OMYWORD! Did I Say That?

Cougar UP!

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 18:55:00 +0000

Cougar Up! That's the name of a new line of products created by the girlfriend of an old friend of mine. She told me all about it over dinner and wine a few nights ago. She was driving home one day and saw a bumper sticker with "Cougar Up!" on it and she said, "Damn! Why didn't I think of that first?!!" (I don't know. I honestly don't know.) Then she got closer to the car and realized it actually said, "Cowgirl Up!" So she rushed home to see if anyone else had coined the Cougar Up phrase and decided nobody had. Thus, a new product line was born, for older ladies of, well, sexual means.

I have to admit that I plastered a smile on my face as I listened to her tell this story. And I politely (fakely) said, "Oh Wow!" in all the right places when I was shown "the merchandise." And I graciously accepted the gift of my very own Swarovski crystal-studded Cougar Up! black t-shirt (with a peace sign in the "o" of the cougar, no less). I was told that it retails for SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS!! But my older, yet somewhat perky breasts were not aching to make those crystals sparkle. I drove home with that thing growling at me from the back seat.

I guess I qualify as a cougar. But I don't want to be one. I have this judgment about older women (like me) throwing down really young men. It's just fine, I suppose, as long as nobody gets hurt (And who is usually more vulnerable...hmmm?). But, I still think it's cheesy and tacky and undignified and... desperate.

But I've had my comeuppance. Yes, I have. It happened to me in Vegas, as all things tacky and desperate should. I didn't throw down a youngster, nor have I changed my mind about my own lack of cougar tendencies, but I certainly have softened my judgment about other women indulging in this wild-cat sport.

That t-shirt remained in my car as I drove up to Las Vegas, burning a paw print into the fine Corinthian leather. I figured Vegas would be the perfect place for me to unburden myself of the thing. After all, I was going there for my friend Sandee's 60th birthday. Surely I'd find the perfect demographic for that shirt at her party. Hell, I thought I might even just package it up and give it to Sandee for her birthday, since I (and all her friends, family and Santa Claus) had grown so very tired of that antique she'd been dating for 45 years who refused to ever come to her house to pick her up for a date (she had to meet him everywhere), who never, ever slept in her bed and who was a millionaire cheapskate who left the $2.95 price tag on her birthday presents (If he ever remembered to give her one). If anybody needed some "fresh meat" in her life, it was Sandee. Besides, "cougar bait" boys don't wear yellow polyester double-knit sans-a-belt pants and saddle shoes, nor do they have dandruff on their stubbly, age-spotted cheeks. Gag.

The night of my arrival, Sandee invited one of her girl friends over to her house so that I could meet her. Sandee thought we'd hit it off, and she was right. She's a gorgeous redhead whom I'll name Ginger, after the exotic movie star character from Gilligan's Island. Ginger was loads of fun and we connected immediately. She was smart and witty and full of energy. Then this conversation happened:

Sandee: So, have you seen cougar bait recently?
Lisa: (WTF is cougar bait?)
Ginger: Oh honey, yes I have!
Sandee: What's his name, anyway?
Ginger: I have no idea! Don't even care! At one point I said to him, "Maybe we should have a conversation sometime."
Sandee & Ginger: (gales of laughter)
Me: hehe?

So, I can be a little slow, especially with this whole new vocabulary and all. Cougar. Cougar UP! Cougar bait. My oh my. But I slowly started to get the picture. Especially when Ginger said "He's a fireman!" I got quite a picture, then.

The next night was the 60th birthday party and Ginger came over early to help us get all the food and other stuff set up. She paused on the couch long enough to let us know about her date the previous evening with The Fireman.

Ginger: (I must take poetic license and imagine that she's stretched out on the bed, or perhaps bent over the kitchen counter, in some level of undress, panting in a snaggle-toothed, tongue-lolling, cougary kind of way...)
Fireman: (hesitating) Um, you do take birth control, don't you?
Ginger: (working hard not to laugh) I don't have to take birth control.
Fireman: (confused) You mean you use something else?
Ginger: No honey, I can't get pregnant.
Fireman: Oh. ... Why not? (This is a good indication of how little these young men know about women's bodies)
Ginger: Because, I stopped having my period a long time ago.
Fireman. (still confused) Oh.

Later......................................... (I had to draw it out because, from what I hear, this cougar thing is rarely a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm kind of thing. It's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'm-let's-do-it-a-fifth-time kind of thing.)

Fireman: So, how old are you?
Ginger: How old do you think I am?
Fireman: Well, how old do you think I am?
Ginger: 38.
Fireman: Close. 37. So, seriously, how old are you?
Ginger: Old enough to be your mother.
Fireman: Get out!
Ginger: Would you like to come to my 60th birthday party in September?
Fireman: OMG! This is my BIGGEST FANTASY!

Well, now. I won't go any further because you can imagine that by this time, The Fireman's hose was primed again and he was ready to get back to work on one hot and burning red house.

Guess who I gave the Cougar Up! t-shirt to? Ginger. She wore it proudly the next day. There isn't a hint of tackiness, cheesiness or desperation in Ginger. She's just got a healthy lust for ~~men~~ life and she's having lots of fun. She's happy with her "cougar bait." He's delighted with her. There are no strings and no last names. Just some wobbly legs and mussed up (thinning) hair in the wee hours of the morning.

Courage

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:40:00 +0000

more photo's of todays chaos #iranelection
Originally uploaded by .faramarz

Women of Iran, you are my sisters. We hold the power of NO.

No to violence. No to killing. No to suppression. No to lies.

Of Soylent Green And Love Blankets

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 18:38:00 +0000

I was pumping gas into my car yesterday when I heard a woman's voice very close to me. I looked around and there was nobody but the dusty wind. Then I looked up and saw the TV screen atop the gas pump, playing an infinite loop of advertising. I felt like I was in the movie Soylent Green, and Big Sister was repeating the litany of what I should believe and what I should buy. Her voice, a little out of sync, echoed simultaneously from the tops of every gas pump.

Many men in Arizona shave their heads. Is this a new trend?

Men have a distinctive uniform here. Casual: Long baggy shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. Dressy: Large Tommy Bahama or Hawaiian shirts worn untucked over slacks... and flip flops.

Women dress in corporate mall wear. While I sneer at that, I'm wearing the jeans I bought at Monoprix in Paris, and the top I bought at Target in Carefree. Oh... and the flip flops I bought at Target as well. Arizona women - feel free to flip me a bird right now.

Rubio's is still my favorite Mexican food chain (or possibly the only food chain I would ever set foot in), with the freshest made-to-order mahi-mahi tacos and chipotle salsa. I went there after the car wash yesterday and the woman behind the counter was so incredibly, genuinely, direct-eye-contact-big-smile friendly, that I became shy and looked down at my wallet as she beamed at me. I lingered after eating, thinking I might ask her where exactly in her heart and mind all of that love comes from. But she was very busy pouring it, like fresh salsa verde, all over the next customer in line.

I had my second experience meeting a virtual blog friend a few days ago, Rich from The Daily Husband and Mister Richard's Bloggerhood. I enjoyed it very, very much. The first time I did this was with The Wishful Writer, who I don't have to talk to or read about, in order to know she's still my friend. Rich and his lovely wife met me at a Starbucks, where he said he had 501 questions for me. We only covered about 42, but that just means I get to see them again so we can cover some more. They graciously invited me back to their home and fed me scrumptious Chinese food and we sat outside in the unseasonably cool air and talked about politics and blogging, and why we both kind of feel like it's been a useful release of pent-up rage for us, but perhaps not something to do long-term. He quit his political blog; I haven't yet. I must have some lingering rage to express...

I love my family, even though we are all so different.

One of my friends from waaaay back in the early '70's drove all the way over to my brother's house to see me. She said, "This was a huge stretch for me. I rarely leave my house." I was honored she would overcome her fears just to see me. Then I told her that I am just as afraid to leave my home as she is. We're all afraid at a certain level. We just express it in different ways. The world would be so much better if we believed more in the power of grace in our lives, than in the false power of darkness and doom.

