I love the smell of dog poo in the morning

I have a cape. That's right, a fabulous, fabulous cape and you love it. And not a capelet -- oh no, this puppy is past-the-butt long. And not a wear-outside kind of cape, either. You wear this one indoors, thrown over your shoulders like a sweater and it ties in a big bow at the neck. I love swooshing around in it, diving and swooping around the room like a wannabe french woman superheroine. The only downside is, whenever I pass a table, I tend to take everything off the top in my wake. So I've broken a few things. With a cape.

I wanted to start with that fabulousness because here comes the nastiness. Unfortunately, some of the rumors you hear about Paris are true. So here's the most widely heard one, and the one I'm all fired up about currently -- seriously, Parisians, what is UP with the dog poo??? What the hell are you thinking? I think I should leave it at that because I'm only going to get angry and say things I regret. And I don't want to hear it -- there is no amount of frenchie explaining that will convince me this is OK. Your beautiful city is buried in dog shit! I want to shake you all by your ultra slender shoulders! Slap left side of the face! Slap right side of the face! Get ahold of yourselves!

But I'll tell you a rumor about French people that is NOT true, much to our family's collective chagrin. Why do we believe in the States that French people don't work hard? They work just as psychotic hours as the worker drones in the U.S. I was lured here by the false pretense that frenchies don't do much of the "work" stuff, and that I would see MORE of my Al. But in fact, I see less! This totally, totally sucks for all three of us!

I was chatting with Sophie the other day at the creepy merry-go-round and told her I was appalled at Alex's work hours recently -- that sometimes he didn't get home until 9:00 at night! She looked at me like I was nuts and said, "But of course! This is Paris!" According to her, if you have any sort of job that matters, you stay there until dinnertime. And here, since dinnertime is hella late, like 8:30 or 9:00, the hours Alex is working are ho-hum humdrum. (And if there are any frenchies who end up reading this and come home from work at 5:00 -- I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your job doesn't matter....)

So there's been some big stuff happening in the past couple days. A man walked up to me on the street and while I'm pretty sure he was propositioning me, I, for some reason didn't want to admit I wasn't French and didn't understand and instead nodded, smiled and said, "Oui" a lot. He seemed to really like that and watched me as I walked away. I'm pretty sure I agreed to something really, really dirty.

Lucien and his new best friend, Otis, have had a couple playdates. At the first one, we finally sampled the famous gallette du rois (oh yum, good sweet goodness) and Otis's daddy, kind man he is, slid Lucien the piece with the feve inside. The significance of finding the feve (choking hazard) and wearing the crown and being the king were lost on the American Loosh, however, and he now believes it's his birthday again (Save your snide comments, people).

So this weekend is a biggie.....giggling like schoolgirls over here. We are moving into our apartment! We are very excited to have slightly more space! Emily and I did the walk-through of the apartment today with the agent and I now hold the little keys in my happy little hands. Don't even get me started on all the money that had to be sequestered away to a mysterious account us Americans will never in a million years understand, and the avalanche of paperwork thrown at Al and I before we could move in, but the day is finally here and maybe....just maybe....we can start to get settled for real.

After receiving the keys, Emily and I celebrated with the best food I've ever had the pleasure of skewering on a fork. If anyone needs a Parisian restaurant recommendation, I got one and I'm coming with you. The scallops with the curried rice and sausage and the oh-my-God-I have to stop talking about it because I'm so sad it's over. I kept cutting it up into smaller and smaller pieces so it wouldn't end. And don't get me started on the carafes of wine everyone drinks with lunch. A culture where drinking at lunch is not only socially acceptable but socially required? Perhaps I can overlook a little dog poo for the perks around here.

(Actually, you should never overlook the dog poo. You should also not try to locate it out of the corner of your eye or by sonar. You should stare directly at the sidewalk or street and scan continuously. And be aware, because even after you've passed a pile, it has inevitably been walked in by someone in Chanel shoes and tracked for the next several yards. So you must avoid the original pile, plus all the poo smear that comes after. Since there are millions of piles and smears, this sometimes results in a tip-toeing motion down the street. Trust me, it's the best way to get from here to there.)

And making the lunch even sweeter was that the Loosh was nicely tucked away in Emily's apartment with Otis and a babysitter. I love the little monster, but eating meals with him is an exercise in patience, advanced cleaning techniques, and noise management. Sometimes mama enjoys actually tasting her food.

So now I'm off for a busy weekend of moving and attempting to purchase more lamps. We are still alarmingly lacking in that department. But I have Alex this time and -- heh heh -- he doesn't know he's about to role play with mama -- "Sexy Sherpa." You should see the outfit.

I'm not sure when I'll be online again, as there will be no internet in our apartment until I figure out how to tell the frenchies I want it. Perhaps I can lean out the window and get a wireless signal. If I disappear for awhile, it's either because we don't have internet yet, I've fallen out a window, OR most likely, I am wedged between two large piles of dog poo and you should send help.

I've been reading a considerable amount about Marie Antoinette recently and wow -- does anyone else think that woman got totally screwed?

We're moving, BI-ATCH!

MJ

Someday, I swear, I will have nothing to say

Each morning as I'm making the coffee, I think, "Maybe THIS will be the day I have nothing to write about." But I'll be damned....I just step out the door and stuff happens. Usually kind of strange stuff.

So I walked outside this morning and BAM -- my first movie star sighting. Audrey Tautou -- of Amelie and The DaVinci Code fame -- was walking down my street. She's done other movies, too, but I'm too lazy to consult the IMDB. I'm not made of time, here, people.

And let me tell you, she is just cute as a button. You just wanna grab her up and dunk her in your coffee. She looks a little like my sister, too, so I had to fight the urge to run up and give her a squeeze. Good thing I resisted-- if I'd squeezed national treasure Audrey Tautou, I'd probably be writing this in a super stylish french prison.

I've been meaning to learn more about our neighborhood. Since it's one of the oldest in the city, I figure a lot of stuff must have gone down around here. So today, I pulled out my Paris Walks book and prepared to walk the narrow, winding streets of St. Germain. Now, I was prepared to look like a tourist, since I was going to have to stop in front of various buildings, pull out a book and read about them, but does that book REALLY have to be boldly red, white and blue striped? Could it BE more obvious? Maybe the author is in cahoots with Parisian pick-pockets because the book pretty much screams, "PICK ME! PICK ME! TAKE MY EUROS!" (They can have my centimes for real -- they're useless to me until I learn to identify them from a reasonable distance).

You know what I learned today? People in super old France, even prior to the revolution, found really, really inventive ways to maim, torture and kill each other! Such ingenuity! Such can-do! I stood outside the church of Saint-Germain-des-pres and as I read about the bloody happenings on THAT spot, I looked down at my little Loosh and decided maybe he didn't need to learn about this particular chapter in our neighborhood's history. Perhaps when he's older. Or perhaps never, because that church isn't so pretty to look at anymore. Icky.

Just around the corner from us is the quintessentially Parisian square, Place de Furstenberg. This is the spot where Martin Scorsese shot the final scene in Age of Innocence where Daniel Day Lewis's character, dumbass that he is, decides NOT to go up to finally join the woman he loves, Michelle Pfeiffer, scandalous woman person what's-her-name.

Now, up until now, Age of Innocence has held the dubious honor in my life of being the only film I have EVER fallen asleep at in a movie theater. Period costume dramas aren't my thing. I could, however, get behind a period costume slapstick comedy, a period costume sci-fi involving aliens in period costumes, or perhaps a period costume slasher flick. But after seeing Place de Furstenberg and absorbing its undeniable romance (I made out with the lamp post), I am almost inspired to give the movie another go. I'll just drink a lot of coffee first.

But woo wee! Just around the corner from that, the story of another scandalous woman I can really dig. That naughty, naughty slutalicious dear Margot! Wow, that lady had some fun with....I think just about everyone....and then some more people. Too bad for her she was sister of Henri III and married to Henri IV. Apparently they frowned upon that sort of stuff because she was sent into exile -- where she seduced her jailers. Man! I bet she was fun at parties. Unless she was hitting on your husband and then I bet you'd be PISSED.

Phew. Cool tour. Blood, violence, money, sex. Pretty much the same stuff I see around my neighborhood in Seattle, but this one has a more profound historical context.

We have created a monster with the Loosh. Our lives were happily lacking in chocolate until we moved here, and now that he's had a taste of the good stuff, he's hooked. I struggle daily with trying to reel in the addiction and worry constantly how much is too much. It's complicated, because in France, boundaries for that sort of thing are way different than at home so I'm confused.

And wow -- If I have the audacity to refuse him chocolate love, which is happening quite often now because the consumption is getting out of hand, I am treated to a tantrum of epic scale. It's really impressive the power that little boy has in those tiny lungs.

I decided to try "rational discussion" with the Loosh in an attempt to curb the chocolate mania. He listened attentively as I explained that we could have chocolate for dessert and special times but we had to put good things in our bodies first. It's bad for your body to put too much chocolate in it. Right? Honey? Hello?

Don't underestimate three-year-old logic. Lucien looked at me like he was trying really hard to understand, then explained to me nice and slow, like I was a bit dim, "But Mommy, I'm not going to put it in my body. I want to put it in my MOUTH." And the struggle continues...

