Just a quick post to let you know that I'm totally safe and sound. I didn't even lose power. I'm using my time, right now, to clean and later to grade. Yesterday was mainly spent sitting at my computer refreshing emergency info waiting for the power to go out and cooking decadent food with my perishable items lest I lose them. So now I have spiced red lentils with eggs and yogurt and potatoes in cream sauce in addition to apples and protein bars.

It hurts me that David did not bother to see if I was alright. After being such a dick, one text message asking if I was ok so out of the question? ( I suppose it is.) People I've never met on FB showed more concern. And this is something I've never understood. How can someone go from telling you that they care about you, that they will always care about you to this? For me, it's not possible. I always wonder about them. Even if I don't call. I wonder about them. I check in, from time to time, on their FB pages to see if they are ok. Nothing more. But I've never mastered being able to go from caring for someone to not in minutes, days, weeks. Even my students. I care about them, even after they leave my class and never think of me again. I think about them. Wonder what happens to them. Some stay in touch.

Most don't.

But I'm still here. Cleaning and, soon, grading as I wait to hear when the MTA might run again.

Labels: dave, david, heartbreak loss, hurricane sandy, survival

Labels: break up, breaking up, date, dating, dave, david, eHarmony, facebook, heartbreak, heartbreak loss, online dating

Those faithful followers of the blog know I protect the identities of those I write about as much as possible. After all, I write under a nom de plume myself so I try to protect my subjects. (Granted my alter ego now has far more online presence than my real one.) So while crazy asshats I've dated by the bushel, I've done my best not to out them here.

But there comes a time when assholery must be exposed and I've done that too. There's a certain time when it becomes a public service and I consider my job to protect the general population from men that even a hardened professional like myself finds so abhorrent I've called in a favor or two ensure they go to the special hell saved for child molesters. Some of my best blogs have been when I got all het up with the passion of Nemesis and let some utter deserving rat fucker have the full force of my divine wrath."Somebody get me a gallon of kerosene and a lighter because I'm gonna burn this bridge." Afterward I'm gonna sow the ashes with salt so for years after people will see the barren earth and know the legend of David-he who stooped to conquer.

Tonight Dave, you get to join those few, those pathetic few, to whom I have given a name on this blog. But even amongst them you are unique.You went farther than all of them. I loved you. I did. And because of that I put up with so much horseshit, you showing up at my apartment so shitfaced you didn't know what day it was, abandoning me in the middle of the night in PA, calling me one day to say you want to take me to Paris and two days later to tell me you don't think we can be friends. And I put up with it for 2 single reasons. One despite all of that, I loved you because underneath all the bullshit, so I thought, was a truly precious individual struggling to get out. And two you were the only person in my entire life who saw beauty in my disability and that alone is worth a small truckload of horseshit.

So when you read this please understand what you have done. Not only do I no longer believe there is anything worthwhile about you, I think you're the monster. Because if you ever cared for me. If you ever loved me. The idea of what you did would make you never stop throwing up and I should know. Because even AFTER you've done this, I've still pretty much refrained from doing anything terrible to you...and I totally, and easily, could.

Let me begin by saying this: I understand if men...or women don't want to hear from me again. A month ago a guy told me that after date three. And know what? Totally fine with that. The guy I dated for three years and dumped me by text message? Cut him off. When he came sniffing around 6 weeks later, I told him to fuck off.  Haven't contacted him since.

But here's the thing don't then text that you're trying to call me and when I call back have a third party intercept the call and say "He doesn't want to talk to you anymore." What kind of fucked up fourth grade bullshit is that? I mean the mind fucking boggles. Why not just text me to leave you alone? AFTER ALL I BLOCKED YOUR PHONE NUMBER SO YOU COULDN'T CALL ME. Seriously?  This was your... killer move after I've been dealing with your drunken shenanigans for months? This is what I get for when you showed up at my place unannounced so shit faced you didn't know what day it was or what time and I still took care of you. While you lay in my bed and I sat outside reading so you could rest and then when I talked to you when you said you wanted to die. The price of my friendship, the price of that evening out of which I got nothing including babysitting money, is so cheap to you you decide to stoop where no man before sought to bend. Not to mention it has cost me the belief than anyone can find beauty in my disability.

Let me remind you of something David. No man has ever destroyed me. Many have tried. All have failed. But I, in my time, have a few scalps to my name. When Eric left, I became cruel and I openly admit I destroyed some people just because I could. Since then I vowed to be a kinder gentler sex monster. But you didn't just awaken the beast. You pissed in its face. There's only so much anyone can take.

And I do have a mean streak. And when I warn you again and again don't fuck with the monster. Then don't fuck with it. Because I save everything. Every raunchy email. Every secret text. I have pages and pages of journal entries, plane tickets, presents, trinkets, hell friends who know who you are. And here's why you don't want to fuck with me. You can't do anything. Not one damn thing to stop me partially because I have both evidence and the first amendment on my side (yes I actually researched this when I started bunniblog so I'm solid on my first amendment law). But also because I have this tiny pathetic life already so there's nothing you CAN take from me.

You, on the other hand, have lots of fun things to gamble and loose.

A friend of mine last night asked me why not just let it go? Why not let it go?! A valid question. After all, that's precisely what I've done so many times before with Mr. 3 Years Text Message Break Up. I just walked away. I spend my entire life turning the other cheek. When people stare at me in hatred because of what I look like, when men openly LAUGH at me on the street on my way to work, students openly betting on how tall I am, I turn the other cheek. It's a choice. But do not get me wrong, it hurts. Not just casual disdain, but the lack of empathy. I can feel your pain, but you refuse to feel mine. A reminder of just how alone, how different I am from all of you. And what's worse is you have so much you take for granted. The ability to run upstairs, feel the sand beneath your feet, not have to worry about what people think of the scars and the deformity not to mention the severely shortened life span. How many things have I lost because I lost the neuroblastoma lottery?And I wouldn't mind losing it if you all appreciated what you have. But you don't even think about it and when you see me instead of feeling grateful for what you have, you revile me for what I can't.

And every day I turn the fucking other cheek. It is exhausting and depressing and aggravating, but I do it.

But there comes a time when someone does something so spectacularly cruel, something that I absolutely can not countenance. For someone so goddamned lucky to openly, publicly, spit in the face of someone that only hours ago he claimed to care? No. Actions have consequences. And if I have to live with this chest sucking pain that I don't deserve you can goddamn well bet I'm going to take someone deserving down with me.

For now, I've only identified the person by first name. But I have all kinds of tricks up my sleeve and Dave would do well to remember that when I started this blog it was to warn the world about another grade A rat fucker. It seems fate has played a hand with public enemy number one and his life, currently, is precisely what he feared the most it would be. So I'm content to just giggle when I see his completely bald head on fb (he's 7 years younger than me but MAN he did not age well). But long ago, this blog was a top search result for his name. You wanna play rough? Just remember it's hard to win against someone with nothing to lose.

And as for the rest of you, a question. What would you do? If someone you loved and forgave time and again did something so vile you not only can't forgive, you can barely begin to contemplate, what would you do? Turn the other cheek? Seek vengeance? Have you before? I'm curious.(Oh on a side note. My halo scan comments expired so you have to use blogger comments. For some reason the comment box ONLY appears when you click on the particular post so scroll down to the bottom, hey look, you're here already! Click on the time stamp. Two comment boxes will appear. Use the blogger one. Anyone can comment, even anonymously same as before. Enjoy. And anyone who wants to help me with formatting shit in regards to comments, please email me and misslapin@gmail.com . Thanks.)

