Wednesday, September 3
I got an email from my former French boyfriend. Well, on Facebook. It was sweet. And it made me feel bad for avoiding his last two emails. On Facebook. I don’t know. I’m bad about Facebook. I forget to answer emails there. I’m not sure if I should respond when people write on my wall. I drink and Facebook. I’m not the most diligent or responsible Facebooker.
But, then again, I got a message like this one in my inbox which made me love Facebook:
Hello ! just a little kiss from Paris. I wouldn’t mind talk to you a little. hopefully soon
Now, what girl wouldn’t swoon from such a message in her inbox? The one thing I will give this man, my former French boyfriend, is that he knows how to do romance. When I last visited him in Paris, ten years ago, I would wake up at his father’s apartment in the Montmartre (he had a couple of fabulous apartments) and Jean would have a fresh pastry, French press coffee and a USA Today on the old, wooden table in the kitchen, waiting for me. He’d kiss me on the forehead and I’d wonder when he had left and for how long. He’d wake early and go to the same patisserie on the block. There were usually some flowers on the table for me, too.
His previous email, that was sent about a month ago, asked me when I was planning to return to Europe. Ah, Europe. Let’s see. I have no vacation time to use. I can’t afford to take leave without pay. Um. That would be never. Or at least not until I win the lottery. I’m glad I frivolously traveled in my twenties. Because I practically live paycheck to paycheck now, which is ironic. And I just found out today my rent is going up. My limited funds seem to be flying out the windows.
Not ideal. Not ideal, at all. I made a list of where to cut spending. I am worried about paying for my heating bills this winter. They were pretty bad last year and will probably be worse this time around.
I worry. I worry about taxes going up. I worry about gas prices continuing to skyrocket. I spend a lot of my time worrying.
I know it doesn’t help to worry. But it’s feeds the woe that makes me feel like it’s impossible for me to do this all on my own. I remind myself how much easier it would be if I just married someone and got it over with. You’re either taken care of or you split the bills. Either way, you come up ahead.
It’s useless to lament over my inability to travel. Which is more or less why I let my French ex’s messages go unanswered – it just isn’t plausible to get over there. And, even if I could take a leave of absence, what next? The thing is, Oregon is my home. It’s funny that the few men I’ve met over the past year or so, that I’ve actually been interested in, all live elsewhere. Not in Oregon. I am unwilling to pick up and leave my beloved Oregon. So, I have already decided it’s not worth getting the heart mixed up with anyone who doesn’t already live in Oregon or love it as much as I do.
As I drove home from work, I thought more about this. I came to no new relevations. It’s in Oregon I shall stay, loved or not loved.
At home, I changed and met Susan at Tryon Creek Park, up Terwilliger Boulevard. We hiked a trail for about four miles or so, possibly more. It was a nice change from the gym, an old growth forest with perfectly manicured trails and a nature center. As we hiked, we chatted at length about Sarah Palin. I have no idea how I’m voting for this coming election, but, because I am an Independent, I am interested in listening to what each of the candidates have to say. It’s a thrilling election.
When I drove home, I caught the first half of her speech on NPR. She had my attention. I was surprised that this was her first major national address. She sounded confident, competent and she had her own brand of charisma. She has my attention.
I quickly made a gluten-free pizza for dinner. This one had a touch of tomato sauce topped with thin slices of yellow heirloom tomato, buffalo mozzarella, shreded Assagio and Provalone. I then topped it with fresh basil from the garden. It was my seasonal Margherita Pizza.
While eating, I worked on my latest writing project. I’m in the process of collecting the copy for each of my blog entries and separating them out in Word files by month. I plan to organize the entries in a way that I can build a new narrative – the book will be based on the blog. I don’t want it to be the blog reprinted word for word. Instead, I plan to highlight themes and begin a meaningful narrative that reads more like a novel.
I’ve been struggling with writing the book proposal for this, as most nonfiction book proposals are constructed for writers who are experts in a field or promise to help the reader accomplish something (learn how to cook, self help, etc.). My nonfiction book is all narrative, so it doesn’t really fit the typical model. I’m not claiming to be an expert on finding love in all of its manifestations, nor am I trying to teach anyone how to find love in all of its manifestations. I am simply writing about my own experiences that have helped me to seek out and sometimes find love in its many manifestations. And I’m satisfied with that. Now, I have to figure out how to get an agent or publisher on board. Between that and figuring out how to launch my new website, I’ve got a lot to do in my few hours of ‘free time’.