We see dead people! I had to say it and I apologize!

What better way to spend a flawlessly gorgeous holiday Monday (another I-dunno-why three-day weekend here; God bless the Frenchies) than enjoying some dead people? Stopping first for some fresh cherries at a produce stand, as that seemed a refreshing snack to munch on while visiting the deceased, the three of us spent the morning at Pere Lachaise cemetery.

This is Oscar Wilde's tomb, covered in heavily lipsticked smooches

...and this is Oscar's neighbor. Not famous, but someone didn't want him to feel left out so gave him a smooch, too. Thoughtful.

We saw the greatest hits, of course, including Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Jim Morrison, Gertrude Stein, and Edith Piaf, and enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of the sun-dappled cemetery punctuated periodically by shrieks from our child. We explained to him it was a place of quiet and respect for dead people but that only piqued his interest; from then on he pointed at each and every tomb we passed and said loudly, "He died and he died and he died and he died..." He also stopped next to tourists once in awhile to explain helpfully, "That's a dead guy."

JIM!

Thanks to Rick Steves, our cheeky tour guide in book form, I now know Gertrude Stein's last words and they made me grin. When asked on her deathbed, "What's the answer?" Gertie replied, "What's the question?"

FRED!

The cemetery made Alex thoughtful and he rambled on and on with some nonsensical simile about how holding onto Lucien is like holding onto sand -- if you squeeze too hard and mix him with water he becomes mud. You must therefore hold onto him without closing your hand. Brief pause here while everyone digests that little nugget. I've been with Al forever but I swear I still don't understand half of what that guy says. Judging from his laughter after he was done ruminating, I don't think he understands most of what he says, either.

We don't know who this guy is, but we likey that he wanted "Finally Alone" on the top of his tomb.

We spent Sunday with one of Al's American co-workers and her family at the coolest place in Paris if you like your kids happy and entertained -- the Jardin d'Acclimation. It's an amusement park on the edge of the city and we dug it in every way, from the nauseatingly cool rides and wading pool to the petting zoo and choo-choo. Lucien rode his first roller coaster, and then promptly his second, for the kid remains without fear and forever in search of thrills and reasons to yell.

But on the way there, walking to the metro stop on that beautiful blue-skied morning, it became obvious the drivers in Paris are messing with Al's brain. Enjoying the security of the "green man" at a busy intersection, we started to cross the street. As soon as we started across, "green man" turned red and Al, in a somewhat delirious state, started hollering at me and dragging me by the arm, under the impression, apparently, that bloodthirsty driving Parisians were revving their engines, aching for a chance to mow over a pregnant lady.

I hollered back at him to calm down, calm down; we would survive the treacherous street crossing if we just kept our wits about us. Once we reached the other side without a scratch, Alex seemed embarrassed, but thought a minute and offered, "At least I reached out to drag you with me instead of taking off alone, yelling, 'Save yourself, honey!'" True enough. I would be looking at Al pretty squarely right now if he had left me alone, running off screaming and waving his arms like a madman, to fend for myself on the cobblestone street in my wedge sandals.

I had the strangest appointment with my OB Friday, which is saying a lot because they're all kind of strange. I was early so I stood outside the building for a bit, enjoying the sunshine and a moment of non-movement. Suddenly a man came up to me speaking gibberishly fast French -- something about how his wife was inside giving birth, his car was parked illegally, he was Jewish, it was the Sabbath, and he needed my help to get into the building which made no sense at all as the doors were standing wide open next to our conversation.

In response, I stood there silently and gawked at him in utter confusion.

He then gestured madly towards the car parked halfway on the sidewalk in front of us and then gestured even more madly towards, I think, God, and ran his fingers periodically through his hair -- the part that wasn't covered with a yarmulke. I considered for a second asking him what the proper thing to do with leftover yarmulkes at a wedding is, but quickly decided maybe it wasn't the right time.

He then disappeared inside the building on the heels of another gentleman ("I can go in with him," is what he cryptically told me) but reappeared moments later and without a word took off running full speed down the middle of the busy street like a dog chasing a UPS truck. As I watched him incredulously, I couldn't help but think maybe I hadn't been very helpful to that nice young man. And that perhaps he wasn't quite ready for fatherhood.

I climbed the stairs to my appointment. I'll take the stairs every time at the clinic, even the day I walk in suffering the full throes of labor, as the elevators are claustrophobic hellish little mirrored coffins. A bunch of people always try to shove in at once, too. The max capacity is three peeps but I've been in there with five and barely made it to the ninth floor with my sanity, muttering, "Oh my God oh my God oh my God" the whole way.

When I exited the stairwell, I was all alone, a loud alarm was sounding, and the lights were flickering on and off. So what's a pregnant woman to do who's just climbed nine flights of stairs and walked into a situation worthy of piercing sirens? Exactly -- I sat down and opened a magazine.

I wasn't there too long before my doctor ran past me and through the stairwell doors. He doubled back, poked his head through the doors and told me he was going to be a bit late as he had to check in with a patient below. When I asked him what the piercing sound was, he answered, "It's an alarm, Madame," and disappeared down the stairs.