Labels: asshat, boyfriend troubles, boys, break up, breaking up, david, ex boyfriend nightmare, ex-boyfriend, heartbreak loss, idiocy, loneliness

 **This was originally written for my ex-boyfriend while we were dating. This is what happened a year ago today. What a difference a year makes, eh? The comments about editing, which I left it, are from the original draft and are quite prescient considering. The title comes from a song that I sang in acting school called "The Night that Nothing Really Happened."

For me to write something like this, I actually re-experience the memory. My memory is very vivid and so it’s literally like going back in time and reliving something. In fact, when I went back to edit this I noticed I slowly shifted from past to present tense as I got further into the piece. The more I immerse myself in the memory, the more it becomes the present. While this may sound wonderful, in reality, it’s very depressing. It’s one thing to experience a moment while you’re living it not knowing the outcome, it’s another thing to go back into a memory and re-experience it knowing what will happen next. For example, if I relive a memory of my ex-boyfriend. When I come out of that memory, I go through losing him all over again.

You kept looking at my body that day. You had looked before, quickly, but generally you kept eye contact. I honestly didn’t think you were that attracted to me until that afternoon. You kept taking long lingering looks down my body, my breasts, my spine, my ass. I was supposed to have a date that night, but I had a bad feeling about it, so I liked the attention. It made me feel sexy even though I wasn’t trying to be. We sat and talked as we always do, and you made me laugh.It distracted me from my anxiety about the date.

Then my date, predictably, cancelled at the 11th hour. You invited me to your place to watch movies. I knew I shouldn’t go. I had been drinking. I was upset. These are things that do not make for good decision making. I left and almost got home and realized where the night was going. I would go home, get more upset, go out, get trashed, get more upset, wake up the next day with eyes swollen shut crying and depressed. Or I could go see you. I called and went to see you.

I remember walking into your apartment. I hadn’t known what to expect, but it was beautiful. I sat on the floor of your man cave and picked out a movie. I was nervous about it. I wanted it to be something we would both want to watch, but you weren’t helpful in that regard at all. You wanted it to be my choice entirely, what I wanted. I picked Snatch and went into the living room. You brought me a globe of wine, which I probably shouldn’t have had.

At first, I was sitting straight as I always do. In acting school I was the only person who never got yelled at for poor posture. All those years in a back brace made me sit up straight all the time, but the wine took hold of me and after a time I found myself reclining on the couch. I was so relaxed, dreamy and content. This was actually much nicer than the date. Finally you took my hand. It was the first time you had really touched me. Your hand was so soft and warm. It was sweet. Innocent even. I knew I should pull away, but I was so relaxed, so happy, it felt so good and it was just my hand after all.  

After a while, you kissed me. I think I was as surprised as you were that you kissed me. It was a soft hesitant kiss. Gentle. No one had kissed me like that in years. It was a sweet kiss-vulnerable. But the second and third were passionate, hungry. You pulled me to you, I could feel the strength in your arms, like feeling them wrapped around me, pulling me closer. You commented that I was a good kisser that you knew I would be. I don’t think it had occurred to me that you ever thought of kissing me before. I could feel your hands exploring my body caressing my breasts, my ass.

I was surprised by how willing you were in your passion. Then, you suddenly came to, said “I can’t do this” and we went out on the balcony to talk. I loved the view. I hadn’t had a view like that since grad school. It was pleasant out on the balcony. I expected you to ask me to leave, but you didn’t. I knew that you would kiss me again, that you wanted to kiss me again.

We laid down on the couch, and you started to kiss me, you pulled me onto your lap, your hands pushing my skirt to my waist. I was wearing a thong so I was basically half naked. You took my shirt off and ran your hands over my skin. You started to pull off your pants. I was surprised. I didn’t think it would go beyond kissing. I told you we could just lay on the couch and kiss, but now you were committed to taking me to bed. You stood up to take me to the bedroom and I asked you if you were sure. You grabbed my hand and pulled me back into your room.

You got me naked quickly.  I lay on the bed while you got naked. Then you were standing at the foot of the bed completely nude, me lying there waiting. In that moment, I was terrified. I was terrified of what you would think of me for doing this, that you would hate me, that we wouldn’t be friends anymore, I was terrified of what you would think of my body, that I would be a disappointment in bed. I was even terrified of you. I didn’t expect you to be so well endowed and I was worried it might hurt. I was terrified that you didn’t really want me, that I was just a placeholder for someone else, someone absent. I was terrified of myself, how much I wanted this to happen, how much I wanted you to want me. Then you came towards me on the bed.

You wrapped your arms around and me whispered “Anything but missionary position” twice. I wasn’t sure why. My first thought was you wanted some sort of exotic sexual position. I mean, of course, I’m kind of a fetish-y looking girl, that’s why men want me, so why not? You pulled me on top of you, and I was surprised how easily we fit together. There was no pain at all, just pleasure as I rode you while you explored my body with your hands, on my waist so you could thrust deeper inside me, cupping my ass as my breasts brushed against you. You even spanked me a few times. Even though you didn’t enjoy it, I was surprised how hard you spanked me. Most people start light, but not you, you gave me a pleasant spank from the beginning. I could feel my skin tingle afterwards.

Finally you put me on my back. I was worried. This was the position you didn’t want and I wanted please you, to be what you wanted. But you were so much deeper that way, I brought my legs up as far as I could and lifted my hips with each of your thrusts so you could go even farther. I could feel my orgasm beginning to rise within me. I was surprised how easily you could get me there. Usually it takes weeks before I allow myself to go that far with a man, but I trusted you already. I could make a choice. I could stop it if I wanted to, or I could let myself go. I let myself go. I wanted you to feel me come. And soon I was, bucking and screaming and gushing.

In those moments, I was entirely yours. Not just my body, all of me.

After I came, still trembling, you rolled off of me and came. I remember watching the ropes of come spurting from you, how hard you came. I was impressed. I had given you pleasure, which is what I wanted.

After a moment, you went to the bathroom to clean up. I lay unmoving on the bed. Again, I was worried. Worried you would ask me to leave. Worried what you would say now that the moment was over. You came back to bed. I could tell you felt a little nervous, awkward. I reached for your hand and pulled it over me so you were cupping my breast from behind. I love that position. You immediately curled around me, both of us relaxed now, enjoying being so close. It was even more intimate than the lovemaking. I could feel your breath on my neck. I felt safe and content, and I fell right to sleep enfolded by you.

Still, I slept fitfully. My earrings kept stabbing me, but I was afraid to take them off in case I forgot them. Finally I took them off.  Later I was thirsty. I didn’t want to disturb anything in the kitchen so I took one of your vitamin waters from the dining room. And after that I was hot. Your body generates so much heat that lying next to you I kept waking up sweating and throwing off the covers. You would wake up and cover me back up. I didn’t want to disturb you, but finally I said something and you turned on the AC. But every time I woke up, you would reach out and caress me or snuggle me. I remember in the night, you got up to watch tv for a while. You asked if that was alright, which was sweet. I said yes and immediately fell back to sleep. When you came back in, you snuggled against me. I could tell you enjoyed coming back to curl up with me, enjoyed how I sleepily and instinctively snuggled into your arms. Every time you reached for me re-assured me and I would fall back asleep.

In the morning, I woke up with my head on your chest. We were entangled in each others arms and legs. You gently put me on my back and kissed my breast while your hand explored between my legs. You found how wet I was already and took me. Again I was worried about the position.  I wanted to please you. But from the moment you entered me, I could feel how close I was to coming. Again I was surprised how easily you could get me to that point. I gave into you entirely and came again, gushing over you. You came soon after. We lay under the covers for a bit talking after that. I wanted to spend the whole day under there with you, kissing, snuggling, making love, talking, napping. I knew as soon as we got out of bed this would be over. You wouldn’t do it again.

