Puttin on The Ritz

Well it is a whole day later and I have finally calmed down from the whole lost post debacle. I am sitting here demurely in the corner of the lobby of the Ritz in Montreal trying to look like I am typing an annual report or some such thing.

On Sunday night upon my arrival at the hotel they were sorry to say they did not have the type of room that I had booked months ago. Before I had a chance to even get a little snitty guess what they had the unmitigated gall to do? Yes dammit they had the sheer audacity to upgrade me to a large corner room with four windows, a lovely chandelier and I kid you not, a fireplace. French bastards!

Please don’t go thinking that I hang at the Ritz very often. I usually get a couple of nights away for a conference or board meeting about twice a year. This is my first business trip after coming back from my Maternity leave. My boss, my lovely boss, apologized that she would be out Sunday evening and would I mind terribly getting room service, taking a bath and watching a movie. Could this GET any worse?

The conference went well and was interesting and I felt pretty snappy in my new pantsuit. Unfortunately I had to wear the dreaded knee high nylons and as any woman can attest they always squeeze the bejesus out your legs just below your knee. Also eleven hours is a very long time to be social and keep introducing yourself adnauseum. Those damn name card necklace things rested at about chest height so while everyone was peering at names they looked like they were checking out each others racks. Highly disturbing.

After a long day of being social and engaging I came back to my hotel and guess what those damn French did now? Once again they pissed me off by turning down my bed and putting four chocolates on my pillow. Yes. Four.

On the flight home on Tuesday night I had the bad luck of sitting next to someone who was highly annoying. He was blackberrying away like crazy and sighing over his VERY IMPORTANT emails. He kept muttering to himself such things as “gotta plan a meeting” or “that’s not the report I want” etc. What really bothered me is that after the stewardess, pardon me, Flight attendant lectured us about not using electrical devices he kept doing it. Just before taking off the flight attendant asked him again to shut it off and he scoffed, “oh puuuuuuhlease”. I for one gave him the hairy eyeball because I really didn’t feel like dying. I swear to God mister if we all end up at the pearly gates I will call you out. If everyone from flight 439 is lined up waiting for St. Peter I will point you out and start screaming “He did it! He did it! Mr. Proctor & Gamble here just had to email Luc in Brussels about a market survey” “Don’t let him in! Send him the other way!” God must have been listening because Mr. Blackberry’s touch screen entertainment panel froze up and he couldn’t watch the news. Heh. Heh. Nothing like a little Schadenfreude to make my day.

Getting back to the whole French thing I think I must explain my history with the French language. When I started learning French everything was going great. Rouge, Chat. Chien. Good times. Once we hit the whole “Tue es, Elle a” stage things went downhill rather quickly. It didn’t mean anything to me. This wasn’t conversation. It was just a list of words that half the time didn’t even look like words. I also was very self conscious about speaking it aloud in front of my peers. I believe I sounded much like Pepe Le Pew. I also really couldn’t stand Georges, Nicole and Xavier stories. They are much like the Dick and Jane of the French world. I took umbrage with their eurotrash clothes that were garishly coloured in a Caillou like fashion. Also I found Xavier to be condescending to the others as he was forever telling them to go pick up a ball or go climb the stairs. But I digress. I’m a digresser.

In grade ten we were able to be exempted from final summer exams if we earned 68% in the course. I pulled in a mighty 66 and begged Monsieur Blackburn to give me extra work or something to get me exempted. He thought for a bit and then gave me the classic Gallic shrug. He told me I didn’t have to write the exam if I promised NEVER to take French EVER again. Jackpot!

This is why I am uneasy in Montreal and French speaking European countries. Well that and I’ve met quite a few French bitches. (Apologies to any of my female French friends who clearly are not bitches.) I like to communicate and not being able to makes me feel stupid. I hate feeling stupid. This is why I would love to hate the French and then they go doing things like upgrading hotel rooms and giving me extra chocolates on my pillow. God.

Speaking of God, he clearly wants me to make up for the room service and everything because when I got home my son had a viral infection and my daughter had an ear infection. The good times never end.