An American Mom in Paris

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2011-12-05T16:27:00.000+01:00

I am once again an American Mom in America.

The flight home went surprisingly well for the first eight hours. The remaining two hours were substantially less successful with the last hour being one of the longest of my life. Coco no longer wanted to be on an airplane. She yelled in my ear but that's not the worst of it -- she also refused to return to her seat, close her tray table, or stow her electronic devices.

As I wrestled her into her seat and buckled her in, I thought, man, where's a goddamn air marshall when you need one? I could have used some help with an unruly passenger.

Even with Coco clawing at my face, my spirits lifted when we crossed the Canadian Rockies --

We were getting close and I knew what I was about to see. And sure enough, there it was on the horizon, right where I left it three years ago --

Hell yes, Mount Rainier

When I saw Mount Rainier, tears streamed down my face, though whether they were for love of that damn volcano or the debilitating pain of Coco's scratchy fingernails on my sensitive face skin, I really can't say.

We're temporarily living in an apartment in downtown Seattle. It's not as charming as our Paris apartment but it's bigger and warmer and has a full-on view of the Space Needle. The Space Needle is not as pleasing to the eye as the Eiffel Tower, and in fact looks to be something left behind by aliens after a halfhearted space mission, but I've still been staring at it a lot and grinning like a fool.

my ugly-ass beloved symbol of home

The kids have been awake every morning at a really stupid hour because jetlag is a bitch. The first morning found all four of us piled in our bed, looking at the Space Needle and eating Nacho Cheese Doritos at 3:00 a.m. The early hour sucked but I really love Nacho Cheese Doritos, so all in all a pretty good morning.

Life back home so far is strange, surreal, bizarre. It's like someone walked into my home and moved everything twelve inches to the left. When I come back in, I recognize it all, I can find it all, yet somehow something's off and I'm standing unsure in the middle of the room thinking "OK...who's f*ckin' with me?"

I've found the overbearing friendliness of people a huge relief, but jarring nonetheless. Their smiles are so big in front of my face, I have to fight the urge to give them a karate chop to the throat. Stop trying to help me, goddammit! I am an island!

I've gotten lost several times in a city I used to know like the back of my hand. I'm now terrified of driving and am hunched over the steering wheel like a little old lady with sweaty palms and a racing heart whispering "ohmygodohmygodohmygod." Related, I've discovered my two kids are afraid of riding in cars, especially when going up and down steep hills, of which there are many in Seattle. They both scream at the top of their lungs and Lucien yells, "IS THIS HILL ALMOST DONE, MOMMY?" It makes errand-running super exciting but is not helping my driving nerves any.

Oh. My. God. What. The. Hell.

Our first grocery shopping trip Stateside took hours as we walked every single aisle, delighting in items we'd completely forgotten about. Pirate's Booty! Craisins! Dryer sheets! I became hypnotized in the cereal aisle and wasted a good twenty minutes deciding between Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Honey Bunches of Oats. We bought a lot of bacon, too, because my God we missed bacon.

Worlds colliding -- Paris coat meets case of Northwest microbrew

I kicked our washing machine today when it stopped after fifteen minutes. We thought it was broken until we remembered that's how long it takes to do a load of laundry here, as opposed to our two-hour machine in Paris. My God, I can do more than two loads a day? Oh, the wondrous laundry possibilities!

In other news, I went to an "authentic French bakery" near our apartment where I promptly spit my almond croissant onto the sidewalk outside. So, so bad. That one's gonna hurt.

I've returned to Seattle a different person, as it should be, but thankfully my heart still sings in these streets. Paris is beautiful, but Seattle is cool. Paris looks perfect, Seattle rough around the edges. Paris is fantastic and exciting and I love her forever but Seattle is home.

There's so much to say about these first few days but the Paris blog is not the place -- so come see me at my new Seattle blog or suffer the dire consequences! I'm calling it "Seattle Moxie" because I've realized the greatest gift Paris gave me was a whole lot of moxie and a whole lot of fearlessness. I don't ever want to lose it. If I do, someone kick me in the teeth.

Come on over, posse -- Seattle's waiting for YOU. www.seattlemoxie.blogspot.com. I haven't actually posted there yet but have great confidence I'm going to get around to it any day now.

We're home, Seattleites, so keep an eye out for us. Shouldn't be too hard to spot -- we're the car full of screaming people on the hills of downtown.
MJ

Paris was never forever

2011-11-29T18:12:00.000+01:00

This one's gonna hurt, posse. It is time.

People keep asking us if we're happy to leave Paris. The answer is no, we're not happy to leave Paris -- in fact, we're quite devastated about it -- but at the same time we're ready to leave Paris. Paris could never be forever for us; it takes too much energy, mental and physical, to live here, and we are quite sloth-like by nature.

But we're going to miss it. My God, we're going to miss it.

This is where we lived. 42 rue Dauphine.

photo by Chloe Lodge

Someday there will be a plaque next to this front door telling awestruck tourists I lived there.

Or maybe not.

This was Lucien's school

This was "my" cafe on rue de Buci. Cafe de Paris.

This was the supermarket from hell on rue de Seine

If you come to Paris and happen by these places, blow them a kiss for me. Even the grocery store. I've come to peace with that place -- it helped my skin thicken like no other and that is truly a gift.

photo by Chloe Lodge

Photo by Chloe Lodge

goddamn tiny elevator

photo by Chloe Lodge

Thank you, posse. Thank you for sticking with me through three years of making a jerk of myself and being sick and getting yelled at and learning French and traveling and seeing penises and having unanticipated babies named Coco and struggling through the French system with a loud kid named Lucien. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your support; there were many days it made all the difference between laughing and crying.

photo by Chloe Lodge

I'm going to post here again when we get back to Seattle, just to let you know I am once again an American mom in America. I'm also going to start a new blog in Seattle but I imagine since many of you were here for stories of Paris, I'm going to lose most of you. To those who are moving on to the other bazillion Paris bloggers, thank you for sharing the ride. You made it so much more fun. To those who are coming with me, prepare yourselves. I am going to make fun of Americans and spy on my supermodel neighbor. If we ever get the goddamn house, that is.

I'll start the Seattle blog as soon as I find my way out of Costco. I hear it's big and scary!

photo by Chloe Lodge

So there it is. Three years gone. Holy motherf*ckin' balls (one final swear, for old time's sake).

Merci, Paris. And thank you, thank you, thank you, posse.

how perfect is it she's screaming her head off for the heart-wrenching goodbye bow?

I was An American Mom in Paris and it changed everything.
Au revoir, mes choux...
Mindy

My feelings in pictures

2011-11-29T15:15:00.000+01:00

The inevitable list

2011-11-18T22:11:00.000+01:00

The first picture I took, taken the day we arrived. January 1, 2009

I'm going to miss the little things about Paris:

Hearing French all around me all the time.
Being able to understand a slightly higher percentage of that French than when I first arrived.
Elderly men in old suits riding bikes with baguettes in the front basket.
Tourists dragging their flat-tired Velibs to Velib stations with mangled baguettes in the front baskets.

Look how little he is. Look how Seattle I am. January 2009

Adults who ride scooters to work -- the foot-powered kind.
The adult man who rides a Segway through Saint Germain and doesn't give a sh*t everyone thinks he's an idiot.
The early morning smell of baking bread in our apartment, compliments of the boulangerie below.
The early, early morning sound of the garbage trucks -- every morning -- that always let me know it will be an acceptable time to wake up in two more hours.

June 2009

The beauty of French men -- thin, perfectly tailored suit, floppy hair, scarf.
The way those beautiful French men act as my mirror. French men will flirt with anything. So if they look at me like they want to devour me, I know I look semi-OK. If they pay me no attention at all, I know I look like a hideous beast and should return home and hide in the closet for the remainder of the day. It's a good thing I've never looked really, really good or else they would probably rip off their clothes and chase me down the street howling like wolves.

October 2009

Feeling safe, even when walking home alone late at night.
Never having to choose between drinking or driving because duh, no car, let's drink like motherf*ckers.
The "Europe smell," that smell that's in the air as soon as you walk outside. Tough to describe but kind of smells like history. (Seattle smells like teen spirit HA HA totally awesome Nirvana joke)
S.O.S. Medecins. I don't know what people do when their kids get sick late at night back in the U.S. but I bet I'm not gonna like it.

January 2010

The maitre d' who wears black pointy-toed shoes with hot pink laces.
That same maitre d' who suggested I take off my shirt when I spilled wine on it and then I almost did it because FRENCH MEN, PEOPLE, FRENCH MEN.

June 2010 God help us all

Narrow streets full of strolling people holding hands.
The freedom to push those stupid strolling people to the ground if they're in my way and I'm in a hurry.

September 2010

Jazz bands playing on the street for no darn good reason.
Beautiful French men peeing on buildings in broad daylight for no darn good reason because hello, there's a cafe right there stupid.

December 2010

Men wearing brightly colored pants. (Today I saw one in yellow and one in brick red.)
Me wearing brightly colored pants with zero self-consciousness. (Today I wore green.)

March 2011

The people in our neighborhood who say "bonjour"every day, like boutique man downstairs and the hairdresser up the street, who both think the sun rises and sets on Coco.
The people who say "bonjour" when I walk into the grocery store -- and by "saying bonjour," I mean scowling and glaring at me with contempt. They don't give a sh*t where the sun rises and sets.

July 2011

Sitting at "my" cafe early in the morning and watching all the cafe workers on the street setting up shop, calling out to each other and waving.

August 2011

Waking up and thinking, "Holy sh*t I live in Paris."
Waking up the next day and thinking, "Holy sh*t I live in Paris."

October 2011

OK, looking at all those pictures just about did me in. Jesus Christ, who else needs a motherf*ckin' drink around here? Sorry about the language, Mom, but I'm VERY UNSTABLE RIGHT NOW.

Feelings are a real bitch,
MJ

I'm what would happen if Seattle and Paris had a baby

2011-11-15T20:18:00.005+01:00

Friends bought us that Seattle magnet over to the left years ago. When we came to Paris, I made sure the magnet came, too, and found a prominent place on our teeny-tiny refrigerator. I wanted to make sure we stayed in touch with our Seattle grittiness.

I don't know if it worked. Is it "gritty" to wear skinny jeans and tie a scarf around your neck that's so large it looks like you're being choked to death by a boa constrictor?

(And yes, the Pierre Herme macaron flavors card will be coming back to Seattle and will find a prominent place on our huge American refrigerator. We won't want to lose touch with our Paris fanciness.)

Alex is in Seattle and enjoying himself when he's not being intimidated by his new super hard job. He had dinner at our friends' house, the friends next to the goddamn house we're trying to buy, where he met some of the neighbors. They tried to Skype with me as a group but they were too inebriated and yelling too loudly for me to help them figure it out.

Horny Brit told Alex he needed to get the video thing working so he could see if I was attractive or not, which would determine whether or not he was willing to have an affair with me. Then I think they all wandered off and fell asleep which is probably a good thing.

It's great he's having a good time but in my opinion Alex being in Seattle really sucks. When left by myself during a stressful and emotionally turbulent time, my brain don't work too good. Stuff like this keeps happening --

they all look the same after awhile

You can hardly blame me for the vagueness. It runs rampant in Paris. Just look at "some kid's" birthday invitation, especially the directions on how to find their apartment once inside the building --

There are no apartment numbers in Paris for reasons I'll never understand, so you must give visitors turn-by-turn directions from the front door. Sometimes the directions are so convoluted you know you're never going to make it so you just pick any door and make a new friend!

