Umbrella

I carried Lucien's new umbrella when I went to pick him up at the centre de loisirs yesterday.  I smelled rain in the air and didn't want to miss an opportunity to celebrate the choice of UMBRELLA over DINOSAUR. 

We walked home slowly and eyed the gray clouds hopefully but the rain never came. 

Then we passed a store above which they were watering plants.  Water dripped off the awning onto the sidewalk.  Lucien used his umbrella and was pleased with its performance. 

 He also said he should have chosen the dinosaur

Live and learn, kid,

MJ

Will return after this brief nervous breakdown

My blogging may be spotty for awhile because I'm losing my mind.  I need school to start again.  I love my son but my God...

Damn, now I feel guilty for wanting to send Lucien back to school.  French school has proven to be NOT THE BEST MATCH for our loud, excitable boy.  On the first day back, it will feel like tossing him back to the wolves (well-dressed wolves with pursed lips).  Mama's life, however, is going to be a lot calmer so goodbye and good luck, little love.

Coco was sick last week.  We hesitated (a full five minutes) before leaving her with a babysitter Saturday night so we could go to dinner with a couple new friends from Alex's work.  Al and I chose the restaurant, which we'd been to previously with Newcastle Guy and Quebec Hottie.  We told our new friends it was a great place, one of our favorite meal memories.

As I've mentioned before, everyone leaves Paris in August.  "Everyone" apparently includes chefs because we got the sorry-ass "B" team at the restaurant -- either that or the usual chef hit his head and forgot how to cook.  Whatever happened, the meal we had was a lifeless version of what we ate months before.  We now feel an urgency to see our new friends again and pick a restaurant with its "A" team intact so they don't think we have questionable taste in food.  

We had an after-dinner drink in front of the magnificent church of Saint Sulpice.  Alex angered the waiter by trying to move some chairs around so as punishment he and our new friend, Dutch Guy, were made to sit on tiny stools.  Never piss off a French waiter, fellas.

 Here's Coco taking some bottle caps for a walk in her stroller.  She will take anything for a walk except a doll.  If you put a doll in her stroller, she will cut you.

By Monday I was sick because whenever a kid is sick, I get sick.  Yesterday I took Lucien to the toy department of The Bon Marché and told him to pick one thing to occupy him for the rest of the day because Mommy felt crappy and was not going to be able to mother him properly.  I assumed he would choose another dinosaur excavation kit.  I rubbed my hands in gleeful anticipation of the several months of quiet it would buy me.

I was wrong.  He didn't choose a dinosaur.  Do you know what that kid chose, out of all the toys in the Bon Marché toy department?  He chose an umbrella -- an umbrella, a goddamn umbrella -- because he liked the "doggie" on top.  Here's how our conversation went after he made his decision:

Feverish Me:  Lucien, you do not want an umbrella.
Lucien:          Yes I do.
Feverish Me: No you don't.
Lucien:          Yes I do.
Feverish Me: How are you going to play with an umbrella all day?
Lucien:          I like the doggie.
Feverish Me: F*ck the doggie and buy a dinosaur.

But I had said it was his choice, so I bought the stupid umbrella and felt sad.  It had not gone the way I planned.  Lucien swung his umbrella happily on the walk home and miraculously avoided poking any Parisians in the belly.  Once we were about halfway home, however, self-doubt and regret began to cloud his small boy face.

Lucien:           Mommy, did I make a bad choice?
Feverish Me:  Yes, worst ever.

He tried to make the most of it, tried to play with an umbrella all afternoon.  I had to cut the "fun" short, though, because the play got a little rambunctious and the umbrella is the most expensive umbrella in the world so I will guard the umbrella with my life.

Its cheerfulness mocks me from the corner.

I also bought some celery yesterday, which in my weakened state was difficult to do.  It's tough to drag celery home around here, kinda like cutting down a tree and dragging it through the forest when you don't feel well and your kid is swinging an umbrella at some Japanese tourists.

