Merry Christmas? Merry kiss my ass

Christmas brings out the panic in me.

Every year it’s the same – trop de shopping, merde.  Trop de work, merde.  Trop de parties, merde.  Trop de deadlines, merde.  Trop de people, merde.

But hey, it’s kind of fun at the same time.

I spent the weekend getting le FP ready to leave for Montréal – and kind of paid no attention to the fact that I leave tomorrow. 

I leave tomorrow for a week in the UK before I go join him.

Hmm.  This leaves me with four hours this evening to pack, go see friends, finish the christmas shopping, find a home for two fucking nuisance cats that hate me and tidy the house for the people who are staying there while we’re away.

*everybody run round and shout panic!*

So, this all sounds like I’m complaining, but I’m not.  Well not really.  Ha ha.

I kind of understand that all of this added pressure is there simply because I’m leaving on a fancy pants trip, blah blah blah.  Ha ha.

This time next week I’ll be flat out in Air France business class, champagne in hand, heading to Montréal, to the snow and to my boy. 

My heart is full, my head is aching and I can’t see the wood for the trees, but hey – every time it gets too much I see that glass of champagne and it all starts to be worth it.

Let’s just hope that I get there without having a nervous breakdown, ha ha.

Paris, New York, Montréal, Los Angeles

Yeah, well, I’ve always been a bit on the jet-set side.  Alas it’s always been with train-set money, but hey, can’t have everything can you?

So, as the news comes in that I’m not moving to London (they filled the position internally – that old excuse, lol) I’m now focussing on brighter things.  Holidays, in other words.

Yep, the PasDD household is in turmoil as we start to think about how on earth we get ready for our big Christmas trip.  Equally, how on earth we pay for said trip, but I’m just flying by the seat of my pants on that issue…

Le FP leaves on Monday.  Ye Gods.  Monday.

He’s heading to Montréal to sort out some things to do with his apartment there, to spend some time with his Québecois friends and to work on two photo-shoots, before I fly out to join him a week later.  I hope he remembers to get the shopping in and put the heating on ready for me.

The plan is that we spend Christmas in Montréal before heading off to Mont Tremblant for a couple of days fun in the snow with friends (the sister of my New Favourite French Canadian Female Singer is our host).  There’s a dog sled ride in the offing which will no doubt play havoc with my allergies, especially as there’s a ‘puppy petting session’ thrown in for good measure.  I mean, really.

Anyway, after the snowy wastes of the far north, we’re planning a very quick side trip, driving down to New York City to catch up with friends before flying west.

We’re heading to Vegas, baby and new year’s eve on the strip.  If I get out alive, it’ll be a miracle.

From Vegas we’re L.A. bound and more friends.  It’s going to be very cool, if a little exhausting.  At least we have three weeks to achieve everything.

Anyway, it all sounds like fun and as if a great time will be had by all, but that doesn’t stop me thinking about how on earth we are ever going to be ready in time.

Le FP leaves Monday, and I leave on Wednesday for a short UK trip before flying out to Canada.  That means that pretty much everything needs to be finished this weekend.

Everything?  Well, between us, we have 10 evening engagements over the next three days, 1 cat to be castrated (I kid ye not), 1 suit to be fitted (me, a gift), 50 christmas cards to be written and posted, a heap of gifts to be bought, wrapped and despatched, 3 lunch dates, 2 lots of bags to be packed (once the clothes have been washed, dried and ironed) and a fucking partridge in a frigging pear tree, no doubt.

If we don’t have a joint nervous breakdown, it’ll be a minor miracle.

Thank goodness that le FP booked me business class to Montréal.  At least I know that 7 hours of sleep awaits me courtesy of Air France. 

Just get me to the plane on time!

transmanche try-out

Today I’m heading to the UK. 

I’ll be back on Sunday.  At the moment that feels like I’m saying “I”ll be back in a year’s time”.

Last night I met le FP for dinner near Hotel de Ville and we walked home through the quartier St Paul.  We walked along, holding hands and giggling like schoolgirls at stupid things.  Then he stopped walking.

“Tu vas me manquer”, he said. “I’m going to miss you”.

Now, my boy is lovely, but he never says this kind of thing.  Rarely, anyway.  For him to be saying this is out of character.  It’s also making my heart sing.

This morning I crept out of bed at 6am, desperately trying not to wake him until the last minute.  Alas, he was having none of it.  He dragged my sorry ass back to bed and, well, there you go, that’s me late for work. 

He kissed me goodbye at the front door of the apartment and as I walked down the street to the métro, there he was, hanging out of the window, naked, screaming ‘I love you’ at the top of his voice.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  Be still my beating heart.

So I head to the Uk with a heart pretty full of love and a head full of questions.

If it’s this hard for four days, how will leaving Paris behind and taking a job in London ever work?

Surely that’s asking too much?

clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right

I very nearly became Travelling, But Not In Love again this last weekend. A single status very nearly was mine.

Why? Well, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t le FP. It was all the other fuckers. We fell out with everybody this weekend. Every. Body.

It started with people ringing at 4am – yes, 4am. A crazy girlfriend of le FP who wanted to know why he was calling her, hiding her number and then hanging up every time she answered. The fact that the number was hidden didn’t make her think it could be someone else? Why she decided it was le FP we don’t know.

Suffice to say, she was drunk at the time.

Then I got a call from a friend of le FP who wanted to know why I’d paid for a ticket for the opera for him. I didn’t pay for his ticket – it was given to le FP as a complimentary ticket by a mutual friend that we had dinner with in the week.

