In which I have a romantic lunch that starts with zucchini tart and ends with throwing up

Remember Yves, the millionaire boyfriend (he claimed to be a millionaire, but would a true millionaire not even have his own washing machine?) who proposed to me nine months after he broke up with me?

We took a trip together -before he broke up with me - through the south of France. It was actually a lovely trip. He did all the driving and I decided where we were going. We got to see little villages you can't get to by train and he knew that crazy French driving rule that you yield to the driver coming from the right even if you are on a major road and the other driver is on a minor road. When Primo and I were in France last year and drove from Paris to Mont St Michel, I expected death from the right the entire time on the road, which seemed like four straight days but was probably less. Which was probably oh one afternoon. But one afternoon on French roads can feel like an eternity.

We (Primo and I) also discovered the joy of driving up a hill in Rennes 1. without snow tires 2. during a snowstorm with 3. other drivers without snow tires. Yes, it does snow in France. The only time it snowed during our week there was the day we had to drive back from Mont St Michel to Paris. The rest of the time, we had cold rain. France in November. There's a reason it's easy to find a hotel room in late fall.

Next time Primo and I go to France, we are taking the bus. Let someone else worry about the rules.

But Yves and I had a nice time going through the little villages and small cities and up to the top of Les Roches. It makes it easier to travel when you are with someone who speaks the language and knows the rules.

The only sour note - apart from the time

WAIT! THIS IS GROSS! YOU MIGHT WANT TO SKIP IT! Start reading again after the last set of all caps.

apart from the time when we were in the hotel in Arles where the toilets used about four ounces of water each flush I AM WARNING YOU STOP READING RIGHT NOW IF YOU GET GROSSED OUT DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU

and we all know that sometimes four ounces isn't enough, which is why the hotel provided a toilet brush

YOUR LAST CHANCE TO STOP

which Yves DID NOT USE so when I went into the bathroom, I saw quite clearly that he was an evening pooper who ate a lot of fatty food and not much roughage.

And that's as far as I'll go except to say that cleaning someone else's poop was not what I had in mind for a romantic vacation. He didn't leave his towels on the bathroom floor, but this was far, far worse. Picking up someone else's towels won't make you gag.

Related story: I used to swim at the JCC before I would go to work. That was back when I had a job and some degree of worth in the open market. Now I am just a parasite, consuming without contributing. If Primo dies, I am stuck. There is not enough life insurance to last for the next 50 years of life I undoubtedly have left, at least if there is anything to genetics, and the marketplace has made it quite clear over the past few years that it has no use for my talents. I better keep that man alive and working.

I would go to the JCC at 5:30 a.m., swim, shower, then go to work.

One morning, I arrived at the gym. I put my purse and sweatpants in a locker, then carried my towel and bath kit to the shower to leave it. I opened the door to the showers and a smell hit me.

It was the smell of poop.

Which as everyone knows does not belong in a shower.

I tiptoed to the first shower stall - there were four - and pulled back the curtain.

Someone had smeared poop on the wall.

I felt myself start to vomit.

I backed away, grabbed my towel, and ran out to the front desk.

"Someone smeared poop on the shower walls in the ladies' locker room," I told the attendant.

Her eyes flew open. "Oh!"

"You need to have someone clean it up."

She nodded vigorously. I went into the pool, swam my lazy 1,200 yards, and returned to the locker room.

When I opened the shower room door, the smell was still there. The shower had not been cleaned.

I grabbed my towel again, wrapped my body for modesty's sake, and marched out to the attendant. "It's still there!" I said.

"I told them," she protested.

I returned to the showers, used the stall on the very far end, which was clean, got dressed and left.

I came back at lunch to use the weights. Out of curiosity, I checked the showers.

Still poop laden.

I couldn't believe it.

I found the attendant and hissed, "IT'S STILL THERE!"

She shook her head. "I told them."

"You didn't check to make sure it was done!"

"That's not my job," she snapped.

"Yes! It is! It is your job to make sure it has been handled! All you had to do was walk thirty yards and check!" I stomped away to find someone who would actually give a damn. For five hundred dollars a year, I wanted clean showers. Was I asking too much? I don't think so.