Eventually the alarm simmered down and the doctor reappeared. Once inside his office, doin' the ole striptease (I've found my groove and am quite good now but he doesn't seem to notice, or at least hasn't commented on, my improvement in technique) I asked him the normal polite questions -- how things were going, etc. etc. He responded, eyes closed and rubbing his brow, "It's a hard, hard life. Hard, hard, hard...."

Normally this reaction would alarm me in a doctor but I have become accustomed to the sometimes overt drama of the Frenchman and know that, for him, this was akin to saying, "Oh, you know, same ole same ole." I will become worried the day he bounces into the room and claims everything is hunky dory. That will mean the man is losin' it.

OH, and does anyone know what the hell these are? This was an ad in my doctor's office. They appear to be seashells you put on your boobies but I'll be damned if I understand why.


I'm sad you died, Jim Morrison, because you were super hot. Mister Mojo Rising, indeed.

This is the end, mon chou,
MJ

An homage to the people in my life who make funny writing easy

Alex joined me and the fam at a restaurant straight from work the other day with a "shit eating grin," I believe the youngsters call it, spread across his face. He could barely contain his excitement, announcing to my family he had "the best gift ever" for me. We giggled and pleaded for details but he yielded none, sending us into an anticipatory delirium.

Later that night, Al hid a smallish box under my pillow. How exciting! The moment had arrived! So I opened the box and out came a little velvet bag. Alex bounced beside me like a little puppy, urging me to, "Open it! Open it already!"

So I opened the velvet bag with quaking -with -excitement hands and out slid not jewelry, not some culinary delight, not keys to an Italian villa, but... (trumpet fanfare) .....a mouse. And not even the cute furry kind. More the my-husband-is-a-tech-geek kind, the kind that sits alongside your computer and aids in humdrum matters such as cursor moving and left-and-right clicking.


Oh, but this is apparently not just any mouse, my friends. Alex, in a high pitched near shriek of a voice, then explained to me that this was the best....mouse.....ever. Next came a presentation of the extreme functionality of this mouse, how it could work on any surface (you know, for the next time I want to write my blog in the bathtub or outer space or something) and a laborious explanation of all its bells and whistles. Best gift ever, right? Right?

When my family asked the next morning what the big surprise was and I told them the honest-to-goodness truth, four faces fell in unison followed by a "Huh?" from my mama. We are in agreement that, perhaps, as great as the mouse is, he oversold it a little bit.

But wait! There's more! After a few blissful days with the mouse, I came out to my computer one morning to find the mouse gone. Gone, that is, until I looked over at Al and saw him packing it into his laptop bag as quickly as he could. Bastard stole my mouse.

I don't know what to make of it all but am coming to terms with the fact hubby Al is the worst gift-giver in history, not necessarily because of the gift itself but because he doesn't let you keep it.

I am also coming to terms with the departure of my family from Paris. As I write without the aid of a mouse my family is sucking down peanuts on a flight bound for home. I miss them. Without their constant chatter, this apartment that houses Lucien in the middle of the busiest neighborhood in Paris actually seems quiet for the first time ever.

My family is funny. They don't always know it which makes it all the more so. I suspect they may also all be slightly nuts. Now understand -- I am allowed to say that, but if anyone else says that, I will most likely go apeshit on their rose bushes with a pair of hedge clippers.

So don't kid around about how my mom says things to waiters such as, "Deux spoons, please," then chuckles as he walks away and says conspiratorially to me, "Let's see if he understands THAT one..." or the fact that my Dad likes to be at the airport ten hours early (only a slight exaggeration) just in case they encounter the longest airport lines in recorded history, or that my brother bought a tacky Eiffel Tower statue, or that my sister is a sadistic tour guide who is interested in seeing things such as where Edith Piaf once took a poo (only a slight exaggeration again).

I can make fun of all that because Lord help me I adore those people, but if anyone else tries they will face the wrath of MJ, which unfortunately from what I hear from those I've tried to inflict it upon in the past is not all that wrath-like.

(In a similar vein, if we're out together and I say something like, "My husband is a jerk," and you reply, "Yeah, totally," I will throw my drink in your face, possibly stab you, and stomp off. Are you catching my drift here?)

I'm now guessing no one wants to go out and have drinks with me anymore.

This post has absolutely nothing to do with Paris.

I am sad, sad, sad today, mon chou,
MJ

Panda loose in Provence

Ever ridden in a Fiat Panda? I have, jealous folks, (check that one off the lifelong dream list) and it is one sweet ride. I like its simplicity, its refusal to be a pretentious car -- its refusal, in fact, to be much of a car at all. Just a few pieces of sheet metal and some plastic knobs -- that's all I need when it comes to locomotion at high speeds on twisty roads in Provence.

You're a beast, Panda.

