The Bold Soul

Preferences

Winding down a lovely, long, and rather lazy four-day long weekend here. I smell sweet honeysuckle wafting in from our courtyard on the cool evening air, a welcome change from the summer-hot temperatures in Paris today (not that I'm really complaining, mind you). We had a "Swiss dinner" tonight, meaning we had breakfast for dinner with pancakes, bacon and eggs. I am tired and mellow and feeling just plain good. Bed is not long off and I suspect I will sleep well tonight. Ahhhh.

We had four whole days together, Georges and I. Sometimes there were others around; Georges' oldest was here all weekend with his girl, and we went out and met friends here and there. But mostly, we just spent our time together, either home or out around town. And it was last night over a nice dinner in our favorite local restaurant, that I realized something.

I would rather be with Georges than with anyone.

I have more fun with him than with anyone else. I feel more relaxed with him than with anyone else. Even going to the supermarket or the bank is fun when we do it together. Being stuck like sardines on a hot crowded subway car is fun because we can focus on each other instead of all the people jammed in around us. No matter where we are or what we're doing, it's just plain BETTER because we get to do it together.

When I was single, I truly used to value my alone time. I wasn't afraid to be on my own, and I enjoyed the freedom of not having to ask anyone else's opinion before doing whatever it was I wanted to do. And don't get me wrong -- I still do value my alone time, maybe more-so because I no longer get as much of it. And I'm very secure with myself and with spending time alone in my own company... God knows I got enough practice at it after 45 years of being single.

But now, I just PREFER Georges' company to being so much on my own, and to being with other people. I still like being with my friends and my family when I get the chance. Hanging out with girlfriends will always be a source of great energy and pleasure for me. I enjoy a good party or group picnic when it's with people I like. I even like going shopping on my own or sitting in a cafe by myself. Yet even when I'm out having fun elsewhere, in the back of my mind I am still "with" Georges in my thoughts and in my heart. Waiting until I can get back to him again.

It's not a desperation thing or a clinging-vine thing, not at all. I'm not a needy person that way. It's just about really, genuinely LIKING the company of the man I married.

And I wonder how many people get to say THAT?

The birthday that only got better with age

My birthday yesterday started off in a very un-promising way. In fact, the morning totally sucked, to put it bluntly. Our psycho cat had spent the previous two nights torturing this small mouse (at least, I think it was the same mouse) but didn't have the decency to put it out of its misery. So this made it hard for me to sleep since (a) I hate mice and was worried the mouse would somehow find its way into my room (the only bedroom on the first floor) in its efforts to flee the cat's sadistic wrath, and so I had to find ways to barricade myself in the room by blocking the bottom of the door. And (b) the cat made one helluva lot of noise chasing this mouse, knocking over things on the kitchen counters, banging up against my door while chasing the terrified rodent (and thus confirming I was not in the least over-reacting when I blocked the bottom of the door).

I got very little sleep and woke up grumpy, and with a bad headache. Not a great start to the day that I wasn't looking forward to in the first place.

Some time later, I had fed said psycho cat, cursing at her under my breath because she didn't kill the mouse AGAIN, and wondering if I would have to endure another night of her cat-and-mouse game, when I caught sight of her outside in the courtyard... eating grass. Anyone who has owned a cat or a dog knows what this means: the vomiting will eventually commence. So I shut her outside just to be safe.

Our lovely cleaning lady arrived, and I explained to her why the cat needed to stay outside. No less than 2 minutes later, the cat was sitting out on the kitchen windowsill...  barfing. On the WINDOWSILL. So that I had no choice but to look at it and clean it up. And then muster the appetite to eat my own breakfast. Thanks, Clachat. Out of spite, I set a mousetrap up on the kitchen counter in the corner where we know the mice have come in before... I decided she had had enough fun and games with her live "toy" mouse and I was taking things into my own hands.

I had finished my breakfast, and was still in my bathrobe at the kitchen table when I heard the cleaning lady yell out, and I heard what sounded like a wave of water. She had been upstairs, planning to mop the floors, and she accidentally knocked over the bucket of water all over our mezzanine which is lined with shelves full of Georges' books. And because it's a mezzanine, the water had no place else to go but DOWN... into our living room.

On the sofa. Down the walls. Dripping all over a painting done by a friend of Georges, a painting he really likes (that's never good, water with cleaner on a painting). And then I really panicked when I saw the water dripping near a standing lamp, our telephones, stereo and the big multi-port surge protector where we have a lot of electronic stuff plugged in. Water and electricity don't mix!

Working together we raced to push the couch out of the way and I grabbed every towel in our closet to put down on the floors, hoping neither of us would get electrocuted in the process. Then we went upstairs to see how much we could mop up from there, discovering that the water had made it's way UNDER some of the bookshelves so there was nothing to do except wait for the dripping to stop. She felt terrible and I felt bad for her more than I was angry or annoyed because it was just an unfortunate accident and she's really good at her job and we're lucky to have her. 

Two minutes after things finally calmed down and I was sitting in the bedroom trying to catch up on email and news, my older step-son calls to me from the kitchen where he has installed himself to work on a school project... the mouse trap had snapped! Sure enough there was a mouse in it... not quite dead. Ugh. I could see this kid was not exactly volunteering to dispose of it, so I just said we should leave it there until it was really dead and I'd deal with it later. (Why, I thought, do these things always happen when Georges is away? I HATE MICE!) I think the cleaning lady must have felt really bad about what had happened with the bucket because when I went out later to take care of the dead mouse, I found she had already done it while tidying up the kitchen. God bless the woman... all was forgiven after that!

I mention all this in such detail to show you just why the day was SO horrible, and all of this before 10:30 in the morning, so you can see just how it was about to get SO MUCH BETTER. After all, things could really ONLY get better after that, right?

Having just simply had ENOUGH by that point, I decided to forego any further attempts at working and treat myself to a manicure and pedicure, and a little shopping, down in my old neighborhood across town in the 15th. I took a shower and got dressed up a bit but still casual, and then got an invite from Aimee to meet her and Mrs. B for lunch at the tea shop. I decided that would be the perfect way to switch into a happier birthday mode... and MOOD.

And it was. I had a delightful time finally meeting Mrs. B and her little girl, whom I've known virtually for more than three years back to when SHE was the blogger living in Paris and I was still the wannabee, but she and her husband moved back to the U.S. shortly before I first arrived in 2006 so we never got to meet, until now. And Aimee stuck a candle in my dessert so they could sing Happy Birthday to me... hokey, but just try not to feel good when someone does that! (Bet you can guess what I wished for, too.)

After lunch, I did head out to get my mani and pedi, and just as I got my feet in the water, Georges called, back at his office after his three-day weekend business conference. He asked when I would be free to come and meet him for a drink after work and then we'd go on to dinner somewhere, which was really perfect timing.

The best part was that I got to take the 89 bus to the Luxembourg stop to meet him... which is EXACTLY how and where we saw each other for the very first time! Like that first day, I couldn't wait to see him since we'd been apart for several days. And just like that first day, he was there to meet me, only this time I flew into his waiting arms for my birthday kiss(es). We walked through "our" park, kissed a lot more, had a coffee at the same place where we'd first had lunch, and then Georges slid a little package across the table... that man! I'd told him "no presents" but he just couldn't help it, he said. Inside was an absolutely beautiful necklace that I can't describe but I promise to post a photo of it soon. He really knows me and what I like, my husband.

