Pint-sized rogue art historian

The Loosh is an early riser. It doesn't matter what time he goes to bed; the kid is up at 6:30am, jumping on our bed and hollering it's time to get up.

Alex and I are the exact opposite of early risers. Most mornings, we shove our cell phones at him and mumble, "Loosh, just play a game on my phone. Give me five more minutes, PLEASE..." This usually works for a little bit but then he starts jumping again. Our phones are like Lucien snooze buttons.

Well, we can kiss that trick goodbye now. Lucien unwittingly called France's version of 911 this morning on Alex's Blackberry. To top it off, Loosh has this horrible hacking cough right now. When the emergency guy answered, Lucien just coughed like crazy into the phone. Then Alex, more than half asleep, heard a guy talking, looked at the phone, realized who he'd called, and cried out something along the lines of, "Oh my GOD!" and hung up the phone.

Ten seconds later, Alex, his brain now very awake thanks to realization and panic, called France's version of 911 again. He told them there was no emergency. They hung up on him with a curt "au revoir." We laid there exhausted but freaked out. That's a rough way to wake up on a Monday morning.

The weekend was nice, though. On Sunday, I took Lucien to the Louvre for some mother-son bonding over art. It's free the first Sunday of every month so I figured there was no harm done if he hated it and only lasted five minutes.

Our visit was a revelation to me. I realized that as much as I love -- no, adore -- art history, I love -- no, adore -- Lucien's revisionist art history even more.

Upon entering the Louvre, The Loosh was immediately concerned about all the missing limbs on the statuary. After setting that little four-year-old brain in motion, however, he had some pretty convincing explanations.

Winged Victory, for example, got in a fight with a dinosaur.

And it's nice to know all our talk about fossils at the Natural History Museum last weekend sunk in. He got very excited upon seeing Diana the huntress. With the absolute confidence of a kid, he told some German tourists, "that man with boobies got stuck in the rock and has to live there forever."


When we reached the room with the Mona Lisa, I lifted him up as high as I could so he could catch a glimpse of the small painting over the heads of all the tourists. I told him this painting was very famous and very important and lots of people come to the museum just to see it.

"That's the lady on your telephone" he said simply and asked to be put down.

Damn, he's right -- I have the Mona Lisa as the wallpaper on my iPhone. I guess the uniqueness of the Mona Lisa is lost on him since she's been shoved in his face at 6:30am for over a year now.

Lucien spun many a happy tale from all the depressing paintings. He said of Gericault's The Raft of the Medusa that it was some people "playing boat" and that one guy was about to fall off and his friends needed to pull him back on.

"Actually," I said cheerfully, "those men are shipwrecked and floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean and that friend that's about to fall in the water is dead and pretty soon they're going to eat him because the survivors of the Medusa resorted to cannibalism.....but anywho, onto the next one, son. Isn't this FUN?!"

Lucien with the Raft of the Medusa -- wait a second, what the hell is that person doing behind him?

He thought the Oath of the Horatii was some men playing keepaway with their daddy and that the women were sleeping because they were bored. "Wrong again, son!" yelled me. "Those women are devastated and depressed as hell because they know they are sending the men they love into battle and near certain, violent and horrible death!" *whistling merrily as I stroll on*



The Burial of Atala. Lucien's take: she's sick, her daddy is hugging her because he wants her to get better, the man in the robes is a doctor. Mommy's take: Yeah, she's dead, dude. See that shovel? The hole in the ground? She's -- ah, forget it, man. Keep living in your little dreamworld.





Let's see, what else. Ah yes, David's Crowning of Napoleon. I got down on one knee next to the Loosh and told him the man holding the crown was named "Napoleon" and he was a very famous man from France. Lucien stared at Napoleon and the crown, then turned and asked, "Did he find the fève?" A French person standing next to us nearly peed their pants with laughter and merriment. (It's a reference to the galette du roi. Keep up, people, the kid is frickin' hilarious...)

Woo hoo! I found the fève, bitches!

Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People. Loosh didn't have much to say about this one, merely that some people were hurt on the ground, but I was reminded of something a friend of mine said long ago. When I stood before this very painting years ago during a visit to Paris, my friend said, "Liberty leading the people? Looks like boobies leading the people. Actually, more like men chasing liberty's boobies. This is not a novel concept." Then she walked off to look for original and surprising ideas.


