I Fell for the Lucy


I actually believed that the football would be there.

I actually did.

Then, I reminded myself earlier this week, just two days ago, actually, to not rely on mom sending money in the mail.  Or if she did it would be a check I cannot cash here or that it would be less then I thought.

Do not get your hopes up kiddo.

I could not stop myself looking in the mail box.

I wrote about it again today as I am holding off the financial fear goblins.

You are going to fuck it up, you already have fucked it up, you are bad, stupid, worth less person, what were you thinking leaving a job and a place to live and why wasn’t it enough for you, you greedy little bitch.


I wrote, do not expect much and you won’t be disappointed.

Yet, there I was disappointed when I got the mail.

Email that is.

Nothing is coming.

There is not, yet, apparently there is going to be one, a card in the mail.

Maybe next month.

If I could count on all the maybe next month, maybe next year, maybe for your next birthday, after the Christmas sales, your sister needs this more, I don’t have anything for you, but I made this awful nice batch of cookies for the neighborhood kids, I would be a rich woman.

And that is where Lucy got me once again.

I am getting my Charlie Brown Christmas.

You know up until this very moment I had not a thought as to what I was going to do for my birthday.

I do now.

I am getting myself a Christmas tree.

A little one, one I can bring on the Metro like I saw a girl with tonight.  A tiny little thing in white netting that smelled so buxom with pine and fresh needles that I stood right next to it to absorb all the good evergreen smell I could get.

I almost reached out and pet the damn tree.

I was telling myself I cannot afford a tree.

I can too.

A small one.

I cannot afford a blue woe is me Christmas or birthday.

I expected to get a fat envelope of Euro from my mom.  I expected because I asked for it and I got a positive response.


Joke is on me, I went for the football and it got moved to next month.

I archived the e-mail without a response.

This is better than the response that I wanted to send.  This is better than deleting the e-mail.  I will most likely respond at sometime, just not tonight, just not tonight, after I walked along the Champs Elysees toward Rue Bayard and had a few tears spilt.

I just felt so silly and stupid.

I felt like I was the reason why I was angry.

I am not even angry at my mom, oh, don’t get me wrong, I was for a moment.

I wrote John Ater instead of my mom.

I wrote out how I felt.

It is childish and little girlish to be disappointed by the “I’m not getting the pony I was promised” (really dad).  But that was exactly how I felt, like a sad disappointed little kid.

What was I going to do with the money?

Go to the Musee D’Orsay.

Buy myself a little something from the gift shop–probably a postcard to paste in my journal.  Go to a restaurant and have a nice meal.  Buy myself something pretty, some flowers, go to Place de la Concorde and ride the giant ferris wheel.

Truth is, I can still do these things.

It will just mean getting to work faster than I had hoped.

I waffle between throwing up my hands in complete despair, fuck me, I will only have work as a babysitter, if I get work at all without having papers, did I really think this was going to work.

To going I will be crawling on my knees back to San Francisco like a whipped dog in February, no money, no reserve, no clue.

But I will be done with my book.

Yes, I will.

In fact, when I felt overwhelmed by the idiocy of my feelings, ok, perhaps not idiocy, but wallowing in my feelings never does me much good, I opened up my book and I worked on editing it.

I am 155 pages through.

My book page count stands at 244.

I am getting there.

In fact, what with my French class ending, thanking M.Wombat (that is my secret code name for my friend who sponsored me in French class, Monsieur le Wombat) again with many bisous, I will have more time on my hands.

I believe I will have the book finished by my birthday.

That is the present, I say.

That, my dear is the whole point of this Paris experiment.

I came here to celebrate my 40th and I will.

I came here to finish my book and I will.

What happens after that, I have no idea and I do not have to have one.

I do not have to fall for the football again either.

I do not need to ask for help from a place that does not have help to give.

Given some perspective, as well, I am just relieved that I am not taking care of my mom as she grows older, that was a fear I had not too long ago.  She is being taken care of and its none of my business what she does with her money.

I am grateful to have a mom.

I would not be here if I did not.

Here is pretty damn good too.

I am healthy, almost over this cold, I am creative, I am living a bohemian life, I am writing, I am taking photographs, I am meeting new people, longing for some back home, but that bittersweet edge is like salt on caramel, it does make this experience a beautiful one having that edge of sadness being there.

I am Charlie Brown too.

Charlie Brown never gives up hope, that is why he keeps kicking the football.

May I live to kick again.

Even if I fall flat on my face.

At least I am trying.


***Hey!  since my moms can’t help me out right now, maybe you can support the cause!**** Click here to donate my account is: carmenreginamartines@yahoo.com


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