

Which is great...only I wrote it in that weird adrenaline fugue where mothers lift cars off their infant children. I mean, come on, they are not actually that strong and obviously that first script was a FLUKE. I can't possibly deliver six more just like it. Clearly that was a coincidence and I can never, ever, ever recreate the mysterious ju-ju that inspired it.

Maybe I can get Boyfriend to fire a gun at me a few times and get me all freaked out and panicky. Maybe I'll hire a pack of rabid dogs to chase me around the block or maybe, please God, they'll just put me out of my misery and FIRE me.

For delivering a script they are salivating over? Oh God. I'm screwed.

Day 160: All Aboard the Crazy Train

When I worked at WHERE Magazine, at least once every production cycle either Dulcy or I would end up crying. We called it the Crazy Train. Well, she coined it. I jumped on board.

When life is swirling so fast you can't possibly survive the Mach 10 insanity. When you're yelling at the carny to stop the ride only he can't hear you because he bailed out five miles back. When you're punch-drunk from all the shit hitting the fan. That's the Crazy Train.

At WHERE it was always that point in the process when we couldn't see how making a magazine was humanly possible because so many things had gone wrong and so many people were assholes. Sales closed late. Nothing was ready. And no one seemed to see the disaster looming except one of us.

Usually, I'd get an email from Dulce about how she didn't sleep the night before and was trapped on the express route to Crazytown. I'd dial her extension and say, 'Get over here.' And we'd hang out until both of us were laughing.

My Crazy Train journeys frequently had to do with my divorce. Dulce was there when it happened and was like oxygen to me during the worst of it. She was the one who held me up on days I didn't think I could fake it for another second.

Later, after we both left the magazine and everything changed, I'd get an email every once and awhile with a subtext of: HANG ON. Sometimes, I'd feel a ripple in the fabric of space-time and I'd send a similar note. These emails were always right on time. Just when the swirl of black oblivion had opened up and whispered, "Jump!"

It's encouraging to have someone well-tuned to my insanity.

It's also nice not to have to explain what's going on or why it's turned you into a clawing, shrieking jungle cat. You just say Crazy Train and that's enough. It's shorthand for, "I'm drowning, now throw a fucking rope."

I could wish our friendship was something different. And she might wish that, too. Maybe that we were soul mates for things like cupcake cravings or the deep need to watch Meg Ryan movies in our jammies. But that ain't us.

We're dark and sticky with railroad tar. Our hair is messy and we smell a little burnt. We're bonded by the Crazy Train. It isn't pretty sometimes, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Day 158: You Give Me Fevah

Saturday morning I had a little cough. I didn't think much of it, but when Drea heard me barking over the phone, she said, "Uh-oh. You better watch that. Sounds like croup. It can turn into pneumonia, y'know." I didn't think much of that either. She's a mother – she's supposed to worry.

Within two hours, I was racked with fever, chills and bones so achy I considered surgically removing them myself. Damn her for being right.

The timing of this freight train fever was a little awkward, however, because I was the guest of honour at a bon voyage dinner party that night. I had to go. Like HAD to. I put on six sweaters and got in my car.

At the party, I walked around getting hugs from everybody because I was in that pre-sick state where all you really want is your mommy and someone to rub your back for awhile. Most of the party guests obliged me. I might have pissed off some wives. Whatever.

The next morning, the fever was still there, but I'd promised to drive Boyfriend to the annual festival of binge drinking known as the Superbowl Party. I was miserable and sick. He was toting forties of tequila, Baja Rosa and Jagermeister.

For the rest of the day, I duked it out with the fever that wouldn't quit, waiting for Drunken Boyfriend to call for a ride. The words "take a frickin' cab" were ever-present in my mind, of course, but luckily, some other sucker's girlfriend agreed to take my sucker home.

She was pissed off. I don't blame her because she, like me, probably believes that men who are over thirty should:
a) not be doing anything that involves Baja Rosa,
b) not be binge drinking their faces off on a Sunday evening and
c) the previous two points being ignored, not be asking for rides home from smart people who chose not to do four hundred shooters in an afternoon.

Boyfriend arrived home, sloshed and enjoying the beginnings of the Fever Freight Train that had been kicking my ass for 24 hours.

He stood shaking in the shower until the hot water ran out. Then he ran a bath and swore at it for being cold. Finally he descended into the kind of fever dream peyote trip that would make Jim Morrison jealous.

"We can break it," he mumbled in the dark. "We can break it." He thrashed and pounded on his side of the bed, while I tried to get some sleep. I don't know who sold him that line of bunk about throwing a bowling ball on one side of the pillow-top mattress and the other side not feeling a thing. It's not bloody true.

"Quit it," I growled irrationally through the fever haze. "West by northeast," he replied. I followed that strange compass bearing...all the way to the spare room.

TGIM #5

Today's TGIM star is my mama. I have four thousand photos of her, but none of them digital. Except for this too-dark-but-still-gorgeous one of her and Pop in Fiji. Although you can barely see their faces, I've never seen my parents this happy. But, hey, I hear a week in Fiji followed by six months in Australia does that to people.

So here's my mom's TGIM contribution. Short n' sweet...just like her.

Name: Charlotte Jones
Age: Looks 40-something. Is 50-something.

Occupation: The woman has so many letters behind her name she needs two business cards. She has a PhD in biochemistry and she's an endocrinologist (means doctor) who specializes in community-based health research.

Things You Can't Tell By Looking At Her: Ran her first marathon at age 50, spent a year in Australia when she was a kid (and her house burned down!), started med school at age 36, is capable of eating her body weight in salad in one sitting.

What are you grateful for?
I'm grateful for having special people in my life who love me back. It's soppy but it's true.

What's the most awesomest thing in your life right now?
It's awesome to be here in New Zealand and loving it, and at the same time, missing and loving my beautiful home.