I have weird feet. I don’t think they look deformed or anything, but they don’t follow the foot rules.

What are you talking about Rebekah? Feet are feet. There are no rules. Some are narrow, some are wide, some are big and some are small. Some are in between.

Oh no. Not me. I have to be different.

Now, I’m not vain about my feet. Yeah, I like to get pedicures in the summer when I wear sandals, and I’d like a little less roughness around my heels, but still.

They are just feet.

Here’s the deal. Because of the oddity of my feet, I wear size 6.5 to 8.5 depending on the shoe. Of course, some of that has to do with individual shoe companies. I do not believe they are all using the same measurements for the same size.

Remember when Limited and Limited Express first started? And all the sizes were much larger than we were used to? All of a sudden I was a size 8, when I was normally a size 12. What a great marketing scheme. If I could buy something in a size 8 and wear something in a size 8, then I could say I was a size 8.

I was never a size 8.

Well, except in shoes. I’ve read that your feet, nose and ears keep growing all your life. I don’t know about that, but I do know I won’t give up comfort for style any more.

So anyway, here’s the deal. I have very short toes. Child toes. Elfin toes, my friend calls them. If you measure my foot from toe to heel, they are size 6.5 or 7. If you measure my feet from the ball (widest part of the foot) to the heel, I’m a size 7.5 or 8. Now, for comfort, this means I usually wear a size 8, just due to the width of my foot.

But, sandal season is coming again. It’s hard for me to find sandals or open toed shoes that fit. Because?

Because my short little toes stay hidden underneath the strap or wherever they are supposed to stick out from. If I get a smaller size, the arch of the foot ends up hitting me in the wrong place.

Flip flops. Those always seem to work. But, there’s a limited number of places I can wear those.

And to add to this, even though it’s coming up on warmer weather, right now I’m going through a boot ordeal. In addition to having weird feet, I have very thick calves. Humongous calves, if you will. Now, they aren’t tree stumps; I do still have an ankle. It makes buying boots almost impossible. Well, so far it had been impossible. I’ve never owned real boots. See, if I get wide width boots, my feet swim around in them, because really, I don’t have wide feet. Regular-size boots just don’t fit over my calves. Even in high school, boots were just not made for me.

Imagine my hope and joy when I found these http://www.zappos.com/n/p/product_id/7184613.html

on Zappos.com. Wide calf boots! Only the calf was wide. The shoe part was normal. I ordered a pair in 8, my usual size.

Nope, should’ve read the reviews. They were huge. My foot could practically turn around inside them. Sent them back and ordered a full size down to 7. Got them last week. Still too big. I’m now waiting for a size 6.5. I hope they fit. They are really cute. Although, by the time I get them it might be June the way this is going.

Now, I know there are far more important things in the world than the size of my feet. There are far more important things in my life. Most of the things in my life, actually.

This is just more fun to write about than some of those other things.

Fraught with Meaning

Back then,everything was. The way someone said "hello" or even looked at me meant something. Maybe it still does and I'm just not as aware of it now. Or maybe now I have other things on my mind like if I paid that last phone bill or if I can take Charlie on a walk before it gets dark, or how many points does that cookie from Von's have in it (8!)?

Anyway, the fact that the boy had been so unaware of me, ignoring me to the point that he didn't even have the kinesthetic realization that I was right behind him, hurt me much more than the physical pain of being hit in the eye. And really, it wasn't the eye anyway, it was just under the brow bone. You know that place where hardly any skin covers the bone? So there's not much padding between the object (his elbow) and the bone? Where, if one is hit, the nerves just get smashed up against the bone? Yeah, that was the place.

In my weird mind I thought maybe he would feel so bad about hurting me that he would give me more attention for the rest of the night to make up for it.

Nope.

Again to the bathroom with the girlfriends to clean up my mascara and reapply eyeshadow (did I really carry eye shadow around with me?), and try to look decent again. Out to where the boys were already sitting and laughing and ordering pie without us.

