Well we’re movin’ on up.

Since May 2005, I have been living with the Boy in what may or may not be Kevin Pietersen’s old bachelor pad. The place was chosen out of consideration for me, a central location (i.e.; high rent, small space) so that no matter what job I found, public transportation would be easy. The studio was modern, and bright, and despite one peeping tom and a tomato plant snatcher, it served our purposes well.

But now that we both work on the other side of town, and frankly, living in such close quarters has become detrimental to our relationship, we have finally, finally found a new place.

Moving has begun, and while it is still stressful and I still want to pull out my hair and his, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. And the light looks like this:



My new garden of Eden.



The bedroom, equipped with defunct fireplace and wardrobe (Frenchman sold separately)



The fireplace in the second bedroom, also known as the guest bedroom, the library, the office and the place Stephane will sleep when Lauren's mad at him.



The stairs that sold me on the house.

Once I get my decorating groove on, I'll show more, but an empty room is an empty room.

Moving has made me nostalgic for all the houses I've called home in my 25 years on this planet.

House # 1 (well, not really number one, but the first I can remember). It was in Los Osos, California. This is pre my little sister, when I had the full attention of my parents. The house was on the sand dunes, and I had a big bedroom with a balcony. This house was very brown and filled with bugs. Hence it's nickname, The Bug House.

House # 2 San Louis Obispo, CA. A yellow ranch-style. It is here that acquired my first cat Chili. There was an orange tree that held a bee's nest. A big dirt hill with a cute boy my age at the top. I was four.

House # 3 Hollywood; CA. This apartment saw the birth of my sister and the end of my parents’ marriage. This is the house that I remember my mother teaching me how to drink water out of my cupped little hands when brushing my teeth. And where my French grandfather became a god in my eyes by pulling penny after penny from behind my ears. An old couple lived next to us, and built me a wooden swing in the garage. The wood gave my thighs splinters, but I swung on it anyways.

House # 4 Winnetka, IL A small grey townhouse on a busy street. Our neighbours were all retired, and would give my sister and I glass bottles of coke and saltines whenever we stopped by. This was my first home without my dad. This house saw the babysitter from hell. It saw the first time I remember making my mother cry when I told her I wanted her home more often. It saw an amazing bond form between two young girls, a single working mother and a cat living on their own. This house had the best backyard ever, with a trench like in wartime and birch trees whose paper would call out to be peeled. This house saw my imagination run wild.

House # 5 Still Winnetka This house is probably the one I think of first when I think of the idea of home. This house saw the death of 4 cats. The house saw friendships made and broken. With this house I had a new father and brother, albeit briefly. This house saw my mom finally meet mr. right. This house saw me drunk, saw me get caught smoking pot in my bedroom alone by my mother. This house saw me almost lose my virginity at age 14 by my first boyfriend. This house saw me to the prom. This house saw two girls and a mom turn into three women. Three bestfriends.

House #6 5th arrondissement, Paris. This studio saw me reap all the nocturnal benefits of being a bartender

House #7 Ithaca NY above a tattoo parlour. This house saw me and my best friend through senior year of college. It saw depression, it saw bisexuality, it saw terrible boyfriends, and it saw the best wine and cheese party this side of the catskills.

House #8 13th arrondissement, Paris. This house was by far the physically coolest house. A converted meatpacker called les Frigos. This house didn't see enough of me. It did see my friend's giant newfoundland Yogi eat through half of my clothes.

House #9 14th arrondissement, Paris. This house saw me drunk more times than I want to admit. Still inhabited by one of my closest friends in Paris, this house is bright and colourful. This house saw me try to make breakfast and fail too often. I still miss this house.

If these walls could talk, right?

My internet access will be scarce while moving is still in progress - so if you don't hear from me in awhile it is not because I'm trapped under a bunch of moving boxes. I just don't have the internet hooked up yet.

The Bi-Curious Roundtable

The French woman’s magazine Psychologies has since launched the English version . Finally a magazine for women that doesn’t talk about which sexual positions make your boobs look bigger, or how to cook a five course gourmet meal and plant the next award winning geraniums all while wearing the latest power suit from Prada. Psychologies is like your direct, tell-it-like it is therapist at a fraction of the cost. But I’m not here to up sell this magazine, because, well, they’re not paying me to. What I wanted to discuss was an article that I read in one of their issues a couple months back. I tried to find the article on-line to no avail, so my recap will have to do.

