Today, I received an email from my old friend Nico. He facebooked me, only in French.
So I accepted, and then had to create a profile and all that. Sure.
It was like a baby step to my big move in January, and I can practice being cool in France.
Cool.....maybe. Idiot? Yes.
The next day, I checked my profile.
Under sexual orientation I thought I marked straight. But it said "un livre ferme."
A closed book? I think that means a virgin or monogamous. Or maybe it's a some sort of sexual freewheeler.
Mother tongue? Norwegian.
So that makes me a 23 year old Scandinavian nun living in DC. Awesome.
At least I have another month or so to woo more susceptible French cybergeeks. Aha!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 9, 2007
Air India or Bust
Our last morning in Paris was spent snuggling in our freezing (and still water deluged) hotel room. Well, more like half snuggling, since any of the Frenchman's attempts to touch my stomach, back, or bottom sent shooting pains to my already very angry and long since personified bladder. So half snuggle it was.
We got to Charles de Gaulle in plenty of time to squeeze into the crowd of eight thousand million people whose flights were canceled (Air France went on strike those crazy Gauls) - and thus were diverted to my carrier of choice, Air India.
While waiting in a line that I'm pretty sure was really a circle, the Frenchman offered to forage for food.
What do I want? Umnn, whatever, you choose.
So my last meal in Paris before boarding a nine hour flight on Air India (whose meal offerings range from Indian standard, Indian vegetarian, Indian lactose free)?
A curry chicken sandwich.
Oh but I love that boy.
A long steamy embrace in front of security and I was off. On the plane, I squeezed in between a group of rowdy French teens going to New York for the first time.
And I was lucky enough to sit next to Hugo. Oh Hugo. He violated my elbow space, woke me up every time the stewardess walked by (just in case I needed something!), and in an especially moxy move - stole my bread roll off my tray.
His idiot friends liked to play this game where you throw your limbs against all the parts of the plane, like the seat in front of you.
So I couldn't pee, I couldn't sleep, and a 15 year old was stealing my rolls and/or hitting on me. I stood up, leaned over the back of my seat, and said in French, what amounted to this:
Can you?.....because it's really.....you know?....um hmnnn.
But apparently my bloodshot eyes and menacing body language did it, because after that they referred to me as "la mademoiselle" and kept it down. Little shitters.
When I finally made it to DC, I went straight from the airport to the hospital. There they informed that the French meds I'd been taking were absolute crap. Hmnn.
1 am - As my mama drove me home, I sat cross legged in the front seat eating a ridiculous amount of chocolate PIM cookies, thinking how I did not want to wake up in five hours to go to work, how much peeing hurts, and that I miss the Frenchman.
Le fin.
We got to Charles de Gaulle in plenty of time to squeeze into the crowd of eight thousand million people whose flights were canceled (Air France went on strike those crazy Gauls) - and thus were diverted to my carrier of choice, Air India.
While waiting in a line that I'm pretty sure was really a circle, the Frenchman offered to forage for food.
What do I want? Umnn, whatever, you choose.
So my last meal in Paris before boarding a nine hour flight on Air India (whose meal offerings range from Indian standard, Indian vegetarian, Indian lactose free)?
A curry chicken sandwich.
Oh but I love that boy.
A long steamy embrace in front of security and I was off. On the plane, I squeezed in between a group of rowdy French teens going to New York for the first time.
And I was lucky enough to sit next to Hugo. Oh Hugo. He violated my elbow space, woke me up every time the stewardess walked by (just in case I needed something!), and in an especially moxy move - stole my bread roll off my tray.
His idiot friends liked to play this game where you throw your limbs against all the parts of the plane, like the seat in front of you.
So I couldn't pee, I couldn't sleep, and a 15 year old was stealing my rolls and/or hitting on me. I stood up, leaned over the back of my seat, and said in French, what amounted to this:
Can you?.....because it's really.....you know?....um hmnnn.
But apparently my bloodshot eyes and menacing body language did it, because after that they referred to me as "la mademoiselle" and kept it down. Little shitters.
When I finally made it to DC, I went straight from the airport to the hospital. There they informed that the French meds I'd been taking were absolute crap. Hmnn.
1 am - As my mama drove me home, I sat cross legged in the front seat eating a ridiculous amount of chocolate PIM cookies, thinking how I did not want to wake up in five hours to go to work, how much peeing hurts, and that I miss the Frenchman.
