Proof that Paris wants me to be happy

I'm going to slow things down a little.  Dim the lights.  I want to dedicate this one to my favorite girl, Paris.  Because today, Paris, you showed me that you love me.  I see a future with you, girl. 

Early this morning I sat at my favorite corner cafe and had a coffee.  A drunk guy staggered by and yelled some stuff at me.  I remained calm and did not make eye contact.  He wandered away.  I liked that part.

Then I ran some boring errands.  I made it through the grocery store.  I lost precious moments of my life standing in a check-out line that was eleven people long.  They didn't open any additional check-out lanes because that's not the way things roll around here.  But I kept calm and didn't make eye contact and eventually I got to leave. 

I walked down the street on my way home, enjoying the sunshine. Coco was safe at home with the cleaning lady who thinks I'm crazy.  Lucien was safe at school with the teacher who sometimes thinks he's crazy.   Life felt pretty darn good.

Then I had a thought.  "I'm hungry," thought me.  I ducked into a patisserie and perused the offerings.  And suddenly -- there it was.  Love.  Intense, lightning-striking kind of love. It was a beignet au caramel.

I bought one, not allowing myself to fully believe it was what I thought it was.  My hands shook as I pulled it out of the bag.  Powdered sugar flew everywhere.  I stuffed half of it into my mouth thanks to my poor impulse control and OH MY GOD.  Paris loves me. 

It was like a jelly donut but instead of delicious jelly inside it was full of delicious, creamy caramel.  I've never seen one before today but now I have eyes for nothing else.  I never thought this could happen to me.  I never thought I would fall in love on a picturesque street corner in Paris.  But I did. 

I am now a one-pastry kind of gal. 

Next time I write I will weigh approximately five hundred twenty-seven pounds. 

More of me to love, mes choux,
MJ

Family, Frenchies and Fisheye

I realize I disappeared for a week without telling anyone in blogland.  I hope no one contacted the missing blogger authorities or waited up all night wringing their hands.  My family can be incredibly demanding with the "spend time with us, talk to us, feed us" nonsense.   And now that I only get about a week with them per year, I prefer to spend my time hovering three inches from their faces and staring at them instead of typing. 

I miss them already.  I love Paris but at this moment it feels unacceptably far away.

Below is what Day One looked like.  Remember this, dear readers: jet lag is not your friend.  It may pretend to be your friend, all like, "Ooooh, we're going to get on the plane in Colorado today and end up in Paris tomorrow how wonderfulllll" but then it will sneak up behind you, club you about the head and start spreading nasty rumors about you on Facebook.

Ssshhhh.... don't wake those who raised MJ and the brother who had to deal with her most of his life.

But family shmamily.  Before I get into all that, I have to address something much more important -- I seem to have inadvertently dyed my hair purple.  I chose a nice auburn shade at the store and came home to dye it up.  An hour later I looked in the mirror and GAH!  Purpleberry.  Barney.  Fruit of the Loom grape guy. 

Immediately after the dyeing incident I had a lesson with Madame Kickmyass.  She walked in and said, "Oh!  You dyed your hair!  I love it!"  And then I said something along the lines of stop kissing my ass, blah blah blah, I'll still pay you for the lesson even if you tell me I look like a grape popsicle.

"It's purple," I said sheepishly.

"NON, non, NON!, protested Mme. K, "It's PRUNE!"

"GAH!!" I said. "HOW IS THAT BETTER?"  Prunes remind me of fiber and regularity and who wants to think about that when they look in the mirror?

Mme. K. told me PRUNE is a very popular shade amongst the ladies of Paris.  They think it brightens their complexion and brings out the color of their eyes, especially if their eyes are blue or green, which mine are.  She told me to look around and I'd see that I did not stick out like a walking eggplant. 

And by golly, she's right.  There is a proliferation of purple-haired women running around Paris.  Now that I know to look, they're everywhere.  Some are super duper purple and some are more subtle like me but PRUNE (GAH! FIBER!) is definitely OK in these parts.

I'm trying to take some pictures of prune-haired ladies to show the posse but I've discovered pruneheads move very quickly.  After I've fumbled with the camera and aimed it in their general direction, they're usually long gone.  I don't have a good picture of me as a prunehead, either, and the color has already started washing out to a reasonable auburn shade.  I'll ask my parents if they took a good one.  In the meantime, here's this:

You should also know I've started taking pictures with my fisheye lens:

Alex and Jon Stewart in fisheye!

But anyway, back to the family (who noticed my hair was purple as soon as they saw me).  I can't fully express how much I love them but I suppose most people understand.  If you know you're only going to see your family once a year, how would YOU feel when they showed up at your door in faraway land?  It's pretty damn fantastic.

The family lived like locals this time.  They rented an apartment around the corner as opposed to staying in a hotel.  I highly recommend apartment rental if you're looking for an authentic experience -- then you can deal with huge suitcases in tiny elevators, wandering through labyrinthine hallways trying to find your unmarked apartment and fumbling with forgotten door codes at midnight, too.

At times our Paris wanderings felt like The Greatest Hits of the Blog Tour 2010! (should have made t-shirts)  I pointed out the Canadian pub where we celebrated hockey, the restaurant where I nearly got into a fistfight with Italians over Lucien's cough, the cafe where I met Omar Sharif and the cafe where I locked myself (and the Loosh) in the bathroom.

They wanted to see the infamous grocery store of treachery so with some near-hysterical shoutings of, "Stay with me!  Stay with me!" I dragged them through at a non-peak shopping hour.  They're doing just fine.  Not a scratch on 'em. 

And they met her.  Our beautiful Paris baby.  Love ensued.

The fam also enjoyed activities such as going to the pediatrician where they met Dr. Michel and taking Lucien to school where they met Saint Teacher. They were disappointed they didn't get to meet Patricia the cleaning lady who thinks we're nuts or Mme. Kickmyass, fearsome but awesome French teacher. 