As you can see, it's not going well.  I'll be back when I can.
Stupid umbrella,
MJ

Me and my salesguy shadow

I have our babysitter on speed dial and am using the childfree time to empty our bank account.  I'm vomiting money all over the place because tick tock, people, there are restaurants to try, clothes to buy, overpriced coffees to consume before we're outta here. We're gonna be broke but at least there won't be too many items left on the to-do (more like to-eat and to-buy) list. 

I began my most recent babysitter day at Cafe Flore, where I drank a crème and flirted shamelessly with the waiter -- and by that I mean I got my skirt caught in the chair so when I stood up it pulled halfway down my ass.  That's how I roll when it comes to flirting, I have no patience for subtlety.

After my blatant display of sexinesss, I went shopping.  I walked into stores I've had my eye on for a long time, then ran out again when I realized I would never, ever pay 700 euros for a cocktail dress unless it came with a lifetime supply of cocktails.  

I went into one store and a salesguy attached himself to me.  If I touched a blouse, he ran to grab a pair of pants to go with it.  If I looked at pants, he was suddenly at my side with a blouse, a belt, a pair of shoes and a long-stemmed rose held between his teeth.  This guy was really selling the shit out of me.

He followed me into the changing room.  Literally.  And it was one of those changing rooms I hate -- the kind where there's no mirrors in the actual dressing rooms so you have to walk out onto the sales floor to see yourself in a mirror.  All the other shoppers stare at you and voice their opinions as to how well/how horribly the pants fit your bum.

It got a little cramped in my mirrorless changing room because my salesguy kept coming in to visit, pushing past the useless curtain to fix a strap, or belt the pants "correctly" (I am apparently an idiot who doesn't know how to work a belt properly), or fuss with a collar.

Then he'd bring me a vest or a blazer and say something like "When you're at dinner, you can wear it with the jacket, but when you go dancing later at a club, you can take it off and you'll have the sexy blouse underneath"  I gasped and said, "Oh, you know me and my lifestyle SO WELL!  OH, and what do I wear with it when my daughter is throwing handfuls of banana at me because she doesn't like her lunch?  Do you have a banana-colored blazer?  Preferably with an avocado-colored sexy blouse underneath because.... well, she doesn't seem to like those either....."

Salesguy brought me a pair of five-inch heels and told me to try them with some skinny black pants.  I did, and I have to admit I looked awesome, but when he told me to walk around I said "No way in hell, bub."  I'll stand there teetering on stiletto stilts but I'm not going to try to walk in them.  I know myself quite well -- I will fall over and split the skinny black pants up the back in front of my shopping audience.   

I left the store with some nice stuff and promised my salesguy I'd return so we could do it all again soon.  I'm not sure that I will but I think that I might.

After shopping I swung past Gertrude Stein's place.  As usual, I stood outside and wondered whose leg I had to hump to get inside the building.  I would hurt many, many people to get inside the apartment where Gertie used to hang with my man Hemingway. 

 Oh come on, people, just lemme in already.

There's some work being done on the apartment directly across the courtyard from us.  At the end of each workday, a rather ridiculously good looking drywall guy who takes really good care of himself strips down and changes his clothes right in front of the window.  I've taken to sitting in front of our window with a tub of popcorn waiting for the show at quittin' time.  If Alex is around, he'll yell from the kitchen, "OH MY GOD, would you stop looking at that guy?!" and I'll say "No." 

One more thing.  I often get weird emails requesting I mention something-or-other on my blog.  I rarely pay them any attention because I'm not interested.  I don't write this blog for money so there's no need to pimp it out.  But this guy.... this Damien.... this guy was different.  He had something special.  Here are the most important parts of his email --

Damien: "I've just visited your dazzling blog..."
MJ:  You have fine taste.  I'm listening.

Damien: "....and thought I would contact you.  My name is Damien Luce. I'm a French pianist & actor. I'm a former student of the Juilliard School and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts."
MJ:  OK, impressive credentials, but where exactly are you going with this...

