OK, so I watched it

I didn't give much thought to THE ROYAL WEDDING until my Twitter and Facebook exploded this morning with people watching it, at all hours, in a freaky obsessive way.  Only then did I begin to question the sanity of some of my more "balanced" friends.

So I turned on the TV, fully intending to watch the cavalcade of guests arriving at Westminster Abbey -- I wanted to make fun of hats, too!  -- but I got sucked into the delightful Matthew McConaughey masterpiece, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past and man, did I ever chuckle.

Another quick check of Twitter revealed I was missing the greatest thing ever, so I flipped to CNN International to watch Piers Morgan and Anderson Cooper say hilarious things.  One of my early favorites was from Piers, in regard to the earlier "less important" arrivals at the Abbey, "These people just can't believe they got an invite."  Another was after Elton John arrived, and Piers said, "I'd hate to be the person who has to sing hymns next to him."  Then Piers went on at length about the famous lady in the blue dress whose nose fell apart because of a sustained drug problem so she just got a new one and that's why it looked so wonky?

Facebook and Twitter were right -- this wedding was awesome!

It did remind me of me and Al's wedding in places, especially the swarming police and the snipers up on the roof (you can't be too cautious about unruly guests).  Victoria Beckham showed up at our wedding, too, with a large growth attached to her forehead later determined to be a hat.  Is it really still a "hat" if it's attached to the front of your forehead?  (Just looked it up -- Phillip Treacy calls them "headpieces" and I'm satisfied with that explanation.)

The wedding procession to Westminster Abbey was truly exciting.  Lucien is home for lunch on Fridays, so he watched some of it with me.  When William and Harry left Clarence House and drove through the people who were cheering for them wildly, I inexplicably began bawling like a baby.  Lucien asked, "Why are you crying Mommy?" and I was like, "I HAVE NO IDEA."  Then Anderson Cooper cracked me up with, "I can't believe they're transporting the Royal Family to the wedding in airport shuttles" and I laughed and laughed, but then cried again for the Queen's arrival because her life must be so lonely.  Lucien looked a little afraid of his Mommy, who seemed to have suddenly developed multiple personalities. 

Then, as tends to be the case with weddings, once everyone was assembled in the Abbey and right up to the point everyone filed out again -- total snoozefest.  Then TWO kisses on the balcony of Buckingham Palace?  Their wedding night is going to be hot. 

Anyway, I've never been into the whole "princess" thing, and I certainly never want my daughter thinking the best thing that can happen to her is to land a prince (The best thing that can happen to her is to marry someone like Al, because then she can move to Paris and become a blogger, lucky girl...)  But this "Will and Kate" seem to have good heads on their shoulders.  Their love is obvious, their wedding joyful, and I'm happy for them and wish them the best.  OK, can we get back to normal life now?  Seriously.

MJ

The numbers go to eleven

We have many, many months left in Paris, but already our heads are starting to return to the U.S.  Sometimes I find myself so preoccupied with stuff we're planning in Seattle, I forget where I live, climb into a stranger's car and demand to be taken to Target.

We must stay present.  We must focus on Paris while still in Paris, mustn't squander our remaining six-ish months in this beautiful, frustrating place.  But at the same time, we have to begin preparing for what will surely be a harsh re-entry.  For one thing, it's time to speak more of "the English" with Lucien because Lucien's go-to language is now French.  He'll start explaining something in English, but midway he'll switch to French.  It's damn adorable, but will probably look weird to the kids back home.

I realized it was time to hit the English hard the other day when Loosh demonstrated his French counting abilities.  He can count on and on happily in French, but when I asked him to try in English, he was completely lost after ten.  I never thought much about English counting in the home, but now I realize I've been neglecting this important life skill.

I'm on it now, boy.  I surprise him with pop counting quizzes.  He walks around the corner and I jump out and yell, "WHAT COMES AFTER TEN?"  Then he usually squeaks, "onze?" and I roar, "NO!  Eleven!  Eleven!  The numbers all go to eleven!  THESE GO TO ELEVEN!  Hee hee!  HELLO CLEVELAND!  hee heeee LICK MY LOVE PUMP.. HAHA HAHAHAHA."