The article was discussing female sexuality and comparing it to the rigidness of male sexuality. From Cynthia Nixon , Miranda in Sex and the City doing a 180 and dumping her boyfriend for a woman, to Mischa Barton’s character in the OC dabbling in some Sapphic love to Kate Moss and her crew switch hitting in drug filled orgies to the recent girl on girl action Danni Minogue partook in at a club in London, women are getting it on with each other. While the article discussed the growing trend of “bi-curious chic” among women, it also said the trend is not surprising or even new. According to many, women are genetically programmed to be more lenient with their sexuality than men, stating that most women have a certain degree of bisexuality, where as men are much more black and white.

I personally have to wonder if this is more of a nurture versus nature phenomenon than genetics. Women are encouraged to divulge lesbian fantasies, to kiss their girlfriends when out drinking to attract men. How many women have a “well, it was in college, I was drunk…” story about their ex-roommate? Now imagine your boyfriend mentioning a little drunken romp with one of his frat boys – doesn’t quite give off the same feeling does it? Now is the difference between these two scenarios and our reaction to them due to genetics telling us male bi-sexuality is abnormal, or is just because society says it’s abnormal. Perhaps if we lived in Ancient Greece or during the Renaissance, where sexual lines were more blurred, we would be more accepting. Or maybe you guys are getting it on too, you’re just not telling us about it.

One doctor’s reasoning in the article for why women are genetically able to find both sexes attractive is because they have to be comfortable with breast feeding both male and female babies. Um, what? Now I’ve never breast fed a child, but I have a really hard time imagining that I would be worried that people might question my sexuality just because my new born daughter needed to be fed. “I swear, I’m not Gay. I can’t speak for her, but…seriously, I’m straight! I swear. Damn it! Why did I have to have a gay baby”? I mean come on.

It just seems unfair that women can have their cake and eat it too while guys are more often forced to make a choice. What do you think?

But those photos of Danni Minogue with that stripper? So hot.

A homemade card, a dance to La Vie en Rose just past midnight in front of the bartenders and last dregs of the regulars, by ourselves on a cigarette strewn floor.

No chocolate, no flowers.

Perfect.

And on top of it, we won the pub quiz.

All by myself

A bottle of Chilean Chardonnay Sauvignon, 3 Cadbury's cream eggs, a copy of Heat and Cosmo (the UK edition - so much raunchier) and Will and Grace is on in an hour.


I am going to have to let the boy go to the pub on his own MUCH more often.

Soap boxes abound - yet another roundtable.

My dear friend Donny brings up some interesting questions in this weeks Roundtable rant - among them the responsibility of a blogger/writer, the cowardliness behind anonymity and the idea of telling it like it is with no fear of a slap in the face.

Go over and let us know what you would say and to whom if you had the cojones to do so.


In Lauren news, my apologies for not having updated sooner. I'm not going to give excuses - but hope you all agree with the cliche that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

The house is so close to being ours I can almost feel the strain in my muscles from lifting heavy boxes upstairs, can almost feel the plaster beneath my nails and the paint in my hair. We're not opening the bottle of champagne yet though. I've been bit once, and until I have those keys in my hand there will be no celebrating.

But we are anxious to move. As I lay in bed at 9PM, nursing a full fledged cold, and listening to the Boy watching the Godfather part III on low volume a mere 7 feet away, it was dreams of a two story house, with stairs and many walls separating me and him that eventually lulled me to sleep.

Work has gone from part-time to full-time and then some. I'm beginning to enjoy this 3 month contract deal. Work a few months, get a bottle of champagne upon leaving, go on vacation for two weeks, get re-hired for another short-term contract and repeat.

This photo is neither here nor there, but I figure since you have all endured so much by having to wait an entire week for a new post from yours truly, I should give you a little treat.



The boy, me and our friend JC at our usual haunt, The Fifth Bar in Paris. And yes, I am wearing that green sweater again. Get used to seeing many more pictures of me in this sweater, because it is physically impossible for me to look unphotogenic in it.

This Thursday's Roundtable

For today's roundtable discussion, go on over to Stephen V. Funk'sblog and deconstruct the fab myth that is Mozart.