Damien:  "In January 2012, I will be performing Cyrano de Bergerac as a clown..."
MJ:  Bam.  Done.  Damien, I'm yours.  Forget Alex, forget the guy standing in his underwear at the window.  It's all you all the time from here on out, you clown with wacky awesome ideas.

Go to this website if you want to know more about Damien.  He's trying to drum up funds to produce his project.  If we were still going to be here in January 2012, I would give him five million dollars right now just to make sure this performance happens.  Actually, I couldn't do that, because we are going to have zero dollars soon because salesguy sold the shit out of me and coffees at Cafe Flore are expensive.

This was the picture attached to his email.  Pure awesome.

Best of luck, Damien. I really hope it works out for you.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1987274977/cyrano-de-bergerac-a-unique-theater-production-for

Phew, is it just me or was this post super sexy?
MJ

Your sandcastle is a threat to world peace

Remember those friends we had over for dinner awhile back, the time I had a hangover the next day so I walked over to the park and verbally abused some hot men in purple shirts?  We went to those same friends' place for dinner last night.  And while the pain in the head this morning was not even close to what it was last time, we still didn't exactly spring out of bed feeling good about our choices.

But dinner was a good time as always.  "Newcastle Guy" (is that the fake name we decided on, Alastair?  Oh... crap...) served my beers in courses.  There was an appetizer beer, a different main course beer, a different cheese plate beer... are you starting to see why we like these people?

Newcastle Guy's fiancée, "Quebec Hottie," cooked a wonderful dinner.  We engaged in witty dinner banter that involved at least one "F*ck you," some discussion of male "trimmage," and at least one instance in which Newcastle Guy told Alex he needed to learn to behave like a proper human being.  You know, normal stuff, just chatting the way people chat.

We took a taxi home.  A taxi ride through Paris at night remains one of the best things ever.

Alex had a run-in with a grumpy Frenchie over the weekend.  He took Lucien to a small park near our apartment and they built a beautiful sandcastle together in the sandbox.  As they packed up to leave, a park guard approached them all huffy-like.  He told Alex they had to put the sand back how it was before they arrived -- sandcastle demolished and sandbox returned to a compact, level state.  The guard said Al had to do it because if Al didn't do it, the gardener was going to have to do it and the gardener is a very busy man.

Alex argued but eventually gave up.  He requested a rake.  The guard brought him a rake and Alex raked Lucien's beautiful sandcastle to the ground. 

Lucien watched sadly and quietly.  Al attempted to turn it into a lesson, the whole "you have to leave things the way you found them" thing, which is a lesson Lucien has yet to learn regarding his toys in the living room.  Here's hoping the trauma of watching his meticulously crafted handiwork destroyed by his rake-wielding father finally drives the lesson home.

For the record, we've seen the following things at this park in the past, yet have never seen the park guard intervene:

1. A man pooping in the bushes.
2. A man half-naked on a park bench -- the bad half.
3. Drunk people passed out on benches.
4. General debauchery and lawlessness.

Alex and I went out for lunch Sunday afternoon.  We went to Da Rosa, which I'd heard incredible things about, most impressively that Bradley Cooper was spotted eating there last year.  If it's good enough for Bradley's mouth, it's good enough for mine I always say.

Bradley didn't steer me wrong.  This is what I ate --

FOOD PORN

Actually that's horrible food porn.  It looks like a bowl of dog food.  I assure you it was not kibble -- it was pasta with foie gras and onion confit.  Maybe it looks terrible but it tasted like what I imagine Bradley Cooper would taste like if he was wrapped in homemade pasta, foie gras and a sweet, sweet onion confit.

If you found that last thought a little weird, blame Alast -- I mean blame Newcastle Guy and Quebec Hottie.  We should probably stop seeing them because everything goes to hell the next day.  I feel sleepy.
MJ

Now she's talking about Barbie and Ken. This blog is going downhill fast.

