Let's talk...

Inflation is one of those things that happen year after year, regardless of the state of the economy. Remember when you could go to the movies for $4.25? I’m not talking a matinee price either. I’m talking about 7pm on a Friday night. Those were the good ‘ole days. Of course, I was about twelve and it was 1996. But these days everything is just so damn expensive. And even though there’s suppose to be this general rule to inflation dictating how much prices should increase over a certain number of years, I can’t help but notices that some establishments and certain commodities don’t seem to adhere to that unspoken rule.

One item however that seems to have taken a number of decades to inflate is the lucky penny. Literary references, songs, and even sayings, have made the concept of the “lucky penny” an exciting, whimsical item to find and behold. Even now, at twenty-seven, I admit that I harbor a certain enthusiasm for finding that forgotten, lost, and inevitably luck penny on the ground of a parking lot, supermarket, city street, etc… But is the lucky penny really that lucky anymore? In an economy where gas prices are $4 a gallon, cocktails average $12+ a drink, and most items at the 99¢ store cost more than a dollar, can we really still assume that the lucky penny still holds luck? After all, how much luck does one cent bring?

Over the last several weeks I’ve noticed a significant change in my beloved lucky pennies: I haven’t seen them around. Now, either they’re all getting swooped up by other seekers of luck before I can get there, or the luck penny has sadly become obsolete. In its place however, I have been finding dimes—everywhere! In the parking lot at my work, on the sidewalk in front of my house, on the floor in my bedroom, at the mall, and in the movie theater. For weeks I have not seen a single lucky penny, but I have seen an alarming number of…lucky dimes? It just doesn’t have the same ring. If inflation is happening to the lucky penny as it is happening to all other consumer products, and the dime has thusly stepped in and taken over for the one cent piece, then when did this all happen and more importantly, is it still considered lucky?

I admit that I haven’t picked up a lucky dime yet. Even though I’ve been seeing them around for weeks now, I just haven’t been able to accept the fact that inflation has hit my penny and has turned it into the dime. But I suppose if I don’t pick it up, put it in my pocket, and then pass it along to another, I may never know. I still get excited when I see the occasional lucky penny, but I have to accept the fact that like with most things, change is constant, and if I don’t pick up those lucky dimes, I’m missing out on a ten cent opportunity.

I am really struggling in life right now. Maybe everyone else is too, but it feels especially hard for me at the moment. Between Ted’s battle with addiction, my overwhelming conflict with codependence, and my seemingly little regard and desire for what I actually want in life, I’m having a lot of trouble just getting through life day to day. Ted’s addictions were diagnosed in the spring/summer of 2009. Since a few months before that time I started seeing a therapist. A couple months ago I started seeing another therapist and decided to finally look up the psychiatric code for my “illness.” Up until this point, I didn’t actually believe myself to be mentally ill in any way other than that I was having a seriously difficult time coping with my marriage and my life. I figured that I was perhaps experiencing some situational depression and that eventually it would get better. But now that I think about it, here I am, almost two years later, and I feel exactly the same. So I opened up the DSM 4 last night and took a look at what psychiatric code my therapists have been using in order to bill my insurance company: 300.4, which in English means that I have Dysthymic Disorder. According to the DSM 4, “Dysthymic Disorder is a chronic condition characterized by depressive symptoms that occur for most of the day, more days than not, for at least 2 years.” Yep! Sounds about like me. Now, it doesn’t mean that I don’t have an occasional reprieve; however, the “good feelings” have never lasted longer than maybe a month at most. This was all a very depressing revelation. And whether or not I really do in fact have dysthymia, one thing is for sure: I have never been so sad for so long.

My biggest challenge is trying to distinguish my fears from the actual truth. I know that one of my fears is that Ted will stop going to school, will never really get a job, and that my life will remain the same unless I leave. But what part of any of that has any truth? All of this is especially hard for me to discern when moments and memories from the past creep up and haunt me when something similar from then seems to be happening now. For example, Ted has been sick with the flu since last Thursday night. Now, I know that he is indeed actually sick because he’s been running a fever for the last few days. But even though he’s had a fever and a note from his Dr. saying that he needs lots of sleep and rest, I can’t help but start to panic when I realize that he hasn’t been to school one day this week. In addition, Ted has never been able to maintain a job in over five years. His biggest hindrance in keeping a job was his obvious addiction and mental illness, but when I see him sober for 6 months and still not working I begin to feel like this will never work out. He’s a good man—a great man! But can he be the man I need him to be? And how many years will I let go by while I wait to find out?

