Pollution, orange hair, sexism and whatnot

Sometimes when I sit at my desk to write, I put my glass of water on the ledge next to the open window.  When I pick up the glass to take a sip, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes later, there are oftentimes tiny pieces of grayish soot floating around in it.  Then I remember Paris is a huge polluted hellhole and run to close all the windows.  The kids are forced to stay indoors for the rest of the day and must breathe through respirators attached to their heads with giant rubber bands.

Between the cars and the smokers, mama's lungs probably aren't lookin' so hot.  But you know what IS lookin' hot, literally?  Mama's hair.  My hairdresser decided to dye it orange at our appointment this week.  I keep diving into the shower after catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror because I think my head has caught fire.

The good news is Alex loves the hair because he thinks it makes me look like "a girl who really knows how to party."  Lucien said it's pretty like a rainbow.  Coco threw a ball at my face and ran away but I think that's just Coco being Coco and not a critique of the hair situation.

 Do you like it?

People have started viewing the apartment.  Our landlord isn't sure if he's selling it or continuing to rent it when we leave, which means we have a parade of real estate agents and interested renters or buyers or whatever they are tromping through at all times.

I have to be here for the appointments because the lady from the agency doesn't have a key.  This would be fine if she would just 1.) show up at the appointed time and not an hour late OR 2.) show up, period.  Twice today there were appointments where no one showed and no one called.  It's not cool to be stuck in an apartment when I have a million things to do, on an eighty-degree day with no open windows on account of the flying soot problem.

Let's counter that crappy news with some incredible news.  Hot Thing One and Hot Thing Two did NOT move away! (story of HT1 and HT2 here and here and here)  They're still right down the street!  They've been on a three-month-long vacation which included the entire first month of school (those hot sexy bastards) so everyone just assumed they were gone.

But here's the even more incredible part.  When Hot Thing Two saw me, she waved excitedly and pushed through people to give me the bisous!  She kissed me on both cheeks!  I think that means we're married now.

The bisous are serious business.  French parents don't just hand out the bisous willy-nilly to everyone at school.  You have to earn your school bisous; you have to be part of the inner circle. Well it looks like I finally made it, people.  All that saying stupid stuff to the hot people has paid off -- they finally love me.

My girl is about to turn two.  Our Coco girl.  I went shopping for her yesterday at the Bon Marche toy department and my head nearly exploded when I saw not one, not two, but THREE toy vacuum cleaners in the sickeningly pink "girls" section.  When I see all those pink plastic cleaning and baking toys next to all the fun stuff in her brother's section she REALLY wants to play with, I feel like punching a Polly Pocket.

Coco is much more than a bread-baking, doll-nurturing, vacuum cleaning machine (especially since genetically she comes from me and I suck at all those things.)  She's a ninja, so give her ninja toys.

My in-laws are coming next week to celebrate Coco's day, then immediately afterward Alex and I are hopping on a plane to go celebrate our ten years of wedded mostly-bliss.  Immediately after that, two of my favorite Seattle ladies are coming to visit.  Then immediately after that, my best college dude friend -- we'll call him "Chicago O" -- is coming to visit.  That's a lot of joy for one month.  And then October will be over and I guess November will be the month to actually get stuff done.

Speaking of favorite people, I got this email from Virginia Mom last night --

"Top Gun is on Channel 11 right now.  Watching Gooz and Mahv-reek doing some crazy sh*t en francais.  You're welcome."

She emailed later to say that while Top Gun was atrocious in French, "the volleyball scene did not get lost in translation."

You know, I just might miss that woman.

Sad sigh.  Off to drink my grimy glass of window wine,
MJ

I ain't dead yet!

I'm not gone yet, people, so stop sending me goodbye emails. You're depressing me.  My last post did not mean I was going to leave the minute I finished it.  Do you realize how long it takes just to cancel TV service around here?  Like five years! My departure is not THAT imminent, I assure you, because they're going to make us work for it, earn it, pay for it in clumps of pulled-out hair.