I would like to invent a magic cloth that I could drape over people's heads and shoulders, snuggle them into it. And the cloth would soften their brittleness, calm their fears and most of all, allow them to forgive themselves. I would buy one for myself, after I watched the people I love begin to love themselves as much as I love them.

I miss Paris like a new lover. It's that bittersweet feeling - a painful tug in my heart followed by an excited thrill when I imagine the next time we meet. With my eyes closed, I conjure up memories so I can believe that she's still in my life.

Sun-Kissed Mouse Pad

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 19:18:00 +0000

I love my friend T. She has the strength and energy of 40 he-men packed into an eentsy beentsy little body. She mows the lawn, slays bees, climbs ladders, reattaches window screens, empties the trash, cleans the house, chases down car thieves (and attends all their trial hearings) and lets me sleep in her smiley-face guest room.

She also washes her mouse pad. Have you ever washed your mouse pad? And set it out in the Arizona sun so that it dries properly? I certainly haven't. This is why I love my friend T.

Smokin' In The Parking Lot

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 17:17:00 +0000

I've been in Arizona since Memorial Day, hanging out with my family and taking care of bidness, both Uhmerkin and Françaises. It's been interesting, so I wanted to write a few observations before they slip out of my brain.....

I have never been a chain restaurant kinda gal. Can't do corporate America. Can't do prefabricated corporate food. But when hangin' with the relations, I go (mostly) happily wherever I'm taken. These restaurants remind me of a few things...

America is like Disneyland. We fabricate fantasy environments so we can pretend we're in a 50's diner or a Mexican cantina or a thatch-roofed beach-side Bahamas burger joint or a British pub. None of these incarnations come vaguely close to the real thing, either in decor or food. But we get to "escape" the reality of our lives and pretend we're on vacation for a moment or two. The problem is, this escape is a temporary fix, and not a very satisfying one to boot.

We also create fake little "villages" and gated "communities" to create an illusion of neighborhoodiness where none can possibly exist. There's nobody sitting on their front stoop, sipping an ice tea and playing their accordion, waving and saying, "Hi Mabel! How's your granny doing? And Hank? How's his lumbago?" Even though you've been going to the same Walgreens for years, you have no idea who the checkout girl is. (She's your next-door neighbor by the way. You pass each other in your cars every day, but never notice.) There's nobody walking along the fabricated village pathways. There's nobody outside at all. Everyone is hiding in their houses and cars. Watching really bad TV. All 395 channels of it. I will bet you a million dollars (chump change these days) that they are also saying, "395 channels and not a fucking thing to watch." But they continue to pay an exhorbitant amount for the privelege of that "entertainment."

OK...back to the restaurants...

There's no possibility of a lingering lunch or dinner spent with friends and family talking about life. Everything in American restaurants is built around turning the table as fast as possible. The chairs are purposely uncomfortable, the music makes it impossible to talk, the bussers are constantly asking if you're finished yet so they can take your plate. I keep saying, "No." I half expect them to say, "Well, when will you be done then? You've got to get moving, you know."

The freaking waiter never leaves you alone. I know from experience that this intrusion is restaurant policy ("touching the table"), but it's the single most annoying thing I've experienced. Not only do they ask if "everything is ok" within two minutes of delivering the food, but they ask you that question after the appetizer is delivered, after the wine is delivered, after the main course is delivered and after the dessert is delivered. It's as if I have an overprotective mother who is also a complete stranger, pretending to be my friend for a few moments and then discarding me, and his/her "concern" for me, as soon as I disengage my ass from that rock-hard seat and pay the bill.

The amount of food on a plate is horrifying to me. (America is obese because why?) I went out to breakfast in my tiny little town of Carefree and I ordered eggs and bacon. I got two eggs that were the size of soccar balls. I feel sorry for that damn chicken. I got 5 pieces of bacon that were about 9 inches long. They were thrown on top of a 3-inch-high mound of potatoes that was the thick dividing line between the huge eggs and four 1-inch-thick pieces of raison bread slathered in butter. I ate the eggs and some of the bacon. I never tasted the potatoes and had one bite of toast. The rest? Thrown out. Terrible waste. You can take it home in a container (a big no-no in France, or most of Europe), but those containers sit in everybody's refrigerator for weeks until somebody opens them out of curiosity, gags, and throws them out.

During this same breakfast outing, I just wanted an espresso. That's all. But here's how the conversation went: "I'd like an espresso." "OK, sure! You probably want a Latte." "No... an espresso. You know... an espresso?" The waitress looks at my friend for assistance with me, the weird woman, and says, "You mean a double shot?" My friend just smiled at me, knowing what I was thinking. I said, "If you only serve espresso as double shots, then double shot it is." Incredibly, the conversation continued. "You don't want cream or sugar with that?" She was actually kind of puzzled. I said, "No. Just black." Incredibly (did I say that before?), the conversation continued. "You don't want any flavoring like vanilla or amaretto or..." My smile was now glued to my face. One cannot punish the child for the errors of the parent, I reminded myself. "Nope. No flavors. Just black. Thanks!" I bet she's still telling her side of the story, too.

When she walked away scratching her head, I finally looked down at the menu. I saw that one entire page was dedicated to coffee. One entire page.

All alcoholic drinks come in giant glasses. Giant. Humongous. Herculean. When my flight arrived in Phoenix around 6pm, my brother whisked me off to a really fabulous (non-chain) restaurant owned by his friend, Eddy Matney. Most of my family and a few close friends were there to greet me. It was wonderful. I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. My wine glass was almost too big for me to pick up, and it contained a half bottle of wine. I'm not kidding. And I had two! Holy Moly. The next morning, I was hung over beyond redemption.

You'd think I would have learned from the wine experience. But... I went to the office with my bro to go through my mail and do some copying and stuff, and he asked me if I wanted to go have Mexican for lunch. When he ordered a Margarita, I said, "I'll have the same." It was the size of a urinal. With salt. I needed two hands to pick it up. I also needed to go directly home to bed after lunch. Jet lag my ass.

And of course, I'm still smoking. But I have to say, and you'll be surprised at this one, the French smoking laws are much nicer than American smoking laws. In France, you can slip out the front door of the restaurant and light up. You can even stand in the doorway and continue chatting with your friends at their table or the owner behind the bar, as long as you blow the smoke out the door. Or, you can sit at an outside table and light up. That night at Eddy Matney's, the night I arrived, I stepped out on their patio and lit up. This is what I heard: "CAN'T DO THAT HERE!" I looked up from my bic lighter. All the people at the tables were staring at me. This cute little waitress said, "You can't smoke here." "Can I smoke out there on the sidewalk?" "Yes, but you have to be twenty feet from the front door." That would put me in the parking lot. Which is where I went.

Mystical Adventuress

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Wed, 06 May 2009 15:03:00 +0000

Or, I guess I'm an adventurER, since my name is Allan Quartermain, whoever the heck he is. With the double L's... even. Hmph. (OK, I looked him up and he's very cool. Just like me.)

But I just had some fun playing this little quiz game so I thought you might like it too. Click on the little text link at the bottom of the image to see what kind of an adventurer you are.

Quiz brought to you by
Tripbase - Vacation Ideas

Konnichiwa Spaghetti

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 06:11:00 +0000

On Friday I met a friend at the entrance of Galeries Lafayette so that we could find somewhere to have lunch near the Opera. While I waited for her, I found a little spot amidst the motorcycles parked on the sidewalk, so I could get out of the throngs of people on Boulevard Haussmann. What a parade of fashion faux pas, fetish and flair, all to the unceasing accompaniment of a tall, spindly and wizened organ grinder who might have had sticks for legs, but whose arms were as taut as harbor rope. He never stopped turning that crank the entire 35 minutes I was there. He had a sweet orange tabby cat on a red satin leash. She sat placidly, in the perfect cat stance, with front legs and paws in a straight furry line, and the tip of her tail delicately tap-tap-tapping as she calmly surveyed her corner of the world. Pigeons cooed and pecked around her with impunity. Every once in a while, the organ grinder would open up his free hand, and a white pigeon with brown spots would settle on his wrist and peck at some food in his palm.

