I was feeling pretty good, got my haircut, which I had put off for some time in an effort to find the greatest deal. Also, communicating something as important as your haircut is best done in your own language, but the ends of my hair had gotten so bad I could not wait 10 days to fix it in London. Ironically, the fellow cutting my hair complimented me on being able to speak French so well after only living here 5 months. “Ironic” because I told him I wanted it long, that it curls up when dry and then he takes off almost everything I had grown in the last four months to display his comprehension of my ability to communicate in a second language. C’est la vie. At least we aren’t dating... we wouldn’t be, his shirt was too dressy to ever date someone like me. He was friendly and probably straight, but boy howdy, I am far from fancy. I am not sure if it’s my skin or the bird shit all over my bag that makes me so undesirable to well groomed men... probably my sandals and tan lines... and leg hair/ body odor.
“Bird shit on your bag, well that sounds like an anecdotal tale!”
You’re right, invested reader, it is. It starts with my employer, a woman I cannot communicate with because of our unaligned boundary issues, bought me a going away bag. Before I go into the gift, let me explain that when I say we have problems communicating, it is not a judgement or even something that’s been discussed (obviously) it is just a difference in approach and neither one of us is better at communicating (I am). I haven’t been terribly happy with my job. I got to a point where I saw I couldn’t stay, I was not happy, but didn’t feel I could express this to the family, that I do love and care about. I have been braised in guilt for the last 30+ days living for a moment in the future that may or may not look like how I have to imagine it to be to get through the day. On the day after my unacknowledged 30th birthday the mother I work for gets me a “going away present”. It is a brown beaded handbag that has the phrase “make everyday happy” into it. I was amused... because I felt like it was really saying “stop being an asshole and stay for a long time because the boys are really going to miss you and I am not sure how to raise them because I can’t discipline them without feeling guilty for not being there more... even though I don’t work”. Anyway, the latter would be more like a suitcase and she doesn’t want me to go. I think her conscious intention was sweeter than that... although a suitcase would have been helpful. It would have been funny if she bought me a bookcase as a going away present. However, I have this bag, less than a week and after avoiding the flaying excrement of winged totem animals for tens of years, I manage to have a bird shit all over the beading of this fucking “gift”. I try washing it off and I am gagging because it’s slimy and is coagulating. I try thinking to myself, it’s just bird poop, what do they eat? Berries, rocks... and then I remember, worms. That was exactly what was making it so difficult to get it off: sticky, partly-digested worm bodies that extrapolated and escaped through the ass of a pigeon (or dove) only to land on the intricate hand beaded message of hope I was wearing across my shoulder.
Le Sigh.
I enjoy irony and I enjoy cheese, so after my hair cut, I decide on my walk home that I will buy a small amount of cheese and eat it on the way home. I was celebrating the day that is almost over. It all seemed appropriate, until I walked by this skinny Parisian woman, looking at me like I was gnawing the ear off a screaming newborn puppy. I noticed her look and actually postured as if to say “what?! you want to get punched?!” and in an instant, our interaction was over by the unwavering pace of our gait and the opposition of our trajectory. I was left looking at the sphere of creamy white cheese usually put out for guests with crackers, bread and good will. It was covered in bite marks and my fingers were clumsily digging into it. My brown, micro-fiber/ sequined purse is covered in bird shit/ decomposed worm parts and I have needed to get my legs waxed for 5 months. So, I don’t really fit in and I am not going to feel bad about eating in public because I am covered in poo poo. That is about that for that tale, God... I hope that read well and you enjoyed it. au revoir.
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