What I Want

I want to be with my man again!  I am feeling so unmaidenly and shameless.  Living on two different continents in unnatural.  It's worse than sleeping in twin beds.

An Incident at the Pharmacy

Unfortunately, I had the flu; and I was in need of an antibiotic and some other diverse things.  This was a possible hazard, because the pharmacist sometimes gave into whimsy in order to amuse himself while being consulted or if he got impatient.  There was a long line, and I patiently waited my turn.

It was at first easy; he understood that my problem was a  need for an antibiotic, and he offered me these to be taken as suppositories (this is a common mode of delivering medicine in  France.)

I demurred; and asked for it to be delivered orally.  He got on his tall horse and said, "Does not your lover satisfy you in that fashion?" 

I felt a blush coming on; fair skin hides embarassment very poorly.  And there were many people waiting in line to see him who got this cheap entertainment.

I went, "No Monsieur.  I want the medicine in that way."

So he said, "No!  No!  No!  You are spoiled model.  I have them this way, and only this way."

And he came out in the aisle, bent over, and demonstrated to all the people in line how to properly place a suppository!

I took my medicine and ran out of that place!

Suggestions for Improving Gossip

Unfortunately, the gossip has fallen on evil times of late, and both the neighborhood voyeurs and the tabloids have fallen on only a few, limited themes.  After all, topics such as these become stale in a short of time, and are too overworked:

 

1) Did you hear that she left her husband in Ibiza?

2) The younger Durand fille, do you know that she came in after midnight?

3) Does the priest drink too much?  And unpleasant liquor, at that!

4) Is she not wearing a soutien-gorge?

5) There was a lot of shouting at the Bernard home; did the police intervene again?

6) Her bread is no longer any good.  Her mind must be elsewhere.

7) He spends a lot of time calling at her store, does he not?

 

I hope you get the picture.  For those who get the television programs that feature these sordid people who describe their misconduct before an audience of questionable moral status (themselves included), somewhat more variety is permitted.  And the slick magazines provide a satisfactory level of scandal for those well-supplied with the dinero to satisfy their fantasies.  (My compliments, too, to the actors, actresses, and politicians who work long hours overtime in their selfless pursuit of naughtiness to satisfy the needs of the curious.)  But what about the rest of them?  They need their subjects for gossip, too.

 

I respectfully suggest that local eccentrics and cranks rise to the occasion and fill the Gossip Gap.  It would be in the National service, of course.  Kind of a Sacrée Union of Weird.  Let's explore some possibilities:

 

1)  Paint your dustbins pink.  Everyone will be asking "why"?  

2)  The mukluks and the bikini will do.  Where does one get mukluks in France, anyway?

3)  Have an "I brake for politicians" bumper sticker.  This will mark one as an oddity and a perennial topic for the gossips.

4)  Write letters to papers.  They should be on some far-out philosophical subject and espouse essentially harmless but unrealistic views.

5)  Call a press conference, and announce that you would accept should you be offered the Popeship.  (Works especially if you are female.)

6)  Take up an unusual sport.  In my case, it was easy.  Softball. 

7)  Dribbling a basketball while walking to church on Sunday will give them something to talk about.

8)  When at the end of the cat walk, smile wickedly.  They will wonder what you're about.  (I occasionally model.)

9)  Pink flamingoes in the front lawn will catch notice, especially in Picardie.

10)  Wear a sweatshirt with a slogan in an alien language.  It drives some people to distraction as to what it means, but few ask.  I was wearing one of mine, and unfortunately someone did ask:  The slogan was 'Ubi semper sub ubi.'

11)  Talk to your dog in public.  Also do his responses.

12)  Eat strange foods.

13)  My personal trick is to make a habit of rolling marbles down the staircase on the side of a mountain, and to mark distances that the marbles stayed on the stairs by using little flags.

14)  Take up belly dancing.

15)  Adopt multiple felines as companions.

16)  Announce that you will vacation in some unattractive spot.  Everyone will assume that that was for a tryst.  (Actually go to a nice place.)

17)  Have a pet goose.  And name him Otto or Oscar.  (Me, I will forego that pleasure.)

18)  Have your mother announce to all that you are a vexation to her, but let her be vague as to why.  You are, of course, to act scrupulously normal.  They will spend hours in speculation as to why.

19)  Adopt the Goth look.  (I'll pass.)

20)  Tell someone casually that you are feeling bad after the latest body piercing.  If there is none evident, it will perk their curiosity.  (That sort of thing is not to my taste.)

21)  Arrange to be picked up in a limosine.  

22)  Have a male visitor who is obviously a speaker of a different language.

23)  Wear white shoes in November.

24)  Send the priest a Guy Fawkes Day card.  

25)  Fly an unusual flag.  (mine is for a sports team.)

 

No doubt, you can think of better ones.  But the point is, we all have to do our duty.  Our societies deserve no less than a full effort from you. 

Statue Fondling

Here in Europe there is an unreported practice of statue fondling.  It can be most unsavory and unsettling at time.  For example, what is one to make of that when one visits a grave and sees someone fondling a statue of a nymph?  Does one avert one's eyes so as to not intrude upon an intimate moment, or does one scold this impudence?  After all, it's hard to understand that the nymph might have consented!  It's very hard to scold when the person in question is twice my age! 

