I wish I was a blind disabled paralyzed Pacific Islander veteran.

Because then I would have a job! While unemployed, I've really started to look forward to greeting the postal worker lady every day. She's tooling around in her little white van wearing industrial-strength gray shorts and bringing Milkbone treats to the vicious neighborhood dogs. She seems pretty happy. She's in a great neighborhood with shady trees, she can spy on old people, and every once in awhile she gets some exercise when there's a big package to be delivered.

Then I thought about a park ranger. You wear a dorky hat, walk around pointing out poison ivy, watch for forest fires, and do little pen and ink drawings in your notebook of native wildlife.

Or maybe the librarian in a rundown, inner-city library where no one even comes to check out books, just the occasional homeless person who reads the newspaper and uses the public bathroom. Sometimes both at once.

All these government jobs appeal to me because you basically can't get fired. They just shuffle you around or promote you to someplace far away. But it's breaking into the bureaucratic and labyrinthian government workforce that's difficult. You've basically got to be a veteran with a disability to even be looked at. I'm not making light of these people's situations, but I've filled out so many job applications that all end with the same questions: sex and nationality. As I sadly check "Caucasian" and "female," I kiss another fire-watching, thumb-twiddling, phone-it-in job goodbye...

Damn you, Kanye, I'm impressed!

I've always refused to like Kanye. He's such an arrogant blowhard that I find it hard to look past the stunna shades and see inside his bloated, egotistical soul. But then I saw his performance on SNL this year and had to admit he is doing stuff no one else out there comes close to. Take this performance on SNL. I usually fast forward through SNL's musical artists. They're cheesy, on a dinky stage, with three back-up dancers squeezed in. But this...hot dog! It's like Kubrick meets Swan Lake meets American Apparel ad meets Eddie Murphy's 1983 "Delirious" stand-up special.

Wow. Mad props, Kanye. Not that you need 'em.

Is being annoyed by your family a sign of growing up?

If so, I don't wanna grow up. I wanna be a Toys R Us kid forever, just like that damn jingle. I've had some unfortunate "growing up" moments this holiday season, and it's not even Christmas yet. Well, is it growing up, or do I just need to start taking Xanax like the rest of America? I guess we don't know that yet. Anyway, for my whole life, I guess you could call me a "momma's girl," the "baby of the family," you know...a real wimp when it comes to family stuff. I'm the dork who would rather sit at home on Saturday night and watch old TCM Robert Mitchum marathons with their parents rather than go out to a hipster dance party in East Austin.

But lately...something's changed. No, it's not that I'd rather be out partying hard and chugging Lone Stars. I wish that was the case, but I haven't gotten out of my sweatpants in several days. Rather, I'm just annoyed by my family. It doesn't help that my parents are both retired, my brother is home from Alaska for a month, and I just moved back home from Paris with absolutely no idea about my future. So imagine a smallish house filled with four more or less grown-ups wandering around getting up in each other's business day after day. I mean, it's a recipe for disaster. Why has there not been a horror movie made starring Ryan Reynolds about boomerang children killing their parents?

It's not that I'm bored, exactly. I'm very easy to entertain, as long as I can do whatever I want. This means stalking more successful friends on Facebook, knitting ugly scarves for cheap Christmas gifts, scratching my pug's belly, slowly walking around the neighborhood and telling myself it's cardio, re-watching the entire season of Mad Men...look, I just summed up a week of my life. But I have the parents that don't understand privacy. It's considered rude and weird to go in your room and close the door. Also, my parents like to keep up some sort of semblance of a working life, so they get up early and put on real clothes and do little "projects" all day. No sitting down and watching TV until after dinner. I guess it's these strict, arbitrary rules that make them feel like they have a real life, instead of being retired. But it's an unspoken rule that we boomerang children must comply. So even though I would rather stay up all night and sleep until noon and eat Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs for dinner...it's not really "allowed." And I'm already on thin ice with the parents for quitting my (their) supposed dream job, so I play the retirement game with them--minus the decent pension plan and health care.

But what I'm trying to say is that I had a not very enjoyable Thanksgiving, which makes me sad. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles...everyone was quizzing me on my future and generally annoying the shit out of me. I had expected warm and fuzzies and instead felt cold and prickly. Does this mean I am finally growing up or that I am just a post-adolescent asshole? I'm guessing both.

On the other hand, I may not be the only one suffering from family overload. Thanksgiving evening, my fifty-year-old aunt snuck out of the living room where we were all gathered, then sheepishly sent a mass TEXT to everyone saying her thanks and goodbyes...

Grey Gardens on Robin Hood Trail Part II

I find the office, wait in line for thirty minutes, and pick up her cable starter kit. Everything is going a little too well for me. I call her with my good news, and she asks me to come straight to her house to get some coupons. I readily agree, and find her house is only seven or less minutes from my apartment. The neighborhood is beautiful, old, wealthy West Austin. Gotta love the white folks and their oil money. Her house is small but adorable. It’s yellow and white trim 1920s style. Vines have completely enclosed the fireplace outside and even poof out at the top—it’s like chimney smoke, but green and vine-y.

She opens the door before I can even knock and shrieks, “Don’t trip!”
I look down, expecting to see a rotting stair or something equally dangerous, but there is only a rug. Perhaps it is a rather slippery rug. She ushers me in and starts talking a mile a minute. I’m too overwhelmed to really listen. The first thing I notice is…roses. Pink, fake roses are everywhere. In bouquets, bundles, on furniture, and loosely strewn on the floor. There’s a ten-foot long garland of red roses in the living room, and wreaths to match. Still left over from Christmas, perhaps?

Robin is wearing a white T-shirt and red sweatpants hoisted up below her bosom. She’s also got some snazzy baby blue clogs on. Her face is caked and cracked with makeup. Hot pink lipstick and purple eyeliner….gotta love it on a sixty-year-old.

The house, from what I can make out under the boxes and boxes of crap, is gorgeous. Wooden floors, an ornate white fireplace, small tidy kitchen. Perfect for a young couple or a personal assistant who happens to be in a rich old lady’s will. Robin and I actually have very similar taste…if I were fifty years older, schizophrenic, and suffering from “Daddy’s Girl Syndrome.” There’s a tea set on the floor, and baubles and trinkets in random corners. Gorgeous costume jewelry hangs tantalizingly on doorknobs. Her bed is huge and all white. I make the mistake of setting the cable box on the bed.

“No!” she shrieks. “Don’t do that, ever.”

Okay, so apparently the bed is off limits. Hmm that sounds dirty but it’s not supposed to be. I clumsily try to set up the cable, but I’ve never done it before. Don’t most people (especially rich ones) have some fat guy with a plumber’s crack come over to set these things up? I guess this is what personal assistants are for: doing bitch work. I’m sure everyone else in the world knew this but me.

She gets tired of watching me tangle up the wires and snaps, “Actually, I used to work in the film industry, so I’m good at things like this. Let me finish.”

I gladly hand it over. Then Josh pulls up. Josh is another unsuspecting victim like myself. He, too, was just hired today. We look at each other and I know the fear I see in his eyes is mirrored in mine. He had arrived with two hundred dollars worth of cyclamens and shrubs. It’s landscaping time here at the crazy house. Josh starts to carry out the cyclamens and I hear Robin moan.

“No! No! All wrong! Those are FUSCHIA!”

She runs inside the house and returns with two pink sweaters still inside their packaging.
“See, Josh? This one is SALMON, and this one is BUBBLEGUM. These are colors Home Depot promised me they had. And you brought me FUSCHIA, which IS BLUE-PINK. You’re gonna have to take those back…NOW.”

But first, Josh had to help her decide where to put her shrubs. She declared she wanted her yard like a poodle: poofy, symmetrical, and perfectly manicured. Never mind that it takes years for shrubs to grow enough to trim them into a nice round shape.

Then Robin decides it’s time I returned some clothes for her. We set off on a mission to find the receipt. Oh god, the receipts. She has three binders alphabetized and crammed with every single receipt imaginable. The only upside to this craziness? I got to look at all the weird shit she buys. How about twenty string bikinis at Wal-Mart? Or the 10,000 bill for a plastic surgeon? We open the trunk of her brand new Jaguar and I almost gag. It’s crammed with crap. I can’t even describe all the shit she has, it’s just crap. I’m pretty sure there was some food disintegrating in there, too.

Let’s not even begin about how we got the garage open. She was convinced she had left the garage opener in her Jaguar and we were gonna have to break a window to get in. Luckily, I had the sense to try some keys before we resorted to that desperate measure. She calls a gas station on Windsor and tells them I’m coming, and to fill up my tank with twenty dollars. This part I like.

Then she calls Bed, Bath, and Beyond and tells them to hold six pairs of moss green velvet curtains for her. I am to pick those up along with returning the Ann Taylor pants. Still haven’t found the receipt for those. There’s around fifty receipts in the “A” section. I set off for the Arboretum, already hating this drive up Mopac. I have a feeling I’ll be doing this a lot. The incident at Ann Taylor was awful, but luckily the girl there was a sweetheart. She helped me find the receipt and had to get bitched out on the phone by Robin, but I finally returned the damn pants.

Picked up the curtains and headed back to crazyland. Not without a screaming phone call of course.
“LINDSEY! MY CABLE ISN’T WORKING!”

