Vive le strike! (or...stop sipping that espresso and get back to your classrooms already)

Heads up, everybody! People falling off cliffs over here. Now, if education is in danger shouldn't they be pushing books off cliffs? Why the poor students? That doesn't look like education in danger to me. It looks like people in danger. Of dying horrible, horrible deaths.

Strikety Strike Strike. The French love to strike so much I bet they list "striking!" under their hobbies on their Facebook pages. Now it seems to me the more you strike the less effective and more just plain annoying a strike becomes, but I am a mere striking outsider.

Coming out of the metro on our way to Lucien's school, we exited into a huge swarming mass of people, music, TV crews, and for some reason people painted all white and wearing white togas. Concerned it was a strike of street performers who pretend to be statues (Oh, for the love of God, NOOOO!), I sprinted to read the large banners announcing who this particular group of angry folks were.

Phew. No biggie. Just the crew from the Sorbonne again. Best I can tell, teachers at the universities are more or less always on strike, just slightly more frequently than the transit workers. One of our babysitters is American studying here for a semester and she told us her teachers have been on strike since the second week of class back in January. She has only had one class in four months. And hey, you know what REALLY puts education in danger? No class for an entire semester. I just hope they don't push her off a cliff because she's a really nice girl.

The Loosh loves the strikes, however, as it usually puts him right in the middle of a large group of people in the middle of the street yelling and dancing or throwing things or whatever -- all his favorite things in one place. They're probably going to interview him for television one of these days as he always appears to be the most fervent supporter of any strike cause we wander into.

You know what else the Loosh loves? If I don't keep a tight hold of him while entering the metro station, he will run ahead and try to go the wrong way through the "exit" doors, setting off a loud alarm. Suddenly everyone's looky-loo at the Loosh and he's beaming and waving at the people. I, however, am five shades of scarlet as I drag him, blowing kisses to his fans and yelling, "Thank you, Paris. I'm here all week!" through the turnstile and onto the train. I wish, just once, I could have a boring day with my kid.

I pick Lucien up after lunch which is a strange, strange, thing to his French classmates. Most kids go to preschool full day but since we're new to the system, we started with mornings and will work our way up. Thus, I have to enter the cafeteria as lunch is ending and scan a large number of small children until one looks biologically familiar.

The second I enter, a hundred little beady eyes are upon me and the room falls silent. Sometimes I hear a child whisper to another, "It's a maman" like I'm a rare species of bird spotted on jungle safari. Loosh's teacher eventually sees me and points in his direction and I then tiptoe through the room, trying not to spook the little beasts at the tables lest they pounce. Lucien enjoys having the only mommy in the room and proudly throws his arms around me when I reach him, announcing to the world, "That's MY mommy." Do you think he'll still be that proud of me when I sneak into his cafeteria when he's in high school? Dare to dream, mama.

By all accounts, Lucien is doing well at school and playing nicely with others. But the last time I picked him up, I think I saw the beginnings of the familiar dazed look in the teacher's eyes as she told me he "does everything with lots of enthusiasm!" Take, for instance, the folding of the bibs. Impressively enough, after lunch each child takes off their bib, folds it in quarters and places it nicely in a basket. My kid? Lucien rolls it up in a ball, takes a flying leap towards the pile and slam dunks it on top with a triumphant, "THERE!" French school, meet Lucien.

We have a four-day weekend that begins tomorrow so we're getting outta here. Last minute, of course, we are trying to piece together a weekend in Normandy including visits to Rouen and Dieppe. This is all in theory. It's anyone's guess where we'll actually end up.

We just hope the transit workers don't go on strike and we can get back by Monday when our next visitor, Robert, arrives for a "HELLO" on his way to butler school in the Netherlands. I know -- butler school! -- weirdest but coolest thing ever, right? So Remains of the Day!

you are fabulous, mon chou,
MJ

Hi Baby! Whatcha doin'?

Loosh and I were just sitting on the couch when he looked over at the baby bump, patted it, and said happily, "Well hi there, baby! Whatcha doin'?" He then leaned in and laughed as if the baby had said something delightfully clever in response. Already these two are a variety act.

We had a strange twilight zone-ish experience this weekend. I took Lucien up to Canal Saint Martin so we could watch the boats navigate the locks and so Alex could carry on his affair with his cruel mistress named "work." I hate that demanding bi-atch. She better hope we never meet in a dark but lovely Parisian alley.

Waiting for the metro, Lucien and I, for the first time ever, were the only ones on the platform. On either side. Even more, once the train arrived, we were the only ones on it and sat in a completely empty car. Weirdness. My mind went strange places as I wondered what the smarter-than-I people of Paris knew about this possible demon train.

I admit my defenses were heightened, perhaps disproportionately so. When one sole guy got on with us, I pulled out my trusty switchblade and picked my teeth with it. I'm not one to be trifled with and wanted him to know I will defend myself from his complete lack of imminent threat to my person.

And yeah, in case it isn't obvious I'm off my rocker with sickness again. Lucien just keeps bringing this crap home from the garderie and I just keep catching it. Alex, fortunately and enviably, continues to have the immune system of a thousand warriors with really good immune systems. This afternoon found me half-comatose on the couch which allowed Loosh the freedom to rummage through the kitchen and dig into a bag of pure cane sugar. When I came to, his mouth and shirtfront were encrusted and he was grinning big. Real big.

This weekend at the park Lucien took a particular shine to a toy fire truck a little boy was riding. He approached the boy several times, asked if he could have a turn, and got shot down every time. Dejected, he returned to our bench. Alex, hoping to help him start a dialogue and a friendship with the little boy, told him to go give the kid a push on his truck because he was too small to move it very fast himself. So Lucien walked over and "pushed" that kid right off the truck and into the dirt. After yelling, "OH NO," Al turned to look at me and said thoughtfully, "probably shouldn't have said, 'push,' eh?" I agreed.