But you had a funeral to go to. I picked up my earrings and started to get dressed. As predicted, while I was still naked you started to tell me how you were sorry but this couldn’t ever happen again. I smiled and said I know, even though not a woman alive wants to hear that when she’s naked and only just stopped trembling from love making. Still, I’m used to it. I got dressed, careful to erase any trace of me.

You gathered up the sheets. You were nervous. I was sure you were going to freak out about this evening and not want to see me ever again. I left you in the elevator. I walked out with my head held high. I’ve learned that much from my mother. Never, ever, show shame even if you feel it. Let the doorman think what he wants, I had a lovely night so fuck his judgement. I stood outside in the sun and put on my sun glasses feeling sexy and happy and alive and even though you told me this could never happen again, I walked all the way down to first avenue just in case the morning staff of dorrians was there so they wouldn’t see me walking from the direction of your apartment in my clothes from the day before. I went to my apartment and napped for a bit.

What you don’t know is that night I did go on my date. He was young (25), tall, blonde, seemingly nice, however, I walked out on him. He had some terrible political views and instead of doing what I would normally do and just smile and nod and wait for the date to be over, I decided he wasn’t worth my time and I just got up and left. I went home and to sleep. I was supposed to see you the next day. I wasn’t sure I would, but I hoped so. I was looking forward to just being with you and talking, which is precisely what happened.

And then a week later, you kissed me in the sun in Central Park. Never has a way of coming around far too soon.

Labels: ex-boyfriend, heartbreak loss, sadness, sex

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Now playing: Beth Rowley - Nobody's Fault But Mine
via FoxyTunes


"But life is not like in the movies. Everyone lies, good guys lose, and love does not conquer all."
-Swimming with Sharks

Although I have been able to hide it through my Paris posts, and even my first day post-I've been becoming more depressed. Drinking more, relying on ever increasing doses of tylenol PM, spending days in bed without the motivation to leave the apartment. Of course, I have LOTS of things to do, but I find myself sitting on the couch unable to find the will to do them. This is real depression-when you don't have the energy to eat or vacuum. My crochet project sits across the living room in a bag-I should finish it-or the needlepoint project-or read Antunes-or my student papers (oh the pain begins already)-or write part of the screenplay--or get printer paper-or go to the farmer's market or just take a walk and enjoy the last days of summer which I will miss when they are gone-but I find myself scanning over the same channels on the tv over and over trying to find something that will interest me. And when I do the first eharmony ad, the first match.com, the first debeers ad will send me into paroxyms of rage and hopelessness.

"Where did I go wrong?" I think as it seems everything now sends me ever further down the rabbit hole. My mother taking her boyfriend to see my grandmother. My continued failure to get my karma to 70 on plurk, but just hover around 69. My unringing cellphone.

I walk with Office Elf after watching a movie. He has a present for his new girlfriend in his hand-he wonders outloud if she will like it. "Of course she will. It's from you." He looks at me, perhaps he is surprised that I was once a young romantic girl. "It hasn't been so long since I've forgotten what it's like." But I wish it was. God I wish I could forget what it was like to come home to lights already on in my apartment. To us sitting on the couch reading aloud to each other. To him putting peanut butter sandwiches on my pillow when I came home from work exhausted and starving. The reassuring warmth of going to bed curled up next to his soft sticky warmth and to waking up next to him. And how with him, I felt, for theonly time, like a normal girl. How we argued about how many children we were going to have and where we going to get married. He's married now to another woman-with a child. Claims we never were engaged and that I'm pathetic and cray. But still I'm haunted by it, by the loss of him. And how I only find brief flickers of it in the least appropriate of places.

And the stupid part is this is not only all my own fault, but it's the same pattern. I made the mistake of falling in love with someone I shouldn't have. I know, I know. What are the odds? To my credit I didn't know that when I fell. But, of course, I should have known because it's me. Because no decent appropriate guy would walk my way. That would just be a fundamental violation of the universal order. But I decided to stay with him even when I knew I shouldn't because the choice came down, or so I thought, between hurt now or hurt later. I thought if I hurt later, I would at last have some pleasure.

I said it once, I'll say it again. The worst decision of your life will seem like a good idea at the time.

And he was the only man to tell me he loved me in so long. To push me to open up. To send me text messages in the morning, every morning, or at least he did. To make me feel that maybe there was some hope for me yet.

But hope is a demon bitch no matter what Pandora says.

But now I find, that I am hurting now with only the prospect of more pain in the future. He comes over and when he's here, I'm thinking, "I have to leave him. I'm not happy. I'm getting worse and it's him. I was better before I met him." And I was. And I've been through this before-the increasing depression, the rage, the resentment, the staying in the completely blind hope that happiness wil return. The other side of my brain says, leave him for what? More empty lonely nights? At least this way you occasionally get hot sex. How easy I've been on him, how undemanding, how trusting I've been-and now I will begin to hate him for not treating better-where are the dinners out and the little presents just because? Christ, where did my morning phone calls go and the long long evenings together?

Why can't I be happy?

If only my life were more like a movie or an Oprah Book of the Month Club book like Open House. Predictable with happy ending. Instead, I find myself writing on bar napkins "When Eric left, I thought I had no hope. But I pushed through anyway. To get through every day by any means necessary-and if that meant taking anti depressants or drinking on an empty stomach or having yet another night of meaningless sex with someone I would normally not want to talk to for more than five minutes or all three at the same time-if it got me to the next day without throwing myself under the 6 train or drinking a drano martini or slashing open my throat while I tried to make dinner, well, then that's what I did. And then I began to come to, to come back to life, only to discover it was too late. To discover that I really was already dead and now I am the ghost of a perfect stranger. Because if I had known what was waiting for me in seven years, what I would become, I would have killed myself without hesitation knowing it was the right decision."

I leave the napkin on the table, where he could read it, its hard to miss if he were so inclined. But he doesn't even bother to look. Just walks by it, intent on kissing me hello even as I think, "I have to leave him. I have to.I have to."

I have to, but I don't. Nor do I tell him anything is wrong. I just kiss him back.

And when he leaves, the smell of his sweat still in my nose, I pour myself a drink and take half a dose of tylenol pm and think I hve to leave him. Even as I wait for him to call. And I try to decide, in the end, who I will hate more:myself, him, or Eric. But I know the answer to this one too, it has to be me. After all, I'm the one who will end up suffering.

Labels: depression, heartbreak loss

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Now playing: Eileen - Ces Bottes Sont Faites Pour Marcher
via FoxyTunes

I had been impressed the day before with the Sauvage's maturity, and even the gentility, with which he accepted my departure. I would not have taken it nearly as well; in fact I probably would have reacted like a Machiavellian villain had the tables been turned and done something typically understated like poisoning an entire convent (The Jew of Malta). In the night, however, the Sauvage decided that I ceased to exist.

He got up and went downstairs to work on the car without a word to me. I stayed upstairs taking tylenol PM to moderate my fever and rising anxiety. I saw trying to read In Ruins and pondering how I had gotten myself into another fine mess. Nana came in at one in the afternoon and offered me some crackers, it was the first contact and food I had that day. I gave her one of the candy canes I had stashed for her in my bag. At around three in the afternoon, about the time I was hoping to check into the hotel, there was no word about when I would be able to get out of this place. I didn't want to lose my reservation. I asked Nana what was going on with her father. As usual when I spoke to her, she seemed not to understand me and finally she took me downstairs to where her father was working on the car. If I had any ideas about this being an amicable separation, they were immediately eliminated. The Sauvage was now so disgusted by me he couldn't look at me and could barely suffer to spit a few syllables at me. When I finally was able to get an answer out of him about when the car might be ready, two hours or so, I went upstairs to look for the number of the hotel on his computer.