Well, of course not. I didn’t finish hooking it up.

“AND IT’S THE WRONG BOX! OH, GOD, THIS HAS BEEN SUCH A WACKY DAY AND I JUST NEED TO GO SWIMMING AND THAT’S WHY I HIRED PEOPLE, SO THAT I WOULDN’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS SHIT! MY DAY IS WASTED, AND NOTHING GOT DONE AND I’VE BEEN CALLING THE TIME WARNER PEOPLE AND NO ONE WILL PICK UP AND IT’S THE WRONG BOX AND I DON’T HAVE MY PREMIUM CHANNELS!”

“Let me get home, and I’ll look at it.”

I was not going back to that fucking office again. No sirreebob. I arrive back and Robin meets me…..considerably disheveled. Her right leg is completely bare. Bare as in she pulled up the leg of her sweat pants to her crotch. Yowza! On in the inner thigh is a nasty bruise smeared with something…shiny. She’s got a cable guy on the speakerphone and I feel so so sorry for this man. But more sorry for myself.

She is screaming at the man, calling him an asshole, and demanding to speak to a supervisor. The guy finally hangs up on her. I feverishly try to fix the fucking cable but it’s hard to concentrate when a schizo is shrieking at you with her entire leg exposed. She goes to sit on the toilet and resumes her slathering of….aha! Aloe vera! That explains the fifteen or so cut up plants I’ve seen all over the house. She is really into the natural cures I see.

“I’ve had this bruise for six weeks and I SWEAR, I’ve just been NURSING it like a wound my GOD it just won’t HEAL!”

God finally comes to my rescue and makes the cable work. I’m ready to run sobbing out the front door, but not before she writes me a check. Which she does. Forty dollars for four hours. Not too shabby. No taxes taken out at the crazy house! Then she asks for my school schedule, and when can I come tomorrow?

She says, “I don’t want to lose you, so what time is best?”

Oh, God. Am I really going to come back? Yes, yes I am. I swallow my fear long enough to squeak, “Is one okay?”

“One is good…one to four? Okay, thank you, Lindsey. I promise you I’m not always like this. I don’t like to scream, but it’s just been such an awful, wacky day.”

Lady, you have no idea. “I’ll see you at one, Robin. Bye…….”

Oh, god! God, why?? Here’s the deal: I’m giving it a week. We’ll see how well crazy lady mixes with school. I’m never gonna go out of my way to see her. Fifteen hours tops. I have a feeling she goes through young, helpless UT girls like there’s no tomorrow. How many have stayed? For how long? How I’d love to talk to one of her former slaves. I hope Josh stays. I can do it as long as there’s another sane person involved. And Sergio. She hired Sergio too, another UT student to do her landscaping.

Sadly, this is the end of my story. I worked for her maybe a month before she accused me of stealing her crutches. I finally left a note on her front door telling her I had moved. She still called me a couple times after. Ah, hooray for crazy jobs!

Crazy Job Blast from the Past

I think I have a problem with accepting jobs I know will be crazy/weird/awful/scary/funny ten years from now to talk about...while going through some old stories I had written, I found this little gem. During college I worked as a personal assistant for a manic-depressive middle-aged woman named Robin. Actually, I don't know if she was mentally ill. For all I know she could have just been wealthy, coddled, old, and single for too long. Either way...she was insane. Please enjoy below.



"Grey Gardens on Robin Hood Trail"


I am mentally drained, but I feel I should write down every detail of my day before I forget it all. It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre day of my life. Yes, I’ve had a boring life…but that should not downplay the significance of today. Brandon (my ex-boyfriend) gave me his password for a site called “hire a longhorn” job bank. It’s basically a posting of full and part-time jobs for students. I was drawn to one ad that said this:


Personal Helper / Handyperson
Single woman needs help around the house. The house is located near the Hula Hut, just off of Enfield. Help is needed with odd jobs in one or all of these areas: packing boxes, light housekeeping, running errands around town, pick up and delivery of items, and yardwork. You decide how much work you can take on. Qualifications:
Must have own reliable transportation, be reliable, mature, responsible, self-sufficient, and resourceful. Be willing to take on any task and work independently with minimal supervision.

I liked it because a.) It was off Enfield and close to me. And b.) it paid ten dollars an hour. C.) I could make my own hours.

What could go wrong? A lot, apparently…I called Robin at 11:30am Saturday morning. I thought perhaps I’d go in for an interview sometime this week and would need to make an elegant resume on Microsoft Word. Robin….the name sounds like someone small, chipper, with a sing-song voice. A perky little personality with a lot pizzazz. The Robin I spoke to was more….Whatever Happened to Baby Jane with a dash of Mommie Dearest. Robin answers my call using speakerphone. I will later learn it is the only way she talks on the phone—loud, shrill, and frightening.

She says, “Do you have a car?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is there gas in it? Or do you need to fill up?”
“Umm…there’s some gas in it.”
“Not that this means anything, but the football field at UT is named after my uncle. He gave a lot of money to this school. And my Daddy was on the Education Council.”
“Wow, that’s…really neat.”
“Okay, great. I just need to you to go to the Time Warner offices and pick up my converter box. Call me when you’re done with that. Okay? Thanks, dahlin’.”
So—I guess I’m hired? For the time being, at least. I Google directions to the office and set out. Full of trepidation, I think of every worst-case scenario that could possibly apply under these specific circumstances. The most mild involves me losing a lot of time and a lot of money. I mean, gas IS getting higher every day. It ain’t cheap to run errands all over town. But we'll see....

The Hipsters of Belleville

So...where the hipsters at? I mean, really. I’m in Paris, the chic capital of the world. Where are my walking American Apparel ad ladies and flannel-wearing men? Where is the Greenpoint and Silver Lake of Paris? It’s harder to find than you would think. Or maybe I’m just not cool enough. My theory is that hipsters in Paris are much more discreet and underground. They’re not as concerned as Americans to be “seen” around the town. They cozy up at each other’s tiny-ass apartments, or huddle in dark cafes talking philosophy and smoking Lucky Strikes. But I think I might have found one of their neighborhoods last night: Belleville.

I got another random reach out from a girl who found me on an ex-pat website. Again, I would probably never go out of my way to meet people online back home, but here, I will never turn down an invitation! Unless it’s clubbing on the Champs-Elysees. (I am still amazed at how much that particular activity sucks.) She invited me to Aux Folies, a neighborhood dive bar whose terrace is apparently always packed—-even when it’s below 40 degrees. It definitely had a “le cool” vibe and wine was pretty cheap and the people were beautiful and the service shitty. Sign me up! My new friend was very pretty, very skinny, and somehow managed to sit outside in a jean jacket and leather pants and look effortlessly chic, while I tubbied it up in a sweater, hoodie, long coat, wool scarf, and hat. Honestly, that might be the biggest reason I hate cold weather. I just can’t be as cute as I am in, say, LA weather. I’m a cotton dress kind of girl. I feel best in a simple dress, tights, and boots. Taking your winter coat off and on, lugging it around to clubs, finding places to put all your shit, losing your gloves on the metro…it’s annoying. All those damn accessories that take up so much room and cover up your cute outfit. Most of the time I think, shit, I might as well just wear pajamas underneath this crap because I’ll never get warm enough to take it off.

The girl has lived long enough in Paris to know her way around, and has a French boyfriend in a band. All signs point to…cool. We had a good chat discussing our lives and then Annabel and Kacy showed up. At Addison’s recommendation we headed to a café that played classic “American clubby dance” music and boasted 10 Euro double mojitos. I made the mistake of ordering something called a “Poire Miel” for half the price…which of course turned out to be a thimble of some kind of aperitif. Delicious but gone in five seconds. Not to worry, because then a DJ (who looked like every chubby hipster dude from Chicago) bought us all shots. And then Addison bought us tequila shots. And then some nasty-ass French dude Kacy was flirting with bought us tequila shots. And then we began dancing. And then poor Kacy and Annabel got incredibly drunk and we all got separated. And then Addison recommended we head up to Montmartre to meet some friends. And I might have agreed without saying goodbye. God, I’m a terrible friend.

So, both of us very tipsy, we headed to Pigalle and went to some girl’s apartment and drank lukewarm 1664s with some French kids. They were actually very nice but it was 2am and I was drunk and feeling not-so-charming. Then Addison sat on a girl (who was apparently sleeping under a huge blanket on the couch and therefore invisible) and the girl got pissed and we had to take a cab back to her place. Two other people from the “house party” joined us and we sat in her tiny-ass living room and listened to music. I think at some point I fell asleep sitting up. Then Addison was kind enough to let me crawl into her bed and I passed out with my coat on top of me. Luckily (unluckily?) the boyfriend was out of town, so no ménage a toi.

It’s a strange feeling to wake up in a strange bed in a foreign city and be incredibly hungover. My first worry: where the fuck are my priceless vintage glasses? I have to pee. This is kind of awkward, I think there’s a girl I just met sleeping next to me. Is it rude to sneak out? Is that like a platonic one night stand? I want to be home right now in my pajamas. It was around 10am, but luckily my moving around woke Addison up. I got us some water, shoved my bra in my purse (a Lindsey classic from the old days) and wished her a good day. Then I got to experience the glory of the walk of shame in Paris! Guess what! It’s so much worse than just driving home hungover in Texas! It probably took me an hour to get home, and I thought about barfing on this kid on the bus who wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t imagine living with a family like most of my au pair friends do. I mean…walking in at 11am on Saturday, smelling like booze and cigarettes and makeup smeared? “Hiya kids! Nanny partied a little too hard last night!”

