We love you, Victor!

I wasn't going to post today, but if I don't get it out now, it could be gone forever. And that would be unsettling, if not downright tragic.

There's a French version of American Idol. It's called Nouvelle Star and -- oh, snap! -- they're still in the audition phase. And as in the States, all the little wannabes stand up there and belt their hearts out, followed by either stunned silence, raucous laughter, or total ego-shredding criticism from the judges. I know, I know, I totally love it, too.

One little cutie pie named Victor stood there with his floppy hair in his eyes being all sensitive and musician-like and stated he was going to sing Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy." Ooh, goodie. I love that song. For those unfamiliar, the refrain goes something like, "Does that make me crazy?" repeated several times for emphasis.

But oh my. Our little Victor stood there with his passion for singing and gettin' babes etched in every line of his scrunched up face, and sang with all his heart and soul -- "Dooz dat muk me trazy." Then he repeated it, as he should, several times for emphasis. I'll be damned if each time it didn't get funnier and funnier. By the time that kid finally stopped singing, Alex and I were just little balls of laughter and tears, clutching our stomachs from the joy and the pain. Dooz dat muk us trazy?

Looks like Nouvelle Star has a slightly smaller budget than it's American counterpart. The camera followed the judges as they boarded a plane to jet off to the next audition location -- not the private jet you may be envisioning, but a commercial flight where they sat in coach, and not even all together. Then they got off the plane, carried their own luggage to the train station and sat on a train for a couple more hours, playing Trivial Pursuit, of course. One of the judges (I can only assume he's known as the moody "hot" one) made pouty faces at the camera a lot because he was losing. And huh? What the f#@! are we watching?

I swear, if I just sit here and watch television for the next two years, I will never run out of commentary on life in a foreign land. This stuff is whack.

Dooz dat muk me trazy, mon chou?

MJ

Who are the people in your neighborhood? In your neighborhood? In your neigh -- bor -- hooood?

Never mind. Fred Flintstone has returned to the streets of Paris. To be fair, pedals are sampled from time to time but feet to ground is still the preferred method. I took him out for a ride yesterday and one of the street cleaners stopped his street cleaning duties to put Fred's feet on the pedals and give him a push down the sidewalk, joyfully yelling, "Les pedales! Les pedales!" after him. A homeless man sitting outside McDonalds also kidded him about pedal usage. Sheesh. But I'm suspicious of that homeless man because he had a funny sign.

Regarding our neighbors in this fine building, we didn't exactly hit the neighbor jackpot, but we didn't come up empty-handed, either. Maybe we won enough to take a modest vacation.

The older Quebecois couple on the first floor giggled with glee upon hearing Alex's fellow accent (who DOESN'T giggle with glee upon hearing my Al's accent?) Turns out they all grew up minutes from each other back in the homeland. They love us. Of course, they live two floors down and can't HEAR us, so that helps.

The couple upstairs, however. Geez oh man, the blech spewing from those two. Alex met the stuffy French male of the pair on our first day. At the time they met, he was carrying Lucien's car seat and the man looked it up and down and gave a cold, "Oh......you have a child." Shivers down the spine! Shivers down the spine! Run, Al! He can stab you with his eyes!

And in these old buildings, you hear everything. We can hear their TV upstairs clear as day, so what are the chances they DON'T hear the Loosh dancing "Flashdance" style on our hard wood floor? He's a maniac! Maniac! Have you already guessed they're the two who came to complain about the courtyard/bike debacle? Bingo. I'm bettin' we're not on their Christmas card list.

And what's even MORE perplexing about those two is that eyeballing the distance from our ceiling to the roof of the building , they must live in a squat little four-foot tall apartment. Maybe that's why they're so grumpy. It's appropriate, I guess, for a man who acts like a troll to live up under the eaves. Mean little scowling hobbit.

The couple who run the patisserie downstairs live across the courtyard, get up at 4:00am, and are always covered in flour. But they're nice -- again, probably too far away to hear the Loosh. I wish they lived below us because then we could make it up to them by buying ridiculous amounts of bread. Then everyone would win and be happy and united by bread and love.

And speaking of below us -- we had avoided meeting that neighbor right up until yesterday. And I was afraid. Very afraid. There's no doubt -- she's the neighbor who suffers the most at the hands (and heels) of the Looshman. We had heard from the Quebecois she was a professional cellist and often hear her playing in the evenings. Great. She treats us to cello solos and we treat her to high-pitched shrieking sounds. Someone's gettin' screwed big time in THAT exchange.

But I've tried to be respectful of her practice time. If I hear her start to tune up the cello, I sail through the air Charlies' Angels style and tackle the child. I then drag him into the kitchen and ply him with bread and craquinette until she's done. Lucien is going to weigh five hundred pounds when it's all said and done, but at least we can say we tried to keep the peace in the building.

So yesterday, Emily and Otis came over and we were walking down the stairs with the two (loud) boys on our way to the park. And the neighbor's door was wide open. She was standing in the kitchen, saw me, and came straight for the doorway. CRAP crap crap, I muttered to myself, dreading a confrontation. I hate to bust out the fisticuffs in front of children.

But my fists were clenched for no darn reason. She is neighbor gold. When she found out I was American, she pulled out the perfect English, which was wonderful given the complexity of the apologies I wanted to offer. Then SHE apologized to ME for her music, hoping it didn't bother us too much. Oh no, no, no, I assured her, and then, of course, apologized for what I can only imagine she'd been hearing in her place.

And her answer? A happy shrug. A HAPPY SHRUG? Not a pissy tense shrug? Not a sneer? A threat? Not a shiv in the ribs? All she said was, "I thought a child must be living up there because sometimes I hear little feet running across my ceiling." And then she said the magic words. The words every mama worried her child is bothering someone in a major way longs to hear. "It's OK," she said, "I have grandchildren and it's no problem!" Jackpot. She's a happy cello-playing grandma and that's a beautiful thing.

We all walked down to the park on Boulevard Saint Germain but stopped in our tracks when we saw the gate was firmly closed -- yet another public park closed ridiculously early. So we were standing outside the gate for awhile, contemplating our next move, when I heard a small whimper from the Loosh. Barely registering, I looked down and saw he had his head between the bars of the gate. Not all the way through, mind you. In fact, not even up to the ear, so it didn't look too grave.

But he was stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck. By the head. And then he started to cry. And my mama panic set in a bit as I started to tug on him and he didn't move, and the fellow mama panic in Emily started to kick in as she tugged on him and he didn't move, and my mind was reeling, part of me thinking, "Does this stuff happen in real life?"and the other part just crammed with a really looooong string of swear words.

After some fruitless tugging, Emily went in and gave it one more shot before calling the authorities responsible for freeing children whose heads are stuck in fences -- and out he slid. It's a Saint Germain miracle. Oh, his little terrified face and the huge tears sliding down his face. We decided to call it an afternoon. When one of your party's heads has been stuck in a fence resulting in the trauma of all involved, there's really nowhere to go from there.

On the walk home, Lucien buried his face in my shoulder and repeatedly told me he "felt scared" and "didn't like dat gate." I told him mommy felt scared, too, and we had a little therapy session like that all the way home. By bedtime, he had bruises on either side of his head and had received a healthy dose of Tylenol.