We went on to have a drink and a stroll around the Abbesses quartier in the 18th, and then had dinner in the same restau where we ate dinner on our first date. We talked about how his conference had gone (extremely well) and how my weekend had been. We held hands as we always do. Looked into each other's eyes as we always do. Talked about how much we'd missed each other.

The only real difference between this birthday "date" and our first date was that this time, there was no question of where we were going after dinner: home. OUR home. TOGETHER.

And that's how what started out to be the birthday from hell got SO much better... with age. Thanks to good friends, a little pampering for myself, and especially my wonderful, amazing, loving Georges, who makes every day feel as special for me as this birthday did.

Thou Shalt Know Thy (French) Husband

Okay, Linda... you got me. Your post with the meme, "French Husband" was very timely, as I added a discussion topic to my Facebook Fan Page to talk about what it's like to be married to a Frenchman and was wondering what to post there as an opener. Problem solved!

So of course, I had to do the meme. Here goes (and apologies in advance to Georges since I'm doing this on the fly and haven't actually read the whole thing yet!) and let's hope I get the important stuff right:

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1. He’s sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?

Nothing... he doesn't watch TV. Once in a great while, he'll turn on a football (that's soccer to you Americans) match if France is playing, but otherwise he'd rather do other things. He reads a great deal. I do know there is one French program he likes, though, a political satire show that uses large puppets made up as French political figures (I'm sure there's a Sarko puppet in there), and he might watch that on his computer sometimes.

2. You’re out to eat, what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?

If we're in France, you don't normally "choose" a salad dressing in a restaurant; the salad comes with whatever house vinaigrette the chef has made (or bought). If we're in America he'd probably also choose whatever is closest to a "normal" vinaigrette or a simple vinegar and oil if nothing else appeals to him. At home, we don't keep bottled dressing; #1 it's really not very good and the selection is poor, and #2, Georges makes a delicious "vinaigrette moutarde" so that's what we have.

3. What’s one food he doesn’t like?

Ha! That's easy: PEANUT BUTTER. Won't go near it. That's fine; more for me. As far as typical French fare and most other "foreign" foods, he eats pretty much anything. He did tell me that he never ate cheese until he was 30, though; just didn't develop a taste for it until then and even now doesn't eat massive amounts of it. Not your typical Frenchie in that respect!

4. You go out to eat and have a drink. What does he order?

In France, he'll choose some kind of beef, perhaps steak tartare or something cooked but very rare, probably with a "blonde" (that's a pale amber beer, not a girl) or a Corona if they've got it on the menu. In the U.S. he will also often order beef, but it's now a joke between us that he'll probably never get it anything close to rare as it's "rare" to find that nowadays... we're always warned to cook meet medium to well done in the U.S. Yet I don't notice outbreaks of food poisoning in France from undercooked beef. Hmmm... 

5. Where did he go to high school?

I don't know the name of the lycée but he pointed it out to me; it's near the Parc Monceau. An all-boys school, too, I think.

6. What size shoe does he wear?

I admit I had to peek at a pair of shoes he's not wearing, but American men's size 9. I think that's a 43 in the European sizes.

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?

Comic books; not the paperback kind but the hard-cover ones. Our (his) library is already full of them and I am looking at a stack of them right now on our bedroom table.

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?

I'm not sure he has a favorite type of sandwich, although he'll eat a baguette with ham and cheese or maybe chicken. He loves kebab though, so perhaps a "grec" which is like a sandwich with kebab meat.

9. What would this person eat every day if he could?

Jelly Bellies. Or other types of "bon-bons" which are what the French call all varieties of candies like licorice, gummy bears and on. It's a family trait: the sweet-tooth... and I sure married into the right family in that case!

10. What is his favorite cereal?

Never eats cereal, hot or cold. His favorite breakfast right now is when I toast him an English-style muffin, which he'll have with butter and cherry preserves, and dunk in his morning coffee. He's a dunker. Also likes some OJ with that.

11. What would he never wear?

A dark suit. Says it makes him look like a banker. He did look good in the suit he picked out for our wedding... but even that, he hasn't worn again. He prefers to wear black pants with a more colorful jacket, tie and shirt combination. The man loves color!

12. What is his favorite sports team?

Since he's not big on sports, I'd have to say just that he'll support the French team in football or rugby if they're playing. Otherwise it's a non-issue. I recently learned that he is a Trekkie, but at least I am not a sport-widow!

13. Who did he vote for?

I can feel my Republican family and maybe even certain friends back home cringing as I write this, but he votes Socialist (or he might vote Centrist if the candidate was good). In American, people often mistake "Socialist" for "Communist" even though they're not at all the same thing. Here in France, the Socialist party is the largest of the more liberal parties, closest probably to our Democratic party in the U.S. And since I no longer swing to the right politically (although I was a Reagan girl in my youth), we have no political conflict (or any other conflict, for that matter) in our marriage.

14. Who is his best friend?

Gilbert, a friend he's had since his University years.

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn’t do?

Hmmm, something I do that he wishes I wouldn't... probably talking to him in English when he's trying to listen to the radio in French. I'm learning to ask him if he's really concentrating on the radio before diving into a one-sided conversation.

16. What is his heritage?

To me, his heritage is very interesting. He is French on his mother's side; she was from the Lorraine region. His father was a Russian-Moldavian emigré who came to France from Saint Petersburg as a young man during the Russian Revolution; his father's parents wanted him to avoid the conflict and be safe. So he came to France, and then years later had to survive WWII. Georges' Moldavian last name (which is now my legal last name but which I don't publish here to give Georges and the kids their privacy) is not at all difficult to pronounce (no "dev" or "ski" or too many consonants together) but it really confuses the hell out of the French for some reason, and they constantly mis-spell or mis-pronounce it. They do the same with my maiden name, too, so together we create twice the confusion and we think it's hilarious.

17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?

He loves the killer chocolate brownies I made last year. I'll probably do it again this year, too. (Winking at Georges)

18. Did he play sports in high school?

Not so much, although I'm sure like all French kids he got in some physical activity every week, but the French don't do school-sponsored sports teams and it's not a big thing here as it is in the States. I don't think he specialized in any one sport; he was more academic in his interests.

19. What could he spend hours doing?
Playing the piano; playing a few favorite computer games (he's also invented a computer game or two); and reading... a lot of reading, now mainly on his iPod where he downloads his favorite classics as well as new things (he's currently reading the "Twilight" books -- in English -- that have been come so popular. I'm about to read the first one of those myself, in paperback).

20. What is one unique talent he has?
I can't pick just one. Part of how I fell in love with him was the first time he played the piano for me (he's much better at it than I am). He also was the one who helped me recover all my computer files when my hard-drive crashed -- even though it was a PC and he's a die-hard Mac user; he's very good with computer and internet things, even more so than I am, and I used to be in the corporate I.T. world for years and by training. He just comes by it more naturally, I think. He is an exceptionally kind, gentle, patient and unconditionally loving man, both with me and with his children, so I'd call that a gift as well as a "talent".

If your husband's not French, you can still do this meme. It's universal! (An aside to Georges: How'd I do, sweetie?)

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Hmmm, I wonder... if I can use this meme as part of my documentation for the préfecture de police in a few months, when we have to prove we've got a real marriage as part of my carte de séjour renewal?

Reunited, and it feels so good

Sculpture: The Kiss, by Rodin

Georges is joining me today in New Jersey after six days and nights apart. Need I say more?