She was unconvinced. "Besides," she said, "Our cleaners aren't paid enough to clean poop."

I whirled back. "Yes, they are! I cleaned poop for $3 an hour. If it is your job to clean the showers, then you clean the damn showers." [I did, when I was a lifeguard during college and the boys thought it was funny to poop on the men's room floor and the City of Converse would not let us lock the bathrooms and require patrons to request the key.]

One of the coaches overheard me. I told him the story and he was appalled. He glared at the attendant and promised, "I will make sure this is taken care of immediately." And he did.

Wow. That's a lot of poop talk for a story that is not about poop.

GROSSED OUT PEOPLE RESUME READING HERE

No, this story is not about poop. It is about vomit.

So the only sour note was the time we stopped for lunch at an idyllic little cafe in the country. The narrow road was lined with elm or chestnut or whatever kind of tree it is that lines country roads in Europe. We don't have many of those - tree lined roads - here. Possibly none. My neighborhood's streets used to be lined with elms that bent over and met in the middle of the street, but that was before Dutch elm disease. Now I just have a maple that drops its leaves overnight three weeks after all the other trees on the street have dropped and two weeks after I have had to rake everyone else's leaves out of my yard. This year, I just waited for the wind to blow my leaves from my yard into the other yards and darn if it didn't work.

But in Europe, they have old roads lined with trees. The sun shines between the leaves and branches and casts dappled light on the road. It was a warm, beautiful day. There might have been cicadas humming, although maybe not as we took this trip in May and I think May is too early for cicadas. Not that I am a cicada expert or anything, but I think they are a late summer thing.

We pulled over and walked to the cafe. The garden was just starting to bloom. A few people bent over the outdoor tables, holding hands across the bread and butter. This was a romantic place. Good. I needed some romance to make up for the you know what. (I'm not going to say it for the sake of the people who skipped the gross part.)

We sat. Looked at the menu. The special looked fabulous: starter of a zucchini tart, then poached fish with asparagus, then a chocolate mousse. Yum. I ordered the special, Yves ordered the steak frites.

We were starving. We hadn't eaten anything since our very light breakfast of bread and cheese and that had been five hours ago. I don't like to go more than ten minutes between snacks, so I was ready to go.

They brought out my tart.

I ate daintily, as Yves and I were still in that stage where we were trying to show each other our best face. Or at least I was. Yves had apparently gotten over the "She must never know I have bodily functions!" horror.

Primo and I still do not pee in front of each other. Yes, we have seen each other naked and our bodies are not as pretty as they were 20 years ago. He has pulled a white hair out of my chin and I have cleaned his infected leg wound, but we close the bathroom door. Every time. There has to be some mystery.

But Yves was either clueless or far less modest than I.

I ate daintily. I finished my small slice of tart. Yves at his small appetizer, whatever it was. I was going to say a salad, but then I remembered that the French don't eat their salad at the beginning of the meal. Or so I've heard. When Primo and I were in Paris, we were not eating multi-course meals. We had a lot of bread and cheese and just one fancy restaurant meal at Le Relais de Venice with the birthday money my mom sent me. I think there might have been salad, but what I remember is the steak and the great sauce that came with it. I even ate the french fries, which I only eat about once a year, just so I could have more of the sauce.

We waited for the next course.

And waited.

And then my stomach started to rumble.

I started to feel - not well.

I started to feel like I was going to throw up.

I rarely throw up. I had food poisoning in Albuquerque in 1986 and again in Memphis in 2003. I threw up both times. I can't remember much more throwing up besides that in my adult life except for the time when I decided to go to Europe after grad school even though I did not have a job. I was so stressed about doing something so irresponsible that I threw up and burst all the blood vessels around my eyes, making it look like someone had given me a light beating.

I burst those same blood vessels again a few months ago after several minutes of Downward Dog at the yoga class my orthodox Jewish acupuncturist who works at a drug rehab clinic had recommended for my headaches. Yoga not only did not stop my headaches (turns out that quitting caffeine was all I had to do for that) but gave me more, plus that lightly beaten about the eyes look.

I am a Delicate Flower.

Point is that I rarely throw up.

