It’s been close to lonely here in Paris. I have made a few friends, but nobody I see day in and day out like on Sex and the City. I have decided it is time to take matters into my own hands and put out a personals ad. I tried walking around and meeting people, but for the most part, no one looks me in the eye or tries to take my earbuds out of my head to say “hello”. Rude fucking French. It’s not like I am the Retard from There’s Something About Mary, although I have zipped my own penis into a baseball. Sarah Silverman was in that movie and now she doesn’t talk to me, where’s my galactic empire, Steven Spielberg?! I am free associating right now and the ideas are just pouring out of me... kinda like this morning when I farted and it smelled like diarrhea, because it was! Luckily I was at work, so nobody noticed. I just said “this coffee tastes weird!”
My neighbor farts so loud I can hear it through the walls when I wear ear plugs to bed- it woke me up out of drifting off to sleep last night. I heard him rushing down the hallway, opening the door and closing it, then erupting like he was so glad he was home where nobody could hear him. I yelled “I will kill you for that!” then I set my alarm for every two hours so I could scream “you’re a dead man, farty-pants.” Anyway, he must drink Illy espresso too, because I did the same thing at work this morning. Nobody said anything, maybe because I am a nanny and the 3 month old can’t talk, but the Mom was in the next room. I heard her jump, like I startled her, so I just told her “the baby destroyed itself all over the walls and this coffee tastes weird... I will clean up the baby. You better make a new one because I need this job!” She came running in and just as I suspected, she was so relieved her baby was alive, I demanded a raise. She asked me why I was squatting with my butt in the baby's face and I said "farting, stop coddling him!"
Coffee is exactly what my friends and I will drink every day at the same place, as soon as I find them, but I am sure I will because I am writing the following ad to hang up in bathrooms at expensive restaurants all over Paris.
Bonjour!
Okay, enough of that French crap- where my New Yorkers at?! I need three, attractive women to be friends with me. One blonde, one brunette and an unnaturally bright red-head. You should have a lot of disposable income and treat me like a fashion receptacle for high end shoes and hand bags. You should also buy drinks, meals and airfare. Let’s travel together. I am a writer and I tell jokes! This means that I am Carrie, so don’t even try to be quirky like me... obviously there is only room for one of us at a table. I am at the point of the show where I am broken up from Big after some other break ups, but we are totally friends. The thing is, I don’t think Big and I will ever get married in this version of our show because he likes skinny girls and I like bread. So, you can set me up with Aiden and this time I will marry him, so that after we have three children we can meet in Abu Dhabi and him kissing me will be totally okay, although I will still call Big and tell him- he should have tried harder. Samantha, keep your clothes on, okay?It’s different this time, this is Abu Dhabi and I am not a good enough friend to tolerate everything about you. This is real life, not an HBO series. You should all be available every day to hang out over a snack. You can be French, but make sure your hair color meets the requirements. Also, no speaking French to us, or on the phone in front of us until I am fluent... even then, dumb it down, it’s not all about you and your linguistics. Get over yourself! Call me when you’re ready to be a good friend.
Regards,
Abbey (like “Carrie”, but with “Abbey” instead)
That’s it, I better go because I suspect the requests are going to come rolling in and I may even have to quit my job for a week or so while I interview. I, of course, will have to bill them after they are hired. I stopped a few people at the Quai and asked if they had other friends here, but they ran- five year olds are so bizarre. It’s not like I only play with kids, but they are the only ones short enough to look me in the eye. I’m not looking up for any adult, that’s how you get water squirted in your eye from those fake pocket flowers. If cartoons taught me anything, it was how to survive, but I am not a cartoon and a stream of water that big would simply drown me. Thank you for surviving this piece of writing, which was the locutionary version of a whoopie cushion.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Versailles: Rhymes With "Le Sigh"
Yesterday was a Tuesday and it was also a day I went to Versailles with a friend of mine who was visiting. Versailles was built in the 17th century as a hunting lodge for the King, but was later turned into a small town by his son, who also became King and in his reign, decided France needed a new image... also, it needed a little protection. He built additions on the castle to... look, I’m not a historian. I am sitting at a cafe wishing the sun was not creeping out from behind the clouds because I need every excuse to wear a sweater right now. I have been knuckle deep in carbohydrates and fat since I arrived in Paris a little over a month ago. Now I can’t even masturbate without excusing my bloated belly to a pretend boss in an office job fantasy I will never be professional enough to keep from getting fired from. Why can’t my sexual fantasies be about men, searching for themselves and begrudging my insistent company or children, that’s at least accessible.
I am not a pedophile, but needed to make an inappropriate quip to lead back into my Versailles story. When Marie Antoinette was being tried, after years of imprisonment during the French Revolution, the Revolutionaries had children claim, under oath, that she had molested them. I didn’t know this, but was astonished by the progressive resourcefulness in such a puritan era- they knew how to get the job done. She lost her head shortly after. Marie Antoinette was a teenager when she became Queen and somehow she was supposed to rule someway other than for herself and her immediate desires. I am almost 30 and still have a hard time saying hello to homeless people.