If you spend any time in a foreign country, you become skilled at identifying the nationality of passersby. Americans love their glaringly white brand-name sports shoes, logo bags and college sweatshirts and Dutch women wear wide-legged three quarter length slacks and geometric tunic tops with colorful, wide-toed, flat shoes. Japanese hipsters have big shaggy hairdos and skinny-jeans or costumes of pink fluff juxtaposed with chains, as if they had just stepped out of a Manga cartoon. There's always a smattering of Muslim veils, but there wasn't a single North African in site. I'm always interested in the French women, mostly makeup-free, who invariably wear simple, classic clothing, even if a bit scuffed or worn, but they always carry themselves with understated elegance. One petite woman wore a Chanel suit whose wool had balled up or had been pulled in several places. She'd had that suit for a long time, and would wear it for a long time to come.

My friend arrived, an American who knows how to pull off an international look, in black slacks, practical but elegant medium black pumps, a soft red blouse and coral sweater. We kissed and then pondered which direction we'd walk to find a sidewalk cafe. There are several cafes in the area, where you can sit outside and look at the historic Opera building and watch people go by. The weather's been beautiful in Paris for the last week or so, not yet reaching 70 degrees, but gloriously sunny. So, we wanted to sit outside and enjoy a lingering, chatty lunch. I generally avoid the touristy parts of town, because the waiters can be a bit impatient and haughty and the food is high priced and mediocre, but this was close to my friend's French school, so... what the heck.

We selected a cafe, mostly because there were seats available outside and our waiter had a big welcoming smile. He motioned us to a table in the front with great flourish. When someone left at the back of the patio, we asked if we could move and he quickly whisked all the dirty dishes off the table and reset it for us. He was warm and friendly, which isn't often the case. I ordered a kir and my friend ordered a diet coke, which came out in a big fat mug that looked like an old-fashioned root beer glass.

My friend and I were soon too deep in conversation to pay much attention to the ebb and flow of cafe customers. She told me how she uses an evening meditation to send out love to all the people she came into contact with that day (a practice I had never thought of, but of which I heartily approve) and we discussed the concept of withholding sex from spouses who voted for Bush for the second time (a practice I didn't know existed, but of which I heartily approve). I talked about my recent acceptance of the fact that I'm a hermit. I find calmness in silence and gain sustenance from being alone.

At one point, during a rare lull in our conversation, I realized that each time the patio emptied, the two waiters would stand at the front and try and lure more customers in. They had also become adept at parsing nationalities, and greeted people in their own language. There was one particular chant I kept hearing from our waiter: Konnichiwa! Spaghetti! I realized that every time Japanese tourists would walk by the restaurant, our waiter would greet them with, "Konnichiwa!" And when he caught the tourist's eye he'd then say, "Spaghetti!" After the 5th or 6th time I started laughing and asked him, "Pourquoi spaghetti?" He told me, "Because all the Japanese people order spaghetti. Spaghetti with this sauce and spaghetti that sauce. Always spaghetti!"

I don't know why, but I think that Konnichiwa! Spaghetti! needs to become the new code phrase for... just about anything. It has a certain ring to it, n'est-ce pas? As if we're bowing with respect to an obscure God of noodles, a cross-cultural comfort food that magically gives Mediterranean sustenance to the weary Asian traveler. Either that, or it's a new Manga Mating Mantra.

(Image courtesy of SetoAngel01 at DeviantArt.com.)

Joy In Antwerp Central Station

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 11 Apr 2009 08:49:00 +0000

This made me cry, it's so lovely. Many thanks to my friend Erik at Truth and Beauty for turning me on to this:

Happy Easter everyone, or Happy Spring, or whatever you may be celebrating.

I am NOT The Antichrist?

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 06:36:00 +0000

I am SO relieved. Ever since my mother told me I was possessed by the devil, I've worried about this. I've wandered the world, sullied by the taint of my potential for evil and destruction. Plus, I remember reading on some fanatical freak's website that the antichrist was born in 1957. Me, and bin Laden, were both born in 1957! OMG! But now, I can finally put my fears to rest. It wasn't me, on September 11th (through some evil telepathic symitry with my devil spawn sibling Mr. ObL) who destroyed the twin towers. (It was Dick Cheney, after all. Phew!)

Mathematical proof that lisa wines is not the Antichrist!

When I looked up antichrist in Wikipedia, I was not surprised to see that so many people have been accused of being the antichrist throughout history, including the entire papacy in Rome, that it just comes down to a bunch of goofy people making shit up.

As is the case with the above mathematical calculations. But I will believe and have faith in them, because they make me feel better. Oh. Never mind.

Uh-oh. I spoke too soon. I went back to the antichrist page and entered my full, secret name. Middle name and all. The middle name my mother gave me after she watched the tragic movie Camille in her hospital room. She named me after a French prostitute. Therefore...

Mathematical proof that lisa camille wines is the Antichrist!

I'm A SuperheroEtte

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 12:44:00 +0000

So, I just had lots of fun...making myself into a SuperHeroEtte. You can too. Just go to The Hero Factory and have a blast (laser, of course). Hat tip to the lovely l'Uragana (hurricane girl) for this lazy-day distraction.

I'm still pondering my new handle: The Meaty Lasered Jones. Hmmm. They don't let you pick your name. It's auto-generated. I think Karl Jung would have something to say about the synchronicity of my name and the fantasy archetype I've created. That is, if he were still alive. I miss him, still. I'm sure he misses me too. (WTF am I bloggerating about?)

OK, so I used to be meaty, but the meat is falling off of me at an interesting rate. I stand back and watch myself diminish and go, "Huh." Good thing I can buy clothes for a dollar here. I'll be needing some new ones right quick.

And if only, if only I could afford to be lasered. Then these damn chin hairs that I can't see well enough to pluck, but the whole world certainly can, would be gone. Notice that Ms. Meaty Jones has no chin hairs. They were offered to her, but she demurred.

At first, I chose a big walking stick as my weapon. But my HeroEtte name had "Walker" in it, and if there is something that I definitely am not, it's a walker. Limo rider, maybe. Dirigible flier, maybe. But, not walker.

The Magical Journey Of A Velib Card

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 06:28:00 +0000

Yesterday morning I was walking down the hallway on the way to the front door of my building, when I saw the blur of a man's face, his nose pressed against the glazed glass of the door. I could tell he was peering and squinting, trying to see inside. I was almost afraid to open the door, in case he might tumble in. But, open it I did.

Bonjour!
Ah! Bonjour Madame!

We both laughed. He was holding a FedEx package. I stood there, inside the hallway, holding the door open. He stood out on the sidewalk, holding his package. We both laughed again. He said, "Were you just leaving?" And I said yes. So, he stepped aside so I could step out, and he could step in.

Then he started to speak French, asking me a question, and pointing to the package. I figured he was trying to find out where to deliver the package, since the mailbox slots wouldn't accept the FedEx envelope, and there's no clear indication on the mailboxes where people live. You could figure it out, but it would take a while.

I usually interrupt somebody by this point, and tell them I don't speak French. Which is probably something I need to change because, even though my vocabulary and verb conjugation is lacking, my accent is pretty good, so it never seems quite right to say it. It would be like you asking me a question and me saying, in a perfect Arizona accent, "Sorry, but I don't speak English." Huh? Anyway, this time, I just let him keep talking, and when he pointed to the name on the FedEx package, and then pointed inside, I took a look at the name, and it was me.

C'est moi!
Non!
Oui, C'est moi!

We were already enjoying the first coincidence, that at the very moment he was realizing he didn't have a code to get into the building, and so he probably wouldn't be able to deliver the package, I opened the door. But now, as he looked inside the building and realized he probably wasn't going to be able to figure out how to find a certain Lisa Wines, she was the very person standing in front of him.

We laughed again. He shook his head in amazement, and then asked me if I had a husband. Ahem. I said no, and then he went on and on, I think he was telling me that he lived right around the corner. Sorry, dude. You might be my coinkidink of the morning, but you're not coming over for tea anytime soon. I changed the subject.