But I knew what was about to happen.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I blurted to Yves as I ran. I got there just in time. Chewed tart hurtled out of my body. I kept retching even once my stomach was empty. I vomited so hard that my stomach muscles, which are rarely used, started to hurt.

I flushed twice, wiped the specks off the seat, flushed again, then sat on the toilet to rest.

Throwing up is hard work.

I washed my hands, then rinsed my mouth. I looked at myself in the mirror: I was pale and sweaty. Not a good look for me.

I walked slowly back to the table. Yves stood. "What happened?" he gasped.

"I threw up," I told him.

"But why?"

"I think the eggs were bad in the tart. It's the only thing I can think of. It's the only thing I've had to eat for hours."

He frowned. He looked up, raised his hand and summoned the waitress.

"She is sick because of the tart. We are leaving. Cancel the order. I pay for my appetizer but not for hers."

The waitress tried to protest, but Yves would have none of it.

He threw some bills on the table, gently took my elbow, and carefully guided me to the car, where he reclined my seat. "You just rest," he commanded. "You just feel better."

A few hours later, we stopped for chocolate. I felt much better. But no more undercooked tarts for me.

In which I slave to find the perfect gift for my French self-proclaimed millionaire but miserly boyfriend and get only an e-card for my birthday

Remember Yves, the French boyfriend who claimed to be a millionaire but lived in spartan, washing his clothes in the sink, miserliness? He also implied darkly that he had been a spy and had had some run-ins with the Russians when I asked him about what appeared to be cigarette burns on his arm. Then there was the hereditary English title of which his family had unjustly been dispossessed.

Whatever. I just rolled my eyes when he went on about this stuff. Like, I'm an American. I couldn't care less about hereditary titles. As in, England might want a queen but I would never bow to her because I AM AN AMERICAN and WE BOW TO NOBODY.

Plus if he was so rich, why didn't he have a washing machine? And a full-sized refrigerator? I know it's France and they are so superior and all, but my idea of superior leisurely living does not include washing my clothes by hand. I had enough of that when I was in the Peace Corps.

Still, he was interesting to talk to and there was a certain glamor (and convenience) to having an overseas boyfriend. Although I should have learned my lesson with him and not made the Gomez mistake. For dumb.

After meeting at work and dating for a few months, we had decided to be "just friends" after coming to the conclusion that this intercontinental dating wasn't really going to work. Then we decided that as "just friends," it might be fun to take a trip together to the south of France. We would split the expenses as "just friends" and he would do all the driving and hotel finding and speaking to the locals, as my French is abysmal. A French teacher once told me in exasperation that I spoke French "like a Spaniard," which is undoubtedly true, as Spanish is my first foreign language. I started learning it when I was six and my brain knows two accents: American and Spanish. Those are the accents I apply to every other language, including French, Italian and Portuguese.

I was to fly to Marseilles and meet Yves there. His birthday happened to fall during our trip. I wanted to get him something special. I knew he liked American bourbon - he had even toured Kentucky visiting distilleries.

I researched bourbon, about which I knew nothing. It's booze, right? You use it in Bourbon Balls at Christmas?

I learned that there are boutique bourbons, single malt bourbons, snob bourbons. I learned how they were rated.

I emailed one of Yves' colleagues, whom I had also met through work. What bourbons could one buy in France? I asked. I wanted to get something that Yves could not get through his regular liquor channels.

Only the big names were available overseas, so I was safe with the snob brands.

Then I went to four different liquor stores in Miami before I found one that carried any of the snob brands. Yes, I would have tried calling beforehand, but if you have ever lived in Miami, you will understand why that would have been a stupid idea.

I spent $50 for the bottle. That was a lot of money to me back then. It had taken me a year and a half after the Peace Corps to find work and I had been working only two years. Before the Peace Corps, I was in grad school and I had a year (of temp work) between grad school and the Peace Corps, so I had had five years of barely breaking even, if that.

$50 for booze is too much for me now, as well, but then I don't drink. I'd rather spend that money on shoes. Or a purse.

I couldn't pack the bottle in my checked luggage - I was afraid it would break. Apparently, nobody thought I would try to get the entire plane drunk (ha - as if I would share something so expensive) and I was able to take it in my carry-on bag.

