Long, frustrating day, again. Still no word from the missing contractor, who only two weeks ago promised hubby that drywall would be up in 3 weeks. One & a half weeks to go; maybe he'll keep that promise. And maybe, my bitter, grouchy, anger-riddled, hermit of a man, step father in law will disappear. Then my life would be tres bon!
After this long, frustrating day, I was perusing some of my favorite blogs. I noticed that the majority of them are French themed. There are blogs about a paris farmgirl who lives in a french farmhouse (somewhere in the US), a lady who loves all things French from flea markets, (also living in the US), and others that proclaim Vive la France with each blog posting.
I read this blogs and look at the photos and drool over the items in their shops, all the while wishing I were more french. Or just a little bit french. I want to wear red lipstick while canning fresh tomatoes from my 'jardin'; I want to wear my hair in a twist or a ponytail while discussing literature, and brocante. I want to cook coq au vin with truffle oil and serve it with an old french vin. Je nais se pas un fille. Je suis un mademoiselle. I want to be a French woman. I want to decorate my maison with all things white, old, carved, and comfortable. Oh how I want to be in my house, decorating, sewing, cooking, baking, entertaining, drinking wine after dinner with friends around the table.
Don't I deserve this? Haven't I worked hard for this? Aren't I just un petite francais?
What I am these days is a woman living in a tin cottage with a port-a-potty, an old dog that tears things up, no running water, no shower nearby, no idea how to dress to go to town anymore, using a one burner camp stove to cook, fighting off flying insects that manage to get through the screens, and having no one to talk to or to rant to about all things frustrating. I have no table to sit at even if I were cooking meals ala Julia Child. I have no reason to wear stylish clothes or perfume. I barely do anything to my hair other than run my fingers through it. I don't wear makeup. I don't care.
I want to turn on a faucet, preferably a chrome one over a porcelain sink, and have beautiful water run over my hands, face, and into buckets. I want to have hot water to wash my dishes in and rinse my clothes. I want to sit in a tub full of water and soak until my skin shrivels. I want to be decadent and spend a half hour on my skin regimen. I want to wash my hair over and over then style it and put on makeup because I am going out. I want to sleep in a bed again. I want to have more than 24 ft to turn around in.
What I have is a plastic mattress covered with plastic then a sheet on top. I have a burner to cook on, thankfully I have a le crueset pan to cook in. I sit in my undies under a fan eating sloppy joe sandwiches and vodka with fruit juice. I use a frig that has a spoon twisted in a string tightly to keep the door closed. A freezer that needs defrosting every 4 days. No where to put my clothes or things. I've no room for living. I'm just here. I'm just waiting for my contractor to see how important this house is to me and finish his work expeditiously. I'm waiting for my hubby to get a transfer to be here with me and be my partner in the project. I'm waiting for my mother-in-law to tell her husband to shut the hell up and leave us alone. I'm waiting for someone to come visit me once in a while so I don't turn into the 'Shining' and start talking to myself.
The worst part is that I only moved out here a little over a week ago. I have months to go. I wonder why all of us that love all things french don't give up this american lifestyle and move to France. Safer to be here and proclaim our 'french-ness'.
Safer, easier, more exotic maybe. Oh I want....
Viva la France mon amies! Come see me. I'll make coq au vin. Or something like it.
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