Act 1, Scene 4

Monsieur’s mom and sister arrived for about a week. They got in late Saturday night (and woke up the whole house, since we have a very loud watch-chicken.) Sunday, mostly, Monsieur took his sister into town to help her pick out something or another.

I spent a lot of time with Belle-Mère, just sitting outside and letting the kids play (the weather was gorgeous; a fine spring day [78° F. in January!] in the Texas hills) and she offered to make lunch and I offered to help. My mom, had she been there, would have dropped dead to see me actually chopping onions with a chef’s knife.

We talked about Monsieur’s father, about how she was living in the US in the 1960’s during Vietnam while her husband was working for the US military in Southeast Asia; which led us to talking about the riots last year in France.

Interior, kitchen, late afternoon. They are peeling vegetables.

Belle-Mère: …. Fortunately we were spared the worst of the riots, in our little village.

Yearning Heart: Ya, I read about it online in the NY Times, and the English Le Figaro.

Belle-Mère: You read the newspaper on the computer? My daughter reads hers on her mobile telephone. I don’t understand. What’s wrong with reading the paper?

Yearning Heart: Well, I can read online for free.

Belle-Mère: Phone news is probably worse than television news. I didn’t want to get my news from the moving pictures; I don’t want to get my news from my typewriter or my telephone. I read the magazines on paper, while I drink my coffee.

Yearning Heart:

T minus 24:00 to Mademoiselle D

• Floors: check
• Counters: check
• Clutter: gone
• Laundry: in control
• Face: reasonably clear of blemishes
• Underwear: clean
• Hair: washed. (I’ll braid it.)
• 3 dressy outfits: clean and ready-to-wear
• Boys: bathed
• Boys’ bedrooms: tidied
• Chickens: fed
• Groceries: stocked

Why am I so nervous? Because: I face the unknown, with no tech or dress rehearsal.

Belle-Mère and Mademoiselle D (Monsieur’s mother and his sister) come this weekend, and I have no idea what Mademoiselle told Belle-Mère about me.

The last time I spoke with Mademoiselle, it was on the telephone last June. She told me I had no business being here while Monsieur is still going through major upheaval and grief.

“I’ll leave when he asks me to,” I told her simply.

“And why should [Monsieur] do that,” she asked me “with a woman there to do,” and then a pause, “his bidding.”

“If you are so worried about him and the boys, why aren’t you down here helping him yourself?” I asked, trying to keep the challenging tone out of my voice.

“You know I can’t leave my work,” she said. “I know it would be hard for him, but he needs time to sort things out for himself. They all do.”

“I’ll leave when he asks me to,” I repeated. “I promise you that.”

She asked me if I was in love with Monsieur.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

That caught me off guard. “No,” I said. (I hadn’t, at that time.) “But, I won’t tell you that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. If I do end up in his bed, I promise you that it will be my choice, his problem, and none of your business.”[1]

“All right then,” she said, and that conversation was over.

So now the Ice Queen is coming with her mom and I have no idea what’s going to happen. I’m sure it will all be fine.

Ha. Ha, hah, hahahaha.[2]

[1] Adapted from The Goodbye Girl, by Neil Simon. Used without permission.

[2] Sarcastic, fateful laughter.

A dozen considerations

I saw two pictures of Monsieur’s mother; of course she’s gorgeous. One looks to be from just after World War II, with her and her husband, Monsieur’s father; the second must have been when they were living in California. It’s a picture of Monsieur, age about 18 months, standing at a marina at his mother’s knee.

She looks elegant and beautiful. I might post one of her pictures here, if I get Monsieur’s OK. Maybe severely cropped, so you can see the eyes. She looks like Liz Talyor circa Butterfield 8 or Jackie Kennedy, about 1961.

---

Monsieur is so sweet to me. He knows how insecure I am here and he goes out of his way to reassure me with a dozen little considerations a day. Not only does he cook, do housework, and take care of the children – well of course he does – but he does my laundry. I have never met a guy who does other people’s laundry, least of all mine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad do laundry.

OK, it’s not just the laundry. He left me a note to tell me that he set up the VCR to record Coldplay on Austin City Limits, and then Commander-in-Chief. He fixed that annoying whistling noise coming through my car’s windshield. He showed me how to dice vegetables easily so that my wrist doesn’t get all tired. He seems to go out of his way to tell me that he believes in me, and that what I’m doing is worthwhile, appreciated, needed, and valuable.