Al approached and smoothed things over with the kid and the kid's mom and and had everyone laughing (except for the little boy lying in the dirt) over the misunderstanding. Lucien received serious stinkeye from dirt boy for the rest of the afternoon but thankfully he is immune to such things.

Today was the Loosh's first day at school. Since he was a bit intimidated, he was a total angel and wanted to hold the teacher's hand constantly after I left. That's how he rolls -- he lulls teachers into a false sense of security initially with his hand-holding and big grins but in the following days as he gets more comfortable, he frees up the urge to "be himself." They have yet to see the Loosh's patented brand of mischief -- but for now let's not think about it. Just sit back and enjoy the honeymoon.

And in a note to me, highlighted and underlined, I've got to stop nodding and smiling when someone says something in French I don't understand. Happened again today at school. The problem, besides missing crucial information regarding my son's academic career, is that the teachers now think my French is top notch and just keep hurling more words at me, faster and faster as I nod faster and faster like a coked-up MJ Bobblehead. Who else thinks this is going to get me in trouble, possibly very soon?

In one of my favorite moments ever, a pigeon pooped on Al's Economist while he was reading it at the park over the weekend, causing him to swear real loud and flap around like a bird himself.

Stop getting me sick, mon chou, seriously,
MJ

Travel sucks

Everyone envies a friend traveling to Paris. And on the flip side, it's hard to say, "I'm going to Paris next week" without sounding like an obnoxious braggart. But sometimes people traveling to Paris find themselves desperately wanting to be anywhere else -- and in fact envious of their friends sitting at home in front of their television sets.

Take our friend Farrah, for example, who is here visiting right now. Farrah traveled solo to Paris, joining her husband Mitchell here who had been in London on business. Her seat companions for the international flight were two fifty-something lesbians who just happened to be batshit crazy. One was an academic with earplugs trying to read a 300-page dissertation before landing and feeding her partner pills to keep her quiet. Her partner was a chat-happy, pill-popping cutter, as evidenced by scars and fresh marks on her forearms, who was reading a book on the subject entitled, Bodily Harm.

Crazy Cutter talked Farrah's ear off, primarily about her troubles. When Farrah attempted an evasive maneuver by putting on headphones to watch the movie, Cutter did the same so they could, oh goodie, watch it together. During the funny scenes, Cutter leaned over laughing out loud and slugged Farrah hard in the arm. During the sad scenes, Cutter would cry and Academic would lean over and count her out some more pills.

Academic offered some happy pills to Farrah as well but Farrah declined, as she is OK with allowing herself to feel emotions such as "sadness" from time to time. After a few more doses of happy pills, blessed silence returned to the flight when Cutter finally passed out -- on Farrah's shoulder.

Farrah was able to get in touch with her sadness again, as well as some other emotions, when she reached Charles de Gaulle and discovered her luggage had not made the journey with her.

On top of that delightful revelation came a disastrous interaction with a snobby French girl working at the newsstand where Farrah attempted to buy a phone card. When the girl said it cost ten euros, F, in her haze of exhaustion placed ten cents on the counter. The girl looked at it incredulously, told Farrah that wasn't ten euros, then started laughing at her with a co-worker behind the counter. So awesome. Farrah had to approach the bitchy little Frenchie again when she could not get the phone card to work, receiving only the infuriating French shrug accompanied by some more laughter aimed in her general direction.

So finally she wound up on the metro, heading for Notre Dame where we were to meet. But upon reaching the St. Michel stop, the also-from-out-of-town woman in front of her didn't know you have to open the doors yourself so she stood there in front of the closed doors until, inevitably, the train started moving again. Farrah felt the panic as her stop came and went, whirled around and asked, pleadingly, "What do I do now?" to the other passengers who just stared at her blankly.

Hoofing it from the next metro stop back towards Notre Dame, I don't think Farrah felt very enviable or lucky to be in Paris. I think she felt "anger" and "violence." I sure wish I had some happpy pills to count out for her.

Many chats with Air France personnel followed, including one humiliating exchange in which she was asked to list the items in her suitcase. She had to admit, out loud, to a French person, that one whole bag contained nothing but Jif Peanut Butter and Kraft Mac-n-Cheese. I'm so sorry, friend, if my cravings caused you pain.

After a celebratory phone call in which a woman told me the luggage had been located and would be delivered at 1:00pm, we went out, quite cheerily, to see Paris. But, of course, this being France, the courier showed up at 10:00am. This resulted in an angry phone call between myself and the courier that went something like this -- Me: But she told me 1:00! Man: But I am here now. Me: But she told me 1:00! Man: But I am here now. Me: But she told me 1:00, ya big jerk! Man: (infuriating French shrug which, unbelievably, is discernible over the phone)

Luggage was eventually gotten and mass quantities of peanut butter and mac-n-cheese will now be consumed. And Farrah is recovering nicely thanks to beer, baguettes, and cheese.

Yesterday was Lucien's last day at the garderie. As badly as it started at the garderie two months ago, the little guy managed to work his way into the teachers' and kids' hearts. Louder and bigger, absolutely, but sweet, a lot of fun and endlessly entertaining. His teachers became quite attached to our favorite little wildman and gave him repeated hugs, kisses, good lucks, high fives and tickles on his last day. I was made to promise we would stop by sometime to say, "Bonjour" but of course we never will.

He begins a private preschool on Monday. A whole new chapter of crazy begins. Wish the teacher luck.

Man-n-cheese weekend, mon chou!
MJ

Run, Lucien, Run!

OK, judging from some of the emailed questions I've received, it's obvious I wrote my recent post about the red light district horribly, horribly, wrong. Either that or some of you are just seriously messed up.