I miss him already

Georges and I have only been apart for something like 24-36 hours... and I miss him being beside me already. Counting down the days until we're together...

Photo taken in the Jardins du Luxembourg.

Movie love

It is a mere 18 months ago today that Georges and I met for the first time. Just one year and a half. No time at all, and forever. To commemorate the occasion, I'm dashing off in a few minutes to catch a bus that will take me across town, so I can meet my husband for lunch. We're not exactly reenacting the first lunch date, but somehow whenever I meet him for lunch, it feels just as exciting, just as much fun as it did that first day. The only difference is, I'm a lot less nervous because I now know the man sitting across the table from me. But I feel just as giddy now, as I did then, each time he looks into my eyes and takes me in his arms for a kiss à la Georges.

I still marvel, nearly every day, at the chain of events that brought me to this place, to this new life. I marvel that I have found the kind of love I always wanted, but barely dared to believe was possible for me. The Big Love. Movie Love. The kind of love you think only happens to characters in a romance novel.

And yet, it's real. It's here. It's ours.

Happy 18 month-iversary to my darling Georges, mon amour, mon coeur. Je t'aime.

A not-quite-pregnant pause

I've been debating long and hard about whether and what to write about this, but decided that I want to be able to write as openly as possible about my life experiences here in France and as a newly married woman over 40. So since some readers have finally caught on (I've only been dropping hints for weeks just to see if anyone would notice), I'll lay it out on the table:

Yes, Georges and I have decided to try for a baby. It is a conscious decision, not one taken lightly, and something that has surprised us both (since we neither of us thought of having a baby in the beginning) but something we are very much looking forward to. That's just how much we love each other.

No, we're (I'm) not pregnant -- yet. We were hoping it might happen this month -- would have been cool to drop that bomb on my family when I'm in New Jersey in two weeks' time -- but it hasn't. C'est la vie. Better luck next time.

Yes, we know we are both "of a certain age". And that as a result there are certain risks. And that it might not happen at all. And that if we are blessed with a baby, we will be sleep-deprived and exhausted for the rest of our lives. And we're OK with that.

No, we are not doing anything fancy to try and get pregnant, nor do we intend to. Either its going to happen the old-fashioned way (i.e., lots and lots [and lots] of great sex), or not at all; that's what we both feel is the right thing for us.

Yes, I am prepared to blog about what's going on (and Georges agrees), because I suspect that there are a lot of women out there who are in their mid-late 40s and going through similar things. I can't tell other women what to do, but I can write about my own experience and maybe by sharing it, it will help someone else in some way. So get ready for a new chapter in The Bold Soul's history: The Fertility Files.

Judging by at least one nasty commentor's recent (and completely insensitive remarks), I realize that some readers might have personal judgments about our decision to try and have a child at our age. You might feel we're "too old" for this. You might know someone (or be someone) who tried the same thing and had bad results. I can appreciate this is a hot-button issue for a lot of people; geez, look at all the negativity surrounding the "octomom" (which of course is a really extreme case and definitely involves some questionable ethics).

If you do have such negative judgments or horror stories to tell, all I ask is that you try to remain sensitive to the fact that while I'm choosing to write about this part of my life journey, this IS a personal choice and a very thoughtfully made one, for me and for my husband, with my doctor's full knowledge and participation. So try and be respectful of that, whatever happens.

I hope you will wish us well in our efforts to bring a new little one into the world. If we are fortunate enough to have a baby, it will be a baby surrounded by more love than he or she could probably ever conceive, and that's as good a start in life as any two parents can offer. And I promise to be as open as I can about how it's going for us -- either way.

Sometimes, he just KNOWS

I have been spending most of my day today dealing with immigration/marriage paperwork. Yet again (I know, it seems endless, doesn't it?) I had three objectives today:

(1) to find out what I need to do in order to change my name on both my US Social Security Card and on my US Passport because I still haven't done either one, and also to renew my passport before my trip to the US in a month (passport expires in June);

(2) to take stock of all the reams and folios of documents I have collected over the past year and re-organize them a bit differently so I can quickly get my hands on things when I need them; and

(3) to make sure I have a system for creating a paper trail that will prove that Georges and I have a real marriage when the time comes for me to renew my Carte de Séjour this fall (even though I JUST got it in my hot little hand in December, it actually expires in October 2009 and I have to start the renewal process no later than 3 months in advance which is JULY. Which means I'll probably start in June just to make sure I get on the radar before all the bureaucrats take off for summer holidays). We have to save all kinds of documents for the "proof" part, such as statements on our joint bank account and EDF bill with both names on it, and anything and everything else you can think of to show that we maintain a common life as a married couple. Since we don't know exactly what they will ask for (other than the EDF bill), we're kind of saving everything we can think of that has my name or both our names and our mailing address on it; suffice to say that folder is growing by leaps and bounds each month.

In trying to figure out how to renew my passport and change my name on it and on Social Security, I had to make sense of what's on the US Embassy/Paris web site... and of course it's all changed since last time I checked a few months back. I have to renew the passport by mail and hope it comes back before I have to fly (they claim a 2-week turnaround) but it looks like I might need my passport as proof of identity to change the Social Security records, which I have to do in person because MY state doesn't put my married name on the marriage certificate! (Thank you, New Jersey. Duh.) Blah, blah, yada, yada, right? Oh yeah, and I have also been researching where to get the right tax advice now that I'm living here, and the only good news I got so far was finding out that I get an automatic 2 month filing extension each year because I live abroad now.

Suffice to say that as usual I was feeling a little frustrated that the Powers That Be don't make these things easier or provide one-stop-shopping for people like me. And that's when I took a moment to check my email.

And there, I found a very sweet, very spontaneous love letter from my husband.

Who somehow, some way, always seems to know just when I need that little extra lift in my spirits and who knows just what I most need to hear and when I need to hear it. I never doubt his love, not even for one moment... but it sure is extra-nice to be reminded of it. It was just something he wanted to send me to let me know he was thinking about me at that moment.

Can there be any doubt that this man is SO worth all the paperwork, all the hassles of living abroad, all the times when I melt down because of the language problems or the kids or whatever it might be on any given day?

Nope. I just know I am a very, very fortunate woman to be loved by my Georges.

First fight

Last night over drinks at the Luxembourg (just next to -- amazingly enough -- the Jardins du Luxembourg), for the first time since we met, Georges and I finally found something we really, truly disagreed about. While it might be stretching it a bit to say we FOUGHT about our difference of opinion, this was the first time that we really did not see eye to eye on something, the first time we took opposite sides on an issue.

We're so disgustingly, overwhelmingly compatible in all the ways that really matter that it was sort of a surprise to both of us that we disagreed about this thing. We have similar energy patterns, neither of us being morning people. We both agree that he's better at cooking than I am, but I'm better at noticing many of the small details that go into daily living, like when we're about to run out of juice or toilet paper. We both lean liberal when it comes to politics; we both agree that my last president and his current one left/leave a LOT to be desired as leaders. We're both reasonably calm people who don't enjoy conflict but neither of us is a doormat, either.

Sure, there are ways in which we're both very different, mostly stemming from the fact that he's French and I'm American, so sometimes there are some significant gaps in our cultural frames of reference. For instance, he'll never understand my addiction to Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I can't laugh with him about what a total bitch Marcia was, and how I always though Jan was right to hate her guts. I didn't know who "Le Prisonnier" was until he introduced me to it on DVD (it's actually a British TV series but it was apparently popular here in France). I've never read Flaubert or Dumas or any great French writer/philosopher, although I'm trying to read Hugo now.