As we passed the Odalisque on our way out of the museum, Lucien observed she had no clothes on. As we walked away, he said she needed to "at least put some underwear on." (You think naked boy has heard THAT directive once or twice around the apartment? Yes, nearly every day for a long, long time.)


I don't want to visit the Louvre again without my Loosh. He's bringing new perspective and fresh ideas into the relatively stodgy and unchanging world of art history.

In other museum news, we also went to the Palais de la découverte to see the dinosaur exhibit over the weekend. It was raining hard that day and we forgot the umbrella. All four of us got soaked on our run from the metro to the museum entrance, just so Lucien could manhandle some dinosaur poop.

Yes, it DOES look like the Venus de Milo fell down and broke her arms off, mon chou! What a revelation!
MJ

Coffee with Omar

I love our cleaning lady. Not only is she a willing subject for my French speaking experiments, she insists I leave Camille and Lucien with her while she cleans so I can run errands unencumbered by childfolk.

When I come home, I find Camille asleep and Lucien dutifully following her around carrying the vacuum cleaner. She's not just a wonderful lady -- she's magic, too.

Life has been a little rough lately for the ole MJ between nonstop illnesses, Coco's regressive sleeplessness, Alex's increasingly stressful job and long work hours and, well -- the Loosh. The Loosh is slowly driving his teacher crazy with a grin on his face. I live in fear of pick-up time; mama hates being the recipient of Saint Teacher's wild-eyed stare.

Coco stayed with magic cleaning lady on Tuesday so I could have some solo relaxation time at "my" cafe. I walked in and was happy to see my favorite table was empty. In fact, the entire cafe was empty except for three middle-aged men drinking beers at 9:30am.

Now ladies, listen up. If you walk into an otherwise empty cafe containing three drunk French guys, they are going to spend the entire time trying to talk to you and saying ridiculous and drunken things. I knew all this before I walked in but decided oh what the hell, I'll stay. They looked like fun and I needed some laughs.

Sure enough, as soon as I sat down the oldest gentleman leaned towards me with a Bonjour, Madame! The middle guy started yelling at the older guy to let me be. Then the youngest of the three hit the oldest over the head with a rolled up newspaper. That made the oldest man angry and they started waving their arms around, arguing loudly over whether or not they should leave me alone.

I knew I was going to like these guys. After they simmered down, the oldest man, with gray hair and beard, turned to me again and said his name was Omar Sharif.

I know of Omar Sharif but I do not know what Omar Sharif looks like. Sure, I know what he looked like back in the Lawrence of Arabia days, but today? No idea. Therefore I felt a little unsure how to proceed. What if this guy really was Omar Sharif? What if this was another brush with a celebrity that would impress absolutely no one? Be cool, MJ, just be cool...

But wait a second -- "Isn't Omar Sharif Egyptian?" I asked timidly, pulling the heretofore useless factoid out of the deep recesses of my brain. The gray-haired guy looked hurt but the other two guys howled with drunken laughter and nearly fell off their chairs. This told me I was either very right or very wrong.

(I came home and Wikipediad the hell out of Omar Sharif. He is Egyptian of Lebanese descent, not even a little bit French.)

I am not the man in the cafe

"Omar" told me they'd been out all night celebrating somethin' somethin' mumble mumble. I told him I could tell they'd had a good time. He noticed my accent and said, "Oh, you're not French! Where are you from?"

I like being American. I also realize the rest of the world doesn't like Americans as much as we like ourselves. So answering this question is always a little dicey.

And sure enough, as soon as I said I was American, all three of them looked like someone had just farted. There was some more arm waving as they yelled, "Aw, non! Zhorzh Boosh, Zhorzh Boosh...aww, quel con! Zhorzh Boosh." ("George Bush" for those of you unwilling to play along at home) I was worried they were going to turn on me so I gently reminded them it was Obama now and they simmered down again.

But with the mention of Boosh, the political floodgates had been opened. Drunk Frenchmen have a LOT of questions about American politics. I spent the next forty-five minutes fielding questions I couldn't possibly begin to answer in English, let alone French. This was not because the questions were politically or socially complex, but more because they made absolutely no f'g sense. I don't know if my French comprehension was off or their French slurring was on but I couldn't make heads or tails of most of what they said.