Le fin.
Monday, November 5, 2007
baby animals all the rage in Paris
The next day led to more aimless wandering. We had lunch near the Eiffel Tower in a chichi little cafe where the view was better than food. But the best part was the diner next to me, a little brown daschhund sporting a Mohawk.
Ah, reminded me of the Frenchman when we first met.
A bit more sightseeing, obnoxious Public Displays of Affection, and off to the Champs d'Elysees. We made the entire tour of the Avenue, because I insisted on investigating every. single. shop.
But he got to check out his toys too, meaning we stopped at the BMW store, the Peugeot store, etc. When it got too cold, the Frenchman proposed going to the cinema.
Film du jour? Un Jour Sur Terre - a BBC documentary about nature, and the beauty of planet Earth. His choice.
I had my doubts, but oh my lord was it good. I almost cried when the cheetah caught the gazelle, or when the baby elephant got separated from his mama.
And when that crazy tropical bird from the Amazon did his mating dance? Oh how we laughed!
I'm probably the only person who hasn't seen An Inconvenient Truth, but if you love baby chicks, baby seals, baby polar bears (and who doesn't?) this is for you.
Ah, reminded me of the Frenchman when we first met.
A bit more sightseeing, obnoxious Public Displays of Affection, and off to the Champs d'Elysees. We made the entire tour of the Avenue, because I insisted on investigating every. single. shop.
But he got to check out his toys too, meaning we stopped at the BMW store, the Peugeot store, etc. When it got too cold, the Frenchman proposed going to the cinema.
Film du jour? Un Jour Sur Terre - a BBC documentary about nature, and the beauty of planet Earth. His choice.
I had my doubts, but oh my lord was it good. I almost cried when the cheetah caught the gazelle, or when the baby elephant got separated from his mama.
And when that crazy tropical bird from the Amazon did his mating dance? Oh how we laughed!
I'm probably the only person who hasn't seen An Inconvenient Truth, but if you love baby chicks, baby seals, baby polar bears (and who doesn't?) this is for you.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Paris
After a rocky start (delayed flights, train strikes, loud irate hotel owners throwing suitcases into the street) I made it to Paris, and my long awaited reunion with the Frenchman. After a few days with his family in a little village on the edge of France and Switzerland, we returned to Paris.
There, we dispensed with planning in general, and maps in particular. After a failed attempt to make it to our free continental breakfast (seven to ten), we nixed our original idea of hitting the museums and went to Montmartre instead.
Side note: during this lovely excursion, I was afflicted with a debilitating bladder infection. It was very horrible and painful and sad, but I sucked it up and stuffed tissues in my pockets so I could pee at will anywhere in Paris. So try to imagine a really romantic Parisian adventure, only interjected with pit stops to the loo every thirty minutes.
Anyway, once we were all bundled up, we stopped by the reception desk to drop off our room key.
Also - to tell them about the deluge in room 219 made by l'americaine.
The Frenchman: So, while my girlfriend was taking a shower (in the 4x4 cubicle you call a douche) she spilled a little water on the floor.
Nice perky lady at the desk: Oh, totally not a problem. The cleaning ladies will clean that right up.
Frenchman: Great! Oh, except it's everywhere and actually made it all the way into the bedroom so we took the blanket and used it to cover the water.
Lady: No! You should not do that.
Frenchman: Right. Thanks so much!
We finally made it to Montmarte, aka why have I never been here before? As we trekked up the hill to the Sacre Coeur, the theme song from Anastasia kept playing in my head. (No joke - the whole time.) You know...Paris holds the key to your heart, sung in Angela Lansbury's voice....
By the way, Anastasia may be one of the best animated films of our time. Seriously.
And it's true, you can see all of Paris from Montmarte. We even ventured into the church. No, I didn't melt.
After being briefly trapped in the Montmarte funicular, we hoofed it back down the hill and decided to keep walking.
We walked for nearly two hours, just people watching and sight-seeing. But then the cute stores became not so cute.
Me: Where are we?
The Frenchman: Ho-town.
Well, not exactly. He actually said Pigalle. Or as I call it - Skanky McSkankVille.
Or: "Get naughty during your next visit to Paris by visiting the notorious Pigalle Place, an epicenter of sex shops, peep shows, strip clubs, cabarets and general adults-only, X-rated adventures."
