A Rougette Rant

That's a little misleading.  I'm not going to rant about rougette.  I mean, just look how cute this old-seed French lettuce is!  Who could rant about that?  

I am going to rant about what almost came between me and my rougette.  

You see, I wasn't planning on having any rougette at all.  I was making my way toward some macarons (Georges Larnicol, if you must know) when I saw the market near Hotel de Ville.  Never one to miss a market, I had to stop.  I made a couple of loops, surveying and planning what to make my lunch.  I opted for some fresh (and filleted!) sardines, a lemon, a piece of fourme d'ambert cheese, and… some rougette.  I am quite in love with the lettuce over here, so when I saw these bi-color cuties, I couldn't pass them up.  

There was a queue at the stand with the rougette, so I went to the end of the line.  Just then a lady some feet back from what seemed to be the end of the line proclaimed, "J'attend!" (I am waiting) and in a huff moved herself and her empty rolly cart to the proper end of the line.  Startled by her, I let out a prompt "Pardon!" as has come to be my second nature when bumped or surprised or unable to understand something or in just about any circumstance, really.  


In my mind, you can't go wrong with "Pardon."  I probably say it too often, as I go klutzing around this city.  I don't notice many people saying "Pardon" when they run into me, come to think of it, but I always throw out a "Pardon" in passing if I even brush against someone.  Why not?  It's an easy save.  


Except for this old French biddy.  She was talking under her breath as she assumed her rightful place and then she couldn't WAIT to tell the lady in front of her how I said "Pardon" and not "Excusez-moi" when I had taken her place in line.  (You know what lady?  If you are over 4 feet from the end of the line, it is fair to assume you aren't in it!)  And to say "Pardon" after my action, to not even give her a proper "Excusez-moi!"  Unbelievable!  She was going on about me to the woman in front of her, shaking her head and showing her disdain in her body language, like I wasn't even there.  Or like I was there, but I was some kind of line-cutting étranger ogre.  


I felt myself getting hot.  I felt shaky.  I wanted both to cry and knock this lady's block off simultaneously.  I wanted to leave the line, leave the stand, leave the rougette.  But mostly, I just wanted to say something snappy back to her.  Moments that felt like hours passed.  I decided that this bitch was not going to come between me and my lettuce, and I also decided that I wasn't going to be anybody's fool --in any language, in any country.  


So the next instant she angled her head remotely toward me, I let loose in poorly accented and rudimentary French with something to the effect of, "Merci, madame.  Maintenant je sais de dire 'Excusez-moi' le prochain fois.  J'apprends le Francais maintentent et j'essaie." Basically, what I said or was trying to say was, "Thanks, madame.  Now I know to say 'Excusez-moi' the next time.  I am learning French now and I'm trying."  That's right, I'm trying, you miserable bitch.  I'm TRYING.  


I sure took her off guard with that flurry.


She quipped back that I know enough French to understand what she was saying then!  And she asked what my native tongue was.  Well, thanks adrenaline and emotion for almost making me say "Americain"  (duh, you don't speak "American," well not really...) back to her, but I caught myself and ended up with "Anglais."  Phew.  And that was that.  She was up to order and I can't say I didn't take some joy in hearing her ask for beets for one.  


As I pictured her choking alone on a root vegetable, I realized I was eating for one, too.  Though probably less miserably.  

These Things Have Been Happening

This morning, I am standing in my kitchen preparing to cut a pear (I know, who cuts a pear… what am I 90?) and thinking about what a disastrous mess my apartment is but how it’s OK because it’s just me and the kittycakes living there now, when the doorbell rings (maybe only the second time this has happened in the past year and it’s always a “what-the?!” moment).  It’s the upstairs neighbor wondering about the water damage in my bedroom and could he come right in and look at the damage now?  At 8:45 am.

I put him off until tomorrow at 8 am (!) and now I’m stressed about tidying up enough to allow a stranger into my apartment without him leaving of the mind that I am a cluttered nutter.  Maybe I’ll tell him I just moved in.  That would explain the boxes in the hallway.  (Yes, there are still boxes in my hallway.  B lives on an air mattress with camping-style kitchen basics and nary a chair to sit on in Sweden.  And I’ve got boxes and boxes of things moved from Belgium that we haven’t even opened yet because they are meant for Stockholm.  Ack!)  So stay tuned tomorrow when a bleary-eyed Jodi lets the concerned upstairs neighbor into her apartment to deal with more water damage!

The other thing of note about the early rising upstairs neighbor is the he knew exactly where my water damage was because he “caused it.”  I said something to the effect of “This building is so full of water damage, blah, blah…” and he was like, “Yes, but this one is because of me.  I caused it.”  What are you doing up there, buddy?  The stairs are already rotting and the hallway ceilings are stained and you’re flooding the bathtub or effing with the pipes up there?!  This building’s got enough problems without your noodling around with anything containing water, thanks.


