It's Me, Sara Louise

Let me elaborate… a series of unfortunate incidents are not major life altering catastrophes, nothing tragic happened, nobody died or lost a foot, instead it’s a continuing stream of small pain in the petunia events that chip away at your bank account and inconvenience you leaving you less than chipper and feeling like you are in desperate need of an aura cleanse (never had one of those but they sound fun).

Six days before we left, the charger for my macbook broke. It died. You have to understand that my macbook is my connection to the world outside of Le Petit Village. Le Petit Village is a teeny tiny non-english speaking place, with old people, feral cats, and one épicerie that’s opened sometimes (why do tourists come here?? oh yes, it’s pretty and charming. whatever). I need my macbook. The internet keeps me sane. Luckily sweet Honey Jr gave me his laptop for the week. I’m not completely sure it was out of kindness rather than fear but either way, it was a fantastic gesture and I was thrilled to have it, backward French keyboard and all.

The day before the macbook charger died, we had planned on a productive Saturday. Saturday being the one day that The Husband and I can get anything done (most everything on a Sunday is closed). We were going to Avignon to pick up The Husband’s suit for the wedding and our wedding rings.

First we needed to stop at La Poste in St. Michel (our bank and post office all rolled into one. you think that would make it convenient. it doesn’t) and on the way, we would drop Fifty off at Papa’s house for the day.

Fifty still has that puppy car sick thing going on so driving is always a bit precarious. We have to stop the car a lot to give him time to compose himself whenever I start to notice his eyes glaze over and his mouth getting extra salivary (I know that’s not a word, just go with it). We were less than a mile from Papa’s house and Fifty had weaseled his way onto my lap, and like an idiot, I let him sit there. And then it started; a huge eruption of puppy vomit, all over me and into that pocket on the door (my passport was in that pocket). Gross. Gross. Gross. We had to go back to the house so I could shower and change. Not a big problem, it was only going to put us an hour behind, we still would have time for Avignon and getting back for The Husband’s hair cut appointment that afternoon.

The man at La Poste had other ideas.

Upon our return to St. Michel, we rolled up to La Poste to see all the shutters closed. We checked the time, it was a little past 10am. The man usually opens about 10ish (in the south of France, all time is an ‘ish’). Maybe he was in a pastis induced slumber because those shutters didn’t open until almost 11:30 (he lives above La Poste). Imagine living where you work and still being late? I think someone needs a better alarm clock and an expresso machine. Or maybe an irate American girl can bang pots and pans outside his window every Saturday morning. That would work too.

Too late for us to go to Avignon.

Thanks La Poste man.

It turned out to be a tiny blessing that the La Poste man decided to open later and cancel our Avignon trip because a little while later…BAM… MIGRAINE.

I spent the rest of the day in my darkened bedroom with a cold cloth over my eyes.

The Husband stayed next to me (he’s good like that) until it was time for his wedding haircut. Back to St. Michel he went for the third time that day. Only when he got there, the girl said, “Oh yeah, I remember you phoning for the appointment, but I must have forgotten to write it down. Can you come back in an hour or two?” Moron.

When he did go back for his haircut, she cut the back of his neck. Twice. Moron.

While these incidents were happening, the lovely Nancy at Window To My Sol passed this on to me…

Unfortunately I was too wrapped up in my mini dramas to give thanks properly to lovely Nancy or to do anything about it, but now that my old, tired self is finally back to normal, I’m passing it on to Dash at French Sampler. Dash lives in south-west France and besides having a super cool moniker, writes about trips to Spain for lunch and other such fab things.

The other day she wrote a post about Lady Emma Hamilton that I loved so much, I spent the morning googling Lady Hamilton when I should have been studying my French, and having my aura cleansed.

No more bad juju.