We will always have things about us that are different because of the cultural thing, and that's maybe part of our attraction to one another. It's boring to be with someone who is exactly like you in every way, n'est-ce pas? Yet we have enough in common to make being together so pleasant and effortless and comforting that being in a room together always feels like home.

So discovering that we finally found something about which we really could not come together on, was a bit unsettling... if also a bit amusing. Because what was this big issue, this monumental thing that had us talking for HOURS last night?

It was The DaVinci Code... and whether we loved it (me) or hated it (him). Sure, the movie rendition wasn't so wonderful (though I didn't think it was awful, either) and it really pandered to those that might materially object to the plot line, but it was the BOOK that I really enjoyed so much and simply couldn't put down and have read at least three times... and that Georges felt was more the sort of drivel one might read at the beach on vacation.

I wonder if we'll ever be able to look at each other in quite the same way again.

Nous

I have long been a devoted reader of Dooce.com and today she posted a rather nice meme where she had to write about her marriage and her husband. As I read along, I found myself mentally answering the same questions about Georges and our relationship.

Then I decided to share it with the whole class.

Hopefully he will forgive me later.

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What are your middle names?
Mine is Jeanne. He's got two middle names, which is a common practice in France: Pierre Stephane. I particularly like "Stephane".

How long have you been together?
Forever... is how it feels. In reality, one year, four months, and ten days. Married for six months and one week of that.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
About 5 seconds. OK a little longer than that -- but not much. We first "met" on Meetic.fr on October 4th, a Thursday, where we chatted online for a few hours. We chatted again the next evening. That weekend we chatted a couple of times and it was on that Saturday, I think, that he asked if I'd like to go for lunch the following week "in a public place" and I didn't hesitate to say yes. We met for lunch on the 9th -- and that was it for both of us. HOOKED.

Who asked whom out?
See answer just above. It was him, all him. However... on that first lunch date, he asked me if I would have dinner with him also, that same evening, and I said no because I was already so emotionally overwhelmed, I thought I needed a little distance to clear my head. Two hours later I was sending him an SMS asking if he still wanted to meet me for dinner that night. I still have his reply on my cell phone: "Oh yes, please!"  Dinner, I blush to say, lead to... well, breakfast the next morning, followed by lunch again. We call it the 26-hour first date. And neither of us remembers anything we ate during those four first meals together. I think there was a salad in there somewhere. And some wine.

How old are each of you?
I'm 47, he's 54. Seven years. I think it's the perfect age difference. 

Whose siblings do you see the most?
Well, his, because they're here in France, and my sister is an ocean away.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
It's a toss-up between my transition from single-hood (where I was only responsible for myself) into step-mothering (where I now have three young people whose needs sometimes must supersede my own), and my attempts, such as they are, to integrate into the French language and culture. Both can be very stressful on me at times and at least once a month I have at least a small meltdown and he's got to be there to talk with me and hold me and help me get my bearings again. But he's wonderful about it, really. Sometimes I can't believe how patient and supportive he is, even though I know full well that my stress is stressful on him, too.

Did you go to the same school?
Not even close. I have an Associates Degree in Business from a no-name community college in NJ, a diploma in Computer Programming from a specialty school in programming, and a whole lot of random college courses in French and Business under my belt with no advanced degree to show for it. I also trained in and graduated from two coach training programs. I'm sort of an educational dilettante, I guess. Georges, on the other hand, studied at one of France's Grande Ecoles -- the French equivalent of an American "ivy league" school -- and got his Master's there and also partially completed a doctoral program.

Are you from the same home town?
Again, not even close. Paris is about as far away from Hackettstown, New Jersey as it is culturally and geographically possible to get. Thank God.

Who is smarter?
Georges is book-smarter, more intellectual and literary, and better educated. And he knows a lot about a lot of different things. I love how smart he is and that he is someone who can teach me things (without being like a teacher instead of a husband and lover). However, I am smart too, but a different kind of "smart" -- I pay more attention to detail (he needs me to help him find things he set down on a table 5 minutes earlier), I'm very quick-witted (he loves that about me) and I think I perhaps am what you'd call more "street smart". It's the Jersey Girl in me. I feel we're totally equal in the smarts department (both having very high IQs), just in different ways.

Who is the most sensitive?
I will use Dooce.com's exact same answer on this one: "Ahem. Next question."

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
We have a few favorites: our neighborhood sushi place is great. There is a little bistro near his office we just love. We used to love a typical French restaurant near the Mairie and ate there all the time, but they changed owners and the menu and now we're not so sure about it. We discovered a new place down the street that is very intimate with great food and service and I think this is our new favorite place to go for special occasions. We were just there for Valentine's Day.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Hackettstown, New Jersey for our wedding and Christmas.

Who has the craziest exes?
Um. I'll pass on this one. Anything I say could be used against us...  I will just say that MY last ex before Georges was obsessed with this stupid role-playing card game called "Magic" that KIDS play and I always thought that was a bit nuts and a complete waste of time. And that same ex's mother was a little bit "crazy" (she saw dead people and had conversations with them -- seriously) but I really liked her anyway and she was very good to me. Other than that, I don't think I ever dated anyone mentally unbalanced or scary. Inattentive, unromantic and undependable, yes, but crazy -- no.

Who has the worst temper?
Well, it sort of depends. Neither of us has what I'd call a real "temper" -- we're both pretty zen most of the time and neither of us enjoys conflict. We have never, ever had anything even remotely resembling an argument. That being said, I am the more emotional of the two and when I'm angry it comes out as tears some of the time. Fortunately I'm rarely truly angry. He tends to have less patience with certain things, such when the Little Guy is giving us a hard time about eating (which is a lot) or certain things the teens are doing. But "bad tempers" aren't really any kind of issue with us. Fortunately.

Who does the cooking?
Georges. A good thing, too, or we'd all starve. I have a few things I cook well: shrimp scampi over rice, a chicken, broccoli and pasta dish with butter and garlic that everyone in the family seems to love, and I make a very good bolognaise sauce for pasta. My family back home likes it when I made new red potatoes with lemon chive butter for special holidays. Everything else I make is edible, but mediocre and unimaginative at best. Although I come from a long line of excellent cooks, I suck at it and I take no pleasure from doing it. On the other hand, Georges really enjoys the process of cooking and he is better at experimenting, whereas I need a recipe in front of me for anything other than the aforementioned "few things I cook well". Georges is great at concocting all sorts of sauces which I love, but if I were making the same dishes I'd be serving them without sauces and they'd be tasteless and boring. And he makes the most awesome salads! My family (some of whom never let a vegetable pass their lips) adores Georges' special salads when we come to visit.

Who is the neat-freak?
Neither of us; his daughter seems to have the least tolerance for clutter but her willingness to do anything about it seems to go in spurts. I have always been a lax housekeeper but I must say that now that I am living with other people's endless messes, I'm a lot less tolerant than I used to be and I try to keep as much general order as I can. Georges, my darling, is a pack-rat and finds it difficult to throw things away; I still haven't been able to get him to clear some bookshelf space for me. Our room is the worst and we're both at fault for it.

