The Bold Soul

It's HERE!

My wedding dress just arrived, safe and sound. Basically I ended up paying as much/slightly more in shipping and customs fees than I spent on the actual dress, but it was worth it. For once, my instincts about clothing were right.

It's perfect. It even fits well now, and I'm losing some weight so it will fit even better by July.

Can't show you a photo of me in it, yet -- Georges would see it and we've agreed he will not see me IN the dress until the wedding day -- but here's the dress on the Nordstrom model:

Picture it with silver thong-sandals (photo of those to come) and you'll have the general idea.

C'est une jolie robe, n'est-ce pas?

Breezes

That sound you hear? The one that sounds like a soft rush of air? The kind of air that comes with a lovely ocean breeze?

That is the sound of me exhaling in contented relief. I get to check three important things off my Wedding To-Do list:

1. I just got off the phone with the innkeeper at a B&B at the Jersey Shore, and we're all booked for two nights with a lovely room that opens onto a big sundeck and has great views of both the ocean and a lake (I had no idea there were actual lakes right at the ocean's edge in New Jersey and I lived there my entire life). The owner was so nice, when she found out we were going to be honeymooners and that we wanted the best view they had, she turned around and offered to let us have their (hers and her husband's) very own master bedroom, which wasn't even listed on their web site but which they are now using on weekends while they renovate a new room in another part of the house. I saw a photo of the room and it's delightful, and we'll get our view. Plus we just liked how "at home" they already made us feel and we aren't even there yet.
2. Georges found the documents that I need to take to the translator for an estimate, so I can go there this week. Very important, these documents, as NJ requires them translated to get the license.
3. And last but not least... I think I found THE DRESS. I went online to every store I could think of in America who carries nice dresses in my size, and Nordstrom once again came through with flying colors. A dress is en route to my mother's house and she will promptly take it to the nearest UPS store. It should be here next week and if it looks as good on me as it looked on the model (who looked about my size) then it's going to be perfect. And it's not red after all... it's a lovely soft spring green. I'll post a photo once I'm sure I'm keeping it. I will still go to a store here in Paris this weekend just to see what else might be out there, but I have a sneaking suspicion I won't need to look any further.

Still more to do but this is REAL progress now. And I even made some real progress on the chapter I had to write for a client.

I think I will sleep well tonight. And dream of soft ocean breezes and the sound of the waves crashing on the beach while we spend our first nights together as husband and wife.

Two month countdown

There came a moment yesterday when I realized it was two months until our wedding day.

TWO MONTHS! There is still a lot to do. Plans are in the works and I feel like some progress is being made, but so far nothing has been completely finalized. Even the B&B we initially chose told us we'd need to book a 3-night minimum in July and we only plan to stay for 2 nights, so it was back to Google to check out the other B&Bs in the area. I'm still waiting for the caterer to give me a quote. Don't even get me started on the fact that when I look at dresses online at my favorite stores back home, I hate nearly everything that is available in my size. And I'm still fuming about the price of the airfares this summer... it seems a shame that we may spend 50% of our wedding budget on plane tickets just to get to the States to get married. That's not even going to be our real honeymoon.

Still... all day yesterday I kept looking at the clock at odd times, and saying things like, "Do you realize two months from this very minute, we'll be waking up and looking at each other and saying 'It's our WEDDING DAY!'?"

Or, "Two months from RIGHT NOW we'll be just two hours from saying 'I do'!"

Or, "By this time, two months from now, we'll already be married and having a wonderful time at our after-party with some champagne."

There is this giddy little part of me that sometimes stops me at whatever I'm doing or thinking, and does a little happy dance inside, shouting, "Married! You're actually getting married!"

I didn't think it was possible to feel giddy at nearly 47. Who knew? Damn, it feels good.

Spinning

This week has been a whirlwind of wedding plans, trying to figure out and organize paperwork to satisfy the French authorities for translation of our American wedding license into the proper French documents, and to top it off, it was a short 3-day work week here in France because there was a national holiday Thursday, another one on Monday, and in between a lot of people take the Friday off to get the full five day mini-break.

Not that we have time to go anywhere right now. Holiday or no holiday, we both have a ton of work to do for our jobs.

Let me start by describing the less pleasant aspects of marrying a French citizen, and I'm totally referring to the quagmire of red tape the French authorities throw at you when you're not a citizen of another E.U. country. First of all, know that it's quicker/easier for us to actually get married (i.e. the ceremony part) in my home state of NJ. In "Joisey", we walk into the town hall with our ID, a witness over 18 with a drivers license, and $28 to apply for our marriage license. Three days later, we get the license and can then be married by anyone in the state who is licensed to perform marriages. No physicals or blood tests required. If we wanted to get married in France, we'd have to do things like provide a document stating that no one in France objects to our marriage, get physicals with letters from doctors, publish "bans" two weeks before, and there's a lot more personal documentation needed. Add to this that my family is in New Jersey and since I won't be seeing them much from now on they deserve to at least see me get married.

Most people think it's the planning of the wedding that makes a bride into a Bride-zilla, but in my case it's what comes AFTER the wedding itself that gets crazy-making. After the ceremony and party at my sister's home, Georges and I will sneak off for two nights to a B&B at the lovely Jersey Shore. So we'll be back on Monday some time. On Tuesday or Wednesday, I will need to pick up our official copies of the wedding license, and of course we need a bunch of those so I can orchestrate name changes on everything from my social security card to my bank accounts, credit cards, and passport.

But the main reason we have to rush to get the license is that we next have to go into New York City to the French Consulate. There, we provide them with the license and all kinds of other documents to prove who we are, and they will generate the French "Acte de Mariage" and the "Livret de Famille", both of which you get when you get married in France. Without them, our marriage will not be recognized in France. We have to go in person to do this and I suspect they will also interview us together and possibly separately to judge whether this is the real deal or a fake. Not that we have any worries on THAT score. If we're lucky we can squeeze in a little sightseeing that same day.

And the main reason we have to get THOSE documents processed so quickly is that soon afterwards, probably the following week, I will have to schedule another appointment for myself alone, at the Consulate, for my long-stay "spouse visa". They need the French marriage documents or it's no go. Fortunately, the other documents they need for the spouse visa are considerably less than what one needs for the regular long-stay visa if one is self-employed and not over here on a work visa, student visa or any other visa (don't even ask, it's not pretty -- check the French Consulate web site near you for the gory details). The big question lurking in my mind about this visa appointment is the turnaround time. I've called twice and been told two radically different things: the first time I called, I was told it could take the same time to process the spouse visa as it would to process a regular long-stay visa, i.e. "up to TWO MONTHS"! Gulp... which would mean I could be separated from Georges that entire time while I wait it out, since he has to come back to Paris for work and the kids after two weeks with me in NJ. The second time I called the consulate, I got a different guy on the phone and a much nicer answer: if all documents are in order, I can get the visa the same day. This jives with the information I dug up on their web site. I need to call them a third time to confirm which it is so I can plan other things, like a return plane ticket!