Next thing I know, my guy has offered to drive another couple home, "because it's on the way." This was the first moment I thought that maybe he was just a little bit nervous around me too. Yeah! That was it. Could it be possible? Was he worried about being alone with me?

However, whatever the motivation, I was not happy about the other couple being in our car. And here's the weird part. Instead of dropping off the other two first, the girl was dropped off, then boy-of-dreams drove to my house. With the male half of the other couple still in the car. We were never going to be alone.

We get to my house, and I'm realizing this evening really sucked. The boy just said yes to me because I caught him off guard, and was too chicken to even tell me the truth, that he wasn't interested in me. All three of us got out of the car, and the other boy threw his boutonnière into the bottlebrush tree in front of my driveway. I guess his night didn't go too well either.

I was kinda just standing there, hoping dorkhead (the new name I'd given my date) would at least walk me to the door, but he just kept kidding around with his friend.

I was going to have to walk up the god damn driveway alone, with the two goofballs of the world watching me. I'd probably trip, because I do that quite often, and they'd laugh at me, and talk about it later.

"Hey Beck, where're you going? I'll walk you."

So finally, the manners nazi from dinner remembered what he was supposed to do.

All my hopes for the night had gone nowhere. This boy wasn't interested in me, had no idea of the love I had for him in my 16-year-old heart. All that pure adoration, unsullied by cynicism or reality. He could have any girl he wanted. What did I think, he was going to choose me? A nerdy, klutzy, goofy girl? How idiotic could I have been?

At the porch, we said goodnight. He leaned forward for the obligatory hug, I patted his back...

His lips were on mine.

(wha..uh...um...)

Unexpected development. I pulled away, surprised, and slightly annoyed. He was going to make the whole night better with a kiss? What the hell? (Thrilled. I was thrilled. Competing feelings in my brain began to wrestle).

"That's it." I said. Proud that I had overcome my feelings of joy that he. was. actually. kissing. Me.
I backed off.

"Beck..."

So much for my moment of strength. He leaned in again, and this time it was a real kiss. I felt my shawl fall off my shoulder, I felt his hand on the bare skin of my back. My fingers went to the hair at the base of his neck, and I could smell his scent. Just him. No cologne, just his almost-a-man scent. This was my first real kiss, and it was everything it was supposed to be. Hoofbeats of horses and bells ringing and thunder.

I can still feel it now.

I remember

I remember things -- events-- more than most people. I don't really know why. Maybe because I used to keep such a detailed journal. The act of writing the things down perhaps cements the memories in my head.

But not everything I remember has been written down.

Something I don't remember much of was actually dancing the night I went to the Homecoming dance my junior year.

It was in the school cafeteria, and it was dark, and one of the girls was upset because she was being ignored.

Oh yeah, that was me.

It seemed my date was having more fun dancing with his buddies than he was with dancing with me. I remember crying a little in the bathroom, and being consoled by my friends.

After the dance, we went with three other couples to Heidi's Pies. It's now long gone, but it was the only place back then in Goleta that stayed open past eleven at night. Well, the only place that wasn't a bar.

This part I remember well. It was crowded, with the good-kid, after-high-school-dance crowd, and studious UCSB students looking for a quieter place than the dorms to study. Heidi's was big and drafty, but they didn't kick you out if you only got a piece of pie and a coffee. You could sit for hours.

We had to wait to be seated, and I remember thinking how the night wasn't over. Maybe, just maybe, all we needed was to be alone for my feminine charms to cast my spell on him. Of course, that was it... he was just embarrassed to show his feelings for me in front of anyone else. You know, the guys and all? Just look at him right now (I thought), there he is, carrying on with some stupid story, showing off with his back to me, waving his arms around...

OW!

He had paid so little attention to me, or where I was, that when he drew his arm back to demonstrate his point (How to throw a softball?) he caught me right in the left eye with his elbow. Hard.