Last week got a little hectic so I ran out of time for blogging.  We had Seattle friends in town (same friends who were here back when Alex fought for the lobster) and they came over for dinner Friday night.  That meant I had to take a trip to our favorite wine store Friday afternoon with Little Miss Grabbyhands in her stroller.  That's always exciting.

I apologized to the rest of the patrons in teeny-tiny wine shop and explained I had to leave Coco and her stroller right in the middle of the store so she couldn't reach any bottles of wine.  They didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation until Little Miss Whirlyarms got all fired up and started doing her thing.  Then they were like, "Holy hell! That child is part helicopter and part bear! Save the wine!"

While we were discussing the impressive danger of such a small person, we realized all of us in the store were American.  All American ex-pats, living here anywhere from six months up to twenty-five years.  In two seconds, all patrons of teeny-tiny wine store changed from polite calm French speakers into excitable loud-voiced Americans.  We shared a good laugh over our near-instantaneous transformations.  It was a fun day in the wine store, and I'm pleased to report Coco did zero damage, though she tried oh, how she tried....

Alex and I attended the Mad Men party Saturday night.  Here's what happens when you ask your five-year-old son to take a picture of you before you leave --

nailed it

Alex fared a bit better.  He took this one as I was taking the smelly garbage to the dumpster before the babysitter got here --

That ribbon around my waist is courtesy of Virginia Mom.  It helped cinch the crap out of my too-big dress that smelled like mothballs.  From the front I looked OK.  From the back, I was all bunchy fabric and safety pins.  I solved this problem by sliding along walls at the party so I never had my back turned to anyone.  Leaning on walls also helped with the "standing in high heels for a long period of time" problem.  I love walls -- they're super handy.

This is Alex smoking a tiny cigar --

Al Draper in a bow tie and so much pomade in his hair, his head is still greasy several days and five dozen showers later.  

We went out for a drink before the party.  We thought we'd attract lots of attention in our 1960s finery but no one even blinked an eye.  I think you can pretty much wear a plastic bag out in Paris and nobody will care. 

Everyone at the party said they liked our outfits.  There was a lot of champagne flowing, so that explains that.  Alex made an enemy of the DJ right away when he bumped into his table and skipped the record.  In Al's defense, the party was dark and he couldn't see anything.  We never did hear our requested "Who Let the Dogs Out," though, and I'm guessing that's why.

It was too dark for good stealth photos, but can you see that French lady there on the left, the one with the 'do?  She wins all sorts of authenticity awards.  Well played, lady with the hair, well played --

We stepped outside for some fresh air and at that very moment received a frantic phone call from our babysitter.  She had come down with the flu, badly, and was throwing up in our apartment.  She kinda wanted to go home.  A taxi came by so we grabbed it.  We totally disappeared from that party without saying goodbye to anyone.  I'm sure they all wondered where the woman who slides along walls and the man who killed the music went.

My parents recently sent Lucien this box.  It's hard for them to be so far away from Lucien during his dinosaur phase because they love dinosaurs as much as he does.  Mom used to be a teacher and dinosaurs were part of the curriculum.  My dad wanted to be a paleontologist when he was a small boy; the fact he became a lawyer still seems to pain him greatly.

I think the box they sent accurately represents the level of dinosaur enthusiasm in my family --

 

 

The box, of course, was full of dinosaurs.  We have since staged several epic dinosaur battles.  Lucien got mad when I told him the T-Rex and the Stegosaurus were in love and made them kiss.  He huffed out of the room.  When he came back, I did it again, and told him he had no right to stand in the way of true love.  He huffed back out of the room.

You're right, grandma and grandpa, dinosaurs ARE fun!

and dino love is beautiful

Sunday was a perfect day so we went to the park.  Lucien took all his new dinosaurs and buried them in the sandbox.  He then "excavated" them with my very nice and expensive paintbrushes ("WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THOSE?" bellowed me in the middle of the park. Kids! So fun!)

