Hell is Parisian Women

Let me say, before I create an international incident, I have many French friends who do not make my life Hell. It’s just a few Parisian femmes in particular who do.

We spent the weekend in Paris, visiting some friends. These are Parisian friends of my husband.
And they are women.
And they are really nice, chic women. They live in fantastic, elegant apartments and have well-behaved children. Children who go to the very good local state school just around the corner, so these mums do not understand London school anxiety.
Their kids are polite, do not watch television and play multiple musical instruments well.
They are so generous and friendly that I CANNOT hate them! They swap designer children’s clothes, offering some to my daughter. Offering to keep my daughter overnight while my husband and I stay in a nearby hotel. I must learn to just generously accept kindness. What is wrong with me?

At the dinner party, I feel oddly over and under-dressed at the same time. I wore (what I thought was) a chic outfit I brought from London, but it’s very London. Not Paris. Everyone else female is wearing tight, distressed jeans with silky, off-the-shoulder blouses and strappy high heels.

These women smoke (ah ha! an Achilles heel? no, it’s not)
They huddle on the balcony laughing and smoking. My husband takes a cigar along and goes, too.
He is one of the girls.
They chat about Sarko and Carla, has she been lifted?? Is she prego?? They stand around him and he tells them stuff I’ve said, and they all laugh. They think he is so amusing! But he’s telling my jokes! relating my gossip! It’s just he’s doing it in the ’smoking section’. I hear it as I sit trying not to fall asleep with the non-smoking males. So now, I’m pissed off with DH for being one of the girls when I am not, and for being amusing, when I am not, and for being surrounded by gorgeous, chic French women who think he is fab!!

I am often left talking to the husbands. Ah ha, it’s not a bad evening if you’re surrounded by French men!!?
Well…the husbands converse, mostly with each other, about French politics (not Sarkozy or Carla Bruni, or even any politicians I have heard of) or skiing, which I don’t really do much of, or work, which is too specific for me to join in. They don’t joke much. It’s not easy to be amusing in a foreign language. And because I’m already feeling uncomfortable, I’m not funny. There is one husband in this group of friends with whom I joke, who finds me amusing, but that couple didn’t come to this dinner party.

I totally feel Julia Child’s unease at being a tall American with big feet in a city full of tiny, elegant females. I’m only 5′8″, but still have a hard time finding any chic clothes that fit me in Paris. I’m the wrong shape.
And shoes. Better now, but years ago, I’d walk into a shoe shop, ask for size 42 (UK8) and the shop assistants would look horrified, look at my feet, and say, ‘Oh! no, Madame! We do not make such huge sizes! You must go to the BIG shoe shops, or maybe they carry that size in the 9th.’ (9th is sex shop area with transvestite shoe stores).

Yes, I know, Hell is not peopled with Parisian women. They probably go to Heaven.
Maybe I am wildly off the mark due to trauma. But I feel so inadequate after an evening with them.
(There is no word I know for ‘yummy mummy’ in French. If you know of one, please tell me what it is!)

Not my baby anymore

My baby’s not my baby anymore. She started school last week. Only two hours a day, but I’m a mess. No more lazy mornings watching kiddie TV in jammies (whimper).
Now she will have to go to school every day by 9am, for 16+ years. (What’s worse, now we are stuck with only taking a break in school holiday times with inflated travel prices)

I’m from the land of Kindergarten at age 5, First Grade at age 6. Here in the UK, children start nursery school at 3, then Reception (full day--officially learning to read, write, etc) at age 4, then Year 1 primary school at age 5.
She knows her alphabet, she can spell her name, CAT, COW, lots of useful stuff. But it’s just for fun. It’s not a requirement.
She’s still a little pee wee. She’s too young!
I feel her childhood is now over.

Excuse me while I go blow my nose and have another glass of wine.

The trouble with...

being a ‘non-native’ is not being able to complain.

I don’t mean complain, as in go to Customer Service Dept. I am perfectly allowed to do that. In fact, husband is too embarrassed to do so, so I am appointed as official family customer relations manager.

I mean, I can’t come home and have a good grumble. Having an off-day, and something really irritates me. Can I walk in, slam the door, and say, ‘Grrrr!’ and let rip a good old rant? No.
I will always be a foreigner in my own home. The accent isn’t immediately apparent. Most people talk to me for a minute or two, then say, ‘Where are you from?’ Can’t quite place it, but it is certainly not an accent from the British Isles.