Dr. Michel, by the way, did not disappoint. He sashayed around the office and gave Coco many kisses.  He said "zee ips" in reference to Coco's hips.  He cracked a few jokes that made no sense in English.  He gave Lucien a handful of candy.  He was flawless in his Frenchness. 

My mom answered his questions in halting English with a strange, vaguely eastern European accent.  I love it when she does that. 

We went to Versailles where Lucien and I lost the rest of 'em in the Hall of Mirrors, prompting Lucien to break down and cry in my arms as I spun around wildly searching in vain for someone related to me.

After I'd found them again (they'd been in the king's bedroom pondering the height of his bed) and asked why their phones kept going straight to voicemail, I found out my entire family only turns their cell phones on  when they're "expecting a call."  I told them cell phones also come in handy when people get unexpectedly lost.  Hence, they should be left on all the time.  Mom replied that they were never lost -- they knew where they were the whole time.

I can't argue with that so next time I will chuck my cell phone in the Grand Canal and just tie myself to them with some rope.

The Hall of Mirrors!  in fisheye!

Lucien likes to run and race people.  He likes to go FAST.  He usually beats his parents because Alex doesn't really try and I am usually weighed down with a baby. He met his match in Grandpa, however.  My dad likes to run.  And he lives in Colorado where the elevation is one million and the oxygen is zero.  Running closer to sea level is like running on heavenly clouds for him.

As Lucien and Grandpa took off in a race through the grounds of Versailles, Lucien quickly realized he was going to get smoked and resorted to trickery.  "Grandpa, stop!  I'm tired!"  When Grandpa doubled around, the little snakeoil salesman took off past him, cackling.

He employs the same tactics when playing "attack train" with his train set.  He begs you to slow your train down so he can catch up, then rams your train as hard as he can.  "Lucien, you're a schemer" my Dad said to him, to which Lucien replied, "Yeah, I'm a schemer who goes FAST" and sent Dad's train flying off the track.

Parc Monceau.  This would have been a better picture in fisheye. 

My mom told me I swear too much on my blog.  "MJ, you are an educated woman.  Stop writing like you were raised in the gutter" or something along those lines.

But then these things happened.  In the span of two days. 

First, the teachers went on strike for a day.

Second, the metros went on strike.

Then third, Alex and I took a trip to Assurance Maladie to expand our health coverage so it will cover us on our upcoming trip to Switzerland.  After checking online numerous times to make sure Ass. Mal. was open, we took a ride on a crazy crowded train thanks to the metro strike that cut train service in half.

We walked up to Ass. Mal. and flung open the front door, rejoicing.  "It's open!" cried me.  (One never really knows when Ass. Mal. is going to decide to be open) We took ten steps inside when we saw the sign across the next door -- CLOSED, SUCKERS!  Then Al and I flapped around a little and said lots of things like, "I can't f'g believe this.  I can't F'G BELIEVE THIS"  and walked across the street to have an espresso.

I tried to get back home after that but missed my connection at Sevres by seconds.  Thanks to the strike,  instead of the next train coming in three minutes, it was coming in twelve minutes.  Screw it, I can walk faster, I thought, and exited the station to hoof it home.  The streets were full of angry, fast walkers who missed their metro train connections.  I pushed through lots of people and sent many shopping bags flying up in the air comically.  I came home sweaty.  

I told my folks what had happened and cute little Judy exclaimed, "Holy f@#!g s@#! c@#$ b%^# mother f@#!r!  You don't swear ENOUGH, my darling daughter!"

(Judy didn't say that. I like to think she said it in her mind, though.)

Sainte Chapelle in fisheye!  Whoot whoot!

Prunehead, mes choux,
MJ

Fighting for the revolucien

Dear Comment Posse,
You rock.  Fer real.  Sometimes we lonely bloggers just want to know someone is out there hearing our plaintive cries.  And now I know and I think you're all terrific. *awkward group hug*  Thank you for answering my call, even if it was just because I bribed you with macarons.   

Now before I get all weepy about the posse, here's the news of the day:

My parents and my brother are coming to Paris this weekend!  I think!

I say "I think" because there have been several roadblocks tossed in our way.  Mom and Dad, usually the healthiest, most vibrant people on the planet, have both been felled by illness and injury in the days leading up to their trip.  They are willing to push through and get on that plane (I am the progeny of BADASSES) just in time for Denver to have 12 inches of snow dumped on it.  Fingers are crossed.

One person my Dad said he would like to meet while they're in Paris is our pediatrician.  I've talked so much about Dr. Michel to my parents but have neglected him horribly in the blog.  He is a funny, funny guy in his Frenchness.  Coco is due for a vaccination while they're here so I'm taking the whole family to his office.  (Is that weird?) We will crowd inside and gawk and "ooh" and "aah" at the native Frenchman in his natural habitat.

Dr. Michel walks a fine line between France and America. He's the iconic Frenchman but since he speaks English, he attracts a large number of Americans to his office. He knows both cultures and sees the best and worst of each. Depending on his mood, he likes to wave his arms around (of course) and denounce either the French or Americans as idiots.

Dr. Michel has been a great doctor for us.  He caught Camille's hip dysplasia pretty much from minute one.  And more recently, he did this:

A couple months ago, Lucien's teacher suggested Lucien see a child psychologist.  There was a little too much la betise going on for her liking and she was fairly certain he was in need of a talkin' to.  At the time, I felt upset. I called Dr. Michel who, after hearing the reason for the call, sighed and muttered, "oh, the damn French." (I guess I caught him on a "French are idiots" day)

He did give me a name of a psychologist but before we hung up he sighed and said to me, "MJ....take good care. Take proper care." Whatever the hell that meant, I didn't know. Didn't think much about it -- I was too distracted by the fact Lucien's teacher thought he was nuts.