Nope, we don't know what happens after you pay 50 euros for a drink (Uncle Alex came dangerously, if unknowingly so, close to finding out). No, the guys don't know what a "hostess club" is and, quite honestly, neither do I. Can someone look it up on Wikipedia? And no, they didn't take Lucien! (I received that question twice). I mean honestly, what must you people think of us?

Let me rephrase the whole dang story. Two innocent souls, after finishing their devotions at Sacre Coeur, of course, wandered unwittingly into the seamy and torrid world of the Parisian red light district. Thinking an old-time burlesque show at the Moulin Rouge could be fun, the boys were instead turned away into the dark, dark night by the aggressiveness of the Moulin Rouge pricing strategy. Pushing their way through the crowds of sleazy men trying to pull them into sleazy clubs, the boys insisted all they wanted was to get home and call their mothers. But swept up in a tide of sleaze, the boys were instead pushed into a club where they refused to pay for drinks for two ladies of unknown profession. (Seriously unknown -- what ARE "hostesses"?) The boys then made their way out of the red light district, after briefly being tempted by curiosity at ye ole Sexodrome, and immediately returned to their volunteer work at a nearby clinic for dogs with substance abuse problems.

Much better.

The Loosh has taken up long distance running. He's got the fever. When we're at the park (all too often for this parked-out mama) there inevitably comes a moment when Lucien looks at me and announces, "It's time to run." So I settle my butt on a nearby bench and let the magic happen.

At first, no one notices the little running boy running laps around the playground. By lap three or four, people start grinning at him as he runs past. By lap ten or so, mouths are hanging open. By the end of his run, he has a large following including cheering section.

Other children try to run with him. They keep up for awhile but inevitably end up in little kid piles of sweat and exhaustion. But the Loosh runs on, barely winded. And I admit, I have yelled upon occasion, "Run, Forrest, Run!" It feels good to crack yourself up.

One family on their way out of the park stopped and asked me incredulously, "Does he ALWAYS have that kind of energy?" To which I couldn't reply because I was sound asleep on the park bench. They took that as a "yes," I think.

I'm relieved to see he's taken up running as Al and I didn't know how to break it to him his cycling career wasn't going anywhere, given the pedal-free method and whatnot.

I'm pretty sure my OB is crazy but thankfully I thoroughly enjoy crazy people. His favorite English phrase is "Wait a minute," which he likes to repeat several times in a row and at twice the volume of the words around it. For instance -- "Oh, I see we're at week 15 now so we should start -- WAIT A MINUTE, WAIT A MINUTE, WAIT A MINUTE -- we should start thinking about scheduling the next ultrasound."

He also seems to think "be quiet" means "don't worry." At least I hope so or else he's just damn rude. When I told him I forgot to bring my blood test results, he said soothingly, "Be quiet. Be quiet. Be quiet." He also told me in a reassuring voice my ultrasound looked perfect so I should "be quiet." So either the guy thinks I talk way too much or those words don't mean what he thinks they mean.

I want to share a great quote from Uncle Alex regarding the Loosh. He said to him, "Lucien, I have no doubt you are going to do great and amazing things with your life. But until that day, I think you're going to be grounded a lot."

Ain't that the truth. He'll be one hell of an adult but wow -- my Al and I are in for quite a ride, I think, and we should probably consider prescription tranquilizers to get us through.

Mitchell and Farrah are here now. Our poor Farrah has the travel story from hell. I can't wait to share in all its gory detail but I'm going to let her recover a bit first, out of respect.

Be quiet, mon chou,
MJ

Water lilies + red light district = weird weekend

Ever wanted to experience the seamier side of Paris but lacked the courage? No problem -- Alex and Alex are here to experience the Red Light District for you and report back in full, mind-boggling detail. More on our favorite manly men's adventure later.

(You may ask, what's up with my themes lately? Stripping? Porn? Red Light District? Did I turn French that quickly? Where'd my Puritan roots go? The answer is I don't know. Something just happens to you here.)

Al and I had a fabulous night on the town Friday. It was a real change to be able to choose a restaurant without worrying about the size of the tables (When dining with the Loosh we must find a table large enough to accommodate paper and crayons AND keep all glassware out of his arm's reach, as several wine and water goblets have been cracked when he's banged them together and yelled, "CHEERS.")

Strolling the streets after dinner, we walked right into a "moment" -- the kind that made me (hallelujah) think, "YES! Moving to Paris is the absolute best thing we've ever done!" A jazz band played on rue de Buci, attracting quite a crowd of enthusiastic revelers, Al and I included. People leaned out their windows from apartments above and others at sidewalk cafes tapped their feet and danced best they could in their seats without compromising their French composure.

You can join in the moment (albeit in a darker and less "there" kind of way) and see the Riverboat Shufflers, along with their biggest fan, the delightful "dance like nobody's watching" lady over to the right in the "list of things to click."

I'm going to heap responsibility for this next misadventure on my friend Uncle Alex. He had the (granted, super awesome) idea to go to Giverny Saturday morning. Giverny is a tiny one-road village approximately 45 minutes outside of Paris made famous by Claude Monet's home and gardens, inspiration for many of his paintings including those nutty water lilies.

Upon seeing Giverny, his home and gardens, there was much grumbling amongst the three of us that sure, if you lived there, ANYONE could be inspired to create great works of art. (The three of us like to grumble a lot and I think that's why we're friends) I mean, really, the place is just crazy beautiful. I'd like to see if he could've come up with something just as good living in Scranton or Detroit or something. Detroit water lilies? Exactly -- not so famous.

Souring the day in a major way was the weather. Rainy and cold and no fun at all. It did lend a watery impressionist-like look to the whole place which seemed appropriate but we still decided to cut the day short and head back home.

That's when it all went wrong and we became prisoners of Giverny. We returned to the parking lot in the driving rain, assuming we'd find the same shuttle bus that brought us from the Vernon train station sitting right there waiting to take us back. But it was more "not there" than "there." Upon inspection of posted bus schedule we discovered it didn't arrive for two more hours. Imagine our delight! It's hard to describe our complex feelings at that point, standing there shivering in the rain. Actually no, not so hard -- we were pissed.

