Ladies Night Finally Oh My God Hallelujah

This is what an American safety-in-numbers playdate looks like

Check out the social life on MJ. Last night, five Americans and two Australians descended upon the Latin Quarter and made themselves much, much more obvious than their fellow diners. My FIRST -- yes, FIRST -- ladies night in seven months of Parisian living happened yesterday and I am on FIRE with sociability.

These hilarious women have tales to tell. One is living in a tiny studio apartment with her husband and son who has the energy of approximately ten Luciens. She's looking a little wild-eyed. One had a French teacher who blatantly told her he hated her -- yep, in those words -- during one of their lessons.

And in a tantalizing cultural mystery, one sweet-as-can-be American offended her French sister-in-law to the point of family rupture and still has no idea what happened. She asked her sister-in-law to bring a meat dish and an avocado to a family dinner; the SIL threw a fit and hasn't spoken to her since. We're not really sure what sort of faux pas was committed, either, but we're suspecting it was the avocado that put her over the edge.

This is another view. Notice all benches near the Americans have been vacated and all benches at the other end of the park are occupied. Yep. We made that happen.

A man selling roses passed through the restaurant, targeting all the tables with lovey-dovey couples seated at them and, for some reason, continually coming back to ours. The no-nonsense Australian mama finally said (how I wish I could communicate an Australian accent through typing, but alas), "Believe it or not, we are NOT a legion of foreign lesbians keen on buying each other roses."

The reason for the get together was to send yet another super cool lady back to her home in Boston with well wishes and kisses on right cheek, left cheek. But in a joyous revelation, at least three of the ladies at that table will be here as long as I am. Salvation. I love my Al and the Loosh but I've missed hanging out with women. It's a great thing, cackling in the corner, making fun of our kids and husbands and lives in general, comparing cultural horror stories and collectively mooning over the perfection of Christopher Reeve in Somewhere in Time (Don't find the penny! Oh for the love of God, Richard, don't find the penny!)

I had a baby doctor appointment this morning so sat here cheerfully waiting.... and waiting.... and waiting for the babysitter. I finally called the little unreliable twit and was greeted with a confused and sleepy, "Oh hi -- do you still need me to babysit this Friday morning?" When I told her it WAS Friday morning, the apologies and swear words tumbled out of her mouth in a torrent and my heart sank down to my toes.

Because honestly, who really wants to experience a "baby exam" with their kid in the room? The one other time I was forced to bring Lucien for lack of options, he spent the entire time instructing me to put my clothes back on, suspiciously asking the doctor, "Heeey, what are you doing over there?" and getting crumbs all over the doctor's spotless office thanks to my not-well-thought-out strategy to distract him with pain au chocolat.

So ugh. I quickly threw some clothes on the Loosh and headed for the metro. At the doctor's office I apologized, explained my babysitter had flaked, and had no time to figure out something else to do with him. The doctor said it was fine and plopped Lucien in the receptionist's lap. She looked scared. Lucien looked terrified.

At each visit, when I first sit down in his office and we're exchanging pleasantries, he walks over to a closet and pulls out a huge stack of files, tossing the ones on top aside until he finds mine. There is not a computer to be seen. It seems a little disorganized but so far he hasn't confused me with the patient who needs a hysterectomy pronto so all is well.

And in my other favorite part about his office, his "Do not interrupt. Examination in progress." sign is usually laying on the floor, inside his office. So regularly, as I'm up on the ole table, midwives or doctors or salespeople pop their heads in the door to ask a question. Now to the French, this is not a big deal. But I'm not French so to me it's weirdness.

Coming out of the appointment, I saw Lucien had worked his magic on the receptionist and she was smitten. That kid can really turn it on when need be.

Friends, mon chou,
MJ

Fugitives

It was really only a matter of time; our life of crime has begun. And, of course, it quite possibly began in the grocery store.

But first, because it's on my mind after the dinner I just attempted to create, what the hell is up with "easy open" boxes around here? Once upon a time (that means in the U.S.), "easy open" meant it was EASY to OPEN. But here, if I happen to purchase an item in a box labeled "easy open," I cringe and head to the junk drawer for backup -- scissors, scotch tape, Ziploc bags and a screwdriver -- for I have yet to meet a French "easy open" package I haven't had to stab or shred to pieces with my bare hands.

Back to life on the lam. So there we were at the store and remember that security guard I mentioned? The one who insists on calling Lucien "David Manuel?" He loves us. I mean he really, really loves us. Whenever we arrive, there is an explosion of cheek-kissing and hair-ruffling for Lucien and enthusiastic bordering on painful hand-shaking for me.

He ambushed us yesterday. Caught us off guard with the exuberant affection right before we hit the checkout. And then, oh sweet Jesus no, he ushered us to the front of the line -- of the express lane, no less -- cutting off many people with their one or two items each. They stared at my super full wheelie shopping bag and suddenly half a dozen stinkeyes were aimed in my direction which made me feel uncomfortable and unhappy. I'm sure they assumed I had slept my way to the front of the line, the legendary "check-out couch" alive and well before their very eyes.

So I got flustered and red and started telling people to go before me. This confused the security guy who waved them off and started to unload my cart onto the belt. But seriously -- the guy behind me looked pathetic with his ONE can of Coke. I insisted he go first. He appreciated that and I felt better.

But then where to stop? The next lady had only three things so I told her to go ahead of me, too, which she started to do until we realized it was too late -- the checkout boy was already ringing up our hundred items in the express lane. I apologized to the lady as she shuffled back behind me, looking grumpy. It was a very confusing time in my life. I'm sure I was several shades of purple by the time I threw everything in my bag, grabbed the Loosh by the collar and got the hell outta there, cheerful goodbyes and an "à bientôt, David!" aimed squarely at my rapidly retreating back. Oh give it a rest, security guy.