A few weeks later I took Camille to Dr. Michel's office for her checkup. To say Dr. Michel loves kids is an understatement. He's affectionate with them in a way that would raise eyebrows at home and probably result in a doctor/parent smackdown. For example, as he carried little naked Coco to the scale for her weigh-in, he spun around with her in a little dance, squeezing her and kissing her face repeatedly. He then declared he was going to keep her forever and pretended to put her in his bag.

Is that weird? For reasons I can't adequately explain, coming from him, it's just not.

I asked him what he thought about sending Lucien to a child psychologist while he tried to stuff Coco in his bag.  There was more gesturing as he very emphatically told me not to worry, there was nothing wrong with Lucien, and that French schools always take issue with children who don't fit a very specific norm. (Read: quiet, perfect, great sense of style)  He's fielded many frantic calls from parents because teachers have said their kids are too small, too shy, too red in the face, too lazy, too bossy and, of course as in our case, too energetic.

He told me it was my job to "protect and defend" my son in the French school system.  "The French don't like 'different,'" he said, "you must, you must, you MUST defend him.  It is your JOB." He said this several times. It was very dramatic. There was some fist-pounded-into-palm-of-other-hand action.

After leaving his office, I'm pretty sure I heard some music from Les Mis as I marched to the metro station waving my giant red flag.  I rushed home because I was in a hurry to start building the barricade in front of the preschool.

I felt a lot better after talking to Dr. M.  And it turns out he's right. We now know two other children in Lucien's class (including his partner in crime, Rafael) have gone to see child psychologists. The parents toss around this information like it's nothing. 

It's kinda like L.A. around here.  Everyone's got a shrink.  Except when I say "everyone" I mean "preschoolers," which is kind of ...different.

(Update:  Just spoke to Mme Kickmyass about this very thing at our lesson today.  Her friends' kids do not have shrinks.  So either her friends' kids are perfect, or our school is an anomaly, or I'm talking out my ass again.) 

 It's all a moot point now anyhow.  Because, for reasons known only to him, Lucien has decided to mix it up once again.  He has become a complete angel in the classroom.  Whoa!  We didn't see that one coming.  The teacher actually said to Alex one morning, "Well, I don't know what you guys did, but this is a different Lucien!"  We didn't do anything so be on the lookout for pod people.

Maybe he was working out some tough I-hate-the-new-baby feelings.  Maybe he's just maturing a little.  Maybe he's up to something.  But in any event, the school problems are over for the time being.  Phew, you have no idea how hard it was for me to write that last sentence because as soon as I start patting myself on the back, that kid busts out a whole new type of mayhem.  God, I love him.

So sorry, Comment Posse.  What was to be our first organized fistfight with Frenchie teachers while stuffing our mouths with macarons has fizzled.  There will be other days....other fights......

Come on, family!  Get here!  Get here!  We can DO it!
MJ

I need a posse

I have been advised that, if my blog is to be worth at least a hill of beans, I need a "Comment Posse."  I need a group of people faithful to my blog above all others, a group of people who comment on every single thought I have regardless of how stupid it is, a group of people who think about me constantly.  I'm not sure of the details, but this may mean you will be required to join me in fist-fighting the Comment Posses of other blogs.  

Never fear, however, because I'm going to have the Frenchies on my side (unless they read a few of my posts and then heh heh sorry 'bout that, guys -- look, a shiny thing!  RUN, POSSE!)  And while it's a common joke to say the French don't know how to fight, I assure you this is not the case.  The French fight all the time.  All.  The.  Time. 

Why just this morning as I whistled my way down the street, out running errands on a beautiful, beautiful spring day, I saw fighting.  A man was arguing with two cops who were trying to give him a parking ticket. (Why two cops, you ask?  That's a question for another day, grasshopper)  He was gesturing wildly and protesting loudly.  That's the way they do it 'round here.  Lots and lots of passion. 

He protested and protested.  I slowed down so I could listen.  His defense was that he parks in that spot EVERY DAY and has never received a ticket.  Brilliant, I thought.  What better way to get out of one incident of wrongdoing than by admitting constant wrongdoing?

Even better, the cops appeared to be hearing him out.  That's not surprising because around here, everything's a negotiation and you have to fight for just about anything you want.  I'm now accustomed to shouldering little old ladies out of the way to get the last hot baguette tradition.  I am sad to say I don't have the French arm waving down yet.  I don't raise my voice very well either.  Still too timid in those areas but I'll work on it.

While I'm addressing false beliefs of the French, stop saying French people smell bad.  I read an article on CNN.com that said France was named the best place to live in the world, in large part because of their very good healthcare system.  The article was interesting, not great, but the comments after were beyond awesome.

THAT Comment Posse is kinda nuts and certainly in a rush to get their knickers in a twist.  I especially like some of the people pretending to be French but their French is so horribly bad, methinks they're either impostors or the dumbest French people ever. 

The comments that came up regularly were that the French are rude and they smell bad.  I understand Parisians can be viewed as rude but honestly, I have yet to encounter a truly rude Frenchie.  I have, for the most part, been treated with respect and kindness, at the very worst total indifference.  (Except for the cold baby police;  they are ruthless bastards) 

And second, holy crap these people smell good.  The French parfums and eau de toilettes on men and women alike are so incredibly delicious.  Sometimes I catch a whiff of someone as they walk past me and I have to resist doubling back and asking them to make out with me. 

I'll admit it gets a little ripe on the metros from time to time, especially in the summer months, but my guess is that's the scent you get on most crowded public transportation regardless of where you are.  Heck, I remember riding the bus back in Seattle a few times and thinking, "Lordy, who let all these French people on this bus?  Peeeee-yooooo!"