The autumn two-week holidays for kids begins this week. And, to further continue the theory that I picked the shittiest, middle-classiest family in Paris, mine are staying at home. Yes, most of my friends are either going with their families to French islands, their country homes in Brittany, or grandparent’s homes in the south of France. And if they’re not joining them, they at least get the whole house to themselves for a week. I would be more than happy with that. But nope. Mine’s staying here. I don’t know if my family is just incredibly boring or just not that wealthy. Either way, they suck.

But, it could be worse. I could have to take care of the kids. But I told them six weeks ago (as soon as my mom booked her plane ticket), so they made plans for the dad to take off work and stay at home with them. God, how miserable he will be by the end. Sounds like a shitty vacay to me! So yeah, my mom is coming on Monday! Hopefully. You know, assuming the strikes and petrol shortage don’t ruin everything. I really can’t believe I’m going to see my mommy in Paris. I feel like I’ve been living this weird, surreal, kind of fake life in Paris. Like time has stopped back home and I’m just in this bizarre European world waiting to go back home. I’m really curious to see what my mom thinks about my French family, my attic prison, getting around the city, the people, the food…we’ll have a lot of fun.

And then Colin in three weeks. Crazy. I really can’t imagine him here. I wish I had an amazing itinerary planned, but honestly, I just don’t do that much here. I don’t have enough disposable income to have a favorite restaurant, café, bar, museum, neighborhood yet. Every day I play “poor confused tourist.”

Okay it’s raining and horribly cold outside. It’s time to watch a 1980s John Ritter film and eat stale, expired bread with jam…yup, this is my life.

Kevin Costner is vanilla hot

So joining the American Library in Paris was the best investment I’ve made so far. It cost a refundable 60 Euro fee and a four-month membership for 47 Euros. A lot for a poor nanny, but can you put a price on virtually unlimited old-fashioned entertainment and free Wi-Fi? If I could walk to the place I would be in pure heaven. Unfortunately, it’s on the opposite side of Paris, right next to the Eiffel Tower. But it’s well worth the 45 minute trip to walk in and find an oasis of quiet. I love libraries. They’re as comforting to me as a cup of hot chamomile tea. Maybe it’s because I spent most of my days after school playing in my mom’s library waiting for her to finish work and drive us home.

I’m convinced that’s why I flourished in my English classes throughout school: writing, vocabulary, spelling, random knowledge, knowing how to make a toy out of a pig’s bladder (thank you Laura Ingalls Wilder) all came out of those afternoons. I would park my bottom in the little school chairs in a quiet corner and read whatever book tickled my fancy. I’m pretty sure I worked my way through most of the alphabet before I began middle school. How different would I be if I had watched Nickelodeon or played some inane Mario Brothers video game? Being a shy bookworm is probably the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m no good at sports and ballet was much too strict, so thank god I had the smarts to fall back on. Sure, I do regret missing some spectacular vista views on family road trips. My mom would be prodding me in the backseat, saying “Lindsey, there’s the Grand Canyon. There’s the mountains of Colorado. We’re crossing the state line into West Virginia…” and I’d just be completely zoned out reading the Chronicles of Narnia. But who else can claim to have read the entire series of Anne of Green Gables in a Chevy Astro van in two weeks?

So, yeah. I love the library. I need to volunteer there, just to get me out of the house on rainy days and feel like I’m contributing to society in some way. Plus nothing would make me happier than to make some old, cultured ex-pat friends. I mean, a dinner party with fifty-year-old professors on a Friday night sounds like sheer bliss right now. My party girl au pair friends have discovered the “Sixth Street” (sorry, Austin reference) of Paris…it’s Bastille. A bunch of narrow alleys jam-packed with Australian bars, latino clubs, Guidos, tourists, and the ever-present mojito special. What’s up with Parisians loving mojitos? I think they’re great poolside on a sunny day, but on a freezing winter night? Yech, give me a vin chaud any day.

I’m starting to get the reputation of the “party pooper.” Didn’t take long. Factor in frigid temperatures, no money, expensive drinks, lecherous guys, metro closing times, and a long-ass walk home…and you’ve got Lindsey pooping out every time. Riding the night bus home with a bunch of sketchy Arab dudes at 3am does not a glamorous night make. Somehow, Kacy and Annabel are able to score free drinks, dance at clubs, stay out until 6am, and get rides home with strange men…all without getting raped! More power to them. Although the last time I left Kacy at a club she somehow lost her scarf, jacket, and shoes…so there is a price to pay.

So the library. It’s great. Their DVD selection is pretty shitty, but I’ve lowered my standards and will watch pretty much anything except the full season of 24 or Grey’s Anatomy. I just finished watching Mr. Brooks (starring Kevin Costner) and it was surprisingly not bad. The violence was too much, but I was very much intrigued by Kev’s character, and it was set in Portland, Oregon. Kevin Costner…man. He is dreamy. He’s the kind of attractiveness that is so bland and clean that you kind of forget about him, but then he puts on tortoiseshell glasses and a cozy cashmere sweater and I just want to walk with him in the park with our Golden Retriever dog named Lucy and then return home to our 1850s farmhouse in upstate New York. Yup, that’s my sexual fantasy these days. Getting domestic in the country, cooking apple pies, and knitting hats out of alpaca yarn.

My wet dream of a movie

Why did guys in the 50s and early 60s look so good? Because they were so fresh-faced and clean cut, looking like they just stepped out of a Ivory soap commercial all scrubbed and dry and shiny bright. Starched white shirts, skinny black ties, high-waisted pressed pants, black shoes shined to a gleam, sharply cut crew cuts, tailored blazers…can you tell I’m drooling by now? Enter the film The Right Stuff. First off, it’s written by Tom Wolfe, whom I love. (Any man who dresses up in his own, timeless white suit every day is a winner in my book.) It stars the bleached-clean Ed Harris, the devilish smile of Dennis Quaid, nerdishly sexy Jeff Goldblum, and my soulmate: Sam Shepherd. Oh yeah, I had the realization I should probably marry Sam Shepherd. First off, he’s a lockdown in the looks department. Piercing blue eyes, tanned chiseled face, his sun-scorched leather bomber jacket, the fact that he’s also an amazing writer in real life, and he played Dolly Parton’s husband in Steel Magnolias…what more does a girl need?? He’s impeccable.

So The Right Stuff follows the story of the original astronauts and the beginning of NASA and the space race. It’s basically one big cheesecake photo of men shirtless, goofing off, and wearing shiny space suits. I actually really hate space travel, mainly for the fact that I think it’s the biggest waste of government money. All those billions of dollars poured into research, and what have we done with it? How has it benefited anyone’s life day to day? There are mentally ill homeless veterans on the streets and people dying because they don’t have adequate health care, but hey! John Glenn went into space! But I am shallow and lusting after the men, not the space angle, in this film.

It makes me really sad that those days are over. Now men dress like slobs in cut-off shorts, or they go the other revolting direction and become metrosexual Guidos with too much hair gel and sequined dress shirts. I just want Gregory Peck in his horn-rimmed glasses giving an impassioned speech in a Southern courthouse. Is that too much to ask??

I miss

That horribly cold Saturday in Canton
The drive there
The disgusting bathroom graffiti in a small-town gas station
The solitude and grace of the numerous antique stalls
How I felt truly comfortable and not cutesy act-y when stopping to admire costume jewelry and Mamie dolls and framed family portraits of strangers
I knew you'd understand, talk me out of impulse extravagances, but give me time to linger
We walked in squares until we got lost
Hot chocolate
Concerns about a friend--advice--duly ignored
It was so bitterly cold
And then--
A discovery of true junk stalls
The stuff dreams are made of
No more glass cases or Art Deco period pieces
Just good, salt-of-the-earth people with garage sale prices
I flirted with the old man to get you a better price on a chrome dinette set
(How many men in the world appreciate a chrome dinette set with mustard yellow upholstery?)
And Jetsons-style glassware
And wooden silverware
It was one of those Vegas-style hot streaks where everything I picked up was amazing and cheap and looked exactly like him and for that reason it was the most beautiful knife and fork I'd ever seen
I had an intoxicating glimpse of domestic life that for once didn't sicken cynical me
The loading of our prizes in your father's suburban
The joy
The adrenaline rush of the shopper's high
The reward of hot fried corn nuggets in a cozy small-town burger joint complete with local FFA kids' pictures on the wall
(Emory Wilson: black AOB steer named grand champion of the 2010 Palo Pinto County Livestock Association’s Junior Livestock Show)
A quiet drive back
Perfectly content
Perhaps wine and a movie that night
Perfect
It was perfect

And

And

And now it's gone.