Voudriez-vous voir mon identification?
Bah, way.

So, I showed him my ID. He peered down at it, just as he had peered through the glass door. I think he might need some glasses. Then he smiled and handed me his clipboard so I could sign for the package. As I signed, he talked and talked and talked and I smiled and smiled, absolutely clueless. But, if he's like most guys, it was all about him. How do you yawn in French?

With my official signature placed in the official pink slot (I was careful not to write outside the dotted lines), I was given my package. There are rules in France, and signing papers, in quadruplicate, sextuplet and until you're a septuagenarian, is something one must do at least 24.6 times in between making the coffee in the morning, and going to bed at night.

My FedEx boyfriend followed me back to the sidewalk, smiling and shaking his head at his, and my, bon chance.

In fact, when I thought about it on the Metro, I was definitely lucky. If I hadn't have been there at that exact moment to open the door, that package would have gone back to some deep, dark holding bin in some central FedEx facility in Paris, and MAYBE a note would have been stuck on the front door of my building, which I MIGHT have received through some divine intervention, which would, in triplicate, direct me to the facility, probably on the far outskirts of Paris, where I would have had to have shown up, between 11:05 and 1:00 or 3:08 and 4:10, Tuesdays through Thursdays, unless there is a national strike, a school holiday, or the employees decided they needed a break. There, I would have to stand in line for many minutes, only to arrive at the kiosk when the employee must go on break, and so I wait some more, until finally, I give them my little form, which they separate into three color-coded pages and stamp 2 of them and sign one of them and then I sign 3 of them and then they demand my ID, which, if I am not French, must include my passport. Since I already learned this bitter lesson one too many times, I would have had the passport with me.

And then maybe, just maybe, they would sit back and look at me and decide if they want me to have the package or not. Because the clerk has all the power, and I have none. I would have been smiling at them from the beginning, starting out with a hearty, full-eye-contact Bonjour Madame! or Bonjour Monsieur! Because the greeting and the eye contact are critical components of French bureaucratic finesse. I have learned a thing or too in this lovely country. Yes, I have.

And now, my friend Fiachna will be happy to know that by some miracle, in defiance of all the odds of Frenchnoscity, his Velib bike rental card has arrived, after enjoying a little sequestered voyage across the ocean in my niece's scented jeans pocket, and upon discovery (thankfully before hitting the washing machine), was sent back across the ocean, to me. It will just be another excuse for Fiachna and I to share a bottle of wine and wonder again, at the magic of life in France.

Geeknoscity

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 08:01:00 +0000

I love The Science Blogs. I know, I know. I'm a geek. Yes I am. But, when nobody was looking, I added their feed to my feedreader, and every day I get insider viewpoints on a much-maligned and dismissed sector of our society (at least during the BushCo admin) - the people who actually have brains, versus the Creationists, who DON'T.

ANYhoo! There's also a girl scientist who calls herself Isis The Scientist, and wears bright yellow come-fuck-me pumps, uses satire and says fuckalot... especially when under the influence of Nyquil. She, and such behavior, are of course, right up my alley.

I'm baaaack

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 15:30:00 +0000

With the bestest haircut ever. A spirit-lifting pre-birthday present for myself. (I start celebrating really early, and keep on celebrating for as long as I can get away with it, or until my friends say, "Enough! Happy birthday, already!) Thirtee-seven bucks is all it cost me. Plus a really nice conversation with Natalie as she shredded heaps o' hair, and premature old age, off of my head. Natalie spent 12 years in New York with her husband. He was working in the film industry, on such shows as The Sopranos.

I'm just glad she came back to Paris so she could cut my hair.

So, here I am...almost 52. Oh, and by the way, that's my natural color. Cool, huh?

Couldn't Have Said It Better

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 18:19:00 +0000

If you're viewing this post in an email, please click through to my blog to view the video and find out how some other girl read my mind and said exactly what I'm thinking. Right now, at this very moment. The world is a small place, and all us girls are one.

I Lied About The French

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 08:32:00 +0000

I'm sure I've been "mistaken" or perhaps I've "misremembered" a few things on this blog from time to time. I mean, if our political "leaders" can do it, then so can I. It sounds so nice when said this way. It's almost like some thing or some person other than me, a gnome perhaps, made me do it. If I were Sarah Palin, or Flip Wilson, I could say "The devil made me do it." That is, if I believed in the devil.

But in this case, I can chalk my "inaccuracies" up to the fact that observing and commenting on Paris from my 6th-floor balcony is not quite the same as taking the creaking elevator downstairs, going through the code-locked building door, then through the electronic gate, and diving right in. Now that I've moved apartments and live on the ground floor of a new old and crumbly building, all I have to do is walk out the front door of my apartment, through my adorable little private garden patio that I can't wait to use when the weather gets warmer, down a long, thin hallway, past the mail boxes and out the door that "some people" just won't close, and I'm out in the middle of a new section of Paris, the 17th arrondissement.

What I lied about was when I told you that French people don't get up and go to work at oh-dark-thirty like we industrious Americans. I knew this was a fact because I have the wake-up-early-even-on-vacation disease, and as the world snored, I stood on my balcony with my first dose of caffeinated personality, and listened to the silence of each Paris morning, and looked down upon the empty Paris streets and looked down upon the lazy Parisians and muttered a superior "tsk tsk." I imagined them all face down in their feather pillows, or stretching and yawning at 10 AM, picking up their first of many Gauloises, scratching their nether regions, and contemplating their day. In my mind's eye they wandered unshowered into their neighborhood coffee bar and had a leisurely espresso while they discussed Sarko with the barman and then finally walked to work so they could grace their boss with their presence for a few hours until they left again to indulge in a two-hour lunch.

I was, shall we say, ~~wrong~~ misinformed.

Recently I've had a string of appointments at 9 or 9:30 AM. Since I'm in a different part of the city, I had to figure out a new Metro route to my appointments. And so, on my first day out, I exercised my other disease called being-early-for-my-own-damn-funeral, and left 45 minutes ahead of time.

The streets were empty and quiet at 8:15. I smiled to myself about all those socialists, still snug in their beds. Then I descended into the caverns of the Metro, overly proud of my routing skills, and stood on the platform with what I thought was an unusual amount of people. Tourists? Were those Germans peering down the tracks, impatiently wondering where the train was?Were those Swiss, looking at their watches? They certainly couldn't be French.

Then the train arrived.

Staring out at me were thousands of faces, smashed against the windows of the train doors, their bodies one big solid mass of black wool coats. I stood, mouth open. Brave people near me, pushed the button to open those doors. I expected all the people to fall out onto the platform, like sweaters and suitcases and papers and books used to fall out of my closets back home, when I owned too many things. But the human mass remained intact, and my fellow sojourners actually pushed their way into the mob, turning delicately to face outwards with briefcase flat against their knees, making sure that when the doors closed, they would not lose their nose or other protruding body parts.

I decided to wait for the next train.

As the next wave of people came running down the steps to the platform, unhappy to watch the train move down the tracks without them, others wandered calmly down and began to fill up the platform once again. I instinctively moved towards the front, thinking that I better get into fighting position because time was running out and things weren't looking good. The next train came, and the same thing happened. So, I gathered my courage and pushed into the warm spongy crowd and, imitating what others had done before me, turned to face the door. It closed upon my huge purse, and a somewhat disgusted girl next to me had to pull it in for me.

I am happy to say that the Metro door had been cleaned with the same lemony-fresh cleanser I buy at the local Franprix, so my cheek and nose at least felt at home while smashed into the glass.

In a very short time I became part of the gang. I know this because as we eased into the next station, we collectively dared anyone to open our door. We did this in silence, but the solidarity was profound. We discouraged them with our eyes. We aimed all of our telepathic Non!'s forward and out. When someone had the colossal nerve to open our door, then shake their head and walk away, we chuckled smugly.

During the trip to the next station, I got to know my new friends better. I could tell what everyone had, not for breakfast that morning, but for dinner the night before. There's no scent quite like garlic and red wine after it has spent eight to ten hours infusing the pores, carpeting the tongue, all the while manufacturing spores that can travel the world with each Gallic exhale. I wondered what my previous evening's gizzards sauteed in vinegar smelled like now, but then decided not to wonder. We are all one, after all.

