leaks

i have assumed the ekli position in laptops. Im horizontal on the bed with the machine in my face. This is not meant to be offensive. I just know how ekli does it.

Physically, im exhausted and mentally, Im annoyed...at people in general. Working retail during the Christmas season is a lesson is social pyschology; people are not nice the closer it is to the holidays. At least Im seeing a downward spiral in general politeness and respect towards others. My response is an internal emotional death. I have no life, save for my physical machine. Its sad, but its my response to high levels of stress and tension and greedy grouch in the others.

once again my fingers are frozen as i type. it seems that if i dont use them they lose blood and go cold

what else. my eyes start to cry and my noses runs. I have body leaks. No control. Im not sad nor sick. I'm leaking. At night to sleep i have to drink a little bit and it takes the pain away from my aches. My feet my back suffer from a epidemic of poverty brought on by higher education.

I dont want to be cranky anymore.

I want to tell Grod that he is LEGEN....wait for it....DAIRY. I mean that.

I havent taken a picture of my hairy legs yet, I'm sorry. But trust me...they are only getting hairier. I dont shave anymore. I did once for the christmas party and i made one razor be dead; died, done.

Thats my life. Its endless working and disappointment in restaurants.


ps. this man at borders told me i look like a botticelli painting, so i thought i'd let you decide...oh and i picked the most appropriate painting. the virgin mary/allysin

feet

I wonder how the United States would respond to a lack of feet. Would cashiers be allowed to sit or would the be forced to stick their pegs into squares and wobble to and fro? While this country may have laws encouraging entrepreneurship their are very few laws that protect the employee. The bottom is essentially a freed slave class that works for very little pay and receives little in the way of benefits.

If I get in an accident, I'll die. I have no insurance; and yet I have two jobs and work over 50 hours a week.

It is still the wild wild west as some say. I'm just glad prohibition was repealed. The only straightener for my frown is liquid and bottled. Tonight I've successfully recycled two glass bottles.

I think my friendliness and overall warmth and genuine nature is perceived as flirting. When I work, I talk. It's my social life too. Today alone, an old man kissed my hand and a young goth man gave me his number. Géraud, you need not worry, I've only got eyes for you. And well, hairy legs.

I stopped shaving. I no longer see the point. I'm cold all the time and fur is warm. My legs look especially good and tanned from afar. Leg hairs make it seem as though I'm tanned. And being tanned, but not naturally dark is good. Right?

That's what the TV says.

I think too much and drink too little. I like France where wine at lunch is ok. I've only got tea and ibuprofen in this country.


The End

Rumdumdum

I'm drinking a cuba libre. IAm good at it. I'll tell you how, you put the rum in the glass with the ice and you must remember that you are putting the rum otherwise you end up with a very cuba libre, so then you put in yer dark liquids and stick a pen in, ink side up, and stir like a hula hoop. Then you make a pursed lip style and move the glass to yer face. Now suck.

In third grade, in Texas, we had to take a test that was written. Our task was to describe how to do something. It was a how to paper. Remember? So drinking is kinda like that, like how third grade can remember you cocktails.

Also on the second paragraph thought i'd like to say that i now have two jobs. Which is maybe a bad idea since I can only have two if Poule has three and Eckli has one. That was a rule of numberisation learned in Paris. So Ill leave out specifics for the hearts sake, but I'm definitely winking at poule right now.

I spent thanksgiving putting lots of cayenne pepper into a butternut squash soup i prepared and ate all by myself, sitting indian style on the rug devant the tv. I made my tongue have so much fire and then i used my how to skills to put a rum coating in my mouth. Normally alcohol and fire are friends in very special way, but this night, they were real close buds.

Grod and I met two years ago today. Thanks to his large drunken friend. But Then here we have again examples of the drink. Perhaps the title of this entry actually applies. That definitely was not intentional.

I accidentally ordered a computer wrongly last night. Right now the postal system means so much to my fate and future. If a computer arrives, if my passport ever comes back, if the socks show up. I don't know how much luck I've got.

Kasha has gone AWOL again. She needs a pounding. There isn't much that can be done. She is such a smooth talker but not a dooer. I think fer christmas I'll get her a gift card to the planned parenthood.

If I wear my black coat, I look like an oldie. It's good in a respectful way, but I love childlike innocence, but not sick child fantasy sex. I disagree with the mother in the book I'm reading. Sexual harassment and abuse are real. And I'll not be having any of it.

Last piece of life that I'll Internet for you; my pinkies turn ice cold when I type late at night. It takes at least a full hour for them to thaw.

Literati

I play literati. It's an online game to pass the time. So I thought, until I realized that passing the time must be done quickly. This time must also be handed over so that there is one who wields the power. My opponents always rush me. "Come on!" they say or "You're taking too long" they moan and groan. For a fast passed, bustling game of online impostor scrabble I never expected such hostility.

So I decided to fight back.

To their "Come Ons," I say No. And then I'm faced with belittling insults concerning my ability to word construct. Literati is censored. Words are simply not accepted for unknown reasons, most likely religious interference. I told this one internet machine that Dick is not accepted by the game. It's not, so if you are playing, try to avoid it's magical lure. My feisty opponent accused me of "smut". I may be guilty. However, I am not guilty for this use of the dick. (I wish I had more pictures).

I've got no time to learn manners that prohibit Dick and Crap. I'm still living. I'll wait for my excessive language to hang me, but until then. HIGH FIVE! OULEP

Maybe they have a version of naughty literati. Vocabulary infringement is not my friend.

early bird

My eyes open to a dreary sight in the mornings. Or should I say, dreary sights. I've no longer got a radiateur au lit and it's dawn the break of. This is no longer a vacation. However, I am still going to act like it is.