Perhaps tomorrow, then,
MJ

Lamp Mecca

As usual, I got lost coming out of the metro. Loosh and I were choo-chooing to a store called BHV, which is, from what I hear, a home needs mecca. (Bonjour, LAMPS!) But there are like twenty different exits for the closest metro stop, and apparently I chose wrong because I emerged blocks from where I was supposed to be. Mama's head hurts sometimes.

How many times have I started walking north thinking I was going south and then had to turn around sheepishly right in the middle of the street? And I always try to make it look like I meant to do it, like it was part of my plan all along. That's when it's handy to have Lucien around -- I can throw my hands up in the air and be like, "What? Lucien, you forgot your hat in the cafe?? Oh, Mon Dieu!" then take his hand, pivot him around and heh heh -- this mama still looks like one cool cat.

But I was pretty lost. I had to pull out my map a few times, which is always admitting to the locals you're not one of them. And dammit, I'm still wearing red so everyone is noticing me being lost.

But whoa -- screw the flea markets, man! Talk about salivating upon seeing material goods! I was a mess of slobber from the second I walked into that store. Floors and floors of goodness and home decor. Woooo wee, Mama is HOME!

There is one factor that tempered my shopping joy, however, and he stands about yea high and goes by the name of "would you PLEASE stop doing that." Shopping with the Loosh has never been a total breeze, but to his immense credit, he's a great sport for the first half hour or so. I just have to move with adequate speed. But "me" plus "home decor" does not equal "speedy." At the half hour mark, I had picked up and put back down approximately six million five-hundred-two lamps and Lucien was getting antsy.

Then I committed a cardinal sin of shopping with a child. I promised I'd buy him a toy if he would continue being a "helper" for the next twenty minutes. I know, I know, that's setting myself up for disaster for the rest of our shopping lives, but I was desperate to elicit the proper cooperation needed for me to meet our lighting needs. Lucien agreed. Twenty more minutes.

But ten minutes later, Lucien had a black lampshade on his head and was screaming, "MOMMY, TICKLE ME ON THE BUTT" and trying to run away. I was barely able to keep him in the vicinity by grabbing a handful of his jacket. With my free hand, I was frantically trying to assemble lamps, matching base to shade with a swiftness never before seen. I'm pretty sure I drew a crowd with my lightning fast lamping skills but I was too busy to acknowledge them or sign autographs.

But about that time, it started to dawn on me (yeah, just then, not too bright, I get it...) that there are some serious logistical problems with transporting lamps home on two choo choos with a three-year-old. I had pictured in my head finding a floor lamp with a stand that operated like a tripod, collapsing on itself into a tiny little bundle I could slip in my shopping bag. Someone in Paris should invent those, because how on earth do Parisians get these things home? I don't see people schlepping lamps around on their backs sherpa style, so there must be -- big surprise -- something I don't know!

I needed a breather. So we went shopping for the toy. And perhaps, I thought, after choosing a toy, Lucien would be happy to carry it around and look at it, buying me a little more time. (Tap the ole noggin' here) We took the escalator down a level. This is one of many humbling experiences with the Loosh -- he yells "WEEEEE" or "WOOOO" all the way down and ends with a big "TA DA" when he steps off the end, arms flung over his head like he'd just dismounted the balance beam at nationals.

And then Lucien's dream came true. An entire set of shelves -- floor to ceiling -- dedicated to plastic toy construction equipment. Ooh boy...that's my boy's THING. We then began a weeding out process using two criteria, "too big" and "too much money." Surprisingly, Lucien didn't fight me on any of it, just held up the next item with a big question mark on his face. We finally settled on the double drum compactor -- small enough to fit in mama's bag, preferably with a lamp, and only 15 euros.

(As an aside, as we read his construction book before bed, instead of naming all the pieces of equipment as he usually does, he called them "mommy says too big" or "mommy says too much money.")

The plan pretty much backfired anyway, as plans often do when my little guy is involved. Immediately after finding the toy, he wanted to sit on the floor and open it. It became another battle just to keep it in the box long enough for me to run upstairs, grab the first lamp I could find that was small enough to fit in my shopping bag, and run for the checkout line.

I am still inept at using euro centimes, little mysterious gold coiney things, and my heart starts racing when they ask at checkout if I have any change. I know I have it, but am so ridiculously clumsy at handing it over. I have to pull out all the coins, put them on the counter, sometimes flip 'em over, and squint at all the little numbers.

There was a big line behind me at the BHV. So I was feeling some pressure to move along quickly, yet wanted to do the big brave thing of paying with exact change. I handed over what I thought at a glance was sixty-four centimes. But according to the look on the lady's face as she looked at it, it wasn't. It puzzled her and she gave me a long thoughtful stare, trying to figure out my game. I just smiled at her because I couldn't find the words. Still ended up getting a handful of change back. I have no idea what just happened.

I don't really like the dumb lamp, but at least we have one and that's better than none. And before I attempt another BHV trip where I will probably grab another lamp I don't like out of frustration and a strong desire to not live in the dark, I can figure out where the Parisians rent their Sherpas.

Whenever I'm on my laptop sending email, Lucien enjoys repeatedly turning on and off the blue light associated with my "caps lock" key. SO MOSt OF my emaiLS TURn out looKINg LIKE THIs. Such as the one I just sent to Al, which was in all caps and PROBABLY FELT LIKE I WAS YELLING AT HIM.

And in one more "I am an asshole" moment, Loosh and I went out to grab a baguette and a couple treats called "craquinettes." Coming back into our apartment building, there was a construction guy working in the lobby. He saw what we had in our hands, and immediately started kidding Lucien like, "Oh you have a craquinette, I'm gonna take it from you," etc. etc.

Lucien was giggling so all was well until he turned to me and said, "Oh, those things are so good. I love them" or whatever. And what I WANTED to say was, "Ah oui, je les aime beaucoup," or "Yes, I like them very much." But what did this asshole say? "Ah oui, je t'aime beaucoup," which means -- oh yeah, you guessed it! -- "Yes, I love you very much." I crawled up to our apartment with with a bright red face and swore, again, to never leave the apartment.

But I feel better now, having just talked to an American friend who's lived here for a couple years. She said this morning, she meant to say in front of all her co-workers that Hurray! She'd gone to bed early last night! But she ended up saying the equivalent of "Hurray! I got laid last night!"

I tell ya, we're going to give American women a reputation around here if we keep talkin' like this.

I added a link to the right over there entitled "Lucien sings the Cookie Song." I was going to add it on his birthday, but since there was some confusion about THAT whole affair, I'll just add it now. It's one of my favorite video moments of the Loosh in the past year -- back in May of 2008, him singing a little ditty he made up in our yard. About cookies.

Salut, mon choux,
MJ

Those are some really expensive fleas...

Between the cold weather and the case of hurting legs,Eurodisney didn't happen. We shall save that time-of-our-lives-or-complete-disaster for another weekend.

A week from today we will be living large(r) in our permanent apartment. And none too soon. We are starting to despise this apartment. It's too small; we've smacked our heads on the cabinet in the kitchen a bazillion times; the parquet wood floor has given us splinters and has so much wax on it, if we walk across it wearing just socks, we slip and slide and then fall down.

We have appliances possessed by some type of appliance devil; we have no table and eat our meals sitting on the floor; and the art in this apartment is worth more than our lives combined. (Turns out the owner is an art dealer. Probably should have found that out before we moved the three-year-old in with it.) And with all the yelling and shrieking and running courtesy of the youngest member of our family, we have more than likely outstayed our welcome. It's time to get out before angry lurking neighbors start poking us with sticks in the halls.

But speaking of the art, I will miss the painting above the couch. It's a delightful painting of a fully dressed man sitting in a bathtub floating a little sailboat. It's whimsical, silly, and really, really creepy, all in one artistic endeavor. I mean, what the heck is he DOING in there? Ah, chuckle, chuckle. Affectionate head shake. Silly guy's got his clothes on in da baf.

Alex and I pondered the problem this weekend that once we move into our new place, we will be completely devoid of light. None of our lamps made the journey with us because they've got funny electricity here. No sweat, we decided -- what better place to search for funkalicious lighting than one of the biggest flea markets in the world, "Les Puces," in the north of Paris!

When I approach a flea market, I am Pavlov's dog. I start salivating before I hit the first stall. My heartbeat quickens; my hands get sweaty; I try to take in everything at once, pawing through stacks on tables, constantly scanning to lock in on the barter-worthy . It scares my Al to see me frothing at the mouth this way. But turn me loose, baby, and I'll find us some good stuff.

My frantic excitement was tempered this time, however, when I realized Les Puces is not your run-of-the-mill flea market. This is a flea market for really rich people. Now why would rich people need a damn flea market, you ask? That's a fine question, considering they have the rest of Paris catering to them. I mean, really, throw us normal folks a frickin' bone.....grumble, grumble.