I read that King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette wouldn’t go to Paris because the hordes starving to death under their rule was offensive to their olfactory. Thomas Jefferson lived off Champs-Élysées in the 1780’s, also Beyonce and Jay-Z were just here too. Americans are obviously very different, but I think Marie Antoinette would have really liked Beyonce, probably only in a “make my food” kind of way, but the fashion talks they stood to have if everyone were color blind and tone deft. Armed with the knowledge of historical residence preferences practiced by French royalty, I automatically took the role as teacher’s pet at the beginning of the guided tour my friend visiting (from Canada) bought for us. Our French guide stood with us over a replica model of the palace and asked “does anyone know why the King moved his court away from Paris and chose to live 2 hours away?”. I was standing right behind her, so that when I spoke, I was heard through the microphone around her neck as clearly as a fresh tracheotomy. In almost a detached, but slightly aggressive monotone I matter-of-factly stated “because it stunk.” The guide looked at me, embarrassed. She apologized for what she assumed was an unpleasant trip I was having to her country and continued to give the real reason: strategy. I then said, even louder “I’m from Canada.”
Today, I am just going to work with children and watch Sex and the City. I thought about running, but think my tum-tum will wiggle too much through my shirt and possibly damage my knees.
I am not a pedophile, but needed to make an inappropriate quip to lead back into my Versailles story. When Marie Antoinette was being tried, after years of imprisonment during the French Revolution, the Revolutionaries had children claim, under oath, that she had molested them. I didn’t know this, but was astonished by the progressive resourcefulness in such a puritan era- they knew how to get the job done. She lost her head shortly after. Marie Antoinette was a teenager when she became Queen and somehow she was supposed to rule someway other than for herself and her immediate desires. I am almost 30 and still have a hard time saying hello to homeless people.
I read that King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette wouldn’t go to Paris because the hordes starving to death under their rule was offensive to their olfactory. Thomas Jefferson lived off Champs-Élysées in the 1780’s, also Beyonce and Jay-Z were just here too. Americans are obviously very different, but I think Marie Antoinette would have really liked Beyonce, probably only in a “make my food” kind of way, but the fashion talks they stood to have if everyone were color blind and tone deft. Armed with the knowledge of historical residence preferences practiced by French royalty, I automatically took the role as teacher’s pet at the beginning of the guided tour my friend visiting (from Canada) bought for us. Our French guide stood with us over a replica model of the palace and asked “does anyone know why the King moved his court away from Paris and chose to live 2 hours away?”. I was standing right behind her, so that when I spoke, I was heard through the microphone around her neck as clearly as a fresh tracheotomy. In almost a detached, but slightly aggressive monotone I matter-of-factly stated “because it stunk.” The guide looked at me, embarrassed. She apologized for what she assumed was an unpleasant trip I was having to her country and continued to give the real reason: strategy. I then said, even louder “I’m from Canada.”
Today, I am just going to work with children and watch Sex and the City. I thought about running, but think my tum-tum will wiggle too much through my shirt and possibly damage my knees.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Cheek Kisses Are Not A Promise Ring
I woke up this morning and made way to my computer, which makes mornings much more rewarding now that I live in Paris. The time difference has it so that when I sleep, the majority of my Facebook friends are awake, avoiding whatever they should be doing in their lives 9 hours behind me. They are on Facebook and communicating to... moi. I wake up with enough notifications accrued to make me feel like I have a purpose, so I make some coffee and hunker in for a full 40 minutes of work.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:
"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”
I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.
I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.
My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.
It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:
"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”
I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.
I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.
My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.
It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
I'm Not A 'Racist', I'm American
Now, I don’t want to come off as bragging, but since I moved to Paris, I have killed at least 43 ants- sometimes three at a time! They are not just in my place, I think they’re everywhere in the Spring, like the urine smell. I can’t exactly figure it out because there is nothing to eat in my apartment, but maybe it has something to do with the baguettes. Those are everywhere too, so it is possible that we’re secreting bread through the pores in our feet. Crazier things have happened- like Obama- no one saw that coming! I’m not a racist because I voted for Obama. However, I have noticed that African Americans from France and Britain talk just as loud as in the US.
I am so glad I got that off my chest, it’s like a weight has been lifted. My honkey American friend said I probably couldn’t write about it, but I was like “cracker- watch me!” he was like “now, don’t be calling me no cracker,” and I was like “whatever, round eye!”
I am watching Sex And The City Season 6 for the 3rd or 4th time, because I’m in Paris and she goes to Paris at the end of the Season. She just started dating a Russian, who’s name I can say, but can’t spell. He doesn’t get a lot of her jokes, but he makes her breakfast and seems to be ready to commit. I accidentally found myself on a date that I thought was a language exchange. He was an enthusiastic French man and I knew we might have a barrier of understanding when he asked me if I like women because I shrugged away from being guided across the street. I told him that I wasn’t a lesbian because I didn’t like the texture. He asked “what is ‘texture’?” I proceeded to inform him that I was only interested in language exchange, not romance and he said “I feel like you are attacking me!” He said it in such a way that made me think that I might have been. I tried to apologize, explaining that my ex had “low self-esteem” and my dad “wasn’t there.” Then I ran off to Brighton, England to do some heavy duty counseling because I realize that there has to be some significant healing before I can even make eye contact with an interested French man. They romance like African Americans: intense(ly). Also, it couldn’t hurt to heal the misconceptions I have held of both my parents, so my relationship with myself and everyone I meet is based in truth and not the illusion of some falseho... hey! Where’s that ant going with my bread?!
