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.

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.

This Is Something Relevant

Part of being a new ex pat from America, is an unhealthy attachment to the internet and peanut butter. The internet thing has you looking at old friend’s photos to see what they’re doing and who they know now that you are gone. Part of me wonders if I am comparing the appearance of my life to theirs, but am almost positive that I am just avoiding doing what I need to do by hanging out on Facebook. There is always something comforting in the creepiness of stalking strangers, but even better than that, is the idea of a world where you can comment on strangers photos without virtually knowing them.

“Be careful!”, “: P” or “That better be juice!” has an air of invested concern that might be reassuring coming from a complete outsider... or it could be gross, depending on my profile pic. I remember, back when I was on Myspace, forever ago, I thought creating a page where I was Jesus Christ would be brilliant. I was sure no one had ever thought of it and I was confident I was an ironic genius. However, as you can imagine, thousands of mentally retarded and just mildly dumb, but hopeful people already had the same idea. The difference between them and I, was they were just creatively crippled enough to follow through with it. I was a proud dum dum, so I pretended I never thought of it and instead became a rapper. I would be the first white, female mc to hit the big time... I didn’t know a lot about hip hop, or even appreciate it very much, but I did like words and music videos. Don’t worry guys, I also seriously checked into Scientology... also... did I say also? Do you know what “also” means? Maybe you should stop here, look it up and write three sentences using it, so you know it- then write down everything bad you’ve ever done. That will be $300, why are you looking at me like that- are you on medication?

Back to commenting on strangers photos, that would be great, especially if they were teenagers or something. I think there are a few members of my family I could do that to and have the same desired “awkward affect.” It was good to get this off my chest and maybe not even slightly amusing- mission accomplished.

Paris is still breathing and I miss America in the strange smell of a new home. I have made some friends here and have routines that help me feel grounded instead of isolated or helpless. There is a comfort in redundancy, unless it results in you getting stalked and raped because they know exactly what you’re going to do next and have known for many sweaty nights. I don’t think that French men technically rape, because they kiss you a bunch... you’re welcome. I sit outside at the same cafe almost everyday to write these inspired little peeks into a still safe-guarded vulnerability. My inauthentic ramblings and inane musings are made possible by perseverance and caffeine. Today, I was writing, when a man came to peak his grey topped head over the glass divider to interrupt my “work”. He began talking to me, asking me if I was American, before I even verbally responded. “I thought you were American...” I take off my glasses, because I am not a complete asshole, so I reject with eye contact and he then says “ah yes, your eyes, that’s what I wanted to see! Everyday I see you here, behind your computer and your sunglasses and I think ‘I need to see those eyes!’” I think to myself “you need to see a shrink,” but I don’t say this, because I know that it was meant as a compliment and he’s got that handsome “ old boat captain/ skipper” thing going, so it wasn’t terribly insulting. I am just not an American who came to Paris to be treated in some generic way that guys here must be used to hooking American women with... desperate women wanting to be touched. I am desperate for some touch, but also a stickler for originality. The last boy I loved kissed me for the first time as I was about to go poo poo in the port-o-potty under a bridge- I miss his kisses. He wants to have babies with me someday, but he also likes me better when I am a bit fatter because that means I am having lazy time- his favorite. Maybe babies can wait until I change him.

So, I am on Facebook and at the cafe everyday. I talk to my ex in some way several times a week, but I am free to sudo-date here, just don’t tell him. I explore options knowing full well, that everything wont go past platonic because I cannot date somebody who doesn’t respect me for my mind and sense of humor. As it stands my jokes are lost on most and I am not interested in men who approach me on the street with some slick-talking solicitation that exceeds trite. I may be a prude, but I know what I like and there is nothing wrong with having time to write a book or pluck all the hair from my pubic region instead of getting pounded several times a day/week by a man who loves you.

Twilight And Political Rapists

I am working on getting rid of a cold that I have had longer than I usually keep a cold. I have been sleeping a fair amount and haven’t been indulging in excessive sugar. However, I can’t seem to give up coffee for a day. I have decided that if my cold doesn’t show signs of improvement by tomorrow, I will just drink tea for the amount of time I need to get back to pristine health.