We were prepared for difficulties on our trip to Provence, as we had been told by anybody and everybody we were going to get hopelessly lost down there thanks to their refusal to name streets or assign addresses. But once Alex and I hopped in that Panda, it was like the patron saint of Fiat was with us in the back seat, albeit drinking a lot of wine and telling really offensive "yo mama" jokes.

Once Alex got reacquainted with his old, old friend the manual transmission with a few zips (and stalls) around the Avignon train station parking lot, we hit the road, maps in our sweaty little hands, expecting hopeless confusion and frustration. But, and I hate to brag but will, we got every single turn right. Even if it was a guess, yelled out at the last second in utter panic, it was right. And we sailed the forty-five minute drive from Avignon to our hotel in Gordes smoothly, guided by those Panda Lovegods. (That's going to be the name of our band.)

Gordes, the super old medieval town perched on a cliff, is one of the most gorgeous places I've ever stumbled into (literally -- those cobblestones are crooked and my choice of footwear ridiculous). I will put a picture here because there are few words to describe a place so beautiful without using expletives and I'm seriously trying to cut back on those -- though I did use a few while stumbling into Gordes.

We could have walked its narrow streets and looked out at the Luberon Valley forever but we had a damn wedding to go to. Stupid friends getting married all the time and ruining our vacation. Once the horrifically ugly maternity dress was donned, Alex and I attended what could possibly be the most beautiful wedding ever. And I'm not talking about the wedding itself; I'm talking about the guests.

This was a wedding attended mostly by French people, after all, and they are very good at whipping themselves up into objects of murderously enviable and unattainable beauty. And not just the women. The men ranked equally with their meticulously tailored suits, perfectly waved longish hair and impressive mastery of styling products and accessories.

Alex and I occasionally looked down at ourselves then turned and hugged until we felt better.

Alex was given the task of handing out the yarmulkes to the men at the traditional Jewish ceremony. After all men had one on their heads, Alex stood there with a basket still partially full of 'em and looked at me with big question marks in his eyes. Could he just set them on the ground? Or should he pray over them and set them on a bed of roses? We exchanged many looks and shrugs before he decided to ditch them in a planter and join me at our seats. Please forgive us for being so completely culturally and religiously ignorant.

Our friends are radiant and in love and beyond happy.  We are thrilled for them.  We do, however, take issue with their first decision as a married couple, and that was the decision to split up couples at the dinner tables.

This was a wedding full of super hot people (and French) and oooooooh boy, the drama that unfolded! I quickly befriended American Laura to my right because I needed a drama-spotting partner in crime and we spent the evening laughing ourselves silly over the claws and the dagger stares and the heated arguments occurring in the darker corners of the garden. What a hoot!

I thought Laura was my new BFF until she got hella drunk and told me she's seen a bunch of UFOs out her front window. There's really nowhere to go from there.


Other than the meticulous craftsmanship that went into each and every person and the perfection of the six course meal (when was the last time you licked your plate at a wedding?), the wedding pretty much played out like any other I've been to. Awkward small talk reigns until the champagne starts flowing and then every guest is your best friend. Women in high heels find themselves sinking into the soft ground. Toasts are made by people whose hands and voices are shaking. And of course, all hell breaks loose and dancing reaches a fever pitch soon after midnight. We watched as one lady lost hold of her dance partner and was spun straight into the dessert table. It was awesome.

We returned to Paris and my visiting family who had broken, mangled or been befuddled by every appliance we own during our absence. But they were so, so, SO great with the Loosh. And he great with them. Everyone was so great with us gone, in fact, that we should probably be gone most of the time.

We have a couple days left together and thus continue the tourist death marches across the city. Granted, they are slowing down a bit as we have all been stricken with "the cold." Our sight-seeing now includes conversations comparing symptoms and discussing who had the worst night's sleep.

But my family's a bunch of troopers even when sick and have seen nearly everything there is to see in Paris with rather large smiles on their faces. They did give up their will to live somewhere on the first level of the Eiffel Tower today but after seeing the crazy lines they encountered you wouldn't blame them.

Auntie Raba left for home yesterday and this has caused the Loosh much grief. Seeing family leave is not nearly as fun as seeing family arrive and I'm feeling sadness, which is an uncomfortable feeling and one I wish I could treat with alcohol but baby says no.

There is one final tourist attraction to tackle tomorrow, the Rodin museum, after which we will all fall on the ground and not move for many, many days. We all concur that having fun is exhausting.

Vive la Panda, mon chou,
MJ

I'm gonna miss them soooooo much. Message just received from my father --

We have become lost in the Louvre and have little hope of getting out. By mistake we ended up in the apt of Napoleon III. There is no way out. It has been a good life. Good luck with the rest of yours.

Love,

Your family

Now where did I put that family again........?

Hey, has anyone see a bunch of people with varying levels of resemblance to me walking around Paris? Because I'll be damned -- I don't know where my family is.