Because who doesn't want to get naughty?
So we strolled from peep show to sex shop. But it wasn't so bad - there were tons of normal looking people, kids even. If you're into that.
We stopped, had some hot cocoa, took in the atmosphere. Of course.
Eventually we out walked Pigalle, and found ourselves near a cute Italian restaurant. So we ate, got a little sauced, and called it a lovely, Parisian night.
There, we dispensed with planning in general, and maps in particular. After a failed attempt to make it to our free continental breakfast (seven to ten), we nixed our original idea of hitting the museums and went to Montmartre instead.
Side note: during this lovely excursion, I was afflicted with a debilitating bladder infection. It was very horrible and painful and sad, but I sucked it up and stuffed tissues in my pockets so I could pee at will anywhere in Paris. So try to imagine a really romantic Parisian adventure, only interjected with pit stops to the loo every thirty minutes.
Anyway, once we were all bundled up, we stopped by the reception desk to drop off our room key.
Also - to tell them about the deluge in room 219 made by l'americaine.
The Frenchman: So, while my girlfriend was taking a shower (in the 4x4 cubicle you call a douche) she spilled a little water on the floor.
Nice perky lady at the desk: Oh, totally not a problem. The cleaning ladies will clean that right up.
Frenchman: Great! Oh, except it's everywhere and actually made it all the way into the bedroom so we took the blanket and used it to cover the water.
Lady: No! You should not do that.
Frenchman: Right. Thanks so much!
We finally made it to Montmarte, aka why have I never been here before? As we trekked up the hill to the Sacre Coeur, the theme song from Anastasia kept playing in my head. (No joke - the whole time.) You know...Paris holds the key to your heart, sung in Angela Lansbury's voice....
By the way, Anastasia may be one of the best animated films of our time. Seriously.
And it's true, you can see all of Paris from Montmarte. We even ventured into the church. No, I didn't melt.
After being briefly trapped in the Montmarte funicular, we hoofed it back down the hill and decided to keep walking.
We walked for nearly two hours, just people watching and sight-seeing. But then the cute stores became not so cute.
Me: Where are we?
The Frenchman: Ho-town.
Well, not exactly. He actually said Pigalle. Or as I call it - Skanky McSkankVille.
Or: "Get naughty during your next visit to Paris by visiting the notorious Pigalle Place, an epicenter of sex shops, peep shows, strip clubs, cabarets and general adults-only, X-rated adventures."
Because who doesn't want to get naughty?
So we strolled from peep show to sex shop. But it wasn't so bad - there were tons of normal looking people, kids even. If you're into that.
We stopped, had some hot cocoa, took in the atmosphere. Of course.
Eventually we out walked Pigalle, and found ourselves near a cute Italian restaurant. So we ate, got a little sauced, and called it a lovely, Parisian night.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
something more important than cellphones
It's World Mental Health Day. So let's take a moment and think about all the crazies in our lives.
I may take a fifteen minute break.
I may take a fifteen minute break.
Monday, October 8, 2007
reliance on technology = pathetic, weak
So my phone died. For real. All the way. I was milking the orange box for a while. And then the red. Then I turned if off for a bit. But I always knew I could turn it back on in a pinch.
I mean, it's a razor. Come on.
My lease is up on Sunday, the apartment is a mess, and I've been sick for nine days. Sick enough to go to urgent care and then get rejected by a bitchy ass nurse because I didn't have my insurance card on me and don't have $160 to see a doctor.
That charger is in my damn apartment. But between the unfortunate toilet incident that my daddy had to fix and the unruly hooligans my bff Mary invited over, I just don't know where to look anymore.
So it's dead. Friday night, on my way home, sad little gleams of red remind me to make my big weekend plans (ha! mint chocolate chip or pralines n' cream?). I send a final text to Maggie, inviting her to a bbq at ODB's the next day. Note: self-coined nicknames not cool. But it'll do.
As I send the text, I wonder...
Where is the bbq? hmnn.
When is it? hmnn.
What is the expiration date on Corona, and should I bring my skunked beer anyway?
All questions for the host, but alas, one "message sent" and then pfft. Like a wee little fart.
(Something I had to come to terms with after the aforementioned toilet incident.)
Saturday morning. Loneliest morning ever.
