Diary of an adult runaway

Who loves ya, Frankie? Me!! Me!! I do!!

I remember this day ten years ago. It was a Friday and I got home around 6.25, really happy--no reason, I was just in a good Friday arvo mood. I turned on the TV to catch the last of the news and heard Mal Walden say "Blah blah blah...on the day the world lost Ol' Blue Eyes."

Good mood? Gone. In its place was tears--what Oprah calls the ugly cry. Yes, we'd known Frankie wasn't doing well but he couldn't really have died. He was my mother's favorite singer, he'd been there all my life, so cool in his orange cardigan--the only person who could look cool in an orange cardy. While the news played a photo montage to My Way, I went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of red and tried to open it. The damn thing wasn't going to give up without a fight. So there I was, sobbing the ugly sob, struggling to open the bottle. Then I looked out the kitchen window and there was Trevor, my next door neighbor the cop, in his kitchen. Staring at me.* Come on! Cut me some slack, Frankie died!

(*That is by far not the worst thing he ever saw me doing. There was the night Kurt and I were drinking absinthe and turned off the lights to watch the sugar burn in the spoon--then realized he probably thought we were cooking up crack. And then there was the time we painted the kitchen and Kurt lit up a joint to celebrate the end so I told him to smoke it in the living room where Trev couldn't see it--then I got involved and wandered into the kitchen to admire our handiwork with a big fat spliff in my gob. In our defense, though, that's nowhere near as bad as what he got up to. Cops. That's all I'll say.)

So, it's been 10 years since Frankie died and I still miss his crooning and his coolness*. I'm sure the animal shelters and other causes he funded miss him, too. It's high time he got his own stamp--look at those laughing eyes! Elvis will always be #1 on my hit parade but Frank, right there at #2. (And you know, while Frank was initially threatened by Elvis, they became friends to the point where it was Frank's plane carrying some of the Memphis Mafia to Vegas for Elvis and Priscilla's wedding.)

Re: coolness: Kurt and I watched the Dean Martin roast of Frank last year and were crying from laughter. Perhaps the funniest of all was, get this, Ronald Reagan! (Kinda makes me think of how George Bush'd be a fun guy to go drinking with--and that's where it should end.) Here's a clip (I do miss Ruth Buzzey):

This track is one of my favorites and never fails to make me smile. It's from an album I love, Some Nice Things I've Missed. The Amazon reviews are wildly mixed but I agree with the reviewer who said it sounds like Frankie was having fun. His voice was mature--he had less control but it was so warm, especially on You Turned My World Around and The Summer Knows. Actually, I think I liked his voice more as it matured, just as I liked his face more:

Although, he was cute back in 1938 when he got arrested for...get this...seduction! (A woman claimed Frank had sex with her twice on the promise of marriage. When the cops found out she was already married, they dropped the charges.)

Controversial, caustic, kind--a complex character, an awesome entertainer. They used to say it was Frank's world, we just lived in it. Thanks, Frank.

In the immortal words of Bill Withers...

Lovely day, lovely day, such a lovely day.

Except it was a weekend filled with lovely days. Here's proof:

The light breeze kept any smog away.

The Moulin de la Galette

The Montmartrobus struggles up the hill, laden with tourists. 

Pumpkin showed his love for his new catnip-laced griffoir (scratching post--he's sleeping on it)...

...before playing with his catnip-laced toys (that boy has a problem)...

...while Kody and I cuddled (look closely).

Sometime ago I threatened to paint this apartment--one wall lime green, another raspberry, etc, etc. Then I decided I really liked the white (read: couldn't be fucked trying to decide exactly which paint, haul it and assorted products up the stairs, then listen to Crazy Marcelle, the nutbag next door, go off because ohmygod, I might have made a noise or the paint might actually smell) and I'm glad I left it because the light in this place is amazing and I have plenty of color all around. To wit:

My new summer bag. I am so grooving on this green.