August continues to be a prankster.  Sometimes the sun comes out just long enough for me to let my guard down and go outside without an umbrella.  Once I'm an inconvenient distance from my apartment, it starts raining again, though harder than before, and the clouds just laugh and laugh at their little joke.

Poor tourists -- they're standing on every street corner trying to hold their rapidly dissolving maps together. The only upside to the bipolar weather is the rainbow shortage crisis has come to an end!  Huzzah! 

Almost makes up for not having a summer this year.
Not really.

It was raining again this morning.  I'm running out of ideas for the kids, so when Virginia Mom suggested we meet up at the doll museum with a few other ladies, I went for it.  It's definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel when I take Lucien ("What's a Barbie, Mommy, OOH, can I touch her boobies?") and Coco ("stop lookin' at me like that, punk, or Ima hit you with this Barbie") to the doll museum.

The kids couldn't have cared less about the doll museum but I was happily surprised.  There was an exhibit of Barbie and Ken dolls dressed as significant people throughout history.  And believe me, you haven't lived until you've seen Ken dressed as Charlemagne.

Virginia Mom got a kick out of Ken as Toulouse-Lautrec because they cut off most of  his legs.  I enjoyed Ken as Marat relaxing in a bathtub while Assassin Barbie stands behind him with a tiny knife.

 Hope that's the best bath of your life, Marat Ken.  Godspeed.

Here's a picture of Coco telling me I did something wrong again.  I put her on the wrong animal on the carousel so she really gave me a talkin'-to.  But forget Coco -- look at the kid next to her and try to resist the urge to put him in your pocket and take him home with you.  I think my ovaries just exploded.

 Oh my gosh, a panda!

OK, I gotta run.  I know, I know it was short and kinda stupid but important things are happening over here.  Alex just returned from his work trip so I have to go sit with my chin on my hands and listen to his tales of a faraway place called "Seattle."

Here's a picture of a woman dancing with fire outside Notre Dame.  There's your dose of Paris porn until I can devote some more time to this thing.

Happy weekend,
MJ Barbie

When the news of the world gets you down, come talk about dinosaurs. Rawr!

This is no way to have a summer, Paris.  I wore a sweater with pants under a dress to drop Lucien at the centre de loisirs this morning.  Not only did I look ridiculous, I was still cold.  As I write this, it's raining and I'm wearing a scarf indoors, though that has more to do with being fashionable.

My solo weekend with the kids was part disaster and part success.  I woke up sick Saturday morning so was comatose on the couch all day.  Lucien took advantage of the situation to eat many "cereal sandwiches" and crackers with four inches of Nutella spread on top. 

He also left the faucet running in the bathroom.  Our sink has a semi-clogged drain so the sink eventually filled and flooded the room.  I awoke on the couch to the sounds of a beautiful waterfall, stumbled towards the sound in confusion, then bellowed like an injured Beluga whale (do those things bellow?) when I saw what the little punk had done.

I was still not my best Sunday morning but we had to get out of the apartment before someone (Lucien) was posted in the "free stuff" section on Craigslist.  Lucien has recently decided he's going to be a paleontologist so I thought I'd be a good mom and take him to see the animal skeletons at the Natural History Museum at the Jardin des Plantes.  He got a lot more out of this visit than last time we went.  This time he studied every cat/mouse/rabbit skeleton carefully and pronounced them "very small dinosaurs."  

I bought him an excavation kit in the gift shop, one of those things with the plastic mallet and the chunk of clay you have to chip away to get the bones and assemble the dinosaur.  What a delightful pre-dinner activity for mother and son, thought me.

This is after half an hour of work.  Are you f*cking kidding me?

The problem is I am not a patient person (understatement) and these excavation kits are made for people with patience.  After an hour of dainty "chip chip chip" with the plastic mallet and no bones, I pulled out a hammer and screwdriver and told Lucien to stand back.  Then there was some furious excavating activity. 

