I Don't Buy Clothes That Require Irony-ng.

Just when I thought I was comfortable in my skin here in Paris; that other people’s opinions had no bearing on my sense of worth, I walk by a skinny girl giving me a dirty look.

I was feeling pretty good, got my haircut, which I had put off for some time in an effort to find the greatest deal. Also, communicating something as important as your haircut is best done in your own language, but the ends of my hair had gotten so bad I could not wait 10 days to fix it in London. Ironically, the fellow cutting my hair complimented me on being able to speak French so well after only living here 5 months. “Ironic” because I told him I wanted it long, that it curls up when dry and then he takes off almost everything I had grown in the last four months to display his comprehension of my ability to communicate in a second language. C’est la vie. At least we aren’t dating... we wouldn’t be, his shirt was too dressy to ever date someone like me. He was friendly and probably straight, but boy howdy, I am far from fancy. I am not sure if it’s my skin or the bird shit all over my bag that makes me so undesirable to well groomed men... probably my sandals and tan lines... and leg hair/ body odor.

“Bird shit on your bag, well that sounds like an anecdotal tale!”

You’re right, invested reader, it is. It starts with my employer, a woman I cannot communicate with because of our unaligned boundary issues, bought me a going away bag. Before I go into the gift, let me explain that when I say we have problems communicating, it is not a judgement or even something that’s been discussed (obviously) it is just a difference in approach and neither one of us is better at communicating (I am). I haven’t been terribly happy with my job. I got to a point where I saw I couldn’t stay, I was not happy, but didn’t feel I could express this to the family, that I do love and care about. I have been braised in guilt for the last 30+ days living for a moment in the future that may or may not look like how I have to imagine it to be to get through the day. On the day after my unacknowledged 30th birthday the mother I work for gets me a “going away present”. It is a brown beaded handbag that has the phrase “make everyday happy” into it. I was amused... because I felt like it was really saying “stop being an asshole and stay for a long time because the boys are really going to miss you and I am not sure how to raise them because I can’t discipline them without feeling guilty for not being there more... even though I don’t work”. Anyway, the latter would be more like a suitcase and she doesn’t want me to go. I think her conscious intention was sweeter than that... although a suitcase would have been helpful. It would have been funny if she bought me a bookcase as a going away present. However, I have this bag, less than a week and after avoiding the flaying excrement of winged totem animals for tens of years, I manage to have a bird shit all over the beading of this fucking “gift”. I try washing it off and I am gagging because it’s slimy and is coagulating. I try thinking to myself, it’s just bird poop, what do they eat? Berries, rocks... and then I remember, worms. That was exactly what was making it so difficult to get it off: sticky, partly-digested worm bodies that extrapolated and escaped through the ass of a pigeon (or dove) only to land on the intricate hand beaded message of hope I was wearing across my shoulder.

Le Sigh.

I enjoy irony and I enjoy cheese, so after my hair cut, I decide on my walk home that I will buy a small amount of cheese and eat it on the way home. I was celebrating the day that is almost over. It all seemed appropriate, until I walked by this skinny Parisian woman, looking at me like I was gnawing the ear off a screaming newborn puppy. I noticed her look and actually postured as if to say “what?! you want to get punched?!” and in an instant, our interaction was over by the unwavering pace of our gait and the opposition of our trajectory. I was left looking at the sphere of creamy white cheese usually put out for guests with crackers, bread and good will. It was covered in bite marks and my fingers were clumsily digging into it. My brown, micro-fiber/ sequined purse is covered in bird shit/ decomposed worm parts and I have needed to get my legs waxed for 5 months. So, I don’t really fit in and I am not going to feel bad about eating in public because I am covered in poo poo. That is about that for that tale, God... I hope that read well and you enjoyed it. au revoir.

The Fill Of Paris.

“I feel like I have had my fill of Paris.”