And … [gasps] He took me to church! His church! And I wore red, which my mom would frown on for church – but then Monsieur’s church is one my mom would consider a “sect”. (It’s Unitarian, and actually very nice people.) A red dress is what I wore, with matching red tights, to church, on a shadowy Sunday.

It just makes me realize that there are three kinds of males that I have dealt with: boys, guys, and men. Up to now I’ve dated boys, and after that I was in relationships with guys. Now I’m with a man. Someone who takes care of a family and is confident in what he does.

I like it.

Anxiety Attack

I woke up just now realizing that Monsieur’s mother will be here in less than a week. For some reason this gave me such an anxiety attack. His mother, and his sister will be here. I know D doesn’t think I should be here. What will she tell his mom? I tossed and turned till 2 AM then just got up.

I stared at a bottle of cognac in the cupboard for ten minutes, thinking a shot of that would settle me and make me sleep. But I closed the cupboard door.

I have been running so fast and hard, trying to immerse myself in the education of these kids and caring for these three – no, four – guys. I am learning to cook, which is something my mom always wanted me to do, but I never would. I guess I’m learning to grow up.

After the last boy goes to bed I’m usually next. I now realize why people with kids don’t have sex so much – although I want to! But right now there’s nothing better than to be asleep in bed, then to wake up and roll over and find him there.

I don’t know what D will be like when they get here. D is Monsieur’s sister. Wait, D is also Monsieur’s initial too, so I guess I should call his sister Mademoiselle. Now, there’s something I would never do in real life.

Then as I go to post this I find that Venting Housewife’s blog has been hacked; I’m so angry.

top 10

This week’s top ten countdown:

10 hours of data entry

9 lesson plans

8 stiff inches

7 loads of laundry

6 stubbed toes (2 mine)

5 busy bees

4 pounds of oranges

3 sleeping boys

2 sticky lovers

1 yearning heart

Tomorrow’s Schedule:

Wake up. Dress me and boys, feed same. Go, dogs, go! Teach, soothe, wipe, play, feed. Eat, work, sleep. See me run. Run, run, run.

The question was raised by Obesio here why Monsieur “doesn’t simply support you in the way that you clearly deserve”?

Well, it’s because I got through school with a massive debt, and I need to make student loan and consumer debt payments on it.

Monsieur’s a kind man, and a generous man – but not a wealthy man. He makes a living and can feed his boys, so far. But Maggie left behind a huge consumer debt, which he is bound to pay off. Her life insurance basically covered her medical costs and her funeral arrangements.

I asked him about helping me with my debt, of course, not knowing what his financial situation was. We sat down and went through our financial burden and what it would take to cover our household plus servicing our collective debt.

It would take more than he makes.

I don’t want to burden him any more than I already have, so I decided to work for a living, like I always have ever since I was 17.

Maybe later, if it’s possible, we’ll figure out a way for me to work from home.

Fact of life: “mommy jobs” just don’t pay well. Mommy jobs are jobs that moms do for free: cook, clean, serve food, care for children, teach. There’s others, but I can’t think of them. I’m so tired.

DE

I had an interview for a data entry job on Monday. Ugh.

3 hrs./2 days a week + 4hrs./3 days a week = 20 hrs. × $12.00/hr. = ugh.

But I can do it until I’m OK to teach, then the co-op will give me $300/wk.

It wasn’t so much an interview as a meeting to make sure I pass all qualifications (I am currently breathing, I can spell “SSN” and I can alphabetize without humming the ABC song. I know the difference between “imminent” and “eminent”, which is more than I can say for the White House.

Here is an excerpt from my interview / run-through:

“In this situation, you see a set of invoice templates and you can see … [click] … where you can override the rule for a statement.”

ME: “So, the statement is the 2^nd invoice?”

HR: “Oh no. Invoices are individual invoices. A statement is always a full statement.”

ME: “Oh. OK, I got it.”

HR: “Moving on …”

Notice. Ho-hum.

I handed in my notice, and it was accepted without too much fanfare or regret.

“Thanks,” said shift manager. “We’ll let you know if this policy changes. Sorry about that.”

I talked to K who also has to quit, due to school. It seems that the owners want to clean out the schedule and get rid of anyone who can’t “commit to the restaurant”, which means no more part-timers or people trying to “pick up extra money”. They don’t want students or people with day jobs.

