So I’m a terribly bad maman and disregarded the blog at a very crucial moment. For some reason, I just couldn’t muster up the strength to write, maybe because there was too much to sort out, or maybe because I have this horrible head cold. Either way, I’m sorry. And I can’t wait to get better.
I still don’t quite know what to write about everything so far. I really just need to let things settle. The children are adorable, Jeanne is going to be a heartbreaker, I can already tell. Gaspard is so thinky, that sometimes I think we’re really alike, until I pull on his diaper before bed. Although I’ve often considered the convenience of such an arrangement….
I live in this small hallway on the top floor of the building with maybe 5 or 6 other rooms. I know for sure there at least one live creature up there because I hear jingling keys and see a sliver of light when I sneak off to the bathroom, but I haven’t mustered up the courage to say hi. All in due time, I say. Unless they move. Hmmm.
I’m sitting at my desk, at my job, most likely for the last time and what I feel is not what I expected. I’m leaving to go to Champaign tomorrow morning, with Bleeker in tow, to meet his surrogate mommy. We’ve been spending a lot more time together than usual; I’ve been using him as an escape from packing. We learned Crazy People by the Wreckers, and we’re going to play it loud in union station tomorrow (after my mother and I part ways).
I got this new dress, and it cinches so tight at the waist, and this new old watch, and it doesn’t run, but it’s so rusty and perfect.
This is going to be a short post, because I have a lot more to do. But you know what? Three days with some of my favorite people ain’t shabby. I’m going to relax and let it be wonderful.
Maybe the next time I write I’ll be in France. Hopefully not, because, for some reason, that’s a really sad thought.
My departure date is in less than two weeks and I’m surprisingly un-panicked. I’ve still got a nice long list of things I need to do before takeoff and the plan is to knock them out of the park by this Friday so I can spend next week in lalaland with my friends, daydreaming about how nice it will be.
It does worry me that Parisian women seem to live in Navies and Blacks, whereas my color palate ranges from Baby Blue to Neon. This is okay, I’ve told myself. I will be a flamingo in a land of swans! I will POP!
I will probably let evolution take its course.
I also need a camera for next year. I wonder if I could get away with bulk-buying disposables; I like the grainy look of the pictures better anyway.
PS why do I insist on making bird analogies when I can’t stand them? And then give myself the ickies when I google image search flamingos? Silly.
PPS apparently Men Love Bitches
I went to my physician to get my tetanus shot yesterday because I’m a little bit of a hypochondriac and a couple months ago I stepped on a nail, barefoot, in my basement, and was pretty convinced I would die. I, obviously, don’t want to put myself through that kind of emotional turmoil again (I parceled out most of my plastic jewelry collection in a 60% joking email). And because vaccines are BRILLIANT.
Anyhow, so, you know how there are days when you just feel freer than usual? And you don’t feel the need to be constrained by the rigid, misogynistic statutes of society? And you’re also feeling a little bit lazy? And you just don’t happen to wear any underwear? Usually this is fine. I think feminism is pretty cool, and that undergarments are 50% of the time unnecessary. It’s unfortunate, though, when you don’t have the foresight to see that your annual physical that day would involve various maneuvers of the knee that make it almost impossible to not overexpose yourself in the day dress you so brilliantly chose to wear. Score. Anyway, it was awkward, and my stern, mustachio’d doctor was all disapproving glances for the rest of my appointment. Obviously, I made an impression.
So when I came in for my shot a mere 3 weeks later, I was expecting to get the icy, frigid bi(u?)tch treatment. There was no sign of recognition, ZILCH. He was a notch above politely conversational. He chuckled at my jokes. He thinks it’s cool that I am nannying while going to school next year. He wishes me luck. WTF???
What I’m saying is the medical profession is getting way impersonal. Remember in the olden days, when the village doctor made house calls, and knew exactly where on your body that gross poodle shaped mole is cause he just so happened to have helped birth you, and would bleed you by hand when you damn well needed it, without that latex glove bullshit? I blame this on the computers.