Today he's fine and back to his mischievous self. As evidence, I said this sentence today: "Lucien, where are you going with those screwdrivers?" as he very determinedly walked past me with two (the pointy kinds, not the fun drinky kinds.) His response? His giant stuffed dog, Clifford, had caught a tummy bug and he was going to take it out. Too tired to put up a fight, I said, "OK," in one breath and "Adios, Clifford," in another.

Neighborhoods can be scary, mon chou,
MJ

Mama got a morning off and that's all that matters in this entire world

I love nannies. Even better -- I love nannies who are really, really great with my kid. In fact, Stephanie is SO great with the Loosh, I'm pretty sure he belongs to her now. I sure will miss the little bugger.

Yesterday, Stephanie ("Steffie," as Lucien calls her -- that is, when he's not calling her, "Jennifer." Should probably teach him soon that the ladies don't like to be called other ladies' names) came to spend the entire morning with the Looshman so mama could tackle the myriad of random "to do"s on the ever-expanding list.

Half the items on that "to do" list have question marks after them because I have no idea how to do them or where to find them. I should probably just move all those to a "never do" list and spare myself the hassle of thinking about them every day.

So I went out Loosh-free and did my random stuff. I bought envelopes roughly the size of a dirty postcard (heh heh) I bought art supplies for my numerous bizarre avant-garde undertakings. I did NOT buy another lamp, strangely enough. And during it all, I had an epiphany: Paris is really, really, really easy (OK, let's not get carried away -- easier, anyway) without Lucien's constant sound effects, rustling through of store displays, and constant desire to be carried.

I move so much faster sans child; I cross the street more aggressively; I shop so much more efficiently; I do not worry ONCE about where the nearest bathroom is; and I look around and soak in the Paris, rather than focusing on the little dude who now thinks it's funny to AIM for the doggie doo AND who's developed a disgusting new habit of spitting on his hand and wiping it on storefront windows. Best of all, I leave the store with everything I came for, instead of half the stuff to get out fast before the inevitable shopping meltdown.

And when I see him after all errands are run, I'm really, really, really happy to see him again. I love listening -- LISTENING! Not exhausted, "uh-huh"ing! Can you imagine! -- to what he did while we were apart, and he loves to go on and on about his various Stephanie adventures. There's no question -- I'm a better mom with backup. Ain't we all.

I took myself out to lunch which is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Lunch in a cafe with the Loosh usually involves zero food enjoyment for the mama. But lunching alone, in a brasserie here in the neighborhood, was pretty damn fantastic. Croque madame, of course, because I'm stuck in a delicious rut and please nobody ever, ever pull me out. It was heaven to savor the gooey goodness while people-watching the stylish Frenchies in their black outerwear.

There have been many laughs aimed at my boy over the past year or so for his refusal to use bike pedals. The Loosh has been Fred Flintstone-ing his way around on a bike since the second we put him on one. We'd put his feet on them, physically push his little legs to show him the mechanics of it all, and he would shrug, say simply, "No thank you," and go on his merry way, feet slapping as fast as possible against the pavement. That kid has always done things his own way. (Don't get me started on how he plays, "Candy Land"...)


But walking home from my solo lunch, I saw Lucien and Stephanie down the street, coming right at me. And I'll be damned if the guy wasn't pedaling his way down the sidewalk. Stephanie was guiding him, helping get the momentum going again if he stalled, and he was biting his lip, head down, working so hard.

I pulled out my camera fast and got a shot before they saw me. When the Loosh finally did look up, his beaming little face so, so proud, he screamed maniacally down the street at me some combination of the words mommy, pedals, lookeemee, and penis. This won him several affectionate smiles from the passersby. Good thing they were supportive -- If they had in any way rained on my boy's parade, mama's pointy elbows would have had to make an appearance again.

I can get back to dissecting the Frenchies and their ways another day because believe me...they ain't goin' nowhere. For now, I'm basking in the joy of a morning off and bike pedals. It's the little things, people, that keep us going around here.

Paris has kicked our butts up and down the court for very nearly two months now. It's been rough, no question -- most days we still want to run back into the loving arms of Seattle. I don't know when the tide will turn, but as soon as it does, I will probably consider myself too good for you and stop speaking to you entirely. So let's live it up during the misery!

Good night, MON CHOU (oh, look it up, already!)
MJ

View from Sacre Coeur is pretty even when the weather isn't

Place du Tertre -- gimme that art

Shoo, clothes! Red lights and cheesy goodness

We brought a Seattle-sized wardrobe to a Paris-sized apartment and therein lies a big continent-of-Asia-sized problem. This problem manifests itself in huge piles of clothing all over our bedroom and into the hallway. On top of the piles are a couple comforters we felt compelled to bring (Seriously, what the hell were we thinking?) and THOSE are topped off by an avalanche of hangers, socks, and wowza --how many pairs of shoes do we own anyway?

This makes choosing an outfit -- actually just finding an article of suitable clothing -- very difficult. I often end up putting on whatever I can grab hold of and pull out of the clothing tower. This has resulted in some very strange, very non-Parisian outfits. If I eat lunch in a cafe nowadays, I leave my jacket on. I can't remove it lest Paris see the Duran Duran t-shirt circa 1988 underneath.

We finally got our American TV to work in Europe, which in my mind is ranked just slightly above a miracle. I didn't think it could be done, but my Al, as usual, was savvy regarding such techno matters. It wasn't painless and did take some Quebec cursing, some swipes at the neufbox, and finally a breakdown call to our TV provider's customer service line (This is a true sign of desperation, to call customer service, because they charge you. Even for "wait" time. My Al was talking some seriously speedy french.)

But now we have TV! And oh boy! What we've learned in this installment of "French television spectacular!" is that French people, just like American people, like to watch people get hurt. We watched a show where French celebrities (a.k.a. people I've never seen before in my life) sit around and watch videos of people mauling themselves in various ways -- you know, the baseball bat to the groin, the fall off the mountain bike onto the head, the ridiculous American women falling all over each other trying to catch the bouquet (Sheesh, have some self respect, ladies. Marriage ain't that glamorous. Go have a drink at the open bar and relax.)

All in all, pretty cringe-worthy stuff on our french television. Ahh. Feels like home.

In what I still consider to be subtly ironic, in order to get up to Montmartre, beautiful haven of art and basilicas, you will most likely need to navigate the red light district first. And mama looooooves Montmartre. So there we were on Saturday morning, smack dab in the middle of the red light district and all things sexay.

Winding through the area on our way up the hill, we noticed two very distinct types of people: tourists looking for the beautifully pristine and white Sacre Coeur and "the others" looking for seriously dirty stuff. And probably not surprisingly, at 10:00am it's not too difficult to tell the two types apart. One wears jeans and tennis shoes, travels in groups, and looks at maps a lot and the other.....well.....it doesn't matter what they wear but they're usually dudes, walking alone, shifty-eyed. No maps.

