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.