"A Revenge Plot"

-1-

Milli put the finishing touches on the tiger’s fangs after recess. She examined her work with satisfaction: Suitably fierce for her purposes. She’d wanted to use finger paint for the blood but Miss Ashmond had said that finger painting was only for Friday afternoons. “You’ll have to make due with colored pencils and that imagination of yours.” She’d tapped Milli on the head as she said it. It made her giggle and blush.
She liked Miss Ashmond, which is why she listened to her instead of just getting the finger paints anyway. She’d tried it out last week and she was just tall enough to open the cabinet now. That would have to come in handy for another day. For now she’d get him back with this.
She had it all figured out. She’d sneak into her brother’s room that night, once he was asleep--around midnight. She knew she could stay up that late as long as she made sure not to lie down for too long after their dad finished reading to her. So she would sneak into his room with the drawing and tape it above his head so that he would see it as soon as he woke up.
Then he’d know how much she hated him.
The teeth tear into his neck. His gaping mouth screams in agony. The tiger’s mouth is open in such a way that even as he bites into the flesh of Robert’s neck he’s smiling at the same time. He enjoys his meal of human flesh and blood. Milli recognized that her drawing skills fell short of creating a likeness so Robert wore his baseball jersey in the drawing. Just in case he didn’t think it was him. He’d have been terrified anyway, just because it was a tiger. Tigers scared him so much they weren’t even allowed to watch the Jungle Book at their house if he was home. But the little league jersey would make it even worse: the blood spattered across the blue and white stripes but the “# 14 Ralfson” was still clearly visible. It was his worst nightmare come true. He was sure to scream like a little girl. If she was lucky, he’d cry.
She wrote out “by” using the red colored pencil and signed her name in the lower right hand corner and went to go play until spelling lessons.

-2-

The plan went perfectly. It had been harder than she remembered to stay up till midnight. But other than that, it was easy. She climbed up the bunk bed and taped the picture above his face then went to sleep in the bottom bunk so that his screaming would wake her up and she would be able to witness her handiwork.
He even cried. She saw the tears in his eyes as he ran towards her with his mouth open so wide she thought for a second that he was trying to mimic her drawing. He cried and screamed and punched and kicked. One got her right in the stomach. That hurt.
By the time Mom and Dad came up he’d pushed her onto the floor and was unleashing a torrent of punches onto her head and shoulders. Dad commanded him to stop - which he eventually did - and demanded an explanation.
Mom came over to see that she was okay. Milli lifted herself up from the floor - bruised but triumphant. Her face was flushed from the excitement. Robert tearfully explained about the picture and pointed to the ceiling.
Dad reached up and pulled the drawing. It looked so small and wrinkled in his big hands. Milli made a face then watched his face change from anger into puzzlement then into something hard she didn’t recognize.
None of this was part of the plan.
He looked at the corner: “By Milli Ralfson,” he read aloud. He said nothing else to Milli or Robert. He just gave the paper to their mom along with a look Milli didn’t see. She examined the paper for a few moments. She took in the vicious tiger, the fangs, the blood, the baseball jersey that so perfectly indicated it was Robert. Her eyes watered and she told them to get ready for school immediately.
Robert and Milli shared a look. What was her problem?
Their Mom turned and walked away with the drawing.
“Did you hear what she said? Get out of my room,” Robert snarled just quietly enough that their mom wouldn’t hear.
“Me? If you weren’t such a girly cry baby -”
“-and if you had friends you’d leave me alone.”

-3-

They each parted into their respective rooms and got dressed for school: she in her plaid jumper and white blouse; he in his khakis and blazer. They had matching Topsider loafers with rubber soles their parents had gotten them for Christmas.

