How Do We Speak Against Shame?

This Friday, i’ll be sitting in my best blazer on a panel with some of the best womyn i know, talking about shame at Homegrown: North Carolina Women’s Preaching Festival 2013.

Talking Taboo is on the launchpad, y’all, on a catapult ride to a Mary Daly-esque outerplanet. (Or maybe that’s just my personal NASA-themed fantasy…) The books have shipped, and orders are coming in at local independent bookstores across the country so you can get your hands wrapped around our 40 essays dismantling taboos and reconstructing faith.

And somehow, as deliriously excited as i am to be in print, i’m also still kind of crapping my pants. My essay is, after all, entitled “Sex, Shame, and Scarred Knees.” It doesn’t take too much imagination to realize it is acutely personal and confrontational in one swath of five pages.

But that’s the whole point, for me, in talking about taboos: going for the gut, the personal jugular. I get so frustrated with academic hoopla that over-objectifies ideas and only wants to talk about problems as if they exist in this neutral universe. Like system problems exist outside of our own experiences.

It’s partly a feminism thing; i can only tell my story, and my story is a gradient of privileged (white, cisgendered, American citizen, middle class…) as is the stories of every thinker from Max Weber to Alice Walker. It’s also partly a theological thing; sitting in a stuffy room all day talking Christology is a necessary part of the learning curve, but it’s only relevant when we can embody what we discuss. Feminist/womanist theological ethics – my particular field – is a brilliant, needed, complicated, and an evolving facet to the study and practice of religion. But i still believe feminist theological ethics (or any conversation, really) matters most when we can implement what we talk about in the academy in to real life.

And real life can be some tough shit.

Tough, personal, painful shit. Like feeling isolated, marginalized, ridiculed for pushing back on heteronormative and sexist sexual ethics. Or thinking my body was too fat and too hairy and too imperfect to be lovable, even by its inhabitant.

It was not easy to write about my shame in any place other than my well-hidden cavern of angst and Kahlil Gibran quotes: my journal. My first twelve drafts or so were so externally-focused it felt more like a gender studies essay than a personal confrontation with taboo.

But i knew, i knew i was not the only person in the world who had struggled with the church’s perfectionistic teachings on human sexuality. And it was the thought of writing to younger me that made me be bold. If one – just one – pre-teen girl could crack open my story and heave a sigh of “it’s-not-just-me,” than my exposure would be worth it.

So on Friday, i’ll be talking about just that: how do we speak out against the shame that has silenced us?* I’m the first to say i’m no expert. Hell, my therapist would gladly tell you (were she not bound by HIPAA) i’m in a daily uphill slog against self-shaming. There’s no five-step plan that frees us for life from shame. It’s a systemic thing, shaming womyn for our sexuality (and you know, a million other things people of every gender are shamed for).

But the thing about systems is this: we’re all participants in the system, which means we all have the potential to disrupt the system’s power over us in our own narratives.

buy the book here!

best thing: flights home in less than 24 hours.

current jam: ‘eavesdrop’ the civil wars.

resources on shame, courage, and radical self-love: dr. brené brown’s TED talk & website,  audre lorde’s article “uses of the erotic,” wehappytrans* website.

*not a rhetorical question! how do you speak against shame? what barriers prevent you from speaking against shame?

What are you so afraid of?

I smooth the sticky side down on my wall, willing the fan to hold off long enough for adhesive to adhese (or whatever). I want both the air of the fan and the message of the note to stick. I want both things at once even though i know they are oppositional forces. 

It is a post-it note. “What are you so afraid of?” in block blue letters on a block of blue paper. Above the cross on my desk with a cheesy verse from Jeremiah that i love for both its cheese and its calories.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Mom is on Skype with me, glasses perched so far down her nose i swear they’ll fall off if she belly-laughs again. My legs are gluing to the wood chair, this miserable heat making me melt like Elmer’s. I envy Mom in the air conditioning promised inside her Southern home. New England winter is coming, you can already see the trees dressing in fire in the corner-most branches. But mostly the fire in New England right now is not a burning heat so much as it is a miserable slop, a clinging film of stick on everything not made of icebox rock.

“What are you so afraid of?”

