HER

She intrigues me. Stylish. Quaffed hair. Vogue. Cool. Polished. A teacher, I think. Perhaps a lawyer. No. A teacher. She's too cool looking to be a lawyer.

I see her around few times a week. She asked my name once. I told her. We make small talk. Nothing special. She's classy and beautiful but that's not what intrigues me. What intrigues me, she is no doubt the strong silent type. Independent. Sophisticated. Worldly. Qualities rare in women. Instead of the usual petty jealousy. Emotional instability. Nagging. Boring. If I was your husband I'd rather drink beer and masturbate too. But not her. She's seen places. Been things. She doesn't say much. Grins a lot. I like that. Like she knows all your secrets. So hot. I want to get to know her better. I want to know her secrets. Just one or two. I'd like to hang out with her some day. Have a drink of wine.

I saw her last week. Sitting at a table directly behind her was a couple. A little older. Sexy. The wife of that couple kept hitting on me. Got me going.

Sexual struggle.

Conundrum.

I would have given that couple my number but, I didn't want to do it in front of her. Anyone else but her. She probably wouldn't have cared. She seems too cool to care. I let that couple go anyway.

Worked out for the best.

I saw her again tonight. I really want to ask her out for a drink. Just can't bring myself to do it.

Respect.

She intrigues me.

Regardless;

I rented the movie HER from redbox. Loved this movie so much. Huge fan of Joaquin Phoenix.

Awesome scene: Phone sex with the girl who has a dead cat fetish...

"It's a dead cat and I'm... I'm choking you with its... with it's tail... It's a dead cat..."

After seeing that scene, I suddenly stopped feeling bad I watched (that one) clip of the guy having sex with a blowup doll. He didn't cum. Kind of disappointing. (The guy with the blowup doll, not Joaquin Phoenix.) Joaquin Phoenix, comes later in the movie.

"Sometimes I feel like I've felt everything I'm going to feel. And I worry I'm only going to feel lesser versions of what I've already felt."
-- Theodore

How do you write women so well?

I think of a man. And I take away reason and accountability.
- Melvin Udall

Dogs

Observation. Two scenarios I witnessed over the past two weeks.

MAN and MAN

Man's dog runs into another man's front yard.

Dog owner: "I'm sorry! My dog likes your yard!"

The two men laugh.

Homeowner: "I like your dog!"

Dog owner: "My dog likes you!"

The two men laugh. Numbers are swapped. Connection made.

MAN and WOMAN

Man's dog ran into a woman's front yard.

Dog owner: "Hey Sorry about that! She's just full of energy this morning!"

Homeowner: "Your dog didn't take a dump in my front yard did it?!"

Dog owner: "What? No. She just ran into it. Sorry."

Homeowner: "Your dog needs to be on a leash!"

Then the woman turned her back and went into her house.

J'aime les livres et les bijoux

I got the flu shot few days ago.

Hmm

That's how bored I am. Blogging about my flu shot.

I'm just counting the days to get on a plane again.

Stationary is no good for me.

I'm re-reading 'The Catcher In the Rye', studying French, packing and waiting to get on the plane. I don't like packing a bunch of clothes. I prefer buying them when I get there. Wherever "there" is. But thermals in MN is a must-have this time of year.

It's still 6 months away but,

So it seems Saint Germain Des Pres, is the place to be in Paris.

The Cafe De Flore. Les Deux Magots.

I'm Metro savvy. I'll get around ok.

Pickpockets? Challenge accepted!

And,

I'm eager, more than anything, to see if these conflicts among the French are true.

Example,

1) French patrons, tourists, students etc., don't like French Americans.

2) French people don't like Canada.

3) Parisians, are very nice

But,

4) French waiters hate everybody! (Which I think is absolutely awesome!)

I'm learning French for the waiters!

Please don't spit in my food. I tip 20%-25% always. Promise. Oh wait. Do you tip in France?

Can't I just, "cette, s'il vous plait." And point on the menu? I know very little about French food. But I'm not going to Paris for the food. I'm sure it'll be fine. Just in case, I'm packing a ton of seaweed. I eat it every day. Kale, seaweed, cucumbers, fish and rice. I'm sure I'll find it.

In the past month I've met about a dozen French people, and they were all very nice.

"Bonjour. Comment allez-vu? Bien, merci. J'mapelle [Simone]. Comment vous appeles vous?" And they were very, very nice and seemed genuinely happy/impressed I was learning Francaise.