Mom said nothing to Milli on the way to school. She handed her her lunchbox when they arrived to the entrance and walked away. Milli watched her mom and Robert walk back down the street towards his school. Her mom nodded sympathetically as Robert gestured something to her.
Milli was not happy. This was so obviously unfair.
Her revenge was ruined and it was Robert’s fault.
Sure, he’d cried. Sure, he’d screamed. She smiled at the memory as she turned to enter the school. It was just like the time she’d left that library book in his underwear drawer. The cover of the book was a huge Tiger head with glowing yellow eyes. It had even scared her when she looked at it. But not so much that she had screamed, of course. Honestly, she reflected, some people just couldn’t control themselves: screaming and crying all time. Even when they were boys. Even when they were two years and three months older.
She stomped up to her cubby and shoved her backpack in with deliberate ferocity - The whole world would know how angry she was. Then she sat her desk and made sure to slouch in her chair. Miss Ashmond, who was taking attendance, approached her, “And who will be picking you up today, Milli?”
“Deborah - My babysitter,” Milli managed to get out before her face turned hot and she couldn’t help gushing, “Oh Miss Ashmond!” and relating the whole terrible story: How she’d drawn a picture for her brother and hung it in his room; how he had screamed and hit her - so hard! - and how her mom and dad were mad at her now - at her! - and not at him and wouldn’t even look or speak to her any more.
Miss Ashmond listened sympathetically to the end and put a hand on Milli’s shoulder until she caught her breath. “Now this picture you drew,” she said, “What was it?”
“A Tiger.”
Miss Ashmond knew Milli better than that and she raised her eyebrows.

-4-

Milli sighed and looked sideways before saying, “A tiger eating Robert’s face.” She paused. Now that she was telling the truth she had to tell the whole truth: “With lots of blood. But I was just trying to get him back for -”
Miss Ashmond stopped her with a hand, “So it wasn’t a nice picture?”
 Guilt overwhelmed Milli now that Miss Ashmond knew and she teared up again. She shook her head.
“Then maybe your parents should be mad at you,” said Miss Ashmond. “You did something mean and now you’re being punished. Fair’s fair, Milli.” She gave Milli one last pat on the shoulder and continued taking attendance from the other children.
Milli stared at her desk sniffling. She stewed in her guilt until Math class began. By that time, she was too busy making spider webs out of cotton balls with her friend Jamie Jenkins to think about it any more.

Three days went by without any mention of the Tiger drawing. Milli assumed she had received all the punishment for it she ever would. She and her brother passed into a wary truce so that they could both play with legos in the hallway between their two rooms.
Then it happened. Right in the middle of Recess. Miss Ashmond called out her name: “Milli Ralfson, come here please.” All the girls stopped their games of Tag and Four Square to stare at Milli. She concentrated hard on ignoring everyone and making her ace stop feeling hot as she walked across the gym.
Miss Ashmond stood at the door to the gym with a stranger. She was a tall woman dressed in dark clothes with reddish hair and big square-framed black glasses. Milli looked at her then at Miss Ashmond. “I’m getting picked up by Deborah,” she said uncertainly.
Miss Ashmond nodded and smiled kindly. “I know you are. This is Dr. Rosenberg. She’s going to talk with you and your parents for a little.”
Milli’s eyes widened. “My parents?” This must be bad. “I’m really sorry, Miss Ashmond. For the toilet paper, I mean. Jamie and I will clean it up.”
Miss Ashmond shook her head at the other adult. “It’s not about that, Milli. Dr. Rosenberg just wants to get to know you a little better.”

-5-

The doctor opened the gym door and Milli followed her out. She smiled and seemed nice enough, but Milli didn’t pay much attention. They went into the parts of the school she wasn’t normally allowed to go into.
They went up the back stairs and down a white hallway with grey carpeting. Doors lined the hallway and Milli snuck peaks through the open ones at the adults inside. They all sat staring at computers. No one was speaking. Milli longed for the screaming and the fun of school gym.
Finally, after what seemed like endless white hallways. They arrived at a door that looked just like every other door they had past. “Here we are, Milli.” Dr. Rosenberg opened the door. “And look, Mom and Dad are already here.”
And so they were! Milli had forgotten that Miss Ashmond had said they would be. Milli ran to her mother and hugged her around the waist, “Hello, Mom!”
Her dad patted her on the back.
Dr. Rosenberg cleared her throat, “Let’s get started shall we?”
Father, mother and daughter all sat down in a row on the couch facing the doctor. Milli held her mother’s hand.
Her dad spoke first, “Well, you see, Doc,” he was using his funny voice, Milli could hear. “We can’t seem to get her to stop torturing her poor brother. She just lashes out at him and he’s been having a rough time at school lately too...”
So this was about Robert? Milli thought it odd that they should all be here talking about him, without him here, and at her school.
Her father continued, “She’s just so angry all the time.”
That was unfair and Milli opened her mouth to defend herself. But her mother stopped her with a hand on her knee. Evidently, this was a conversation among adults, and Milli would not be included.
“We’re just worried that it’s getting a little unhealthy,” he continued to use his funny voice, but he wasn’t being funny. “It’s just so hateful at times. Nothing but yelling and fighting. And this thing a few days ago... well my wife and I just don’t know what to think.” He gestured to Milli’s mom who extracted a rumpled piece of paper from her purse and handed it to the doctor.