And the reason I seem to have lost them -- after all these years together, I am now more "mama" than daughter or sister. My mind is full of things such as drop-off for school, pick up from school, nap time, dinner time, bath time, bed time. My boy's needs don't fit nicely into a tourist's schedule, so for most of their stay, the Loosh and I have been at one end of Paris while my family has been at the other.

When I do see them, I have become concerned by some of their behaviors. The whole family is coming down with colds, which means every now and then one of them sucks down an ampoule of French zinc, purchased at the local pharmacy. This wouldn't be noteworthy except the ampoules are made of glass and you have to snap the ends off, dump the contents into your mouth and hold them under your tongue for a minute before swallowing. It's most disturbing when several family members "drop zinc" at the same time, as it kinda looks like we've become a family who does hallucinogenic drugs together.

I am also worried about their preoccupation with a book entitled Quiet Corners of Paris, listing various "quiet" and charming squares, courtyards, etc, in this city not well known for its quietness. I thought it was a sweet little idea to search some out as we wandered around but my eyes widened when numerous maps were busted out, post-it notes applied, and route strategies discussed. This was not some happy little jaunt; this was a serious quest.

Some spots we found were more "not quiet at all" than "quiet," probably because every traveler to Paris now owns a copy of the book. But surprisingly enjoyable was the sojourn into the main courtyard of L'Ecole des Beaux Arts. After receiving the devastating news that the precious post-it note with important details had fallen from the map, we wandered aimlessly through the main courtyard, searching behind dumpsters and skulking alongside classrooms (while students watched, most likely wondering what the hell we were doing at the back of their building, all six of us, one carrying a kid, walking single file past their windows like some nomadic tribe) trying to find our quiet place.

But our intrepid group found it. And it was indeed lovely -- an inner courtyard of columns, terra cotta colored buildings and mosaic floors. Lucien especially enjoyed the statuary and loudly pointed out to all those gathered in the quiet courtyard which statues had penises and which statues had poo poo on their butts. Perhaps next time we search for quiet places it's best to leave the Loosh at home, for he, like Paris, is not known for quietness.

We have had some great dinners but my favorite dinner thus far was the night we brought pizza home and laughed ourselves purple with memories of "the Christmas Molly got drunk." Molly is my parents' cairn terrier and she got booya! wasted one Christmas when she drank a glass of unattended Baileys Irish Creme. She stumbled around the house, occasionally leaning up against the wall or stopping to pee on the floor and then took a log-roll tumble down the stairs. I'm pretty sure she drunk-dialed her ex at 3:00am, too, sobbing and telling him she wanted him back and that his new girlfriend was a slut.

The adventure truly begins for my parents and siblings tomorrow, for Alex and I are leaving town for a wedding in Provence and they will be the sole care providers for Lucien for two days. I am glad there are four of them as there will probably be many hands needed. I'm not sure who will have more stories to tell after the weekend but it will most likely be a memorable time for all.

Perhaps while we're away my dad should "guest blog" about what the hell they've been doing since they arrived. I will be as anxious to read it as anyone else.

Have a deliciously mischievous weekend, mon chou,
MJ

If only we were a family of jedi...

Now aren't they just the cutest little family you've ever done seen?

Whenever my family gets together, life gets turned up by about one thousand decibels. We're a family of talkers-at-the-same-timers. Growing up, our dinner conversations followed a predictable pattern. Three, four, or five trains of thought flying at once, each member trying to be heard above the others, resulting in complete chaos at startling volume. Then there would abruptly be a period of silence, in which all of us would look around at each other and say things like, "What? Huh? What did you say?" After this, there would be another period of silence in which we all shrugged and then immediately started talking at the same time again.

It's worked for us for years and now that we're all old enough to recognize it and laugh about it, we have decided not to change it. So here we are, five persons strong, talking at the same time in Paris. It's comforting after dealing with all the "new" in recent months to know that some things remain the same.

Our family dynamic has not gone unnoticed by my significant other over the years. Actually, I don't think it's gone unnoticed by anyone within earshot. But sometimes, in the midst of all the "communication," Alex, normally a very loud person himself, shakes his head hard as if to dislodge something from his brain and whispers to himself, "Wow."

My family's arrival in Paris went smoothly except the metro turnstile gate closed on and trapped my Dad's suitcase. This is a cautionary tale for those traveling here -- always pass your suitcase in front of you and move with jackrabbit-like speed. (You should also pass your small children in front of you, too, unless you like the look of a smooshed-face kid) If a couple nice young men hadn't happened by and helped pry open the doors, Dad would still be stuck at Charles de Gaulle and we would be whoopin' it up without him.

Jet lag truly takes a toll on bodies as evidenced by the zombie-like creatures I walked around with on Saturday. The enthusiasm was there, the excitement to see each other and experience all Paris offers together, but the bodies were not operating at full capacity. When we made the tactical error of sitting in our living room to chat for a bit, they started dropping like jet-lagged flies all around me.

Uncle Bala head-bobbed in the rocking chair. Gampa went sleepy-boo sitting on the couch. Gamma looked over at Gampa incredulously and said, "I could never doze off like that," but within five minutes she was out cold. This left Auntie Raba and I looking around at the comatose folks and laughing our arses off, a raucous noise at which none of them stirred which made it even funnier.