I saw a pair of lamps I loved right off the bat -- a real steal at 1800 euros. Alex nearly lost his breakfast on the spot and I could feel him pleading with his eyes....please, baby, please, baby, no. Now sure, everything is negotiable, but "Hey, I'll give you twenty bucks" probably wouldn't cut it with the monsieur after he'd lovingly described the monastery they'd come from in the south of France. On we went and next stop -- I fell deeply in love with a Chinese bureau. No, we don't need one of those. But I can't help how I feel and who (what) I fall in love with. And only 2300 euros! More panicked eyes from Al.

And then, poor Al, his son betrayed him, too (et tu, Lucius?) and desperately clutched an antique toy car priced at 50 euros. I wonder, after shelling out the equivalent of 70 bucks for that rusty old thing, how many seconds it would take him to squash it flat? We'll never know. But it was hell dragging him away from that stall with all the wailing -- "My car.....my car......my car...." -- like we were separating him from the only love he'd ever known.

After a few more stops and a few more outrageous prices totalling thousands and thousands of euros, Alex laid it on the line. Either Lucien and I had to start making a LOT of money to support our habits or I had to upgrade my husband to a much, much, much wealthier model. We left Les Puces shortly thereafter but stopped for a few super yummy (and affordable! though just barely because it's Paris!) crepes and coffees before calling it a day. And weren't the laughs we shared over those eats worth so much more than a silly old Chinese bureau? No, not really. That thing was really expensive.

Sunday, we met Michael, Sophie and their baby boy in the Jardin de Luxembourg where one of the many activities for children is an ancient merry-go-round. You tie your kid onto the horse using a leather belt and then go watch from a safe distance. My American mind checked out the condition of the ride and thought aloud, "ooh boy, THAT'S a lawsuit waiting to happen" (and sure, I'd already tied my boy to the thing and walked away). To my comment, Sophie replied, "Huh?" Sheesh, they're not too litigiously aware over here. Good thing I'm around to point out all that is sue-worthy.

On the merry-go-round, the children riding in the outermost row receive sticks (now stay with me and keep your heads, crazed lawsuit-lovin' Americans) The point is to snag these metal keychain-lookin' thingies held out by a park employee when you pass him. So the four of us sitting on the bench yelled and hooted and hollered for Lucien to skewer a few. He was apparently confused as to what the other children were doing, however, because he instead started using his stick to hit the man. The man's eyes widened whenever the Loosh came around -- his stick arm all wound up and ready to fly. Now this is why Americans don't give their kids sticks on merry-go-rounds and I stand by that collective decision.

Paris is a sea of dark, depressing, blah colors in winter. Man or woman, elder or child -- they're wearing dark jackets, shoes, carrying black umbrellas, etc. etc. And there I am in my red. Let's say I'm fairly obvious when I stand on the street corner waiting for the light. It was a little unnerving at first, but then I heard my mama's wisdom in my head, as she heard it from her mama, my Grandma Mary "If you wear red, you'll never be a wallflower."

As much as I want to fade into the background here at times, and in fact be swallowed up by the ground at others, this is not the time to be a wallflower. It's the time to stagedive into the Parisians and try to learn some stuff. And besides, wearing red in a sea of black gets you more smiles from strangers on the street. So I guess I'm saying, when in Paris, branch out and wear red. Huzzah.

Lucien, on the other hand, doesn't need to wear red. He stands out no matter what 'cuz he's got gusto. I just looked over at him as I'm writing this and he's taking off his pants in front of our window. I asked him why he was talking off his pants and he said, "I take off my pants to show the people my butt." So now he's chasing girls AND mooning. He's three going on seventeen. Wish us luck, everybody.

Looking at the naked butt of mon choux,

MJ

I'm pretty sure today is Lucien's birthday! But I'm not positive!

Alex and I put our feet up on the coffee table last night after he got home from work, kicking back with a glass of wine and sharing the surreality of life. We stared into space, perhaps in shock a little, and occasionally shrugged and laughed and said, "I can't believe it....." We celebrated on the wrong damn day. Turns out once you take us out of our element, we don't know our asses from our elbows.

Alex is a firm believer in journalistic integrity, whereas I can honestly take it or leave it. But he adamantly believes to keep my integrity intact, I need to print a retraction regarding my "Lucien's birthday" story since it was a complete and utter falsehood.

So here it is. -- Oopsie daisy. Lucien's birthday is January 23rd, not January 22nd. That's a Friday, not a Thursday. I wish I could take back what happened yesterday, primarily because now I know Loosh and I suffered for no darn reason, but I can't undo what's been done. Please forgive me. I send heartfelt apologies to anyone I offended or perhaps confused, such as those people who know when Lucien's actual birthday is. I would hate to lose you as readers. Please don't turn to other blogs to get your fix of Al and I making asses of ourselves in Paris. Thank you and God Bless America.

Now.....what are the chances, friends, you aren't going to make fun of us for this for the rest of our lives? Not good, I'd guess.

Alex had to work really late last night and didn't leave his office until after 9:00pm. He pushed the elevator button and nothing happened. Apparently french elevators don't like to work after 9:00. No biggie....he hoofed it down the nine flights of stairs, but when he got to the lobby, the doors were locked, too. There was my poor Al, tired from working so hard, locked in a lobby not knowing who to call or what to do. Little cute clueless French Canadian.

Thankfully, there were a couple other guys still working up in the office, so he climbed the stairs again and asked them how to get out of the damn building. Then he walked back down (picture in your head him penguin-walking again, 'cuz then it's funny and not so sad), all the way to the parking garage, and exited like he was a car. Beep, beep!

On the metro, tired and fuzzy, he saw the guy next to him suddenly lean forward and put his head down. Al looked over and saw delicious vomit splashing all over the floor. (At this point, Alex cheerfully told me, "I think the guy had just eaten pineapple!") Then, to make a gross story even grosser, the next person who got on the metro walked right through the man's pineapple surprise. I mean, can you believe this stuff? This is PARIS, for the love of God! How many times do I have to tell you, Paris, PRETTY THINGS ONLY!!! We could see this ugly crap anywhere.

Today, thanks perhaps to the dragging, running, jumping, and sliding of yesterday's "fun" in the rain, Lucien seems to have contracted his first case of hurting legs. He is refusing to put weight on his right leg and is instead crawling again. Thankfully, he thinks this is hilarious. And thankfully again, it means we're not going anywhere today; this is probably the safest course of action for us and for the rest of the fine people living in this city. I've propped him up on the couch with a pillow, some blankets, and numerous Dreamworks and Pixar DVDs. Happy real Birthday, little man.

I tried to make toast earlier, thinking erroneously that was a pretty safe activity and one I was bound to do well. But the toast got stuck down in the toaster, resulting in my playing a dangerous version of toaster "Operation" with a fork and my fingers. I'm not quite sure what forces are working against me, but everything I touch turns scary.

Al has pretty great perspective sometimes, though. "It could be worse," the new wise Al said, "I could have been transferred to Gaza." Amen.

But honestly, lest I ever, ever be misinterpreted, we are not whiny enough to complain about living in Paris. These are just growing pains. Painful, painful growing pains. But we know it's a pretty lucky thing we're doing and we heart you, Paris. (Yep, still kissing Paris's ass. She sure can hold a grudge.)

Happy Birthday, Lucien? Did I get it right this time? Did I? Did I?
Oh, we love you, boy,
MJ

Wow. We are really screwed up.

I wish you could hear the laughter. I......can't.......stop. In the biggest "Oh S#@! moment of them all -- turns out today is not my boy's birthday! Tomorrow is!

This is unbelievable. We had the wrong damn day circled in red on the calendar and our heads are so far up our bums, we didn't even look twice.

For those of you now seriously worried about our mental acuity, be afraid. Be very afraid.

Guess this means we get a do-over tomorrow. Whoa. Lucien is going to be thrilled -- more chocolate and Happy Birfday Cake!

On crack, perhaps, mon choux,
MJ

Loosh is 3! Someone invent a better umbrella!

Unbelievable. We've managed to raise a human child to the age of 3. Happy 3 years with Lucien, everybody!!! It sounds like such a short time but I've already forgotten what we did before him. I vaguely, oh so vaguely, remember things like "reading books," and "going for beers," and there's a hazy recollection of "sleeping in...." but perhaps those were all just part of a glorious dream I once had.

The plan for celebrating our feisty little munchkin today was to take the metro to meet Alex for lunch and "Happy Birfday Cake," as Lucien calls it. Then perhaps -- ugh -- another dreaded spin on the double decker merry-go-round outside the Hotel de Ville. We spent a fair amount of time on that nausea-inducing beast yesterday. Lucien loved it but I would be happy to never see it again. My plan is to eventually tell him it burnt down and then avoid that area for the rest of our time here.

Whoa, the weather was grim around here today. With my trusty PARIS!FRANCE! umbrella, however, pesky elements be damned! Huzzah! But of course, as is usually the case, my morning optimism was squashed like a bug after approximately two minutes outside. It wasn't just rainy; it was windy as hell. And now I remember why I don't carry an umbrella in Seattle -- they are worthless pieces of junk.