Dead silence.

Then I started to laugh. What a perfect ending to a perfectly rotten night. My date stared at me in concern. I'm sure my laugh was rather maniacal.

"I think it's funny." I said and and started to cry.

But wait... the night still wasn't over.

Homecoming dance

I got the Eau Fresh cologne in the mail yesterday. It’s the discontinued drugstore perfume that I bought to wear to the Homecoming Dance my junior year of high school. Other than the box and paper padding reeking of stale cigarettes, it was just as I remembered. It’s funny how scents can take one right back to a certain time. The smell of Eucalyptus leaves always reminds me of riding my bike (I didn’t have a car) on my way to and from classes at UCSB.

Anyway, it’s not a scent I think I’d buy now, but it’s special to me.

See, I was actually in love with this boy. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was. Or, at least as much as one can be at that age. I was not a woman of the world by any means. Naïve is what I was. Inexperienced.

When I’d met him my first year in high school, I thought I couldn’t stand him. I had lots of friends who were boys, I had a brother, but no one made me as self-conscious and as uncomfortable as this boy did. He sensed this in some way, and teased me relentlessly. He was a real player at school, and dated everyone but me. Looking back, this probably meant something, but at the time it was not comforting.

He was not what anyone would call handsome in the traditional sense. He had something more than that. Charisma. He could and usually did, charm anyone into doing whatever he wanted. He loved being the center of attention (just as I did), and was successful at it. He was smart, and challenged me. He loved words as much as I did.

Over the years we developed a friendship of sorts; albeit a competitive one. By 16 I had the first major crush of my life. As for him, I can’t exactly say. I think he was more comfortable putting me into the “annoying kid sister” role, but every once in a while, he slipped and showed he cared more than that for me than perhaps he wanted to.

Anyway, about a week before the dance, I called him to talk about going out to dinner with some other friends before heading off to the decorated school cafeteria, and he had completely forgotten the “little high school dance.” I was crushed. I had built all my hopes on this one night; imagining his being floored by my beauty and poise, and he hadn’t even remembered we were going.

Then I got sick. Two nights before the dance, I had a fever of 102. My mother said there was no way I was going to get better enough to go to the dance. I was crushed yet again.

However, my will was stronger than the virus, and by Friday afternoon, my temperature was normal. Mom said if it didn’t go up again in the next 24 hours, I could go. Yahoo!

Dinner was at a fancy restaurant that burned down several years ago; I can’t remember the name now. Seven couples ended up going together, and dinner was great. Mostly great. All of a sudden, the boy who treated me much of the time as a pest had decided to have manners.

And decided my manners weren’t good enough. He yelled at me when I tried to open the car door on my own (never mind that I opened my door every Sunday when he gave me a ride to church), corrected me at the dinner table when I was putting the vegetables from my plate onto my friend’s plate, and told me that I was too loud when talking across the table.

Yeah, I guess that part wasn’t too good. But it was weird. He had never acted like this before with me. I couldn’t figure it out. Even in hindsight, almost 30 years later, can’t quite get a handle on it. I mean, I don’t think I embarrassed him that much, but it’s possible. Calm has never been a word that described me…

Question

Even if you don't like them, or understand them, or agree with them,

Aren't I allowed to have them?

A new book of poetry

Yesterday I got three books from Amazon; Plan B by Anne Lammott, Silent to the Bone by E.L. Konigsburg (the same writer of From the Mixed up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler!), and The Hell With Love, by Mary D. Esselman and Elizabeth Ash Velez. The last book is one of poetry. There are two other companion books to it, You Drive Me Crazy, and Kiss Off: Poems to Set you Free, which I already have.

The thing I like about these books is that they mix up poems from different eras. Ezra Pound is mixed in with Philip Larkin and John Donne. Dorothy Parker is next to Shakespeare and Margaret Atwood.