Lucien's paleontology game was popular and everything was great until a riot broke out.  There were many French kids beating each other senseless over (my previously very nice) paintbrushes.  They all wanted to excavate the goddamn dinosaurs.  Our family was super popular yet at the same time we were instigators of violence.  That sums up our Paris lives nicely.

Good news is I got some good shots of father and daughter playing together.  I especially like this one.  Coco has just gone down the slide, Alex has caught her at the end, picked her up, and she has shrieked, "ENCORE!" at a very high decibel level right into his ear --

I think I'm almost done with this post but I'm not really sure. 

I met with Kasia Dietz, Paris blogger and handbag designer, for coffee Friday morning because I bought one of her reversible canvas "rive gauche" totes as a goodbye present to myself.  Here it is, and goodbye to me --

I've since suggested that all people who've bought Kasia's "rive gauche" bags and all the people who've bought her "rive droite" bags fill their totes with day-old baguettes and meet at the Seine to duke it out.  It's time for this "rive" rivalry to end so let's have it out once and for all. (Gauche will win.  We're smaller but we're hella feisty.)

Speaking of goodbye presents, Virginia Mom bought me a goodbye present while we were out together last week, but since we refused to acknowledge why she was buying it for me it was kinda like, "thanks for my hat...weirdo buying me gifts for no reason....so weird..."

There's going to be a lot of denial going on over here for the foreseeable future.  

In the meantime, may your weeks be full of hot dino love,

MJ

Magic Sunday and Mad Men

"Back to School Collection"?  I thought I'd gotten Lucien's Back to School needs squared away but it appears I forgot the sexy bra and panty.  Wow... I never realized how much I hate the word "panty."  Ouf, stop it!  Stop saying it!

In other news, the ads on the side of the Conciergerie are becoming just plain cruel.  Look at the nonsense that's up there now --

Really, Conciergerie?  Isn't that kinda mean, featuring a painting of Marie Antoinette without a face, and a title of "Ghost Save the Queen" on the side of the building where she was held prisoner right before she LOST HER FACE and WAS NOT SAVED?  All that's missing is the slogan, "Hey, folks, DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD over this Samsung thing, yeah decapitation!" 

You're being kind of a dick, Conciergerie

Let's all just cool down for a minute.  Perhaps Loosh's drawing of a Tyrannosaurus Rex will soothe us --

Works every time

On Sunday I took a morning-long walk with Coco in the stroller.  I left Alex and The Loosh at home sitting in their underwear watching cartoons.  (very nice mental picture for you and you are welcome)

You know what I love about Paris, what I will miss with my whole heart?  Every time I take a leisurely stroll, I encounter wonderful things.  I encounter surprising things I never thought I wanted to see and yet when I happen upon them I think, "Yes, this completes me as a human."

This time it was basketball in front of Hotel de Ville.  And not just any basketball -- horrible basketball.  I watched them for twenty minutes and didn't see a single basket made.  It still made me happy to watch them, and to listen to the accompanying bone-rattling hip-hop music.

Cokes and I wandered into the Marais.  How is it I've never been down la rue des Rosiers?  Just when I think I've seen everything, I find a delightful street full of Hasidic Jews and falafel -- two of my favorite things in the whole world!  I really should have come to this street sooner.

On our way home, we swung past Camille Claudel's place on Île Saint-Louis so Cokes could give a shout-out to her namesake --

Yo, other Camille

On the Pont Saint Louis, we found several men inexplicably dressed like safari guides.  One was jamming on a piano, one a bass, and the other was singing into a bullhorn.  They were hella fun.  I hope my neighbors in Seattle dress like safari guides and sing into bullhorns from time to time.  It's Seattle -- place is full of weirdos -- so I probably won't be too disappointed on that one.

It's a piano on a bridge

I've been on a mission to find a dress for an upcoming Mad Men themed party.  I hate themed parties because of the pressure they put on the attendee -- pressure besides the usual "don't get drunk and make out with a stranger" pressure.  There are vintage clothing shops near me but I would have to pay hundreds of euros to get a Betty Draper-ish dress and I don't want to pay that much to look like that horrible woman.  (Maybe I should go for the Joan look since I have such a great rack?)*

*You may not realize this, but that's the funniest thing I've ever written.