What I did understand -- Omar asked me to summarize the political beliefs of the average American. Uh, yeah. Sure, no problem, easy peasy. I was taking an "America is like a box of chocolates" approach when he interrupted me and said no, no, no, that's not what he wanted to ask.

What he MEANT to ask me was why did we want to build a wall between the U.S. and Mexico? When I tried to answer that one (I got nothin'. Can someone get Pat Buchanan on the line?) he broke in again and said, no, no, no, what he MEANT to ask was why were Americans so arrogant?

Arrogant? I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. Then I got up on the table, waved my big foam finger and yelled, "SUCK IT, wussy Europe! WE'RE NUMBER ONE! WE'RE NUMBER ONE!

They were fun but eventually I got tired and wanted to go home and see my baby. I stood up and announced I had to go. There was, of course, more arm waving, some cries of NON! and some wails of despair. I wasn't surprised, though, because that's a common reaction from people when I leave the room.

Omar got down on one knee, kissed my hand, and told me I was beautiful. I told him I couldn't take a drunk man who thought he was Omar Sharif too seriously, but thank you anyway. I left the cafe to a chorus of drunken goodbyes and professions of deep, undying love for American women.

So here I am, folks -- an ambassador from the U.S. of A winning the country over three drunk French guys at a time. Someday we will put our French/American differences aside (we HAVE stopped calling them "freedom fries" at home, right?) and have some laughs over baguettes and Pop-tarts.

(heh heh. Freedom fries. I wonder if the French people know we did that? I'll have to ask the next drunken Frenchman I stumble across.)

Freedom fries, freedom kissing, freedom braids, freedom toast, freedom onion soup, freedom revolution, heh heh this is fun,
MJ

Skeletons and a boy named Camille

All right, who's the smartass that searched for "choking sleazy mom with dog balls between the legs? Well played, my friend, well played.

I follow a lot of blogs. Inevitably, at some point the writers of those blogs post something like, "I'm having computer issues. I can't do such-n-such. Computers make me so dang mad." I gasp at their misfortune and cozy up to my beloved laptop, "Kitten." "Never leave me, Kitten," I plead.

Stupid Kitten didn't listen, dumb computer. My laptop is dying a slow, painful death and after a frantic weekend of backing up important documents and photos, I think I'm finally ready to say goodbye. (Which is good because the thing is crashing every five minutes and the fan is running so loudly it sounds like ole Kitten is about to either take off or explode.)

I am thus forced to use other computers lying around the apartment. There are not many good options. We have my very, very old laptop, "Kitten," (I am not creative) that we saved for Lucien's movie watching. He's ripped off a good number of the keys while engrossed in Finding Nemo. This makes typing a challenge and I'm not interested in challenges on a Monday.

Al's laptop is awesome but he won't let me have it because he "needs it for work." Yeah, like THAT'S real.

So I'm using the teeny-tiny cutie pie computer we bought to take on train trips. It works well but since we bought it in France, it doesn't have a QWERTY keyboard; it has an AZERTYUIOP keyboard. Just look at this mess:

What. the hell. are those.

I took the Loosh to buy a new puzzle this weekend. (we live craaa-zy exciting lives here in Paris) We walked to BHV over near Hotel de Ville. Whenever I walk past the Hotel de Ville, I'm reminded of the famous Robert Doisneau photograph, the one with the hot lovin' --



But as I stood there with the Loosh and watched the ice skaters do their thing, I took a pretty iconic shot myself. Kisses are nice but sunglasses in winter are awesome:

Suck it, Doisneau!

We went to the Museum of Natural History this weekend and were greeted at the entrance by a large ape strangling a human. I should be accustomed to strange statuary in strange places by now and yet...

Welcome to the museum, kids!

When we entered the impressive Gallery Full of Bigass Skeletons, we realized what an impression Night at the Museum left on our young son. The skeletons are intimidating to begin with, but add Lucien's concern they were going to come alive and talk to him and it was - well, terrifying.

Dang you, Ben Stiller.

(Is there anything we do with this kid that WON'T contribute to his future therapy bill? Good God, this kid doesn't stand a chance with us hanging around.)

