What Possessed Me

The week in review

It’s been a bit quiet on the blogging front this week as I’ve been completely consumed by addressing some of our world’s most challenging issues:

Furthering Peace Talks
Fauxhawk and I had another long and heartbreaking discussion about our future together. After almost two years of fear and indecision, he is sure. Suddenly, I am not. He wants to go to Vegas to get hitched; I need to go to Paris to explore. We are taking a risk by once again letting each other go and it’s a scary, uncertain time for both of us.

Fostering a Sense of Community
The catalyst for this community-building exercise was a crying jag I had on the train coming home from Fauxhawk’s place. I have a bad habit of crying in public – on street corners, at bars, in restaurants – wherever. I like to cry – I am a good, solid crier – and I don’t mind crying in front of other people. As I told Elly in her post about public crying, I spent an entire year in London weeping on the tube, tears running down my face and dropping onto my Arabic flashcards. In London, I was crying over Dermonster; in New York, I cry over Fauxhawk. New York is a city in which everything is heightened, including emotion. During the course of a subway ride, it’s not unusual to witness a fight, a mother screaming at her child, a couple making out, an impromptu a cappella performance, or a homeless man passionately preaching the gospel. So it was no surprise to anyone when I sniffled audibly in my seat and hunted unsuccessfully for something to wipe my extremely red and soggy nose. When a nice Jamaican woman silently handed me a Kleenex in sympathy and her son gave me a piece of a candy, I cried even harder. In a town where toughness and tenacity are prized, it’s the gentle acts of fellow feeling make this a wonderful place to live.

Supporting the Italian Economy
After the diplomatic negotiations with Fauxhawk, I spent an entire day curled up in fetal position on my bed and sucking my thumb. Realizing that this wouldn’t do, I called my friend Nicole, who is one of the most positive and pragmatic women I know. She suggested underwear. Off I went, and within fifteen minutes, I spent an absurd amount of money on colorful Hanky Panky underwear and a gorgeous little Cosabella number. For some reason, this small, frivolous act cheered me up tremendously - it seems new underwear is more therapeutic than therapy.

Celebrating Modern Matriarchy
As I mentioned, it was my mom’s 70th birthday this week and we wanted to make sure she was honored accordingly. My dad and I organized a dinner party at Le Perigord with family and friends and enjoyed a series of weepy toasts and lots of good cheer. I was extremely touched by the power of enduring friendship and the love of family – it was very healing to be part of it. It also gives me great pleasure to know that my mom can still rock the pair of lime green lacy Hanky Panky underwear (matching a pair of birthday peridot earrings) that I tucked in her goody bag.

Debating Issues of Gender and Sexuality in the Middle East and Beyond
Another benefit of living in New York is exposure to erudite and enlightened people of all kinds. It’s not unusual, for instance, to share moules frites with a friend who can articulately argue that tying someone up during sex can be more tiresome than plain vanilla boinking, but is equally comfortable proposing the relative merits of being Wife Number Two in Yemen.

Repairing Franco-American Relations
I leave for Paris tonight. It’s a city that has always allowed my heart and imagination to wander and explore, and this is what I need more than anything. Blue Eyes, a French friend from my travels in Ethiopia, will be there. We will talk. We will see.

See you all on Wednesday.

To my mother on her 70th birthday

Dear Mom,

Last night we had a party to celebrate your 70th birthday, and I made a hash of my toast. You see, Dad was a tough act to follow - it's difficult to compete with 46 years of pure love and devotion from the man of your dreams. And then everyone else went on to say the obvious things about how brilliant and talented to you are, spoiling it for me. When the time came for me to say my bit, I was a sniveling, soggy mess, and didn't really get a chance to highlight some of your finer points.

Because I am unable to express myself with anything other than bullet points these days, I thought I'd distill some of these thoughts into a mini PowerPoint presentation. Please visualize text animation and clip art.

- In the middle of a fahncy French restaurant, you led all thirteen of us in a rousing rendition of "This Little Light of Mine." You are utterly unashamed of your light.

- You wore false eyelashes while giving birth to not one but three babies.

- When you were young, you looked like a cross between Maria Callas, Sophia Loren, and Audrey Hepburn. Now you look like yourself and are far more beautiful.

- Young people want to be around you because you're funny and irreverent.

- You have adventure in you.

- You have an insane rack and the longest legs I've ever seen. I am still bitter that I look like dad and consider this to be your fault.

- When we have dinner together, younger men hit on you and ignore me completely. See above.

- There is no one - I repeat no one - who loves with such abandon.

- You can charm the pants off of anyone, but don't really need to.

- Once, I came home from school and you were hugging the exterminator, whose wife had just died. You have a habit of consoling complete strangers.

- You have grand dreams. I have never met anyone who dreams as much as you do.

- It's always been important to you to create beautiful memories.

- You believe in the transporting and healing power of beauty.

- There are countless people who would be lost without you. I am one of them.

With love,
Poulaki

(someone is looking really shiny, and it's not my mom)

You know what I love?

Besides Peppermint Patties and orange shoes and raspberry tarts?

A passive-aggressive drunk-dial from New Zealand.

I haven’t been drunk-dialed in ages. This is not to say that I myself have not been guilty of calling my entire phone list - including my dissertation advisor - with a drunken message of love. One thing I don’t do is drunk and passive-aggressive (past boyfriends may disagree). I prefer something along the lines of “howthefuckareyamyworldisapitofdespairwithoutyouloveyoutopieces! OkaybettergohavetopeemissyouuuuTHUMPouch.”

I was at work late last night, swearing under my breath and grinding my teeth into little nubbins when I got the call.

“It’s Kiwi.”
“Hi! Where are you?”
“Schlishscwhassass.”
“Sorry? What?”
“Huh?”
“What? I can’t hear you. You sound all fuzzy and weird.”
“I’m at the pub.”
“Ah. Right. It’s already Friday night there.”
“S’right.”
“So how are you?”
“Greatgoodfine. Sfhrseisjtf.”
“What?”
“Just keeping the bottle company.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Hrpmphfisshhh (muffled clanking noise). Just taking solace in the bottle...”
“And why is that?”
“Oh…you know…NOTHING.”
“What is it? Talk to me.”
“(Faraway voice) It’s nothing…NEVERMIND.”
“Okay, but I’ll see you in New York soon, right?”
“Yees.”
“So, we’ll talk about it then, right?”
“Yees.”
“Kiwi, are you mad at me?”
“Yees. No. Arghhh (strange strangling noise).”
“Can we talk about it when you come back? I can’t really understand you.”
“Yees. Bye (twenty second fumble with the phone followed by expletive).”

Good God Almighty. Moody bastard. What on earth did I do? Now I’m worried.