I went into one vintage store and ended up buying a bunch of cool stuff that had absolutely nothing to do with Mad Men.  The groovy dude working liked my accent.  He, like most French people, thought I was English.  When I said I was American, he was surprised because my accent does not sound American (yeah! no offense, homeland, but American accents are the pits.)

Vintage groovy dude said it was cool I was American because he loooooved America and its accompanying Americans.  He said that in America, if you work hard, you will do well and have a really good life.  I said, "errrrr......yeah....right" and decided not to mention the five bazillion (that's an accurate number) people who work their fingers to the bone for minimum wage at several jobs yet can barely feed their families.  I didn't want to burst his bubble; it's adorable the American Dream is still alive abroad.

I did finally find a dress at a vintage shop in the Marais (thanks Twitter, thanks Rachael!).  It's two sizes too large so I'm going to have to cinch the hell out of it but at least I won't show up to the party naked.  I tried on the dress for Alex.  I said, "Hey, close your eyes and picture all those beautiful women on Mad Men.  OK, now open your eyes and look at me."  He laughed and laughed.  I chose to believe he was laughing because I looked incredibly sexy.

Alex is hoping to score some vintage silk pajamas, slick back his hair, stick a cigar in his mouth and go as "Don Draper After Hours."  I wonder if we'll be the two biggest idiots there or the next two biggest idiots?  So exciting!

The people throwing the party have emailed everyone and asked for their two favorite songs.  All favorite songs will be played by the DJ at the party.  Just as payback, because we dislike themed parties so much, we're going to request Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" and Baha Men's "Who Let the Dogs Out."  Al and I will shake our asses in the middle of the room in our ridiculous apparel.  Hope my mothball-smelling, two-sizes-too-large dress can handle my moves.

Lucien's teacher was hysterical at pick-up yesterday.  Lots of arm waving. When I asked her why she was yelling at Lucien in such a mean way, she said she'd asked him THREE TIMES to stop hitting his friend.  I was like, "Really?  Only three?  And then he stopped?  Good job, son!" 

Now I don't condone hitting, people, but when it's the first time the kid has acted up this year, and he was goofing off with his friend, well.... I can't help but feel it was an overreaction.  His teacher seems prone to hysterics and mood swings, which doesn't bode well.  I hate to leave you, Paris, and my heart breaks, but we're going to have to get The Loosh out of here sooner rather than later.

Speaking of which, we've chosen our departure date but I'm not going to write it here.  I don't do well with goodbyes, so one day I'll just be gone... poof....

Always remember me, posse, and remember I like big butts and I cannot lie,
MJ

Chilly classroom

I approached the teacher at pick-up yesterday to explain why I missed the meeting --

I explained my husband was out of town --

I explained my babysitter hadn't shown up --

I apologized --

I asked if any parents had taken notes? --

I asked if she remembered how to blink? --

I think it went pretty well, don't you?

It's a shame I'm back on the school sh*tlist.  Things were going so well.  Lucien is being a calm, studious little boy in class.  We're not quite sure what he's up to, but so far he's really surprised the crap out of us.  The teacher has been very pleased with him and very smiley with me.

Then I went and missed the most important meeting in the world and screwed everything up again.  At least I'm back in the ole comfort zone.

I'm also officially in a transitional funk.  With three months to go, we've had to start planning and organizing for the move, and for our lives back home, all while trying to live full lives here.  We don't seem to be doing a particularly good job of any of it.  As depressed as I'll be to say "Au revoir, caca boudin" to our Paris life, a part of me can't wait until the whole move thing is a done deal.  I don't do well living in the in-between.  I don't feel connected anywhere.  My in-between is full of staring into space and obsessively making lists.

