Erin Confronts Her Mortality

Holy crap, it's happened. The first one this past weekend, and now another today. I can't believe it.

I have found the first grey hairs on my head.

There I was, just minding my business, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror after washing my hands ... and a glint caught my eye. A glint of silver. I tilted my head, thinking that the bathroom light was just playing tricks. My mind stubbornly thought, that can't be ... but it was a grey hair. A long one. Right there on top of my head. Winking at me. My mouth went dry, my heart started to pound. And then I reached up, almost without thinking, and yanked that bugger out. (Took quite a few other strands, too, to be honest. Kind of hurt.) I walked out of the bathroom, determined to forget it.

Only I couldn't - because, today, at work, I found another. Just as long, just as silvery. I suppose I should be thankful it wasn't growing out of my left nostril or my ear - but truthfully, I'm not feeling too thankful here. I'm thirty-five! (Okay, a month shy of 36, but who's counting, really?) Grey hairs are for OLD people! Is this it? Have I just crossed the threshold from "still young" to "getting up there"? Holy cats, when I was 10, I thought that grey hair equaled "old". No ifs, ands, or buts. Shamefully, I don't think I've ever really revised that world view ... but now I have to. Paradigm shift! I am on the ropes here, people! Reeling and punch-drunk, at the mercy of a couple of strands of stuff that are measured using words I don't even know (microns? miniliters? harrities?). It's the stuff of nightmares - wait, should I go to sleep tonight? What if they multiply? WHEN will they multiply?!

I always imagined myself aging "gracefully"; obviously, I was delusional. Will I get used to this? It's bad enough that gravity is slowly dragging my ass earthward  ... now this! It's self-indulgent and wacko to go on like this, I know - it's just so weird. I've never liked my hair, but I don't think I fully appreciated the fact that it was soft and shiny, at least. If these two initial hairs are anything to go by, I will soon have a head full of toilet brush bristles. And, let's face it, men who go gray just look "distinguished" - women don't often have that adjective applied to them. I am envisioning something more along the lines of a mangy zebra. Where are the good adjectives for that? Well, shit.

My conclusion? There's only one answer here, folks: L'Oreal. On my way to the store now, for some preventive maintenance. Wish me luck. Perhaps it's time I found out if blondes really DO have more fun. (Just kidding ... or am I?)

When I am an old woman, I will NOT wear purple ... I will wear a damned hat, and visit my colorist twice a month. So there. Graceful, my ass.

Tiny Apartment, Big Freedom

Faithful blog readers, I’m sorry I have left you alone for so long. I have no idea why on earth I wait so long between posts … I think there’s something in me that holds on to the idea that if I do not procrastinate as long as is humanly possible, then the ultimate, completed task is just not worth it. Or, I could just be tremendously lazy. You pick.

I’ve been reveling, just lately, in my tiny apartment. I moved in at the end of May, and I’m now completely settled in. I don’t know how many square feet it is – before you even ask -, and I’m not sure I would even know how to begin to measure it to find out. The point is, it is delightfully small and cozy, and it is all mine.


Those of you who have lived in a house or apartment all by yourself, I ask you: isn’t it friggin’ marvelous? In the past, I have always had family or roommates (sometimes both!) as a part of my living space, and I didn’t even think of the possibility of living alone. Now that I’ve taken that step, I don’t know how I’ll ever live with another person again. I don’t care if I have to live on pasta and lentils because all my money goes to the rent and the utilities! The ability to vacuum or to cook breakfast while clad in only my underwear is one of the greatest satisfactions I have ever known. I never realized how luxurious it is to leave your bathroom door wide open ALL of the time.


Some days I simply sit on the floor of my tiny living room and smile at the silence and the mine-ness of it all. My cats prowl around ceaselessly, enchanted with the small screened-in porch, and I can hang the paintings and curtains that I choose, with no regard for anybody else’s feelings or wishes. It’s liberating. I can’t believe I made it to 35 years old without ever experiencing this before … it’s like discovering diamonds in the bottom of your sock drawer! A precious treasure hidden under things you have pawed through a million times … this definitely feels like a gift.