A little red in the kitchen? Why yes, thank you.

A little blue

For the record, what the painting looked like when I bought it 3 years ago...hmmm

Fall colors

Where the bags are

Command central

Eenie meenie minie mo...

Pretty birds all in a row

Well, they will be if I can ever take them out of the box, I love the way they look.

Cherries jubilee--supplies for a writing project + the ghost of Kody again (and no, I don't mean the paw)

I even color-coded some of my books (!!)

The writing/craft corner/stereo area (the iBook)

I decided to stop fighting the pink in the bathroom and just go with it. The sink is pink, as are the bidet, the bathtub and the litter tray. (Spared ya that.)

Hey, I thought you were dead! The clematis that I thought I killed whilst in hospital roars back to life...

Followed by the lavender I also presumed dead.

My new pride and joy--the first peony I've ever reared!

And my favorite colors of all: white and orange.

Things that make my heart happy

Pumpkin takes some afternoon sun

Kody, tired after his Big Day Out (the boys went to get their Euro passports last week and visited Auntie Jenny's place after the vet's--much to Cherry & Phoebe's disgust)

Havaianas, pink toenails and (in orange circle) Le Temps des Cerises, open for business

The weather here is absolutely glorious (it cannot be underestimated how stuh-ning Paris is at this time of year)--kept us warm through a 4-day weekend and ushered us into this 5-day one. Wait, wait, let me say that again:

5-DAY WEEKEND!!

2 are official holidays--Armistace Day and something else, I don't know--and the other's a gimme from work. (Seriously, I work for one of the best organizations in the world.) It feels like all of Paris worked their arses off to get to yesterday evening, I know we did, then everyone--well, those who stayed in town--were ready to drink.  Elma, Philippe and I headed for the only place I know in town (apart from chez moi) that does good margaritas and chicken wings. Yes, the Hard Rock. Sad, I know, but such is the state of Margaritaville here. We all had it in our heads it was Boulevard des Italiens then got there and...no Hard Rock!!  Disappeared. What. The. Hell. Okay, let's got to Tex Mex. Closed!! We ended up instead at the closest Hippopotamus, the first time I've ever been to on and may I just say, never again. Poor service, terrible chicken wings and pina coladas without rum. A pox on their house. Then I got home, checked online and Hard Rock? Boulevard Montmartre, just around the corner from des Italiens. So how come all 3 of us independently came up with des Italiens...no idea.

Today, very quiet morning, lots of lazing around, eating Dairy Milk and catching up on some TV viewing. Part-watched Untraceable. Make that Unwatchable. Made myself feel better by panting over admiring Max on Dancing With The Stars. So hope he's back next season, I just love his ass attitude. And then, while my friends are weekending in Italy and Tunisia and Spain, I ... cleaned my apartment. Oh, yes, thrilling. But my little place on the hill is now shiny and bright and breezy, smelling luscious from the Pineapple Citrus candles and allllll ready for the painting I'm picking up from Le Temps in the next few days: a sultry, sexy Balinese dancer/musician in mermaid colors. Mine, mine, all mine! Then tomorrow, after What Happens In Vegas, I'm booking my U.S. flights. Still trying to decide when to fly out, though I'm thinking June 29. (You reading, Tee? Get that guest room ready and open up that wet bar!) That's another thing I love about the Northern Hemisphere, how we get to take real summer holidays because Christmas isn't in the middle of it all. I love hearing people's plans--but not as much as I like making my own :-)

Right now, it's still warm and there are a few people floating around outside but it's relatively quiet. Just perfect for sleeping with the balcony doors opens to get that sweet breeze.  Night!

Or, maybe even, you know, OFFICIAL ;-)

Spotted at a Houston rally against amnesty for illegal immigrants:

Heh.

My kinda kid

From Overheard In New York:

Mother to child: Shut up!
Child: Don't you dare use that language with me! You're so disrespectful!

