Sunday, July 24, 2011
It's dimanche matin... Sunday Morning.
I have to leave the apartment and go to the primeur and the boulangère. It is a nice day, but I know (because it is after 10a.m.) the ripe peaches are gone and my favorite bread probably is too.
Maybe I'll stay home and eat stinky cheese and pasta till the primeur opens again on Tuesday.
Because no one else does so you can imagine what sort of things are waiting for you on the toilet seat.
And since toilet news comes in pairs (like the legs of your underpants)...
Lack of toilet paper is also a serious problem.
About 70% of all public toilet rooms are out of paper. (And by "rooms", I mean very small closed door closets with a toilet. Think boat or camper toilets.)
It is my ultimate fear.
Doing the thigh-quivering, hovering above-the-toilet-seat squat and then trying to add extra shake at the end to eliminate as much drippage as possible.
Eliminating as much drippage as possible.
Because drip-dry isn't really dry, now is it.
Then pulling your pants back up. The cringe-causing horror.
And then I know I haven't wiped. All day.
I use antibacterial gel, as if I could get the knowledge sanitized from my mind. It's like the tell-tale-unwiping
The desperation forces me to militarily check for toilet paper.
On the rare occasion that I forget I have been known to do a hand-swipe and then deftly touch nothing with that hand until I maneuver my pants up with my left hand(with my ambidextral skillz) and thoroughly wash that hand.
Because nothing is as dirty as not having wiped. Nothing.
Even other scraps of unused toilet paper on top of the garbage.
I really did.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Yea, after 3 years and numerous shelackings by French women, my nice gene/education still, stupidly believes. This was the conversation I had yesterday in the gym locker room.
KB (noticing a woman has opened a locker near to mine and I am taking up most of the space): I am sorry. (moving to make space) I am not used to people being here. (It is the corner locker right by the door)
Parisienne about 50 years old, blond hair: Well there is enough room for everyone.
KB (assuming something has gotten lost in translation): No, I mean. Usually there isn't anyone by the door. (stumbling in French looking for what must have gotten lost) I just wanted you to have enough space.
KB inner debate - (Do I out slap or continue being nice?)
KB's stupid nice gene that likes the abuse: Bonne soiree! (Have a nice evening)
Parisienne: Au revoir.
SMACK DOWN by the 50-year-old Parisienne!
WHY DIDN'T I JUST SHELACK HER WITH AN AU REVOIR!?
Yea go on and say it. I'm the bigger person. But guess what? No one cares about the bigger person here. It's all Nancy Sinatra, so either you are wearing your boots or you are walking around with boot prints on your face. DAMN THE NICENESS.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
The sales period (January & July) is an entire month where everything is on sale.
Everything. Like clothes, carpets, vaccuums (or "Hoovers" for the Brits). Tupperware, art supplies..
So back to the clothes and shoes
The 1st week is around 30% off
2nd week is around 50%
3rd week is 60-70% off
and if there is anything left at the end, it is for centimes
But no one here gets the hold out. They all go on the first day for the first discount. It looks like Filene's basement or the running of the brides for discount wedding dresses. Which means there is NOTHING left. But tatters...
Monday, July 4, 2011
I have this delusion that it's adorable when I yawn.
Like somehow I look like one of those tiny little babies yawning for the first time. Adorable.
Except I'm 32.
French people hold their yawns in.
Like teeth-clenching, jaw-straining, mouth closedness.
Try it next time you yawn. See how you feel after.
I don't know about your family but in my family of 4 children (gasp heard from the Parisian 1 boy and 1 girl families)
Yes, I know, shocking.
So again, in my family we had to fight for attention and positive words. Not that Mommy and Daddy didn't love us. They just had a lot of us and were busy being 2 single parents. So sometimes it helped to direct them to their job of positive reinforcement. It was not uncommon at our house find a report card on the fridge with a teenage handwritten remark:
The French, unwittingly, allow me to do the same thing. When you tell someone that you miss them,
Tu me manques.
You are (literally translated) telling them You miss me.
So clever. I don't know where that comes from. I'll just file it under weirdness and other miscellaneus exceptions to EVERYTHING. But I think it means we might be able to be friends. Our little seed of peace. Not unlike Tim Minchin's Anthem for Peace.