Abandoning Le Bateau Français

Monday 21st February

4:00pm:
My stomach has been in knots for the entire day.
I feel a little nauseous and am quite possibly verging on the edge of a panic attack.
30 minutes until work finishes.
And then at 5:30pm, It starts.

4:01pm:
That’s it.
I’m not going.
No one can make me.
I’m a frickin’ adult!

4:03pm:
Crap, maybe I should go.
I’m being ridiculous.
I’m a frickin’ adult.

4:09pm:
No, no I’m not going.
The only thing making me do it is the fact I’ve handed over money.
Going would make me materialistic.
Materialism is wrong.

4:20pm:
Maybe God wants me to go.
That’s why he made me momentarily crazy enough to get myself into this mess.
I really don’t want to piss God off.

4:21pm:
Maybe the momentary craziness was MY fault and God is making me feel this bad because he’s trying to tell me I don’t need to go.

4:23pm:
God is so wise.

4:24pm:
I’m so deluded.
Crap, I’m totally going to end up going.

4:31pm:
Work Friend: You don’t have to go.
Me: Oh but I doooooo. I can’t quit.
Work Friend: Then go!
Me: I caaaaaaaan’t! It’s so hoooorrible!!! All the judgement and the speaking badly in front of people and the judgement!
Work Friend: Well if it’s that bad, you shouldn’t go.
Me: I’m not going. I don’t care. I’m not going.
Work Friend: Ok then…
Me: …….damn, I’m so going to go.

4:59pm:
Me: I’m not going to French.
The Boy: What? Pinky?
Me: Yes. I can’t. I’m going to throw up. I’ve been stressed out to the point of cracking up for days. I’m a stress freak, you know that! I couldn’t eat as much as I usually do today! I’m going to waste away!!!!
The Boy: It’s ok *hug*
Me: *sniff* Are you mad at me?
The Boy: Why would I be?
Me: Cos I’m letting you down.
The Boy: You’re not letting me down. I’m really proud that you tried to do it cos I know how hard it was for you.
Me: Because of the school trauma.
The Boy: Yes, because of the school trauma.
Me: I feel bad though. I really wanted to get good at it for you, but at this rate I’ll be a mental patient with the STRESS of it all before I come close to being fluent.
The Boy: I know. Seriously don’t worry. It means a lot that you tried your best.
Me: I hate quitting.
The Boy: Does this mean I don’t have to go to French now?????????
Me: NO!!! You have to go!
The Boy: But I hate it too!!
Me: But you just don’t want to go out of laziness! You’re making a mockery of my decision not to go! You’re good at it and you don’t mind public speaking and you need to do it for WORK!!!
The Boy: Naaaaaaahhhhh I don’t. I’ll just talk to my mam in French.
Me: You won’t do that.
The Boy: Yeah I know.
Me: If you don’t go, I’m going and then you’ll have to live with the guilt of making me do something that will KILL ME!
The Boy: Fine, I’ll go.

5:12pm:
The Boy: Do you want to get Chicken Ramen in Wagamama’s with me?
Me: Damn! Fine, you can skip French just this once….

Je ne comprend pas….

So the French classes start this evening.
Lads, I really don’t know what I was thinking!
This process is everything I hate: foreign languages, public speaking, making an idiot of myself and getting home late.
And I’m pretty sure I was repressing memories in order to manipulate myself into signing up to the class, because all of a sudden all these forgotten feelings and incidents are flocking back into my conscious and I’m freaking out.
This is pure madness!
It’s unbelievable that I would willingly put myself through this torment!

Here is a list of things I’d rather do than go to French tonight:
1. Have dinner with Kristen Stewart.
2. Borrow an outfit from Taylor Momsen and then proceed to wear said outfit in public during the sunlight hours.
3. Tell Stephenie Meyer she’s a talented wordsmith.
4. Tell Zooey Deschanel that I hate her and force her to stop making movies and music.
5. Spend a day with Hector Ó hEochagáin.
6. Have two dinners and brunch with Kristen Stewart.
7. Dance in public.
8: Encourage Stephenie Meyer to finish her fifth Twilight book.
9. Use the word ‘hater’ as part of my daily vocabulary.
10. Eat my weight in peas.

Fashion Files: Clemence Poesy

Hello Goliath, I’m David

As I clutched a cup of bitter coffee and hopped from one foot to the other, I attempted to fight off the cold as I stood outside the Alliance Francaise on Tuesday.

That’s right, Readers.
I was facing my fearsomest of fears and signing up for French classes.

It mightn’t sound like that big of a deal, but for me it was terrifying.
You see, I studied French in school.
And while my first three years were pleasant enough, once I reached the Senior Cycle, I spent two whole years in hell.

Myself and The Bessie still claim that it was the torture ensured in this class that bound us together.