(For those who don't speak the Frenchie talk, the above roughly translates to "you're never gonna find the party so leave the present in the courtyard.")

Alex and I had a meeting over the phone to discuss all "action items" still needing to be addressed for the move. There are a billion. It's overwhelming so I took copious notes --

At one point, Alex said, "OK, read me that list, let's see where we are," and I replied, "OK...umm... Sh*t F*ck Balls." There was a long silence on the other end of the line. I think Alex was taking a quiet moment to appreciate my sense of humor.

We've been notified of our temporary address in Seattle. For two months we'll be living in temporary executive housing downtown while we continue humping legs for the keys to the goddamn house. It's pretty cool we get to live downtown but it also sucks we're not going to have a yard for yet another two months. At least our temporary apartment complex has a pool and fitness room so the kids and I can get ripped while waiting to play outside.

Our cleaning lady cried today. Next week will be the last week we need her and she's not handling it well. She met us way back when, back when I was newly pregnant. She met Coco a few days after she was born and has been her faithful companion ever since. They're peas and carrots. I told her I'd always send her pictures of the kids and keep her updated on what they were doing and she started crying. It was awful.

I can't believe how much we're going to miss her, but there it is. She's a wonderful woman and has helped me immeasurably -- cleaning-wise, language-wise, and mental health-wise. If you live in Paris and are looking for some help, let me know. We want her to go to a good family who will give her lots of love and attention and scratches behind the ears (sorry, brain crapped out on me again there).

Thank God I bought those gritty sequined ballet flats and that gritty red houndstooth coat with three-quarter sleeves OH MY GOD THEY'RE GONNA LAUGH ME RIGHT OUT OF SEATTLE,
MJ

Greedy Hamster

2011-11-11T21:46:00.000+01:00

I'm antsy. I have no idea what to do with myself. I guess I'll just sit around and fret, freak out, and flail. The calendar is filling with goodbye dates but I have little hope that adding immense sadness to the mix is going to make the final countdown time more bearable.

We had a goodbye dinner with Newcastle Guy and Quebec Hottie before Alex left for Seattle. It was a goodbye dinner but also a celebratory dinner because those two crazy kids recently ran off and got married. I wanted to post a picture of them on the blog but they wished to remain anonymous so we compromised --

Most. Terrifying. Dinner. Ever.

When the server learned of our two momentous occasions, she brought us some complimentary drinks. They were some kind of sweet aperitif. They confused us and had no business being in the middle of our meal but it was nice of her to bring them so we drank them.

She was Scottish and seemed to like us quite a lot. That changed suddenly when she walked up to the table and overheard Alex describing a man at his gym who wore a white spandex bodysuit while doing downward dog in the middle of the weight-lifting room and who wore his "little helper" pointing straight up. There was some sputtering between Alex and Newcastle Guy and some incredulous exclamations of "Who the hell wears it pointing UP?"

After that, Scottish server pretended we didn't exist. We couldn't have gotten Scottish server to pay attention to us even if Alex and Newcastle Guy put on spandex and did downward dog in the middle of the restaurant. (Let's not picture the "little helper" part.)

I am aware there's been a lot of penis talk on the blog of late. Sorry about that or you're welcome, depending on whether or not you're a penis enthusiast.

Here's something special. I found this at one of those cheesy shops that sell Paris souvenirs. It's become my most prized possession. I'm going to take it home in my carry-on to make sure I don't lose it.

I always suspected the "altruistic hamster" thing was an act

OK, I know most of you don't care about my future Seattle life but it's time to reveal something that's been weighing me down, causing me anxious, sleepless nights, making me pull my hair out and scream like a lady who's just lost her Greedy Hamster sign --

This goddamn piece of sh*t stupid ass house

Alex and I have been trying to buy this "old" (1903 -- HA HA! Our Paris apartment is from 1670, motherf*cker!) house for almost eight months. When we first started the process, it seemed like plenty of time to get it squared away before we returned home. But that was FALSE.

how you doin', Earl...

The house is a short sale, which means we're trying to swoop in and buy it before it becomes a foreclosure. Those of you familiar with the short sale process (nothing short about it) have probably just emitted a blood-curdling scream and fainted. It's a nightmare.

GAH! OMG! WTF is that, house?

We could just return to the house we already have, the one we spent years fixing up and have dreamt about since walking into our teeny tiny Parisian apartment three years ago. But the more we thought about going back to our old life in our old house, waking up that first morning in our old bedroom and mowing our old lawn, the more depressed we became. It didn't feel like it fit anymore. We needed something new, something to be excited about --

-- like these discarded cushions found in a closet

When we heard about this house, we jumped. "Yes!" we exclaimed. "What we need is a smaller house with fewer bathrooms that's covered in graffiti, full of garbage, and needs a shit ton of work!"

But wait. It's also three doors down from some of our favorite friends, in fact one of whom was just here visiting me. (Her husband was wearing a koala backpack when I first met him.) Across the street from the house are more friends. About seven or eight doors down there are some more. Our friends have started a commune on this street and we want in. (Can anyone say "sexy key party?" whoot whoot!)

If you're still not sold -- the next door neighbor is a male supermodel and I bet he mows the lawn with his shirt off.

Oh yes, there will be life after Paris --

This is not him. I will never reveal his identity because he deserves his privacy, a fact I will ignore when I'm leaning out an upstairs window with a pair of binoculars aimed squarely at his shower. Jesus Lord I need help.

Our real estate agent has put her whole life on hold to help us get this house. If you need a kickass real estate agent in Seattle, I'll give you her info but she may not be able to help you right away; she will be busy sawing at the chain I've used to attach myself to the house and telling me to calm the eff down because I'm screaming, "It's MINE, it's MINE, give the greedy hamster her house!"

come to mama, beautiful

In a recent conversation with my parents, my father said, "You guys sure don't do anything the easy way." I'm proud to say we don't even try; it just comes naturally.

We need this beautiful, sh*tty house. Our whole lives depend on it. Commence with the crossing of the fingers.

Ugh,
MJ

All by myself

2011-11-07T19:13:00.000+01:00

Alex left this morning for Seattle to start his new job. He'll be there for almost two weeks. I have been left behind to "organize" for the move and I think I'm doing a very good job -- the apartment is now dotted with lots of important piles. To anyone else, our apartment looks like it's been ransacked by a herd of angry rhinoceros pillagers. But to me -- meh, that's pretty much what it looks like to me, too.

The pile I'm most proud of is my pile of batteries. I call it the "WTF am I gonna do with all these goddamn batteries" pile. My second favorite pile is the "miscellaneous pieces of paper" pile. My organizational skills know no limits!

We have received the bad news that Alex's employer will not ship alcohol in our official air and sea shipment containers. Devastation -- the wine can't come with us. We now must drink several cases of wine purchased in the Loire Valley in the next several weeks. If you're in town, come on over. Arrive thirsty.

In other news, Lucien's teacher called us in for a meeting recently. Allow me to illustrate --

La Maîtresse first requested a meeting with us at the beginning of October. She made it very clear both Alex and I were to attend this meeting, that she needed to address us both. She wouldn't give us a clue as to what the meeting was about. This made us feel very nervous --

Alex's work schedule, the teacher's work schedule, and my doing nothing schedule made it difficult to find a time to meet. But every time we saw La Maîtresse, she reminded us of "the meeting" and pressed how important it was we find a time --

When we left for Croatia, "the meeting" was still hanging over our heads. The more we pondered the reason, the more frazzled we got --

After vacation, we finally agreed on a time. Alex and I hugged a lot the day of the meeting. We reassured each other they weren't allowed to physically hurt us, and no matter what Lucien had done to necessitate this meeting, we would be gone soon and wouldn't have to face the anger too much longer --

...and suddenly Alex had Javier Bardem hair...

La Maîtresse is a stern, serious woman. Remember her? --

She sat us down and started her talk. She began by telling us she'd heard about Lucien from other teachers before he was assigned to her class. She'd heard he had a hard time sitting still, that he was loud, that he played too rough, that he delighted in breaking the rules. She'd heard all these things and more before he even stepped into her classroom.

Alex and I steeled ourselves for the worst. We saw where the conversation was going and it was nowhere good.

But then La Maîtresse said this --

"I've had Lucien in my class for several months now and I honestly have no idea what those other people are talking about."

CAN I GET A "HELL YEAH!" UP IN HERE??? IT'S TIME TO CELEBRATE PEOPLE COME ON OVER!! (Seriously, we have a ton of wine.)

La Maîtresse continued. She said Lucien is well-behaved in class. He listens to her. He does all his work and does it well. He's gotten into trouble here and there, sure, but nothing major. She wanted to meet with us because she wanted us to know that while we may have gotten some bad reports about Lucien in the past, she has nothing but good things to say about him. She thinks he's a great kid, a funny kid, a sweet kid, and she will miss him when we leave.

It was about that time Alex blurted out incredulously, "Are we still talking about Lucien???"

You done good, kid

It's not that we don't know Lucien is a good, sweet, funny kid -- we know it better than anybody. We just haven't gotten many French education officials to agree with us. But then suddenly there she was -- the teacher we thought was the meanest and the most horrible, cheering for our boy all along. (We suspect Lucien behaves in her class because she scares the sh*t out of him, but no matter -- at least we know he can do it.)

We gave Lucien big hugs and told him how proud we were of him. His smile took up his entire face. We headed out of the school with our arms all wrapped around each other because we were all so proud and happy.

But then, suddenly, "Buzzkill Man" stepped out of the shadows, stood directly in front of us and started gesturing wildly --

Buzzkill Man monitors the kids in the lunchroom and on the playground. He wanted us to know Lucien is horrible, always doing de betise and never listening to him or following the rules. Buzzkill Man glared and waved his arms and really seemed to feel quite strongly about the whole thing.

For a minute, we felt like this --

Then Alex and I looked at each other, nodded, thanked Buzzkill Man for letting us know, and walked past him. He was not going to ruin the moment for us; he was especially not going to ruin the moment for Lucien. Then we went to get ice cream even though it's November.

One step at a time, family, one step at a time....

OK, I'm outta here. I have to go figure out what to do with my goddamn batteries, plus those five cases of wine aren't going to drink themselves.
MJ

Croatian Men in Boats

2011-11-03T15:19:00.000+01:00

With our mental states quickly deteriorating in Paris, I'm going back to my happy place and posting Croatia Part Two. Part One was a real hoot; you should go back and read it if you have a few hours.

Al and I spent some downtime at a resort on the Lapad Peninsula where we hoped to sit in a sauna for days, preferably until bright pink and near death. The resort beach was nice except a Russian woman insisted on being topless all the time. She wasn't just topless at the beach; she was also often topless at the beach bar. An American man gawking at the topless Russian woman ran into me and made me spill my mojito. I was angry at the man because the lady's boobs were not that impressive but my mojito had really been something special.

The water was too cold for me but Alex is from Quebec, and therefore part polar bear, so he jumped right in and paddled around happily --

We were sitting at the buffet breakfast one morning when our attention was drawn to the music playing in the dining room. It was a song in English. The lyrics went like this --

"I've noticed you around.

I find you very attractive.

Would you go to bed with me?"

The same lyric repeated over and over. Alex and I put napkins over our faces to conceal our shaking and laughing. Why did we think shaking and laughing with napkins over our faces would be less conspicuous than shaking and laughing without napkins over our faces? I don't understand our reasoning sometimes.

I don't think anyone else in the dining room spoke English because no one else stopped eating their scrambled eggs long enough to even raise an eyebrow. It's a shame they didn't realize how sexy their breakfast was.