I think that leaves about 6 wait people, to run the place, and it’s a sizable restaurant of about 10-14 tables that is open for lunch, dinner and weekend breakfast.

Good luck, says I.

Now I don’t want to get another waiting job. I’m looking into doing freelance copy editing work, medical transcribing, anything. I don’t have much experience with anything like that. Do you think I could use this blog as a writing portfolio?

Ha. Ha, ha.

If you detected desperate, sarcastic laughter in that last sentence, you are very astute.

Monsieur says that he will cover my debts, but that it would be a hardship. I don’t want to be a burden to him that way, but he says that the effort that I put in simply can’t be replaced for any amount of money. He also says that he doesn’t want to lose me.

I don’t want to lose me either.

I talked to my friend MT, who says I should try working at a strip club once or twice a week.

Ha. Ha, ha. (More sarcastic desperation.) Thanks, dork. I’ll give it some thought, after I stop laughing.

Meanwhile since I can’t buy myself anything nice, I left my Amazon wish list on my profile, and also I’ll link to it here, in case there’s a millionaire out there who wants to make a poor underemployed hard-working redhead with a big yearning heart happy.

Maggie's Walls

I sit here in Maggie’s walls, spilling my tears, spilling my ink, baring my soul, and the blog page counter turns, and sleep escapes me.
Sleep is my chance to let go, but tonight I would give it to the Littlest Boy, as he knows he’s in his mama’s walls but not his mama’s arms and his mama is only a memory, so
we steal to the rocker, a winter of discontent
folding into each other, the familiar panic
and then the reassurances, mine for him and his for me.
I’ve grown used to his smells:
the warm smell of his baby sweat, the sour smell he gets
just before he gets the sniffles;
I know it’s crazy but I can smell anxiety
almost before it hits his heart.
His fear feeds my love for him, and hour by hour the rocker
creaks as I hold him, his hands demand me,
grasping my new bathrobe in his tiny but incredible hands.
His face pressed to my chest, so young yet so old,
like a tiny little man, face wrinkled and intense
he tenuously clutches sleep, his reach exceeding his grasp.
“Shh-shh-shh-shhhhhhh ... hush now,”
and I contemplate his wise old eyebrows, and I see a new bruise
I hadn’t seen before
check a scrape to make sure it’s now healed
the ghost of skinned knees past,
the spectre of the bruises yet to come...
I cry for his lost mama, and for my lost girlhood,
and for the memory of my empty arms.

Working Tuesday

J-with-2-N’s is going to watch the kids at her place while I go in and work on Tuesday, and then I plan to turn in my 2 weeks’ notice.
My hope is that either:

1. they will be so upset at the thought of losing me that they will give me a Special Dispensation on the “one weekday shift” rule, or
2. the General Manager will suggest that I keep my job by performing sexual services on his ugly fat body, while I record the request using my cell phone’s memo recording feature, and then sue his greasy pink ass for sexual harassment.

Either way, everyone’s a winner.

The Ball Drops

Speaking of kissing…

Monsieur and I stayed up late on New Year’s Eve, talking. The kids tried to stay up to watch the calendar change but they all were asleep by 11:00 PM. We sat in the quiet living room, listening to the radio as it played weird jazz. His brother, as is his custom every year, sent him a case of his own wine from France, which his brother bottles himself, with, Monsieur says, “mixed results”. We opened one and it was quite good but I only had a sip. And we talked about us.

He wanted to know about how I’d been feeling out the whole thing and I admitted that although I loved living here and loved him and the boys, I needed more. Not just hugs, tenderness, affection and kisses … I admitted I needed more sex. I thought he would be upset or angry so I watched his eyes carefully as this came out, and I tried to be gentle about it.

“I can sometimes withdraw when I am troubled. You know,” he revealed, “I’ve been going to grief counseling.”

“No,” I said. “You didn’t mention it.”

“Yes, and of course they generally do not recommend one to start a relationship so soon after a major life crisis, such as the death of a spouse.”

“I see.” My eyes were on my lap.

He took my hands in his. “I have reason to believe, for certain people, that grief counseling is of little value after a certain point.”

“Do you now?” I smiled.

“I am of the type that naturally avoids profoundly traumatic emotion, you see. And, after a few sessions I have given it a lot of thought.”

“Tell me your thoughts,” I said, as he held my hands.