This is when we found ourselves in front of the most spectacular building in this spectacular city. The SEXODROME! It had some pretty inventive advertising -- mechanized mannequins in all the windows letting you know pretty darn clearly what was happening inside. (At first glance they looked like real people but their actions were strangely jerky and repetitive. Upon further inspection...not so much real) I'm not sure what kind of impression we made out there, a little family such as ours staring at and taking pictures in front of the Sexodrome, but honestly, how do you just pass it by?

A few ladies tried to cut in front of me when boarding the funicular up the hill to Sacre Coeur but do not fret readers! I did not let the transgression occur! I pushed (Yeah, I said "pushed." That's just how I roll now) them aside with the whole of my right arm and just went right on ahead with my bad self. Unfortunately, this meant my Al got trapped behind the three ladies (he's not yet comfortable with the pushing) and oops -- he got shut out of that particular funicular ride as a result.

That determined-to-entertain Daddy instead ran up the stairs alongside us, waving maniacally at Lucien like Forrest Gump waving at Lieutenant Dan. He eventually got left behind in the funicular's dust. But it was an impressive effort and made Lucien grin like mad.

And on that note -- if you want to lose weight, move here and suffer. Alex and I have lost shocking poundage and we still stuff our faces with baguettes and nutella regularly. Therein lies the secret of the thin Parisian -- when every errand you run is a song and dance involving heavy bags up and down countless numbers of relentless stairs, you lose weight and build sweet arm muscle without even thinking about it. While our buns may not be made of steel yet, they are definitely approaching, "steel-ish."

And speaking of eating crap....while visiting my favorite area of Montmartre, crammed with artists outside painting and chatting and drinking wine, we stopped for lunch at a cafe and I ate my most favorite thing in the world. A croque madame. It's a gooey mess of cheese and ham on crusty bread topped with a fried egg. Sometimes it's so good I just want to put the plate on the floor and roll around in it.

I think Smart Cars should make little squeaking sounds when they move. It's the only way they could possibly be any cuter.

Hey, are you gonna eat that?
MJ

We heart stuff

Stuff, stuff everywhere. Too much stuff, as it turns out, but stuff nonetheless.

If you've never seen a moving company move a family such as ourselves into an apartment such as this one in an old, congested city such as Paris, you really should check it out because it's something special. The movers built a rickety ramp up to our window. "Rickety" may actually be too complimentary a term since it gives the sense of at least a minute amount of stability. These were like two little metal toothpicks about to snap in two at the slightest breeze reaching four stories into the sky.

Then a platform was installed on the not-quite-rickety ramp and voila! Boxes were loaded down below in the courtyard, button pushed, and swaying platform made its way up to our window where braver people than I leaned out and raked them inside.

If you've been in the position of watching your most cherished possessions traveling up towards you in this manner, you understand the meaning and strange, strange sensation of heart stuck in your throat. The movers must be accustomed to this type of reaction because the nice mover guy didn't even blink as I dug all ten of my fingernails into his arm, watching my favorite red leather chair make the treacherous journey.

It was chaos. Boxes, people everywhere. Box cutters flying, Lucien lost for hours under the packing material. To top it all off, cutie pie plumber and girlfriend (Are you serious? Get a room, you two!) showed up again to fix the toilet. This equaled eight adults, one small three-year-old no one could find, and one hundred boxes (no joke) in our 800 square feet of sweet, sweet livin'.

It will take days to finish opening the boxes, weeks to figure out where to put all the stuff, and weeks plus one day to trash half of what we brought. Some things are not here that were supposed to be, which is an uncomfortable feeling. And some things traveled up on that platform that no-way-in-hell we wanted. For instance, my wedding dress. My big-ass wedding dress in its huge hermetically sealed heirloom box has come to Paris. I've got the veil in there, too. Great. Maybe we can turn it into a coffee table.

Thanks to those freak Seattle blizzards, several boxes from family didn't make it to us for Christmas but arrived just in time for moving. So that is how Lucien and I came to be sitting on the floor (still can't sit on the furniture because now everthing's covered with piles and piles of stuff) eating my mama's famous Christmas cookies. FYI....two-month-old spritz cookies and ginger snaps -- good. Two-month-old brownies -- fugetaboutit.

Alex and I tried to plug in our television last night and poof! We made all the lights go out. Paris magic! Alex and I now (again) have a healthy fear of electricity and a healthy disdain for transformers.

Two neighbors so far have come to complain about Alex's bike sitting down in the courtyard. It hasn't been there much more than 24 hours but everyone's up in arms! Bikes do not sit in courtyards! Vive la France! To the grumpier of the two, I missed the negation in my French sentence, so instead of saying, "We're not leaving it there," I said, "We're leaving it there." Oopsie. It's quite possible I just started a war between the U.S. and France because wow.....Mr. Grumpy no likey the bikey.

Between the Loosh's constant stream of sound effects and the controversial bike placement, I'm thinking we may not be too popular around here.

Bon nuit, mon chou,
MJ

Doctors and nannies and something else -- oh my!

It's amazing what a difference walking the right direction down a street makes. Turns out you get where you're going! Lucien and I found the American Hospital no problemo this time, thanks entirely to the miracle of turning left instead of right.

You can tell a hospital in Paris from blocks away. It's the building with all the people in white coats standing outside smoking.

Our pediatrician, Dr. Michel, is the quintessential Frenchman. He smells of cigars, surprisingly not in a bad way; he likes to use a lot of words and he doesn't move very fast. He moves kind of like his office is a tiny Club Med and he has all the time in the world to walk across the room because, well, he is on vacation, after all. I won the Dr. Michel seal of approval when I spoke to him in French. He liked this very much, complimented my accent, and smiled. And then we were friends.

I used our new friendship to ask many pressing questions. How does all this work? How do I pay for this visit? How do I get reimbursed by private insurance? What's that shiny thing do? Can I yell into your stethoscope? Are you boffing that pretty nurse?

Our visit turned vague when he informed me Lucien would need a couple vaccinations "soon." And doctors don't have vaccines in their offices. I have to buy the vaccines at a pharmacy with a prescription and bring them with us.

Got it. No sweat. A timeframe for all this, however, was a little tougher to nail down. He shrugged at the question and said, "It's a vaccine. It's not like it's an emergency." I took this to mean I'm good as long as I vaccinate Lucien by the time he's 65.

He sure got a kick out of my boy, though. He laughed delightedly at everything the Loosh pulled out of his bag of tricks and told me with a wink, "He's very funny, your son." When we left the office, he said it was a delight to start the day with a child like Lucien, "a child whose spirit is happy and warm."

Gave me cozy bubbly heart. Isn't that the kind of thing every parent needs to hear once in awhile? Especially on those days when your kids are driving you so nuts, you consider -- well, I don't really want to admit the depths I've sunk to considering-wise (mob involvement resulting in witness protection), but feel free to insert whatever method of extended vacation you've considered here.

I went to the receptionist's office to pay. I didn't have enough cash but I had my brand new sparkly checkbook. The receptionist saw me staring blankly at the blankness of those checks, however, and with a smile creeping across her face, gave me a long, drawn-out, "Y......E.......S?" I told her I didn't know what the hell I was doing and she laughed, came around my side of the desk and showed me how to fill it out, line for line. Usually admitting you're clueless and throwing yourself upon the mercy of others will bring out the nice in people. Most will take you under their wing. Those that don't should go get run over by a bus.