We walked up to Information to have them call us a taxi, hoping we would make it to the station in time to catch the soon-to-depart train. We met three American women there trying to do the same thing. At first I was relieved to encounter a group of fellow countrywomen during my wet, cold, emotional turmoil but when they started speaking to us I was quickly reminded that Americans are nuts, too. The smiley lady from Colorado was lovely but the tense woman from California had a serious stick up her bum and her twenty-something daughter obviously despised her and wanted to be far, far away.

We all ended up sharing a taxi back to the station. And what a ride that was. The driver couldn't get my Al's seat to fold down in the back of the van so Alex crouched on top of the folded seat and prayed he would one day feel his legs again. The driver nearly killed us half a dozen times, including once when he seriously cut off a driver coming straight at the side of our cab resulting in screeching brakes and shaking fists.

And no, of course we didn't make the train. We missed it by two minutes. When was the next one coming? Two miserable hours.

Staring forlornly at the empty track with the other Americans, Alex turned to them and said, "Do you guys feel OK about the way we divvied up the fare? It all happened pretty fast; we were so rushed." And the stick-up-the-bum Californian immediately piped up, "You owe us two euros." Yikes. Something tells me that lady ain't the life of any party.

We gave them the euros and ran away fast, squatting in a bar across the street where I watched with some feeling akin to jealousy as the boys downed beer (OJ for the youngest boy, no worries). More grumbling followed, mostly about how we'd been sucked into the black hole of Vernon, France and were going to grow old and die there. But eventually -- happy part -- we made it home.

And now for the not-so-salacious Red Light District stories (sorry for the "salacious-free" bombshell but how else was I going to get you to sit through all that Giverny bullshit?) It's true; Alex and Alex journeyed to Pigalle with stern instructions to take notes. But perhaps I should have sent men of tackier or more questionable character.

They wanted to check out a classic French burlesque show at the Moulin Rouge -- sure, it's touristy but how bad can it be? We'll never know, for the boys walked up, saw a staggering ticket price of 150 euros per person and elegantly dressed French couples stepping out of fancy cars, and quickly turned away to the -- err -- less classy but far more affordable part of town.

Walking through Pigalle, Alex and Alex were hassled aggressively by the men who stand on the street and recruit people into clubs. They didn't exactly knock 'em over the head and drag them in but they didn't clear the way to let them pass, either. Eventually, the Alexs went into something called a "hostess club" and sat down. And were immediately weirded out.

Two women came and sat down with them, making awkward small talk and eventually asking if they wanted to buy them a round of drinks. My Al understood the drinks cost 50 euros apiece and said nothing but Uncle Alex, between the loud music and French not being his native language, didn't understand everything and instead started nodding politely (Don't do this). The woman next to Uncle Alex then stood up and walked to the bar.

My Al leaned across to Uncle Alex and yelled, "Do you realize what you've just done?" Uncle Alex shook his head "no" in confusion. Then my Al explained the drinks cost 50 euros -- this made other Alex gasp with surprise and concern. At this point, perhaps sensing they just weren't that into her, the "hostess" sitting next to my Al turned a bit pissy -- my Al then calmly stated to other Al, "We gotta get out of here NOW."

And that's the end.

NO, wait! They did walk into the infamous Sexodrome but only made it about ten feet. They turned back with haste when they saw the "This way to the sauna!" sign.

The Alexs were back in our neighborhood, a bit dazed, within an hour. They reported the experience as "uncomfortable" and "sleazy." So next time I send reporters into the Red Light District, I'm going to choose a couple sleazebags with questionable morals and a bagful of euros. That should net me some pretty good stories. (And hell yeah I'm glad the Alexs aren't those people).

Bye Bye Uncle Alex! We had such a good time with you! Except for Giverny! Maybe that was a bad idea!

Not much time for us mourn his return home, however, because our next guests arrive in less than 48 hours. Next up -- Mitchell and Farrah from beautiful Charleston, South Carolina. (They don't have questionable morals either so probably no good stories there).

It is good to be good, mon chou,
MJ

There will be porn

Uncle Alex, who, by the way, is the lowest- maintenance house guest ever (haven't seen him in days which makes it awfully hard to get sick and tired of him much as I want to) is compiling a photo essay entitled, "This would not fly in the U.S. of A." The picture up above is my favorite of the bunch. It's an everyday power strip, glued and caulked to the outside of a building, with two everyday transformers plugged in, wires snaking back into the two restaurants it sits between. It's pure brilliance in its stupidity.

We're going to walk back there when it's raining and touch it just to prove a point, live dangerously, and kill some time. And why yes, "Danger" is all of our middle names.

Regarding the red stuff splashed around, we are fairly certain it's paint but given the likely IQ of the Darwin-award winning person who rigged this thing up, we can't be too sure. It could be stupid person blood. Probably not too much of a stretch to assume they do lots of things capable of making them bleed.

You know what else wouldn't fly in the U.S. of A.? Porn. When we were setting up our cable we were annoyed we had to select a "Parental Code." "Why do we have to do that? There's no need for such nonsense." But the cable box insisted so we gave in. Only later did we understand why -- "standard cable" in France comes with not just one but several porn channels. Why howdy there, naked folks!

It's nice they want to shield children from such things with a parental code but honestly, isn't the best shielding NOT making the HOT XXX channel part of the package alongside Nickelodeon?

And for all you future houseguests who are now more-eagerly-than-ever looking forward to your visit -- we ain't givin' you the code, you little perverts.