The main reason I need this visa is that the laws changed in 2006, and now when you get married to a French person *whether in France or elsewhere, and you're not an EU citizen, you must get a spouse visa in order to come back to France and apply for the carte de séjour, which in turn leads to permanent residency and/or citizenship. It's like playing connect-the-dots, where every dot you connect leads to another dot and in order to reach the finish line, you need ALL the dots connected or you lose. And "losing" is not an option!

So you can imagine, I'm sure, that the paperwork aspects of this are leaving me rather stressed out. My head is spinning.

But then there's the FUN part of the wedding planning. Even though this is going to be a very small wedding, there are still a lot of details to take care of. I spent about 90 minutes on the phone with a good caterer I know (Country Picnic) giving them the info so they can give me a quote, and we can nail down the details and cross THAT off the list. And checking out wedding night accommodations was also fun, and at least I've got that narrowed down to 3 possible choices after over four hours of research (maybe I'll run a blog contest to let you all vote for your favorite).

Last but not least there is managing the costs. The airfares are unbelievable (and I mean that in a bad way), given that it's summer and what fuel prices are going for. Our two plane tickets will probably cost more than the entire wedding AND the cost of all the immigration paperwork put together, that's how bad it is. I found out yesterday that if we fly Continental, they're the cheapest, but if we fly on Monday morning instead of Sunday we can save nearly $500 USD PER PERSON, and that's HUGE. So we're going to fly on Monday, arrive around lunchtime in NJ, race to my mother's place and pick her up as our witness, and go to the town hall get the wedding license the very first thing.

I feel like the Road Runner, only he never seems to run out of steam, and I'm exhausted.

But I still can't stop smiling. Especially when I am sitting here blogging, and Georges is sitting across from me at the kitchen table, and he says, "I love you"... for no reason other than he does.

Fanning the flames of love

Reading this post just now reminded me of the rather unusual thing that happened on Friday night while MY FIANCÉ (sorry to put that in all caps but I'm not bored with saying it yet) was presenting me with my lovely ENGAGEMENT RING (saying that hasn't gotten old yet, either).

Georges took me to a very good Vietnamese restaurant near Abbesses. We got there before the dinner rush and got a table in a corner with a little bit of privacy but still with a view of the street outside. About half way through our main course, the restaurant started to fill up, when suddenly a very unusual couple came in: two gay men, one of whom weighed at least 300 lbs and was completely done up in a rather flamboyant drag. (Sad to say, considering the amount of effort that had clearly gone into his choice of outfit and makeup, he didn't make a very attractive woman and I suspect that under the many layers of pancake makeup that did little to hide his 5 o'clock shadow, he probably wasn't a very attractive man, either. But I digress.) The other man was more androgynous-looking in a 1970s-era beige corduroy jacket, pants and matching cap, but a man nonetheless.

It took them a few moments to choose where they were going to sit, apparently requiring some debate between them, and they ultimately chose the table directly next to ours. Other than periodically sneaking a sideways glance at them (it was obvious they wanted to be noticed), I did as I normally do when surrounded by French-speaking people who aren't speaking to me: I tuned out their conversation and focused on being with the man I love. I found out later from Georges that the drag queen was saying to his friend that he didn't like going to restaurants in certain parts of Paris like the 6ème, because inevitably -- and here's where I thought he would say that people made fun of him for his appearance and lifestyle -- men were always hitting on him.

OK. Whatever you have to tell yourself to get through the day, I guess.

We ate such a good meal that I was rather full and could have easily skipped dessert, but Georges seemed to want to try something exotic, so we agreed to share a banana flambéed with rum. Georges, for some reason, got up to go talk to the owner about making it, even though it was on the menu, but I didn't think a whole lot about it at the time. I had never had a flambéed banana so I thought it would be an interesting choice.

When the dessert arrived, it was a very large banana that had been dipped in some batter and pre-fried so that it was kind of puffed up, which made it really, really huge-looking. Uh... quite impressive, actually. In fact, the couple next to us seemed VERY impressed by it, because they laughed and the dramatic one said to his less dramatic friend, "Ça te rappelle quelque chose?" (Does that remind you of something?)

After setting the banana on fire, the waiter brought out two glasses of champagne and I thought how sweet that was for Georges to order champagne to go with the flambée. He's very good at making normal, every day moments very special.

Except this turned out not to be a normal, everyday moment. Because after the flames went out (on the banana), he reached into his right coat pocket and pulled out a little box, all wrapped in shiny gold paper and gold ribbon. He placed the box in front of me, and smiled, the love and the fire in his eyes so evident as always. I started to cry a little but for once, was able to contain myself so the other customers wouldn't have to see me go into my "ugly cry". And I opened the box.

Later that night, as we were curled up in bed together rehashing our evening and I was doing what women usually do in these situations -- holding my hand up in the light to admire the ring, of course (what did you think I meant?) -- Georges told me that when he presented me with the ring and I put it on, the thinner of the two men at the other table said something else:

"Je rêve qu'il m'arrive la même chose." I dream the same thing will happen to me.

I truly hope he gets his wish someday, because everyone deserves such a magical moment, to have the person he/she loves plan such a special evening with a perfect finale. Even if it does come with an overweight transvestite à côté. Because you can't plan everything. And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

We are definitely going back to that restaurant again.

Like the sparkle in his eyes when he asked me

He surprised me with this last night, at the end of a very lovely dinner out. It's perfect for me, simply perfect. And today, when we took the ring to get resized (just a tiny bit small), we also picked out our wedding bands, and order our names and the date engraved.

No turning back now... as if we'd want to.

A week of nearly wedded bliss

One week ago today, my life changed forever, and so did Georges', because he asked me to marry him. Which is a very pleasant surprise -- feeling like something has changed in this way -- considering we pretty much knew we were heading in this direction after the first week of our relationship, and started actually discussing it out loud after the first month. Some people think six months is "too soon" to be planning a wedding, but when you're "of a certain age" I think you should be given some credit for knowing yourselves and what's right for you. And we've known this was a done deal for a very long time.

So it's really funny how this little ritual of asking and affirming has taken our relationship to an even deeper level. There are things we are still learning about each other after "only" six months, of course. For instance, he didn't know that in my family, I'm called "Lee" instead of "Lisa", and he discovered this after listening to me call my sister to tell her the news, and saying "Hi, it's Lee". I don't even think much about it, but there are only three people on earth that call me this: my mother, my sister, and now my brother-in-law who seems to have picked up the family habit after being around us for over 20 years.

Yet every day this past week, we keep having these frequent moments of stopping whatever we happen to be doing, and just looking into each other's eyes, and then saying something like, "My bride" or "Mon mari" as we try our new titles on for size. Friday night we attended a friend's wedding and I got to introduce Georges as my fiancé for the first time, and don't think THAT wasn't a real trip!