The episode kept playing in my head as I walked across the street to buy some fruit at the produce stand. I rehashed the embarrassment and awkwardness several times as I aggressively bagged my fruit, worried security guy was going to appear, demanding everyone worship Lucien as a small God, kiss my feet, bag my produce and pay for it, too.

A couple errands later and my flustered embarrassment ebbing, I stopped at an ATM for cash to hurry home and pay our beloved cleaning lady. That's when I finally took a deep breath, looked down at the Loosh with any kind of focus, and saw he was eating a box of chocolate cookies. Chocolate cookies? Gosh, I don't remember buying chocolate cookies.....

As we hurried home to give Patricia her moolah, I pulled the grocery store receipt from my bag and scanned it. No chocolate cookies. Then I wracked my brain for any clue of where they could have come from. Did he grab them at the store and I didn't see? Held onto them during the hubbub and walked out without anyone noticing? Did he snag them off someone's cafe table as we ran around the neighborhood? Rip them out of the hands of some weaker child? Pull them out of someone else's grocery bag as we stood in line at a store?

I don't know. All I know is they are definitely pilfered from somewhere. The boy isn't shining any light on his thievery, either. When I asked him repeatedly where the cookies came from and explained I needed to know because we hadn't paid for them, he wrapped his arms around them protectively, fear in his eyes, "No, no, no; these are MY cookies, mama!" and insisted that yes, he HAD paid for them. Great.

In order to move on with my life, I'm going to throw the cookies out the window and pretend the whole thing never happened. I will tell him the cookies were mad at him and ran home because stealing is wrong. Or, I may eat them because they are delicious. I am a very good mother.

(Ironic, isn't it, that our interaction with the security guy may have resulted in a pilfering from his store? Good thing he's so into us -- and hey, having an inside man will come in handy if the Loosh decides "thieving" is a career path he wants to pursue.)

I just read a great quote in one of my Rick Steves books. In addressing the widespread belief held by Americans that French people are rude and cold, he fervently disagrees. It's just cultural, man. He says that while in America, smiling at everyone as you walk down the street is a sign of friendliness, in France it is a sign of senility. So bear that in mind when you come visit. You may think they're cold, but they think you need to be committed.

Yesterday was my Al's birthday. Last year at this time we threw a party in our backyard for him and two other friends whose birthdays are right on top of each other. Their cake had huge fondant boobies on it and it was awesome. This year was considerably more quiet -- just the three of us with a tiny boobieless cake. We missed our home friends yesterday. A lot.

Chocolate cookies are not worth eternal damnation, mon chou,
(or are they?.....)
MJ

Buncha jokers on bikes

Heeere, Lancey, Lancey. Come on, boy! Heeere, Lancey, Lancey...

I'm not a big sports fan but when an event such as the Tour de France passes two blocks from my front door, I figure I better get on down there or risk being labeled a serious lameass. With Alex happily sipping coffee at a cafe (obviously also not a sports fan but possessing no fear of being labeled a lameass-- God, how I envy that about him), the Loosh and I wandered down to the Quai along the Seine to welcome those tight-tushied bike riders into the heart of Paris.

From what I'd heard all week, the riders were due to pass through the 'hood around 2:30pm. The Loosh and I were there on the nose, hanging over the barrier fences and straining to see as far down the road as we could, anxious to catch a glimpse of ... well, Lance Armstrong I guess, because he's the only bike guy I know in the whole world. Seriously, are there others?

And from the first police escorts, the race did not disappoint.

In first place was this guy. He was like the wind even though he was missing most of his bike.



Right on his tail was a yeti...


THIS guy seemed awfully pleased with his progress...


But I'm pretty sure these guys wandered into the wrong race?


Don't count out the guy in the cereal bowl...


...or the six-pack of beer. (Is that even beer? What the hell kind of freak race is this, anyway?)


After all that excitement, I was darn near tuckered out but decided to stick around, you know, just in case a few stragglers showed up. Convincing the Loosh to stick around after the last Disney-ish car disappeared around the corner, however, was a challenge equal to, if not more difficult than, riding a bike across France. We wandered up and down the Seine, buying overpriced ice creams and juices and anything else I could shove into his hands to buy me five more minutes of eye-straining activity. I did not win any parenting awards today but dammit, I was not going home without a glimpse of... well.... I guess Lance Armstrong.

And then, TWO HOURS AND FOURTEEN MINUTES after we arrived on the Quai, these jokers showed up:




OK, now hang on a minute ... no one told me these guys travel in a pack. Seriously, couldn't they spread out a little to prolong the viewing pleasure? Within approximately three seconds the whole lot of them were past us and the crowd started to disperse. I was left bewildered and whispering softly, "Lance? Was that you?"

Then the anger set in -- WHA? OH NO THEY DIDN'T! I just placed great strain on my swollen pregnant ankles for two and a half hours and that's all I get? A wham bam thank you ma'am by a bunch of guys (granted, with nice butts) on bikes? Not helping to make me a sports fan.

I don't know why they were working so hard at pedaling those bikes anyhow since they were getting their asses handed to them by a guy in a cereal bowl.

To cheer ourselves, the three of us went out for dinner. We had crepes at our favorite creperie. And not the dinner crepes with the vegetables inside and whatnot. Oh no -- we had dessert crepes filled with caramelized apples and smothered in chocolate and ice cream. For dinner. So again, no parenting awards today except maybe the "My mom fed me so much crap and I'm so frickin' happy" one.