I love poetry. I love the way I can read a poem in a certain time of my life and it speaks to me. I love how inscrutable some poems are.

Although, I must state here, I'd be happy to never hear Casey at the Bat again.

Okay, so I'm going to post a poem (probably not supposed to) I read last night that touched me and the way I've been feeling for a couple of weeks:

Somewhere a Seed

Somewhere a seed falls to the ground
That will become a tree
That will some day be felled
From which thin shafts will be extracted
To be made into arrows
To be fitted with warheads
One of which, some day when you least expect it,
While a winter sun is shining
On a river of ice
And you feel farthest from self-pity,
Will pierce your shit-filled heart.

Michael Fried


Dramatic, right? Yeah, well, that's the thing about poetry too. One can be dramatic without being mocked or talked out of it. It is what it is.

Happy poetry month.

Grr.

So I'd like to finish my Homecoming dance story (a black eye was involved), and write about my frustration with my #$%$@#! printer (don't EVER get an Epson, the company is evil I tell you, evil), and even about my sister's upcoming 40th birthday extravaganza (bitter resentment on my part; it's not pretty). Also, I went to a three-hour meeting on Thursday night, and even though I was dog-tired, got a positive new way to look at teaching and team work. I want to write about that too.

Oh yeah, and of course, continue on with my rant about figuring out that something I really believed in for the last 25 years or so was completely false. That's not going to be easy.

So, there's all the stuff that's competing for space in my brain.

Start with one thing at a time, right?

Nope. I have cramps, and I'm cranky and I have papers to grade, dishes to wash and laundry to do.

Maybe next time.

Retail therapy

Okay, so Blogger is going down in 20 minutes, so I'll have to make this quick.

I've been doing a little retail therapy the last few nights. I'm regressing a bit, and I haven't gone overboard, but still.

Last night, I found Eau Fresh by Jovan at this ebay auction. I was thrilled.

It's a special cologne to me, even though it was an inexpensive drugstore brand. I bought it at Long's in Goleta, with my own money, when I was 16 years old. It was $8.99 I think, a princely sum at that time.

See, I was going to a formal dance at school, the Homecoming dance, my Junior year. I had developed a mad crush on a boy, and had actually asked him to go with me (he was two years older and already out of school). When he said yes, I nearly fainted.

I worked hard to make everything perfect for that night. I went to Operation Petticoat, one of only two formal dress stores in town to buy the dress. Mom came along with her opinion and the checkbook. This was a store run by a stereotypical brash New Yorker with his wife and two grown daughters. The women had no problem barging on in to the dressing room; "how does that fit? Do you need another size? Oh sweetie, that's not your color."

Although I've not ever been known for extreme modesty, this was rather startling for a young girl to deal with. But, all of us knew that Operation Petticoat had the prettiest dresses, and we all lived through the ordeal of being seen by strangers in our underwear to get those dresses.

The dress we settled on was amazing. Royal blue, sleeveless halterneck, with a hem that was long in the back and rose up in the front. It was sexy, yet covered enough that my mother was satisfied. It had almost a shimmer to it. I felt like a movie star, and knew that my date wouldn't be able to resist me. Wishful thinking on my part, but we'll get to that.

$46 it cost. Isn't it funny how I remember that? I remember the price of almost every article of clothing I own. Probably due to the fact I was put on a very strict clothes allowance by the time I was 12. I get a thrill out of getting a bargain.

After the dress, I had to get hose and shoes and new make-up, and perfume, and hair doodads and a shawl. Okay, sure I didn't need them, but at 16, I really believed I did. I bought stockings with a golden shimmer to them, which didn't even last through dinner, got some new Maybelline eyeshadow, and bought the Eau Fresh cologne. Oh yeah, mom bought me a finely crocheted shawl graduating from the same royal blue as my dress into white at the end. It was beautiful. I think she still has it somewhere.

I can't finish this now, Blogger's going down.

