A Bidet, and a Lot of Hope

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So, I recently started a new job at a French lycee (which is a school, not to be confused with those pink, syrupy nuts one finds on the dessert menu in certain Chinese restaurants). It's another job doing fund development, only this time for the benefit of extremely rich kids. My last job was rather miserable, and caused me to spiral into a black hole of depression, although working for a charity in East Harlem was arguably doing more to "help humanity" than my current job. Although, technically, extremely rich kids are also a part of humanity, which is something to consider. Also, I am a part of humanity, and I'm being helped considerably by having more money and 5 weeks vacation each year.

School just started in September, but we already have our week-long "fall break" coming up, starting on October 9. God, I love the French. My first "real job" in New York was working for the French Embassy, and the new job kind of reminds me of those days.

The other day, my friend Amy reminded me of an episode from that era. I was taking care of my friend Jean-Pierre's cat for the weekend, and one of the nights I was staying at the apartment, I went out and partied with the Eurotrash until 5 in the morning, at which time I came home I barfed in his dirty clothes hamper, having mistaken it for a toilet (a natural mistake, under the circumstances). I didn't remember this until he and his girlfriend found it when they got home. Sigh. Good times.

I had just spent several years in Paris, where I had read a lot of Anais Nin, just to add that superlative layer of cliché to the already-ridiculous cliché of the flighty chick who runs off to Paris with no money and no clear way to make a living. My main memories of this time involve a slew of ill-considered romances, as if researching a future memoir called, "I'm Not Slutty, I'm Just European." Bread, sex, cream sauces .... those Euro types do a few things right, which is the only reason they haven't been entirely obliterated for being a bunch of gits.

Test subjects in The Experiment ranged from a young Indian diplomat; an American football player; an aging abstract artist who cooked well enough to make him seem young; a Spanish art student who couldn't draw, paint, or sculpt ("you're entirely missing the point of art," he said...), a French TV producer who wore a lot of purple shirts and silke Hermes ties with butterflies on them (in France, it's not considered gay - v. confusing ...); a Russian "artist" (the quotes are key) with a magnificent loft/studio on the Ile St. Louis, but no visible means of financial support; a conflicted German on his way back to the Vaterland post-Harvard; and a writer who, in his own words, had “a wife, a girlfriend, and somewhere in the misty backwater of the Bay Area, two snakes.” Hey - at least he was honest.

Lesson #1: Never, ever date an artist. Or an "artist." Or a "diplomat." Or a "German."

This is particularly true if the lover in question is a soi-disant “artiste” who is a) supported by his parents or b) has loose ties to the Russian mafia or c) claims that your relationship is a part of an “installation.”

So, I made some questionable choices. At the time, I thought of them as “erotic adventures.” Of course, at the time, my whole “life” was surrounded by imaginary quotation marks. I was a “writer” (the kind who never wrote) dating several “artists” (read: alcoholics) living in a “garret apartment” (maid’s quarters, but the kind any real maid would be too insulted to live in for free).

Still, I was bizarrely happy in the way that one can be when one has no money or prospects, or even a bathroom with a shower. I did, however, have a bidet, and a lot of hope. (The title of my future autobiography, after retiring from the Senate: A Bidet, and a Lot of Hope.)

But I digress. Part of the reason why I digress so often is because I have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder, or “ADD.” I’ve actually had ADD all my life, although I was only recently diagnosed as an adult.

As you may have noticed from the television commercials on the subject, ADD is a serious affliction that causes one to randomly see people dressed like plush bunnies waving at them from the corner of the room. However, people with ADD are not crazy. They’re just perverted, and feel strangely attracted to people in bunny costumes. Fortunately, there’s medication we can take to make our symptoms go away. Ironically enough, these medications, such as Adderall, are actually amphetamine salts.

Overheard at the psychiatrist’s office: So, Doc, I’m seeing the Easter Bunny, and you want to prescribe amphetamines? Dude, score! Can I get some crack rocks with that?

But I digress. I finally decided to stop apologizing for the unconventional way my brain operates. I’m never going to be the kind of person who can tell a story in a linear way, going from point A to point B, in the same way that I’m never to be the kind of person who will send in the warranty on a hair dryer, and file it in away in a color-coded folder with a typed label (I have a friend who can). I’ll never have an alphabetized spice rack, or be someone who “folds clothing” or has “good personal hygeine.”

Anyway, I had a point. Unfortunately, I don't remember what it was.

Waterfordgate

I came home only to find that I’ve caused my parents to become social pariahs. It’s been nearly 5 months since the wedding, and the thank-you notes are just now going out. This is a “severe breech of etiquette,” a Henry Jamesean concept which is technically punishable by death in most Southern states.