I am so glad I got that off my chest, it’s like a weight has been lifted. My honkey American friend said I probably couldn’t write about it, but I was like “cracker- watch me!” he was like “now, don’t be calling me no cracker,” and I was like “whatever, round eye!”
I am watching Sex And The City Season 6 for the 3rd or 4th time, because I’m in Paris and she goes to Paris at the end of the Season. She just started dating a Russian, who’s name I can say, but can’t spell. He doesn’t get a lot of her jokes, but he makes her breakfast and seems to be ready to commit. I accidentally found myself on a date that I thought was a language exchange. He was an enthusiastic French man and I knew we might have a barrier of understanding when he asked me if I like women because I shrugged away from being guided across the street. I told him that I wasn’t a lesbian because I didn’t like the texture. He asked “what is ‘texture’?” I proceeded to inform him that I was only interested in language exchange, not romance and he said “I feel like you are attacking me!” He said it in such a way that made me think that I might have been. I tried to apologize, explaining that my ex had “low self-esteem” and my dad “wasn’t there.” Then I ran off to Brighton, England to do some heavy duty counseling because I realize that there has to be some significant healing before I can even make eye contact with an interested French man. They romance like African Americans: intense(ly). Also, it couldn’t hurt to heal the misconceptions I have held of both my parents, so my relationship with myself and everyone I meet is based in truth and not the illusion of some falseho... hey! Where’s that ant going with my bread?!
Lazy In Paris, Crazy In Love
It’s one of those Spring days in Paris where you just have to get out of the house: Tuesday.
As much as I know that the day is lovely from my run earlier, I feel crippled by laziness in a way that makes me ask “who’s running this program?” I read a few pages of a book, half-heartedly watched an episode of Sex And The City... even though I have seen it at least 4 times. I wonder if I am being influenced negatively by the consumerism in that show... are my own values strong enough to objectively enjoy such garbage?
The sun is shining down pretty nicely and I could walk along the Quay, meeting people and enjoying the sights, but can’t I just nap? Like a cat... they got all these lives, what’s the big deal? I tried meditating, but I think I just fell asleep, not without seriously observing my thoughts. Funny how this cat stuff really played out there, I was just chasing my tail in an attempt to pass through the worm hole, instead pass through my hole... that has worms? MEEEEE-YOW! I am going out side in nothing special, get ready Paris!
I sat at the Luxembourg Gardens reading David Sedaris: Me Talk Pretty One Day. The second half of the book is his account for the time he spent in Parisian movie theaters, mostly avoiding the culture and typical things you must do while living in Paris. I feel a kinship with this writer and simultaneously assume he might hate me if he ever met me. C’est la vie. I heard about the content of this book after I had already moved to Paris, preparing to write about my experiences in fresh light, only to find out someone older and more interesting did that a few years ago. Oh well, gotta do something to keep myself from talking to people.
On my way to the gardens I saw a woman with a sign that read “I’m hungry” (but in French). I was too, and short on cash, but I gave her a little over one euro. I should clarify that I never ever give money to people begging and have even been known to pick a fight with weaker boyfriends who have dared challenged my staunchness by example. “If I wanted to fuck Princess Diana, I’d be a lesbian” I’d explain, along with some well educated assumptions about what disease that money was going to enable. I did this for so long I didn’t even notice the rancor that came over me every time I passed someone with a sign. In my resolution to do more random acts of kindness I was pissed when I saw her there, all hungry and shit, but I gave her all my change, as opposed to just the .30- I gave the euro as well- but not without an internal fight that kept me against the wall opposite her for some time while I thought. She said thank you and I walked away thinking that she could at least buy a baguette and I felt good... I mean really good, like “uh oh, Abbey,” because I was thinking about running into the super market and buying her a sandwich, then giving her my job... she seems qualified enough. I am short on funds, but giving her €1.30 is nothing but a reminder for me to be more mindful in what I spend on myself and enjoy that in which I do.
One of my favorite ways to avoid learning French is to sit around watching the American West Coast clock turn to noon, so I know when my ex is awake and available to “poke” me on Facebook. I recently asked him if he were “poking” anybody else on Facebook, or if I got special favor. He assured me, that it was a special thing between just the two of us... and my friend’s mom, who also “pokes” me. I moved to the most romantic city on Earth and look forward to getting poked in such a way that not only my ex-boyfriend can, but also my best friend’s slightly senile mother. She never hugged my friend when he was growing up, knowing this inside information regarding her aversion to physical contact, I always greet her with a long, tight hug. I don’t have the nerve to kiss her on the cheek, but if she ever visited Europe I definitely would. Until then, “poking” on Facebook should suffice every physical need I might ever have.
As much as I know that the day is lovely from my run earlier, I feel crippled by laziness in a way that makes me ask “who’s running this program?” I read a few pages of a book, half-heartedly watched an episode of Sex And The City... even though I have seen it at least 4 times. I wonder if I am being influenced negatively by the consumerism in that show... are my own values strong enough to objectively enjoy such garbage?
The sun is shining down pretty nicely and I could walk along the Quay, meeting people and enjoying the sights, but can’t I just nap? Like a cat... they got all these lives, what’s the big deal? I tried meditating, but I think I just fell asleep, not without seriously observing my thoughts. Funny how this cat stuff really played out there, I was just chasing my tail in an attempt to pass through the worm hole, instead pass through my hole... that has worms? MEEEEE-YOW! I am going out side in nothing special, get ready Paris!