The dominating figure in my family's Parisian experience thus far has been the helluva woman running their hotel. They are staying at a little hotel around the corner, full of charm and wonderfully decorated little rooms. I had read reviews of the hotel online before they came and there was one recurring theme -- place is adorable but the lady who runs it is a piece of work, formidable, zero English, and NOT the friendliest.

When I first walked into the lobby and got my first look I was struck with one and only one thought, fear and awe blocking out all others -- holy help us it's Jabba the Hutt.

She's a large woman. By French standards she's a gigantic woman. But the Jabba reference comes more from the fact she sits at a small desk in the corner and has such a presence, is such a commanding force, that people walking in the door start quaking in their boots and avoid her dour gaze as she peers at them over her glasses.

The woman is a hotel running shedevil. I won't get into all the trauma my family has suffered at her hands, as the details are onerous (some confusion over number of rooms, number of nights, who was staying where) but, as sis Robin put it calmly, "at one point she was yelling."

She seems to have taken a particular shine to my brother, Brian, however, asking him his name and, I think, FLIRTING, as much as scary monsters can flirt. We discussed sending Brian into the lobby, perhaps pushing him in with a kick to the rear while the rest of us hide around the corner, to stand there and smile at her, perhaps regaining her favor.

After Al walked down there to have a little chat with her, everything seemed smoothed over until we learned this morning my sister has been kicked out of her room for Thursday night. I'm starting to suspect we have pissed off the wrong person. If you don't hear from me for awhile, it's because me and my family are on metal leashes attached to her desk wearing sexy gold bikinis.

But the Parisian reunion is a happy one. The fam is quick as lightning knocking things off their very random "to see" list but have an impressive, if nearly impossible, number of things left. Robin continues to hope, if there is time, we can drop by the dry cleaners and heckle the woman who gave me a hard time. Family's got my back, bi-atch!

We are all still talking at the same time so I while I can tell you what we've done, unfortunately I can't tell you a damn thing anyone's said. From the bits and pieces I've heard over my own talking, however, I gather they're all doing well and are having a good time.

Help us, mon chou, you're our only hope,
MJ

Me duh

Do you know how it feels to walk around permanently stupid? Once fairly in control of my life in Seattle, I now never know with 100% certainty what's going on around me. Most of my outings in daily life now involve making peace with the unknown and a "let's hope for the best" mentality.

Today, for example, I took Lucien to school only to find his classroom door locked and no one inside. I wandered next door to another classroom to find a very smiley teacher who looked incredulous at my confusion and said but of course, today is different! Kids get dropped off whenever parents want and all play together loosey-goosey style instead of the normal structured day! And hadn't I read all the signs posted around the school about this very thing? Oh shuddup, smiley teacher.

Walking home I became paranoid that pick-up time was going to be different, too (being constantly paranoid is a natural side effect of never knowing what's going on). To be sure Lucien wasn't abandoned by "the Anglo," I showed up half an hour early and ended up hiding under the lunchroom window playing solitaire on my iPhone and feeling like a complete and total knucklehead when asked by several employees what I was doing there. From here on I will answer cheerily, "I'm permanently clueless. Move along. Nothing to see here."

We had the cleaning lady in again today. I know, I know, two times in one week what a luxurious life I lead. But it was out of desperation, as my family arrives tomorrow and somehow our place is a disaster again and I'm sleep deprived thanks to nocturnal bat boy and can barely dress myself in the morning let alone mop a floor.

While she dealt with our impressive amount of dirt accumulated in just four days, I collected my thoughts once again at a nearby cafe. We are going to have to either ditch the cleaning lady or I'm going to have to switch to decaf; otherwise this baby is going to emerge a jittery mess.

As I got up to leave the cafe and continue my daring life of running errands with unknown outcomes in Paris, the waiter came over to tell me he was sad to see me go as he thought I had a beautiful smile. Shucks. Sure, the guy is probably old enough to be my father but a compliment is a compliment and I'll take 'em where I can get 'em. I thanked him and left with my beautiful smile all over my face. Today I love -- no, adore French people.

But I should know not to get overly confident in this town. I went to the grocery store a.k.a "humbleville" immediately after and was so caught up in my own greatness I forgot to weigh and tag my produce. Come check-out time guess who wasn't so popular when she held up the entire line to run back to the scales? Me! And guess whose beautiful smile didn't win them all over? Mine! Some will love you and some will hate you -- call it even and call it a day.

And now let's all be happy and celebrate, as my family members back in the States are boarding planes as we speak to come save me -- I mean see me. I told my mom I may curl up in her lap when she gets here but she happily stated her lap would probably be occupied by someone else -- namely a three-year-old-mom-stealer someone else. That's what happens when you have kids. You get replaced.