This was a statement made by my friend who had been visiting for two weeks. He lives in Berlin now, but is an American. Going on my sixth month in Paris, I feel the same way, but also that I am in a sort of prison. That might sound like I need to change my outlook, but before we get too into judging me, let’s examine. Every time I go anywhere here, I am faced with clogged streets and aimless gawkers, who my friend refers to as “the walking wounded”. They oscillate between confused anxiety to surprised recognition of landmarks that are everywhere in this city. It seems reasonable to stop their family in the middle of an already small sidewalk to snap a photo, because... hey, they’re on vacation. Most tourists seem uncomfortable and surprised that this experience doesn’t complete them as much as they thought it would. That could be projection, but it reminds me of when I first got here. I was like “wow, I am in Paris,” and I was soon like “oh, this kind of sucks a lot.” Moving to a new place takes about a year to adjust, regardless where you are, but I could tell after a couple months that I didn’t want to be here anymore than the time I had bought my ticket for. Turns out I had bit off more than I could chew with the idea of being here 11 months and changed my ticket to leave at six months. I wish I could leave now.

All of Paris is on vacation, because somehow the entire country has August off for vacation. A lot of store fronts are closed and the only people here seem to be Italian, which is fine, except it reminds me that I never visited Italy and I wanted to. I don’t know, it’s not that bad, but it isn’t that great, either. I am looking at a very privileged issue right now and I know that. So, I make the best of my time here. Mainly, I do this by listening to podcasts and music while I daydream about living with my boyfriend in the States. So much for presence.

I work for a bit of a crazy family here and I feel a lot tension around my last days in Paris. I hope that they don’t stiff me money, and not because they’re evil, but they are as mentally organized as a washing machine operating a full load. Some of the suggestions they have made border on free labor, like “hey, wanna work three days for us and we wont pay you, but you’ll be with us on the coast- it’ll be so much fun”. I have close friends with children I consider nieces, who would never ask something like that of me. The other thing is, I feel really tense telling them “I wouldn’t feel comfortable working and not getting paid.” Like, it’s not okay to point out the obvious in this house of broken mirrors and promises. I am just counting down the days, trusting that everything will be alright. However, it couldn’t come fast enough.

My birthday is coming fast... I will be thirty years old. I will get on a train and travel down to the family’s 9 bedroom beach house, negotiating a fair wage, which wont seem fair to them, because they would never pay their Philippine nanny who’s been with them 5 years anything close to that. The mom actually told me that, so I guess I did learn something here, not really French, but white guilt sunk in pretty damn well. I miss the socially conscious families in America that I worked for, who appreciate me, compensated me and communicated well. It was clean, honest work and they would never pay me more than their other Mexican nanny, however it was more than enough to survive on and live comfortably.

I wont miss seeing constant fashion shoots either. There is a parade of beautiful people in this city- in the world, more than there has been in history. I know I am going to sound fat when I say this, but most of them are boring and vapid. NO, ALL OF THEM. The women with their long legs and smooth skin... lacquered nails, self-control, poise. Well, they’ll never be stand up comedians. The men with their coiffed hair, collared shirts and sense of entitlement... well, they’ll never date this stand up comedian. Not that I am much of one right now anyway... I am like a walk around comedian, with no jokes and no stage. I also have no couture or place to stretch in my closet of a room, but I do have a boyfriend 5,200 miles away who I can’t wait to bicker with in grocery stores over the price of organics and sleep on the floor with after we’ve made up. He makes me laugh and that is a lot more than I can say for Paris. However, it’s been something here... I learned a little French and a lot of white guilt. C’est la vie- oui? oui.

Give Me A "Paris" Of Socks And I Will Walk Home

It’s about that point on my calendar that marks the date for me to submit to publishers. I made the date several months ago when I was writing everyday and inspired by all the differences around me. I don’t have a manuscript and I question whether or not I have talent. Maybe that read morose, but I am smirking, because I assume I do have talent... and I will go forward expressing what I consider “talent” to a still unreceptive world until the day I get the call: you did it, Abbey, everyone in the world loves you! They don’t expect anything from you except to be yourself, like you’ve been doing (maybe, by this time) (who am I?). At this point, I will have accepted myself, most likely, and learned how to love myself all while allowing other people to express themselves.