Then Lucien carefully steps around me as I double over, cry with the laughter, and quote more Spinal Tap.  It's not going well, the English counting, but maybe once we get past eleven -- IT GOES TO ELEVEN HEE HEEEE LICK MY LOVE PUMP -- it will go better.

We were around this year for the Message-organized Easter Egg hunt.  It wasn't as much fun as the first one we attended a couple years back, primarily because of the disgusting illness we recently wrestled into submission.  Plus, it reminded me of the people we were friends with back at the first Easter Egg Hunt.  They're all gone now, and I've lost touch with most of them, and that makes me feel like a bad person.  Plus, life here isn't as shiny and new and exciting as it was back then; now it's just normal life.  Plus, I was totally distracted by all the things I wanted to pick up at Target later that day -- dang, there I go again.

Anyway, here are a few pictures for posterity's sake.  Lucien and I went alone since Camille was still under the weather.  I was exhausted mentally and physically, so pretty much followed Lucien around and muttered impatiently, "Just find some damn eggs so we can go home."  Happy Easter everybody!

 Then and now.

Really?  Have we really been here that long?

I suppose it's worth mentioning I still dislike the grocery store.  (so many grocery store debacles -- here and here and here and here and here and here just for starters)  As I've mentioned, I only do grocery delivery these days, but sometimes a trip to the physical store is still necessary.

The grocery store is still a kind of purgatory, with lots of unhappy people standing around waiting for a joy they know will never come.  It's still not fun and people are often crabby with me, but the crucial difference now is I don't expect anything different.  Now I go into a grocery store with no hope, no expectation that things are going to go well.   When it all goes to hell -- meh, I'm ready for it.  And if by chance things DO go well -- no one bumps me aside, the items I need are actually in stock, the lines are short, the cashier smiles at me -- well, I just leave feeling like I hit the grocery store lottery and am in a good mood for the rest of the day.

So there's the secret to Parisian grocery shopping -- if you have no hope, you can't possible be disappointed and you may even be pleasantly surprised. 

I wanted to finish up Italy this time.  I sat down to write that but all this happened instead.  Sometimes you just have to follow where the magic takes you.

"There was a Stonehenge monument on the stage that was in danger of being crushed by a dwarf,"
HEE HEE HEEE,
MJ

P.S.  I had drinks with longtime posse member Duchesse the other night.  She's a fantastic, fun, and indeed regal  lady.  Thanks for a fun evening, Duchesse -- and why the hell didn't we take a picture?

Roman Holiday, or All Roads Lead to Rome, or When in Rome, or.... oh, I just went to Rome, OK?

I spent a semester in Europe back in my college days.  Those months were busy -- eating nutella straight out of the jar with a spoon, drinking copious amounts of German beer, and traveling all over Europe with really funny people. Occasionally I studied, but I think everyone knows semesters abroad aren't for book learning; they're for world learning. 

One of the things I learned about the world back then was I hated Rome.  After visiting dreamy Venice and dreamy Florence, we took one look at Rome and decided it was dirty and noisy by comparison so wanted nothing to do with it.  Then we found a grassy spot next to the Colosseum where we played cards for hours.  In our defense, we were travel-weary, and young -- and by "young" I mean "dumb."

Rome was dead to me after that.  But then a few months ago, my sister, Robin, emailed to say she was going to Rome, related to her work as a sommelier (that's a professional wine snob), and could I meet her?  There were many reasons why Al and I thought it wouldn't work.  One of them was related to the fact I hated Rome, and the other reasons were even dumber.

Thankfully, I got smart.  A handful of days before Robs was due to arrive in Europe, I awoke in the middle of the night in a panic.  "What the hell am I doing?!!"  I cried out, much to Alex's chagrin because he was very sleepy,  "This is my SISTER.  In ROME.  I'm going, dammit!"  I hopped out of bed to look up airfare on Expedia and Alex was like, "Yeah...smruflpel ymshmmmm...zzzzzzz..." 

We made it work.  And before I could crap myself too thoroughly over leaving my babies in the hands of a third party while Alex was at work, I jumped on a plane and flew to stupid Rome.

Once there, I was nearly killed by a taxi driver.  Everyone knows Italians are wild drivers but I landed the king of them all.  He went 160 km/h (100 mph) on the freeway and passed on the shoulder.  There was some skidding involved.  Once inside the city center, he apparently wasn't happy with the speed of people going in our direction, so he regularly veered into the oncoming traffic lanes to get around them.  In the middle of doing this, he pointed out the window and yelled things like, "Colosseum!  Colosseum!"