Lucien has a new part-time nanny and she's a keeper. She took him to the park this afternoon where he promptly kicked his shoe into a pond. After she fished it out, she entertained him while it dried by mimicking the people doing tai chi. I like her style.

So EVERY day here isn't about me running around like a crazy woman, losing my cool, and swearing at people. Just approximately two out of three.

'night, mon chou,
MJ

Hate the 'burbs and sexy time plumber

This is the cover of our phone book! hee hee hee hee!

Friday was such a happy morning -- breakfast as a family sitting on the floor, boarding the metro together, some giggles on the choo choo, waves and kisses for Daddy at his stop for work -- but it dissolved into yet another well-intentioned, ultimately disastrous outing for mama and the Loosh. SONOFABITCH. Anyone sick of hearing that one yet 'cuz I sure am sick of writing it.

Lucien and mama's destination was the American Hospital of Paris out in the 'burbs for the Loosh's checkup, necessary for any sort of school enrollment. And I don't care how far it is; if mama is flying solo for a medical appointment, she's finding a whole hospital full of English speakers.

Should have been a ten minute walk from the metro. "Should have been." Sigh deeply. An hour later, a badly drawn map by me tossed in the garbage and some bad directions given by some either well-intentioned or completely evil people, mama was dragging a very, very unhappy child through the drizzle, which turned into driving rain straight at our faces, which turned into freezing rain, and finally, wet gloppy snow.

And I'll be damned if I wasn't wearing those same floppity-flop-flop pants and rain-right-through-'em Uggs I wore during my other disastrous rain-soaked outing. You know, the completely unnecessary one because it was Lucien's fake birthday? Ahh....memories....

On top of my general crabbiness from being lost in the driving rain and cold for an hour in the damn Parisian suburbs for which they apparently make no maps, my protective maternal rage (THE most explosive form of rage in existence) approached critical "going to kill you, MFr" status when a car oh-so-narrowly missed me and my boy crossing a street. We had the almighty green man on our side, but that car came screeching around the corner, passed in front of us by a mere few feet -- and then the guy had the audacity to honk and wave his stupid little fist at ME!

That was it. I let it all out, baby. The language spewed out of me like I was Vesuvius. Oh, how I yelled at that guy and waved my arms around and flipped him off with both hands at the same time. And just so I knew he'd gotten the message, I topped it off with a very Crouching Tiger-esque kick aimed squarely at the back of his car. I missed. But there I stood, even after he'd sped away, calling him every horrible name I could think of (in French, which must have been hilarious for any passersby) at the top of my lungs. I wanted him to get out of the car so badly because in my state of mind, I really, REALLY wanted a shot at kicking just ONE ass.

And by the way, who the hell am I? In just six short weeks, I've morphed from a courtesy waver into an expletive machine eager to start street fights. I don't know how you feel about it, but me kinda likey the new dangerous MJ.

By the end of my tirade, the green man had long turned red and the other cars had all the right in the world to barrel towards us. But no one moved. And no one honked. And no one.....no one looked me in the eye. Everyone is terrified of a mama bear in fighting mode and quite frankly, they should be.

We finally found a metro and I'm not kidding -- Lucien and I sat in silence and hugged each other tightly the entire way home. We didn't make the appointment, obviously, and are giving it another shot tomorrow. So pray for us and start organizing the search parties.

There were a few maniacal calls placed to Alex during our little "outing," and I think daddy was gripped by the fear. The next day, Valentines Day, I awoke from a well-deserved nap to find Alex standing in front of me with my present. An iPhone. Equipped with Google maps so this kind of thing never, ever happens again. That present said, "love" more than any other I've ever received in my life.

We spent Valentines Day as a unit, all three of us, because we're in this thing together. Part of it was celebrated on the Les Halles playground. Lucien on a playground has historically been a tense thing for us parents. He's an exuberant little kid, and while his acts of violence are never malicious, more like unfortunate side effects of his uncontrollable enthusiasm, it still quickens the heart rate when we hear a kid crying somewhere, hoping against hope Lucien had nothing to do with it.

Alex and I have developed a system to communicate with each other during such times. One of us will run over, inspect the situation, ask questions from all witnesses about why the small child on the ground is crying, then turn to the other and throw our arms up, touchdown-style, and yell, "It wasn't him!" with great triumph. Then we'll high five and backslap and whatnot. (Of course, sometimes it is him, and then we have to go through proper Lucien apologizing procedures which aren't quite as celebratory.)
And speaking of things that are not celebratory. This morning, I'm sitting on the floor in our dining room and Lucien is next to me, playing with his cars. Suddenly I hear someone at the door. And not knocking....but coming in. Like with a key. So the door opens and I call out with confusion, "Al? Is that you?" No response. But a little happy smiley-faced guy peeks around the door and says, "Bonjour. I am the plumber." He's here to take a look at the splash-your-face toilet. And his girlfriend is with him.

I know what you're thinking: "What the hell kind of porno has MJ wandered into?" But believe me, there was nothing sexay about strangers walking into my apartment whilst I sat on the floor in my pajamas, completely shocked into silence and slightly embarrassed by the bedhead I was sprouting. Oh yeah, and I happened to be eating Pringles for breakfast. Awesome.

The plumber told me me he'll return next week if the owner approves the estimate. And he told me not to worry, that the real estate agency gave him a key and he can let himself in. Well yippee I think I'll do cartwheels. Thank God for the real estate agency handing out keys to anyone who wants to have sex with their girlfriend in our apartment. (oh come on, like you're not suspicious of their true intentions?)

So anywho...I guess naked yoga is out of the question for awhile. Probably won't shower for a week, either. At least until strangers stop granting themselves access to my locked apartment. No place is safe in Paris.

They.....are.......everywhere.

I see Parisian people, mon chou,
MJ

Sex sells postcards

I enjoy a little extra challenge with my grocery shopping. I'm not content to just push my cart and deposit groceries into it like some lame-o. Thankfully, my local Champion grocery store has indulged my need to shop dangerously with carts that move not only front and back, but side to side with absolute ease. Four smooth-as-silk all-direction swivel wheels are just the spice I needed for my grocery shopping adventures.

At first, I was delighted to discover the side-to-side action. I could pull the cart sideways out from the wall which is super handy in a rather cozy French supermarket. After wrestling Lucien into the snug front seat I noticed the cart got a little tippy. The kid seat says "maximum 15 kilos" so I guess the Loosh must be pretty close to that silly made-up number because the whole thing is about to tip over. I should really figure out kilos soon.

But anywho, after rounding a few corners, I hated the swivel wheels. Hated them a lot. They swivel profoundly with such ease. So when I turn a corner, I have to dash to the far side of the cart and push it back slightly, keeping it on the straight and narrow so it doesn't slide off sideways into some unsuspecting shopper perusing the pate. I have managed to clip a few shoppers in this fashion, but thankfully my "Pardon, Madame" is quite polished and I can let it fly without a moment's hesitation.

I've begun interviewing part-time nannies in the hopes of finding someone reliable to take Lucien off my hands, if just for a few afternoons a week, until we get him enrolled in something involving French children. That kid is just plain bored as I set up house, shop for LAMPS and attend to my coffee needs.