I sat at the Luxembourg Gardens reading David Sedaris: Me Talk Pretty One Day. The second half of the book is his account for the time he spent in Parisian movie theaters, mostly avoiding the culture and typical things you must do while living in Paris. I feel a kinship with this writer and simultaneously assume he might hate me if he ever met me. C’est la vie. I heard about the content of this book after I had already moved to Paris, preparing to write about my experiences in fresh light, only to find out someone older and more interesting did that a few years ago. Oh well, gotta do something to keep myself from talking to people.
On my way to the gardens I saw a woman with a sign that read “I’m hungry” (but in French). I was too, and short on cash, but I gave her a little over one euro. I should clarify that I never ever give money to people begging and have even been known to pick a fight with weaker boyfriends who have dared challenged my staunchness by example. “If I wanted to fuck Princess Diana, I’d be a lesbian” I’d explain, along with some well educated assumptions about what disease that money was going to enable. I did this for so long I didn’t even notice the rancor that came over me every time I passed someone with a sign. In my resolution to do more random acts of kindness I was pissed when I saw her there, all hungry and shit, but I gave her all my change, as opposed to just the .30- I gave the euro as well- but not without an internal fight that kept me against the wall opposite her for some time while I thought. She said thank you and I walked away thinking that she could at least buy a baguette and I felt good... I mean really good, like “uh oh, Abbey,” because I was thinking about running into the super market and buying her a sandwich, then giving her my job... she seems qualified enough. I am short on funds, but giving her €1.30 is nothing but a reminder for me to be more mindful in what I spend on myself and enjoy that in which I do.
One of my favorite ways to avoid learning French is to sit around watching the American West Coast clock turn to noon, so I know when my ex is awake and available to “poke” me on Facebook. I recently asked him if he were “poking” anybody else on Facebook, or if I got special favor. He assured me, that it was a special thing between just the two of us... and my friend’s mom, who also “pokes” me. I moved to the most romantic city on Earth and look forward to getting poked in such a way that not only my ex-boyfriend can, but also my best friend’s slightly senile mother. She never hugged my friend when he was growing up, knowing this inside information regarding her aversion to physical contact, I always greet her with a long, tight hug. I don’t have the nerve to kiss her on the cheek, but if she ever visited Europe I definitely would. Until then, “poking” on Facebook should suffice every physical need I might ever have.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Brighton, Border Patrol and the Bodhi Tree
If you love the idea of traveling Europe and seeing London- you’ll love staying home! That’s because the border patrol in the UK are a bunch of U-cunts. I mean it, not just for alliteration. I guess the woman officer must have had an intuition for all the smack up my... luggage- my leg luggage, folks! EEEE ahhh EEEE ahhh (like a donkey braying and a woman enjoying a good shower) [very clever]
Actually, their biggest concern with me, was that I was going to be working. I felt like saying “look, I don’t even LIKE working.” That’s a lie though- I love it. I can’t get enough, which is why I went to Brighton, England for 9 days (although I am going to have to cut my trip short to get back to Paris to start working) to work. I’m not a lawyer here or anything weird like that. I am just doing the old drug mule thing and washing that back with a few stiff hand jobs at reasonable prices: immigrant hand jobs.
PS I am not really a prostitute guys... Not with my authority issues.
I brought more authority issues with me through border patrol than socks, so any attitude I got was upon myself, but I tried to imagine brown nosing an immigration officer, my compliments would probably come out more like this:
ME: Your ears look like you’ve had them pierced for a long time.
HER: Why are you here?
ME: I should ask you the same question [wink].
I almost didn’t make it in to the UK and told her to just send me back to America. I actually said this. Q: Where do I get off?! A: I got off in Brighton and was looking forward to a relaxing couple days by the sea. I was excited to eat fish and chips. I left my wallet on the bus.
I LEFT MY WALLET ON THE BUS! [I’m yelling at you now]
I managed to have £115 shipped to me via Western Union. That has to last me two weeks until a new card can get to me. So, I have to seriously get on the jerk train to Nob Town, where I get paid for my seat, but at discount prices because I didn’t bring the right clothes and body spray/ glitter. I look like a bouncer at a brothel more than a lady of the night.
To illustrate the last week for perspective; I booked the ticket to Brighton because I lost my job in Paris for locking myself out of the employer’s house while they were on vacation. It cost €300 ($432) to get through the antiquity of the home’s steal door. They changed their mind the same day and said I could stay. I told them to not pay me until the door was paid off. This was a fine idea, at the time, because I could manage and felt compelled to be accountable. I couldn’t bear telling them that after locking myself out of their house, I left my wallet on a bus on my way to escape the reality of Paris for 5 days before I returned happily and responsibly to work. No, just leave your kids with me- forget that I will probably forget their limbs in the elevator shaft... what's the big deal? Don't those regenerate until their bones have calcified?
