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!