Does Maggie think I'm blowing her off? Where does ODB live? And will the people I normally blow off believe me this time? (ahem...daddy)
In a last attempt, I switch her on (for the time being, the razor has gained a female pronoun for being such a heinous bitch). She flickered: "one text message, one new voicemail," and then off.
What a tease. Oh, and then my Internet went out.
The thought of taking the metro, using an actual retro phonebook, tracking down my parents, getting the car, finding ODB - the dirty bastard, carrying around skunked beer, and maybe making it to the BBQ - all without a phone - was too much for me.
So I had some bananas with warm Nutella, and curled up to watch a What Not to Wear marathon in my jammies. Because I'm that cool.
I'm just saying that when that phone comes back on, there better be tons of messages from people missing my company.
I mean, it's a razor. Come on.
My lease is up on Sunday, the apartment is a mess, and I've been sick for nine days. Sick enough to go to urgent care and then get rejected by a bitchy ass nurse because I didn't have my insurance card on me and don't have $160 to see a doctor.
That charger is in my damn apartment. But between the unfortunate toilet incident that my daddy had to fix and the unruly hooligans my bff Mary invited over, I just don't know where to look anymore.
So it's dead. Friday night, on my way home, sad little gleams of red remind me to make my big weekend plans (ha! mint chocolate chip or pralines n' cream?). I send a final text to Maggie, inviting her to a bbq at ODB's the next day. Note: self-coined nicknames not cool. But it'll do.
As I send the text, I wonder...
Where is the bbq? hmnn.
When is it? hmnn.
What is the expiration date on Corona, and should I bring my skunked beer anyway?
All questions for the host, but alas, one "message sent" and then pfft. Like a wee little fart.
(Something I had to come to terms with after the aforementioned toilet incident.)
Saturday morning. Loneliest morning ever.
Does Maggie think I'm blowing her off? Where does ODB live? And will the people I normally blow off believe me this time? (ahem...daddy)
In a last attempt, I switch her on (for the time being, the razor has gained a female pronoun for being such a heinous bitch). She flickered: "one text message, one new voicemail," and then off.
What a tease. Oh, and then my Internet went out.
The thought of taking the metro, using an actual retro phonebook, tracking down my parents, getting the car, finding ODB - the dirty bastard, carrying around skunked beer, and maybe making it to the BBQ - all without a phone - was too much for me.
So I had some bananas with warm Nutella, and curled up to watch a What Not to Wear marathon in my jammies. Because I'm that cool.
I'm just saying that when that phone comes back on, there better be tons of messages from people missing my company.
Friday, October 5, 2007
true but sad
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_pictures/6404425.stm
A short survey reveals that I am the orangutan in this scenario.
A short survey reveals that I am the orangutan in this scenario.
Friday, August 31, 2007
smurfette for the day
Am I cursed? Are the forces of evil maligning against me?
Saying DONT GO TO NEW YORK THIS WEEKEND!
Hinting perhaps that Labor Day is meant for something more significant than checking out SJP's fabulous new everything-under-$20 boutique?
This morning at the Charity, I industriously decided to change the toner on the color printer. I breezily read the directions on the box (note: NOT HELPFUL WHATSOEVER) and do my MacGyver thing. After ten minutes of not getting anywhere (and with everyone tied up on a conference call) I finally pulled the damn thing out of the printer...... and then twisted a mysterious lever.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A cloud of murky blue (oh I'm sorry, I meant cyan) fog descended around me as I froze, torn between fight or flight.
Cyan ink everywhere in our tiny little kitchen. Including the kitchen sink.
Yes, laugh it up. Please, co-workers, laugh it up.
Still mildly blue, I trudged home. And on the ever reliable DC transport system, I stop centimeters short from stepping on a quivering baby bat in its death throes.
I mean really, metropolitan authorities, this isn't an Indiana Jones movie.
What if I was an obese, easily startled tourist?
Hmnn, what then?!?!
What?
Oh, how did I pay for my oh-so-disquieting ride home you ask?
Oh, well with my nifty metro smartrip pass. That I DROPPED IN THE TOILET earlier this week.
Yep. But really, it had almost $75 on it. And what's a lady to do?
Well, she sticks her delicate fingers in the loo and yanks it out. Lovely.
Maybe I'm being overdramatic.
Poor little bat.
Saying DONT GO TO NEW YORK THIS WEEKEND!
Hinting perhaps that Labor Day is meant for something more significant than checking out SJP's fabulous new everything-under-$20 boutique?