This is a short one today because this evening is a momentous occasion. Uncle Alex has given into our repeated demands and has agreed to babysit the Loosh so Al and I can have our very first solo dinner out in this most beautiful of cities. But do Mommy and Daddy even remember how to make adult conversation? We may end up singing each other the ABCs. Or instead of asking, "How is your coq au vin, my darling?" we may ask, "Do you have to do a pee-pee?" out of habit.

Wish us luck.

Be kind to Uncle Alex, mon chou,
MJ

a.k.a Frenchie Sizzlethong

I've never wanted to be a stripper. Not once in my thirty-something years on the planet have I dreamt of taking my clothes off in front of strangers. But thanks to the French medical system, my familiarity and comfort with stripping is reaching ridiculous new highs. Just call me Frenchie Sizzlethong. (No. Don't.)

Here's how it works. You're sitting in the waiting room and the doctor calls you into his office. Very few doctors operate with nurses or receptionists so it's just you and doc. Then you talk for a little bit about why you're there and whatnot and then the doctor nonchalantly tells you to take off your clothes. You hesitate a bit before moving, waiting for him to leave the room or whip out those fancy paper gowns we get in the States. But no. He will continue to sit there.

So you get up from your chair and start taking off your clothes, wondering if you should be humming a little stripper music or something and trying not to be offended by the way the doctor yawns and looks around the room in boredom. Occasionally you have to pipe up and ask what can stay on, what has to come off, etc., because you found the "take your clothes off" instructions a little too vague.

But it's the cruelest stripping gig of all, for when the visit is said and done, YOU then have to pay HIM. At my first trip to the baby doctor I hadn't even gotten all my clothes on by the time he had to rush off to a birth so I wrote a check sitting in my underwear, all the while thinking, "Huh. THIS is different...."

I don't think I'm a prudish person. I don't think I have crazy nudity issues and I sure haven't minded countless doctors over the years seeing me in all the birthday suit glory. I mean hell, I've birthed a child and there ain't NO modesty involved in all that nonsense. And yet, there is still something uncomfortable and embarrassing about the actual act of disrobing in front of a stranger even if he is a damn doctor.

But in the spirit of evolution, I have adapted to my new surroundings. I've now had a few visits and it's given me an opportunity to both get over it and practice my technique. Sometimes I just start stripping down in the hallway as I'm walking into the office, kicking off my shoes and giving the doc a "What's up?" nod on my way to the exam table. I can roll with it.

I probably shouldn't get too comfortable with this new routine lest I give some nurse the shock of her life back in the States when she turns around to take my blood pressure and I'm sitting on the table naked with a checkbook in my hand.

I have to write about my OB sometime because he's a piece of work -- in an endearingly hilarious and good way. I had an appointment yesterday and he blew in the door, late and somewhat out of breath. I asked him the customary, "Ca va?" and he responded, "It's like HELL!" in a big roaring voice. Love this guy.

So speaking of strippers and endearing men who swear a lot, we are having a fantastic visit with Uncle Alex. He's hilariously great with the Loosh, has not complained once about the crunchiness of the towels and is remarkably self-sufficient as he speaks fluent French and disappears for hours at a time to read books along the Seine. He has not made an ass of himself yet so I have nothing to report on that front -- but he's here for four more days so there's still hope.

He and I went to the Rodin museum yesterday which essentially only served to make me feel like a talentless piece of crap. What a showoff that guy was with his masterpieces in marble.

My insecurities aside, Rodin was a master. The museum is now one of my favorite spots in Paris as it occupies both a gorgeous old mansion and the immaculate gardens surrounding it. I could have spent the entire day staring at the Gates of Hell and, in fact, plan on taking a full day someday soon to do just that. They are beyond mesmerizing. What a jerk.

Uncle Alex had the fabulous idea of taking us all out for fondue! Sounds fun, eh? We thought so, too, until the food arrived and they sat little flaming torches and pots of boiling oil inches from the Loosh's face. What started out as a fun little dinner idea turned into a quest for survival as I tried to keep Lucien a safe distance from the flames and oil that popped and sputtered whenever someone stuck a piece of chicken into it. It was not the most relaxing dinner on record but we all left burn-free and properly stuffed so be it.

It's like HELL, mon chou,
FS

Puppy dogs run amok

Hello friends. You know, I was reminded this past weekend of something one of my French teachers, a Parisian, told me long ago. I had mentioned I thought Parisians were a bit- bordering- on- the- unfriendly because no one smiled at anyone. And he snorted and said, "Oh, but you Americans. You are like little puppy dogs running down the street, grinning and smiling and trying to talk to everyone like, 'Look at me; play with me; love me!'"

And it's so true. I can spot an American with frightening accuracy from a mighty distance. And it's not by their appearance but by the way they automatically try to look everyone they pass in the eye and smile. I, of course, always return the look and smile which occasionally prompts them to whisper loudly to each other, "See? That one was friendly!"

I was reminded of this because this past weekend we attended the MESSAGE Easter egg hunt -- a large, large, large gathering of incredibly enthusiastic fellow puppy dogs.

In preparation, I purchased the required two bags of chocolate eggs. Alex opened and started eating the required two bags of chocolate eggs on the metro but after I smacked his hand and told him we had to turn the eggs over to the organizers for "distribution and hiding purposes" he grumped the rest of the way about a "damn Communist Easter egg hunt."

You could feel the change in the air as we approached the park. By the time we reached the entrance, the change in energy from formal to festive was so palpable I nearly dropped to my knees with a relieved "Hallelujah!" It was like walking into a huge group hug. Everyone was putting on their name tags and smiling, smiling, SMILING so widely at each other it looked likely our heads were going to split in half. There were hearty handshakes and bear hugs and deliciously LOUD laughter and guffaws all over the place. We were a delirious bunch of smiling, silly, happy little puppy dogs with tails wagging jumping all over each other, eager to play with our fellow puppy friends.