While I was looking, I happened to see in his browser history a web address called juggmaster. Now a smart person would have ignored the browser history, a smart person would say "That's none of my business" and go to the matter at hand-making sure that the hotel would accept me.

I've never done the smart thing. In fact, if I had, I would never have gone to Paris alone. or found myself in an affair with a Parisian.

Juggmaster was exactly as one would expect, a porn site for men who like big breasts. I remembered that second night we were together when he assured me that he wouldn't fall for another woman and told me he avoided women for the year after his wife left until he met me. I asked him why me, why was I the first woman he went for and he hadn't been able to answer; he had simply shrugged. Now I knew why. There was no je ne sais quoi, no mystery, no magic, no romance. It was as simple as he saw a girl at the next table who looked like his middle aged sex fantasy and because I was emotional and weak and feeling lost and I responded.

When love dies it's hard to know what was real and what wasn't. There is always the temptation to think it was all a lie. It's easier to believe that the person never loved you than to believe that they once did. I sat there thinking he had just wanted me for sex, but if that was true what about taking me to meet his parents? What about Provins and the Eiffel Tower? What about the complete and utter lack of hot monkey love on the computer camera? It couldn't be that he just wanted me for sex, could it?

Could it?

In truth, it didn't matter. Whether he wanted me for sex or conversation or interpretive dance, the relationship, such as it was, was over. What I needed to do was focus on getting a hotel room.

I found the number and struggled to figure out how to make a local call, but I finally got through to the hotel and informed them I would be arriving in the evening. The lovely and bilingual woman I spoke to said that it would be fine.

After the car was finally fixed, the Sauvage invited the mechanic upstairs. They all stood in the kitchen and had a drink. The Sauvage introduced the mechanic to Nana, while I was left completely unacknowledged and ignored in the living room. I had passed into the realm of the non-existent, the untouchable. I was a ghost. Even a stranger warranted more effort than I did.

After the mechanic left, the Sauvage threw my shoes at me-barking that it was time to leave-as if I hadn't been desperately waiting for this moment all day. I got my bags into the car, this time unassisted. As we were driving the Sauvage informed me that he would just take me to a cab stand, I asked him to stop at an ATM so I would have enough cash. He did manage to acquiesce to that request,before dropping me off with about the same level of emotional investment one might have for a sack of mouldering potatoes. I wrestled my bags from the car on my own and gave Nana the last of the candy canes. He wasn't even looking out the window to watch my progress. Finally I knocked on the window so he knew he could leave and turned my back on him. If he expected begging and a tearful good-bye, I was going to be god damned before he got it from me. He drove off without even a casual glance.

I smiled at the cab driver who helped me with my bags and off I went to the Champs Elysees. I realized that this trip was something like the trip I took in May in reverse. Instead of now a sudden abduction to a private home, now I was suddenly being returned to the world of hotels and restaurants. In the cab I wondered, briefly, if he expected me to have changed my mind in the night? Had he really thought I would break up with him capriciously and then make up with him in the wee hours of the morning? Was I supposed to beg his forgiveness? If he thought hsi change in behavior would provoke such a reaction, he really didn't know who he was dealing with.

The cab pulled up to the hotel and I quickly checked in. I've never been so happy to see french windows, white sheets, and a clean sweet smelling bathroom. In fact, the hotel room surpassed my dreams-there were chocolates on the pillows, rose petals on the bathroom and a beautiful view of the rooftops of Paris. I called Bakerina and informed her that the escape was fait accompli. I was starving and discovered a bag of printer spice cookies I had packed as a plane snack. As I devoured the bag, I swore silently to myself I would never EVER be without these cookies as long as I lived.1

Properly fortified I found the energy to quickly go out and scavenge for more food as well as investigate my new hood. I found a cafe and ordered a kir as an American couple ordered a pina coloda and a corona. I opened my notebook to write about my disapproval as my salad arrived noting "If ANY of my friends EVER order a Pina Colada in Paris, especially in the dead of winter, there will be beheadings ALL AROUND! . I felt reassured by this series of events-American idiocy, my disapproval, the writing of taunts. This was how things were meant to go. While slowly grazing, I managed to write a list places I wanted to go in Paris now that I was free to go wherever I wanted.

Over the sound system Sam Cook's song "Wonderful World (Don't Know Much)", started to play. I listened to the lyrics "Don't know much about the French I took. But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me too, What a wonderful world this would be." I had a moment of regret for the Sauvage. After all, the man must have cared for me, had saved me once. And then I thought, he would always have the love of his daughter to comfort him.

And me?

I had all the world.



* These Boots Are Made For Walking
1 This promise is an homage to my father's favorite line from Joe Versus the Volcano "Wherever we go, whatever we do....let's take this luggage!"

Labels: break up, breaking up, escape, heartbreak, heartbreak loss, paris

"It is thus that we are warned at each step of our nothingness; man goes to meditate on the ruins of empires;he forgets that he is himself a ruin still more unsteady..." Chateaubriand meditating on the Colosseum


Archeology by Katha Pollit

You knew the odds on failure from the start
that morning you first saw or thought you saw,
beneath the heatstruck plains of a second-rate country
the outline of buried cities. A thousand to one
you'd turn up nothing more than the rubbish heap
of a poor Near Eastern backwater:
a few chipped beads,
splinters of glass and pottery, broken tablets
whose secret lore, laboriously deciphered,
would prove to be only a collection of ancient grocery lists.
Still, the train moved away from the station without you.

How many lives ago
was that? How many choices?
Now that you've got your bushelful of shards
do you say, give me back my years
or wrap yourself in the distant
glitter of desert stars,
telling yourself it was foolish after all
to have dreamed of uncovering
some fluent vessel, the bronze head of a god?
Pack up your fragments. Let the simoom
flatten the digging site. Now come
the passionate midnights in the museum basement
when out of that random rubble you'll invent
the dusty market smelling of sheep and spices,
streets, palmy gardens, courtyards set with wells
to which, in the blue of evening, one by one
come strong veiled women, bearing their perfect jars.

I hid for as long as I could in the computer room afraid of how he would respond to this break up. He came into to fetch me for dinner. We ate in silence, but I could barely keep anything down. The whole situation made me sick. It seemed that I was more upset by this turn of events than he was as he amiable chewed away at his dinner. Perhaps it was male bravado, perhaps I imagined myself more important than I really was. Still I managed a few bites, and instead of forcing more food on me when I refused seconds, for the first time he honored the request. After dinner, I was exhausted partially because I was still voiceless and ill, but also from the fact that I no longer had any regular advil and the only way to control my fever was half doses of tylenol PM. After our coffee, he made the bed for me. He would again sleep with his daughter. As I got into bed he sat besides me and took my hand. "Ce n'est pas grave," he said as looked into my eyes. "It is serious for you," I responded in French. If I had better command of the language I like to think I would have said something inspiring or comfortin,g as it was all I could do was blunder through this as I had blundered through everything else.

"Non," he said, "C'est la vie." He looked at me and there was a moment I wanted to kiss and hold him. To tell him that I was sorry, that I never meant to hurt him. That he had meant more to me than he could know. That I had really loved him. If only he had been this understanding before...maybe things would be different...Had I just acted on that impulse maybe things would have changed, but as I sat there wondering if I should hug him, he got up and left the room.