I pull the fan closer, picking threads of hair off of my neck and re-wrap my hairtie. It’s the longest my locks have been since i started school, a reversal of fifteen-year-old lizzie who chopped off fifteen inches at Governor’s School to prove cookie-cutter wrong and feminist liberation right. Still feminist, still cookie-lover, still no cookie-cutter.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Mom looks at me now, serious-eyes over the tortoise-shell rims. “You’ve been talking about this since before you started school, honey,” she chides. A perfect blend of you-know-better and you-can-do-it. Someday she’ll teach me that recipe, maybe, if i have to tortoise-shell-glare my own daughter. Maybe. “You should be scared to death. Anything worth doing is scary.” I nod. Air forced in, air forced out. This heat, this heat and my tiny lungs are not friends. Makes oxygen into sluggish glue that sticks going down and never really makes it to the bottom. Anything worth doing is scary.

“What are you so afraid of?” 

I look at my note now, it blue on blue hanging by a thread to my sweating wall. How it hangs on, i’m not sure, but i’m glad i don’t have to move the fan. Mom’s right, i know, and that’s why i call her. When i need her to give me the permission i seem unwitting or unwilling to find myself. Permission to be scared of writing a thesis, permission to be scared of tomorrow. Permission to say “to hell with being scared!” and make defiant post-it notes in cookie-cutter rebellion. 

“What are you so afraid of?” 

current jam: ‘eavesdrop’ the civil wars.

best thing: blue valentine.

pre-order my book!

Talking Taboo: The Big Announcement!

I’m seated in the church pew, unsaid words pressing against my clamped teeth. I’m chewing instead of talking for any number of reasons; i’ve had this experience so often i can’t delineate which memory belongs where. It could be a flagrant disregard of the female characters in the lectionary reading by the pastor. It could be a subtle refusal to even consider female pronouns for G-d in Sunday School. It could be when a member of the congregation makes a combo homophobic-sexist comment about a woman in leadership needing to be “straightened” out by a man.

I’m not in an obvious rage. It’s not always a rage – sometimes it is a thoughtful frustration. But the most important thing is that it’s quiet - i am quiet. I might rant, later, to my ordained-minister mother. She’ll remind me that women have come a long way since the days she couldn’t be a pastor by virtue of her gender. I’ll nod, but exclaim: “we’re not done yet!” If i’m being particularly good that week, i’ll pray. Pray for my anger, pray for the reasons i’m angry.

But i don’t start a conversation. My anger turns into silence, and this silence becomes the taboo i never dare to bring up with anyone who i suspect might disagree.

And the thing is, i know i’m not the only Jesus-lovin’ lady out there who feels this suffocation. I can’t speak for all women who encounter such prejudice – i can only speak for myself. And this what i have to say, boiled down to the basics: i have enough faith in Jesus and the Church that we, people of all gender identities, are capable of confronting the everyday sexism in Christian communities. Capable of engaging compassionately and critically in dialogue with one another about faith and feminism. I am capable of voicing my frustration, even when it requires boldness . It is time i stopped staying silent in the pews.

Because when a chorus of individuals share personal narratives, i think a truly transformative space for conversation can be created.

And that, i hope, is exactly what my co-contributors and i have done in a stupendously exciting new book. It’s called  Talking Taboo: American Christian Women Get Frank About Faith, and it’s set to be published in October of 2013 by White Cloud Press!!

Forty women under the prowess of two fabulous co-editors, Erin Lane and Enuma Okoro, have each contributed their own story. An essay that embodies the marginalization they have faced because of a clash between our gender and our faith. In the spectrum of women represented there is an equally wide spectrum of perspectives – some claiming feminist as an identity, and some decidedly not. Women of many denominations, races, backgrounds, long publishing resumés and shiny-eyed newbies (like me!). Women coming  together to instigate a taboo dialogue.

A proper book! With a proper cover and everything!

A proper book! With a proper cover and everything!

But having a Big Conversation like this requires a lot more voices than the 40 contributors, which is why today we are kicking off an Indiegogo campaign to help launch Talking Taboo with a bang. It would mean the world to me if you would make a donation to the campaign. Your support helps generate conversation, and the conversation works to end these silences. As an added bonus, we’ve chosen May 7th because it is the feast day of Saint Rose Venerini, who was a teacher of girls & women.

As the youngest contributor to the anthology, i stand on the precipice of my adulthood filled with explosive hope because of my co-contributors’ courage. Having my own story shared in the company of women who have paved so much of the road before me humbles (and, if i’m frank, terrifies) me. Their courage leaves me cracking with expectation for the kind of boundary-transgressing dialogue this book will generate.

