Gone viral: part V

Good heavens, you’re still here. You must be under lockdown too. Or maybe you enjoy my ranting? If so, thank you! Here’s tons more in case you missed it: part I, part II, part III, part IV. This, I hope, will conclude my lockdown diaries. It’s been real. And it’s been fun. But it hasn’t been real fun. I mean it has, but only if slowly going insane can be considered fun.

April 29

The French government has announced a gradual relaxation of lockdown restrictions beginning on May 11. I remain skeptical (STILL NO SIGN OF THOSE ELUSIVE MASKS), but we shall see, shan’t we?

April 30

Today my husband and I are celebrating our ninth wedding anniversary! Sadly, we can neither travel nor dine out, but no matter—we have a very nice bottle of bubbly that has been patiently awaiting the right occasion. 

Nine years ago today, I was younger, but not stronger; quicker, but not faster; sweeter, but not wiser. I had (significantly) less gray hair. I also had zero children. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc? Maybe!

May 1

Today is a holiday! A holiday from what, lockdown? NO (but nice try).

May 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8

It’s like déjà vu all over again. And again. And again.

May 9
Some folks have been using lockdown to learn a new skill. I, on the other hand, have been perfecting an old one: alcoholism mixology. You need a cocktail? No, I need a cocktail.

May 10

OMG the crime scene tape blocking off the bike path in front of our place has been pushed back a whole meter! It’s really happening!

May 11

Déconfinement!!! Lockdown is over! I mean sort of! And it’s … strangely anticlimactic. Huh. No matter, CHAMPAGNE!

May 12

Back to school—oh, but not for us. Our children are not “prioritaires” because we are not health care professionals and can therefore (obviously) play the role of full-time teachers forever, even without possessing any semblance of qualification nor being the least bit interested in the educational field! Just ask the mayor! 

May 13

Both my turnover and my morale have taken a hit, but I am feeling defiant. Seriously, go jump in a lake of fire, The Economist, and take your bleak-ass economic forecast with you. Your articles are self-reverential and overly long, your titles aren’t half as witty as you clearly think they are, and your artificial lack of bias is a bias in and of itself, so there! YOUR MOTHER WAS A HAMSTER AND YOUR FATHER SMELT OF ELDERBERRIES! *punches a hole in the wall*

May 14

Maybe time really is just an illusion. Maybe life is just an illusion. Maybe I am just an illusion.

May 15

Who are we, anyway?

May 16

Wait, I know this one—all we are is dust in the wind, dude. 

May 17

Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I’ll wake up and it’ll be mid-February when I was on a ski vacation and … THAT’S IT! I’m in a coma! I had a ski accident and I’m in a coma and none of this is real. Phew! Binge-watching Sherlock on Netflix is really paying off.

THE END.

An ode to acrylics

Ten days before my wedding, which is to say toward the end of April, I marched into an empty nail salon in Southern California and requested a full set of acrylic “French tip” nails. I’d been toying with the idea for months, as “What am I going to do about my NAILS?” is a question that every self-respecting bride-to-be asks herself at some point. I’d begun early: interrogating my loved ones, scouring the web, consulting my inner child.... Most opinions were negative, acrylic nails being notoriously rough on one’s natural nails (really? You mean cementing prosthetics to one’s hands and then covering them with three layers of foul-smelling resin is harmful?). But there is no such thing as natural beauty—at least not in the world of nail art—so I paid no heed to the naysayers. Besides, I wanted gorgeous hands for those wedding photos and no way was I going to settle for a basic manicure. I wanted to go whole hog. I wanted my Steel Magnolias moment.

Thus, on a sunny Wednesday, in I strolled into my chosen nail salon and within minutes was seated comfortably facing my nail technician, a portly Vietnamese lady wearing a gaping, washed-out tank top that left little to the imagination and kind of made me feel overdressed. One other client was there —a 40-something character named Linda, the kind of woman who just hangs out in nail salons: big hair, loud makeup, ocher skin and a smoker’s voice. She wasted no time in announcing that she had a blind date in an hour, and had come over to get ready. She also fully intended to choose an outfit while at the salon, and thus had brought along several possibilities to model for us. This initially struck me as surreal, but a few blinks of incomprehension and I was over it. Besides, the surreal seems to follow me wherever I go—so why not here? Otherwise, the salon was fairly classic: rows of reclining pedicure chairs, little tables adorned with manicure lamps, displays of brightly-colored nail polish and a big flat-screen TV. In this case, the channel was set on Disney. I figured there must be a small child hiding in the room somewhere—a daughter perhaps?—but no, my nail technician just had a thing for Hannah Montana. Who doesn’t?