Foreign Languages are not my strong point.
If you have a flair for English (and then go on to study journalism in college), it’s tough to persuade your brain to regress and think like a simpleton in another language.
I sailed a long in all my other subjects, but languages….urgh!

My Irish teacher was nice to me.
She knew I worked hard and so she didn’t pull me up in front of the class, but my French teacher was another story.

She took pleasure in humiliating myself and The Bessie.
She was vindictive.
And I was a nervous, shy mouse-girl in school, who liked to remain invisible.

The woman was terrifying.
Tall and thin, flowing scarves, well-cut clothes, piercing glares, dangerously soft voice and clicking heels, so you could hear approaching the classroom in the manner of the wardens on The Green Mile.
She was a total Fracophile.
And she also only had time for the best students.
Myself and The Bessie had ended up in the highest French class (it still remains a mystery) and sat in the same room as girls who were all at least a year older than us, most of whom were super geniuses and had done French Exchanges during the previous year.
It was horrendous.

After a couple of months, Ms O’Kennedy singled out the few less impressive students (including ourselves) and made it her mission to get rid of us.
Three of them dropped down.
Myself and The Bessie struggled to hold on.
We endured the tonnes of homework we couldn’t understand.
We endured being always given the harder questions to answer in front of the class.
We endured the snide comments, the eye rolling, the smug grins of our classmates and the evil smile of the teacher as we got yet another question wrong.

Our one saviour was Our Good Friend Gillian, who was a French genius and used to help us out with our homework when she saw us falling to pieces.

Eventually, we made it through the two years and vowed never to speak the language or visit the country ever again.
It was so serious a vow that it took me a while to admit to her that The Boy was half-French (she’s still a little suspicious of him).
Eventually she gave me her blessing and I was allowed to fall in love with him and with Paris.

Anyway, I decided a few months ago that since I’d committed myself to The Boy for the long-term, I should make the effort to learn French properly (or at least master basic conversational skills) as a nice gesture to him.
So after weeks upon weeks of psyching myself up and changing my mind, I found myself outside the French Institute in Dublin City.

F-ing Hell.

I spent 25mins standing outside willing myself to go in.
THAT was how horrible those two years of persecution and belittling by an egotistical French-wannabe bitch were.
I was actually shaking at the thought of going in and speaking French to a French person.
(The Alliance has a strict policy of only speaking French).

When it got to the stage that my toes were threatening to fall off, I took a deep breath and practically ran into the building before I could change my mind for the millionth time.

The oral assessment actually went well.
I even managed to crack a few jokes, if mostly about be tomato-resembling face!
The examiner was nice and kept a straight face as I tripped through sentence after sentence of bad grammar.
The best bit was when she recommended me for one of the mid-level classes!
And considering how high the standard is, I was unbelievably chuffed!
My school teacher had convinced I was the worst person ever at French and here was an actual French person telling me I was pretty decent!

And so I start class on 7th February…
Go.
Me.
😀

Let me tell you about the time I….felt The Boy’s granny up

In honour of The Boy’s French relatives returning to France after spending the holidays with us, I thought I’d drag out this little gem….

I shit you not
Well as those of you who read this blog know, The Boy is half Francais.
You really shouldn’t hold it against him.
(he’ll kill me for writing that…heh heh heh)

And as you also probably remember, I had to privilege of meeting the French half of his family last Summer during our trip to Paris.

What you don’t know, and what he also didn’t know until right now, is that I copped a feel of Nanny French.

*hangs head in shame*

And I should clarify now that I’m not some pervy Granny-groper by nature.
It was an accident.
I swear!

Now while they were all lovely, I was RIDICULOUSLY nervous, largely due to the fact that my French sucks and I had no idea what was going on.
When I get nervous, I get either really quiet and sulky or really hyper and jerky-movement-y.
During this meeting, I was the latter.

Things went well enough during the meal and the after-chat, but it was on the ride home that disaster struck.

The Boy’s Uncle was lovely enough to give us a lift to our hotel, and dropped off Nanny French on the way there.
Relief was setting in at this point as the finish line came into view and I was able to relax as I sat in the back of the car.

A rookie mistake.

You know how the French are presented in American and British shows and films as smelly rude people who insist on kissing everyone?

Well the kissing thing is true.
(no comment on the other characteristics…I jest, I jest!)

“Bonjour!!!”
kiss right cheek, kiss left cheek
“Au revoir!!!!”
kiss right cheek, kiss left cheek
“Merci!!!”
kiss right cheek, kiss left cheek

You get the point.

So we pull up to an apartment block and Nanny French gets out of the car and in a panic I realise I’m going to have to say goodbye.
So I stumble out of the car (it was one of those high ones you kinda fall out of), try to make sure my dress hasn’t exposed my knickers to the Parisian public, and then I realise Nanny French is right in front of me.

ARGH!

Ambushed!!!

