My Glamorous Life

Kelly and Forrest at home.

Thank God for Facebook. France is great, but I have not spoken with a single soul since arriving here two weeks ago, except my husband and the lady at the bank who filled out the papers for my debit card. She was very nice, but we really only talked about where I was born, what I do for a living (“auteur”) and the Randolph zip code—the last subject was discussed at some length. The bank lady’s computer wanted to know all nine digits of the code and refused to give me a card without them (they are 1337, I discovered after a Google search). I also had a brief but pleasant conversation with an elderly gentleman in the park who wanted to know if I was enjoying my walk (“Tu boulevarde?”). I responded with a look that said, “huh?” The elderly gentleman then proceeded to illustrate his question by dancing a little two-step jig like Zorba the Greek. We smiled. Other than that, my social life has been confined to Facebook.
     A few of the highlights from my news feed: A link to an article about my Randolph neighbor, Renaissance man Forrest MacGregor, profiled in the Randolph Herald by my friend Dian Parker. I am only slightly hurt that I—a college dropout who rescues dangling participles for a living—was not personally mentioned by Forrest in the following quote: “Vermont is a unique place. Here you have a cheese maker with a PhD. A farmer who studied at Vermont Law School. An engineer who sculpts. Such pockets of novelty! It is a place where the mind can flourish.” Forrest is currently working on a piece of performance art that involves an 1881 Mosler safe and a sledgehammer.
    Patrick, by the way, has accused me of mentally stalking Forrest and his wife, the lovely and talented Kelly Green. He thinks I’m obsessed with them. In my latest Forrest-and-Kelly dream, I went to their house and let myself in. This is not stalking. We are neighbors. Remember how Ethel on “I Love Lucy,” would just waltz into Lucy and Ricky’s apartment whenever she felt like it? She never knocked. Neither did I (in the dream, I mean). Anyway, I was barely inside the Green-MacGregor house when I heard somebody snoring, and I tiptoed out. End of dream.
    In other news: My cousin Paul is, on last report, migraine-free. He was last seen on Sylvia Cooley’s time-line looking aesthetically challenged (from a fashion standpoint) as a preteen in plaid pants. (Don't you just love oldies?)
     Now I am going to call my aunt Ruth and my aunt Lois and then watch TV with my husband. And thus begins another glamorous week in France.