Lance didn't win but crepes are yummy, mon chou,
MJ

Playground = Hell

I despise the park. Park dynamics here are exhausting. I need the political prowess of a Kennedy, the child whispering abilities of Supernanny and the eerily quiet child from The Village of the Damned to survive a park outing without being harshly judged by the French. (I have none of these things.)

I've tried to ignore the glares and stares of French mamas as they label me another American who doesn't control her child. And honestly, not wanting to be a completely culturally insensitive boor, I keep a much tighter leash on the Loosh here than I would at home.

When I see mamas with "just ate something sour" expressions on their faces as the Loosh runs past, perhaps chasing a pigeon and whooping it up, I rope him in and gently explain that sometimes French mommies have sticks up their bums and we need to indulge their lack of childlike joy and excitement because it's their country. Yikes! Stand back! American mom is getting bitter!

A few days ago, for instance, I was sitting at the Luxembourg with my friend Lissy and her newborn son. Lucien was in the wading pool with a group of weird quiet kids and all was right in the world. Suddenly, a mama in her designer duds and high heels came bolting off a bench right at the Loosh and started yelling at him. I didn't see any of this happen as I was trying to fend off the desperate long-fingernailed face clawing of a seriously pissed off newborn, but Lissy suddenly slugged me in the arm and said, "I think Lucien is getting in trouble."

We watched it unfold -- after all, if he'd done something horrible and I hadn't seen it, he needed to be called out for it. But from what we could understand, the lady was screeching over and over that the wading pool "is not a bathtub." Not a bathtub? What did he do, anyway, soap up his junk? Since no one was bleeding and no one was even crying, I can only assume Lucien splashed her child and she felt it necessary to stomp out this childlike expression of joy and fun. Good thing she was paying attention because her kids were dangerously close to having a good time.

Lucien with two fun kids. The girl was there with her relaxed Italian mother back there on the bench and the boy was there with his nanny. Ah ha! That explains all the fun having...

The day after that, Lucien and another little boy made a mud puddle with buckets of water and took turns jumping in it. They were giggling and having mucho fun off by themselves but you'd think they were flinging feces at the crowd the way the mamas reacted. If their children wanted to play, too, and got within ten feet of the two splashy boys, the moms would holler around and drag their kids off by one arm.

Hey mamas -- if you're afraid of dirt on a playground, maybe you should leave the ridiculously pretentious Bonpoint outfit at home. And let's get real, does your three-year old REALLY need a cashmere capelet?

There is cultural safety in numbers. This is the main reason most American parents desperately cling to other American parents. Realizing I needed to get affiliated to survive, I made my move on a group of Americans hanging out together a couple weeks ago. You'd think I was working up the courage to hit on them the way I mentally rehearsed my opening line. I finally walked up and asked one of the moms a lame question about her stroller; it's the mama equivalent of, "Hey, baby, what's your sign?" But my fine social skills paid off and now I'm in. We all get together several times a week -- at the goddamn park -- but it's a whole new world now that my posse's got my back.

Sure, we still get the looks, but since there's a bunch of kids running around squealing together and the parents are laughing and being loud themselves, we are a force to be reckoned with and after a few preliminary glares are usually ignored. They seem afraid enough of our roaming American gang -- probably think we're all packin' heat -- to stop yelling at our children for stupid reasons, too.

I have another package languishing in a warehouse somewhere thanks to the complete inability of the French to deliver it. I'm not sure why I still try to order stuff online; I am apparently a masochist in this way. There seems to be a problem, again, with UPS not having the door codes. I am now trying to contact the proper peeps to give them the codes but no one seems very interested.

You're fab in many ways, Frenchies, but I swear I'm gonna strangle a few of you before we leave here.

And speaking of murderous rage, someone came into our building's courtyard yesterday and took a crap. Unfortunately, from evidence left at the scene we know a.) this someone is feeling ill and b.) it wasn't a dog. The biggest mystery is that we are currently the only ones here. It's a small building and we know all our neighbors are away on vacation. So who's the mystery shitter?

What really pisses me off isn't the fact someone took a crap in our courtyard. What really pisses me off is "shit guy" apparently has the door code but UPS still doesn't.

It's OK to hate Paris sometimes, mon chou,
MJ

I think we're alone now

David and Annie have left the building and with their departure, the parade of visitors we've welcomed since March comes to an end. We love our friends and family so don't misunderstand, but the joy that comes with deflating an air mattress that has been smack in the middle of your living room for four months straight is akin to the joy felt when you walk into a newly bought home. Suddenly the whole place looks so new, so exciting, so big and empty! Oh, the possibilities!

Call it "celebrating" or perhaps "nesting" but something about that deflated air mattress lit a fire under my bum. I spent most of Sunday re-arranging furniture, hanging stuff on walls, dragging heavy items from one room to another to be reborn in new surroundings. I went batshit crazy with fervent, focused activity. When Alex returned from his cafe outing I think he was both impressed and frightened. His mouth hung open a little as he looked around, asking, "How the hell did you move THAT?," pointing to a cumbersome set of shelves that used to be in our bedroom but now live in the dining room. The answer is simple: I am freakishly strong.

David and Annie are good peeps and were good fun. There were a few dodgy moments such as the dinner involving duck stomachs, the family teasing that went too far and nearly resulted in fratricide, and the off-key, loud, prolonged singing by Alex that, again, almost ended his life -- this time strangulation by his wife. The bathroom door handle snapped off in Al's hand, shutting us away from our only toilet which is an uncomfortable and vulnerable feeling. Several useless wrenches and screwdrivers later with bathroomless anxieties mounting, my Macgyver husband was able to rig a bathroom access system using duct tape.