Cheers.

proof that I'm not grumpy all the time. This is me, my sister, her new dog Gideon, and my wonderdog, Charlie, doing his impersonation of a scarf. 

Yesterday

So, I wrote a bit yesterday, went to my mother's for Easter Brunch, then took the Wonder Dog for a walk. I was exhausted from the night before. We finally got back from the game at 1 am, and by then, Charlie was ready to run around and play. So, every hour or so, he jumped out of bed, and ran through the house, barking at imagined bobcats or robbers.

I had to be at my mother's at 10 am. ugh.

After the walk, I came home, vegged on the sofa, and finally went to take a nap at 3 o'clock. Woke up at 7, did some laundry and house cleaning, finally back to bed at 11 pm. Not a very productive day, but at least I caught up on my sleep.

Still mulling over my new perception of things. It would be easy right now to just get cynical about the state of my life because of my new information.

For me, the problem is this: has any man ever truly loved me? I know, that sounds dramatic, but it's what's going on in my head.

Oh yeah, I know, lots of people love me, but that's not the kind of love I'm talking about. I sound like I did at 16 and at 24 and at 30. Fucking broken record. However, it's still a concern, a question, a ponderation, if you will.

What the hell happened? I'm smart, funny, care about other people. I have a big heart, I'm generous, kind, empathetic, and not repulsive to look at. How did cupid just totally miss me? What's going on?

Don't tell me I'm having a pity party for myself, and don't tell me to "get out there" and do what I love. I already do. I've always been independent. Please please don't say, "When it's time, it'll happen."

Bullshit.

It's been time for a long time. I have tried the on line dating route, tried blind dates, tried just being content with being by myself; you know, the "no one will love you until you love yourself" crap. I do love myself. I think I'm a pretty cool person. Men just haven't noticed that. Or the men that do, aren't interested in me as anything other than a friend.

There's nothing anyone can say that I haven't heard before.

Basically, I've been trying to follow my own little goofy star, and keep up the hope that someone else's goofy little star and mine will cross paths.

My friends, the hope is wearing thin.

Perception Shift

You ever find something out that changes how you see your life? It could be big or small, but all of a sudden you have to go back 20 years and realize that you haven't been aware of the whole picture. It's partially your own fault, you didn't want to see the whole picture... because of the aforementioned perception shift.

Now don't blame it all on yourself though. Yes, we all see things the way we want to see them, but others only show of themselves what they want us to percieve. That plays a role too.


I remember the first time someone lied to me, simply because he could. I remember the feeling of dispair that this person, someone I thought I could care about, just wanted something from me, and lied to get it. The kicker was that I was going to give it to him anyway, but just not that night.

I know, I'm being purposely vague right now. I'm not ready to bare my soul on line, even though there are only a couple readers of this blog. I've got students, and if they wanted to, they could find this.

Ideas are changing in my head as I write, and will continue to do so. I'm not sure what I feel right now.

So...

I don't have the discipline (or the life exciting enough) to write every day. I think about it, but then I don't have enough to write down, or what I do have to write down is whiny complaints... which no one wants to hear.

Okay, a recap:

For some reason, I was late to work three out of five days last week. I'm never late. We have to be at work at 8, and school starts at 8:30. And, I live about two miles from work. This time change is just making it hard to get up early. Yeah, that's it, blame it on something other than myself.

I didn't get accepted to a workshop I'd applied for. It was surprising to me, because I'm not used to being turned down. No, it's not that I'm so fabulous, it's just that I don't apply for most things unless I think my acceptance is already in the bag. This particular workshop was sponsored by the California Testing Board, to become an item writer for the standardized test given in this state. I think standardized testing has gone far overboard, and I think some of the questions on this test are inane, but I also thought it would be a great way for me to learn how this test is written. I had to send in a letter of application, and a resume. A resume! I haven't written one in ten years, but I got it done.

