April in Paris

I bought a jacket last month and within hours all the buttons fell off . I was utterly annoyed because I don't know how to sew properly and now my pockets were loaded with loose buttons. 
 
So...I returned to complain not because I thought that I would get any customer satisfaction (unheard of in France) but because I had some time to kill and was curious to know how a French manager would handle the situation. 
 
Iwas told by the manager that it is "easy to sew buttons back on".

I got to answer that "apparently it is not as easy as all that to sew on buttons otherwise I wouldn't be there in the first place!"

The irony was lost on her and I didn't get one sympathy stare from a single customer in the joint. Oh well. 
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In France, if you ask a question to someone who owns a phone and a desk he will either answer you on the spot or get back to you tomorrow or another time. (He will never name the day if it is not tomorrow. )

The answer will be vague. 'I'll get back to you." Or "at the beginning of next week' or after "the vacations" ... I felt harassed today when I asked an American a question  and she called me right back with the answer. Was she trying to show off or has she not other concerns than mine? (er..Pop,is that English?)

On the work front, we have yet another carrot dangling in front of my nose. This time it is a luxury brand and perhaps a pop-up project. I shall be a pop-up queen!

I really can't wait to post my new April that I should be slaving away over right now. I can't decide between two. One is about the correlation of espresso abuse and your long distance phone bill to Los Angeles the other deals with calling customer service and trying to tutor the person on the other end. (French customer-service is an oxymoron.)

A new gig! I called my father the other day to tell him how I was found and eventually contacted (through word of mouth)  by an hot-shot young author from NYC to do some illustrations. The author and I seemed to find common ground quickly plus her personal story and mine fit together in an eerily complimentary pattern. We have mutual respect and I have some awe.

This opportunity came right at the tail end of my dream-like triumph of creating illustrations for an amazing cultural institution (that shall go unnamed for now upon the advice of my lawyer/sister) in Paris. Things are going better than I could ever hope  and I needed to tell my Dad before it was too late.  I rang several time before he finally answered.

I could practically smell the antiseptic smell waifing about in his cancer ward's hospital bed when he murmured that he was happy for me. He was obviously too weak to give me anymore. I let him go. I went back to my drawing board.

I'm afraid the repetoire of my strong emotions is growing.