It's been a long, long, long time.

I can't say that I'm going to describe pretty much any of my journey in this entry. I am still in Paris, it's my last full day, and I'm very sad to be leaving tomorrow.

10 days is a long enough time to get really used to a place, and I consequently have gotten really used to this place. I have 20 euros left to my name, have to pack all my things back together in some semblence of order, and do something that makes me happy today. And I don't know what that something is, but this melancholy I feel just has to stop.

I don't want to go home tomorrow, and it's nothing personal to the folks at home.

But come on - Paris.

Four days!

For those not entirely in the know, I am leaving for Paris in four days. On the 15th. Two weeks from today, which is not so far away, I will be returning.

Surely from reading an entry or two, or even my profile, you know what a francophile I am. And I've been itching for an excuse to go to Paris for a couple years now. Out of nowhere, three excuses appeared: my friend Rachel, from New Zealand, has been on a research grant there all year, my friend Emma is visiting her mother, who has been teaching a course at the Sorbonne all spring, and when I got my tax refund it covered airfare during peak times such as this week. It seems to be in the stars (dans les etoiles, si vous préférez).

What's been on my mind recently is this: Why is everybody telling me that about the love I will find there when I say I'm going to Paris? Even my mother and her boyfriend are telling me to be careful with those French boys. As if I can speak enough French to talk about more than the weather, to begin with. I told my mother that, and she said she's not worried about me speaking. I got an email today from a friend that had love as the subject line and closed with "love awaits - bring a good camera!" And naturally I will bring my most useful camera, if not my best, but... Honestly, a publisher rep who I know and like, but don't know well enough that his saying this would be normal, told me he hopes I fall in love and can stay forever.

Who wouldn't want to stay forever?

As much as I would love for an easy way to French citizenship (in spite of this Sarko nonsense), acquiring it by means of anything romantic - or by any other means - really hasn't been a part of my thoughts in the four months I've been planning this trip. It's an impossibility - MY FRENCH SUCKS.

In the meantime, my clothes are all over the floor, my passport's over here, my ticket is over there, who knows where I put my Paris Moleskine last, and I've had a little wine and am more than a little tired. I hope I make it on the plane in one piece.

The morning sun is shining like a red rubber ball.

Certain readers have expressed an interest in reading a brief recap of Sunday's game. The way I've been telling my friends is this:

There is a mercy rule that says you can call the game if you're 12 runs behind or more. They told us about it at the end of the first inning, because we were 11 runs behind. There are five innings. The game is 45 minutes long. We shaped up a bit after that, but the score (which refs stopped counting after 20) was 21-1. Eek.

The blurb I wrote for the newsletter was this:
What can we say? What we lack in sheer talent we make up for in enthusiasm! It goes without saying that our MVP would be the scorer of our one goal, Greg Kindel, but that doesn't mean that we weren't all thrilled to be playing the game for the first time since Jurassic Park came out! We denied the mercy rule, which was offered to us at the start of the second inning, for the love of kickball. Thanks to Josh Lavin and Seth Opitz for stepping up to the mound when the rest of us were mildly afraid, and a very special thanks to all Lemurs that showed up and waited in the rain for two hours with nothing but Irish coffee to warm them. A good time was had by all, and we look forward to being pantsed by Fourth Base this Sunday. It is also worth mentioning that our kickball skills cannot hold a candle to our staggering flipcup ability.

It was fun. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's game.

And now to get some color, so I don't blind the field tomorrow or next week, and so that I don't blind the nation of France in THREE WEEKS.

I bring you good cheer...

Huzzah!

My computer is back, functioning at full capacity! I am pleased to announce to my two or three remaining readers that I plan on writing a whole lot more, starting today. This coincides beautifully with the end of my class for the semester, and the start of an official summer off...from school.

While I do plan to spend four hours less of my week in Boylston Hall, possibly just as much time will be used at Nunziato Field, on the corner of Summer and Vinal, in Somerville. My friend Sarah and I started a kickball team, the Space Lemurs, as a part of the Minuteman Division of the World Adult Kickball Association. In addition to our captainly duties, causing a ruckus with our team (of 20!), and generally losing every game we play (but with gusto, because we know what we're getting into), Sarah and I have also joined our division's board. She is our charities chair, as I am the editor of the weekly newsletter, Ghost Man On Third (GMOT). I'll let you know how that goes.

