Vox is really fun to use, but I've been overblogged lately. Duplicating stuff on here just isn't a priority, nor is creating Vox-only 'content' (what an awful word). Life is good, but I'm exhausted and resisting the urge to just sleep my weekend away. Bleh.
When people criticise blogs, posts like these are what they have in mind. If I weren't so tired, I'd give a care.
I've lost 100+ pounds over the last few years, and am now enlisting a personal trainer and a team of doctors, specialists, and other experts to help me get to my healthiest. If you're interested in that kind of thing, you can find it - and me - at thehealthkick.com.
What's your favorite foreign accent?
French or Welsh. English accents are no longer foreign to me, which may be why I prefer Antoine to speak to me in French.
Flying to France was such a joke that I probably should not even think about it. But for the sake of helping others: Despite what they tell you, do not show up three hours early for your flight if you're flying on a low-cost airline. Because if you do, you just have to stand around for an hour with your thumb up your ass, waiting to find out where you can check-in - at the standard two hours prior to take-off. Luckily, I had a book to see me through the ridiculous wait for every single thing to happen. But...let me just skip over the flight, because it's pissing me off to remember it all.
When I got off the plane at Grenoble, I was surprised to see Antoine's parents standing pretty much on the runway. Okay, there was a little gate between them and the plane, but it was weird all the same. I was only mildly embarrassed as they snapped pictures of me walking from the plane and into the terminal, and yet more pictures inside as I waited for my bag. It was quite sweet of them, really.
We went into the centre of Grenoble for lunch. I should have ordered the raviole with foie gras, but didn't. Big time plate envy of Antoine's mother.
Claire (A's mother) and I went to have a nose in Les Galeries Lafayette while Alan (A's dad) had his watch battery changed in the same store. I paid 20 Euros for a new lipstick, a new high for me, though I rationalised it by telling myself that, since most of my make-up comes to me for free via PR people these days, I was entitled to splurge.
We then got in the car and drove to the family house in a small village called Upaix, in the High Alps of Provence. The cool thing about the drive is that it's through the mountains. The sucky thing about the drive is that it's...through the mountains. Great scenery but slow going, especially if you get some dickwads in front of you who think it's cool to let a line of cars dawdle behind their caravan-towing asses. ESPECIALLY if you get behind three such dickwads. It should only have taken us two hours, tops, but instead it took three. Thanks, dickwads.
It was an overcast day and evening, but even so, I fell instantly in love with Upaix. The place is just so pretty and so remote. There are basically no cars, save for the occasional resident (I don't think a car ever drove past the house in the three days I was there), and a view that overlooks the surrounding Alps and the farms all over the mountain.
We started a fire (in the fireplace - don't worry) when we got home, and I unpacked, and then I read while Claire made dinner. It was so perfect; the only thing missing was Antoine.
I went to bed pretty early, reading for a bit before falling asleep in the bed that Antoine's grandfather used to sleep in, in a room which consisted of the whole top floor of the house. I have rarely been so comfortable and content as I was there.
In the middle of the night, one of my favourite events of the whole trip took place (and not for the last time): Near the winding staircase that leads up to the room, there is a little screened-off area with a sink, mirror, and toilet. It's a bathroom, basically, but with no real wall between it and the bedroom area. Anyway, the toilet is right next to a window, which I had left open but with a screen inserted to keep out any bugs. So I woke up in the middle of the night, thanks to the copious amounts of water and wine I consumed over dinner (if you must know), and as I'm sitting next to that little window, the view outside is just beautiful. It's pitch black, of course, but punctuated by lots of little lights from down below, of the towns around the village. It is breezy and cool, but not cold. And the only sounds I could hear were from the wildlife - no cars, no stereos, no trains. It was so peaceful that I almost did cry right there.
Did I mention that I'm a country girl? Well, sometimes I forget. And sometimes I remember.
Day two coming soon.
What are your plans for the holiday weekend?
Erm, this assumes one is in North America, which...no. Funny to see such a US-centric question on here.
Our holiday weekend was last weekend, which was blissful and sunny and active for us. I had hoped for a similar two day respite upon my return from France, but no such luck. The weather here is rainy, grey, horrible, and depressing. I have spent all Saturday catching up on email and RSS, and feeling torn between going out tonight and staying home. Looks like home wins, with a Scrabble game the big treat of the evening.
Sigh. It's far too early in the year to be developing Seasonal Affective Disorder.
What books are on your nightstand?