I’m turning 27 at the end of this month. Last year for my birthday I took myself on a trip to Paris…alone. I booked the trip 9 months in advance and although I had a return ticket home, I kind of hoped that something would happen and I would get stuck there forever. I think I thought that when I went there I would find myself, but I never did. I had a really good time and took a lot of pictures, but when I returned home to California I still felt lost—I still felt alone. I suppose that part of my problem is that I keep waiting for something dramatic to happen that will change my life: like Ted getting a job, or waking up one day and finally feeling happy for no reason at all. But I think the real truth is that in order to be happy it has to be ME that makes myself happy. But for as long as I can remember, my happiness has always been determined by other things and other people. Never by my own self. And when you live a certain way for so many years it’s hard to change and do things differently. I want to live for myself. I want to do things that will make me happy. But instead I choose to lie in bed watching reruns of whatever show happens to be on Netflix, tuning out the life that I hate, and wishing it would be better. When will I finally have the courage to make it better for myself?

I know I’m about to sound a bit 1999 right now, but I had a very Sex and the City moment today. It was 7am and I had just gotten out of the shower. Both my body and hair were wrapped in a towel and I opened up the medicine cabinet to grab my Aveda liquid exfoliant. That’s when I noticed that Ted had filled up the medicine cabinet with his toiletries sometime between when I had left for work the day before and this morning. I only noticed this change because until just a few weeks ago Ted had been living in a sober living facility and it had been only my stuff in the bathroom for the last six months. Although I did miss him while he was gone, boy did I sure enjoy having the house and bathroom all to myself! And let’s not forget the bed! I got to sleep blissfully smack dab in the middle of the bed for six whole months (not including sleep-overs, of course). That was really nice. But I realized a few weeks ago that it was probably time for him to come home, so on the 1st of March I asked him to move back in. That was three weeks ago, and for the last three weeks, he has had his boxes of crap piled up in our dining room/entry way and it’s been driving me crazy. So yesterday I asked him to please put his shit away before I got home from work, which clearly he did by the evidence in the medicine cabinet this morning. But one thing I had forgotten about while he was gone was how much he loves deodorant and cologne. When I opened up the cabinet I found not one, not two, but four sticks of deodorant. Who needs that many sticks? And they’re all different scents, which was the reason he gave me as to why he has so many: He likes that they all have different smells. He also had five different cans of axe body spray, not including his expensive cologne, which he only wears before he goes to bed (weird, right?). But with the body spray, he only had one fragrance. Why the hell does one person need 5 cans of the same body spray? Oh! He also has three cans of shaving cream, three bottles of shampoo, and at any given time can be found drinking out of several different bottles of soda because he’ll set one down, forget about it, open another one, and repeat these series of actions throughout the day.

So, this incident this morning totally took me back to the scene from Sex and the City (maybe season 4?), where Aidan is moving in with Carrie and they get in a fight over how much stuff they both have. He starts berating her for having too many pairs of shoes, and she picks a fight with him over the numerous speed stick deodorants he has. I contemplated having a “Carrie” moment and freaking out on him about all the space he was taking with his 40 millions sticks of deodorant, and then I remembered that Carrie’s a crazy bitch and that I should just laugh it off and close the cabinet. So I did.

PS. The good part of the clip starts around 1:40 

There are things in life we can rely on and things in life we can’t. For instance, the changing of the seasons: reliable! We all know winter will turn into spring, spring will turn into summer, summer will turn into fall, and so on. Adolescent alcoholic celebrities: reliable! It’s a well known fact that sooner or later Justin Bieber will get a lesson from Lindsay Lohan on how to do tequila shooters and it’ll all be downhill from there. Paris Hilton taught her, just like Charlie Sheen taught Paris. And until recently I had one thing in my life that was more reliable than anything else: a good BM. It’s true. I used to know that every morning when I’d wake up, I’d make myself a cup of coffee and within minutes of drinking that liquid laxative, I’d be heading for the john. Sometimes just the smell of the coffee brewing first thing in the morning used to send a signal to my intestines that it was time to make some magic happen. It was like clockwork, and although I couldn’t rely on my husband, my mother, or anything else on this God forsaken planet, the one thing in the whole world I could rely on was that at around 7:00am M-F I would poop.

