Dilemmas in Homerentership

Even though we've lived in our apartment for exactly two months now, we still haven't finished the final touches on it. Still no seating in the living room other than a sprawling futon, still no bedside tables, still no decorative bookshelf from a company we shall call Clientell, still no free carpet that turned out to be an antique Persian carpet worth thousands and thousands of dollars so our friends aren't giving it to us after all. One can quite understand their change of heart.

In France, to decorate your living space with an exotic touch means Moroccan. Former colony, etc. So accordingly, we went out in search of some poufs, or ottomans (ottomen? If you search too long, has it become an ottomania?) and possibly some Moroccan lamps. I've had a secret hankering for a silver teapot in which to make sweet mint tea and for a pyramidical tagine to make proper couscous. (Note to self: do not confuse the two.)

Well, if you want to make a quick buck, it appears the Moroccan import business is the way to go. Damn, those things were expensive. They don't look difficult to make, when you really get down to it, and I was asking one vendor about the inside stuffing, seemingly a stiff cotton or wool batting. His shop makes poufs to order, he quickly volunteered, and so we browsed around the authentic handwoven wool tapestries to pick a pattern.

Frenchy picked out a frighteningly ugly (sorry, honey, but it's true) one, and for the sake of finally having something to sit on I agreed, and then came the delicate moment of finding how much this would set us back. Well, the fabric alone would cost $750, plus the cost of making the pouf which would be another $250! We found the front door of the shop pretty quickly! Dilemma part one. I think I can manage pretty well on my own, as well as do some decorative embroidery.

Now I get to browse the famous fabric stores where the Project Runway people shop!

But back to the dilemma part two--ever since the Clientell deal fell through, we still don't have bedside tables. A friend of ours is moving back to France in August, and she agreed to sell us her tables cheaply. Now, as much as I'll really hate to see her go, I really want those tables!

Chti-shirt

Frenchy got back from France yesterday and brought me my present. I'm glad he's learned that he has to bring me something every time he goes home. This time it came from the shop that sells Chti paraphernalia.

Here goes. The shirt is a play off the famous opening lines of The Little Prince, where the Prince asks the narrator to "Dessine-moin un mouton," or "Draw me a sheep." Hence the sheep, and the cultural reference for any French speaker.

Except! In the north of France, they speak a regional language known as Chti, or Picard. (It's kind of like Provencal is to southern France.) One of the more famous chti words is "chicon," which means "endive." (Don't ask.) In any case, that's what gives this shirt its local reference. Got it? I thought so.

Grammar Police

I realized many years ago that my habit of correcting people's grammar was, to say the least, irritating. Now I only do it in the context of helping Frenchy to improve his English.

However, I have to say: You're either leery [liri] or wary [weɘri] of something. You cannot be weery [wiri]. If you mean weary [wiri], that's another feeling entirely. Got it? Good.

Desultory Thoughts, Numbered Smartypants-Style

1. Today a man on the street offered to untie the scarf around my neck. If Frenchy complains, I'll just tell him that if he's going to be gone nearly two weeks and not call me, then I'm justified in considering my options.

2. Really, he's been gone for 11 days and has called me once (when I was at work and therefore not able to answer the phone). I don't even know what day he's coming home. Isn't this something you're supposed to tell your roommate, who is coincidentally also your girlfriend?

3. Apparently I was either a hoity-toity librarian or Victorian aristocracy in a former life. Possibly both, at the same time. Viz., and to wit:

A few of us at work were discussing who we might have been in former lives. I couldn't think of anything clever, but one girl filled in my blank for me. "You were one of the genteel Victorian proper ladies, with bustles and big pompadour hair. Or you were a librarian that was proud of the fact that you were a Librarian, Keeper of the Knowledge." Now that I think about it, both of these scenarios are very possible. I have long felt that I was more at home with historical figures in upper-crust England than I am with my middle class current self. My coworker may be onto something with this.

4. Yesterday was Puerto Rico day. As I live in the Puerto Rican neighborhood, consequently there was much celebrating and Latin pop music until the wee hours. Many people tucked Puerto Rican flags over and into the hoods of their cars. As festive as that may be, is it really safe to put flammable, flapping fabric right on top of a combustion-driven engine with many moving parts?

5. I don't know whether to ascribe it to the fact that they live in small dark apartments, to Hispanic culture, or to Brooklyn stoop-sittin' tradition, but all the Puerto Ricans in my neighborhood spend their afternoons on the sidewalks. They'll bring out folding chairs, stools, or just lean out the window and participate in the fun. The streets I take to get back from the subway seem to be fiesta centrale, with groups of old people, herds of teenagers and lumps of little kids riding scooters. While I was walking to the grocery store on some side streets, however, I only saw a couple people by their lonesome. I wanted to point them over a few streets south and whisper in Spanish, "The party's over there! Go enjoy yourself!" I wonder what they would mutter under their breath about the crazy gringa.

--skorky64 properly cites her sources

Make new friends, but keep the old

So much has happened since the last time I posted. We've almost stopped arguing about how we'll decorate the new place, Frenchy has gone back to France, I've made other business trips, and so forth.

Right now in my life, we have a new coworker in town. As I learned in Missouri, it's not necessarily the best idea to dishearten them from day one, so when I went to pick her up from Penn Station, I tried to focus on the positive. Since then, she's had plenty of time to observe for herself the truly messed-up way we function. I invited her over for dinner today. We had pasta and I made her look at my scrapbooks.

This evening, I also met up with some friends. Actually, it was a friend of Frenchy's sister and her fiance. I had met them once or twice, and I was kind of afraid that we would have nothing to talk about. As it turned out, we had no problem talking about New York prices, French cheeses, Frenchy's family, the American system of dating, and many other things. I may be able to come to their wedding in September. Is it bad I told them I'd never been to a French wedding, even though I have? Twice?

Discovered!

At what point does a blogger, even the most amateur one, tell her acquaintances about her writings? Up until now, I had told exactly two people about this site, one because I wanted her opinion on my take of a situation I found myself in. I eventually didn't post the piece. The other one was for technical advice, and the person was half a world away. (God bless t'internet!)

But since I write about my life, the people near to me tend to enjoy repeat appearances. Even though the most negative thing I've written about Frenchy is that he has a big nose*, I felt guilty that he had no idea about the last two-plus years of my web existence.

* A fact which he corroborates

So the other night when we were talking about childhood diaries, I quietly opened up this site and set the computer in front of him. He particularly enjoyed the pillorization of the wackjob roommates. In fact, he spent all evening reading it. I was a little nervous, but left him alone to peruse.

In the end, I'm glad he knows about this site now. Now I can write all the juicy things I've been keeping back!

Still Settling In