-6-

Milli recognized it: It was her drawing! So that’s what all this was about. Well, that was easy to explain.
“That’s mine,” she said to the doctor. “I was just getting Robert back. It was a joke.” She dragged the “o” out to emphasize just how much of a joke it really was.
They ignored her.
Dr. Rosenberg examined the paper for a few moments then gave it back to her mom. “Well it certainly is a bit gruesome; but really it isn’t anything too out of the ordinary.”
Just then a buzzing sound came from the couch.
Milli’s mom and dad both groped their pockets. It was her dad whose phone had made the noise and he took it out and examined it for a few moments then put it away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being rude. Please go on.” He looked attentively from his wife to the doctor.
“As I was saying,” Dr. Rosenberg continued. “This is nothing out of the ordinary for an eight year-old girl with an active imaginat- “
“Well, that’s just the thing,” Milli’s dad cut in, his funny voice now gone: “Sometimes she’s this eight year-old girl and sometimes she’s this vindictive little terror, screaming like a banshee at everyone in sight.”
Milli stared at the floor. Her mother put her arms on her shoulders and whispered nice things in her ear but Milli couldn’t hear them very well. Her face felt hot and she concentrated hard on her shoes to keep from crying. The adults continued speaking, but she couldn’t follow what they were saying. She knew from their tones that it wasn’t good. She bit her lip so hard she thought it might bleed.
After ten or so minutes, her father and mother got up to leave. Milli didn’t look up at them. Her mom kneeled down and hugged her and explained that Deborah would pick her up from school and they would see her when she got home. She kissed her on the cheek.
“See you later, kiddo,” said her dad, being funny again. Then her parents walked out and closed the door behind them.
She was alone with Dr. Rosenberg.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then the doctor suggested they play a game or two before she would have to go back to class. Milli agreed since she couldn’t think of much else to do. The games were boring and didn’t feel much like games at all. Milli had to draw a picture

-7-

of a family and talk about what they liked to do - “Play baseball!” - and try to find shapes in splotchy paintings. Dr. Rosenberg was nice but she wasn’t a very fun adult. She wouldn’t stop writing things down on the pad on her desk. Milli was relieved when she was finally allowed to go back to class.

That night was another bad night. Mom and dad were being strict during dinner so nobody spoke. After Milli and Robert went to bed, they could hear them talking in loud, angry voices.
Robert came into Milli’s room and shook her. “This is your fault,” he said.
“No it’s not!” She punched him in the side of the head.
“Yes it is!” He kicked her in the shin.
“If you weren’t such a crybaby...” She grabbed his ear and twisted.
He yelped and jumped back. “Maybe if you weren’t crazy, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to fight about you.”
She stopped her arm mid-swing, “Crazy?”
He laughed gleefully. “Yeah. Didn’t you know? You’re insane.” He dragged out the “a” to emphasize just how insane she really was. “That’s why they had to call that doctor for you. Because you’re not normal.”
Milli’s lower lip shook. Her face went hot and red and she knew she would cry if she said anything so she didn’t.
Robert kept going: “You’re insane. You’re insane. They’re going to take you away.”
Insane. The word echoed through her head as she remembered the white hallways, the ink blots and Dr. Rosenberg taking notes on everything she said. There was the way mom hadn’t looked at her and the way dad had said, “vindictive terror.”
She shoved Robert and he ran out of her room, singing, “Insane, insane, gonna send you on away on a plane...”
Milli lay alone in her bed thinking about the ramifications of all this. Was she really insane? Would they send her away with Dr. Rosenberg? Away from everything: From school,