I wasn't in the mood for a tour; I was too preoccupied with thoughts of what would happen if cars started coming the opposite direction.  I soon had my answer -- quick swerving and prolonged honking followed by arm waving and passionate Italian yelling.  Compared to Italian drivers, French drivers look like they drive under the influence of Valium cocktails at all times.

At the end of it all, wild cabbie wrote me a receipt for the fare while I sat in a stupor and wondered if I'd died or not.  I didn't look at the receipt until later --

I didn't pay 70 euros for the cab, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get a lap dance.  God, I love Italy.

And I love my sister.  Isn't she adorable, even though she's a ton older than me? --

Ten seconds after squeezing my sister and setting out for fun and adventure, I realized I had been wrong about Rome. I love Rome.  Rome is charming and breathtaking and full of incredible things.  I was in mental hyperdrive from the start trying to absorb it all into my horrible memory where it doesn't stand a chance of survival unless I blog about it.  This was the city I hated?  Who can hate a city when around every corner is another charming street filled with tiny Italian boys playing soccer --

I was very happy to meet one of my sister's dearest friends, someone I've heard about for years, who was also in Italy on wine business.  I'll call her Texas Dog Mom.  Texas Dog Mom likes to sit and drink prosecco.  This would be great except my sister prefers to march determinedly for hours in search of obscure works of art, most located in churches that are impossible to find.  So here's how most of our conversations went: 

Robin:  Dammit, Texas Dog Mom, not another prosecco!
Texas Dog Mom:  Dammit, Robin, not another Caravaggio!
Me:  Someone else is taking care of my children! Let's party and meet some dudes!

 Prosecco won this round

Texas Dog  Mom speaks Italian, which came in handy when ordering prosecco, and she also had lots of good ideas, such as climbing to the top of the Mussolini monument with a bottle of wine late, late at night.

Let's climb this b*tch

We were thwarted in our attempts to drink upon Mussolini's shrine to himself because access to the monument was closed.  It was also raining and cold, but that didn't matter, except our outfits got weird --

This is not a real outfit.  This is Robin wearing everything she had in her suitcase. I think that's pants with a skirt, then a dress, and three or four jackets.

Both Robin (and by extension, me) were guests of Italian Wine Guy, the son of one of the wealthiest families in Italy.  They own a vineyard, but it's by no means how they made their fortune.  Italian Wine Guy's family name is famous in Italy, both for some good reasons and some... err.... not so good reasons.  I'm gonna leave it at that because I don't want to DIE.

But Italian Wine Guy is a funny, friendly, likable guy.  He's distressingly good looking.  His hands are so smooth and perfect, I think he gets several manicures every day and soaks them in Palmolive in between.  His suits are custom made.  His laugh is high-pitched like a little girl's -- that part is jarring, you just don't see it coming.

Italian Wine Guy took us out for fancy drinks, then late dinners in the evenings, and since Italian Wine Guy never walks anywhere, ever, we were subjected to his crazy Italian driving wherever we went.  Here's a conversation Robin had with him while zooming through narrow Roman streets not much wider than his car --

Robin:  Whoa. Driving around here is intense.
Italian Wine Guy:  No, no, iz ok.  You do whatta you want.
Robin:  Whatever you want?
Italian Wine Guy:  Yes, yes, of course.  Like right now -- dis is a street just forra da walking.

Sure enough, we were zooming down a ridiculously narrow street plainly marked as pedestrian only.  You could easily tell the difference between Italian people and tourists.  Tourists dove out of the way panic-stricken, then looked outraged.  Italian people stepped aside casually, all while continuing their conversations, without so much as a stinkeye.

And the parking.  According to Italian Wine Guy, you can also park wherever you want.  Robin and I doubled over with laughter whenever we stepped out of his car and saw where he'd left it.  Once he just kind of stopped, the front of the car up against the sidewalk, but the back of the car jutting out into an intersection.  Robin and I sat there, unsure, until Italian Wine Guy announced, "OK!  This is the way I am going to park tonight" and got out of the car.