After spending so much time last year with someone who needed, for some reason, to make me justify the ways in which I chose to spend my time, it is a beautiful thing to, just now, owe explanations to no one but myself. If that sentiment is selfish, childish, or any other –ish … well, that’s fine and dandy. My tiny apartment and I – we understand each other. I’m finally starting to once again feel at home in my own skin, and to realize that the core of who I am isn’t at all broken, only a little battered. As the magnificent Ms. Gaynor told us, “I will survive”. And I’ll do it in my miniscule apartment, wearing only my undies. So there.

Weird Robot Baby

Someone at work this morning brought up the subject of dreams. She said that she had a “weird” dream last night, which turned out to be a nightmare of sorts that involved an aspect of her job and her supervisor. The adjective “weird” threw me a little, as a “weird” dream for me is something a little different than anxiety about my job translated into dream form.


For instance, one of my own dreams last night concerned a married couple that I know, who for some reason were living in my old high school. (?) The baby (which is not, in real life, due until the autumn) had already been born, and I was visiting them. After I saw the baby (who had no teeth and couldn’t walk but was already speaking in complete sentences like Stewie on The Family Guy), I realized that (gasp!) he was a robot child. I didn’t see any wires or anything, but the kid knew that I knew. At first, I tried to hide this fact from my friends, but as the kid got weirder (and after I discovered his owner’s manual and remote control in a box shoved in a corner of the gym), I tried to warn my friends about him. Understandably, they got mad and told me to leave. As I walked out of my old freshman English classroom, I turned around. My friends’ backs were to me, but the robot kid peeked over one of their shoulders and smiled toothlessly and evilly. I woke up.

I’m sure there are all sorts of psychobabble explanations that could decipher that dream, but I choose to think that I have a tiny, tiny file clerk inside my brain who runs around at night, desperately trying to organize my head files before I wake up. My dreams are just different files getting pulled from one place and re-filed in another. If I tried to interpret every one of the dreams I have, there’d be no room for anything else in my life. (Especially the dream about the room with thousands of pictures of oranges taped to the walls, or the one where I was sitting on a walrus in some kind of circus act … I had a spangly outfit on in that one, with a big headdress. Awesome.)

But … the robot baby example is a completely normal specimen of dream for me. Am I wacko? I was always under the impression that most people’s dreams were like mine – a jumble of things and places and people that are in their heads and get let out of their cages to dance around together while they’re sleeping. My co-worker’s explanation of her own “weird” dream makes me re-think that conclusion!

Does anyone else have the wacky dreams regularly? By this, I mean – without eating spicy foods or being sleep-deprived or taking loopy drugs, do any of you dream vividly and frequently? Outside of my family, I’ve never really asked anyone about this, and I wonder. I don’t often have lingering visual memories of my dreams, but it’s pretty common for a feeling or phrase someone said in it to stay with me until I next go to sleep, or sometimes through several days. I guess I thought that was how it worked for everybody.
Drop me a comment and tell me, do you dream of tiny purple doughnuts and tap-dancing tigers? Of everyday places, people, and things? Or do you simply never remember your dreams?

U.S. versus France, Final Tally

I’ve put off continuing my blog for months and months. Life has brightened up for me considerably since my somewhat ignominious return to the States back in November … enjoying my old job, reconnecting with friends and family, moving into my own place again, and mostly just … healing. My blog was sort of tied up in all of that “over there” stuff. I avoided thinking about it because I wrote it in such hope and with enthusiasm and optimism, and somehow, it all came falling down around my ears. I wasn’t ready to face that.

People have been asking me since I returned, “When are you going to start blogging again?” I was, and am, flattered by the positive responses to my writing – I guess we are all our own worst critics, right? I am surprised that so many of you have enjoyed reading about my travails and travels, and it’s given me food for thought over the past months. But – I still wasn’t ready.