I learned a couple of new lessons at the next stop. As the train slowed, we were all doing our best imitation of discouragement to those on the platform, when I heard from way in the back, a muffled, "La porte!" There was no available time or air space for this person to be polite and say, "Ouvrez la porte, s'il vous plaît." Non. Just a desperate plea from a buried soul: The door! And so, the door committee (which had recently formed but had not yet elected a president) had a short meeting, and decided to push the door button. Now a grave decision had to be made. Who would get OUT of the car, in order to let this person leave?

Being the chicken-shit that I am, I sidled over to the inside right of the door and pushed my ass directly into some lawyer's or ad man's crotch (I was hoping), and let OTHER insane people lose their hard-won positions at the ragged and stormy front. One such trooper was a stocky blonde woman, who had a serious "Don't fuck with me" look on her face, and as she stepped down onto the platform, she swung around to face me, positioning her broad shoulders and back against the oncoming crowd. The very instant that people stopped exiting, she swung right back into the car and my nose was now buried into her back, breathing a dusty faded scent of perfume and moth balls.

Damn! I really thought I could have won the election for president of the door committee. Now my hopes were dashed.

Finally, it was my time to exit. "La porte!" I cried, from under my woolen blanket. And Big Blondie obliged. She did her swing onto the platform, and I exploded out of the car like a Champaign cork. But with a lot more bumbling than bubbling.

You might think that my valiant struggle was over. But, alas, non. I had to look up at the direction signs to see which exit I would take to my connecting line. But there is no time to stand and dawdle. The crowd pushed me forward, and luckily I spied, just past a tall man's fedora, the sign for my next train. I was going in the right direction, but nobody else was. Imagine, if you will, what it would be like for a small salmon during mating season, who forgot to turn off her iron, or forgot her sales presentation, and decided to turn and swim back home against the stream of other pink-faced salmon. Imagine the looks on those faces as I swam against them all, shoulders knocking me to the the outer edge of the stream while more salmon shot out of the train and pushed me back into the stream. I heard a man's loud voice as he passed me in the whirlpool, "Entre nous?!" He was commenting on my swimming style, saying "Between us?!"

Sarcasm exists in the French language. Who knew?

My exit door loomed, like Shangri la, glittering impossibly at the top of the mountain while I slogged through the icy foot paths and watched sure-footed mules fall to their snowy deaths.

Well, it wasn't that dramatic. I just had to figure out a way, while walking very fast, to cross in front of a fast-walking, bustling river, ten French people wide. Some people I could slip in front of, others stopped and glared, others pushed me out of the way.

But finally I made it, and stood against the pee-stained wall of a tunnel miraculously devoid of people, and took a a couple of deep, fetid breaths.

Yesterday, being Saturday, I took the same route, foolishly thinking that the trains would be empty. That those lazy French people would be sleeping in, preparing for a nice 4-hour lunch in their neighborhood bistro. And again, twice in the same week, I was ~~wrong~~ mistaken. I still rode, sweating and smash-faced, to my destination.

So, I'm sorry I misrepresented, misinterpreted, disenfranchised, ok, lied about the French. They are quite industrious, after all. In the midst of their indisputable ability to enjoy the artistic, gastronomical and oenological aspects of life to the fullest, they also commute like fierce underground warriors and accomplish great things.

Meanwhile, I'm spending this cold and sunny Sunday busily figuring out a new route to get across town.

The Red Rose Of Paris

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 15:54:00 +0000

I recently had the pleasure of adding a blog feed to my RSS reader: Arnon Grunberg. I loved his post called Eternal...(clarifying punctuation mine...sorry Arnon)

After Delhi, Mumbai, and - to a lesser degree - Varanasi, Manhattan feels like an empty and civilized town. Almost provincial, an eternal Sunday. Not at all unpleasant.

My boss, Lomesh, once described India to me in such a way that I could feel and smell and see the crush of people, hear the constant cacophony of sound. He told me that from his experience, there is no other place quite like India. I can see how Manhattan, the 20-dollar town, when every turn you make, you have to give somebody 20 bucks, the town where everybody's in a rush, where live moves at an astonishing pace, could feel like a Zen monastery after India.

Arnon's brief but deep post reminded me of the fluidity of perception, and in turn, reality. A city in one context, turns into something entirely different in a new context. When this happens, it's like a Zen koan, the awakening thump of the master's stick upon our distracted meditations. It's a gift that life gives us, a way that sometimes pulls the rug of illusion right out from under our feet, and makes us take a second look at beliefs, places, and people we took for granted.

When I had my first management job, when I managed the west coast region for a computer company, and more than 20 employees, I took it all way too seriously, as I'm wont to do. I bought into the illusion that my work, and all of its problems, and all of the people in it, were critically important. Life began, and ended, in my job.

Then, I got on a plane and flew to Paris for the very first time. This was probably 1988 or thereabouts. I'd traveled before. I'd been to Europe before. But on this trip, suddenly, I had a shift of perception. I flew over the ocean to a magical place. All along the way, I practiced my French, badly. As I'm wont to do. I was worried, you see, about that cab ride from the airport to the hotel. I was worried about the cab driver, about my French, about getting lost, about making a fool of myself, about everything.

And so, after much practice, I made my way to the curb-side cab, smiled my best smile, and slid into the back seat. I remember the cab driver's stubble, and his meaty face. And then I delivered my long-practiced line:

"L'hôtel Grand, s'il vous plait." With much faux confidence. With overly-accented aplomb.

Meaty Stubbleman turned almost completely around in his seat, his white wife-beater's T-shirt pulled and puckering across his chest, and with an ironic grin he said:

"Eh Beeg Oh-tel? You waant eh Beeg Oh-tel?"

I blushed scarlet, realizing my overanxious, anal-retentive French fried bumblings. It was the whole "adjective after the noun thing." Except of course, the rule doesn't apply to proper nouns. To hotel names.

But, he knew exactly what I wanted. He was just giving me a hard time. And he was very, very sweet. He smiled at my blush, and over the top of the front seat of the cab, came a red rose, which he handed to me, as he said, "You waant le Grand Hotel, n'est-ce pas Mademoiselle?"

We became friends for a brief moment in time, this cab driver and I. I pushed the red velvet petals of my rose against my nostrils and smiled as he pointed out monuments and complained about Paris traffic. It was rush hour, and it took a very long time for him to take me to my hotel. I didn't mind. The hot summer air sat thick and still, like a patient sentry, upon the ledges of our open car windows. My driver sweated in his wife-beater, as did I in my prim little travel suit and matching pumps. The fragrance of the rose drifted light and fresh above it all, and the driver's laconic chatter gently moved the sweaty, rosy air between us.

On the sidewalk of Le Grand Hotel, in front of the Paris Opera, in front of the legendary Café de la Paix, I paid my cab driver, and reluctantly watched him drive away. It was then that I realized I had forgotten all about my "important" job, all the people I was trying to please, all the critical problems I was trying to solve. Suddenly, the rug had been yanked from underneath my practical pumps. And I realized that my life, and all its minor complexities, was an insignificant little blip within the monumental, pulsing, historic flow of Paris.

It paled - my silly life - in comparison to the wilted rose I still held in my hand.

Mangled Bunnies & Galecians or Confessing To A Banker

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 11:02:00 +0000

My friend Me-Me just gave me the lemonade stand award. Me-Me has two blogs: Mad Mad Margo and The Turquoise Moon.

I've known Me-Me in my non-virtual life for at least 10 years. We didn't pal around like terrorists or anything (well...), but I always enjoyed her company whenever I had the opportunity to hang with her. Now that she's joined the Blog-uh-sphere, I feel like we live right around the corner, even though she's encamped in the Arizona desert and I'm hiding in my apartment in Paris. We meet up on Yahoo chat sometimes, when she's sleepless and listening to the coyotes mangle a bunny, and it's the next day here, and I'm listening to church bells across the street (why do they ring for a full ten minutes? why?) or the revelry of the Galecians, who have a little social club on the first floor of my building, and like to sing songs outside on the sidewalk on special occasions.