To fill in some of the blanks for those of you who have asked or wondered:

• Yes, I answered his question in both French and English. Since he asked me in both languages I thought it was only fair, although I think the most French I could manage in that moment, through my happy tears, was "Oui, mon coeur".
• We will be married on Saturday, July 12th, at my sister's home in New Jersey. Very small, intimate gathering of about 20-30 family and close friends with a relaxed party afterward.
• A very good friend of mine is going to officiate. This makes it extra special as neither Georges nor I are religious, so we don't want to have it at an actual church... but my friend is an ordained interfaith minister and will custom-design the ceremony with us.
• Since we are doing the official bit in New Jersey and none of our French/Parisian family and friends can be there, we are planning to do a party of some kind in September after summer holidays are over. I'm hoping to video the ceremony so we can show it at this party.
• We will do the vows in both English and French, though. My friend has a very good French accent so she'll have no problem helping us pull this off.
• I do not plan to wear white, or even off-white. And no big formal poofy merengue-type thing, either... it's just not me and at 47 there is no reason to act the princess. If I can find the right dress, I'm thinking of wearing red, and something low-cut. a dress I can wear out to another occasion some time. I already bought the shoes though (photos to follow)!

There are many more details to work on so I"ll share as we go along. In the meantime, I'm going back into our little bubble for a while, where life feels wonderful, and love just grows and grows.

Inévitable

I wasn't really planning to blog on the first day of my vacation with Georges; really, I wasn't. I mean, I do have SOME restraint and I know "vacation" means unplugging and relaxing. I was planning to do pretty much exactly what we ended up doing:

1. Sleep in
2. Eat breakfast
3. Take a walk with Georges around Saint-Raphael
4. Buy a fresh melon at the Sunday marché
5. Take photos of some of the pretty Provençal houses in the old town
6. See some shoes in a store window, making mental note to come back later in the week
7. Get excited to see the Mediterranean for the first time
8. Be amazed at the unexpected sunshine and warmer-than-we-expected temperatures
9. Test how cold the waters are (not bad, really; no one swimming but some kids in bare feet in the shallow surf)
10. Look at the pretty views of the beach, harbor and marina
11. Take a walk along the waterfront promenade and enjoy all the palm trees
12. Stop for some champagne at a beach-front terrace to celebrate
13. Have lunch at a place on the beach with Georges, the Little Guy and his sister
14. Come home and have a sieste like everyone else in this part of France does on a Sunday (seriously, there was barely a soul -- bold or otherwise -- out on the streets after 3pm)
15. Hang out, play games, talk together as a group

But something happened between #10 and #11 that took me by surprise.

As we stood next to the water's edge, he put down the bag with the melon. I thought he just wanted to have both hands free to kiss me some more. He took my camera and camera bag and put it on the sand. I started to wonder what was going on. Then he removed his hat. I couldn't breathe for a moment. And he put his arms around me, looked me in the eyes and said he wanted to ask me a question. I started to cry.

Slowly, he lowered himself on one knee, right there on the plage. And he asked me the question -- in French and English -- we both knew was already decided between us long ago, but which still needed to be asked.

And answered.

Six mois de paradis

Tonight, Georges and I are going out to dinner to celebrate the six month anniversary of our first date. Technically our anniversary is the 9th, but we aren't at liberty to go out for dinner tomorrow -- but it's OK because our first date was on a Tuesday anyway and if this hadn't been a leap year the 9th would have been today.

It doesn't seem at all like six months. Sometimes it seems that no time at all has elapsed: those moments when we look at each other or touch, and have the same rush of spontaneous emotion we felt in those first early weeks. The intensity of our feelings just gets stronger with time rather than lessening, which is a wonder to us since we spent the first 3 or 4 months marveling at how strongly we already felt then. Now? Sometimes there are not enough words, and even the writer and prolific talker in me is silenced by the waves of love and energy that can pass between us with a mere glance.

At other times, we feel we've already been together forever, an "old couple" already, because we are so comfortable and in sync with each other... even when discussing things that are new territory for us, we tend to find our views are sympa with one another. We have yet to have anything even approaching a disagreement, much less an argument. I'm sure there is going to be something for us to argue about, sooner or later, but we just haven't gotten there yet.

I've been living here for over six weeks now, and although I still have things in boxes (as evidenced by my searching through the boxes for tax records this morning, April 15th being just around the corner) and we haven't figured out where to put the overflow of all our things, I feel pretty much completely at home now. I'm getting along very well with the children and the others in our daily lives... even my French is improving a bit, or at least my confidence in speaking it is increasing. I wouldn't say I've gotten my own routine down yet -- I am making a shocking lack of progress on certain large-scale projects -- but I now understand the routine of the household much better, and am adapting to fit into it and do my part.

I entitled this post "Six months of heaven" because I still can't quite believe the way events transpired to bring us together, and how we both made very conscious choices to be together and stay together from the very beginning, despite each of us having some individual misgivings. You know how it is: you create an idea in your mind of the perfect relationship, what you think will or won't work for you,  your idea of "heaven on earth". After years of single-hood, I was pretty damn clear on what I did and did not want. In the "don't want" department, I had spent years telling my friends I wanted to meet a man sans children, even though I like children, because I had an idea of being able to just be a couple with the freedom travel a lot; and I wasn't particularly keen on Frenchmen (having had a bad experience with one when I was a much younger woman). For his part, he was at a point in his life where he wanted to enjoy the company of a nice woman but he was definitely not looking for any sort of serious relationship. We even discussed these "obstacles" during our lunch that first day... totally candid right from the start. I'm not sure either of us ever thought we'd find love again, and we definitely didn't expect to find the greatest love of our lives at this point in our lives. Yet it took us next to no time to be willing to accept each other, and the situation, as a complete package, knowing that maybe it wasn't what we thought we'd wanted but also knowing that what we felt for each other couldn't be ignored. We were incapable of walking away from one another... so we didn't.

Instead, we adjusted our ideas of what "heaven" looks like in a relationship. Whatever we might have thought we were looking for, before setting eyes on one another on that beautiful October day six months ago, once we were together, WE were what we wanted. It was just that simple. One of my favorite movie lines says it best: "You are everything I never knew I always wanted" (Matthew Perry in "Fools Rush In").

And Georges IS everything I always wanted but just never knew it. Yes, he fits many, even most of my ideas of the perfect man for me, but he gives me even more than those things I once wrote on a checklist entitled "Ideal Relationship". No one has ever made me feel more loved, more adored, more cherished, more valued, more respected and more wanted than Georges has done. No one has ever made me want to be so generous with myself, to give to him in ways I never thought I would want to do with anyone. Yesterday, I repaired the hems on a pair of his pants, darned a hole in one of his socks and ironed a dress shirt for him (the femme de menage normally does the ironing but she's been off for a few days). These are things I usually avoid doing -- I rarely iron even for myself! -- yet I actually enjoyed doing those things for Georges because I see it as showing him how much I care, even in small ways. Like buying his favorite beer or chocolate just because I know he likes it (and why should the kids get all the treats?) I want him to be comfortable, I want to reduce whatever stresses are in his life, and I want to do things to increase the quality of his life -- because I love him that much. Every day I think: "What can I do today to show Georges how much I love him? What would put a smile on his face today?" I love the way he loves me, so I want to give that wonderful love right back to him. Because he deserves it.