-8-

from Miss Ashmond, from Jamie Jenkins, from Mom and Dad. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks.
But after a few minutes the yelling downstairs grew louder and interrupted this terrifying train of thought. Her mother’s voice was high and kept cracking. A door slammed and the whole house shook.
Milli wiped her tears and got up to go to Robert’s room like she always did on bad nights.
Robert was already at the door of his room. His face was red and wet: “It’s your fault. You’re insane and they hate you.”
He slammed the door in her face.
The yelling paused for a moment. Milli held her breath and prayed they wouldn’t come upstairs. After a few moments, the yelling resumed.
Milli’s stomach churned with anger and guilt. She walked as quietly as possible back to her room.
She sat on her bed and hugged her dalmatian stuffed animal to her stomach. Her face got hot and again and she buried in his fur before letting the sobs escape from her mouth so that Robert wouldn’t hear her.
Eventually, the tears stopped. Her face felt damp and her insides felt cold. She listened for a few moments. The yelling had stopped but she could hear quiet sobs from the next room. That crybaby, she thought. He’ll never get to see me cry again. No one will. No one will ever see me cry or be able to call me insane again.
She’d get him back for that. But first, she would be perfect and normal. That way they wouldn’t send her away with Dr. Rosenberg. She would taker her time and be good. Then she’d get him.

Does this work?

“Mom, Dad, Let’s play Two Truths and Lie: A natural blonde, a lesbian, Nigerian. Guess which one I’m not.”

“Your hands are cold,” says my mom, squeezing my fingers in her hand. My parents have come to visit me in Paris. They’ve been here a week and they think tonight’s dinner is just another another indulgent French meal out out on town. They have no idea that it’s tonight that I have chosen to tell them that I am gay.

It wasn’t the first night that I had chosen to come out to them. In fact I had also chosen the night about two days before that, and the night before that too. But I totally wimped out. Two days before I had even talked to my French roommate’s friends--lesbians both-- about it. I said I was nervous, that I wasn’t sure how they would take it and all that. They were nice and said that just as long as I wasn’t an only child (as they both were) it should be fine.

I agreed with them and told them how I’m close with my parents. We share interests and get along great. I enjoy their company and only occasionally find my father’s pedantic speeches on the history of Rock‘n’Roll tiresome. This is not the case for my brother, who for a lot of complicated reasons does not enjoy their company. I can tell he finds it boring and irksome to spend much time with them. But then he does live in the same house as they do whereas I live six time zones away. The Atlantic Ocean does wonders for a strained parental relationship. So I had no desire to rock the boat and tell them anything that would upset them-- And they would be upset. Not heartbroken or angry. We’re not religious, nor can I tell that my parents have any particular expectations for my marital future. But upset in a general sense, as in confused, perturbed, sad and surprised.

These are all the thoughts that went through my head later that night as I sat across from my parents that night at dinner on the first night I chose to tell them. We had just arrived at the restaurant and gotten complimentary drinks. Champagne! They were excited. We had been there before and the Boeuf Bourgignon was excellent. Nothing gets our family excited like Boeuf Bourgignon. It gives my mom a chance to show off her knowledge of Julia Childs--both of her recipes and, inexplicably, of the details of her personal life--and it gives me and my dad the chance to ingest a huge amount of warm deliciousness accompanied by a good red wine. When we got there, I thought: We’re not drunk enough. I would wait until they had finished their complimentary champagne to ruin their evening. Then I thought: I should wait till we order. It would be so awkward if the waiter came over just as I was blurting out that I always preferred Catwoman to Batman. We ordered our food, plus bottle of wine. Suddenly I thought: Well, now we’re too drunk. Why ruin a nice buzz and a great meal with a discussion about my sexuality?

So that’s how I wimped out on the first night I chose to come out to my parents.

I was determined not to do the same this time. We had spent the previous night at my Godmother’s New Year’s Eve party and she spent the entire night talking about setting me up with eligible Persian bachelors (She’s Persian). Normally, I laugh this sort of thing off. But that night it seemed like a glaring sign flashing alternatively “You’re a liar.” and “You’re a coward.”
So the next night, January 1, 2010, I was not going to be a liar or a coward. I was not going to act like I am ashamed of something that is nothing to be ashamed of. As a principle, I firmly believe that every one has the right to choose how they live their life and to be open and honest about it if they so choose. Now, that’s a principle. And as we all, know, everything gets more difficult in practice.

So I’m not ashamed of being gay, nor do I think it will make my life worse--although it is harder to meet gay women than straight men. But, anyway, I like challenge. But I was still worried for all sorts of reasons. Would my mom be mad? She has a temper. Will my dad be sad? He wants grandchildren. Will they yell? Will they disapprove? Will they still love me? I wasn’t just worried. I was scared. And my fear made me break out into a cold sweat, which brings me right back to where I started...