There is a new cat here in Wayne and his name is Charlie. He senses when I'm know longer dreaming and come stares at me so that upon waking I've got immediate eye contact with an 8 pound ball of fur. No disrespect.

My stomach is making pains. Time to eat

Exhaust

Sky is made of clouds today
I want to go outside and play
But I am chained up, good and gay
Must return to santa's sleigh.

Happy Wednesday!

I feel fatigued and or restless.

I'm in quite a pickle. I'm taking airplane to America soon. So soon, in fact that I didn't buy 5 liters of cider yesterday. The sacrifices I make to keep my family afloat during these trying economic times. I even applied for jobs. And in keeping with idiotcy I didn't give a good phone number.

I also think my CV says I like to bake delicious cookies. It is potentially a bad idea to work on your CV immediately after drinking and months after a life au chomage. You start to embellish.

However, it may turn out to be a good thing. Embellishment. The bedazzler was, and still is, great... Translation for Géraud= AWESOME. I think I do need to update my CV with my participation in Gas Club, and my position as rotating president. That'll show self motivation and ambition. You can't just be president, you have to earn it, and subsequently Call IT. Just like for president of america club. All you have to do is call it. McCain's old man voice was too feeble. And we all know old men smell, in general, whereas younger men fart. Understand?

It's almost like sunset club, but not a secret or location sensitif.

My knee caps when stretched out start to sink to the bottom of my leg. The bones regroup themselves in the underground and form a coalition. It almost always deals with gravity.

I've been reading books again. what goes up must come down.

it's bath time in Runcorn, then firework times.

Here is Géraud in his halloween costume:

Worms in my bodie.

The tingles are back. This time as the electric tails of tape worms that have swum their way into my heart; yes that's right. It's that time of year again when love is contagious. Caught on the pollen in the air and swallowed up into your lungs all in the midst of an asthma attack. Or allergies if your not a nerd, dweb, twat, or shriveled potato man.

I found out a news article heading on the telephone. An announcement, followed by a less inflated story of teenage angst. My brother, the first man to explore the uterus of my mother, asked his woman-parts-provider for her hand in marriage.

Swell, huh? I'm excited...for the reception.

I like cake and I like celebratin'. I just hope that they decide to get a mime instead of a priest. I do like outlines of objects. Except if they are body shaped and in my apartment. There is a time, and a place, for everything. And then teen angst goes like this: girl smokes pot with germans, gets caught, gets isolated (not like gerauds), gets car taken away but does not get any of my jokes.

I tried to explain the toe revolution; the scars, the memories, and the soup cooked over an open fire.

Absofuckinlutely no response. I would have accepted a growling stomach as a sign of receipt. In fact, I should have heard her insides on the account of that mornings intestinal slurpies. One computer phone call and nothing changed. I suppose you don't expect it to, unless the tape worms are in your brain. In which case, you got the giggles...for life! but come December I'll try to use my body as it was designed-a smothering, steam rolling machine. It's too bad Kasha doesn't read this, she could try out some pre-emptive striking.

This is my blog. It doesn't sometimes make sense to you, but it really does because you can read and you'll change the meaning of my words to lube your brain up real good. Speaking of sense, my finding money on the ground rut is no more. I found eleven pence on the ground in two days. Inside. I think that's the key. I've got hobo competition outside, but inside I'm the only one scavenging.

I ain't go no shame and my fingers are fucking agile. Got nails for grip.

cartoon living

Géraud has a blue superman t-shirt that is ultra stretchy. It was a gift from EX-con murderer Bernie, from next door. Bernie calls Géraud, "Gévereaux" because he can't remember or work on remembering the Grods true frenchy name. I'm mostly okay with that. Bernie has a very eclectic musical preference and we try to imagine him loving up those ladies when we hear the sultry sounds of late 80's adult contemporary and r&b hits.

He also never sleeps and says, "d'ya know wut aye mean?" post every sentence. The thing is, we never know what he has just said... But the fear of a knife gutting makes that grin and nod of understanding so much easier. So, I think we are friends.

Back to the superman t-shirt. It is an icon of relaxation and in more severe times, sloth. It also goes great with a pair of oversized christmas cane covered boxers. This time, a gift to the grod from yours truly. So in being a most grateful recipient of all gifts, great and small, Géraud has more than brought to life the personnage of Grod.

I wake up to find the two crumpled garments on the floor, shed the night before because our bed is a place of gages faits and work is no place for a modest superhero. But come five of five thirty, these two gifts of thread red and blue awaken and bring to life GROD.

Forget what you may think you know about GROD, for sightings and true accounts are rare and often full of inaccuracies. I have been lucky enough to track him and have secured photographic evidence of the G himself.

Our living room has been transformed into the set of an adult cartoon with a permanent slow-moving haze of the destroyed evidence, which we had to smoke because it enhances our power kicks.

grele

In all my efforts to be a productive piece of society I am still behind. I am failing at sleeping in. The bed no longer comforts me in the wee hours of the morning. I don't necessarily want to get up and go gallivanting, but I can't stay there. Two theories: 1. It's cold under a pile of puff sans habits 2. Ageism is deteriorating my brain into thinking waking up early is beneficial for small nains.

Besides failings in sleep, I have been racking my mind trying to plan my futur. School acceptance check. Deposit paid check. Academic prowess? I'm leaving on November 12 to go back to Philadelphia. It's the surest way to get the visa without have stress pains and mild alcoholism. So for two months I'll be an only child of sorts, spending thanksgiving alone with three cats. I'm going to job myself as a santa slave; elf.

Then the next part of the futur says I take an airplane journey back and pretend to know anything about something.