This morning at the Charity, I industriously decided to change the toner on the color printer. I breezily read the directions on the box (note: NOT HELPFUL WHATSOEVER) and do my MacGyver thing. After ten minutes of not getting anywhere (and with everyone tied up on a conference call) I finally pulled the damn thing out of the printer...... and then twisted a mysterious lever.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A cloud of murky blue (oh I'm sorry, I meant cyan) fog descended around me as I froze, torn between fight or flight.
Cyan ink everywhere in our tiny little kitchen. Including the kitchen sink.
Yes, laugh it up. Please, co-workers, laugh it up.
Still mildly blue, I trudged home. And on the ever reliable DC transport system, I stop centimeters short from stepping on a quivering baby bat in its death throes.
I mean really, metropolitan authorities, this isn't an Indiana Jones movie.
What if I was an obese, easily startled tourist?
Hmnn, what then?!?!
What?
Oh, how did I pay for my oh-so-disquieting ride home you ask?
Oh, well with my nifty metro smartrip pass. That I DROPPED IN THE TOILET earlier this week.
Yep. But really, it had almost $75 on it. And what's a lady to do?
Well, she sticks her delicate fingers in the loo and yanks it out. Lovely.
Maybe I'm being overdramatic.
Poor little bat.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
hope?
Alright, I admit it. I'm hardened, a bit cynical.
But today at work (I'm in the business of helping others) at the Charity, something happened to make even this coal shed melt a little bit.
A letter was slipped underneath our door, with a check for $32 for the children of Sudan. It was from a 12 year old girl and had tiger stickers, and rainbows and suns with smiley faces drawn on the envelope. On the back, she wrote "Brighten your day!"
Sigh.
(Come on - you'd have to be an Argentinean dictator to make fun of that.)
But today at work (I'm in the business of helping others) at the Charity, something happened to make even this coal shed melt a little bit.
A letter was slipped underneath our door, with a check for $32 for the children of Sudan. It was from a 12 year old girl and had tiger stickers, and rainbows and suns with smiley faces drawn on the envelope. On the back, she wrote "Brighten your day!"
Sigh.
(Come on - you'd have to be an Argentinean dictator to make fun of that.)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
le weekend
Well I was in a bit of a rut this past week. Apparently my phone manner at work is under par (umn), unwelcome ex-boyfriend thoughts are popping into my head, and the frenchman jetted off to Prague where cell phones no longer work.
Major moping, pouting, and a 15 hour nap (seriously, whats wrong with me?) later, I pack my obnoxiously large super-purse and head to the parents house for a pick-me-up. On the way, I hung out with a high school friend whom I have the bad habit of blowing off.
His venue of choice? Fast Eddie's pool hall. Sweet.
If there was a game where hitting that white ball in the pocket meant winning, I would be the champ.
Saturday meant waking up in Mama's bed (we call her Diddy-boo) with a hangover, wedged in between the cat and Diddy herself. Then, a two hour car ride to a one and a half hour party of thirty lesbians. Sadly, all my social anxieties were on full display since not a fellow in sight. But there was a lake...
A lake that was a weird cooling receptacle for the nearby nuclear power plant and rocking a solid 95 degrees. A brief dip ended by something ticklish swishing past my leg.
It could have been algae, but I don't want to grow a third arm.
Post-swim, Diddy and I shared a brisket sandwich (bad idea) and headed home. To our communal bed, as mine wasn't made and I certainly wasn't going to have at it.
Sunday morning, mopes not completely gone. So I requested a cinnamon bun and skim milk. To my delight (and after some sass), Diddy jumps in the Volvo to oblige. Perhaps she senses my irrational pity party?
Then on to much needed girl time with Maggie May (so named for her unhealthy obsession with Rod Stewart). We go to a birthday party and spend the whole time sitting together and being fabulous. After some fire ants crawl up my uber-short skirt, we call it a day.
The frenchman finally checks in, and I get over my funk. Enfin.
Major moping, pouting, and a 15 hour nap (seriously, whats wrong with me?) later, I pack my obnoxiously large super-purse and head to the parents house for a pick-me-up. On the way, I hung out with a high school friend whom I have the bad habit of blowing off.
His venue of choice? Fast Eddie's pool hall. Sweet.
If there was a game where hitting that white ball in the pocket meant winning, I would be the champ.