Our final day in Croatia was spent in a small resort town called Cavtat, just south of Dubrovnik. We stayed at a hotel near the airport run by the happiest man alive. He smiled and laughed so much it was unnerving. When he offered us a complimentary ride into town with the BIGGEST SMILE EVER, Alex leaned over and whispered, "He's going to kill us."

But no, we live! He's just a really happy guy. After he drove us to downtown Cavtat, he walked us around a bit. It was obvious he was very proud of his town. He kept gesturing at all the yachts and sailboats and good-looking people and saying, "It's Croatia Monaco! Croatia Monaco!"

Life is good in Croatia Monaco

Can anyone tell me what kind of flower this is? We called them "Croatia Flowers" because the creativity is strong in us --

(In related news, I'm not the only non-flower person in our family. Alex and Coco stopped to buy flowers after a recent grocery run. The flower lady gushed over Coco and handed her a very pretty little rose. Coco looked at it for a second then took a huge bite out of it. Coco don't know flowers.)

Back to Croatia -- the interesting part, finally.

We wandered along the water after lunch and met.... him --

We walked into this small cliffside bar looking for a bathroom. There wasn't a bathroom but the guy running the bar was so funny, we stuck around for a beer --

I told Barman I liked his bar but I wanted a bathroom. Barman told me girls climb the hill behind the bar, that there was a "Girls Bathroom" up there and I would "know it when I saw it." He and Al cheered me on as I climbed the hill. Then Barman yelled, "HEY, you forgot something" and fired a roll of toilet paper at my face.

I won't tell you what I saw in the "Girls Bathroom" but let's just say it was obvious not just girls had been up there. Keep it sexy, Croatia.

Over the next several hours, we were sucked into Barman's world. Al and I are still trying to wrap our minds around the debauchery and lawlessness we took part in while spending the day with Barman and his friends. Even now, weeks later, one of us will occasionally stare into space and say, "What the f*ck was that..."

I don't have pictures of nudity because this is a family-friendly blog (false), but perhaps it won't be too hard to imagine. Barman's friends appeared in a boat below the bar and yelled at him to throw down a few beers. He did. I laughed at the boys diving after the beers and told Barman I wanted to take pictures of them. Barman yelled to his friends, "Hey, this American wants to take pictures of you." They seemed to like that idea very much.

Alex: "Jesus, woman, put down the camera already."

Me: "In a minute, in a minute..."

Everything was great and we were having some laughs when suddenly penises appeared and started waving all over the place. I stopped taking pictures at that point and started laughing very hard with my head down on the table. I know, I know -- it was the wrong decision, but I was taken by surprise by all the penises.

Barman left the bar soon thereafter to join his friends --

Before he dove headfirst into shallow water, he posted this sign on the beer fridge, normal operating procedure for him when his friends pull up in a boat under the bar --

"Back in 10 minutes. Went swimming. Help yourself."

Everyone just calm down and keep your drawers on

After several hours of strange things, Alex and I looked at each other and said at the exact same time, "It's time to go." Things were spiraling out of control at the bar and we were suddenly weirded out by a few of Barman's friends who had gone silent and were just staring at us.

There were loud protests as we gathered our stuff and fled, which only made us flee faster. It was a fun group and a helluva time but it's not quite our scene anymore. Alex and I are old farts with kids -- and those guys are young and wild and quite possibly plotting to kill us.

Barman, thank you for a very memorable day

All right. Back to the move. I still have internet thanks to Newcastle Guy, and the person I spoke to today who's scheduling our pre-move survey was competent and friendly and had a voice like butter.

We're gonna make it through this, everybody!

Friends are important because who else is going to smack your ass?

2011-11-01T17:46:00.000+01:00

The violence in me is still strong. There is very little that's going right in Paris. We are idiot magnets of late; everyone involved in our move has the competence level of a zygote.

The good news is it's making it emotionally easier for us to leave. "Get us the hell out of here" has been uttered more than once. The bad news is we're leaving this experience, these life-changing three years, on a very sour note.

Ahh.. but that's life in Paris, people. It's a magical place until you need to get something done. The more important that something is, the less likely it's going to go smoothly. All you can do is bang your head against a beautiful Hausmann-era building and drink a shit ton of wine.

Let's ignore the insanity for a moment. Let's focus on the fact I was just visited by some of the best people in the world. And let's do it quickly before I'm internet-less again.

My Two Seattle Ladies...

.. and Chicago O

The Friends' visits served two purposes for me. Most importantly, it reminded me that life is really good in Seattle. I will not want for laughter nor mayhem when I'm back home. Secondly, the visits helped me say goodbye to Paris. I made the rounds of the tourist sites, the places that made my heart leap on even my darkest days, one last time. It was sad but I was too busy being inappropriate or getting my ass smacked by a friend to really notice.

It's not sad to say goodbye to Montmartre when you're busy grabbing a statue's boobs.

I'm glad I made the rounds before everything went to hell. In my current state of mind, I would just yell and make obscene gestures at everything -- "Screw you, Notre Dame! A big EFF YOU to you, too, Sacre Coeur!" I would be a crappy tour guide for wide-eyed, frightened friends.

The Seattle Ladies were supposed to go to bed early their first day for jetlag reasons but that plan didn't work out so well -- we accidentally got drunk as skunks at our place and stayed up 'til the wee hours of the morning.

Unfortunately for Al and Thor (Al's personal trainer), they had a training appointment in the apartment that night. They got heckled mercilessly. We demanded to see their pecks a few hundred times but it was all slurred like "cominshowuzzzyerpex." Seattle Ladies are sexy like that, you see.

Thor and Al were frightened so they went into the other room and closed the door. I think they were hiding, or at least trying to keep a low profile lest we realized they were still in the vicinity. When they had no choice but to open the door to fit the chin-up bar in the doorframe, they both looked like they would rather die than face the three of us, who had only consumed more wine while they were hiding and were thus even more dangerous.

As Al performed his chin-ups, we hooted like horny old ladies at Chippendales and "helped" Thor keep the count -- in several languages, no less, some we even made up! We messed up the count and confused everybody and made Al do more chin-ups than he wanted to do. He did billions!

The photos we took that night will never see the light of day because they are serious blackmail material. Oh. My. God.

Then, as tends to happen when too much drink is involved, we broke down sobbing and did a few rounds of "I love you, woman." Thor left quietly in the middle of the crying and hugging.

In related and not surprising news, I will never, ever face Thor again. Alex swears Thor thought it was funny and was "happy to see MJ having so much fun with her friends" but I don't believe it. We were absolutely terrifying, he was lucky to escape with his life, and we all know it.

Don't they look innocent from the back?

That first night resurfaced every time we scrolled through someone's camera. Blonde Seattle Mom would say "OK, let's see ... here's Notre Dame... here's the Luxembourg at sunset... here's Saint Sulpice... here's some ass-smacking... here's some boob-grabbing.... here's something that's illegal in several states... and here's Diderot."

Sure, it was Diderot with a traffic cone on his head but he's still not nearly as fun as the pictures he lives next to in Blonde Seattle Mom's camera.

Moving on. Guess what this is --

Give up? This is only a tiny portion of the tourists you'll find in front of the Eiffel Tower taking "unique" pictures pretending to hold it up, hug it, hump it, whatever. Don't overlook the guy planking on the other side of the street. He wins.

I spilled some wine on my shirt at our favorite neighborhood restaurant one night. As the waitress blotted it, the maître d’ grabbed me by the arm, winked and said, "It eez OK. She come in zee back wiz me and we tek it off!"

If a maître d’ said something like that in the States, it would be creepy. He'd lose his job, be hit with a lawsuit and be shot in the face all within five seconds. But in Paris -- charming, funny, and delightful! Can someone explain that to me? I'm at a loss.

Seattle Mom on her Velib. A natural.

My blogger friend extraordinaire, Karin, acted as nanny to my two kids so I could have maximum time with my visitors. Karin wins many awards. She came armed with dinosaur print-outs, projects, and a steely courage. Hugs, Alien Parisienne, you are most excellent.

I was exhausted and not at the top of my beauty when the Seattle Ladies left. Chicago O arrived immediately after. I was worried he was going to have to drag me around by one arm in my exhausted state but nope -- the minute I saw him, I revved right back up. I haven't seen him in many years but it felt like zero seconds had passed since we last made fun of each other.

Chicago O and I spent a college semester abroad in Luxembourg. We've done Europe together before, but this time was different because we had more money to spend on the dinner bill and did not once have to sleep on the floor of a train station.

At this lunch we got caught in a huge storm. It hailed on us. The restaurant people could have extended the awning further but they wanted us to leave so they didn't --

Even for leisurely French lunches, Chicago O and I set a new record. When not even hail on our heads convinced us to leave, the manager came out and incredulously told us to GO. I think he was secretly impressed by our tenacity.

Chicago O and I sat in Montmartre cafes and smoked cigarettes, something neither of us had done in a decade. Those things are disgusting but it felt good and appropriate to join the club of Parisian smokers at a sidewalk cafe just once. We also took the kids to the Rodin Museum where I watched with a warm, happy heart as my dear friend slammed my son repeatedly to the pavement --

O also took some pictures of us next to Camille Claudel's work at the Rodin Museum because it's the last time I'll see it (for awhile anyway) and she's important to me. I would love to post the Camille Claudel pictures but Chicago O hasn't sent them to me yet because he's a real slacker.

All right, I've enjoyed reliving a bit of the grand finale of visitors but I've got to get back to my frustrating life. There are things to organize, plans to be made, people to strangle. I'm very busy.

I will write when I can, as my internet access will remain intermittent at best. Newcastle Guy is currently saving our asses by giving us his something-something code that works from our apartment. I don't know how it works -- let's just say Newcastle Guy is magic, a good friend, and we thank him profusely.

When that stops working, I will beg people in the neighborhood to let me leech off their wireless. My first target will be the maître d’ at the neighborhood restaurant who wants me to take off my shirt because I think I can really get somewhere with that.

Ladies, the visit was RADICCHIO. Chicago O, let's never smoke again, cool?

Don't count me out just yet, posse! I'm still fighting! I'm still strong!
MJ

I am full of much anger today!

2011-10-27T08:58:00.000+02:00

This could be it -- the day we all knew was coming, the day I finally snap and hurt a Frenchie.

Our TV, Internet and phone have been turned off more than a month early as we prepare for our international move. I sit here impotent and full of rage. Alex has called and yelled some French words at them and has received a heartwarming response -- there's "nothing they can do."

Posse, you best airlift me out of here before I end up in prison.

In happier news, I just spent two of the best weeks ever with several of my best friends ever. I'd love to tell you about it but I'm about to go blind typing my worldly correspondance on an iPhone keyboard.

I'll be back somehow, though -- right after I dole out some final much-needed knuckle sandwiches.
MJ

Cold drinks with the most beautiful view

2011-10-17T14:30:00.000+02:00

Here I go again. Vacation post with all the rambling and the pictures. You're going to need a large chunk of time and several coffees -- or you can just say "screw this" and ignore me until I start writing about Paris again. I won't mind either way. Baby, I could never be mad at you.

Croatia was a perfect vacation, an exclamation point to end our European travels. It was calm and relaxing but also full of debauchery and insanity and much nudity. I'll talk about that much later even though it's probably the only interesting part of the whole trip.