I think a parents job is to build you an identity that will serve you in this world, because I doubt who we truly are, on a soul level, has any place in the material world in which we live. I am not saying there cannot be shots of light through the colors of dysfunction (does it sound racist when I liken dysfunction to color?), like shadows playing out shapes of truth in an illusory world. I am saying that because if I hear another guru tell me to be vulnerable and try to guide me there, then ask for money for another level of my own self-knowledge... well, I started that sentence off like I had a plan, but really I don’t. I plan on trying not to judge other peoples’ truths. Whether it be that the aforementioned guru IS transparent in his divinity and his presence alone will raise you to knew heights of consciousness or that auditing is an effective form of self-knowledge (Scientology), I wont say what’s right or not. I don’t know anything about what works for other people. People are trying to have some structure to peace, to feel good and it is ironic that we talk about shedding layers like there is an internal destination to live from, when those layers are the structure we seek externally. In our attempts to tear them down, we’ve manifested them in the form of religion, occults and gurus. We are given moments of insight, where we sit in our true nature and feel peace, it is there, but there is not one way to find it. I don’t think very many people are claiming there is “one way” anymore, but I haven’t been to the South yet, either. So, to not judge another’s truth; to not follow another’s truth. That is my own personal revelation after seeking in the frame work of other people’s houses for a room of my own. Maybe Paris brought me to this point, maybe I would have found it in Yakima Washington, either way I was going to gain weight.

Now, I am in Paris. I thought I would come here and feel connected, like I finally found a place to belong. I would fall in love with a reasonable man and would be adored for me. I would get to a place in my body that felt waif-like and acceptable. I knew it would take effort, but it was worth the work. In reading about culture shock and talking to people who have lived abroad, there is a six-month mark where you are just ready to give up... everything is at it’s worst or whatever. I am there, but not with the same futility. I realize that I am at point of going “where do I want to live?”. It isn’t about not adjusting to a new place, it’s about accepting where I am in life and surrounding myself with opportunity. I do stand up and I like space. I like room on my side walk because I walk with purpose and I like plenty of days in a week to try new material/ re-work old material. This is not going to change. I am in love with a friend and old boyfriend who has asked me to live with him and even though we’ll be sleeping on the floor and I will be distracted by his life style choices, there is no one else on this Earth that I know to be better for me at this time. I could be alone with myself, but I have been doing that for so long, I think it might be a fun experience. Although, it could wind up being it’s own form of Paris... I will still learn something. So, I am returning to America to live in Portland, Oregon for awhile. I never thought I would be saying this and I don’t say it with contrition, I say it with hope and acceptance. I will have some time with people that I love and care about and I will always be free to follow my heart. I will miss the price of cherries in Paris and trusting the meat I eat anywhere. However, when I get back to the states, I will probably stop eating meat, anyway. Paris is beautiful and old, but so am I (I am a thousand years old) and I am going to take my Paris back home. It is going to cost me in changing my flight, but can you put a price on it? I am so excited to come back.

Coffee Shop Sofa Sex

There is a shift of focus for the content of my life. I am almost thirty and finally ready to be positive. I mean this in the sense of what I joke and talk about, also what I look at. I recognize what it feels like to say negative things about people or to “vent”. I have always done this justifying that I need to “get it out”, but there is no release, there is only more of the same and an insatiable desire to do more. I also find that if I make fun of people behind their back, I feel that much more affected by the idea that people don’t like me. It’s creating the world you live in and recognizing the world only exists to you the way you see it. Cynics will point out that bad things are happening whether or not you acknowledge them, but how much energy do you have to give to the problem before you start identifying with it? I am focusing on a solution... nice things to do and say. Eventually, I wont feel a need to destroy myself, I think. I am sure, because I am shifting. I also am cutting out celebrity gossip... really toxic stuff there.

In this shift I have to ask what I am laughing at; what am I joking about? For example, I was at a restaurant waiting for somebody when 6 Asians walked in, some old, some young. They were tourists and as tourists, spoke English when they asked for a “table for sex”. I don’t want to think that I misheard that, and as the only native speaker in the area, I was alone with my chuckle- so alone that I didn’t chuckle at all. Now is it mean-spirited to relay that story? Nope, because it’s not like I am pulling my eyes apart and dumbing down my voice. It is good natured linguistic fun. So they got to the table and the older man started pinching the little girls undeveloped nipples... maybe that’s an area I don’t feel like taking, because I might have kids someday.

