Craploads (and by craploads I mean nine) of new prints for sale now on my etsy shop today. All proceeds go towards the "carolyn alexander is learning to drive in a week" fund, which is not so much of a good cause as it is a cause for concern if you live in my mountains.
Anyways, I'm also trawling through my mountain of original drawings that I have thus far not been able to let go of because I'm a sentimental son of a bitch, so they'll be up by the end of the week too. BUY! BUY! BUY! (please thankyou please)
I'm quitting the mountains to go visit Lyon tomorrow. Not sure why we're actually going or what we're meant to be doing there as I know enough French to ask the question ("pour quoi?") but not enough to understand the answer ("gibberish"). What I do know though is that Lyon is a real city that has everything real cities have and mountains don't like real PAVEMENTS.
I'm so excited I could pee my pants. But I shant.
It would seem the more French I learn, the more I come across like a big dafty. I had become used to (and rather enjoyed) being a a bit of a deaf mute at social gatherings - laughing along at jokes I didn't get while plotting the violent deaths of everyone involved. But now, thanks to a season working up the ski resort I've been ripped from this lovely little world of pleasant daydreams and shoved roughly into the horror that is small talk. I've picked up enough bits and pieces now so that it would be rude not to try and make conversation with what ever poor bastard unknowingly starts one with me. I still have a touch of the "answering with something completely unrelated to the question" disease which is a tad mortifying, but they leave you alone after that.
Worse is when I understand enough questions in a row to add up to a real conversation which results in the following scenario with varying degrees of red face each time. It begins with me getting so excited and flustered that I fling sentence structure and grammar out the window and begin to speak in tongues. The aforementioned poor bastard's smile fades and their eyes narrow as they try to jigsaw together what the fuck I'm talking about. This gets me all the more flustered as I desperately try to dig my self out of my gibberish pit, until - both of us exhausted - we smile and nod and pretend to have come to some kind of conclusion and get as far away from each other as possible.
Then Raph hands me another martini and I return to the joys of being a deaf mute, where folk look on in smiling pity thinking "oh it must be hard living in a foreign country" as opposed to "what the fuck is she talking about can I GO now?"