I didn't sleep that night even after taking a Keith Richard's sized dose of tylenol PM. I lay in that bed thinking about our relationship-the first night I spent with him eating chinese food, how he had begged me to stay with him, him telling me he adored me, the Eiffel Tower, Provins, making out at the beach, eating Koring Amande. I looked at the dark room thinking "I was happy here once. Where did that happiness go? Where does love go? We live in the ruins of how many loves? How many past selves? Why can't we get it back?"

I had been reading in In Ruins about a Father LeSueur, who "chose to live in ruins" and claimed to be a "ruins consultant." "Aren't we all?" I thought looking at the yellow brocade material that was stapled to the chair.

I have a basic inability to understand the passage of time. I'll recall some event with amazing clarity and then realize it happened 2, 5, 7, 15 years ago. "How did that happen?" I wonder. "When did all this time pass? How did they not dull the memory of it for just a moment?" We accept the loss of each moment as a given. My students, if they knew I mused on things like how casually we come to accept the loss of each minute, would think me both mad and insipid. "Of course, time passes" they would say. But "How do we accept the quick and fluid way by which we lose each second never to be able to reclaim it? You look around a room and it looks no different than it did 5 minutes ago, yet you can not relive those 5 minutes, not even completely in memory. And this loss seems so natural. But the popularity of the idea of time travek-like in Time Machine or Jack Finney's Time and Again or even Dr. Who suggests that on some level we believe that all those moment still exist just beyond our reach. If only we could step sideways or pull aside the thin membrane that seperates then from now, we could have those moments back.

I lay in that room trying to find my way past that veil, to reach back to that love, but like all of the moments leading up to that one, it was already gone.

* In Search of Lost Time-a rough translation

Labels: heartbreak loss, paris, time

"Through me enter the population of loss" Canto 3 Dante's Inferno

"Everyone lies, good guys lose, and love does not triumph over all" Swimming With Sharks

After midnight, Nana was ushered to bed. While far from well, I was much stronger and more aware than the night before. I got into bed, the Sauvage took off his clothes and tried to seduce me. "Not tonight," I said, "I'm sick." "You said no last night too" he responded. This was the same man who hours earlier was joking about burning his fingers on my skin my fever was so high. "I was sick last night too." He tried to push forward, but I was strong enough to push back. "I need my rest," I said to him, "I'll make love tomorrow." "It's difficult for me, you understand," he said, "I've been waiting for so long."

If I had enough French, I would have said "If you've waited so long, one more day won't matter. What about during our vacation in August when you weren't in the mood for four days in a row? Wasn't I supposed to be understanding? Hadn't I been? But now when I am sick, I am still supposed to be une putain respectueuse?" 1. Had I not been furious about the night before, I was certainly enraged about this. I'm all about Quid Pro Quo. If I respect your health issues, then you damn well better respect mine or I'll give you some health issues to respect.

After I made it clear I could not be reasoned with or forced, he fell asleep as did I. I woke at 2:11 to an empty bed. The Sauvage had gone to sleep with Nana in her room and meticulously closed all the doors between him and me. I went back into the living room ambivalent about what he had done. Was this a punishment for denying him sex? Was he really playing his love for his daughter to make me jealous? And why did I feel both relieved and insulted at the same time?

I returned to the bedroom and slept uneasily. I woke at 8:15 and waited for signs of life in the other room. In the past ,Nana was an early riser, but by 10:45 they still weren't awake. I sat and read 40 pages of In Ruins. Then I made a pot of tea.

Finally, I contemplated my options. I wrote them down in my journal as follows:

1. stay here and hope things change
2. find a hotel in Paris and convalesce there until my return state side
3. book a flight to Florence, Venice, or Edinburgh
4. see if I can change my ticket for an earlier flight

I looked at the clock and thought "Christ, if I was home, I would just be stumbling back from some bar or party about now." I assessed my current health condition in terms of traveling-I still had a fever, my body ached, and my throat was sore-not a good condition for a plane, but certainly well enough to get to a hotel. I looked out at Paris and thought, "I just want to go home. I want to curl up with my cat and some theraflu. If I can't do that I want a nice lush hotel with clean sheets and fluffy covers. Someplace safe. Someplace where I can be sick in my own way and not have to fend off advances or choke down dinner. Someplace where I can be alone."

I knew one thing-staying with the Sauvage was not an option.

As I sat reading and waiting and planning and contemplating, I realized what he was doing. He was trying to give me a taste of my own medicine. I spent yesterday sleeping because I was horribly ill-so now he was holing up with his daughter to teach me a lesson. And I began to realize what kind of person I was dealing with. As I said, language can only protect you for so long-sooner or later character comes through . What he didn't realize was that he just making my decision easier and giving me more time to plan how to escape.

At 11:30, he finally surfaced, and I discovered that I had no voice, literally. He was affectionate with me acting as if he hadn't gotten up in the middle of the night leaving me sick alone in bed. When I asked him why he changed beds, he claimed the bed hurt his back. Funny how that never happened before. He asked if I want to see a doctor. I reflected on this option, but what good would it do? Would the doctor even be able to understand me? And if he could, would I be able to understand him. And even so, it was just a bad flu. All I needed was rest and some tea with honey and to get my ass back to the land of martinis and manicures.

The Sauvage lit up a cigarette. His constant smoking certainly hadn't helped my recovery. I sat at the table with Nana preparing to suffer through another meal as the Sauvage fussing in the kitcheb. I told myself that as soon as the meal is over I could excuse myself to use his computer and begin to investigate my options, contact Air France or American Express, comparison shop on travelocity and hotels.com. If the meals weren't hard enough to bear, Nana is a mouth breather and chews with her mouth open all the time. She reminds me of Jim Carey's comment that when an elderly person eats a sandwich it doesn't sound like a meal, it sounds like a fight for life. It's a production of lip smacks, snuffles, and more views of semi masticated food than I ever wanted to see that if you were to listen to it would make you think of someone fighting off being smothered with a pillow rather than trying to consume food-and I remind you I used to accompany my father on rounds at the hospital often. I saw pictures of operations in progress on the cover of my father's medical journals while I was eating dinner. I'm far from squemish, but something about this girl's eating habits was worse than watching a tracheotomy while eating pasta with marinara. 2

After lunch, I vanished into the computer room. I searched through flights, tried to contact Air France, instructed Bakerina to contact my mother to see if she could help with my flight plans from that side. I discovered that going anywhere else was cheaper than staying in Paris. I pondered the story to give to the Sauvage. I could have told him it was a family emergency. He had to drive me to Charles de Gaulle because my grandmother is dying. While I'm online, he came in a few times to check on me and attempted to kiss and cuddle. I resisted. I instinctively shrank from his touch. And this is how I knew it was over. I knew that I never wanted him to touch me again, and I was willing to leave the country to avoid it.

The only question was how I was going to tell him.

In typical Bunni fashion, while I was pondering this very issue, he came in again. There is a time for thought, and there is a time for action. While I hadn't planned what to say to him, never mind bothered to translate it, or write it down since I couldn't talk, I found myself telling him that I couldn't be his lover anymore.

You may not need language for love, but you do need it to break up.