We were picked up at the Dubrovnik airport by Miho, a cheerful early-twenty-something who owns and manages the apartment we rented the first few days. Miho is in the right business; I've never met someone so eager to help people. He smiled constantly, told us where to eat, what to see, who to meet. We mentioned we were going to the sparsely populated island of Mljet in a few days but didn't know where we were going to sleep. Before the end of the sentence, Miho grabbed his phone and reserved us a room in a private home plus a pick-up at the ferry. Miho was a rock star -- a rock star who lives in flip-flops.

As we enjoyed the view of Old Dubrovnik from our balcony, Miho knocked on the door and tossed us a few cold Croatian beers -- our "welcome drinks" he said. We drank them and deemed Croatian beer "not too bad!" Then we turned on the TV to see if we could find some English-speaking news and discovered 400 channels, half of which were porn and the other half which were someone reading The Bible. We concluded Croatians must be struggling with some conflicted feelings.

We have Seattle friends who've been to Dubrovnik. They advised us to look for a sign posted high on a wall in the Old Town that said, "Cold Drinks with the Most Beautiful View" and to follow it to the ends of the earth if necessary. We did as instructed and ended up with Cold Drinks and the Most Beautiful View! I love it when signs don't lie, unlike that "Best Crepes in Paris" sign in our 'hood whose pants are on fire.

We ate seafood for dinner, right next to the docks where gray-haired whiskery fishermen untangled their fishing nets. The waiter plunked down a huge kettle full of all types of seafood and we dug in like animals, ripping sea creatures apart with our fingers like the barbarians we are.

It's about then Alex and I started saying "That cat's a dick." It was in reference to a cat who wouldn't leave us alone with our bucket of seafood. He was all up on our table like "gimme a shrimp" and we didn't like it one bit. After that, every cat we saw (and there were a ton roaming the narrow streets of Dubrovnik) Alex or I would say "That cat's a dick" and then we would laugh and laugh.

I made the unfortunate mistake of saying "That cat's a dick" out loud, with Alex nowhere near me, while standing next to a large group of American tourists. Several heads quickly snapped my direction -- heads with question marks for eyes. They were like, "Whaa? You said whaa about the precious kitty?" I just walked away because I like to keep people guessing.

Here are some pictures of beautiful Dubrovnik, just in case I haven't yet convinced you to go there on your next vacation, what with the ambiguous nudity claims, and the cats who are dicks, and adorable Miho who wears flip-flops...

Although it's certainly not in keeping with my usual irrelevant subject matter, I can't gloss over the war that happened in those parts twenty years ago. There are still visible signs of the conflict -- shelled buildings that were never rebuilt, bright orange roofs in stark contrast to the original, not destroyed, more muted ones, the signs posted throughout the town detailing what happened when the Serbian/Montenegrin forces invaded, and memorials to those who died.

The shelling of Dubrovnik was gratuitous. It's a small town, off the main roads with no port. It demilitarized itself in an attempt to save itself but to no avail. It was shelled for no "good" reason other than to terrorize and destroy. We watched news footage of the attack in the wartime museum and it was hard to reconcile the wartime footage with what was outside the museum doors -- a vibrant place full of the smiliest people we've had the pleasure of meeting in our European travels.

You should have left it alone, Milošević

Alex and I went to spend the night on Mljet, one of the Dalmatian Islands between Dubrovnik and Split. It's rumored to be one of the most beautiful islands in the world; in fact Odysseus himself got stuck there for seven years or something, though I'm not clear if it was because of the beauty of the place or because he was being held prisoner. We hoped the "stuck for seven years" thing wouldn't happen to us, especially if it was the prisoner reason.

Mljet is a common daytrip for tourists in the summer, not so much in the off-season. There was no one around. We were thankful Miho booked us somewhere to stay. We were not thankful to learn the ferries had switched to the winter schedule so the only one leaving Mljet the next day was at 5:55 in the goddamn morning.

We headed for the beautiful lakes in the center of the island and rented bikes. There wasn't much time before sunset so it was fast, dangerous, hot dog bike riding.

I almost killed myself taking this picture, not to mention seriously injuring Al when I nearly plowed into him. I hope you enjoy it.

Finding a spot for dinner was a challenge because everything was closed and there were no people around. Finally Alex spotted what looked to be a restaurant across the harbor so we headed for its promising glow. It was a restaurant all right, with a nice fire going to boot.

Alex ordered grilled squid. A woman came out, moved some embers around on the fire, and started grilling squid over them.

When the squid were done, she turned around and put them on Alex's plate. They were so good, we started rethinking the whole "stuck for seven years" thing. Odysseus must have really liked squid.

After dinner, a couple glasses were placed before us. "Grappa" said the gruff waiter. "We didn't order grappa" we said. "You get grappa. Everyone gets grappa" came the answer. So we drank our grappa. The German couple next to us also dutifully drank their un-ordered grappa. Grilled squid lady drank grappa. Gruff waiter drank grappa. It was fun, right up until we woke at 4:30 the next morning to catch the 5:00 a.m. bus to the ferry dock. Then grappa (and life in general) sucked pretty badly.

The bus driver looked shocked to see us standing there pitifully by the side of the road. I don't think he gets too much business at 5:00 a.m. in October. He smoked a ton of cigarettes and listened to Neil Diamond on our way to the dock. Here's what it looks like to ride a bus through a sparsely populated Croatian island at 5:00 a.m. Sing "Forever in Blue Jeans" while sticking your head in an ashtray to get the full experience.

Here's what it looks like to wait for the ferry at 5:15 a.m. --

Here's what a Croatian sunrise looks like from the ferry --

100% worth it

Now here's a travel tip. If you're ferrying through the Dalmatian Islands and you feel like pointing to one of them and saying to your significant other, "If I was on that island right now, I would go all the way up that mountain and stand on the tippy-top" -- resist. Don't do it. You will sound like a stupid child, something that will only become obvious to you after the words have left your lips and Alex is looking at you funny.

I've got my Seattle ladies coming Wednesday. Then after them, Chicago O. I'm pretty damn excited about all that. I'll be back soon, though. I know I have to finish writing about Croatia -- all this babble and I still haven't mentioned any debauchery, lawlessness, or nudity.

Thanks for bearing with me as I try to sear Croatia into my memory forever.

Slobodan Milošević was the real dick, but those cats were a close second,
MJ

Dobar Dan, Luka

2011-10-12T14:10:00.000+02:00

Well hello there. I am on vacation and am very happy. I originally intended to post a few pictures while on vacation and let those of you who don't know where I am guess where I am, but since I forgot the cable for my camera, I will draw you a picture instead.

Here I am in front of a beautiful sunset. It matches my orange hair nicely, yes?

My being off-center is an accurate representation of the pictures currently stuck in my camera. Alex can never quite figure out how to include my entire body, or even the majority of it, in a photograph. It's a good thing he's a business guy and not a photographer guy because we would be in big trouble.

Another clue to where I am is the language -- we're saying lots of "Dobar Dan" and "Hvala" here. I was instructed by my friend who's been here before to "speak like a Russian gangster -- all round sounds in the front of the mouth" so I've been trying hard to do that but suspect I sound like a mentally deranged woman with a mouthful of marbles. No matter -- my efforts have been appreciated and lots of people seem to like me because they smile and clap me on the back. It's a nice change from being in Paris.

So far on vacation, we've done a lot of looking at water and sighing deeply. I am also doing a lot of man-staring. I may be married, people, but I ain't dead. The combination of dark hair and light (sultry, brooding) eyes makes me weak in the knees so I'm falling down a lot. Alex sighs when I start talking about the beauty of the men so I've tried to stop but I can't. How can I stop when so many of these guys look like Dr. Luka Kovac?

(Here is where it should be noted Alex has dark hair and light, sultry, brooding eyes. I have a type, OK, people?)

Alex and I took a cable car to the fort above our mystery location. There's a wartime museum up there, and the war was recent, so our vacay hasn't been all fun and games. Some seriously real stuff happened here, stuff I remember watching on television, which is kind of nuts.

We decided to hike down from the fort instead of take the cable car because we wanted to look at the view, and contemplate what we'd seen in the museum, which was so at odds with the peaceful view spread out below us. After about an hour on the trail, we remembered you should never start a hike unless you're pretty sure you know where the hike is going to end. Our hike ended far, far away from where we wanted to be. It ended in the middle of nowhere as it was getting dark. There were no streetlights nor means of transportation. So that got pretty exciting.

As we picked our way along in the darkness, we comforted ourselves by saying things like, "We never would have done that hike with the kids!" Because even though we were lost and in the dark, the fact we had the FREEDOM to be lost and in the dark if we felt like it was a great triumph.

WE COULDN'T DO THIS WITH THE KIDS became the rallying cry for the rest of our vacation and led us to do some dumb things late at night, such as drinking grappa with a couple locals, just because we could.

I will be sad to leave mystery location at the end of the week. It's a beautiful place with a fascinating history. We've enjoyed its food, the warmth and helpfulness of its people, and the scenery -- both of the natural island type and the man type. The dudes. Jesus Lord.

I'll be back next week with some pictures, and some tales of vacation MJ-n-Al style, which basically means we did more dumb stuff and made many people feel very uncomfortable.

Hvala, posse,
MJ

P.S. I'm in Croatia.

Bones, sexy and unsexy

2011-10-04T22:24:00.000+02:00

I went to the catacombs with Virginia Mom Saturday. The line was long which surprised us because who in their right mind wants to spend a beautiful Saturday morning underneath the city in dark scary tunnels with piles of skulls and femurs? I mean, besides us?

The line advanced slowly because they only let handfuls of people enter at a time. As we stood there awaiting our turn to descend into the depths of hell, I noticed a sign posted next to the entrance. It warned visitors the catacombs may not be suitable for "those of a nervous disposition." Ruh-roh. It was like the catacombs were pointing at me, talking straight at my face -- "yeah YOU, the jittery one."

The problem is I can't tell the difference between having a nervous disposition vs. having ten coffees every morning before 8:00 a.m. Do I have a nervous disposition or just a heavily caffeinated one? We will never know because I'm not going to stop.

The catacombs didn't make me nervous but if you're claustrophobic or don't like being dripped upon in narrow subterranean tunnels, it may not be the place for you. It will be worse if you start picturing the water dripping on your head as slimy dead people bone water, so definitely don't do that.

The bones, which kindly reminded us we're all gonna die someday, were arranged very artistically. Bravo, bone arrangers.

After the bones, we went to M.P. Samie. M.P. Samie is the place in Paris for cheap French porcelain. You can buy Apilco serving platters or Limoges bowls for 8 euros -- the same ones available at Williams Sonoma for 50 bucks or more, suckers. We always leave with a bunch of stuff we never expected to buy. Sometimes it's stuff for which we can't even identify a purpose but squeal, three euros!

I like going there with Virginia Mom because she cooks more than I do and knows stuff I don't. She'll point at a shallow dish and say something like, "Oh, that's really useful if you need to do an egg wash or something" and I'll nod dumbly beside her like, "yep...egg wash....exactly what I was thinking...."

(What the f*ck is an egg wash?)

After buying a ton of porcelain and beginning to lug it painfully home on our persons, we stopped for lunch at a creperie near Montparnasse. Two American tourists sat next to us and were so wonderfully American in their chattiness with strangers, I missed my homefolk. We chatted a bit and witnessed them try their first glass of Breton cider. Mr. New Jersey said, "Hmm, that' ain't bad" and was promptly awarded the Understatement of the Year award.

Back to the subject of bones for a minute. Lucien is drawing a lot of dinosaur bones recently but unfortunately (or fortunately?) they all look like penises. He follows me through the apartment with his unintentional penis drawings and says things like, "Mom, you like the bone? Is it a good bone? Do you want the bone on the refrigerator?" I alternate between laughing uncontrollably and telling him to stop being so goddamn inappropriate.