“First, I am given to believe that for me, the emotional and spiritual support that friends who care can provide might be far more useful than therapy.”

“I’m certainly willing to provide you with that, Monsieur.” I placed my hands on his shoulders. “You know that I love you, right?”

“I believe it to be true,” he said, smiling, “since I can think of no other reason why you would stay here and work so hard, simply to help the children and care for them.”

“Well, of course,” I admitted, “I love the boys as well. But as for you, I love you deeply.”

“You are not dissatisfied with me?” he asked, his eyes so softly looking into mine. My god the man has the most liquid brown bedroom eyes I have ever seen.

“Oh no! Well, I mean,” I continued, “I am very demanding … after the lights go out.”

“I have been plagued,” he said, “by guilt about that recently.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling guilty myself, about being so needy.

“I need to stop that guilt,” he said. “I was hoping that the counseling would help with that, but of course they are seeking what they call ‘closure’ and try to help me through this pre-defined path of grief.”

I held his hands, listening.

“I don’t think there is only one path to it. I am not normally given to distress, emotionally or physically. I have been denying myself the ability to go past this trauma, simply because I have been thinking that I should be faithful to Maggie’s memory, and so forth.” He had a sip of wine. I didn’t know what to say, so I listened.

“Maggie would not want me to be unhappy, depressed, isolated, alone,” he said, staring into his wine glass.

“I agree, Monsieur.”

“Maggie would want me to live.”

I took the wine glass from his hands and placed it on the coffee table. I held him in my arms and then I kissed him. He held me, tightly, caressing me. I kept kissing him, not forcing it but not pulling away either.

It felt good.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally said, after a few moments. “Of course it is the sort of thing that may be personal, so please don’t tell me more than you feel you should.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Who is John?”

“John?” I asked.

“His telephone number is on your dresser upstairs – on a note. It says, ‘You’re beautiful, call me, John.’”

“Oh. Right.” Damn. “Some guy, came in with some people to the restaurant, gave me that with his tip. I guess I overdid it on the friendly banter, and he may have thought I was interested.”

“Are you, then?” Monsieur asked.

Blush. “No! I mean, flattered, yes … I … I guess I was, I mean I wasn’t going to call him.”

“But you kept his number? You were tempted?”

“Please! I just forgot to throw it away!” I felt cornered. I stood up.

“It’s not a bit of my business, and I won’t ask,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I think I have made some mistakes with you, and have moved too quickly –”

“Mistakes?” I could feel my blood rising.

“ – But I don’t want that to place the rest of our relationship in jeopardy.”

“First of all, the biggest mistake you could make would be to think I would call some guy who gave me his phone number, when I am only here to take care of you.” I felt my face getting hot.

“I didn’t mean–”

“Second biggest mistake is that I’m a very low maintenance sort of girl in almost every way, except … at bedtime.”

He laughed a little. “I agree,” he said. “I’m sorry if it seemed as though I wasn’t trusting, but I was afraid we were drifting apart.”

I sat back down, next to him. “I’ll forgive you, on one condition. Just drift a little closer.” I kissed him, my mouth hungry.

For a long time.

My hands were all over his body and when I could feel his heart beating in his chest, I knew that he was ready and I started lowering his pants.

“I’m not used to asking for it,” I whispered. “Usually the guy asks me, but you’re not like other guys.”

“I can try to be,” he whispered.

“No, just be yourself. I like that.”

I got his pants off, his cock thick and red, swollen and erect, curving up like it was straining to reach me. I lowered my head and licked it. His breath made a noise like a tire deflating. I opened wide and sucked on the head, drooling wantonly, stroking him with my hand, trying to remember all the pointers I recently got from Desireous and Introspectre, VH and my other personal idols when it comes to cock pleasing.

His hands wandered over my body, one hand finding its way to my bottom. He pulled the waistband of my pajamas down and fondled me as I sucked.

He moaned. His fingers pulled my panties aside and slipped in past my rubbery wet labia – thick, strong, insistent fingers. I moaned, my mouth full of him, my pussy full of him; I looked up at him. I let his cock pop out of my mouth.

“Do you like that?” I smiled, stroking him.

“Oh you know that I do. I am quite ready,” he whispered.

“Ready to come in my mouth?” I asked, my eyes sparkling.

“I … I don’t know if … if I can …”

“Let’s try this, then.” I got up on the couch. “Stand up,” I said. He obeyed. I love how a man with a hard-on will do almost anything. I lay down on my back, hung my head off the edge, and pulled his cock to me, licking it then sucking it in.

