Much Like the French, I Surrender
What I liked about being French, what I didn't -- and BIDETS!
This is my last day of being French and I am just fine with that.
As it turns out, unlike Karyn, I do not excel at being French. Trying to live like the French has highlighted aspects of my life that I cannot currently change and it stressed me out. Plus, it changed aspects of my life that should not have been altered. (Hello, wine and bread at every meal.)
Largely, trying to be French made me anxious.
I’ll start with what I didn’t like. (FYI, none of this is France’s fault.)
Here we go:
I absolutely failed at any attempts to add more culture to my daily life. Getting to a real museum would be a four-hour round trip without ever stepping inside and I don’t have the time to spare between the projects I’m trying to close/our batshit pet management schedule. The best I could do is an immersive Downton Abbey experience at a mall about an hour from my house. Yet I do not believe that exhibits in lifestyle malls based on TV shows count as cultural experiences, even though I am interested in seeing it and the show was on PBS. Plus, I could stop at Nordstrom!
I thought, “At least I can go hang out in a bookstore,” but it turns out I am thirty minutes from any bookstore that isn’t Christian or offers Spanish language text only. The fact that there are eleven places to play video poker within ten minutes only serves to drive home this point that I hate this area. (Did the local VFW host the founder of the Proud Boys last year? Yes. Yes, they did. To be fair, they did say they felt bad about it afterwards.)
Anyway, being French made me feel trapped here, as until now, I’d been largely content to go about my business and was too busy to think about what I was missing. I didn’t realize how geographically challenged I was. I used to be forty-five minutes to an hour from everything. Now I am thirty-five minutes from being forty-five minutes to an hour away. (Girl math.) Mind you, we made the choice to live here, as we got the most house/amenities for the fewest dollars. Being far from civilization brings us where we ultimately want to be much more quickly than if we’d taken that glorious five-acre converted farmhouse property ten minutes from our old house at twice the monthly price. It had a stable and a pasture and I could have had alpacas!!
However, having alpacas would narrow our options for homes to buy. I am already the Crazy Cat and Dog Lady; I do not need to add Crazy Alpaca Lady to the mix. I can already feel the collective buttholes of HOA leadership everywhere tightening even imagining I’d consider buying a home in their neighborhood. (Would I have jumped through all the hoops to make them Emotional Support Alpacas? Of course I would. They only weigh between 110 and 190 lbs., and I’ve had dogs that size.)
Trying to be French has highlighted the insanity of my work schedule. Right now, I’m doing some serious professional rebuilding and that’s not a complaint. I have so many author friends who’d been cruising along in their careers for decades. When the bottom dropped out of the market, not all had the option to pivot like I did. If there are authors you love and you’re wondering, “Hey, what ever happened to…” it’s likely that Harper Collins or Penguin Random House or S&S canceled or so dramatically slashed their contracts that they are now working day jobs. I’ve said it before, Shakespeare’s got to get paid, son.
Finally, (and I realize this is a weird segue) I’m due for lip injections again and none of my red lip liners are waxy enough, so I get old-lady lipstick bleed when I wear that color. A couple of days go, I was wearing a particularly glossy red and it had smeared so much, I looked like a vampire post-meal. Not ideal.
Now, here’s what worked:
I like listening to French café music; it’s a bop.
I like wearing a better outfits when I leave the house; it makes me feel fancy.
I like making my own salad dressing. I am going through so much dijon mustard that I had to buy the family-size jar yesterday. I told Fletch, “We’re Big Poupon People now.”
I like embracing mealtimes and frequent shopping and cooking with fresh ingredients. However, that’s something I’ve been doing for quite a while. Unless we get delivery, we sit at the table together every night and have nice conversations. We’re not in the habit of hunkering down in front of the television and ignoring each other while we watch our programs. This is a lovely habit. Try it if you don’t already do it. That said… I don’t love French cuisine. I made beautiful, wonderful things this week, and I largely didn’t care for any of them. Bottom line, I don’t like braised meat. I don’t like cassoulets. And stop trying to get me to hide beans in things. There. I’ve said it. I’m not a huge fan of French food, and never have been. I’d rather cook and eat Italian/Indian/Mexican/all varieties of Asian/Mediterranean/Russian any day of the week.
I like that Fletch is obsessed with baked eggs. He made this yesterday. By himself!
I like ALL THE CARBS, which really should be in the minus column. We’ve served bread at every meal and I love this so much. One day, I tried the gôuter (I made the hat!!), which was a square of Hershey bar between two hot baguette slices. Sweet buttery Jesus, yes. I also went to a local bakery and bought an almond croissant the size of a toilet seat for less than $2, which has proven the largest upside of living here thus far.
Let me be clear, I need none of this.
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