Then I got back a form email thanking me for my interest but that others were chosen. No explanation. It really made me feel crummy. I have no idea why I wasn't chosen. Was there a typo? Did I send in my application too late (there wasn't a deadline, just a "first qualified-first filled" statement)? Were only college professors chosen? I have no clue. There wasn't even a name to which I could send a follow-up, "What can I do to be better qualified?" letter. Just the
California Educational Testing Service. It felt crappy.

I made a joke during a staff meeting about how my boss's idea of "impeccability" and mine were different (he's on a new anal compulsive jag about classroom cleanliness. That's not what he calls it though, he says he expects a "State of Impeccability" in every room. This from a man who keeps a framed picture of his son in the closet in his office instead of out on a bookshelf somewhere. I have a more, um... artistic sense of organization). He had just vaguely threatened those "Certain individuals, I'm not going to say who right now, who aren't keeping their rooms clean enough" with losing their rooms and becoming roaming teachers. That's when I asked for clarification, since our definitions were different. Every one laughed and we moved on.

Yesterday in his office, he told me he was "incredulous" that I would have made that comment. Went on to tell me how inappropriate it was, and that I'd better figure out what it was he wanted, and pronto (of course, actually telling me or anyone else specifics about what he wants is too difficult). Pissed me off. Still does. He's so into making these threats, but doesn't give any information about who specifically is not living up to expectations, nor does he make those expectations clear. Grr.

Going to the Dodgers - Giants baseball game tonight. Whatever. I like baseball enough, but I'm missing my best friend's baby shower today. I didn't realize the two were on the same day back when I got the ballgame tickets with 7 other women from work. Poop. I got all this cool baby stuff from Paris when I was there, and I'm probably going to have to just leave it for her. I called her three times yesterday; I suggested I come over earlier today to give her the gifts. Got one terse message from her last night "I don't know when we'll be there. Can't make any promises. Why don't you just wait until the baby is born?"

Almost snotty, except my best friend is never snotty. Trying not to take it personally, but...


I guess this week feels like the week of fuck-ups. No matter what I do, it's not the right thing.


I lost another 1.2 pounds this week, and made reservations for my Las Vegas trip with Torn this July, so not everything was a bummer.

I heard this little guy singing, turned around, and there he was. Just a couple of feet away, singing his heart out. Giverny was a magical place. 

The tiny little circle at the bottom left has a picture of what looks like the Gerber baby with a circle and a red line through its face. Hmm... 

Sexual Candy

At Tati, the French Pic' N' Save I talked about a few posts ago, I bought several of these "Kiss" Candy packages. Can you see the little picture of the man and woman locked in an embrace at the bottom left of the package? Then, the candy itself is truly silly. It looks like something sold in the back of Penthouse or something. Do they even sell Penthouse anymore? What with the internet and all? God, I remember my dad had two towering stacks of them on the top shelf of his closet. I would peek at them anytime I could when my folks were gone. Such curiosities to my inexperienced self.

I always wondered why the women in the pictures would be totally naked except for tube socks.


I digress.

So, I'm trying to figure out what my response would be if one of my students was eating/sucking on one of these things in class. Of course, they aren't supposed to eat anything, but my goodness. I don't know how I'd take one of these away with a straight face.

There were Cola and Cherry flavored ones. I don't really like cherry flavored stuff, but they had the more realistic pink color. The cola flavored ones had brown candy and blue lips.

Now, who to give the candy to?

The "Kiss" Candy: Pretty realistic, ain't it? 

The "Kiss" candy z 

Dinner our last night in Paris... 

French Food

Well, weighed in last night, only gained 1/2 a pound. Not to worry. For the last week I said "fuggedaboudit" to watching what I ate and counting points. I knew I wasn't going to gain back 37 pounds in a week, and I didn't. Back on the wagon this week.

Last time I was in Paris, I was 22 years old, with a backpack and very little money. We ate a lot of bread and cheese, some crepes off the street, and had a fancy dinner one night. Well, fancy for us. My two friends ordered what they recognized; some kind of beef dish. Me, I wanted to be adventurous and order something I wasn't sure of... so I ordered the Pied de Porc.