This was supposed to be a short post about gathering a Comment Posse.  I think it's obvious I can't write "short" and have once again veered wildly off topic.  

So who's with me?  Come on, let's do whatever it is that Comment Posses do!!!  Let's comment the crap out of stuff!  I'm good at shouldering people (weak in arm waving and yelling but working on it) and I've got my sights set on taking down the Mommy Loves Vodka and Cake Wrecks Comment Posses.  I think they each have like a bazillion followers so we may be a bit of an underdog.  It'll still be fun, though.  Right?

How about if I throw in a baguette for everyone?   Some macarons?

*crickets*

You go first, mes choux, *shove shove run*
MJ

Reasonable explanations but...

If our cleaning lady has a blog, I'm pretty sure the whole thing is about us.

Recently, Lucien did this with his toy drill -- (see photo full of mischief)

I caught him at the tail end of the experiment.  By the time I took this picture he had unrolled every roll of toilet paper we had by sticking them on the end of his toy drill and letting 'er rip.  It was funny but also annoying because then we had no more toilet paper. Well, no more on a roll, that is.

I gathered up all the piles of toilet paper, stuffed them into a plastic bag and put it in the bathroom.  I wasn't about to waste six rolls of toilet paper because nothing comes cheap in Paris.

Enter Patricia, our wonderfully kind cleaning lady.  Patricia, whenever she sees something odd lying around the apartment, always asks me if she should keep it or toss it.  She always asks.  She'll ask about the empty glass bottles sitting on the counter.  She'll ask about the random piece of paper lying under the kitchen table.  She'll ask about small balls of lint (rightfully so because Lucien has a collection.  He calls it his collection of "dust" and keeps it in a box.  What a weirdo.)

So imagine my surprise when one day after she'd left, I went into the bathroom to find the bag of wadded up toilet paper gone.  All gone.  And she hadn't asked me about it which means she had no doubt what needed to be done with it.  How strange.  But then it dawned. "Oh shit," I said out loud, "Patricia thinks we put our used toilet paper in a bag."

Then the other day we were in the kitchen chatting.  Patricia was rooting around under the sink for some cleaning products.  She grabbed a small box of something and pulled it out.  Sonofabitch -- it was the box of condoms we used for Coco's baths when she was in the brace (for those not in the know, Coco had bandages on her legs and we had to put condoms over the bandages to keep them dry when we bathed her, voila, long story made short, moving on).

Even more, I had, for reasons unknown to me even then, removed one of the condoms from Coco's leg after her bath and tied it in a kind of bow around the box.  I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it.  At the time I felt pride but that's not what I felt as Patricia stood there staring at it.  I could tell she was wondering (1) why we kept our condoms under the kitchen sink and (2) why there was one apparently used condom tied around the box.  Or at least, if I was her, that's what I would have been wondering. 

After a moment of silence, I tried to explain with a (hopefully) casual laugh and a, "Oh yeah....those..." Patricia interrupted me with "No, no, Madame, it's OK, it's OK," as she chucked the box back under the sink and closed the cupboard door.  I tried to explain again but she left the room quickly saying "that other room must be vacuumed RIGHT NOW."

I've really gotta find out if she has a blog. 

I'm feeling much better about the whole speaking French thing since Alex and I attended the Brahms Requiem performance at St. Sulpice on Thursday.  I'll get to the "why" in a minute but first let me tell you one fun thing followed by some boring things. 

Alex and I went for a drink before the concert. We sat outside under the heat lamps and Al chatted with the waiter a bit.  Before the waiter walked off, he said to Alex with great respect, "Your French is incredibly good, Monsieur."  Alex replied, "I sure hope so.  I've been speaking it since I was a fetus."  Then the waiter felt embarrassed;  he hadn't recognized the Quebec accent and thought he was bestowing the greatest compliment ever upon an Anglophone tourist.

I like to kid Alex now and tell him his French is really good.  I use my awestruck voice.  Then he tells me my French is NOT really good in his normal voice.  Ouch.  Why you gotta cut so deep, man?

Saint Sulpice has been around in its present form since about 1730.  It's the second largest church in Paris, behind Notre Dame.  According to my questionable source, Wikipedia, both Baudelaire (dirty birdie) and the Marquis de Sade (Dirtier birdie) were baptized there.  Victor Hugo married Adele Foucher there.

It became quite famous after being mentioned in Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code.  In the novel, it's the church with "The Rose Line" (And then I think that crazy albino monk shows up and rips up part of the floor and then he kills a nun or something?  I think that's the sign of a pretty bad monk, myself, but I don't know much about religion.)

Here's a picture of the fabulous Saint Sulpice taken just before the concert.  There were lots of Frenchies there.

Full choir.  Full orchestra.  Full awesome. 

The concert was a fundraiser for a group building a medical clinic in Madagascar.  Before the concert, an important man got up and gave us the details of the project.  I sat there half-listening and looking around the church, thinking about all the people who had sat in that very spot before me (at least ten, I figured, in the past 280 years.  I like to keep my estimates conservative.)

Suddenly I had a revelation.  Everything was clicking.  I was understanding almost everything the important man was saying.  I understood the purpose of the clinic, where it was going to be, how it was going to be financed.  Al leaned over and tried to translate a little for me but I casually said, "Oh yeah, I know. I understood all that."  I'm pretty sure Al was impressed and loves me more now.  I felt happy and am going to cut myself some slack. 

The concert was incredible.  Full choirs tend to knock your socks off when they unleash their force in a super old and famous church, regardless of what some albino monk did there.  From the first powerful note, tears were in eyes.  Alex, as much as he enjoys classical music, apparently missed the title of the piece.  Afterwards he said, "Well, that was great but I would have preferred something a little more upbeat."  And then I was like, "Al, it was a requiem. Someone DIED, dude."