So here I am, six months into the most important relationship of my life -- and I think if you asked Georges, he'd say the same. We're only at the beginning of our life together, and it's already the most incredible experience... we can only imagine what's ahead for us, what questions and answers are in front of us.

Tonight, we're going back to the restaurant where we had our first dinner together, on rue Abbesses in Montmartre. The scene of... well, not the crime, but the turning point for us. Because on that first night together, instead of turning and running the other way because the situation wasn't 100% "ideal" -- and either of us could have been the first to bolt for the door -- we turned into each other's arms, and we've never looked back. Except to reminisce together about those first miracle hours and days (because we never get tired of remembering any of it).

And here we will stay, wrapped in our own little version of heaven.

Reunited and it feels so good

Me: up early, checking arrival schedule online, and Georges' plane due in only half hour late so "normal". Breath sigh of relief when receive texto -- "Orly" -- so I know he's on the ground.

An hour later, hearing his footsteps in the courtyard. Kisses... lots of them.

Him: shower, glass of OJ to refresh a bit from the red-eye flight and lack of sleep.

Then: short pre-lunch nap for both of us... so much better (and warmer) with him on the other side of the bed. Isn't "snuggling" a great word?

Up at lunch; decide sushi is in order so off to favorite local place.

Constantly stare into each other's eyes and reach across table to touch.

Catch bus to Brentano's near Opera for a little English-language book shopping.

On bus and metro home, more gazing into eyes and kissing. We are one of those couples you can't help staring at when you see them.

Home again on a rainy Saturday afternoon with no children around, a bit damp from being caught in the rain with no umbrella -- but he gave me his chapeau. Galant is a French word, after all.

Love.

Lazy all afternoon, hanging out in bed listening to great music, reading, iPod Touch Mahjong, making plans for Sunday with friends, talking, and lots and lots of snuggling and kissing (with a break for chocolate).

Dinner in bathrobes: big salad and Corona Extra with lime. By candlelight.

After dinner, looking forward to more lazy, loving time together.

Can't believe how GOOD real love feels, especially after a few days apart. Maybe I should send him out of town more often?

...

Nah.

Separation Anxiety

My body feels, this week, like it's been run over by un camion, and a damn big one, too. I've had a headache off and on for a couple of days. Yesterday in the morning and again in the evening, I had some digestive upset (I'll spare you the details except to say it wasn't la Gastro again, thank Immodium very much). And I look and feel tired.

The fatigue I can definitely chalk up in large part to the time change, which beats the hell out of me every spring, and also to not sleeping well the past few nights. But the not sleeping, the headache, and the digestive noise are really all stemming from the same source.

Anxiety. Specifically, separation anxiety. Georges is leaving on a business trip tomorrow, to Dakar, and will return on Saturday morning.

You see, I'm spoiled now. Spoiled by getting to be with the man I love every single day. Spoiled by "spooning" and falling asleep in his arms every night, and seeing his loving smile first thing every morning. Spoiled by being able to look across a table or a room and connect our minds with just a glance. Spoiled by being able to connect easily with him through out respective days. And I like being "spoiled" this way. We haven't been together long enough (six months next week!) to where either one of us can see a few days apart as a bit of a "nice break"... and come to think of it, I hope we NEVER become that kind of couple, the ones who are secretly relieved when one partner goes out of town for a few days.

This is our first separation since the long, lonely month of December when we were apart for 24 FRIGGING HORRIBLE days -- a combination of business trip of his and my holiday visit home to New Jersey, which I'd already had booked before meeting Georges. So we spent our first Christmas about as far apart as you can physically get, with an ocean between us. Yeah, yeah, I know -- three days apart isn't so terrible, and intellectually I agree with you. And maybe I'll even sleep better on my own, who knows? After all, I've slept alone more in my life than with someone next to me.

Business trips are a part of life for a lot of people. I have friends whose husbands or boyfriends travel for many days every single month, and somehow they cope and adjust. My sister's husband recently had to start spending two nights a week in a hotel because he had to take a new position with his current employer that requires him to drive about two hours to work EACH WAY, four days a week, and rather than having him exhaust himself with all that driving they agreed that he could do the hotel thing if he wanted (and the company pays for it) -- it was either that or he'd have to risk being out of a job altogether OR being forced to move out of state less than two years after building and moving into their dream home; so after twenty years of marriage where they virtually never had to sleep apart, now sometimes they must. I don't think either one of them enjoys it, but they're dealing with it. This is just the way it goes sometimes with certain jobs or professions; travel goes with the territory.

The travel junkie in me also thinks it's great that Georges gets to go to interesting places like Dakar as part of his work. Who knows, maybe some time there will be opportunities for me to accompany him to some of those interesting places, as it seems likely he may be traveling a bit more in the future (although not excessively, at least - THAT I would not like, and neither would he). So I don't begrudge him the circumstances that are creating the need for more travel, as it's part of some very positive changes for him at his job and I fully support what he's doing because he's happy about the changes.

But I can't help feeling some anxiety about us being apart. I am lucky to have a lot of help around the house between the nanny, cleaning lady, a lovely English-speaking neighbor and Georges' daughter; yet it's a little unnerving for me to be the adult in charge when I haven't mastered the language fully. I'm still hating answering the house phone.

More than that... I am having flashbacks to December and remembering how much it sucked that we couldn't be in the same room together. Three days, this time around, isn't bad, and it surely won't kill us. But we may have occasion in the future to be separated for longer stretches... not because WE want it to be that way, but by necessity, for one reason or another.

So this trip is just touching a lot of emotional nerves for me right now. I just hate it, the being apart. So does he. No amount of web-camming and instant-messaging can compensate for being able to feel the touch of the one you love.

Of course, there is always the coming back TOGETHER to look forward to... wink, wink, nudge, nudge. And don't think we won't take full advantage of it. We're over 45... not DEAD, you know.

BAD Girlfriend!

We finally got around to pushing our clocks forward last night, and before bed did the usual ritual of going around the house to reset the clocks: on the stove, on all the telephones, watches, and of course our alarm clock/radio. (Thank goodness our computers take care of themselves.)

It was especially important that I reset the alarm clock, because Georges and the Little Guy had to get up extra early to attend a big judo competition that the Little Guy was involved in. This particular clock is a Sony product I picked up a couple of months ago, and although I've used Sony clocks many times before, for some reason THIS one is overly complicated for setting times and alarms.

For one thing, on top of the clock was what looked like a handy button for automatically changing your clocks for Daylight Savings Time, marked (oddly enough): "DST". I hit this button. The clock flashed a message: DST ON! But the time didn't change. Hmmm... hit the button again, this time DST OFF! And still the time remained the same. I tried it a couple more times, but the time never changed; the only difference was a little light marked "DST" on the display went ON or OFF accordingly. I gave up and moved on to figuring out how to manually roll the time ahead one hour. Which I did, successfully. Georges even double-checked me to make sure, and when we fell asleep both the clock radio and the telephone time were exactly the same time: one hour ahead.

