Trouble With Gaspard

After talking to Lu the other day, I thought she had calmed down, recognizing she was now with a man who appreciated her, and she could finally relax and enjoy the finer things in life. Lucia had grown up suspicious. If you were nice to her, she thought there was an ulterior motive – why are you being nice, what do you want from me, what do you want me to do for you, so on and so on. (When we first met, she was stand offish, until she realized there wasn’t a damn thing I wanted from her. Hoo boy, was that a process!)
Anyway, around 4:30 this morning my phone rang. I was in a deep sleep and answered the phone in a barely coherent voice. It was Lu, sobbing. Lu never sobs; she barely eeks out a tear at sad movies (Old Yeller made her cry. That’s about it)
“What’s wrong, are you okay, what do you need?” the words came tumbling out of my mouth, as I was now wide awake and slightly alarmed.
“No, I’m not all right. He lied!” she sobbed.
“What did he lie about, Lu?”
“D’arcy, I feel like such a fool!”
“Lu, tell me. Do I need to get on a plane and come there? I don’t even know exactly where you are, but I’ll meet you, if you want.”
“You’re going to think I’m stupid for running off with him. He’s a liar!”
She’s wailing now.
“Lu – tell me what the problem is.”
(Deep breath) “He’s not French!”
“What do you mean he’s not French? I’ve spoken to him in French.”
“No, he’s not. I saw his passport!”
I waited.
“He’s BELGIAN!!”
I dropped the phone.

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About D'arcy

D'arcy grew up on an estate in upstate New York, surrounded by staff, with mostly absentee parents. Left to her own devices, she shunned school, read voraciously, and collected animals, first-edition volumes of her favorite books, and occasionally men. D'arcy recently moved out of her apartment on the UES of NYC with her cavachon pup, Aramis, and is currently living at her late parents estate while deciding on where to put down roots. The best way to get on her good side is to have a sense of humor, not take yourself too seriously, and be kind in general. Irritate her, and you'll be greeted with a laser look and a tongue lashing for the ages, and not the good kind.

4 Replies to “Trouble With Gaspard”

    • D'arcy on said:

      Why do you want to know? Some things are best left unspoken.

  1. David Martin on said:

    Well- this won’t do at all.

    ALL THIS?!? After I made a PLEDGE to always call him GASPARD and not, as is my wont, “Gaspy”?

    (Actually, truth be told, I was FORCED to stop calling him ‘Gaspy
    FORCED, I SAY!

    By an incredibly gorgeous and jaw-droppingly dangerous woman we all know who THREATENED TO BEAT ME ON THE KIDNEYS WITH CHOPSTICKS UNTIL I PISSED RICE!

    Fine. “Gaspard” it is. I’m no fool.

    The last time I had dealings with that woman, she said she “just wanted to carve her initials on my forehead”…

    Sure, it was my turn to pay the bar tab and take care of all the damage, BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT!)

    And now there are BROKEN HEARTS and (ugh…) BELGIANS?

    BELGIANS?!?

    This may be the alcohol talking, but I say we RISE UP and TURN BELGIUM INTO A PARKING LOT!

    Actually, that WAS the alcohol talking (I’ve had a lovely Mexican lunch with my Aunt Lillian, who is NOT Mexican, but got married when she was fourteen and who FORCED ME…FORCED ME, I tell you, to have FIVE MARGARITA’S with my nachos, which were Nectar of the Gods.)

    My non-toasted me would say that I find the tale of Lu and Gaspard as interesting as it is funny…as I do with the rest of this wonderful blog.

    Well done!

    • D'arcy on said:

      David…I think you’ve given in a tad to hyperbole. I never beat you with chopsticks. I wanted to, but cooler heads prevailed.

      Have fun at the wedding and with Aunt Lillian.

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