In my weak defense, I might say that according to all the wedding books, you supposedly have between six months and a year to finish the thank-yous.

Whoever wrote those books was clearly not a member of the Jacksonville chapter of the D.A.R. My inability to write a timely thank-you note has been linked to several deaths and at least one case of psoriasis among the Ladies of the Club, most of whom are old enough to be the actual daughters, or possibly even the second wives, of the Revolution.

Nobody seems to appreciate the fact that, although I haven’t acually “written” all of the thank you notes, I have devoted a great deal of time, effort, and Cherry Flavored Tums into actively worrying over them on a daily basis for nearly 5 months.

Instead, the whole thing has turned into Waterfordgate.

“I can’t believe you haven’t written the Druckers even though they gave you that elegant Waterford ..."

"Oh, yeah," I say. "What exactly is that, anyway?"

Mom thinks, but decides to let the question slide. "It's worth at least $327.”

My mother has an uncanny knack for instantly and accurately appraising the retail value of virtually any gift. Really, she should work for Sotheby’s.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I love it. It's just that, when you write the thank you note, you usually say something like: thank you for the lovely ... how do I fill in the blank?”

“It’s a Waterford ... bowl. Plate. Dish-thingy, it cost at least $325 if it cost a cent.”

Implying that an expensive wedding gift should have a practical use is like implying that our plump Persian cat should go out and get a job as a greeter at Wal-Mart.

... Mom makes a sound that is the universal noise for “do NOT question the purpose of the Waterford bowl/plate/dish/thingy.”

“It’s just that – I was just wondering how to use it around the house,” I say. Or how to use it in a sentence ...

“Well …you could put candy in it. Or … (getting an idea) …. straight pins!" !

Postscript (a double entendre ...) -

Dear Dr. and Mrs. Drucker,

Thank you very much for the elegant Waterford dish bowl appraised at approximately $327. We are keeping candy and straight pins in it.

Love,
Maguerite and Paul

One down, 110 to go ...

My Half-Assed Nervous Breakdown

In case anybody's still tuning in, I guess I should explain my silence on the blog front over the past month or so. I wish I had some great excuse involving abduction by aliens who looked like Brad Pitt and came from the Planet Without Shirts. But alas.

The thing is, I had a minor nervous breakdown a while back. There wasn't any real rhyme nor reason to it, but the general gist of it had to do with the fact that I can't seem to follow through with anything, and that I very possibly may never accomplish anything in this lifetime or the next, unless you count watching an entire season of "Buffy" in one weekend as an accomplishment. Which I sort of do, but it makes for a pretty lackluster epithet.

Apparently, having a nervous breakdown is yet ANOTHER thing I can't follow through to completion. I guess I just don't have the tenacity to go totally Anne Heche - seems like it would require some actual effort. Or something. For once, having the attention span of an autistic gerbil actually paid off.

Although I feel like I'm no longer quite so insane, I'm currently in Florida, which is arguably the same thing. I'm here for a week because I GOT A NEW JOB!!! YAY!! I'm
starting next week, so I'm down visiting the folks for a few days.

Since arriving in Florida on Saturday, I already feel more sane.

That means that, to feel more sane, I had to come to a state where you can marry your cousin (but only after a 3-day waiting period), but where there's no waiting period to purchase firearms (which you can buy in bulk down at Wal-Mart, to stock up for the apocalypse) and where the 3 people who actually know how to operate a voting machine still voted for Bush. And Bush. Perhaps in part due to the universal popularity of Busch, which is in fact a beer (and a beer-related theme park), but which is already a front-runner for the next gubenetorial elections.

This is the state of theme parks and retirement villages -- where the country comes to go on vacation, or wait for death (or both, as anyone who's ever been on line at the "Land of Tomorrow" exhibit at Epcot Center knows).

And yet, I feel more sane in this state than most other places. Maybe it's just because sanity is a relative thing. Although seeing as how I'm visiting my family this week, I'm not 100% sure that the words "sanity" and "relative" ever belong in the same sentence. Especially if one's relatives are from below the Mason-Dixon line ...

I would write more to illustrate this point, but it's almost cocktail hour, and my parents are expecting several friends and at least one poodle in a monogramed dog sack. Within the hour, there will be many different shades of pastel plaid pants in the Florida room, along with several varieties of appetizers involving fruits and/or vegetables that look like things other than what they are. Like many Southern women, my mother is a sort Michelangelo with a melon baller. This is the result of some continuing ed class she took during the 70s, where they learned how to make appetizers that look like Spiro Agnew or something. It's really quite impressive.

Alas, the smell of mini-quiche beckons ...