Stop laughing.

My French is horrific right now, but then it was non-existent. I figured it was pork, and it was the least expensive item on the "Plates" menu, so I was ready to be surprised.

Carol and Tina each got a lovely steak and potatoes dish, and I mocked them for the ordinariness of their choice. Then my plate came out.

It was a pig’s foot. Actually, part of the leg and the foot. It came on an oval platter, cloven hoof and all. It appeared to have been deep-fried, and sprinkled with parsley.

As I shot dirty looks at my friends, who were doubled over with laughter, I peered sorrowfully at my plate. How was I going to eat this? I tentatively poked my fork into the upper (leg) part.

Oil squirted out, and I almost lost it. More laughter. I picked up a roll and buttered it. C. and T. offered me a bite of their potatoes. I was low.

Then, a large man who had been sitting next to us started to tell us how wonderful and tasty my dish was. At least I think that’s what he was telling us. He was speaking French, and mostly what I heard was “Très bien” and “Très délicieux.” He was smiling, and somehow we got the idea that he was the owner or the maitre'd off duty or something. He may just have been overly friendly, but I felt as if I was insulting him with my displeasure at my dish.

He leaned over, took my knife and fork, and cut the pig’s foot down the middle. Right through the hoof! On my plate now was cartilage, fat, deep-fried skin and maybe ½ an ounce of meat. I gamely took a bite.

It was pure fat. Pure pig’s fat. Greasy, slimy, leave-a-film-all-over-the-inside-of-my-mouth, fat.

I smiled my most winning smile at the man, tried not to look at my friends who were choking with mirth, and swallowed.

“Merci,” I said to the man, who made a little sound of satisfaction, and went back to his own dinner.

breakfast most days. Lots of bread, not much else... 

Boat ride at sunset (at 8 pm!) on the Seine 

The General Strike

We arrived in Paris on Monday, dazed and hungry. The trip over took less time than the return, but it was still a long shlep. We got settled into our apartment and while I took a shower, the other two girls went out exploring. They said they'd be back in an hour.

Two hours later, I set out on my own. How difficult could it be to walk around the block? If you know me, and my sense of direction, you might answer differently. Of course I got lost, and just kept wandering. Another 30 minutes found me back on the right street and meeting up with Katrina. No biggie.

We went off to find Cynthia, got our Carte Orange (a great deal if you are in Paris for a week or so, and arrive on Monday or Tuesday. It only costs about 16 Euro, or 20 bucks, and it's good for seven days. It worked on all the metro and bus lines in the city, and even for the people mover at the Sacre Couer Church), and ducked into a brasserie to get a coffee.

We asked about the General Strike that was supposed to shut down the city on Tuesday, the next day. Everyone we asked said that it was only going to affect the Metro lines, and that shops and restaurants would still be open as usual. We even asked about the taxis, and those too, we were told, would probably be running. We figured we'd just take a cab if we got stuck somewhere, or walk if the weather wasn't so horrible.

Went off to get some Onion Soup (delicious) in the Gare du Nore (again, not sure I spelled that correctly), and got back to the apartment around 11 pm.

Well, the general strike didn't seem to affect the Metro at all. We hopped on the next day, and went off to the Museum D'Orsay. Which, of course, was closed, due to the strike. We then went walking on the Champ's Elysee's, and stopped to buy postcards. At the post office, we again saw a sign stating that it was closed due to the strike. Now, so far, we'd seen nothing in the way of protests or picketing or any groups at all. We decided to go to the Arc de Triomphe... yep, you guessed it. We could walk around, but not go up, because it too was closed.

Now, if we'd had our wits about us, we would have just gone shopping, because later, on Sunday, when Katrina had planned to do her shopping, the stores were all closed. Which was stated pretty clearly in all the guidebooks, but ... well, that's another story.