I met with one candidate today at Le Jardin. She's an American college student studying here for six months and she's perfectly lovely (and cute with dark hair, so Lucien was all agog). But when I asked for references, all she gave me was the name of a family whose dog she had taken care of for a year. I guess she could put Lucien on a leash and walk him around the neighborhood. Or I can keep looking.

We are not going to have internet or phone for another week. Why it takes over three weeks to flip a switch and activate wires already stuffed in the wall, I'll never understand. I could get righteously angry and start making phone calls, but they wouldn't understand me and it wouldn't change anything so I'll sit here and silently fume instead. Welcome to the land of no customer service.

I think more sensitive readers should look away for this part, or at least put your hands over your eyes and read peeking through your fingers. This part is rated "R" for "red light district." We all know the French people are sexually liberated, so you can imagine how tawdry some of these posts are going to get. We're gonna see some stuff here, people, so consider yourselves forewarned from here on out.

So there I was, perusing a rack of postcards, trying to find some funny ones to send people at home. And whoa! Hang on a second! What the hell am I looking at? Naked people all over the postcards. And not naked people like artistic nudes or something -- these are naked people doing sexy time. On a rack of postcards. On the street.

Let's see....there's one of a naked woman bending over and spreading her absolutely perfect butt cheeks, one of a man and woman in a curious pose on a counter top, and yet another of a man performing a certain sexy time act on his woman friend. On a rack of postcards. On the street.

After confirming I was indeed seeing what I was seeing, I placed the last-mentioned postcard of the man and the woman (actually just a woman's body part) back in the rack. Unfortunately, the place for this particular card was eye level with my three-year old son. So Lucien checked out what mama had been chuckling at, looked up at me chuckling, too, and said, like we were sharing a joke, "mustache!" Umm. Right. That's what it is.

I think they place the sexy time postcards out on the street, in front of cafes, so French locals can watch and be entertained by the reactions of foreigners. If you recoil with horror or laugh with embarrassment, you're probably an American, or perhaps a Brit. So if you want to look French, consider being absolutely blase about the whole thing. Perhaps look at one and then stare absentmindedly at your nails, re-arrange your scarf, or pout and rub some dog poo off your boot.

Alex and I have decided it's probably not legal to mail those puppies to the U.S. They would never reach any of you and would instead wind up in some pervy USPS worker's place. But if you happen to receive a blank white envelope roughly postcard-sized from us....remove the children from the room before opening.

And yeah, that picture there to the right is Lucien running through the apartment in my new fabulous Frenchie coat. He grabbed it out of the closet, put it on and ran back and forth in front of me, determined to piss me off. Instead I grabbed a camera. Ha -- backfired for the little punk.

Yesterday evening my Al spoke one of my favorite quotes of all time, taken from the hilarious if juvenile Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Alex is having a rough time with the new job, so by all means, send him some positive juju. So when he came home last night, he flopped down on the ole inflatable mattress and said, "When life hands you lemons, say 'f@#! the lemons' and bail."

Amen.

But we're not bailing tonight, mon chou,

MJ

Foux da fa fa

Check it out -- Lucien figured out another use for the perfect pushups. And according to me, it makes about as much sense as the originally intended one.

I was talking to my best friend, Facebook, the other day. And Facebook told me an old, old friend of mine (we're talkin' way back from grade school old - ain't FB grand?) left me a comment along the lines of, "This is how I picture life in France," and a link to one of my favorite shows of all time, Flight of the Conchords. Here's the link for your viewing pleasure and perhaps bewilderment. They're weird, those kiwis. But surprisingly, this IS exactly what my life in Paris is like except I'm a girl and they're boys. Other than that -- uncanny. Foux da fa fa.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUVagbFcSUU

And I'm thrilled to see our doggie, Oscar, the one we bid au revoir to when we made the leap across the pond (they don't say that in France but I wanted to sound continental) is the newest follower of my blog. That schnauzer was always freakishly good with a computer.

In an attempt to take back some of my pride after being trampled by a few locals these past weeks, I contacted the moving company and complained about the movers who left me knee-deep in boxes and packing material last week. I was a very big and dignified tattletale and it felt like a million euros. She was pissed at the guys, so whoop dee doo I hope they get in trouble. No Brie for a month, ya mean ole Frenchies!

As is typical in most European apartments, we don't have a dryer. We could purchase a dryer if we wanted to but I was, in a strange way, looking forward to old-schooling it. You know, the way our ancestors did it minus beating the clothes on rocks and stuff. So we bought a drying rack. Shocker -- it was so expensive we could have bought two dryers in place of it. But we're going green! Huzzah!

The problem is, I got no skills with a clothespin. If anyone has clothespin pointers (no pun intended....keep reading, it'll make sense), send them my way because we look ridiculous. I've been putting one clothespin on each shoulder of our shirts but after they dried and we put them on, both Alex and I had little pointy things on each shoulder. Then I tried putting two clothespins on each shoulder. You know, distributing the weight and I'm smart. But then we had two pointy things on each shoulder. I'm now considering putting every clothespin I have right next to each other up and down both sleeves, but then I will only be able to dry one garment at a time. Perhaps we will go buy a dryer soon.

The Loosh and I had a wonderful morning. Those who know me well know I'm a connoisseur of inexpensive clothes. Either I latch onto inexpensive stores with groovy stuff, or I lie in wait for sales of the century. I can buy clothes for pennies and that makes me feel happy.

Here -- perhaps not so much an option. Most things that catch my eye in these parts are somewhere north of 250 euros. There's this one little boutique I pass nearly every day and think the stuff in there is perfection. I saw a coat and a dress in the window and I just knew they would kick ass on my person. So I told myself, "OK, MJ. If you're still thinking about that coat and that dress a week from today, go in and try them on." And I not only continued to think about them, I started to dream about them, bake cookies for them, and write love letters to them.

So today, Loosh in tow, which is generally a dumb idea when trying on clothes, I went in. And I braced myself for prices never before paid by me. I put them on and there was no doubt -- we were all meant to be together. They are so French and so weird and wonderful.

That nice boutique lady watched and played with Lucien while I changed in the dressing room, and also oh-so politely averted her eyes when Lucien whipped open the curtain and yelled, "Hey Mommy, where your clothes?"

Aren't children a blessing?

Only then did I have the courage to take a gander at the prices. And my reputation remains intact, thank you very much. I discovered the only affordable boutique in Saint Germain. The jacket was only 70 euros! The dress was only 60! That's like giving clothes away for free around here. So I remain a cheapass clothes buyer, albeit the "cheap" standard has to be adjusted to fit the location.

We stopped at a playground on our way home and my poor, sweet little Loosh. He wants so badly to play with the other children but they look at him like he's an alien. He cheerily and with great gusto walks up to other children, generally the ones playing quietly by themselves, and starts going on and on in English about his sandbox and his trucks at home and do they want to play cars with him? The children stare at him, stare at each other, stare at him again, then walk (or run) away.

Oh....the crestfallen little face. Doesn't break the boy's spirit for long, though, as some new kid usually wanders onto the playground and Lucien barrels towards him/her and starts in all over again. Social animal. Current social misfit, too, but hang in there, Loosh!