Who is more stubborn?
Georges is. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it and not budging. And don't tell me that just because I'm a Taurus, I'm supposed to be the stubborn one, because I'll argue you into the ground over it.

Who hogs the bed?
Him. Him, him, him. Somehow, the sheets and comforter end up wrapped around him because he loves to be toasty warm, even in summer, even to the point of perspiring in winter. He also (and THIS, I am not complaining about) likes to be very close to me so he tends to drift over to my side of the bed, all wrapped in his cocoon of sheets and comforter. So I'm sleeping on about 1/3 of the bed, only half-covered by any sheets or blankets... but he kind of makes up for that by being my own personal "central loving".

Who wakes up earlier?
We are neither of us "morning people" and only wake up when forced to do so, by the alarm clock, the 7-year-old, or nature's call. In the absence of all three of those, we seem to more or less wake up at roughly the same time at perhaps 9am, give or take a little. I seem to have more problems with insomnia than he does, though, and it takes me hours to get to sleep sometimes, whereas it takes him only minutes, or so it seems to me. Judging by the SNORING.

Where was your first date?
The Jardins de Luxembourg. He met me as I stepped off the #89 bus. We walked arm in arm into the gardens. We stopped in front of the Senat building where he kissed me for the first time. More kissing on a park bench, then lunch in an outdoor restaurant within the park, followed by more park bench action. The perfect first date. We still go there to make out whenever we can manage it.

Who is more jealous?
He is. He's French. But he's not annoying about it.

How long did it take to get serious?
We were serious, I think, before we even had our official first date. We just didn't know it yet. Within one week it was "serious". A week or so later the conversation turned to "forever" and it got REALLY serious from then on, and it was no longer a question of "if" but just "when".

Who eats more?
Officially? Georges. He eats more at meals, and he eats faster. WAY faster. Like, he's mopping the plate with a piece of a baguette when I'm chewing on my second bite of my steak. He likes his bon-bons in the evenings, too. I am a very moderate eater at meals and I get full quickly and often leave food on my plate (which seems to worry a lot of French waiters). However... I am the one who has (always had) the real weight problem and I am the "closet eater" which accounts in part for the weight issue.

Who does the laundry?
Georges selected, ordered, paid for and installed our new washing machine. That is the limit of his laundry expertise. I am not sure he has ever, in his life, had to wash a load of laundry. So, either I am doing it, or his daughter, or our cleaning lady. On rare occasions even his older son will force himself to wash some clothes. Never Georges.

Who's better with the computer?
Well, first you have to ask "which type of computer"? I was a trained computer professional. I worked on mainframe IBM computers for years, then learned to program Visual Basic when Windows got popular in the corporate world. I then learned Web design and did that for over 15 years. I taught myself some basic graphics design and blogging. Georges is a die-hard Mac user, devoted to the Cause and Steve Jobs. Every person in his family and of his personal acquaintance has an Apple computer, if Georges has anything to say about it. He is never without is iPod Touch. He also knows his way around Windows, can build and program interesting web site applications (I'm more about the design aesthetics than the behind-the-scenes), knows Linux as well, and can set up and manage a computer network. He also saved my ass when my hard drive crashed last summer and he got all or nearly all of my data back for me, something I would never have been able to do on my own. So he wins the "biggest geek in our marriage" award, hands down. And I am happy to concede that title.

Who drives when you are together?
We divide the driving duties by country. He drives here; I drive in the U.S. Eventually I will have to get a French driver's license here but I am SO putting that off for as long as possible. We haven't driven together yet in any other countries but when we do a driving tour of the south of England, I am very interested in doing some of the driving there, just for the experience of being on the "wrong" side of the road. Of the two of us, I think I am the more "fearless" driver. I tend to drive faster (but still safely) and I push the speed limits, and I am an ace at navigating parking lots quickly and snapping up good parking spaces. It is probably the influence of having grown up in New Jersey and being unafraid to drive in New York City. Having said that, I think the French are quite possibly the most insane drivers on earth (excluding Georges who is very safe and prudent), far worse than New Yorkers. And that's saying something.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There... that wasn't so bad was it, sweetie? Sweetie? Hello?

Love, Franco-American Style

Here it is again, February 14th. The second biggest Hallmark holiday of all -- at least in America, where Valentine's Day is the day the florists, bakeries and greeting card sellers often make the most money of any holiday period all year long. I used to hate, hate, hate Valentine's Day in America because inevitably I was sans romantic partner and had to watch all the women I worked with as they smugly accepted their deliveries of a dozen (or more) roses and balloons at the office. Bah, humbug!

Of course, I'm a lot more friendly toward Valentine's Day NOW... for obvious reasons. It doesn't matter to me one iota whether or not I get flowers or a gift from Georges (even though it's certainly nice if I do); it's just the idea of having the one I love next to me that counts the most. We both like to be acknowledged on this day just as on our birthdays or Christmas. And this is our first "married" Valentine's Day, too! We have the Little Guy with us for the weekend, so we may end up spending the evening right here (unless we can guilt one of the teens into sticking around after we put the Little Guy to bed so we can sneak out for a nice little dinner à deux) but we can crack a bottle of champagne and celebrate in our own way (read into that what you will).

It occurs to me, however, that despite the day being celebrated in both my native and adopted countries (unlike Halloween which has never really caught on over here), they are celebrated in slightly different ways. In America, the holiday is definitely driven by Madison Avenue advertisers and marketing experts who have brainwashed the general population into thinking if they don't buy (or receive) that big fat diamond ring or that stuffed hippo holding the heart or that dozen roses (marked up from $25 to $150 or more, just for this day), then they are defective in some way. So it's gotten to be less about finding creative and special ways to express your love, and more about how much you spend to express your love.

They even get the kids started on it young and they turn it into a popularity contest. I remember being in the 2nd grade, circa 1969 I think, and the teacher (oh, how I hated her, that Miss Rush, the same thoughtless bitch who made us do square-dancing at age 7 and who cast me as the APPLE in the class play, a move I believe is directly responsible for the fact that I am definitely APPLE-SHAPED as an adult) made all the kids bring in those dorky little cartoon kiddy Valentine's cards for our classmates. We had to make special "mailboxes" out of shoe boxes we had covered with red or pink construction paper and decorated with glitter and other crap, with a mail slot cut into the top of the box. Then on Valentine's Day we had to sit in a circle with our mailboxes and take turns putting our Valentine cards in each other's boxes. We had been instructed to bring a card for every child in the class to make it fair, but of course some kids ONLY made cards for the kids they liked (and really, why should you be forced to give a card to the kid who picked his nose and wiped it on your chair, or the one who always called you names and made you cry?) So some children received more cards than others, and of course it became public knowledge which kids were so favored (I was somewhere in the middle, not getting the most cards but not getting the least either, thank God). Even then I was aware that some kids got a lot less cards than others and that they probably felt really bad about that.

Now in France, despite most people claiming to be non-believers, nearly every day on the annual calendar, not otherwise devoted to the big holidays like Christmas or Armistice Day, is still labeled as an official Saint's Day of one type or another (they are even marked on the 2009 agenda book I bought). So today is known as SAINT Valentin's day. There is a Saint Georges' day (April 23rd), and although there was no Saint Lisa, there is a Saint Elisabeth's day is on November 17th and I supposed I could claim it as "my" Saint's Day. There was even a Saint Amour whose day is August 9th.

France claims to hold some of the relics of the actual Saint Valentin and every year there is a festival devoted to this day.