Requiems are by nature a bit on the somber side unless the composer hated the dead person.  Then they can be downright peppy.  The best example of this is the "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" requiem.  I remember that one from my childhood. 

On Friday I went out to dinner with a group of the ladies.  I can't tell you what we talked about because they all know about my blog.  No worries, ladies, I will never spill your dark, horrible secrets...

We went to a restaurant down in the bowels of the 15th arrondissement, La Cave de l'Os à Moelle, that serves good French food family style, with communal tables and all.  It feels like you're in someone's kitchen as you walk over and serve yourself some soup from the stove. It was so good.  And homey.  Made me want to kick off my shoes and fight with someone over the remote control. 

We went for a drink afterwards.  That's tough to do in the bowels of the 15th arr.  We're incredibly spoiled living where we do with so many bars and restaurants and fun things right outside our front doors.  We walked up and down the street and saw only empty sidewalks, closed shops and zero fun.  We finally wound up in a small seedy-by-Parisian-standards bar where the chairs were more like footstools with no backs.  We were low to the ground and drank strange things.

Australian mom almost got in a scuffle at the door with some hoodlums.  We would have had her back -- MESSAGE ladies like to throw down after hours.


Don't mess with the Anglos, mes choux, and ignore the toilet paper in the bag
MJ

Express myself

Girlfriend Coco is pretty sure she's talking but she's really not.

Like mother, like daughter. I can't talk either. Some days I feel I'm on top of this French thing but all the other days I'm reminded I suck.

Madame Kickmyass says my French has gotten tons better. I totally agree. But there are still times -- so, so, many, many times -- when I am completely unable to express myself. It makes me want to slam my head into a brick wall a dozen times and then order a stiff drink. And then go to the hospital, I guess, for the head wound and all.

Take, for instance, the most recent person on my shitlist: the goddamn plumber. We have a leak in our closet. It started out as a cute little drip, drip, drip, but as leaks tend to do, it's gotten progressively worse. We now have to empty the pan it's dripping into every hour and shut off the water at night.

We need a goddamn plumber. Alex spoke to the property management peeps and they contacted one. He was to arrive here yesterday afternoon. Yesterday being Wednesday, the Loosh was home. I promised Lucien all morning that as soon as the plumber got here, we would leave and go jump on the trampolines in the Tuileries.

The Loosh loves the trampolines in the Tuileries. He sat here with his little red sneakers on the wrong feet and his hair combed, watching the door hopefully, waiting for the plumber. But, of course, the plumber never came. I don't know why these things still surprise me.

Finally, around 5:00 I had to tell the Loosh we weren't going out, that I had to start thinking about dinner, and that we'd waited all day for nothing. The ensuing heartbroken meltdown was ugly and involved some book throwing and some door slamming.

He got in trouble for it but I couldn't blame him for being mad. I mean, I dangled the carrot in front of his face all day and then just snatched it away. I was totally Lucy to his Charlie Brown and the trampolines at the Tuileries were the football. (Yikes, that was a stretch.)

this is what the fun would have looked like

I was determined to give that plumber a piece of my mind. In French, which was most likely not going to go well. I also wanted to make sure he was going to show up at some point because in my experience, leaks do not fix themselves.

I called him and very politely gave my name and mentioned we had an appointment the day before but he never showed up. My French was flawless and I was feeling good. Then our conversation went a little something like this:

AWOL plumber: The appointment is for Saturday.

Me: The appointment was for yesterday.

AWOL plumber: Saturday.

Me: Yesterday.

AWOL plumber: something' somethin' mumble mumble frenchie talk

Me: (ignoring mumbled frenchie talk because I didn't know how to answer it) We have a leak. It's getting worse. We need you to come very soon.

AWOL plumber: the exact same somethin' somethin' mumble mumble frenchie talk

...but AH-HA! This time I caught some crucial words! He wanted to know the brand of the water heater! Yes...I can probably tell him that!....wait a second....

Me: There is no problem with the water heater. We have a leak in the closet.

AWOL plumber: Madame, frenchie talk water heater

Me: (silence)

AWOL plumber: (sighing) Anyway, YOU told me to come Saturday chit chat somethin' somethin'.

Me: No, my husband told you to come yesterday.

AWOL plumber: No, you, yourself, told me to come Saturday yackety yackety water heater water heater.

Me: I didn't tell you anything. I've never spoken to you before in my life.

AWOL plumber: blah blah blah somethin' somethin' somethin' shiny things.

Me: (consulting French book, as I had hit a road block) le stylo est sur la table.

AWOL plumber: ???

Me: I'm going to call my husband now.

AWOL plumber: Yes, I think that would be best.

Screw. Speaking. French. Just screw it. I've lived here a year and I can't tell a plumber to go to hell. I didn't even come close to explaining Lucien and the trampoline carrot. It's just disheartening.

yep, that sure would have been fun...

When I get home to the States, I am going to express my every single waking thought CONTINUOUSLY and LOUDLY just because I CAN.

I'm going to think happy thoughts now. My parents and my brother are going to be here in less than two weeks. (My sister can't come this time but that's not a happy thought so go away.) They're coming to meet Camille. I can't wait to see their faces when she smiles at them then lunges for their noses with her mouth wide open.

She's doing that a lot lately -- with affectionate urgency, like, "OMG, I love you so much I'm going to eat your face... nom nom nom."

We're also making travel plans. Alex is taking a week off in April so we can go far away. I think we're going to Switzerland, preferably the German speaking side because I need a vacation from French. I want to go somewhere where there will be absolutely no expectation that I know how to communicate at all. There will be freedom in that.

Alex and I have tickets to a classical music concert in an old church tonight. I am looking forward to going sleepy-boo on Alex's shoulder. Seriously, classical music, dark old church and tired, disheartened mama may not be a combination for success but we'll give it a go.