We took a lovely trip to the top of the Arc de Triomphe together -- see above photo of mama, the 27-week old baby bump and Lucien with the Eiffel Tower sprouting out of his head -- but the subsequent trip to Montmartre was a disaster. I saw "that look" on my boy -- you know, the one where you realize with dread the kid is way too tired to deal and you're very, very far from home -- and tried to beat the clock by dragging the Loosh towards the metro as fast as possible. But I was too late and a meltdown of epic proportions amidst the tourist swarms of Montmartre ensued. It was the ole limpy legs routine. God, I hate that one.

I pushed hard -- really hard, as in using my arms in a mean way -- through throngs of people with my best dagger eyes to get to the metro. I used those same daggers to convince a young teenage girl to stand her ass up on the very crowded train so mama, the belly, and the tiny sad kid being smothered by standing people could sit down. Lucien fell asleep on my lap just long enough to take the edge off and ruin his nap at home, where he instead jumped up and down on his bed counting spiders that weren't there with a crazed look in his eye. That was not our best afternoon.

Yesterday was happy again. Lucien and I were walking in the neighborhood when -- there is a little boy God -- we came upon a work crew scraping up and repaving part of Boulevard Saint Germain. The place was crawling with bulldozers, trucks, cold planers and policemen with whistles directing traffic. Lucien's excitement overwhelmed him to the point he couldn't form words; he could merely sputter and point with a shaking finger. So what the heck -- I scrapped the morning errands and sat the Loosh at a cafe on the corner with an orange juice and a front row seat to the action. He stared so intensely he didn't even notice when I drank his juice. Mama was thirsty.

For mysterious reasons, the security guy at the grocery store thinks Lucien's name is David. Even more, his full name is apparently David Manuel. I corrected him once back in the beginning but it didn't stick and now it's too late and too embarrassing to bring it up again. So I've told Lucien his special grocery store name is David and now when the guy says cheerfully, "Bonjour, David!" Lucien replies, "Bonjour" with a big smile. This makes the security guy happy and Lucien doesn't seem to give much of a rip.

It reminds me of our neighbor back home. Alex lived two years as "Jeremy" before we had the nerve to set her straight. I even started calling him Jeremy in front of her. We are so strange.

Just the three of us again, mon chou David,
MJ

Hey, where'd everybody go?

The entire city of Paris is preparing to shut down. In August, Paris is a ghost town save the bazillion tourists milling around looking for something open. We are going to take maybe a couple small trips away but I want to be here to see what Paris looks like when all the Parisians are gone and tourists are running amok.

The first question any Parisian asks you these days is, "Where are you going for vacation?" Since we're not planning anything huge, I answer as such. This stumps French people. I just had this very conversation with my neighbor and the way he looked at me reminded me of trying to talk to my dog back home, how he would cock his head side to side trying to understand the words. It's the same puzzled expression, the same willingness yet inability to understand the message. The thought of not going anywhere in August computes for a Parisian the same way any spoken human thought computes for a schnauzer.

The thought of boulangeries closed all month disturbed me greatly. After an investigation at the boulangerie downstairs, I have been reassured I will not be breadless for the month of August. This news helped slow my hyperventilation. The boulangeries are on a vacation schedule; there will always be at least one open in our neighborhood as they take turns closing shop. I am happy that even during the highly valued vacation period, my bread and pastry needs have been considered. The French have great priorities.

I was at a cafe earlier this week watching a model, photographer and assorted underlings work on the picturesque Parisian street. Modeling shoots are pretty common to see but this one was spectacular in its horribleness. The photographer would say, "OK, now enjoy the breeze. Feel the breeze. Enjoy the breeze." And that model wouldn't move one inch nor change a single muscle in her face. She just stood there.

The photographer would then say, "I need more attitude in the shoulder." She wouldn't move. Then again with the breeze -- "Feel the breeze! Feel it!" And just as I was about to toss my espresso at her, yelling, "Enjoy the damn breeze; it is a f'g awesome breeze, you stupid, stupid model!" the photographer said, "OK. Great! Got it." Huh? Got what? From what I saw, you got a fembot with zero shoulder attitude and zero breeze enjoyment. You got a whole lotta nothing.

But now I want to be a model. Just standing there, ignoring all efforts to get your attention or get you to do something? Hell, I do that all day. That's me over there to the left ignoring Alex. And I hate to brag but it comes naturally.

Before I take on an errand I haven't done before, I study my French vocabulary books like I'm about to take the most important exam of my life. For instance, I had to go to the bank for the very first time to deposit a check. Before I left, however, I read and re-read the "banking" section, practiced a few lines on the Loosh who helped build my courage by blowing raspberries at me, and did a few fist pumps while jogging in place in front of the mirror. I totally aced it.

I have another strategy when preparing to interact with the French. I approach the French person speaking loud English to the Loosh. I can see in their eyes they're not excited to deal with me and sometimes they even sigh a little. But then, when I'm in front of the French person, I suddenly turn to them and start speaking French. And the look that comes across their face is pure relief, usually paired with a smile. I believe it's all about lowering expectations to the absolute lowest, then booyah! -- even fumbling efforts after that are often complimented as "really good French!"

We had a hell of a storm last night. Hail the size of big pieces of hail. Alex said he thought it was the end of the world but after twenty minutes it was all done and the world was still here. This morning I had a playdate with a few mamas at Jardin du Luxembourg and it looked like a tornado swept through. Paris parks are usually kept pristinely gorgeous so there were a lot of upset looking groundskeepers running around. One guy was so flustered he forgot to turn off his leaf blower as Lucien and I walked past so we were engulfed in a cyclone of leaves, dirt and various other debris. I forgive him, though. Disarray in the park was obviously making him lose his mind. Either that or he was just being French.