A bottle of bourbon, even the fancy bourbon, is not light. But I carried it across an ocean so I could have a nice gift for Yves.

He picked me up in Marseilles and we had a great trip, even deciding - ahem - to be more than "just friends," at least for the duration of the vacation.

We stayed at a small hotel on the water in Marseilles and were confused by the signs informing us that it was interdit to take non-guests into the room, but then we realized it was a sailors' flophouse and they wanted to keep the hookers out.

Our room was decorated in a jaunty nautical theme that included bunk beds instead of a double bed, but I suppose that would have been no impediment to a lonely sailor on shore leave.

The only rough spot on the trip was when I ran out of the pain meds for my tooth that needed pulling. My dentist refused to pull the tooth right before I left for France, telling me that such a procedure two days before an international trip was not wise. He did give me drugs.

He also asked if I was interested in meeting his single, employed brother. His mother, who ran his practice, and he had discussed this over my two years of being a patient and had thought we would be a good match.

I suggested that waiting until a week before I was moving from Miami to Iowa was not the best timing. Did I mention that? That I was moving from Miami to Cedar Rapids? Well, I was.

Anyhow, I ran out of drugs and my tooth started to hurt so much that I demanded that Yves find a hardware store, buy a wrench, and pull the tooth himself. He refused, but did call his doctor and get me a new prescription. At the time, I did not know codeine was available over the counter in France (it is! stock up when you are there!), otherwise I would have just stayed stoned until I got back to the States.

Back to the bourbon.

Yves loved it. Thought I was so thoughtful to go through all that effort. Of course I told him how much work it was. Wouldn't you?

I went back home, moved to Iowa, and we carried on our emailing relationship along with an occasional phone call. He even visited me in Iowa on a work trip to the States. He did not, however, impress me by deciding to fly back to France out of Chicago instead of Cedar Rapids as we had originally planned.

"I thought you could drive me to Chicago to catch the plane," he explained.

I explained to him that Chicago was over 200 miles away - that just because something is only one inch away on the US map does not mean it is a quick drive. But he didn't care. He didn't want the more expensive ticket (that the company was paying for) - but he was OK with my putting 400 miles on my car and my paying for the gas.

What can I say? This is the same man who drove to Cedar Rapids from Memphis against my advice. "It's a boring, boring drive," I told him, "and a long drive."

He didn't believe me until he got to Cedar Rapids. "It was hours of nothing but corn fields!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yeah. I told you so," I answered.

After we broke up, I emailed him and told him I wanted the gas money.

But that was later. Yves went back to France. I continued to work. As my birthday approached, Yves got excited. Oh, the special thing he had planned for me! It was tres cool! I would like it SOOOO much! He could hardly stand it!

I was intrigued. What could he be getting me that was the equivalent of $50 boutique bourbon? Did he really know me that well? I couldn't wait, either.

My birthday arrived.

Nothing in the mail. Nothing delivered to work. I waited. I waited.

I checked my email.

There it was.

An e-card.

An E-CARD.

That was the special birthday present he had arranged for me.

Two days later, he broke up with me.

Know what?

I didn't care.

In which Sly and Doris warn Primo that I am a Gold Digger

Summer 2008 Primo talks to the man and woman who gave him life and want Nothing But The Best For You, Honey. You're The Light Of Our Lives. Are you sure That Woman is not just after your money? Because you know, That Woman was laid off and hasn't found a new job. Maybe she's just LAZY and is marrying you so she doesn't have to work.

Sure. Because there is nothing more appealing to an unemployed 44 year old woman than a divorced, alimony and cobra-paying mid-career, no patents, no stock options engineer. Who did not have a mean lawyer.* Who gave the house to Isabel and is paying for the storage unit where Isabel keeps her wine not because that is in the divorce decree but because it's on Primo's credit card as an auto-bill and he just hasn't noticed and it's not like Isabel is going to tell him because Isabel is many things but she is not stupid.

But who kisses great if you know what I mean. And is a wonderful companion. When we are not talking** about politics.