A Boring and Shitty Review of Pause Cafe

I wanted to like this place. It looked hip, modern yet romantic, full of cool Parisians and some random New Yorkers. The menu was reasonable, the décor cozy (reminded me of the store Anthropologie), and the waiters young and attractive. Buuutttt…is it fair to complain about horrible customer service in Paris? I’ve had great service here as well (granted, from an Italian establishment) but this place was just a little too cool for school. The food had the potential to be great but failed on many accounts.

We both ordered soup of the day (5 Euros) but it arrived lukewarm. Our red wine (half carafe for 12) was extremely cold. And our dessert (ordered an apple crumble but got cherry for some reason) was scalding hot. And we were pretty much ignored. My Montreal friend spoke excellent French so I don’t think anything got lost in translation.

Granted, the place was slammed on a Saturday night around 9, and there were only three waiters working the place. But, with all the wonderful places in Paris, I don’t think I’ll be back.

Getting Ladylike

My review of a cafe Leora and I cozied up at the other night...

Okay I’ve officially entered “hibernation mode” in Paris. I know it’s only October but for a Texan, this feels like the icy depths of hell and I want to bury under the covers and not come up until April. Seeing as how that’s not an option, I decided I can at least have a happy medium by holing up in cozy cafes for hours with good friends and hot drinks. Enter L’Oisive Café. A delicious combination of tea house and knitting store, this place screams “I am girlie and I like tea caddies and kittens and reading fashion magazines and knitting hats for my dad.”

I knew places like this existed in Portland, Oregon, but I didn’t expect them in Paris. I’m not sure the whole “hipster knitting” has caught on here. Nevertheless, it is alive and well near the Place d’Italie metro. This area was filled with cute shops and restaurants, but the tea shop is my favorite. Not only do they serve a fixed menu brunch on weekends, but they appeared to have a daily special: 5.50 for a tiny coffee, your choice of cookie/pain d’epice/citrus cake, some fruit, and a teeny bowl of spiced ice cream—make that 7.50 for a pot of tea.

And the tea options are overwhelming. In fact I was so overwhelmed I got the coffee. Lame, I know. But I know I’ll be back. Seeing as how the place is quite small, I would show up early, as it appeared to be packed all the time, and god knows I wasn’t going to sit outside.

Bring your best girlfriend or mum when it’s absolutely nasty outside. My only complaint: no comfy, squashy armchairs to lounge in and knit….

Where the eff is Dita Von Teese?

Back in August, I was informed by a Dita Von Teese newsletter that she was opening a private bar in Paris—sponsored by Cointreau—in Montmartre. Well, that sounded just absolutely fabulous and glamorous as I sat sweating away in my parent’s house in Austin, TX. But, like most things in this city, it’s one of those things that sounds amazing and then you get there and you’re alone and uncomfortable and everyone is cooler than you and speaking a language you just can’t grasp.

However, I had RSVP’d, received a special bracelet in the mail, and it was opening night—where drinks and food were free. So I forced myself to make the trek to Montmartre at night (a fifty minute journey, minimum.) Of course the place was “hidden” off the Lamarck Caulaincourt metro, and I could have easily gotten lost. But the Parisian gods worked with me, and I eventually found a red carpet surrounded by burly bodyguards and elegant PR girls huddled around the list.

I shuffled up, feeling about twenty pounds too fat and extremely under-dressed. (And I rarely EVER feel under-dressed in the States. In fact, I’m known as the “Dress Up” girl. I’m not tooting my horn, I’m just saying that it kills me that I am kind of schlumpy here, thanks to a small wardrobe/budget/transportation options.)
But, the girls did let me in and I walked up a cobblestone street to a three story house filled with violet light and beautiful people. And I do mean beautiful. There were girls wearing mink coats and black velvet pumps and exquisitive vintage beaded dresses. I was wearing a black dress and boots and feeling green with envy. But how the fuck do you ride the metro and walk around Montmartre in heels?

I helped myself to champagne and foie gras hor’doeuvres and found a chair in the corner. And people watched. For a long time. In the states, I’ve gone to events by myself and had a pretty decent time. Especially when there was free booze. I would eventually strike up a conversation with someone, meet some nice people, and drive myself home whenever. But this…this was different. Intimidating. Even if I had felt comfortable talking to one of the glamorous girls, I COULDN’T. It was so awfully frustrating. Who wants to speak to an under-dressed American who knows fifty words of French? And trust me, no one tried to talk to me—expect for a nice Irish man and his Filipino wife. They had flown in from Ireland just for the night.

Unfortunately, there was no sighting of Dita, but when I climbed the precarious tiny steps to the top floor, I spotted C-Lister Mischa Barton chillaxing and taking awkward pictures. That excitement lasted about five minutes. The servers were all dressed as flappers, and one of them made the mistake of setting a tray of cheese and quiche cubes next to me…I think that about sums up my night. I cut myself after three drinks (didn’t want to end up in a cop car again) and headed back home.
It’s funny, you can tell someone: “Oh yeah, I went to the private bar Dita Von Teese opened in Montmartre and saw Mischa Barton” and it probably sounds really fucking cool and glamorous…but it was actually one of my loneliest nights in Paris. (Cue Emo tear.)

Please don’t visit me.

I feel like such a bitch for complaining…but I had a friend from college visit me this week and it was the most physically and mentally exhausting 3.5 days in Paris so far. In my defense, I feel if it’s not your best friend, mother, or boyfriend, you can’t really hang out non-stop with someone and share a stupidly small attic room without wanting to kill them. The guilty party was an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in two years and hadn’t really talked to until right before Barcelona. So it was awkward. And I got grumpy. And annoyed. Until a point where I went into “quiet, brooding, homicidal tendencies” mode. When someone looks around in disgust at your life, proclaims “If my parents saw me living like this, they would pull me out and take me home” it’s more than a little offensive. First off, my “friend,” you have a free place to stay in an incredibly expensive city. Secondly, I’m spending every second of my free time taking you to crowded, obnoxious tourist shit that I’ve already seen a bazillion times and costs me money I don’t have. Then I’m having to rush home and take care of two bratty kids (while you relax and take a nap upstairs), and then immediately go out with you in the evening, all the while trying to plan outings and make sure you have a good time.

Plus, she is the type of person who walks up to people and demands loudly, “Hi! Do you speak English?” or exclaims in the metro, “OMG! I smell pee! I think it’s that homeless guy” and points at the dude or has to buy three huge Eiffel Tower statues that you then carry in your backpack all day or asks you every five minutes “How long is this gonna take? Have I seen everything? Can you take my picture five times with two different cameras?” GOD I know I’m a monstrous bitch. I don’t deserve to have friends.

So I basically felt like an au pair nonstop this week with not a single moment to myself. Let’s also add in the fact that my French dad had eye surgery this week and was HOME ALL WEEK. That meant I couldn’t even wake up in the morning, go down in my pajamas, play on Internet, and call boyfriend and family. It was absolute torture. I’ve grown so accustomed to complete independence and alone time, plus having the mornings to myself, that it was very difficult. The plus side to all this complaining? I’ll appreciate the upcoming week (all alone, no dad cramping my style) soooo much more. Plus, it’s hard enough taking care of kids, but having a dad in the kitchen eavesdropping on my shitty au pair-ness was excruciating. Most of the time I’m 60% mentally there with the kids, usually zoning out while they watch BBC cartoons or try to kill each other with pillow fights. But with him right there, I actually had to pretend to like the kids and take care of them! Hard!

There’s been strikes all week and I was stricken with fear my friend’s train to Switzerland would get canceled. One more day with her and I might have checked myself into a hostel to get away. But she did indeed finally leave (not without asking me to escort her to train station and wait up until the second she left) and I celebrated by meeting up with Leora at absolutely cozy, charming tea shop near Place d’Italie. It was very much a girlie kind of hangout, as they also sold yarn and had little cakes and cookies. It reminded me of a tea/yarn shop Andrea and I visited a long time ago in Portland, Oregon.

I miss Andrea. She’s my best friend of 18 years and it’s hard to believe only a few months ago we actually lived in the same town, on the same street. Like much of that former life, I took it all for granted. We’d wake up at 6:15 on cold, winter mornings to force ourselves to walk a mile or two, then head back to her place for coffee and delicious Hazelnut creamer full of corn syrup and hydrogenated oils and talk about our shitty jobs.

I was so unhappy in Dallas. I felt like I was suffocating. I felt like I was losing my identity in my job. I felt like I could never decompress and just breathe and not check my email on a Friday night. And I was only 25. Was it really as bad as I thought it was? Or should I just have gotten on anti-anxiety medicine and dealt with it? Looking back it, my life there doesn’t seem so bad. But I remember calling my mom on my lunch breaks and sobbing about how much I hated it there. I wish I had done this au pair job first thing out of college. Not to harp on about it, but there are days where I really felt I am regressing. I went from being financially independent, own apartment, own car, successful job, single lady…to living in a shitty attic, getting paid shit, starting all over living in a difficult city where I barely understand the language and every minor errand can turn into a bureaucratic nightmare. To sum it all up in one word: humbling.