Enjoy the breeze, mon chou,
MJ

Bastille Day

Lucien is delighting our current visitors, Uncle David and girlfriend Annie, with his command of the Frenglish language. At breakfast, after pastries have been consumed, he says amusing -- yet confusing -- things like, "You ess fini?"

In B-list celebrity news, I saw Liev Schreiber (sans Naomi Watts) at the Jardin du Luxembourg playground with his little blond son. He was doing normal dad stuff, trying to coax his kid out of the playground area with ridiculous bribes and threats he could never follow through with such as, "If you don't come with me right now, we will never, ever go to a playground ever, ever again." Awwww... that Liev is just like us regular craptastic parents.

Alex had a four-day weekend thanks to Bastille Day so we did a really stupid amount of walking to check out various festive holiday activities. Monday we clocked in at just over four hours of near constant locomotion. My body is pleading with me to give up the wedge sandals now that I've become a balance-compromised pregnant woman prone to tipping over but I'm not ready to succumb to flats just yet. I refuse to look both wider AND shorter with three whopping months still to go.

Oh yoo hoo, Army boy, over here! I'm the blushing lady waving at you with a dainty hankie! French military folk get rowdy on les Bateaux Mouches for Bastille Day.

We were reminded over this long weekend of our favorite scam going down in Paris. (I don't know if it's an actual "scam"; it's more like panhandling with pizazz.) If you're ever approached here by a gypsy looking woman asking plaintively if you speak English, yell, "NOOOOO," and run away as fast as you can, preferably waving your arms around because that really sends the message you feel strongly about not speaking English.

Otherwise, if you, the kind-hearted American, answer "yes," she will shove a card with a sob story written on it, usually involving dead family members, horrific illnesses, missing limbs, summer homes in foreclosure, etc., in your face. You will then be her prisoner for many awkward minutes as you hem and haw (with a smile on your face, of course, because you're American and don't want to be rude!) and try to wiggle out of her gypsy clutches.

Al and I were accosted by so many on Monday we decided to try a new tactic. When we were next approached and asked if we spoke English, we gave our biggest and brightest smiles, Alex yelled, "Sure do!" with great enthusiasm and joy and we kept right on walking. This unanticipated response stopped her dead in her tracks. I'm going to try "Darn Tootin'!" next time to see if that is equally as effective.

Bastille Day was a glorious day. Not committed enough to rise at the crack of dawn for a prime parade viewing spot along the Champs Elysees, we instead lined up near the end of the route and watched all vehicles involved in the parade try to get the hell out of there. We got a place up front and watched perhaps a couple dozen military and civil service vehicles zoom past us at 50 miles an hour. It was a whiplash-inducing "parade" but Alex and I agree it's much more exciting that way. It's also perfect for the attention span of a three-year old.

And in one of my proudest moments thus far in France, I yelled at people who deserved it. While waiting for the ragtag parade of leftovers to start, a couple Frenchies shouldered through the crowd and stood directly in front of us -- in the front row, the nerve! -- very nearly standing on the Loosh who was sitting on the ground. My arms flew up in a disgusted gesture and I without hesitation yelled in French the equivalent of, "HEY! There's a child there. MOVE YOUR ASSES!" (Okay, I left out the "your asses" part but that would have been awesome.) As I stood startled and impressed with myself, the couple, with a few apologetic "Pardon"s and nods of the head, backed up and left. I think Paris looks good on me.

Walking away from the parade, I did an accidental Marilyn Monroe when my dress blew WAY up while walking over a metro grate. Alex assured me it was "super hot" but I have my doubts.

Al, exhausted from all the walking, the gypsy fighting and a particularly brutal session with his personal trainer who may be trying to kill him, was asleep by 9:00pm. Since sleeping Daddy meant there was no need to wake and drag the Loosh along, I headed out late that evening to watch the Bastille Day fireworks all by myself.

One would think that standing on the Pont Neuf, one of the most romantic bridges in the world, watching fireworks shoot out of the Eiffel Tower alone would be quite depressing. But I felt happy and lucky to be sitting there amongst the Frenchies, watching them celebrate their country and share corkscrews and bottles of Bordeaux with their neighbors. I left before it was over because I was afraid of getting swept up in the trampling mob -- because of course I was there in my wedge sandals but with no Al to hang onto.

And in case anyone is curious, "ooooooh" and "aaaaaah" are the standard responses when viewing fireworks in France, too.

Vive la Revolution, mon chou!
MJ

P.S. -- Ask and ye shall receive my dear Jennifer and Marty. I have a short video of Lucien saying "bleu" over there in the list of things to click. I have a few "bleu" videos, actually, but only posted one because I figured people could only take so much hilarity before exploding.)

French kids say the darndest things

Al and I watched one of those "video clip" shows on TV last night and there was a segment devoted to dumb answers given by French high school students. So far all I've heard of the French public education system has been annoyingly rosy perfection so I was eagerly anticipating a parade of dumbasses. But I was disappointed, for even though some answers were truly stupid, others were delightfully inventive or just 100% French.

For instance, in the 100% French category, we have the young woman who was asked what "fertility" meant. She explained it fine -- man, woman, nice egg, hard-working sperm, etc., but then threw in a delicious French zinger:

-- "So it takes one man and one woman together -- well, actually you could have more, like two or three men and two or three women together, but it takes a minimum of one man and one woman."