I'll fight you for grandma, mon chou,
MJ

To pull or not to pull; that is the question

The Loosh was inexplicably awake two nights ago from 4 to 6am, banging around in his room and yelling for me. I became somewhat homicidal around 4:45am but managed to push through without hurting anyone, including my husband who barely stirred while I jumped in and out of bed a dozen times. For this lack of violence I deserve some sort of mothering/wifeing prize.

In the morning, when Alex asked Lucien why he was so very awake in the middle of the night, Lucien answered it was because there were "people walking on the fence." Al and I stared at each other blankly for a second then shrugged and resumed our breakfast eating activities. This kid is either seriously profound or seriously deranged.

As an encore performance, he was also awake for two hours in the middle of the night last night, but I believe this one was caused by his window shade falling off, completely covering his bed and leaving a little Lucien-sized lump underneath yelling angrily, "Hey, mommy? I need some help in here?"

We've hired a cleaning lady. She irons, too. In fact, the good ole ironing board I recently schlepped across Paris was for her. (You thought it was for me? That must have caused those of you who know me and my wrinkles some confusion.) My original plan was to stay here while she worked, finishing up my most recent Lucien movie. (I make movies in my spare time which is why I can't be bothered to clean my own house. I'm a woman of priorities -- will it soothe me more to scrub the tub OR find the perfect song to accompany the montage of Lucien's cheeky t-shirts?)

After about ten minutes, however, I realized it's extremely embarrassing to sit there while someone else deals with your house grime. So I cleared out, absconded through the rainy day to a favorite cafe, one that's too crowded to get a table on nice days. I sat under a heat lamp outside where I drank first one cafe creme then another, ate a croissant and watched the Frenchies walk by looking fabulous as usual. I think I felt honest to goodness relaxation but am not too familiar so am not too sure. Is that when your muscles feel all loose and floppy?

It was then time to get Lucien from school but when I stood, I found I was so jittery from the two coffees I didn't even need to walk. I just kind of shook and shimmied all the way to school.

And in another hall of fame "I'm a jackass!" moment, I've been trying to pick up Alex's dry cleaning for awhile now. I say "trying" because every time I go to the dry cleaners and pull on the door, it's locked. Sometimes I peer through the door and look at the lady inside but she just shrugs at me. OK. It's not uncommon for businesses to close whenever they feel like it around here, so I walked off to try another day.

Yesterday I walked past, pulled on the door and nothing. Yet again. So I got a little huffy, glared at the woman through the door, and stomped off. I then saw another woman approaching the dry cleaner and, hoping for a little camaraderie, turned to watch her fail miserably. However, this genius of a woman PUSHED on the door and walked in. Are you f'g serious?

"Sheepish" being a mild term for how I felt, I pushed open the door and walked in, to which the lady behind the counter laughed and laughed and said, "You finally made it!"

Hey guys? Can I come home yet?

Mama's tired, mon chou,
MJ

Carrying the ironing board and anyone wanna kid?

Before we moved to France, Alex and I were fans of online shopping. Make that fanatics. If we needed something, be it small or large, we headed for the ole laptops and were owners of the item within minutes. Then nice people brought item to us.

I get a little tear in my eye thinking of those days. For when we arrived here and needed something, we sat at the computer, assumed we were owners of the item within minutes, then looked out the window forlornly when item never arrived.

The problem appears to be the darn doors of Paris. Every apartment building has security doors with codes (Ours happens to have three doors. Thank God those Parisians can't get me.) But for some reason, the codes are impossible to relay to UPS. Even when you call and relay the codes to UPS. Mysterious, eh?

(Even more mysterious -- some UPS drivers have no problem getting in as we have received approximately half of the UPS delivered things we have ordered without issue. I think perhaps some UPS drivers like to hog codes, be "keeper of the codes," if you will, and make fun of the other drivers who don't know them. That's what I would do, anyway.)

UPS will try to break into your building a few times but if they fail, they send your package back. It only took about three failed attempts at ordering before we realized online shopping is a thing of the past for us. We wept bitter tears and cursed a lot when the realization hit, as we have forgotten how to use our legs when it comes to shopping matters. They keep wanting to buckle in front of a computer but we must keep them moving. It's exhausting.

So we ended up in BHV hell again over the weekend, purchasing several much-needed but unfortunately large items. (BHV is literally like hell, as that store is five million degrees inside. This makes Alex grumble which is usually funny but not when you're that hot.) The din and crowds of a large department store, when you're accustomed to shopping in the relative quiet of your own home perhaps in bathrobe and slippers, is disorienting and rage-inducing.

But anywho, all that backstory is how I came to be a pregnant woman carrying an ironing board across Paris. Huzzah! Then I sat in front of the Hotel de Ville with an ironing board as my son rode a merry-go-round. Then I carried the ironing board some more, all the way home, clocking a few tourists along the way.

Amazon, baby, I miss you so much.