Let's forget all that burdensome crap and talk about Coco for a minute.  Thinking about Coco always cheers me.  I especially love the part of her that is so thrilled to be her, so thrilled to be alive, she runs around the apartment with her arms raised in joyful triumph yelling "COCO!"  Can you imagine being so pleased with yourself as an adult you can't stop running through your house repeatedly yelling your own name?  Go ahead, try it, see how it feels.  I tried it and my answer is "very foolish but kinda awesome."

Where Lucien is loud and obvious and you can see his mischief coming a mile away, Coco is calm, cool stealth.  She know what's off limits and watches around corners to see were I hide forbidden things.  When I'm not looking, she retrieves them, often building towers of other forbidden objects to reach them.  She'll walk up behind me as I'm doing laundry or whatever with the precious breakable or poisonous substance held over her head and yell "COCO!"  Her smile is big and her message is obvious -- Coco wins, Coco will always win, because Coco is the best.

 Timmy! (Timm-ay!?)

How would you write that, South Park peeps?

All right, I'm out.  I have hours of staring into space to do and important research to conduct such as where we can donate our old nastyass couch because that thing is NOT coming home with us. (Old nastyass couch not to be confused with crazy nastyass honey badger -- though much like the honey badger, our nastyass couch doesn't give a sh*t). 

Gotta break out of the transitional depression, or all blog hope is lost,

MJ

Fun stuff with a side of not-fun stuff

I went to my favorite store, Picard, today to stock up on frozen essentials. The man working was a man I've seen working there a million times.  Today I asked the usual, "Ça va?" but instead of the usual, "Oui, Ça va!" he responded with a thoughtful look and a "Do you really wanna know?"  I hesitated but then said "Sure!"

You know what's funny?  I really didn't want to know!  In other news, whoa, my Picard guy is really miserable.

We had a nice weekend if you enjoy dinosaurs and thinking about devastatingly sad things.  L’Institut de Paléontologie Humaine is currently exhibiting half a dozen REAL DINOSAUR SKELETONS so I took the dino-obsessed Loosh to see them on Saturday afternoon.  His mind was sufficiently blown.

 Holy sh*t, Mom, that is a motherf*ckin' Triceratops head behind me, I sh*t you not.**

**not something he actually said

He brought along a dinosaur book to help identify each skeleton.  After proper identification, he then "read" outlandish claims about each one -- such as this one could swim underwater and that one could shoot lasers out of his eyes.  He got defensive and ran away holding the book over his head when I asked to see the book so I could double check his facts.

 This one could read your motherf*ckin' mind!**

**I apologize, folks. I'm pretty ornery tonight.

L’Institut de Paléontologie Humaine is a lovely old building but one thing bothered me and took me out of the dinosaur moment --

I am not a fan of swastika as design element

I'm supposed to be at a school meeting right now.  It's the same informational meeting his teacher got mad at us for missing last year.  Alex is in Spain but I had a babysitter lined up so felt pretty confident I was going to make the damn meeting this time and then everyone would LOVE ME.  At school pick-up this afternoon, I cheerfully told the teacher I would see her again in an hour.  I was born to attend that meeting.

Then the babysitter didn't show up.  I have no idea why.  So I didn't go to the meeting.  Now I'm shakin' in my fashionable boots and feeling "the dread" because I know this teacher hates us now, too.  I can't blame her because we've done nothing but sh*t** on important school meetings since the get-go.

**ornery

Some guy came to the door today and said he had to inspect chimneys and gas lines.  I said we didn't have a chimney or gas in the apartment but told him to come on in and take a look around if he wanted to verify.  For reasons I'll never understand, he pointed at the ventilator duct coming out the top of our stove's ventilation hood and declared it a gas line.  He jumped up on our counter and banged on the thing for awhile, declared it "blocked" and said we would need a full inspection at a later date.

So tell me the truth -- is this guy going to break in later and rob us blind?  Something was weird, but I hadn't had interaction with adults all day and was happy for his bizarre company.  But he got to me -- I'm now scared to turn on the ventilator hood/gas line for fear of blowing up the building.

