ask the universe

Kids really know how to make your life miserable. I’m not talking “oh, I have had such a long stressful day”; I mean “pour me a shot of whiskey and pass the horse tranquilizers, I’m gonna need to go to my special place”. This past week with Zoe has literally been hell on earth. My capacity to resist physical violence is rapidly diminishing. It. Could. Get. Ugly. I don’t really know what transpired in my absence to create such an unwelcome change, but I am politely asking you, universe (thank you Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret—and Lizzy), to please stop the funny business and pull the stick out of this child’s ass.

This morning it was a fight about drinking milk. Believe me, I couldn’t care less if she drinks milk—but whose ass is on the line when she doesn’t drink it? MINE. Do you think I want another indirect lecture (a lecture directed towards me but given to the children; genre “Eliott, Zoe, you must drink your milk [or wash your hands/flush the toilet/take your shower]”, all the while shooting side-glare-stink-eye at me) about how they need to drink their milk…nuh-uh. A few days ago it was a full out, thirty minute, kicking and screaming tantrum about me speaking English. Sorry, that’s my job. And 90% of the time I don’t do it, so you’re going to have to put up with it when I decide to make the effort…Before that it was a screamfest about saying bad words. This kid has a sailor-quality mouth. Anything is game when she is mad. She has all the usual words down pat and has moved on to more, shall we say “creative” expressions. Not even my fault. I only cuss in ‘merican. There was also the tantrum about how school isn’t her strong point. At all. That tantrum was nearly an hour. Luckily I was only an innocent bystander for that one. I had to hear it all without being the target of the screaming.

And this was all in a one week time period.

That’s not normal…is it? I don’t remember throwing tantrums at that age. I probably did…but there is no way I was as intolerable as this kid. NO. WAY.

So here’s to hoping that her kiddie PMS stops asap.

In happier happenings, I have seen a ridiculous number of movies. The Ghost Writer, A Single Man, The Hurt Locker, and today, Shutter Island. We just had this very awesome event in Pars called Cinema du Printemps, which basically translates to movies for 3.50 instead of 10.00!! Even better: it’s not socially unacceptable or even uncomfortable to go to a movie alone here. I would have sooner gotten a mullet than gone to a movie alone in the U.S., but here it’s as common as [insert french cliché here]. You don’t even feel lonely because you’re surrounded by lots of other people lacking a date/friend/partner.

I’ve also been enjoying the beautiful weather here. A few days ago I was sharing a bench with a homeless guys, taking in the sunlight, when I realized that a few Japanese tourists were clearly struggling with something not too far from where I was lounging. I leaned forward and realized that the door to the free public toilets (I’d take my chances popping a squat in public before heading in there…) was jammed and they clearly wanted to risk their lives by using it. I watched, amused, for a few minutes, until I saw that one was definitely approaching me for advice. Sir, do I look like the type that would subject myself to these aboveground sewer pits just to take a leak? Hope not. “DO. YOU. KNOW. HOW. TO. OPEN. THIS. DOOR?” he shouted at me as if I was deaf instead of foreign. “Nope”, I replied, hoping my American accent was clearly audible. I slowly pulled myself off of my highly coveted bench to try to help them at the same time that the homeless guy had the same idea. He starts beating on the door, shouting for Claude to get out. Apparently, Claude was taking a little snooze on the pot. Or dealing with the lower-intestinal gastro that seems to have taken over Paris. Either way, not an ideal setting for sleeping or…expelling.

At this point, the situation had become too absurd—three Japanese, two (well one visible) homeless guy, and me, the American—for me to participate. I slowly edged away, hoping the homeless guy had it under control. Claude was either silently laughing to himself on the inside of the stink hole, drunk (in which case probably laughing), or dead. I hoped to myself as I sneaked back to my spot that he was in there shaking his head thinking “joke’s on those suckers”.

And finally, in political news. Tuesday was some sort of nation-wide mobilization day. In French, that means lots of strikes. Teachers, train conductors, metro people, and probably the damn workers of KFC. Again. For me, this translated to lots more riff-raff on the train. And really, really inconvenient train times—as if commuting 40 minutes isn’t enough. As I got off of the crowded train to take refuge in my car, a scruffy 12 year old appraised me. As one would appraise a house, an antique, maybe a used car. Looked me up. And down. And spent extra time on my legs. Then gave me the okay. I should have grabbed that little twit by the ear and let him have it. France has desensitized me. 12 year old boy wants to rate me like a slab of meat? Sure, why not? Next time I see that little bastard I'm going to spank him. Or something.

emmerdeuse

In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit this to you.