The day was warm and sunny and the setting amazing, if a bit surreal. The park contains an ancient Roman arena dating from the 2nd century. Yeah, right, like THAT'S a real date. So in an arena where gladiators once fought and brutally gored each other and, oh, were occasionally ripped apart by animals and stuff, all the native English speakers in Paris gathered to eat chocolate eggs, litter ancient arena with foil wrappers, and share stories of varying hilarity about surviving as an anglophone in Paris. We are gladiators of a different and thankfully less violent kind -- but I guarantee we're fighting for our survival with as much desperation as those super old guys did.

One British guy declared, with that wonderfully wry sense of British humor, that he hoped the French didn't have it out for the English speakers in the city. And if they did, he hoped they weren't very organized about it. For if they had the desire and motivation, they could "take us all out in one fell swoop" upon learning we were congregated in one location. But they let us live. This time.

Lucien, in a surprise to no one who knows him, once again proved he is a Machiavellian genius. His sharp eyes instantly spotted one of the ladies hiding the eggs. She was being super stealth about the whole thing and no one else noticed but he was immediately onto her and simply started following her. Every egg she put down, the Loosh snuck up behind her and picked up. We let this go on probably longer than we should have because we were enjoying it too much to stop it, but I did eventually step in and ask Lucien to help "redistribute" half his massive pile of eggs (this resulted in more muttering from my Al. Man, that guy can mutter).

By the end of the morning, my cheeks ached from smiling so much. It was a much-needed respite from trying hard to "be French" to relax and be loud, laughing, perhaps-assholes with the Americans, the British, the Australians, the Irish, hell even a few fluent English speakers from Denmark.

And me worrying about Lucien's lack of an Easter basket? Unnecessary worrying, as most of my worrying tends to be. Theme of the day was apparently, "What the hell is a basket?" and most children gathered their eggs in plastic grocery bags or, even better, down their shirts.

"Uncle Alex," our dear friend from Seattle, is visiting with us now. He won my eternal loyalty when he entered the apartment, opened his suitcase and presented me with precious and unsolicited gifts -- Kraft mac-n-cheese and Jif peanut butter. Uncle Alex is a rock star.

And in an unrelated news item chalked up under "minor celebrity sighting," we saw Harold from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle last night at dinner. What do you mean you haven't seen it? Oh, come ON! That s@#! was hilarious!

Everyone loves puppies, mon chou,
MJ

Supermarket Survival

Well either my fearsome reputation has preceded me or the thief in the building just developed a conscience. What did I find back on top of the mailboxes? My MESSAGE Bible about anglos raising rugrats in the City of Light. I'm glad I didn't have to open my can of whoopass on the entire building because I do SO hate to make a scene.

And it wasn't just a book instructing me on the ins and outs of parenting in Paris. Included was a smaller pamphlet entitled... wait for it....... wait for it...... Supermarket Survival! Oh Sweet Jebus! I'm not alone anymore and I know what love feels like!

Devouring this small guide, I was bummed to find I'd already learned many of the lessons it contained the hard, solo way. I wish I had received the thing six months ago -- I could have been studying hard for the giant test that is french grocery shopping. But I also learned some new tidbits that perhaps will spare me some future pain. I learned the infamous weighing/labeling machine also works with a number system if you can't find the picture or name. Now I feel bad for abandoning all those plastic bags full of defenseless vegetables but also can't wait to finally, victoriously return home with cauliflower and green onions.

I will revisit some of my early pregnancy memories only if I'm in a good mood. I'm feeling festive this evening so let's start out fun and simple with the strong desire to throw up all over Paris.

This baby is seriously out to get me. I did not suffer nearly this badly during the first go-around with the Loosh. We're talking doubled-over desire to vomit more or less 24 hours a day for six weeks straight. All while taking care of Lucien who, let's face it, is not the easiest kid to keep track of when you're considering dry-heaving over the flower beds at the Jardin du Luxembourg.

And the sensitivity to smells? France is hell on earth for pregnant ladies in that respect because this place smells. Not the "Europeans don't shower" kind of smell -- French people actually smell fantastic with their fancy soaps and perfumes -- but more like, "French people eat cheeses that smell like rotting flesh," or "French people smoke without mercy" or "How many outdoor fish markets do French people NEED anyway?"

As much as I already despised grocery shopping, it reached a whole new loathsome level during those weeks of misery. I would walk around Champion and inevitably catch a whiff of the cheese or milk aisle. (they don't refrigerate their milk until after it's opened resulting in a faintly sour smell in the milk aisle. I don't get how that works but the milk tastes fine to me -- what kind of milk voodoo have they got over here anyway?)

But I digress. After just a whiff in these offensive aisles, I would turn on my heel and run as fast as I could out of the store, cheeks puffed out in a serious effort to keep a very, very embarrassing thing from happening in a place where I had already suffered too much embarrassment.

Good ole Al came to the rescue many times with after-work grocery runs. Whadaguy.

On the overcrowded metro to my first doctor's appointment, I found myself sandwiched in with my nose pressed right up against a guy who, I swear, smoked constantly from the minute he was born up until the second he stepped onto the metro with me. It was quite possibly one of the most miserable stretches of time in my life, trying desperately hard to not throw up on the guy but at the same time thinking he deserved it because there should be SOME kind of punishment for walking around smelling that bad.

We have told Lucien there's a baby in mommy's belly and while he seems to understand the basic concept, there also appears to be some confusion. He now believes every woman has a baby in her belly. When our fabu-nanny, Stephanie, showed up one day, Lucien ran over, poked her in the belly button and said, "You got a baby living in there!" Stephanie turned white as a sheet, looking utterly terrified that Lucien was some sort of little magical fortune teller and had just shared a truth she was not ready to hear.