Sooooooooo,

Girl with the green hair,

Salute! Allons boire un verre!

Putain!

Hey look, I learned a new word!

No my tutor did not teach me that.

I learned it on YouTube all on my onesome.

I have no idea what to do with myself tonight.

Guess I'll just surf porn and study French.

(The gentile Francaise.)

Socks and underwear. In Paris, just socks.

It's been two weeks now. I've had a little time to absorb what's going on at home. Adjust. Try to. Yesterday I asked dad if he would consider smoking pot to help him eat. (Never thought "dad" and "pot" would be used in the same sentence, ever.) He's looking into Asian herbal remedies as an alternative. Plus he's eating again. Thank god. Don't think I want to see my dad smoking marijuana, anyway. Cancer or not, nothing would help me recover from that visual.

I'm doing my best to tone down the pure utter insane panic that rips through my body from the time I wake up, until the time I go to bed. It does him no good. He's taking it all in stride now. Hitting on the nurses (I'm sure!) I'm waiting for him to tell one if them I just got out of prison. Wait for it. He thinks it's flirty to say things that, "She robs banks for a living." And apparently I suck at it. I don't get how but it works and the girls giggle...

Completely forgot about Halloween. Getting a room today actually. On my to-do list. Working in an area Halloween night that will just be crazy. I gave up battling crazy.

Meeting the French tutor this morning. Then shopping winter gear. It's already 30 degrees in MN, at night. And shopping for a compact (European) travel bag. I'm not bringing suitcases to Paris. Whatever I need I'll just get there. One shoulder bag. That's it. Trying to learn how their Metro works. On one of the days there I want to play nerdy Asian tourist. Get a pair if fake glasses, fat wad of tape in between the lenses, and take a million photos.

I watched that YouTube video if the two French girls, sisters I think, one has green hair, and they were saying what NOT to do in Paris. Meaning (for tourists) how not to behave. And their big one was do not blow your nose or sniffle in public. Yes!! Add to that, especially in restaurants!! I see we're going to get along great. A quick nose blow in a Kleenex, fine. But some people just think everyone around them wants to hear you blow your nose, and blow, and blow, while we're all trying to eat. It's so rude.

The YouTube girls were also saying, don't be surprised when we kiss you. We always kiss the girls, twice, so don't be surprised.

Fantastic. The girl with the green hair can kiss me any time.

First week of November

I'm back in MN for a while. I'm sure I'll get drunk in my room and blog something ridiculous at 2am.

(So pretty much nothing will change.)

Shoe poop. $1.50. And France's deflated butt plug.

Regretfully, I pushed opened the metallic blue door, as I've done many times in the past. Only when I did it this morning, upon taking one step inside the door, my steel toe black shoe stepped in something wet and squishy. To my horror I had just stepped in freshly made human vomit and poop. Two piles side by side.

I'm going to end this part if the story here, and explain how this event came to past, another day. I only mention it now because my steel toe black shoe becomes relevant later on in this blog, which is about to get choppy, but it all comes together in the end.

In the meantime,

I cleaned my shoe best I could until I got back to my friends place where I could give it a proper wash. Vigorously washing my hands under scalding hot water.

Fucking vile.

But,

Before I got my back to my friend's place,

Before then,

Before stepping in poop and vomit,

Earlier that morning, while drinking caffeine, I read in the French online paper that France had finally deflated Paul McCarthy's tree sculpture, or more appropriately what France was referring to as "the giant butt plug".

Apparently France disapproved of the butt-plug sculpture. Is France surprised this is what Paul McCarthy, created? I know France has THEE internet. France could have done a background check via THEE internet on Paul McCarthy's past work. He's not an artist. Not by my definition anyway.

It's like Marvel, are they shocked over the reaction of Milo Manara's new Spider-Woman painting where she's dangling her vagina over a high rise building? No. Of course not. You guys know who Milo Manara, is right? I'm guessing Marvel has THEE internet. I'm guessing Marvel even knows how to operate THEE internet. Milo Manara. Heavy Metal. Brilliant gorgeous sensual erotic art. Marvel knew what it was doing hiring Manara to illustrate Spider-Woman. Sooooo, que pasa, Marvel fans?

Art (or rather why I enjoy art) is to feel something, connect, bond, resolve, live, relive. Take us there, or take us back again, some place we long to be.

Artists become artists, for the same reasons art lovers become art lovers, because the every day norm just isn't good enough.

