BeMused

For a woman with a penchant for things beautiful, I am often told that I do my fair sex a disservice. I have an intense dislike of one of my gender’s favourite pastimes: shopping. When I shop, I am looking to buy specific items. I do not window-shop. I target the stores that sell what I want and if something pleases my eye, I try on and buy. In other words, I shop like a man.

And when I occasionally partake in this onerous task, and I do need to be in the right mood, I do not wish to be subjected to the sales assistants’ inane banter in the pursuit of dollars, when a simple hello would suffice.

“And how are you today?”
I’ve had a day from hell dealing with a colleague’s ego, and the meeting ran for over two hours… Do you really want to know about my day?

“Looking for anything particular?”
Yes, wasting your time. Stop trying to make yourself busy in front of the boss.

“What’s the weather like outside?”
Glorious. Sunny. Warm. You’re missing out.

“This [item] suits you.”
Not when it’s creasing here and here, and gaping here.

“I always have to take the hem up too.”
Don’t care about you. I’m the one with the Amex card.

This weekend, after an unusually successful shopping spree, and feeling just a tad pleased with my purchases, I stopped at the lingerie section of a department store. The sales assistant noticed the number of bags I was carrying and decided I would be a good a target for mindless chatter.

“Shopping for something special?”
Yeah, something for a night of wild sex and debauchery.
“Not really,” I replied.
“You’ve done well today,” she said pointing to my purchases. “Any special occasion?”
None of your goddamn business.
“Spending money.”

I stepped aside to the adjoining display rack and watched her as she sought her next victim. The woman was carrying a number of shopping bags from various stores, so the same scenario replayed.

“Any special occasion?” she blabbered. “Finally got yourself out of the house, and the kids are away with their friends?”

I watched the look of horror on the woman’s face. She was barely of an age to have “kids away with friends” nor did she look the housebound type. She gave the sales assistant the evil eye and turned on her heel. I did the same, and pitied the next young woman with a little extra weight around the middle for she’d be shown the maternity section.

In the interests of shopper mental health and better credit card swiping, I suggest a simple solution. Shoppers should be given a free remote control, one that comes with multiple options, including a freeze and a mute button to silence the annoying and often invasive gibberish some sales staff dish out in the name of “looking busy” or making a sale. I, for one, would not leave home without it.

After all, I did say I shop like a man.

The over-inflated suitcases are weighed at Charles-de-Gaulle airport. The ground crew personnel shakes his head. “Trente six (36) kilos! Is too much.” I gulp at the thought of paying for excess luggage. He gives me a look laced with Gallic charm and says, “Take some thing out and put in your hand luggage.”

I rummage through the suitcase and remove weighty objects. Magazines, brochures, paper stuff. Done. Why do I collect so many memories? Cosmetic pouches. Done. Shampoo. Conditioner. No. Winter coat. Yes. I conceal the lingerie I purchased in Paris. The suitcase is reweighed. “Voila!” It gets his nod of approval.

In the departure lounge, I distribute the items into two pieces of hand luggage, the laptop bag and the small carry on case with wheels. I open one of the cosmetics bag and stifle a curse. I have accidentally picked up the one with my collection of nail polish. Including nail polish remover.

Acetone. On a flight that prohibits any liquids.

I decide to toss the acetone in the poubelle (bin) but my French manicure nail polish set is not for airport bins. I’m going to take my chance. I distribute some other items in the laptop bag and squeeze the long and thin fuchsia pouch in the wheelie case.

The invitation to board is announced. Two security personnel are conducting hand searches ahead. Mr Gemini and I line up in an Indian file patiently awaiting our turn. My heart races as both ground crew call us over simultaneously. We approach together. I’m carrying the laptop case, Mr G is carrying the wheelie case.

I lay the laptop bag on the table and unlatch the clip. Security Man 1 picks up a small bottle of decongestant nasal drops and asks, “Prescription?” I shake my head. “I have a blocked nose.” He snickers and puts it back.

I glance to my right. His colleague, Security Man 2, is searching the wheelie case and checking every cosmetic pouch. He raises an amused eyebrow, nudges the other and lets out a loud, “Oh la la… regarde-moi ça! (What do we have ‘ere?)”. He then holds up the bottle of red nail polish to eye level, gives Mr G a curious look and says, “Verrry nice…” with a heavy French accent.

Mr G retorts, “No, no… it’s not mine!”

The security personnel cross their arms in synchrony, shake their heads and smile facetiously.

I intervene, trying not to laugh. “C’est à moi! We’re together…”

But they play their part well. And I feel as if I’m standing in the midst of a popular French comedy.

The passengers who have witnessed the show give Mr G curious looks and laugh. The bottles of nail polish are passed with a shrug that could only mean, We’ll let them deal with it at the other end.

As I board the plane with my belongings intact, I smile at the French attitude and wonder if their British counterparts could match their sense of humour.