Anyways, I've got more pressing issues at hand. I've got to vote. I need two witnesses to sign my overseas ballot. I only know one person. Who wants their signature to be forged on my ballot so that I can vote. I'm not sure if you all know how many people are on the louisiana presidential election ballot. 7. The socialist workers party, the louisiana taxpayers party, and so on. There is also a party whose only platform is prohibition.

I keep wanting to photograph my life and show it. But. I forget.

This morning it hailed. I'm cold. Heating uses too much electricity. I bought detox tea. I drink to stay warm. But when the tox leaves my body I'm no longer warm.

Let's pretend that we all know what we are doing. It'll make the less imiginative feel silly.

extraordinary machine

Yesterday I bought electricity. I did it in record time. 3 Miles + dodging hefty runcornbreads + fresh fruit distraction = 1 hour. I was impressed and sweaty. I thought that I was in a hurry. The real answer was not in a hurry. But it did make for good sport. I'm like a tank.

I've been accepted into a Masters Programme for Public Health specializing in International Health Development. I think I have decided to do it. I didn't realize this until last night when I remembered that I just bought a plane ticket back to the UK for January. In my waking life I was already a student again. It's a strange feeling. The course seems larger than myself as it exercises magnetic pull on me. I'm not sure what I do now. This is the longest summer vacation ever. All the other kids already went back to school and there is noone to play with.

PS Money is expensive and my purple shoes are wearing thin. I can feel the texture of the earth when I walk.

I have a UK library card. I also have a national insurance number. Grod too. What if we get stuck on this island?

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes
And I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot it's a slow climb
But I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time

Auvergnat

I am in my couch. I made the journey to Vichy and back again with out spending a single cent. One time I made the dream that I found lots of coins on the ground and that they were oh so valuable. This dream is not only a dream always; I am very lucky when it comes to scavenging and I find coins souvent. This may contribute to my lack of freedom from disease. I vomited thrice in France. It was acidic and orange.

I met Géraud's grandpa. He told the story of a man who chewed tobacco. But this man stopped in église and put the chewed wad on his head and covered it with his cap. Chewed tobacco doesn't stay put like you'd think it would and so whilst praying to god, little red rivers of tobacco flowed from his crane down the back of his neck.

A packet of ballots came in the mail while I was in France. I don't see a ballot for the presidential election, only for public servants and congressional elections. I'm not sure where that leaves me. Do I make my own ballot or just assume they have already assumed who I'm voting for. PS Mccain is old.

As I said in the debut, I'm in the couch once again. I'm not sure how to get out of it. Two cushions absorb my fesses in a style that screams perfection and couch moulded to butt. I think it's more physics than that, but I always assume divine intervention.

Back to a political commentaire, I don't think that Palin is insane for dinosaurs. Cutting funding for real people who are living today, here and now, under her jurisdiction is where the insanity lies.

There is a void in our frigo. All eyes are on the cheese. You've got no distractions and no options. It'll suck you in. But you'll like it. Mostly.

bananas?

There are six bananas in my kitchen lookin mighty fine. And, and I am leaving tomorrow morning with my Geerawd and I can't figure out what the best way to lay these bananes to rest is. Do I crush them into mush and finger paint on the walls? Make banana bread? Try to freeze them and then cover with chocolate, then poke Grod with them...Or I could put them back on a tree in the hopes that the host will accept the bananas as its own. It's hard. Life.

I maybe might could have a future if I am accepted into a university in Liverpool. I feel not so sure since I can't write letters of intent very well. My style is more rant, blog, or letter. I can't do much in the way of showboatin around. Momma didn't teach me that. When I wrote that an image of Kate popped into my head. Kate with a giant wooden spoon and her apron on and she is trying to teach me how to curtsy.

I have to start somewhere.

I might have never mentioned this before, I can't remember. I live across/next to a convicted murderer by stabbing. He talks to me about his baby, I found out that it's his daughter of 15 years. They have family in Alabama. We've had this conversation more than once. But each time, slightly more is revealed. Once he gave Géraud a superman teeshirt. He wears it almost daily with a pair of perky seasonal christmas boxers. I just realized why he does this. He has two christmas tree farms.

Secrets come out when you are surrounded by sheep and natural beauty. They have.

The sky is leaking again and I seem to be one of a handful of people who notice. I walk to the store daily to get rations for the evening and this afternoon only 3 people umbrella-ed themselves. Save these sensitive few, I'm not so sure anyone else recognized the falling water as rain. Or perhaps they need a good wash err lube.

And to kill time I've been baking and Géraud has been eating. We are a good team. I also play literati on yahoo! I'm not very good.

Tomorrow Starts a 7 day diet of cheese, bread, cake, cookies, wine, and cheese. I'm going to France for a dual birthday celebration. It's going to be rough.

ps Guinness can make you president of gas club

Bougies

The past days or weeks or months or however long it’s been since my life put itself on paper has been both rushed and idling. In unemployment each passing day feels like one step closer to the end…of what, I’m not so sure.

I went to the lakes and paddled with my weak arms. Even if my arms grow in girth they will never become strong enough to propel my body weight on water. Under the water is a different story. My strength only knows success when submerged. Luckily, I’ve got two legs that are very much the opposite of their gangly cousins. These two masters of repetition and rhythm feel nothing and in a dire twist show everything. I can not count the numerous times I’ve showered only to find bruises dotting my thigh. I’ve never been able to figure out their source…. (Fairies) …..that is until this recent Saturday when a freak confession from Grod made it all so clear. He’s a kicker.

Or a puncher, but whichever limb his strength hides within is a stealth night hunter.