The alarm went off on schedule at 7:45am. Since the clock is on my side of the bed, I hit the snooze and nudged Georges into some form of semi-awakeness. He trudged off to get himself and his son ready for the big event. I started to go back to sleep.

A few minutes later, he came back into the room, fully dressed, big smile on his face. It was then he informed me that somehow, I had set the alarm clock ahead TWO HOURS INSTEAD OF ONE. And it was really only 7:00am, not 8:00am.

I had robbed the poor man of an extra hour of precious sleep on the one day a year we all lose an hour anyway. I am a bad girlfriend.

He laughed it off and said he'd just stay up and read or surf the 'net or something, and that I should go back to sleep. But of course I couldn't do that, because I couldn't figure out what the hell had happened? I knew the time had been correct when we'd gone to bed because it matched the time display on the phone; but now the alarm clock was showing an hour ahead of the phone.

Then I remembered: the DST button. The DST light was still in the "on" position on the clock display. I am guessing now that although the time didn't change immediately when I clicked the DST button, the clock must be programmed to automatically roll forward or backward at the appropriate official time overnight. So it just added the other hour on its own.

Damn freaking technology. Of course I fixed the time right then and there. Georges is having fun teasing me about it but of course it's all done with love. I still feel really guilty though.

Not so guilty, however, that I didn't manage to go back to sleep the entire time they were at the judo thing. I woke up at 11:00am (DST). Georges, on the other hand, looks like he really needs a nap.

Chateau Weekend: The Reader's Digest Version

We returned home last night from our WONDERFUL getaway to the Loire valley to discover that for some inexplicable reason, our Internet service has been cut over the weekend and is still not restored. I am only able to blog this by the grace of our next-door neighbors who allowed us to patch into their home network.

So here is the "short version" of our weekend. Longer details and wonderful pix to follow as soon as I can spare the bandwidth.

Weekend was supposed to be rainy and snowy all the time. It wasn't. Miraculously blessed with sunshine and blue skies at precise moments where needed to tour chateau gardens. At EVERY chateau we visited.

I DROVE A CAR. In Europe. For the first time. And didn't damage the car, any pedestrians, stray cats or the many cyclists who were clearly in training for the next Tour de France.

Favorite discovery at a chateau: the amazing frothy architecture at Chambord. When you're standing on the top floor terraces getting a close-up view of all the spires, staircases and chimneys, it's like looking at a fancy French pastry.

Franco-American trivia point that Georges did not know: that the Chambord liqueur that many Americans love and think is SOOOO French is something most French people have never heard of, and I'm not even sure you can buy it in liquor stores in France. The target market is outside of France. Their web site claims it was "inspired by" a recipe that dates back to the 17th century and Louis Quatorze, and that it's made "on the premises of a traditional Loire Valley chateau south of Paris" (implying that it's made AT Chambord, when it's really not). Yet you can buy a bottle in the gift shop at the famous chateau. I bought one just so Georges could try some, and to have some around for visitors from home. Or to drizzle on some cheesecake because it's seriously good that way. But isn't it interesting how marketers can completely bamboozle the buying public? The Chambord name has been licensed to many products over the years, including cars and coffee pots. I guess the idea is: Voila! Let's make it sound elegant and French, and then people will buy it. And so we do. (If you have seen Chambord sold elsewhere in France, leave a comment... I'd be curious about that.)

The region is home to many troglodyte caves, some of which you can tour. There is also an aquarium and a tourist attraction where they have recreated all the most famous Loire chateaux in miniature. We ran out of time for those, but maybe on the next trip.

The local Chinon wine is quite excellent. As was our Easter night dinner at L'Epicerie in Amboise, located at the foot of the town's chateau. You will probably need a reservation especially during weekends and holidays (we did), but we got a gourmand 4-course meal and great service with wine (and tip included) for 36 euros each. Can't beat that!

Leonardo daVinci totally rocks. Second time I visited his last home, and I enjoyed it as much as the first time. The man was just plain freaking brilliant.

And sometimes you have to skip the tourist stuff, the great architecture and the history lessons, and just snuggle up alone together in your cozy hotel room with the sound of the rain on the roof, and tune out the world. There's nothing better.

Not even finding out that French kings have chosen salamanders and porcupines as their official royal logos.

A way with words

The house is permeated with the silence of the early morning hours (and a still-sleeping boy), and the smell of brewing coffee. Two lovers of a certain age are standing in the kitchen, dressed for the day but not yet fully awake.

She leans against him, still un peu fatigué, and they wrap their arms around one another, gazing into each other's eyes and smiling.

He: "You are so shiny."

She (giggling): "Shiny?"

He: "You make the sun shine in my eyes when I look at you."

Isn't it obvious why she loves him? His "sun-shine" makes her feel beautiful.

Adjustments

So, it's been three weeks since I've been at Georges' house full-time and just one week from the date we actually moved all my things in. It has gone incredibly well in every respect, much more smoothly than we could have hoped, really. And there is nothing better than being next to the one you love, every morning and every night.

[contented sigh]

Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't the only adjustment I'm having to make lately. (In the U.S. you've all flipped your clocks ahead but we aren't doing ours in France for two more weekends yet. Consequently with every meeting I have with clients in North America, I am having to figure out all over again what the time difference is THIS week.) I'm much more comfortable being in the house, and now having a few of my things scattered about here and there really helps me feel more at home. I know how to work the washing machine, and I know where things are located in the kitchen, pantry and bathroom. I finally figured out the trick to locking the front door. But there are still things I am learning about and adjusting to.

Last week, with the February holidays over and the usual school routine reinstated, I was able to observe the daily routine of the nanny and the boys. I now know when the femme de ménage comes on her two half-days each week. They both do a wonderful job, these women, and my only job with them is to pretty much stay out of the way and let them do what they already know how to do. Yet my ability to converse with either of them is sorely limited, since neither speaks English and my French is still at a rather basic conversational level. We're more or less making ourselves understood, but I find myself wishing I could say more, be a bit friendlier, really talk with them. I find myself hiding out in my office a lot, even when I'm not actually working, because I don't want to be in the way, and I don't have much I can really say to them when they're here.

Still, I do get some alone time. The nanny has stretches during the day where she is either picking up the boys from school/after school activities, or dropping them off, or on nicer days (not that we've had many of late) they might go to the park when school is out. When the two older boys are at school, there is just the baby here, and he's really a happy, good baby and very little trouble. And even when the kids are all here at lunch times, she manages to keep them occupied so that there isn't too much noise (I think she's afraid the boys are bothering me, although they aren't). I was a little worried, before I moved in, about how I might manage to get any work done with little children in the house most of the day, but now that I've seen the routine in action, I don't think it's going to be much of an issue at all, save for perhaps the odd interruption. Like the one just 5 minutes ago where the Little Guy tapped quietly on my door because he couldn't find the paper MacBook "computer" Georges had drawn for him yesterday (very creative!); the cleaning lady had moved it, of course, but I was able to locate it and received a huge smile as my reward. And that was well worth the interruption.