Long story about enrolling him in school. I keep meaning to write about that headache, but at the end of the day, it's the last thing mama wants to think about. But we're on the case.....that kids needs kids and lots of 'em soon or both of us are going to lose our frickin' minds.

Emily and Otis were kind enough to invite us to the marionette theater this afternoon. And it wasn't nearly as creepy as it sounds! Puppets generally make me feel suspicious but these were happy cheery puppets who told us the story of Puss in Boots in a very garbled and unintelligible way! I was looking forward to refreshing my memory of the story but left the theater with not even a basic plot outline. Why was the cat wearing boots again?

Thankfully, the theater was full of children so chaos reigned. Phew. I was nervous about keeping my extroverted motormouth quiet for 40 minutes but no one gave much of a crap. He was happy to join in the ruckus and yelled at the puppets, danced and clapped to the music, showed Emily and Otis his belly and forgot his "inside voice" when he asked me if the kitty needed to do a poo poo.

We are hanging in, for better or for worse, in our relationship with Paris. I met an American mom here who left me with some very encouraging words. She told me her first few months here, she cried every day. The next two months, she was just mildly pissed off. Now that she's here almost six months, she loves it and never wants to leave.

Awesome! That leaves me only -- OH CRUD -- four a half more months 'til bliss. Synchronize your watches, everyone, we're going for it.

Hanging in there with mes choux,
MJ

What you talkin' 'bout my sandwich for?

It is amazing how long you can subsist on sandwiches alone. We have no pots and pans, no oven, not even a microwave just yet, so pickins' are slim. (Secretly I'm thrilled. I guess not so secretly anymore. But I find cooking tedious and blah and would sell my soul for take-out most days of the week.) Living in this neighborhood, however, we've hit the sandwich motherload. We have been treated to many, many sandwiches that make me believe eating sandwiches for every meal forever and ever is not only acceptable, but desirable.

There's one shop down the street that makes grilled panini sandwiches "from around the world!" The Indian (curry!) and the Swedish (I don't understand what's in it!) are enough to make me renounce all other food types. I went in last week and they were out of the Indian AND the Swedish. All I could do was stare at the sandwich lady like a motherless child and whimper.

You know what the American sandwich is? Brace yourselves -- a ton of ground beef smothered in cheese and tomatoes, with a side of Cheetos. How embarrassing is THAT? I mean, sure, it sounds delicious and I really want to eat it, but what do they THINK of us? I've resisted ordering it thus far and will try the others first, lest the American ordering the American cements in their minds some belief they hold about us. I guess that belief would be that we like hamburger panini sandwiches.

Alex and I went shopping over the weekend. Again. Always. And we went to this great home furnishings store across the Pont Neuf and left with some rad home accessories. But as we're waiting in line, we got cut in front of not once, but twice. The first time, we looked at each other kind of like, "Did you just see that?" But we assumed the best of her-- she had forgotten something at checkout, she was just asking a quick question, she had only moments to live, etc. etc. It did look like her things were being normally rung up, wrapped, and placed into bags, however, so I felt suspicious.

The second time, there was no mistaking it. Another woman pushed past us and stepped right up, sense of entitlement firmly intact. At home, we would have said something, but here, what are the rules? Is this stuff OK? Proper protocol, anyone? None of the dozen or so people in line behind us got huffy either, so I felt bewildered yet definitely abused. Next time it happens, I'm throwing elbows, international diplomacy be damned! And my elbows are pointy little deadly weapons so don't push me, frenchies.

I took Lucien to le Jardin du Luxembourg on Friday and he made a perfect little British/French mixture of a friend named Tristan. Tristan and Lucien share the same birthday, born within just an hour of each other, so there you go. Meant to be. Together, they raided the playground and scared the crap out of every child under the age of two -- and even some of the two-year olds looked concerned. At one point, Lucien climbed up on a large play choo-choo and yelled, "Hey everybody! Look at me!" He said this several times and when he'd received a sufficient amount of attention, he then did absolutely nothing. He just beamed and waved at them all.

I have flash-forwards in my mind sometimes, and they often involve this "look at me" behavior. "Look at me!" jump off the roof. "Look at me!" climb the electrical tower. "Look at me!" on reality TV. "Look at me!" running for Senator. I don't know what kind of person we've birthed into the world, exactly, but I know he will forever be entertaining. Never dull. Or quiet.

He's also, to my chagrin, embraced a new ultra-annoying habit where every time I say something to him, he parrots it back with Gary Coleman-esque flair. For instance:

Mom: Hey, Lucien? Which movie do you want to watch?
Lucien: (arms crossed, eyebrows knit, intense stare in mom's direction) Hey, what you talkin' 'bout me watchin' a movie for?

Here's another one from just this morning.

Mom: Hey, Loosh. Put your shoes on. Let's go meet Daddy
Lucien: (arms crossed, eyebrows knit, intense stare in mom's direction) Hey, what you talkin' 'bout my shoes and meeting my Daddy for?
Mom: I'm talking about putting your shoes on and meeting Daddy.
Lucien: (sly grin starting to come over face) What you talkin' 'bout me with the shoes and the Daddy?
Mom: I'm talkin' 'bout -- never mind. I'm going to go drink some wine.

One more (ain't they fun?)

Mom: Loosh. Seriously. Time to settle down and go to sleep.
Lucien: (arms crossed, eyebrows yada yada yada...) Hey, what you talkin' 'bout with the seddle down and go sleepy for? (smacking mom on the head with Kiki)
Mom: Loosh. If you don't settle down and go sleepy, you will not get any chocolate tomorrow.
Lucien: (very, very, VERY intense stare now) What you talkin' 'bout with the takin' the chocolate for?
Mom: Loosh. If you don't settle down and go sleepie, you will never ever be allowed to leave your room ever again ever.
Lucien: (jumping on bed) Mommy, what you talkin' 'bout with the room and the chocolate for?
Mom: I'm talkin' 'bout -- never mind. I'm going to drink some wine.

The first few times, I thought it was funny and I laughed. Oh, the innocent mistakes mommies make, not realizing the path it's going to take them down. I now believe we will have these cyclical conversations for the rest of our lives.

Mom: Lucien. Get off the roof. I don't care if they dared you. Get off the roof now.
Lucien: What you talkin' 'bout me and my roof for? (jumping on mommy's head)

We met Alex at the Prefecture of Police today. No worries, for those of you having flashbacks of when Alex was arrested for bank robbery. (True story. And a funny one, too) We were there to receive our carte de sejour and are now totally legit. And a bonus -- mine comes with a work permit! There are probably not too many opportunities for a not-very-good French speaker with a three-year-old hanging onto her leg to make big dough around here but it's good to know just in case something interesting presents itself.

I wouldn't mind learning how to assemble and grill the "Swedish" perfection. I wonder if they're hiring.

What you talkin' 'bout mon chou for?
MJ

Heaviness, muscley-ness, and wonkiness

There are some quirks when you live in an apartment building that's older than your home country. The doors leading into the place -- the "security doors," I suppose you could call them, apparently come from the Middle Ages and were put in place to protect the inhabitants from the Norsemen. Huge, angry, mobs of Vikings riding buffaloes.