Yeah, I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself (which I definitely do), or I can learn from this experience. First and foremost, there is no perfect job or city or significant other. I have a tendency to run away from my problems, especially when things get too hard or demanding. But I can’t spend my whole life changing cities and jobs. I often wonder if I spend a lot of my energy fighting my true self. Am I secretly a homebody, a creature of habit who wants to settle down in a rambling old country home with a vegetable garden and be domestic with a husband and two pugs and just a couple close friends and family near me? Or do I secretly crave a “glamorous” job writing for a sitcom in LA, hobnobbing with “important” people and being fiercely independent—but I deny myself this existence because I don’t have the ego to withstand the rejection and soulless existence that it requires? Is there a happy medium? Maybe songwriting in Nashville? Or am I just a spoiled brat who wants to have their cake and eat it, too?

Why can’t I just be happy to know I have these options? I could be a Chinese indentured servant having my father make all my decisions for me. Why can’t I just relax in Paris these next two months, knowing it won’t last forever, know that by Christmas I’ll be back home with my family and then moving in with a guy who’s crazy about me and knows all the bad stuff about me and still likes me? Two factors would really help me in Paris: good weather and more money. When it’s fucking cold and blustery outside and I have to walk twenty minutes to the metro and it’s dark by 7pm and I am burning through my precious savings and can’t even have coffee and dessert with my friends without feeling guilty…that’s when I hate Paris.

Muchath grathiath, Barthelona

Barcelona…perhaps the most unique, bizarre, earthy, wild city I’ve been to so far. Such a contrast to Paris, and only a 1.5 hour flight away…Paris is old and austere and romantic and aloof. Barcelona was hot, dirty, sexy…more Old World. More Third World. The architecture was like a fairy tale on acid. It’s funny, you worry you’re becoming jaded when traveling but then you go somewhere with hardly any preconceived notions or mental images and get pleasantly surprised. I’m actually glad I did no research on the city. Because when we walked out of the metro and I saw the Sagrada Familia…I actually felt a little dumbstruck. That occurs less and less the older you get. It was like the first time I saw the Epcot Center at DisneyWorld in second grade. My friends Erin and Rachel thought it was hideous, but I loved the way the church looked so bizarre and unsettling—rather like it was melting in the hot sun and demons were trying to escape. Take that, Notre Dame!

From there we walked to Parc Guell which was also a treat. I could have spent all the day there squelching my sandals in the mud and taking pictures, but the girls didn’t last long. It’s funny, I spend so much time by myself now, absolutely on my schedule doing whatever I want whenever I want for however long I want…sometimes it’s tough to hang out with other people and give in to their suggestions. Two and a half full days with them and I was ready for some alone time. It was really nice to hang out with some fellow Texans though. Sadly, we didn’t find any amazing tapas bar…more like medicocre. And some decent but not extraordinary paella. Twice we went to a supermarket and bought Rochefort cheese and dried ham and 0.80 Euro wine in a box (which was awesome) for our dinner.

Besides walk a shit-ton and look at churches and panoramic views and take a million pictures, we didn’t get into too much trouble in Barcelona—a first for me. We went out to some bars, drank awesome Estrella beer, had some marvelous olives, 3.50 mojitos, met dudes from the British Army, walked along the beach and looked at old boobies. The weirdest part was probably walking back to our hotel around 4pm and seeing a deranged man approaching us. There was something…weird about his crotch. After we passed the girls and I exchanged looks of horror. Apparently he was exposing himself, but it looked really weird because he was holding it straight up. Needless to say I didn’t really give it a good look, but it was still mentally scarring. Less than two months in Europe and I’ve already experienced two weird public penis situations. Please god, don’t let there be a third.

Rachel (one of the girls from Houston) is coming to stay with me on Wednesday. I’m worried I won’t be able to show her that good a time. I can’t afford to really go out, and I’m not at that point where I know where to go and when. I suck at being a Parisian. Hopefully my au pair friends will rally and we can show her a decent time. And I wouldn’t mind her hanging out with me and the kids…maybe they would behave with a stranger around.

Oh, and apparently if you google “Paris au pair help” you might find my blog…again, I forgot that anyone in the world actually reads this. It’s kind of disconcerting. I’m so whiny and moody and pity party that I fear I don’t give off the best impression. But, I randomly got an email from another au pair in Paris that reads my blog! What a pleasant surprise. We’re meeting for coffee tomorrow. Thanks, Internet, for finding me friends!

Fear in my eyes

So I went for my first official “posing nude for an artist and getting paid for it” gig. And…I kind of failed at it. Which shocks me. I thought the hardest part would just be getting naked. But no. There’s more. First off, I forgot where Hashpa lived and spent ten minutes ringing every door of the apartment, next door nervously asking “J’ai trouve Hashpa?” only to hear “Quoi? Non!” Oops. Wrong building. I finally find the right one where Hashpa and his feral cat are waiting.

We greet one another, he hangs up my coat, we sit down in his studio and awkwardly chat for a long time. This time I really can’t understand him and it’s frustrating. I really just want to say, “Okay, buddy, time is money. Can I take off my clothes and get this over with?”

He finally pulls out a brown, battered blanket that has seen better days, lays it on the floor, and walks away—-presumably to give me privacy while I get naked. I quickly take off my clothes, sit down, and strike an artistic, noble pose. Legs propped up, arms crossed, looking pensively into the distance. But alas, it is not to be.

Hashpa walks in and shakes his head, “Non, no! Allange! Allange!” he gestures that I lay down.

Mmmm. Laying down. Head on dirty carpet. Feel defenseless. No like. But I do it. I awkwardly move my body around while he gesticulates where to put an arm and leg. Finally, he begins to sketch, and I try to relax, even though I’m on my stomach with my legs spread a little too wide for comfort. This is probably more than even my gynecologist has seen.

And let us not forget the feral cat has now begun attacking me. It’s highly disconcerting to have a cat scratching and biting you when you are completely nude. I began to freak out thinking about, well, what if the cat, like, scratches me down there and I get a terrible infection and I have no health insurance and oh sweet jesus I’m gonna get a staph infection in my….

“Un autre chose!” declares Habash.

Oh, I get to pick a pose. Let’s do the fetal position.

“Pas mal,” he grunts.

We go on like this for awhile, I choosing a pose, Habash critiques and rearranges, and I think everything is hunky dory. Until…he stops.

“Non, non. Ees no good. You are very sensual, nice body nice hair nice eyes nice face…but ees no good! You have fear in your eyes. No good.” He gazes with frustration at his sketches. I think they look quite lovely and would love to frame one for the memories—fearful eyes and all.

“You are young, ees first time, we try again. You bring ami with you?” he asks hopefully.

There’s a thought. Would posing nude with a friend of mine be more or less comfortable? Depends on the friend I guess. When’s the last time I was naked with a girlfriend? Fifth grade? Hashpa would probably make us embrace each other and I just don’t know if I have anyone who’d be down with that. I tell him I will ask my friends and see what they say. He seemed very pleased.

He offered me some wine, I drank a couple glasses naked, and then got dressed. He paid me twenty Euros for my time and I went to walk the streets buzzed once again.
I felt kind of sad, actually. I failed as a nude model. Of course there is fear in my eyes, I can’t exactly be smiling with joy when I lay on a dirty blanket in some Parisian studio with a cat dangerously close to my nether regions. I thought I could just naked and phone this shit in. Why does Habash have to be a real artist? Why can’t I just fake it in Paris? Don’t they know that’s what America was built on? Pretending you got it when you don’t? Merde.

Getting in touch with my USA-ness

The further away from home you are, the more you crave it. It’s a stupid fact of life I can’t avoid. When I’m in Texas, surrounded by Republican hicks and big loud trucks and outlet malls and fast food obesity and suffocating summer heat waves, I get so sick of it. But the goddamn second I leave it becomes this charming place that I wax poetic about almost daily. And of course I miss my mom and dad and Gram and P-paw and Pooky the pug and the freedom to get in a car and go to a Super Wal-Mart at midnight and buy really cheap crap just because I can.

It’s funny, you might think if you’re a socially liberal, culturally minded, and so-called “foodie” that you would thrive in Europe. Not so. To be honest, I’m not sure what kind of ex-pats do thrive here. I think it’s either a.) really naïve young girls that are so happy to be independent for their first time in their life, thus throwing themselves into the nightlife, drinking heavily, and eagerly flirting with any young Euro guys whose accents they find adorable. Or b.) it’s people that forsake their American identity, refuse to speak in English, and are probably pretentious assholes. Haven’t really met any of those yet. So no, France has not taken me in its socialist arms and cradled me and made me see the light. It’s actually made me realize that I’m an American, for better or for worse. Yeah, my country has problems. Lots of ‘em. I don’t even have health care coverage right now. But that’s where I was born, that’s where my life is, and I don’t want to leave it for very long.

It’s actually very comforting to realize this. Everyone goes through that trite period of college where you think, “Man, fuck this country! I wanna go to Spain and work 30 hours a week cause they work to live, man, not live to work like these Puritanical killjoys in America.”

And there’s truth in that. But honestly, you’re not going to truly fit in and enjoy that lifestyle (or even attain it) unless, well, you’re French. Or Spanish. You can’t just breeze on into Paris in your twenties, land a great job, fit right in, make tons of friends, and start a family. It’s not that open of a society or culture. And I don’t want to. It’s not me. Is it premature for me to make these blanket statements when I’ve been here less than two months? Of course it is. But I like to think I can make pretty good first judgments.

