Au revoir à jamais

Oh, my friends who live inside the computer, Scott and I are leaving tomorrow for Paris. It’s our tenth anniversary on Friday, and it was my 40th birthday last week, and since we sold our house we had some cash lying around (technically not lying around; we used it as padding for Charlie’s dog bed). So we thought, why aren’t we going to Paris? What kind of jerks are we?

So Henry’s going to hang out with the grandparents while we cavort and gambol around Paris for six days, and I should be ridiculously excited. Except now that we’re getting ready, I’m pretty we’re going to die. I don’t deserve a nice vacation and therefore the Lord will smite us. Obviously. Here’s what’s going to happen, in no particular order:

The plane will crash and we will all die

The French will hate us and we will all die

Having forgotten the four years of French I took in high school (Je suis désolée, Madame Goldenberg!) I will be unable to obtain for us food or beverages, and death will ensue

We’ll forget to do anything and we'll sit in our hotel room crying (and subsequently die of shame)

The United States will blow up because I wasn’t here to keep things non-blow-uppy

Henry will be sad and lonely with his grandparents and we’ll have to come home early, and somehow we’ll die as a result of that

Something something something death

Needless to say, some of these scenarios are unlikely. Probably we will not die. I went to Paris many years ago and found the French to be largely tolerant of my crude Frenchifying. Henry loves his grandparents way more than us. We have guidebooks and the like. The plane will maybe get us there and back safely. Maybe.

I’ve been practicing some important phrases, too:

Excuse me, stewardess, please make sure there is no turbulence.

Excusez-moi, hôtesse de l'air, s'il vous plaît assurez-vous il n'y a pas de turbulence.

I thought I said no turbulence. Now I require a bucket of red wine and some horse tranquilizers.

Je pensais que je l'ai dit pas de turbulence. Maintenant, j'ai besoin d'un seau de vin rouge et quelques chevaux de tranquillisants.

Pardon me—does the United States still exist?

Excusez-moi, les États-Unis continuent d'exister?

Do not laugh at me. I have an anxiety disorder.

Ne vous moquez pas de moi. J'ai un trouble anxieux.

That man who is laughing? He is my husband. He is a monster.

Cet homme qui rit? C'est mon mari. Il est un monstre.

I go to the library. I want hamburger and fries.

Je vais à la bibliothèque. Je veux hamburger et des frites.

(I already knew that last one.)

We’ll return in a week. Please keep our planes aloft and the Earth safe with the power of your positive thinking or praying or voodoo or whatever it is you do, I really don’t care.

(And I just realized I forgot to tell you about the surprise party my husband threw for me. It was incredible. But I’m leaving now so I’m going to have to tell you about it upon our return, IF WE EVER RETURN, of course you will Alice shut up.)