I've never told Me-Me this, but I had one conversation with her years ago, that I've never forgotten and that helped me enormously. It was during a really difficult time for me, after being fired from my job in the family business, and disowned by my family. It was like I'd been kicked in the stomach, and just couldn't find a way to stand up straight. I certainly couldn't go out on corporate job interviews. They prefer that you arrive somewhat upright for the interview. Then they ask you stupid questions like, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I could only imagine me stuttering, trying to keep myself from saying, "Still kissing your ass for the sake of health insurance?" Instead, I went underground and cobbled together waitressing and hostessing jobs, drove a van for a trail riding company and babysat an art gallery.

During this time, Me-Me was working in corporate banking. So, I confided in her about my precarious financial situation: an overhead of about $3500 a month and if I was lucky, an income of about $800 a month. I lived in a great apartment, but it was in the ghetto. I only paid $500 a month, and split that with a roommate. I always made sure I paid my rent. I just couldn't pay all the rest of my bills. So, I became paralized. I never went to the mailbox. Too many threatening letters. I didn't answer the phone. When I did tie myself to the kitchen chair and force myself to pay bills, I called it "in-basket bingo" (a term stolen from my corporate buddy Steve). I just closed my eyes and grabbed one of the bills in the pile, and wrote a check for $25 to them. Everybody else would have to wait.

To this day, I still avoid the mailbox.

I guess, when I told Me-Me all this, I was confessing my financial avoidance behavior to a banker. At that point in my life, I projected a lot of validity on the corporate world, and worried too much about what the people in that world thought of me. But Me-Me told me the story of her own "fall from grace" at an earlier time in her life, and how she too became paralized and avoided her finances. It was very kind of her, to reveal her own humanity. And it made me realize that underneath the suits and ties, the practical pumps and professional briefcases, we are all human.

Me-Me knows a lot about making lemonade out of lemons. So her little blog gift of the lemonade stand is more poignant for me than she imagines.

Recently, when I was having a tough time, Me-Me wrote to me in an email, "I'm a fan of Lisa Wines." That statement inspired me to become a fan of Lisa Wines too.

And right now, as much or maybe even more than before when she was still wearing her banking suit, I'm a fan of Me-Me King.

Greatest Gift Of 2008

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 22:45:00 +0000

A few days before Christmas I was on my way out of my apartment building and heard my name called. Loudly. I turned, and my Guardien (super) hooked his finger to summon me to his office. I was in trouble. Déjà vu! (If you're wondering what that means, it's French for "I have been in trouble most of my life. So I know an angry finger hook when I see one." The French are amazing how they simplify such complex concepts into two words, n'est-ce pas? <-- That, by the way, is also two words.)

Then he started yelling at me in French as he jabbed his finger in the direction of a medium-sized box on his desk, then back in the direction of my nose. Most of what he said I didn't understand, but the part about it being "la dernière fois!" (the LAST time!), I understood. Evidently, he had placed the usual slip of paper in my mailbox telling me that a package was waiting for me. But I never open my mailbox because nobody ever sends me anything. That box had been sitting on his desk for 32 seconds longer than he could stand, so he was mad.

It wasn't a good day for me. I took the box, tail between my legs, went back upstairs to my apartment, set the box down on the floor, and burst into tears. Then I wiped the snot on my $1.50 Target gloves, took off my coat and hat and called my girlfriend to tell her I was too late to meet her at the cemetary. I mean, in my condition, strolling through the avenues of mouldering death at Père-Lachaise didn't appeal to me any more. Fuck Jim Morrison. I've already seen his grave anyway.

I didn't look at that box for a couple of days. When I finally did open it, I was stunned.

A few months ago, my oldest friends from Marple Newtown junior high in Newtown Square, Pennsylvania had found me online. One of them, whom I'll call Dina, had been my bestest buddy. But when my parents moved me to Scottsdale, Arizona when I was 15 years old, it began a gradual separation between me and Dina. It was purposeful on my parents' part. They never approved of Dina, or any of my other friends. Those girls weren't Catholic. They were 'publics.' They were hippies and whores and such. The interesting thing is that they are now all normal humans with husbands and kids, and I'm, well, not married and I have no kids and I'm a dirty socialist...and such.

But be that as it may, after Dina and I exchanged a few emails, she asked me for my mailing address. Then she boxed up and sent me every letter I had ever written to her - from the letter I wrote on the plane from Philadelphia to Phoenix on the day we moved - July 1, 1971 - through my three years at Xavier high school in Phoenix, through my short and tragic time at University of Arizona in Tucson, through running away from home, through my love affair in Guadalajara, Mexico, through my time with David the drug smuggler. At one point I had asked her in one of my letters to save them all for me. In a note Dina wrote to me that she slipped on top of the letters in the box, she copied my letter and circled that sentence. She said in her note that she saved them not just because I asked her to, and not just because she's sentimental, but mostly because she thought that they would make a great book one day.

I think she's right. I just need to get my arms and head and heart around it all, and figure out how I want to approach it.

I cried salty tears and laughed out loud as I read every letter. It took me two days. I smiled or cringed sometimes at my naivety. I was surprised at my insights. I was sad for the girl that I was, who missed her best friend so much, stuck in what I thought was a cowpoke town, wishing I was back home. My parents strung me along with a promise that they would send me back to Philadelphia to visit my friends if I saved my plane fare. I was washing cars, cutting people's hair (shag!), and had my friends in Philly sending me dollars and quarters in the mail! I saved the money, and my parents reneged on the deal. In desperation asked Dina's mother to write a letter to my mother, inviting me to come and stay, and reassuring my mother that I would be safe. My mother's reply letter was in the box. She was gracious, but said that "these are different times, and these are different children," and she worried about me, and needed me to be where she could keep an eye on me.

Trust me, I managed to get in way more trouble on my own in Arizona than I ever would have gotten into with Dina in Pennsylvania. Let that be a lesson to parents out there - while you're locking the kid's bedroom door, she's sneaking out the window. Control isn't the answer, communication is.

And I don't remember any of this drama. I don't remember working for the money. I don't remember my never-ending longing to be back in Pennsylvania. I don't remember my deep disapointment when my sister told me that my mother laughingly told her that they would never let me go. There's an amazingly big gap in my memory, across the board. I professed love for a couple of different Bills so many times. I only remember one gorgeous, Jewish Bill. (THAT must have delighted my parents.) Who were all the rest? I don't know why, but there are events and people in those letters that I have no clue about.

There were two guys that I dated pretty seriously in high school that I actually do remember, one of whom was Glenn Keane, the son of Bil Keane, author of the syndicated Family Circus cartoons. But I never remembered how that relationship ended. After reading the letters, now I have some idea, but still not the whole story. Glenn is head of animation now at Disney. He went to work there directly out of college and never came back to Arizona.

Almost every envelope I sent, almost every letter inside, was illustrated. Once when my parents took me and my brother to a friend's cabin in Heber, Arizona for a week, I bought a Son Of Big Chief writing pad and vowed that I'd fill the whole thing up while I was at the cabin. And I did! And that whole Big Chief pad was in the box that Dina sent.

I wrote long letters in it, full of my adventures and thoughts, copied my favorite poems and song lyrics in there. There were line drawing portraits of my mother on the couch reading a book. Her one leg was tucked up under her like it always was, her other leg on the floor, her hair in a flip, with her reading glasses on. My Dad was sitting in a chair reading the paper, with his legs up on a hassock and his feet crossed at the ankles, the way he still sits even now, at 85 years old, in his home in Scottsdale. My brother had surprisingly long hair (how'd he get away with that?) and he was sitting in a chair reading Mad Magazine. I captured them all, in simple, quick line drawings. I was such an artist then. What happened to that part of me?