Primo tells me that according to Sly and Doris, I am a gold digger.

Why his parents think that everything they say to Primo is under the seal of some kind of parent-child confessional, I do not understand. Do they really think that what they say to him about me stops with him? No, he is a conduit. A one-way conduit, because his first loyalty is to me. I would not have married him otherwise.

I snort.

"Oh really? I'm marrying you for your money? What? Because I turned down all my other marriage proposals*** because I was waiting for a divorced middle-aged engineer?" [Smack! Love ya, honey! You know I do! But your parents make me NUTS!]

"Do they know that I am bringing the assets into this marriage? Do they know that the 50% down payment on our house - the house we wouldn't be able to afford otherwise - comes from me from the house I sold in Memphis that was within $300 of being paid off when I sold it?"****

He rolls his eyes. "You know how they are."

"Do they know I was proposed to by an actual millionaire? And that I was dating the Moroccan millionaire when I met you? That I broke up with him to date you? I could have married a millionaire."

Well. He said he was a millionaire. I never saw any evidence of that. Yves was French. I met him through work. We traveled through the south of France together and split the expenses. He kept notes, then as soon as we got to his place in Paris, made a spreadsheet so we could settle up. I just cared about the major expenses, but wasn't too worried if my spending six francs on a loaf of bread didn't make it to the list.

He lived in a tiny two bedroom place with one of those dorm refrigerators. He didn't even have a washing machine. Washed his clothes by hand in the sink. Maybe that's just standard European millionaire fare. I don't know. Maybe he was a miser. Or maybe he was a liar.

We dated long distance for months, then he broke up with me after sending me an e-card for my birthday. This was after I had done the research and gone all over Miami to find a special boutique bourbon to take to him but whatever.

Nine months later, he came to the US for work. Wanted to see me. Took me to lunch. I found the most expensive restaurant in town. He told me he was getting married. "That's great, Yves!" I said. "I'm really happy for you." And I was. I was over him.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"Oh, you know her," he answered mysteriously.

"I do?" I couldn't think of anyone I knew in Paris. Maybe he'd met someone else at work.

"It's you!" He beamed.

I blinked and shook my head. "No. No!"

"But I need an heir!"

"No!"

He sat back and stiffened.

“I’ll put half my money in your name.” (A big deal for him – I told you he was a miser.) “We can live wherever you want. You can work or not work, but if you want to live in London, I might have to keep working.”

I kept shaking my head.

“Why would any woman turn this down?” he asked in disbelief. And he really couldn’t understand why.

I tell Primo the story about Yves. He already knows about the Moroccan millionaire, Gomez, because I wasn't exactly - um - done dating Gomez when I started dating Primo and it took me a while to tell Gomez that we were over, but in my defense, I didn't want to break up by email because I think that's tacky and I kept waiting for Gomez to call me and he didn't and didn't and I was hoping that maybe he just never would and he would forget about me and I wouldn't have to deal with the situation. Oh don't judge me. You've done the same thing yourself.

He skyped, BTW, which honestly, if you're a millionaire, don't you have the money to make a decent phone call? Or is that how you become a millionaire - by not wasting money when you don't have to? Actually, Gomez became a millionaire the old-fashioned way - by being born into money in a third-world country.

But anyhow. I tell Primo to tell Sly and Doris that they can kiss my butt. Oh, I'd love for that to happen! But of course he would never do that and neither would I. And actually, I don't want him to tell them anything. Let them think what they want. Our finances are none of their darn business. Let them think that I sit on the sofa eating bon-bons and watching soap operas all day long. It will drive them crazy trying to figure out how to re-write their will so that Primo gets their money but I don't.




* More about that later. [Rolling my eyes.]

** "Talking" = Primo is ranting and I am waiting for him to stop so I can get back to blogging.

*** Well yes I did as a matter of fact. I was engaged after college, then had a few boyfriends who wanted to get married and one who said he would convert from Islam to Christianity for me so we could marry, which taught me not to use religion as an excuse to break up with someone. You just have to say you don't love him any more. It seems mean, but it lets him get on with his life.

**** Oh yes it's true. I come from Thrifty Folk. I owned that house eight years and I owned it.