Now, I am in Brighton going through a series of transformative meditations with an experienced guide (what are YOU doing? eating?!). I have realized what a cunt I’ve been and how I have pushed so many people out of my life to keep from having to be anything but self involved and some other things too. I don’t know that the realization has taken hold quite yet- still feel pretty into myself and relatively unhappy. However, I also did a rebirth, which burned- it was the most uncomfortable thing I have ever done. My ego is like top grade smack and burning through that/ detoxing was physically painful... could never have done that on my own. Afterward I floated in a pool of consciousness that I didn’t deserve to swim in. I still don’t. However, I’ve swam in it and not many people get a chance to do that, so I feel humbled and honestly, a little superior to everybody else who can’t seem to get there. Why aren’t I happy yet? What are you eating?!
Actually, their biggest concern with me, was that I was going to be working. I felt like saying “look, I don’t even LIKE working.” That’s a lie though- I love it. I can’t get enough, which is why I went to Brighton, England for 9 days (although I am going to have to cut my trip short to get back to Paris to start working) to work. I’m not a lawyer here or anything weird like that. I am just doing the old drug mule thing and washing that back with a few stiff hand jobs at reasonable prices: immigrant hand jobs.
PS I am not really a prostitute guys... Not with my authority issues.
I brought more authority issues with me through border patrol than socks, so any attitude I got was upon myself, but I tried to imagine brown nosing an immigration officer, my compliments would probably come out more like this:
ME: Your ears look like you’ve had them pierced for a long time.
HER: Why are you here?
ME: I should ask you the same question [wink].
I almost didn’t make it in to the UK and told her to just send me back to America. I actually said this. Q: Where do I get off?! A: I got off in Brighton and was looking forward to a relaxing couple days by the sea. I was excited to eat fish and chips. I left my wallet on the bus.
I LEFT MY WALLET ON THE BUS! [I’m yelling at you now]
I managed to have £115 shipped to me via Western Union. That has to last me two weeks until a new card can get to me. So, I have to seriously get on the jerk train to Nob Town, where I get paid for my seat, but at discount prices because I didn’t bring the right clothes and body spray/ glitter. I look like a bouncer at a brothel more than a lady of the night.
To illustrate the last week for perspective; I booked the ticket to Brighton because I lost my job in Paris for locking myself out of the employer’s house while they were on vacation. It cost €300 ($432) to get through the antiquity of the home’s steal door. They changed their mind the same day and said I could stay. I told them to not pay me until the door was paid off. This was a fine idea, at the time, because I could manage and felt compelled to be accountable. I couldn’t bear telling them that after locking myself out of their house, I left my wallet on a bus on my way to escape the reality of Paris for 5 days before I returned happily and responsibly to work. No, just leave your kids with me- forget that I will probably forget their limbs in the elevator shaft... what's the big deal? Don't those regenerate until their bones have calcified?
Now, I am in Brighton going through a series of transformative meditations with an experienced guide (what are YOU doing? eating?!). I have realized what a cunt I’ve been and how I have pushed so many people out of my life to keep from having to be anything but self involved and some other things too. I don’t know that the realization has taken hold quite yet- still feel pretty into myself and relatively unhappy. However, I also did a rebirth, which burned- it was the most uncomfortable thing I have ever done. My ego is like top grade smack and burning through that/ detoxing was physically painful... could never have done that on my own. Afterward I floated in a pool of consciousness that I didn’t deserve to swim in. I still don’t. However, I’ve swam in it and not many people get a chance to do that, so I feel humbled and honestly, a little superior to everybody else who can’t seem to get there. Why aren’t I happy yet? What are you eating?!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Lost In Translation, But With More Jokes- Lost.
Bonjour.
You know you’re in Paris when... Hey I just said “urine”! That should about do it for me, this blog could write itself on that gust of wind.
You can walk almost anywhere in Paris during the Spring and see what all the fuss is about. Even the Parisians are excited when the sun comes out, which might be why they take to peeing in what must be drones. It is the worst smelling urine I have ever encountered- the pee smells like the men’s bathroom in a bar that is notorious for bad decisions. It’s like they are trying to ward off stray cats here! Well, I haven’t seen any, so I think we can learn something, AMERICA.
It’s going to take more than putrid streets to keep this kitten in the house. Which is why I went to a language meet up/ picnic today, to practice French and meet people. Basically the group was too big to do language practice and no one wanted to be my friend because they all brought food and I brought postcards.
Like it were my idea to have a picnic at the Eiffel Tower, they should have hosted it at the grocery store if food was so fucking important. Give me back my postcards!
It was 70 degrees and there were representatives from all over on this patch of grass in the Champs De Mars (the park in front of the Eiffel Tower). There were Italians, French, Lebanese, South Africans, Americans and Hungary. Uh oh... did somebody say “hungry” in front of the American stand up comedian?!
I asked a woman where she was from and she said “Hungary” and I said “I was just there, but I got a crepe!” and she said “oh! where were you?” I answered her “South Kensington, London, really- I like your hair.” Can’t wait to take to the stage here, someone invited me to their improv group and I squatted down and yelled “je suis une chaise!” (I am one chair)... I’m so in.
I ended up at a party later that night, but on my way to the party I was walking down Rue Saint Germain listening to my ipod, when someone swooped up on my left side with some important news! He started speaking French with some urgency to me, very quickly and I politely told him I didn’t understand, so in broken English he basically told me I looked amazing, he was only here one night and asked me to go this party with him. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!