Of course, that all changed recently when I was diagnosed with an ulcer and had to cease drinking coffee for the next two months. So let me tell you something. There is nothing more frustrating, more uncomfortable, and more irritating, than not being able to poop on a regular basis. Or hell! In my case, how about not being able to poop at all! Last Wednesday for example, I decided to weigh myself, as I tend to do every Wednesday. I got on the scale, and to my horror, I weighed three pounds more than the Wednesday before. Fuck! I haven’t had alcohol since I gave it up for Lent, and I stopped eating butter on my toast when I was diagnosed with the ulcer (apparently fat can irritate the stomach). So what the hell was I doing wrong? And then I remembered that I hadn’t pooped in four days. Well, I remedied the problem by taking a laxative later that night and at 2:30 in the morning finally had some much needed relief. Almost a week later though, things aren’t any better. I’ve been eating Fiber One cereal for breakfast every day, I’ve been eating prunes like they’re candy, and I’ve even been smoking cigarettes in the hopes that the nicotine will act as a natural diuretic and make me have to go. But sadly, none of it is working. I’m sure the root of the problem is this medication my dr put me on for the ulcer, but if I have to take laxatives for the next two months until I can go off the meds, no one—and I mean no one—is going to want to be my friend. I actually have to keep a scented candle lit at all times in my office to masque the smell of my gas.

"What? You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole... wheel of cheese? How'd you do that? Heck, I'm not even mad; that's amazing. How 'bout we get you in your p.j.'s and we hit the hay." ~Ron Burgundy from Anchorman 

When I was about thirteen or fourteen I started writing in a diary. I was beginning to go through so many hormonal changes that I needed a therapeutic way to express myself. I wrote about my first kiss, my boyfriends, about drama that happened at school, and most of the time about my mother. My mother is a lovely woman, but she used to make me so damn mad! Page after page I would write about how she was ruining, complicating, and destroying my life. Of course she really wasn’t, but I was a crazy hormonal teenager after all, and any kind of interference in my personal life seemed like an attack. Writing about my feelings though seemed to work out pretty well for me and as the years went by I gradually moved from writing in a diary to writing in an online journal. In fact, if you have any desire to go back and read what I wrote between 2003 and 2007, go ahead and click here. But don’t judge me for the content. Most of the stuff I wrote about was an affectation of my real personality and not the “real” me. Plus, I was like 18 years old when I started it and what matters at 18 isn’t the same as what matters almost nine years later...

But as usual, I digress. I used to write all the time—even if it was dumb, silly, juvenile, or emotionally intense, I would write about it. And then I met Ted. And I stopped writing. I’d write an entry here or an update there, but after the first couple months of dating him I stopped writing pretty much altogether. Suddenly I was having all of these amazing experiences and I didn’t feel like sharing them. Plus, I didn’t want to be one of those sickly sweet girls who are always going on and on about their boyfriend. That kind of stuff makes me want to gag. I hate when I’m reading someone’s facebook update and it says something like, “I love my boyfriend. He is SOOO amazing. Thank you for making my life better just by being in it.” Blah blah blah gag! Puh-lease! No one gives a shit that your life is better because the guy you’re fucking bought you flowers. He bought you flowers so that you’d give him a blow job. Now get over yourself! Yes, I have some hostility. This is why writing is therapeutic.

But then something happened. My relationship with Ted suddenly—almost overnight it seemed—went from blissful and amazing to depressing and hostile. And that’s when I stopped writing and started first acting out, and then suppressing every single emotional feeling I had. When I met Ted I was young and naïve—like most 20 year olds are suppose to be. I was aware that he suffered from some minor depression, but what I wasn’t aware of was that I was in a relationship with an addict. We started dating in February of 2005 and it wasn’t until May of 2009 that I realized that I was married to an alcoholic and drug addict. It’s truly amazing how something can be in front of your face the whole time and yet you may never even see it.