Bring back sexy time plumber, mes choux. AWOL plumber blows.
MJ

P.S. What are the odds? Alex chatted with AWOL plumber and made another appointment for today. He showed up. I prepared my mean face and opened the door -- and good grief, AWOL plumber IS sexy time plumber!

He remembered me from last year and also apologized for our earlier phone call. He had confused me with another American woman he was meeting on --that's right, you know it -- Saturday with a -- that's right, you know it -- hot water heater problem. So I don't feel angry anymore. I am, however, still angry at French. French can go jump in the Seine.

The leak is fixed now so maybe I'll head over to the Tuileries and bounce around on the trampolines by myself.

How I spent Lucien's winter vacation

Mark the calendar, me. Remember this moment. It's another "first" on the joyous and heartwarming path of my oldest child's emotional development.

"I WANT A NEW MOMMY" Lucien screamed at me today. It was the first time he's yelled that but probably not the last. My offense was refusing him chocolate. For breakfast.

Winter vacation is over and the Loosh is back at his eight-hour school day as I sit here with mixed feelings. On one hand, it was a looooong two weeks. On the other hand, despite his high maintenance-ness, I love being around that boy. He makes me laugh (when he's not making me pull my new super cute haircut out by the roots, that is.)

We had some good times during Winter Break 2010. We went to the Jardin du Luxembourg twice to watch the marionette show. The first time was an adorable version of The Three Little Pigs. The second time was an incomprehensible mess of Pinocchio that can only be explained by a lot of crack smoking behind the scenes.

Crackpipe Pinocchio involved a lion getting his tail chopped off with an ax, some demons jumping out from behind rocks, some dancing mushrooms and an appearance by the witch from Snow White. There was no Geppetto, no Jiminy Cricket, and Pinocchio became a real boy only after he learned how to recite the alphabet.

Virgina mom and I kept looking at each other and mouthing, "What the EFF?" The kids seemed mystified, at one point asking if we were still watching Pinocchio. I didn't know how to answer.

After the show we saw a man strip down to his underwear in the middle of the park. Yawn. Just more public disrobing in Paris. Over it.

Alex and I had a double date with New York mom and dad on Saturday night. We ate at a wonderful little restaurant called Mon Vieil Ami on Ile St. Louis where we drank a lot of wine and were only marginally more obnoxious than the other diners. The downside was New York mom ended up with a dessert that kinda looked like it had a large pink turd on the top of it. Actually, maybe it more closely resembled lady parts.

New York mama has her own blog detailing their final days here in Paris (yes, they're leaving. no, I don't want to talk about it) in which they've committed to eating a different pastry every day for 28 days. So you can read more about her turd-or-lady-bit dessert HERE. (WARNING: NSFW IF YOUR WORKPLACE PLACES HIGH VALUE ON GOOD LOOKING DESSERTS)

Lucien and I took advantage, once again, of free museum Sunday but this time we went to Musee d'Orsay. The downside of free museum Sunday is that everyone in the whole damn city is standing in line by the time you get there. As I stared at the enormously long line and contemplated Lucien's chances of surviving the butt-chapping cold, a museum guy pointed me to a much shorter line and told me it was for people with kids. So next time you go to the Musee d'Orsay on free museum Sunday, I suggest you steal a small child to gain entrance quickly.

(Is this where I have to put a disclaimer saying I don't really advocate stealing small children and don't do it, asshole, I was just kidding?)

The Musee d'Orsay is my favorite museum but it's much smaller than the Louvre and several levels are closed for major renovations. Thus, the areas you can get into are ridiculously crowded, especially on free museum Sunday. It's tough to enjoy the masters of Impressionism with French teenagers and German tourists literally breathing down your neck. The good news is it makes it much easier to touch and be touched inappropriately.

Lucien is becoming a fine art expert. His favorite paintings are the ones in which all the people are naked. He likes to point and yell stuff like, "Look at she's boobies! She doesn't have no clothes on!" Alex does the same thing so I guess it's just a case of the apple not falling far from the tree. Perverts.

For the nudity reason, the Loosh really enjoyed Manet's Déjeuner sur l'Herbe. He thought my beloved Van Gogh was boring because there were no naked people. He really enjoyed my favorite sculpture by Camille Claudel (whom his little sister is named after) which made my heart swell with pride. He stared at it for a long time. I like to think he enjoyed it so much because I've adequately shared my love of Claudel's work but it could be for another reason --

more boobies.
does it seriously start this young???

I took the Loosh out for lunch after the museum. The brasserie was crowded and we ended up sitting right next to the door. Every time someone entered or exited, a frigidly cold gust of air smacked us in the faces. After awhile Lucien started jumping out of his chair whenever someone approached the door with his little arms stretched out in front of him. "Be careful," he'd instruct them sternly in French, "I'm real cold." He got a few hair tousles and some laughs from the Frenchies for his efforts.

But Lucien didn't want to be cute. He wanted to be taken seriously. He sighed deeply and moped in his chair. Sometimes it's hard to be a four-year old in Paris.

Even though I've made peace with my grocery store (past grocery store woes can be read here, here, just for starters) I recently forayed into French grocery delivery. I placed my order online and a happy little guy delivered them right on time. All was well in the world until I unpacked them and started wondering where the hell everything was. A quick check of my order confirmation revealed they had forgotten 10 items. And I'd only ordered a grand total of 32. Sonofabitch! I guess there's no escaping the grocery store. I tried to get out and they pulled... me... back... in.

Lucien called his green beans "green boobs" tonight at dinner. He didn't mean to -- it just slipped out that way. Seriously, does it really start this young???

I miss you, buddy. Life's awfully quiet when you're off tormenting Saint Teacher.

Eat your green boobies, mes choux,
MJ

Hairy

Every couple months or so, I take out my special hairbutchering scissors and maim the hell out of Lucien's hair. I cut his hair myself because kid haircuts in Paris are ridiculously priced considering the smallness of their heads.