Today I am going to the post office to mail my cell phone to the south of England to the aunt of my dad’s fiancée. She will take my cell phone on vacation to Vancouver and Portland while I nest in the canapé. During the apartment hunt we saw various properities with not so great couches, now I realize that it wouldn’t have mattered because my day activities could have broken in any couch, any piece of sheet metal.

I’m supposed to go to France soon. This means more questioning, more eating, more drinking. Feelings inside body are less neutral than

I saw a giant French spider in Liverpool. And then we couldn’t escape it. I love the costumes of the team with their leather aprons and buttoned jackets that mesh insane asylum with circus. The circus aesthetic has always tickled my fancy, from the size acceptance to use of circles. I like round.

I see people have voted on name for Runcorn and im sad to say that no one voted for runcornbread. I quite liked that one. Twas my fav

Potiron machine part seventeen

I wrote this on August 20, 2008.

I am sat on a two-seater couch with a coffee table and four chairs as my audience. I’m still in the Holiday Inn in Heathrow surrounded by people conducting the public aspect of their life. This means both business and pleasure. I must be incredibly cheap and stubborn, or in other words, frugal. I have yet to pay for a thing today and have demanded that I don’t pay charges I have accrued at this hotel. I adore the emphasis on customer service in the hospitality and tourism industry. Without a company credo forcing the ‘grin and bear it’ motto on its employees, I’d be out at least £80.

I have twice swallowed my gum today. I’m not especially proud of that. Normally I can make a delightful choking slash hocking sound and save the gum from the depths of my throat. Not today. I must be out of practice. Has England deteriorated my street skillz?

The ending of that last paragraph was bittersweet.

Géraud is going on a Guinness diet so that his bide can get some R&R. The limit, for at least a solid seven consecutive days, must not exceed one Guinness par jour. And there is no option for accumulation. Although, I must admit that Guinness has been the source of some great nights. It has also fed my addiction of list-making.

Prix de Guinness en Angleterre

The Albert Hotel (Widnes) £2.50

The Manors Arms (Widnes) £2.80

Park Royal (Warrington) £3.60

Wetherspoon’s (various locations) £2.20 £1.69 on Monday

The Railway (Runcorn) £2.54

The Mohammed Ali (Widnes) £2.75

The Hillcrest Hotel (Widnes) £2.60

The Bradley (Widnes) £2.50

The Old Queen’s Head (Chester) £3.00

O’Neil’s (Liverpool) £2.60

Evenwood Farm Pub (Runcorn) £3.00

The Wellington Arms (Runcorn) £2.40

The Barley Mows (Runcorn) £2.60

The Bears Paw (Frodsham) £2.57

Holiday Inn Heathrow (London) £3.75

The temperature outside can’t be more than 65 and the air conditioner is on. I don’t understand the reasoning for using A/C when the temperature outside is actually colder than the A/C setting. It must all feed into the illusion that this is summer.

THEN I WROTE THIS

My eyes have developed super powers. I can look out a window and at any given time see rain. It’s similar to how people with ESP can sense spirits and ghosts. The sun can be fully round and egg-yolk yellow and still the gouttes will present themselves to my eyes. Now, mostly for fear of persecution, I have not divulged my super power to anyone. Imagine the harassment of “the girl who sees rain” or even worse “the freak who thinks water is constantly suspended then drops in the sky”. It would certainly kill my career as a Children’s TV presenter. Children don’t like rain it makes them shrivel and feel old, which they fear, unless they are more then 6/12^ths of the way towards their next candle blow.

What is the best way to teach fractions? Age or Money? Do you think that drug dealers excelled in chemistry in high school? I bet they were pretty adept with a triple-beam balance.

I just burped but I could hardly hear it. It’s not silent in this lobby. I think the best silence villain was a salesman this morning who was trying to sell (con) three men into the candy machine business. To me, it sounded instantly bogus. He was aggressive and too prepared to knock out questions of doubt. This man probably loves a good striptease. At one point during his spiel he actually said this, “don’t worry about getting mugged because as soon as it happens the thief will realise he just grabbed a bag full of 20p coins and let go and it’ll make quite a scene as they spill all over the ground”. SO how bout some candy machines? A man reminiscent of the glasses man in Willy Wonka minus the glasses and cool creep and add slime and shiest. The sugary sweetness of candy loses most of its appeal when you know a greased down suit stands behind it, rubbing his sweaty hands to warm his frozen soul.

For all my illiterate readers

I'm in the Holiday Inn near Heathrow Airport near London but definitely not in it. Géraud is here for a conference on the ISO1400 so I came along (under the impression the conference was going to be in London). I think it may have not been the best decision to play tag-along seeing as all I've done so far is eat and spend money on transportation. However, I did find 50p so it hasn't been all losses. I think I should gamble. My luck isn't terrible and I need a new vice.

Another thing that somewhat validates my being here is that I have access (paid) to the internet and I can finally get in touch with the world and upload photos as well as sign up to have internet in my maisonette in the nord, or as Grod says, chez les abrutis. And besides the techonological aspect of the hotel there is the bouffe bit. So far I've stolen 2 parts of boursin, 1 part of nutella, 1 pot of miel, 1.3 packets of special deluxe muesli, and 1 indian buffet style lunch. Somehow despite having a few pieces of argent I still feel penniless and my basic instinct of gather and store all food in sight kicks in. I think Géraud is finally starting to realise how I ate for free in New Orleans...slight of hand + guts + moxie.

I've been trying to plan a journey to the lake district for this coming weekend but I'm having trouble because the map makes it look bigger than it is. Ok, so this is not really my problem but I'm still impressed with how maps can make areas look vast which aren't. We can criss cross the entire lake district in under 5 hours and that includes the travel time from radical Runcorn. --> I just like to open up the forum for giving Runcorn and good nickname using tackiness and alliteration.