“Oh ….uhm ….au revoir,” I stammer.
And she smiles and says “au revoir” and moves in to kiss my cheek.
Now as a typical Irish person, I’m all up for the craic as long as you keep your affection and body parts to yourself.
So this kissing business is pretty awkward pour moi on so many levels.
Plus, no one tells you where to put your hands.

When she put her hands on the upper parts of my arms, my hands were restricted, so in a panicked decision-making moment, I decided to put my hands on her waist.
Except she’s really small.
So my hands ended up in a higher position than her waist….
That’s right, dear readers.

Miss Hermia managed to fondle some of Nanny French’s side boob.

Merde.

I don’t know if she noticed, but if she did she ROCKS for not shouting “rape” or whatever the French equivalent is.
And it’s also comforting to know that our encounter-of-the-uncomfortably-close kind didn’t prompt her to ban The Boy from ever seeing me again.

*sigh*

Someone really needs to write a rule book for occasions like these….

The Diary of a Pre-Teen -Part 5

I never said my life was interesting…

Monday 16th August 1999

Dear Diary,
“A friend in need is a friend indeed”. A well known phrase and I guess it is true. I mean me and Penny have both needed each other a lot this summer and we’re GREAT friends. This is the first summer I’ve been friends with her and it has been the best summer of my life.
Time to put the pen away,
Hermia

Tuesday 17th August 1999

Dear Diary,
I wonder when I’ll get a chest. I wonder if I’ll look OK with them.
Penny and I found this gold ball in the field today. We were really hyper cos we’d had Rocket Soda and Penny called it Pierre. We were bouncing it on the side of a house at the end of the road, but after 6 times it bounced into the house’s alley. Since no one was home, we tried to think of plans to get it back cos the owners had locked their alley gate. If we climbed the wall, we thought it might look like we were robbing the place, so we thought that if we got a long stick we could sweep the ball through the gaps in the gate but we couldn’t find a long enough stick.
Gotta go,
Hermia.
PS: Penny told me she’s not going to smoke anymore. Colette is smoking like a chimney. Almost 10 A DAY!!! I’m glad Penny has seen sense.

Sunday 22nd August 1999

Dear Diary,
Got my school coat yesterday. It’s nice. Can’t wait to start my new school.
Hermia

Index:
David (Boy I fancy)
Colette, Penny (best friends)
Ciara, Becs, Sharon (in our group)
Moany Granny (50-something-year-old that lived at the end of my road)

Fantabulous Foto Friday

I’m slightly devestated that Clemence has left Gossip Girl (although I am loving the new Blair/Chuck war), so in honour of her too-short time on the show, this week’s Fantabulous Foto Friday is dedicated to her…

Currently obsessed with….The Plastiscines

Maybe it’s because that Vodafone ad is on all the bloody time, but I can’t get enough of  les bébés rockers, The Plastiscines!

They’re everything we worshipers-of-all-things-chic-and-French-and-effortlessly-cool strive to be!

Natural pouts, bed hair and whatevs looks that would leave Blondie’s Debbie Harry looking like an uptight shrew.

Plus they can actually play their instruments!

Check out my favourite track  Barcelona HERE

I have a treat for you all…

Yup, I feel really bad that I haven’t been the best of bloggers during the last few weeks due to crazy work schedules and being sick, so I’m going to give you something that will hopefully make you guys forgive me!

Remember I told you about the wonderful DotComGiftShop where I bought a GIANT box of stuff for the new apartment (lol, which we still haven’t got!)?

Well, I got in touch with the online shop’s lovely press office and told them how simply lovely you all are and how I’d love to give you something, and the sweetheart that is Ade said, “Sure, we’ll give you this and you can hold a competition….”

How amazing!!!!

It’s a vintage organiser and it’s actually a lovely pale cream colour (the camera flash made it look white) and I actually bought one myself with the intention of putting it into my hallway in such a manner:

Lol, I know there isn’t a vintage organiser in that pic, but I intend to remove the flowers and put the V.O there instead and either move the mirror higher or to the side.

But you guys don’t have to do that.

You guys can do whateeeeeeeever you want with it.

So anyway, yes, super awesome prize, right???? I’m just dying to start putting letters and keys and other such household items into my one!

And how do you win such a lovely prize!?

Well there are three ways…

One Entry: Comment me with a link to your favourite picture …you don’t need to explain why you like it, but if you want to, I’d love to read it.

One Entry: If you post about this on your own blog.

One Entry: If A Chick Named Hermia, Are You There Blog? It’s Me, Charlotte or Diamond in the Rough is in your blogroll (but you’ll have to leave a comment to let me know it’s there!)

The competition ends next Thursday (17th) at 9pm Irish time.

Oh and it’s an international competition!

Have fun, dearies!!!!

Words that don’t exist in the english language, but really, really should…

This is such a sweet post by Let’s Fly Away Now….click here to read it.