Lucien also lost another tooth. The first time he lost a tooth he had a very awkward conversation with a homeless man. This time, as he was holding his tooth in his hand, he dropped it on our shag area rug and lost it for real. We've since combed through the rug and shaken the rug but the tooth is firmly entrenched somewhere inside and it ain't coming out.

A very upset Lucien then drew the Tooth Fairy a dinosaur (an Apatosaurus, his favorite!) and asked me to transcribe a message to her. I'm pretty sure he'll still get his euro. At least he didn't draw her a penis.

I might as well talk about the people across the courtyard who are always in their underwear. There used to be a hot drywall guy over there but now the apartment is all fixed up, our new neighbors have moved in and they don't seem to like their clothing.

The first day they moved in I said, "Hey, Al, there's a lady in her bra across the courtyard." He got excited until he realized maybe she wasn't his first choice of all the French ladies to see in her bra -- but bra pickin's are slim around here so he pulled up a chair and I popped him some popcorn.

We've seen both man and woman in their underwear many, many times since. More chairs, more popcorn. They're not the most attractive people in the world but what the hell, we don't have anything better to do since our cable TV still -- even after three years of complaining -- loses the sound every five minutes.

Here's a picture of my head. It's not possible to capture the brilliance of this new haircolor in a photograph. It's red, but with dazzling areas of orange and blonde. I have no idea what it looks like on your computer monitor, but trust me when I say in bright sunlight I look like a candle wearing a scarf and skinny jeans.

I'm going on vacation in a few days. I hope to check in with the posse during vacation because I want to show you pictures of where we are, and pictures of the guy's couch we're going to have to beg to sleep on for a night or two because we're going to an island with no hotel and few inhabitants. I love traveling without children -- we can be all "who gives a crap where we sleep or when we eat" again.

Ima go egg wash something!
MJ

Pollution, orange hair, sexism and whatnot

2011-09-30T19:56:00.000+02:00

Sometimes when I sit at my desk to write, I put my glass of water on the ledge next to the open window. When I pick up the glass to take a sip, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes later, there are oftentimes tiny pieces of grayish soot floating around in it. Then I remember Paris is a huge polluted hellhole and run to close all the windows. The kids are forced to stay indoors for the rest of the day and must breathe through respirators attached to their heads with giant rubber bands.

Between the cars and the smokers, mama's lungs probably aren't lookin' so hot. But you know what IS lookin' hot, literally? Mama's hair. My hairdresser decided to dye it orange at our appointment this week. I keep diving into the shower after catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror because I think my head has caught fire.

The good news is Alex loves the hair because he thinks it makes me look like "a girl who really knows how to party." Lucien said it's pretty like a rainbow. Coco threw a ball at my face and ran away but I think that's just Coco being Coco and not a critique of the hair situation.

Do you like it?

People have started viewing the apartment. Our landlord isn't sure if he's selling it or continuing to rent it when we leave, which means we have a parade of real estate agents and interested renters or buyers or whatever they are tromping through at all times.

I have to be here for the appointments because the lady from the agency doesn't have a key. This would be fine if she would just 1.) show up at the appointed time and not an hour late OR 2.) show up, period. Twice today there were appointments where no one showed and no one called. It's not cool to be stuck in an apartment when I have a million things to do, on an eighty-degree day with no open windows on account of the flying soot problem.

Let's counter that crappy news with some incredible news. Hot Thing One and Hot Thing Two did NOT move away! (story of HT1 and HT2 here and here and here) They're still right down the street! They've been on a three-month-long vacation which included the entire first month of school (those hot sexy bastards) so everyone just assumed they were gone.

But here's the even more incredible part. When Hot Thing Two saw me, she waved excitedly and pushed through people to give me the bisous! She kissed me on both cheeks! I think that means we're married now.

The bisous are serious business. French parents don't just hand out the bisous willy-nilly to everyone at school. You have to earn your school bisous; you have to be part of the inner circle. Well it looks like I finally made it, people. All that saying stupid stuff to the hot people has paid off -- they finally love me.

My girl is about to turn two. Our Coco girl. I went shopping for her yesterday at the Bon Marche toy department and my head nearly exploded when I saw not one, not two, but THREE toy vacuum cleaners in the sickeningly pink "girls" section. When I see all those pink plastic cleaning and baking toys next to all the fun stuff in her brother's section she REALLY wants to play with, I feel like punching a Polly Pocket.

Coco is much more than a bread-baking, doll-nurturing, vacuum cleaning machine (especially since genetically she comes from me and I suck at all those things.) She's a ninja, so give her ninja toys.

My in-laws are coming next week to celebrate Coco's day, then immediately afterward Alex and I are hopping on a plane to go celebrate our ten years of wedded mostly-bliss. Immediately after that, two of my favorite Seattle ladies are coming to visit. Then immediately after that, my best college dude friend -- we'll call him "Chicago O" -- is coming to visit. That's a lot of joy for one month. And then October will be over and I guess November will be the month to actually get stuff done.

Speaking of favorite people, I got this email from Virginia Mom last night --

"Top Gun is on Channel 11 right now. Watching Gooz and Mahv-reek doing some crazy sh*t en francais. You're welcome."

She emailed later to say that while Top Gun was atrocious in French, "the volleyball scene did not get lost in translation."

You know, I just might miss that woman.

Sad sigh. Off to drink my grimy glass of window wine,
MJ

I ain't dead yet!

2011-09-26T21:51:00.000+02:00

I'm not gone yet, people, so stop sending me goodbye emails. You're depressing me. My last post did not mean I was going to leave the minute I finished it. Do you realize how long it takes just to cancel TV service around here? Like five years! My departure is not THAT imminent, I assure you, because they're going to make us work for it, earn it, pay for it in clumps of pulled-out hair.

Last week got a little hectic so I ran out of time for blogging. We had Seattle friends in town (same friends who were here back when Alex fought for the lobster) and they came over for dinner Friday night. That meant I had to take a trip to our favorite wine store Friday afternoon with Little Miss Grabbyhands in her stroller. That's always exciting.

I apologized to the rest of the patrons in teeny-tiny wine shop and explained I had to leave Coco and her stroller right in the middle of the store so she couldn't reach any bottles of wine. They didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation until Little Miss Whirlyarms got all fired up and started doing her thing. Then they were like, "Holy hell! That child is part helicopter and part bear! Save the wine!"

While we were discussing the impressive danger of such a small person, we realized all of us in the store were American. All American ex-pats, living here anywhere from six months up to twenty-five years. In two seconds, all patrons of teeny-tiny wine store changed from polite calm French speakers into excitable loud-voiced Americans. We shared a good laugh over our near-instantaneous transformations. It was a fun day in the wine store, and I'm pleased to report Coco did zero damage, though she tried oh, how she tried....

Alex and I attended the Mad Men party Saturday night. Here's what happens when you ask your five-year-old son to take a picture of you before you leave --

nailed it

Alex fared a bit better. He took this one as I was taking the smelly garbage to the dumpster before the babysitter got here --

That ribbon around my waist is courtesy of Virginia Mom. It helped cinch the crap out of my too-big dress that smelled like mothballs. From the front I looked OK. From the back, I was all bunchy fabric and safety pins. I solved this problem by sliding along walls at the party so I never had my back turned to anyone. Leaning on walls also helped with the "standing in high heels for a long period of time" problem. I love walls -- they're super handy.

This is Alex smoking a tiny cigar --

Al Draper in a bow tie and so much pomade in his hair, his head is still greasy several days and five dozen showers later.

We went out for a drink before the party. We thought we'd attract lots of attention in our 1960s finery but no one even blinked an eye. I think you can pretty much wear a plastic bag out in Paris and nobody will care.

Everyone at the party said they liked our outfits. There was a lot of champagne flowing, so that explains that. Alex made an enemy of the DJ right away when he bumped into his table and skipped the record. In Al's defense, the party was dark and he couldn't see anything. We never did hear our requested "Who Let the Dogs Out," though, and I'm guessing that's why.

It was too dark for good stealth photos, but can you see that French lady there on the left, the one with the 'do? She wins all sorts of authenticity awards. Well played, lady with the hair, well played --

We stepped outside for some fresh air and at that very moment received a frantic phone call from our babysitter. She had come down with the flu, badly, and was throwing up in our apartment. She kinda wanted to go home. A taxi came by so we grabbed it. We totally disappeared from that party without saying goodbye to anyone. I'm sure they all wondered where the woman who slides along walls and the man who killed the music went.

My parents recently sent Lucien this box. It's hard for them to be so far away from Lucien during his dinosaur phase because they love dinosaurs as much as he does. Mom used to be a teacher and dinosaurs were part of the curriculum. My dad wanted to be a paleontologist when he was a small boy; the fact he became a lawyer still seems to pain him greatly.

I think the box they sent accurately represents the level of dinosaur enthusiasm in my family --

The box, of course, was full of dinosaurs. We have since staged several epic dinosaur battles. Lucien got mad when I told him the T-Rex and the Stegosaurus were in love and made them kiss. He huffed out of the room. When he came back, I did it again, and told him he had no right to stand in the way of true love. He huffed back out of the room.

You're right, grandma and grandpa, dinosaurs ARE fun!

and dino love is beautiful

Sunday was a perfect day so we went to the park. Lucien took all his new dinosaurs and buried them in the sandbox. He then "excavated" them with my very nice and expensive paintbrushes ("WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THOSE?" bellowed me in the middle of the park. Kids! So fun!)

Lucien's paleontology game was popular and everything was great until a riot broke out. There were many French kids beating each other senseless over (my previously very nice) paintbrushes. They all wanted to excavate the goddamn dinosaurs. Our family was super popular yet at the same time we were instigators of violence. That sums up our Paris lives nicely.

Good news is I got some good shots of father and daughter playing together. I especially like this one. Coco has just gone down the slide, Alex has caught her at the end, picked her up, and she has shrieked, "ENCORE!" at a very high decibel level right into his ear --

I think I'm almost done with this post but I'm not really sure.

I met with Kasia Dietz, Paris blogger and handbag designer, for coffee Friday morning because I bought one of her reversible canvas "rive gauche" totes as a goodbye present to myself. Here it is, and goodbye to me --

I've since suggested that all people who've bought Kasia's "rive gauche" bags and all the people who've bought her "rive droite" bags fill their totes with day-old baguettes and meet at the Seine to duke it out. It's time for this "rive" rivalry to end so let's have it out once and for all. (Gauche will win. We're smaller but we're hella feisty.)

Speaking of goodbye presents, Virginia Mom bought me a goodbye present while we were out together last week, but since we refused to acknowledge why she was buying it for me it was kinda like, "thanks for my hat...weirdo buying me gifts for no reason....so weird..."

There's going to be a lot of denial going on over here for the foreseeable future.

In the meantime, may your weeks be full of hot dino love,

Magic Sunday and Mad Men

2011-09-20T21:20:00.000+02:00

"Back to School Collection"? I thought I'd gotten Lucien's Back to School needs squared away but it appears I forgot the sexy bra and panty. Wow... I never realized how much I hate the word "panty." Ouf, stop it! Stop saying it!

In other news, the ads on the side of the Conciergerie are becoming just plain cruel. Look at the nonsense that's up there now --

Really, Conciergerie? Isn't that kinda mean, featuring a painting of Marie Antoinette without a face, and a title of "Ghost Save the Queen" on the side of the building where she was held prisoner right before she LOST HER FACE and WAS NOT SAVED? All that's missing is the slogan, "Hey, folks, DON'T LOSE YOUR HEAD over this Samsung thing, yeah decapitation!"