And now, so as not to alienate the illiterate fans of my blog, photos from Chez Grod & Poule.

Storage Closet/Guest Room

Bedroom

View from our love shack

Bed with Storage machine

Desk in Bedroom

Washing Machine and Coffee Maker in Kitchen

Bathroom Door view from Hall

Bathroom

Toilet, Bidet & Sink

Rub a Dub Dub

Grod playing racing games à l'aise

Front Door view from Hallway

Kitchen

Kitchen sink

Géraud

Guitarre

TV

Dining Table

Eating Yoghurt

Papa Tauveron et Matthieu

Mama Tauveron

Grimace

Someone ate too much?

This is only a Taste

I wrote this on August 8, 2008.

It’s been a long time since I saw you, saw you, saw you.(Aaliyah, if you have any questions)

Géraud and I have moved out of our prisoner’s chamber in the police lady’s pad and into a 1st floor maisonette across the bridge in Runcorn. We have traversed the pont, which while easy to do for day trips is not often down amongst the English folk from these parts. A colleague told me that it’s rare for someone to switch sides of the River.

Ah, and that brings me up to my next tidbit of information. I have found a job. Well, in all honesty, I didn’t really find it, it found me. About a month ago I went into a recruitment agency in Runcorn and registered because I was at a low point in my job search. Well they called me two days after I called them back, with a temporary position as a receptionist covering for a receptionist that is out sick. (1.her sickness is due to a paper allergy) (2.WHAAA why be a receptionist when you are allergic to paper?) So for the last two weeks I’ve been working at TDG European Chemicals in Runcorn, where I answer phones, talk to truckers over an intercom, and sort loads of mail. Especially on a Tuesday. Out of divine respect for a single God, the Royal Mail Service does not operate on Sunday…= time lag in post. Truckers have to mail in their fuel delivery records as well as their time sheets. These are often stained with coffee and grease. Not often enough is there a smushed Twix bar clinging to the outside of an envelope, but it does happen. And although tempted, I did not indulge.

I indulge myself in the gourmandise that is French cheese and wine. We have our own fridge in our very own petite maisonette, and it’s overwhelmed by cheese. The pungent odour of cheese lingers as soon as that door opens. It’s a pleasant reminder of the power of electricity combined with refrigeration. Apart from our cheese domination, our fridge is a friend of vegetables and not very often meat. This might be my doing, unintentionally, of course.

Carrie once asked me about what I eat daily in Angleterre, and I shall you indulge you, Poule. It goes something like this, muesli + plain probiotic yoghurt + two probiotic capsules + a spoonful of flax seed oil, a banana/pomme + sandwich of the day(usually veg and cheese, but for the last few days it’s been PB&J), café au lait, petite pomme de nain= everything I eat before dinner time. Dinner can be a wide array of anything, but it’s usually vegetable dominated. Géraud has just eaten his very first corn on the cob and sweet potato. This French boy has been seduced by the pleasures of Fine American Cuisine. I’m anticipating a very excited GROD for Thanksgiving.

Warmer days and warmer potiron

I watched the news today. The tallest of the Tall Ships sailing from Liverpool is Russian. She is Russian, excuse me. They all left today, headed to Northern Ireland from where they will sail for 5 weeks in a race. For pride and wind burn. The weatherwoman was almost ecstatic that she could report something pleasant today. For the past four weeks, she has been the bearer of bad news; of gusting winds, of frigidness, and of falling water. I can't go so far as to say that it's warm (if you account for the season) but it is no longer cold. It feels like a nice spring day except that it's July and so all the kids just got out of school.

Children are now a major sidewalk obstacle. They spread horizontal or bunch like grapes. Luckily I can weave fairly well. Luckily I don't feel obliged to dress British. That sounds cold and brutal, but it should really just be a sigh of relief for the seeing population of the planet.

Géraud is sick. This seems like an all too frequent occurrence. He is almost always blowing his nose. He might as well stick two puffs of cotton right up there, or wear a cotton moustache ultra absorbent. (Don't get offended lil potiron). Friday night might have done him in. We went for a few pints before hitting the Mexican slash Mediterranean restaurant in town. I am compiling a price list of Guinness in Widnes. You need suggestions on where to drink yourself silly for cheap, just ask! So, we had ourselves two pints of Guinness each, followed by a lousy and I do mean lousy margarita, and followed slash finished by a so-so bottle of Argentinean wine. All this combined with us running around in windy/rainy weather might account for Géraud falling ill. Alcohol, while a good friend of the ill, is by no means a good doctor. Sunday I put Grod in his hospital box aka bed and ran to shop to get him meds and a hair clipper. Sometimes, you become sick and it's really that you're just wearing too much hair again.

Best part of this weekend: We ate jalapeno poppers at the restaurant on Friday night. For only a measly £6.50 you can get 3 jalapeno poppers!

I hate the conversion rate.

Week fo(u)r

Today marks my four week anniversary in England. I've succesfully completed life in a foreign country for 4 weeks. Some people consider the simple feat of living to be monumental. I might agree if I were to have any real challenges to its' sustainability in my case.