It freezes on a whim, leaving everything hanging in its wake. It renders everything inoperable, leaving me no choice but to pull the plug. A mysterious dent has appeared on its front, as if it had been (in)advertently kicked, in frustration.

Yesterday it greeted me with with a grunt and the white angels of death while I watched it trying to boot for 10 minutes. Purgatory is such a long wait when reviewing its sins. How frequently it disconnects the monitor signal, well, just because. The way it has self-destructed its restart button, then destroyed three keyboards and two mice (including wireless) in its four year life span. The gluttony for eating up two hard drives, one power supply and 1GB of RAM and the recently developed greed for all the CPU it can find; such obesity has rendered many programs inoperable.

Yet this morning, it greeted me with the usual jingle hello, flashed my name on the screen and tempted me to push its buttons a little further, just as I threatened to pull the plug and deliver the final coup de grace.

My desktop is possessed, soon to be greeted by the gates of Heaven or Hell.

This year I lost faith in faith, when I saw the number of retail shops open on Good Friday in one local strip. Ditto on Easter Sunday. These weren’t limited to convenience stories, but included the likes of green grocers, florist, clothing shop even an optometrist. Consumerism and greed have gone too far. I missed serenity and the quietude which the holy holidays afford.

~ ~ ~“I’ll meet you at 6 on the computer,” said one eight year old boy to another as they walked past me on their way to the park. MSN, MyWasteOfSpace, Sh!tFaced(Book), blog… I wanted to know details.
~ ~ ~ This Easter, I noticed an inordinate number of buns in ovens, and I’m not talking about the hot and crossed ones. Whoever said that birth rates are falling does not live in my neighbourhood and its surrounds.
~ ~ ~As much as I enjoy chance meeting with friends I haven’t seen in a while, the last one had me asking how I could have had a crush on someone who ended up wearing Birkenstocks and Crocs. Next time I feel the twinge of a new crush, I’m checking their choice of footwear. Never mind the high intellect that drew me in like a magnet.
~ ~ ~Sunburnt on Easter Sunday? That’s a fact. A few good lazy hours were spent on the beach swimming in the most refreshing crystal clear waters. After midday, throngs of families who decided to do the same started to lay their towels on the warm sand in geometric patterns. The beach was close to its usual weekend capacity. And not one pair of bunny ears was worn.
~ ~ ~Kudos to the group of guys who must have turned up to work on Easter Sunday, wondered why their premises were closed and headed straight to the beach, in their uniforms. Stripping down to underwear then frolicking in the water and posing for photographs provided a solid dose of entertainment.
~ ~ ~For me, the major holidays are about family and special moments. I made Cléa very happy today was the most beautiful thing I was told. If only adults were as open in expressing their thoughts and feelings as an innocent 2 year old.
~ ~ ~Surprisingly, no chocolates or Martinis were consumed during the making of this post. In fact, all Easter weekend. Maybe I’d rather prefer to contemplate the glass once in a while, and see it full.

My eyelids flutter open as an unfamiliar tinkle disturbs my deep slumber. I stare at the ceiling, my mind a complete void. The annoying jingle tickles my awareness. The bedside phone is ringing. It’s the wake up call. No… it’s the hotel reception desk. The taxi to Charles-de-Gaulle airport is waiting downstairs.

I shake him awake and he slowly turns away and grumbles as if that was a nudge for having had too many red wines the night before.

“It’s 6.30 am! Missed the wake up call!”

“Er… what wake up call?”

Merde! The one he forgot to set. We bolt out of bed. There are showers to be had, final packing to do, squeezing last minute purchases into over-inflated suitcases and never mind the obligatory morning brew.

Frantically, I hop in the shower trampling over semi-open luggage. My mind is ablaze with the possibility of missing the flight, what is one to do? As I dry off, my thoughts are peppered with the “what-ifs” of the night before.

Had we not leisurely meandered through the left bank towards boulevard-st-germain after dinner, taking in the sights of nocturnal Paris, encore une fois, one more time. Had we not sat down at Les Deux Magots, and watched the night life in a city that inspires. Had we not ordered Bas Armagnac, and were served a double for the price of a single by a gracious waiter. Had we not recounted the highlights of the trip and with the last amber swill toasted a worthy end to the sojourn abroad. Had we not returned to our hotel late, very late…

I smile as I take one last look around the dishevelled room. Checking out is swift, as one would expect from an establishment that upgraded us to a suite during our entire stay. A taxi is hollered. We squeeze into the back seat of a Peugeot 307 as comfortably as our oversized luggage is laid in the boot. Le Figaro, L’Express and Paris Match magazines peep through the back pocket of the front seat.

It is still early morning. Paris se lève…Paris awakes and the city is enveloped in a dense and static haze. The taxi pierces through the fog at lightening speed, traversing the yawning Seine. Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral stands to my left. I bid my respects to the grande dame just as the sun floats languidly over the low horizon ahead. I glance towards the city one more time.

Au revoir, Paris.

A la prochaine…

Until next time.