Lately I’ve been going through a lot of emotional distress. My husband of almost three years has been in and out of rehab three times, has lied to me, stolen from me, manipulated me, and has taken away so much of my joy and optimism. And instead of writing about it and truly processing the pain and anger, I’ve suppressed it, put on a happy face, and pretended to the world that I am just fine. But I’m not fine. I feel broken. Until about four weeks ago, I used to come home from work every night, pour myself a big drink, pig out in the kitchen while I watched reruns of Bones/Grey’s Anatomy/Six Feet Under—anything to take my mind off of my real life—and just zone for about 2 hours while I stuffed my face and drank until I was ready to pass out. And then something happened. Ted started getting better and I got an ulcer. I think my bleeding stomach was symbolic of my bleeding heart and then I realized that if I didn’t do something about it, it was only going to get worse from here.

I started seeing a new therapist in February. I’ve seen her four times now. We’re currently working on my resentments, my fears, my worries, and my pain. And I have A LOT of pain. Yesterday she gave me a plastic bat and had me swing at a punching bag as hard as I could. It only took about three swings until I broke down and completely fell apart. I think I need to fall apart more often. I also haven’t had a drink in almost three weeks (but that is more due to the ulcer than anything else) and this morning when I woke up I had lost 2.4 lbs since last Wednesday. So here is my New Year’s resolution (even though we’re mid way through March): I am going to write more, drink less, eat only when I’m hungry (my biggest challenge!), and try to cry as often as possible. And the writing is going to be raw. There will still be some silly entries I’m sure, but I need to get this stuff out. I’ve been suffering silently for too long.

“Think about any attachments that are depleting your emotional reserves. Consider letting them go.” ~ Oprah Winfrey

They say there’s a first time for everything. And although that saying is trite and cliché, it sure is true! I experienced something for the first time yesterday that completely blew me away. I was driving in my car coming home from my parents' house. Marin was with me in the passenger seat smoking a cigarette, and we had the top down (LOVE convertibles!). As I was driving along the 5 fwy, I noticed another convertible to my right--a Volkswagen Cabriolet, with 3 or 4 young guys in it. I turned to Marin and asked her if she noticed how young they looked, and just as she started to tell me how she had seen them a couple of miles back, there they were, neck in neck with us, waving their hands, smiling, and making complimentary little cat calls to us. Now, being a buxom, blond, curly-haired youg woman driving a Porsche Boxster, I'm often used to men--and even sometimes woman--hitting on me in the car, but when I realized that these young guys were not just young, but probably about 16 or 17, I couldn't help but be totally embarrassed, laugh, and speed up to avoid them. At a mere 26 years old, this was the first time in my life that I have ever been hit on by someone so significantly younger than me, that I was humiliated to have to admit, "Honey, I am too old for you." Perhaps in another 10 years when I'm a young cougar and they're 26 year-old studs will it be ok for me to indulge in a little harmless older-woman, younger-man flirting, but although these guys were totally adorable and so proud of the fact that they could drive, I think I would have felt like a predator, and post coitally, would have been compelled to ask them if they wanted a warm glass of milk before I tucked them in to bed.

# of lbs lost as of last Wednesday: 3

# of miles speed walked today: 2

# of calories lost from speed walking: 200 (that’s all???)

# of martinis I drank last night: 2 really big ones

Here’s the deal: I have always struggled with my weight. I mean ALWAYS. For as long as I can remember I suffered from being just a little too chubby. The only reprieve I ever got was shortly after I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes and lost a ton of weight. But honestly, it’s only because I went in to ketoacidosis and since I was 9, being thin at that age really doesn’t count. But right around the time I turned 15 I gained a ton of weight…and sadly, I’ve never taken it off. In fact, I’ve done quite a good job at putting more on. I am now proud to say that I am at the absolute heaviest I have ever been in my entire life. Isn’t it funny how when you’re a certain age you’ll look at yourself in the mirror, or step on the scale and say, “omigod. I am so fat. I need to lose weight.” But then like 10 years later after you never really did lose that weight and only gained more you step on the scale again or look at an old picture of yourself from back then and say, “Damn! I was thin back then! If only I could look like that now.” The fact is, we always want to be something that we’re not, and for a lot of us, what we are is seemingly never good enough. Like my friend Christina says, “You can never be too thin or too rich.” No shit!

