Archive | November, 2010

I think i’ve found my calling…

30 Nov

I am really getting much better at cutting hair. My hair, that is. You wouldn’t even recognise me in the street as the crazy one with the mullet anymore.

Today i found a new way to cut, which is better, but unfortunately i only discovered how much better it worked after i’d already got way too busy. But i digress.

Anyone needing a haircut, just give me a holler yo!

 

NB: since writing this, it should be noted that i may have spoken too soon, something strange is happening. Hold off on the haircut requests for just a bit longer…!

Advertisements

Being Australian in Paris means…

28 Nov

….never being able to eat a mango in Winter, no matter how ripe they are. It just seems wrong and unnatural.

So many memories of slicing open those plump golden cheeks and when pushed out of the skin from the base, they jump out at you with the glowing rays of a thousand suns.

And that is exactly where they should be eaten. In the sun.

Not in the rain, or the snow.

The interestingly timed unexpected…

23 Nov

Funnily enough, someone showed up on my doorstep last night with a bottle of wine and a smile that could melt a thousand hearts….

The end of a friend…

22 Nov

So it appears Mr No Name no longer wants to be friends.

Which is a shame because he was one of the several friends i have here whose friendship i truly cherished. (And not for the special benefits!)

There’s no specifics, no ‘incident’ that has brought this to my attention (in fact, it’s more the lack of incidents..), it’s just one of those situations where if i suggest we catch up one more time, i will officially be the equivalent of a telecommunications salesman who has zero concept of what the word NO means.

And it really makes me sad.

I may just have to put it down to a good lesson in what happens when you try to make friendship and sex mutually exclusive. Or maybe i was hoping for more than that the whole time. I really don’t know.

What i do know is that i miss him.

Maybe i’m underestimating how much Frenchmen think. Maybe there’s more to the story. Maybe he doesn’t know how to be friends without the hidden anticipation and the sexual tension. Or maybe, once again, i over analyse.

I just want my crazy, fun, intelligent friend back.

But I guess you can’t be friends with everyone.

Bank balance…

19 Nov

I think i may have mentioned briefly that i finally got a French bank account. About 12 months late i know, but hey, we’ve all had things to do right?

It all seemed to go off without a hitch (aside from the fact that i had to return the next day as the guy “forgot to take the good copy of my passport”) and i was beside myself with delight.

I even managed to choose the bank, have the interview and sign everything all on my own, which i was thrilled i could manage. Of course for the most part i had no idea what the hell i was signing, but i thought about how often i had no idea what i was signing in my own language anyway. (No one reads that shit right?)

All in all, it was one of those rare, perfect, french administration dreams.

You all know there is a BUT coming now don’t you.

I’ll get to it shortly…  just let me do a bit more setting the scene first, to create some dramatic build-up.

So there i am, standing outside the bank, clutching my little folder with all the important nonsense i have signed, with a huge grin. I had a feeling that perhaps i just have a knack for beating the odds. I can arrive at the other end of the administration tunnel relaxed and happy, like no one in history has ever done before.

What an idiot.

I checked the mail every day for 2 weeks with a giant smile on my face, waiting for my little Carte Bleu to arrive, when it struck me that maybe i’d been taken for a ride. That little Carte should have been here by now. (I can picture myself as one of those naive little characters in a silent movie – joyfully running up to the mailbox time and time again, only to be met with utter dismay when the letter isn’t there, every time.)

I gave it a couple more days and then decided to get a second opinion. The prognoses was not good and I decided i’d have to go back to the bank. But this time i would take a French reinforcement with me.

As it turned out, something had happened. The account was blocked. Not my fault though, and no explanation. Only that they unblocked it for me, and i would now wait another week. Cue letterbox process again.

What i don’t understand is the logic (surprise surprise). If the account was blocked, surely it was for a reason. If they don’t know what the reason is, how can they unblock it? Right?

I want an explanation. I feel it is my right as a customer and a human being to be told why. I don’t trust anything when i don’t know how it operates. I’m a control freak!

I explained this to my friend, and was met with a Gallic shrug, and a “you’re not in Australia now my girl”. Everyone here just accepts that sometimes there are no answers, and it infuriates me to hell. I’m a woman of principles. It’s like being a child again facing the “pourquoi?” “parce-que” rhetoric on a daily basis. (Which now that i think about it, i do get a lot of here)

But i guess i’m going to have to learn to go with it. There’s no other choice.