Whatever restaurant we were in, the waiters immediately spread word to the other tables "That's Italian Wine Guy sitting over there."  Heads would turn and whispers would begin.  The curious onlookers probably wondered why Robin and I, who were pretty puffy from wearing everything in our suitcases at the same time, were seated with such a famous, dapper, distressingly good looking man. 

The dinners were delightfully surreal.  There were a couple bizarre interactions we witnessed that made us wonder who the hell Italian Wine Guy really is, but I'm not going to get into detail because 1.) I really like him, and 2.) I don't want to DIE.  At one point, Italian Wine Guy leaned over and asked if he could eat some of my dinner.  I said "OK" and handed him my plate.  At another dinner,  the waiter inexplicably wore an apron that said "Snackability -- Nut Snack" right across his crotch.

I found myself wondering constantly what the hell was going on.  And that, my friends, is my happiest place to be -- smack in the middle of strange things.  It was bliss. 

One of our bizarre-o world dinners, with other assorted visiting wine people plus friends of Italian Wine Guy.  And pasta.  Lots and lots of pasta.

I really thought I could do this in one post.  I cannot.  Travel blogging is hard, because all the other stuff in life gets ignored.  Such as the fact both kids are suffering from hand, foot and mouth disease.  (That is the least creative name in medical history.)  And school vacation is over as of tomorrow.  And I'm going out for drinks with loyal comment posse member Duchesse tonight!  OK, that about sums it up.

There will probably be some sacrilege next time, since I'm going to address the erotic nature of religious art.  Does no one see it but me?
MJ

A surprisingly sexy spring break

Well hello there.

I'm still knee-deep in school break, thus I only have a second before the children realize I'm attempting to do something not directly related to them, which will make them angry and aggressive.  So quickly, quickly, here's a fast parade of fantastical photographs of fairly recent events.

This was Lucien's school parade involving a caterpillar stuck on a paper cone hat.  (Cute, but not as cute as the parakeets last time.)  Lucien became overwhelmed and upset halfway through the parade, so the teacher said Coco and I could walk with him to keep him happy.  Maybe the other parents wondered why I was wandering around in the middle of the parade of children -- or maybe they didn't think twice about it, having become accustomed to my strange behavior by now.

Just look at all those cameras.  Think of all the pictures I'm going to be in, all the precious family memories I'm going to dominate as the largest person in the frame --

"Why is that American woman standing smack in the middle of the parade?"

-every other parent there

I recently found out preschoolers are already talking about sex around here.  Lucien came home one day and, after being denied a delicious cookie right before dinner, crossed his arms, glared at me, and said, "I'm going to tell Daddy you're mean, Mommy, and he will never want to faire l'amour with you again."

My knees began to tremble with fear.  But then I remembered Alex would faire l'amour with just about anything that stood still long enough, including inanimate objects like houseplants, so Lucien didn't get his damn blackmail cookie.  But now I've got a five-year old that says "faire l'amour" all the time.

So then Spring Break began.  Usually I dread school breaks like any proper parent, but this one I was really looking forward to.  Lucien is exhausted to the point of catatonia.  I wanted to nurture him back to his crazy self, preferably locking him in my loving mother's embrace at all times, though so far that hasn't happened because he keeps squirming away.  Dammit, if he would just stop fighting me I could be so happy....

We went to watch the runners of the Paris marathon, where Lucien fell in love with the women of this drum group.  Not just one -- all of them.  He asked me if three could come home and be his amoureuses.  Lord help us, we've got a Hefner in the making. 

One day, I took Loosh out for a picnic lunch on the Pont des Arts.  We sat in the sunshine, ate a panini, and watched an adorable couple attach a lock to the bridge.  The locks are a big thing on the Pont des Arts; people write their names on the lock, attach it to the bridge, and throw the key into the Seine.  I'm not sure what the point is, but I think it's something along the lines of wanting to bring down a really old bridge with the unanticipated cumulative and rapidly increasing weight of thousands of locks.

This cute couple attached their lock, then began making out to the point of nearly making a baby right there on the bridge.

 Me:  Awwww... Lucien, look at the lovebirds humping on the bridge.

Lucien:  LOVE IS DEAD

Here's Lucien stomping home that same day, and periodically yelling over his shoulder that I'm a mean Mommy.  I don't remember why.  It happens so often, they all just kinda blend together after awhile.