Yesterday, we crossed another milestone in our relationship: meeting the family. We were invited to visit one of Georges' sisters, along with her son, daughter and granddaughter, and to spend the day. First of all, going anywhere outside of Paris proper excites me because it gives me a chance to see a bit more of whatever else is out there. I still marvel at how beautiful the classic architecture can be here, so elegant and, well, French! They live in a very nice suburb roughly south-west of the city, in a lovely neighborhood adjacent to some woods with walking trails. Already the spring flowers have been making an appearance and I saw irises, flowering tulip trees and daffodils galore!

The family members all speak and understand at least some English -- probably better than I do with French -- but for the most part they all spoke in French together (of course, and why not?) and with me, and I had the fun of seeing how much I could understand and communicate (surprise, surprise, I did better than I expected so maybe that means my listening comprehension is improving). I'm sure, however, that they think I'm a very quiet woman -- but wait until they get to know me better and I can communicate better in French! They were all warm, friendly and welcoming to me, and I enjoyed being with them, watching Georges and his kids interacting with their family, and seeing some family photos -- my favorite being one of Georges taken circa 1972 where he had very long hair and totally looked like a HIPPY (still incredibly handsome, of course, even with the long hair, but a hippy nonetheless!)

Up until now, the only way either Georges or I have been able to meet any of one another's relatives was via web cam at Christmastime. So now the ice has really been broken, at least on the French side, and we both thought it went really well. I was very moved and a little emotional at the end of the day when Georges' sister told me how happy she was to see her brother so happy. She couldn't have said anything better to make me feel comfortable coming into this family.

So, as I said... it's been a period of many adjustments. New family to meet and get to know. Finding my way around the neighborhood looking for interesting shops. Learning the new bus lines. Learning the household routine and figuring out how to get over my fear of making mistakes in French (like for one thing, I apparently need to speak louder -- I tend to speak very softly in French, probably out of insecurity, and people aren't understanding me because they can't HEAR me.) There are obviously a lot more adjustments to be made and who knows what they will be or how it will go. And I didn't get as much unpacking done this past week as I might have wanted.

But I think we're off to a wonderful beginning together. Now, if I could only figure out where to put all the shoes...

Move over, June Cleaver

All is quiet. I'm temporarily alone in the house... well, except for the cat.

I have just kissed my two men goodbye at the door: both the tall one with the Gregory Peck eyes, and the very short one who lost his second tooth hier. I wished them both a bonne journée and waved them off with a smile.

OK, I stopped short of handing out lunch bags at the door. My hair and makeup wasn't done, and I was still in my pajamas -- no high heels and perfectly coiffed hair here. Both the nanny and the femme de ménage arrive soon, so it's not like I have an entire household to run; I don't even have to iron Georges' shirts myself. And I have a lot of work to do for my clients; also have to go across town to clean up the old apartment and make sure I didn't leave anything behind. 

But there is a grocery shopping list on the fridge, some things to be dropped off at the pressing and some laundry I could be folding. And I know that around 6 or 6:30 tonight, I will be eagerly waiting and watching for l'homme de ma vie to come home to me, and tell me about how his day went.

I am definitely having a June Cleaver moment. Without the pearls.

Démenagé!

Well, we did it. We moved me across town, and into Georges' life. Or should I say, we've merged our lives together -- into one big pile of boxes and a lot of things to reorganize.

Saturday was Moving Day. We picked up the small van at noon, and our first stop was to head out to Ikea where we made our first major purchase together: a new bed and mattress, and Georges insisted on a new desk chair for me (on which I am comfortably installed at this very moment!) Plus a small area rug for the office/guest room and assorted small household items, because when you're at Ikea it is impossible to resist all the great deals and cool designs. They can even make a wastebasket look interesting, those people at Ikea. Total time getting to and shopping at Ikea: approx. 3.5 hours, including lunch and the wait time to pick up our order.

Then, we headed back into Paris and down to the 15th to my apartment, where Georges will now never let me hear the end of it for telling him, "Oh, it's really just a few little boxes, amour". Well, there were just a few boxes -- mostly packed with books and papers. Plus about 648 bags of things that wouldn't fit into boxes. Thank God for a building with an elevator and that we were able to park the van right in front of the door. While I frantically finished packing up the food in the kitchen and the last remaining books, and putting piles of things near the elevator, Georges moved it all downstairs and loaded the van. Fortunately he had the foresight to upgrade the size of the van and everything just fit.

Cutting across town in the late Saturday afternoon traffic, we had a chance to take a breather and drink some water. The next challenge would be to find a parking space close to the door of his building. This proved to be no small task, and he had to circle the block about six times before a spot opened up nearby, just barely big enough to squeeze the van in, with a little creative "bumper car" action on Georges' part. (This is how people park cars in Paris; c'est normal.) Then it was the two of us, sprinting back and forth into the entry of the building with all the things, trying to get it all in before it got dark and started raining. Then of course we had to do the second step, carting it all from the entry to the far side of the courtyard and into the house. Afterward, we decided to take the van back and go get ourselves a much-deserved drink. When we got home, we were both too exhausted to bother with putting the new bed together or doing any kind of serious unpacking, and instead settled for arranging the piles so we could walk across the floor without killing ourselves. The cat didn't know what to make of it all but she liked having new places in which to hide before jumping out to attack our unsuspecting feet (a hobby of hers).

Sunday, first I went with Georges while he cast his vote in round one of the mayoral elections. We also hit Picard to stock up on frozen foods and to the hardware store for a few odds and ends we needed. Then Georges spent nearly four hours -- bless his heart -- putting together this very complicated bed frame and the four big storage drawers underneath, and not once did I hear him swear at it. Meantime, I sorted which things needed to go upstairs and took as much as I could, leaving the heaviest boxes for him (it's awkward, this spiral staircase, when you are carrying bulky things). Then I put away groceries, we cleaned out the bathroom cabinets so I could put things away in there (and out of the reach of small children). So as of this morning we had the downstairs floor cleared enough that the nanny can do her job with the little guys without having too many obstacles.

The nice weather of Saturday has since turned horrible... starting with rain most of yesterday and today it's rain with some vicious wind gusts; a good time to stay home and work. This morning I spent a couple of hours unpacking some clothes (but not all) and making space in the office to unroll the new tapis. Soon, the boys will be home for lunch and I will go and visit with them before forcing myself to come back up here and do some much-needed W-O-R-K.

Last night, before falling asleep, we talked about the weekend, and about the future. Then we just looked at each other from the comfort of our new bed, and smiled. There were simply no words big enough to answer "How do you feel?"

Sharing

Part of living with the one you love is sharing things. The toothpaste. Half your Clementine. The covers.

Your cold.

