Excitement
I don’t know how other people express theirs, but me I march on the spot. And occasionally clap my hands at the same time. And if I am both excited and giving a hug, I do what Christian calls ‘the paint mixer’: I shake the huggee and squeeze them probably past the point of reason and comfort.
I can’t help it. Or should I say, I don’t want to: that’s how I roll (and hug), so there.
A little French number
Christian says the concept of ‘bis’ puzzles him. Even after having lived in an 11th arrondissement Parisian apartment located at number 30 bis.
I don’t think I can explain because for me it’s one of these things you accept exist and never question: two houses or buildings have the same street number and the second one is ‘bis’ so as not to be confused with the first one. It’s not a weird urban planning concept, a strange way to divide land lots (all Christian’s chain of reasoning and probably valid points), it just is.
And it makes for pretty signs mixing numbers with letters.
This one is from a house in Albert Park and I always slow down to look if I’m driving past, or clap my hands and go ‘French number French number’ when Christian is driving. It doesn’t get old for me (for him, probably).
I’ll be damned…
I managed to do another mini-bun with my hair and I’ve just had to let it down (all the way down to my chin) because it was hurting so much. So now I’m rubbing the back of my head with this ‘feeling sorry for myself’ look on my face.
I think shaving is actually the only option left for me. Bzzzzzz?
Long-winded with a side of detailed
Me: ‘I have a tendency to be convoluted, that’s my problem.’
Christian: ‘It’s more than a tendency, it’s a way of life.’
It’s not chicken, it’s medical
Last time I got my eyes tested, I learnt that my retinas might have a good chance of tearing later on in life.
My grandfather’s did, my mother’s did, so the odds of mine following suit are fair.
My mother’s eyes are fine by the way, thanks to an operation that fixed everything that needed fixing. And two weeks of recovery spent mostly playing Sudoku.
Guess what though: no bungee-jumping for me! The stress it would put on my fragile and sensitive retinas is too great. That’s right: instead of being worried and fussed about my under-performing and slightly defective retinas, I am chirpy about having an out to something that scares me. I went as far as doing a little victory dance in front of Christian (‘See darling, I really couldn’t even if I wanted to!’ – I don’t, I was trying to be cute and make a point).
He got me though by pointing out that skydiving was more gentle so I could probably still do that (the force is spread out, there is no violent jolt – I guess since he’s done it and I haven’t I have to take his word). Nuts – outfoxed. Now how do I get out of this one, medically?
(Image from here)
PS: My priorities really aren’t in the least bit screwed up…
Memories from Paris: wedding plans, the offended jeweller and the big splash
Here is some advice from me to you: don’t try to pull off an impromptu wedding in less than 6 weeks. I’ve been there and it’s a tad stressful.
Also not ideal: introducing your future husband to your father for the first time and breaking the news of your impending wedding during dinner (my father is even twitchier than me and does not like surprises).
Add birth certificates with apostilles, finding accredited translators to certify in French I can be married to an Australian national, medical visits, and blood tests. Reception (small), invitations (did them ourselves). Head spinning yet?
When all that’s ticked off your list you need to find rings and something to wear (lest you want to get married in your bathing suit as my friend Charlotte joked).
Christian asked me if I wanted an engagement ring, and I said no: I found the idea of dropping money on something I would wear for just 6 weeks before the event kind of pointless. So I said: ‘Let’s get some nicer and special wedding rings instead’. At that point, time = 10 days away from W Day.
We visited dozens of Paris jewellers and couldn’t find anything we would be happy wearing forever (in my mind I’m not going to die – no seriously you know what I mean).
We really offended one Place de l’ Opéra who scolded us for not having done this two months prior. When I said two months prior we did not know we were getting married, he looked like he was going to slap me.
Finally we found what we were looking for: nicer, special, and they came in Christian’s and my mini finger sizes. Except, we had to go Place Vendôme to get them – to a plush and quiet, intimidating, security-guarded jeweller.
On the day we had to go in I was really nervous. Silly right? So I obsessed about what to wear and even put a pretty headband on. Except, it had been raining that day and I made the mistake of waiting to cross the street too close to the road. And that’s when a bus took a sharp turn and splashed me with muddy water head to toe. I was drenched (and muddy). Christian was doing a very good job containing himself (he looked kind of concerned actually) while I squealed: ‘Now they’re not going to open the door for me are they, I look like a soaked muddy hobo!’ (I didn’t).
So I ended up going to and sitting in a Place Vendôme jewellery store with bits of mud still attached to my hair and wet muddy jeans, while trying on my wedding ring. The people working there never looked at me funny for a minute (or refused to open the door for that matter). That’s professionalism for you.
And I didn’t get married in a bathing suit either. We pulled it all off. Just. Phew.
(Image is from here).
The beginning of insanity
Me (yelling at a myna who screams at us every night during our walk): Shut up!!
Christian: Don’t yell at birds, it makes you look crazy.
Just one more hug
I dreamt about Astin last night: my little furless cat who died in 2007, one night completely out of the blue and in less than 2 minutes.
I think I am what is called ‘over’ his death: it still (and probably always will) twists my heart with sadness and pointlessness, if I think about it too much I will cry, but on a day to day basis I function normally and am able to be happy and enjoy the little things in my life as much as possible.
In my dream, we were having a cuddle. And it was all there: the warmth of his little skin folds, his smell, him putting his face in my face and sniffing my eyelashes. I felt ganged up on by my memories when I woke up, because ‘over’ his death or not, I would kind of kill right now for just one more hug with him.
And then have to change my clothes because little naked cats, they sweat and it leaves marks all over you (it does!).
Half-a-dozen-egg strong
My hair is a never-ending source of unhappiness. It is really thick (you could sew with it, or as the title suggests hang more than 1 egg off a strand – a supposed mark of hair health if it doesn’t break – before it would so much as flinch). Plus I have an ungodly head full. And it grows fast. And it curls a little.
I have tried pretty much everything:
Really short. Cost: too high, look: no good. Like I received an accidental electrical discharge that foofed it up – which actually happened last year during an episode too embarrassing to discuss. And prompted Christian to ask me ‘Do you even know how electricity works?’ (apparently not).
Chin length. Cost: moderate, look: not so good. Like Mafalda pictured here on a good day. Where I am right now and not loving it.
Long. Cost: economical, look: irrelevant. Always done up into a bun because so thick and heavy it is unworkable. Plus I get headaches from how heavy it is (I am being completely serious here).
Shaved: almost did it once. But would have to go through ‘really short’ stage again, which is an experience I never want to repeat if I can help it.
So have I exhausted all my options? No: I have a plan. I plan to go for that usually dreaded in-between length that barely hits the shoulders. And stay there. Not short enough to channel Mafalda, not long enough to get a migraine or wince in pain when I let my bun down at night (seriously, it hurts). I should get there by my birthday. Then maybe at the age of 31 I will make peace with my hair (but probably not).
Slobs
For about three weeks I judged my neighbours a few floors down as slobs (not the ones who disposed of my Lisa Simpson, ones another floor below). I have a good view of their balcony and in one corner, there was a mound of something; and it wasn’t going away. So I was thinking: ‘Frankly it’s a disgrace to leave a broken chair or some damaged wood just like that shoved in a corner. Whatever happened to diligently getting rid of your trash?’.
It took my brain three weeks to register that what I was looking at wasn’t trash, but two abstracted sculptures of pelicans. At least if it had been trash it would have gone away at some point. The damn pelicans are here to stay. So fine: they’re not slobs. But I still judge them for having horrible taste in outdoor furnishing.
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