Annabel: An Unconventional Life: The Memoirs of Lady Annabel Goldsmith (I keep reading this out of order, and always end up tearful)
The Ethics of Liberty by Murray Rothbard (solid)
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (talk about a page-turner!)
With Nails: The Film Diaries of Richard E Grant (funny and baldly honest, but too much of the ALL CAPS used for EMPHASIS)
Our Bodies, Ourselves (frighteningly stupid when it comes to the politics of socialised healthcare, but a good resource on all the woman stuff - fertility, pregnancy, nutrition, and all aspects of women's health)
I don't go into Oxfam shops very often. (The reasons, briefly: They do much harm in the third world, they don't clearly label their clothes by size, their secondhand books are ludicrously overpriced.) But I wandered into one a month or so ago and, as I was moving to leave, Anchorage came on the sound system. I lingered by the tatty handbags and the filthy bric-a-brac for the next few minutes, until the last note had finished, just so happy to hear that song.
I first heard Anchorage during David Letterman's last week hosting his show (to which I was hopelessly devoted) on NBC back in 1993. That week, he had his favourite bands and musicians on to play his favourite songs, and he had Michelle Shocked come on to sing this. I was completely gobsmacked, and thankful I'd taped the show. I wore that tape out. (That was also the week that, for better or for worse, I discovered 10,000 Maniacs. They performed a storming version of Stockton Gala Days that made me feel as if every cell in my body was vibrating. The next week, they broke up. Story of my life.)
Today, after a lazy morning spent reading and writing in bed, Antoine made us lunch. Then we went out for a walk and a wander around our neighbourhood, around charity shops so I could buy more books, to the market for vegetables and watermelon. I felt - feel - so content, so lucky. We came home, and Antoine watched football while I cooked soup for supper and listened to Anchorage. It was a good day.
I find myself more afraid than I ever have been before in my life - before the baby was born, I like to think I had a healthy dose of paranoia and skepticism - now, the desire to protect Matthew from all things potentially deadly is stronger than I ever anticipated. I used to cross the street when the sign was flashing Don't Walk. Now, I stop and wait patiently for the walk signal to light up before I even step off of the curb. My heart aches when I read newspaper articles about people who do really terrible things to their children, and I tear up. When Matthew was in the hospital for phototherapy treatment, a volunteer from Project Linus came and gave us a blanket for Matthew, and as soon as she left, I cried, because did they know something we didn't know about how sick Matthew was?
-What it's like, by Casey
I want Antoine and I to be parents together so much that it hurts. It hurts a lot, because my suspicion is that it won't happen for us. I have my reasons for thinking this, primary amongst them that I have never wanted anything more in my life. It seems too good ever to happen for us, for me.
A few nights ago, I had the worst, most scary dream of my life. (I know how boring other peoples' dreams are, but I will be brief.) I had two babies, both infants. Suddenly, there was a war happening, and we were right in the middle of it. Bombs were going off all around us, many of them being openly carried by men whose faces I could not make out. I had never been so scared, but I was not scared for me: I was scared for my babies. I was separated from them, and I swear to God that I never felt more sick to my stomach than I did in that dream.
Another man from my hometown was killed in Iraq this week. He's the third from our county, the second from my high school. His mother was one of my customers when I worked in a tanning salon as a teenager, a wonderful, friendly woman.
I try to tell myself that, if we can't have kids, the silver lining will be lots more rest, the ability to live impulsively, and a less expensive life. But Casey says she wouldn't trade the motherhood gig for anything in the world. I believe her. She is right.
I am full of hope, and of something far less pleasant.
After the bank holiday weekend, I head to the Alps on Tuesday to spend the rest of the week at Antoine's parents' summer home near Aix-en-Provence. His mother and I are planning to go down to Monte Carlo and Nice, and to Italy to do some shopping, but I doubt we get to Spain during this trip. I need to spend lots of money to distract me from the scorpions (SCORPIONS!) which live in the mountains. Or at least that's what I'm telling Antoine, who has to stay in London and work.
I guess the fluffy feel of this blog gives me permission to blog stuff I wouldn't write elsewhere, which must be why I feel the need to confess here: If someone told me I could cancel my trip and not lose any money and not disappoint Antoine's parents, I would cancel it and stay in London with Antoine. I hate being apart from him, especially with no work (and, despite what I may have said in the past, shopping is not work) to distract me. Existing with him is just easy, and provides things I don't think words have been created to describe. Plus, I jet off to LA soon after coming home, which is a trip I must make and which I am eager to make, so this one seems a little optional.
So if I should find comfort in the arms of Hermes while I'm there, I expect no one to blame me or even mention it. Okay?