I don't really know how to cut hair so each haircut is an exciting experiment. It usually starts off OK until Lucien remembers he likes to move constantly. This adds some PIZAZZ to the haircut because chunks of hair get cut off that were supposed to stick around.

Half an hour later with Lucien starting to resemble a Troll doll, I inevitably become very crabby and mutter, "I'm just gonna shave your damn head."

Now whenever I tell Lucien to hop up on the stool because it's hair cuttin' time, he looks at me nervously and says, "Are you just gonna shave my damn head?"

His latest haircut isn't too bad. Actually, let me take that back; it's an uneven mess. But it's short enough that I can put some product in it and give him a messy mohawk. That seems an appropriate hairstyle for the Loosh and people on the streets think it's funny. Very 1980s London.

While we're on the subject, I haven't gotten my hair cut in over a year. At home that would be unthinkable but here -- no way a haircut is making it on the list of priorities. I was busy our first year with "surviving" and "figuring out what the HELL is going on." Meanwhile my hair grew longer and longer until the only way to deal with it was the daily mom ponytail.

Madame Kickmyass sat across the table from me and watched my hair grow longer and more unruly for months. She finally mentioned my hair had gotten a lot longer (a nice way of saying, "Seriously, lady, buy a weed whacker") and I told her I just didn't have the energy to deal with it.

Then she told me an amazing thing. In Paris, there are many hairstylists who make housecalls. She has several friends, especially those stuck at home with napping babies, who use them regularly. Even better, they're a helluva lot cheaper than the salons in our fancy 'hood.

My first thought -- that's weird. I mean, how do they shampoo your hair? Was Jean Luc going to climb in the bathtub with me and wash my hair amongst Lucien's bath toys? That seemed awfully awkward...and sex-ay.

I should learn to keep my half-formed thoughts as thoughts and not turn them into spoken things. Madame K gave me that "you're batshit crazy" look again and told me not to worry -- I could wash my hair all by myself before they arrived. Heh heh, yep, that definitely makes more sense.

A quick internet search later, both Alex and I (of course Alex decided to crash my hair party) had appointments with a coiffeur named Maxime in our kitchen. Maxime showed up after the kids were in bed. (This is starting to sound like another pornography opportunity, much like my old encounters with the sexy time plumber, but if that's what you're hoping for stop reading now. You will be disappointed.)

That being said, Maxime is aDORable. He's young, skinny, cute, fashionable and much, much cooler than we are, or ever were, or can ever hope to be. After a quick greeting he got right down to business, pawing through my hair. "Aye ye ye," he clucked, "too much hair. We should do this and this and this. Sit down. I am so much cooler than you."

It's weird to get a haircut by adorable Maxime in your kitchen. It's weird to get a haircut with your television playing in the background and a baby monitor next to your chair. It's weird to get a haircut wearing slippers. It's weird to get a haircut while Alex stands there laughing and pointing his little pointy fingers at you because you're getting a haircut in the kitchen.

Maxime spoke ridiculously fast French full of young, hip slang neither Al nor I understood. But suddenly he jumped in front of me with a smile and said in English, "Wake up! Wake up!" I didn't really know what the hell he was talking about but OK, maybe I was looking a little lifeless in the chair? So I opened my eyes wide and smiled really big and bounced around in the chair a little bit.

Maxime squinted at me. "Wake up?" he said, a bit more tentatively. I smiled bigger and widened my eyes more to show him I was really SUPER DUPER AWAKE. His smile was gone and he looked confused as he started tugging on my arm. There were a few seconds of absolute confusion as we looked at each other like, "what the hell, nutjob?" Then he jerked his thumb towards the ceiling and said again, "Wake up? Up?"

Ah-HA! He meant "Get up!" I jumped to my feet and then we both smiled and laughed a little. He didn't try any more English after that.

When he was finished with both of us, Maxime swept up all the hair and dumped it in the garbage can. Alex looked down at the can and said, "It looks like there's a decapitated head in our garbage." And believe it or not, that's just a really creepy thing to say out loud. An awkward silence fell over the three of us. Alex knew he'd said something odd so he turned and left the kitchen while Maxime and I continued to stare in the garbage and think about decapitation. *crickets*

Both Al and I look super hot so we will call on Maxime again. I tried to take some posed pictures of our new haircuts but we look like tools in every single one. So this is going to have to happen naturally; next time we take candid pictures out and about, please kindly notice the hair. In the meantime, here's Lucien's fauxhawk.


Spring is coming and we feel like we can breathe again. It's still cold but the sun is shining and the skies are blue. The sidewalk cafes are starting to fill up again and there's a sense that everyone is crawling out of the holes they've been stuck in for months. Springtime in Paris is a joyful time.

We had our first two Luxembourg sandbox playdates of the season and it feels great to be back. Upon saying goodbye at our last gathering, Lucien grabbed Virginia daughter and kissed her smack on the lips, head tilt and all. I think France is really starting to rub off on that kid.

Mohawks for everyone, mes choux,
MJ

A Canadian Dad in Paris

What's the opposite of writer's block? Is it like writer's write-too-much? That's what I have. There's too much going on around here. Instead of there being less to write about as time goes by, I find there is more. Way too much more.

Sometimes I sit down and try to write but within seconds I'm running around the kitchen freaking out, thinking ohmygodohmygodohmygod I don't know where to start. I can't begin to tackle it all and when I try, I go crazy.

In order to move forward with this blog, I am giving myself permission to forget most of what happens. It's the only way.

We finally bought a new refrigerator, one that doesn't look like it belongs in a college dorm room. It's still tiny by U.S. standards but I have no idea what to put in it. I have all our necessary stuff in there but you can still hear your voice echo when you open the door.




