Yesterday afternoon, I got hit by a "sneak attack" upper respiratory thing -- you know the kind I mean, the ones that come from out of no where and within an hour you are up to your eyeballs in muck (or at least that's how it feels). By early evening I felt like crawling under a rock, but I had committed myself to meet a friend for a yoga meditation class we are trying out, and I didn't want to cancel on such short notice after having told her just that morning I would definitely be at the fountain at Saint Michel by 7:15. I did the class and actually felt a bit better afterward, so that when I met Georges afterward for a drink, I thought I was shaking the darn thing off.

Not so. Not only did I wake up feeling like an elephant was sitting on my chest, but I seem to have already passed whatever it is (Bad chest cold? Bronchitis? Too soon to tell, but I fear the latter) to poor Georges. Ugh.

So instead of going to see "Paris" tonight at the movies as planned, we will probably be home, drinking gallons of orange juice and trying to beat this thing back with every remedy known to both French and American over-the-counter medicine.

This is what happens when you love someone so much, you're willing to risk a kiss even when you know they are contagious. I don't like being sick, and neither does he... but sometimes, it's just plain worth it.

Alone, at last

I sit in my apartment just off rue Labrouste, surrounded by the debris that comes from packing one's belongings into boxes, suitcases or whatever container happens to be handy (plastic trash bags are remarkably versatile in this respect, in case you didn't know this and are moving any time soon. They're not just for the poubelle anymore). I haven't really cleaned in here in at least a month, because I'm hardly ever here, so things are pretty... ah, NOT pretty... and now I am faced with cleaning EVERYTHING in the morning, because the proprietaire wants to bring a prospective new tenant here tomorrow afternoon. Suffice to say, I've got stuff to do, and lots of it.

It is a Saturday night, and I am actually here alone. I haven't been alone on a weekend since the beginning of October (I don't count the times we were separated by necessary travel in December, because that 24 days of separation was too painful and we both prefer to block most of it out). My better half is presently on the TGV speeding south, a brief overnight trip to transport one child to visit with family for part of the winter school holidays. I waved them off at the platform at Gare de Lyon several hours ago, and then headed back into the métro toward the Tuileries shopping arcades to pick up a copy of Petite Anglaise's new (and first-ever!) book, just out in England (and in stores in Paris that carry English-language books -- it comes out in the US in a few more months but you can probably order a copy online and have it shipped over the pond).

Although I have a lot of packing and cleaning up to do, as I dive into the book on the #12 line from Concorde to the 15ème on my way back to my place, I consider going out to a movie later but decide to give myself permission to just stay in and read tonight. Above ground again at Convention, I pick up a Nutella and banana crèpe for "dinner" (hey, it has fruit in it so it's healthy), and hop a bus to get me the last 10 blocks while the food is still hot. I arrive at my apartment, settle in with my gooey French pancake and "Petite", read a few pages... and then I realize it.

I think this may well be the last Saturday night I ever spend alone, with myself, in a place I live in alone, all by myself.

Wow. I hadn't thought of it that way before, until now. But "my place" is very nearly no longer MY place at all. In fact it now only feels like the place I come to work during the days and to crash here the few nights a week when I'm not at Georges' house. I used to love cocooning up here, and was totally comfortable and at home right from the beginning; it was my Ikea-chic little refuge after a hard day of pounding the Paris sidewalks in search of... well, nothing really, other than I just love walking in Paris. (Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it, n'est-ce pas?) Even when Georges and I were first dating, I used to love being here with him. I still do, although we now spend very little time here. And at this moment I feel no affinity whatsoever for the space that is still technically my own, at least for a few more weeks until I hand over the keys. This is no longer "home" to me. Home is now where Georges is.

But more than becoming aware of, and mildly surprised by, my new-found detachment to my apartment is the realization that I am no longer a célibataire, a single girl, "still single", "over 40 and single", or whatever euphemisms for "I'm single and not happy about it" people are typing into a Google search that end up leading them here. I am now part of a couple, and on the verge of becoming part of a blended family, and about to co-habitate for the first time in my life. My books will become mixed up with his books (although mine, being in English, will have the text on the bindings pointing to the right while all the others in French will face left). Our clothing will share closet space (I am already wondering where I will put all my coats and jackets, and can we please talk about SHOE STORAGE?) The femme de ménage who comes every week may be laundering my "unmentionables" along with the rest of the family washing; I've never had someone else do my laundry and in fact I may end up continuing to do my own until I can get better used to the idea.

In my heart, I have been "no longer single" pretty much since the day Georges and I first laid eyes on one another. Now, however, we are taking the emotional commitment to a more serious and practical level, one that involves joint decisions and discussions about money, making space in bathroom cabinets for all my girl-stuff, and him asking me if there is anything special I want from the supermarket because I have my own favorite foods (and he already knows my favorite flavor of cereal). As I reflect on this -- the fact that I am stepping out of a lifestyle I have known for decades, and into one that is fresh and new and completely unfamiliar territory for me -- I notice I am only feeling one thing.

Utterly calm and at peace about it.

Well then. Isn't this interesting? I am not sad. I am not worried. I am not stressing out. I am not regretful. I guess that is the "sign" (had I been needing one) that I am ready for this step. I am well and truly "done" with being single.

Still, I think I need to enjoy this, my last night as a "single gal" -- not because it is the end of something I don't want to end, but because it is the beginning of something that I know will both fulfill and challenge me in new and exciting ways I may not even be able to visualize right now. As Georges said to me earlier, in a texto from the train, "Profite bien de ta soirée". Not "have a nice evening" but "profit well from your evening". (The French are big on telling you to profiter from things, and they aren't talking about money.)

And to celebrate my transition from "Bold Single Soul" to "Two Bold Souls (with three bonuses)", I will "profit well" by enjoying a nice glass of wine and immersing myself in a book by another Paris ex-pat blogger whose life also took some unexpected turns once she came here and fell in love with a Frenchman.

I will enjoy this night with a good book. But I'll be even happier tomorrow night, to see mon bel amoureux when he comes home to me.

Small victories and big bonuses

Part of Georges and I mingling our two lives together into one, has been the process of his children and I becoming comfortable with one another. Statistically speaking, this can be a very painful process for a lot of people even when everyone is trying really hard to make it work. Sometimes it never really works out well and couples have been known to break up over this stuff, which is a scary thought when you're just at the beginning of merging your lives. From the outset I have been concerned about the impact of my presence on the children, and how they would feel about it, and about me. Georges has always been of the opinion that if we, as a couple, are loving with each other and the kids are witness to this, and if we are patient with them and let them find their own way in this new environment that will now include me, that they would be perfectly fine about it in the end, given some time to get to know me.

I will now admit to having been a tad dubious, myself, about how this would work out.

