France and I are officially expiration date-ing

My dear m'ma bought me my ticket home today. As I write this sentence, I have three months, 16 days, four minutes and four seconds left until I board the plane that will take me from Mother France.

For those of you planning to meet me at the Minneapolis airport with adorable handmade signs, a bottle of Blue Moon beer (with an orange slice, please), a bowl of chicken wild rice soup, as much customer service as you can muster and a big fluffy couch, you have exactly three months, 16 days, 10 hours, 35 minutes and 38 seconds from this writing to make that happen.

And in case you were wondering, I've been in France now for three months, 30 days, one hour, 20 minutes and 55 seconds. And yes, I am enjoying the new countdown widget on my Mac's dashboard, MerciBeaucoupMonsieurDame.

I have so much left I want to do here, and now that I've secured my return ticket the clock is ticking. There's no way I can leave France with my pride intact before I:

• Buy a beautiful article of clothing that I'll wear forever. When people ask me where it's from I'll sniff, look forlornly in the distance and say, "This? I picked this up on Rue Croissant de l'Amour on a sunny day in Aix-en-Provence, where the lavender scent on the breeze was mingling ever-so-tantalizingly with the earthy scent of the truffles I had scavenged myself in the Forêt des Pâtes Sauvages that very morning. The salesman told me it made me look onctueuse, and I was in no position to disagree."
• Am mistaken for a native Frenchwoman... after I open my mouth.
• Bring a drageur (pick-up artist) to his knees with an insult so original and beautifully crafted that said dude will be so ashamed of his catcalls and whistles that he can do nothing but join the monastic brotherhood who craft Chartreuse in the Alps, for his days of womanizing are over. Every time I hang out with my French friends I have them teach me the vulgarities of their language, so I feel this day is coming soon.
• Participate in an impromptu song and dance number on the streets of Gay Paree, as illustrated in this little ditty from Funny Face (hat tip: Kellstar):

Any other ideas of must-dos before I leave Cheesy Wineland? Leave 'em in the comments below. Time is running out, mes amies. I now only have three months, 15 days, 23 hours and 44 seconds to git 'er done!

I think I pressed my parking luck

Remember how my parking lot attendant was creeping me out? Since writing that post I haven’t been back to his garage. Sometimes my van spends the day at a meter. At times I’ll cough up $4 to hitch my wagon at a bowling alley’s lot.

But lately, upon the advice of some sneaky co-workers, I’ve been leaving Ol’ Red in a (free!) hotel parking lot that has signs everywhere stating that only hotel guests may park there. There’s a greasy-haired, snaggle-toothed gremlin who watches from the hotel’s back doors to guard against malfeasance, and the game is to exit your car, duck out under the garage’s overhang, speedwalk up a hill and down the street to the office without him catching you.

About a month ago, I lost. I had pulled in next to a coworker and was nervously chatting with him before making my trek up the hill. I had turned the corner to the street, thinking I was safe, when the gremlin literally ran up to me, waving his arms, telling me my actions were verboten.

“You can’t (heave) park there (heave) unless you’re a (heave) hotel guest,” he panted.

“Oh really?” I asked innocently. “I didn’t see a sign.”

I apologized and drove across the street to the bowling alley. I waited a few days before trying again, and since then I’ve only parked there if I arrive by 8:40, figuring he doesn’t start patrolling until about 8:45.

This morning, I did everything right. I left my house on time, made sure there were no shadowy signs of life from the back door before I parked, silently locked and closed my doors, and began my speed walk up the hill. When I reached the street I thought I was safe, but the gremlin appeared on the second floor of the parking garage below me.

“Ma’am!” he screamed. “You can’t park there! Ma’am! MA’AM!”

I ignored him, thinking that if he caught up to me I could claim to have been listening to an iPod and didn’t hear him. When he started moving like he planned to follow me on my trajectory, I cut across the street and headed to the courthouse, thinking I could claim sanctuary.

“MA’AM! I’LL TICKET AND TOW YOU! MA’AM! DON’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME!”

I walked away from him and into the courthouse. I had to get a refund from the post office there anyway. When I was done, I circled around the government buildings and entered the skywalk, not wanting to reveal my place of employment in case he was still watching.

I don’t think he’ll really tow me… He didn’t see me get out of the car so there would be a chance that he towed the wrong one. Plus, I’m parked inside the garage between two cars. Could a tow truck really get in there?

Regardless, from now on, since I’m something of a wuss, my free ride (park?) is over.

Update: I followed a complicated route around the hotel at 11 a.m. so I could catch a glimpse of my car. She was safe. I returned for another peek at four, this time risking a route that put me much more out in the open. After ascertaining she was right where I left her, I hesitated, thinking maybe I should just drive to a meter so I wouldn’t have to make another harrowing journey to the site when I was done with work. The exact moment I was about to go into the garage, the gremlin drove right past me in a hotel van. I cast my eyes shoe-ward in hopes that he wouldn’t recognize me, then continued walking down the sidewalk in case he was spying on me from his rearview mirror. Then I jumped in Ol’ Red and got the heck out in my Dodge (get it?).

A Grand Idea: Tea House in a Tree House

On Friday evening I surprised the gentleman caller with a night's stay in a beautiful bed and breakfast in town for our anniversary. We took the proprietor's advice and pretended we were living in 1904, playing chess by the library's fireplace, tickling the ivories in the music room, toasting each other with champagne chilling in a grand silver urn, popping in a DVD... Oh. Whoops.

In the morning we awoke to a winter wonderland; a freak late-April snow storm had blustered a coating of snow on our quaint surroundings. We continued our game of make believe at breakfast, enjoying a fine array of eggs and chicken sausages on lovely china and sipped hot beverages from the most darling teacups.

Our fellow residents were discussing what they should do that frigid but fine day to make their stays even more perfect. I knew there was only one thing that could complete my 1904 experience, and I had such a hankering for it (the likes of which the gentleman had never seen).

I needed a fancy tea house, stat. One where the waitresses wear long, striped aprons and funny hats, where one must be wearing lace gloves to be properly attired, where there is a delightful selection of cakes and cookies and other delectable treats. I required a place much like this fancy tea house I went to in Paris, but better somehow...

A tree house! Yes! My fancy tea house would be made all the better (and fancier) if it were perched up in a a weeping willow, or some other fancy tree. I could hollow out the trunk to create a dumb waiter system to ferry fancy treats on silver trays from the kitchen. I would build a grand spiral staircase around the tree's exterior so the fancily dressed little girls (who will flock to my tea house in droves to celebrate birthday parties and have Princess Pretend Days) needn't get runs on their fancy stockings by climbing up.

I will instruct the birds living in my tree to chirp only the most charming string quartet music, and I will hang the branches with colored lanterns to make the setting even more festive than it already is.

This idea is gold, I tell you. If you are interested in being my financier do let me know.