When I made art I wanted people to look at it and feel alive, intrigued, fantasize, be someone else, want something else, but only for the better. I don't understand "shock art". Being shocked is usually just above being disgusted. Why would you want someone to look at your art and be disgusted? It's not exactly incentive for them to buy your work and hang it on their wall.

THEE internet,

It's like, watching 5 hours of CNN explaining what Ebola, is. We have THEE internet. We can Wiki
Ebola anytime we want.

I find myself glued to my headsets more and more, blasting French lessons in my ear drums, ignoring the world and it's hysterics over Ebola, Spider-Woman's vagina, France's giant butt plug,

And let's not forget the unaffordable wealth that is $1.50.

You read correctly. $1.50. Six quarters. Perhaps I should explain. It leads up to the part about the poop on my shoes.

No.

Wait.

First I'm going to say this one thing.

I knew right away when news broke of dads condition there was going to be problems with family and work. Meaning my work was going to have problems with my dad's condition.

My bosses want my dad's condition, and my family, to both coordinate around my work schedule. Because my current employers think they're more important than my family.

Work thinks they need me, and are entitled to me before my family. It's fucking hilarious. I'm not a rocket scientist. Hire someone else.

I don't care if my bosses give a damn about my dad. We're not friends. I'm just a mule to them. They're a paycheck to me. That's it. That's how it works. All the same, I can get work anywhere. I say this because I know my solid work ethic. And because I always get work when I want it. You won't like me, you just won't (trust me) but who cares, you'll like my work. That's all that matters. However, make no mistake my family, as irritating as they are, in rare situations like this always come first. I've said "no" to my family about many things, many times, but not this, and this time.

Which leads me to,

When I saw him I did a double-take. I know that guy. I remember him. First day on the job he was so nice to me. 50 people telling me how everything I did was wrong, too much this, not enough that, and that looks awful how the hell did you get this job, etc. But not that guy. That guy was nice to me. "You're doing fine, kid. People just have to complain. Makes them feel important. Ya know?"

I know. But it was still a nice thing to say.

So when I saw him again I immediately started to walk over to him. I just wanted to say thank you. I wanted to shake his hand. I wanted him to know I never forgot how nice he was to me on my first day on the job. Probably doesn't mean anything to him, just being himself, just another day, but it meant something to me. Still does. It helped me get through my first day. So I started to walk over to him just to say thank you.

"Hey [Simone!!]" this other guy yells out. "Hey [Simone! Simone!] Over here! Over here!"

I looked around. Saw this 2nd guy waving me over. Great. The 2nd guy is friends with the people who sign my paychecks. He doesn't even like me. I don't like him.  We don't like each other at all. But since he sees me walking towards someone else, he has to interrupt my path and grab my attention for himself. What a clown.

I make a quick detour. Fucking politics.

I tell myself; one minute, just say hello, and leave.

Instead,

The clown talked about himself for a solid ten minutes before he finally says, "Ok sweetheart, I'd love to sit here and talk to you all day, but I have things to do. I'm a busy man." and then brushes me off without saying goodbye.

Dick.

Free from the clown's self loving verbal vice grip, I turned to find the nice man I originally wanted to talk to.

But of course... He was gone.

This happened last week and I'm still pissed off about it.

Anyway back to $1.50 and the poop on my shoe:

On this long unfortunate list, very (very) few things bother me more than cheap people. And by cheap, I mean people who complain about anything under $20. If I go out to eat, or go to the movies, or go to a bar, or clothes shopping, if I go to any of these places and my bill is less than $20, throw a parade! I go out expecting to spend money, or I don't go out.  I don't go out and then complain I'm spending money, that's just stupid. Especially over $1.50? Here's six quarters, bitches, get over it.

By 3pm I had almost forgotten about the poop on my shoe. I was guilted into visiting a friend's girlfriend at work. I can't stand her, if you want to know the truth, no one can but I made the mistake of telling my friend I was in the neighborhood, so he told me stop by his girlfriend's work and say hello. She'd really like it, he said. 

(Dude, she doesn't care.)

Anyway, 

I go. I stop into her work place. It's a dive bar restaurant. The kind of place people sweatpants and bring coupons to. 

So I'm sitting in her station, drinking tea with potential to give you more strands of hepatitis than licking the bottom of my poop shoe, when my friends girlfriend leans over my table and with a miserable expression on her face says, "See those women over there, they've been bitching at me for two minutes over $1.50. One fucking dollar and fifty cents!" 