I tried to explain to him they weren't going to come alive because we didn't have that Egyptian guy's magic gold tablet. I broke off midway through the explanation because I got distracted by something shiny on the floor and walked away, leaving Lucien to quiver like a leaf and stare wide-eyed at the woolly mammoth.

Skeletons: Hello, Lucien.
Lucien: AAGH.

After the museum we had lunch at a nearby brasserie. Camille unfortunately chose the moment we walked through the door to -- ahem -- necessitate a diaper change. I was directed to the bathroom, which in these old brasseries tends to be down a teeny tiny stairway leading to one stall the size of a European elevator.

I squeezed into the tiny bathroom and, after coming to terms with the lack of options, had to lay my precious girl on the floor. I would attempt to describe the bathroom's uncleanliness but that would bring back uncomfortable memories.

As I changed her as quickly as possible, she waved her little arms around innocently. Whenever they came even remotely close to touching the ground, I shrieked. After a few shrieks she just stared at me, brow furrowed, clearly thinking, "What is WITH this chick?"

I returned to the table shell-shocked and told Al we needed to get home right away so I could bathe myself and Coco in -- ugh, I'm tired and can't think of anything clever -- insert something that cleans really well and is clever here.

I bought a sweet pair of les soldes boots for myself last week. I was just walking around the neighborhood when I saw them, 50% off and grinning at me in a store window. I went in and asked to try them. "What size do you wear?" the saleswoman asked me. "Beats the hell out of me!" I replied. Thankfully she had a magic foot measurer. I wear a 37.

Coco was completely asleep in the wrap so I was limited in the ways I could move. I couldn't sit down because it would have bent her body in a bad way. But here's where I'm thrilled to say the saleslady was immensely helpful! I laid down on the bench and she shoved the boots on my feet. Then she pulled me back up by the arms so I could walk around the store doing the "sleeping baby mommy bounce" in my new boots.

I'm pretty sure I screwed up my French in my excitement. I know I said something wrong because the now familiar, vague, mystified, WTF look came over her face as I was talking. Thinking back, I MAY have told her my daughter's name is Coco and my son's name is Camille. She kinda tilted her head to the side and stared at me but she was too polite to ask why the hell I named a boy Camille. I appreciate that.

So there it is -- my first great customer service experience. And it only took a year. Booyah!

What the hell is that punctuation mark used for and where's the goddamn open parentheses? Oh, forget it.
MJ

Life is one big choking hazard

All right, people, we gotta talk. You guys are strange. Every once in a while, I check a report of the keywords people entered into search engines that brought them to my blog.

Maybe I'm not writing the blog I thought I was writing? Here are some keywords that have led to me:

1. sleazy mom
2. sexy mom and plumber
3. sexodrome sexy strippers
4. mom wearing condom
5. mom dog balls

I've been a dirty, dirty American mom in Paris.

Granted, the people who entered those search terms, according to the report, spent an average of 0.00 seconds actually reading the blog. I guess if you're searching for mom dog balls and you get a giant picture of the Loosh and some blather about Eurodisney instead, you're not going to stick around for long.

To those who searched for the following, however, I hope you're still reading because I like you:

1. can money buy friends
2. paris is boring
3. how much do fake bums make on the streets of Los Angeles
4. who is the patron saint of laundry
5. why is my mom a big bastard

To the person who asked number five -- you've come to the right place.

At the Loosh's preschool, birthdays are celebrated the last Tuesday of each month. This month it was Lucien and two other kids -- for the life of me, I can't understand what the hell their names are; one sounds like "Owlren" and the other sounds like something dirty I can't type or else some REALLY sick puppies will be directed to my blog.

When I say bonjour to the mystery-named kids, I just kinda mumble their names. I would prefer to be known as "that American who mumbles all the time" instead of "that American who just said a dirty word in the middle of a preschool classroom."

For the birthday celebrations, the cake is taken care of by the teacher's assistant but the birthday kids have to bring in something else to share. It can be juice, candy, little party favors, whatever. Because I am brilliant, I decided to bring in Kinder Surprises. Kinder Surprises are chocolate eggs with little toys inside. Chocolate + plastic figurine from Ice Age 3 = kid heaven.

Fast forward to five minutes after the eggs have been purchased. I was exchanging some emails with my Al, who was in Cannes for a few days for work, and told him my brilliant plan to win the hearts of thirty small preschool children with Kinder Surprises. There was a five second pause before Al emailed me back and said, "Happy to hear you're passing out choking hazards for Lucien's birthday."