You're being kind of a dick, Conciergerie

Let's all just cool down for a minute. Perhaps Loosh's drawing of a Tyrannosaurus Rex will soothe us --

Works every time

On Sunday I took a morning-long walk with Coco in the stroller. I left Alex and The Loosh at home sitting in their underwear watching cartoons. (very nice mental picture for you and you are welcome)

You know what I love about Paris, what I will miss with my whole heart? Every time I take a leisurely stroll, I encounter wonderful things. I encounter surprising things I never thought I wanted to see and yet when I happen upon them I think, "Yes, this completes me as a human."

This time it was basketball in front of Hotel de Ville. And not just any basketball -- horrible basketball. I watched them for twenty minutes and didn't see a single basket made. It still made me happy to watch them, and to listen to the accompanying bone-rattling hip-hop music.

Cokes and I wandered into the Marais. How is it I've never been down la rue des Rosiers? Just when I think I've seen everything, I find a delightful street full of Hasidic Jews and falafel -- two of my favorite things in the whole world! I really should have come to this street sooner.

On our way home, we swung past Camille Claudel's place on Île Saint-Louis so Cokes could give a shout-out to her namesake --

Yo, other Camille

On the Pont Saint Louis, we found several men inexplicably dressed like safari guides. One was jamming on a piano, one a bass, and the other was singing into a bullhorn. They were hella fun. I hope my neighbors in Seattle dress like safari guides and sing into bullhorns from time to time. It's Seattle -- place is full of weirdos -- so I probably won't be too disappointed on that one.

It's a piano on a bridge

I've been on a mission to find a dress for an upcoming Mad Men themed party. I hate themed parties because of the pressure they put on the attendee -- pressure besides the usual "don't get drunk and make out with a stranger" pressure. There are vintage clothing shops near me but I would have to pay hundreds of euros to get a Betty Draper-ish dress and I don't want to pay that much to look like that horrible woman. (Maybe I should go for the Joan look since I have such a great rack?)*

*You may not realize this, but that's the funniest thing I've ever written.

I went into one vintage store and ended up buying a bunch of cool stuff that had absolutely nothing to do with Mad Men. The groovy dude working liked my accent. He, like most French people, thought I was English. When I said I was American, he was surprised because my accent does not sound American (yeah! no offense, homeland, but American accents are the pits.)

Vintage groovy dude said it was cool I was American because he loooooved America and its accompanying Americans. He said that in America, if you work hard, you will do well and have a really good life. I said, "errrrr......yeah....right" and decided not to mention the five bazillion (that's an accurate number) people who work their fingers to the bone for minimum wage at several jobs yet can barely feed their families. I didn't want to burst his bubble; it's adorable the American Dream is still alive abroad.

I did finally find a dress at a vintage shop in the Marais (thanks Twitter, thanks Rachael!). It's two sizes too large so I'm going to have to cinch the hell out of it but at least I won't show up to the party naked. I tried on the dress for Alex. I said, "Hey, close your eyes and picture all those beautiful women on Mad Men. OK, now open your eyes and look at me." He laughed and laughed. I chose to believe he was laughing because I looked incredibly sexy.

Alex is hoping to score some vintage silk pajamas, slick back his hair, stick a cigar in his mouth and go as "Don Draper After Hours." I wonder if we'll be the two biggest idiots there or the next two biggest idiots? So exciting!

The people throwing the party have emailed everyone and asked for their two favorite songs. All favorite songs will be played by the DJ at the party. Just as payback, because we dislike themed parties so much, we're going to request Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" and Baha Men's "Who Let the Dogs Out." Al and I will shake our asses in the middle of the room in our ridiculous apparel. Hope my mothball-smelling, two-sizes-too-large dress can handle my moves.

Lucien's teacher was hysterical at pick-up yesterday. Lots of arm waving. When I asked her why she was yelling at Lucien in such a mean way, she said she'd asked him THREE TIMES to stop hitting his friend. I was like, "Really? Only three? And then he stopped? Good job, son!"

Now I don't condone hitting, people, but when it's the first time the kid has acted up this year, and he was goofing off with his friend, well.... I can't help but feel it was an overreaction. His teacher seems prone to hysterics and mood swings, which doesn't bode well. I hate to leave you, Paris, and my heart breaks, but we're going to have to get The Loosh out of here sooner rather than later.

Speaking of which, we've chosen our departure date but I'm not going to write it here. I don't do well with goodbyes, so one day I'll just be gone... poof....

Always remember me, posse, and remember I like big butts and I cannot lie,
MJ

Chilly classroom

2011-09-16T21:02:00.000+02:00

I approached the teacher at pick-up yesterday to explain why I missed the meeting --

I explained my husband was out of town --

I explained my babysitter hadn't shown up --

I apologized --

I asked if any parents had taken notes? --

I asked if she remembered how to blink? --

I think it went pretty well, don't you?

It's a shame I'm back on the school sh*tlist. Things were going so well. Lucien is being a calm, studious little boy in class. We're not quite sure what he's up to, but so far he's really surprised the crap out of us. The teacher has been very pleased with him and very smiley with me.

Then I went and missed the most important meeting in the world and screwed everything up again. At least I'm back in the ole comfort zone.

I'm also officially in a transitional funk. With three months to go, we've had to start planning and organizing for the move, and for our lives back home, all while trying to live full lives here. We don't seem to be doing a particularly good job of any of it. As depressed as I'll be to say "Au revoir, caca boudin" to our Paris life, a part of me can't wait until the whole move thing is a done deal. I don't do well living in the in-between. I don't feel connected anywhere. My in-between is full of staring into space and obsessively making lists.

Let's forget all that burdensome crap and talk about Coco for a minute. Thinking about Coco always cheers me. I especially love the part of her that is so thrilled to be her, so thrilled to be alive, she runs around the apartment with her arms raised in joyful triumph yelling "COCO!" Can you imagine being so pleased with yourself as an adult you can't stop running through your house repeatedly yelling your own name? Go ahead, try it, see how it feels. I tried it and my answer is "very foolish but kinda awesome."

Where Lucien is loud and obvious and you can see his mischief coming a mile away, Coco is calm, cool stealth. She know what's off limits and watches around corners to see were I hide forbidden things. When I'm not looking, she retrieves them, often building towers of other forbidden objects to reach them. She'll walk up behind me as I'm doing laundry or whatever with the precious breakable or poisonous substance held over her head and yell "COCO!" Her smile is big and her message is obvious -- Coco wins, Coco will always win, because Coco is the best.

Timmy! (Timm-ay!?)

How would you write that, South Park peeps?

All right, I'm out. I have hours of staring into space to do and important research to conduct such as where we can donate our old nastyass couch because that thing is NOT coming home with us. (Old nastyass couch not to be confused with crazy nastyass honey badger -- though much like the honey badger, our nastyass couch doesn't give a sh*t).

Gotta break out of the transitional depression, or all blog hope is lost,

Fun stuff with a side of not-fun stuff

2011-09-13T22:29:00.000+02:00

I went to my favorite store, Picard, today to stock up on frozen essentials. The man working was a man I've seen working there a million times. Today I asked the usual, "Ça va?" but instead of the usual, "Oui, Ça va!" he responded with a thoughtful look and a "Do you really wanna know?" I hesitated but then said "Sure!"

You know what's funny? I really didn't want to know! In other news, whoa, my Picard guy is really miserable.

We had a nice weekend if you enjoy dinosaurs and thinking about devastatingly sad things. L’Institut de Paléontologie Humaine is currently exhibiting half a dozen REAL DINOSAUR SKELETONS so I took the dino-obsessed Loosh to see them on Saturday afternoon. His mind was sufficiently blown.

Holy sh*t, Mom, that is a motherf*ckin' Triceratops head behind me, I sh*t you not.**

**not something he actually said

He brought along a dinosaur book to help identify each skeleton. After proper identification, he then "read" outlandish claims about each one -- such as this one could swim underwater and that one could shoot lasers out of his eyes. He got defensive and ran away holding the book over his head when I asked to see the book so I could double check his facts.

This one could read your motherf*ckin' mind!**

**I apologize, folks. I'm pretty ornery tonight.

L’Institut de Paléontologie Humaine is a lovely old building but one thing bothered me and took me out of the dinosaur moment --

I am not a fan of swastika as design element

I'm supposed to be at a school meeting right now. It's the same informational meeting his teacher got mad at us for missing last year. Alex is in Spain but I had a babysitter lined up so felt pretty confident I was going to make the damn meeting this time and then everyone would LOVE ME. At school pick-up this afternoon, I cheerfully told the teacher I would see her again in an hour. I was born to attend that meeting.

Then the babysitter didn't show up. I have no idea why. So I didn't go to the meeting. Now I'm shakin' in my fashionable boots and feeling "the dread" because I know this teacher hates us now, too. I can't blame her because we've done nothing but sh*t** on important school meetings since the get-go.

**ornery

Some guy came to the door today and said he had to inspect chimneys and gas lines. I said we didn't have a chimney or gas in the apartment but told him to come on in and take a look around if he wanted to verify. For reasons I'll never understand, he pointed at the ventilator duct coming out the top of our stove's ventilation hood and declared it a gas line. He jumped up on our counter and banged on the thing for awhile, declared it "blocked" and said we would need a full inspection at a later date.

So tell me the truth -- is this guy going to break in later and rob us blind? Something was weird, but I hadn't had interaction with adults all day and was happy for his bizarre company. But he got to me -- I'm now scared to turn on the ventilator hood/gas line for fear of blowing up the building.

One more thing before I go. Sunday, obviously, was September 11th. I very much felt the need to do something to commemorate the day so I took Lucien to the memorial ceremony at Trocadero. On the metro ride there, I gave Lucien a very rudimentary explanation of where we were going and why, basically how we needed to think about our country on that day because something very sad happened there ten years ago. Thankfully, he didn't ask too many in-depth questions because I have no idea how to explain something so horrible to someone who thinks the worst thing a person can do is call someone else "poo-poo face."

It was a moving tribute at Trocadero. The mayor of Paris was there alongside the American ambassador. A choir sang the French and U.S. national anthems back-to-back, and various people gave speeches about how the day changed the entire world and the entire world mourned. The official ceremony lasted between the exact times, ten years ago, when the first plane hit through when the second tower fell. There were tears, of course, including mine, because all Americans still feel the events of that day in a visceral, raw way.

I was brought to tears by the horror of the events of 9/11, but also by the show of solidarity by the French. I'm so grateful they gave us somewhere to go, something to do. Otherwise, we would have been sitting at home or wandering around the neighborhood pretending it was a normal day when it wasn't a normal day.

This is a group of French firefighters who showed up carrying American flags. Several wore FDNY hats. They were somber, and sincere.

We didn't stay for the whole ceremony. The intense security repeatedly reminded me it may not have been the safest place to bring Lucien. By the third time we saw a group of cops run past us full speed to surround someone, I decided it was time to go. The terrorists scared MJ away from the 9/11 memorial ceremony, and for that I'm not exactly proud.

Thank you, just thank you, France, for giving a sh*t** about our pain.

**not ornery, I really mean that one.

Lucien took a spin on the carousel on our walk back to the metro. It felt good to watch Lucien, head thrown back laughing out loud, after re-living that day ten years ago. I didn't even care I was watching him in the middle of a downpour.

Phew. Done. Cleansed.