I might have kids, I might write books, but I am considering taking speed more and more. Coffee seems to get me into more trouble than speed would. I was at my favorite coffee shop and found myself being stared at by the attractive barista. I would look up occasionally and watch him for a period of time that could just be staring off, or it could be flirting. It amounted to nothing immediately, because I left without saying anything, even after he sat right across from me with a book and intermittent glances. I was sitting in front of the window, so it’s possible that there was something more to see in my general area, but it feels better to think that we are soul mates. The only thing with delusion, is the down side, when you find the person you never actually spoken with on Facebook and ask them out for coffee. I did this, but I played it as cool as possible considering the context. I haven’t heard back and am starting to plan my next line of defense.

FLOWERS- CARDS- PHONE CALLS- BLOW JOBS

Anything to get my power back and make visiting that coffee shop less stressful again. Never pee where you sleep, guys... unless you are in love. I am not too bent out of shape, it doesn’t seem to me that this guy gets on Facebook everyday. He might be camping or married. I sent him a friend request the day before I wrote him and hoped he would ask me how he knew me, so I could say “I recognized your pants in a photo” or something equally undefinable in it’s creepiness. He didn’t ask, probably satisfied with his life as it is, so I wrote the blurb about us getting coffee... Now, I am just going to find ways to stop eating, maybe mono. I have never had mono and sometimes I think it’s because God hates me, or that I am shy.

I haven’t posted on my travel blog in sometime, so I am going to post this. However, I hope that my ex in Portland doesn’t read it because it will make him sad to read that I am asking guys out. He and I still talk a lot and maybe, you could say, we are still in love. Maybe we are just insanely good friends who don’t sleep with other people because we doubt anyone else will be as pleasant to deal with. Whatever the case, I have been told that I can see someone here and that he would still want to be with me when I get back to the US. I told him the feeling isn’t mutual because I don’t like the idea of sharing that dick. So, now I feel free to explore romantic possibilities with men I am attracted to. Mainly, because I know that if there isn’t a shared sense of humor or connection, I wont kiss them. It’s liberating to be able to walk down streets without wanting to move into every cute building you see. You can look at the space and just because it has a place to sit, doesn’t mean you have to get a rash from a well-worn sofa. Also, my ex should know, if he’s reading this... which I doubt, because he would have stopped after that paragraph about asking the guy out... He should know that I would only fuck somebody if they were really hung. I love you.

Socialsm, It's More Communism Than You Think

Socialism is like the generalization I am going to use to describe French people. I don’t really know anything, so keep that in mind while reading my opinions. Ha, just a joke, I know stuff- Americans are really funny. I am learning stuff. I am living in Paris, learning and pretending to know stuff. I say “I understand,” not because I do, but because I am a firm believer in affirmations. I am not a “The Secret” kind-of-person, but a “positive mindset feels better” kind-of-person. When living in a new country and learning a new culture, it’s hard for me not to see how America is superior, as an American. Funny how all the parts of it I lamented are actually what makes it pretty awesome. Things, that if tempered, could serve everyone quite auspiciously, but now seem to just piss people off by pissing all over the majority (poor people)(eew). Capitalism is one of those things that isn’t really in practice here. It is really a Socialist country, France, and that tends to breed laziness, but more importantly doesn’t promote a true Joie de vie (I said that wrong, but spelled it perfectly). I am an expert on joie de vie because I grew up poor, but still laugh a lot.

Capitalism gives incentive to create something that will not only set you apart, but reward you greatly. Unfortunately, the spirit of ingenuity in American business seems to have turned in on itself and manifested in ways to fuck over people to take what isn’t earned. This is sanctioned by the government to keep them in power. The issue has become the reward for trickery instead of innovation. However, there is more of a freedom to recognize it and speak against it in America, than there is likelihood for protests against Socialism here. That isn’t out of gratitude to a benevolent government, it’s out of indifference, which is the latent undertone to everyone working their mandated jobs, with their standards 6 weeks off and free health care. Quality of life is as relative as what's considered funny by anyone.

