mon amour! c'est le temps de te reveiller!

Things I adore about my Dad.

1) He loves clocks. He has two that chime every hour. They gong their bells. They tick and tock. He loves clocks.

2) He always reaches for a reference book during conversations. The pleasure in conversation for him (and me) is that we are learning something new. Our synapses are making new neural pathways! Hurrah!

3) He squeezes a glass of orange juice for my mom every morning. It's one of his jobs as "husband". This past month I benefit from this husbandly perk my mother asks from him because every morning there is a glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed, just for me.

4) He acts as human alarm clock to my mom, this is another one of his "husbandly duties". He wakes her up in the morning when it's time, by a gentle knock on their bedroom door and the words, "Mon Amour!"

Maman and I had a girl date today.

Why is she the best? Because she's not just my Mom. She's one of my best friends.

She cut work and we walked around and window shopped. I spent a lot of time going into extremely fancy stores and day dreaming and fake decorating my future home fantastically. The curtains I picked out, vintage lace, fleur de lis, are gorgeous! And only $450.00 a yard! Like bgliterary says, Oy! Your tastes, oh, your champagne tastes!

I went to the basement to try to go through some boxes of things. I saw some old journals, and I read them. There was something very wonderful and terrible about it. It's like a measuring stick of who you were against who you are. I am happy to report that I have pretty much stayed on track. Although I kind of wish that my journals were a bit more eloquent. Sometimes they are funny. Like the list of all the boys that I liked from my childhood to age 18 listing their eye color and ethnicity. Then I mathematically determined what my type was. In 1988 the clear winner was a Jewish or Italian guy with blue eyes.

Ian McGowan was not this type at all and I transcribe for you a note I wrote on 2/20/1985 to my best friend (at the time) Cordelia. Ian was Irish and Waspy. He was punk as fuck, had a mohawk, got jaundice once, drank like a fish, and most importantly, gave me a copy of Cyrano de Bergerac, which I slept with under my pillow for 6 months. As you can see, for those in the know, DH was not the only boy who had my heart in 1985. It is safe to say, my heart was a whore.



Dear Cordelia,

If I don't see Ian today I'll definitely die. I need to see him. Now I feel dumb if he knows that I like him, but gosh it's like I (don't) want to marry the boy. It's not love, it's strong like. Now I feel like such a burn out and I'm not even burned out. It's fucking pathetic. I've decided that I hate great students in frnch because they just called the two 99% students out of the room and it's like I can speak french circles around them. Put me in France and I won't need a fucking dictionary. And she knows it. Fuck her. Fuck this school. i don't think I'm coming in tomorrow but I have to because I have 3 tests Friday. Monday, I'm not coming in. We'll meet and do something. Rather, we'll go to B.H.S. (SCREAM!) Definitely we can arrive at like 1:00 and hang out. God that sounds so appealing to me. I wish that I was tall and lanky. Instead, I'm short and lanky. But at least I'm in proportion now. You know I hope they (Pete, Sean and Ian) like the B-day cake. I was going to ask what flavor they liked and we went on a tangent. But see! I can't just ASK!!!!!!

Love Cecil