In other news, there has been hammering on the other side of the living room wall.  Mind-warpingly incessant hammering that begins each morning around 8:45 and stops… when?  I don’t know.  The whack-whack-whack-whack-whack (whack-whack) really makes me want to do something awful.  Whack.  (Too awful to write here.)  This morning I wanted to throw my bowl of cocoa crispies and bang back at them on MY side of the wall.  You know, to send the apartment dweller’s universal “shut up” signal.  But instead I slurped down the rest of my bowl and left Cochino there to suffer through it.  Come to think of it, maybe why that’s she’s been so bugged out when I get home from work these days.  Surely the hammering affects her kitty sensibilities, too!

I am also convinced that this banging is the cause of my current internet woes.  My technological grasp is on par with someone at least two generations above me (See above, the “cutting of the pear."  It all adds up.) so that I just *know* the hammering over there has done something to my router.  (Like, maybe it’s upset the hard-working, cable-plugging mice inside?) 

That blinky light box, it's a router, right?


File under “Fun With French”…
The other day I bought some oregano oil because, though an over oregano-ed pizza is my personal food hell [I speak of the despicable dry stuff here], I’d been reading about oregano’s wondrous ability to clear a cold or boost immunity and all of that. I managed to find it at the fancy pharmacie on the corner of Rue des Archives and Rue de la Verrerie.  I double checked with the counter guy that it was in fact oregano oil.  I got home, put a few drops in a glass of water, took a drink and…. burning, burning, BURNING!  Mucous membranes on FIRE!  I went into panic mode… I was having a reaction to the oil!  I live alone!  I was going to scald my insides and die a writhing death while my cat sat idly by, concerned only with how she could get the crunchers in her own bowl.

Turns out I bought oregano oil for a diffuser (WHY anyone would want to smell this business, I don’t know… again, pizza hell) so it was not meant to be ingested.  Dum-dum over here drank the smelly oil.  I was fine (I am writing to you now) and, yeah, now it's actually pretty funny.  If it was any other kind of oil, I might invest in the diffuser.  But my smelly pizza oil is going in the trash.

G-Free

That's it, gluten.  This is your stop.

I am continuing on without you.

Sure, that test came back years ago telling me you weren't a problem.  But the more I read, the more nefarious I understand you are.  You may not trigger the test results against you, but you can still cause a world of problems.  And don't think I didn't notice that the problems people claim you cause are myriad--from skin issues to digestive problems (duh) to weight gain to weight loss to depression to migraines to immunity problems.  And these are just the biggies.  But they were always too widespread, too catch-all for me.  I'd read enough to find that many people who seem to have a problem just lay it on you, gluten.

Which is why I waited so long.

That and that I never felt it was a good time.  So much of who I am is eating, trying new things, indulging without restraint when it comes to what I ingest.  But I have finally decided to take a new route.  But not one that will diverge too terribly from my old one.  And maybe that's why I decided to finally go for it.

Wait, but first I will tell you what I hope to gain, you old bugger.

I am sick all of the time.  I have a cold/sinus infection every other month.  I say this assuredly because I can count back every month-and-a-half and tell you when my having a cold put a real damper on a party or a visit or some other thing that I would have been into had I not felt I'd been run over by a truck.  Sure, I'm not a teenager anymore... nor am I 80 years old, which is how I feel for about a week every other month.  Hey gluten, that is bullshit, plain and simple.  My primary doctor and my ENT can find nothing real wrong with me.  I take my vitamin C and probiotics and have tried lots of other homeopathic immune-boosters.  But maybe it's you?  If asked to describe myself these days, the word "immunocompromised" is at the top of this list.  And that's not fair.

The other part of it is the digestive problems.  Sure, I've got a "funny tummy" or what big-people describe as IBS.  It's become borderline embarrassing these days. Oh, the noises!  I want to wear a t-shirt that says, "I promise, that noise did not just come from my butt."  Because it often sounds like they do!  (Ha-ha, gluten.)  But really, it's just funny digestive noises.  I swear it!  (OK, that's not all it is, but that's all I will discuss here.)  Lots of the fun of IBS is finding what triggers it by limiting your diet until you find the catalyst.  (This is not actually fun at all, you realize.)  And, yeah, there's been lots of finger pointing at you, gluten, so why not start here?

But what really made me OK to do this, to cut you out of my life and to start today?  There are so many foods I CAN eat!  Like, macarons!  Hey gluten, macarons are super-awesome and delicious--WITHOUT YOU!  And so is steak tartare.  And frites.  And any fish.  And any vegetable.  And eggs!  And quinoa.  And rice.  And Swedish meatballs.  Really, the biggest bugaboo is bread.  And that's just because I've been lazy.  But it's just as easy to find a salad for lunch.  Or sushi.  Or a magret de canard and some damn mashed potatoes.  Oh, and cheese.  I can eat cheese, did I mention that?

So gluten, this is where you get off.  I'm taking control of my diet.  I'm limiting my choices, and I'm going to eat more fruits and vegetables.  Am I going to miss sandwiches?  And regular pizza?  And not thinking about what I order?  At least at first.  But hopefully I will see enough benefit not to regret it.