Our first game is tomorrow, it's rainy and too cold to be spending multiple hours outside, and our team shirts are a) not in the color we wanted, and b) not available til next week. I can't say I'm terribly optimistic, but I'll be there at 1:30, as planned. With many layers of clothing under my brown Pink Floyd shirt from Target. Why doesn't anybody sell brown shirts anymore?

GO SPACE LEMURS!

Say it ain't so!

Tell me a drag queen didn't win America's Next Top Model and that Melinda did not just get kicked off American Idol and that Bob Barker is not done hosting"The Price Is Right"!

This is why I try not to sit down and watch TV.

No news can be good news. But so can good news be good news.

It sure has been a while. To make up for that, I have two pieces of exciting news, and they are totally unrelated!

First of all, I just got word that my friend Rachel, with whom I will be staying when I go to Paris in 65 (that's 6-5) days, lives on the same street as the Cafe des Deux Moulins. You might remember it from my favorite movie of all time, Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain. I do. This means that my base will be in Montmartre. I am SO excited.

Secondly, and I mention it secondly so that you can go check it out when you're done reading this, I was interviewed by Leila Cohan for the Boston chapter of MenuPages.com's recently launched blog. Leila's blog also covers such important pieces of Boston gastronomy as the Tasty (RIP), food review haiku, and seasonally relevant restaurant tips (eating around Fenway, for instance - GO SOX!)

Excitement abounds, and Spring has sprung! Sort of. In a New England kind of way.

Please, let me explain!

1. My computer is currently on bed rest.
2. It has been since late last week.
3. My father's computer, which I have been using in the meantime, does not go to sites I find important, namely Gmail, NEUmail, and Blogger.
4. It really isn't right to update at work.
5. I am sorry.

The problem with Lent for lapsed Catholics.

I don't know if this is true for real Catholics, but for me, Lent is a second shot at making a New Year's resolution. It's shorter than a year, and for that reason it's less daunting. At the same time, it's long enough to form a habit. Best of all, nobody will sabotage your goals of giving things up, because for all they know, it's for religious reasons.

This year, I thought it would be a good time for me to give up cookies. Not that I want to go the rest of my life without cookies, but I'd like to feel like I could live a day without Famous Amos. It's a weird addiction of mine, one that I don't really like, one that actually gives me the shakes if I try to stop. I've been doing well, except...

IT'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE TIME.

I mean, hello, forget Famous Amos. I woke up this morning with visions of Egg Beaters and toast dancing in my head, and sitting on my kitchen table were two boxes - Caramel deLites (misleading!) and Thin Mints, my two favorites. I told my roommate about my predicament, the green box already torn in my hands, and she told me her mother bought her some she didn't want. Lemonades. The ones they just came out with that I wanted to try so badly but didn't want to blow four dollars on in case they suck (which I'm sure they won't, because Girl Scout Cookies categorically taste good and have crack as an unlisted ingredient, I'm sure).

Sabotage, I tell you.

I don't feel guilty about it, but damn nevertheless.

Readership at historic lows.

Why is it that as soon as I pledged to my dear readers that I would post regularly, both for their entertainment and my need for masturbatory ramblings, absolutely nobody visited this site at all?

Not that anybody cares that much, but I had grown used to getting about 10 hits a day, if mostly for the lyrics of "Would You?" and "Spooky". It's as if the real joy of people who read my blog is finding only purely accidental entries made by me, and that even Google is boycotting One Falling Star on account of its recent resolution to ramble on purpose.

I bought a new CD!

It's been a while since I've done this. And it took me a long time to realize that I needneedneeded "Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs". Two years, in fact.



I don't know what I like most about this CD. Could be the Rufus Wainwright-esque voice, or the fact that M. Ward is thanked in the liner notes (which, by the way, are peppered with drawings as delightful as the cover). It could just as easily be the song "Fake Palindromes", which Jon had me listen to in the text office at the Coop, and which was still the only song I'd heard off the album until about ten minutes ago.

With that in mind, I'm sure it's too early to pick favorites. I can, however, say that this CD is already ranked among my favorite CDs that I own, and it isn't even on my iPod yet.

What's scary right now.