About two months ago I decided to join Weight Watchers® for the 4th time. I joined it once when I was 16 (but only because my mother made me), once when I was about 22, once at 24/25 and now again a year later at 26. When I joined WW the second time I actually lost about 10 lbs. Not bad! But then I got lazy, decided it was better to eat my emotions than to deal with them, and gave it up. Since that time I have gained back those ten pounds and even put on 10 more. Lovely. I tell ya. I have the absolute worst willpower in the whole world—at least when it comes to food anyway. When I joined the program again two months ago I was sure that I was serious about it this time. No more excuses! No more screw ups! No more stretchy pants because my jeans don’t fit! Yes, I was determined. I was a woman with a plan.

I think I am probably the only person in the world to actually gain weight while on Weight Watchers®. I went in my first day (May 22nd) weighing a particular weight and a month later I had successfully GAINED 4 pounds. And no, it wasn’t just water weight. Because when I went back the next week I weighed exactly the same. A four letter word came to my mind when I found out my result. And really, why mince words: FUCK. What was I doing wrong? EVERYTHING. I was doing absolutely everything wrong. I wasn’t counting my POINTS® (the WW word for calories), I wasn’t exercising anymore, I was snacking on candy at work (bad diabetic!) and I was drinking too much. So, after a candid conversation with my brother who basically told me that I could either be serious about doing WW and lose the weight or not be serious and not lose the weight, I decided that I was sick and tired of being lazy, fat, and cranky and so I decided to go back to my basics—to go back to my roots if you will, and I made myself a weekly menu just like how my mom used to do for me back in the day when I was a young diabetic. And let’s face it: back when I was healthy, in shape, and at an appropriate weight. So, I wrote up my menu and for that whole week followed it religiously: measuring my food, not snacking, drinking lots of water, and making sure most of all, that I didn’t feel deprived. And when I walked in to my meeting last Wednesday after having followed my menu plan for the past 6 days, I discovered that I had actually lost 3 pounds. Hot damn! I am not looking forward to this Wednesday though. I think I fucked everything up this weekend when I ate my mom’s cheese enchiladas and homemade guacamole. Like I said earlier, When it comes to food, I have no willpower. I am totally weak and it’s something I’m really going to have to work on.

Today on my lunch break I decided to go to the gym. I can’t go after work. I’m just too tired. Plus it’s so easy to come up with an excuse: I have to stay late at work; I have a WW meeting to go to; I have an appointment with my therapist; it’s Monday; all the mean Armenian women hog the machines. There are always a million and one excuses why I don’t go to the gym. So, thanks to a friend who pointed out that there’s a branch of my gym not too far away from where I work, I decided today to go to the gym during lunch. It was perfect. I was one of maybe 10 people there, I still had plenty of energy since up until then I had only been sitting at my desk for 3½ hours instead of 9½, and now I can go straight home after work and relax with a cocktail instead of feeling guilty for not working out first. But I’ll tell you something. I am seriously out of shape. 30 minutes on the treadmill walking on a 2.0 incline at a speed of 3.6 almost put me over the edge. And all of that to lose only 200 calories?! You’ve got to be effing kidding me! I’m consuming more calories right now in my cup of Progresso soup than I lost at the gym this afternoon. And, do you know what’s even worse? On the treadmill next to me was this tiny little girl, who couldn’t have been more than 16 years old. And while I was walking and sweating balls this little thing was running effortlessly next to me. And at one point after she started running I felt this cool breeze kinda blow by me and I thought to myself, “I wonder if she turned on the personal fan that’s on her treadmill,” until I looked over and realized that no, her fan wasn't on. That breeze I felt was her—the air she was churning—as she ran past me. Well, like they say in AA: one day at a time.

I don’t consider fat a disease. I mean, c’mon, who had the gun to my head? Nobody. What gene in my body says I have to eat four cakes instead of two? It’s a choice.

