Monday, February 16, 2009
Hate the 'burbs and sexy time plumber
This is the cover of our phone book! hee hee hee hee!
Friday was such a happy morning -- breakfast as a family sitting on the floor, boarding the metro together, some giggles on the choo choo, waves and kisses for Daddy at his stop for work -- but it dissolved into yet another well-intentioned, ultimately disastrous outing for mama and the Loosh. SONOFABITCH. Anyone sick of hearing that one yet 'cuz I sure am sick of writing it.
Lucien and mama's destination was the American Hospital of Paris out in the 'burbs for the Loosh's checkup, necessary for any sort of school enrollment. And I don't care how far it is; if mama is flying solo for a medical appointment, she's finding a whole hospital full of English speakers.
Should have been a ten minute walk from the metro. "Should have been." Sigh deeply. An hour later, a badly drawn map by me tossed in the garbage and some bad directions given by some either well-intentioned or completely evil people, mama was dragging a very, very unhappy child through the drizzle, which turned into driving rain straight at our faces, which turned into freezing rain, and finally, wet gloppy snow.
And I'll be damned if I wasn't wearing those same floppity-flop-flop pants and rain-right-through-'em Uggs I wore during my other disastrous rain-soaked outing. You know, the completely unnecessary one because it was Lucien's fake birthday? Ahh....memories....
On top of my general crabbiness from being lost in the driving rain and cold for an hour in the damn Parisian suburbs for which they apparently make no maps, my protective maternal rage (THE most explosive form of rage in existence) approached critical "going to kill you, MFr" status when a car oh-so-narrowly missed me and my boy crossing a street. We had the almighty green man on our side, but that car came screeching around the corner, passed in front of us by a mere few feet -- and then the guy had the audacity to honk and wave his stupid little fist at ME!
That was it. I let it all out, baby. The language spewed out of me like I was Vesuvius. Oh, how I yelled at that guy and waved my arms around and flipped him off with both hands at the same time. And just so I knew he'd gotten the message, I topped it off with a very Crouching Tiger-esque kick aimed squarely at the back of his car. I missed. But there I stood, even after he'd sped away, calling him every horrible name I could think of (in French, which must have been hilarious for any passersby) at the top of my lungs. I wanted him to get out of the car so badly because in my state of mind, I really, REALLY wanted a shot at kicking just ONE ass.
And by the way, who the hell am I? In just six short weeks, I've morphed from a courtesy waver into an expletive machine eager to start street fights. I don't know how you feel about it, but me kinda likey the new dangerous MJ.
By the end of my tirade, the green man had long turned red and the other cars had all the right in the world to barrel towards us. But no one moved. And no one honked. And no one.....no one looked me in the eye. Everyone is terrified of a mama bear in fighting mode and quite frankly, they should be.
We finally found a metro and I'm not kidding -- Lucien and I sat in silence and hugged each other tightly the entire way home. We didn't make the appointment, obviously, and are giving it another shot tomorrow. So pray for us and start organizing the search parties.
There were a few maniacal calls placed to Alex during our little "outing," and I think daddy was gripped by the fear. The next day, Valentines Day, I awoke from a well-deserved nap to find Alex standing in front of me with my present. An iPhone. Equipped with Google maps so this kind of thing never, ever happens again. That present said, "love" more than any other I've ever received in my life.
We spent Valentines Day as a unit, all three of us, because we're in this thing together. Part of it was celebrated on the Les Halles playground. Lucien on a playground has historically been a tense thing for us parents. He's an exuberant little kid, and while his acts of violence are never malicious, more like unfortunate side effects of his uncontrollable enthusiasm, it still quickens the heart rate when we hear a kid crying somewhere, hoping against hope Lucien had nothing to do with it.
Alex and I have developed a system to communicate with each other during such times. One of us will run over, inspect the situation, ask questions from all witnesses about why the small child on the ground is crying, then turn to the other and throw our arms up, touchdown-style, and yell, "It wasn't him!" with great triumph. Then we'll high five and backslap and whatnot. (Of course, sometimes it is him, and then we have to go through proper Lucien apologizing procedures which aren't quite as celebratory.)
And speaking of things that are not celebratory. This morning, I'm sitting on the floor in our dining room and Lucien is next to me, playing with his cars. Suddenly I hear someone at the door. And not knocking....but coming in. Like with a key. So the door opens and I call out with confusion, "Al? Is that you?" No response. But a little happy smiley-faced guy peeks around the door and says, "Bonjour. I am the plumber." He's here to take a look at the splash-your-face toilet. And his girlfriend is with him.
I know what you're thinking: "What the hell kind of porno has MJ wandered into?" But believe me, there was nothing sexay about strangers walking into my apartment whilst I sat on the floor in my pajamas, completely shocked into silence and slightly embarrassed by the bedhead I was sprouting. Oh yeah, and I happened to be eating Pringles for breakfast. Awesome.
The plumber told me me he'll return next week if the owner approves the estimate. And he told me not to worry, that the real estate agency gave him a key and he can let himself in. Well yippee I think I'll do cartwheels. Thank God for the real estate agency handing out keys to anyone who wants to have sex with their girlfriend in our apartment. (oh come on, like you're not suspicious of their true intentions?)
So anywho...I guess naked yoga is out of the question for awhile. Probably won't shower for a week, either. At least until strangers stop granting themselves access to my locked apartment. No place is safe in Paris.
I see Parisian people, mon chou,