I also bought one of those little wheelie shopping bags Parisians drag with them everywhere. Long overdue, as carrying two huge bags of groceries home three or four times a week, trying to keep a handle on the Loosh who knows my mobility is limited when carrying such things, and nearly falling a dozen times thanks to my shifting center of gravity (thanks a lot, BABY) was getting old. It did bulk up my biceps to impressive size so sadly they will shrivel like prunes as I begin to roll my groceries home.

Mother's Day felt more like Lucien's Day but I suppose that's the way mothering goes. We attempted a brunch, at which Lucien was an angel for half and a demon for half, ending with a rousing rendition of, "Mommy, I don't want you. Go away. I want my Daddy now." Everybody together now!

A British man within earshot grinned at my scowling face and said, "Happy Mother's Day." All I can say is, when this kid grows up, he better thank me. A lot.

We spent much of the rest of the day at the Tuileries, one of us riding the merry-go-round ad nauseum while the other two died slow deaths waiting for the day to end. Oh, Lord I love that boy but any parent out there will understand when I say some days are just harder than others. "Mother's Day" my bum. Bah humbug.

Walking home from dropping the Loosh off at school this morning, I saw a "Driver's Ed" car driving backwards down a busy street. The instructor in the passenger seat appeared to be either sleeping or dead. That could explain a lot about Parisian driving.

Be good to your mama, mon chou.
MJ

Ne tirez pas, Cavanaugh!

Robert has departed for butler school in the Netherlands, and aside from embarrassing me several times in public and trying to kill me, I think our visit went pretty well.

But first -- there's a teeny tiny hussy on the playground. Several days in a row now there has been an OLDER GIRL, maybe five or so, lying in wait for the Loosh when I pick him up from school. As we cross the playground, she appears, blushing, in front of him. The first day she just waved a lot; the second day she touched his shoulder and today she touched the side of his face.

If her boldness continues to escalate, I will place a stern phone call to her mother with a warning to leave my three-year-old alone. Dammit, I thought I had more time before I had to start threatening adorable little girls.

So future butler friend Robert is on his way to butling school. It's OK to giggle at the word "butling" -- I sure did. That got me thinking that most words composed of body parts followed by an "ing" sound dirty, at least if you're in the proper immature frame of mind. Fingerling potatoes have always sounded a little dirty for this reason. And don't get me started on lipping, wristing, toeing, mouthing, throating, footing and necking. Robert then threw out "earring" and ruined all my fun.

Robert's course work at butling school sounds excruciatingly detail-oriented but also utterly fascinating. Here are a few lessons our dear friend is to learn: How to prepare the morning tray. How to prepare the breakfast tray. How to handle an uninvited guest your employer does not wish to see, most likely named MJ or Alex. How to handle a drunken guest, most likely named MJ or Alex. How to handle a guest who's been caught stealing, most likely named yadda yadda yadda. How to manage Christmas Day. How to order custom made clothes. And everyone's favorite -- How to pass the port! There's also an advanced course in "Evasive Action" which we can only imagine includes some James Bond- esque high speed car chase driving techniques.

He is also shopping around for a good butler name. Anyone have any suggestions? Current frontrunner is "Cavanaugh." A friend of ours suggested "Vulva" but there's always been something a little off with that guy.

Cavanaugh, as I'm going to call him from here on, was almost scared away from Paris by the French phrase lessons he downloaded before arriving. Aside from the mundane, "Where is the bathroom", "I would like to order a....." stuff, included inexplicably were also, "Don't shoot!" and "Those drugs aren't mine."

Strangely enough, they both came in handy during the visit. That's just the way we roll.

We ate some good food at some good restaurants which led to some good public embarrassment for this mama. Cavanaugh is a "foody" to the extreme and when his food arrives, he takes pictures of it. If he doesn't like the food, there are frowns and silence. Even worse, if he DOES like the food, he does the "happy dance" in his chair, which involves bouncing up and down and side to side. I really wish he wouldn't do that.

Other than eating, we did a lot of walking. We did the greatest hits of Paris attractions and Robert I mean Cavanaugh took pictures of every statue we passed. He also asked me a lot of questions I couldn't answer which made me realize there is too much to know about this city.

I thought everything was going well until dessert on his last night. Cavanaugh, completely unprovoked by me, I might add, hurled his camera across the table, shattering a saucer, a piece of which then lodged dangerously close to a major artery in my knuckle. He claims it was an accident and he merely dropped his camera but I'm pretty sure Cavanaugh tried to kill me. Good thing it all went down BEFORE his school, as I bet they have courses in how to kill guests, too.

So barely, just barely, I have managed to survive the recent onslaught of visitors. Next -- a week from tomorrow -- is my family! All of them! Parents, bro and sis traveling from Denver and Houston for a Parisian family reunion. I cannot express how happy I am they're coming and can't wait to sit on their laps and gaze lovingly into their faces. This may freak them out a little bit.

Ne tirez pas, mon chou!
MJ

Unfortunately Rouen has fake choo choos, too

Lucien's version of school day events do not jive with the teacher's version -- and surprisingly the teacher's version is much more favorable. I picked him up this afternoon and the teacher told me he's doing really well but on the way home Lucien told me he pushed kids down the stairs and threw some apples. I choose teacher.