And this is why I'm a nervous wreck when I'm out with the kids.  That car was going 100 mph, I swear.*

*I am prone to exaggeration.  But still. 


Yep, all in all, I was really enjoying this break with my boy at home.  So no one was more surprised than me when, less than a week into Lucien's much anticipated school break, I got on a plane, all by myself, and went here --

I'm back in Paris now, and can say with certainty THAT WAS AWESOME.  More next time; the kids have just discovered I'm out of my cage.

But I'm still here!  Wait for me, posse,
MJ

The tripod of betrayal and death

My life is currently occupied with 1.) the Chloe project and 2.) Lucien driving me crazy.  Regarding Lucien, here's where we are when it comes to his listening skills: 

Me:       Loosh, get your shoes on.  We've gotta go.
Lucien:  *silence, eff'g around, doing nothing of importance.
Me:       Loosh, come on, get your shoes on.  Did you go to the bathroom?
Lucien: *silence, eff'g around, doing nothing of importance.
Me:       Lucien, do it now, you're going to be late for school.  Move it. Now.
Lucien:  *silence, eff'g around, doing nothing of importance.
Me:       LUCIEN, OH MY GOD, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME???
Lucien:  Yeah, Mom, I'm listening!!
Me:      Really? Then what did I just say?
Lucien:  Well all of a sudden you just started yelling, "LUCIEN, MY GOD, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?"

And.....scene.

He makes me crazy, but I'm still gonna flatten that schoolyard bully who's picking on him if I get to within an inch of his smug little mug.

I met Chloe early Saturday morning for a photo shoot at my favorite cafe.  I try to go there weekend mornings with my journal so I can dream up inspiring new things to write about.  I then ignore these ideas for the rest of the week because I don't have the cohesiveness of mind to expand on them any further.  The dream is alive, but it's just so sleepy. 

Here are some drawings of something that happened during our cafe photo shoot.  Chloe brought her tripod for this session, and set it up across the street from "my" cafe as I sat outside with my delicious coffee.

It was a nice scene on a flawlessly beautiful, warm Spring morning.  But then a man entered stage left --

   
He looked at Chloe with her camera and her tripod and he did not like it.  He did not like it one little bit--

So he said something to her --

And then he said it again, only a lot angrier.  And he waved his arms a little.

The arm waving and gesturing became emphatic, angry, aggressive.  I couldn't catch what he was saying, but based on his level of anger, I'm pretty sure Chloe was trying to kill his mother --

I gathered from his gesturing he was taking offense that Chloe was set up in public taking pictures.  He was adamant....and big.  It was getting intense, and I was starting to get pretty nervous about it when suddenly --

-- a delivery truck drove right in front of Chloe and The Angry Man and I could no longer see a thing.

When the truck finally passed, everyone was wearing berets! Vive la France!

Everyone was either staring at Chloe and The Angry Man or staring at me, since it was obvious I was the one being assaulted with Chloe's camera in broad daylight.  The people looked at the tripod and wondered who I was to elicit such professional photographic attention --

 

I was seconds away from putting my dainty, ladylike hands up in the air --

-- and waving them frantically to tell The Angry Man everything was OK -- she was taking pictures of me, and I was a willing participant.

But I didn't have to, because something incredible happened --

Chloe let The Angry Man know exactly how she felt about his meddling. (In fairness to Chloe's professionalism, she did not really use swear words but I've decided that's how I'm going to remember it.)

The Angry Man walked away.  Chloe told me later there's something about setting up a camera with a tripod that tends to draw more attention, make people a little more hostile towards the photographer.  I guess they don't like the camera being all permanent-like near them because they're all doing secret, naughty things.

I say chill, people. There's no danger.  Everyone knows photographers won't hurt you with their tripods unless you startle them.

Well, I guess I just wasted this entire beautiful sunny day indoors drawing these pictures, just to say I have a newfound respect for photojournalists.  That's it.  My whole point.  Damn, this is a day I'm never going to get back, isn't it...

Happy Imminent Birthday, Dad, fellow dangerous tripod-wielder!
Love,
MJ

P.S.  Lucien is on vacation starting Friday, so I am, too.  I'll probably pop in here sometime during his two-week break, but we're going to be very busy -- gotta do some work on those listening skills.