By giving up coffee I am missing out on opportunities in conversation, like the one I just had. I regularly patron the cafe a block away from my apartment called Latin St Germain. It is at the skirts of the Latin Quarter on Boulevard Saint Germain. A no nonsense name like that and it’s convenient distance from me is what has me coming here almost everyday. I am such a regular that I am on a first name basis with the comparatively conservative waitstaff. Comparatively, of course, to America, where being a regular in a cafe is more likely to get you an STD, than first-name recognition. Fareed, one of my two regular waiters here, feels so comfortable with me, he asked me where I’m from today, but in French of course, I responded in perfect French: “WHAT?!”
When I figured out what his question was, I smiled and said “Etats-Unis,” which is French for “United States”. This led into the subject of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is a politician favored to be the next president of France, but currently being held with out bail, in New York for the attempted rape of a housekeeper. My waiter began talking with me about it (it was obviously on his mind) and quickly stopped when I said “yes, I know it’s a large spectacle!” but in broken French. He must have known the futility of my simple mind, or he had a job to do and discussing rape with one of the establishment’s regular patrons wasn’t “prudent”. It’s only disappointing, because my limited French vocabulary was sure to lead to some fun hand gestures.

Next to America, France is down right medieval with respect for heads of state. I mean they show more reverence towards their politicians and their privacy. Politicians here can pretty much rape freely with little consequence, other than from their own conscience, which already seems a bit defective with all that rape it manages to allow. I heard a woman, here, upset that we put him in handcuffs, like a “criminal”. I should also reiterate that it was a woman who was upset that we snagged a fleeing dignitary who thought it proper to just have his way with the help- our help. I bet they also think “she was just a housekeeper,” but I don’t know. I may be too American/ too woman/ too “the help” to objectively report on something that offends me so much. However, what if he didn’t flee, do you think that they would have fallen in love, like Maid In Manhattan?

I like the idea for a movie that is like Twilight, but instead of Vampires they are all crazed rapists; Immortal rapists, and over the past century, they have disciplined themselves to show women respect by only raping animals. One day, a new girl comes to the Birmingham High School and sits down, right next to Johan Bullen: reformed-immortal-serial-rapist. Her appeal is the strongest he's ever encountered, making his dick so hard it tears through the desk. He has to flee the school and find an animal- any animal! An unlucky mutt lay dying along the road after being hit by a car. The dog is taking in it’s last breaths, thinking about the little girl he loved and is leaving behind when Johan runs up on it’s lifeless body. As Johan tries to expel the urge to rape that beautifully defiant, teenager he left in class, he fucks the remaining existence out of the dog. “Damn,” he says to himself, knowing there wasn’t enough fight to satiate his thirst. He ejaculates anyway and begins a new search with a flaccid, but promising penis. Later, he and the girl fall in love and he is always telling her how difficult it is not to rape the shit out of her and she gets butterflies.
I think this is a relatable script with a large demographic because who can't remember being a tormented 14 year old with an enormous crush on a boy at school? Okay, this is about me now, I had this crush. He even asked me to be his girlfriend once, but I never answered because my fear literally choked the agreement from binding us forever. I was slightly grunge, but mostly melodramatic, lamenting Cobain’s death and piercing myself outside of school. One day my crush and I were walking to school from the bus stop and I asked him if he would do me a favor and kill me. He told me “yes, but I would rape you first.” TIME STOOD STILL and I was in love with him for 2 years after that, until a “friend” of mine started sleeping with him when I went into residential treatment for "behavioral difficulty". She told me he had blackheads behind his ears, which completely expunged my affection for him. Still, I look back on the potential rape that would have changed my life and I wonder how hard an emaciated 14 year old could have fought the boy of her fancy... not too hard. Still, it was the sweetest thing a boy ever said to me until my last boyfriend looked at my stomach after sex and said “you actually have some abs under there.” My heart knows what it wants.

As I nurse myself back to health, thinking on my past, America’s past and France’s present, I contemplate a screen-play, about beastiality, that might finally restore respect for the film industry and put America and France back to the same amiability as the good ol’ slave days.

'Pollack'tics

I had a million great ideas today, two solid ones and I thought “I have to go write about that.” I didn’t write it down because they seemed more like status updates than full length blogs, but now there is nothing. I did think that wearing a lace body suit instead of panties is going to make peeing awfully obnoxious, luckily lace will dry. I also thought that if you were trying to get out of meeting up with friends at the last minute, you could say you peed all over your clothes accidently. Another awkward situation would be to ask on a third date “did I ever tell you about the time I pooped in the shower, last year?”

IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!

