princesse_incongrue: Florent Mothe looking over his shoulder, singing, pain on his face (emo salieri)
Last night I decided to rewatch the entire Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy before I went to bed. Around 3:30 AM I saw Will and Elizabeth reunited after ten years, heaved a conflicted sigh, and set off toward the bathroom to refill my water bottle and brush my teeth.

That was when they attacked.

I heard lots of shuffling noises in the kitchen--big ones, like someone was cooking in there. Our kitchen is part of the living room, the only communal space in the apartment and also the space where one of my flatmates, Gordon, currently sleeps. I was confused as to why he would be cooking in the dark at 3 AM, but decided to go investigate.

Of course, Gordon was fast asleep on the pull-out couch bed. The window at his side was cracked for fresh air. And behind me, in the kitchen area, the noises continued.

This was the first time I've seen the rat in person, though I've been listening to him scuttle around inside the walls shrieking for weeks now. Rodents as pets are something I'm pretty cool with, but any sort of vermin with a history of living in sewers is not the sort of thing I want to see crawling up the front counter of my kitchen or balancing on top of the old grocery bag we were using as a trash can. I groaned and went into the bathroom. When I came out, the rat had cleared off and I took the trash out to discourage it. The trash cans are just across the lobby and out on a landing in the courtyard of our building, visible from the back windows of our first-floor apartment.

I returned to my room, sighed at the noise the rat was still making in the kitchen, and decided to settle into bed on my little floor mat. Of course, when every stray sound in a Harlem apartment building translates to a big, angry rat in your head, it's hard to relax. Suddenly I heard something rustling in the closet that's about four feet from the foot of my pallet. I sat up, glaring at the closet in the dim light from the street lamp in the courtyard, and was relieved to see nothing. Just to be sure, I used my foot to edge my stool across the floor.

At the sound of that noise, I distinctly saw a rat slightly larger than the length of my hand (tail not included) slip out of my laundry bag and run across our bedroom floor, passing right by my mat and disappearing under my roommate Sophia's headboard. I was on my feet in an instant, holding my breath. My closet backs up to the kitchen. They had a way of getting in, even when the bedroom door was shut. A second later I heard what sounded like a shampoo bottle being knocked over in the bathroom.

Rats can walk through walls.

To my relief, a light switched on in the apartment and I heard my flatmate Juan's heavy boots in the hall. I jumped off my pallet and threw my door open, meeting his sleepy face with a hissed, "It's the rat!" I quickly tried to explain what I'd seen, but was interrupted by another thud in the bathroom. Juan opened the door and a startled rat scurried right between us and into the kitchen.

Of course the two of us scattered and started yelling in shock, which woke Sophia and Gordon. We tried to explain what was going on as Juan crept into the bathroom only to discover--another rat was scrambling around in the tub. He retreated and I had to cope with the fact that there were now two rats in the equation. After a lot more rustling Juan edged the bathroom door open and then began shouting in panic, asking me, "Did you see that? Did you see that? Tell me you saw that!" I hadn't. He said that the rat in the bathtub had just scaled the entire plastic shower curtain in an instant and leaped from the bar. "I'm not gonna deal with this," he muttered, and disappeared into his room only to return a moment later with an aluminum baseball bat.

My roommate Sophia was fully conscious at this point (she'd been feeling sick and taken a dose of Nyquil before bed) and tried to encourage him not to bash a rat's head open on our floor. I asked if he was okay cleaning the mess in the event that he succeeded. He wasn't. We opened the bathroom door again and fled in different directions as the second rat ran to join its buddy in the kitchen. Juan traded his baseball bat for a coat. He announced that he was going to find rat traps and stormed out into the rain. It was 4 AM.

Sophia and Gordon tried to go back to bed, but every time we got still the shuffling rat noises began again. The lights were off, but I couldn't bring myself to lie down. The noises from the living room were so loud that I wondered how Gordon could even think about falling asleep. I was sitting on my stool staring at the door, waiting for Juan's return, when I heard a massive thump, a shriek, panicked scuffling, and a long, low groan from Gordon.

Sophia sat up in her bed.  Before she even had to ask I crept out into the hall. Gordon was sitting up blearily on the pull-out couch, squinting at the wall behind his head. "I- I think I killed it," he murmured, disbelieving.