Mostly, though, i want to say thank you.

I said yesterday i have always wanted to be a published author. By the grace of G-d and some wonderful mentors, this book is making that happen. It’s people like you – friends, faithful readers, neighbors, kin, and internet-passerbys that empower me to keep writing in the spaces of silence. You are wonderful, and sharing this news with you wonderful people makes the excitement tremendously tangible.

So let’s go shatter some stained-glass ceilings, shall we?

For more information about the book: check out the campaign’s website!

Pre-order your copy of Talking Taboo on Amazon!

Like Talking Taboo on Facebook!

A prologue to today’s announcement.

current jam: ‘i wanna dance with somebody’ whitney houston!

 

On Being Bold

The first thing i ever wanted to be when i grew up was a dolphin trainer. Who also wrote books. And sang songs. And invented things.

The hybrid of this all in my imagination looked like this: i was the musical star of the Sea World dolphin show, using my inventions to train dolphins in singing along. And then i’d write of adventures in books with plots that suspiciously resembled Harry Potter, but with dolphins.

Lots of social skills as Harry Potter for Halloween, circa third grade.

Lots of social skills as Harry Potter for Halloween, circa third grade.

The hybrid of all of this in reality looked like this: a large cardboard box in the corner of my room overflowing with “inventor-y stuff” (matchbox cars, duct tape). As my friend Becca so fondly recalls, i had a plastic toy dolphin named “Trixie” because she did tricks. (Becca will also tell you Trixie’s tricks were a big flop, but that never stopped me from trying). I actually went pretty far with the singing gig – two years of voice lessons and five years of more choir than anyone with any sense of social skills should hope to take. (Actually, i loved choir, but that’s not the point. I still have no social skills.)

But what has outlasted even my tacky-ass black chorus dress and books of Italian arias is the writing. The desire to write books, perhaps without Trixie-as-Harry-Potter plotlines, remains central to my ten-year plan. It’s kind of why i keep a blog: to keep in practice, to keep writing. To preserve material for my someday egocentric and totally indulgent memoir about my romp through a historically women’s college and semester mucking about Europe.

But if i’m honest with myself, my writing about traveling is not the substantial stuff. It’s tremendously fun, and i know come next year when i have the missing-Edinburgh-blues i will be grateful for making the effort to memorialize what i have experienced. And i love travel writing best of all for keeping in touch with neighbors-as-good-as-kin, my parents, my friends back home.

The substantial stuff, though, that’s what i want to do. I remember telling my best friend in high school i wanted to write a classic – a Tolstoy, a Fitzgerald. She facetiously (and rightly) pointed out that no one sets out to Write a Classic. I look back now with a grain more of humility and heartily agree: people write what is meaningful and beautiful to them, and the power that comes from such truth-telling is what defines a classic.

I’m pretty sure i’m never going to write a War and Peace, as much as my self-important teen self may have wanted to. But i do think it is time for me to truly start embracing that fundamental asset i have seen in all the Good and Great Books i have read, from John Green’s teen fiction to my beloved Toni Morrison’s work.

I have to be bolder, take the risks that terrify me with my naked honesty. This doesn’t make me a Phenomenal Writer – it doesn’t even make me a great writer. It means i am writing, truly and deeply, from my gut. And the best i can hope for is that my vulnerability and lexical expression communicates those questions and feelings with authenticity.

So that is what i’ve done.

Tomorrow, friends and family and good-as-kin-neighbors, i have some exciting and anxiety-inducing and wonderful news to share. I hope you’ll come back to read about it, and i hope it doesn’t flop quite the way Trixie used to.

And, hey, even if it does, i’ll just keep trying.

current jam: ‘san francisco’ the mowgli’s (thanks, radha!) 

best thing: #talkingtaboo.

also: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM, YOU’RE THE GREATEST. Thanks for the dolphin wallpaper and putting up with my “dolphin call” for the whole of second grade.

Seasick on the Strait of Gibraltar.

Anchovies aside, our two-and-a-half days in Spain had been on-the-whole lovely. But we weren’t in Spain as our primary destination: Sevilla was a port of departure for a trip to Northern Morocco.

The Strait of Gibraltar from our bus ride through the mountains!

The Strait of Gibraltar from our bus ride through the mountains!

