Shhh. I’m hiding in an internet cafe on Rue Thouin across the street from the apartment we’re renting on the Left Bank in the Latin Quarter in Paris.
Henry left us for the day to travel to Verdun. He’s meeting an Englishman who travelled through the Chunnel from London to take him on a tour of the most violent, dreadful battlefield of World War I.
The Germans vs The French in a pyrrhic victory, leaving me with la petit filles to shop, eat, museum, shop, eat, museum, whine, extort, kvetch, troll for souvenirs, et al.
Which is why I left said daughters with my mom for a moment of internet cafe glamour por la nuit.
I wasn’t gone for two seconds when the harassing texts began:
Nonna’s Text: “Your farts smell like tomatoes! From Clare.” (aged 11)
Clare has apparently stolen her geriatric caregiver’s phone.
My Response: “Your farts smell like asparagus.”
Nonna’s Text: “Help!” (This message must be from my mother. She’s Nonna)
My Response: “Poor, Mom.”
Nonna’s Text: “Waasaaah.” (Not sure what language this is. Seems to be a cry for help.)
My Response: “Beat them if you must.”
Nonna’s Text: “Never!”
Two seconds go by.
Nonna’s Text: “Could you pick up baguette?”
My Response: “Could be here awhile. Can u take them out to get one?”
Nonna’s Test: “Don’t have a key. Never mind. We’ll starve.”
Sigh. Going to find baguette and impale myself upon it. That fucking Henry and his war re-enactments. I won’t even get into the Liberation of Greve on our honeymoon!