David and the lobster

Our troubles enrolling in the French health care system continue. After the second application was filed thanks to the accidental cancellation of the first application, things seemed back on track. That is, until we received a request for more documentation for the applicant named "David." Alex and I wondered who this delightful "David" was who had joined our family until Al made a phone call and discovered the bastards filed (and approved! yee haw! -- No wait! -- oh shit!) our second application under Alex's middle name.

At this point we are probably just going to legally change Alex's name to David; this will be easier than trying to iron it all out again. However, with their proven weakness in handling paperwork, the name changing authorities will probably screw it up and name him Barbara. I will, of course, call him Babs.

In some positive news, we now seem to have the correct paperwork in hand to at least get us through the childbirth without paying out of pocket. But experience tells us you can never be too sure around here. To be safe, we will bring our valuables and a list of pawn shops to the delivery room.

A photographer friend of Lissy's was in town Friday looking for subjects to photograph. As our last hurrah! before L skips town, we volunteered. She wanted some pics of her cutie pie four-month old son and I wanted some shots glorifying the belly. I checked out the photographer's website before we met and my excitement ebbed with just one click. The maternity shots she has taken involve just a black bra, a naked belly, and poses straight from Tyra's portfolio.

Now perhaps this suits some, but I, for one, would feel distinctly uncomfortable passing photos to the in-laws of me in a black bra, bare belly, draped over a chair with a "come hither" stare. (And really, is the "come hither" look necessary? That part already happened as evidenced by the strangely shaped body, right? Right? Who's with me? High fives!)

But thank Saint Photography (somebody stop me), the photo lady had different ideas for us. We ended up by the Seine on one of the most gorgeous days in history while she shot candids of us just being us- walking, talking, laughing. It was a relief -- but dammit I wasted the entire morning trying to find a black bra in my stash that didn't look like a dishrag and teaching myself to "smile with my eyes" in front of the mirror.

We had breakfast on Saturday with a friend of a friend who is in town for a writer's workshop. I cannot give away crucial plot points, but I'll sum it up and say he's writing a novel about a body part and a kitchen appliance. (I got 'em reeled in now, Dean! They're panting for more so go write like the wind!)

A couple Seattle friends were in town, too, so we had dinner with them Saturday night. We called on a new babysitter, from New Zealand, for the occasion. Kiwi came in the door, her first time babysitting for us, and Alex and I immediately attacked her with our favorite lines from Flight of the Conchords. She looked a bit unsure as we sang, "It's Business Time," but then said she was relieved we didn't ask her immediately if she lived near where they filmed Lord of the Rings. (I quickly clamped my mouth shut because that was going to be my next question.)

At the restaurant, Alex wanted the lobster. Real bad. He had the lobster fever. When the owner came to take our order, Alex shouted with uncontrollable puppy dog enthusiasm that he wanted the lobster!!! His world became a dark, lonely place when she told him they were all out.

As the rest of us placed our orders, Alex continued to talk about lobster. He expressed his sadness. He told the lady he loved lobster more than his wife. (Can't be angry with him for that. Lobster IS pretty special.) She stared squinty-eyed at him, looked him up and down for a minute, then said, "Let me go run and check. Perhaps I'm mistaken." She returned a couple minutes later and it's a Christmas miracle! - they still had a goddamn lobster. She said, "Well, I was going to save it for my dinner BUT..." as if this was a huge sacrifice on her part and not just a trick up her stylish sleeve.

So remember that, everybody. Sometimes the Frenchies play little food games. They are rarely "all out." You just have to prove how much you want it. You have to prove you are worthy. If they say they're out, ask again. If they still say they're out, insist they check the kitchen. If they STILL say they're out, call them a bad name. (If they are truly out, however, you're then completely screwed because they're going to think you're a jackass and possibly do horrible things to your food. Sorry about that but why the hell are you listening to me anyway?)

Al ate lobster. Freshly caught, driven to Paris, killed, chopped in half and slapped on a plate, dripping with butter. I haven't seen Babs that happy in a long time.

We spent Sunday morning at the Montparnasse flea market where I actually considered paying 120 euros for a kid-sized Victorian era chair. The thing was weird and slightly useless. This could mean I'm losing my mind fer real this time.

You are worthy of lobster, mon chou,
MJ