It’s funny what I crave here. When I ride the metro or walk around the cobblestone, rain-drenched streets of Paris, I listen to Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, even…gasp…Katy Perry. It’s just so damn comforting. And movies. I just watched “My Own Private Idaho.” It doesn’t get any more American than a gay hustler road movie set in the Pacific Northwest. I have no desire to listen to Serge Gainsbourg or watch a Truffaut film. Hell, if you plopped a Big Mac combo meal in my lap right now I’d be ecstatic.

Now, I know I’ll be complaining about America as soon as I get back, but right now, it feels so good to romanticize about my country across the pond. I’ll be so ready to return.

I Quit (kinda)

I’m a quitter. I have trouble staying with one city, one job, one boyfriend, one apartment. I think the only thing I’m faithful to right now is my hairstyle. But I think (hope?) I’m finally changing. Well, as soon as I quit the job and city I’m currently doing.

This past Wednesday was the rare occasion I had dinner with not just the kids, but the entire family. We’re sitting at the crowded IKEA wooden table, eating our fromage blanc for dessert, and I tell them I’d like to go over some “vacation dates”—i.e., tell them when friends/boyfriend coming to visit and therefore I WILL NOT WORK. We discuss my friend Rachel, my mom, and Colin coming. They made a big deal about my “boyfriend” coming. And then the subject of Christmas come up. At one point my parents considered flying here for Christmas. But, the more I thought about it, it seemed silly and much more expensive for them to come here. Multiple plane tickets, a hotel, cold and rainy Paris instead of mild Austin…hmmm, I quickly changed my mind about the whole thing. I mean, sure, if we were really loaded and could get a suite at the Ritz I’d be down. But that wasn’t happening. Plus, I wanted to go home. Get my hair cut, get more winter coats.

So my family asked if I was still bringing my parents over for Christmas.
“Actually,” I ventured, “I think I’d like to fly home for Christmas.”

They seemed mildly shocked. Apparently the other au pairs never had visitors, let alone went home once. Weird. Sorry, I’m a Texan who gets homesick!

They ask how long I’ll be gone. A week? And then they drop the bomb…

“So, are you buying a one-way ticket home?”

I laugh nervously. They don’t. We stare at each other.

The mom leans in: “If you are considering going home after Christmas, I need to know RIGHT NOW.”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I think this is called getting backed into a corner.

“Well,” I begin cautiously. “I have to admit, it’s crossed my mind. I am homesick and I miss my boyfriend and uh…you know.”

The mom gets upset. Understandably. “If you are breaking the contract, I am going to be very, very angry. But I need to know so we can prepare. It isn’t fair for the children! But that’s life…”

We’ve all stopped eating dinner and everyone is looking at me. Gulp. Well, let’s just bite the bullet: “Okay, I think I will be going home after Christmas.”

And then I blacked out from stress and confrontation. The family quickly left the table and I took my sweet time cleaning up the kitchen. I come out and the mom is putting the kids to the bed, the dad sits awkwardly on the couch.

“So! Are you and your boyfriend getting engaged then?” he asks.

Hmmm. This might make my reasons for leaving easier. You know, rather than your-kids-suck-and-I'm-not-into-Paris-that-much. “Yeah, you know, we’ve talked about it.”

He nods. ”Ah, young love…”
I laugh awkwardly. Wow, I’m pretty much lying to my family and telling them I’m engaged to be engaged. Let’s go with this angle. Much easier to swallow than I think your kids are shit and I hate taking care of them and quite frankly I feel my IQ rapidly denigrating just being around them.

“You know, I’m really sorry to do this, but I felt it wasn’t fair to the family or me if I’m unhappy,” I timidly say.

“Yes, well, I suppose we will have enough time to find someone else,” he says.

We stare into space and then I stand up abruptly: “Okay! I’m gonna head upstairs. See you tomorrow…”

And we haven’t talked about it since. I was nervous they would start treating me like shit since I’m no longer a permanent fixture, but we’ve just gone into the “friendly-nothing-is-wrong!” zone. We kind of left it that I would take care of the kids full-time the first week of Christmas vacation, which means I will be flying home Christmas Day.

As I headed upstairs, I did feel a big weight lift off my shoulders. Honestly, I think I knew going into this I wouldn’t last. Yes, the homesick might pass after several months. But taking care of kids as my job? I KNEW I wouldn’t be good at it. I’m not quite sure what made me do it. I guess I thought it wouldn’t be so hard, that it would occupy so little of my time that it wouldn’t affect me. But I suck at it. And doing a job you dislike every day gets to you after awhile. I try to like the kids. Sometimes. But…I just don’t. They don’t make it easy. Do you know how frustrating it is to ask a little kid every day brightly, “Hey! How was your day?” and for them to shrug, mumble some smartass response, and walk away? It’s like, why fucking bother? What happened to kids being generally happy bundles of joy? Are these kids just future Existentialists in the making? Hey punk, you’re nine years old, it’s MY TURN to be depressed, not yours. Save it for junior high.

I called Colin the next day—2am his time. I told him what had happened. It has big implications for us. We had discussed me moving in with him before I came, and it was also a possibility when my term was up in July. But now it was up…a lot sooner. But we both feel really good about it. I think we’re both nervous, as neither of us has done anything like this. We’ve avoided serious commitment for a long time. But…it’s taking a leap, and what’s the worst that could happen?

It’s funny, we’ve never dated in the same city, and now I’m moving in with him in three months. Right after New Year’s. To Chicago, a city I’m not in love with, but after Paris, I think it will seem so much easier to handle. And friendly. (You know there isn’t a French word for friendly? Because that concept of being generally nice to strangers doesn’t exist.) Yes, Chicago in January will be awful. But at least I’ll have someone to keep me warm at night. It’s funny, the thought of being domestic with someone finally sounds really appealing. I fought it for a long time, but I hope I’ve matured enough to a do a good job of it.

As far as taking all my shit to his apartment in Chicago, deciding whether to bring my car, if I want to “decorate” his place or wait until we get a new place…I guess I’ll save all that logistical crap for December! Knowing I’m only here until Christmas makes me much more relaxed. There is an immediate end, and now I can enjoy my time much more. Maybe it’ll even light a fire under me to get motivated and see as much of Paris as I can.

Must run now. I have a 1pm appointment with Hashpa today. Hope I’m actually posing today (read: getting paid.) I will mostly likely have a funny story about getting naked later.

Nudity and an old Czechoslovakian artist named Hashpa

I can’t believe I just did what I just did. What I did was look up “creative gigs” on Craigslist. My au pair job pays me 375 Euros a month. That is diddly squat. I can barely feed myself on that, let alone enjoy the city. I need extra income, something that is easy with flexible hours and I don’t have to speak a lot of French. So it’s prostituting myself or…nude modeling! Ideally, I wanted to be in a highly regarded art school, posing demurely in an academic setting while gay guys in Tom Ford eyewear idly drew me in pen and ink. And make 20 Euros an hour. Safe, neutral, non-sexy setting. But that wasn’t on Craigslist. It was mostly fetish photography, but one stood out as a semi-legitimate ad. I emailed it to myself and reread it for several days, pondering if I should answer it. The ad read:

Painter and photographer seeks female models for personal work and live nude drawing classes. Studio is located in the Marais, near Place des Vosges. Please call Hashpa at 01.40.27.00.95 (sorry, no email).
Compensation is 20-40 euros/hour.


My biggest worry was that I couldn’t email. I would have to call a number. And speak…in French? More like Franglais? Fuck it, I thought after looking at the ad for four days. What do I have to lose? Dignity? Already lost that the first time I tried to order three McDonald’s Happy Meals with the kids. So I call and (thank heavens) reach an answering machine. I say my first line in French: “J’appelle l’annonce dans le craiglist. Um, Sorry, I don’t speak very good French, I am calling about ad in Craigslist. Please call me back at….(oh crap, lost number, search desperately)…this number! Bye!”

I receive a call a couple hours later.

“Hello? This is Hashpa. You call about Craigslist, yes?”

“Yes. Um. Oui.”

He then babbles on in French and I think I hear the word “massage” and get really freaked out thinking it’s some sex shop. I don’t wanna be an imported Thai prostitute like those sad strip mall massage parlors in Houston. But I realize it’s the word “message.” Okay, we’re cool again.

He continues to speak quickly in French though I tell him I really have no idea what he is saying. We finally agree on a time to meet. Tomorrow, at noon, in his studio near Place des Vosges. I hang up and think…shit. If this is legit, I’m gonna have to get nekkid tomorrow. In front of some old dude. In some old dank old studio. This is kind of crazy.

Friday morning arrives and I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty nervous. But not nervous enough to shower or shave my legs. I mean, I’m not REALLY gonna have to get naked, right? Maybe I can just take off my sweater and he can see I’m not a leper and then, you know, I’ll deal with the naked stuff later when he’s teaching the class. I almost feel it’d be easier to be naked in front of a bunch of students rather than one old lecherous man. Of course I assume he’s lecherous. What kind of an old artist who paints nude women isn’t a womanizer?

I take the metro to Bastille and find the place quite easily. It’s a dark, rotted old building that could quite easily be set in a Dickens novel 100 years ago and you wouldn’t know the difference. I climb the stairs with trepidation and see a door open, leading into a messy room filled with jars, brushes, stacks of books, and paintings everywhere. This must be the place.