My letters were 20 pages long! (Shocking, I know.) Looseleaf sheets, every line filled, both sides of the paper. I guess I was a writer all the way back then. I wonder why I didn't follow that path? I had even started a book called Available Men And Where To Find Them (I was 16!). I had typed up (and mimeographed - remember that smell?) a questionaire for the guys to fill out, and I'd sent the questionaire to all my friends and told them to go and get single guys to fill them out so they could be listed in the book. I even had a legal release for the guys to sign. Wow.

With this blog, I've regained the writer in me. I'm also now making money from my writing. I will be forever grateful to Blogger for giving me this space to express myself, so I could finally realize my dream.

Perhaps it's time for me to start drawing again too, n'est-ce pas?

In the next few weeks, as I sift through the slips of paper and doodles that constitute my past, I'll scan some stuff in and post it for your pleasure, and mine.

Oh. Did I Miss Christmas?

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 17:14:00 +0000

Dah-yam. OK. Here's your card. Sorry.

(If you received this post in an email and can't see the animation, click through to my blog.)

Courtesy of Willisays.

Stepping Out Of Fear...Into The Light

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 11:23:00 +0000

Today being New Years day, 2009 (in case you didn't notice), I'm still in bed, pleased after an evening out with friends at our favorite restaurant, La Sauterelle, and with our favorite chef and barman extraordinaire: Patrick. I'll tell you more about that at another time. Right now, I'm geeking out trying to figure out how to get the contacts from my IPAQ phone into my Mac address book. But before I went through the transfer process, my contact list needed a little cleanup.

That's when I realized how much my life, and everybody else's lives, have changed in 2008.

Two good friends got divorced, the husband moved to Los Angeles, the wife moved to a tropical beach town in Mexico. He weathered a few career dramas (I participated briefly in one of them :-), but has now found himself in a good place. She picked up a little scruffy Mexican stray doggie and named her Betty, had a few interesting adventures (ahem), and pursued her art. Recently, she moved back to Arizona to undergo treatment for breast cancer. Her emails reflect a positive attitude, but I know that what she's going through is hard, and lonely. I send her much love and light. If you pray, please send a prayer in her direction.

Two good friends, a very successful couple who lived a happy social life full of loving friends, took quite a beating in the financial downturn. He was a custom home builder, she an environmental consultant. Their home sits on the market in Arizona, empty and unsold, and they've moved to a ski resort. She tends bar and waits tables, he is a ski instructor and bellman at the local hotel. They have always dreamed of living in this place, and so that's where they are. As usual, they are just as cheerful amidst this change, as they were when they entertained us all like kings and queens at their long, food-laden table, in their gorgeous desert home.

My friends Debby and Jack, whom I met here in Paris, moved back to the states. I don't have to update their phone numbers, because Jack was just as geeky as me, and travels everywhere with his Vonage box and the same phone number. He could be calling me from Tahiti, or Machu Pichu, but I'd think he was in San Francisco. They also face financial uncertainty, but continue to look outside of themselves to see who they can help, who they can love. I have benefited greatly from their generosity and wisdom. I can't speak for them, but I suspect that a deep faith in their God sustains them while they map out their future. I send them much love and my own brand of prayers.

None of these people are spring chickens, by the way. They're in their 50s and 60s. I give them great credit for remaining positive and flexible. They are an example to us all.

Of my old Sandbox.com friends, who were and still are much younger than me, I see lots of new little babies in their Facebook pictures, which is delightful. I laughed so much when we all worked together, and so now, when I see that these brilliant and quirky people have kids, I can't help but smile at the thought of their progeny.

On the other hand, I just learned of one couple who met at Sandbox that just got divorced. This saddens me, because I love them both. But I'm not the all-seeing wizard, and so I don't know if instead of sadness, I should be happy for each of them, as they pursue their ordained paths. I know I wish them both well. It was at their wedding, as I was dancing alone, when a drunk girl crashed the wedding party and danced with me. When the music ended she looked me up and down with approval and said, "You must have been hot...back in the day." Mmm. Hmm. That I was.

Another Sandbox friend moved to Germany and has his own computer forensics company. I imagine that he may have landed himself in a recession-proof business in these days of international uproar. I say 'uproar' because I refuse to use the 'T' word. I don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of the last 8 years of fear mongering by our leaders. Fear only shuts us down, makes us less creative, makes us more vulnerable, and less responsive to obstacles. I look forward to the opening of hearts and minds around the world, to the opening of dialogue and the end of the barbaric use of war as a means of settling disputes. I sincerely hope that the world stops throwing its toys, stops its violent tantrums, and grows up enough to sit respectfully at the negotiation table and do what's best for mankind, and not what's best for lining their own pockets or pumping up their inflated egos and false sense of power.

BuildYourMarket.com shut its doors in 2008, putting Tom, Paul and other friends out of work. These guys had families to support, so I worried about them. But they both landed on their feet, and I hope they continue to do well. This is the job that cinched it for me, the one that made me finally quit corporate America. In the space of 5 years I reported to seven CEOs, went through three ownership changes, three complete system redesigns by three different development companies, sat uncomfortably in the middle of a couple of lawsuits, and had all the money taken out of my bank account by what I suspect was an employee, who I later discovered to be an ex-con. It was the definition of insanity, that job, and although I worried for my friends when the company closed, I worried more about them while they were still working there. No matter what sacrifices they had to make in salary or commute time, I know they are in a better place now.

My niece moved back to Sacramento from Washington D.C., but during a recent anniversary trip back to D.C., her highschool sweetheart got down on his knees and asked her to marry him...in front of the White House. She agreed. She's a Republican; he's a Democrat. I hope he wins all the arguments.

My other niece graduated from Moore College of Art in Philadelphia with a focus on fabric and textile design, and took her first plane ride to Arizona to spend time with my family. She's back there again right now, enjoying the weather, and taking a little trip to Vegas. I hope to lure her to Paris and take her on a magic carpet ride through the fabrics of St. Pierre and the African wax cloth stores in Chateau Rouge.

There are many more stories to tell, but I couldn't fit them all here. But they are all about change. I think that change is good. It can be uncomfortable, sometimes painful, but if we choose to learn from every change, we will become better human beings. This is what I tell myself, anyway.

I'll end this post with the first person in my cell phone contact list, Armando.

I met Armando while I was in Mexico City during Christmas and New Years of 2005. He has a band called Chikita Violenta. (MySpace) He was in a music store on Christmas eve, buying himself a vintage 1970s Fender Rhodes for his Christmas gift. The music shop was magical. While talking to Armando, I also met the man who owns the store, and he brought his father out to meet me too. His father had been a pioneer in the 70s when he filled up a plane in the states full of Fender Rhodes pianos and other instruments, and flew them down to his shop in Mexico City. Up we climbed to the store's rooftop storage. The son opened a door and there all the pianos were, or what was left of that shipment from long ago, stacked one on top of each other in their original boxes, unopened, pristine. I don't know why they didn't sell, or why they kept them hidden in storage like that. I think there are probably a hundred or so people that would give anything to pick one of those up.

I didn't stay in touch with Armando. It was just one of those fleeting travel friendships. But I went to his website today to see what he was up to, and found a great video, where he took 70s footage of his family having fun at Christmas, and used it as a backdrop for one of the band's songs. It's brilliant, especially if you're like me and actually used to dress, and dance, just like that (er...back in the day). Here's what SPIN magazine had to say about it:

"Filming your whole family grooving to your song is pretty cute. Editing footage of your family from the '70s to look as if they're now lip-synching your song enhances the novelty. But mixing the two into a generation-spanning holiday party takes the cuteness and novelty and blows it up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters, only instead of being evil, he just wants to dance."

Here's a link to the video. (Sorry, the embed code didn't work.)

There were many changes with my friends, and in the world. I'm sure there will be many more to come. In 2009 I wish for myself that I stay open to opportunities, even when I'm afraid, even when I have doubts about the future. In 2009 I wish for myself that I be what I want the world to be...I want to step out of fear, into the light.

Join me, won't you?

Merry Christmas From Me and Mr. Bean

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 08:59:00 +0000

If you are viewing this post in an email, please click through to my blog to view the videos:

Nowhere and Nothing

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 14:32:00 +0000

From my favorite Funny Frenchman, VinVin (of the sadly abandoned but still hilarious Bonjour America!), came the pleasure of this video. I realized when I saw his post heading, "j'adore", that Europeans really romanticize the American West.