~Kirstie Alley~

I have a terrible habit of starting things and then never finishing them. Like joining Weight Watchers, going to the gym, reading books, and writing in my journal. Right now I am presently reading 4 different books with three more sitting on the back burner until I’m done with the first two—one of which happens to be Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume, which I’ve been meaning to read for four years. I’m half way through finishing D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and a few chapters in to Charlaine Harris’ 11th Sookie Stackhouse Novel entitled Dead in the Family. A biography of the Borgias also remains partially read as does Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which I like to sift through while I watch television and sip on a dirty martini. So after I have an affair, slay a few vampires, and familiarize myself with one of Italy’s most salacious families, I intend to teach myself how to make the perfect French omelet in addition to one hell of a boeuf bourguignon. Sounds like a good plan…if I can actually accomplish it! It frustrates me that this predisposition to never carry anything through transgresses in to all aspects of my life. I think about going back to school to become a MFT or sexologist, but never do it. I think about writing the next great American novel—or rather romance novel, but never do it. I think about making homemade duck liver pâté and coq au vin but never do it. And I think all the time about moving to Europe, traveling historical towns, eating fine foods and writing about it. And if it weren’t for the fact that I’m afraid to be poor I’d actually do that one. But my own desire for monetary comfort dictates that that fantasy must—at least for the moment—remain just that: a fantasy.

When was the last time I followed through with something? Even this weekend I cheated myself out of finishing a list of chores. I cleaned the bathroom, pledged and windexed my whole house, vacuumed all the dog hair from under the bed…but when it came time for me to mop the hardwood floors, I decided instead to sit down on the couch, drink a beer, flip through Julia Child’s best selling cookbook, and watch the 1988 hit film, BIG, starring Tom Hanks and Elizabeth Perkins. I also DVR’d Death Becomes Her because it was my favorite movie when I was in 3rd grade. I really have no idea why my mother would let me watch such an awful, sexually charged film at such a young age, but knowing the woman I turned out to be, it makes all the more sense to me now. But I digress and that wasn’t my point (although I really should re-touch on that topic again at a later time). All I had to do was mop the floor. That’s all I had left! But I didn’t do it. I chose to be lazy, drink a six pack, and reminisce on bygone days. What shame.

I also seem to have the unfortunate habit of thinking about old lovers while driving on the freeway—a dangerous habit which has almost caused me to have a number of unnecessary accidents. I constantly go back to the same two—one of whom wasn’t even a lover in the physically carnal sense of the word. But both of them are definitely former loves, and for some inexplicable reason, the gentle hum of my car driving 85 mph down the 5 freeway seems to put me in a type of fugue state where I completely forget where I am altogether until I reach my desired destination and daily regret having to say to myself, “I have no idea how I got here.” If only I could think of them at more appropriate times: like while walking on the treadmill at the gym or while touching myself in the shower. Isn’t that what normal people do? I even know of some who choose to think romantically of their former lovers while engaging in something physical with their present lover. But not me. There’s nothing worse than calling out the wrong person’s name in bed. That happened to me once. Someone called me Michelle. I should have ended it there. Unfortunately, I went on to date that individual for a year. You know, sometimes the signs are so forcefully in front of your face that you can’t help but be blinded by them and thus look the other way. Come to think of it, I’ve made a lot of mistakes with men through the years. And in such a short time, too! But that’s what happens when you’re a serial monogamist like I am. When one relationship ends another one begins and it doesn’t leave you with much to reflect on in between.

It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it.

~ D.H. Lawrence (Lady Chatterley's Lover)~

There are two things that you must do while you’re in Paris; smoke cigarettes and eat foie gras. They’re equally the same in terms of American interpretation: they’re both completely indulgent and they’re both really bad for you. But while you’re smoking your Gauloise and eating the fatty liver of a duck, whose been destined for a life among the rich brasseries of Paris, just remember that you wouldn’t be French unless you could appreciate the fattier, finer things in life. There’s also a reason why French women are so fantastically slim and sensual. Many have proposed the theory that they’re merely thin by manner of their walking habits, the fact that they eat smaller portions, or the suggestion that their metabolism just accommodates a smaller framed-person. All of those reasons are certainly acceptable and especially plausible. But I believe that the true reason lies in their carcinogen-inhaling habits. Sure, the Parisians walk more than your average American. They have to! It’s like living in New York city. Only one in 3 (I made this number up) people own a car. But I think the true reason is dictated by a combination of all of the above: they smoke cigarettes, and they therefore have a decreased appetite. Their decreased appetite enables them to eat smaller portions (it’s also what you’re served here), and the fact that they walk all day…well, that speaks for itself.