I tried to explain in French with my choked voice, and he looked at me like a dog that had just been shown a card trick. I pulled up altavista's babelfish and began to type into the translator. "I can't stay here. When I'm sick, I need to be alone. I'm sorry. It's not your fault." He asked me in French, "Why did you come here?" "Because of you" I told him. He explained that he changed his entire vacation for me as if I hadn't FLOWN ACROSS A FUCKING OCEAN FOR HIM...THREE TIMES. What indiginity had I not suffered for this man and he had the balls to tell me he changed his vacation for me? Pardon me while I call the entire string section of the Boston Pops to play MoonRiver just for him. But even in the face of all this I controlled my rage, partially because I still needed him to get wherever the fuck I was going, but also because I didn't have the energy to translate my anger.

I typed into the translator "This is not how I wanted things to go. I did not plan this, but I can not stay with you." He asked me what I want to do. I explained that I was going to go to Venice or Florence. "All I need is a ride to Charles de Gaulle" I typed into the translator. "Why not stay here?"he asked me. "Because" I typed "it would make me sad to stay in Paris without you." He offered the following plan: you stay here in my apartment and I'll go stay with my parents.

While sweet, it demonstrated the same utter lack of thought I had come to associate with him, and I've never suffered fools gladly in any language. He lived in a remote area of Paris that I could not easily navigate. It was definitely the type of place someone needed to be fluent in French to survive, and I didn't even know where the metro station was. Or put more simply, I wanted to be rid of ALL of him, his apartment and its funky smells included. I didn't want to just get rid of him-I couldn't take the haunting smell of phantom cat piss. And I was willing to pay the price.

I shook my head gently. He seemed adamant that I stay in Paris even if I left him. I didn't understand why, but I thought maybe he wanted to "be friends" and do things together. Finally, despite the expense, I told him I would find a hotel in Paris, and he agreed that the following day he would drop me at the hotel. Because as heartless as I say I am, I'm not half the black hearted whore I wish I was.


The truth is, as I lamented to Bakerina and Rabbitch online, I just wanted to go home, order two pitchers of beer, 50 buffalo wings, and hang out with my girlfriends and bitch about men. I wanted to put on my bunny slippers and hang out in my pjs for a week eating Ben and Jerry's while telling my cat how lucky she was that us fat assed bitches had each other. But instead, even now, I thought about his feelings and looked for a hotel in Paris. I found a lovely one, right by the L'arc de Triumph. I figured Napoleon, being a short hostile person himself, would have my back. I booked the hotel as I listened to the Sauvage in the other room call his parents and feign happiness about the change in plans.

Soon, I thought as I confirmed my reservation, soon I'll be free.

1 A Respectful Whore
2 Before you counter with, "But she's just 9" I'll tell you at 9 my nickname was Miss Manners. I often corrected my father at the dinner table for eating with his mouth open as my parents raised me to be polite and proper at the dinner table even if it was just the family.

Labels: breaking up, heartbreak, heartbreak loss, paris

WARNING!!!! If you are deeply disturbed by accounts of non-consensual sex, do not read this post. This post contains graphic adult material.


Nothing went wrong with the flight, and I was delivered into the arms of the Sauvage, who met me at Charles de Gaulle without a hitch. Yet, I knew something was off. I couldn't quite say what-like all of the angles in a room being miscalculated by a single degree- a minor shift, but taken all at once the effect was as unmistakable as it was unidentifiable. Something was wrong, the question was what.

The Sauvage led me to a car, a different one, and we stowed my stuff. Once he began driving, I got a sense of what it was. I found myself coughing, and there was the scratchy feeling in the back of my throat. I sat in the car looking out of the window pleading, with whom or what I have no idea. "Please, no. Not sick now. Not now." I hoped it was merely wear and tear from the plane trip, but as someone who has spent most of my life coping with some sort of illness, I have a keen sensitivity to this issue. As much as I hoped I wasn't sick, I already knew that I was.

As we drove, the Sauvage explained something was wrong with his car. "Wait," I thought to myself, "Wasn't there something wrong with his car in August? It can be the same problem." One of the things that I teach my students is that the simplest answer is most often the right one.* Some stereotypes hold true. Like Frenchmen being cheap, for example. While the Sauvage was happy to pay for his daughter's gameboy and horseback riding lessons, he was limping along with the same piece of crap car, which he hadn't bothered to fix. So indeed, there was something wrong with the car. The car he was driving was his ex-wife's car. We stopped to pick up Nana-and in my post trip pre-illness fatigue I got to meet the ex-wife.

She was lovely and seemed not all upset by me. While the Sauvage basically left me in the hallway while he found his daughter, she invited me in-kissing me on both cheeks as is the custom. There was a teenage boy in the living room, whose presence was not explained. Not much point in it. Even if she did,I wouldn't understand. Like all teenagers, he was slumped on the couch watching TV with an air of melancholic apathy. Looking at him, with his jet black hair, messily swept over his forehead, all I could think was "If Proust was a teenager today, would he look like this?" The ex-wife was beautiful, her black hair swept into an chignon.While the Sauvage claimed she spoke English, she didn't demonstrate the ability-offering me a drink in French, which I politely demurred. She and I shared a similar physique. While she was dressed more in a motherly fashion, a long plain dress, and I was more the NYer (jeans and a black sweater) it was clear we were both full figured women. I stood wishing I could talk to her-not just to ease the tension-but she had the answers to a lot of questions, most notably why did you leave him after all those years? But my French was trapped somewhere out of the reach of my tired mind.

By now, the Sauvage managed to get Nana and summon me back into the hallway. He ushered me out quickly. While his ex-wife seemed to perfectly comfortable to entertain her ex-husband's strangely mute new lover, the Sauvage clearly wanted to get out. I couldn't blame him....exactly. But it seemed to me if anyone should have been uncomfortable, it should have been her. After all, it's not like he had to worry about her telling me anything. Which was lucky for him. If she and I had a common language I would have used those 5 minutes to pump her for intel....as subtly and politely as possible, of course.

Of course.

We arrived at the apartment, which looked exactly as I remembered, except it smelled horrible, particularly the bathroom. It reeked of cat piss. This was particularly confusing because the cat, Mimi Secour, had run away at the end of October following the slaughter of her kittens.

Both of my parents had (or in my mother's case HAS) an unnatural attachment to animals. My mother often to refers to her horse, the one that's getting the oil portrait, as "my brother" and my father referred to his Newfoundland the same way. While she'll curse out any even mildly incapable driver, she'll pull over and weep about a run over raccoon. Living in a farmhouse, she won't buy regular mousetraps, but "have a heart" traps. Predictably, the mice stay fat and happy in the attic over the winter. The point being I was raised with people who didn't just value the lives of animals as much as people, but I've always suspected valued them MORE.

Mimi Secour had delivered a litter of kittens in late September. The Sauvage would show them to me on the cam. Their eyes still sealed, two or three in his hand, desperately struggling to control their little heads as they mewed piteously. After the Sauvage returned from his trip to Bretagne at the end of October, I asked about the kittens. "They all died" he told me abruptly. And then proceeded to explain that he had taken Mimi Secour with them on the trip AND LEFT THE KITTENS ALONE. When Mimi returned and found her babies dead, she ran away. The Sauvage claimed he saw her from time to time, but she fled when he approached.

This episode absolutely sickened me. Separating the kittens from the mother at 6 weeks old and leaving them alone in an apartment was cruel. They must have starved to death terrified. Adult cats are self reliant. While Mimi would not have liked staying in the apartment alone, I'm sure she could have saved at least a few of her kittens. Had it been me, I would have left Mimi at the apartment, taken Nana to his parent's place, relaxed a day or two, and returned to the apartment to take care of the cat and kittens. I would then pick her up near the end of break and return to the apartment. Or I would have found a freakin' cat sitter. I mean surely there had to be a teenage girl close by dying to have hours a day playing with kittens and willing to put out cat food and clean litter.