At an early age, kids in France are encouraged to not use critical thinking skills. They are given the answers and expected to memorize them, because over half of everyone that works in France, works for the government. Artists are paid by the government and therefor must create something along the lines of everything else, even if they don’t know it (of course they don’t). They learn that being different is not a quality that is impressive. Take Lady Gaga, for example, she could finger bang a goat all day and call it a skirt (only in America).

If you have ever seen “Exit Through The Gift Shop” you would know a bit about street art and a lot about a French “artist” named “Mr. Brainwash” (ou “Monsieur Tête de Propre”). The French man, was trying to do what he saw independent-thinking-creative-types doing, but ended up creating something that fell so incredibly short of inspired, it drove the thousands of people who saw the documentary to despise him. However, he is a product of a socialist upbringing, just as Americans tend to be chubby. Do you hate fat people for operating on a level they have been raised to? Me too- yucky!

So, the thing about not wanting to be different, to the point that you fear it, makes you a little closed off to things like “spontaneity” and “friendliness”. The French (yes, another round of generalizations) can barely stand having their English corrected, where as an American is kind of raised to laugh at themselves, unless they were raised religious (then it’s rare, but still celebrated). I was having a nice exchange with a clerk here (oh, I am in Paris), who wanted to speak some English with me. He seemed friendly and fun, so when I told him that I live in Paris now, and he said “you’re welcome,” I thought that he would see how funny that was. I explained to him that it would just be “welcome” and translated to him what it would be in French. I expected (always a mistake) him to see it as ridiculously funny, because it sounds so patriotically self-important. Instead of chuckling, he immediately emanated a shameful contempt for his error and, through gritted teeth, thanked me for “learning him something.” I didn’t stretch the limits of how hard one could slap a knee, by telling him about grammar, mainly cause I don’t give a fuck if people mess up English. I mess it up on purpose, on a regular basist. However, most French people will go out of their way to point out that you are saying something wrong, even if you are saying it the same way they are (“oui” “no, OUI!”). I am not sure if that makes them hypocrites or absolutely hateful (either way, it doesn't look good, French people). Are they trying to inflict the same amount of shame that they would feel if the tables were turned? If that’s the case, the only reason the French are thinner than Americans, is because they don’t really eat and French Cuisine is designed to fuck everyone up. No wonder they are grumpy- low blood sugar!

I really relish (hot dog joke) making an ass of myself and hope that it is contagious so that I can have some more fun here. I actually like Paris, despite my criticisms, but that is only because I work hard on those “affirmations” I was telling you about. I wish I could affirm a tighter stomach, but there is too much fucking bread here! C’est la vie! “Non, C’est la VIE,” “shut the fuck up, sheep!”

Holy Gay Paree, LGBT Community

It’s Gay Pride in Paris and let me just say that “Gay Paree” is not just an expression- this place is FULL BLOWN HOMO! It was a lot of fun and even though, it seriously slowed down what I was trying to do with my life (you’re reading it), I loved seeing throngs of people gathering to celebrate their lifestyle. Makes me want to have a GIGANTIC tupperware party, because I LOVE making large vats of food, I always have. I didn’t get it from my Mom or Dad, maybe my Dad... the point is, I was born this way, much like gay people. Nobody is telling me I can’t be in the kitchen all day, but you guys- it’s no longer the 50’s and now I am expected to have life experiences. Thanks, feminist movement.

I was eating in my apartment and all the sudden, it was like the club just opened up down the street, except it was really appealing and I wanted to go! I rushed through my salad, would have just stored it, but I don’t have tupperware (fucking feminists, I am pretty sure). I packed up my lap top and walked down my six flights of stairs to the street one block from St. Germain and St. Michel, where the party was AT! There were thousands, maybe over a million people out celebrating diversity and I liked it. I saw some carpenter types standing on a terrace of an apartment right on St. Germain. They must have been renovating it. I hope they weren’t being paid hourly, because those guys were just slack-jawed and unproductive. I got the impression that they couldn’t believe their eyes and were asking how, in all the reality they know, this sort of phenomenon can exist. It was truly amazing, gay as far as the eye can see. I don’t know how effective rainbows are to getting your voice heard or fairy wings are to getting a point across, but this is gay culture... I guess. I always thought it was like same sex/ sex change stuff, but apparently there are way more colors than that. If I dressed up as a sandwich and demanded to be taken seriously, do you think starving nations would even consider respecting my demands for public masturbation? Is it not the same thing? OH REALLY? Oh... okay, maybe you’re right. I may have inhaled some glitter on my way here.