Tomorrow is the MESSAGE group's Easter egg hunt. And I'm nervous. I'm nervous because I've spent the past week searching up and down this city for an Easter basket for the Loosh. Zero. Zip. Nada. Alex found a cute bucket at a toy store near his work and we've decided that will suffice but I'm feeling that strange, eerie, out of the loop thing again. Is it possible there's a different tradition here for Easter egg hunts? Is everyone else going to show up with extravagantly decorated Easter-egg gathering wheelbarrows?

And our next guest, Alex ("Uncle Alex" not to be confused with "My Al") from Seattle arrives on Easter Sunday and is here for a week. He unfortunately speaks fluent French so is not likely to make an ass of himself in that respect. But hopefully he will trip and fall into the Seine so I have something to write about.

Happy Easter, mon chou,
MJ

Going to get Laid and devil dogs

When Alex comes home from work, we often greet each other with a "Did you have a bad France day or a good France day?" It's not just about "good" and "bad" anymore. Crucial to the equation is how we perceive our surroundings to be treating us. Alex could be fired from his job today but if someone smiled at him on the metro home he would consider it a "good" day and come in the door whistling.

The Loosh and I had a date today with a MESSAGE mom, Susan, and her surprisingly large three-year-old son, Noe, who is roughly the size of a sixteen-year-old and who could possibly lift me over his head one-handed, clinging to his blankie with the other. He's totally Bam-Bam (I'm shocked to be using so many Flintstones references as of late).

Super cool Susan from Boston married a French guy. And my favorite part -- her husband's name is Laid. She had me spitting out my coffee all over the place recounting conversations with people such as, "Hey, guys. I'm gonna go get Laid and then we'll meet you there," etc. etc. She's had many shocked silent responses as a result and believes there are rumors floating around that she "shares too much."

So while we both rock as super cool bohemian Paris mamas, we're apparently not very smart. We agreed on the Bois de Vincennes for our playdate, a huge park on the outskirts of the city. The fact that it was cold and raining did not seem to enter into the equation. Perhaps it should have. Our boys were crabby and wet and cold and spent most of the time pushing each other and fighting over ridiculous things such as who was going to hold who's hand first when crossing the street.

Susan did suggest going inside at one point -- to the aquarium. I'm sure she didn't understand my shuddering, recoiling response, but she didn't bring it up again so the message was probably received that I am in utter fear of all things fish. Now granted, this is a different aquarium on the complete other side of the city but I'm not taking any chances lest it be a combo aquarium/medieval methods of torture museum or something.

The French are very strict with their kids. I personally think TOO strict, but of course I come from America where we let our children run naked in the streets, swing from power lines and scream like Tarzan. Or is that just my kid? Anywho, if you see a child misbehaving in France, they're either an expat kid OR a French kid out with the nanny, taking advantage of the absence of parents to .....well, act like a kid.

But their DOGS however. Grumble grumble. I've met more than my share of rogue dogs on these streets who could have used a serious doggy timeout. So while little Johnny better not make a sound above a whisper, little Spot is free to lift his leg on or take a bite out of any person on the street without an eye batted by owner.

So there we were in the Bois de Vincennes along with a couple women who brought two absolutely gorgeous and well-behaved little girls and one seriously f'd up terrier mix of a hellhound. For some reason, this dog did NOT take kindly to Noe and took every opportunity to charge and growl at him. I don't know if Noe stuffed his pants full of foie gras or what but that dog was hanging off the back of his pants more often than not. And while the women were quick to scold the little girls for dumping sand on the slide, the sight of the growling, writhing, twisting terrier attached to Noe's behind elicited zero response.

Susan and I, since we didn't know how to beat down a small terrier and still be decent people, instead went on the defense, dodging and ducking the little Monty Python demon rabbit dog, dragging our kids with us behind shrubbery and park benches. Eventually the women left with not so much a glance at the exhausted panting Americans, one of whom had teeth marks embedded in his jeans.

So next time I go to the park, I am going to come prepared with the phrase, "I am going to drop kick your damn dog to Belgium if you don't detach it from my friend's son's backside." You'd be surprised how often it could come in handy.

A man sitting next to us on the metro home was suckered in by the Loosh's charms and we ended up having a basic, friendly French conversation regarding where we were from, how we're living in Paris now, how it's hard to adjust to a new culture, etc. etc. I think I looked pretty tired because when the man got up to exit the train, he threw us what can only be considered a very sympathetic smile and said, "Bon courage, madame." Then he tipped his hat and left.

If all people were that nice around here, we wouldn't need so much "courage."

I realize I've not mentioned anything about being pregnant in France in this post. And I think I know why -- I am avoiding the return to the past, the drudging up of memories I'd recovered nicely from. But maybe next time I can bring myself to revisit the nausea in public places and the curious lack of gowns in doctors' offices. Just maybe.

Bon courage, mon chou,
MJ

The Big Reveal

You know what I enjoy? Bears mauling people. Especially bears mauling people after the person has killed their cub, its lifeless body hanging from their belt. You know what I like best of all? When the moment a bear mauls a person because he's killed its cub is immortalized forever in statue form -- right next to a playground.

We took Lucien to le Jardin des Plantes over the weekend to check out the zoo. On the playground near the entrance to the zoo, children played in the shadow of one giant mauling work of scary art. Parents glanced over their shoulders uneasily at it and children stared with big eyes and no words.

Now -- go enjoy the zoo, kids! Especially the bears!

If you're expecting a Twilight Zone-ish experience at the zoo as we experienced at the aquarium, I hate to disappoint but the zoo is lovely and sweet, questionable choice of statuary aside. We had a great time watching a porcupine charge its keeper, a python scare the bejeezus out of Lucien, and multiple large animals make really, really large piles of crap.

Sunday was my birthday. I awoke that morning late, thanks to Alex getting up and addressing the needs of Lucien, and to the most unsettling sound a mother can hear. Silence. Freaked me right out. I dashed into the living room prepared to address whatever injuries had rendered the two loudest people I've ever known SILENT and found the apartment empty.