We journeyed up to Rouen in Normandy over this past holiday weekend (nope don't know what the holiday was. They got a ton of 'em over here and honestly, who can keep track) and despite ourselves had a very good time. There were moments, of course, when strangulation of the other family members seemed entirely possible and in fact likely, but we persevered, loved the trip and ultimately still love each other.

When you first enter Rouen, perhaps on a cold, gray day like we did, you will be convinced the place is inhabited by vampires. And really scary ones at that. The medieval architecture coupled with the lack of people on the streets but several staring at you from doors and windows may have you as creeped out as we were. After the worst meal of our lives at a brasserie near the hotel (quote from Al -- "There was a can. There was a microwave. There was my dinner." The waitstaff couldn't even look us in the eye they were so ashamed), we double bolted our hotel room door and hid under the covers.Something big happened during the night, though, and good had triumphed over evil by morning. The sun was shining and Rouen was full of smiling people. We couldn't believe it was the same place -- and we loved it. We wandered through the streets, some so narrow you could reach your arms out and touch the houses on either side, breathed in the non-polluted air, wandered down to the square in front of the cathedral Monet loved so much he painted it a bazillion times, then -- ARE YOU F'G KIDDING ME? -- there it was -- another fake choo choo parked cathedral-side resulting in a giddy Lucien and his parents, faces hidden by large sunglasses, once again taking part in the fake choo choo tour phenomenon.
Travel is a little different with a three-year-old. Aside from the choo choo, we spent an unacceptable amount of time sitting in front of Rouen's two carousels. Worst part was they spin a little roulette wheel and if it lands on the picture of what your kid is riding, he wins a free ride. And guess who is apparently the luckiest kid on the face of the earth? He won. And won. And won dammit all to hell. Alex and I would yell, "Bravo, Lucien" through gritted teeth, no longer able to feel our butt cheeks against the plastic chairs.

We went into the cathedral to light a candle for the baby ("bruddersister" as Lucien has named it) and promptly ran out of money when Lucien wanted to light a candle for everyone he'd ever met in his entire life.

Dinner choices are always slim when traveling with a three-year-old as we need to eat hours earlier than the rest of the Frenchies to avoid meltdown catastrophe. We ended up one evening in a buffet-style restaurant full of jittery people verging on nervous breakdowns who stared at us without blinking the entire time. We don't really understand what we ate and Alex is still burping.

So there was a ton of beautiful stuff but that's not fun to talk about. Blah Blah Blah Rouen is gorgeous and interesting. But now let's talk about the carnies. Set up along the left bank of the Seine was a carnival celebrating the annual boat race and inevitably, because I'm in a family unit with two raging extroverts attracted to bright lights and obnoxious sounds, I found myself smack in the middle of it.

As soon as we crossed the bridge to the other side of the Seine, we were surrounded by a whole different kind of French person. Namely fat and toothless. I was in a hurry to cross back over into the attractiveness of right bank Rouen but Alex first wanted to put Lucien in the kiddie bumper cars, where he turned in continuous tight circles for awhile then ran into another kid and sustained an owie to the nose.

As we crossed back over -- quickly, now, quickly! Don't look behind you, honey -- we were fortunate enough to see the beginning of the big annual speed boat race. Speed boats race up and down the Seine, around the bridges and whatnot, for 24 hours. And in a bit of irony seemingly lost on everyone but us since we were the only ones laughing, the theme for this year was THE ENVIRONMENT! So while people over loudspeakers encouraged the spectators to ride bikes home! or take the bus! speed boats were racing for 24 hours in a mindless little circle down below, choking the air with gas fumes and exhaust. Kisses, earth!

So what did we learn? We learned that we love Rouen. We also learned that I am hell on earth when I am hungry. This is unfortunate because Alex is a wanderer, searching for the perfect restaurant before sitting his damn butt down. There were a few near-homicidal moments as a result of this incompatibility but he would stuff a croissant in my mouth and I would settle down -- for a few minutes, anyway.

We also learned Alex feels really, really good on eleven hours of sleep. He is now committed to going to bed at 8:00pm each night which may be difficult since he's still at work at that time.

We learned they really, really, really shouldn't have killed Joan of Arc. Rouen is the place where the nasty burning-at-the-stake occurred and it looks like they've spent the last 600-some years trying to atone for it. Monuments and huge apologies carved in stone everywhere. That girl got a seriously raw deal. Seriously.

And finally we learned we have a crazy cool kid. As a kid sang a nursery rhyme next to us on the train, Lucien sang the refrain from my favorite Arcade Fire song right back at her. And sitting in a restaurant, Lucien needed to do a pee so he stood in the middle of the room and called out, "Excuse me, where is the potty for me?"

Robert is here now and he's funny. But since he also has a blog, we will most likely spend a lot of time arguing over who gets to use the computer. Fisticuffs may ensue.

We'll always have Rouen, mon chou,
MJ