--85th & 3rd

Exactly. Why is it that some adults think they can speak with impunity to kids, as if they're not humans? Galls me even more when those kids happen to be their kids. Okay, sure, I know some kids are horrors but you know, you reap what you sow. I just loved this kid speaking up for its rights!

Busy, busy, busy, BUSY week, no time yet to blog about what a FAB time was had Saturday night with 8 other chicas, shrieking "Dude!" and "Awesome!" and "Another margarita, please!", but I will. Thanks, Antipo, for setting it all up, you fucking rock!

Enough time to post this, though. Every hour or so, when the work gets too much, I watch this, giggle, then dive back in (aided by the Tim Tams someone brought back from mission in AuStralia, huzzah!). Needless to say, I want these, every single one of them:

Meme!!

Tagged by Amra (who has a fabulous book due out later this year--perfect Christmas present for everyone on your list!). Here's how it works:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open it to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you (and I understand that etiquette calls for you to avoid "tagging" someone else who has already been sent the meme, if possible).

My book is The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper, which is still rocking my world. And here's page 123:

"I knew it!" he exclaims gleefully. "Do tell, do tell."

I quickly relate all the events of the past day, listening to Owen's delighted gasps while Jared watches me, listening raptly, smirking when I include the incident of his coitus interruptus. "So let's review," Owen says when I'm done, not even trying to conceal his merriment. "In the last twenty-four hours, you've returned to your hometown, where essentially everybody hates you, you've been reunited, however awkwardly, with your estranged family, you've walked in on a sexual liasion, gotten into trouble with the law, been assulted on two separate occasion, and met up with an ailing friend and gotten drunk with him. Am I leaving anything out?"

Ok, yeah, so technically more than 3 sentences but it tells you just how badly things are going for Joe. Owen completely reminds me of Evan Handler's character in Californication, he's an excellent kick-in-the-ass for Joe. Not like Joe doesn't get enough of those. I especially love the ex who calls him every few days to spew bile then hang up, while he just listens and nods along.

So, the lucky folks tagged are: Rosie, Kathy Holmes, Robyn, Keris, and Ms. Mac. Knock yourselves out, chicas!   

Tits and turquoise

So last year before I went to the US, I did a little online clothes shopping and had it all sent to Bev's place in advance. I was happy with everything ~ sensationally cheap but well made and perfect fit. I've had everything in constant rotation since. In fact, if you can get me out of my cropped black jeans, then it's a rare day indeed.

The one thing I haven't worn, however, was the corduroy jacket I ordered from LL Bean. Not that there's anything wrong with it, it's just kinda...bright. The color was listed as "tidal blue" and the photo on the site showed it as kinda dusky steel blue. Ain't no way ~ that thing is pale turquoise. Again, nothing wrong with that, I love turquoise, but it's not really the same tone as the heavy winter skirts I've been wearing, plus it wasn't warm enough to wear on its own and too bulky to wear beneath my winter jacket.

Now that spring is actually here ::insert happy dance:: out comes the lighter clothing. And ooh, lookie here, there's that blazer! What to wear with turquoise? Well, more turquoise, of course. Turquoise bra that puts everything up front and center, turquoise slip, sexy secretary/naughty librarian shirt with turquoise stripes. The shirt is one of those stretchy affairs that looks best with a few buttons open. Of course, that means admitting to having curves, which is not like something I can really hide but seems to be unusual here. But hey, you know, go hard or go home. Whack on a denim skirt, slip into those cowboy boots, clip on the iPod and rockstar your way through it. As my friend Tamara said as she was on her way to get a man to do something she didn't want to do, "Tits and ass, Gabi, tits and ass." Of which I have an abundance, so I couldn't find any fault in her statement.