Saturday meant waking up in Mama's bed (we call her Diddy-boo) with a hangover, wedged in between the cat and Diddy herself. Then, a two hour car ride to a one and a half hour party of thirty lesbians. Sadly, all my social anxieties were on full display since not a fellow in sight. But there was a lake...
A lake that was a weird cooling receptacle for the nearby nuclear power plant and rocking a solid 95 degrees. A brief dip ended by something ticklish swishing past my leg.
It could have been algae, but I don't want to grow a third arm.
Post-swim, Diddy and I shared a brisket sandwich (bad idea) and headed home. To our communal bed, as mine wasn't made and I certainly wasn't going to have at it.
Sunday morning, mopes not completely gone. So I requested a cinnamon bun and skim milk. To my delight (and after some sass), Diddy jumps in the Volvo to oblige. Perhaps she senses my irrational pity party?
Then on to much needed girl time with Maggie May (so named for her unhealthy obsession with Rod Stewart). We go to a birthday party and spend the whole time sitting together and being fabulous. After some fire ants crawl up my uber-short skirt, we call it a day.
The frenchman finally checks in, and I get over my funk. Enfin.
Monday, August 13, 2007
warts and all
The thing about ex-boyfriends is they won't ever really get out of your head. Because they just suck.
There's the one whose name has become a four-letter word.
(The one that will always hurt, just a little bit in the back of your throat. )
Because maybe the third time's not the charm. Maybe it's the fucking kicker.
I've travelled far and wide in this world (well far enough) and after kissing lots of frogs - I finally fell in love with one.
(Side note: I have a paralyzing phobia of the real amphibian critter. This doesn't help.)
But in the between time...
Ah, the new yorker. So hip in his designer jeans that cost more than a bus ticket to visit him.
But it turns out that a boy's reaction to a cute little puppy pissing on his fancy jeans is a good indicator of his character. [That would be, a complete f'ing asshole.]
And maybe if he constantly attacks your emotional hangups (I do have a few but hey), he's hiding some of his own.
And frankly, some of us just aren't into dirty talk. I'm a lady, thank you very much.
The Bulgarian, well, what a lovely interlude. Although he did hedge uncomfortably close to the line separating us liberals from those who are wrong.
But he always called as promised.
Oh you Eastern European hunk, you had me at, "I'll pick you up at 8."
Because you always did.
Soft kisses and Ryan Adams, yup I liked that one.
But then the frenchman came back...
(and who can resist a faux hawk and an armful of Kinder?)
There's the one whose name has become a four-letter word.
(The one that will always hurt, just a little bit in the back of your throat. )
Because maybe the third time's not the charm. Maybe it's the fucking kicker.
I've travelled far and wide in this world (well far enough) and after kissing lots of frogs - I finally fell in love with one.
(Side note: I have a paralyzing phobia of the real amphibian critter. This doesn't help.)
But in the between time...
Ah, the new yorker. So hip in his designer jeans that cost more than a bus ticket to visit him.
But it turns out that a boy's reaction to a cute little puppy pissing on his fancy jeans is a good indicator of his character. [That would be, a complete f'ing asshole.]
And maybe if he constantly attacks your emotional hangups (I do have a few but hey), he's hiding some of his own.
And frankly, some of us just aren't into dirty talk. I'm a lady, thank you very much.
The Bulgarian, well, what a lovely interlude. Although he did hedge uncomfortably close to the line separating us liberals from those who are wrong.
But he always called as promised.
Oh you Eastern European hunk, you had me at, "I'll pick you up at 8."
Because you always did.
Soft kisses and Ryan Adams, yup I liked that one.
But then the frenchman came back...
(and who can resist a faux hawk and an armful of Kinder?)
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Frappucino may be high in calories, fat.
So one of my co-workers doesn't like me. This may be for a variety of reasons.
I think mainly because I'm skinny. Yeah.
According to my father, me and my sister have both inherited his mother's childbearing hips. One day, in an effort to explain why I don't rock capris at the workplace, I blamed my genetic heritage. To this, my coworker said no way, she was the one with childbearing hips.
And then I agreed. "Well yeah."
(I mean, she just had a baby, so obviously she has childbearing hips now. Really, that's how I meant it.)
Brief backpedaling went nowhere, and she flounced out of my office. Well, it might have been more of a sedate walk but there was attitude.