I am not sure where America is at with regards to allowing gays in the military, but one hypothetical benefit to them not allowing gays, and me being a lesbian who works for them, would be; calling in gay to work- just once! However, I would never risk my life defending a country that didn’t honor my right to live my life the way I wanted to (fatigues would pretty posh, though) That being said, if it ever came time to fight for those rights, there is a huge chance that we would win... "we" being gays/ gay supporters. I consider myself a gay advocate, even though I show a general irreverence to many institutions. I say a lot of "bigoty-type" things, but I could see not getting legally married until everyone had the same rights... unless I fell in love with a conservative, then he would call the shots, really. However, I would throw fabulous dinner parties.

Parenting In Paris, Also Hitler And Stuff

I got on the Metro going the wrong way today, so I am in an unfamiliar arrondissement resigned to make the best of it in Paris. I am still waiting for a waiter (more like “wait her”, I am so right!) to come serve me. The leniency they show themselves in helping patrons in this city never ceases to annoy me. I like the idea that I will finish what I am writing and then, my waiter will show up and do his fucking job... [keep in mind, I have been sitting here longer than I've been writing] If I were the president I wouldn’t have to deal with this... why can’t I be different than who I am- like be the President?

I work for a family with three boys, the oldest is five and totally into muscly super heros, another is four and adores princesses. He has princess shoes, purses and jewelry. He always speaks with his hands in such a way that leaves his nails in grand display. His mom brought him home some press on finger nails and he was thrilled- his father- not so much. [my waiter just took my order, let’s see how long it takes him to bring it around]

The dad is concerned that his son is going to get picked on in school for "this" (the horror of a boy in lavender) and so he gets short with his wife and tries to discourage "this" (sparkly butt-holes) from happening. I understand his concerns, but kids will make fun of the cheese in you lunch box and it can destroy you if you don’t have a strong sense of who you are and that it’s okay to be you. If this boy can’t wear press on nails at home, where is he safe to express himself? I don’t think we need to worry for our young friend, the mom has a strong enough voice and knows what’s right, the boy will be fine, but definitely a bottom, when the time comes. [my coffee just arrived] I mean, she’s no Britney Spears, but she does what she can.

There is almost nothing we can do for boys fashion in Paris, they will likely all grow up thinking that a popped collar and embroidered pockets are reasonable things to wear. That, or they will be incredibly dapper. I say this while I am wearing running shoes, leggings and a scarf. My hair is in a pony tail and I feel helpless to confectionery during this time of the month. A lanky Japanese woman sits down with her friend beside me in a very well thought outfit and I shrivel inside because I don’t know myself. If I did, I would be happy and, I am convinced, incredibly fit/ rich.

I gave up on making a long-term life in Paris less than a month ago and I continually day dream about going back to America. I am doing stand up again this week and have likened telling jokes to people with English as a second language to what it would be like if the entire audience were Benjamin Franklin, but in 2011 and he doesn't know it. I may have to prepare more oil lamp/ calligraphy jokes and NEVER mention how France folded under the slightest pressure of Hitler’s thumb, like a over-ripe peach. With that, all the integrity it bore died with millions of others... Hey, I didn’t say that, I channelled it.

I like the idea of being harshly critical of people/ places and rebuking all responsibility by claiming I am just a clairvoyant channelling something else. How special I am to bring this news to tens of people! [just paid the check]

I know there are people that love Paris and I don’t blame them. It’s beautiful and distinct, maybe that brings out a feeling of being that when you're here. However, in comedy I need a home, a place where I can tuck my balls, put on my princess shoes, press on nails and say whatever I want to say and that it is not only accepted, but celebrated. I am moving back home to Denver when I get back, where ball-tucking is as notorios as cross-dressing... that's not really the issue here.