He moaned again. I pulled it out. “Now, you’re gonna have to fuck my mouth, and don’t be such a gentleman for once. I really, really want this. All right?”

“All right, chère.”

I put his hands on my head, so giving him permission to really use my mouth to please him. My hands teased his swinging balls, stroked his shaft, and after only a few minutes of his cock head stretching my mouth, jaw and lips … I felt a pulse along the shaft, his scrotum tight against his body, then a gasp and something French from his lips … then another gasp and something hot, thick, and oh, so rich filling my mouth as he fucked it. Triumph.

I pulled off, stroking him and trying to get it all. There was a lot. I don’t think the poor man had had an ejaculation since the last one he had with me, a month before. It covered my face deliciously, my hair, the floor …

I sat up, wiping my face with my shirt, licking my lips.

He fell to his knees and began to tongue me as I licked the last of him from my fingers. My legs went up and open, resting on his shoulders as he licked and sucked, then when I was totally flowing I started playing with his cock with my feet. I felt it harden then he picked my legs up, spread them wide and slid his tongue deep inside me and fucked me with his face till I came, hard, biting my hand to keep from waking the kids. My head was spinning.

I remember that he got up on his knees and was teasing my entrance with his freshly hardened cock.

“Please, Monsieur,” I whispered.

“Please what, my love?”

“Please, will you take me?” I begged.

“Take you where, mon ange?” he smiled.

I was pulling him, humping, trying to get him inside me. “OH! You’re so mean to me, why?”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, “it’s just that I really like the look on your face when I finally give you,” and then he held me open and slid into me, “this.”

“Oh!”

It burrowed into me, what I’d been missing, dreaming of, hoping for, into me, making me blind with pleasure, filling me up and burying inside me in…

One.

Smooth.

Stroke.

He kissed me, our faces sticky with each other, and he hooked his elbows under my knees and lifted my legs up as his cock filled me. Oh, it was so thick. In my delirium I remembered to try bringing my knees to my chest like Cardman described. I was sitting on the edge of the couch, and his kneeling in front of me was the perfect angle. Monsieur could then pull all the way out and slowly slide all the way in, from the crown to the base, with each stroke. Yum. I came in three or four strokes, and he could keep going for I don’t know how long before it welled up and soaked me.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, kissing me through my happy tears. I looked at the clock. It was 12:45 AM.

Belle-Mère

Jesus Joseph Mary.

Pardon the blaspheming, but I just found out Monsieur’s mother is visiting KC, and they’re both going to get into his sister’s car and drive down here to Texas to see the family.

Jesus Joseph Mary. I’m not prone to performance anxiety or panic attacks but I think I can feel my pulse in my hair. Oh god's teeth and blood, I hope she likes me.

Monsieur’s sister, you may recall, was my roommate, time out of mind. I got aong with her great back then, but she was against my moving in here to help with the children and I don’t know if either of them knows about Monsieur and me.

I haven’t met his mother before. She lives in France. They’ll all be here around birthday time for Littlest and Bigglest Boys, the 3rd week of January.

Jesus Joseph Mary.

So Much For THAT Job

Well, today [Sunday] at work I saw the new-posted schedule, and apparently all wait staff now have to work one weekday shift per week, “see your Shift Manager to iron out any conflicts.” I’m scheduled for Tuesday. Of course I can’t come in on Tuesday or any other weekday, and since they don’t make exceptions, I told my shift manager that I couldn’t do it weekdays between 8 and 5, and I thought that was understood when I was hired.

“I’m sorry [Yearning Heart],” she explained, “but that’s the new policy. Everyone has to make adjustments; we’re having a hard time getting people who are willing to work weekdays.”

“I’m sorry too, [SM],” I explained, “but I teach during the weekday. I can only work nights and weekends; the reason why I live here is to care for the children.”

“Well, hon, that’s just not going to be good enough.”

“I see. Well, I can’t work where I’m not going to be good enough,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, but thinking about that huge student loan and my massive credit card debt; why did I ever go into debt?

So either today was my last day there, or I have to find day care on Tuesdays. Which, way out here in the country, would present a problem. I’m screwed, and not even kissed.*

*Actually I got kissed last night - but it’s time to clean house and gather laundry, so maybe tonight I’ll share all about that.