In more upbeat news, I've now received several emails on the subject and am pleased to report "assorted toast" is sweeping several nations.

Hugs to all my people,
MJ

A wedding, a birthday, and some toast

2011-09-09T21:50:00.000+02:00

The umbrella fun just don't stop.

According to his smiley teacher, Lucien is doing fine in school. Lucien, however, claims he's vomited ten times, was bitten by a giant spider, and has gotten into many fights with many people, at least one of which involved real swords. Jesus Lord.

He doesn't have school Wednesdays and it was actually nice to have him around again. We stood in the kitchen Wednesday morning and debated who would win if an Ankylosaurus and a Tyrannosaurus Rex got into a fight. I also made our favorite breakfast -- a little something I like to call "assorted toast." Some pieces have jam on them, some cinnamon, some nutella. Then we arrange all the pieces of toast on a giant platter. I know, I know, I just really blew the roof off this whole breakfast thing.

Coco has spoken her first word (aside from all the mama, dada, baba crap) and much to everyone's surprise, it's a French one. She held her bottle up to me last week and repeatedly said something that sounded like "Uncle! Uncle!" I was like "Uncle? Uncle? What the hell?" Then she sobbed and hit me with her bottle because she was upset she'd been birthed by a moron.

The cleaning lady, who was standing nearby said, "So cute! When she wants more milk she says, "encore!" I turned in astonishment -- I'd already started a frantic online search for purchasable uncles -- and said, "Coco, are you saying 'encore'?" She nearly split herself in two with the grinning and the laughing and the rolling joyfully on the floor. She had been understood! Finally! By the cleaning lady!

Now she says encore for everything -- more food, more time in the bath, more movie -- and frankly, it's getting a little old. Hope she comes up with a new word soon. When she does, hope our cleaning lady is able to figure it out.

We went to Vancouver Family's apartment last weekend to celebrate Vancouver Mom's birthday. I'd never been to their apartment before but had heard great things about the view. The rumors were true. If I lived in this apartment, I would never leave it --

Luxembourg, Eiffel Tower, Invalides, St. Sulpice, Grand Palais. Ridiculous.

Here's the birthday banner we brought. It was Vancouver Mom's first birthday banner in her entire life and it was in FRENCH. That makes it super special and a bit snobby --

Lucien, when he's with Vancouver Son, goes insane. I can't say it was the most relaxing evening for Alex or me because we had to keep jumping up to pull Lucien off the curtains, or out of the china cabinet, or off the roof of the building. Virginia Mom and Dad, who have two quieter and calmer girls, sat at the table and got drunk while the rest of us dealt with the chaos of boys.

A storm rolled through. We sat at the table and let rain pelt us in the face through the open balcony doors. It was wonderful. Then the storm passed and we watched the Eiffel Tower light up and sparkle, as it does every hour on the hour. No matter how badly Paris has abused me during the day, I forgive her when I see the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

Vancouver Family leaves Paris next month. It's sad but I take comfort in the fact they'll only be a few hours drive from Seattle. If we really have a hankering, we can go see them. Of course, with the way Lucien tornadoed through their apartment, they probably won't let us through the front door. So we'll look through their windows and wave, and that will be enough.

This was our walk home that night with two very tired kids --

Here we are in our building's tiny elevator. It's a tight squeeze for the four of us. I won't miss Paris-sized elevators, except for the hilarity.

I attended a very joyous occasion this morning. Coco and I got all dolled up (and by that I mean I took a shower) and took the five dozen metros necessary to reach the 19th arrondissement, where we witnessed the marriage of fellow Paris bloggers, Paris Paul and Paris Karin.

To get married around here, you must have a civil ceremony at the town hall. After the official marriage at the mairie, you can have a church ceremony or scuba wedding or pirate ship wedding or whatever you want but it's really just for show because the deed is already done. (so cool! pirates!)

The civil ceremonies happen in a fancy room. The wedding guests gather down in the lobby and walk up the big staircase together. Once you're in the fancy room, an important lady wearing a sash enters and you have to stand up again. The important lady then mumbles a buncha somethin' somethin' in a language you thought you understood right up until you attended the wedding. (Seriously, was that French? I should study my marital vocabulary.)

They may be saying something about loving each other here but I really didn't catch a damn thing

Congratulations, blog friends. You are most excellent together.

Coco considered ruining the wedding several times, but ultimately held it together. There were a few excited exclamations accompanied by some pointing and a few dozen "encore"s, but it wasn't nearly the disaster I feared it was going to be when I couldn't find a babysitter.

The metro ride home was long and Coco was tired. She wanted off at every stop. Every time the doors closed and she was still on the metro, she felt betrayed by me. The sight of a little girl in a pretty dress pounding on the metro doors and hollering at her mama was pretty funny to several passengers and they laughed out loud. She waved her arms at them, probably casting spells.

Mmmm. Assorted Toast.
MJ

Remember me?

2011-09-06T14:34:00.000+02:00

Well hello there.

The Loosh is back in school and I'm blogging again. The two things are related.

The whole family went to drop Lucien off on his first day. He greeted the director of the school respectfully (unlike last year, holy sh*t...) and his kind, smiley teacher did not run away screaming when she saw him enter the classroom. I admit, I expected her to because Lucien is infamous at preschool for his loudness and his Chris Farley-like physical comedy routines.

Yesterday, however, The Loosh was quiet and nervous. That's normal behavior for him on the first day -- it's the second day through the last day of school that everything really goes to hell.

All the other parents are a deep, dark tan-ish color from their month-long vacations in the south of France. Alex and I, however, continue to be ex-pat rebels by sporting our standard ghostly pallor. We received a few wrinkled, confused brows when, in response to the vacation question, we said we summer vacationed in the Czech Republic and a German Kinderhotel, where we were vomited upon multiple times and hugged by a hippie.

And sacré bleu, I have sad news -- Hot Thing One and Hot Thing Two have moved away. My sorrow knows no limits. Who's going to be my eye candy at the preschool now? Oh....everybody else in the whole damn school, you say? Yep, that's a good point...true, true...

The Loosh will not finish the year at this school, probably not even the semester, and for that I admit I'm relieved. French school is an impressive thing. Lucien has a nice group of friends and speaks effortless, accent-less French. People have been kind to us and it's been our most profound cultural experience in Paris. Still, it's not the best place for our son. We need less rigidity, more "hey, anyone have any creative ideas about how to peel Lucien off the ceiling?"

Since my last post, we had a couple more days of crap weather so were stuck in the apartment. We tried to play ball but it got stuck between the beams in our ceiling. That was pretty exciting.

The gray blur is a triceratops being launched in an attempt to free the ball. It only succeeded in knocking art off the walls.

We also went out for an overwhelmingly successful family dinner last week. It's rare we enjoy a dinner out all together because Alex and I are usually stressed about keeping the children at the table and without forks in their eyeballs. But this dinner was a winner, probably because Lucien was exhausted from a long outing with Alex and Virginia Dad, which Virginia Dad barely survived. Lucien's energy can kill people, we're pretty sure.

Coco refuses to sit in a high chair at restaurants. She prefers to stand which means one of us has to keep a hand on her at all times -- and by "one of us," I mean me. By the end of the meal she was bored and wanted down but we weren't ready. Alex barely said the words, "I think she's about to start throwing sh*t at you" when I felt the first piece of pineapple bounce off my head. Several more soon followed. Girl has crazy good aim.

I'd like to say Alex helped me fend off the pineapple attack but he was laughing too hard to be useful. I would have been mad at him but his laugh sounds like Fozzie Bear's and I like that.

Coco and I trailed way behind the boys on our walk home because she wanted to walk all by herself. It takes forever. Lucien would occasionally run back to visit us, then double back to join his dad. One time he returned to Alex and said, "Coco fell down real bad in the middle of the street with cars but it's OK -- I think she's still alive."

Coco hadn't fallen down, Lucien was just being a punk. So I was perplexed when I saw Alex frantically pushing his way back through people towards us. When he saw Coco marching happily without injury down the street, he turned and chased Lucien back to our apartment yelling, "LUCIEN GET BACK HERE THAT WASN'T FUNNY." Ahhh... peaceful family Sundays all together.

On our stroll home, we passed many things, such as the guys below performing "Rockin' Robin" with all their hearts and souls. We also passed sidewalk cafe tables full of laughing people, and people strolling arm-in-arm through the narrow streets eating ice cream, and people just staring up in awe at the buildings around them. In that moment, as my husband chased my son to our apartment with the intent to strangle him, I felt complete Paris contentment. As difficult and claustrophobic as it is sometimes, it was our best decision to live in the 6th, right smack in the middle of it all.

Rockin' Robin, tweet, tweet, tweet, whatever...

Probably should have stopped on that poignant note but nope, pressing on.

We went to see Dr. Michel for Coco's vaccinations. I got yelled at on the bus on the way there because a woman thought Coco's socks were too tight and were cutting off her circulation. Coco's socks weren't even a little bit tight, as I tried to demonstrate by easily sticking a finger down the side, but it didn't sway her -- I was a bad person and horrible mother and there was no convincing her otherwise. She complained about me to her friend the rest of the ride. This is also known as "just another day on the bus."

I haven't been approached by the Cold Baby Police in ages but have now encountered their super stealth unit, the Tight Sock Investigators. Be careful out there, everybody.

Funny what a week away from the blog does to my head; it's just full of weird crap. I would stick around and share indefinitely but I've got to go. I've got to go get my American boy at French school and it's Day Two. Things probably didn't go well. I will soothe his battered soul with nutella.

The Loosh on his first day back to school. I said, "stand still" and got dancing. It's gonna be a long few months at French school.

La rentrée is here, mon chou,
MJ

Umbrella

2011-08-26T21:01:00.000+02:00

I carried Lucien's new umbrella when I went to pick him up at the centre de loisirs yesterday. I smelled rain in the air and didn't want to miss an opportunity to celebrate the choice of UMBRELLA over DINOSAUR.

We walked home slowly and eyed the gray clouds hopefully but the rain never came.

Then we passed a store above which they were watering plants. Water dripped off the awning onto the sidewalk. Lucien used his umbrella and was pleased with its performance.

He also said he should have chosen the dinosaur

Live and learn, kid,

Will return after this brief nervous breakdown

2011-08-24T21:25:00.000+02:00

My blogging may be spotty for awhile because I'm losing my mind. I need school to start again. I love my son but my God...

Damn, now I feel guilty for wanting to send Lucien back to school. French school has proven to be NOT THE BEST MATCH for our loud, excitable boy. On the first day back, it will feel like tossing him back to the wolves (well-dressed wolves with pursed lips). Mama's life, however, is going to be a lot calmer so goodbye and good luck, little love.

Coco was sick last week. We hesitated (a full five minutes) before leaving her with a babysitter Saturday night so we could go to dinner with a couple new friends from Alex's work. Al and I chose the restaurant, which we'd been to previously with Newcastle Guy and Quebec Hottie. We told our new friends it was a great place, one of our favorite meal memories.

As I've mentioned before, everyone leaves Paris in August. "Everyone" apparently includes chefs because we got the sorry-ass "B" team at the restaurant -- either that or the usual chef hit his head and forgot how to cook. Whatever happened, the meal we had was a lifeless version of what we ate months before. We now feel an urgency to see our new friends again and pick a restaurant with its "A" team intact so they don't think we have questionable taste in food.

We had an after-dinner drink in front of the magnificent church of Saint Sulpice. Alex angered the waiter by trying to move some chairs around so as punishment he and our new friend, Dutch Guy, were made to sit on tiny stools. Never piss off a French waiter, fellas.