"Can I turn on the light?"

He nodded, still shifting around and trying to see something beneath the mattress. He eventually got to his feet and pulled the couch away from the wall. "Yeah... yeah, it's dead. I just wanted to scare it... I slammed the couch against the wall and I heard it squeak... its friend went out the window."

Juan came home at last and passed me a box of sticky traps. When he saw the bloodbath behind the couch he recoiled, making everyone curious. Sophia peeked at the scene and all the color drained from her face. I was too afraid to look. "It's like a crime scene back here!" Juan exclaimed. "Its nose fell off! It's bleeding out its nose! You crushed its skull, man! That's a lot of blood."

I passed Gordon a fresh roll of paper towels and left him to clean up the evidence of his murder while I took the dead rat out in a plastic bag, then went about setting the sticky traps. I left one under the sink, then, remembering the sight of a rat slipping gracefully down the side of my laundry bag, I headed to our closet. Sophia followed, providing moral support as I pulled out first my laundry bag, then an extra quilt. We needed the floor clear before we set down the latest trap, and the only thing left was a clear plastic tarp bunched in the corner. I shook it tentatively, then firmly, and, assured that it was rat-free, yanked it out of the closet.

I was wrong. A third rat had been crouching beneath the plastic, and now that I had smoked it out it panicked, ran across Sophia's bare feet, and headed straight at me. I whirled around and tried to escape down the hall, lifting my feet high lest I wind up with socks caked in more rat blood, and felt its body colliding with my heels until I was even with Juan's room. I went back to place the sticky trap in our closet, but Juan intercepted me. "I know where it is, dude! Let me see the trap! I can do it!"

He ran into the kitchen and dropped the sticky trap next to the wire shelf where we keep our groceries and, with a shake, startled the rat out of its terribly-conceived hideout. I watched it try to clear the sticky trap and fail, its back foot getting stuck and the whole trap traveling with it across the kitchen floor. The more it tried to escape, the more stuck it became until all four feet were buried in the goo and all it could do was flail and shriek pitifully. Juan scooped it up in a plastic bag and through the din of frantic shouts coming from Sophia and myself made it clear that he wasn't so heartless as to leave it to starve in the trash and planned to try to suffocate it in the bag. He took it out to the trash.

Sophia, Gordon and I returned to the living room where progress was being made on the bloodstains. Gordon was using plastic bags as makeshift gloves to avoid getting blood on his hands. He was still bleary-eyed, his hair disheveled from sleep, and only dressed in his underwear. Sophia pursed her lips. "Well, if it's any consolation: Gordon, you have a nice ass."

Something about the moment was just a little too much, and the next thing I knew I had dissolved in laughter, leaning against the wall to hold myself up.  "You guys," I panted, a bizarre realization striking me, "Juan's out there suffocating a rat right now."

I don't know who had the idea first, but the next thing I knew I was dashing into Juan's empty room to get a view of the action unfolding by the trash bins, aware that the others were doing the same in Sophia's and my room. There he was, unaware that he suddenly had an audience, illuminated by one streetlamp and the light rain. The bag was on the ground by his feet. I saw Juan steel himself, touch the wall at his side for support, then leap directly onto the bag. I screamed and ducked away from the window, unable to imagine what he must be hearing. When I stood back up he was examining the contents of the bag, sighing, and dropping it back down by his feet. I ran out of the room before I had to see his heavy boots crush the bag again.

After that, the tone of the night simmered down. We quietly watched Gordon fill bag after bag with bloodstained paper towels, the solemnity punctured with frequent giggle fits from myself and Sophia as we relived what we had just witnessed. Juan returned, his expression distant, and he incredulously said, "I curb-stomped a rat tonight."

That was it. We stayed up until Gordon had cleaned most of the blood off the walls, then went into our separate rooms and tried to find a way to fall asleep. It was past 5AM.