And my friends are going to stop accompanying me on administration expeditions if i continue to abuse everyone and throw everything in sight when i don’t get my way. That i am sure of.

So i wait…

Coffee with the man who broke my heart. Twice. Part 2.

18 Nov

I looked at him as he removed his coat and the first thing i noticed were all the distinctive marks of being dressed by a woman. He was absolutely not that trendy 6 months ago. The jeans had become a little tighter and the standard issue navy blue v neck jumper (the one i imagine he has worn every day for nigh on 15 years) had been replaced by a fitted, camel coloured cardigan.

It seemed like an ironic cruel joke. I didn’t ever give a second thought to the way he dressed, i simply didn’t care, yet any of my friends will be all too aware of my ferocious desire, today, for almost any man sporting a woolly cardigan. (Well, a cardigan teamed with a shaggy pile of dark curly hair. And while i’m on it, if you happen to be reading this, looking down, and thinking, ‘hey, that’s me!’ do not hesitate to send an email.)

Thank god his hair was neither curly nor shaggy.

Anyway, with this change of style in mind, i asked him if he was now living with the ‘other’ woman. Some may be cringing now thinking ‘why on EARTH would you want to know that’, but, I was genuinely interested to know if it had all worked out for him after the chaos that i’d endured.

But he wouldn’t tell me anything, and really just went mute at any mention of it. I don’t know whether that means that there’s nothing to tell, or whether he has enough heart to decide to spare my feelings with the truth. I assume the latter.

All i can say, and DID say, was that i hoped they were happy. I hoped for his sake it did all work out.

He did seem to be genuinely flawed by what had happened, i could tell he seemed both sad, and remorseful. He tried again and again to apologise, to remind me that everything he said to me was sincere, and that it was a shock and a crazy experience for him too when this other woman came back into the picture. But kind of futile to be saying these things now.

Surprisingly, he had somewhat of a speech prepared. No note cards, but clearly some long thought out reflection (tautology?). Apparently, courtesy of an olive branch i’d extended via SMS, he’d had quite a reflective Summer. And he wanted to thank me.

I’d imparted some lessons of ‘humanity’ (actually, i had ‘learned him lots of humanity’), which, due to my ‘intelligence, kindness and wisdom’ made him see some huge flaws in himself – so big he spent all Summer thinking about them, and me.

(At this point i thought it wise not to mention that when he called me this morning i looked at the caller ID to see the word ‘Mechant‘ staring back at me.)

It was hard to tell if i was sensing a tiny bit of regret. I know it’s the way it goes, that the ‘dumpER’ always sprouts the requisite bullshit praise for the ‘dumpEE’, as a gesture of kindness for letting them down, but i have to say, it still felt good.

The last thing i wanted was to be that idiot that wastes her time instilling values into someone only to have another woman to benefit, but it was nice to know that someone i once put on a pedestal, now looks up to ME.

I’ve said before that i always felt he was better than me – more together, more accomplished, and far more beautiful (clearly a contribution to the end of the relationship) – but for the first time, i felt like i could see everything clearly.

I AM amazing. He is NO better than me in ANY way. I just wish i could have seen that earlier…

Coffee with the man who broke my heart. Twice.

16 Nov

You think correct.

I saw ‘The Frenchman’. (Da-da-da-dahhhhhh)

It was time i reclaimed what was mine. So i sucked up what is left of my rapidly depleting pool of pride and strode off down the street in the direction of Oberkampf to…

…recuperate my tennis racquet.

That’s right, it had been held hostage in that apartment of sin for far too long – cowering under the bed while my former lover was (i imagine) rolling around on top of the bed with the sexy, lithe, bohemian woman he dropped me for (i imagine), reading poetry, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes by candlelight. (I imagine).

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the saga of the Frenchman, never fear – you can read the whole, sorry story in the blog archives, or more conveniently, just click here. Or here. Or here.

While i swore to myself i wouldn’t see him, and distinctly told him to ‘never, ever contact me again’, my resolve weakened slightly over the past few months, and i had an urge to see the reality behind the fantasy. I wanted to see if what i had put up so high on that pedestal still sat there, or if, after everything he put me through, did i finally see him clearly?

And then he walked in.

And i could feel my heart drop so heavily down to my stomach, it felt like i’d swallowed it.