My pathetic little umbrella turned inside out no fewer than five times by the time we reached the corner. My teeth were clenched; my hand was aching from clutching that ridiculous handle -- which was designed with absolutely no thought for ergonomics, by the way -- in a vice grip to keep the whole thing from blowing away, and Lucien had discovered jumping in puddles and was committing himself fully to it with gusto. His joy was short-lived however, because immediately thereafter he realized his shoes and socks were wet and sat down on the sidewalk to take them off. (of course we have rain boots here and I just didn't put them on him; why do you ask?)

As I bent down to pull him up off the ground, trying to convince him he needed to leave them on, not only did my umbrella turn inside out, but it blew out of my hand and into the street. At this point, as we argued about shoes and socks in the rain, I considered telling Lucien it was no longer his birthday and we were going home to watch more episodes of "Flight of the Conchords." Those kiwis are so funny.

But I pressed onwards because he's 3 today, dammit, and that's a big deal. That walk to the RER stop has never been so long. The wind was beating me senseless, and Lucien was so distressed about his wet shoes and socks he wanted to be carried so he could cry into my shoulder. So I had him in one arm, the umbrella in the other hand, and my fabulous crocheted UGGs were soaked clear through to my feet. We had barely moments to catch the right train to meet Al on time so there was some attempted hustle involved, too, though hustling conditions were not optimal.

To make things even more exciting on this walk, my favorite wide-leg pants are made of a comfy combo of rayon, lycra and spandex. And funny, but what I never realized is, when this combo gets really wet, the material starts to get heavy....heavy.....heavy....and stretchy. Thanks a bundle, stupid spandex. Pretty soon, my pants were starting to droop. The pant legs, which used to fall a nice length just off the floor, soon stretched all the way over and under my shoes, allowing me the uncomfortable experience of walking on my pants with each step.

Add another couple of blocks, and the pant legs were about three inches in front of me and I was "flop, flop, flop"ing down the street. I could have walked right out of those favorite wide-leg pants there along the Seine and wouldn't that just have been super duper fun?

Wow, did I ever get some looks. And not the good kind, either. More the "stay away from her -- she is batshit crazy and about to lose her pants." Man, if I had a dime for every time I've seen that look in my life...

But smack me silly (maybe someone should) and call me a little soldier. We reached that metro station. And sitting on the platform, I felt happy it was all over and soon we'd be on a comfy cozy train. But in the theme of the day, that optimism was short-lived, too. Some french guy came over the speaker and made an announcement about my train. The people around me groaned, and suddenly my train disappeared from the arrivals screen.

I swear, I am so sick and tired of not understanding what is going on around me. But I sat there, hoping my train would magically appear anyway. After twenty minutes and no mention on the screen, I swore and swore and swore under my breath and decided that I'd had it -- we were going home. Mama was done trying to do fun things.

And what, may I ask, is the deal with umbrellas? Everyone out on the street had one, and every single one was failing miserably. There were people walking past with some of the most pathetic umbrellas I've ever seen -- bare spokes poking out everywhere and flimsy nylon dangling where it used to be attached. I also saw two umbrellas laying in the middle of the sidewalk -- busted and abandoned by some frustrated consumers. Why hasn't someone come up with a better umbrella? We all buy them and they all suck, so get on it, someone! We're hurtin' over here!

On that miserable defeatist walk home, my conscience spoke up, telling me I was about to ruin my kid's birthday (he was miserably crying that he wasn't going to ride a choo choo or see his daddy) and probably Alex's day, too. So with a few more internal "f" words, I turned the other direction to cross the Pont Neuf and find a metro stop.

Once we were on the train, a real one this time, that actually showed up, Lucien was all smiles. And I was beginning to come around to believing life was fun and nice again. As I was looking out the window, I felt a tug on my jacket. I looked down into Lucien's little face. He was grinning at me like he was about to share a big secret, and he whispered, "I see a cute girl there on the choo choo." And sure enough, there was the cutest little girl, probably about six or seven years old, grinning at him and blushing and waving. We all got off at the same stop and Lucien nearly yanked my arm off trying to chase her. Whooo nelly -- anyone else think he's perhaps a little young to start with the girl chasing? Gives me heart palpitations.

We discovered something magical after all this, though -- if you completely traumatize Lucien before you take him to a restaurant, he is PERFECTLY behaved during the meal. Perhaps every time it's storming outside, Alex and I can embrace it as an opportunity! All we'll have to do is drag him around outside a little bit with wet feet and tell him he can't see his daddy and voila! Yum! Isn't there just always a silver lining?
The lunch was so good but I have to interject one thing. I'm struggling with the way the french cook their meat. Or, DON'T cook their meat, as the case may be. I know they love, love, love meat and all kinds of huge meat hanging off the bone and yummy meat in their mouths all the time and all that. I can handle that. But Lucien's hamburger, I swear, was still a live cow. I found myself for the first time urging him to only eat the french fries and ignore the protein. Cook your meat, people! Gives me the heebie jeebies.

I saw the strangest thing today. I blinked and rubbed my eyes several times to make sure it was really there, but sure enough, there she was -- a french woman wearing Crocs. The bright red ones with the fur. This is obviously a woman who didn't get the memo about how french women are supposed to look. I followed her for a couple blocks because I couldn't believe my ears she was french but sure enough, that french was effortless and accentless. She seemed otherwise mentally stable, so I will chalk her up in my "things I don't understand" column and continue to speculate. It must have been a dare, right??? Right ???

Speaking of crazy people wearing Crocs, I missed the States yesterday! What a bummer to be out of the country for the inauguration. The inaugural address was on TV here, and I excitedly sat down to watch it -- but damn it if they didn't have a french translator speaking over Obama the entire time. I had to attempt lip reading, which took the magic out of the moment. I eventually found his speech on youtube, but missing that actual moment, that big day, without friends and fellow Americans surrounding me, was sad.

Lucien was goofing around while I was watching the speech and I told him to quiet down because mommy was listening to our new President. At that, Lucien's ears perked up; he came around and watched for a second, which surprised me, until he asked happily, "That man's gonna bring me presents???"

It is possible we are going to attempt Eurodisney this weekend to celebrate Lucien's birthday for real. I know, I know. Given some of my outing disasters, this is perhaps ill advised. Maybe it will rain and we won't go. Oh! And if it rains, Alex and I can traumatize Lucien and then eat a good meal in relative peace and quiet!

Happy birthday, mon choux!
MJ

Existentialism vs. Surrealism

Look how much Angelo loves making pasta! He is really, really, really excited about it!!!

Now that health has returneth, so has the Loosh. Wowza. He took advantage of mama being in the shower to climb up on the arm of the couch and launch himself onto our air mattress. I cut short the shower. BAM....laugh......BAM......laugh......BAM.....laugh.

And who's the genius who puts light switches outside the bathroom? This wiz obviously didn't have kids. I can't count the number of times I've been in the bathroom with the lights out. Then those little feet scamper away, attached to a raucously laughing child, while mama screams from inside, "LUCIEN! TURN ON THAT LIGHT RIGHT NOW...."

And now we can get out of the way another stupid grocery store incident. I'm so sick of these.

As you've noticed in somewhat of a recurring theme, shopping goes fine but all hell breaks loose during checkout. I was bagging my groceries at the end of the belt with a father/daughter pair who were in front of me. And then, I saw the daughter reach over and put in their bag my........toilet paper. Oh Lordy, WHY did it have to be the toilet paper?

And I froze.....and I stood there a moment.....and I honestly wondered if I could just let that toilet paper go. And NO, dammit, I couldn't. We had absolutely zero and the store was so crowded and I waited so long and Lucien had already offended one nice lady by yelling GRANDMA! at her (no way that lady was a grandma unless she bore kids at the age of ten -- and unfortunately, the word "grandma" translates pretty understandably into french). I couldn't go through it all again. So there I was, about to go toe-to-toe for toilet paper. Oh, the indignity.

So in my best french, I told them I believed it was mine. And the father looked at it, looked back at me and said, "No, I don't believe so." Oh no oh no oh no. I was seriously going to have to plead my case, in french, for stupid toilet paper. Couldn't they have grabbed, and therefore called the attention of everyone in line to, the nice loaf of bread I bought, or perhaps the fine Camembert? But no, in the crowded store, with everyone bored in line, my toilet paper was the most fascinating show in town.

The cashier got involved, checked the items she'd rung up for me, and told the man it was mine. He still didn't believe it, so she checked his receipt, too. The other people in line probably hated us a little by then, but what was I supposed to do? We had NO toilet paper, people! Turns out, after a thorough examination by the cashier -- drumroll -- the toilet paper was MINE! All MINE! In a very french apology, he handed it to me with a little bow and a profuse, "Pardon, Madame." I believe he was legitimately confused and not malicious, but keep an eye out for a toilet paper stealing frenchman, just in case. He was tallish with a mustache.

Loosh and I did the usual today. Walk walk walk, choo choo, walk walk walk. My original plan was to take him to two historic cafes right here in the 'hood -- Les Deux Magots and Cafe Flore, the honest to goodness birthplaces of surrealism and existentialism. Les Deux Magots was first. I wanted to plant my butt where Camus and Beauvoir and Sartre did and perhaps gain a little insight into the human condition. Probably should have done that on my own, though, because I instead spent my time helping Lucien guide extremely hot chocolate to his lips (YOU try telling that kid to wait until it cools off -- you will see a historic tantrum in a historic cafe), wiping the big spills off his coat front and asking the waiters for napkins.