I woke up this morning with a rat in my hair. We've had a maintenance man come to patch the holes but he was unable to find any and announced that the rats must have come in through the open windows, and that they don't live here. He then opened the cabinet under the sink to be met with a small rat, whom he believes is the shuffly fifth roommate that has been singing us to sleep for the past couple of weeks, and was (hopefully) the one in my hair. An hour later an exterminator arrived to scatter rat poison and pass me a handful of cheap sticky traps. We think that only the little guy is left, and our whole apartment is now booby-trapped in an effort to get rid of him.
princesse_incongrue: David Tennant with his arms around Billie Piper, holding her protectively (hugging rose and ten)
Being home is really nice. I'm getting the chance to regroup, to go through all my old stuff from before France and all the stuff I still have after France and get it all together. I took care of the insurance paperwork for my hospital stay, and now my dad is turning all the paperwork for the student loan payments and deferments over to me too. If I was still in France trying to figure everything out that would be stressful, but here I have the chance to take it slowly and stay organized.

But at the same time, I feel like I'm watching myself sink into irrelevance. The Mozart l'Opéra Rock fandom is now just a bunch of people on tumblr with a shared interest in the occasional gifset of Florent Mothe wandering around a studio. There was a mild interest in the 1789 musical, but not really in my recap or stagedoor stories of it. The Florum is just long strings of me sharing news and nobody commenting. Not to mention the fact that none of my friends, the people I was so desperate to get back to, seem to care that I'm home. Zero of the people located in and around my hometown have offered to hang out sometime. There's talk of us all getting together to go laugh through the next Twilight movie over Thanksgiving, but I know that if I don't plan it it won't happen. None of them are ever on skype anymore when I need someone to talk to, which is weird because we're in the same time zone now.

When I went to my first study abroad meeting two and a half years ago, they said not to worry about your friends moving on while you're gone, because when you return you'll inevitably find that you're the one who has changed. That was true when I came home for a month after my first semester in Paris. Now... it's the opposite. I have stronger stances on some issues, but I feel like I'm still sitting here putting on silly costumes, dancing to ABBA, and raving about MOR while everyone else goes off and does their own thing without looking back. Things will probably get better once I'm able to leave this town again, but I needed this break so badly and I'm not ready to start making those plans yet. I'm reluctant to make new friends for the two months I'll be here, because once I move on they'll just be more facebook status updates and more of me squinting and going "Do I actually know this person?". But now I've gone and isolated myself again just like in France. I need a few close friends, not a ton of casual ones, and sometimes I feel like I've invested myself in people who don't need me back. People who have other plans with other people whenever I ask if they want to hang out. I feel like that old paranoia from the bad times in the dorms is coming back, when I knew it was just that no one actually wanted to be around me.

I know I changed so much in France and I'm proud of everything I learned, but sometimes I wonder if I'd have been happier if I'd just stayed here in ignorance so they didn't have a chance to replace me.
princesse_incongrue: Prince Poppycock trying on a tall white wig (poppycock)
I'm back!

Protip: if you're having trouble breathing AT ALL, go ahead and head on over to your nearest hospital. It turns out that what I had was a pulmonary embolism, meaning sitting for hours with my legs crossed (and taking birth control) had caused a blood clot in my legs which had traveled up and lodged itself in my aorta, all but blocking the blood from my heart to my lungs. And, trying to avoid being caught in France with an expired visa, I thought I'd just wait it out. If that clot had gone any higher in my body I might have actually suffered brain damage.

Apparently my good ol' body is an absolute trooper, because the fact is, I first noticed a little bit of chest pain on Sunday, but I thought it was just being out of shape. Tuesday night I fainted and from that point forward breathing hurt. Wednesday I was convinced I would be fine (I think I something is wrong with my head, but I remember when my dad broke his foot a couple years ago he also insisted he was fine and limped around the house for a day and a half before he finally let us take him to the ER). When I woke up Thursday and the problem hadn't changed at all my boyfriend convinced me to call the hospital.

They sent a doctor over and he didn't know what the cause of my pain was, so he called us up an ambulance. It took them an hour to get to the place. I grabbed my purse and jacket and headed out, assuming they'd give me a pill or something and I'd be back online before dinner.

When they first started saying I'd have to be in the hospital for "quelques jours" [several days] I actually burst into tears. I was very shaken for the first day or so. They kept me in ICU for one or two days--time kind of blurred together--then moved me out early because they needed the space for someone else. After that I had a room that was bigger than Vincent's entire apartment, but unfortunately the TV wasn't free and there was no wifi, so Vincent brought me my laptop and (new) external hard drive, and I spent the rest of my Parisian hospital adventure watching Torchwood, RTD-era Doctor Who, Horrible Histories, Conan, and videos of me and my friends goofing off in the dorms.