“Your hands are cold.”
“Well, I’m a little nervous,” I say and add a shaky chuckle. I’m going to vomit.
I receive questioning stares from both my parents.
“I actually have something to tell you guys.” Ease them into it with a laugh. Make a joke. Give a good delivery. “Last night, when Dori kept saying that she would set me up with a Persian lawyer guy, it was, well...” You’re blowing it. “it was kind of funny.” I look up from the table at my dad then my mom. “It was funny because I haven’t actually dated men for about a year.” I glance at my dad then watch my mom’s face. First, there is confusion. Then her face hardens. She removes her hand from mine, “You prefer to date women.”
“Yeah.”
I keep looking at her. Please be okay with this. Please be okay with this. Her eyes water and she just stares at me.
“Well, that’s fine.”

I don’t remember who spoke first, my mom or my dad. But someone said, “Whatever makes you happy.”
Thank god.
Then my dad went off--as he does, slowly and deliberately verbalizing his ever-complex thoughts--saying that as long as I was happy they were happy. “And I’m sure I speak for your mother as well when I say this doesn’t change a thing.” But he doesn’t speak for my mother. He never has. And she wasn’t saying anything. She took out a tissue, wiped her eyes and sniffled.
I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I knew her angry face and I had seen it. I know I had. All the dyke jokes and jibes she ever made ran through my head. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I underestimated her, because the next thing she said was: “Of course, all that matters is that you’re happy. It’ll be an adjustment is all.” Then she put her hand back on mine, and it was warm, and said, “Im just sorry you had to keep this all in.”

And that was it. That’s how I came out to my parents. I’m still a little in shock. I don’t know what to think. I can’t believe how lucky I am that I have such understanding parents. It went better than I ever could have imagined.

Of course the rest of dinner was awkward. My dad kept on wanting to know who else knew. “Is this something we can tell people?” “Of course, Dad, it’s not some shameful secret.” Not any more.
It felt great to be able to talk to them about it and about how I felt alone that past year at school and how it was hard for me to admit it to myself and the people I loved. (Hell, I was hooking up with a girl and didn’t even admit to myself that I was gay. Denial.) I even broke the tension with a few jokes.
Like this one from an episode of Ellen. She’s talking to her gay best friend about coming out to her parents and he says to her, “Telling people is always, hard. I remember when I first told my parents: I sat them down and I said, ‘I have struggled with this for a long time, but this is who I am and I only hope you can be happy for me. And the next year when I entered kindergarten they were 100% behind me!”

That got a laugh. You know what didn’t get me a laugh? Talking about how I tried to hit on the caterer at their friend’s Christmas cocktail party. I thought my mom was going to cry again when I broke out with that one. Like she said, it’s an adjustment. I guess it’ll take a bit of time for everything to really sink in. In the meantime, they’re back to the states today. They both gave me especially tight hugs and were sure to say that they loved me. So, overall, coming out of the closet wasn’t so bad. And now it’s official. Weird.

How I didn’t make a friend.

I’m not racist--not on purpose any way. But I am white as hell. And I just didn’t particularly like being serenaded- and pressured into singing along to-North African tunes. I’d rather rock out to some Bon Jovi or sing ironically to Lily Allen. It’s just who I am.

Being unattached in a new city gives you the freedom to meet new people. This is often an enriching, enjoyable experience that leads to unexpected moments of joy and and friendship. Unfortunately, as I’m sure you all well know:The dark side to meeting new people. Some times new people suck to hang out with.

Or sometimes there perfectly nice but they’re just not your style and both your lives will probably be better if you don’t hang out again. Ever.

This is the story about how I met a dude in Paris, we spent a wonderfully romantic evening together... until I made my exit cuz I was totally bored. Then we awkwardly hung out again and I said I had to leave because I was tired and it was only four in the afternoon....

It all started on a warm fall night in Paris. The moon was bright and shone across the river Seine as the lights from the city danced across the water... or some such nonsense. I was restless so I went for a walk before bed. I strolled across the the bridges the Right Bank and just sauntered about for a bit. After about an hour I was ready for bed. As I walked back across the Plaza in front of Notre Dame, some dudes said something to me. I ignored them--because that’s normal--and went on my way. As I was crossing the bridge about a minute later I heard a voice yelling right behind me. One of the dudes came jogging up from behind me and stood in front of me: “Bon soir!”