I remember my British husband was desperate to be a cowboy. The minute he got to Arizona he bought the requisite boots, hat, belt, snap-buttoned western-tailored shirt. He already had the suede fringe jacket (I pretended I didn't know him when he wore that), and the bow legs too. Not sure how he got the legs, having never been on a horse in his life.

Anyway, suddenly, after living in Europe for a while, I watched this video through European eyes, and I could grasp the romance, the rustic, desolate openness of it all. And I realized that the "cowboy way" isn't really a myth - made up in the minds of outsiders, or manufactured in John Wayne's Hollywood. I've personally viewed all those scenarios in the video. The bronco and bull riding, the dust from the arena settling on the trucks in the parking lot and the steel-bar corrals. I've leaned on the fence and smelled hay and horse sweat. I've watched the horses' heaving sides, their flexing muscles, listened to their snorting breath, as they flummoxed by me on the way to skirting the next barrel.

I've been both pilot and co-pilot in many versions of that old GMC truck.

You can look at the video images of undulating, golden dust prairie and imagine that these places hold a steady silence. But all you have to do is stop your truck and stand on the side of an empty road, just for a minute or so, to let the world settle around you, and you'll know that this is a silence chock full of sound. Pebbles scuttling down mountain sides, birds cawing in the distance, wind - hot or cold, depending on the time of year - wafting against your ears, stirring your hair. In Arizona there are large hawks who work in pairs, with one in a tree top or telephone pole, the other on the ground. As soon as the lookout spies a mouse or other prey, she makes a sound the likes of which I've only heard at 3AM in dingy honky tonks when some guy is puking in the bathroom. At the sound of the puke, the hawk's partner takes off after the prey on the ground and catches it for both he and his partner to enjoy.

And when it's 120 degrees in these parts, you can almost hear the pavement sizzle, the cicadas rub their legs together at amazing speeds and the rocks slowly crack. At night, the desert comes alive, with hooting owls and coyote howls.

I don't miss America. But I had a little stirrin' in my heart for the peacefulness of this certain kind of nowhere, this plentiful nothing.

(If you're viewing this post from an email, please click through to my blog to view the video)

Me And The Clouds Of My Breath

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 08:05:00 +0000

It's Christmas time in Paris and I love it. The 3 Euro ($4) lobsters are back in their long tubes in the frozen section of my local Franprix, bringing back memories of last year's New Years feast. I've already had one of them steamed in a mushroom-filled Asian broth. It did wonders for my nasty cold. I plan to have many more before the season ends.

The blue lights have been strung between the buildings across rue Poteau, and late the other night, as I walked home from the Metro in the drizzling rain, I was mesmerized by the reflections of those blue lights on the wet pavement. The corner that I was standing on, with my back towards Jules Joffrin Metro station and the Mairie or town hall of the 18th arondissement, and my scarved and corduroy-hatted front facing down rue Poteau, is usually bustling with people. When the cafe to my right is open, it has an outdoor seafood station full of oysters, and even in the cold weather, people are sitting at little tables, smoking their recently-banned cigarettes, sipping a glass of Sancerre or Rosé or a hot Cafe Creme, and enjoying freshly-shucked oysters. But on this late night, I was the only one there, just me and the clouds of my breath stirring the silence. I took some pictures so that you could enjoy this moment too.

The first photo is looking down rue Poteau. The second photo shows the golden reflection of light on the pavement, with just a little hint of a blue reflection too. The third photo is after I walked a little ways down rue Poteau until I came to rue Letort, where they have strung some blue lights on the trees in front of Cafe Reinitas, a great place to sit outside and watch people go by as they shop in the outdoor market on Wednesdays and Sundays. The fourth photo is standing at the same place, but looking down rue Letort.

A couple of weekends ago, during the Beaujolais Nouveau celebration, they closed one whole section of Poteau so that wine, cheese, bread, fois gras and other vendors could set up shop. I came home early one evening from an appointment and discovered the street market and called a friend so we could walk along and gaze at the gorgeous food. At an olive stand, where they also had huge bowls of tapenades, the vendor handed me a hunk of crusty bread covered with sun dried tomato tapenade and it melted in my mouth. He encouraged me to taste a pickled gralic clove and I thought it would be too strong, but it was incredibly mild and delicious. I told him I'd be back to buy some but never made it back, and now I wish I had. I wish I'd bought a gallon!

I took some pictures that evening too, although they're a bit overexposed. This one works though:

It started to get a little too cold and windy, so we bought a warm baguette and I splurged on a beautiful Rosé, bought directly from the wine maker. As the vendors in their stalls began putting away their wares for the night, we hurried back to my warm apartment to break the bread and sip the wine.

Wisdom

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 09:01:00 +0000

I found this today and really loved it. It's a film and book by Andrew Zuckerman. You can find out all about it here. Below is the trailer and the making of video. Both are worth watching. (If you are reading this post from an email, click through to my blog to view the video.)

Two Unexpected Visitors

lisawines@yahoo.com (OMYWORD!) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 20:05:00 +0000

This morning I was sitting peacefully in my bed, where I work, and I heard an interesting sound out on my balcony. I started to ignore it, since there has been some remodeling going on in other apartments, so I thought it was just some more of that. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a black-gloved hand gripping the railing of my outside balcony, and then a helmeted head pushed its way, with a large male body attached, up over the railing. Clunk, went his boots as he landed on my balcony, and with climbing gear and ropes clattering and dragging behind him, he came my way.

Uh. Clothes on? Check. Teeth brushed? Not for days. Can he see me in here? Probably, but he has other things on his mind.

Tap, tap tap went his hammer...on the concrete sections of the railing, and on the outside wall above my head. I heard a mild smashing sound. He bent over the rail and yelled to someone below. Then, he was gone.

My cat, who had been sleeping inside her carrier that sits on top of the piano, must have gotten a full-on view of the intergalactic alien hammer wielder muscle man building climber guy as his hands, head, and then body popped up right in the French doors, in front of which she was, until that moment, snoozing. I was too wrapped up in checking my hygiene (and hair) to notice her, but a few minutes after the guy left, I saw her making her slooooooowwwww way over to the bed to eventually hide under my legs in her favorite place which I call "The Tent." It took her at least a half century, maybe two. One paw slowly pushed forward, her belly ~~fat~~ fur dusting the floor as the next paw moved, an inch every 3 minutes, and then her back paws followed. Her eyes were glued to my thighs as I moved my knees up to make way for Mao The Tent Girl. In she went, but by now I had sprouted three more thick gray hairs from that freaking mole on my chin, and I had had a few more birthdays.

Later, when the coast was clear, Mao and I both went out to investigate, and we smiled at each other that her plastic container of valuable cat grass had not been stolen by the big bad man. There was, however, a large chunk of the concrete railing that was gone. I sure hope one of the old ladies I was talking about in my last post didn't happen to be shuffling by at the wrong time. Of course, what a way to go, with a chunk of concrete flying down from the roof top, pummeling you into the sidewalk. Nice.

While outside, I took a peek over the railing at the church across the way. The same one I referenced in my post yesterday. And there, sitting in one of those brown oak chairs that you see in French cafes, in the middle of the sidewalk, was an artist making a drawing of the front of the church. Now, this church has got to be one of the ugliest post-modern, Dachau-red brick 60's industrial depressing architectural wonders of the neighborhood. And even though they must have put a new, dingy concrete facade on it in about 1973, it just made it even uglier. So, what in the heck was he drawing?

Inside, the church is actually pretty cool. And when the old priest is there, a tall friendly guy, he leaves the front doors open and you can gaze all the way inside to the altar. So maybe the artist was drawing the interior. I suppose I'll have to actually get out of bed, brush my teeth, and go down there and stoop down and see if I can look through the eyes of the artist, and try to find the beauty that held him there for many cold and damp moments this afternoon.

I will also look out for flying concrete objects, and men in ropes and chains.