I wasn't allowed out of the bed until Monday, meaning I had to use a bedpan. When they did let me up I couldn't believe how utterly delighted I was to go to a toilet on my own. My whole bed confinement had consisted of me avoiding drinking water and holding it in in order to spare myself the embarassment of ringing for the nurse to put that awful thing under me and having to essentially soil myself in the bed I wasn't allowed to leave.

I could see the top half of the Eiffel Tower from the window of my hospital room, which was pretty cool. Honestly, it was kind of nice to stay in a clean, quiet environment for a few days with three average meals brought to me and no one being surprised when I just stayed in bed watching movies all the time. The downside was all the needles that were coming at me. I had to get a shot morning and night with this horrible stuff that burned like HELL. They had to use it thin my blood so no more clots will form, and I'm on a pill that I'll be taking for at least six months. Every morning they woke me up around 6 or 7 to draw blood, but since I have deep veins there was this one attractive but not-so-bright nurse who could never find them and would just dig around in my arm with the needle.

Basically, my thighs and stomach are covered in bruises and puncture marks from the shots, my inner elbow creases and the backs of my hands are also bruised and punctured from blood being drawn, and I do not understand why IVs are considered a good idea. My IV hand is still all bruised and cripped.

Anyway, they say as long as I'm on this medication it should be impossible for new clots to form, but they're also edgy about me taking a plane in less than twenty days. I didn't mention my eleven hour train ride to them at all... nothing the doctors say will make me change my flight. I will DIE if I have to stay here much longer. I am so overwhelmingly homesick. I dreamed I was home multiple times over the past week and my heart broke every time I woke up and realized it wasn't true. I'll wear the fancy compression tights they're going to give me and I'll get up and walk a bit once an hour or so and I assume I'll be fine.

Oh, I'm never allowed to take birth control again, by the way. So... buckle up for my period to come back in full force. I did not miss the days of crippling cramps and my sudden urges to punch everyone who looked at me.

You fall in flames

Wednesday, 26 September 2012 09:38 am
princesse_incongrue: David Tennant with his arms around Billie Piper, holding her protectively (hugging rose and ten)
I had a really strange day yesterday. I slept a LOT, at least ten hours, maybe more. Then I ate leftover pasta and brownies that Vincent and I had made the night before while still lying in bed watching shows online. I'm not sure what else to do with my life right now.

Anyway then I went back to lying down watching shows and without realizing it fell asleep. The window was open and it was really cold out, but I was enjoying that after the hot summer we'd suffered here in France. I woke up just before Vincent and I were scheduled to go back over to my recent host family and have dinner. I felt groggy having just woken up, but I was excited for the dinner and seeing the family again. I noticed I was lightheaded, but I assumed it was because of all the unnecessary sleep I'd gotten.

Well, we were about two streets away from home when suddenly I got really dizzy. I told Vincent to wait and went to lean on a nearby storefront for support. I felt the dizziness totally take over and the next thing I knew, I realized I was dreaming, felt pavement against my hip and hand, and heard a lady's voice asking from a long way away if I needed a doctor. I mumbled I was fine and then I was on my feet again somehow, wondering what on earth was going on, and staggered a few feet away to sit on the curb while my hearing and vision slowly came back. I remember mumbling "Whoa, I think I might have fainted!" to Vincent, who said "Yeah, you were unconscious for about two minutes."

I felt really nauseated and my stomach was burning so I wondered if I was going to be sick, but I still tried to get to the dinner date. We crossed the street, Vincent hovering awkwardly nearby, and I realized I needed to sit again. It was hard to admit I wasn't going to make it to dinner. We went back to the apartment, only about two blocks away, but I needed to stop and rest at least six times and really doubted my ability to keep moving. I just wanted to lie down.

The scary part is that I'd noticed that taking deep breaths made my lungs burn a little bit for about a day, but ever since I fainted I've had something that's not quite heartburn, more like a dull throbbing pain in my chest. For a while I was secretly terrified it was a heart attack, but it's nowhere near that severe. I talked about it on facebook and a friend who's a nurse told me it sounded like my blood pressure was really low and my heart was having trouble getting enough oxygen. I've been taking deep breaths and the pain has decreased but even now, the next morning, it's there. It wasn't there when I first woke up, but by staying awake I've made it come back.