I was beside myself. Having traveled rather extensively in East and West Africa, i was eager to dig my heels into some Northern Africa territory. Obviously, this was to be a light flavoring of even what all of Morocco has to share and show, but i was hankering for my camel ride and stroll through the fairytale blue streets of Chefchouen.

I was not hankering for usurping my lunch over the bow of our ferry. Even without anchovies, that was not a sight anyone wanted to see.

My motion sickness is embarrassingly debilitating. I can’t sick in the backseat of a car bound for the grocery store without turning green, much less handle choppy waves and gusting winds over the Mediterranean sea. But the worst part wasn’t trying to suck down salt air between waves. It was trying to keep my too-tiny lungs from wheezing in too much secondhand cigarette smoke.

It’s no false stereotype: at least a dozen people stood on the deck puffing on a pack and a half the whole ride over. I’ve been struggling in Europe with the smoking levels everywhere i go, but this was the absolute worst. No consideration for anyone else, the clusters of people blew their excess toxins right into my already-ill face. Nevermind my obnoxiously red inhaler clutched in my greening fingers. Had i not been feeling like my stomach had been replaced with a heavy-load washing machine, i might have assumed soapbox mode and asked for a little awareness of our little-lung neighbors.

After an hour that lasted an asthma-ridden lifetime, we chugged into the Tangiers harbor. The feral cats who inhabited the luggage terminal were my fast friends, and a few mews later i was feeling like a new woman. It’s the simple pleasures, right?

First cat sighting in Morocco!

First cat sighting in Morocco!

Fast friends.

Fast friends.

Another (blessedly smoke-free) bus ride later, we were in our swanky Tétouan hotel where plates of fresher vegetables than i’d seen in months were on the table before us. Morocco was looking seriously good, if for the tomatoes and cucumbers alone.

And my hotel bed was looking even better. So thankful for fresh air and greens not of the seasick-variety, i was for bed.

current jam: ‘holy ground’ taylor swift.

best thing: my dad comes tomorrow!

Sevilla & Málaga: Spring Break Part 1!

(i’m back in edinburgh now, jetlagged and tired but happy to be back. at last, my blogs on spain and morocco are being published!)

I was struck first by the heat. When i can’t so much as leave your desk without unraveling a blanket and donning another sweater, walking outside without so much as a sweater on made me feel utterly nude. And there were palm trees! Actual greenery, not just peeps of emerald grass between halfhearted plops of snow!

plane, watermarked

flying in over the andalucían mountains!

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Spain was looking to be an excellent choice for Spring Break.

We cleared customs in Málaga without so much as a who-are-you, acting like stereotypical Americans giggling over our stamps and mispronouncing every Spanish word in sight. We were giddy with the heat. There was a train and cab ride to the hostel, where our driver got lost in the network of Málaga tiled streets. He pointed down an alley that better resembled a linoleum-floored kitchen than a road, and we found at last our place for the night. There were drinks and tapas and superb sheep’s cheese. Really superb.

The next day was spent in jeans and tanktops – a delightful breath of fashion-themed fresh air – walking around the pier and beach. I dipped rainboot’ed toes into the Mediterranean, and before long we were on a train to Sevilla.

malagueta

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2013-04-08 17.29.43

Actual TILED streets. Who knew?

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And though i’d not only worn a tanktop, seen the Mediterranean, and actually tasted humidity, this was the best part of the day. Our route wound itself through the Andalucían mountains, painted in white pueblas and craggy rock-face mountains underneath the bluest stretch of skies. Fields of grapes textured the landscape. It was breathtaking.

train ride

Once in Sevilla, where the streets no longer required mopping, we found a haunt to dine. Spain has a meal consumption time unlike anywhere else i’ve been – my guidebook (trusty Lonely Planet, as ever. I’m still waiting for my sponsorship) even bore an entire chapter devoted to the subject. You snack, at various hours, throughout the day until a MASSIVE lunch come 2 PM-ish. Then there’s dinner, around 9 PM, with more snacking.

Lucky for travelers catching mid-morning trains, it was prime lunch time in Sevilla.

Unlucky for non-Spanish speakers, we hadn’t a clue what the menu offered. So we played my favorite travel food game: ask the waiter in sign language, point at random on the menu, and hope for the best.

I’ve had delectable surprises in the past, especially at Indian restaurants. You can’t really go wrong there.

Apparently in Spain, though, you can. A steaming plate of fried anchovies on a platter of boiled carrots arrived. We looked at each other, mildly horrified. Our first course of paella (deliciously seasoned rice with a plethora of seafood) had just gone so well.

