Several years ago, I read that France was listed #1 in terms of quality-of-life for countries. My understanding is that this number one spot varies from year to year, but it seems that, overall, France does pretty well. So I decided I want to move to France.
Great plan, right? I mean, who wouldn't want to live in the country that boasts the highest standard of living anywhere? Plus, I've done my own research. I watched Sicko and learned that the health care is of high quality and is also universal. (Since I have these recurring fears of winding up homeless and unemployed and living under a bridge, knowing that I could be treated for my seasonal allergies and all the various injuries I would expect to occur when you combine a klutz and under-the-bridge living, is reassuring.) I also questioned my friends, Jon and Ginger, who lived in Paris for several years. Yes, the 35-hour work wee is strictly enforced. Yes, they have lots and lots of leave and everyone is expected to and does - use it. Yes, people do spend the odd afternoon sipping excellent, inexpensive burgundy at a sidewalk cafe. Get me a plane ticket!!
Alas, France, just like America, and probably everywhere else humans actually choose to inhabit, isn't out looking for new residents. Those pesky immigration laws! So, what to do?
Obviously, one has to get a job to get a work visa and since my remedial (alright - pathetic) French will probably make this difficult, I'd better look for other options. Maybe someone would adopt me? I'm sure Jon and Ginger would have done so if I could have given them enormous sums of money but a) I don't have enormous sums of money, and b) they're now back in the States, living in New Jersey. Some help they are! What else? What other options??
Why of course! I need to marry a Frenchman! Clearly, this is the best strategy. After all, I'm single, so this should be easy, right?
As I've not actively looked to marry before I'm not sure how one goes about this. Yes, I watched Sex and the City so I'm aware that finding and marrying "the one" can be difficult and time-consuming, but I'm not looking for a soul-mate, just someone with French citizenship.
I polled my friends. There were suggestions that I go to French films, French restaurants and any events at the French Embassy to which I can be admitted. I've done enough of the first two to be pretty sure they don't work. (Also, this has caused me to wonder, why don't French women get fat.) As for events at the French Embassy, this sounds like a pretty good plan. If nothing else works, I might come back to this.
The response most of my friends gave to the "how do you find someone to marry" question, is that they basically wait for someone to knock on their front door.
Yes, these are single friends.
No, they don't date much.
Nonetheless, this plan has a lot of appeal. First, I'm terribly lazy at heart and this wouldn't require any real activity on my part. Second, while I'm waiting for him to show up, I can be working on my French. Or sleeping. So I'll be really rested and look good when he comes along. And it's not like I'm unwilling to make any effort. Au contraire! I've told many of my friends - and even some people I don't' know - that I'm looking for a Frenchman to marry. My requirements are few. He needs a good heart, a big apartment and a desire to marry an American woman and take her to France.
Okay. I've put this plan in motion. Now I'm just going to sit here and wait for the doorbell to ring.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Not Exactly Camille
Days spent lounging in bed, reading a bit, watching the odd movie, but mostly sleeping - ah, the life. Well, except for the mounds of snotty, soggy tissues piled in and around the trash bin, the cough suppressants, vapor rubs and the constant hacking sound that is apparently a primitive form of communication verbalized by a small alien who is now inhabiting my chest.
Yes, yes, I have no right to complain. When it comes to sickness, I have been incredibly lucky thus far. I have no illnesses which are immediately life-threatening. I have insurance and paid leave which can be used when I am sick. And I rarely get sick at all. I believe the last time I took sick leave was three bosses ago. Not bad for someone who is the antithesis of germaphobic. (Five-second rule? Please. If I didn't just see a roach running across the spot where it landed, and it's not embedded in dirt, I'll eat it.)