I was so shocked, I just said “Bon Soir” right back.

“Sorry to bother you. It’s just that you could do me a favor,” he said in French. I looked at him doubtfully. That’s a line if I’ve heard one. But I didn’t really know what to do since he was standing right in front of me. Shoving by seemed rude. We chit-chatted for a minute, he was French but lived in Hawaii...I listened, sort of.

“Thank you for your time. Now I can tell my friend you talked to me. You won me 50 Euros”

Apparently, his friend had bet him 50 Euros I wouldn’t talk to him. I absent-mindedly brushed the dirt off my shoulder and let the man continue. I mean, he ran like 100 yards. I could talk to him for another minute.

He talked a lot and was very smiley. His friend joined us and we all joked about how he owed us dinner, I was his accomplice etc. These dudes were totally nice and funny. They were clearly really close friends and it’s always nice to see close friends have fun together.

Oh man. He fed me the best line ever. His friend opened with a totally lame line:“You know what, Georgia [they couldn’t pronounce my name], you look like Claudia Schiffer.” I laughed in his face. Only dudes outside of the USA are this lame. But then Kareem ever-so smoothly picked it right back up. He was like, “No way. She doesn’t look like Claudia Schiffer. She looks like...” then he paused for a while and just looked right at my face smiling and jokingly making an evaluation. This was cute. I smiled right back. “Hm. She looks like... she looks like no one. She looks like Georgia.” Nailed it! He had absolutely used that line before and I hope he uses it again. It was hilarious.

Anyway, they were nice. I was flattered. They had cute, nice smiles. Why shouldn’t I meet up with them to listen to them play guitar tomorrow? I’m hip. I’m cool. I know what guitars are. So I gave Kareem my number and told him to give me a call.

He did. We all met up, bought some wine, had some weed. It all promised to be a good time. We were sitting on the side of the Seine, he rolled us a few joints. He bought me this bottle of wine called Vieux Pape--it might actually be the cheapest drinkable wine in Paris. Then he opened it without a bottle-opener using this complicated shaking/banging method. Baller. He was totally nice and funny about it. His friend was there too for a while and it was only a little awkward.

We talked, we laughed, we drank, we smoked. Then he started playing guitar--or some 12-string version of a guitar. He assured me it was different and cool. He played Arabic and Berber music. You know, it was cool. I really had never heard anything like it before. I was all like, yea, I dig. I’m open. Berber music. wow. That’s, like, in Africa or something... yea.

Then it got boring, yo. And he kept talking about it like it was Allah’s gift to the people or something. I listened. I laughed with him. I talked some. I was pretty high so I didn’t feel uncomfortable or anything. He just kept going, and going. I realized I hadn’t made an escape plan. I had no excuse to leave. So in the middle of one of his songs I started talking about a job interview I had the next day.... He looked confused. Then I said I was tired. Then I got up and shook out my legs.

God. This guy could not take a hint. And I had better shit to do. A few friends were hanging out. Or I heard there was some paint drying nearby. I could have been watching that. But no: I was sitting on the side of a river with a dude who would not stop playing his goddamn mandolin. Eventually I got him up and made 10 more excuses about why I had to go to bed at 10:30. He walked my back to my door managing to meet 5 people he knew on the way and introduce me to them.

Finally I got rid of him. I just kept agreeing with whatever he said. “Hang out tomorrow? Of course. Yea. I’d be totally up for it. Call me.” He continued with some sort of schedule. I wasn’t listening. “Yea. Definitely. You and me hanging out. The sequel. It’s gonna be great.” Get me out of here. I know this is harsh. But it had been like 3 hours of sitting and I was bored and a little paranoid from the weed. It felt like a waste of life talking to this guy. I would rather be alone.

As soon as I got in my door, I texted my friends to see if they were still hanging out. They weren’t. Damnit. Now I was restless again. It was only 10:30 and I was not tired at all. Obviously. So I did what I did the night before: I went for a walk. I walked a different way this time. Although, what are the chances that the dude would be in the same place? He had been on his way to a friend’s in the North of Paris. The chances were slim to none.

And yet.

Right after I hung up the phone with my friend and had just finished complaining about how boring this totally romantic thing was... who should I hear calling my name? Kareem. Fuck.

