Entries Tagged 'Home' ↓

Yesterday, after Doctor Google served me up some information, I became a crazed woman on a mission.

I have this little problem that causes a secondary problem, which begets shame and affects such stigma upon me that sometimes I’m just not comfortable having people over to my home. I can’t believe I’m about to admit this on the Internet, but…

Because I quit drinking coffee eight months ago, I replaced it with tea. Really, horribly, strong enough to put hair on your chest tea. In addition to an oral fixation for liquids is the fact that I am nearly always cold, or avoiding a meal, or sitting at the computer doing absolutely nothing IMing downloading celebrity sex tapes surfing sites to tell me how much more popular your blog is than mine working and in need of some reason to get up to wake my bony ass from its prickly slumber. So, I’m always drinking tea.

This caused all of my mug collection (I collect big, fat, latté mugs that can hold more tea than an average person should want to drink.) to become frequently rotated; however, since I’m often finishing the last gulp whilst making more, I use the same one. Over and over.

And I conserve spoons, too.

I faced such humiliation every time a friend would stop by and I’d offer them some tea (or water or soy milk, because that’s all we have around these parts.) and serve it up in a supposedly clean mug with 18 rings, despite it only being two years of age. Those. fuckers. would. not. wash. off.

And all of my spoons were starting to look like I’d been experimenting very liberally with the notion of hot knifing, but doing it very very verrrrrrrry wrong. (Please pass the Doritos. Heh. Ever say knife really slowly? Try it. Okay, now fast. Okay, like, 12 times in a row. Hey, what do you think double-amputee stoners do when they wanna get high? Do they, like, learn to hold a joint with their toes? Wouldn’t that burn all of their toe hair off? Fuck, I love the smell of singed hair.)

And thus came Doctor Google’s proclamation that my salvation depended upon my acceptance of the lord Baking Soda as my one true deity.

Suddenly, I have sparkling clean mugs and spoons, I have accepted condiment religion into my life, and I’m looking forward to clean and shiny pastures after my soul passes from this mortal coil.

The teeth whitening was a bonus divine deliverance.

It’s completely non-sensical, but I’m supposed to be living in France.

Okay, so I don’t really dig cheese that much, and wine is my nemesis, but everything else – the fashion, the language, the landscape, the romanticism of walking down the street and accidentally punting someone’s teacup poodle – it’s all part of the fantasy.

I want to move to France. To Paris¹.

I could move there. In fact, I could probably convince The Ex to move there – he could become an ESL teacher for a year, if he didn’t find work as a glass blower or glazier.  Oh, to soak up culture and to get Isobel immersed in it at a young age…

I could work from home, writing, but sans my local business clients. Isobel would go to a French nursery school, speak English at home and grow up surrounded with various nationalities, benefits and vacation opportunities. Life would be different. If only for a year of her early life…

Sigh.

But I have to wonder if it’s easy to find gluten-free foods in Paris. Can you walk into un bistrot and ask for four various side dishes prepared without dairy or wheat? Would that make me seem an uncultured laughing-stock, or would the politeness I exercise, the cuteness of my kid and the tattoo of a maple leaf above my ass make it okay and kind of endearing.

I don’t know. I just know I want some of that.

Not that I really know what that is.