Everyone wants stuff for for free. When they realize the 5th basket of bread is going to cost them $1.50, they act like, "Oh well we wouldn't have asked for 5 basket of bread if we knew you were going to charge us after the 4th one!" 

Fuck off.

And now that my attention had been brought to these two cheap women, I watched them gesturing their disapproval of being charged $1.50.

"Hey. Did I tell you how my day started this morning?" I ask my friend's annoying girlfriend. "Well, I opened this blue door as I've done many times in the past, only this time, right as I open the door and stepped inside, I stepped in fresh human poop and vomit..." I tell her. "Hey, what did those cheap bitches order anyway?" 

Now that I think about it, my friend's annoying girlfriend didn't ask how I had come to step in human poop and vomit. (I'm offended.)

Anyway,

No. We didn't scrape poop off my shoe and put it in their food. But we considered it for as long as they bitched about the $1.50.

The Judge

Saw this movie last night.

If you were the kid that left home at 18, you will absolutely relate to Robert Downey JR's character, Hank Palmer. You may not have become an attorney, but the reactions from everyone back home (the first time you go back) are all the same from family, friends, the sweetheart you left behind...

You left. You're the bad guy.

But,

They love you. So you're also the good guy.

They miss you, and in your absence they also admire you for going.

My dad didn't talk to me for a year after I left home, when he himself left his childhood home, Utah, when he was 18. Took dad a while to accept we left home for different reasons.

As long as people I love still live in MN, it will continue to be home, and not just "where I grew up", because in truth MN is not where I grew up, I grew up more in Los Angeles, than anywhere.

Just,

Not in the way most people can relate to outside of Los Angeles.

Downey's character's relationship with his father in this movie is eerily familiar...

Go see it.

If you were the kid who left home, you'll love this movie.

Day off in the valley

Fathers can break their daughters hearts in such a unique terrible way, it makes other people jealous.

Truth.

Believe it.

I'm not fighting with you guys anymore. Especially when the fights just end up in the most idiotic places.

"... And California is so fake!"

What does that have anything to do with hotel rates!

California isn't fake. Having money isn't fake. It's people who are fake. Does this shirt make me look fake? No. But I will tell you what does. A group of girls sitting at Beach Nation, on Santa Monica blvd., mid week, mid day, hoping to be seen/discovered. Meanwhile a guy with a demolition hammer is tearing up 100 yards of concrete two feet thick, just across the street in front of mid day traffic and City Hall. And the girls, sitting at this fake beach pretending to be partying, hoping to be seen/discovered in the gayest part of Los Angeles, that's fake. Never mind the fact an actual real ocean with many beds of real sand is less than 15 miles away from you. Girls, the man has a jackhammer. A jackhammer. A tripped car alarm and three screaming babies would be less annoying.

As if your state don't have girls like this.

My brain is going to explode.

Late last night, in the dark, by myself I watched a stand-up gig by Bill Engvall, and the other night a stand-up gig by Ron White. Both nights I drank a 6 pack of Stella's, and just laughed my ass off. Those guys are brilliant.

I needed the release.

Waiting.

That's all I'm doing now.

Waiting.

I gave my work notice, and said to them the same thing I'm telling everyone...

Everyone and everything is now second to my dad. Meaning I can't help you, I can't schedule to meet you, I can't book anything, I have no idea when my life will get back on track, that's just the way it is.

Deal with it.

The only people keeping me sane are my friends, and the kindness of strangers. Thank you.

There is no handbook. No guide. Just this overwhelming feeling of guilt. If I laugh I feel guilty. If I smile I feel guilty.

In June 2013 I was diagnosed with a tumor. Operable but complicated. Not cancer. Surgery is the last resort. I don't want surgery. The recovery time is too long. When I learned of the tumor the only person I told was dad. I've taken medication twice now, once a year, the medication only lasts a week, to shrink the size of the tumor. No big deal. But I got angry. Rick and dad have given so much, they're such amazing people, they have so much to offer...

This isn't how its supposed to go.

Dad has to do things his way. However long it takes.

Right now I'm there for only him.

I remember the last fully-coherent conversation I had with Rick. He was at peace. Content.

Prepared.

I don't know how.

I guess you just find a way.

Involuntary

Last night I saw the movie 'Gone Girl'.

Loved it. Brilliant.

Neil Patrick Harris, amazing. He stole the movie.