Bodily concerns are not something I worry my head about too frequently. I do alright for myself. I play by the rules, may cut a few corners, but for the most part, I'm a healthy individual that doesn't give her body much thought because I can almost guarantee that I'm [physically] okay.

I recently discovered that a friend of mine is at risk for cancer. Cancer.

Oh, my grandmothers both died of it, my mother has had countless biopsies that came out negative, but somehow I am so much more detached from those situations than I am from my friend's.

Possibly it is because she is so near to me in age. Possibly it's because I am suddenly one to rely on. My mother secretly relies on me, but I was born, conceived, in her care. There's something almost unnatural about the idea of her leaning on me in a time of personal struggle. Not the case with my friend.

She is in many ways my rock, and I hers, though admittedly not as often as I should. And now, being put to the test leaves me wishing there was something more personal, something more, period, that I could do to make the fear and the scarier speculation disappear.

You see, I think it's hard, in a way, to be the one who isn't going through it. I can see why she's upset, I can see why she's afraid. Already she is handling this better than I ever could, but I can't help in such a way that I know what it is like for her, can tell her everything will be okay - who am I kidding, I wouldn't be able to do that anyway. But I really wish I could try.

In like a lion...

Without a doubt, it has been too long since my last update. I hereby announce my new month's resolution (because, in spite of evidence to the contrary, I am quite often a realist): For the month of March, I will update my blog at least three times a week. I'm not counting this wimpy half week.

I started this blog so that I would have an outlet for my more structured commentary and otherwise creative writing, but it doesn't work so well if I do not apply myself to it. It is with this in mind that I pledge to you, dear readers, that you will hear a whole lot more from me.

At least for this month.

I must have a fever...

...because I talked to the boy on the train.

And I am sick, and I look it, because my hair is a mess, my skin is dry, and my eyes are all watery. But when I saw him on the train for the first time in a month I thought nothing of going up to him at Mass Ave station's turnstiles and asking him if he played the trombone.

Miss him, miss him...

At around 10 tonight, a call came through. I checked the caller ID and saw a Maryland number. Martha Mullen. Aunt Martha. My cousin calls her his stepmonster. I like her, but I can see why he'd feel that way. She's my uncle's keeper, and as a result, I never see him.

That's not entirely the fault of Aunt Martha. I only get two weeks of vacation, and I spend one with my mother in New Mexico, one with my father's family down the shore. Unless Uncle Jimmy shows up during that one-week window, another year will pass in which I don't see him. Usually, though, the reason he doesn't make that trip is because they're visiting Martha's kids in Myrtle Beach, or something.

He moved out of Chesapeake City about nine years ago, and I still haven't seen his new house.

This mostly sums up our relationship at the moment, I think. I love my Uncle Jimmy, enjoy his rare company, laugh and cry at his stories, and take the few things he says to me to heart. But he's never there, and in a family that is otherwise so tightly knit, it hurts to even admit that ours is a made-up relationship. One that should be, could be, but isn't, unless feigned in an awkward phone call.

That's why I wasn't going to pick up the phone. He was going to ask for Dad immediately, and Dad wasn't home, and so he'd be stuck making small talk with me for a whole two minutes. On the other hand, it was late, and it might have been an emergency. I picked up.

Me: Hello?
He: Jess? That you?
Me: Yeah, hi! How are you?
He: How you doing?
Me: I'm doing -
He: Your dad home?
Me: - alright.
He: Good, your dad home?
Me: No, he went someplace to watch the game.
He: Oh, he's not back yet, okay. I thought he would be by now.
Me: Guess not. Haven't seen him since he left, so...
He: So how are you making out up there?
Me: Alright, I'm making out alright.
He: Well good. You sound like you're doing alright. I'm gonna try your dad on his cell. Goodnight! Love you.
Me: Love you too.

I wanted to cry.

He's my godfather, and while that doesn't mean he would be particularly close to me (for instance, my other two godfathers never pay me any mind*), I would think it means at least that he somehow should be keeping track of what I do, to some degree. Occasionally my dad will tell me with much enthusiasm that Uncle Jimmy asked for me. When I ask for elaboration, it's usually, "we were on the phone, and he said 'How's Jess doing?'"

That's not enough. I miss my uncle, who I'm not sure I know anymore.


