Day 6 of the not swine flu (NSF). A new and different sore throat started last night and came on with a vengeance early this morning. This one’s only on the left side, acutely painful, radiating into my eustachian tube, tongue, up behind my left eye, and the lymph node at the base of my skull behind my left ear is swollen and painful. At least it was at 6:30, at which point I took 3 Advil, which is enabling me to write this (on my laptop in bed). As for the rest, still achy and weak as a kitten, fever just above normal, though the way I feel is more consistent with about 101. More or less the same, if not slightly improved, but that could be the Advil.

Enough about that.

So on the Wednesday 11 days before the onset of Sore Throat Number One last Sunday, we had a French person over for dinner. I made chicken tacos and put out little bowls of cilantro, green onions, lettuce and grated cheese (tip: closest thing I’ve found to Monterey Jack is the grocery store Cantal, which is an excellent substitute). This French person arrived from the distant outskirts of Paris via the métro. I kept hoping she would wash her hands before digging into the condiments. But no. I was cringing inside as we sat down to eat, just imagining all the goodies she was sharing (now I know). It took everything I had not to ask her to wash her hands. But you can’t do that to a guest who’s a grownup who’s from another culture. So I just crossed my fingers, hoped her fingertips weren’t crawling with the plague, and enjoyed my yummy Mexican food. But no more tacos for French people.

By the time you’re the age I was when I moved to France, dealing with life’s little glitches, like the flu, doesn’t require any thought or effort. You know your brands and you have your methods. The other night, when I couldn’t breathe through my nose, my wonderful husband ran down the street to the pharmacy to get me some stuff to spray in my nose (prescribed by Doctor Number One of strep throat fame). I hadn’t filled that prescription because my nose wasn’t stuffy at the time and it doesn’t get stuffy with strep. But I asked Vincent, before he left, to ask the pharmacist if she had anything like Nyquil she could give me instead (explaining that it was the nighttime sniffling sneezing coughing aching stuffy head fever so you can rest medicine, so that he could explain it to her). There is no self serve for meds in French pharmacies. Over the counter means over the counter. You have to go through the pharmacist/firewall to even get Advil. (Full rant on French pharmacies here.)

Being such a wonderful husband, he did ask her, saying it was what I used in the States. Her reply was, “Well, if she hurries, she can get on a plane and go to the US to get some. But in France, we rinse the nasal passages.” OK. If I weren’t so sick I would have gone back out to give that woman an earful about what a blast it is to have to change the way you do just about everything when you’re over 40. I may yet.

French culture lesson: Her response is what’s known as being vache. (The word means cow. Don’t ask me what that has to do with anything. Cows are not generally rude bitches.) Being vache is all about coming up with a snipey, critical retort that serves to make the object feel small and to make the cow feel witty. The French, particularly French women, are known for being vache. I have heard this, but not experienced it personally till now. My French girlfriends are webgirls, a different breed altogether, one that is more open, tolerant and curious in general. To understand the origins of being vache, watch the movie Ridicule. So the cow is fired. I may have to switch to the pharmacy where the jerk made me say “vaginal” just to watch me squirm (see aforementioned pharmacy rant). But there are some nice young women working there now.

I wish somebody would just put me into an artificial coma till I was better. I hate being idle, I hate being a burden, and I hate feeling like merde. But since that ain’t gonna happen, I’ve decided to stop fighting it and pretend it’s the early 19th century, and I’m Kate Winslet in Sense and Sensibility, looking beautiful and delicate with sweet tendrils curling over my flushed forehead and wearing some incredibly feminine (and surprisingly crisp and fresh-looking) white nighty embellished with ribbon and eyelet (as opposed to looking pale and 10 years older, wearing sweats, and with my lank hair plastered against my head), while I languish in the throes of some non-specific illness in the mansion of a handsome, tender man who’s madly in love with me, anxious about me, and doing everything he can to see to my comfort (that man bit is not pretend).

This has exhausted me. Back to bed now.

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