That's cool. So I sat with a coffee and looked out the window and enjoyed my first quiet morning since becoming a mother. But then I became aware of the constant droning humming sound above me. The sound of helicopters, circling, circling over our neighborhood. And what was the first thought through my seriously warped mind? Not a curious "Gee, I wonder what's going on out there?" but a frantic "Oh shit, what have Alex and Lucien done???"

I reached for the remote to turn on the TV. I don't know what I was expecting to see, perhaps Al and Loosh, fugitives running from French law with fistfuls of pastry. But no, instead I saw a swarming mass of freakishly skinny crazy running people. Sigh of relief. The Paris marathon. Not a fugitive husband and son.

In my defense, the mind does funny things to you after you've lived with those two for awhile. You don't know the things I've seen.

Since it was my "gettin' hella older" day, Mama called the shots and Mama wanted Montmartre. After the boys returned with croissants and flowers (Everybody together now: "Awwww") we headed for that beautiful butte with the prettiness and the artists once again.

We paid a Montmartre street artist ten euros to do a five-minute sketch of Lucien. This is no easy task as Lucien is far from a stationary, cooperative model but he still managed to capture something in Lucien's face that day -- the tired, far-away look from sleep deprivation thanks to a cold -- that made my eyes want to cry. It's not a superb likeness of him but it captured a moment and a feeling and isn't that what good artists do?

I would like to get a different sketch of Lucien every time we go up to Montmartre and maybe decorate an entire wall with them. Huh? Too much? Damn.

We sat at a cafe right on the Place du Tertre and caught up on our people-watching. I've gotta tell you -- as perfect and wonderful as it is to sit outside in the sun at a Parisian cafe, there is NO elbow room in those joints. I was shoulder-to-shoulder cozy with my Alex on one side and a lovely German man on the other. We were so tightly wedged in, every time either of them leaned forward to sip their beer, they took me with 'em.

We've often said how different life would be here if we'd come to Paris before we had the kid. Case in point -- instead of lazily meandering back down through the windy streets of Montmartre, arm in arm to the metro station, we were instead obliged, once the Loosh set his eyes upon it, to take the extremely tacky red-and-white painted choo-choo shuttle.

Oh, the humiliation as we wound through the streets, the smirks we received from people we passed. Riding in a fake choo-choo. In Montmartre. But seeing the rapture on our boy's face? Well, I'll be damned if it didn't help us smile big, sit back and enjoy the ride.

And now for the big reveal. In a perfectly put quote from my Al, "Wow. Do we know how to make a complicated situation more complicated or WHAT?" I am all knocked up in Paris. About three months along. And hardy har har, go do your little laughy laugh at us -- three months along and been here little over three months? Woo hoo welcome to Paris!

We always knew there was one family member missing at the dinner table (that is, when we all manage to get around a table together, sigh) but to meet them this early in the international adventure? Err.....not so much the plan. Not so much the plan to deal with some pretty horrifying nausea while navigating a new culture and language. No......no....not so much.

But here we are and now that we've seen the ultrasound of the little somethin'-or-other doing flips, we're on board. And let's face it -- being pregnant in a foreign country is really great blog fodder. The Internet may not have enough space for all the stuff I want to talk about regarding the SECRET craziness -- in addition to the craziness I broadcasted all over the damn place -- of the past few months.

But it can wait. The crazy ain't goin' anywhere.

You will be one hell of an older brother, mon chou,
MJ

Bookless zombie mama

Ahh..... life sometimes looks the same regardless of where you've moved. The Loosh is sick again and has us up half the night thanks to his apparently excruciatingly sore throat. The poor kid cries for mama every time he coughs and he coughs approximately every thirty seconds.

So you can, perhaps do the depressing math regarding how many hours (perhaps minutes) of sleep the three of us have gotten the past couple nights. We are a zombie family functioning at the intellectual level of cavemen. I am pretty sure we are meeting our basic needs for food, drink and shelter but other than that -- screw it, sentence trailing off because I'm too tired to figure out how to end it.

I will take a moment in my dazed stupor, however, to complain about the thief living amongst us. When I joined the MESSAGE group, I was told to eagerly await the Bible of expat mamas -- Raising Children in Paris. And oh, how I waited. Eagerly, too, just like they said!

So yesterday morning, when Alex called me after he left for work to tell me the book was waiting for me on top of the mailboxes, I was filled with relief and overcome with emotion. Finally, a book that was going to tell me precisely how to raise my child! But alas, Paris had another cruel trick to play on me. By the time I bounded down the stairs to the promised land mailboxes, the book was gone. OH, the betrayal! OH, the fists of fury that pounded on the mailboxes while I screamed my agony to the heavens.

There aren't many of us living in this building so my suspect list is small, which is exactly how I like my suspect lists. Could it be the Quebecois, the ones who seem to love us but may secretly be planning my mothering downfall? Could it be the cello playing grandma downstairs? She claims to love children but perhaps she's had enough of Lucien's hard-heeled livin' and wants him to suffer in Paris, wants his mama to wander aimlessly through the streets not knowing what the hell to do with him.

Or could it be the boulanger and his wife? They are suspiciously secretive and stealthy. And their baguettes have not been up to snuff lately, perhaps because they're spending too much time READING? Of course, my number one suspect would be mean troll man + wife upstairs but I haven't heard them in awhile and assumed they were out of town. But perhaps they're just hiding up there with my book? Laughing as quietly as possible into cupped hands?

I don't know who it is but I'm about to go all Nancy Drew on their asses to find out. This building won't know what hit it when I start detecting with my two best gal pals and my poodle skirt.

...err, I should probably go get some sleep now.

I was looking forward to having the answers in Raising Children in Paris but now that it appears we will never meet, Lucien will probably have to raise himself.

Nigh' nigh', mon chou,
MJ