Le Bully

It's the end of a dark, obscured era.  The scaffolding is coming down outside our apartment windows after seven and a half months.  "The Men who Lunch" will no longer be out there, will no longer see me brush my teeth, or surprise me before I've changed out of my pajamas, or witness me taking a few swings at my son now and then.

(The boy's trying to get his yellow belt in karate.  One time he wanted to practice blocking so I tried to hit him, out of love, at precisely the moment The Men who Lunch came up the ladder outside our window.  I'm proud to say his blocking is really good, but it probably looked like he was fighting for his life and was used to it, given his level of skill.)

Speaking of swinging at kids,  do you think it's OK for me to throw down with a six-year old bully at Lucien's preschool?  No?  Dammit.  Well I've got to do something, for it seems the last time Lucien was injured at school, it was not of his own doing as I assumed.  It was the doing of stupid Sammy*.

*speaking of which, did you know Shaggy from Scooby-Doo is called "Sammy" here?  Makes me crazy to hear Lucien referring to him that way.  We've had recent arguments in which I've threatened to take away all food until he starts calling Shaggy by his proper name.  Lucien is a surprisingly strong-willed child, and therefore, oftentimes hungry.

** They also call Velma, "Vera."  That one doesn't bother me as much.

***I don't really take away Lucien's food, just his clothing and shelter.

****Now is a good time to mention I'm sick (again), and therefore not thinking clearly.

 

peace

So anyway, about the bully.  Lucien has been nervous to go to school for awhile now, but we couldn't get out of him why.  We assumed it was because he's always in trouble at school, because that can't be very enjoyable, so were perplexed when the teacher said he's doing well recently.  After a few more questions for a tight-lipped Lucien, we determined he was especially nervous about lunch and recess.  Finally, the other night, as he laid once again sick and feverish in his bed, the tears started and the story came out.

Stupid Sammy, a kid one year older but easily twice the size of everyone else in the school, and his goons have been after my boy.  It's been getting worse over the past few months, culminating in an altercation last week in which Sammy and his friends shoved my sweet little cuckoo bird into a tree.  I know the brute kid is only six years old, but still, I was like, "I WILL CRUSH HIM."  Then I realized that's not OK because, again, he's six, so I resigned myself to just hanging him by the band of his underwear on a wall hook and throwing eggs at him.

What?  Why are you looking at me like that?

We knew we needed to talk to the teacher about this immediately, but frankly, I wasn't too optimistic anything would be done.  I've heard some rough stories in these parts about bullying.  The U.S. takes bullying seriously -- some would say too seriously (WHAT?  We take things to extremes? Now you're talking nonsense, punk.)  I have an American friend here who approached the directrice of her daughter's school because her daughter was a favorite target of a bully on the playground.  While she was talking to the directrice about the problem, they watched her daughter get hit by the bully in question right there in front of them.  The mom was like, "AGH!  SEE?" and the directrice was like, "Nope, no problem here, just kids being delightful!"

Thankfully, as soon as Alex uttered the name "Sammy" to Lucien's teacher the next morning, another parent swung around and said that her son, too, was scared to come to school because of Sammy troubles on the playground.  If it had just been Lucien filing a complaint, I daresay not much would have happened.  (Everyone at that school knows Lucien is just asking for a beatdown, amiright?)  But with two kids giving testimony, and no doubt others waiting in the wings, the teachers are now supposedly keeping an eye on Sammy -- and Alex and I are teaching Lucien some awesome ninja moves in the evenings.  We'll get him through it one way or another.

Hey, speaking of being terrified at school, I reached a milestone yesterday.  I had a real conversation with Hot Thing Two.  I think I made sense!  We talked the whole way home, even stopped outside our door to talk some more.  I'm pretty sure I didn't make an ass of myself but I guess there's no confirmation of that.

She's a genuinely kind person but I refuse to befriend her.  If I befriended her, she would find out about the blog someday.  And then she would see what I wrote about her and her husband, even if it was just calling them hot and scary.  Then she'd find out I took sneaky photos of them.  And then, oh God, word would get out and everyone at the school would know about my blog.  And then I would be run out of town by an angry mob.  Blogging is a dangerous and lonely business. 

I don't know what she's doing, but she does it all the time.

Sleep with one eye open, Sammy-boy,
MJ