Oh. I guess that's another way to look at the Kinder Surprise. Crap. Let the debilitating self-doubt and second-guessing begin! But I was stuck. With Al out of town and two kids in bed, I couldn't go back to the store to buy something else. I sat around the apartment feeling nervous. What kind of reaction was I going to get in the morning when I handed over the bag of tiny kid killers?

The next morning, I handed over the bag of tiny kid killers with a bright smile and announced to Saint Teacher, "These were Lucien's idea!" (Yes, I am ashamed.)

Parents aren't allowed in school for the parties so I sat around and worried about those damn eggs all day. I went to pick up the Loosh with a tail-between-the-legs kind of feeling. (Great. I just said "between the legs" on the blog. Let the porn seekers once again descend upon my G-rated blog. G-rated, of course, except for all the swearing.)

Anywho, it turns out I way underestimated Saint Teacher. She hadn't distributed the Kinder Surprises during the birthday party. Instead, she passed them out at the door as the children left with a cheerful reminder to keep the tiny toys away from their baby brothers and sisters.

The kids were thrilled. The parents were smiling, too, and asked Saint Teacher who to thank for the eggs. The teacher said they were Lucien's idea (tiny jerk taking all the credit for my idea), so all the children came over to say thank you to the Loosh. Some even gave him the two-cheek kisses.

Winning the children over with Kinder Surprises. Just like I planned.

The whole incident put some things in perspective. I would much rather be known as "that American who just said a dirty word in the middle of a preschool classroom" than "that American who just sent five kids to the emergency room." So tomorrow at school I will yell confidently, "Bonjour, _____!" to that little dirty-named girl and see if anyone smacks me in the face. It's not the worst thing that could happen at school.

In other choking hazard news, January is the month of la galette du roi. Translation: King Cakes! You can find les galettes in every patisserie for the entire month but the official celebration is on Epiphany, the first Sunday of January.

On that day you buy a galette to share with your loved ones. As it's being cut, you cross your fingers, hoping against hope you get the piece with the feve, or small trinket, inside. If you get the feve, you win! You're the king! Your prize is to wear the paper crown that comes with the cake. (It may sound dumb but this is serious business, people.)

The galette is pure French deliciousness -- layers of buttery, flaky pastry filled with an almond paste called frangipane. Every time I get close to one this happens:

I was delicious

I don't give a rip if I'm the king or the queen or whatever. I just want to eat the cake all by myself in the corner, kicking anyone in the stomach who dares to approach and ask for a taste.

Kid, licking that galette isn't going to keep me away from it

One must be careful when eating the galette, however, as les feves are made of ceramic and will crack your tooth faster than you can say, "What the EFF is that in my cake?" For this reason, plus the choking concern (this is one dangerous cake), every time Lucien puts a bite in his mouth, Alex and I yell "BE CAREFUL!!!" Scares the crap out of him every time.

The king with his feve

He tried to share his crown with Coco but she was all like, "this crown makes me sad."

I had Virginia mom and her two girls over today for one last galette before the season is over. I served up the pieces to the kids and watched in amazement as Virginia daughter peeled back the top layer of her galette. "Wha?" I asked. Virginia mom explained that's how they do it -- then you know right away who has the feve and everyone can eat their piece without worrying about cracking teeth or choking to death.

Oh. Yeah, I guess that's another way to do it. Instead of all the yelling. Umm.. yeah.

What is it with me being stupid about choking hazards lately? Sheesh.

GO AWAY ALL YOU PEOPLE SEARCHING FOR CHOKING SLEAZY MOM WITH DOG BALLS BETWEEN THE LEGS.

Chew carefully, mes choux,
MJ

Happy Birthday to the Looshman

The little guy is four. I'm sure some of my smartass friends are going to remind me of what happened last year so let's just acknowledge the birthday elephant in the room, eh?

Last year we had our heads up our bums with fatigue and culture shock and celebrated our beloved son's birthday on the wrong day. And we didn't even do it very well.

This year we decided to go to Disneyland in cold and rainy January. I am still sick and, to Al's great amusement, now have laryngitis. If I can get any sound out at all, it sounds like I've smoked five packs a day since the day I was born.