Before I left the States for Europe my ex gave me the best going away present you can get before heading to Paris... He sat me down to watch Taken. Taken is a movie starring Liam Neeson, who plays a dad (and former CIA operative) of a hot piece of virgin ass that gets kidnapped and sold into human trafficking. Basically they trick pretty girls into going to parties, then they tie them up, fill them with drugs and sell them to really sweet guys that can’t meet a good girl because they have so much money. Anyway, I have been on my guard- even at the museum!
FELLOW: [brushing past me] “Pardon.”
ME: [crouching down and shitting my own pants] “NO!”
I heard that if you’re ever getting raped, or about to, you should try shitting your own pants. The thing is, there are times where I can’t even shit my own toilet for a couple days, but I don’t have to worry about rape then because my belly sticks out a little. In conclusion, almost being forced into human trafficking/ sex slavery is the sweetest thing that has ever happened to me and it gave me so much confidence at the party I was originally planning to go to. I made like three new Facebook friends and my hymen is still in tact... and when I say “hymen”, I mean like “hi, men... over here... no? okay- maybe after I poo poo.”
You know you’re in Paris when... Hey I just said “urine”! That should about do it for me, this blog could write itself on that gust of wind.
You can walk almost anywhere in Paris during the Spring and see what all the fuss is about. Even the Parisians are excited when the sun comes out, which might be why they take to peeing in what must be drones. It is the worst smelling urine I have ever encountered- the pee smells like the men’s bathroom in a bar that is notorious for bad decisions. It’s like they are trying to ward off stray cats here! Well, I haven’t seen any, so I think we can learn something, AMERICA.
It’s going to take more than putrid streets to keep this kitten in the house. Which is why I went to a language meet up/ picnic today, to practice French and meet people. Basically the group was too big to do language practice and no one wanted to be my friend because they all brought food and I brought postcards.
Like it were my idea to have a picnic at the Eiffel Tower, they should have hosted it at the grocery store if food was so fucking important. Give me back my postcards!
It was 70 degrees and there were representatives from all over on this patch of grass in the Champs De Mars (the park in front of the Eiffel Tower). There were Italians, French, Lebanese, South Africans, Americans and Hungary. Uh oh... did somebody say “hungry” in front of the American stand up comedian?!
I asked a woman where she was from and she said “Hungary” and I said “I was just there, but I got a crepe!” and she said “oh! where were you?” I answered her “South Kensington, London, really- I like your hair.” Can’t wait to take to the stage here, someone invited me to their improv group and I squatted down and yelled “je suis une chaise!” (I am one chair)... I’m so in.
I ended up at a party later that night, but on my way to the party I was walking down Rue Saint Germain listening to my ipod, when someone swooped up on my left side with some important news! He started speaking French with some urgency to me, very quickly and I politely told him I didn’t understand, so in broken English he basically told me I looked amazing, he was only here one night and asked me to go this party with him. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!
Before I left the States for Europe my ex gave me the best going away present you can get before heading to Paris... He sat me down to watch Taken. Taken is a movie starring Liam Neeson, who plays a dad (and former CIA operative) of a hot piece of virgin ass that gets kidnapped and sold into human trafficking. Basically they trick pretty girls into going to parties, then they tie them up, fill them with drugs and sell them to really sweet guys that can’t meet a good girl because they have so much money. Anyway, I have been on my guard- even at the museum!
FELLOW: [brushing past me] “Pardon.”
ME: [crouching down and shitting my own pants] “NO!”
I heard that if you’re ever getting raped, or about to, you should try shitting your own pants. The thing is, there are times where I can’t even shit my own toilet for a couple days, but I don’t have to worry about rape then because my belly sticks out a little. In conclusion, almost being forced into human trafficking/ sex slavery is the sweetest thing that has ever happened to me and it gave me so much confidence at the party I was originally planning to go to. I made like three new Facebook friends and my hymen is still in tact... and when I say “hymen”, I mean like “hi, men... over here... no? okay- maybe after I poo poo.”
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Account Dracula
Abbey- how do you do it?! How do you continuously post like this- what’s it been... over two weeks?! That’s commitment.
I was recently asked if I were rich and for once, it was an American and not an East Indian where I bumble through explaining how, technically, I am not. I wipe croissant flakes off of my face and try to explain how the class system works in America, but I feel distracted because the food I am eating while educating this fellow (and his fabulous figure) is so good! No, I am not rich, but I smugly explain how I don’t let money determine my happiness. "I don’t let it control me," is what I condescend to this tiny man with an amazing tan.
If I could be any monster, I would be a “tan”pire and I would only come out 11am to 2pm. Yes, I am reading the Twilight series- I need to know what love feels like.
I try not to ask myself about money too much, out of fear it will distract me from the “who am I?” question I scream inside to drown out the echos of my upbringing. This is a habit that will keep me from any inheritance I might stand to acquire from my father, whom has been constantly grooming me to be able to take care of myself by the time he dies. I can do without a Rat Pack poster and the amazing pair of speakers he found at a garage sale. Where would I keep them anyway, without his storage? I will miss him, but it wont be long because I already promised to kill myself if I am not rich by forty. Oh, yeah, I plan too.
Now that this is all out, I feel like a confession of my most stupid purchases can be made less clandestine than the sheath of mystery I have engulfed myself and all my accounts. IT WILL FEEL SO GOOD TO AIR THIS! I reviewed some of my many stupid fiscal investments/ frivolities and here is a short list:
Before leaving San Francisco, I bought a $9 travel tube to save about $2 worth of body wash.
