Life abroad made me think over the past couple of days. There are the conceptions of others about it (prominent is the life is a bowl full of cherries approach, and that you shouldn’t ever be able to complain about a bad day cause you are abroad experiencing that which others dream about) and then there are the realities (which include the fact that you live there wherever it is just like anyone else does anywhere else in the world, you are in most cases functioning in things that are in relative stages of foreign nature to your system, and let us not forget the isolation you sometimes feel). Of course there is the in between, and a fair amount of entertainment value to it all too. In all good, bad and ugly- I love living abroad.
Importantly I am of the belief that your perspective on matters changes with the parameters of your borders, regardless of what you may think of your “home” country. And if/when you go “home” you do so with a distinctly different view on life. Not to mention the whole new set of experiences that you accumulated along the ride, that define that stage of your life.
But what I am not (yet, if ever) accustomed to is the repetitive feeling that you have been tripping on acid in your sleep. Cause really, I am not sure that there would or could be any other explanation for this shit. Seriously even if I were creative, and I am not, I could not make this shit up if I tried.
We will step away from the non-technicolor person who thought it was ok to let Grandma walk out of the house (in Italy) wearing the Flags of the World tapered balloon pants- the kind that make you wonder if MC Hammer is going to bust a move out the next alley breaking it down with 2 Legit, 2 Legit 2 Quit (sadly I remember the hand gestures for this, I am terrified…). Topped with a BLINDINGLY yellow bolero jacket. Stepping away…
I have made the unilateral decision in the Empressdom of my territory to forget about the person I overheard last week here in Paris talking about their “vintage jacket.” Which for the record was not Channel, it was denim and had New Kids on the Block screened across the back of it. (VIVID flashbacks occurred thanks to that jacket; again frightened to the point that really, someone… hold me)
I am having to come to terms with the fact that there are a fair amount of days in my life where I am left with no other option after waking up but to contemplate on the Dalai Lama and wonder What the Mc Fuck?? I have lived the past almost two years in Fashion “Capitals” of the world… I HAVE to be dropping acid in my sleep. This is the only reasonable explanation for any of this that my theory searching brain could come up with (feel free to amuse yourself if you think you can do better)
But this weekend left me asking out loud- “Did I smoke Crack in my sleep” and “Who the hell hooked up the black tar heroin IV??” This moment in time is brought to you (via me) thanks to my television and TF1.
Growing up I thought my legal name was a tortuous burden. It is one of those names that as an adult or under personal choice is not as bad as it could be- but with out choice and in the proximity of children… all I have to say is that children are cruel and one day I was POSITIVE that I wanted to change my name to Barbie. And it is bad enough for me, the feminist, to admit it… Nuff said.
But these parents have taken the cake on Mama Mao. Serious, they need to have CPS called in on their asses, for wanting to have physical harm inflicted on their children. Incessantly.
People someone in the 1960s thought it was ok to name a little French boy PLASTIC (ironically enough with a last name that sounds like it could be the first name- Bertrand, which lead me to think that someone typed things in wrong on the screen. Until they called him Plastic!). Even more eye popping are the parents who named that innocent little girl who grew up to have a plastic rack- Douchka (say it Douche-Ka). And they became celebrities. And they put them on TV. With a transvestite in a competition, dancing hip hop (say it eep-opp) after the show flashed me an up close and personal of Ms. France’s crotch THREE times using slow mo replay.
As if life in France (with La Duree macaroons which are more addictive than popping X) wasn’t enough, it is now confirmed that there is something in the water. And really god help me if I ever need an IV, who the hell knows what they are going to put in it.
Me I am going to go back and hallucinate about waves, waves that are done and waiting for the kitchener.
And to follow up: before you all go being frightened for my friends I have to add that one of them has known me through highs and lowest of lows for over 5 years and traveled through India. He hath no fear of neither a car nor me (well he does of me but not like that). The other is from Mexico City, where cars think you are there for moving target practice and honk in horns that sing. The third of the trio had already crossed the street so really I wasn't scaring the shit out of anyone as much as I was entertaining them. That is me the center of entertainment :) next post MIGHT have a photo and will reveal the music thingy I was tagged with by the ever so sweet Susie, cause you know I was starting to feel all left out and stuff.
Posted by Stinkerbell at February 14, 2005 07:09 PM | TrackBack