Where to begin? Not with descriptions of my wonderful trip to Amsterdam and Paris with Marissa. Not with how weird it is to be around English, Burritos and Air Conditioning. I guess I will begin where it comes easiest-- Completely off topic.

An implication of our modern age, as I am coming to discover, is the implications of living in a time where our entertainment can simulate reality so closely. Not only are our movies enhanced by technology year by year, but even our most popular television shows are labeled with the word Reality. I find that my most interesting moments tend to beg for a camera and lend themselves to symbolism as if scripted. Is God nothing more than a broken man hunched over a typewriter in LA composing the scripts of our lives? When something happens to me, something that will make a great story, is it possible for my mind to not be conscious of the great story it will make? On our most dull days, do the weakest of us not begin to flirt with plot twist daydreams?

My first example of life meeting movie is not at all relevant to the purpose of what I am writing here. Yet somehow I feel that it would be a crime to exclude it simply because it is my case in point introduction to my life being absolutely ridiculous right now.

On a very humid day in July when I boarded a train from Paris to Munch. I was wearing little eiffel tower earrings that I had bought in Montmarte, and my rippedtopieces jeans were covered by a little bright blue skirt. I thought I looked hilarious, and as polar opposite to the laptopped business man in my car as possible. It was just us in the 6 person car. The windows were open, allowing a lovely breeze and the sound of the train to seep in. We made polite small talk, eye contact shy, questions about my sightseeing and about his job working for a bottled water company in Lyon. It ended awkwardly, with me returning to my One Hundred Years of Solitude, and he sticking his pen in his mouth as he sorted papers. When the conductor announced we were reaching his stop, he gathered his belongings and left.

But he did not leave. Seconds later he burst into the car. I nervously looked around for whatever he must have forgotten, and looked up to see him standing in front of me. "May I give you a French kiss?" he asked in his daydream accent English. I looked into his eyes and thought to myself, "this is going to make a great story."

There was a breathless "Oui" out of my lips followed by a brief passionate embrace.

Real life? I don't know. Related to the story I can barely tell? Not really. More fun to type, yes.

Example number two and actual intended content of this entry took place my first day back in Illinois.

My parents drove me home from the airport, gifts and kisses, touring me around the house to show me all the changes. Everything was so beautiful, and I had never seen our house or our pond look this lovely before. Fish, lilly pads, new clothing on my bed, a pile of books and the amazing feeling of my Self and my Things all returning so safe and sound after all those months away. Familiar smells and tastes. I braced myself for a show week of reading, writing and memory arithmetic.

There was one thing strange about this start of my first day back. At the time I left for Germany, my parents had been best best friends for over a year with our neighbors across the street, Ed and Wendy. They drank bottomless cosmos together, BBQs, pool parties-- a practical second adolescence complete with abusing alcohol and making naughty jokes. I had bought Ed and Wendy a bottle of mustard in Germany and I mentioned wanting to go across the street to give it to them.

Mom: DONT-- er, I mean, don't walk across the street today, dear, I am sure we will see them later this week.
Dad: ... I should say that we don't really spend as much time with Ed and Wendy as we used to.

'Oh God, something strange happened' was my first thought. There was always some indescribable sexual tension in their foursome friendship that made me feel like a fifth wheel at our dinner parties. I remembered Wendy sitting on my father's lap and him asking for little peck kisses. I tried not to let my imagination get carried away.

For I was secretly thrilled that my parents apparently spent less time with Ed and Wendy. I had always had this unjustified jealousy of their relationships together that I have never been able to express without sounding crazy. Still, I was curious about what could ruin these friendships that were practically at soul mate levels when I left.

The answers came quicker than I expected. While we were making dinner plans, Wendy burst in through our garage door, eyes wide, hair messy.

Me: "Wendy! I'm back from Germany! I'm so glad you stopped by, I brought you mustard!"
Wendy: "...Oh, thank you!...Where's your father?"

And then I saw the way she and my father looked at each other (like lovers) and I started having to censor my imagination.

Police officers were then suddenly at my door and no one would explain their presence to me. "We will sit you down and explain it all later" my parents said between closed doors and whispers. In a moment alone, I said to my mother, "Only three things could ruin a friendship like you and Dad had with Ed and Wendy- Drugs, Money or Sex."

She stormed off crying.

When I said this to my father he said, "You forgot the fourth thing-- LOVE."

My father and Wendy have Fallen In Love. They began sleeping together with the knowledge of my mother, who (yes, this is strange) was at the time very interested in Wendy's husband Ed. The way they all explain what happened is like this-- All four realized that they were happier as a group of four than as married couples of two. Their friendships showed each what was lacking in their marriage. Apparently, while I was off in pubs and train cars for 7 months, they were busy pairing off incorrectly at the end of their drunken evenings t, well, make out. While Ed always stopped my Mom to remind her that they both have separate marriages, Wendy and my father took things to the, ahem, next level, beginning at the topless pool party the four of them had... and going on to this day.

I was later told that my first day home was the third time the police had arrived. Ed was not dealing with things as calmly as my mother was. He was in complete denial about the state of his marriage while my mother, upset with my father's behavior, was okay letting him go. Wendy only encouraged Ed's confusion with lies and provocation. The police were called in each time because Ed was getting violent. This time he had threatened to kill my father.

Everyone eventually sat me down. My parents caught me up on the past 7 months as if I had been in a coma rather than just overseas. My brother sat there numbly nodding after baring witness to everything they described to me. The word DIVORCE caught me more off guard than simply knowing my father had started sleeping with Wendy. That made it real. I sobbed like I can't remember when. My dad just ordered Chinese food and invited Wendy over to join us. He somehow didn't understand me when I told he I wasn't ready to see her. I wasn't-- she was the woman who i thought was going to just cut my hair and drink with me. Now she will be my future children's step grandma? Now my mother- who stayed at home to raise me and my brother- who left jobs to move with my dad 10 times in 25 years- who is beautiful and liberal- who can do a Sunday crossword puzzle in minutes-- She will be discarded for a fake blonde, saggy boobed, lying, money hungry, hairstylist from Illinois? She will have to move into a crappy townhouse alone to collect alimony and substitute teach while Wendy moves into my house with him? It is all so hard to believe.

I don't know what broke the waspy play pretend perfect household syndrome that had poisoned everyone here. It was either my presence or what my father did that night after we all fell asleep. With no consideration for anyone but himself, he brought Wendy up and slept with her in the room across the hall from me. THIS WAS STILL MY FIRST NIGHT HOME.

They were still in there when I woke up the next day. After finding that Wendy's shoes hadn't moved since the night before, my mother asked me to make as much noise as possible to wake them up and deny them a secretive exit. I made noise by singing all of my favorite songs at the top of my lungs while I unpacked, my voice breaking with sobs.

When they emerged, guilty, my father said, "Who wants blueberry pancakes?" and Wendy couldn't look me in the eye.

Needless to say, there will be no blueberry pancakes in my tear filled home this week. It has been cannon balls here ever since I arrived. My father has been gone every night, well aware that I am only home these 20 days after being gone 7 months. He is just too busy with his new wife, $250 hotel rooms, hidden jewelry purchases, and boob job gift promises. My mother: yelling the word CUNT on phone calls, lawyers, removing her wedding ring, house hunting-- more beautiful and amazing than ever.

This has been one of the hardest weeks of my life, but I am amazingly pretty emotionless and collected most of the time. I just keep on wondering if I have just accidentally walked into a badly scripted movie and how
oh please tell me how
I can walk out of it in one piece.