But what's a sick mama to do? The kid is turning four and the kid wants Mickey and Donald. (He can do without Goofy, though. For some reason, the Loosh really, really despises Goofy.)

She ain't kidding. I f'g hate this guy.

Al and I took turns doin' donuts with Coco's stroller while the other went on rides with the Loosh. When it was my turn to ride, dumb mama asked cheerfully, "Hey, you wanna try the haunted mansion, Phantom Manor?" (In my defense, it IS marked "all ages" so I reasoned it probably wasn't all that scary. Remind me to write an angry letter later.)

While waiting in line for Phantom Manor, the Russian woman behind me either thought I was cute or she had a different understanding of personal space. As she chatted with her family, she stood so close to me I could feel her boobs pressing into my back. If I took a step forward, she took a step forward. I think she wanted to snuggle but I resisted.

Once inside the mansion, we were herded into a small circular windowless room with a large group of people. Lucien, perhaps having an overcrowded metro flashback, panicked. "I want out of this place. I want out of this place. I want out of this place," he whispered to me, near tears, looking around the room frantically. I could see he meant it so I picked him up fast and whirled around, trying to find the door. But mama was too late. The lights went out and Lucien screamed.

It occurred to me at that very moment that Phantom Manor may have been a really f'g stupid idea.

The floor started to move downward and Lucien freaked. He tried to kick his way out of my arms, pleading with me to please get him out of there. I held on tight and explained in my (NOT HELPFUL) creepy, raspy half-voice that, I, as a mother, was worthless because I could not get him out of there at that very second. As we slowly descended down, down, straight into the depths of hell, the poor betrayed boy sobbed into my shoulder and yelled, "Nooooo! Please, Mommy, I don't want to!"

Happy Birthday, little buddy!

Once we were free of the devil room and seated in the ride, Lucien sat strangely silent, held my hand in a vice grip, and hiccuped. When Al saw Lucien's face after the ride he looked at me incredulously and asked, "What the hell did you DO to him?"

I gave Lucien claustrophobia for his birthday.

The kid rebounded quickly, however, and we made the most of our cold, wet day at Eurodisney. We even had quite a few laughs in between the traumatic events.



We cut the day short when we could no longer feel our extremities and took an early train back to Paris. After dragging our ridiculously heavy baby stroller up the millions of stairs, we were more than ready to exit the metro station and go eat cake.

Al tried to push the stroller through the automatic doors at the exit and BAM! it didn't fit. He backed up and, walking a little faster this time, BAM! got stuck again. He tried it a third time because he may be insane.

"We're going to have to fold it," I said tersely, wondering how many times he was going to take a flying leap at the doors. I mean, really, he looked ridiculous and there were a bunch of people waiting to exit watching us with a mix of annoyance and curiosity.

He's a stubborn fellow, my Al, and he wasn't ready to surrender to the huge pain-in-the-ass it is to fold Coco's stroller. He tried several maneuvers, including shimmying it through sideways, while I stood back and pretended I didn't know him.

A French man coming into the station from the other side very generously offered to "catch" the stroller if Al wanted to pass it over the entrance turnstile doors.

Now, as I've mentioned before, French men are not the bulkiest. They're skinny little things. And Coco's stroller weighs five hundred pounds. It didn't seem like a fair fight.

As Al hoisted the stroller up over his head, it looked like he was about to toss a load of bricks onto a toothpick. Thank God the stroller didn't fit through and we didn't have to see that nice man crumpled on the ground.

We folded the damn thing and shoved it through the doors.

(I should probably mention Coco was not in the stroller for any of these maneuvers. She was snug in the wrap. She was not shimmied sideways through the gate nor lifted up over Al's head though I hope someone out there was picturing it that way.)

YEEEE-HAW! Crowd surfing in my stroller! Badass!

But here's the true point of the story -- I want to acknowledge the half dozen French people who stopped to help. They made suggestions and held doors and tugged on the large rubber wheels. And while I was too flustered to thank them properly at the time (not that they could have heard me with my scratchy crypt keeper voice), I wanted to send it out into the universe that really nice people stopped to help us when we were stuck, literally, in the exit gate of the metro. Thank you, nice people. May all your baguettes be perfectly crunchy forevermore.

