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.

New Coffee Shop, New Ways To Alienate Myself

I have found a new coffee shop. I have been here before, but now I am really here. It’s the only place in Paris to get a decent latte and that makes me happy to return. Also, there are a lot of attractive, english baristas. I am about 4 lattes away from meeting my soul mate and his name is going to be easy to pronounce (on my list).

After being stalked by some old French guy at my regular cafe, I decided it was time to switch it up. So, I didn’t write very much last week- what a shift! It wasn’t just that guy, the service started getting real slow with me, taking me for granted. I yelled that they were acting just like my LAST boyfriend. So, here I am, a new cafe that takes an hour to walk to, but has a patronage I wouldn’t mind stalking me and... good coffee/ comfy chairs. I met a young man today, from America. The barista mixed up our lattes and accidentally gave me his soy latte, but that started dialogue because I recognized him from yesterday, when another latte mishap occurred. It seemed he forgot all about it, but I didn’t and I reminded him of every detail, making me look like a very lonely woman. I don’t think he was mad at the service, but he is a young 23, so he probably doesn’t know when to get pissed off, like I do. Anyway, a new Facebook friend later, I am writing about knowing how to talk too much to strangers. The biggest part of growing up, is learning how to talk to strangers. I have to remind that little girl inside of me that it’s safe now, so lift up your shirt when you eat too much sugar- we’re in this together.

Before I could write a pivotal story, like the one I am writing now, I had to write a French comedian and apologize. I was referred to him by an American comedian, so I sent a friend request with a brief introduction. His profile picture was a thumbnail of a poster with him on the front, wearing a jester hat and a confident posture “yeah, I am comfy in this hat and maybe even a little tough, come see my show”. Comedians often times use show posters as profile pics, in America it’s like saying “I’m not here for validation- I’m an artist”. The French comedian wrote back with a sentence asking how I was. I was happy to hear back because I am eager to get on stage and thought he might be able to direct me to some open mics or something. I asked him about stage time here, assuming that there has to be something, but I don’t even know if they call it “stage time”, they might call it “a shower” or “muffin tray”. The next day (that’s today for all you history buffs), I am taking the metro to my new favorite coffee shop to cut out the hour long walk and hope that the new found 45 minutes will prove useful to the creative process. That’s when I see a large billboard in the metro station with this guy’s profile picture on it. So, the one connection I had, I may have completely alienated by asking about open mics. I should have asked him if he knew any solid street corners I could pan-handle at, I mean, we’re both artists, right?

At least I am going to a party tonight. The Facebook invite said 193 people are attending and 136 people are maybe attending. I am definitely in for a meaningful time. However 311 are not attending and the event is waiting for a reply from 2,046 people, so it’s possible that the music will be stupid and only lonely people will be there. What if I am spotted at the lamest party of the season, will people recognize me and refuse to be my friend in the future. It could be one of those parties where everybody looks at one another like the other is stupid for being there. What if that comedian is there and recognizes me and doesn’t like what I am wearing, but he’s wearing that fucking hat. I hope I pack a cool enough lunch and meet my soul mate or a chair. I love sitting down sometimes, especially with a good lunch.