But can someone please explain WTF happened at the end?! 

I ask a million questions. I want to know every nerve, muscle, and tissue of that which is important to me. Regardless. Any subject. I want to know its purpose, where it began, where it ends, and what will become of it should any fiber sever from its intended place. I want to peel it, dissect it, and examine it... intellectually, of course.

I believe in science and philosophy.

But I cannot reason, not for one minute, the purpose of our existence. The meaning of life. I cannot begin to decipher this code, this undesirable mass debris of disregarded waste, humans have become.

The doctors tell my dad to keep a positive outlook. Be optimistic. Seek reasons to live.

The amount of grief and anger I feel now, would be multiplied by infinite, if it were me.

"Your father just needs to know you're ok." She tells me.

Well,

I'm ok if he's ok.

Cancer.

Dad calls the shots. I just keep myself busy until he needs me.

Busy. Distracted. Amused. Occupied.

Lunch with Aramis at Brats Brothers. Studying French. Going to the movies...

You tell me what to do because I certainly don't know. I don't know what to feel, what not to feel, how to behave, what to say, what not to say.

I'm leaving for Europe next year, in hopes of finding something I cannot find here. History. Culture. Passion. Energy. Perhaps. A reason for life. A grain of understanding for the meaning of it all.

Whatever depths temporarily satisfied as a kid with art and literature, no longer satisfies.

It goes beyond boredom.

Nothing, no one, holds my attention anymore.

It's all become so... Mechanical.

Unconscious. Unfeeling.


And now... Add to that... This terrible sadness.

Humanity Americana

October 9, 2014,

Less than three hours after I wrote that day's blog, my dad informed me he has stage 4 lung cancer. It has already spread from his lung to his pelvic bone.

He doesn't want me to come home and see him this way.

My brother is telling me to come home NOW.

That Friday, October 10, I told my bosses about my dad's condition. My bosses at work however, tell me that even though my dad is dying, they can't spare me until after November 10. (Something like 30 days.) By then dad will be on his second cancer treatment and probably won't recognize me anymore, if he's still alive that is. Thanks work. 

Yesterday, those two little "princesses" almost got broken faces. For the next 28 days I want to make it very clear, at work, if you're some ego ridden high maintenance, bullshit little entitled bitch, in plain poetic verse, I couldn't give a fuck about you. I don't give a fuck. Not one fuck. Not to that fuck over there. Or those two fucks there. Or you whiny little bitch fucks over there. All you fucks, I couldn't care less. Fire me? Knock yourself out. Maybe then I'll actually get to see my dad before he dies.

Fact, I'm going.

Consider me gone.

My dad's ex-wife, a human wrecking ball, a real piece of work, and my brothers mom, thinks it's funny that my dad is dying of cancer. She thinks it's comical he quit smoking, she kept smoking, and he's the one dying of lung cancer. I should have committed that crazy bitch when I had the chance.

Fathers can break their daughters hearts in such a unique terrible way, it makes other people jealous.

To quote, well, everyone, "Adios motherfuckers." My dad is more important than you.

Instant gratifi'straction

Being distracted is all I can afford right now.

Last night, and a few nights before, I met this very nice, very attractive couple.

"Oh that's not my boyfriend, that's my dad." She said. And refered to him as "dad" from that point on.

Wait. That's your dad?! Diiiiilf. 

I got the feeling she may have mentioned something to him after the third time he winked and smiled at me. Wow.

"My dad leaves for England tomorrow [today] but I'm around." She said.

Girl, I would love to be friends with you. You're sweet, charming, and a real breath of fresh air. But I want to have sex with your dad, so...

Awkward.

Thank you for the distraction. Much appreciated!

From the valley to the ocean

Commute. Work. Commute. Work. Commute. Sleep. Commute. Work.

I used to work for this company, my boss was fired for renting out company parking spots at night when the venue next door was sold out. I understand he made a lot if money but as per usual got greedy. He sold employee spots also and that's how he got caught. Upon his final exit of the company building he said to me, "You're too smart to work here. Do what you love. You'll no doubt be a success." Which might have meant something if my boss wasn't being ushered out by security at the time he said it.

What I should have replied to my boss was, "Success isn't doing what you love, it's getting out when you can, while you still love it."

Live in the moment. That's the philisophy. But it's no good if you don't move on precisely when you're meant to.

