Read about my failures

A few weeks ago The New York Times reported on bloggers who chronicle their attempts to get out of debt. The theory is that, in being so open with their finances, they'll be too embarrassed to backslide into wasteful spending. They write how much they save eating lunch at Subway and, if they're in a masochistic mood, what extravagent purchases have gotten them into trouble. (See http://bloggingawaydebt.com/ and http://kgazette.blogspot.com/ for examples.) Clearly, a narrative involving personal failings is what is needed at Escar-go-go. Unfortunately, I erased my credit-card debt long before starting this blog, and I'm not in any group whose name ends with Anonymous (not that you know of, anyway). But I do have goals, and I will write about the steps taken to achieve them. One is to find a new apartment, which will be fun because of my unreasonable expectations. Another is to start a regular exercise regimen, which I guarantee will take a long time because it's so boring to write about. (Having a drink in every Boston establishment with a cocktail menu will probably take precedence.) And there is the goal of having a complete wardrobe that I look and feel comfortable in. Right now I'm all set with T-shirts (thanks to Christmas gifts) and pajamas (I don't want any, so I don't have any). One goal that seems attainable (probably deceptively so) is fluency in French. I have the benefit of a French-speaking mother whose parents were from Quebec, several years of classes in high school, and frequent trips to Montreal. But there is a problem in the difference between French French and Quebecois French. For example, I told my mother I was reading a novel about Paris called A Year in the Merde. I pronounced “merde” in the proper French way (the first syllable being similar to what Rhoda called Mary on The Mary Tyler Moore Show), and she didn’t know what I was talking about, so I started yelling “Merde! Merde!”, which is something I never expected to do to my mother. Finally, she said, “Oh, you mean mAHrde!” The lesson was that the French and the Quebecois don’t even shit the same way. So this might take longer than I hope.