 

Now in Firenze (Florence) there is a statue of a pig: Il Porcellino.  People on holiday are wont to pet its nose; supposedly because it makes the petter be able to return to this beautiful Renaissance city again.  I always make it a point to pet the pig.  Florence is so romantic, and it has  wonderful museums and churches.

  

But in Verona we find the setting of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliette.  The local community has the supposed balcony of Juliette; and there is a fine statue of Juliette in a garden.  Generations of men caress this statue in on her right breast so that the feature in question is highly polished.  They caress it for love: to get a lover.  Or maybe they carry on in a naughty fashion like so many people do on holiday when they are not around their parents, teachers, or priests! 

Their doing this is a reliable way to embarass the English and inhibited French girls like me.

What Does His Holiness Wear?

It was one of those mornings: rainy and dreary, and the people in the café were mentally trying to find excuses for not getting back to work, longing for someone to raise some pointed issue to provide an excuse for a discussion.

Just then, the young assistant priest came in, and the lady who runs the gift shop mused, "I wonder if His Holiness the Pontiff wears the boxer shorts or the briefs."  Slowly, people offered their views.  Someone said, "Surely he wears the briefs; his garçons require a home at his age."  The barber thought so too, as did a governmental functionary (who seldom works, anyway).  I opinioned that he preferred the boxers: he requires room and they come in different colors and can have pretty printed designs on them.  Surely he wore some with little gold crosses and "Souvenir of Germany" on them?  Our young priest begged off an opinion, saying that he was not privy to the launderings in the Vatican. 

The local communist offered his usual radical view: could M. the Pope wear a thong?  My view on this was that this would only be done in Lent, when some form of penance would be required.  (Speaking from experience.)  At any rate, we informed him that it would not be a red one, except perhaps on Penecostal Sunday.

A cough.  The motely irreverend crew turned around.  It was the old pastor.  We were caught!  And due a tongue-lashing of the fullest amount.  All of us guilty people, even our communist, shuddered. 

The pastor observed, "Surely His Holiness goes commando."  Tension immediately vanished.

An Amusing Stereotype Denied

For the record, I do shave both my legs and armpits.

And . . . .

hee hee hee

At the License Bureau

By all reckonings, the process of obtaining a dog's license should be an orderly and routine one; a situation that would still whatever fears of bureaucrats resides within me and others who are somewhat anarchistic deep inside.  So I appeared at the registration office, and was served by this lady who appeared to be as old as her records, mad as a hatter, and hard of hearing as well.  The events of the interview did not go as smooth as planned, alas.

"Madame, I would like a dog license, if you please."

"Of course.  Let me find the hog licenses.  I compliment you on your civic-mindedness.  Few people think to register their hogs.  Oh, here is one."

"But, Madame, I wish a dog license.  My dog does eat messily, but I fear that the hog license will not do."

"Oh, I see.  The name?" she said.

"Françoise"  was my reply.

"And the breed?"

"I do not know."

"Ahhh, a mongrel."  I was both confused and upset, and this increased with the next question:

"A dog, or a bitch?"

"My Lord!  the choices I am offered are offensive.  Since I use make-up artfully, hopefully I am certainly not a dog,  And, while I occasionally have my moments, I try to be even-tempered and inoffensive."

"Young lady, we need this information to register your dog Françoise."

"I am Françoise; I am the mistress."

She said, "Oh, I see..... then we need to fill out this form."  [She takes out the Mistress's License Form.]  Now, let's see, you are female, yes?"

"Yes, I wish it was more self-evident."

"And you wish to be a mistress of: a politician, a man of affairs, a sports figure, or a rock musician?"

"Huh?  Does one need a license for that?"

"But of course.  The government has an obligation to maintain the proper professional standards.  Lately mistresses had been poorly represented in the news, with unsophisticated, uncultured people coming into prominence in that profession, especially in the UK and the USA.  This is to maintain proper standards of industrial quality."

"Oh.....I think I see.  The choices are so dispiriting.  Rock musicians act so boorish, wrecking hotel rooms and using drugs.  Sports figures do not engage in witty speech.  Politicians are embarassments all around (especially recent ones), and men of affairs are always working.  Is it possible to be a mistress of an engineer or a police officer?"

"NO!  Those are not approved categories"  [Utter shock.]  
 

"Oh, pardon me, Madame."  One does not trifle with the bureaucracy with impunity.  "I do not have anyone in mind in particular, anyway."

"Oh, one will be assigned to you, pending your approval, of course."

"Of course.  I wouldn't have it any other way," I replied.

"Yes, and you must also get the approval of the wife of the man whose mistress you are to be.  That is the rule, and it is also to see that standards are maintained.  A woman's social standing is compromised if her husband has an unsuitable mistress, one who might be seen in grandstands of motor car races.  You must take some instruction to obtain and maintain your license.  Oh, yes, you seem to require some instruction in proper dress."  [She was appraising my attire, a tee shirt, blue denim mini, and loafers.]

I eventually got her to understand that my status was to be a mistress of a dog.  But, curiosity prevailed, so I asked:  "So, what other types of licenses do you have?"

She mentioned a few. 

So, now I finally got my license, and went back to my place while musing on this surreal encounter. 

I did get a nice rhinestone collar for myself on the way home, and am reading the employment magazines looking for a position as a Warlord.  Er, Warlady.