In the first month of our marriage, we had a wedding invitation, which said ‘Wedding breakfast at 7pm’. I said, ‘That’s weird to call it a breakfast at 7pm!’ Oh boy, did I get an earful! It’s not weird! It’s correct! You are breaking your fast. It’s British!
I have learned to limit my use of the word ‘weird’ and say instead, ‘odd’ or ‘peculiar’. They work DH into less of a lather.

I’m doing my best to fit in. After all, I am here for good. I’m a British citizen. I vote. I have a UK passport. I can negotiate round-abouts! I say ‘zed’ and put the ‘U’ in words like neighbour, spell apologise with ‘S’, but I am not supposed to grumble. About anything. Not even the weather. (sigh)

Unless! (I have found an escape clause) I may not grumble unless the person to whom I voice my grumble shares my situation. A neighbour picking up litter in front garden, fellow voyagers on delayed or crowded tube/train/bus, those also sheltering from the rain when a moment ago it was only blue sky without clouds. I just can’t do it in front of my spouse. Unless he is getting wet, too.

Sticks and Spoons

I got on the tube today and sat across from a young woman with a walking stick.
I use a stick. I was very interested.
When first diagnosed with MS, I DID NOT, under any circumstances, want to use a stick or a wheelchair. NO. End of story. And I did alright. I was slow, I was careful, I walked close to walls. On the tube, I was too embarrassed to ask someone to get up and give me a seat. Obviously no one offers as I don't look sick or disabled. I look perfectly healthy.
I did ask a man for a seat once when I thought I'd fall over on the train.
I said in a nice voice, 'Sorry, would you mind giving me the priority seat? I need to sit down.'
'Why? Are you pregnant?'
'No, I have MS.'
'What??' he yelled. (To be fair, train was noisy)
Heads turned.
'Multiple Sclerosis!' I yelled back. 'It's hard for me to stand!' Everyone stared. Eyes looked me up and down.
He made a face, but did get up, slowly, then stood over me, staring at me the whole trip.
How can you read a book, or a free paper even, under those circumstances? Very uncomfortable.
I never asked again.
Once, I walked too much and couldn't feel my feet. Fell and broke the 5th metatarsal. Just like Beckham. Had to use crutches. People were so much nicer! They got up immediately and gave me a seat. People yelled at others to get up for me. It was so wonderful! Tears welled in my eyes from their kindness.
After all this time, people are being nice and trying to help me! Hmm...maybe because something visible was 'telling them' I had a problem, something I was far to embarrassed to do.
I got a collapsible stick which I used on the tube, but no one noticed. It blended in with my black trousers. Then after another relapse, the OT told me about a website selling 'cool sticks'. I got a flashy, turquoise one.
So...back to the story, I use a stick. This young woman had a really nice stick with purple pattern on it. More interesting than that, she was young, and she had a stick. We eyed each other. She finally said, 'I like your stick!'
I said, 'I like yours!'
'This is Bridget,' she told me.
How fun! She named the stick! Sounds stupid. But it's nice. And a shock for me. Makes it a bit more, tolerable. You have this thing with you whenever you leave the house so you don't look drunk or fall over. To call it by a name, rather than call it 'the stick', is just, nicer. More friendly. It is not the enemy. I have been blaming my stick for my walking difficulties rather than seeing it as my friend and helper.
I asked, 'Why the stick? I wonder if it's the same reason I have one?'
(Usually only see the elderly with a stick.)
'Fibromyalgia,' she offered. We talked the whole trip. She gave me a website address http://butyoudontlooksick.com
which bring me to the reason for this post. Describing chronic conditions, especially those which fluctuate, is really difficult. I won't try here. The creator of the website has a 'Spoon Theory' which is the most clear cut fashion I have heard. Here's the quick summary, but please read the full theory which is much better explained than this:
Take 12 spoons. That's all you get.
Now write down all the things you want to do today.
Don't forget to include all the little things, like get out of bed, go to the toilet, make breakfast, eat, take a shower, do your hair, get dressed... Add all things you want/need to do through the day--commute, work, include climbing any stairs, standing in queues, especially at the Ladies Room. Don't forget fun stuff, like meet friend for coffee, stand as you have a chat with someone, go to a pub, walk to a restaurant, have a cocktail, go dancing (ha!), go to the cinema. Don't forget, get home, get ready for bed.
Each task takes a spoon. You have a limited number of spoons. If you run out, tough. That's it. You have used your supply (of energy) for the day. Plan wisely.

My Hero

Magnus Mills, Booker Prize winner. Not exactly my hero, but I admire him. A bus driver who has written 6 books. He doesn't want to give up the job driving buses to write full-time because that would be solitary and boring. Amen!