Géraud won't let me starve, so that takes away the challenge of feeding oneself, Géraud won't kick me, there goes the challenge of safe/warm lodging, and beyond those two needs, there are the necessities of the environment, which I can't control. We need oxygen to breath, and so far-so good, even if I'm living in an industrial city rife with polluting factories. I'm trying to think if there might be more to bare-living, but I can't really think of anything. With food, water, roof-over-head, air, and the occasional simple pleasure from passing observations, I don't think I can complain. Essentially, complications and complaints are an awful result of thinking too much in lieu of just being. There is a quote that I really enjoy from this book that I read while in Paris. And being a scribbler of things, I noted it down in my journal and was lucky enough to stumble across the other day while filling in my greatfuckacrosstheworld map.

la plupart des hommes refusent de penser: ils ont été créés pour vivre, pas pour penser

Unfortunately, I'm the kind of gal who didn't accredit the quote to anyone. Good job allysin. My guess of the author is, André Breton (unlikely), Boris Vian (more likely), or Herman Hesse(possible).

I'v been thinking about what to write in a blog and mostly I want to talk about Chavs. In England there is the social class known as the Chavs, it's pretty derogatory, but pretty accurate (and funny). In fact, I first heard of Chavs from Dianne after she heard about it from her two nieces in England. They alerted her to the emergence of a class of people who wear name brands, lacoste, burberry, etc... only to show the branding. And, TRACKSUITS, that is a huge identifier of a Chav, apparently.

Chav Caricature or Real Chav Somewhere???

OH, and maybe the greatest part is that while I was searching the internet for something related to Widnes, I came across this website for voting on and discussing the biggest Chav towns in England. There are many an article about Widnes and Runcorn....and Widnes is in the running for Biggest Chav town in England. And little me was lucky enough to end up living in this lovely town. Female chavs are also referred to as Chavettes...GREAT



After the article about Widnes, there are a few comments that talk about how if you are a single female without kids and several baby daddies you just won't fit in in Widnes. I concur. When the weather isn't complete shit, I stroll around town and I find myself always the target of baby stroller violence. The sidewalk is no longer safe for two legs that aren't fronted by a baby-buggy.

The Rules

Yesterday, the sunniest day to date, was also the day the rules arrived. They appeared without making a sound, displaying themselves prominently two times over in the kitchen. It's hard to imagine anything appearingly suddendly and sans sound in this house. There is no doubt in my mind that, they are personal, and a tad malicious.

House Rules

1. No smoking in bedroom
2. Please change bed and clean room
   
3. Please wash dishes, dry (added later), tidy and put way
   
4. Please clean bathroom after use
5. Please tidy up IE table after dinner
   
6. No eating in bedroom

I really didn't know what to make of it at first, seeing as how there was absolutely no warning nor was there any talk of any rules or no-no's when we first arrived. I'll second that by saying we aren't messy people and we always clean up after ourselves. We do the dishes immediately after we finish eating and clean up our area. This we do because we know we are living in shared housing. Hell, we even offer delicious cheese and wine. It's not that as though we feel at ease here, becaue we(I) don't.

Géraud had the best reaction I could have imagined. He was angry, is angry. Wants to leave and leave soon. He is going to talk to her later tonight and say

"Si tu n'as pas le cran de dire les choses en face et que tu continues d'imposer des regles débiles qui n'ont ni queue ni tête dans notre dos, tu peux te les mettre au cul". "C'est tout le courage que ça a ici les flics? Ça m'étonne pas que ce soit le bordel et que des braves types se fassent planter dans tous les coins a chaque fois qu'ils veulent aller boire une pinte en bas de chez eux!"

But in English, of course.

As for me, I'm going to be petty and eat the chocolate profiteroles that are Nikki's favourite. I am also seriously considering turning the bottom half of the paper on which the rules are posted into a grocery list; you know PLEASE BUY: bananas, apples, fuck yer mom, tomatoes, mustard, yoghurt, a muzzle for yer trap, etc...

I was not raised as well as Grod. He comes from a good family that is going to force feed me when they get here. He has already suggested the feeding device used on geese in France to make foie gras. You know it's true love when you are thought of as foie gras.

My dad and Dianne whom were here this weekend also loved this idea of Allysin as a goose.

I don't think I like that idea too much.

But besides their incessent tries to goose-ify-me, we had a good weekend, complete with Guinness drinking in pubs, lots of small dogs, drinking champagne cocktails at Albert Dock, and even a fluffy cat. Dianne came to the house on Friday with gifts for me and Geraud, mostly things I had asked my dad to bring. Mostly peanut butter for Géraud because he is spoiled. Her visit was complete with a view of my room crowded with drying laundry, Nikki in her bathrobe, and Paul harassing and beating his tiny 4 year old son. I don't think I've ever heard a 4 year old be called a dickhead before. It's a good thing I can get that sort of cultural education here. If I knew how to add sound bites, I would. I'd like to expose the world to the intelligence of a Pauls' parenting.

Ben, enough of the gritty annoyances of this household, I need to talk about the old man I saw cutting his grass with a pair of scissors today. Yes, that's right. I was walking to the computer store to get a proper power cable for the laptop and I see grampa trimming his lawn. (I hope that at least a few people got the dirrty image) I think I like that old man...he understands true horticultural care.

It's five o'clock in the pm and Géraud will soon be home unless he melted himself again. In his factory they make glasswool, which is insulation made from glass particles and other bits. So, there is a giant glass melter and sometimes he has to go stand underneath it and try to see if it matches the contractors drawing of it. This is probably not his favourite part of the job, but I like his description of it. It reminds me of Kate and her Glass. Maybe a little bit of Stephen K. But only in his reluctance to come to Hare Krsna.

I'm going to break rule number 6.

Miettes!