We went to Notre Dame, and it was beautiful, as ever, and walked around the Louvre's grounds. We then went on one of the Bateaux - Mouches; a boat ride/tour on the Seine. It was pretty darn cold, and there were about 50 junior high school students on board, as well as 200 other tourists. Every time we went under a bridge, the students would whoop and yell and holler; Teenagers are the same everywhere. I took some cool pictures, but haven't figured out how to put them in the middle of my post, so they might end up out of context when I do post them.

Katrina's habit of walking as if she was being chased was firmly in place already. She has no conception of strolling, taking things in, stopping and smelling the roses. I don't mind dawdling behind a little, it's par for the course when I'm with her, and I'd rather do that than keep running to keep up with her, miss what I'd like to look at, and getting annoyed at her at the same time.

However, I would appreciate if she looked back oh, say, once every three blocks or so. She never did. Just kept walking, even when I'd see a sign stating we were going in the wrong direction, and would call to her. Yes, she speaks French fairly well, and I don't, yes, she has a better sense of direction than I do, but... sometimes she is wrong. It didn't matter. She was in charge, even if she didn't say it, and wasn't to be questioned. This caused some trouble later on in the trip, but at this point it was just an observation on my part.

We ended up at a fabulous Thai restaurant that night, and ate a great meal. The dessert I had was amazing; Earl Grey infused Cream Brulee (I know, how Thai is that?). Usually I don't like Earl Grey tea, and Creme Brulee is nice, but not my all-time favorite. Something though, about the combination of flavors... it was delicate, creamy and fragrant, no one taste or scent overpowering another. I went to take a picture of it, but Katrina shamed me out of it, "You aren't going to take a picture in here, are you?"

"Uh, no. Of course not. I was just checking to see if I could still see through the viewfinder of my camera."

Didn't matter. The food was great, and we went to bed that night full and happy.

The Arc de Triomphe closed due to general strike 

The post office closed due to general strike 

The Musee D'Orsay closed due to general strike 

So is Steven Seagal the David Hasselhoff of France? 

I'm Ba-aack..

And I'm tired. It took 30 hours from getting up yesterday morning in France to putting my head on the pillow in my own bed here in Santa Barbara. But wait, a day only has 24 hours in it, right? Yes my friends, but Paris is 9 hours ahead of California. It made me think that next time, I'm taking a direct flight, even if it does cost more. We flew to Toronto, where weather caused all kinds of delays, but not to worry, we had a 4 hour layover. So, Paris to Toronto was 8 and 1/2 hours, plus the 4 hour wait, plus our Toronto/Los Angeles flight was delayed by an hour or so. Another 5 and 1/2 hour flight and we landed in L.A. But wait, we still have to get on a shuttle for our car, drive to Ojai where Charlie needed to be picked up, and then go home. Oh yeah, it was raining. Hard.

Got home in one piece to find my kitchen flooded. Threw down some towels and called it a night.

I don't know why I got up so early this morning. I went to bed around two last night, and woke up at seven. (Yes, I remembered to switch my clocks). I’ve done three loads of laundry, downloaded my 278 photos (yeowza!), and unpacked one of my two suitcases.

I tried some of the Chocolate Mint tea I bought in Paris, and ate some cookies that I had packed. The milk in the fridge has gone bad. I have to go shopping, and I have to pay bills. Tonight I’m going to a Mary Chapin Carpenter/Anne Lamott double-billed show. “A Night of Story and Music” it’s called. I have no idea what to expect. I’ve seen Anne Lamott several times because she’s my humor idol, and I love Mary Chapin Carpenter; just hope I can stay awake for it all.

I’m working on recounting my adventures, but today I’m a bit out of it. I’m glad to be home, and glad to have a few more days of spring break before I go back to work. I don’t know how my buddies are going to go back tomorrow!

Giverny was beautiful. I think this was the high point of the trip.