Appetizing.

Appetizing.

Real-time reactions.

Real-time reactions.

A trashcan stuffed with suspiciously fishy napkins later, we left a hearty European tip and walked out. For future reference: átun does not mean tuna.

My favorite part of Sevilla, needless to say, was not the cuisine.

My favorite part of Sevilla was, in a move totally outside of my character, the enormous cathedral-mosque in the heart of El Centro. The builders conceived it with the hope that future generations would think them mad. I think they achieved their goal.

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cathedral 1

It’s jaw-dropping. Even after my nine-church-tour of Edinburgh/London/Paris, the 7800 pipe organ and orange grove garden was humbling. The clash and harmony of Moorish architecture with Spanish gothic sung a beautiful melody of history and beauty. Besides, i’d love being in any garden in a comfortable sixty-seven degrees farenheight. The fact that the cathedral had a darling orange grove within it made it all the better!

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The warmth of Spain had yet to abate. In two days, we’d seen the beaches of Málaga and the cathedral of Sevilla, survived a meal of anchovies and made up for it with plenty of Spanish wine. It was a delightful start to what was promising to be a delightful week!

current jam: ‘sons & daughters’ the decemberists.

best thing: cotton leggings.

Spring Break

My room has finally settled into a state of general disarray that marks a kind of comfort in permanence. I may be a very clean person (brush my teeth twice a day, can hardly stand to leave my own dishes unwashed for more than an hour or so) but this doesn’t prevent me from being messy. It doesn’t help that my wardrobe has only shelves, not drawers. I’m not known for my precision in folding clothes. So my room looks, well, lived in.

I’ve been here eleven weeks. Eleven. It feels like yesterday i was pulling myself up the stairs to my flat for the first time, bleary-eyed and nose still a little sniffly from saying goodbye. And yet the walk to the grocer has become passé, conversations with friends have delved deeper than small talk and into real-person places. Edinburgh is home, now. The two times i’ve left – for Amsterdam and Paris/London – have marked incredible sojourns into new and familiar places. But both times, riding the bus from the airport back into town, i’ve been happy to murmur my “oh, home,” without a second thought to the newness of this place to me.

And it won’t be long before i’m riding that same bus back into town after yet another trip; Spring Break is almost here and my flatmates and i were hankering for some warmer weather. Edinburgh may be cozy and lovely and dapper, but all of its charm doesn’t halt the freezing cold. There’s still snow in the fourteen-day forecast.

In. April.

So tomorrow, we’re jetsetting off for somewhere basked in warmth: the Andalucia region of Spain, and Morocco!

There will be beaches, a camel ride, the Rif Mountains, tapas, couscous, bargaining, and hopefully-hopefully some flamenco dancing. But mostly, there will be sun and lower 70s-temperatures (Fahrenheit, mind you, i don’t have a death wish) and A CAMEL RIDE IN MOROCCO.

I’m stoked. Northern Africa, as a region, has been a place i’ve wanted to visit for so long. And though this will only be a taste of Northern Morocco, it’s still a taste that involves riding a camel along the Moroccan beach. You know, not bad.

I’ve written a few blog posts scheduled to go live whilst away, so be sure to keep your eyes out for more adventures regaled from J’s time in Edinburgh. Until then, bon voyage!

current jam: ‘kiss you’ 1D. no shame.

best thing: packing.

The Seven Year Pursuit of a Parisian Hot Dog (Which is Not a Metaphor)

I picked a French name for myself on the first day of French 1 – Céline, because it had an accent in it which made me feel tremendously exotic and française. Within two weeks we’d covered hellos and how-are-you’s in Mme Kelly’s sunflower yellow room. I was already amassing a small collection of Eiffel-Tower-themed housewares.

But it was chapter two of my 8th grade French textbook that captivated my imagination. The chapter on French gastronomy.

A textbook geared towards American students detailed simple translations of cuisine famous in the USA; french fries and milk and hamburgers and hot dogs. It was the hot dogs that got me. Madame Kelly’s curly bobcut bounced as she flitted about the room like a fairie, petite and clad in an ascot like a true American-gone-Parisian. “En France,” she began, “the hot dogs are très delicieuse! They come inside a baguette, so that the ketchup or mustard or whatever you like is wrapped all around the meat! What a treat!”