Good thing I didn't become a real paleontologist.  I'd be the paleontologist with the jackhammer going full throttle, screaming, "WHERE ARE THE GODDAMN BONES?"

I saw a movie being filmed in front of the Palais de Justice a couple weeks ago --

It's a normal occurrence around here, but this one I watched for awhile. All the actors were French and I didn't recognize anyone, but apparently someone was famous because the French tourists were talking very excitedly amongst themselves and taking pictures like crazy.  My celebrity sightings are so lame I'm now including suspected celebrities I don't even remotely recognize on the list.

They were filming in a car (half a car, really) and the actors were covered in blood.  Between each take, the actors would climb out of the car and have more blood dripped on their faces.  That's what this actor guy on the left is doing --

Then they would climb back into the fake half-car for another twenty minutes while everyone else stood around.  This went on and on and on.  From what I can tell, making a movie is boring and involves a lot of standing and doing nothing.  Thank God I'm a stay-at-home mom and blogger because this shit is exciting.

Speaking of movies, here's a picture of me and a few of The Ladies on the steps where Owen Wilson waits for the magic car in Midnight in Paris.  Our favorite English pub is directly across the street from these steps; we've gathered there many times to have a beer and a laugh.

 Me, L.A. Mom, Virginia Mom, Vancouver Mom

Since this picture was taken, L.A. Mom has returned to the States.  Vancouver Mom is due to leave next month.  I leave in December.  Virginia Mom is most likely outta here next summer.  So at this time next year, a whole new crop of ex-pat butts will be parked on these steps, a whole different group of lady friends formed thanks to landing in Paris at the same time, and we will be nothing but a vague, distant memory in this city that's seen so many of us.

That's some depressing shit right there. 

Alex is enjoying seeing our friends back in Seattle because they are awesome, but says the city makes him feel disoriented and strange.  Things have changed; home is home but not quite home.  I have four-and-a-half months to prepare myself for this reality.  In other words, if I start another dinosaur excavation kit right now and do it properly, I should be throwing it in frustration at the Space Needle just in time to kick off the new year.

Have a dino-riffic day,
MJ

P.S.  This blog is going to remain a news-of-the-world-free zone.  In fact, if I ever read the news again, somebody punch me in the face.  If you need a break from the whole goddamn world falling apart, come see me.  I will be talking about inconsequential things.

 Rawr!  Stegosaurus!

Life (while I was writing on and on about our vacation)

Alex and I finally made it to Le Comptoir du Relais for lunch.  There's always a line so we showed up before it opened and were subsequently first in line, first to be seated, and first to be named the SUPER WINNERS.

We ordered just about everything on the menu, including lobster, because we apparently think we're made of money.  The kids may not have much of a Christmas this year but it was worth it.  We'll stick a picture of the lobster under the Christmas tree, instead of a scooter or whatever, and they will embrace the concept of individual sacrifice for the good of the family.

This is my blue lobster served with some pasta and frothy stuff --

This is Al, served with some wine --

Alex ordered a cheese plate instead of dessert.  When it arrived, he immediately dove into a really creamy looking cheese.  After putting it in his mouth, he looked horrified then embarrassed because he noticed the French gentleman next to us staring at him with his nose wrinkled in disgust.  I was confused until Alex leaned over the table and said quietly, "Crap, I just ate the butter in front of that guy."

We're not sure why there was butter in the middle of the cheese plate, but there was.  And Alex ate a large chunk of it, with great enthusiasm by all appearances, in front of a rather snobbish witness.  I just can't even picture how we look to the outside world sometimes.

I can't believe it's butter

Our lunch cost 170 euros.  That's the most expensive lunch I think we've ever had.  We can't do that very often or we'll be eating just butter for lunch for real, but only if it's on sale, for the rest of the year.