Hashpa greets me cheerfully enough. “Ah! Yes! You are afraid of cat?” he gestures to a feral beast circling my legs.

“Um, nope. J’aime les chattes.”
Not true, I hate cats, but they are low on my list of worries today.

He is old, in his early sixties I would guess, with a white beard and a tall, solid figure. He bears a passing resemblance to Hemingway. Great, so I’ll just think of him as the kindly Papa and it’ll make this whole thing much easier. I’ll pretend we’re the Lost Generation and Gertrude Stein is making me tea in the next room.
Hashba gazes me at me intently, “Ah, tu es très jolie. Yes. Come. We talk.”

He grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses and leads me into his studio. Giant windows form one wall and the other three are covered with oil paintings—some good, some bad, some nude, some abstract. It’s the cliché of every European artist’s studio I’ve ever seen. I relax a wee bit, knowing at least he is a real artist and not some creeper with a web cam. I doubt this guy even has email. We sit in two tiny rickety chairs and face each other. He pours the wine, we toast.

“So, um, how many models are you looking for? And what days of the week and for how long? Oh, and how many students do you have?” I babble nervously.

He holds up his hand. “Stop, stop, Non! You. Speak. Slowly. I speak slowly. Then we can understand,yes?”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Okay. We meet. We talk. I have to look at you.”

“Um, you mean, like I have to take my clothes off? Like right now?”

“Oui, oui, c’est normale! It’s the body, I must see if I can paint you.”

Fuck, if I want this gig, I totally have to take my clothes off, don’t I?
“Je suis timide?” I venture cautiously. “Et, je suis Americaine!” (Obviously, just saying I’m American he will realize I am not comfortable with all things sexual and have lots of hang-ups with nudity.

“Bah!” he dismisses with his hand. “I know beaucoup d’Americans and they are crazy. You been with man before, yes? Or are you virgin?”

“Um, yeah, I’ve had a boyfriend, sure.”

“Just one?”

“No…”

He smiles and begins counting on his fingers, “Une, deux, trios, quatre…”

“Okay, sure. You can stop there.”

“Okay, so you can undress, it’s not the first time.”

Shit shit shit, let’s just get this over with. I slowly unwind my scarf and carefully place it on the chair next to me. One article of clothing down, six more to go…there goes the sweater. The tank top. My black leggings. I’m sitting in my underwear now. Phew. I look at him, “This is enough, right?”

“Non! C’est normale, I need to see everything.”

Okay, I’ve done topless beaches. Kind of. For like two seconds in the water once in Miami. It’s just nudity. He’s an artist. Sees it all the time. I take my bra off. Ta da! Pretty much naked now!

“C’est bien, c’est bien. You are…Renoir! Yes, I show you.” He pulls out a book from his stack and thumbs through it, finally stopping at a page of Renoir’s nudes. He shows me. I have to admit, I bear a passing resemblance to some of the women.

“Eh…Klimt? Tu sais?” He hands me another book. This one is mostly female nudes, pen and ink. I recognize some of them. I’m cool with it until I notice most of them are, uh, touching themselves. Spread eagle. I find a nice, tasteful, sitting down with all hands in appropriate places and point: “I like THIS ONE the best.”

“Ah, c’est bien. Eh…” he rifles through the book and stops at one. “This is self-portrait.”

Oh, very nice. Oh, it appears Klimt and his wife/girlfriend are both naked and he is holding…himself. Ah, yes. Rather a large one at that. Thought it was his hand at first.

“Well, that is interesting…”
Hasbah has one more to show me. It’s another drawing of a nude, the girl looks quite young. “This…sister!” he announces.

“Oh, he drew his sister nude? Ah, well…must have been awkward, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and then they had the sex!”

“Oh, he had sex with his sister? Hmmm, yeah, I’m not really sure I agree with that—incest, you know, not my cup of tea.”

He nods happily. We put the books away and he gestures at my underwear: “All of it.”
Uhhh. This means I have to sit bare-assed on a cold chair. But I’ve come this far…fuck it! I yank them off, place them on the rest of my clothes and realize…well, I’m naked. This is probably the weirdest moment of my life so far, but I’m doing it.
We continue chatting in broken English/French and for a couple minutes I almost forget I’m naked. Hey, this is relaxing! Just hanging out, being nude, talking about art. He does a pretty good job of maintaining eye contact, I have to say. To make me feel better he shows me naked pictures of his wife. She is Asian, sitting in a pool, and looks about twenty. Huh.

He asks about a boyfriend and I tell him about Colin in Chicago. Of this he strongly disapproves.

“How old is boy?”
“He’s 31.”

“Ah! 31. He needs the sex every day. Every day.”

“Well, yeah, but he can’t so, you know, we just have to wait until we see each other again…”

“No! Man cannot wait. Not healthy. Is healthy to have sex every day. You, you may wait. But he needs it.”

“Well, we don’t have a choice---“

“How long you in France for?”

I say six months, which isn’t quite true, but close enough.

“Too long! Monogamy…ce n’est pas normale. I…four girlfriends. Five wives. People in America…how you say, Mormon? They have polygamy—lots of wives! It’s good, no?”
“Uh, sure, but it’s not really fair to the wife…”

“Bah!” he waves his hand. “No. Not fair. But that’s life. You in France now, you young, must experience…the French!”

On this we must agree to disagree.

But back to the reason I’m there, still sitting nude, sipping on my wine. He tells me his wife also makes art, especially using photographs. “If you are comfortable, she take your photograph. We see. I only use old Russian cameras. No automatic. But model must choose own pose.”

Hmmm…photography. A bit more permanent and realistic than a blurry Impressionist nude painting of me. But--we’ll see. I’ve always wanted nude photographs of me, provided they’re tastefully done and make me look phenomenal. I try to pin down a time for me to come every week. He tells me he won’t need me for his weekly classes, as he wants to “keep me for himself.” (All the better to rape me!, I think.) Which I guess is flattering except for the fact that I would like to work as much as possible because in the end…muse or not, I need beaucoup d’argent. But artists don’t like to talk about money, do they?

He asks for me to come on Sunday, but I’m not sure what my day will hold (supposed to be having brunch with Mike, going to an exhibition of Karl Lagerfeld photographs, open house at American Library…) so I say next time. He says he will call me. I eagerly put my clothes back on, fight off his feral cat, we shake hands, and I let myself out. I’m walking in the busy streets of Le Marais, slightly buzzed on wine, laughing to myself. Well, I finally conquered one of my biggest fears and fantasies. And I don’t mean sexual fantasy, but rather doing something I’d always wondered about but never actually done. Posing nude for an artist. It took a lot of guts and a lot of awkwardness…but I did it. My first Parisian success?

Rainy days and Sundays always get me down

I could really go for some Carpenters right about now. It’s dark, cold, rainy—a lethal combination that ensures I will never go out again! So I was supposed to have brunch and see a Karl Lagerfeld photography exhibit with Mike Fink, a Romanian/Parisian I met at my very first meetup today. However, I had my reservations as I’m not at all interested in the guy (duh) but I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. We had had dinner before (was supposed to be coffee but turned into dinner…) and he was very courteous, helping me put my coat on and such. But my feminine instinct told me the dude was probably interested. I’m starting to think I should slap a stupid “in a relationship” option on my Facebook profile just to get it over with.

It’s tough, you’re so desperate to make friends here that you accept any invitation you receive. I want to make friends, not date people. But is it possible to go out one-on-one with a guy here? I guess not, unless it’s just coffee and during the day. ANNOYING. It seems like all my friends will most likely be very young au pairs. But I digress. So when Mike called me Saturday night to confirm, I casually mentioned I had a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in awhile (little white lie, as I had just seen Kacy hours ago) and would like to bring her along to brunch. I felt this sent an effective message that I just wanted to be friends.

He got all blustery and told me to forget about our brunch, we could do it another time. Huh. But THEN (this is the clincher) told me this was “strike one.” Ahem. I really felt like telling him off at this point but I just politely ignored it. And he then proceeded to tell me a sexist joke about a cowboy and his strikes. Alrighty. Not even worth keeping as a friend at this point. Which is a shame because I really would have liked a native Parisian friend who would have helped me get my iPhone unlocked.

Men are so typical. They get so sensitive and touchy when a woman isn’t interested. You’re immediately not worth their time and they want nothing to do with you. I started overanalyzing the situation and thinking of the guy as a major creep: what kind of local loser goes to ex-pat meetups if only to pray on lonely Americans who jump at the chance for any kind of social invitation? In the States I more than likely would not have chatted as long, let alone agree to a coffee/dinner date. Sigh. Can I just wear a button that says “Not interested. Just here to make friends.”
I guess this is a stupid thing to complain about. I should be flattered, right? But I’m still just effing annoyed. It’s the sense of entitlement men get when they ask a girl out. You’re not the first guy, and you’re definitely not the last. Ugh. Annoyed. I thought about writing a very blunt email telling him exactly what I thought, but I figured that was too “forward American” behavior and I should probably just ignore his calls from now on. How do you say “passive aggressive” en Francais?