From the ocean to the valley

My tutor puts together (approx.) five lessons per session. He's awesome! But the only time I hear anyone speak French is when I have a lesson with him, once every 5 to 7 days. And as could be expected, I can now read French far better than speak it. At this rate, six months from now I'll be able to write my entire blogs in French, and still struggle verbally easing three sentences together.

I can read every French word in our lessons. I just can't say them.

My pronunciation is terrible!

"Don't say it like an American. Say it like a French person." My tutor jokes.

I need audio assistance. Badly.

I'm told Rosetta Stone, is awful. For $500 it better not be! But friends say it is. Best anyone can do, or so I think, is have some kind of foundation, and then go straight to the source to build on it.

I looked at a couple of these study groups. I'm not interested being social. Sorry. I'm not learning French to speak to other Americans at a Starbucks, in Venice beach, on the third Friday of every month for an hour.

I have a purpose.

A point.

Travel. Live. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Do something ELSE.

My tutor's fantastic! Amazing! I've learned so much in such a short period of time. But I need to hear people speak French, more than once every 5 to 7 days for an hour.

I knew this French guy. A musician. The only time he spoke French was during sex, more specifically during anal sex, the only type of sex we had really. Which is also why we don't see each other any more. If we only do "the one thing" it gets boring after a while. Still, might be be useful (or really funny!) to learn what he was saying. I wonder what he's up to these days...

I named my ego Precious

She's a little dirty whore. But I love her.

Um,

"First let me nail off a list of my accomplishments. Me. Me. Me. And then I'm going to bitch about your fragile [misguided] ego."

I say that here because it reaches more people. (Just the way my little dirty whore likes it!)

bonne journee

I have a new nephew, John Michael. I would post a photo of the awesome little guy, but Google is telling me to download an app onto my phone I've already downloaded.

I see my French tutor tomorrow. Had the day off yesterday and poured over 5 lessons of homework, breaking only to do laundry, and for sushi.

The French word is "fille" but you don't pronounce the "L" ... either one. So then why are there two of the same letters you don't pronoun.... ??

I'm reminded of a comedy bit by Eddie Izzard, back when he was a transvestite (is he still?) He observed the pronunciation of "herb" and how he pronounces the word "H-erb, because it had a bloody H in front if it!!"

I'm learning about housing lingo at the: paris.angloinfo.foryou.nonfrance.motherfuckers.com

I love the brutal honesty of my tutor. The lesson says it's appropriate to say "merci" at the post office, "But we don't say merci at the post office. You Americans say thank you for - everything. We don't mail a package at the post office and say thank you. We mail the package and leave."

Which got me thinking,

HH the Dalai Lama, wrote about over extending meaningless gratitude, especially in intimate relationships. To say, "Thank you. I appreciate you. I'm fortunate to have you in my life " is an expression of love that is unwise to be said as often as "hello" and "goodbye".

If we say "thank you" for everything, then we're saying "thank you" for nothing.

Aussie,

I'm going to bring back the word "sympathique". It's a beautiful word.

There's a certain "video clip" I can't get enough of. It's corrupt my once ideal man. I don't know who the European male actor in it is, but that's part of the attraction. He could be the guy next door. I'm big time into that lately. Natural. Girl next door. Older guy next door. Amateur.

I'm so eager to visit Paris... Be a stranger in a strange land... I can't even tell you.

John Michael

Smoke 'em if you got 'em! I'm an auntie!

Francaise

I have a new French tutor. He also speaks Italian and Manderin. And being as how Italian is my next language to study after/alongside French, it looks like I have a tutor for the next 2 years. I'll also invest in audio tapes to expedite my studies, but having a tutor is the best way for me to learn a language. Structure. Devotion. Discipline. A strict timeline between tests and lessons. I need that teacher-pupil relationship. I was involved with a man from Sweden for a number of years and learned zero Swedish. Not that it would be of any use to me now.

I wonder if anyone told my tutor he looks like James Mcavoy?

I took a study break last night and saw 'A Walk Among The Tombstones'. Loved it. Liam Neeson is amazing. Love that guy. I was 30 minutes early, had a beer at the bar, when I came to the realization that two weeks wouldn't be enough time in France. After surfing both our embassy sites, it seems I can obtain a short time work Visa if I'm accepted as an apprentice to an existing French art program. That art program would need to write the embassy, etc., and it seems the French consulate us not far from me...

American art is horrible. Post modern garbage.