The French hold the current (albeit unofficial) world title for being the most romantic. Certainly here in Paris you can find couples of all ages kissing passionately on park benches and in the metro and leaning up against walls and strolling along the Seine at ANY time of the year and no one bats an eyelash, whereas public displays of affection on that scale are rarely seen and generally frowned upon in the U.S. (where, if you witnessed a couple in a deep embrace you might be likely to utter these romantic words under your breath: "Geez, get a room, will ya?")

I have seen Valentine's displays in store windows throughout Paris and also down south in Saint Raphael (the lingerie shops of course do a banner business this time of year), and of course the chocolatiers and patisseries have made their heart-themed yummy specialties. Although in France there is no Hallmark or equivalent chain store that specializes in just greeting cards and the like, there are papeteries where you can find Valentine's cards and gift bags and very pretty wrapping paper. Book stores have created special display tables with romantically themed (even erotic -- this being France -- books). So this is roughly the same as you'd find back in the States. It just seems that there is a lot less of it and that the whole thing is a lot less "in your face" than in the U.S. As in many other things, France and America celebrate the same things, but the French don't like to over-do it. They seem to prefer the subtle approach where America prefers the bigger, bolder gesture.

Maybe the difference is in the general attitude about the need for Valentine's Day in the first place. Although the holiday has been celebrated here for centuries, just as in other parts of the word, I'm not sure it's as big a deal here, emotionally speaking, as it is back home. Two nights ago at the dinner table, we talked about Valentine's Day with the teenagers. They are both in relationships at the moment, so we (Georges and I) were curious what they each had planned with their respective copin/copine and were a bit surprised to learn that the boy was more in favor of Valentine's day than his sister, who very definitively stated that when you are in love, EVERY day is a lover's day and there shouldn't be one special day for it. While I can't necessarily argue with her logic on that, it is clear she is the more practical and less romantic of the two kids; I think the boy perhaps takes after his very romantic father on this one.

Whatever the similarities or differences may be between the two cultures and how each chooses to acknowledge (or ignore) this Day of Love, one thing is crystal clear: I now have the love I waited for my entire life, and he's in my life not just today but each and EVERY day, and for that I am more grateful than words can ever express. He makes me feel special when I feel anything but. He makes me feel appreciated when others do not. He makes me feel beautiful even first thing in the morning when I have morning breath, sheet marks on my cheek, mascara smudged-eyes and hair that would give Medusa a run for her money. He makes me feel valued and important to him. And he gives me the opportunity every day to show him my love for him, which is infinite in its depth and yet which grows bigger every single day.

I just hope he knows how important he is to me. And that I can't do any of it without him by my side.

Happy Valentine's Day, my Georges. Tu es mon coeur.

The price you sometimes pay for a good kiss

So, I'm feeling quite a bit better than I was on the weekend, although stuff is still coming out of my head at (less frequent now) intervals, but Georges seems to have caught whatever it was I had, the poor man.

I eased my guilt about this by dropping by his office on my way home today, waiting outside his office while sending him a texto, and enticing him with a little well-timed flirting through the window. My plan? To get him to leave work a bit early because I was sure he needed to rest. And it worked. I made us both a pot of tea with miel when we got home and then I went to the pharmacie to stock up on the necessaries. We will have a "romantic" dinner of hot soup later while taking turns passing the box of mouchoirs and watching episodes of The Prisoner on DVD. Just another night of hot love* in Paris.

*Hot Love = in this case, it's a fever induced by illness, brought on by the inability to stop kissing one's lover (and other things) even when he/she is lousy with microbes. We have no one to blame but ourselves. And damn... it was worth it.

The way he makes me feel

The face I love most in all the world...

... and oh, how he makes me feel when he looks at me like this.

Happy (almost) 15 months together, sweetie. Je t'aime.

Son-in-law points

So we're here in New Jersey, staying at my mother's place for the first part of our holiday. My mother just turned 75 on Wednesday and fortunately is in overall good health but has had increasing problems with her knees in the past couple of years, and it affects her mobility. In other words, she can't always get around or do things as well as she used to. "Normal" aging, I guess, and it's unfortunate but it could also be worse. It just pisses her off that she can't do easily (or at all) what she once could do without effort, and I can't say I blame her about that.

Consequently, having Georges and I around this week -- when we have already had a pretty good snow/ice storm yesterday and more bad weather forecast nearly every other day for the next week -- has been a blessing for my mom. Because of course, Georges and I are out there shoveling snow and chopping through layers of ice on the driveway and sidewalks to keep them clear. And I'm yelling at Mom every time she attempts to pitch in and help us. Last thing we need is her down with a broken hip or something.

Before we came over here, we both thought we'd be at risk of putting on some extra weight, it being the holidays when everyone has a tendency to over-indulge, and also because we're in suburban New Jersey where you have to drive to get anywhere.

We needn't have worried. We're getting a great workout with all the shoveling and chopping and pushing and lifting of nature's frozen fury.

And Georges is racking up some serious son-in-law points with my mom. Being a Parisian, he has rarely in his life had to shovel snow and certainly never had to deal with this kind of volume, but he's pitching in with good humor and grace, and helping me do what needs to be done, always with a smile. He's just really good that way.

That and the French tradition of the bises in the mornings and evenings, which my mother thinks is really lovely, and I'd say he's well and truly "in" with my family.

Dimanche à deux

My idea of a perfect Sunday:

• sleeping in... or at least sleeping until the cat's incessant howling for food drives one of us to the kitchen to feed her so she'll shut up and let us go back to sleep;
• finally sneaking out of bed to make coffee and set the table while he sleeps a little longer;
• then sneaking back into bed to snuggle while the coffee brews;
• having a slow, lazy breakfast by candlelight;
• getting dressed and walking hand-in-hand in the very cold morning air to check out a nearby small market selling cheeses, oysters, bread, wine and sausages;
• and being surprised when it actually started to snow;
• him saying he liked the snowflakes in my hair;
• buying some cheese for lunch;
• stopping by the neighborhood Picard to stock the freezer with a few necessities (ours is open on Sunday because of the local Sunday markets);
• picking up a baguette to go with the cheese;
• being back in the warm house at last;
• taking a pre-lunch siesta;
• having an indoor "picnic" with our bread, cheese and assorted other things already in the house;
• spending the afternoon, as the weather turned to rain, listening to the blues and then some classical music as we both worked on our respective computers (ok, so I was really playing computer games most of the time);
• with periodic breaks for kissing;
• making afternoon tea to warm up since the day is just so cold;
• blogging.

Since he's going to India for a week on business starting Wednesday, I'm more than happy to soak up all the couple's time we can handle. I'm glad he has the opportunity to go on this trip -- he's presenting in English at a conference there, and it's his first time in India -- but as usual, I don't look forward to the week apart.

Blogging promotes domestic bliss

I now have scientific proof (OK, maybe not SO scientific) that blogging can foster better communications between domestic partners.

After reading the post I wrote the other day about our morning routine, Georges came into my office laughing, and said, "Mon amour, I loved your post. And I had to read it to learn that you have been putting THREE sugars in my bowl of coffee."

"Oh! Is that too much? I was putting in two sugars when you were drinking coffee in a mug, but the bowl is so much bigger I thought two wouldn't be enough! Why didn't you TELL me it was too sweet?"