As I said, the plan was to visit both cafes, but after I paid the equivalent of twenty bucks for a hot chocolate and a coffee, I decided screw it -- time to call it a day. Cafe Flore isn't going anywhere. I wonder how Beauvoir and Sartre would feel about the existence of those prices.

It's probably better this way, anyway. I'm an existentialist but I'm pretty sure Lucien is a surrealist. I would hate for us to have to part ways and sit in different cafes from now on.

Did you see that sweet little soundtrack feature I added to the right? I wanted to add some French music to the blog -- you know, a little Edith, some Georges, maybe some Serge. But let's be real. That is not yet the soundtrack of our lives. The same stuff we were listening to in our living room in Seattle is what we shake our bums to here, and I love it. You should hear Lucien belting out "Crystal Village" in the bathtub. "OOOOOOOO......IT WAS GOOD IN THE BEGINNING."

So DANCE....and it will be like we're dancing together across the ocean. So cool. Or slightly weird.

Rockin' out to Arcade Fire as always
MJ

Don't judge me. Sometimes you just want 'em.

Anyone wanna bird?

What complicated mechanics haveth the push up AND is it OK if I never bathe my son again?

Wowza. In a jolt to THIS American, by golly, there are penises all over my television! I knew the French were down with the boobies, but penises are apparently A-OK, too. I am a huge fan of equal opportunity nudity, however, so mama likey. It's fun to see those things flapping all over the place.

In what can only be called sheer brilliance, there's also an entire show dedicated to butts. It's called "Ils ont montre leur cul," or, "They showed their asses." Genius. And a valuable learning tool as well -- who knew there were so many butt shapes in the world?

So... let's just get the "questionable parenting" item of the weekend out of the way. We took our borderline sick kid out for Lebanese food for lunch. We couldn't pass it by! So cuff us and take us away. We plead guilty to loving falafel.

But given the Lebanese penchant for oil and small, cramped restaurants that smell like, well, Lebanese food, it wasn't long before Lucien started turning green around the gills. I took off for home with the little guy (did not run this time, made a point of it) while Alex finished our errands. What happened once we reached home, however, has been blocked from my memory for all ti....no, crap, no, I remember every second. But I don't care to relive it, so sorry. All I'm asking is, if you call a medical emergency hotline for medical advice, shouldn't someone answer the phone?

And then, of course, I was back on the floor trying to clean vomit out from between the cracks of that gorgeous old parquet wood floor. I swear you could drive a Buick through some of those cracks, I guess if you had a really small Buick. The floor is beautiful, yes, but a pain in the you-know-what given our current situation.

Let's lighten the mood before I head to the corner and rock back and forth. I have to work extra hard before going out in public here. Alex is shocked and amazed at how long I work on myself before leaving the apartment, as evidenced by his incredulous repetitive questions such as, "Are you ready NOW???" Not my usual five-minute routine. But everyone looks so damn great out there, you've got to give yourself a fighting chance!

So on Saturday I put on a great outfit, topped with my new favorite thing in the world -- the red peacoat, thank you and yes, I know it's adorable. It was raining but I didn't want to cramp my sweet style by donning the ole Seattle raingear. I was thus thrilled to find an umbrella left in the closet by a previous renter. When Lucien saw it, he asked, "What's that, mommy?" Ironic for a Seattle kid, I suppose, but in Seattle we don't carry pansy umbrellas. We just put our hoods up and go for it.

But I digress -- back to me looking french and super cute. As soon as we stepped outside, I put on my best french facial expression (cheeks oh-so-slightly sucked in, lips pouty) and opened my umbrella. Then the laughter started. From Alex. Directed at me. Laughing, laughing, laughing, oh, isn't he just Mr. Laughy Pants. Then it was laughing and pointing. I finally took a good look at my umbrella and there it is, in black and white -- PARIS! FRANCE! written all over the damn thing, in all kinds of writing, from script to block writing to something akin to my personal favorite font, "Garamond," to the obligatory child's handwriting. Insert expletives here!

Man.....serves me right for being proud, I guess. I went from "kinda chic wannabe french woman" to "tourist! yee-haw! I LOVE Paris, France" in the flick of a whatever that thing is called you push to open an umbrella.

Have I mentioned we have six dining chairs and no table? Weirdest thing. We've asked the owner what's up with no table and he told us there was "nothing he could do." Well, yeah, there is, actually; you can BUY A TABLE. Anywho, we now have the six chairs arranged in two rows facing each other. We decided we should have four friends over and we can sit there and stare at each other. That should be a good time.

And Ray, thank you for bringing it up in your comments because I really wanted to talk about this. My Al purchased this ridiculous item called "the perfect push up" before we left Seattle. It's basically two black handles (with swivel action, of course) you place on the floor and supposedly they deliver the best possible push up experience. I made fun of him mercilessly when they arrived -- I mean, seriously, what complicated mechanics are involved in a push up? You place your hands on the floor, lower your body, and push....up.

But now that I've tried them, they're like doing push ups in heaven on a cloud with lollipops and rainbows surrounding you. I never realized push ups could be so perfect!

But I digress again and I really don't even know what I was talking about to begin with. OK, so we're rearranging our space and Al starts giggling (sometimes he giggles) and says where our air mattress is is now our "bedroom," and the perfect push ups sitting beside it are the "home gym." Lucien's pile of toys next to that is the "playroom," and our laptops on the coffee table are the "office."

Yikes, we have a lot of time on our hands. But you have to be inventive to entertain yourselves in 400 square feet. Now if one of us is working on our laptop and the other speaks to us from two feet away, we can say, "Sorry, honey, I can't hear you. I'm in the office." Then we can laugh really hard, if we want.

My Al left for Cannes yesterday (jerk) for four days of work meetings. To soothe myself about not being on the riviera, too, I took Loosh to McDonalds. Oh hush now...sometimes you just want those fries and you know exactly what I'm talking about.

We also went to the bird market on Ile de la Cite. Every Sunday, a group of people reputed to be "gypsies" gather to sell every kind of bird tweeting 'round the globe, and also some small thingies like fish, guinea pigs, rabbits. It sounded like such a fascinatingly bizarre thing, I had to see it. And it was as strange and beautiful as I had hoped. Lucien started to get his groove back after all the "hiccuping" he's been doing and was possessed with a profound desire to scream "Raaaawr!" at birds nose-to-beak. He then asked the gypsy man if he could give the peach-faced lovebirds a kiss on their belly. Can't blame him -- who DOESN'T want to do that?

That evening, I was happily humming and doing the dishes, chatting with Lucien who was all set up in his now customary lukewarm bath next door, when I hear him exclaim happily, "Oh!" It was such a delightful little sound, I called, "What's up, Loosh?" To which he replied, "I did a poo-poo in da baf!"

I didn't want to believe it, but sure enough -- there it was. A real life Caddyshack moment but that was no candy bar. Lucien was so proud of himself, just staring at it and looking at me with a huge smile on his little face. I just stared at it for awhile, too, trying to wrap my mind around my next move. It's mesmerizing, really....a big turd floating around in the bath with your kid.

All day today, he kept grinning and telling me excitedly he couldn't wait to "do poo poo in the baf again." Is this seriously my life? But payback......payback, my son, is coming. I am going to embarrass the hell out of you someday with these stories. So keep bringin' it on 'cuz you're just giving me more material.

I went to the Carrefour today. The Carrefour is the Parisian Target and it's a total zoo. But it taught me something valuable. Something I need to survive in this city of millions. You don't wait politely if there's a traffic jam of shopping carts. You ram yours through, bumper cart style, without looking anyone in the eye. I rammed, and was pretty good at it, but I hate shopping mob scenes and wanted out so badly the only things I ended up buying were candy and horseradish.

In yet another checkout debacle, Lucien and I went through the narrowest check-out lane in existence. The lane was the exact width of the cart. This presented a problem when I got up to the belt and couldn't get around the side of my cart to get my two ridiculous items. I had to back the cart up to a place wide enough so I could reach around, making the entire line behind me shuffle backwards. Lucien, forever yelling when I don't want him to yell, announced, "Hey, everybody, we're backing up!" followed by the "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP" backing up noise.

Maybe carrying around the PARIS! FRANCE! umbrella is a good idea. At least everyone would see me coming and know not to expect much.

Remember that link I posted a number of posts back? The guy who writes reviews on Amazon? Bummer -- they already took down his review of "The Secret." I guess all that talk of prison rape and shanks in the neck offended some peoples' sensibilities. It actually offended my sensibilities, but I could recognize it for what it was -- brilliant writing from a really warped mind. My favorite kind of mind.

I miss my Al. And I'm jealous of him, too. I feel so conflicted!

Salut,
MJ

I need to buy Paris some flowers

OK. It's a brand new day and I am once again in love with Paris. Isn't it funny how yesterday I said it suck.... umm, wait a second, guys, I gotta ..... What? Oh come on, Paris, don't be like that. Come on baby, you know I love you. Don't make me b-- no, wait, baby -- you know how I get when I don't drink. I didn't mean it baby, wait, wait, come back...

.......call me.....