OMG, is that terribly un-PC to admit? Whatever. Alls I know is that our hussier (translation: usher, but it actually means security guy/doorman) brings me and my officemate our mail directly and dumps everyone else's in the in-tray for them to sort out themselves. Quite handy because I have this little scam incentive scheme going: I'll turn up for work if I get a present. Even if I have to buy the present myself, hell, I don't mind. That's right, I have all my eBay packages sent to work because there are thieving bastards in my building or local post office, I haven't been able to determine which one. Last week's haul included 2 pairs of Havaianas (IS IT SUMMER YET?), an Obama t-shirt (sorry, Hills) and some Bare Minerals makeup. Huzzah!

He also brings me my Amazon packages, which means last week he delivered a little beauty: The Book of Joe by Jonathan Tropper. I've just spent almost a week doing something I don't normally do ~ struggling through a Charlaine Harris book* ~ and this book is an absolute delight. Had me laughing on the métro this morning, then 2 minutes later trying to hide my tears. So of course I've just gone and ordered his other books.

(* I say "something I don't normally do" because normally I love her work but this one--All Together Dead--didn't do it for me. Maybe because I've read 6 of her books over the past 6 weeks, so I need a break.)

Another recommendation: Gone Baby Gone. Like Ms. Mac, I watched it on Sunday and was quite impressed. I love me some Affleck brothers and this didn't let me down. Not like The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Jee-suz!! By the time Casey shot Brad, I was ready to kill the pair of them. I'm not adverse to long movies but God, I just wanted to STAB MYSELF IN THE EYE. Yeah yeah, it's beautifully shot, the acting's great, it's from the man who gave us one of my fave films, Chopper, but please, please, put me out of my misery. A lot of the tension was wasted by sheer faffing about.

Oh, and while I'm giving my opinion, Prince William, so bloody what? Sure, they have a shortage of choppers in Afghanistan but is that his fault? Many people say he's privileged. Shuh, and with that privilege comes the highest price any young man has had to pay. Let him take a chopper to see his girlfriend, BFD. Besides, isn't that the kind of thing a prince should do? Oh, and doesn't he own the bloody Air Force anyway?

;-)

And on that note...Today's "Elvis in a word": immortal

Have a good one!

Wait, I'm *what*?

When I was growing up in Central Queensland, we had one Chinese restaurant. Later, I thought I was horribly chic because my best friends were Greek and introduced me to all things deliciously Hellenic. (We had a good system going: Mrs. Kondilis would come and pick herself a batch of mangos from our plantation in exchange for a massive tray of baklava, just dripping with honey.) I can't remember there being any Indian restaurants when I was a kid, just one French, but we probably had some Indian products available at the local Woolies, shelved under "Ethnic"--along with Chinese and Mexican ingredients. Or should I say "maybe." I know in those days, anything not meat, potatoes and pavlova (or Bundy Rum) was difficult to come across.

Here, my local Champion has a pretty good range of non-French stuff. Chinese, Mexican, Indian, Japanese--all shelved in their own sections. Just the basics, though. Last Friday, I thought all my Christmases had come at once when I found salsa corn tortillas in the Mexican section. And then I hit the motherload. A whole end section brimming with U.K. products. Cadbury's Dairy Milk, water crackers, baked beans, mushroom soup, cheesecake mix, brownie mix, custard creams, it just went on and on--oh, and cans of Dr. Pepper which, for some reason around here, they think is a U.K. thing. I just put out an arm and swept everything into my cart. Kinda like the other guy there, whose eyes were bugging out of his head as he stocked up on mint sauce.

And then I looked up, saw the signage and laughed.

Éthnique.

That's right. Little ol' baked-bean-eating, whiter-than-white me, I'm ethnic. While I know logically that I am of an ethnicity, it struck me as funny on 2 levels. 1. I grew up in a town where "ethnic" was the rest of the world, and 2. how come every other type of food in Champion is labeled by its country of origin?

Ohhhhh, wait, it's English. Any chance to get a dig in, they'll do it.

Whatever. Call me what you want, just give me Cadbury's. ;-)

Oops