making friends online is hard

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.