But really, it's amazing what no longer being vomited upon does for your outlook on life. Lucien certainly came up with a grand finale to remember at 3:00am, which resulted in me scrubbing a duvet cover and doing a load of laundry at, oh, about 3:05am. But you know what? I felt happy. His fever broke and I knew we were on the upswing. The neighbors below us must hate us with every fiber of their being -- crazy ole washing machine marching across the floor at that hour -- but I don't care. Health returneth!

But to avoid catatonic shock at all the sights and sounds and colors of the outside world, I prefaced our sojourn by throwing open our windows and letting the cold, fresh air in. I leaned WAAAAY out to take a picture of what fresh air on our street looks like. (my dangerous photo above left) I leaned out so far, the painters across the street eyed me with concern. But upon seeing I wasn't going to jump or fall, they reverted quickly to their frenchness with the raised eyebrows and the "ooh la la" and all that. I guess the frenchies like a little vomit stain on their women. And they like some old pajamas and bed head, too. Oooooh yeah.... sexay

We made it outside!!! And the gloriousness of it all. It was just a trip to the grocery store but I will never again take it for granted. Halfway home, though, Lucien told me his tummy felt "sad," and since those words now strike fear into the heart of this mama, I picked him up and jogged him, along with the groceries, to beat it home fast. Probably not the best for a kid with an upset stomach, but I was choosing speed over vomit-free duds.

And how many times am I going to have to run around this neighborhood carrying this kid? I'm going to get a reputation for being the freaky mom who runs all the time and that's not the image I'm trying to put out there.

I've told Lucien he's "caught a bug," which is perhaps perplexing imagery for a child. He's suspiciously looking down his shirt and yelling, "HEY BUG! GET OUT!" He also occasionally reaches down his shirt and flings imaginary (I hope?) bugs onto the ground with great zeal, telling them to "go sleepy on the ground" which, for Lucien, is life's biggest tell-off. Ooooh...he told you to go sleepy on the ground. You got served, bi-atch.

In another warm hug moment today, we received a package from home. Not as care-packagey as it sounds; it's actually the stuff we used in the last couple days at home and then shipped to ourselves -- and to be fair, we didn't ship it ourselves, either. We left it in the capable hands (or dumped it in the dumbfounded lap?) of our renter, Matt. Matt didn't bat an eye at such a behemoth request and for that, he wins renter of the year. That award should totally exist

The DHL guy came to the door, and since I'm so super fluent now, I understood he was telling me the box was too big for him to get up the stairs by himself. I actually looked at him for a minute like, "What do you want me to do about it? You're the delivery guy," but then thought that maybe people help people in France and I should scoot down the stairs.

The Loosh was napping, so I scooted. All the way out the front door of the building. The DHL guy hadn't even gotten it off the truck yet. So I climbed into the truck, helped him put the box on his dolly, and then carried his clipboard as we shimmied it in the front door. He then unloaded it at the foot of the stairs and asked me to sign for it. I had the wisdom to ask "errr...how'm I gonna get this thing up to the fourth floor?" before he ran away, and he very good naturedly agreed to help me carry it.

I went first, pretty much bent over in half just to keep my fingers under the box, and he came second, hands over his head to keep up with me. These old french stairs are steep, narrow, and uneven, so we both let loose with a few swear words in our respective languages. But we did it! We smiled big at each other and wished each other the happiest of weekends. It's like we WENT through something together, you know? I love that guy.

Opening the box was like a big kiss from our house. Nothing special, but our air mattresses, a few of our towels....some blankets.....a pillow -- OH how I hugged that pillow. Creepy, maybe, but it smelled like our house still! It smelled like love and toast!

And best of all.....clothes. Clothes I ordered before we left that didn't arrive on time because of the freaky-deaky Seattle snowstorms. Clothes that are different from the same four outfits I've been wearing for two weeks! I put them all on at once and topped them with my brand new bright red wool pea coat. I looked really puffy, but puffy with joy.

Lucien and I went out for a walk this evening, just because we can. And I love Paris (come on, take me back, baby. I promise I won't hurt you again...) I know I talk about our neighborhood ad nauseum, but it's perfect Paris postcard cool. We window shopped at the expensive galleries, we bought a baguette, we people-watched the women in their furs (murder!) and the men in their elaborate scarf arrangements. I should be severely reprimanded for ever saying this place sucks. But seriously, yesterday, it did.

Note to self: all inside and no outside makes MJ a dull boy. girl. you know what I mean.

Have a great weekend, mon choux!
MJ

Paris sucks

You know, perhaps it goes without saying, but this is not the grand, victorious entrance into Paris we had envisioned. I suppose it's "reality", but didn't we come here to get away from that? Doesn't everyone come here to get away from that?

Between the growing pains of adjusting to a new culture (ya think?), Alex's already nutso job and schedule, damp laundry hanging on every piece of furniture and now Lucien's sickness with the throwing up everywhere, we are in a sorry state. Alex looked at me as we both squished into the kitchen this morning and said, "Paris sucks." We laughed, but only half-heartedly.

Lucien continues to be sick, sick, sick, and I'm sick, sick, sick, too -- of staring at these 400 square feet of wall, that is. If I don't get outta here soon, I may go crackers. But what can I do? I'm pretty sure they frown upon mamas going out on the town leaving really sick kids alone in their beds. Actually, when I put it that way, I frown upon it, too.



So I'll stay and continue to stroke the hair of my sick little boy. He's so sweaty and miserable but has still come up with some memorable quotes such as, "My butt and my tummy feel sad," "and "Chocolate will make the hiccups better." (Nice try, kid)



I will admit to some slight panic, being the mom of a sick kid in the middle of what still feels like a very foreign country. So I've spent a part of today in between the "doing nothing" and "doing some more nothing" researching hospitals in Paris, metro lines to reach said hospitals, and metros daddy would have to take from work to meet us at said hospitals. Just in case I feel the need to meet some french doctors.

But cooped up for two days now, I have discovered something amazing. Something perhaps I never would have known otherwise. And that is....drum roll...there are rich people living above the rich people! And just in the nick of time. The aforementioned rich people were becoming dull, dull, dull with their malaise and grand gesturing and drinking of fancy beverages. My bread-eating over the stove top wasn't as entertaining once I bored of their, quite honestly, boring ways. I can, however, admit I am still quite jealous when I see the woman over there who does their laundry AND the woman who cooks their meals. Buncha boring jerks with a lot of stupid money.

BUT the people above them...now THAT'S some fascinating stuff. One room of their equally as huge apartment is floor-to-ceiling books. It's the kind of library you'd expect to see Sherlock Holmes lazing about in (does he laze?), complete with giant leather wing chairs and gold reading lamps with black shades. Ahh, I could stand there (eating bread, why do you ask?) and watch that elderly gentleman choose a book for hours. And in our current situation, with Lucien sleeping almost all day on our bed, I have that kind of time on my hands.

I have also had the unfortunate "luck" of watching more of those creepy, creepy french cartoons with the Loosh since his sickbed of choice is our pull-out in front of the TV. That hospital cartoon is totally f'd up. Today, one of the doctors (who happens to be a dog) was offered a cookie, but when he reached for one, he ended up pulling out and eating an old band-aid. There was also some type of surgery happening with a machete propped up against the table. I'm pretty sure this has instilled a fear of hospitals in Lucien, and I can't say I blame him, as it's also instilled a fear of hospitals in me. So here's hoping I don't have to drag him to one of those french hospitals with the french doctors anytime soon because we both may totally freak out.

I miss my clothes and I miss my shoes. When I am reunited with them (literally, when my ship comes in) I will weep real tears, and possibly stay up all night talking with them, catching up on the past month and promising we'll never be apart that long ever again.

Maybe I'll get out of the apartment tomorrow. If I don't, I will at least hang my head out the window to breathe some fresh air and hopefully catch a glimpse of something to write about.

Mon choux is so sick,

MJ

Hiccups, hiccups everywhere

We will return to our regularly scheduled blogging after my son stops throwing up all over the place. Isn't that just the way it goes with these kids? Just when we thought we were going to start getting decent sleep, he woke us last night saying he had "hiccups." No sweat , we told him, confused. Hiccups are no big deal, go back to sleep.


But he was so very, very insistent he had to hiccup. And our confusion was quickly resolved when he "hiccuped" all over his bed. Awesomeness.


My day today has consisted of patting the sweaty little head of my guy as he drifts in and out of sleep and doing a LOT of laundry (anything that got in the way of a hiccup) in our demonic washing machine. Not too much good stuff to write about there.


But in a strange big huggy kind of way, doesn't this just unite us all? A stomach flu looks exactly the same here as it does at home. Funny.....I thought they'd only have pretty illnesses here. One more parisian rumor laid to rest.


Getting over the hiccups,
MJ

I am not French (and neither is Al, apparently)

There's a difficult reality I am forced to acknowledge. It's hard for me to say this, let alone look in the mirror and be faced with the hard facts but.... I am not a french woman, nor will I ever be. This is painful given the fact they are some of the most effortlessly stylish and beautiful women walking around breathing air. They posses a kind of style confidence you have to be born with. It has to be part of your genetic structure. If you're not born with it but try desperately to mimic it, as I most likely will, you will forever look the part of wannabe at best, complete ass at worst. Fingers crossed for "wannabe!"

