I just deleted about six paragraphs of blah blah blah. I don't know why I get on here and think that you need an exact play-by-play of my days over here. It's silly. Is my life really so empty that all I have to write about are logistics? No. But I admit, I am excited about what I'm doing even if it's not anything exciting.
So, to give you the Reader's Digest version of what I wrote and deletedd: We went to IKEA, I bought a great table. we went to Sam's parents' house and picked up Ryan's bed. We came back to the apartment. Sam took the kids back to the hotel while I stayed at the apartment and mopped. I also put together my new table, the changing table and the new lamp. I stayed over there until 1am and didn't want to leave. Sam called me at midnight to tell me that I had to come back to nurse the baby. It figures.
Then, yesterday, I spent the entire--no, I mean it--day cleaning. It was listed in our rental contract that the owners would have the place cleaned by professionals. Well, they must have gotten a pretty lofty quote because instead, they paid the gardienne to come in and vacuum, clean the toilets and wipe off the gas range (which we're not going to use anyway). And whoever mopped last must have used the same mop to clean the garage downstairs because Laurel had black knees everytime she crawled even ten feet. So, I mopped. Did I mention that the apartment is 205 meters squared? And not a bit of it is carpet. All wood and tile. I mopped all but one room.
And the cabinets! It was like someone had taken a dead fish and scrubbed the inside of the cabinets with them. Grody!
Okay, I'm moaning and groaning but the thing I realized at the end of the day, when everything was all shiny and clean and gorgeous (okay, well, not EVERYTHING since I didn't get to finish the kitchen--it really is disgusting) is that now I super duper appreciate the apartment. It's MINE. It's like I peed on it--so to speak *wink, wink* Now, when I picture it, I don't imagine someone else's apartment with someone else's dirt. I swept and mopped out all the past and am ready to start my own glorious two-year future there. Sorry for the melodrama.
So, by the time we went back to the hotel, I was ready to cut in the bath line so that I could go to bed. I didn't, but I did make Sam do all the bathing. After they were done and it was my turn, I actually dozed off in my soak. There have only been two other times in my life I've fallen asleep in the bath! I slept like a rock (though I had some crazy mixed up dreams).
Anyhoo, there were some things that occurred to me over the past few days... Things I've seen, heard or realized... And I think they're funny. I'm calling 'em tid bits.
Women here don't "dress their age." Oh, sure, there are the grannies who wear their house dresses and low heels who pull their shopping caddies behind them, purse at elbow, on their way to the market. But many (most?) of the older ladies I've seen wear, well, YOUNG clothes. (Fortunately, most of them have the bods to match the clothes--I don't know what kind of great super genes these people have but I've never seen more elderly people who still have round tuckuses and firm bosoms in my life.)
The even funnier part is the English. Just like we, in the States, like to put French words on our clothes and call it fashion, there are some pretty funny occurrences here. For instance, just this week I've seen two women--both well into their 60's--one was wearing a pair of pants that said, and pardon my French, "Fuck The World" on the pants leg. She was wearing pearls and Gucci sunglasses. The other I saw was wearing a shirt that, in gold studs, had "Golddigga" written on her shirt. I thought I'd pee my pants laughing.
I don't know if last winter was a particularly bad one or what. Maybe there were rolling blackouts. Maybe there were so many strikes and people got bored staying home or something. I don't know WHAT happened. All I know is that EVERYONE is pregnant. I've never seen this many pregnant bellies in my life. They're everywhere! I'm avoiding the water. Though I want to get pregnant again, 1) I don't want it to be until after the Paris marathon and 2) I'll never look as good as most of these preggos, so maybe I should just wait until I get home... I doubt I'd be able to fit into the maternity clothes they have over here.
Do you know how easy it would be to live at IKEA? They have the greatest furniture, they have soft, comfy beds. They have rows and rows and rooms and rooms of stuff to play with. They serve food all day long. They even have free wi-fi. So, if you've come here to visit and don't find me home (with my husband and kids all shaking their heads as to where I've gone) chances are, I'm at IKEA.
The Other Foot...
Since we've been here (going on three weeks now isn't it?) I have stayed with ALL THREE kids by myself. Oh, I know, wah wah, but those of you who have three or more children under the age of five know how difficult it can be to chase after/entertain/referee/etc. Well, yesterday, while I was cleaning, I left the kids with Sam. He came over with them at one point to visit and asked me to come back to the hotel with him.
"Why?" I say.
"Well, don't you want to nurse the baby?"
"Yeah, I'm DYING to nurse the baby."
"Well, I need help getting them all down for a nap."
"You don't need help. You just put them down and close the shutters. They fall asleep all on their own. Well, except for Laurel. She doesn't sleep while they do."
"So, I just have to STAY there with her?" He asks. "What do I DO?"
Wow, welcome to my Monday Through Friday.
"You'll have to PLAY with her," I say. "Or not. Choice is yours. You can choose NOT to play with her and just let her bug you, scream at the top of her lungs and wake the other kids up OR crawl around the apartment putting bad stuff into her mouth until she chokes... Either way, good luck with that."
That night when everything was done and clean, he said, "Thank you SO much for everything you do and for cleaning the apartment and doing what you can to make it ours."
I thought I'd cry.