Not-So-Good-Very-Bad Days Part III

TSD’s still occur in the land of good and plentiful wine.

Part III of my TSD (Truly Shitty Day)

Of course there were no parking spaces when I got to the school – those metaphysical questions must have slowed me down – so I had to revert to the anarchist parking tactics so frequently required in France and double park behind someone. When I got back to the parking lot after dropping the girls off (and incidentally having realized I had forgotten Charlotte’s snack, but that I couldn’t do anything about it at that point besides let her go hungry) the woman whom I had parked behind was shouting. She proceeded to berate me until I got in my car, gave her the finger (not very smart seeing as it is most certainly another parent whom I will inevitably cross at some wine-related school function over the next few months) and took off.

Next on my fun schedule was a visit to the lab for a blood test. This is always a lovely way to start the day but of course on my TSD finding my blood seemed to be on a par with mining for diamonds. They couldn’t find a good vein and had to poke me numerous times before at long last hitting one that could fill up the test tube. I wondered briefly if maybe being seriously annoyed makes one’s blood contract inwards or something?

I got home to find Franck still not speaking to me, and dragged through the day at work, avoiding Franck’s black looks and seemingly incapable of doing one single productive thing, which always leaves me feeling guilt-ridden and useless.

After picking the girls up from school, at which time Charlotte gave me a good ole’ guilt trip about almost expiring from hunger before lunch thanks to me forgetting her snack, and proceeded to enumerate all the other delicious things that her friends’ (better) parents had packed them, we went to visit Franck’s grandmother with my mom and Aunt Sharon. About two minutes into the visit I spilled Camille’s full glass of grenadine (nice and sticky) all over her floor so had to spend a good fifteen minutes of the visit on my hands and knees mopping up my mess while yelling up the occasional translation.

Lastly after the homework, dinner, bath, bed marathon (during which I reprimanded Charlotte for fidgeting – now there’s the pot calling the kettle black) I crawled into bed, but only after meeting Ghandi’s reproachful eyes staring up at me mournfully from my bedside table. I hit a lull in his biography and STILL haven’t reached domestic enlightenment as I hoped to do by now (to read more about this, read “Scenes de Menage” post from July).

As my Aunt Sharon succinctly puts it, “There are days you are the bird, and there are days when you are the windshield.” Despite what Peter Mayle says, I am here to tell you that living in France doesn’t change this one bit.