Here's Coco taking some bottle caps for a walk in her stroller. She will take anything for a walk except a doll. If you put a doll in her stroller, she will cut you.

By Monday I was sick because whenever a kid is sick, I get sick. Yesterday I took Lucien to the toy department of The Bon Marché and told him to pick one thing to occupy him for the rest of the day because Mommy felt crappy and was not going to be able to mother him properly. I assumed he would choose another dinosaur excavation kit. I rubbed my hands in gleeful anticipation of the several months of quiet it would buy me.

I was wrong. He didn't choose a dinosaur. Do you know what that kid chose, out of all the toys in the Bon Marché toy department? He chose an umbrella -- an umbrella, a goddamn umbrella -- because he liked the "doggie" on top. Here's how our conversation went after he made his decision:

Feverish Me: Lucien, you do not want an umbrella.
Lucien:          Yes I do.
Feverish Me: No you don't.
Lucien:          Yes I do.
Feverish Me: How are you going to play with an umbrella all day?
Lucien:          I like the doggie.
Feverish Me: F*ck the doggie and buy a dinosaur.

But I had said it was his choice, so I bought the stupid umbrella and felt sad. It had not gone the way I planned. Lucien swung his umbrella happily on the walk home and miraculously avoided poking any Parisians in the belly. Once we were about halfway home, however, self-doubt and regret began to cloud his small boy face.

Lucien:           Mommy, did I make a bad choice?
Feverish Me: Yes, worst ever.

He tried to make the most of it, tried to play with an umbrella all afternoon. I had to cut the "fun" short, though, because the play got a little rambunctious and the umbrella is the most expensive umbrella in the world so I will guard the umbrella with my life.

Its cheerfulness mocks me from the corner.

I also bought some celery yesterday, which in my weakened state was difficult to do. It's tough to drag celery home around here, kinda like cutting down a tree and dragging it through the forest when you don't feel well and your kid is swinging an umbrella at some Japanese tourists.

As you can see, it's not going well. I'll be back when I can.
Stupid umbrella,
MJ

Me and my salesguy shadow

2011-08-19T21:04:00.000+02:00

I have our babysitter on speed dial and am using the childfree time to empty our bank account. I'm vomiting money all over the place because tick tock, people, there are restaurants to try, clothes to buy, overpriced coffees to consume before we're outta here. We're gonna be broke but at least there won't be too many items left on the to-do (more like to-eat and to-buy) list.

I began my most recent babysitter day at Cafe Flore, where I drank a crème and flirted shamelessly with the waiter -- and by that I mean I got my skirt caught in the chair so when I stood up it pulled halfway down my ass. That's how I roll when it comes to flirting, I have no patience for subtlety.

After my blatant display of sexinesss, I went shopping. I walked into stores I've had my eye on for a long time, then ran out again when I realized I would never, ever pay 700 euros for a cocktail dress unless it came with a lifetime supply of cocktails.

I went into one store and a salesguy attached himself to me. If I touched a blouse, he ran to grab a pair of pants to go with it. If I looked at pants, he was suddenly at my side with a blouse, a belt, a pair of shoes and a long-stemmed rose held between his teeth. This guy was really selling the shit out of me.

He followed me into the changing room. Literally. And it was one of those changing rooms I hate -- the kind where there's no mirrors in the actual dressing rooms so you have to walk out onto the sales floor to see yourself in a mirror. All the other shoppers stare at you and voice their opinions as to how well/how horribly the pants fit your bum.

It got a little cramped in my mirrorless changing room because my salesguy kept coming in to visit, pushing past the useless curtain to fix a strap, or belt the pants "correctly" (I am apparently an idiot who doesn't know how to work a belt properly), or fuss with a collar.

Then he'd bring me a vest or a blazer and say something like "When you're at dinner, you can wear it with the jacket, but when you go dancing later at a club, you can take it off and you'll have the sexy blouse underneath" I gasped and said, "Oh, you know me and my lifestyle SO WELL! OH, and what do I wear with it when my daughter is throwing handfuls of banana at me because she doesn't like her lunch? Do you have a banana-colored blazer? Preferably with an avocado-colored sexy blouse underneath because.... well, she doesn't seem to like those either....."

Salesguy brought me a pair of five-inch heels and told me to try them with some skinny black pants. I did, and I have to admit I looked awesome, but when he told me to walk around I said "No way in hell, bub." I'll stand there teetering on stiletto stilts but I'm not going to try to walk in them. I know myself quite well -- I will fall over and split the skinny black pants up the back in front of my shopping audience.

I left the store with some nice stuff and promised my salesguy I'd return so we could do it all again soon. I'm not sure that I will but I think that I might.

After shopping I swung past Gertrude Stein's place. As usual, I stood outside and wondered whose leg I had to hump to get inside the building. I would hurt many, many people to get inside the apartment where Gertie used to hang with my man Hemingway.

Oh come on, people, just lemme in already.

There's some work being done on the apartment directly across the courtyard from us. At the end of each workday, a rather ridiculously good looking drywall guy who takes really good care of himself strips down and changes his clothes right in front of the window. I've taken to sitting in front of our window with a tub of popcorn waiting for the show at quittin' time. If Alex is around, he'll yell from the kitchen, "OH MY GOD, would you stop looking at that guy?!" and I'll say "No."

One more thing. I often get weird emails requesting I mention something-or-other on my blog. I rarely pay them any attention because I'm not interested. I don't write this blog for money so there's no need to pimp it out. But this guy.... this Damien.... this guy was different. He had something special. Here are the most important parts of his email --

Damien: "I've just visited your dazzling blog..."
MJ: You have fine taste. I'm listening.

Damien: "....and thought I would contact you. My name is Damien Luce. I'm a French pianist & actor. I'm a former student of the Juilliard School and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts."
MJ: OK, impressive credentials, but where exactly are you going with this...

Damien: "In January 2012, I will be performing Cyrano de Bergerac as a clown..."
MJ: Bam. Done. Damien, I'm yours. Forget Alex, forget the guy standing in his underwear at the window. It's all you all the time from here on out, you clown with wacky awesome ideas.

Go to this website if you want to know more about Damien. He's trying to drum up funds to produce his project. If we were still going to be here in January 2012, I would give him five million dollars right now just to make sure this performance happens. Actually, I couldn't do that, because we are going to have zero dollars soon because salesguy sold the shit out of me and coffees at Cafe Flore are expensive.

This was the picture attached to his email. Pure awesome.

Best of luck, Damien. I really hope it works out for you.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1987274977/cyrano-de-bergerac-a-unique-theater-production-for

Phew, is it just me or was this post super sexy?
MJ

Your sandcastle is a threat to world peace

2011-08-16T22:00:00.000+02:00

Remember those friends we had over for dinner awhile back, the time I had a hangover the next day so I walked over to the park and verbally abused some hot men in purple shirts? We went to those same friends' place for dinner last night. And while the pain in the head this morning was not even close to what it was last time, we still didn't exactly spring out of bed feeling good about our choices.

But dinner was a good time as always. "Newcastle Guy" (is that the fake name we decided on, Alastair? Oh... crap...) served my beers in courses. There was an appetizer beer, a different main course beer, a different cheese plate beer... are you starting to see why we like these people?

Newcastle Guy's fiancée, "Quebec Hottie," cooked a wonderful dinner. We engaged in witty dinner banter that involved at least one "F*ck you," some discussion of male "trimmage," and at least one instance in which Newcastle Guy told Alex he needed to learn to behave like a proper human being. You know, normal stuff, just chatting the way people chat.

We took a taxi home. A taxi ride through Paris at night remains one of the best things ever.

Alex had a run-in with a grumpy Frenchie over the weekend. He took Lucien to a small park near our apartment and they built a beautiful sandcastle together in the sandbox. As they packed up to leave, a park guard approached them all huffy-like. He told Alex they had to put the sand back how it was before they arrived -- sandcastle demolished and sandbox returned to a compact, level state. The guard said Al had to do it because if Al didn't do it, the gardener was going to have to do it and the gardener is a very busy man.

Alex argued but eventually gave up. He requested a rake. The guard brought him a rake and Alex raked Lucien's beautiful sandcastle to the ground.

Lucien watched sadly and quietly. Al attempted to turn it into a lesson, the whole "you have to leave things the way you found them" thing, which is a lesson Lucien has yet to learn regarding his toys in the living room. Here's hoping the trauma of watching his meticulously crafted handiwork destroyed by his rake-wielding father finally drives the lesson home.

For the record, we've seen the following things at this park in the past, yet have never seen the park guard intervene:

1. A man pooping in the bushes.
2. A man half-naked on a park bench -- the bad half.
3. Drunk people passed out on benches.
4. General debauchery and lawlessness.

Alex and I went out for lunch Sunday afternoon. We went to Da Rosa, which I'd heard incredible things about, most impressively that Bradley Cooper was spotted eating there last year. If it's good enough for Bradley's mouth, it's good enough for mine I always say.

Bradley didn't steer me wrong. This is what I ate --

FOOD PORN

Actually that's horrible food porn. It looks like a bowl of dog food. I assure you it was not kibble -- it was pasta with foie gras and onion confit. Maybe it looks terrible but it tasted like what I imagine Bradley Cooper would taste like if he was wrapped in homemade pasta, foie gras and a sweet, sweet onion confit.

If you found that last thought a little weird, blame Alast -- I mean blame Newcastle Guy and Quebec Hottie. We should probably stop seeing them because everything goes to hell the next day. I feel sleepy.
MJ

Now she's talking about Barbie and Ken. This blog is going downhill fast.

2011-08-12T20:58:00.000+02:00

August continues to be a prankster. Sometimes the sun comes out just long enough for me to let my guard down and go outside without an umbrella. Once I'm an inconvenient distance from my apartment, it starts raining again, though harder than before, and the clouds just laugh and laugh at their little joke.

Poor tourists -- they're standing on every street corner trying to hold their rapidly dissolving maps together. The only upside to the bipolar weather is the rainbow shortage crisis has come to an end! Huzzah!

Almost makes up for not having a summer this year.
Not really.

It was raining again this morning. I'm running out of ideas for the kids, so when Virginia Mom suggested we meet up at the doll museum with a few other ladies, I went for it. It's definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel when I take Lucien ("What's a Barbie, Mommy, OOH, can I touch her boobies?") and Coco ("stop lookin' at me like that, punk, or Ima hit you with this Barbie") to the doll museum.

The kids couldn't have cared less about the doll museum but I was happily surprised. There was an exhibit of Barbie and Ken dolls dressed as significant people throughout history. And believe me, you haven't lived until you've seen Ken dressed as Charlemagne.

Virginia Mom got a kick out of Ken as Toulouse-Lautrec because they cut off most of his legs. I enjoyed Ken as Marat relaxing in a bathtub while Assassin Barbie stands behind him with a tiny knife.

Hope that's the best bath of your life, Marat Ken. Godspeed.

Here's a picture of Coco telling me I did something wrong again. I put her on the wrong animal on the carousel so she really gave me a talkin'-to. But forget Coco -- look at the kid next to her and try to resist the urge to put him in your pocket and take him home with you. I think my ovaries just exploded.

Oh my gosh, a panda!

OK, I gotta run. I know, I know it was short and kinda stupid but important things are happening over here. Alex just returned from his work trip so I have to go sit with my chin on my hands and listen to his tales of a faraway place called "Seattle."

Here's a picture of a woman dancing with fire outside Notre Dame. There's your dose of Paris porn until I can devote some more time to this thing.

Happy weekend,
MJ Barbie