Drumming in French

Yesterday you probably were thinking, "Yes. This is all very tragic about your car, but did you humiliate yourself at the French thing? I need to know." To be honest, I can't tell whether your fervor in this regard is born of sympathy or mockery, but I am willing to extend to you the benefit of the doubt. This time.

This past weekend was one primarily characterized by inertia. Normally, this is an affliction I suffer from on Sundays, but this time around I had what felt like two Sundays. This, if you are me, is not good. There was: "I need to wash my hair, so I might as well go swim and then I will go to the grocery store, which is not far from the gym and then all will be well." Followed by this: "But I don't want to go swimming. Plus, if I don't leave the house, it won't matter if I don't wash my hair and I think I still have two eggs in the refrigerator, so I don't need groceries THAT badly." And this went on and on and on. (It is often quite tiresome to be me. I mention this in case you are suffering from some sort of bizarre, misplaced envy.) This endless loop then extended to the French thing. Am I really going to go to the French thing? I don't really want to go to the French thing. Is this a dumb dress to wear to the French thing? Et cetera.

Ultimately, I brushed my still dirty hair, put on the possibly dumb dress and left the house. Triumph! However, since I had failed to go to the grocery store, I was, in fact, ravenous. So, while ostensibly on my way to the French thing, I turned the wrong direction, spent about twenty minutes looking for parking in the Mission and took myself out to dinner at Range. It was delicious.

Fortified by pork and conversations with other human beings (in English), I did then go to the soirée, where I said three French things, screwed up one verb, watched some Haitians drum and dance, watched some West Africans drum and dance, and left. I believe I was there for 37 minutes of a four-hour program. However, I did spend at least five hours tortured by event-related indecision, so I think it all evens out.

For the record:
1. My dress seemed ok.
2. French men wear a lot more cologne than American men.
3. It's especially difficult to hear questions posed to you in a foreign language in a room where there is a lot of drumming going on.
4. I really love Range, though it's possible that my favorite bartender no longer works there, which is disappointing for me, though hopefully good for him.
5. I washed the bird shit off my car.
6. I finally washed my hair.
7. I still haven't been to the gym. Shut up.

A mataphor? A message?

Yesterday, for the first time in many months, I had my car washed. The passive voice should alert you to the fact that I spent my own personal dollars for this to be done. The car was thereupon shiny and, I like to think, relieved.

Not 24 hours later, this very same vehicle has been liberally shat upon by some [gluttonous? diseased?] bird.

That is all.

Bonjour

Tomorrow I am going to an event called "Soirée Francophone" and I'm a little bit nervous. I feel like if it were Soirée Francophile I would have it in the bag--we could all just eat baguettes and be enthusiastic about the Eiffel Tower in a general sort of way. It's the "phone" part that has me worried. My French is in pretty serious disuse, such that if I am called upon to form any verbs other than in the present tense I risque making an idiote of moi-meme. So please to wish me bonne chance and cross your fingers that I miraculously happen to wear the right thing and that--if things go très, très well--someone might even think I'm charmante. I quite miss being thought charmante.

Speaking of charmante, regardez! Here is a very tiny door. In a tree! In Golden Gate Park. I am very delighted by this. I would approximate my delight to be about 287 times greater than it would be if someone took it upon themselves to knit around this tree. People seem to enjoy this trend (indeed, there are two street signs across from my house that have been sheathed in knitting), but I am not really a fan. Tiny doors in trees, however? Behind which gnomes and/or fairies clearly reside? Yes, please.



via The Bold Italic

Retro

Last night I had a dream in which Sean Penn met Madonna for the first time. (Lest you wonder, they were quite taken with each other.)

It's disappointing to discover that my subconscious is so woefully out of date.

The scared is SCARED

This is a video via my friend Cindy on Facebook, via Eat My Heart Out Storytelling, via who knows what. It's the internet. There's a lot of clicking going on.

I would urge you to watch the whole thing or you risk missing the moral. And that would be a pity.
Happy Wednesday.

the Scared is scared from Bianca Giaever on Vimeo.