Rose-French relations hit a new low this morning.
At 7 a.m. I received a missive from across the pond saying that my superiors had lost confidence in me.
That's because I inadvertently put two sentences in a paragraph that weren't supposed to be there.
Me, I thought it was no big deal.
But to them it was as if I were Paula Deen and I'd just called Kanye West the "n" word.
I've already been laid off for the summer. Now, the icing is running fast and furious down the bodice of the McArthur Park cake.
It's looking like I'm going to be sacked. Hard to tell with the French.
Last time, I thought they sacked me, I went into a corner moping for two weeks and then the frantic emails started with my post-pubescent boss wondering where I'd been. Then I started getting emails from my other Parisian colleagues wondering why I'd sent them all letters of adieu.
You see, my bosses keep a list, some sort of ledger with one column only outlining my trespasses.
There isn't another column outlining my achievements, no sirree Robert.
The French are the glass is always completely empty. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
I make mistakes, like everyone else, but somehow a mistake discovered in something that just needs a correction sends an immediate sizzle over the Internet into the old Hewlett Packard.
There is simply no serge protector for French outrage.
I told my friend Suzanne about it today.
"Well what did you expect," Suzanne said, after reading on Facebook about my impending sacking. "Have you never eaten in a restaurant in Paris before?"
Indeed, I have. I remember sly, sardonic looks but no explosions.
Today's email was indignant and hurtful, like a note from a teacher to your parents because you've glued your tongue to the desk again.
My reaction to the missive was what it always is.
"If you don't like me, get somebody else."
The response was curt.
"I have no time for this today. I will call you next week when I have time."
I never take those calls.
I suppose that makes me an ugly Canadian, but I don't give a rat's ass.
A phone call from Paris is the modern equivalent to getting shot by the firing squad. It is not satisfying for a Parisian to shoot her subject over email.
Personal humiliation is what is in order.
I'm thinking that I'll just let the phone ring.
Sabrina, the teenaged witch would be apoplectic if I didn't take her call.
It would be rude.
I really have nothing to lose.
At 57, I'm not willing to allow myself to be dressed down by a woman who, two years ago, was an unpaid intern.
She may be the devil, but I sure as shit don't wear Prada.
I won't stand for abuse.
Suzanne had called to suggest that I start a career as a petminder, somebody somewhat loserish, perhaps a hippie or a near-vagrant who picks up uppercrust dogs and plays with them and takes them to the park.
It seems to be a safer career than Web writer.
The worst that would happen is I might get nipped or peed on.
Or have to clean up diarrhea or puke.
I realized after I got off the phone that I'm perfectly qualified for the job.
I'm already running a doggy day care.
What's another couple of pugs?
I'll mull it over on the weekend.
Consult the hounds.
The baby Skylar would be delighted.
Finn would love another pug to roll.
And dogs, they don't have email accounts.