So yeah, color me freaked out. I've never fainted before in my life so I honestly thought it was cool and was rather disappointed that I only had Vincent to tell me what had happened, because he thinks of himself as a writer but he sure as hell isn't a storyteller. I had to ask him fifty times for various details before I got a vague idea of what he saw. Apparently I was about to lean on the building when suddenly I just dropped--the other way, so it wasn't even a graceful slide down the side of the store window or whatever--and Vincent's reaction was to try to drag me back to my feet. He said I said something about being fine (bizarre because I was absolutely unconscious then with no memory of this but I wouldn't be surprised since "I'M FINE" is my immediate reaction to everything that goes wrong) but as soon as he got me up I collapsed again. He said he was holding me on my knees for a while and that was when that passerby asked if she needed to call a doctor. At that point I was coming to and quickly responded in English about how fine I was.

Very strange! I'm planning to be on my feet a little more today, but unsure if I want to risk leaving the building in case something happens again. I'm thinking I'll start doing a TLC-level cleaning job on Vincent's place, one pile of mysterious items at a time, which will at least keep me walking around this little room. I might try taking some of his empty wine bottles down to the recycle bin in the courtyard if I feel up to it.
princesse_incongrue: Mrs Banks from Mary Poppins proudly displaying her "VOTES FOR WOMEN" sash (sister suffragette)
A couple months ago I stopped shaving my legs. I hate it and have always hated it, and no amount of stinky Nair, painful epilators, or sticky wax strips made it any better. Worse, whenever I was done shaving, my legs were revealed to be white as a skull and covered in tiny pink spots. My hair grows really fast, so the smoothness couldn't even last a full day. As soon as black-as-night hair started growing back, it was crazy visible against the aforementioned alabaster skin. So, to sum up, to have "ideal" smooth legs, I would have to shave them at least once a day, and the amount of time and water that would waste, not to mention money to replace razorblades and stuff, is more obnoxious than anything else. Also, I have reached a point in my life where I'm the one who cleans out the shower drain, if you see what I'm saying. Nuh-uh.

So yeah, the hair is pretty sparse, but it's noticable since it's so dark. I've gotten used to it, but as someone who always wears tights to avoid thigh chafing, I'm also the only person who ever sees it.

But yesterday it was too hot to think about tights, so I headed out to franprix in my sundress and hairy legs. I thought I would be nervous about it, but it turned out I didn't give a shit what people thought. It's my body, and if I hate shaving, why should I do it? Who am I trying to impress, and why do I want to impress someone who would require I do something I'm not interested in doing? I don't need to please strangers in the street. I don't need to please strangers in the street.

I didn't notice any looks at first, but as I was returning an older guy with a handlebar mustache was sitting outside a café. He looked me up and down the way men think they have the right to do in a world where women are just parading around trying to impress them, and when he saw my legs, his nonchalant expression turned into what can only be described as a glare. He sat there GLOWERING at my hairy legs.

So many things went through my mind as I walked by him with my head held high. Honestly, how can a man unironically say that hairy legs disgust him? Does he actually shave his own legs, or does he just hide them from his own sight to avoid offending himself? Even if he was a man who regularly shaved his own legs to avoid offending himself, why would he expect every other being on the planet to adhere to *his* beauty standard?

Secondly, and more amusingly: a man with a handlebar mustache was judging my body hair. Really? At least I don't have to buy a new tin of mustache wax every week. At least mine isn't plastered across my upper lip.

I wasn't embarrassed at all.
princesse_incongrue: Mrs Banks from Mary Poppins proudly displaying her "VOTES FOR WOMEN" sash (sister suffragette)
(strong language ahead)

You know what? I've had enough of people judging me and taking me for granted.

Yesterday my host mom tried to guilt me into staying two extra weeks! I accidentally agreed to one before I realized what was happening. So far we'd only agreed I'd spend two weeks with the little one--the schedule of this time she made for us was only for two weeks--but she caught me off guard with a text Sunday:

"Hello. I need you to confirm that you're going to stay with [the kid] until Friday, August 3rd. Thank you."

Without paying much attention, I answered "Ok." and, thinking that wasn't enough for a text, added, "And afterward you go on vacation?"