One more thing before I go.  Sunday, obviously, was September 11th.  I very much felt the need to do something to commemorate the day so I took Lucien to the memorial ceremony at Trocadero.  On the metro ride there, I gave Lucien a very rudimentary explanation of where we were going and why, basically how we needed to think about our country on that day because something very sad happened there ten years ago.  Thankfully, he didn't ask too many in-depth questions because I have no idea how to explain something so horrible to someone who thinks the worst thing a person can do is call someone else "poo-poo face." 

It was a moving tribute at Trocadero.  The mayor of Paris was there alongside the American ambassador.  A choir sang the French and U.S. national anthems back-to-back, and various people gave speeches about how the day changed the entire world and the entire world mourned.  The official ceremony lasted between the exact times, ten years ago, when the first plane hit through when the second tower fell.  There were tears, of course, including mine, because all Americans still feel the events of that day in a visceral, raw way.

I was brought to tears by the horror of the events of 9/11, but also by the show of solidarity by the French.  I'm so grateful they gave us somewhere to go, something to do.  Otherwise, we would have been sitting at home or wandering around the neighborhood pretending it was a normal day when it wasn't a normal day.

This is a group of French firefighters who showed up carrying American flags. Several wore FDNY hats. They were somber, and sincere.  

We didn't stay for the whole ceremony.  The intense security repeatedly reminded me it may not have been the safest place to bring Lucien.  By the third time we saw a group of cops run past us full speed to surround someone, I decided it was time to go.  The terrorists scared MJ away from the 9/11 memorial ceremony, and for that I'm not exactly proud.

Thank you, just thank you, France, for giving a sh*t** about our pain.  

**not ornery, I really mean that one.

 

Lucien took a spin on the carousel on our walk back to the metro.  It felt good to watch Lucien, head thrown back laughing out loud, after re-living that day ten years ago.  I didn't even care I was watching him in the middle of a downpour.

 

 

Phew.  Done.  Cleansed.  

In more upbeat news, I've now received several emails on the subject and am pleased to report "assorted toast" is sweeping several nations. 

Hugs to all my people,
MJ

A wedding, a birthday, and some toast

The umbrella fun just don't stop.

According to his smiley teacher, Lucien is doing fine in school.  Lucien, however, claims he's vomited ten times, was bitten by a giant spider, and has gotten into many fights with many people, at least one of which involved real swords.  Jesus Lord.

He doesn't have school Wednesdays and it was actually nice to have him around again. We stood in the kitchen Wednesday morning and debated who would win if an Ankylosaurus and a Tyrannosaurus Rex got into a fight.  I also made our favorite breakfast -- a little something I like to call "assorted toast."  Some pieces have jam on them, some cinnamon, some nutella.  Then we arrange all the pieces of toast on a giant platter.  I know, I know, I just really blew the roof off this whole breakfast thing.

Coco has spoken her first word (aside from all the mama, dada, baba crap) and much to everyone's surprise, it's a French one.  She held her bottle up to me last week and repeatedly said something that sounded like "Uncle!  Uncle!"  I was like "Uncle?  Uncle?  What the hell?" Then she sobbed and hit me with her bottle because she was upset she'd been birthed by a moron. 

The cleaning lady, who was standing nearby said, "So cute!  When she wants more milk she says, "encore!"  I turned in astonishment -- I'd already started a frantic online search for purchasable uncles -- and said, "Coco, are you saying 'encore'?" She nearly split herself in two with the grinning and the laughing and the rolling joyfully on the floor.  She had been understood!  Finally!  By the cleaning lady!

Now she says encore for everything -- more food, more time in the bath, more movie -- and frankly, it's getting a little old.  Hope she comes up with a new word soon.  When she does, hope our cleaning lady is able to figure it out.

We went to Vancouver Family's apartment last weekend to celebrate Vancouver Mom's birthday.  I'd never been to their apartment before but had heard great things about the view.  The rumors were true.  If I lived in this apartment, I would never leave it --

Luxembourg, Eiffel Tower, Invalides, St. Sulpice, Grand Palais.  Ridiculous.

