I open my gaping mouth and announce that my every intention for the last eve of this harrowing year is a bath with a book and lavender bathsalts imported all the way from princess" arms in canada...
...and the phone begins to ring.
I'm opting for Crystale's party in Boulogne I think (my favourite lesbian who is now dating some guy) since she rented spots in a caf� and a cabin in the woods, and she promised Georges would be on the other side of the coutnryside...
Here's to hoping they don't ask me to bring my rollerblades, and that this wond't deteriorate into a frat partay.
Not cuz I'm old, but because I might just be bored.
There is no one left in my office but the little flirtatious russion who keeps asking me about my perfume, and feigning shock when I tell him to shove off in his own tongue.
Today had a pile of crises taller than my head lying in a heap on my keyboard.
Last night we watched a movie about how the french killed off all the wolves in France.
I shuddered.
Then we watched "Pacte des Loups", an artistic interpretation of said events.
I have become so old and frail (sense the sarcasm here) that I clutched someone's arm when they cut open the wolf. Not when the girl died, not when the blood poured or when they got the indian burial ritual soooo wrong. Not when they made fun of canadians.
Just the wolf part.
I got home around three, my sister waited up for me. She'd returned from Antibes and her jaunt around Nice, Cannes, and all sorts of mediterranean streets around, minuit.
This weekend will be hastened goodbyes, paperwork, two-houseguests-d'affil� laundry and possibly a nap Sunday afternoon.
Little time to breathe, but ahhhh... Soon it will be Wednesday. Not next year, not next week, not anything except Wednesday. The 2nd. The day I've been anticipating so hard I've been hurting myself.