The next morning, I was calmly enjoying my 10:30 mocha (light) frappuccino, and tapping away. Tap, tap, tap. She entered.
"Hmnn, I see why you don't eat now."
(whoohah?)
"You get all your calories from your coffee drink. Like, that's an entire meal right there. Seriously."
(mmmmn, frappuccino I love you.)
"Do you have any idea how filling that is? Seriously."
10:35. Morning coffee break ruined. Seriously.
I think mainly because I'm skinny. Yeah.
According to my father, me and my sister have both inherited his mother's childbearing hips. One day, in an effort to explain why I don't rock capris at the workplace, I blamed my genetic heritage. To this, my coworker said no way, she was the one with childbearing hips.
And then I agreed. "Well yeah."
(I mean, she just had a baby, so obviously she has childbearing hips now. Really, that's how I meant it.)
Brief backpedaling went nowhere, and she flounced out of my office. Well, it might have been more of a sedate walk but there was attitude.
The next morning, I was calmly enjoying my 10:30 mocha (light) frappuccino, and tapping away. Tap, tap, tap. She entered.
"Hmnn, I see why you don't eat now."
(whoohah?)
"You get all your calories from your coffee drink. Like, that's an entire meal right there. Seriously."
(mmmmn, frappuccino I love you.)
"Do you have any idea how filling that is? Seriously."
10:35. Morning coffee break ruined. Seriously.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
the OC? bah oui
my family always says they know the frenchman loves me because he listens to all my inane prattle.
to my credit, last night we had a super intense conversation via our nifty msn webcam on the pervasive racism in france. and then after it deteriorated into name-calling -
the frenchman: your president is a huge idiot dumbass
me: well your president is friends with mine, so who's the real idiot, hmnn...?
(note*sarkozy is apparently in the states on "holiday" kissing up to his new bff dubya. and that I in no way disagree with the assertion that our president is an idiot dumbass)
- I calmly started painting my nails 'classic red' and ignoring the frenchman.
But then in an effort to ease the tension - because frankly all that talk about prejudice and racism against arabs (not from the frenchman but from other less tolerant frogs) had upset me quite a bit - I started telling him the most recent developments on the OC. I know, the OC is like three years old. and whats the point when the hills is on. but I missed it the first time round, cause I was a judging judy and watching I don't know Will and Grace or something. and its on everyday at 6pm. And i love it.
L.O.V.E. it.
And by extension, so must the frenchman.
So Ryan's dating Taylor now, even though Marisa just died like six months ago. but Taylor's ex french husband just showed up in town after writing a tell all novel about their sexual exploits (here the frenchman's interest temporarily piqued). but the ex is a real intellectual poet while Ryan still works in a Mexican restaurant so i predict that Taylor cheats on him with the french poet. meanwhile Seth just proposed to Summer who said no, and Marisa's mom is running a brothel.
breath.
frenchman: wow, ca bouge (that moves)
me: yes, ca bouge
to my credit, last night we had a super intense conversation via our nifty msn webcam on the pervasive racism in france. and then after it deteriorated into name-calling -
the frenchman: your president is a huge idiot dumbass
me: well your president is friends with mine, so who's the real idiot, hmnn...?
(note*sarkozy is apparently in the states on "holiday" kissing up to his new bff dubya. and that I in no way disagree with the assertion that our president is an idiot dumbass)
- I calmly started painting my nails 'classic red' and ignoring the frenchman.
But then in an effort to ease the tension - because frankly all that talk about prejudice and racism against arabs (not from the frenchman but from other less tolerant frogs) had upset me quite a bit - I started telling him the most recent developments on the OC. I know, the OC is like three years old. and whats the point when the hills is on. but I missed it the first time round, cause I was a judging judy and watching I don't know Will and Grace or something. and its on everyday at 6pm. And i love it.
L.O.V.E. it.
And by extension, so must the frenchman.
So Ryan's dating Taylor now, even though Marisa just died like six months ago. but Taylor's ex french husband just showed up in town after writing a tell all novel about their sexual exploits (here the frenchman's interest temporarily piqued). but the ex is a real intellectual poet while Ryan still works in a Mexican restaurant so i predict that Taylor cheats on him with the french poet. meanwhile Seth just proposed to Summer who said no, and Marisa's mom is running a brothel.
breath.
frenchman: wow, ca bouge (that moves)
me: yes, ca bouge
Thursday, July 26, 2007
ode to my sister
The saddest sound is that of a phone ringing, and the silence of a girl screening her calls on the other end.
asshole.
asshole.