I'm pretty sure my refrigerator storage needs have changed. At home our fridge was stuffed so full, you risked a food avalanche every time you opened the door. What the hell was in there? Dang if I can remember.

Now I'm about to talk about something stupid -- for me, anyway. I'm going to talk about hockey.

I don't know nothin' 'bout hockey. The closest I've come to having hockey in my life is playing broomball in high school. I wasn't very good. I liked hitting things with a broom but I didn't really care where they went after I hit them. That's a problem in broomball.

My Al, however, is Canadian. Canadians loooove them some hockey. When he mentioned getting a babysitter and going to the Canadian bar to watch the epic gold medal match, I could not say no to that happy Canadian.

I don't think there's a less Frenchie thing to do on a Sunday night than go to a Canadian bar and watch U.S. vs. Canada hockey but we knew it was going to attract every single spazzy hockey fan in the city. Alex went super early to get a table. I put the kids to bed and when the babysitter got here, I ran.

When I arrived, there was an angry crowd gathered outside, demanding to be let in. The bouncer was firmly yet apologetically telling them the bar was full. Everyone had to wait outside until someone left which, of course, they were never going to do.

This made people feel desperate. I heard many people yell, with sobs in their voices, "But I'm Canadian! You have to let me in! I've been waiting for this my entire life!" (Canadians really looooove them some hockey...)

I told the bouncer my husband was waiting for me inside. He said he was sorry, but the place was already too full and they couldn't let anyone else in. I called Al and told him the situation. Within seconds, my Al was at the door. And then, in the most stunningly sexy thing I've ever seen Alex do, he subtly pulled out his wallet and slipped the bouncer forty euros. I was in the door within seconds as jaws dropped outside. "Who is SHE??" they all whispered. "She must be a SOMEBODY."

Everyone has their price. FYI, a Parisian Canadian bar's bouncer's price is forty euros.

The place was not just packed, it was holy f@#!g s@#! packed. When we finally squeezed through the crowd and made it to our table, Alex said he thought he had just had sex with a few people but wasn't sure.

All day I had been looking forward to a little rivalry between me and Al. It would be fun, I thought, to cheer for different teams and have some fun with it. But the second I walked into that bar, my survival instincts kicked in. I never realized Canadian hockey fans en masse are so damn terrifying.

Hence, "Go Canada, eh?" fell from my lips quickly and easily as I pushed my way through the crowd. This made people cheer and I felt hidden and safe.

Al had recruited a very large Canadian, Mike from Alberta, to guard our table while he went to retrieve me at the door. Mike from Alberta quickly became our best friend. He had just arrived on a plane from Canada, in town on business, and was so jet lagged he had no idea if it was day or night. But he still managed to find a Canadian bar immediately upon arrival.

Mike was wearing a bigass red-n-white hockey jersey and had a maple leaf painted on his face. I wondered if he'd sat on the plane like that. I wouldn't put it past a Canadian hockey fan.

The crowd was fun, mostly Canadian with some American thrown in for flavor. The crowd also contained the only five French guys in the world who care about hockey. They were sitting next to us and got stinkin' drunk. One guy kept yelling, "Go France!" Then he'd giggle and fall sideways off his chair.

As everyone knows by now, the game was fun. Damn fun. It was impossible not to get caught up in the emotion of the game in that crowd. When Canada scored the first goal, then the second, it looked like this --



But it felt like this --


America was represented but, wisely, her fans were much more restrained. When America scored once, and then twice, the bar looked like this --

See that one little arm raised? That's one brave dude right there.

but it felt like this --

Wha? Who me? I love maple syrup and Canadian bacon! And Neil Young! And....crap what else is Canadian? THINK, MJ, THINK!

(I was going for a Blair Witch terror thing up there. Did I nail it or what?)

At one point in the game, I recognized Wayne Gretzky in the crowd in Vancouver. Overly excited to join in the Canada love, I said, "Hey, look, there's Wayne Gretzky!" I didn't understand why Mike and Al were looking at me like that until Al sighed and said, "He's sitting next to the Prime Minister of Canada." Then I was like, "THAT'S Harper? Wow. I had no idea what he looked like." Then Al and Mike sighed again because that's the fate of Canada.

On his way to the bathroom, a drunk (everyone was drunk) businessman from Buffalo, New York stopped at our table to chat. When he found out I was American, he gave me a fist-bump and totally outed me to the people surrounding us, including one rabid Canadian fan who was missing half his ear.

I did not want to be on THAT guy's bad side so as Buffalo businessman walked away, I made gestures like, "That guy's cuckoo, eh?" and smiled nervously. Half-ear Canadian guy looked at me suspiciously after that.

When Canada won in overtime, it was pure, deafening joy running through that bar. It was made somewhat bittersweet by the fact everyone was very, very far from home. All the Canadian ex-pats and traveling businessmen jumped up and down and hugged each other and, I'm sure, wished they were on home soil to see the celebration.

Alex and I got stinkin' drunk along with everyone else. It's been a long time since we did that and it was awesome. Mike hugged us both long and kinda painfully hard after the game. As we parted ways at the exit, Mike drunkenly declared he'd never forget us. Thirty seconds later, as he stumbled one way and we stumbled another, Alex said, "I bet Mike just forgot us." Then we laughed and laughed because we were stinkin' drunk and celebrating Canada in the teeny tiny beautiful streets of Paris.

That. was. awesome. But it sure does suck to be a hungover mother of two early the next morning. I guess it's good we don't do that very often anymore. Lucien isn't very compliant with the whole "Oh GOD stop yelling, stop jumping on me, mommy's head, mommy's aching head...ohhhh God kill me" plea.

I am now going to forget everything else in my no longer aching head because I have to stop typing at some point.

Drunk Canadians running amok in Paris, mes choux,
MJ