It was so awkward. I mean, what do you say? Sorry, I was bored to tears? Or your music was great but not really my style? Your breath is strange, thanks for the weed? I’m just not that into you?I made a few awkward sounds then just started being real with him. I said I had fun and would like to be his friend but that was it. He asked me again about meeting up. This time I listened and told him the truth: Probably not, but you have my number. Then I walked away.

He called 3 times the next day. Go away!

Then 2 weeks later he texted me. I groaned at first. But, you know how it is when you forget how bad something was. I was sure it would be the right thing to do to give him another chance. We didn’t have to get married or anything. We could just be friends. I need friends. Every one needs friends. So I went over to his house this afternoon to smoke some weed.

...And was just as bored as I had been the first time.

Confirmed. Nice smile though he may have, I never want to hang with this dude again. He just kept talking. My mind kept wandering. I thought it was the weed. But really it was the company. He tried to make me dance and sing in Arabic. I danced a little, sang a little. It was painful. He just kept dancing around. I just kept on vaguely playing along to be nice. Man, did I work hard to get out of there. Again: no escape plan. I have got to learn my lesson on that one. I said I had to meet a friend later. I said I was tired. I said.... god knows what I said. But it was not convincing. Finally I think he got tired of me yawning and realized what I was saying. I was saying, “Look. You seem funny and nice. But can we not be friends? I’m no into you or your music. Call me never.” There was a pretty thick silence in the wee little elevator on the way down. He muttered something like “C’est la vie.” Meanwhile, I was still a little stoned and I couldn’t help laughing at how awkward and silly this was. I mean, who cares? I’ll never see him again (I hope.).

So I didn’t make a friend. But I did get to hear some new music, and learn how to open a bottle wine with no corkscrew, and figured out a great spot on the side of the river where you can see the back of Notre Dame and the Hotel de Ville. All of those could be great ingredients to a future date - with some one I actually like.

Meeting Girls in Paris

Eva Green, star of Dreamers, a Bond movie, the Golden Compass and maybe some other stuff. When French people first learn how to speak English, it sounds really high-pitched and stunted. But once they reach a certain level, they learn how to elongate their vowels and change the cadence of their voices, it sounds really goddamn sexy. Eva Green has achieved this level of English.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

One of my first nights here, my roommate (a 35-ish dude) told me that when it really got down to it, the reason he moved to Paris was for the girls.

I couldn’t agree more.

But meeting girls in Paris is NOT THAT EASY. Meeting guys? Fuck. That’s easier than breathing here. All you have to do is dress up decently, take the metro a few stops and three dudes will ask you if you’d like to “prendre un verre” with them. (Pardon my written French, it blows.) But meeting girls on the other hand... that is a real challenge. And it is one that I am not making any progress on. I already wrote about how I went to this gay-girl bar by myself. It’s called 3W... “Woman with Woman.” Clever, France, very clever. That did not work. I did however vindicate myself by going back there with a few friends (we were trying to find a boy-bar to go dancing but we got lost and I was like “I know where we can go!”) and scored some French girl’s number. But when I woke up the next morning I only had a vague memory of the event and couldn’t remember anything I or she said. Let alone what she looked like. Rookie mistake. My friends said she “looked totally charmed” but I’m not sure I believe them as I had reached the point in the night when I lose all my French and can barely get a sentence out in English. But whatever.

So this week’s gay-misadventure involved the internet. I looked up lesbian meet-ups in Paris or some such nonsense and eventually found my way to this site:http://www.girlports.com/lesbiantravel/destinations/paris/social_cultural_associations . I currently have it bookmarked as “Gay stuff.” A lot of it (all of it?) is totally lame. But, you gotta do what you gotta do. I know no one in this city (meaning I know like 10 people) and I know no lesbians (meaning I know no lesbians). So on Sunday night I geared up. I bought a pack of cigarettes (my social crutch of choice) dressed chic but not-too-girly (easy with my new somewhat butchier cut). And off I went to some Sunday night “Tea-Party-Dance Club.” What? I should have known it would suck by the name.

It started at 6... I rolled on by at like 7:30 ish... Not only was it in some weird building complex on the side of the Pompidou Centre, it was also COMPLETELY empty. Not a smoker in sight standing around it. In Paris, that means a bar is dead. Maybe it didn’t really start at 6?