*Yeah, I have three godfathers. This one is the only blood-related uncle I have, so that makes sense. The other two were dating when I was born, and my mother thought it would be cool to have two gay godfathers. Since then, they broke up. One got married (to a woman), had kids, and moved to Wisconsin. The other is kind of a recluse without the first.

Thanks, that was fun.

The annual trip to Philadelphia this year was more fun than usual, mostly because I could escape the family and experience the city proper as it should be experienced by somebody my age. You know - ordering lagers like it's your job, not going home, clicking your heels in the street.

Well I click my heels. I think that's normal.

The family wasn't so bad, either. In the grand scheme of things, my family is not really one of those intolerably nutty and smothering clans that people make holiday movies about ("Fuller, go easy on the Pepsi!"), but since I am used to an unusually small family most of the time, entering into the loud Irish rabble can be jarring. Fortunately, Emily and I have made a habit of taking wine and cake into her room and listening to music while laughing at the drunken nature of our relatives. This year there was a lot of Yo La Tengo and Povel Ramel*.

Re-entry has been kind of ick, if only because everybody's stressed out and a day ahead of me in work acclimation. On the plus side, Andrea made me some new friends to add to my growing desk menagerie:

The big owl is Armen, named after our former buyback manager, who is the sweetest old Armenian I've ever met. The little fuzzies have yet to be named (any suggestions?), and the shark is due to be shipped out to New Jersey tomorrow.

*We bought his CD at Swede Things, since we had so enjoyed our last Scandinavian CD purchase. Because we didn't understand any of the titles on any of the CDs, we had to buy it based totally on his face.

An Open Letter To the Conservatory Boy On My Train Every Morning.

Dear Sir:

Every morning you race onto my train at the last minute. We sit or stand within ten feet of each other, usually looking straight ahead, but often enough making eye contact and looking away abruptly. We both get out at Mass Ave, go up the back stairs, and head down Gainsborough Street until we reach St. Botolph, at which point you take a right to St. Botolph Hall, and I take a left into Northeastern territory. The same thing happens every morning. And I'm not complaining.

Well Ill say it: I like you, and I know I don't have any real reason why. Remember that time you smiled at me as we stepped off the train, and I grimmaced? I'm sorry. Really I am, but I was flustered. Because I like you, and since I decided that, I haven't been able to smile at you or talk to you or anything, because what happens if I grimmace again? And anyway, it's been damn near impossible.

It's the angles, you see. The angles are all wrong. I'll stand next to where you're sitting, or vice versa. Smiles exchanged at these angles are creepy. Or that fat guy who stands in the open doorway blocks any possibility of nonverbal communication. For pete's sake, I always have a seat free right next to me. Sit down! So much easier!

On top of that, we move in parallel lines. Always we are side by side. We step off the train in tandem, walk up opposite sides of the staircase, only getting mixed up when we reach the turnstiles. And no, I can't talk to you at the turnstiles, because it's just too late. If I'm going to talk to you at all, it has to be right at the get-go. Am I right, here? We go down the stairs on the other side, this time you on the right and I on the left, matching each other's down-going patter. I walk down the left side of the street, you on the right, and at one point we are on the same line, going in oppposite directions. Someone should write a poem about that.

I'm not sure what to say, but this isn't working. And I'm too much of a neurotic perfectionist to be comfortable initiating conversation with you in anything short of faultless circumstances, so I'm afraid it's up to you.

My heart is still a-flutter from this morning,
The Other Redhead In the Car.

ALTERNATE VERSION: Picture me standing on the orange line with a boombox over my head playing Touch and Go's hit single, "Would you...?":

Um
I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
I've noticed you around
Um
I find you very attractive
I find you very attractive
Um
Would you go to bed with me?

I've noticed you around
Um
I find you very attractive
Would you...?
Um

I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
Would you...?
Um
Um
Would you go to bed with me?

I've noticed you around
I find you very attractive
I've noticed you around
Um...

Today I...

• Got lost in "Takk..." by Sigur Ros. Especially "Glosoli".
• Froze to death.
• Felt wrath when my friend's compassionate nature was being abused.
• Decided to kill the girl responsible.
• Turned doing nothing into a worktime sport.
• Had the best sandwich of my life.
• Got a soy chai for free.
• Wore the outfit that boosts my self-esteem 10-fold.
• Took a test and maybe didn't fail.
• Hung out with Kate for the first time in ages.
• Got drunk off Guinness at the People's, as it is meant to be.
• Talked to an old man about "Visual Thinking" and Bob Dylan.

