Osamabama Ding Dong

I woke up and went to work this morning. I was greeted with the news that Osama Bin Laden had been killed. My French employer was very excited, sitting in front of the TV telling me “Osama Bin Laden is dead!” I replied that he “probably died of old age,” which confused my boss, but through the haze he managed to explain to me “no, he was killed. Obama killed him.” Oh, gotcha. I watched the news with him for a few minutes, long enough to hear some old white guy talking to Wolf Blitzen about the future. He proudly recited “We’re going to hear a lot about ‘Obama got Osama’...” I wished, at that moment, someone American and comedically inclined were sitting with me to riff on that televised moment. There was no one in the room I could talk to; to laugh with. That man felt like he was the first person to say something that was, undoubtedly, going to be sweeping the country- a colloquial sensation all the kids will be slang-talking about. So good, in fact, the Bush administration had their opportunity to get Osama themselves, but after Palin was announced as the vice-presidential candidate, they let him go, knowing Obama would win. What were potential lives lost with the possibility of that phonetic gem looming in the distance.

On top of this, I read that it is extra dangerous for Americans living abroad right now. I haven’t been so excited to die since I bought a discounted airline ticket for September 11th. How great a death, to die a martyr to a country I abandoned 49 days ago. I would try to do something heroic before I went, like save something... a person or some plaster on the inside of a building... “nooo!” I would yell, throwing myself in front a stray bullet about to hit the wall. A French officer would gently pick up my dying body “why did you do that?” He would ask and in perfect French, I would answer “the plaster was laid in 1972, it’s older than me and I respect the history.” After that, my life would leave me and France would hold a renewed reverence for the Americans. Individuals would be free to travel with unearned respect for about 9 months before they ruined their reputation by insisting the portions are “muchos peetit” and that the "gare-son" was being “treyz woode”. However, I would die a legend, like Roosevelt coming to the aide of France during WWII, I would also be remarkable.

This couldn’t happen at a better time, because I am ready to get situated to living here. I am joining a gym and signed up for internet. If I die a legend now, someone else will finish my book and I will be posthumously famous, everyone I had loved would only recall me being an amazingly brave person with so much potential. What a waste and it wouldn’t even be my fault. It would be no one’s fault and I would never be judged negatively again. I like the idea that I could be this lazy, while I simultaneously hate the idea because it is the fantasy that keeps me from writing or working on something inspired. At least Obama got Osama- AMIRIGHT rich white guy on Wolf Blitzen?!

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?!