So I rolled on home and bought a falafel and watched some internet tv. But then I got to thinking and I was like, fuck that. I am not letting THAT be my night. So I finished my falafel, turned off “How I met your mother” and headed out into the night, again. This time I went to this bar that I had stumbled past on the way to 3W with my friends. It looked more laid back. I stopped across the street, did some internal battling so I had a cigarette and walked on in. It was quiet, the bartender smiled at me. I asked for a beer and was awkward about it. Ugh. I hate being awkward.

Then I sat there for like half my beer wondering what I should stare at. That’s the good thing about bars for boys-n-girls, they usually have sports you can pretend to watch. No such luck here. After a bit, I got to talking to the bartendress. She obviously knew I was a total newbie. But she took pity on me and talked to me in French and gave me advice. I could have gotton down on my knees and thanked her. She gave me the whole scoop on where was cool to go, how some bars are mostly couples, where some spots are to check out. I asked her about the place I had passed by earlier. She said it was totally scary and butchy. Noted.

So I finished my beer (this shitty drink called “Desperado” that should never have been invented) and thanked her. Awesome. So now I know where to meet women? Not really. But I guess it’s cool that I have a vague idea about what’s out there in terms of Paris nightlife. So then I went and got high for like 5 hours with my friend and this dude she knows who believes in the Hollow Earth Theory. Man, I love this place. I might not be getting any action, but at least I’m meeting all these nutty, amazingly kind people.

ItZ a tHuG LifE

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Since one of my roommates lives in our kitchen on a small cot next to the fridge and uses the stove as a bedside table, I’ve had to come up with some creative ways to cook. So I got steamer (for free. I know a guy) and a kettle (13 €. I didn’t know a guy) and have been working from there. My diet mostly consists of rice, lentils and vegetables, supplemented by crepes from the good place nearby. Cereal is sort of an option but it feels weird waking up Shayne to get the the fridge in the morning. He’s 71. He needs his rest.

Speaking of Shayne: The dude’s a baller. Like I said: He’s 71. He’s been married a bunch of times and has kids ranging from 30 to 12. You do the math. That’s right, he was impregnating some way younger French woman when he was like 60. He spends his days working on various writing projects, watching movies (and House) and smoking as much weed as he can afford. My other roommate (a very nice guy who does graphic design and moved here to escape LA) calls Shayne “a beat poet without a publisher.” And that’s exactly what he is. He’s this nutty dude who has been living in Paris for like 30 years. He writes and takes pictures and tries to get with younger women. So nowadays he’s after 50 to 60 year-olds. And all the while he’s talking about lines of energy and how it’s just such a relief that most communication happens telepathically--otherwise we would have to waste so much more time talking to each other. He’s nuts and I love it. The only drawback is that occasionally when I walk in the door (after climbing to floor 4 1/2 and saying “hi” to the kitten who lives on the stairs), he’ll corner me and force me to listen to the play he’s revising. Sometimes it’s the one on Joan of Arc; Sometimes it’s the one on Eva Hitler. Heavy stuff all around. Anyway, thanks for reading. Tune in next week for the entry in which I explore my latest theory: If Asian girls are the last stop for gay guys, are French guys the last stop for gay girls? Think about it.

Before Chuck Norris, dipthongs were separate sounds

Monday, September 28, 2009

So I got my certificate to teach English as a foreign language last week. That way I can justify my existence in almost any country in the world except for my own and Britain’s former affiliates. It’s fun being a teacher: you get to get up in front of a group of people and they have to listen to you. What is more, they’ll almost always do what you say and believe what you say as long as you say it firmly enough. I have a skill for saying things with conviction even when I have absolutely nothing to back it up and/or zero knowledge about the subject matter. I’ve always wondered where that skill set would come in handy. And now I know that it’s for telling little old French ladies when they should say “have to” instead of “must.” That’s really what the post-college years are all about: exploring yourself and where you fit best in society.

I also learned a thing or two about about a thing two. Mostly about Chuck Norris (from my fellow trainees) and the phonetic alphabet (from our teacher). But I also learned that grammar can suck it because I rock at arbitrary rules and labels. And don’t ever plan a language lesson revolving around how to talk about your sex-life in English unless you are 100% sure that no 13 year-old Muslim girls will show up just when you get to “How to say you slept with some one.” Boy, was her face (and mine) red.