Deep in thought at the playground.

While the weather is nice, we go to the playground a lot. I don’t mind it, it’s time for me to zone out, think about deep, important, grown-up things (like what I’ll make for lunch tomorrow) and not have to talk to the children. Much. Nolan runs off to play soccer with other heathens, while Dara gets in the sand with other little girls. I’m about as irresponsible as you can be. There have been times when I’ve often thought about sneaking out, going pee, getting a snack, while they play? How long would it take them to realize I’m gone?

This is when having an au pair friend would really come in handy. Everyone else but me has a friend there. They gossip, probably talk about how spoiled the children are and how ridiculous the parents are.

Au pairs range from young and slutty, constantly texting on their phones to old, haggard, Eastern European ones (and probably illegal to boot.) And of course you’ve got your North African mix as well. Then there’s the weird American outcast. Me. But I’ve heard that having an American au pair is quite the status symbol. So I am a prize, as valued as a BMW 5-series sedan. Keeping up with the Joneses indeed.
But, I did finally make another au pair friend. Only problem is that she lives in far west Paris—as far away from Saint-Mande as you can get. She’s very young (only 20) and fresh from Utah. Mormon, of course. A bit boy crazy and silly, but I am glad to have met her. We went shopping today, as is typical for a new girlfriend bonding experience, and I spent a bunch of money I don’t have. So, no more shopping. For nine months. It’s funny, you never know what you’ll want or how you’ll dress until you get somewhere. I packed lots of floral little dresses and tight jeans and I don’t want to wear any of them. It’s no fun walking a mile, sweating or freezing, standing in a crowded, sweaty metro, and sitting on the floor with kids. So basically I will be wearing black leggings, long T-shirts, and baggy sweaters for a year. Harem pants (or MC Hammer pants) as I call them are quite popular here. But, of course, they only look good if you’re ninety pounds or less.

I asked Kacy (new au pair friend) if she wanted to go to a lesbian cabaret tonight. Shake her Mormonism up a little bit. We’re meeting at nine at the Palais Royal stop. Hopefully we won’t get lost. Hopefully it’s free. Hopefully it’s very entertaining and young, beautiful, Swedish women will buy drinks for me all night. But I’ll settle for 2 out of 3. I’m assuming it’ll be more of a KD Lang/Vanessa Redgrave kind of shindig.

I talked to my mom about Nolan’s increasingly bad behavior and she made me feel better. Key quote: “You’re 25, you’ve got lots of options. You don’t have to be doing this. I’m not saying come home, but you don’t owe them anything.” Wow, thanks, Mom. Nothing makes me feel better than when my mom says I can bow out gracefully of something. And, it made me feel okay about staying. Does that make sense? I just needed her permission to know it was okay to struggle, to have doubts, but to keep trying. And, shit, that kid IS awful. Today he threw a toy at me, screamed in my face, told his sister “TA GEULE!” multiple times and told me everything was crap. Charming.

As soon as he turns 18 I’m sending a pile of steaming dog poop to his house. And you don’t have to go far to find dog poop. It’s every two feet in Paris.

Last night I went to a meetup.com one-man show titled “How to Become Parisienne in one hour.” Typical potty/sex humor with lots of American stereotypes. I enjoyed it, would have liked it more if it wasn’t 15 Euros. Met a nice older woman from Barcelona and another Indian guy. They flock to me like ducks to stale bread at a park. At first the three of us were heading to a bar, then the woman had to go. So…awkward one-on-one time with guy who’s name I can’t pronounce. He was very nice and knowledgable about traveling through Paris. Half the time I couldn’t understand him. Points off for telling me I drank my wine too fast and asking if he could take a picture of me. (Yeah, yeah, you’re a professional photographer…I get it.)