Booya! You go, French girl.

Then there was the delightfully well reasoned. One young man was asked about global warming and again, he started off strong. He explained it so well Alex and I were wondering what the punchline was until he said this:

-- "Ocean levels will rise, flooding a bunch of coastal cities. But that's OK because we have a big unemployment problem and that will really help."

Now that kid's a problem solver! Drown a bunch of people and those remaining can have their jobby jobs! It's a win - win except for the people who are dead. I love his silver lining approach and think that kid's future is in policy-making, or perhaps contract killing.

And in the "so close and yet so far" category, one girl was asked who Galileo was. She responded:

-- "Before him, the Earth didn't rotate."

This made Alex laugh and laugh. But I sat thoughtfully and then offered up that perhaps she wasn't THAT far off -- I mean, she knew it had to do with the planets and rotations and that's pretty good, right? I mean, how many teenagers in the States would tell you Galileo invented the light bulb? So I didn't think her answer was that horrible. Alex then gave me a look that most definitely suggested I was part of the problem.

I haven't mentioned the grocery store in awhile and, unbelievably, it's because I've finally gotten comfortable there. But I should have known better for the grocery store remains a cruel, heartless place. This morning, the Loosh and I wandered in to find they were gutting the store for reasons not explained by any obvious signage. And I mean gutted; empty shelves laying on their sides, crates of milk siting in the aisles with people pawing through them trying to find the kind of milk they wanted. The produce section was completely boarded up and everything I needed was either out of stock, moved to an undisclosed location, or being fought over by three little old ladies. Ahhh... I've always wanted to experience communism.

There was one bright side to all the empty shelves -- I can only fit so much in my stylin' wheelie shopping cart and, when reaching capacity, I often have to make split second decisions between toilet paper and paper towels, orange juice and milk, laundry detergent and dishwasher soap. It's an agonizing decision. It's the Sophie's Choice of grocery shopping.

But today, since there were only like ten things on the shelves, it was a snap! I just grabbed them all and headed through the debris, pushed past the men in their construction helmets (construction helmets necessary yet still open for business?) dragging the strangely silent and clingy Loosh behind me, no doubt frightened by the grocery store mayhem. Thankfully, Mama's now a pro at pushing through people and not apologizing for it so I got us safely outside where Lucien told me he "didn't like dat place." So now we are a club of two.

Lucien says the color "blue" in French, bleu, more like, "blehhhhh." I find this funny. And thankfully, his favorite color is blue so all I have to do is ask, "Hey Loosh, what's your favorite color?" and he'll respond, "Blehhhhhhhhh," with his mouth hanging open kinda like he's throwing up in slow motion. May it never get old.

Alex's brother, David, and his girlfriend arrive tomorrow for what will most definitely be an enjoyable visit. I am, however, preparing myself for the craziness the presence of visitors unleashes in the Loosh. He goes nuts with joy and yelling and frenetic energy, usually for the duration of their stay. Giddyap.

Blehhhhhh, mon chou,
MJ

Respect the bum hugger

Now that Lucien is home for summer vacation, he has become an errand running superboy. Just LOOK at that cart rolling technique!

I am delighted to report Alex has purchased a swimsuit in France. And as most folks know, those baggy boxer-types don't fly here. I think you know where I'm going with this -- straight to Speedo town.

But alas, he didn't go the full Speedo monty. There's another option that looks like teeny tiny little shorts -- kinda like dude hotpants -- and for blog purposes I will call them "bum huggers" though in real life I call them something too X-rated for this (somewhat) family friendly blog. While not as thoroughly entertaining as the Speedo, I can appreciate them as a stand-alone giggle inducing garment. In an adorable father-son bonding moment, Alex also purchased a little bum hugger for Lucien complete with teeny goggles and teeny skull cap.

Fully French pool ready in their matching bum huggers, goggles and caps, Alex and Lucien tried two public pools in the area only to find them closed for "summer maintenance." You'd think the pools would be open in the summer and perhaps closed in -- ohhhh, I dunno -- WINTER? But as we've learned in our six months here, it's best to stop being practical about stuff. Just forget the pool idea and go eat pastries instead.

I could have enrolled the Loosh in a summer program but have decided to hang onto him for dear life. I'm feeling a bit nostalgic and weepy and have decided I want him with me as much as possible these two months before he goes back to school, before the arrival of the baby and the end of this particular era. This is it, little buddy -- the last few months you'll ever have mama and papa all to yourself. It's a bittersweet time for this hormonally challenged mama. The joy of a new baby, the sadness of a chapter ending......

(Short intermission while MJ goes to attack her son, sobbing, as he tries desperately to pull free from her clutches, issuing stern commands such as, "Calm DOWN, Mommy!" And yes, that's happened. But just once so far.)

So for the next two months he's MINE all MINE. I will possibly regret this decision by next week and will be trying to sign him up for any class that still has space. Preschool fun with chemicals? Three-year old ninja sword techniques? Sounds awesome -- sign him up so mama can get a moment of rest.

This morning our mother-and-son activities found us at my favorite cafe, the one where I usually take my croissant and coffee alone. It's a different experience with the Loosh at the table but no less enjoyable. I ordered him a hot chocolate and Lucien immediately put his hands up defensively, saying in his best grown-up voice, "pas trop chaud, pas trop chaud" ("not too hot" for those not in the know) The waiter cracked up but obeyed, bringing him a perfectly lukewarm chocolate.