I hated him for letting those kittens die. His cavalier attitude toward life without acknowledging his responsibility for it. Perhaps it's American to value the lives of pets so much, but I almost vomited every time I remembered them mewling on the cam. I had never even held them, and I cared more about them than he did. Mimi was right to run away. She was better on her own. And I began to think that he regarded me much like the kittens, cute and fun, but not worth much effort protecting. And fairly of incapable of thinking about the long term impact of his acts on others.

Still, why then was the overwhelming stench of cat pee still in the apartment? There hadn't been a cat here in 7 weeks, yet you would think there was a whole cattery camping out in this apartment. The kitchen also wreaked of rotting food, the scraps from the last meal slowly transforming into a cure for cancer in the sink.

As I said before, some stereotypes are true. The smells of Paris aren't subtle nor are they all pleasant.Walking down the streets, one is just as likely to confront the stench of a cheese store as a delicious whiff of frais du bois at a fruit stand. And I had embraced that-a rich sensory tapestry. Perhaps it was my illness that made these smells so unpleasant as I hadn't been disturbed by them before. Maybe he was merely unaware what his apartment smelled like to an American, trained as I am to expect pleasant neutrality or perhaps some sort of room spray.

He proudly showed me their Christmas tree, which was the single saddest Christmas tree I've ever seen. If you can imagine a crappy plastic version of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, you have an idea of the despair this tree broadcast. It's pathetic sparseness was emphasized by it's obvious fakeness enhanced two two mismatched tinsel garlands and a few plain ornaments. While the French are about manicured gardens, they put little effort into their Christmas trees. The idea of 20 or even 40 dollar handcrafted or designer ornaments has not yet surfaced. Neither have concept trees, like a tree decorated entirely with powder blue ribbons and angels or only Victorian style ornaments, appeared. Unfortunately, I did see a giant inflatable Snoopy Santa above one of the stores. As always they have chosen the worst, the cheesiest, the ugliest part of American culture to absorb.

Before setting me up for a nap, the Sauvage ushered Nana into the TV room and brought a present from under the sad tree. I had bought him two pairs of Levis jeans as he had asked for. I gave them to him-all wrapped up. I had also bought Nana a fairy necklace as well as stuffing my bag with candy canes to be doled out on a regular basis. Nana loved candy, and I figured these designer (strawberry, blue raspberry, and watermelon) canes might win me a little bit of peace when she was on the verge of a diva-esque hissy. I opened my present-it was a three piece "sheherazade" outfit in bright red. It was, in actuality, a pretty decent belly dancing ensemble with gold coins at the waistband. Not what I was expecting, but it struck me as an interesting gift. Certainly it worked with my great love of dressing up, but also the symbolism was appropriate. Sheherazade saved her own life and restored the faith of her husband by telling stories. He may have thought it was just an outfit for a hot piece of ass. I thought it was something more.

I usually do.

The Sauvage let me take a nap, and I literally crashed. What seemed like only a second passed before they were shaking me awake for dinner. By this time, the illness had begun to hit full force-the coughing, the sneezing, the sore throat, and the dizziness. It was unmistakably clear I was ill. Dinner was potatoes cooked in duck fat and bison steaks (which he is particularly proud of) in a Roquefort cream as well as salad and peas smothered in butter. I struggled through dinner, barely able to eat or focus. I found this food barely palatable, the Roquefort overpowering and curdling my palate. The smell was repulsed me. As usual, the Sauvage wouldn't let me eat as little as I wanted and as soon as I choked down some meat and potatoes, he would put more on my plate. While pouring coffee, the Sauvage noticed me literally dozing at the table-eyes closed, head tilted to the side. After finishing his coffee, the Sauvage put me to bed and he retired to the TV room with Nana.

In history and literature, disease often marks a turning point. Fevers tend to be a particularly transformative event from the Jane Eyre's feverish hallucinations to the heroine of Bleak House's encounter with smallpox to Caligula's "brain fever", which many blame for his madness. In Angels in America, fever is the "threshold of revelations" for several characters. For better or worse, characters, both historical and fictional, often undergo intense psychological changes when in the grips of a fever.

I fall asleep quickly to be wakened to the Sauvage trying to get me naked. "He can't actually be trying to fuck me" I thought-although I could barely open my eyes. Quickly enough, his intentions were clear and while normally I would have enjoyed waking up to kisses and caresses, I felt like I had run full force into a brick wall. I just wanted to rest. His mouth on my breasts, pulling off my pajamas as I struggled to tell him I didn't want to make love. Under normal circumstances, I would have picked the lamp off the table and smashed it in his head or grabbed and twisted his balls like I was picking ripe apples. But I barely had the strength to raise my head, never mind push an able bodied man off of me. Had my mind been clear-not hazy with fatigue or disordered by hallucinations and fever-I like to think that some sort of plan would have occurred to me. I kept telling him no, stop, I wasn't in the mood. He said nothing, easily batting my hands away when I tried to resist him. Eventually, I just lay there knowing I had one thing on my side.

The Sauvage had a heart condition and what can only be termed a heroic appetite for pot (at least two joints a day). Either element on its own can cause erectile dysfunction, together, however, in a man over 40 it takes a truly talented piece of ass like myself to ensure that the flag doesn't fail. I was hardly likely to help him in my current condition. He took me....briefly, but soon enough, without my help, he withdrew. He fell asleep without saying a word, snoring next to me. I fell into dreamless sleep.

I woke to him gently shushing me. I was moaning in my sleep, but terrifyingly found even awake I couldn't stop myself from moaning. My body was shaking, and my skin was on fire. I walked onto the freezing terrace. The wind gave me some relief, clearing my head and soothing my fever. I tried to stop the moaning, but I couldn't. The lack of control over this simple act convinced me that I was finally dying. My entire body hurt, particularly my back. Suddenly I was sure that my kidneys were failing. That's why I was so sick. Unsteadily, I made my way to my bag. It's not kidney failure, I thought. I'm delusional from fever. I need to rest and get my fever down. I took half a dose of tylenol pm from my bag and took it. Then I stood looking out at the clear night-barely able to hold myself against the luxurious cold of the glass terrace door.

Despite it all, my fever addled brain had a moment of clarity as the tylenol took effect. I wanted to be in some hotel in Venice or Florence with white fluffy sheets and mints on the pillows. Some place clean and all my own. A place where I could sleep without having to fend off a lusty paramour, chat with ex-wives, or tolerate the smell of cat pee from an absent cat. I wanted to be alone again. Blessedly alone.

I had thought once that I wanted to die in Paris...like the heroine in my father's favorite opera, La Boheme. But in that moment, shaking, my skin on fire, terrified by the lack of control I had over my own body, I knew that I didn't want to die in Paris. Not in some stinking apartment. Not even with my formerly beloved Parisian Paramour by my side. He wouldn't understand my last words.

He had saved me once when I was sick. Going back to lie in the pool of clammy sweat I left on the bed, I knew this time I was going to have to save myself.

Before I fell asleep I turned the claddaugh ring, a Christmas present, heart outward. My love was no longer his.

*In medicine, this is sometimes referred to as the zebra principle, or a variation thereof. The basic idea is if you hear hoof beats, the odds are it's a horse not a zebra.

