Paris, you're so pretty but I'm tired of the jostling. I was living in a damn pinball machine this morning at the grocery store. The narrow aisles were full of boxes and crabby employees and customers with no sense of personal space.
And whereas sometimes carrying a baby around this city seems to give me license to do whatever the heck I want while people smile at me, all bets are off when the grocery store gets crowded. Everyone goes Rambo. Coco was blissfully unaware in the baby wrap as her mama got knocked into shelves by shopping carts and elbowed out of the way by a little old lady (I swear she was made of steel).
One guy walking past me clipped me so hard on the shoulder I did a full 360 degree turn in the milk aisle. I think it was actually pretty graceful but no one applauded. I don't even think anyone noticed. They were too busy stabbing each others eyeballs out to get to the bananas.
Why does it feel like every day is stocking day yet half the items are always out of stock on the shelves? Our favorite sliced ham has been out of stock for a month. I still go look at the pathetic empty spot where it used to be and remember the good times, wondering if we'll ever meet again. And all the while there are employees emptying boxes and "stocking" all around me. I think they're really just killing time until their next smoke break because if they're really stocking so hard, where's my goddamn ham?
It's a pretty normal occurrence to have an item we've grown particularly fond of disappear from the shelves for an extended period of time. Then, one day, long after we've moved on to something else, there it is again. And I'll be like, "Where the hell have you been?" And it'll be like, "Woman, don't cramp my style. You know I need to come and go as I please."
As we all stood there in a mess trying to sort ourselves into lines at checkout, a woman behind me advised me to go into one specific line. She used her "I'm being very helpful" tone of voice so I thought she knew something I didn't, said the required, "Merci" and moved into the line. My line then moved like molasses while the "helpful" lady sped through hers and was on her way. I don't know if she was being evil when she directed me to the line with the slowest people and broken register, but I'm suspicious. I'm pretty sure I saw her laughing into cupped hands.
It was crowded at the grocery store, after all, which tends to turn nice people into real bastards.
Lucien's showing the signs of living in a big city. He was put in timeout yesterday evening, which in our house is a small stool in the kitchen. As he sat there, he quietly opened a drawer, pulled out some measuring cups and placed them on the floor in front of him. Whenever I walked past him, he'd say, "Can you give me some money, madame, s'il vous plait?" with a somber face, pointing down at his measuring cups. I tried to ignore him as I prepared dinner but he kept moaning, "Oh, she doesn't have any money. Oh noooo. I'm so hungry."
Some kids play house. Lucien plays homeless. Words fail me.
I picked the Loosh up at school today and he wasn't wearing one stitch of clothing that belonged to him. He was wearing a huge gray sweatshirt, the arms of which hung down almost to his knees, a pair of navy blue tights and a pair of too small girls jeans with embroidered flowers that stopped just below the knee. The highest of highwaters. Lucien greeted me with excitement and said he "got some new clothes today."
"Oh Lord, what now?" thought me. I asked teacher what happened to Lucien. She asked, "What do you mean?" What do I mean? What do I MEAN? This question tells me two things:
1. She thinks I dress Lucien like a moron every day.
2. She is, indeed, on some sweet, sweet happy pills.
After consulting the teacher's aide, I found out he'd slipped and fallen in the bathroom and the bathroom floor was wet (why?) so his clothes got all wet. They pieced him together something from the lost and found.
We had to walk home like that. In stylish Paris. We stood out, got lots of looks, blah blah blah blah...
Time for bread therapy, mes choux,