This pretty much tops the list of examples, but I am sure they span across the sea in equally absurd ways, like when I spent close to 8€ on unripened strawberries... “[whining] but DAAAAd- they weren’t just strawberries- they were fraise!”
It’s easy to spend money while in a foreign place- you want to experience things that cost money to experience, for example I just spent close to 5€ for a coffee at a place that was frequented by Ernest Hemingway- like where could I find a place like that in America?! I also went to Musée National du Moyen Age, or “Middle Aged Museum” in American. I got to say, this was the worst use of 8€.... I looked at all the broken statues and thought “I spent $11.50 to walk around looking at PART of something?!”
I didn’t actually think that as fluently as I just wrote it... I had to look at the currency conversion app on my iPod touch.... a $5 app on a $300 device and I have only used it once. Hi Dad!
All in all, I am good, life is happening whether or not I have a nest fund and I will continue to evolve without food or couture, but probably not my Macbook... I would cease to exist without Facebook, I am pretty sure. Who am I without status updates?! It's a lovely day in Paris, so I am going to go buy a plant for my room and explain to the locals how I live here now in broken French. I will earn respect carrying a potted plant all around town. "She must live here, that isn't something you buy unless you are of residence." I better bring a pen too, in case someone wants my autograph.
I was recently asked if I were rich and for once, it was an American and not an East Indian where I bumble through explaining how, technically, I am not. I wipe croissant flakes off of my face and try to explain how the class system works in America, but I feel distracted because the food I am eating while educating this fellow (and his fabulous figure) is so good! No, I am not rich, but I smugly explain how I don’t let money determine my happiness. "I don’t let it control me," is what I condescend to this tiny man with an amazing tan.
If I could be any monster, I would be a “tan”pire and I would only come out 11am to 2pm. Yes, I am reading the Twilight series- I need to know what love feels like.
I try not to ask myself about money too much, out of fear it will distract me from the “who am I?” question I scream inside to drown out the echos of my upbringing. This is a habit that will keep me from any inheritance I might stand to acquire from my father, whom has been constantly grooming me to be able to take care of myself by the time he dies. I can do without a Rat Pack poster and the amazing pair of speakers he found at a garage sale. Where would I keep them anyway, without his storage? I will miss him, but it wont be long because I already promised to kill myself if I am not rich by forty. Oh, yeah, I plan too.
Now that this is all out, I feel like a confession of my most stupid purchases can be made less clandestine than the sheath of mystery I have engulfed myself and all my accounts. IT WILL FEEL SO GOOD TO AIR THIS! I reviewed some of my many stupid fiscal investments/ frivolities and here is a short list:
Before leaving San Francisco, I bought a $9 travel tube to save about $2 worth of body wash.
This pretty much tops the list of examples, but I am sure they span across the sea in equally absurd ways, like when I spent close to 8€ on unripened strawberries... “[whining] but DAAAAd- they weren’t just strawberries- they were fraise!”
It’s easy to spend money while in a foreign place- you want to experience things that cost money to experience, for example I just spent close to 5€ for a coffee at a place that was frequented by Ernest Hemingway- like where could I find a place like that in America?! I also went to Musée National du Moyen Age, or “Middle Aged Museum” in American. I got to say, this was the worst use of 8€.... I looked at all the broken statues and thought “I spent $11.50 to walk around looking at PART of something?!”
I didn’t actually think that as fluently as I just wrote it... I had to look at the currency conversion app on my iPod touch.... a $5 app on a $300 device and I have only used it once. Hi Dad!
All in all, I am good, life is happening whether or not I have a nest fund and I will continue to evolve without food or couture, but probably not my Macbook... I would cease to exist without Facebook, I am pretty sure. Who am I without status updates?! It's a lovely day in Paris, so I am going to go buy a plant for my room and explain to the locals how I live here now in broken French. I will earn respect carrying a potted plant all around town. "She must live here, that isn't something you buy unless you are of residence." I better bring a pen too, in case someone wants my autograph.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Couture And C. Norris
I want to share some of my favorite things to do in Paris... first off, eating bread, secondly, whine that I eat too much bread... also- I love botching a perfectly good conversation between two French people by saying “J’ vrais ecole demain!”
“I have class tomorrow!” If I had a helmet, I would be the happiest little project these altruistic French friends ever had. They were, no doubt, discussing their views on the election next year or the economic state and their hopes for the future when I find the slightest break to interject “I HAVE CLASS TOMORROW!” This is my contribution to intellectual conversation- my wailing inconsolable interruptions are as frequent as they are obnoxious.
However, I now have the ultimate conversation starter here, in Paris: “Est-ce que tu aime Chuck Norris?” Which directly translates to “do you like talent?” I have found that the two people asked this question have expressed great interest in art/ Texas Art Ranger. They both knew that happiness was easily available every Sunday at 2pm... if you own a television- naturally.
I am trying to work up the nerve to ask my waiter about his interest in Texas Ranger, but I haven’t even got the nerve to ask for water... it’s a very difficult word for me to pronounce here “eau”, but you ask for it like “d’eau” and it sounds like “doh!” It’s bad enough being a thirsty American, but top it off with a involuntarily Homer Simpson impression and I am a stereo-type adorned in more cotton than even a parody should be wearing.