That and gambling. As it turned out, acrylic nails are actually quite labor-intensive, which left us plenty of time for light-hearted banter. So as she proceeded to glue 8-inch-long appendages to my nail bed (step #1), I lent a polite ear to sordid tales of gambling away her livelihood at the big casino over on the nearby Indian reservation. Not that I had any choice in the matter—I couldn’t very well get up and walk out looking like Edward Scissorhands, plus I really needed her to do a good job. So I shut up and listened.

Apparently, she had begun hitting the game tables ages ago, not long after arriving in the US as a Vietnamese refugee(?!).

“I used to play all the time. Sometimes I lose. Sometimes I lose a lot. My husband, he no like it when I lose. You know, hundreds I lose, sometimes thousands (laughs). He get real angry when I do that.”

“You don’t say,” I answered.

“It used to be real bad but now is better. Now I play, but not all the time. Sometimes I win. But also I lose (laughs).”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Do these pants make me look fat?” interrupted Linda.

Three and a half hours later, I felt as though a certain level of intimacy had been established between us. Upon leaving, I almost wanted to give her a hug and encourage her to stay away from the casino. But instead I gave her a nice tip, hoping it wouldn’t end up where I was imagining it would.

And in the end, I didn’t regret my choice. My nails were impeccable for the wedding and remained so for the honeymoon. In fact, I grew so fond of them that I had them “refilled” upon my return to Paris, which was almost as amusing as the initial operation. Nail salons here tend to double as erotic message parlors, which kind of makes sense. I mean, men have to do something while the ladies have their nails done—thumbing through magazines is just so prosaic. Incidentally, women can also get massages at these fine establishments, but the cost for men is always significantly higher. Now why would THAT be...?

But dubious salons aside, I’m still loving the fake nails. Why? Because they’re flawless! I mean sure, they do make a hell of a lot of noise when I type, but otherwise it’s pure pleasure wearing them. They’re unbreakable, unsplittable, unsulliable; I haven’t so much as caused one tiny run in my stockings since I had the nails put on and that alone is well worth the cost. Plus they’re still relatively rare in France, which is a nice boost for my ego.

The ONE downside is that they’re ... um ... flammable. I found that out the hard way while lighting a candle the other evening. Suddenly it was my thumbnail that was twinkling away and not the wick. “What’s that smell?” G. asked. “Nothing!” I said, trying to hide my singed nail. Oh, it was fine. I filed it down a bit and it was good as new. Mostly.

So in conclusion, I give two singed thumbs up to acrylic nails. Sure they’re somewhat dangerous. But in the end ... aren’t we all (philosophical pause)?

Back to business

I’m back!

After quite an absence from spouting witticisms into the void, I have at last returned to my trusty AZERTY keyboard and am ready to pick up where I left off. I seem to recall a rant involving a giant bottle of olive oil. Geez, it has been a long time.

To sum up, I have just gotten married. In the US. Hence the long silence (I took a month of vacation ... kindly paid for by French employment law!). And while preparations for this Grand Event have kept me both highly occupied and highly on-edge for the greater part of the past 12 months, in the end it was a resounding success. In fact, it was such a success that I almost want to change career paths (again) and go into wedding planning. Yes it was totally stressful, but also quite a lot of fun. We did everything ourselves, meaning personal creativity + local suppliers + many pairs of helpful hands to bring it all together. And it really was the sweetest, most magical day I could ever have imagined.

And then suddenly it was over and we were heading to the Bahamas on our honeymoon. That’s how it generally works, no? For months and months you pour your whole heart into planning to marry, then all of a sudden the wedding comes and goes and before you have any time to process the whole thing you’re in another time zone. In the space of a few hours we passed from 4,000 feet in the mountains of San Diego to a sprawling white beach beneath nodding coconut palms in the middle of the Caribbean, feeling almost obligated to forget everything and RELAX! NOW! Which we did—in spectacular fashion—so I’m not complaining! I just find it psychologically bizarre that weddings work this way.

And now, a few weeks later, we are officially over our jet lag and more or less back to living our “normal” Parisian lives. I must say that so far I’m finding married life to be quite similar to fiancéed life, although something definitely does feel different. It’s a bit as though we’ve been initiated into a secret society, like we have a special wink-wink complicity that wasn’t there before. In the métro I find myself discreetly eyeing the left hands of my fellow passengers—and generally discovering precious few signs of membership in this particular secret society. Does no one get married around here anymore? (Answer: no.) So while I may no longer be “The Bride,” and thus no longer the center of attention (alas!), at least I AM part of this cool—and increasingly exclusive—married people’s club.