So my husband has been drinking too-sweet coffee for weeks, without telling me it was too sweet, so I had no idea. And he had no idea I had added a sugar cube.

Until the blog.

A heart "on hold"

As I write this, Georges is airborne, somewhere between Paris and Armenia. He is flying home. To me.

The last time we were separated by necessity was the last two weeks of July, just a week after our wedding. Georges had to come back to Paris for work, and I had to stay in the U.S. to wait for my visa and to sell off my belongings, pack, and spend a little extra time with my family. In that instance, I was the one who was super busy, not so busy that I didn't miss Georges but busy enough that I didn't have to think about how much I missed him all the time, at least until it got quiet at night. The nights apart are the worst.

This time I suspect it was the other way around. He's the one who has been busy over there in Armenia. He had the scheduled meetings to attend. Dinners out. Sightseeing sponsored by his local colleagues who were naturally eager to show their foreign visitors the best of their culture. Old churches and monasteries to visit. And last night, a concert at the opera house, probably the highlight of his trip (we both love classical music and opera) -- I have to admit I was a little jealous of that part.

And me, what did I do for the past five days? I did have a good time getting together with a few of my girlfriends. I went to the Salon du Chocolat (photos coming, I promise!) I cleaned out and reorganized our bedroom closet which believe me really needed it. I watched a lot of movies at home; I thought about going to a movie out but the only films I was interested in are the ones Georges will want to see also. I read a lot and played some computer games. Even worked a (very) little. I kept busy. But that's all I was doing, really; keeping busy.

Basically I feel like I was just killing time, waiting for the man I love to come home to me. Which is exactly what he said he felt like -- just waiting -- when I was gone in July. When you're the one who has to travel and you've got a full schedule, it's easier than being the one who is back at home, waiting.

That's been me this week: waiting. And waiting. Not miserable. Not crying myself to sleep at night. Still able to function, laugh, have fun. But my heart wasn't in any of it. I admit it; I was lonesome here all by myself, which is very strange to me as I spent most of my adult life on my own before Georges came along. I guess I'm spoiled now, having this wonderful loving man in my life. It was even too quiet without any of the kids around. Fortunately these absences are few and far between for us, but even when there is fun to be had (and I did have some fun, don't get me wrong), it's just not as much fun without him near by to share it with.

I think my heart has been on hold. And in a few hours time, when he walks through the door again and we go into each other's arms, I will feel like I can finally let the joie de vivre flow through my heart once again.

And tonight, wrapped warmly and safely in my husband's loving arms, I will have the first good night's sleep I've had all week.

Hooky

Remember when you were a kid, how great it was to play hooky from school once in a while? Of course it was never fun being home sick if you were really sick, but sometimes if you were just a little under the weather, your mom might let you stay home. Or if you got a snow day (for those of us living in snowy climates), that was the best EVER... listening to the radio hoping you'd hear your school's name in the list of school closings, you'd cheer out loud when you heard it. Even when I was a working adult in the corporate world, I'd take the occasional "mental health day" where I'd phone in sick even when I wasn't, just to give myself an unexpected day of fun or relaxation or just some much needed breathing room from my normal routine.

I'm playing a bit of hooky this week from my daily life. Georges is away on a business trip. All the kids are now out of the house on school holidays or trips. It's just me and the crazy cat here until Sunday.

I don't know what to do with myself.

It's not that I don't have dozens of things I could be doing. I have a closet I want to clean out and reorganize. I have clients clamoring for work I've promised them. I have a book of my own to write. And I have plenty of friends to catch up with here in town. For instance, I had a very nice afternoon today, despite the overly cold and now rainy weather here, where I first met Linda for lunch and for a visit to the Picpus Cemetery (more on that tomorrow) and then I later met Kyliemac for a hot chocolate at Starbucks near St. Michel. Starbucks isn't my favorite as it's too commercialized for my tastes but on a cold rainy day, I'll take it. It felt so great to get some time with some of my girlfriends and I plan to see other friends over the next few days as well.

Now I'm home, and everyone is finally gone. The last kid left this morning. With the time change, it turns dark much earlier. The rain is pouring down; I can hear it tap-tap-tapping on the skylight above my head as I echo my own tap-tap-tap on my keyboard.

I spent years being alone and most of the time, liking it quite a lot. Now... I feel strange. Something (someone) is definitely missing and there is a big hole there for the moment. Fortunately it's only for a few days and we have phone and SMS to keep in touch until then.

But it's strange, and rather interesting, how uncomfortable I feel being alone and knowing it's not just for a few hours (in which case I would relish the alone time) but for several more days. It's 6:45 pm and I have already put my warm cozy jammies on, having changed into comfortable dry clothing as soon as I got home off the overcrowded rush hour metro. I have a scrumptious glass of pineau des charentes close at hand to warm me up... because my central loving husband is out of town and we have no fireplace, so good liquor is the next best thing.

Just one more way in which I am still adjusting to married/family life. This time, I'm getting used to the occasional time apart; not loving it, but tolerating it. And mostly just counting the minutes until he walks in the door and I can run into his arms again.

Playing hooky isn't as much fun as I thought it would be.

Pour mon amour

Today is our one-year anniversary, and I just wanted to take a moment and say something to the one I love the most:

• For the loving look in your eyes, beginning with that first look on that first day;
• For the way you say "Hello" to me in that sexy, slightly mischievous way;
• For how you have been so open and willing to trust in us from the very start;
• For being the only man I've ever loved where I have never for one second had a single doubt that you love me;
• For showing me that unconditional love does exist, and for giving it so freely;
• For being willing to clean up the dead mice;
• And the cat box;
• For how much you love your children and how you care about them as individuals;
• For trusting me with your children;
• For how you accept me and my imperfections, and still tell me I'm beautiful;
• For letting me cry whenever I need to and for whatever reason, for holding me when I do, and for never telling me I'm "too emotional" for doing it;
• For how you let me love you, with all my heart and all my soul;
• For your arms that hold me tight each night and each morning, and as often as possible in between;
• For your music and for bringing music back into my life;
• For the huge "too small" kitchen where we keep bumping into each other;
• For private moments on an over-crowded metro train where we're the only ones there;
• For your overwhelming support for my writing, for believing I will be writing best-sellers and SOON, and for being my biggest fan;
• And for telling me straight when I'm not working to my own highest potential, because sometimes I need to hear that even when it's hard;
• For making me believe that sincere romance is not only possible, but essential, and for being so good at it without even trying;
• For being the one who cooks more often;
• For being such a wonderful husband;
• For the past year which has been the best, most magical of my life, and
• For being the one whose hand I want to hold every day for the rest of my life...

For these things, mon amour, and for so much more, I am so grateful that we met one year ago today. You have changed my life in ways both obvious and subtle, and I am a better person for having you in my world. I can't wait to see what the next 30, 40, or 50 (?) years will bring, because I look forward to every new day spent with you.

Merci, mon coeur. Je t'adore et je t'aime, toujours.

Mille baisers,
Ta femme Lisa

A Year of Loving Boldly

This week marks one full year since Georges and I discovered each other. ONE FULL, GLORIOUS, MIRACULOUS YEAR!!!!!!! (Sorry but that deserved a whole lotta exclamation points.)