Finally back in our warm apartment, we shared a chocolate cake from our favorite patisserie. I tried, oh how I tried, to sing "Happy Birthday" to my dear son. I thought I was doing all right, too, until Alex stopped singing and started laughing. Then he leaned over and said to the Loosh, "Try to ignore Marge Simpson over there."

But at least it all happened on the right day.

Happy Birthday, mon chou,
MJ

Eight Pharmacies

I've never pondered the question but I'm happy to know the answer -- this is how you get sheetrock into your Parisian fixer apartment.

Well, we don't know how he did it, but that waiter snuck into our apartment and poisoned me, too. In the past few days my illness went from bad to worse to worser than bad or worse.

It's been suggested to us that perhaps Al wasn't poisoned by the waiter; he just brought home a stomach flu virus. But no, we know it was the waiter...

The Loosh doesn't have school on Wednesdays. So yesterday, the day I was at my sickest, he was stuck here with me. I'd like to say he was an adorable little Florence Nightingale and tended to me with great care and concern. Yes, I'd like to say that. Very much, very much... (staring vacantly into the middle distance with sad eyes)

The truth is that kid saw an opportunity. I laid half comatose on the couch asking feebly, "Lucien? Lucien? What are you doing?" but all I heard in response were hushed giggles or, even worse, complete silence.

He climbed up on the counter and ate all the cookies. He ejected the movie I put on for him, "Up," and replaced it with "The Hangover." He opened the door for the UPS guy buck naked as I shuffled behind him trying to get there first and croaking, "no no no no no." He colored his palm with a red marker and put little pink handprints all over the couch. He drew on Coco's forehead.

Florence Nightingale? No, not so much. More like.... gosh, I can't think of a famous nurse who was always up to something.

I've got an idea for a movie. It will be called Eight Pharmacies and will star, oh what the hell, me. (Alternate title: The Vaccine Shuffle) The movie will be me walking the streets for two hours trying to get vaccines for my daughter's check-up that afternoon. I will eventually visit eight pharmacies and speak to eight pharmacists. I should probably have a baby hanging off the front of me to make it more real. She will be crying (Dear Lord, I hope the waiter didn't get to her, too).

All pharmacists will shrug at me and tell me they don't have the vaccine. That is all they will say. Then, finally, at the eighth pharmacy, the eighth pharmacist will take pity on my sweaty marching-all-over-the-damn-place self and tell me there is a production problem with the vaccine and NO ONE has the vaccine right now.

Total shocker of an ending, eh?

Before the credits begin to roll, "This is based on actual events" will flash across the screen. The audience will gasp, not believing such a waste of a morning could be inflicted upon such a super awesome mama.

As the credits roll, there would be some footage in the background of me strangling the first seven pharmacists so everyone could go home feeling happy.

(For those who have just tuned in and are confused, in France, one must procure one's own vaccines at a pharmacy prior to a vaccine-friendly appointment. Doctors don't stock them but Lord how I wish they would.)

We still went to our appointment with Dr. Michel, our quintessentially French pediatrician. At the end of the appointment, he asked how Lucien was doing. I thought back to yesterday and all his shenanigans but finally answered, "He's great." Dr. Michel chuckled and pulled out a handful of candy from his desk, passing it to me and saying, "Here. Give these to him. He's funny."

I had three immediate thoughts:
1.) No. The last thing that kid needs is sugar. I will instead eat these on the metro home.
2.) No. He will never know you think he's funny. That only encourages him.
3.) Only in France would a doctor give a kid a handful of candy after an appointment. And even more -- to a kid who isn't even AT the appointment.

I received a letter from World Vision today and I admit, when I saw the letter in the mailbox, my heart jumped up into my throat. World Vision has told us if we hear nothing from them, Haitian Lucien is OK. If we receive a letter, however, the news may not be so good.

I tore it open and in a feat of horrible timing, it was just his annual report, mailed long before the earthquake hit. Inside was his latest drawing -- a palm tree this time. I'm not even going to joke about our money going to palm tree drawing lessons; I'm just happy to see it. But I know that since he drew it, his life and country have changed dramatically.

I may complain, but I'm always grateful.
MJ

Run! It's a finger gun! AAAAHHHH!

