Last week the Mistral battered Provence something fierce. It always blows hard, but this was a different kettle of fish altogether… this mistral blew off roof tiles, howled down my chimney, and left a trembling Fifty in it’s wake.
But the worst thing it did… it messed up the satellite thingy. The satellite thingy that gives me CNN and BBC. Not cool mistral.
There was only one way to fix it, someone would have to get up on the roof and fiddle with it. And that someone would have to be lil’ Honey Jr because do we really want 100+ kg of The Husband clomping around on the roof? No, we don’t (and it’s not like Honey Jr had a choice, The Husband basically chucked him up there). But you know what? Lil’ Honey Jr got the thingy fixed. I’m watching BBC world news as I type (it’s so boring this morning… eurocrisis… blah blah blah… snore… I’m typing and sleeping, typing and sleeping).
But besides saving the satellite thingy, Honey Jr saved me and Fifty too…
A couple of weeks ago I was headed out for a morning jog (French women may not get fat but women who move here do, so jog I must). I decided to treat myself to a Fifty free jog so I kissed him goodbye and locked up. That’s when I realized I didn’t have a pocket for my key… where to put it, where to put it… oh, I’ll put it on the tire of the car. Great idea… until I turned away and heard a clankety clank clank noise (clankety clank noises are rarely good).
There was a growing pit in my stomach as I approached the car. I reached for the key on the tire and felt nothing but rubber. And then I screamed my favorite French word.
I got down on the ground and felt all around… no key. I got under the car and felt all around… no key. I reach my hand into parts of the car under the car… no key. And again, I screamed my favorite French word while Fifty looked at me from the window.
I called The Husband. Now I wasn’t entirely sure how he would be able to help since he was nowhere near Le Petit Village, but it’s just something you do, isn’t? You call someone to make you feel better about your stupidity. But do you think he made me feel better? No he didn’t. He panicked, got flustered, and yelled my favorite French word (The Husband is so not good in a crisis).
And Fifty continued to stare from the window.
There was one thing left to do… get Honey Jr.
I knocked on his door and told him of my stupidity. He slipped his espadrilles on, strolled over to the car as cool as cool could be, handed me the apple he had been munching on, slid under the car, felt around for a second (seriously, like a second!), said, “voila” and handed me the keys.
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