PCP and Merde

I'm in the merde, as Stephen Clarke so aptly put it. I know this feeling. And it's not one I'm proud to say I have. My house- both figuratively and literally- is out of order.

And I didnt quit smoking. Not only did I not quit, but my half-ass effort at quitting thrust me into a world of Marlboro lights. I thought to my self, "Self? If you dont buy your usual Dunhill Lights then you probably wont want to smoke as many right?" So wrong. No I smoke crap. Granted, I do not smoke quite as many, but I certainly didn't quit. And thanks to all of you supported this decision by the way...Ive noted some of your helpful sentiments below:

"Deahhne, you too much Party Girl to quit."

"No! You're quitting? Really? Why?"

"Well you wont mind if I smoke around you right?"

"That's fine, but it wont last."

"Well what are you gonna do then? You know Im coming to town next week right?"

Now Im not blaming anyone but myself, but I have to wonder how many of my friends are actually in the Smoking Al Queada and why they refuse to let me out?

Merde.
Plan B. Keep smoking until apartment or part of personal house is in order. Set new date.

Now to Voltaire where we find my wonderfully vacant apartment. Chez Moi is successfully stagnant in its progress to becoming my Home. I cringe to admit this, but...I went to IKEA again. (I had to, and trust me I wasnt sprinting through the doors with excitement this time.) Anyway, I had to make some big purchases so I researched before I went so by the time I arrived I would be all ready to go. Well wouldnt you know it, but luck be a lady that day! They had everything I wanted in stock and could express ship to me the very next day. I began planning my IKEA party.
Well as it turns out not only did I give IKEA the wrong address (I had to call Olivier the next morning to call them to try to straighten out for me) but on top of this I managed to pull almost every box incorrectly from their magical wonderland of warehouse shelves. 6 doors to an armoire instead of 2 doors and 4 walls.
My IKEA party was a disaster to say the least. Benoit and Olivier came to help, but their efforts were totally in vain.

-"uh Deahnne?Where are the rest of the boxes?"
-"what do you mean? geez you guys, just do the armoire first and then we'll move on to..."
-"uh no. Why so many doors(portes)?"

merde. merde. merde.

Later that night I got so drunk putting my bed together that its actually now a Rocking Bed. I know I know, dont-come-a-knockin. Save it.

I laugh at first. And actually we all kind of keep laughing about it all night. But later that night I laughed myself right into tears and into a fit of frustration.
Does this mean I have to go back to that God forsaken place? There's just no way. I'd rather scrap all of it and make my apartment a "Porte Concept Pad."

"Welcome to PCP! No you're not hallucinating- there really isn't any furniture in here! Oh those clothes? Its the latest. I read an article in Vogue that its best to keep your clothes in complete disarray strewn all over your bedroom floor. Feng shui something or other. Anyway... Pick a porte, any porte!"

I mean maybe if I had a refridgerator or a TV or a curtain around my shower. Maybe if I had a stove or an endless amount of money or even one ounce of what people call "domestic skills."
I mean I cant even call the cable guy. I need wee-fee for my computer. I need my QWERTY back and obviously I need to be medicated. Not in a Heath Ledger kind of way, but for God's sake can someone tell me when to use a screw and when to use a nail?

Then Benoit says something I will never forget:

"Deahnne... It's difficult to be French."

And I look at him and say, "No Benoit. It's Difficult Not to be French."

et voila.