Not because there has ever been anything wrong between me and the children, other than some of them being a bit slower to warm up to me than others -- and I have always known this was totally normal and haven't taken it personally -- and not because I didn't trust Georges to know his own kids better than I ever could, but because I know the stats and I also know kids pretty well, even considering I have none of my own. And kids have a way of forming their own opinions about new people, rightly or wrongly, and those opinions can be mixed up in a lot of conflicting emotions. Will she take my dad's attention away from me? Will she be nice to me? Can I get away with stuff when she's around, or not? If SHE's around, what happens to ME then?

Therefore, I have been very cautious in setting my expectation levels of how quickly they might come to accept me in their lives and in their home. I have never wanted to force closeness or affection from them; these things must evolve naturally. I'd be happy to settle for a gradual building of trust and at least some mutually cordial tolerance as a starting point. After all, they were here first, and I'm just the new kid on the block. Fortunately, I truly LIKE children in general, and I have liked Georges' kids from the start. It has not been hard to like them, as they are very nice young people and each one has his or her good points and interesting qualities I am coming to learn and appreciate.

It's been remarkably smooth, this transition, especially compared to what it might have been (i.e., something approximating Armageddon, let's say).

Although it hasn't been without some very minor bumps, there have been small victories along the way as I have gotten to know the kids: seeing a genuine "Hello, I'm happy to see you" look in their eyes when I come into the house, instead of a "Oh, she's here again" look; having one of them say more than three sentences in succession to me; reading a book or playing a game together; being asked to help with a homework assignment; or getting a bisou hello, goodbye or goodnight where there is some real affection behind it instead of it being a "duty-bisou". After each small step forward, I have felt a bit more confident about the future prospects for building good relationships with these children, and very grateful for each tiny advance.

But last night I got what has been perhaps the biggest and best bonus of all so far: not only did Georges' daughter tell me directly that she is happy I am coming to live there because she likes me, but we spent a good hour after dinner having a real old-fashioned girlie gab session where she actually confided things in me. Personal things, even. I shared some things with her, too. And then she said she likes talking to me.

Picture me smiling ear-to-ear on the outside and doing a little "happy feet" dance on the inside. Looks like Georges was right on the nose.

Forward

I have one predominant thought in my head right now. It beats a lovely rhythm as I walk down the street from the pharmacie (where I am proud to say I discussed my medical business 100% en français and managed fine). As I do the laundry, clean the apartment, check my email, take some Advil for the remnants of an annoying migraine, and prepare to spend the day writing for some clients, this thought is always there, in the back of my mind, ever since yesterday morning when we decided the time is now.

Living with Georges. Living with Georges. Living with Georges.

And I can't stop smiling.

In the next few weeks I will be packing up my few boxes of books, suitcases of clothing, and assorted and sundry STUFF. We will rent a small van, load it up, drive it all across town, and unload it. I will unpack and set up my work space. We will rearrange closets to make room for my things. I will change the address on my French bank account (the only regular French mail I get here). And that will be that. Georges and I will be officially living together.

Phase I of our relationship is moving forward into Phase II. Other important Phases are yet to come, of course, but hey, one thing at a time.

To put this in perspective, it is important to remember that I have been SINGLE for all of my 46 years. And I was good at being single; I must have been good at it because it seemed I was out of relationships much more than I was in them, despite my occasional insistence that I really wanted to be "in a real relationship". Only once in all that time did I sort of semi-live with someone, and that was more about him hanging around my place 4 nights out of 7 without the benefit of kicking in for the rent or groceries. (I'm smarter now.) I have been alone and fending for myself for my entire adult life.

Is it hard to give up that independence for a completely different life with a man AND his children? Surprisingly, no. I mean, I am sure there will be days, at least initially, where I am inwardly craving some alone time or some quiet in the house, and in terms of working there (since I work at home), THAT will take some adjustments. But Georges and I want to be with each other all the time now, and I want that far more than I want to hang onto some outdated need for my so-called Freedom.

Wow, will you look at me? I'm suddenly a grown-up, ready to put down roots and be part of a family, after all this time. It's as much a surprise to me as it probably is to those who know me well. But instead of feeling anxious or worrying about the transition (which I know will have some bumpy spots in the road, as all transitions do), I am just plain HAPPY right now. We have been talking about doing this since the very early days of our relationship, and now it is finally the right time for all concerned. (And for those who are going to comment with your worries about the kids... their readiness and comfort has always been our primary concern, and they are fine with it and with me. Had there not been kids involved, we'd have moved in together two months ago probably.)

I can't think of anything better than to spend my life with this amazing and loving man who -- as I discovered last night while we were watching Roman Holiday -- bears a striking resemblance to Gregory Peck in this movie, especially around the eyes. Of course I loved Georges long before realizing he and Greg have the same eyes, so this is just a bonus for me.

So a new chapter of my life, of OUR life, is about to begin. The story continues to unfold. And I can't wait to turn the page.

The cherry on the cake of my day

I had the brilliant idea today (after looking in the mirror and seeing the hideous overgrown state of my hair, which also needs a coloring to hide the combination grey and mousy brown roots) to zip over to the 13th to my favorite coiffeuse. In the past I've gone on a Wednesday, sans rendez-vous, and it was no problem. When I arrive at the salon, I discover that Aurelie is not working today after all, and I do not want to have anyone else to cut my hair. I will have to go back tomorrow morning. Color me (but not my hair) disappointed. Thirty minutes traveling across south Paris for nothing (and I haven't mastered French well enough to call for an appointment, so I do the walk-in thing and take my chances.)

Back out on the sidewalk, I wonder what to do next. I am "out" now, out of the apartment on a lovely sunny day in Paris, and not willing to rush back to do any work. I had tried earlier to make a date to meet up with a friend who lives near the coiffeuse, but she and her child are home with colds. I walk down the street toward the metro at Les Gobelins, wondering if it is too early to head to a café for lunch. I have a book with me so lunching alone with my book didn't seem such a bad notion.

Then I spot it, not too far away at the top of a hill: The Pantheon!

I look at my watch and think: "Georges works just a few blocks from there. Hmmmm... wonder if he's free for lunch?" I don't have my map of Paris and the bus routes on me, but I spot a nearby bus stop and check the route maps -- Ah! One of them goes to Luxembourg! Voila!

Zip, zip, zip, I send a quick texto with a question, and get an immediate "Oui!" Five minutes later I'm on the #27 bus and we are on the phone, arranging where to meet. For once, I get to be the one to arrive first, and have the pleasure of watching him hurry toward me. We kiss hello but with some restraint, as he is near his office and there might be colleagues around.

We go to the little bistro on a small side street, a place where we now seem to be lunchtime "regulars" as they great us pleasantly when we come in. We have a nice lunch, and although I hadn't been planning on having dessert, I notice that they have a cherry crumble on the day's carte. Next thing I know, Georges is ordering two of them -- he has a sweet spot for cherries, too.

As we dig into our warmed (almost too hot) desserts, I tell Georges that it's great that he likes cherries as much as I do (cherry confiture is our favorite flavor), and promise him that when we go to visit my family in New Jersey, I will ask my mother to bake a real homemade All-American cherry pie (hers is TO DIE FOR!) I then tell him the charming legend of George Washington (another George)