“She is extremely attached to that ball,” I told the Texan tourist who exclaimed over Jolie. “In fact, it fell in the water yesterday, and she took her first voluntary swim ever to go get it. All through the dead of summer she wouldn’t go anywhere near the stuff; now in mid-February she dives right in, because ‘Oh, no! Not the tennis ball!’”
“You speak English so well!” she marveled. “Most people here don’t.”
Right, then.
It’s been a lovely week or so: clear blue skies for miles. Still, not exactly swimming weather, but Jolie couldn’t be bothered with petty concerns like, say, pneumonia. And about fifteen minutes later, she chased the ball into what looked like a little standing water and turned out to be a shoulder-deep swamp, so there was an impromptu bath when we got home, but the sun shining down on my fluffy little lump of mud made for an exceptionally cheery and invigorating walk.
Invigor has been in short supply lately.
The thing is, I give Nick a hard time now and then about being such a homebody, but secretly I like curling up with him, a glass of wine, an experimental meal, and a downloaded American TV show or four every night. It feels normal and cozy, and a bit like an anchor in this bizarre country.
Friday, though, it seemed like the right time to put my money where my mouth was, and check out an English pub with Kristina. And although drunken Irishmen are singularly horrible, it was a blast: “like exactly what you would expect when Arabs open a pub,” as she put it. Super-international: a Spanish man raised in France trying desperately to pick up an English-speaking Mexican tourist who sent him on to another bar just before ordering another drink, which turned out to be a mojito made with the fresh mint a bizarre little man had walked in with a few minutes before. Plus, cheap beer and a bunch of chivalrous Frenchmen who are probably still waiting in line for the bathroom because they always courteously insisted that any woman in the line go next; it was a lot of fun.
About as much fun, really, as I would have wanted in a weekend, but I don’t always get to decide these things, because Nick’s coworkers descended on us the next night. We had been expecting to go to dinner with them on Sunday, but then someone else issued a Saturday invitation to the same coworkers, and to us as well.
“I’ll try to cancel our reservation,” I offered.
“I’m sure it won’t matter; it’s not like they’ll be all that busy on a Sunday anyway,” Nick shrugged.
Saturday’s dinner was amazing; really classic and brilliantly prepared stuff at the Brasserie Flo. I can still taste it, if I wish really hard.
So…Sunday was supposed to be the quiet day. We went for a good long run, I had salmon waiting in the refrigerator, and I was chatting with my mother (hi, Mom!) when Nick started gesturing frantically but unspecifically at me. I, of course, made annoyed gestures back, and he gave up and started vacuuming, which is kind of his default activity, so I thought no more about it.
He waited until 6:00, when I was off the phone, to mention that we had never technically retracted our invitation for dinner that night–”I mean, they probably won’t come, but it’s kind of still possible,” so maybe I would like to hop in the shower?
“When would they get here, if they’re still coming?”
“Any time between now and seven.”
I could kill him. Like…still.
They arrived just a bit after seven (while Nick was chopping onions and squash, which I swept frantically into the fridge while dumping Japanese rice crackers into a bowl), so I did (oh, thank God) make it out of the shower. And dinner was pleasant, except that it was also that extra tiny bit awkward that it tends to be when you have four non-French people at dinner in a French bistro.
How lucky, all the same, that no one had picked up when I tried to, you know, cancel the reservation.
And then Monday was Chaumette with yet another coworker, which was positively soothing by comparison, but still…last night, with the wine and the home-cooked meal and the pajamas and The Tudors?
There’s just no substitute for that.
Ok – I think Jolie and Max are related in some way. It was like a hurricane today and he ran outside like it was the nicest weather he’s ever seen. Today was a day off from running so when the rain stopped, we went for what I thought would be a lovely walk. Every stream we found – he hopped into. We got home and he rolled in the mud! Needless to say we used Jolie’s shampoo from Christmas tonight – the dirt was awful and the tub needed more of a scrub than Max. Of course it started raining again tonight he just HAD to go out – oh well…thank goodness for old beach towels!
Comment by Deb — February 19, 2008 @ 3:34 am