Here's the birthday banner we brought.  It was Vancouver Mom's first birthday banner in her entire life and it was in FRENCH.  That makes it super special and a bit snobby --

Lucien, when he's with Vancouver Son, goes insane.  I can't say it was the most relaxing evening for Alex or me because we had to keep jumping up to pull Lucien off the curtains, or out of the china cabinet, or off the roof of the building.  Virginia Mom and Dad, who have two quieter and calmer girls, sat at the table and got drunk while the rest of us dealt with the chaos of boys.

A storm rolled through.  We sat at the table and let rain pelt us in the face through the open balcony doors.  It was wonderful. Then the storm passed and we watched the Eiffel Tower light up and sparkle, as it does every hour on the hour.  No matter how badly Paris has abused me during the day, I forgive her when I see the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

Vancouver Family leaves Paris next month.  It's sad but I take comfort in the fact they'll only be a few hours drive from Seattle.  If we really have a hankering, we can go see them.  Of course, with the way Lucien tornadoed through their apartment, they probably won't let us through the front door.  So we'll look through their windows and wave, and that will be enough.

This was our walk home that night with two very tired kids --

Here we are in our building's tiny elevator.  It's a tight squeeze for the four of us.  I won't miss Paris-sized elevators, except for the hilarity.

I attended a very joyous occasion this morning.  Coco and I got all dolled up (and by that I mean I took a shower) and took the five dozen metros necessary to reach the 19th arrondissement, where we witnessed the marriage of fellow Paris bloggers, Paris Paul and Paris Karin.

To get married around here, you must have a civil ceremony at the town hall.  After the official marriage at the mairie, you can have a church ceremony or scuba wedding or pirate ship wedding or whatever you want but it's really just for show because the deed is already done. (so cool! pirates!)

The civil ceremonies happen in a fancy room.  The wedding guests gather down in the lobby and walk up the big staircase together.  Once you're in the fancy room, an important lady wearing a sash enters and you have to stand up again.  The important lady then mumbles a buncha somethin' somethin' in a language you thought you understood right up until you attended the wedding.  (Seriously, was that French?  I should study my marital vocabulary.)

They may be saying something about loving each other here but I really didn't catch a damn thing

 Congratulations, blog friends.  You are most excellent together.

Coco considered ruining the wedding several times, but ultimately held it together.  There were a few excited exclamations accompanied by some pointing and a few dozen "encore"s, but it wasn't nearly the disaster I feared it was going to be when I couldn't find a babysitter.

The metro ride home was long and Coco was tired.  She wanted off at every stop.  Every time the  doors closed and she was still on the metro, she felt betrayed by me.  The sight of a little girl in a pretty dress pounding on the metro doors and hollering at her mama was pretty funny to several passengers and they laughed out loud.  She waved her arms at them, probably casting spells.

Mmmm.  Assorted Toast.
MJ

Remember me?

Well hello there.

The Loosh is back in school and I'm blogging again.  The two things are related.

The whole family went to drop Lucien off on his first day.  He greeted the director of the school respectfully (unlike last year, holy sh*t...) and his kind, smiley teacher did not run away screaming when she saw him enter the classroom.  I admit, I expected her to because Lucien is infamous at preschool for his loudness and his Chris Farley-like physical comedy routines.

Yesterday, however, The Loosh was quiet and nervous.  That's normal behavior for him on the first day -- it's the second day through the last day of school that everything really goes to hell.

All the other parents are a deep, dark tan-ish color from their month-long vacations in the south of France.  Alex and I, however, continue to be ex-pat rebels by sporting our standard ghostly pallor.  We received a few wrinkled, confused brows when, in response to the vacation question, we said we summer vacationed in the Czech Republic and a German Kinderhotel, where we were vomited upon multiple times and hugged by a hippie.