Truth be told, the only thing that mattered was that I got to return your smile outside Jordan Hall for the first time in months.

Maybe my priorities are out of order, but I must admit I'm rather enamored of a stranger on the T, and I'm okay with that, in part because in doing so I realized I miss the oboe something awful, and in part because it's about time I felt butterflies in my stomach again.

A little more about my family.

I sent my mother the link to my grandfather's enlistment record online. I explained to her that Dad was unsure about the truth of both the age and marital status discrepancies. I thought she would find it interesting, as I did. I received the following email in response:

Hi Jess,
I know for a fact that Me-Mom and Pop-Pop didn't get married till he got back from the service, (Uncle Jimmy was almost 2) which is why there are no wedding photos. It was a shameful thing back then, and I discovered it the summer we visited Uncle Eddy and Aunt Betty in California (Aunt Betty told me -- ) Me-Mom never spoke of it to me, and I'm not sure if Aunt Grace even knows...your Dad didn't till I told him...years later...
So...tough news to be getting, eh?
I think that's when Uncle Jimmy and your grandfather had their falling out when he 'had' to get married, and Mom-Mom told him the family secret...but it's still pretty closeted...
I don't know who knows and who doesn't know...yikes!
Love you, we'll talk soon...face to face, no less!!!
Mom

This news isn't tough to get. What's tough to get is why I haven't heard this before. My grandparents are dead, and we live in a time and place in which this is not shameful as much as it is a frequent occurrence (especially in my family). I don't understand why this has been kept from me.

I had confronted my father with this and his answer was ambiguous. I'm an open-minded adult who can keep mum.

I think I'll dig around Aunt Theresa's basement soon.

And I really wish they had taken pictures.

Baby REALLY got back.

The highlight of Tuesday's outing to the People's Republik was actually the walk to the Central T station afterward. As Josh, Emma, Rob, and I walked down Mass Ave., an older homeless man walked into our path, arms outstretched as if greeting old friends.

"Excuse...me...while I kissss...the sky..."

We passed him, smiling.

"I like...big...butts and I can...not...lie..."

We laughed. A lot. Especially after I checked my bag and noticed that it covered my ass completely.

About my family...

Every family has its fuzzy bits of history that can't be explained.

Mine is no exception. My mother's mother was born fresh off the boat in Charlestown, the child of an Irish immigrant whose name was Eileen (like my mother) Finnegan. Or was it Houlihan? I couldn't tell you. My great-grandfather, who abandoned Eileen within months of finding she was pregnant, was a Greek immigrant whose name was Paul. My grandmother was given up for adoption, and lived like Cinderella with an idiot adopted brother. It's been said that Eileen had written to her daughter over the years after moving to the midwest, and that Ms. Hatch, my grandmother's caregiver, had burned the letters to shield her from what pain they might cause.

It's all a mystery to me - heard in snippets from my mother and aunts. I'm used to that grey area in my family's history.

On my father's side, the only remotely interesting story is that my great-grandmother was on this national watch list in Ireland because she was in love with a British soldier at an inopportune time, and was therefore a ticking time bomb of treason in the eyes of the Irish Republic.

At least, I thought so, until I tried to locate my father's father's military records. The only Army enlistment for James T. Mullen of Philadelphia was a man born in 1920, a private who was single and had no dependants.
I knew Me-Mom and Pop-Pop married before he enlisted because they were expecting Uncle Jimmy at the time. And Pop-Pop was Catholic to the letter. And I thought he was born in '21, but I'd have to check with Dad. And he was a sergeant, too - not that he was when he enlisted...

I called my dad.

"Dad, it's not that important, but when was Pop-Pop born?"
"Um...I don't know."
"Da-ad! You were born in '48, I know that, so when was Pop-Pop born?"
"Well, nobody really knows..."

What? I then explained the record I found in the National Archives.

"You know, that's probably him."
"But he wasn't single -"
"We, uh...we don't know that, actually..."

I think I just opened a big door that had been bolted for years. I am excited and confused.

But mostly excited.