I saw one woman over the weekend wearing silver flats, plum-colored tights, a wool houndstooth swing coat and a very large wide-brimmed purple hat. Now if I wore that kind of get-up, I would be world's #1 jackass. No way I could pull it off. But this woman was so mesmerizingly stylish and amazing and fabulous, I had to work hard to keep my clenched fists down and refrain from punching her in the face. Style envy is a tough beast to tame.

We had a great weekend, all things considered. I'm happy to report Lucien is sleeping at night again! A round of beers and juice boxes on me! But he is no longer napping which sucks so my celebration is short lived. So he and I continue to be crabbier than usual but this, too, will return to normal, hopefully by the time we return to the U.S. in two years.

I attempted to make oatmeal for breakfast this morning but I was walloped by the metric system. The box called for 190 ml of milk and 3 cuilleres of oatmeal. ??? My face was blank and my mind was reeling, trying to convert a cuillere into a .....what the hell is a cuillere? I threw a little of this and a little of that into the saucepan, roughly what I would do at home, and managed to make the oatmeal both pasty AND runny at the same time. Now that's hard to do, thank you very much. When I sat it down in front of Lucien, he asked, "What's that, mommy?" I told him it was oatmeal, to which he slowly shook his head and said, "I don't think so, mommy." Everyone's a critic.

My Al, for such an incredibly smart man, did a really dumb thing and went and got his brand new shiny debit card eaten by our new local ATM by entering the wrong code three times in a row. You don't go beyond two tries without confirmation, man! That's playing with fire! He came home with a sheepish look on his face and a big "CARTE CAPTUREE" receipt from the ATM. So now, until he gets that hammered out, I'm the only one with a functioning card and access to the dough. Papa better be nice to mama, eh?

We went out on Saturday night -- well, to the extent two people with an almost-three-year-old can "go out," that is. We were out in the streets with what appeared to be millions of our closest friends. Paris is amidst "Les Soldes" for these next two weeks, which means every store in town is having sales. This special sale period thing only happens twice a year so people go nuts and lose that famous french composure. There are so many people clogging the streets, they often engage in battle with the cars trying to drive on them and I gotta tell you -- with this kind of pedestrian posse, the cars lose big.

We ended up in Montparnasse at one of the only kid friendly restaurants in town: a TGI Fridays-esque bar and grill called Hippopotamus. What horror in this town of fine dining, but we're thrilled to find the one sole option if we want to take the fam out for eats. It was a good time, especially since Lucien made his first friend in the form of little Lydia, the three-year-old cutie at the table next to us.

Lucien brings something out in kids that makes their parents say, "Wow, I've never seen him/her like this before." Lydia was no different. At first she sat there quietly and sweetly coloring on her little placemat. But here comes Lucien sidling up with his mischievous ways and no interest in crayons, and before you know it, Lydia is a wild screaming banshee and she and Lucien are smacking each other in the face with the balloons the restaurant doles out to keep the kids happy and quiet.

Lydia's parents were gobsmacked, mouths hanging open -- but we think in a good way because they asked Alex for his card so we can get together. Either that or they're going to report us to some wild-child monitoring french authorities. But after the beating those kids gave each other, I bet Lydia never slept so well in her life. That alone should keep them coming back for more of the Loosh.

Walking home amidst the chaos of Les Soldes, Alex had Lucien on his shoulders to keep him above the trampling zone. Occasionally I lost them in a crowd or at a light and had to run to catch up, aiming for my kid bouncing up and down above everyone's heads and trying not to entangle shoppers in Lucien's balloon trailing behind me. It was a beautiful evening, cold and dark, but alive and crack a lackin' and I felt lucky and like magic (I don't know what that means exactly but that's how I felt and I'm stickin' to it) running through the night after my boys with a giant balloon.

There's a downside to living in a hip, cool neighborhood like St. Germain and it's called Saturday night when you want to go to bed. Oh my God. It's like a night club exists right outside my boy's bedroom window. But it doesn't, so that's weird. I laid down trying to convince myself it would stop soon, but it didn't. And then didn't. And then didn't some more. Damn you, hypnotically rhythmic mystery music!

Alex went out Sunday morning to have a coffee and do some work at a nearby cafe. He came home grinning big and told me out of all the people sitting with him in the cafe, he was the only one drinking coffee. What were the other patrons drinking? Beer. And still sitting in their Saturday night clothes. Up all night and still drinking beer at 8:00am. I love those beer-drinking revelers, in a nostalgic sort of way, as I remember so fondly the days when I used to be a cool kid and could stay up past midnight without dozing off on the couch. Ahhhh. Youth.

On Sunday we walked through Les Halles for some unknown reason and I just have to ask -- who allowed this flaming pile of dog crap to be built in the middle of this beautiful city? It's a mad ugly subterranean shopping mall with no natural light and a pervasive smell of pee pee. Oh my God, it's so bad, so help me if I ever set foot in there again. There's a swimming pool in there, though, which perked Al's ears up a bit. His ears went back down, though, when he saw all the men in Speedos. I don't know if my Al is down with Speedo wearing, but hey, babe, when in Rome....

And oh.....my Al. Doesn't the guy just have a certain something special? We were on our way to visit a friend Sunday evening -- I'll call him Michael because all names will be changed from here on to protect the guilty. So it was Michael's birthday and he's a dear old friend of Alex's from Seattle who moved away long ago. Michael is the CEO of a company in London and his girlfriend is an art dealer here in town, so needless to say, their things are nicer and much more easily breakable than ours.

It is currently the feast of the galette de roi here. It's a lovely french tradition for all the kids involving eating a layered cake with a "feve," a little trinket, hidden somewhere inside. Whoever finds the feve is king or queen for the day. I don't know what all that entails. Maybe they get to boss their friends around, or write some new laws or start some wars or something? Or maybe it's just a symbolic role with no true legislative power. I'll look into it.

Anywho, we stopped by Le Maison du Chocolat to buy Michael a gift and the store was filled with the galette de roi cakes. The chocolatier took great pride in showing us their display of cakes and examples of feves, the things hidden inside. Alex, in all his Alexness said in loud english, "Oh, so that's what the little choking hazards look like!" And than, to the man's blank expression, he translated it, with his big Alex grin, into even louder french. The man's expression remained blank. That chocolatier didn't find him funny at all -- but Alex was cracking himself up. We left quickly after that. I can't take him anywhere, my Ugly Canadian.

Once at Michael and Sophie's, we had immediate cause for celebration as Michael announced he and Sophie were getting married AND were expecting their second child. And Alex, in all his Alexness again, clapped Michael on the back and loudly congratulated him on his virility, his fertility, and "wow -- the swimmers are still swimming." All this and more in front of Michael's soon-to-be father-in-law who speaks perfect english.

For Michael, perhaps an awkward moment -- in fact, definitely an awkward moment as he harangued Alex after future father-in-law's departure. But for Al, that type of interaction is pretty much friendship as usual. Michael claims I have to help "refine" Alex to assimilate him into frenchness. But no way. If I wanted a "refined" life partner, I wouldn't have married my Al all those years ago. I like my men a little rough around the edges.

And I wish you bloodthirsty reading piranhas out there would cut a mama a break. Always with the "when are you posting again? when are you posting again?" My performance anxiety was reaching new heights, but then I drank wine and felt better. Still, I am no one's dancing monkey.

But I love you all and wish I could let Al give you big sloppy kisses,

MJ

Sometimes you gotta get him home any way you can

The Loosh and the Tower

Caca Eiffel Tower Pee Pee

I'm glad I'm writing and not speaking because I have so much nutella and baguette stuffed in my mouth, I would be unintelligible. No one would hear the joys and follies of this fish out of water because hell no, I ain't putting down my bread for nobody.

I feel we are improving in the sleep department but perhaps I'm just surrendering. "Guess who" was up at 4:00am but went right back to sleep once I crawled into his bed -- until a whopping 6:30. A few weeks ago, I would not have considered that a successful night, but our "normal" has changed substantially since then. Now I'll take just about anything that gives me some hours all in a row.

Lucien continues to outsmart me in the mornings because I'm not coherent enough to defend myself. This morning he wanted juice. So I said, in what I thought would be a teaching moment, "I would like you to ask me in french." I'll be damned if that kid didn't say, "Please, juice, mommy, in french?" And I was so tired, and admittedly impressed with his moxie, I handed it to him. Foiled again by the pint size monster.

On the way to the choo choo -- destination Eiffel Tower -- we walked the streets of St. Germain. I saw a pile of dog poo on the sidewalk (yes, it's true) and pulled Lucien around it. Lucien stopped, stared down at it and yelled, "Caca!" Yep, I agreed, it was caca, and tried to pull him away from it. He once again asked if it was caca and when I confirmed, he shook his head and said with more than a hint of devilish glee, "Man, is he gonna be in trouble...."

Upon seeing the Eiffel Tower, my spirit soared and Lucien shouted with joy, "PARIS!" What a moment. But pretty soon he was over the whole deal and resumed chasing, screaming at, and generally terrorizing the Parisian pigeons.