Labels: christmas, fever, health issues, heartbreak loss, illness, love, paris

“ loves dries up, I thought
as I walked back to the bathroom, even faster
than sperm.”
the end of a short affair by Charles Bukowski

I wake up at 6 am and immediately start to pack. Or more accurately throw my clothes hurriedly into my bags. The key to this kind of act is that it can’t be a bluff. If he doesn’t stop you, you have to be absolutely sure you can pull that bag down stairs and demand a cab to a train to Paris. Sure you can hope that he will stop you, but the one thing you can not do, under any circumstances, is finish packing and then burst into tears and plead with him to change his mind. No, this can not be an empty threat and no you can't show weakness. You've got to completely turn the tables. He'll expect begging, give him demands.

About half my stuff is thrown into the suitcase before he stops me. All he has to do is throw me on the bed and make love to me-insane and passionate. It’s so simple, it’s so fucking french how can he miss it? But what does he do? He hugs me. He HUGS me. Dear sweet baby jesus I’ve come all this way suffered the slings and arrows of French Plumbing to be disappointed by men on both side of the Atlantic?

I waxed for this man. I got a freakin' for Brazilian for this?!

And it is in this moment that all my darkest suspicions about the universe, that there is not even the pretense of anything vaguely resembling justice, that you can make the same damn epic mistake again and again, that no matter what the fuck I do for these idiot men I will never, ever be good enough for even though they should be thanking whatever deities they pray to for my interest.

I shake him off and try to continue to pack. He does, indeed, want me to stay, to at least talk. I tell him that I want to be alone, not to be Sarah Bernhardt , not to be a drama queen but because I don't want to be with anyone else. It is what I really want. If I can’t return to Paris, I want some other familiar solace. To sit and read and think alone. To nurse my wounds in private. Not to be constantly trailing behind this assclown and his daughter pretending all the while that I'm fine. If I can’t have him, I want to be with anyone.

No twilight, no gray area.

One would think that he would be in the mood to give me what little peace he can, but no. He insists on taking me to coffee so we can talk. What's the point? We can't understand each other. What kind of discussion does he think we are going to have. I go with him and sit in the sun, tears streaming out from under my sunglasses. I tell him it's better this way-for my studies, for my life. He doesn't apologize, but he does insist that he wants me to stay. He wants me to stay for the sun and the sand and the water. Such french fucking conceit. Like I had to come all this way to go to the beach. Christ I could have to gone to Cancun and picked myself some cute little cabana boy. After all they love me in Mexico and Jamaica. And I wouldn't have to deal with trailing behind a nine year old prima donna or being abandoned for hours.


Finally, he drops me off at the hotel. I tell him I want to be alone. First he says he'll leave me until 7 PM, then he amends to 3. This guy left me in a hotel room for hours without dinner only a few nights before, but now he's acting like being without me is some great difficulty. If I was capable of rational thought, I would have been completely baffled. As it was, I was annoyed. I just wanted to be left alone. It seemed that this guy was simply dedicated to the frustration of my desires.

Finally, he says he'll come back for me after lunch and because I want him to go, I agree.

The minute the door is closed I head for my dictionary, throw myself on the bed, and begin the struggle to write a letter, which will communicate to him exactly what kind of fucktard I think he is for doing this to me.

Labels: break up, heartbreak loss, loneliness

"People think that falling in love they make themselves whole?...I think otherwise. I think you're whole before you begin. And love fractures you. You're whole and then you're cracked open."
-The Dying Animal by Philip Roth



After hours of playing with Chunk, I was exhausted. We dropped Chunk off with her parents and after showering all the sand off, we went down to the "boardwalk", a brief strip of restaurants for the tourists. At a food stand, the Sauvage ordered a belgian waffle, or gauffre, with nutella for Nana, and we shared some frites.

He asked me, again, if Americans had nutella. We do, of course, and I had told him so before. What I couldn't explain was that to Americans, Nutella is a particular brand of chocolate hazelnut spread, whereas in France the term doesn't refer to a specific brand, but rather to a chocolate hazelnut spread in general. While I had been interested in these differences before, that my only use at this point was trying to explain the cultural differences between France and America was beginning to bore me.

After "dinner", I was on the verge of narcolepsy thanks to my extended play session with Chunk. I asked the Sauvage to drop me off at the hotel. I figured it would give Nana and the Sauvage time to be together, which apparently despite the afternoon together they still needed, and I could get some rest. I fell sound asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

The Savage woke me when he returned at 9 by saying to me "This relationship is too difficult, it can't go on."

When I start a relationship from the first date or so, I imagine how it's going to end. What is it that is going to do us in? Jealousy? Other women? Inability to commit? Trust issues? His failure to leave the apartment? My emotional intensity? Based on what I know of him and myself, I begin to quickly whittle down the possibilities. Part of the point of the game is to prevent me from being blindsided by heartbreak; the other point of the game is that when it does happen, and I take the end of a relationship as a given, that I will at the very least have some roman noir-esque patter for the ending conversation. Anatole Broyard once wrote that you should have a style for dying, and I think you should have a style for leaving a relationship. Mine is to leave him bleeding and bruised with psychological torment. I want him to be in therapy....for years.

In this regard, I have a singular gift, which any of my ex-boyfriends will tell you. Assuming, of course, they are feeling brave enough to even mention my name. There is a reason why most men emigrate after we break up. Much like the Eumenides (the Furies of Greek and Roman myth), there is no escape from my wrath.**

But this, this completely surprised me. I had expected the end of this relationship, but not now, not like this. I had thought that he wouldn't contact me after I returned to the US, that he would lose interest long before my return, that he would ditch me after the first sign of trouble with his parents or my health, but it had never occurred to me that five days before the end of my vacation, he would decided to break up with me.

And out of all the times that I had planned and rehearsed a break up speech, this was the time that I needed one the most.

And I had absolutely nothing.

Unfortunately, while you don’t need language to fall in love, you do need language to fight. You need language to defend yourself. To reveal errors in logic. And when all else fails to insult and threaten. In short, in order to break up, you need a common language.

And so deprived of language, I cried. He tried to explain all the difficulties this relationship presented to him. As if I was unaware, as if I HADN'T BEEN WITH HIM THE ENTIRE TIME. I understood all these difficulties, but I couldn't explain to him that I was facing even more problems with this relationship. After all, I have a life, friends, a career in NY. I could never hope to be a professor in France, and yet here I was having crossed an ocean to be with an older man who increasingly ignored me so he could devote all this attention to his daughter. I desperately wanted to explain to him how lucky LUCKY he was that he came across on me on a particularly bad day because most of the time I wouldn't have even deigned to accept a drink from him. I mean, a blue collar ten years my senior single dad? I could spit and hit a better catch than that in NYC. No wonder his wife left him that ungrateful, self-centered prick.

But, of course, I couldn't say any of that so I cried. Not because he was leaving me, but because I hate feeling helpless. I was revolted by being in this situation and disgusted that he would put me in this position. Had I the ability, I would have vomited on him. That would have been a more accurate reflection of my emotions. As it was, I cried.

Seeing my reaction, he relented and took off his clothes to get in bed. I tried to seduce him, and it worked, but just as soon as he started to get turned on-I began to cry. If I couldn't torture him with words, well, I had other ways of dealing with that. If I was going to be rejected, I was going to make damn sure he felt rejected as well.

Instead, I got up and took two tylenol PM. Thankfully the drugs worked their magic quickly, and I fell into heavy dreamless sleep that prevented me from thinking what terror the next day held in store for me.

** My wrath is reserved for men who break up with me, but if I break up with the man generally I feel some sad affection for him and what was lost. Also, my rage is fueled by relationships where I've been killing myself to make things work while he has put in only nominal effort. Sure that's partly my fault, but when trying to drag myself out of heartbreak I find it better to externalize my rage.

Labels: break up, breaking up, heartbreak loss, language