We then met his favorite friend Otis and his family in the park for a picnic. But it was raining and no one was hungry so I guess it was more of a "sitting there." That wasn't the worst part, however, for within an hour Otis's mommy was in the emergency room. She's a tough cookie for trying to fight serious illness for a playdate, but serious illness won and seven hours later she is still in the ER being subjected to a bazillion tests. So not our best playdate but, surprisingly, not our worst either.

A morning with me will either make you leave the country or put you in the hospital. Any other takers?

I love mon firstborn chou,
MJ

Friends leave you and marriage is a long dark tunnel

I need some friends. To be less pathetic and more accurate, I need friends who don't LEAVE.

I have been forced to accept the inevitable -- the path of the ex-pat mama leads back home. Three times now I've met the coolest mamas with the coolest kids and coolest husbands. We see each other a handful of times, share some laughs and then they pack up and move back home. I like to believe the "leaving Paris" is not related to the "meeting me," but we have no proof of that.

Today I decided I was ready to try again and went to the Jardin du Luxembourg; it's a given you'll find at least one friendly ex-pat mom lounging near the sandboxes. And sure enough, there she was: a lovely Texan who immediately pounced on me when she heard me speaking English with the Loosh, shaking my hand enthusiastically with a huge smile and a few "y'all"s. We shared some "adjusting to Paris" stories and our sons played together like they'd known each other all their lives. Then she mentioned they were moving back home in five months, at which point I curled up in a ball in her lap and cried.

I will continue to hang with her because she's good fun but I will be distant, guarded, and will frown a lot. And regarding the other mamas in the park -- if they try to approach me and shake my hand I will go hide in the bushes. I just can't get hurt again.

(I could try to chat up some Parisian mamas but they're about as easy to chat with as your average garden gnome. They aren't the chatting - with -strangers kind of women, especially when it comes to puppy dog ex-pats.)

Alex had a team-building day Friday. I'm not entirely clear on the story but it seemed to involve paddle boats, low-hanging branches, the wearing of red bonnets, and a bunch of VPs who sat in the shade drinking bottles of rosé while their teammates got the crap scratched out of them by low-hanging branches while racing paddle boats and wearing red bonnets.

Al came home wearing the bonnet and looking like he'd just wrestled a rosebush. I don't have a comment about it; I just wanted to mention it because it was a delightful image.

I've heard it said that French people don't get drunk. They love to drink but rarely do so in excess. And that may be true but Sunday morning seemed to prove otherwise. As I walked down the street to my favorite cafe for my café crème, croissant, and weekend dose of "just me hallelujah" time, I saw a man still in his Saturday night party clothes, eyes half-closed, trying to order a coffee at a laundromat. Immediately after, I saw both a well-dressed but barefoot man staggering down the street singing and a man who, after driving up on the sidewalk, parked his car there, got out and stumbled away in the zig-zag pattern of one who's had a dozen too many. (Good choice on the car ditching, buddy.)

I think French people get drunk. Real drunk. There are just very few people on the streets early Sunday morning to witness it.

We attended a birthday party on Sunday for Sophie and Michael's one-year old son. You rarely get an invite to someones home for birthday parties since most apartments are too small to host a large gathering comfortably. So instead you stake out a corner of a big park, lay down some blankets, tie balloons to the trees and bust out the bottles of rosé.

I got into a strange conversation with Michael's best friend in which he attempted to give marital advice (I think?). So here's the gist: marriage is like a big long dark tunnel and you need to do a lot of yoga to survive it. Sometimes you emerge from the tunnel and enjoy the sunlight for awhile but you will be plunged back into the tunnel again later. The secret is to look forward to the times of sunshine and to know that, however long you've been in the tunnel, the sunshine will come again. Most people make the mistake of getting divorced while in the tunnel because they believe the tunnel lasts forever and don't believe the sunshine will ever come again, but it will.

I think I had only said "bonjour" at this point in the conversation. I've learned my lesson and will never say "bonjour" again because you never know what kind of conversation you're opening yourself up to.

I wish I had known before our outing to the Jardin du Luxembourg this morning that they'd converted some of the sandboxes into wading pools for summer. Lucien immediately plunged in wearing his clothes and had a hell of a good time. The walk home, however, was not so enjoyable. He walked stiff-legged with arms straight down at his sides, yelling every other step, "I WANNA BE NAKED." This drew more attention to us than usual.

Forecast is for long dark tunnel with occasional sunshine, mon chou!
MJ

We don't need no education

At the ripe old age of 3, French kids could beat American kids in an education rumble with all their arms tied behind their backs and their little mouths stuffed full of croissants. The things they can do -- and excuse me while I sputter indignantly -- well, it just ain't normal! (Or is it? Discuss.)

For instance, quite a few kids in Lucien's class can read. READ. I suspect it's some kind of parlor trick designed to f@!* with the American's head. Just one example -- part of the morning routine at preschool is each kid finds their name in a stack of nametags and affixes it to a chart. The Loosh is fairly familiar with the alphabet so usually I'll narrow the pile down to half a dozen or so, ask him if he remembers what an "L" looks like and see if he can find it. And most of the time he can which makes us both feel happy.

Little Johnny whiz kid next to us, however, shuffles through the pile, picks up a tag and mutters to himself, "Nope, that's Elsa." Toss. "Nope, that's Evan." Toss. "Nope, that's Raphael." Toss. "Nope, that's Baku, capital of Azerbaijan." Toss. (And yes, I had to look that up on Wikipedia. SHUT UP!)

And the drawing abilities. All kids were asked to do a drawing for a display at the school festival. Alex and I checked out the drawings and had no trouble finding the Loosh's, for amongst the rows and rows of perfect little people with all their body parts was one that kinda looked like some sticks blowing around in a tornado. But he wasn't alone. There were two other abstract artists -- another American and the Australian. So what the heck do the French put in their water?