That's no problem here, though, because animal rights have not come to France. I'm the only female on the streets without a bigass fur coat -- the bigger, longer, puffier, the better. At first I was horrified and self righteous. Wearing fur is certainly something I've denounced in the past. But now....well, I think they're just darn practical. Once you've spent a few frigid mornings walking to a metro station, you're jealous of the ladies wearing the dead things. It must be so nice and cozy underneath an animal. Stupid inferior "down" and "goretex." I'm freezing my butt off out there.

We ducked into a patisserie for a couple pain au chocolat and a hot chocolate. It was nice, nice, nice to sit and sip hot chocolate and watch people walking by out in the cold. I got lost in the moment, staring dreamily outside, until I noticed a bemused expression on the lady behind the counter's face . I looked across the table to see what the fuss was about and there was the Loosh, sucking down a sugar packet. He'd ripped off the end, tilted his head back as far as it would go and was emptying the contents into his mouth. And judging from the crumpled, empty packets on the table, it wasn't his first one. Oopsie. My bad.

Lucien was grabbed and an exit was made. Approximately five blocks from the metro station, L told me he had to do a pee-pee. Oh crap. There is nothing that will turn a mother into a frantic, elbowing people in the ribs to get to the metro station, wild crazy-eyed woman more than a non-expert potty trained child in a city curiously devoid of public toilets. The sugar packet incident distracted me from the potty break, darnit! He threw me off my game!

I kept telling Lucien he was going to have to "hold it! hold it! hold it!" while I scanned frantically to and fro, Lucien held askew under my arm, hoping for a toilet to magically appear in the middle of the street, then the metro platform, then the train itself. There were none, none, none. I couldn't even find a good bistro or brasserie candidate. But there's Lucien, holding onto himself calmly and telling me his penis hurts.

If there was ever any concern I was going to gain weight from the massive hoarding of bread the past couple days -- it vanished during the six-block sprint carrying Lucien from the metro stop to our building, and then up the four flights of stairs to our apartment. We made it, though, and he sat in there peeing for so long with a huge smile on his face and a song in his heart. What a dude. Mama was a sweaty mess with a sore ankle but we made it.

And now, I must digress and send you to one of the funniest people writing today. He's not well known -- that's an understatement. And he doesn't write anything big and important. He writes reviews on Amazon.com. I particularly enjoy (and am disturbed by) his review of "The Secret" but the review of the galvanized metal bucket is a close second. It's only a matter of time before Amazon bans him from writing, so quickly! quickly! Follow the link! http://www.amazon.com/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A3R7PU67SRMD1E/ref=cm_pdp_rev_all?ie=UTF8&sort%5Fby=MostRecentReview

If the link doesn't work, email me and I'll send it to you again. Yes, it's that good and you must pursue it until you read his review of "Wanderlust: A History of Walking." Oh, it's brilliant, I tell you, BRILLIANT.

I'm going to take the weekend off from the blogosphere because between Facebook and the blog, Alex is about to bitch slap my computer. Jealousy is ugly on you, my man...

And now, I must return to "Murder, She Wrote." In french. Hilarious.

Love you, mon choux,

MJ

Frenchies don't mind the boobies and mama loves her some bread

For those who wonder, either with morbid curiosity, genuine sympathy, or flat-out apathy -- nope, no full night of sleep last night, either. And no, I don't want to talk about it. I'm just going to pour a glass of wine and try to forget.

I have put the kibosh on the late night movies, though, which will perhaps persuade him that it ain't worth being up. There was a little too much enthusiasm happening during our late night movie rendezvous. I would hear him awake, stagger into his room, and halfway expect him to be sitting there with a large popcorn and soda.

But I can't complain too much, for I have so much joy in this land, the land of bread. You have to embrace a culture that has a different kind of bread for every occasion, every meal, every snack, every beverage. There is so much bread here and I want to give each and every one of them my love and undivided attention. I want to gather them up and give them a huge bread bear hug.

Loosh and I watch cartoons every morning because I can understand them (only slightly embarrassing because at least I can understand something). And I think I've discovered a cultural difference between the Looney Tunes I grew up with and the stuff coming out of the tube here. French cartoons are horrifying. We watched one today about an Eskimo boy raised by a polar bear. It was so sweet. It gave Lucien and I a great opportunity to use some new French words. But then, out of frickin' nowhere, the polar bear gets killed by the boy's biological father! Whaa??? The polar bear is laying there in an expanding pool of blood, my mouth is hanging open, and Lucien looks at me with concern and asks quietly if the bear has an "owie," and I'm thinking "Holy hell, this is what French kids watch at 9:00am? No wonder they're all so darn quiet!" But it gave Lucien and I another opportunity to practice new French phrases, such as, "I feel sad," and "Human beings are evil."

Then we watched another one that takes place in a hospital and -- I'm not kidding -- by the end of the show, the patient was dead. Maybe I stumbled upon some macabre sicko cartoon channel. I'll surf around a little more tomorrow and try to find some more upbeat stuff. Maybe some happy smiley bears eating bread? I would totally watch that. I'd even take some Teletubbies right about now and they are completely psychotic in my opinion.

Alex had a revelation about the shower that has changed my life. If you reduce the water to just more than a trickle, "steady stream," instead of "full blast,"your water will stay hot THE WHOLE TIME you're showering! It is just enough heat to prevent having to shave with goosebumps (ladies, you know what I'm talking about...) I was so happy to have this information, I renewed my vows with Alex right on the spot. He was leaving for work, though, so I had to yell the last few down the stairs after him.

Loosh and I rode the choo-choo to Alex's work this afternoon because Al and I had medical appointments with the immigration peeps. They want to make sure we're not going to infect the French before Al's work visa is finalized. So Loosh and I get on the metro line 1, and Lordy -- I think that's where the whole of Paris hangs out. That line is so crazy clogged with people all the time, I'm feeling a little guilty Alex has to take it every day to work because of where we live -- my choice -- mama wanted left bank and what mama wants, mama gets. (Sorry, Al! Hugs!)

So we're on the metro and it's standing room only, squish-up-against-each other kind of thing, but Loosh and I at least manage to get a spot next to the pole you hold onto. I plant his hands on the pole, tell him to hold on with all his might, and send some positive juju into the universe my little boy doesn't go flying with the first turn. And he didn't, little impressive guy. He held on so hard and just went with it, body swaying all over the place, and occasionally looking up at me with a huge grin.

After a couple stops, though, and many more people boarding than exiting, he'd had enough and started chirping, "ALL DONE" and trying to get off. There was a little wrestling involved in keeping him on the train, but I did it. Then some kind french woman, viewing the struggle, gave up her seat to him, and once he was seated he was all smiles again. I love you, french woman.

But goodness, oh, the medical appointments. Large-scale, crank 'em through delousing of the immigrants. We were herded into a room (there could be many, many, cattle references here but I'll refrain lest I dehumanize my comrades in the waiting room) full of people, many of them sweaty and nervous. We had Lucien with us, which is always an additional challenge to any waiting room scenario.

I got called first to the lung x-ray, taken to a tiny room and instructed to take off everything from the waist up and "wait." Huh? But I did this, and I have to tell you, I'm no puritan, but I kept looking around the room like, "Are you kidding me? No GOWN?" Then a door flew open and there I was looking into a large room full of people. People in white coats, sure, but still.....a lot of people! I had to walk across the room to the lung x-ray machine, and after the x-ray I tried to walk calmly and cooly back, like, "hey, I can hang with the frenchies who don't mind boobies all over the place...yeah, I'm a cool cat..." but man, how I wanted to bolt.

There were a series of three rooms you had to visit and at the end you get your approval for the carte de sejour. Alex and I were never called into any of 'em together, which resulted in some difficulties with the childcare. There were times we were pretty much tossing the Loosh over the heads of other waiting room prisoners as one of us got called one way and one the other.

So it's finally all done and we don't have any horrifying illnesses and we stepped up to get our carte. This is where it gets a little surreal (like the boobies and the white coats and the baby throwing weren't surreal enough). For me, since I'm not sponsored by a company, we have to pay an additional tax. Now that's all fine and good, but to pay this tax, you have to do it in the form of stamps that are only purchasable at....tobacco stores. I had Alex repeat the information to me several times and it just didn't sink in. I have to say again.... "Whaa?" But we decided to play their strange little game, found a tobacco store, and bought five of these special tax stamps and stuck 'em on a special card. What kind of games are you playing at, Paris? Shenanigans!

We walked home from the office near the Bastille. Perhaps we needed to decompress and talk it all out, but more I wanted to avoid the metro at rush hour. Swaying-all-over-the-place Lucien is adorable, but those metro trains can be downright claustrophobic for this mama. And the walk ain't bad -- through Ile St. Louis, Ile de la Cite, into the heart of the left bank and all it's gorgeousness. Not so bad -- but I certainly wouldn't complain if it warmed up a few degrees around here.

Here we are again, day over, wine poured, and not-so-comfy couch pull-out-bed about to be deployed. That sleepless little stinker got the only bedroom. He's about to lose his rights to it if he doesn't use it correctly.....grumble, grumble.

Bread! I love it!

MJ