Then, recently, another thought popped into my head. It’s a mean thought, a petty thought, and one might even say a childish thought … but it kept returning to me. It is simply this: my husband hated my blog. He thought that I used it to hide my unhappiness and that it was offensive to French people. (I’m not sure that he fully understands that blogs are about one person’s point of view and opinion, but we’ll let that go. Let’s concentrate on the important thing here.) The point is – he hated it, and I’ve spent all these months feeling powerless, like there was nothing I could do to assert myself because he had already made all the decisions, and, after all, we’re not in contact and I suspect he could care less if I flung myself off of a bridge or paraded naked through a biker bar … but there is something I can do. I can write.

Not about his faults, or my unhappiness, or the flaming conflagration that was our marriage – those things just are there, and a lot of them are private. But I can continue to write about my opinions and my views and my observations on the world around me. I don’t need to feel half-ashamed as I write this, thinking about what he will think of it when he reads it later, because A) he probably won’t ever read this again, and B) even if he did – his opinions and emotions are no longer something upon which my happiness depends. Ah! The freedom!

So, in an attempt to exorcise the demon, so to speak, I’ve prepared for all of you a little list showing the results – in my opinion – of France versus the U.S. in several broad categories (with commentary, of course). Enjoy it and thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for reading. 

U.S Versus France - A Short List

FOOD: It's a draw

France is an eye-opener, in terms of food, for the American eater. If you're adventurous (which I am, in terms of food!) and you love simple, fresh tastes, France satisfies on many levels. I have never had so many kinds of cheese in my life, and the bread is, quite simply, a revelation. The French adhere to the "eat what's in season" mantra, and the result is fruits and veggies that are at their peak, always. Wholesome, uncomplicated tastes - and I had the added benefit of a weekly farmer's market literally on my front stoop. (And seriously, I miss pate ... deeply.)

What the U.S. has going for it is, simply put, variety. In Orlando, I can go out to restaurants in almost every imaginable cuisine, and at my local Publix I can purchase produce from around the world. Do I feel like trying a starfruit? Do I want to make a Mexican fiesta in my own kitchen? Here, I can do that, whenever I want. Is it in season? Who cares! I can almost always find the ingredients I need to make any strange recipe I choose. In France? Couldn't make my salsa there, folks. A sad thing, indeed.

TRANSPORTATION: France wins this one, hands down

I don't care if there are tolls every 30 kilometers - France's road system is a joy to drive on. Once you figure out the road signs, you're golden. Immaculately maintained and dotted with delightful rest stops that promise CLEAN toilets, hot coffee, gas, and a place for you to picnic or let your dog out to poop ... the French have cornered the market on pleasant roadways. And if you don't want to drive? You don't have to! In all but the most remote places, the train station is nearby, and the major cities are connected by the wondrous thing that is high-speed rail. The U.S. could take some notes - we have way too many people driving way too many cars, for serious.

HOSPITALITY: Different, but the same. A winner in both nations

People always seem to fall back on the generalization, "The French - they're so rude!" Pardonnez-moi, but that was not my experience at all. I met many people in France, from different backgrounds and areas, and not only was I welcomed (with my sub-par language skills) by them, but I was invited into their homes and their lives with great grace and friendliness. I will never be done saying "thank you" to several people I met last year, people who made me feel like I wasn't just some ridiculous foreigner. 

In the U.S., most of us are automatically friendly, which can lead other cultures to think us guilty of some level of superficiality. I choose to think, instead, that we were all of us from "somewhere else" not so many generations ago, and our national character is one of inclusion, not exclusion. I know that's idealistic, but we are a pretty welcoming bunch, on the whole. Just remember that, sometime in the future, you may be the odd man out. Act accordingly.

LEISURE: Um, this one goes to my native land
This is kind of an unfair category, because I went from living in a suburban/urban setting here to a rural setting in France. But I have to be who I am, and the leisure activities of the French mystify me. First of all, everyone rides bikes. Like, a lot. (Well, not everyone, probably, but an awful lot do.) It is not my idea of a grand time to bike fifteen miles just "for the fun of it".  And they love the outdoors. So do I, when it comes down to it - but mostly when looking out a window at it, or when sitting on a comfy chaise by the pool. The French want to be out in the air - especially when it's warm - and they look askance at you if you say you'd prefer to sit inside and read this really good book, thanks. I think the U.S. wins this one simply because I'm a city mouse. Perhaps if I'd lived first in, say, Montana, then fun in the French mountains would have been delightful.