My first and last Parisian nightclub

I met this girl named Alexia at the Jardin du Luxembourg because she wanted to practice her English. We had an awkward conversation and I left thinking I didn’t much care for her and she probably felt the same way. But now she invites me to clubs, her birthday party, and other nightlife events. Maybe she wants the novelty of an American friend, even though we have nothing in common? I finally relented to one of her requests to go to a private club called Les Bonheurs des Dames near the Champs Elysees on Thursday night. She warned me the dress code would be very demanding but the drinks free. Hmmm I do like free things.

But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:

"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "

Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)

Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”

I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.

“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”

We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.

I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.

The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.

An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.

I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.

A Field Trip to the French Countryside

I thought I was a field trip kind of person...but I'm actually the worst because I hate running on other people's schedules, not being able to pee when I want to, and standing around listening to stuff when I'd rather wander off by myself and take pictures of rotting logs. BUT when I saw the flyer at my French language school for a day trip to Giverny, Normandy, and some serious chateau-viewing, I signed up--and convinced my friend Kacy to as well.

We met up at 7am on Saturday morning. That is to say, I was the only one there on time, and everyone else strolled in around 7:45am. I'm learning that time is very flexible for French people--especially when it's an early Saturday morning. It was an odd group, old and young, mostly awkward, about 15 in all. I thought Kacy and I would meet a ton of people, but we ended up becoming buddy buddy with a lovely girl from Nottingham, England named Annabelle. Everyone else was weird in that "smelly freshman in a dorm" kind of way.

We hopped on a huge bus (I secretly love them, as you are high up on the road and can see everything) and traveled about an hour out of Paris. It was really nice to get away from the city, and see it from a different angle. To be honest, it looks kind of industrial and shitty when you drive into it.

Though it was cold and damp, Giverny was a magical place. Monet's gardens were exquisite, and his house gets 5 out of 5 cuteness points. It was a rambling old cottage painted pink with green shutters. Inside, the paint schemes were like one delicious pastel ice cream color after another. His kitchen, decorated with copper pots and blue mosaic tile, was a country girl's dream. The more I live in this big city, the more I long for the countryside. It's just so much more relaxing and tranquil. I hate waking up to the sound of construction, people yelling, motorbikes speeding, sirens going off. I have such cliche dreams about having a country cottage with a husband and a couple of pugs. No more big cities after this.

After that we went to a tiny town in Normandy, which was the picturesque small French village. We bought some amazing French Neufchâtel cheese from an old lady in the market. It's similar to Camembert, but more earthy. It's usually made in the shape of hearts. I also bought a la chouquette (a delicate fluff ball of pastry) and decided I would rather stay in the village than go back to Paris. There is something so appealing to me about having one patisserie, one boulangerie, and one farmer's market. You get to know everyone by name, and you never have to walk far. My ideal!

Back in the bus to a ruined old castle that to be honest was not that interesting. Oh, I should also mention the entire tour was conducted in French. Guess how much I got out of it? Maybe twenty words. The woman would babble in French, and I would turn to Kacy and say, "So, this castle is really old, it used to have three stories, and there were flowers somewhere."

Kind of annoying to pay money for a tour and not get anything out of it, but I should have known, as it IS a French language school. We all sat down in an underground portion of the castle and lunched on baguettes, super stinky Camembert, hard-boiled eggs, and cider. The best part was the apple tart and hot coffee they served afterward.

The next chateau was more impressive as it was still standing and filled with relics. The Normandy fashion back in the day was really unusual. Large capes, super tall bonnets, and huge jewelry. My favorite part were the ancient "toys" for children back then. One consisted of a wooden runner you stuck the kid in and forced them to run up and down a span of three feet for hours. Ah, the good ole days! I truly believe children should be "seen and not heard." When are we gonna go back to the pioneer days of child-rearing when kids actually worked?

We picked some apples from the tree, bid adieu to the countryside, and I promptly fell asleep on the bus. Again, I love having a busy day and then getting home in time for dinner, hot tea, and reading. Much more preferable than going out in the evening.

Sri Lankans, cocaine, and the party that never existed.

I had to get up early on Saturday. Really ass-crack of dawn early. Like 5:30am. It involved walking a mile to the metro in the dark, ride it all the way to Champs-Elysees, and wait in line for FOUR HOURS to see the Palais de l'Élysée, the Presidential Palace of France. It's open one day a year to the public for French Heritage Weekend. Fine, I can force myself to do this. It's the "White House" of Paris, right? Maybe Carla Bruni will be serving coffee.

So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.

Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.

We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"

So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.

The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.

I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.

Children are gross.

This is not breaking news, but rather a thought that goes through my head about 58 times a day. Children are gross. They pick their nose while watching TV, idly eating what they find as though it were a potato chip. Every time a bowel movement is imminent, they announce it loudly to the world, "I have to take a little caca!"

They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.

If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.

If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.

The End.

A shitty poem I wrote because I was bored on the metro.

Always bring a book or an iPod. You never know when your train will break down, the huddled masses of unwashed bodies will press against you, and you fear this is your last memory before the terrorist's bomb goes off!

Ahem.

Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.

Let's play "Spot the American!" game

When I first arrived in Paris, (feels like six months ago, was only three weeks) my first instinct was to talk to every American I saw. On the metro, in line at the Monoprix, walking down the Rue de Rivoli. Unless you're all gawking at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, spotting an American isn't all that common. Especially where I am: the southeastern suburbs of Paris--Saint Mande.

This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.

So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.

French children are racist.

It's true. I experience it every day. Not on the the receiving end, but as an innocent bystander when we walk to the park or the ludothèque (a weird playhouse for urban children filled with games, dirty costumes, children, and other depressed au pairs.) Need proof? Here are my favorite examples:

Two Jewish men walked past us. "Look! They're Jewish! They're wearing little hats on their heads," M1 (Monster #1) yelled. Yes, thank you, now the whole neighborhood is aware as well.

M2: "See those people?" Points out two black women walking past us on our way home from school. "They're not French because they're black."

We're watching a British show featuring wild animals. Footage of a man wrestling an alligator is shown. The man is black. Little girl points at TV and says, "See, he's African. That's what they do. Wrestle gators."

A group of people with Down's Syndrome walked past us: "See them? They're sick in the head," M1 pointed out helpfully. (Okay, this isn't racist, but obviously the children are not being taught tolerance and discretion. These comments are all made very loudly and within full earshot of the Jewish/black/mentally disabled people.)

Obviously, I'm just as bad, because I'm now going to make blanket statements insulting all French children as a result of my interaction with two slightly horrid ones on an everyday basis.

I thought taking care of kids was hard sober....

And then I tried it hungover. Like, the hungover where you can't walk, you can't brush your teeth, and your eyes are so swollen you look like a battered Chinese housewife. (Was that offensive? It's okay, I'm French now and can say racist things without worrying.)

How did this happen? I partied with an American band in Paris, that's how. A Texan band...even worse. My friend, the synthesizer and tambourine girl, was nice enough to meet up with me at the venue beforehand, a teeny tiny place called Espace B in the 19th arr. It was a bit of a dodgy area, and took three metro lines to get to. That is two transfers too many for lazy American me. We started off drinking whiskey, and then switched to pastis: a pretty-sounding anise-flavored liquor mixed with water and ice and magically turned white. They're mostly drunk in the South of France as an aperitif.

Then, the band ate dinner while I drank their bottle of wine. First mistake. (But how cool is it that you can eat dinner, drink wine, and then see a band all in a building the size of a one-bedroom American apartment?) The show was great, intimately sweaty and filled with front-row study abroad students screaming, "BROOOKLYYYNNNN!" Felt like I was back at SXSW all over again.

After the show my friend kept bringing me drinks, and with much variety. Always a mistake. From beer to wine to more pastis...I lost count. I seem to recall smoking cigarettes with some Turkish girls (who were really shitty come to think of it) and then I woke up in a cab. No idea how I got there, but the price was rather large. 30-something Euros. I only had 20. Here's where it gets really sad. I seem to recall trying to run away (I was drunk, didn't get very far) and then the mean cabbie grabbing me. At this point I think I began crying and rested my head on the trunk of the car. Here we remained, locked in a romantic tangle at 4am somewhere near my neighborhood.

We stayed there forever it seemed. I kept thinking, "Okay on the count of three...I'm gonna kick him in the shins really hard with my steel-toe boots and then run like the dickens!" But, sadly, I was so drunk/tired/disoriented I couldn't even lift my head. Then I remember blue lights...like an angel, but the Parisian police angels. They showed up, looked in my wallet, laughed at my silly American tears, and drove me home. Then I woke up the next morning and cursed the day I was ever born.

Getting blackout drunk in a foreign city alone is really stupid. Never again. Firstly, I can't afford it. Secondly, I can't handle my liquor. Thirdly, a wrestling match with an Algerian cabbie does not a fun Paris memory make. And you can bet my Tuesday with the kids was like dying a slow death. I can barely manage their high-pitched squeals when I'm healthily sober...when hungover, I thought about burying them in the sand at the playground and running until I puked out the evil inside me.

There is no moral to this story. On the plus side, M1 told me he hated me yesterday, so we've reached a new milestone! It's like the army...break them down, then build them back up. He's obviously realized I will not put up with his shit, so he can either back down or we will continue to make each other's lives miserable until one admits defeat. (Wanna guess which one? Yeah, it's no secret.)