I haven't quite grasped what a "kilo" is just yet, but those doors weigh a whole hell of a lot of 'em. And unfortunately, I have to pass through three before being happily inside the building. (Though granted, three ton-alicious doors do make me feel safe enough to leave all my valuable jewels littered throughout the courtyard and my solid gold shoes sitting outside our door).

Heaven help me if I try to enter our building tired or hungry. My weakened body pushes feebly against the door and it doesn't budge. This is when Lucien pipes up and says, "I help you, mommy" and after a running start, throws himself against the door. Still doesn't budge but he tries again. And again. When did that kid start watching Charlie Chaplin movies? He came right out of a silent film -- without the silent.

Yesterday, it was raining and the sidewalks were slick, probably with melted dog poo. I tried bracing myself and pushing against the door as usual, but my feet slid backwards further out onto the sidewalk. I tried and slipped, tried and slipped. At one point my body was 45 degrees to the ground, both palms flat against the door, and I was starin' at the sidewalk. People on the sidewalk casually sidestepped my outstretched legs.

Kind of reminded me of that old Far Side cartoon, the one where the kid is trying to enter the school for the gifted? The sign on the door says, "Pull," but there he is, in my exact position, pushing like a moron?

The only thing worse is fighting the door AND trying to get a stroller through. The doors deposit you into teeny tiny little passageways barely the width of our jogger. So to open the door and simultaneously shimmy a stroller through involves complicated mathematical equations as well as muscles I never knew I had. (My high school Physics course is also coming in handy! Finally!)

Anyway, all that is enough to turn mama into an explosive expletive machine (like I wasn't already -- but I've never been this bad) But nothing can elicit the quality cursing from my mouth more than the thing they've added to the building to bring it into the correct century -- the blasted elevator. Parisian elevators shouldn't even be called "elevators." They're like dumbwaiters strapped to the outside of the building.

The first time we got in an elevator during the apartment search back in November, the doors opened and I laughed out loud. No way it was fitting me, the relocation agent, and the real estate agent. But it "did." The three of us were in that thing with our noses pressed up against each other. Makes conversation awkward, especially for this American who likes a little personal space with her conversing.

Our elevator is the same, but smaller. Lucien loves it. As soon as we step out our door, he's pressing the button for the elevator. Two can fit fine, but if all three of us are heading out, either mama or papa is taking the stairs. Lucien and I can also fit with the stroller, IF I collapse the stroller and crouch on top of it on the way down.

When we ride the elevator back up with the stroller, it's a dangerous game I'm playing, as attempting to pull, tug, shimmy, and maneuver the stroller out not only brings the swear words close to my lips, but also brings the top of the staircase close to my feet. One of these days, I am going to take a tumble as I try to wrestle that monster out of there. (The stroller, not the Loosh, though it depends on the day).

This building has stood here for so long and sagged so much, our bedroom is on an angle. You have to walk UP to get to the other side of the room. This comes in handy for Lucien's toys, however, as we can set a couple cars on the left-hand side of the room and watch them race down to the right-hand side. I have often made the mistake of setting either my pen or a snack of peanut M&Ms on the floor next to my bed as I write. After I've watched them roll to the other side of the room, I often decide I can live without them. Too tired to fight with gravity so we're developing a nice little collection of things down there.

And finally, the wonky toilet. Toilets in these apartments are generally located right off the entrance in a space not much bigger than the elevator. We can deal with that, but currently our toilet also has a loose seal. Every time someone flushes, water sprays all over the wall, the flusher's hand and if they're standing in just the right spot, the flusher's face. Ahhh....my life is very, very glamorous here in Paris.

Lucien's chocolate obsession continues to escalate. First thing in the morning, he enters our room and hovers his little face inches over mine. "Mommy?" he says slyly "I got an idea. How 'bout CHOCOLATE." I explain we don't eat chocolate first thing in the morning. I then hear him running away ("hear" because I haven't bothered to open my eyes yet) with a sound kind of like "Waaaaaaa" emanating from his mouth and then some door slamming and more hysterics in his room. Good times. Thanks a lot, chocolate.

So good night again from Paris. I must return to reading "A Year in the Merde," and since we still have no furniture, I will do this sitting in Lucien' car seat. If you recline it all the way back to "newborn" mode, it's surprisingly comfortable.

Lots of love, mon chou,
MJ

Running after my boys in the Latin Quarter

 

Lucien "driving the car!" on the dizzying monster of a carousel in front of Hotel de Ville

 

Paris is an abusive lover

Just when Paris has beaten me down to my lowest, it picks me back up again, showers me with kisses and apologies, and promises to never do it again. And I fall for it every single time.

Parisians are tough cookies. Interacting with them often feels like a, "Who can make the other person cry first" competition. And I'm losing bigtime. I'm a weakling out there! Must get in touch with my inner badass in a very concrete way if I'm going to win any respect around here.

For example, in Seattle (ahhhh...sweet little Seattle.....), if you're at a crosswalk and someone in their car stops to let you cross, you give them the courtesy wave. And they wave back. That's how we do it in our friendly, passive-aggressive city. So here, when it looks like someone is slowing down to let me cross, it's automatic -- I throw my hand up in a wave. I usually receive a rather large scowl in return. Some people squint hard at me, like, "Do I know that woman?" and upon deciding they don't, sit there looking unhappy and confused.

Perhaps they're unhappy because I, as the pedestrian, won the age-old battle between Parisian pedestrian and Parisian car and managed to cross in front of them. Perhaps they take my wave as a kind of in-your-face "HA! Take THAT! I am the victor and I spit on your ridiculously tiny yet environmentally friendly car!"

The competition here between pedestrian and car is so fierce, so aggressive, so you-will-not-beat-me-you-bastard, it's intimidating for a courtesy-wave kind of gal such as myself. Sometimes I stand at a crosswalk for a large number of minutes, cautiously sticking my toe out into the street only to snatch it back when I lose my nerve. Real Parisians just dive in front of the cars, charge across the street, ignoring honks and swear words. I so admire their method but wow -- that's just dumb at the same time, right?

The "movers" who delivered our air shipment were ridiculous in an entirely different way. They just chucked it all in the door and asked me to sign for it. There's not much in our air shipment, but still -- I kindly pointed out that no, no, no, we were told you unpack everything and take all the packing material away, to which they shrugged, said, "Nope, sign here," and then gave me pointers on how to walk all the packing stuff down the stairs to the garbage cans. (OH, you COLLAPSE the cardboard boxes first. You're a real lifesaver -- I was going to keep them entirely cubical and balance them on top of each other like an oversized Jenga game).

And yet again, I lacked the language to fight. They knew they had the upper hand so in the end, after I inflicted them with many minutes of what I hope was mean glowering (fingers crossed it wasn't just comical but that's a real possibility), they left empty-handed. After unwrapping every article of clothing and every shoe, we now have a mountain of packing material in the corner of our living room. French garbage cans are cute and teeny tiny so it's possible we'll be living with it for the next two years. Perhaps I can incorporate it into the avante garde lung x-ray art.

