Between me and the river (among other things)

I am awkwardly sprinting, 

then opening the door and casually (haggard and out of breath) sauntering, 

then sheepishly tiptoeing 

back to my blog.

[something I did just an hour ago into choir, which I was late to because I was, incidentally, preoccupied with blogging].

I get it, OKAY? I'm a dastardly villain when it comes to consistency. But I want to be better! I am COMMITTED to being better. This commitment is not binding and means absolutely nothing because no one cares whether I blog or not, and in the long run it makes no difference because we're all going to die anyway.
But, anyway.
The good news is: Paris.
I'm leaving in one month from today.
(Bonjour, City of Lights! Comment allez-vous, City of Love? Hello there, City of my Freaking Dreams!)
And... (drum roll, please) I have a certain requirement of doing a certain activity that requires words, pictures, the internet, and my unfailing wit and odd duck-ish sort of charm-like quality. This activity is often referred to as blogging.
oh yeaaaaah.

First assignment (these classes are really quite rigorous, you see) involves a post on something you want to do in Paris, which you will later (in Paris) follow up on after you've done it. A "before" and "after" if you will.
And here's mine: 

[photo here]

As a token of my lifelong struggle with Francophilia, I've always adored the movie Sabrina.
[Disclaimer: I probably adore the 1954 version just a smidgen more, because timeless Audrey is so very radiant and I like the "Yes, We Have No Bananas" song. But the following tidbit references the 1995 version, featuring the tolerably radiant Julia Ormond. Okay. Fine. She's gorgeous. Whatever.]

But the point is, a young, ordinary chauffure's daughter with a bad case of unrequited love and a big ponytail takes off to Paris to crop her  locks, fall in love with "La Vie en Rose," grow up a bit, and learn to properly crack an "oeuf" at Le Cordon Bleu.
She goes to find herself. (And get over David [which she doesn't. Not until later, anyway, after Linus takes her to his cottage in Martha's Vineyard].)
 
So, the point really is: Do you remember this scene between Sabrina and Linus?

Sabrina: I used to walk everywhere in Paris. I used to walk from Montmartre down into the center of the town. Along the Seine there is a 4-mile wall that goes from Isle Saint Germain to the Pont de Bercy. Takes you past all the bridges of Paris, 23 of them. Then you find one you love and you go there every day with your coffee and your journal, and you listen to the river.

Linus : What does it tell you?

Sabrina : That's between me and the river.

And so, as this ordinary, soon to be super-senior co-ed with a bad case of wanderlust and a big pony tail takes of to Paris to find herself, she plans to put this same practice into practice. That is, to find a bridge and go there often with her [insert delicious treat besides coffee here] and her journal and listen to the river.

And perhaps, later, I'll even tell you what it tells her.

[photo here]

In case you don't believe me, the blog is here.

Remember how it's Spring?


Banana

Oh hey, Friday night

I am spending mine

in the arms of

semi-sweet chocolate chips, Mozart and the Beatles,

and a four-inch spine called 

The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism 

(second edition).

cheers.

Banana.

In a fit of violent passion,

Ryan cut his hair.

But not just a hair, or even his hair, mind you.

No, he completely and singularly severed his beautiful golden bangs. His forelock, if you will.

see?

And now he bears a powerfully striking resemblance to:

[photo here]

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. He was (and is) a very impressive and influential individual.
I keep explaining to Ryan that monk bangs are a good thing. Sexy.
And yet, he keeps insisting that it's somehow my fault.
Like it's a bad thing.

Well! What was I supposed to do when he grabbed his bangs and threateningly held scissors to them while shouting, "Say I'm your boyfriend! Say it right now or I'll cut!"

Maybe I panicked.

Maybe I said "You can be my boyfriend two times a week," which he took to mean... well. "Cut," I suppose. 

Love, trauma, and the Protestant Reformation,

Banana