My tutor says the French food here (in LA) is awful. It was never my intent to visit Italy, France, and Spain for the food. When I go to Greece, however, that's a different story.

I don't know what's happening here in the US with art, literature, film... And to be honest I'm not entirely sure what brings tourists here anymore?

Everyone is taking their talents overseas.

Though,

I'm curious France, what's with the rooster??

The Three Tutors

I've written three French tutors, and all three have written back accepting new students.

Tutor #1: Did not yet have a background confirmation check regarding his resume. He is listed French born, raised, educated, and where he has previously taught.

My first choice is a French born and raised tutor.

Tutor #2: Is an American of German descent. Fluent French (and German) speaking educated in France. Background check confirmed.

Tutor #3: Was born, raised, and educated in France. Background check confirmed. But he's younger, in his 20's, with previous clients similar to my French speaking needs.

All three tutors are men. The reason being, the female tutors charge (at least) $50 an hour more. The guys average charge $35 an hour, the ladies $80. One woman was $120 an hour but she tutored corporate execs. Bankers. Wall Street. Etc. As for the other ladies charging $80 an hour, my friend has a theory...

 "Here's to you mrs Robinson... "

And why not? If I was a 15-29 year old guy going to France, I may be looking for a hot French lady tutor also.

My guess is these women get hit on a lot. Which is probably why they register with a tutoring company where you have to give them credit card information before talking with them. And quite possibly why the women charge so much more, add to the fact the website obviously takes a percentage of the tutor's fee.

Having studied renaissance art, most  technical art terminology is in Italian, French, and Spanish. But I want to learn from scratch. Like I'm three years old. Teach me how to properly annunciate vowels, which will be tricky after a childhood in MN, I never properly learned the English diction.

And wine, well, as long as I can say, "I would like a Cabernet Sauvignon, dark berries, earthy undertone, in between $20-$40" half my trip is taken care of right there!

I don't want to be the type of traveler that doesn't attempt learning the spoken language of a country I plan spending some time in. That, and the tutor told me French people don't like speaking English.

I'm eager to see the Louvre.

Last night I had dinner at The Village, in Studio City. Amazing food, wine, staff, but my nose was stuck in my phone reading about the Catacombs.

I've spoken with Tutor #1. No background check but he's obviously French. We have an introductory lesson tomorrow morning. 

Time to don the nerd Asian schoolgirl persona and get serious. 

A demain.

I fully expect to have that dream where I'm back in high school and can't remember my locker combination.

French tutor

I'm on this website for those seeking tutoring. I want/need to learn French and Italian (later on, Spanish.)

I've just written two French tutors. One born and raised in France, the other an American who studied academically in France for a number of years, fluent French speaking.

My main interest in learning French and Italian is to be able to first and foremost converse in both countries on subjects of art, wine, and literature. It is a small investment that will last the remainder of my life. Not only in regards to return visits from here until then, when my final years are upon me, I plan on riding a bicycle through Europe until I just can't peddle anymore. Romantic, perhaps. But it's how I wish to die. I worked in an elderly care facility. I'm determined not to die in one.

It's that time of year again

Surfing holiday airline tickets home. It was almost a year ago my friend died. I doubt the sunken feeling of heavy loss will ever subside when back home. Every memory I have being a kid in my childhood neighborhood has him in it. But there will be a new baby in the house to celebrate. Nonetheless, forevermore a bitter sweet homecoming.

While making small talk with this couple in a bar the other night, the girlfriend asked me if I missed it, small town life. Sometimes. I miss being where people take their time. I miss enjoying each other on a wide range scale. But after a while I have to go... somewhere, anywhere, else.

Friends just returned from Europe. So jealous. Wish I could have gone with them but so couldn't afford it with the upcoming holidays and (hopefully) Paris in April/May.

I'm off Thursday and Saturday. Think I'll go to the Getty. Yvonne Rainer has a dance and film exhibit. And I'm somewhat interested in seeing the film 'The Drop'.

Yup on my period.

Ends Saturday. Maybe by then I'll be in the mood for something more exciting than a movie.

Just so [not] into it. Or "Bored" as my friends in Vegas say.

It's funny receiving daily emails from match.com. "There are 20 members interested meeting you!" Awesome! Because when filling out my profile I think I got as far as "Asian female seeking... "

I quit filling it out after that because I realized if anyone was ever going to take me serious I would need a better profile name than "manmilker" or  "comeypussy10x". But then again 20 members a day want to meet me, so...

Yaaaaaay.