My parents heard nothing but je voudrais un hot dog, s’il-vous-plaît! for the subsequent month. I talked endlessly of how my first meal in Paris would be un hot dog without ketchup, because i am allergic to processed tomatoes (i am aware that this is really very odd, trust me).

Seven years later, i was with mon amour and we were going to Paris. As aforewritten, our first meal was a collapsing into the first restaurant we could find in Montmartre. Though it was, admittedly, a gourmet pizza place, it was still pizza in PARIS, i am in love, and la vie était belle. The hot dogs could wait.

The next day was gloriously filled with seeing the Musée d’Orsay, red wine, the Louvre, more wine, Notre-Dame de Paris, and a romantic stroll along the Seine (with wine).

But nowhere were the hot dogs to be found.

I wasn’t bothered, really, because the aura of Paris basking in azure sky warmth and sunny day smiles had me totally enamored (the wine may have had something to do with that). I also figured that hot dogs were, after all, really an American thing and the more touristy spots around the Eiffel Tower would be my best bet.

Turns out, i was right.

eiffel tower at night, watermarked

J and i arrived at the Eiffel Tower, glittering in all its golden splendor against a purpling night sky. I’m not lying when i say seeing the Tower up close literally takes your breath away (asthmatic, remember?). In our haste to get in the queue to the second floor elevator (the top was closed – frozen elevator cables) i didn’t even notice the hot dog stands dotting the massive space beneath the tower. It was only after we had un-frozen our hands from the outer railings and gone back inside the tower that J saw the café on the second floor.

On the second floor of La Tour Eiffel!

On the second floor of La Tour Eiffel!

My big moment was here. J was fumbling in his pocket for the 2 Euro fifty as i proclaimed the most practiced phrase i know in French: “Je voudrais un hot dog, s’il-vous-plaît!

Désolée,” replied the clerk. “Nous n’avons pas des hot dogs. Ran out this afternoon.”

My look of disappointment must have told non-Francophone-J all he needed to know. They did not have hot dogs, so a pretzel it was. Down the stairs we went, catching sight of the glittering Seine and far-off Sacre Coeur.

Until we reached the bottom, where, not twenty feet from the elevator, stood a sign that read HOT DOGS HERE. I skipped my way over, the words out of my mouth before i could catch my breath. The guy at the stand grunted a yes, and set to work making my hot dog. I was ecstatic, i was elated, i was ready to fulfill seven years of waiting, when the clerk handed me -

a hot dog smothered in ketchup.

For the second time that evening, my eyes were painted in shades of forlorn as i shared a look with half-laughing,-half-sympathizing J. I handed him the hot dog, walking back to the  stand to ask for one without ketchup. For whatever reason, the guy refused to make me one. J tried not to tell me how delicious the snack was, and i tried not to let the inner-thirteen-year-old throw an entirely inexcusable tantrum.

I had given up, prevented by my weird allergy and longing for the magic that made Mme Kelly dance in her sunflower-yellow French classroom.

J, however, is not one so easily defeated. The next morning, we took the metro to Trocadéro where there is a large platform from which you can see the entirety of the Eiffel Tower. Lo and behold, where there are tourists in Paris, there are hot dog stands. At his encouragement, i walked up to this stand-man and asked i could have a hot dog gratine (with cheese) and sans ketchup.

His affirmative reply literally made me yelp with glee. At last, in my hands, was a hot-off-the grill hot dog encased in a baguette swimming with cheese. So there i was, overlooking the monument that had adorned the posters of my walls since i first learned how to say bonjour, when i at last had my Parisian snack.

un hot dog, s'il vous plait

It was scrumptious and cheesy and so worth the wait (in case you can’t tell by the enormous grin). I don’t even like hot dogs all that much in the States, but there was something so magical about remembering Mme Kelly and the first time i fell in love with Paris. And maybe i was always destined to have to hunt for the snack – after all, it makes for an absurd and ridiculous Parisian tale to tell.

current jam: ‘la foule’ édith piaf.

best thing: l’amour à paris!

(also also, there will be a full blog solely on the eiffel tower coming soon!)

So, Paris.

Trying to write about the enamor i now feel for Paris is like trying to make Michelangelo’s Pièta out of play-doh. What does a writer say about the City of L’amour that has not yet been said?