We went for a coffee on rue Montorgueil, then on our walk home bought a couple jaunty hats --

 I was going for Annie Hall, but Al tells me it's more Joon of Benny and Joon

We had friends in town recently, friends whom we fortuitously met for the first time last summer in the park.  They come to Paris every summer.  Their daughter and the Loosh are very much the same kind of person so we were happy to see them again on their yearly trip.

It is thanks to Cincinnati daughter Lucien started collecting bottlecaps last year.  Thanks, Cincinnati family, for introducing us to his frustratingly obsessive hobby.  Has it been a year, already, of digging nasty bottle caps out of the Parisian gutters?  My, how time flies when you're trying not to picture what your bottle cap has been through before it touched your hands.

Loosh and Cincinnati daughter loudly took on the summer fair at the Tuileries --

The hand-holding kills me 

 Who is that mysterious badass up there?  I'm gonna marry that boy someday.

While we were in the Tuileries, Coco went for her first spin on the trampolines.  At first it wasn't voluntary; Alex just kind of tossed her on and she laid there in shock for a minute --

But after that, she approached the trampolines with Coco-like intensity and demanded to be thrown again and again and again.  Alex still can't feel his arms.  Thankfully, he does still have that Michael Jackson hat, which he purchased in Italy, not to be confused with the jaunty hat purchased after our wallet-emptying lunch at Le Comptoir.  I agree, the hat situation is getting confusing.

Summer was here for two days and now it's gone again.  We took advantage of the fleeting warmth to go to "the beach."  Paris Plages is back, the glamorous beach retreat alongside the swirling brown waters of the Seine.  It's still a strange idea, but I'll admit it feels good to dig your toes into the hot sand, as long as you don't think too hard about Paris Plages being a giant litter box for all the city's cats.

The sprinkler thing was pretty cool.  I was wearing a white shirt so I quickly became very sexy, which is nice because I can use all the help I can get these days.

My Al is on a plane to Seattle right now.  This would usually make me feel a little homesick, a little envious, but since we're so close to the end of our Paris lives, I don't feel those things at all.  We're all going to be home soon enough, and I know I'm not ready just yet. 

So instead I'm going to take the kids out into Paris this weekend, and jump around the apartment rejoicing because whenever I put something away, IT STAYS PUT AWAY.  Incredible.

We'll miss you,  Al, but not your shoes in the middle of the floor,
MJ

Red Boy

Lucien is going to the centre de loisirs again this summer.  Here's what he looked like when I dropped him off yesterday morning --

Here's what he looked like when I picked him up at 6:00 p.m. --

Don't worry, he was not mauled by a wolverine nor viciously doodled upon with a red marker.  He came home this nice fluorescent red color thanks to sunburn.

One of the items a child must have in his/her backpack when they attend the centre de loisirs is sunscreen.  The children spend a lot of time outdoors, often at parks and wading pools, and if you show up sunscreen-less on a sunny day, you're gonna get a heavy sigh aimed in your general direction.  What I didn't realize is the sunscreen is merely a decorative element, as the animateurs apparently have no interest in really using the stuff, even when parked at a wading pool for hours in the hot sun.  Maybe they just like to line up the bottles and look at the pretty colors (who can blame them, they're so bright!)

I had a different post planned for today, a long one because I have lots to talk about.  But I cannot write an adequate post because my son is wailing in the next room and I am attempting to make a poultice out of some ingredient I've never heard of before but my Peruvian cleaning lady claims is magic.  She speaks French with a thick accent, so it will either take the pain out of his sunburn or make his skin burn like a thousand suns, I'm not really clear which.

Please direct all rage about the blog being crap today to the centre de loisirs.

Wish I could hug my red baby, but he'd just yell something like, "ow ow ow ow."
MJ

P.S.  Lucien came into the room just now and saw me drawing the red parts all over that picture.  He asked what I was doing and I said, "I want to show people what you look like right now."  He yelled, "I look like that???" and is currently staring at himself in the mirror with great concern.  So now not only is he in pain, he is also extremely self-conscious.  Gimme a mother award!