I took a pavement-pounding walk around the neighborhood after the movers left (this was also after the phone company telephone call that sent me crying into the corner with Stevie Nicks). I walked as fast as I could, trying to burn off the frustration and righteous indignation. And then here comes Paris, swopping in again to tell me it loves me --

Perhaps they wrote something about me in the Frenchie newspaper, something about the crazy American who's barely hanging on and is most likely seconds away from pulling out the uzi, and that perhaps now would be a great time for good ambassadorship on the part of the Parisian people, because there they all were! Friendly, smiling, "Bonjour," and "Ca va?" Happy Frenchies spilling into the streets all around me.

Nothing wins my heart faster than people who are genuinely kind and loving to my child. And the Parisians, while they wouldn't think twice about running my son over with their cars, are so affectionate with him walking down the street. So many people we passed gave him a huge smile, winked, made funny faces at him, told me he was cute. One guy did a little dancing with him. A few others stopped and bent over to say a few words to him; some patted his head. They walked away chuckling and smiling. I mean, it was ridiculous! -- the love was everywhere.

They have a tough exterior, and perhaps that's just part of big city life, but there are a lot of good people here and they love, respect and honor children. And that just can't be a bad place. So even though I've had a few moments here (mainly dog poo and interaction related) where I was moments away from clawing my way to the airport and hanging off an airplane wing for a ride back home, I'm staying. I'm no quitter (actually I've quit lots of stuff....so....umm....whoo, that's awkward!)

Paris is the love of my life! Don't roll your eyes at me! I think it really means it's sorry this time!

Night-night, mon chou,
MJ

Our new apartment could kick our old apartment's ass even if it was really drunk and had one arm tied behind its back. And blindfolded, maybe, too.

I'm back. And I swear, in Paris, I'm bipolar. So happy one moment, so devastatingly sad and homesick the next. The "happy" part comes after I've taken a walk around the city, or just bought a baguette that's perfectly crunchy, or had a great day playing in the park with my boys. The "homesick" part usually comes after chatting (attempting to chat) with a French person -- especially if I am trying to get that French person to do something for me.

The other day, after a particularly brutal encounter on the telephone trying to set up an appointment with the phone and internet company, MJ could be found in a corner of her completely empty (but fabulous!) apartment crying and listening to “Landslide.” I AM afraid of changing! And my child IS getting older. Boo hoo boo hoo. Pathetic, ain't it just?

Ah, but let’s bask in some joy. We have moved into an apartment that couldn’t be more “us” if we designed and constructed it ourselves all those millions of years ago. The tall, tall ceilings, the wood beams, the big windows, the crooked floors, the windows in weird places, the funky white textured wallpaper -- the Paris bohemian apartment trumping the Paris snobby apartment we just suffered for a month. Thank the Lord, mama's home!

Back at the BHV buying lamps. Alex fed the Loosh a bunch of crap at the top floor café while I salivated my way to lamp perfection. Stuffing four bags full of lamp bases and lampshades onto the crowded metro, however, wasn’t so fun -- in fact, it was a little grump-inducing. You should have seen Alex trying to get through the turnstile with the largest lampshade -- he tried it in front of him, in back of him, held high over his head. Hilarious. For me, anyway. He wasn't laughing too much.

Way back when we did our health inspections for the carte de sejour, after they showed me my naked booby lung x-ray, they asked if I wanted to keep it. Why the hell would I want it? I said, "no." Everyone in the entire world says, “no.” But then out comes my Al, out of the office, ridiculously huge envelope in hand. Fast forward to packing time, and that stupid lung x-ray was near impossible to fit in our luggage. I had to fold it at the edges. (Now that we have it, though, let's use it! I'm thinking creepy avante-garde art in the window, but I’m open to suggestions.)

We only had a few blocks to go from old digs to new. Sounds simple, non? But ugh. Navigating the narrow, “charming” and “quaint” streets (for this occasion, they were more "pain in my ass” and “oh my God, get out of my way NOW” streets) with several suitcases, a three-year old, and a lung x-ray is not the easiest and resulted in more than a few “f” bombs dropped by this potty-mouthed mama.

The sidewalks in this area are approximately the width of….whatdya know…..my suitcase. And they are thronged with people. And there are cars zooming past you just inches beyond the edge of the sidewalk. I had to put my badass hat on and plow through, pushing the Loosh in front of me and muttering as many “pardons” as I could. That's how you gotta roll in Paris. It ain't pretty and there will be casualties. Sometimes the little old man is going to get his cane taken out from under him. Welcome to the jungle, buddy.

We hear we now owe five million dollars for the electricity bill at the temporary place. Holy hell, why didn’t someone tell me electricity was so expensive here? (Actually, several people did) If we had known you pay a kidney per kilowatt hour, perhaps we would have turned down the heat and been a little more judicious with the lamp usage. Of course, now that we’ve moved into this apartment and understand the high price of being warm and well-lit, we are stumbling around in the dark and have five layers of clothing on apiece.

So now we’re all moved in. And we have absolutely nothing here. No furniture, no dishes, no nuthin’. But I can swish around in my cape and not knock anything over and that's totally worth something, right?

Sitting on the floor spreading jam on bread with our fingers, Alex and I opened a bottle of wine and drank it out of Lucien’s sippy cups. Toast to the newer chapter of the new chapter. We then went out to dinner at Leon’s, which is a chain restaurant specializing in mussels. If you like mussels like Alex, it's tasty and awesome. If you don’t like mussels like me, kinda sucks because you’re going to eat previously frozen fish and chips.

But kids are welcome there. And free to fall in love with waitstaff, if they so choose. And Loosh chose a pretty dark-haired girl. He looked deep into her eyes and said, “I’m going to see you when I wake up in the morning.” Yikes. "See you in the morning" sounds so innocent when mommy says it to Looshie at bedtime. But when Looshie uses his version on a pretty french girl? Kinda cheeky. Thankfully she didn’t understand English, as she doubtlessly would have wondered what we are teaching our son.

Back at bohemia paradise, we prepared for bed by once again blowing up the air mattress. It then dawned on us -- in a stupefied, let's-stare-at-each-other kind of way -- that we didn’t have blankets or pillows. (Long story about our air shipment. We were supposed to have it by now but we don't, OK?)

We did have a couple towels, which we rolled up into pillows, and then covered ourselves with various articles of clothing. I chose my favorite sweater and my red peacoat. Better choices than my significant other, I think, because I looked over at Al and he was meticulously covering himself in t-shirts. At my incredulous stare, he paused, then suggested perhaps we should use the clothing for pillows, and the towels for blankets. No biggie -- just two adults having yet another ridiculous conversation.

If you’ve ever tried to sleep in wintertime with only a bath towel covering you, you know it sucks. We were cold. Darn cold. Shivering cold. We had the billion dollar heat on, too, but these ceilings are damn tall! I'm sure it was nice and toasty up near the wood beams, but down on the floor......not so much.

So we didn’t sleep well. In fact, between the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements and Lucien’s refusal to return to his previously rock-solid sleeping schedule of home, none of us have slept well in a month. It’s been rough, people……..I’ve seen things…….

Whoo wee. Time to take a break, eh? Will continue my rantings and ravings tomorrow. And ooh boy, there are a-plenty.

Salut, mon choux
MJ