Discuss.

Yesterday was the last day of school. And in a "clueless mama" finale as I was dropping him off, one of the mothers came in with a huge wrapped gift for the teacher and made the announcement that it was from "all the parents" and "all the children." Lucien and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders -- "Did you know about this? No, did you?" I stood on my tippy toes and peered over the heads of the other parents to see what "we" got her. Some kind of cake pan. That was super thoughtful of me.

Come September he'll be attending a different school, one very close to home which praise Jesus can I get an Amen will involve a five-minute walk and not a metro ride every morning. But I'm sad about it in some ways. The parents at his school have been so friendly, so willing to speak slowly and smile big. They embraced my loud boy as one of the gang; mamas and papas alike always made an extra effort to lean down and say something to him, usually in French but sometimes trying their English with a sheepish grin. It has been a gentle group of people to be around for a first foreign school experience.

His teacher has been super strict but dedicated, asking him to come in an hour earlier than the other children on Friday mornings so she could work with him on French vocabulary. When I fell over myself in my gushing thank-yous for her extra efforts, she looked at me like I was nutty and said, "But I'm his teacher. It's my job to make sure he learns."

Discuss.

And in other news, it's been six months. And Booya! Wait for it..... wait for it..... wait for it..... oh yeah, there it is -- we love Paris.

The day has finally arrived, mon chou,
MJ

Angry hot people on trains

That's the Loosh over there, concerned one of the sculptures at the Rodin museum is "missing something." I pretended I didn't know what he was talking about just to mess with him and increase his future therapy bill.

It's hot here -- mid to upper 80s, humid, with little to no air conditioning in sight. I've understood from various crabby and wilted locals that it's not normal for Paris to be this hot. As a result, people are sweaty, miserable and apparently in serious need of hemorrhoid cream (or perhaps other pharmaceuticals) because the tiny air conditioned pharmacy across the street is suddenly jam-packed with people. I joined them in there today, making up all sorts of exotic maladies my family is suffering from to the pharmacist so I could stand underneath the a.c. unit a little longer. (Lucien now has eczema and Alex wants to be a woman)

I was initially there for a legitimate reason, as we recently discovered Lucien inherited my "sweet" skin irresistible to bugs. At a recent outing to the park, junior came home with at least twenty mosquito bites whereas papa had zero. Poor little guy is miserable and now very, very angry at bugs. The righteous indignation flares when he sees a fly in the apartment; he chases it with a very determined look on his face, muttering the fly is going to try and eat him so he's gonna "get him." Bloodthirsty vengeance apparently starts young. (I have tried to explain the innocence of flies to no avail)

But back to the heat. All metro stations and metro trains have become ovens where people sit, cook, and sweat. Walking through a metro tunnel, I saw a sweaty American woman yelling at the top of her lungs at her red-faced husband as he schlepped their bags, "WHY CAN'T WE JUST TAKE A F@#!!*G CAB AND STOP LIVING THIS GODDAMN F@#$!!*G NIGHTMARE YOU F!@#!!*G MORON!!?" Ah, she seems like a nice lady to be married to. I wonder how they're enjoying their dream vacation to Paris?

That's Rodin's masterpiece, The Burghers of Calais, up there. And that's my son all the way to the right in the bushes looking for bugs. Sigh. Perhaps with time.

I had another OB appointment and my OB continues to delight and confuse me. I need some standard pregnancy blood work done and after he wrote me a prescription to take to "a lab," I asked him where to go, exactly, to have the work done. In response, he waved his arms around vaguely. So I said, "err.... does that mean 'anywhere?"' and he said, "Yes, yes, of course, anywhere."

Maybe I'll take my prescription over to the cafe on the corner and see if they'll take my blood. If they tell me to leave, I'll try the grocery store.

On the way back home, I headed into the hot miserable metro tunnels once again. The "doors closing" siren was sounding so I ran the last few steps and hopped on my train. It was crowded so I ended up standing right in front of the doors. Out of nowhere, another "YOU F@#$*G MORON" metro rider hurdled on just as the doors were closing, sending me bigbellyfirst into the hang-on pole in the middle of the car. Hard. Ow.

But wait -- that ain't even the worst of it. The man had his two young daughters in tow. As the doors closed behind the man, they closed directly ON his two girls, sandwiching them together in the doors, scaring the crap out of them and delaying the start of the train. Everyone lunged forward, swearing at the man and trying to pry open the doors to free the girls who were, understandably, crying hysterically.

The doors were pried open and the girls pulled inside but ooooooh boy -- this man had drawn venom from the French. He had pushed a pregnant lady into a pole (they tsk'd tsk'd over me and found me a place to sit) and then made a metro door sandwich of his daughters. The dagger stares and curse words were a flyin'.

He knew he was persona non grata but didn't seem to comprehend what people were saying to him. I knew the truth before he spoke, knew it from the Nike logo shirt and baseball cap, and closed my eyes with dread. Sure 'nuf, he opened his mouth to speak to his seriously pissed off daughters and 100% American English came out. Shit Shit Shit. I hate it, hate it, hate it when that happens.

Lucien shows no fear before the Gates of Hell

Lucien and I had a big day of shopping for coloring books. On the way home, I stopped at a stand and bought a panini sandwich, a juice and a cookie to go. At home, I opened the bag and realized I had walked off before my panini was finished panini-ing in the grill thing. No panini. So I paid eight euros for a juice and a cookie. I hate it when that happens, too.

Too damn hot to walk back for a panini, mon chou,
MJ