And sacré bleu, I have sad news  -- Hot Thing One and Hot Thing Two have moved away.  My sorrow knows no limits.  Who's going to be my eye candy at the preschool now?  Oh....everybody else in the whole damn school, you say?  Yep, that's a good point...true, true...

The Loosh will not finish the year at this school, probably not even the semester, and for that I admit I'm relieved.  French school is an impressive thing.  Lucien has a nice group of friends and speaks effortless, accent-less French.  People have been kind to us and it's been our most profound cultural experience in Paris.  Still, it's not the best place for our son.  We need less rigidity, more "hey, anyone have any creative ideas about how to peel Lucien off the ceiling?"

Since my last post, we had a couple more days of crap weather so were stuck in the apartment.  We tried to play ball but it got stuck between the beams in our ceiling.  That was pretty exciting.

The gray blur is a triceratops being launched in an attempt to free the ball.  It only succeeded in knocking art off the walls.

We also went out for an overwhelmingly successful family dinner last week.  It's rare we enjoy a dinner out all together because Alex and I are usually stressed about keeping the children at the table and without forks in their eyeballs.  But this dinner was a winner, probably because Lucien was exhausted from a long outing with Alex and Virginia Dad, which Virginia Dad barely survived.  Lucien's energy can kill people, we're pretty sure.

Coco refuses to sit in a high chair at restaurants.  She prefers to stand which means one of us has to keep a hand on her at all times -- and by "one of us," I mean me.  By the end of the meal she was bored and wanted down but we weren't ready.  Alex barely said the words, "I think she's about to start throwing sh*t at you" when I felt the first piece of pineapple bounce off my head.  Several more soon followed.  Girl has crazy good aim.

I'd like to say Alex helped me fend off the pineapple attack but he was laughing too hard to be useful.  I would have been mad at him but his laugh sounds like Fozzie Bear's and I like that.

Coco and I trailed way behind the boys on our walk home because she wanted to walk all by herself.  It takes forever.  Lucien would occasionally run back to visit us, then double back to join his dad.  One time he returned to Alex and said, "Coco fell down real bad in the middle of the street with cars but it's OK -- I think she's still alive."

Coco hadn't fallen down, Lucien was just being a punk.  So I was perplexed when I saw Alex frantically pushing his way back through people towards us.  When he saw Coco marching happily without injury down the street, he turned and chased Lucien back to our apartment yelling, "LUCIEN GET BACK HERE THAT WASN'T FUNNY."  Ahhh... peaceful family Sundays all together.

On our stroll home, we passed many things, such as the guys below performing "Rockin' Robin" with all their hearts and souls.  We also passed sidewalk cafe tables full of laughing people, and people strolling arm-in-arm through the narrow streets eating ice cream, and people just staring up in awe at the buildings around them.  In that moment, as my husband chased my son to our apartment with the intent to strangle him, I felt complete Paris contentment.  As difficult and claustrophobic as it is sometimes, it was our best decision to live in the 6th, right smack in the middle of it all.

 Rockin' Robin, tweet, tweet, tweet, whatever...

Probably should have stopped on that poignant note but nope, pressing on.

We went to see Dr. Michel for Coco's vaccinations.  I got yelled at on the bus on the way there because a woman thought Coco's socks were too tight and were cutting off her circulation. Coco's socks weren't even a little bit tight, as I tried to demonstrate by easily sticking a finger down the side, but it didn't sway her -- I was a bad person and horrible mother and there was no convincing her otherwise.  She complained about me to her friend the rest of the ride.  This is also known as "just another day on the bus."

I haven't been approached by the Cold Baby Police in ages but have now encountered their super stealth unit, the Tight Sock Investigators.  Be careful out there, everybody.  

Funny what a week away from the blog does to my head; it's just full of weird crap.  I would stick around and share indefinitely but I've got to go.  I've got to go get my American boy at French school and it's Day Two.  Things probably didn't go well.  I will soothe his battered soul with nutella.

The Loosh on his first day back to school.  I said, "stand still" and got dancing.  It's gonna be a long few months at French school.

La rentrée is here, mon chou,
MJ