Alas, the friend that we’d given the ticket to wouldn’t believe – refused to believe – that it was a freebie and was desperate to re-imburse me. The fact that the ticket said “Value – comp.” didn’t sway him in any way.

He decided that he wouldn’t use the ticket and that he’d tear it up and post it to us rather than have to feel grateful. Nice.

Then a friend that I’d offered to lend money to (so that he could buy his boyfriend a birthday present) had been trying to get hold of me. Alas, as I work, I’m not available to meet him during the day to hand the cash over.

He took this as a snub and as proof of my lack of willingness to lend him the dosh. He decided he didn’t need a friend who didn’t trust him.

And so it went.

All weekend.

By sunday afternoon we’d had enough. We went and hid in bed. We passed the afternoon sleeping, watching dvds, being romantic (blush) and so on. It was lovely.

By the time the evening started to set in I’d almost forgotten the ridiculousness of the weekend.

Feeling relaxed and loved, I rang my mother for our usual Sunday evening chat.

“Let me read this letter to you,” she started. It was a letter from her best friend.

She began to read….

“Never in all of my days have I ever encountered someone so selfish, self-absorbed and lacking in feeling as you. I only have feelings of disgust when I think of how you have used and abused my friendship over the years……”

….and so it went, on, and on, and on.

Seems like the crazy has been contagious this weekend.

My goodness, let’s hope that it passes quickly.

c’est la guerre

“We have to go to Normandy tomorrow” said le FP, a couple of weeks ago.

“OK”, said I.  “Is everything alright with your Mom?” I asked, knowing that she was the only reason we’d ever be going to Normandy.

“No, she’s crazy.  She’s taking the cats to the SPA tomorrow to be put to sleep if we don’t collect them”.  He was visibly upset by this news.

Now, I’ve known all along that there were cats.  When le FP moved back from Montréal the cats made their move across the Atlantic with him, and have been living with  his Mother ever since.

What I didn’t realise is that she hates them, keeps them locked in the cellar and lets them out for an hour a day.  She’s not a nice lady as far as cats are concerned.

So we dash off to Normandy on a mercy mission, stopping at le Mont St. Michel for a spot of impromptu tourism.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I am incredibly allergic to cats.  They make me sneeze, cough, wheeze.  My eyes itch, swell, go red.  My body itches all over.  It’s not good.

But hey, greater love hath no man, and for the first time in my life I find myself sharing a house with two cats and a supply of anti-histamine (that works most of the time).

And they are beautiful cats.  Despite their names (which, no, I won’t be sharing with you).

Both are loving, both are funny. 

They also hate each other and fight whenever they are within ten feet of each other.  In a small apartment, this isn’t ideal and I’m regularly woken up at 2am by them hissing and squealing and scrapping outside the bedroom door.

And yet this isn’t what makes me hate them.

Why do I hate them so much?

Last night, I was sorting out the bedroom closet (yep, that’s how exciting my life is) and was pretty much pre-occupied with getting my shirts into colour order.  When I left the bedroom the smell hit me.

It was the smell of shit, no doubt about it.

Le FP was off at a photo-shoot, so he wasn’t to blame.

It had to be the cats.  But which one, and, most importantly, where?

I got down on all fours and slowly (and carefully) worked my way around the flat, looking under all possible hiding places for the pile of turd.

I didn’t need to look too hard, the smell took me there almost immediately.

There, in the corner of my living room was a pile of stinking, fetid, filthy cat shit.  A huge pile.

And next to it?  Two of my favourite cushions that had been pissed upon.

What can I say?

I was willing to take the pills and confront my allergies.

I was willing to put up with the midnight fighting.

I was willing to accept that every item of clothing I now wear has cat hair on it.

But shit?  In the corner of the living room?

No way José. 

How deep is my love?  Not cat-shit deep, that’s for sure.

War has been declared.  The cats had better be ready.

let no man put asunder

No man, but a job? 

I’m at St. Pancras.  I’ve been for a job interview.  In London.  For a job in London.

It’s a job that would most likely see me and le FP living apart during the week.

But it’s also a job that I would love to get.  That gives me exactly what I’ve been working towards all these years.  That doubles my salary and then some.

The interview went well, now it’s just wait and see.

I’m not going to worry until I have to make a decision.  Part of me is praying that I don’t have to.  Part of me is praying that le FP suddenly learns to speak English and comes with me.  Part of me feels sick.

Is it me?  Do I deliberately put myself in these situations?

I need to step away from the self destruct button. 

Step away, turn around and keep walking.

I used to be travelling, but not in love

I always wanted the marriage that my parents had.

I’m fast realising that that isn’t going to be the case.

I’m surprised to find that I am happy about this.

Mom and Dad were ‘flowers on a friday’, ‘kisses before bedtime’, ‘hello sweetheart’, ‘morning gorgeous’ and ‘how the fuck do we pay this bill?’

Me and the Fabulous Parisien?  We’re ‘I love you more than life itself’.  We’re ‘tais-toi connasse’.  We’re ‘shall we ask him to come home with us tonight?’  We’re ‘have a great night, see you tomorrow’.

We’re not everyone’s idea of an ideal couple.

But there’s love there.  A lot of it. 

And there’s something that works for both of us.

I’m learning to live with someone again, and I’m learning to live within this new framework of a relationship. 

One thing that is certain is that I have found a home here.

I’m no longer travelling, but not in love.