Here's my thinking when I enter a store during Les Soldes: "I have no use for that whatsoever. Wait -- it's 70% off, you say? Booyah, I'll take two!" I'm buying Camille dresses she won't fit into until she's ten years old. When I pull them out of dusty bags in ten years, I think she will be very impressed with the amount of euros saved.

I usually forget we don't have any storage here until I walk in the door holding the bags. Then I have to wad all the pretty dresses up and stuff them into whatever nooks and crannies I can find in the apartment. I'd sell Al's soul for a closet.

It was only a matter of time before the Frenchies tried to kill us but we didn't think both of us would be targeted in the same weekend. On my way to pick up the Loosh Friday, I saw a strange man in the middle of the street. He was yelling some loud angry stuff. One glance told me his mental health was not the mental healthiest.

For some reason (could it be the red coat amongst all the black outerwear?) the man chose me. He walked up and pointed his fingers at me like a gun. My first impulse was to laugh with delight because an invitation to play Frenchie cops and robbers is rare indeed! But then the strange man started pulling the air trigger and yelling, "BAM." This caused a woman across the street to scream.

The woman who had screamed stared at us, hand over her mouth in horror. For a split second I thought, "Oh crap, did I just get shot with a finger gun? Was I wounded by an air bullet? I put my hand up to my head to see if it was bleeding. And -- duh -- it wasn't, so then I felt self-conscious and pretended like I was just fixing my hair. Stupid.

The strange man then chose a new target and went after a fashionable male talking on his cell phone. As he "BAM! BAM! BAM!d" his way down the street, the fashionable male waved his arms around, shooing him away like he was an annoying fly with a finger gun.

As I turned the corner towards Lucien's school, I saw the strange man had stopped a car in the street and was "BAM! BAM! BAM!"g the driver. The driver looked a little nervous.

I guess to the French, finger guns are pretty scary. But I'm like, "Yaaawn. I'm from the U.S. of A. I get a real one pointed at me ten times before breakfast. Bor-ring."

So with that strange incident behind us (I'm expected to recover fully from my non-existent injuries), imagine our shock when a waiter poisoned my Al just 24 hours later.

Uncle Alex is visiting again. He's in Paris for work but spent the weekend with us. He and Al, because they're work-obsessed corporate monkeys*, took their laptops to a cafe Saturday afternoon to work side-by-side. That's kinda like holding hands for dude friends.

Americans are often accused of taking up too much space by the Parisians and they've got a good point. You can spot an American in a cafe a mile away by the way they recline, stretch their legs out into the walkway, throw their arm over the chair next to them, toss their coats and bags onto a neighboring empty table. We do, indeed, take up a lot of space and it drives them crazy.

So the waiter's head probably very nearly exploded when Alex and Alex sat down at TWO SEPARATE TABLES next to each other, pulled out their laptops and threw their coats on the chairs next to them. We're talkin' pure red hot waiter rage. The cafe was virtually empty, mind you, so Al and Al didn't think it would be a problem but Frenchie waiter unleashed some serious attitude. Alex and Alex, ignorant space-hogging whores* they are, stayed where they were, ordered politely and tried to get some of their work done.

Fast forward to a handful of hours later and my Al, suffering the violent throes of food poisoning, had a theory that the Frenchie waiter put saline drops in his beer. I won't get into the reasoning behind the theory because there really isn't any, but Uncle Alex and I agree he could be right.

I think Alex and Alex are just lucky the waiter wasn't packin' a finger gun.

(*I just turned to Al and asked "Will it offend you if I call you a work-obsessed corporate monkey?" He looked hurt and said it was perhaps, "a little harsh." In the interest of full disclosure and respect for my life partner I then asked, "OK, what about ignorant space-hogging whore?" Then I started laughing real hard so I dunno what he said. Ahh well, he probably said it was fine.)**

(**I just asked Uncle Alex what he thought about being called those things and he wanted to know what he'd done to make me so hateful towards him. HA! That Uncle Alex is such a jokester.)***

(***I just asked work-obsessed corporate monkeys and ignorant space-hogging whores how they felt about being lumped in with Alex and Alex. They spit out their beers and lunged for me so I skedaddled.)****

(****You should probably know I'm incredibly sick right now and not thinking too clearly.)

Hey, Camille is free from her hip brace! Huzzah, little girl! She's feeling superfly about the whole thing.



Mama gets a little weird when she feels like crap, mes choux,
MJ