I also admire T.S. Eliot, whose former office I pass on my way to work. He left teaching, and took an 'easy' job at a bank so he could leave at 5pm and write in the evenings.

One morning long ago when I was at home on summer break, my father ambushed me and made me sit down at the kitchen table and write out my goals: short, medium and long term. He is a very philosophical, gentle man who never 'made' me do anything before, so this was a surprise.
At age 20, I was very irritated. I harumphed and sulked, but I was not allowed off the chair until I had written them. At least three items per category. I scribbled the first things that came to mind so I could get off the chair!! Felt like I was being forced to do my homework.

He kept it, and gave it to me when I got married. I wrote things like,

Short Term: Number 1 'Finish this stupid list!' and went on to things like, finish university; travel.
Medium Term: live abroad; get a job that pays bills, go to graduate school.
Long Term: Get job I am proud of, with comfortable salary, which helps humanity in some way; get married; have kids; write a book.

I have done all the things on my 'ambitious' list save one: write book (if current job counts as helpful to humanity, sadly it lacks comfortable salary).
Write a book. That is the big thing I want to do before I die.

I don't want to be famous, or rich. I'd like to create a lasting thing that outlives me on a library shelf. Someone comes along and sees the spine and thinks, 'Huh, might be worth a read,' and they read it and love it, and when they finish, it was time well spent. Maybe libraries will be obsolete in a few years. Still, I want to type my name in Amazon and come up as 'author'. Is that too much to dream?

Now, I am expecting the writing fairies to come tonight and pull the ideas out of my head as I sleep, and put them on paper. Then I will wake up and find them there beside the bed, and all I have to do is edit them.

Reason No. 57

Why I Am Not Writing: Reason No. 57

Curiosity

It kills cats and wastes lots of time.

Every day, I wake up, hobble out of bed and it's a fresh new day!
I need to observe.
What's the weather?
What's happening?
I have to read the newspaper(s),
check emails,
what is 3 year old is doing?
see which episode of Peppa Pig is being broadcast this morning (was embarrassingly excited when it was one I hadn't seen).

Throw in the usual stuff everyone has to do each day, numbers 2-56 on my list of things that distract me from writing: personal hygiene, cooking, eating, cleaning, occupying 3 year old, taking child to nursery, commuting, working, talking to husband, talking to friends, talking to family, doctors' appointments (of which I have far too many), laundry (which takes forever with British washer/dryers), and finally sleep (which I do not do enough of).
Voila

I don't understand how writers write? How is there time in the day? I guess they use the 'work' slot as writing time, but...but...how??
I purposely took a part-time job that was not very taxing so that I would be 'free' to do other things, not mentally drained (ha!) and have time to write. But...

But...not a lot has happened. I have a blog. I am writing this blog. That is a good start.

Off I go!

What am I going to write?

Here are the story ideas. They have been in my head for years. I plan them, go over them verbally, while washing dishes, driving in the car, taking a bath. I tell everyone about them. BUT they have yet to make it out of my head...

There are 6 actually:
3 adult books (sounds a bit like porn)
3 children's stories

First the grown-up stuff. The 'adult' books are about my life in foreign countries, and one murder mystery (which is not autobiographical!)

I lived in France for a year as a student. EVERYTHING that could have gone wrong did. I have kept guests at dinner parties entertained with these stories for years.
No one understood my accent. I found my French was not as good as I thought. After an entrance test, I was put in the lowest grammar class. Ridiculous host family situations. The First Gulf War started. Bomb threats on the Metro. Soldiers and police armed with submachine guns outside every important ediface. People were searched before entering any public building. Guards at the university gates. I was pickpocketed. My passport, what little money I had, credit cards and all ID stolen. Couldn't get into classes, banks or post office as I had no ID. That's the tip of the iceberg. But some great stuff happened, too. It was a year of peaks and valleys. Imagine my life as a stock chart.

I also lived in Japan. Shizouka Prefecture, blessed with beautiful nature. Home of Mount Fuji.
I went to teach English. I went out of curiosity, spite and because of a boy. I went for one year and ended up staying for three. I worked for the town Board of Education and taught English to kindergardeners, primary and middle school students, and evening classes for housewives, businessmen and pensioners. I was 'the town foreigner'. Everyone was wonderful. I still miss them.

The murder mystery was dreamt up to relieve tension, stress, frustration while studying for my Master's degree. Kill someone off, and everyone has a reason to do it because the person was so annoying!!