This city is the most stylish city I have ever seen- even the waiters add elegance to their uniforms. I feel like such a slob in my puffy, blue vest and black leggings. I know that if you “own” what you wear, people will look at you like you meant to do that, but even I- the most confident person I talk to regularly- have a difficult time making this theft proof fanny pack look indigenous or even inspired by anything other than fear.
So if I am not talking, I am wearing clothes and even if I weren’t, I am a size 6 with piercings and tattoos, so there is no avoiding the obvious billboard I am for a country with such variations of class that I am automatically defensive- especially because I have an unforgivable urge to ask people about their interest in Chuck Norris. Je suis American! Bien Sur!
“I have class tomorrow!” If I had a helmet, I would be the happiest little project these altruistic French friends ever had. They were, no doubt, discussing their views on the election next year or the economic state and their hopes for the future when I find the slightest break to interject “I HAVE CLASS TOMORROW!” This is my contribution to intellectual conversation- my wailing inconsolable interruptions are as frequent as they are obnoxious.
However, I now have the ultimate conversation starter here, in Paris: “Est-ce que tu aime Chuck Norris?” Which directly translates to “do you like talent?” I have found that the two people asked this question have expressed great interest in art/ Texas Art Ranger. They both knew that happiness was easily available every Sunday at 2pm... if you own a television- naturally.
I am trying to work up the nerve to ask my waiter about his interest in Texas Ranger, but I haven’t even got the nerve to ask for water... it’s a very difficult word for me to pronounce here “eau”, but you ask for it like “d’eau” and it sounds like “doh!” It’s bad enough being a thirsty American, but top it off with a involuntarily Homer Simpson impression and I am a stereo-type adorned in more cotton than even a parody should be wearing.
This city is the most stylish city I have ever seen- even the waiters add elegance to their uniforms. I feel like such a slob in my puffy, blue vest and black leggings. I know that if you “own” what you wear, people will look at you like you meant to do that, but even I- the most confident person I talk to regularly- have a difficult time making this theft proof fanny pack look indigenous or even inspired by anything other than fear.
So if I am not talking, I am wearing clothes and even if I weren’t, I am a size 6 with piercings and tattoos, so there is no avoiding the obvious billboard I am for a country with such variations of class that I am automatically defensive- especially because I have an unforgivable urge to ask people about their interest in Chuck Norris. Je suis American! Bien Sur!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Paris Loves America... Ernest Hemingway and Chuck Norris
Abbey Jordan sits at a table on Saint Germain, writing her philosophy... just like Voltaire! Also, a lot like Hemingway because of America. I am sitting at Café de Flore, which truly is a famous cafe that has served great minds- such as mine- since late in the 19th century. The main difference between now and then, is that they are now able to exploit their posthumously famous patrons by inflating the price of a coffee to twice of what you would find at a neighboring restaurant. The place is still crowded, and not just with people like me, but genuine French people... also, as slow as the service is, it’s very friendly.
I went out last night with a friend, a French friend, who actually got told by the waiter that he (the waiter) was not deaf... All my friend did was remind him of the water we requested 15 minutes prior. Advice for tourists: the only thing worst that assuming your waiter speaks English, is assuming he knows sign language... although he must have really thought I was fluent if he didn’t speak it himself- I was “talking” so fast!
That’s how you get the upper hand here: sign language... what a vulnerable way to turn the tables. If I walk into an establishment and can tell the service is terrible, I speak English really loud and slow, like I have never heard my own voice and then use my hands a lot... like a duck... a duck making a sandwich.
All cafe jargon aside, I had to come back to where I was staying, to eat and access the internet. While sitting with my French friend, eating crème fraiche and ham, he turns on the tv... to Chuck Norris. He says to me- in his little accent- “this is my favorite show- Chuck Norris is so awesome- everybody knows it is every Sunday at 2.” If you have never had creme fresh going out your nose- you haven’t seen Walker Texas Ranger dubbed in French while hearing a grown man declare his affections for the show... even if you aren’t eating crème fraiche it will manifest itself just to escape your nose.
Je suis heureux!
I went out last night with a friend, a French friend, who actually got told by the waiter that he (the waiter) was not deaf... All my friend did was remind him of the water we requested 15 minutes prior. Advice for tourists: the only thing worst that assuming your waiter speaks English, is assuming he knows sign language... although he must have really thought I was fluent if he didn’t speak it himself- I was “talking” so fast!
That’s how you get the upper hand here: sign language... what a vulnerable way to turn the tables. If I walk into an establishment and can tell the service is terrible, I speak English really loud and slow, like I have never heard my own voice and then use my hands a lot... like a duck... a duck making a sandwich.
All cafe jargon aside, I had to come back to where I was staying, to eat and access the internet. While sitting with my French friend, eating crème fraiche and ham, he turns on the tv... to Chuck Norris. He says to me- in his little accent- “this is my favorite show- Chuck Norris is so awesome- everybody knows it is every Sunday at 2.” If you have never had creme fresh going out your nose- you haven’t seen Walker Texas Ranger dubbed in French while hearing a grown man declare his affections for the show... even if you aren’t eating crème fraiche it will manifest itself just to escape your nose.
Je suis heureux!
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