De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

When my best friend Kimber and I were both fourteen years old, we had secret identities, and aliases that we used in the notes that we passed to one another in school. In these notes were epic stories of the adventures our alter egos took around the world with our rock star boyfriends. My character’s name was Alex, short for Alexandra. She dated Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran and traveled with him on his yacht. In real life, our rock stars were married or already had girlfriends, but this fact only added extra drama to our stories as we thought of ways to rid “our” men of the women who simply weren’t right for them. We were scary, scary little girls.

These alter-egos though served a greater purpose. In our imagination we could become someone else and free ourselves of the baggage of our “real lives”. For example, Kimber reminded me that Alex’s most attractive trait was her confidence. She knew what she wanted, she knew who she was, and was alright with both. This quality could not have contrasted more with the outcast teenager, who had lived in fear of her family, and didn’t quite fit in at school. But some where inside Kimber insisted, Alex was still there. No she wouldn’t date Simon LeBon anymore, he’s far too old for her, and is a rumored chauvinist, who’s allergic to cats, and a Scorpio to boot. Clearly, he’s not a proper match, but she wouldn’t hesitate to be true to herself.

It’s been just over a week since I turned another year older. As the day approached, I felt a sinking desperation that another year had passed and I was still somehow, “not quite there yet”.
But a funny thing happened, the big day arrived and it was fabulous. I realized life is only getting better. I don’t need to be Alex anymore, but I do need the lessons that she taught me. Even though she was a figment of my imagination, she was also a part of the menagerie of women that informed the shape of my own womanhood.

I allowed myself three big purchases for my birthday: a Coach purse, a cashmere sweater (on sale, bien sur), and a facial. I wasn’t in Paris (c’est dommage), but I could treat myself to some style. I cleaned out my closet of the non-essentials, everything that stayed fit me well and was neither stained nor torn. I have a lot less crap in my closet and more quality. This is my motto for the new year, to have “discretion” like a true femme and ask myself one simple question before each decision..mainly, “Is this really me?”

Inspired by a recent book I read called, Entre Nous by Debra Ollivier, I have made the following promises to myself:

1) I will seek to be more like myself, and less like what others want me to be.

2) I will not apologize for saying no, but will say it gracefully and with compassion. I will not back pedal or make excuses. No, is enough, and I will not feel guilty for saying it.

3) I will be continue to be “self-contained”. I will not be undone by the waves of someone else’s opinion or their emotions. I am free to express myself.

4) I will not seek to changed myself into someone else, but I will search within for the answers within and honor that instinctive wisdom. Each experience I have will help me to refine my life and clarify who I am.

5) I will love myself because I will know my true self, and therefore I will be able to love, honor and care for someone else. I think I finally understand why I am who I am, and why this has put me at odds with some family and friends alike.

More on this later. Although it may sound like more self help tripe, there much more to this story, which I’ll reveal later on.

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Maybe not! It took forever for me to escape, (okay I was only 26), the suburban sprawl of endless houses that look like they were constructed out of gingerbread and the mind numbing boredom that goes with every shop being another chain store, where art and culture are considered to be words used only by homosexuals and wanton women.

And escape I did to the ever changing chaos of New York, where I live a neighborhood of endless brick brownstones that pretty much all look alike as well. But right now, until I finally escape Brooklyn, because they are building that G_d damn stadium down the street, and the subway takes forever, and move…this is my home. And with a rent stabilized lease, my cockroach infested apartment, with the vibrating walls from the loud music played by the teenagers upstairs, and many layers of paint covering decayed original moldings, and a nifty abusive drunk neighbor next door, has been a cornerstone of security. A place where I’ve been able to put down some roots, piss on my tree, and carve out territory (which is what my dog does pretty much every morning).

This is why I’m putting the word out about another fellow nomadic blogger who needs to find a new living arrangement in Paris. Her apartment in Montmartre fell through when the current occupants decided that they wanted to continue to live there. It must have been a great apartment. The specifications for what she’s looking for are on her blog. Although she’s a blunt, smart-ass by nature, she’s also house-trained and very entertaining. If you know someone, who might know someone, then consider this part of that warm fuzzy holiday feeling that you get when someone really appreciates your gift and doesn’t re-gift or return it for the cash.

Tis the season to be grateful for my imperfect world because when the door is closed, and my movie is playing on my high definition television, and the stove top espresso maker is making my demitasse, and my art work is hung on the wall, and the furniture I bought at Ikea looks oh so grown up and modern next to the walls that I painted in the color of my choice, and my dog sleeps soundly next to me, I’m grateful for what I have, and mindful, that my search for new digs will soon begin and therefore I’ll need the Housing G_d to preside over my fate as well. I guess I’m just trying to get a head start in the karma department.

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C’est ma anniversaire! I had my birthday creme-brulee at French Roast Cafe with mes amies yesterday afternoon. Notice the “H” was smudged away so that it resembled an “N” instead. My friends decided to sing me “Nappy” birthday instead of “Happy” to commenmorate another blond moment by yours truly. The strawberry sauce ended up on my sweater in several places and my friend had to rescue my silk scarf from the impending stain by soaking it in the lady’s room. I guess that is what friends are for. Thank you to everyone who called and emailed to acknowledge my special day, and thank you especially to Feng-Shui for the flowers and the card that made me weep like a girly girl.

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I’ve put up with a lot undignified situations. Basement apartments infested with fleas, unscooped litter boxes, not to mention the day Amelie brought home a large rodent she calls “the dog”. It smells, sheds, and eats all of my food. However, one good scratch across the nose and now he bows his head in respect, whenever I, Queen Alice, Supreme Feline of the Universe, enter the room.

But today, after many protests on my part, Amelie forced me into this large blue fluff ball she calls a “sweater”. She thinks I’m getting frail and fears that a faulty radiator will be the death of me. Supreme beings do not die, but ascend to a higher plane of being. Amelie however, with her faulty human logic was unconvinced.

No matter, I have now triumphed over the offending fluff ball. While she was out walking le rodent, I managed to not only escape, but also hide it where she can’t find it. I beamed it to a mysterious fourth dimension along with a slipper that was annoying me. Resistance is futile. My name is Alice, and I’m an evil genius.

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