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.

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!