But that aside, G. and I are actually having a rather rough time of this post-wedding period. I especially am having a rough time of it. Which isn’t so surprising, really. I mean, for a full year this wedding constituted a real Project toward which I could direct nearly all my creative energy; an event brimming with symbolism and emotion, set in my hometown and uniting my loved ones from North America with my loved ones from Europe, my family with G.’s family, in the definitive fusion of the American me and the French-ish me.... In its wake, how could everyday life not seem somewhat pale? On the upside, I have total faith that these post-nuptial blues (that’s their official name—look it up) will disappear with time, much in the manner of the “day after Christmas” blues. But in all honesty, I hadn’t planned on how hard the adjustment would be; that’s the one thing I neglected to include in all those wedding lists, charts and spreadsheets.

And just to add insult to injury, since the Big Day has passed, the myriad wedding-related on-line newsletters to which I subscribed over the past year have spontaneously transformed themselves into newly-wed newsletters. So now when I sign in to my email account, I find it inundated with home decoration ideas, helpful hints on enjoying married life, and of course, everything related to maternity. While I find this unsolicited advice both invasive and anxiety-inducing (OMG am I supposed to have a POST-wedding to-do list? Quick! Where's my organizer?!?), I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I didn’t unsubscribe myself immediately. Would “my” newsletters just keep automatically evolving throughout my whole life? Would I receive pregnancy newsletters, then parenting newsletters, middle age newsletters, retirement newsletters...? “Personality quiz: what kind of mid-life crisis are you?” “Tips on planning the ultimate retirement party!” “Why drafting a will has never been easier!” The worst part is, this stuff probably really exists—or will someday. I think I’ll unsubscribe after all.

So to boil it all down, the wedding of the century (mine, obviously) is over and I’ve come to a big “NOW WHAT?” moment. I feel a bit as though I’m still sitting inside the movie theater after the credits have rolled. My colleagues like to joke that from here on out it’s giving foot massages, ironing shirts and whipping up complicated gourmet dinners that will be keeping me busy. But no, seriously—what is one supposed to do post-marriage and pre-pitter-patter-of-little-Franco-American-feet? I think I need a hobby. Or a dog. Or at least a new purse. Sigh.

 

Who's George Banks?

Contrary to popular belief, I have not fallen off the face of the earth or gone into hiding for tax purposes. I’m actually just extremely occupied with organizing the wedding of the 21st century, which will take place in about two months. The future King of England’s wedding is to be a mere opening act for my own. Yes, G. and I are going to tie the proverbial Franco-American knot, and while we have been engaged since last June, I have not written about it thus far because this blog is dedicated to humor and an engagement is not supposed to be funny. It’s serious, life path stuff. But now, two months out from the wedding, I realize that balancing guests, bridesmaids, groomsmen, flowers, decorations, music, gifts, entertainment, assorted Pantone napkins, customized M&M’s and the pros and cons of acrylic nails is actually quite funny. What’s even funnier is that some people do this for a living.



Part of the hilarity of this whole affair stems from the fact that the wedding will be in California while my intended and I continue to live in France, meaning that everything must be done long-distance. In fact, it’s so funny that I’ve come down with a sinus headache that seems to show no signs of letting up. I imagine it will magically disappear on its own the day after I’m wed, when I no longer need to think straight. Ha ha. See? Funny. 



In their infinite wisdom, my parents got married at a Self Realization Fellowship temple surrounded by their immediate family and something like two of their closest friends. We, on the other hand, are going whole hog. One hundred guests, a good quarter of whom are from “out of town” (meaning transatlantic), the little church PACKED, the reception hall decorated just so, my brother as MC, a feast of French-inspired delicacies cooked up by our own Chef Charles, music, speeches, cases and cases of Californian wine, contributions of time and energy from local merchants and my parents’ friends.... This is going to be anything but minimalist—it is literally going to take a village. I’m just hoping I can keep it together, live up to the A-MA-ZING dress that will be wearing me, and avoid tripping, fainting, crying uncontrollably, getting hit with a freak attack of the whooping cough or blanking out on my future husband’s name when asked to pledge him my everlasting love in front of all these people. 



In any case, this is why I haven’t been blogging of late. I’m a tad stressed. I shall try to make up for it once I have gained the peace of mind that comes with being happily married, honeymooned and unpacked, and before moving on to the next chapter of official adulthood (a wedding means that we are definitely no longer just playing house)!