Life here is full of surprises. I tell myself to just go with it. Say "Oui oui" a lot and hope you just didn't agree to give a stranger the title to your car.
I slept in until almost noon this morning. Parisians stay out late and sleep in and I'm just doing what the locals do.
I lie. I am jet lagged. Jet laaaaagggggggged.
It's noon and I'm still in my sleep shirt. I hear the door open and wonder why my husband is home mid day?
He's not. There's a woman I don't know, and she has cleaning supplies. Apparently we have a cleaning lady. Apparently the woman in charge of overseeing the care of our apartment (I don't know what to call her anything but "my Angel") sent her.
Or I just let a broom and mop armed serial killer into our apartment.
She doesn't speak English. My French? Brought to you today by the Letter O.
Dammit. Even the cleaning women here are chic and Size Nonexistent! She's blonde, built like a ballerina, with sculpted arms and beautiful beaded sandals.
And here I am-a non-fashionable, lucky to have something on, American woman.
I am not doing anything to advance our cause, American ladies!
I have an excuse. I am jet lagged. Jet laaaaaaggged.
Righto.
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