I eat in bed a lot. On Géraud's side of the bed because that's where the computer cord is, and thus the computer. I try to remember to sweep the crumbs away after I'm finished but sometimes I just forget. I also eat a lot while I'm surfing the internet and so my dirrty little fingers type away on his computer. He has probably noticed the cleanliness of his keyboard decreasing. I think one day he tried to comment about how I don't take care of his computer, which I do sorta, better than I would do if it were my own computer. But I think that was just him being sassy. Géraud is becoming sassier by the day, which is kinda just great because it means we laugh a lot and have a good time together. Having a good time while we are together is essential to my well being in this country. If things weren't so good between the two of us, I'd probably be on the next plane out of this miserable country. I mean that in a nice way.

Let me explain you the weather. I might have already talked a bit about the weather, but it really deserves much attention. The sun comes up at 5:30am and stays up until 11:00pm, but there is rarely any actual sunshine. Daylight without sunshine is worse than no daylight. It's a dismal grey fog that hangs around for far too long and disrupts your eating cycle. How am I supposed to know it's dinner time. Yesterday the only time the sun came out and was nice was at 8:00pm at the exact moment we are eating dinner and does a nice glare in your face through the back window effect. This blinding effect forces us to close the curtain and block out the sun. I understand why this country has so many alcoholics. I want to drink all the time inorder to imagine a better world. Right now, as I look out the window, the sky looks as though it might snow and the trees are swaying which means it's windy. If I wanted to be optimistic I'd go buy a kite and some mittens and head down to the park, but I'd rather not let myself get carried away by wishful thinking, again.

That is exactly what got me into this mess in the first place. I just thought, hey, I'll just go move to England and everything will be peachy keen. I thought there'd be shops hiring or at least somebody who knew somebody who needed a helping hand. Not so much the case. Instead, I sit around or walk around looking for job opportunities. They are few and far between. Even the local job centre, which is the unemployment help centre, is full of people looking for work. It's not a buyers market and I am last in the pecking order. This is the pecking order: English, British, EU, Australian/UK Empire, Chinese (for their food), and then American with French boyfriend. My fortune cookie application on facebook says this, "don't get too carried away"! If only I listened. I should have come up with a back up plan, like a book deal or something. Maybe I could write a dirrty romance novel with lots of sexy french sayings mixed in and really hit that Quebecois niche. But mostly, I feel doomed to fail on my current venture unless I meet the right people.

The most promising, and only, response I've had in my job hunt is a group interview at ASDA (the UK part of the Wal-Mart empire). It was very strange and very much an interview where they watch you like and take notes, and that's creepy. There were about 15 of us in this large conference room, sat around a large table, and we played 'games' during which the HR hawks observed us to see if we are ASDA quality. The first part was a 10 minute time period in which we found out about our partner sitting next to us and they found out about us and at the end we report what we learned back to the group; essentially an exercise in small talk and convivability. My partner was Keith, aged 50, with 8 children. His cartoon character would be SpongeBOB. My name was Allyson, I am 22, American and Dora the Explorer. The next part was in partners again, different partners, and I was with a girl my age. We had to design a poster for a new product or any product and then give a presentation in front of the group about our product and also a store greeting where we specifically 'sell' our product. Our product=the perfect panini press. It wasn't original, but it was something we both recently discovered and are infatuated by. Oh yes, indeed! Until you have your own panini press, you have no idea how great it is to use it. So after about 1 hour and 30 minutes it was over and I was glad because the room was terribly cold and I had to pee. I don't expect to hear that I got the job, although I should get my "Thanks for applying" letter by next Tuesday.

I understand that grocery stores can't just hire everyone who applies, but you'd think they'd base it on more than your interaction with some strangers in a frigid room where 4 ladies in lime green vests rate your smile. It's frustrating for me to have spent money on a college education that, so far, has gotten me no where. I thought having a degree would open doors, not just lead me to debt and drugs. I sometimes think about being a anti-college counselor. YEA, sure it's fun, but that is its' only redeeming quality; in my case at least. I just wish that someone along the way would have explained this to me. Then I could be unemployed, but debt free....which is a much better situation anyway you look at it.

Géraud just sent me a text message to inform me that his carte vitale, or social security card, has been stolen. Last week he wrapped it one envelope that was inside a second envelope and I posted it from the Post Office here in Widnes, well it seems as though, the second envelope made it to France but was empty, which means gone, stolen, violated. He wants me to go down to the post office and find out what happened or enquire or do something. I'm pretty sure they are just going to say, Sorry we can't do anything if you didn't get insurance on the letter, which I didn't because I didn't think there would be a problem. My dad mails me credit cards all the time and there is never a problem. This is just bad luck. I feel bad. His things are always getting stolen or broken into or just plain fucked up. But I'll go to the post office and see what can be done and while I'm in town maybe I'll buy a small bottle of wine and drink it and pass out with a paper cup next to my nappy head and with any luck wake up to find a small fortune in coinage.

I think it's drizzling. I feel like I live inside a rain cloud.

Apartment update. We found several nice, furnished 1 bedroom apartments in the area and we have decided to take one that is in Runcorn and not far from Grods work. It is also not trop expensive and is fully furnished with everything we need, including a hotterwatermaker. I'm awaiting the rent application in the mail from the realtor. I was hoping it would arrive today, but that did not happen. We still haven't officially told Nicola that we are moving out. I think she has figured out that we are probably leaving, but isn't for sure yet. It's just so awkward living in the same house as another couple, especially one that you don't know and who has their family over. It makes me feel small.

