Over the "Wee Fee" Wire

Nation,
There is an issue that needs to be addressed, familiar introductory words by Stephen Colbert, but the meaning behind them enforced by moi.
Here's the deal. I have a whole lot of stories that are dying to be published, but I have yet to, well this is going to sound so catastrophe, I have yet to set up wi-fi (pron. "weefee") in my apartment.

I slink down in terror of what everyone must be thinking... how is it possible? She seems like such a bright girl, a modern one at that, and how does she exist on this planet without weefee? Doesn't she work in the internet industry or whatever they're calling it these days?

Here's the deal...

In order to set up wireless cable at one's home in France, one must have the telephone number of the previous tenant who resided at your exact address. Given that I live in an apartment building that was rented to me through an agency, where previous tenant vacated months before I arrived, how the hell am I to obtain this information? I asked my building guardien where I could obtain this much needed data. Without haste she runs inside her apartment and hands me a slip of paper with a mans name on it and my address. What am I supposed to do with that? Who the heck is Pierre? Am I supposed to hire the FBI to seek and destroy this man?
*Useless. (*not sure if im referring to her, me or pierre there)

Anyway, Thats point one. Need Pierre's digits.

Point 2, is that telephone conversations are still quite difficult for me. Without the hand and face gestures, really all french sounds the same over the wire. Most likely this person will sound pissed at you, and will display characteristics of being loud, interruptive and will spout never-ending dialogue. I sit silently at the end of the line waiting for my turn to speak, but really not knowing what Im going to say when it is finally my turn. So I resort to the usual, "d'accord. d'accord." (OK) And we'll hang up amicably. Yes friends, its like this all the time.

So where has this gotten me? Day in and day out, I live tormented by my peers that even though I was the first in my office to have the coveted Apple itouch, I still have not been able to sort a connection to it. My laptop sits in sad little dust bunnies at chez moi waiting for me to embrace it, but alas, I just cant bring myself to tease little "delly."She is frought with dispair over my absence, I just know it.

And remember that beautiful flat screen I purchased way back when? Well she sits almost untouched with the exception of rampant dvd play because I can only tune her to 3 or 4 staticky channels. (Sidenote: I've now seen every single episode of sex and the city minimum 3 times. Treated myself to the box set for Valentines day and have regretted it ever since. Its addiciting and I cant stop and they should have put a label on the box indicating such behavior would occur. Not might ladies and gents. Will! Beware!)

So Im living in a material world with technical depression.

And so the reason I havent been writing as frequently as I should is because I have sad tech. I have to resort to publishing from work now, and I always feel a little guilty when I do that. Not because Im at work, but because my heart cant really spill under halogen lighting. I cant focus on my prose in office conditions.Im at my best when safely nestled in my "home office." Bureau de moi consists of a nice glass (bottle) of red, a cigarette (pack) idling nearby, itouche playing lightly in the background, and yours truly stretched out on my chaise with laptop where it belongs-- on my lap.

So until I can take command over this ever-elusive wireless scenario, I guess I'll just have to oui, wee, wi all the way home.

Fashion Victim

Faded blue jeans tucked into grey knee-high boots, a purple fitted tshirt with cursive, arabic gold writing across the front, a few bracelets of various metals and stones on the right arm, across from a ring and watch on the left, red and gold belt, along with a western/cowboy motif head scarf tied neatly around my head topped off with a navy pinstripe jacket. So cute, right?
A thrown together "look" as I woke up at 9:20am this morning as I was severely late for work. I find that when im hungover in the morning, I take out my frustrations on cultivating my fashion sense. Those of you that know me well, will think nothing of the outfit description above and will proudly say Bravo Deeahhne! Look at you! But here in Paris, where the beauty in fashion during winter and fall seasons is bestowed solely on varying shsdes of grey and black, may have a different take.
Needless to say, I feel best when Im thrown together and feeling perfectly non-matched and accessorized. Its where I thrive. Its the best place for me to have breathing room. Look good, feel good, its true.

So lets skip ahead to me in the ladies room at my office that same day. I just finished washing my hands and was tidying up my head scarf when one of my co-workers comes in and says with a huge smile on her face, "Oh Deeahhne, you are such a fashion victim!"

I smiled nervously like I had just been punched in the ass.

"Um...Victim? Fashion Victim?"

"Yes! You are always so... so, um how to say? you know!" and motions with her hands at me from head to toe. I think she could sense the blood draining from my face as she quickly added, "Its a compliment!"

"oh, thanks . yeah I um, yeah, cool. merci. ok avoir!"

I quickly exited the restroom and didnt know what to say or think. Was I being insulted or complimented? Did she mean to say "plate" or "slave" or did she really mean victim? And its here that I have yet again found myself in the middle of language turmoil.

"Oh you must mean fashion plate!" I could hear the unbearable conversation in my head.
"No you see I am not a victim to fashion, but rather a slave or a plate. But certainly not a victim. tsk tsk, dear No!"

So I think about these references all the time now. Not because its still bothering me, but because I get easily fascinated. I know what she meant to say because this particular girl is actually one of the nicest people Ive ever met, so I doubt she'd ever insult me, at least directly to my face anyway. (and lets face it, how could she? Im me!)
But more than that, it really got me thinking about one of the english laguage annoyances.
How come I can be a slave to, but not a victim of, fashion? And why are they sooo different in meaning? How in the world can you explain that? And what the hell does Plate mean anyway? Where did that come from? Fashion Plate???

Anyway, linguistics in general has really gotten a hold of me. Not only do I now bask in my petit amounts of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) but I can (and will) literally think about why we use what words when, and how and where they should be pronounced differently. And finally, Does that make me a slave to linguistics or a victim?