Today I did not have breakfast--probably because I didn’t wake up ‘till 11 (damn jet lag). I took the Metro to Sacre Coeur, where I walked close to 1000 steps exiting the underground, walked all through Montmartre, then hopped the Metro back to the 5th, where I exited St. Michael, bought a “Trois Fromage” Panini, walked to Notre Dame, ate, and then walked the 20 minutes back to my apartment. After talking with my parents via skype, I walked another 2 hours through le Saint Germain, down through the Latin Quarter, past all of the fantastic Middle Eastern restaurants, and back another 20 minutes to my apartment, stopping briefly along the Seine to take some photos and pop a couple of glucose tablets. I changed my clothes, had a glass of wine (of course!) and then walked to Le Buci for dinner where I had 6 escargots bathes in garlic, butter, and parsley sauce, followed by a generous portion of steak tartare, pommes frites, and a small mesclun salad. I met a woman tonight who is a psycho analyst in France. We shared a drink and talked about life in the porn industry, in psychology, and we talked about our husband. Hers regards her as a Madonna. Mine is an addict. Neither one of us knows what to do. So, we had another glass (wine for me; beer for her) and spoke about Freud.

Today was a good day. Its always a bit lonely visiting a new place by yourself. But somehow in Paris…I don’t feel so alone.

# of cigarettes: just 1 so far. Not too bad.

# of hours it took me from the time I left my house until I reached my new apartment for the week: 21 hours

# of hours I slept in the last day: 3

# Times I've wondered if I really should have come all the way here by myself: a few

Today is my birthday. I am officially 26 years old. Ten years ago today my mother took me to London and Paris for my birthday and on the actual day--April 25th--we spent our first day in Paris. I remember that we had dinner at Les Bouquinistes, and the maitre de brought us champagne. That restaurant is still here, and although today marks my decade return, I sadly realized that I cannot afford to eat at the same restaurant, so I'll just have to commence my birthday night in some other way.

My best friend was suppose to be joining me here today. Unfortunately, US Airways screwed her over (due to the volcanic eruption in Iceland) and so here I am, alone in Paris on my birthday, while mon amie is stuck in Phoenix. So, the big question is, what does one do in one of the most famous cities in the whole world on her birthday...alone?

Well, before we ponder the many possibilities, I'd like to share with you what my surroundings look like. I am staying in an apartment--correction. A studio apartment, that is literally no larger than a dorm room. It has a tiny little couch against a wall--well, its not really a couch so much as a couple of cushions stacked upon each other. I'm sitting on the couch typing at the moment. To my immediate left is a giant window about 8 feet high or taller that opens up on to Rue Mazarine and looks down onto a cafe (Le Bistro Mazarine). In front of me not more than 3 feet away is the "kitchen" consisting of a microwave, two hot plates (the French love their hot plates!), a sink, and a small shelf above it. To the right of the sink is the bathroom with a shower and a toilet. Its about as large as an airplane bathroom. By the front door is a little desk and up the stairs is a bed (the stairs around directly behind the little desk to the immediate right of the small couch I'm sitting on). Its super tiny in here but with the enormous window that looks out on to the street who really needs anything larger? I also just happened to notice that all the clocks in here are behind by an hour. I thought it was a quarter to 7. It's actually a quarter to 8, which mean I really need to put on some makeup and decide what I want to do for dinner. Like the Italians, the Spaniards, and well, most of the Europeans for that matter, Parisians do not eat dinner at 5pm or 6pm like so many Americans do. Most restaurants don't even open for dinner until at least 7:00pm and they stay open well past midnight. However, since today is Sunday, I suspect that perhaps many people won't be eating at 11. So I think I'll plan to head out for dinner around 9. Oh, would you like to know another thing French people love? Military time. And really, it's actually quite sensible. None of this "am"/"pm" bs. But for those of us who refer to 13:00 as 1pm, it can be very challenging to calculate what 19:55 is (7:55pm by the way).

So, for tonight I think I'll walk down a few streets until I come across a restaurant that looks appealing (and they all do!) and then maybe I'll trudge through my old stomping grounds in the Latin quarter reminiscing on the good 'ole days 5 and a half years ago when I studied here and really had no idea what I was doing. It's always better sometimes I think going back to a place older. It's the whole concept of "had I known then what I know now." There's a reason that cliche saying is out there: it's always true.