G-ROD came back

I'm happy. Happy that Géraud has finally come back to England because it makes understanding why I'm in this country clearer. He came bearing gifts too. Six bottles of wine, because that's how he does, seven different types of cheese. The kind that can really smell up your car after 8 hours of driving across two countries with sunshining down so bright. Opening the boot of his car the smell, err stank, of cheese just hitcha. It was oooo so good. But the curious thing, in my mind, at least is that neither Paul or Nicola tried any of the cheese last night. No worries though, Geraud and I had ourselves a mini feast of cheese (camembert, st. agur, cantal, chevre, ... & more i cant remember) with baguette or as it was marked at the grocery store french stick. Yea! plus an apple. So that part of Gérauds return was magical, not too mention I got me some suga. ...Not sure if I've mentioned the fact that I had to hear Nicola and Paul fucking while Geraud was away. At first I didn't know what that awful noise was. I just thought it was the dog, but dogs do not say OHHH MEEE GODDD!!! Actually, everytime it starts I still think it's the dog. It is just so dog cry sounding. And well I dunno, it makes me shiver a little bit. It might be because there is no visual. ;) wink

I don't think I expressed the horror of waking up to what you think is the dog is in danger of death only to find out its your landlord fucking her married boyfriend. It's worse than think. First thought is always, must save dog...then the realisation that the dog is in no mortal danger sets in and you want to teach abstinence. Sad, but true.

My living situation is becoming even more interesting as Géraud and I spice it by looking at apartments and telling Nikki about it. Little did she expect us to be somewhat uncomfortable living in a tiny room and paying £1000 per month for it. Yesterday, Grod and I went to view two lovely apartments in Warrington. They are each 1 bedroom furnished flats that would cost £500 per month including utilities. Hmmm seems like a better deal.... YEA! SO then we came home and Nikki axed where we had been and we told her, "looking at flats." dont think she was expecting that. Well then it got funny, because her face told me everything which was "damn they found out that im charging them a shit ton o money and they want to leave" well she needs money. Next she proceeded to inform us of the price of utilities and how horrible the commute can be with traffic and all. Except that we know the price of utilities already, and, we drove the route during rush hour...so...im not buying it. ESPECIALLY since after dinner, and when i was upstairs not with Geraud, she approached him and offered to make our rent only £500 per month. ben voila quoi

Now there is this conflict of do we move into our own place where we have more space, but maybe less luxuries (Nikki has a panini machine) or do we stay here living in her house and cramped but with cable tv. I like fresh fruit more than I like TV. Translation: I want my own place.

Géraud made me talk to his dad on the phone yesterday. We talked about the weather. I did not know what to say to him. Maybe something like I've got your son, try getting him back? I might save that lil diddy for his momma.

I've been applying for all sorts of jobs over here in this island nation. I applied at the UK equivalent of Wal-Mart, a coffee shop, numerous receptionist positions, an information assistant, and I'm in the process of applying for a position as a library assistant at a hospital. I doubt I'll get calls back for any of these. I might have to find other immigrants and slip in with them. Or find things and then sell them online. I have a phone now so I can do that. Oh yea you want to call me 011447530459002 there ya are.

I'm going to take pictures of this place right now and then post 'em and bring you all into my world. Just imagine sex noises that sound like a crying dog, it'll help set the mood.

Cheers

Me on Computer on Bed post Géraud returning

Our Bedroom with Me in mirror

Our bedroom again, from other side of room angle

View of backyard from our window

Top of Stairs

Creepy life-size doll at top of stairs

Front door at bottom of stairs



Dog locked in kitchen


Kitchen

Living room full of Nikki and Paul Clothes


Other side of living room

Parrot and front room


Dishes

View from front room, includes garden and nikkis car


Fresh Fruit that I bought

Another Day of Nothingness

Every time the morning happens again I try to extend my time in bed as long as possible, hoping that this will be time spent sleeping and not in any sort of waking life. It may seem hard to understand, so I will explain it like this.

I have nothing to do...and the things that you may say I have to do are wait around tasks. I'm supposed to find an apartment and a job at the same time. For the apartment I've do some work there, but the English do not like to rent anything to anyone under 25, anyone foreign, or anyone who is not in full time employment. My simple task, maybe in america, is not fun. Besides, even if I can get a response from someone....it'll end soon thereafter. Frankly I'm annoyed at the set up of lodging in this country and I've been here a week.

Where I am now is only getting crazier. Nicola and Paul had a big fight yesterday and it involved £15,000 owed to the neighboors whom hate Paul and whom like Géraud. I'm probably somewhere in the middle. Well, except that these neighboors might be using me as a spy to get dirt on Paul! And, i'd do it, if they paid me. He is an alright chap, but I could use some money since my job hunt has failed to launch. I'm considering going back to school as a way of postponing the real world, but even that seems too far fetched for me. I'm also considering working on this farm that is nearby, but that is a lodge/board for work type set-up...thus no pay and no getting to sleep with géraud all the time. I'm sure he'd be strictly against my living in a barn 15 minutes down the road. I'm not so opposed to it, since it'd allow me to live for free, essentially.

i bought baby spinach, yoghurt, and muesli yesterday.

I'm paying (and by i, i mean géraud) £125 per week to be where i am in this house with all these people. There is a baby next door, and not next door as in seperated, but as in on the other side of my wall. In fact, i think there is a whole hoard of children over there, very naughty children, as i often hear them being scolded by their mother for something. It's oooo so annoying. The same goes for the dog who is always downstairs whining and whimpering and wagging his tail against the wall.

There is nothing terribly interesting to report on in this place. The neighboors house is full of teddy bears. And i mean full; they are everywhere. And the neighboors, this lesbian couple, are o so proud of these bears-some of them cost over $250. If i get fed up with being unemployed and foreign, i might turn to thievery. yes. Of Bears!
Do not tell

I could go on and complain so more but i'm tired and don't actually feel like ranting since i can just drink instead. I think i'll just drink everynight until that turns into an occupation.

I'll put some pictures that Géraud has on his computer up here...because why not