I could go on for pages, but I think my first blog after my hiatus has gone on long enough. Leave me a comment, and let me know if you have suggestions for future topics. I'm open to suggestions!

And ... the bombshell

I’ve been thinking for some time now how exactly to write this entry in my blog. Some of you reading this are people I know very well; some of you are old acquaintances; some of you are even people I’ve met since I left the U.S. and traveled to France. All of you, though, have been so positive and supportive about reading my adventures that I couldn’t just abruptly stop writing and give no reasons, and so – here we are.

I am moving back to the United States. I have already, in fact, left the village of La Canourgue, where I have been living since June of this year. You notice that I say “I”, and not “we” … my husband is staying in France. We are separating and will soon be divorced. All I can say in reference to this revelation is that my husband and I, on many levels, cannot and do not understand each other. As I’m sure you can infer, this does not make for a solid marriage. I cannot say that I am not heartbroken, because I am; I can say, however, that under the circumstances, I am making the best choice I can for myself. From this point forward, I need to be focused on putting the pieces of my life in the States back together, and I am certain that, given time, I will do just that. 

Since last Sunday, I have been staying with two marvelous people I met through a mutual friend in Orlando. I will call them “M & M” to simplify (and protect their privacy, hee hee). M & M live just south of Paris, and they came to pick up me and the cats and my luggage in La Canourgue, and then they took me back to their home and installed me there as if I were a long-lost daughter. This weekend, we went to Brittany, where they have a charming summer home in a tiny place called Uzel. I stood on the shore of the English Channel on Saturday afternoon and felt the wind in my face and smelled the sea and longed for home. Yesterday we headed back to Paris, and my flight back to the States is on Wednesday. The Thanksgiving holiday will certainly be full of gratitude this year, and all of my immediate family will be there, along with many assorted others. I cannot wait.

M & M have pampered me and made my last days in France a better experience than I could have hoped for. They were strangers to me a month ago; today the two of them are the best friends I have here in France. Just when you think the world is cold and that you are completely alone, you find that you aren’t, and that there are people who do kind things simply because it is the right thing to do. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them. 

Luckily for me as well, my angel of a boss at my old job contacted me recently to let me know that my position there was open again! This means that, upon returning to Orlando, I have a job ready and waiting. It will be a tremendous relief to be back and be doing something I am good at once again. Ironically, I don’t think I ever truly understood the word “serendipitous” before my marriage collapsed – isn’t that just a kick in the pants?

I have no idea if I will keep blogging. The idea behind this particular blog – to record my experiences in a foreign land – is now, sadly, a thing of the past. I am not sure that my regular, day-to-day life in Orlando, Florida is sufficiently interesting for blog fodder! If I continue, I hope to keep most of you as readers; if I don’t, I want to thank you all for every comment and positive word you’ve offered to me. It has meant more than I can say. Writing these entries and telling my stories helped me through the worst of my homesickness, and also helped as my personal situation deteriorated. It was good to know someone was out there listening and reading. Here’s to future inspiration, I suppose, and also here’s to family, friends, and familiarity. 

Even with the end result being what it is - I had to try this thing out. I learned things about myself that I would never have discovered living in the U.S.! Now that this particular adventure is over, I can’t say I’m unhappy to be returning to the land of my birth ... but I have a parting message for this country that has seen me through the summer and autumn of my discontent:  France, even though you’ve put some roadblocks in my way, I’m still in love with you for everything you’ve shown me these past six months and for everything that you are. We’ll meet again; don’t you worry about that. As the Terminator once said, "I'll be back."

