There's no place like home... but is it?

It's taken me two and a half months in France to finally write about my job. Shame on me. But it's hard when everything you want to write will probably get you in big, big trouble. And so, instead, you start writing it all in a book which will probably never get published, but you comfort yourself in knowing that surely somehow, some way, some people get published. Like Nicole Richie. That's not just a fluke, right?

So, the story begins. Albeit late, but it begins nevertheless. Back in France I am, and am not so loving it. I'm really trying, believe me, but it's not working out as I planned. See, for starters, I can't stand my job. Okay, that's a wee bit strong, but it's taking its toll, let's just say. I feel I can justify this last statement with the fact that I feel like myself--and happy--for the first time in weeks, and low and behold, it is on the day where I have had four consecutive days off from work. Tomorrow is D-day. Back at the desk. My palms are sweating just thinking about it.

I never knew when I could call myself a journalist. Now, the moment has arrived.

I can't complain about the work itself. I've always wanted to be a journalist and was never sure when I could officially call myself one. Was it when I was weaving through crowds of Tibetans on one of their protest marches in Minneapolis? Or during a fur burning in India? Or maybe when I interrogated that woman from the Department of Homeland Security about immigration?

No. At least, I wasn't sure. Now, I am sure. Somehow, among all the email checking, paper filing, and typing on a 1995 rickety computer keyboard of late, I became a journalist.

A few weeks ago, I called a fellow who had been screwed out of all his retirement money and told him the verdict on the case of his offender. "So, what do you think of the decision?" I heard myself say into the phone mouthpiece. Who was this balls-out fighter? It was me, goddammit. And then, it happened again. Before I knew what was going on, I was on the phone, interviewing--in French--people about election lawsuits, archaeology scandals, castle preservation and the first gay-friendly hotel in the region. I had arrived.

Yet despite all this, I do not feel like myself? It seems a bit silly if I think about it. Maybe tomorrow I will start afresh, hands planted firmly on my hips, ready to take on a certain bitchy lady who scrapes away at my self-esteem like someone peeling off the burnt, crusty bits of an egg on a saucepan. Little by little, the teflon comes off a bit, too, now doesn't it?

So, to pathetically quote Bridget Jones, "I will perservere." I will. Tomorrow is my chance to prove that I will not be defeated by an 8-10 hour a day desk job and an erroding self-esteem. Although I have made this pact with myself several times now in the last two months, I vow to stick to it. Again. Maybe if I just keep saying it, one day it will happen. It kind of reminds me of when Janet Greenlees told me that if I wished hard enough, a Care Bear would come and visit me. I was in the second grade. I lay in my bed, wishing so hard that I started crying, sucking on the edge of my white and yellow blankie. And, well, you'll never guess, but that damn Care Bear never did come.

But don't I get credit for trying?