Friday, July 20, 2007
lost in translation
me : Do you think my French has gotten better or worse since I've moved back to the US?
the frenchman : Could you repeat that dear? I didn't understand a word you said.
the frenchman : Could you repeat that dear? I didn't understand a word you said.
Monday, July 16, 2007
MAXIM TELLS LIES
The frenchman broke his foot last weekend in what I imagine to be a sprightly game of tennis. Me being the ever-doting copine, I immediately sent him a care package. Included : one mix cd, a get-well-soon card, stuffed monkey (with our embroidered initials, natch), and the most recent edition of Maxim to – ahem – "encourage" his slowly progressing English. Imagine my horror when I (not easily shocked) read the types of things young men these days are being encouraged to propose to us young ladies.
First off, I didn’t even know what a money shot was. According to the big sister, such naivete is limited to myself. And I certainly was unaware that these "facials," as Maxim so tenderly calls them, were acceptable propositions in the bedroom. Not to mention the anal part. When did the no entry sign on our back door GET REMOVED ?!
Maxim? Anything to say for yourself?
Although big sis proposed I block the offending section out with black marker CIA style, I don't think the frenchman’s vocab extends to back door and ejaculation. Lets hope.
One week later, the frenchman calls to thank me for my ever so thoughtful gift. His foot is healing nicely, back to tennis in less than three months. He has named the stuffed monkey John the Monkey. This is after ruling out Roger the Monkey, Charles the Monkey, and similar takes with our respective names. Yup, that's my boy.
I feel this is an appropriate time to broach what he should not be taking to heart in Maxim. He hasn’t read the offending paragraphs yet, so I attempt to summarize. This takes a while as I’ve not had to describe money shots before in French. But with analogies to gay sex and a hearty laugh to cover any awkwardness, I make my point. To my relief, the frenchman immediately replies with indignation that these acts are disgusting and disrespectful to women.
And then, "but they are kind of sexy, NON?"
But so disrespectful, he would never ever want to offend me in such a manner.
Unless I wanted him to of course.
And so on. Although he did explain that anal sex holds much less allure than the cum-in-the-eye trick (and also doesn’t "Cum in me eye" sound like a pirate come-on ? And I do love pirate themes…).
But seriously, who am I dating and when did he become okay with kinky sex maneuvers that involve pirates ? I mean, money shots.
After ten minutes of this, I tell him that if he brings it up again there will be no sex ever again. And that I hope he breaks his other foot. (kidding)
First off, I didn’t even know what a money shot was. According to the big sister, such naivete is limited to myself. And I certainly was unaware that these "facials," as Maxim so tenderly calls them, were acceptable propositions in the bedroom. Not to mention the anal part. When did the no entry sign on our back door GET REMOVED ?!
Maxim? Anything to say for yourself?
Although big sis proposed I block the offending section out with black marker CIA style, I don't think the frenchman’s vocab extends to back door and ejaculation. Lets hope.
One week later, the frenchman calls to thank me for my ever so thoughtful gift. His foot is healing nicely, back to tennis in less than three months. He has named the stuffed monkey John the Monkey. This is after ruling out Roger the Monkey, Charles the Monkey, and similar takes with our respective names. Yup, that's my boy.
I feel this is an appropriate time to broach what he should not be taking to heart in Maxim. He hasn’t read the offending paragraphs yet, so I attempt to summarize. This takes a while as I’ve not had to describe money shots before in French. But with analogies to gay sex and a hearty laugh to cover any awkwardness, I make my point. To my relief, the frenchman immediately replies with indignation that these acts are disgusting and disrespectful to women.
And then, "but they are kind of sexy, NON?"
But so disrespectful, he would never ever want to offend me in such a manner.
Unless I wanted him to of course.
And so on. Although he did explain that anal sex holds much less allure than the cum-in-the-eye trick (and also doesn’t "Cum in me eye" sound like a pirate come-on ? And I do love pirate themes…).
But seriously, who am I dating and when did he become okay with kinky sex maneuvers that involve pirates ? I mean, money shots.
After ten minutes of this, I tell him that if he brings it up again there will be no sex ever again. And that I hope he breaks his other foot. (kidding)
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