So I've no reason to complain about coming down with classic head-crud this season. After all, I've seen co-workers and friends dropping like flies for months now, and this particular bug did have the courtesy to wait until I actually had some time to deal with it - post-holidays and all that. And as for the practical stuff, yes, I have tea and cough drops and - talk about timing - had just made a pot of garlic soup the day before I came down with this. Had to cancel very few plans and my co-workers pitched in where my clients are concerned for the one or two who needed something immediately.
I think, really, it's the indignity of it all. Mind you, I live alone, so no one else gets to witness said indignity, but just walking past a mirror and noticing my swollen eyes, lobster-red nose, and the fact that my hair has taken on a life of its own since I've not had the energy to style - or wash - it, makes me feel rather like an orphaned waif on Dicken's London streets. I envision myself sticking a grimy cup filled with stubby pencils under the noses of passers-by while I snivel my sales pitch, wiping my runny nose on my ratty bathrobe cuff every third word or so. The fact that I've completely lost my appetite and everything I eat tastes the same (gruel?) adds to the picture.
The movies have lied to us. Again! I think of Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", all curled up in bed with her own mound of tissues, red-nosed and sniffly, looking adorable and loveable and heroine-like. I think of all the Camilles, dying slowly of consumption, whose own chest-inhabiting aliens communicated in genteel, discrete coughs. And I look in the mirror and think, "This is why I live alone. So I can look hideous and sound disgusting and exhibit not one single adorable, loveable trait when my head and my lungs are battling to see which can explode first. But I do live alone.
So for all anyone knows, I've been curled up with a big mug of steaming tea, sniffling delicately into an initialed lace handkerchief, occasionally emitting a whisper of a sneeze, looking wan but perfectly coiffed and dressed in an antique silk dressing gown for the last few days. This is my story. And no one can disprove it!
Yes, yes, I have no right to complain. When it comes to sickness, I have been incredibly lucky thus far. I have no illnesses which are immediately life-threatening. I have insurance and paid leave which can be used when I am sick. And I rarely get sick at all. I believe the last time I took sick leave was three bosses ago. Not bad for someone who is the antithesis of germaphobic. (Five-second rule? Please. If I didn't just see a roach running across the spot where it landed, and it's not embedded in dirt, I'll eat it.)
So I've no reason to complain about coming down with classic head-crud this season. After all, I've seen co-workers and friends dropping like flies for months now, and this particular bug did have the courtesy to wait until I actually had some time to deal with it - post-holidays and all that. And as for the practical stuff, yes, I have tea and cough drops and - talk about timing - had just made a pot of garlic soup the day before I came down with this. Had to cancel very few plans and my co-workers pitched in where my clients are concerned for the one or two who needed something immediately.
I think, really, it's the indignity of it all. Mind you, I live alone, so no one else gets to witness said indignity, but just walking past a mirror and noticing my swollen eyes, lobster-red nose, and the fact that my hair has taken on a life of its own since I've not had the energy to style - or wash - it, makes me feel rather like an orphaned waif on Dicken's London streets. I envision myself sticking a grimy cup filled with stubby pencils under the noses of passers-by while I snivel my sales pitch, wiping my runny nose on my ratty bathrobe cuff every third word or so. The fact that I've completely lost my appetite and everything I eat tastes the same (gruel?) adds to the picture.
The movies have lied to us. Again! I think of Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", all curled up in bed with her own mound of tissues, red-nosed and sniffly, looking adorable and loveable and heroine-like. I think of all the Camilles, dying slowly of consumption, whose own chest-inhabiting aliens communicated in genteel, discrete coughs. And I look in the mirror and think, "This is why I live alone. So I can look hideous and sound disgusting and exhibit not one single adorable, loveable trait when my head and my lungs are battling to see which can explode first. But I do live alone.
So for all anyone knows, I've been curled up with a big mug of steaming tea, sniffling delicately into an initialed lace handkerchief, occasionally emitting a whisper of a sneeze, looking wan but perfectly coiffed and dressed in an antique silk dressing gown for the last few days. This is my story. And no one can disprove it!
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