"No we leave August 9th. If you can keep him until then that would be better."

Suddenly I felt so obligated to agree to another week. I looked at a calendar and when I realized that my last day was SUPPOSED to be July 28th and she had already snuck another week in there, and that made something change in me. I made up a story about promising to house-sit in August, to which she petulantly answered something about how she would have to figure out a way to deal with that extra week herself. The worst part? That made me feel guilty. I had to keep telling myself that she doesn't have the RIGHT to MAKE me stay these extra weeks. She is fully capable of caring for ONE of her three children and cooking her own meals and ironing her own clothes for ONE WEEK. This is my time, my life, and she's damn lucky I didn't already leave when all the other au pair girls got to go home (Friday).

That was the beginning; I felt so liberated for having gotten out of that extra week (ignoring the one that got added in the process) that I started getting a grip on myself.

That evening as I was walk-of-shame-ing home from my boyfriend's apartment I didn't feel like putting on my tights again, so I didn't. I haven't shaved my legs in a while, but I went out anyway in my dress that hits me just above the knees. I spent the whole métro ride stressing that someone would see my legs and be grossed out by the hair when suddenly it hit me: who cares?!? I don't OWE random strangers anything! My body is the only thing that was given to me at birth and no one has the right to take it away from me. If someone looks at my legs and thinks it's gross that they're hairy, then FUCK them! They can look away or they can get over it. I've only got one life and maybe it's not a big priority for me to constantly be pulling hair out of my skin to appeal to a strangers' idea of beauty for a few minutes at midnight in a métro. It's especially disgusting that a man would have a problem with my legs when he himself never has to do shit about his, but he might expect a woman to spend ages with razors and lotions and whatever trying to make their own skin all hairless and unthreatening. Bullshit! If you don't like it, turn your damn head.

And then I noticed a group of assholes. I immediately decided that they were assholes because they were all putting their feet up in other seats, taking up twice as much space as necessary despite the crowded métro. They noticed me too: I was sitting across from them with my knees a little apart to support my bags on my lap (with my chunky thighs I knew no one was gonna see my underwear) and suddenly I become aware of three pairs of eyes on me, and worse--ALL OF THEM WERE TRYING TO SEE UP MY DRESS. They were STARING at my skirt, then would turn and mumble something and all three would burst into laughter and go back to staring.

Up till now my brain would have said "well, at least they're still attracted to you despite your greasy hair, flabby thighs, and hairy legs" but that bullshit thinking is finally leaving me. Who are these assholes to think they can violate my privacy like this? Just because I have a vagina that they can't see doesn't mean they should so blatantly TRY! It was insulting, it was robbing me of my humanity and my right to wear whatever I goddamn well want to. The longer they stared the more furious I became.

We all arrived at the final stop and when I stood, I moved back so that they would leave the train first. Obviously don't want people like that where I can't see them. Then, one of them actually APPROACHED me. As if he could behave like a fucking sex offender the whole train ride and then maybe suddenly I would want to SPEAK TO HIM? My headphones were in (loud) and I have no idea what he said (probably "ça va") but, fuming, I held my middle finger up about an inch away from his nose and stomped off the train.

It was an amazing feeling (I've never flipped anyone off in my life), though I was afraid afterwards (since it was almost 1am) and I admit I wished I had something I could use to stab him in the throat if he decided to attack me.

The last part happened today when I was listening to music and cooking. A song from Mozart l'Opéra Rock came on and, embarrassed after my host family's teasing that I always listen to the same songs, I started to skip it. But then I realized--FUCK THEM. If I want to listen to one song over and over and over then I have the goddamn right! Who ever made the rule that everyone on the planet must listen to a wide array of many songs to be a well-rounded human being?

So there we go. I'm tired of apologizing for who am I, what I like, and what I look like. I'm tired of feeling guilty and ashamed over every choice I make. I *am* me, and I've been able to look after myself pretty damn well for the past 23 years, so who do these people think they are to criticize that? If I'm happy with my outfits, my choices, and what I spend my time doing, and none of those things are endangering anyone around me, then no one has any right to try to change it but ME.


princesse_incongrue: an 18th century robe à la française in gold silk, its wearer clutching a thick bouquet (Default)
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