Paris has lived in my mind for so long; the rewinds and re-watches of my favorite Disney, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, instilled a love of the grandiose cathedral from a wee age. In eighth grade i enrolled in my first French class with the intent of being able to speak the language in African countries once colonized by the French. I didn’t expect to also fall madly in love with the idea of Paris, but suddenly i had three Eiffel Tower keychains and a calendar of photographs along the Seine.

In my tummy-knotted waiting for J, i had hardly stopped to consider the impending realization of my eighth-grade dreams. The guidebooks were tabbed, playlists made, but the reality wasn’t there.

Until i caught my first glimpse of Montmartre’s winding alleyways. Then, i was there. I was Audrey Hepburn in white sunglasses, strolling along the Seine. I was every line from Moulin Rouge! singing from a red windmill. I was my mother in her movie-star black coat, i was thirteen and practicing: Bonjour, ça va? I was every writer who’d been intoxicated by the river, every dreamer who had wished under the Parisian sky. It met and exceeded my every expectation.

J called it my "Paris Face," taken at our first meal upon our (late evening) arrival!

J called it my “Paris Face,” taken at our first meal upon our (late evening) arrival!

J and i are back in Edinburgh now, with his return ticket to the states looming over our vin du Paris grins with an increasingly ominous tune. There will (wayyy) be more blogging on and photos of Paris (and London and Edinburgh!) soon, but for now i’m going to embrace un joie de vivre and be present in the non-blogging real world. Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Day one: first photo on the Seine riverbank!

Day one: first photo on the Seine riverbank!

current jam: ‘bells of notre dame’ hunchback of notre dame soundtrack; no shame.

best thing: paris!

Erratic.

The film i had to watch for class this week was so utterly dull i spent the majority of it painting my nails a voracious shade of magenta. They’ve chipped so i re-did them this morning, my hands shaking.

I have so much adrenaline in me right now, i’m not sure i’d pass a drug test. Pugs not drugs. But, like, really. I made my coffee extra weak this morning and everything. With two dollops of milk. Two!

Two essays have been vanquished; the last stands some 1200 words in and a very thorough outline to the finish. Frankly, i just don’t want to talk about the male gaze in cinema right now. Any other time, gender politics and art rank in my top-five-favorite things to chat about. Not now. So the cursor blinks maniacally at me on the screen. Taunting my out-of-character inability to focus. In my head it’s the beat of a bass drum: thum, thum, thum.

It’s a proper Edinburgh day: miserable and misty and reeking of rain. I keep toying with the cord of my curling iron, wondering if it’s worth it. Nothing can ruin a bouffant like side-lining rain. No better way to pass time than trying to ensure my lion’s mane looks decent.

My coffee mugs need washing. So does my hair. When i know i will be an erratic mess of non-drug-induced adrenaline, i make a tight schedule for myself the day before: not a moment before nine-thirty, awake. Go to the library, return books. Vacuum. Re-arrange posters. First cup of coffee. Make it last. Wait until after his arrival call around noon from Amsterdam before showering.

Every hour that passes is like a mile in a marathon. All i can do is calculate in my head the distance traveled in relation to the minutes it took to travel them. How many things can i fit in the waiting minutes, the minutes that crush me with their not-yet-itis?

I made guacamole yesterday, with a mojito chicken reprise. Both were a little heavy on the coriander. (I’d scheduled an extra thirty seconds for plucking herbs, so as to make the minute stretch longer). Still, cooking is a work in progress. I’ve dreamed up a new recipe for mac & cheese. Bookmarked some other salad concoctions i hope to try soon.

My pinker-than-pink nails are drumming to the imaginary beat of my aching cursor. Thum. Thum. Thum. Waiting is not my strong suit – it never has been. In the time before my driver’s license, i’d pace outside my mother’s office. Listen to her tap-tap-tapping on the computer, every tap an agonizing delay to my compulsive five-minutes-early reputation. We’d yell at each other like no other time, her furious at my inability to relax until arrived, me incredulous that the world did not move at five-minutes-early-everywhere speed.

I’d like to think i’ve gotten a bit better. Having my own means of transport certainly helped. But on days like today, i’m fourteen and a hypoglycemic meltdown all over again. But there’s no parent to pester to move faster. Only the proverbial clock, the unmerciful slowness of time that is in the in-betweens.

4 hours, 30 mintues. I can do this.

current jam: ‘you got what i need’ joshua radin. soothing music to soothe the drums and drones.

best thing: 800 words remain. 800 words can fill an hour, right?