Pardon My French

I've been slacking off already on this blog thing. Sorry! S. and I have been trucking right along, waiting for our days off. We were going to travel a bit on Friday, but I'm obliged to spend it at the prefecture instead, standing in line trying to get my working papers in order. I'm not sure what the problem is, but apparently the city where we lived before didn' t send over my files in time AND the lady in charge of my dossier is either sick or pregnant or just avoiding me. We e-mailed the prefecture about it, and finally got a very nice response back saying that they had been waiting to receive my file for months, and I could call Mme XYZ at such-and-such a number in order to discuss my case. The fact that we received 1) an acknowledgment and 2) an actual name and phone number is very, very rare, so I had high hopes about getting things sorted in time.

However, when S. telephoned on my behalf, the lady who answered the number got all paranoid: "Who gave you this number?! Who told you to call me?!" She told him to call back 2 times before she eventually said she couldn't help us and that I would just have to come in and get a temporary extension until my file is ready. If it doesn't happen in 3 months, then I just have to drag my butt back there and stand in line with 4 photos and repeat the process. Aaaaaaaargh. Not only will this eat up one day of our vacation, it also means that I will also have to miss one day of work in the future when I get officially summoned. Whatever. At least I have a job, and someday I will look back on all this and laugh.

In other funny news...I was trying to de-stink my husband's slippers by sprinkling what I thought was baking soda in them before he got home from work a couple of weeks ago. I've probably whined to you already that I have been really tired lately and feel barely functional past 8 o'clock. We were watching the news when he started complaining that his feet were burning. I told him what I had done and not to worry, but they started to really sting. I ended up getting socks for him to wear instead. The next morning, when I went into the cupboard to get my breakfast granola thing, I realized that I had mistaken the salt box for the b.s. box and poured a not-insignificant amount of salt into my dear husband's fuzzy slippers and THAT was why his feet were burning. Poor fella.