Erin Goes Back To School

Maybe you've heard: my French language skills suck. The four years of French in high school, as well as the two years in college and the early instruction I got way back in kindergarten and first grade seem to have left almost no impression on me, and so it has been deemed by the French government, that, for my own good and the good of the realm, I must take language lessons. Thank God. It was getting awfully tiring to be sitting in a cafe, listening to conversation and trying desperately to follow what was going on, but eventually giving up and having to be satisfied with recognizing one word in every four or five. When you listen for five minutes and only catch "bird", "bike", "good" and "recycling", well ... it's a good thing I've never been of a suicidal temperment, because there are a lot of upper-story windows big enough for me to fit through around these parts.

I started classes at the beginning of September, and I think my word comprehension has increased to maybe one word in every three or so! I am starting to actually be able to piece together the meaning of conversations, and, at least in class, can even respond with only a minimal delay (in which my brain frantically pages through its French-to-English dictionary to search for the appropriate words). It's delightful. I think I may even be able to make friends soon, now that I am beginning to retain the correct vocabulary for more than just the weather, ordering in a bar, and standard greetings. I'll be able to strike up actual conversations! If you've never been in another country and not comfortable with the language, you can't even imagine the absolute relief in starting to solve the puzzle that lets you comprehend the world around you more fully. 

I go to the nearby town of Marvejols three times a week, from 8:30 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon to learn the intricacies of the French language and prepare for an exam called the DILF (Diplome initial de langue francaise) that I must take in December. My teacher is a lady of great patience and energy, and I love her. I won't give her name here, to protect her identity, but, trust me, the woman is a saint. We have never had a conversation in English, although if I get really stuck and say a word in English, she will give it back to me in French with nary a delay. I don't know what I will do when the class ends - maybe ask her to move in with me? Or adopt me? Maybe her kids won't mind a new, older, American sister.  

There are twelve of us in the class currently, and everyone is at different levels, but somehow it works and it's comfortable. We do a lot of spoken exercises together, which often includes what is called "presenting" yourself to the others: your name, your nationality, when you arrived in France, your marital status, if you have kids, your hobbies ... that sort of thing. And so I know that, out of the three Moroccan ladies who are in the class, two of them consider "cleaning" to be a hobby. Also, one gentleman from Portugal apparently has no hobbies at all except for weight training. (Since he is roughly the size and weight of a bantam rooster, I find this hard to believe.)  One lady, also from Portugal, insists she has no hobbies, and seems to get more and more offended each time we do this exercise. Considering that she has five children, I guess maybe she needs words for things other than "faire du ski" or "jouer au tennis". Makes sense. There are also two guys from Turkey, and we haven't been able to get any hobbies out of them yet, but I think that's because they don't understand what the hell we're asking - they only arrived in August. Luckily, one of them speaks a little English, so if all else fails, the teacher asks if I can explain in English. Some of the time, it even works! 

All kidding aside, it does help an awful lot to be a classroom and go through the rote exercises over and over - it cements them in your head. I almost swooned with pleasure when I went to the market today and had an actual conversation with a stranger that I could understand and make the appropriate responses to! Of course, it was about the weather and what I was buying, so it's not like we were discussing philosophy or quantum theory, but he said things, I understood them, and I answered him. I felt like bursting into song. (That probably would've seemed a little weird, though, so I refrained. I did hum on the way home.)

I still feel dumb almost every day. But, I've started to feel slightly less dumb, which to my mind is a huge improvement. And I have to say that most every person I've encountered here is willing to help. If you attempt their language, they're willing to cut you some slack. They'll repeat themselves, speak slower, whatever will help you gain understanding of a few more syllables. If they giggle at my accent or dismal grammar later, well, at least they had the good breeding to keep it to themselves until I was out of earshot. I'm gonna get there, folks. God bless the French government and my teacher and my classmates. One day, I'll actually be able to tell them all what their help and support meant to me, and I'll be able to do it in French. Yay!

This is just a test!

I am in the process of trying to find a few ways to get paid for my writing, and this post is as the title suggests: just a test. In order to get myself listed with a particular service that may assign me some blog topics to write about, I need to post the words a dollar sign is the cheesiest within a post. And so, my mission is complete. 'Bye for now.