I have a very pretty friend, who is a boy and French, but NOT my boyfriend. He reads my blogs and asks me questions about what things mean. He also asked me who John Mayer was after watching one of my videos on the internet. At this point, he posted something from Youtube, on his wall and called it “very funny”. It had three guys, speaking French, at urinals... I didn’t catch what they were saying, but I did see that the joke was they were helping one another pee. I told him not to read my blogs anymore. Mainly because he is so pretty and I talk about pooping in the shower, but also because I talk about pooping in the shower. I was thinking about that while I was in the shower.

So, I had all these ideas and then I sneezed, now I am homeless. I gave a homeless fellow in Paris some money for an Evian at the register of a grocery store. He was confused about the price and of the difference he was short, but though confused, he was speaking French. After I helped him, he asked me where I was from and you know what... he’d been there, he’d been everywhere! He was an American, well-traveled, filthy, old and broke. I was with my French friend at the time and he said “that’s what happens, the Americans come here, spend all their money and end up homeless.” He also pointed to some white paint splattered on the cement and told me it was a “Pollack”. I think that there is a chance he might have been “pulling my leg”, but I didn’t ask, because it would take too long to explain what this expression means. Also, I have a lap top, there is no way I am going to be “homeless”, where would I plug in my electronics?!

I wasn’t far from homeless with that bit about pooping in the shower, though, was I? Pretty vagrant activity right there. I should do it again, call my gorgeous French friend over and tell him “look, it’s a ‘Pollack’! If it were a ‘Sydney Pollack’, it would be scat porn... isn’t that funny?” He would reply with “What is scat porn?” and we will never kiss or get married because of this blog.

Picnics, Is NOTHING Safe from Urine Here?!

Holy Paris, Picnic Man- no wonder there are only certain patches of grass people can sit on here... no one would rent apartments in the springtime, otherwise. Living in Paris for one month now, people who are not native speakers are very impressed with my ability to comprehend and speak French, whereas French people are continuously correcting me and disgusted by my proclivity to speak in my native tongue when given the choice. None of this matters at a picnic, because we all sound a little distorted with a mouth full of bread. I have been invited to more picnics than the number of weeks I have lived here, which is really only five. However, I am coming from a place where picnics are activities only dysfunctional couples participate in to keep the guise of a loving union in tact, so actually enjoying an awkward meeting of new people collectively eating off the ground surprises me. It doesn’t surprise me as much as the aforementioned collective’s willingness to urinate in front of small children, even if the parents are there. “Just go in the bushes down there,” was the advice nonchalantly given when I asked about the nearby toilet situation. I had to clarify several times because he was talking about the bushes within, not only view, but also earshot of a crowded playground. Where I come from, you could be considered a pedophile for having a full bladder and lack of etiquette in a situation like this. You could even be sentenced up to 4 days in prison, 2 weeks if you make a kid help you, then slapped him/ her. Makes sense, why one might- why are kids the only ones who get help wiping their own asses after a solid poo? What if at my job interviews to be a nanny, I said my ambitions were to get to a place in life where I could afford to hire a small child to wipe my ass for me, for a change [takes a swig off of flask and exhales cigar smoke though nose]. What if, indeed... like candy and attention is an expense that even most underpaid janitors can’t splurge on for a luxurious little foster child.

Money is a weird mark of success, especially at a picnic. I like the idea that I could go to a picnic with the aim of impressing strangers by bringing Euros instead of refreshments. Throwing down a twenty spot, I'll say with an air of importance “my assistant didn’t stop at the store for this picnic, I clearly don’t have time to shop for these things, but I have about an hour now, so here is for my share... and a little of yours. Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty.” I look around and nibble on some things with a disinterested investment in the ensuing conversation, but when the talking points out mustard on my chin, I immediately reach for the twenty I dropped and use it to wipe off my face. I quickly realize what I’ve done, so I apologize, explaining that “these are like paper towels in my house.” The facade would be fun, but couldn’t hold water, mainly because I wear way too much cotton to show that much pretension with any conviction in this city.

I met some great people at the picnic and I am glad I went. There was a fellow who insisted I look at 87 of his science fiction drawings, which was “fun” and I think meant to “impress”, but the best part of the interchange was when I sat down after peeing and he asked me in broken english “do you like rock and roll?” I laughed a hearty three “ha’s” before quickly asking him if he liked “Chuck Norris”, this got quite a positive response from my soon to be new friends. I asked him why he would ask me that and he explained because of my boots, tattoos and piercings, I told him if I were rock and roll, I would have pissed on those kids.

The Only Fabrication Should Be The Fashion

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.

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.

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!