It was October 4th of 2007 when he initiated our first Meetic chat session. That evening, a Thursday, we probably chatted for a couple of hours. The next evening, Friday, we chatted again for a long time, and he asked me out. Specifically he asked me if I'd like to meet him for lunch one day "in a public place", and I laughed and suggested Tuesday. We arranged our meeting time and place: 1pm in front of the statue of [insert name of Some Famous French Guy here] in the Place de la Sorbonne.

He had some plans over the weekend so I didn't necessarily expect to chat with him again until perhaps Monday, but we managed to catch each other online at least once over that weekend. OK, I suspect we were both online looking for one another, truth be told, because the conversation was getting very interesting indeed.

By Monday, it had gotten SO interesting that he asked if I couldn't meet him right then and there, but I had some work that day I couldn't get out of. On Tuesday, October 9th, the day of the Big Date, I spent the entire morning NOT working, trying to get ready and be beautiful for him, while he was busy chatting with me and asking if I could please meet him a half-hour sooner because he couldn't wait any longer.

All the while riding on the 89 bus to Luxembourg (the gardens, not the country), I could only observe how totally excited I was to meet this guy -- first time I'd been that excited to meet someone new in over a decade. And also how I was hoping and praying he would at the very least be a really nice guy and someone I could at least enjoy going out with for a while. It had been too many years with little romance and I'd just had enough of feeling like a romance-repellent.

And then. And then.

I've told this story before, but I don't care. I'm going to tell it again because I love reliving it. As the bus pulled up to the stop, I looked out through the doors and there he was, just as he'd looked in his photo and wearing the jacket he'd described. He wasn't supposed to be THERE, I thought... he was supposed to be a 3 minute walk from there in front of that statue.

I remember feeling like a magnet was pulling me toward him, as if I was floating as I stepped of the bus in my little zebra ballet flats. We were very proper, exchanging the usual two-cheek French bise, but it was slow and more intimate in its own way than if we'd lunged at each other like animals. I remember how he smelled, how his cheek felt next to mine, and that I had unthinkingly placed my hand on his chest as I leaned in.

We smiled, exchanged some words I can't quite recall because I couldn't think straight; I think I even said as much, that my brain wasn't working, that I couldn't get over that he was waiting for me right there. He tucked my hand in his arm and we walked into the gardens. We passed the beautiful Medici fountain, heading in the direction of the Senat building en route across the park to an outdoor restaurant he knew, and it was such nice weather for October (not at all like it is today, cold and rainy) that dining outdoors seemed the only logical thing to do on a date in Paris.

It was just in front of the Senat. He stopped, turned me toward him, and kissed me, full on the lips. I remember being a little startled that he would kiss me so quickly, and like that, and then being even more startled that I didn't seem to mind him kissing me like that. Uh-oh, I thought... this might really BE something.

The rest of the afternoon was spent kissing, holding hands, staring into each other's eyes, talking over a half-eaten lunch we can't remember anything about other than not eating it, more kissing, then forcing ourselves to part because I had to go back home for a phone conference with a client. At the time, I felt I also needed the break to regain my equilibrium, because although it's cliché to say it, he completely swept me off my feet. So I went back home on the 89 bus, and he went back to his office to not work. I still have the text message he sent me while I floated home on that bus. How I managed to conduct that conference call coherently, I'll never know.

A few hours later, we were having dinner. He'd suggested it earlier but I'd made some lame excuse, only to realize I really WANTED to see him again. So we met for dinner at Abbesses. I think I had fish, because it was a restaurant specializing in seafood, but otherwise I could tell you nothing about the meal. More kissing afterwards, outside standing under an awning in the pouring rain. Some time after that... breakfast.

Five days later, I was meeting his children, which sounds fast but the way it happened was actually very casual and unscripted, very natural and easy, nothing forced. And later that evening after having met them all, after seeing where he lived and realizing he trusted me enough already to trust me with the three most precious people in his life, and after letting it sink in what might be was happening between us, I cried in his arms because right then and there...

I knew.

And so did he. It was the Week That Changed Everything.

Happy Anniversary Week to my darling, amazing, and boldly loving Georges. Je t'aime, mon coeur.

Come sail away with me

While in Marseilles last month, we got to go on a little sailing excursion. This was the other thing I did during this vacation that I'd never done before -- go out on a sailboat (really, I had no idea I had lead such a sheltered life!) We went out in the harbor on our host's very small, very traditional single-sail boat.

Oh captain, my captain. Here's our host at the rudder.

He doesn't wear one often but I think Georges looks really handsome in a baseball cap. He looks well in hats in general, un vrai tête de chapeau.

The water, even far out in the middle of the harbor, was really that azure blue for which the Cote d'Azur is named. And the land along the water, with the white-grey craggy rocks and spartan vegetation reminded me of photos I've seen of some Greek islands. We were definitely on the Mediterranean!

It's just so relaxing being out on the water in a quiet sailboat, wind in your hair and sun on your face. I could definitely get used to this lifestyle!

Our friends, enjoying the day as much as we did.

And once again, Georges managed to take a few photos of me that I didn't hate. He's one of the few people who have ever taken photos of me where I actually felt photogenic.

Love brings out the best in me, I guess... even with wind-blown hair and no make-up, all freckled from the sun!

Marseilles is for lovers

Taken at the harbor in Marseilles. We took the train in for the day to visit friends who live just outside the city, and what glorious weather we had, as you can see.

Mon pêcheur

Our vacation was a chance for me to experience some things I'd never done before. One of them was fishing... can you believe I have never once in my life gone fishing? Georges' sister loves to fish and has all the equipment, so here Georges is setting up our fishing poles with the right hooks, etc.

Unfortunately neither I nor Georges caught a single fish, so my first attempt was unproductive and a little frustrating for me. C'est la vie, eh? Better luck next time. His sister did catch one interesting-looking little fish (I have no idea what it was called) and she had a lot of fun talking to some British boys who were fishing at the same spot. I think one of the pleasures of fishing must be talking with other pêcheurs, asking if they've had any luck yet, checking out the catch of the day, and perhaps talking about the one that got away.

Pure Joy

Part Deux

We're in full-blown party prep mode this week, because on Saturday we're throwing a little (well, not SO little) fête to celebrate our summer marriage with our family and friends here in Paris. We also have some out of town guests coming to stay with us for a couple of nights.

Georges is in charge of the menu, ordering champagne and ice, and cleaning up and organizing his share of the stuff, and he's done a wonderful job. I, because I'm home more, have been working on other cleaning (with the much appreciated support of our cleaning lady who is giving me some extra time this week), getting guest space in order, laundry, shopping for items for the party as needed -- and some minor redecorating, including a pilgrimage to Ikea tomorrow with a friend who has a car.

Today, however, was a day when nothing much got done... I've been down with a killer migraine, probably brought on by yesterday's two long shopping excursions and lugging heavy bags home on city buses and the metro. I have one of those backs where it takes next to nothing to throw my back out of alignment and then I'm in trouble, and it always manifests in my neck and shoulders, giving me a migraine. (If you are in Paris and can recommend a good English-speaking chiropractor as close to the 18th as possible, I'd love to know about it - please email me.) Standing in the overheated bank this afternoon for a half-hour as I waited to put some cash in my French account (you know, to pay for that trip to Ikea) didn't help my headache one little bit, either. Right now all I want is to lie down.

So posting will probably be light this week, all things considered. But I'm really excited about this party -- our wedding celebration continued -- despite the fact that there will be a whole new batch of French friends of Georges' who I may or may not be able to really talk to after we're introduced. Stay tuned for some new pix next week!