I joined Twitter.

I've also started reading celebrity gossip blogs (albeit hilarious ones).

Last, but certainly not least on my list of things I find obnoxious and vow never to do, I have started to send links of funny websites to innocent friends and family members with real lives. In case you're interested, here are the latest things making me giggle like a school girl:

1. Lindsay Lohan

2. This powerpoint presentation

3. This prank

All signs point to loss of intellectual brain function. I just spelled intellectual three times before getting it right, if that's any clue. Or just loss of motivation.

I wish I could say I hated it. But let's be honest, I don't have a real job or real responsibilities. Yet. Four months and 14 days left of that glorious lifestyle. Believe me, I will be glad to go back to the real world--when it's time--but don't think I won't soak up every last drop of worthlessness while I'm here.

That being said, let me get on to my story of the week.

The park.

I hesitate to write this but can't resist because a) I love disgusting things and b) have nothing better to share.

Today being Wednesday, the kids and I were cooped up in the house with nothing to do. They were bouncing off the walls by 10:30 and I was consequently near tears in the corner; having been grounded from the TV and computer for yelling asshole and fat ass (among other things) in the car, there wasn't a lot for them to do around the house. Luckily, it was a beautiful day, and I had the genius idea to go on a picnic. I prepared a very French lunch and we set off for the park.

Lunch was a success, and the kids ran around after eating, leaving me to devour my new book (Shutter Island version francais, in case you were wondering). About an hour into playtime, Zoe came up and asked for a tissue. I told her that I didn't have one. She asked instead for a plastic bag. I dug through our lunch trash and handed her one. Now, for some reason, I got the idea that she and Eliott wanted to make a kite. I just figured--a tissue, that floats, and well a bag can inflate with air and look kind of cool.

How wrong I was.

I returned to my book, only to be interrupted several minutes later by loud yelling and laughing. Zoe sauntered over to me looking very guilty. When asked what she and Eliott were doing, she told me that they were picking grass. She had her big-time lie face plastered on, however, and I immediately suspected something naughty was going on. I asked her again what was up. Same bullshit.

Eliott came running over about that time with a stick, pushing some sort of rock or nut or....well, we'll get to that in a second.

"Eliott," I asked, "what was so funny? "

He doesn't waste any time.

"Zoe pooped behind the tree," he told me.

I flew into the air, my book toppling onto the blanket. "SHE WHAT??!?!?!?!!!!"

And more importantly, "IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS ON THE END OF YOUR STICK?!?!?!"

"DISGUSTING!" I scream. "WE ARE LEAVING THIS INSTANT". I start angrily throwing things in the picnic bag while asking Zoe what in the hell she could have possibly been thinking. "DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS A PUBLIC PLACE?!?!" I shout. "You poop on a toilet" I manage to utter through gritted teeth.

Her excuse? "I didn't know this was a public place". Didn't know? Dear Christ Zoe this is the most public street in Chaumes-en-Brie. The people sitting across the street in the restaurant just got a front row view of you taking a dump on a tree.

Front page news tomorrow: "Negligent American nanny lets child defecate in public park"

You might be wondering about the plastic bag. A few hours after the poo-in-park incident (what I will from now own refer to only as PIP), I realized that Zoe was wearing different bottoms. I semi-calmly asked where her skirt and tights were and Eliott chimed in "she pooped all over them".

Fit of rage ensues.

Apparently, having nothing to wipe with (hence the tissue request; I cannot believe this turd incident was actually PLANNED), Zoe chose to use a plastic bag. Now, I have never personally wiped with something plastic, but I can imagine that it is not very effective.

Well, now I know for a fact: NEVER WIPE YOUR ASS WITH A PLASTIC BAG.

You'll end up with poop....everywhere. We could have used this handy presentation today, that's for sure.

Vacation Saga

I know it’s cliché to say, but I just got back from my weeklong séjour in Eastern Europe and I feel like I need another week of vacation just to recover. I guess the end-of-trip stomach virus could have something to do with my exhaustion, but I will get to that later. I have so much to write, so I’ll try and get to all the important (read: ridiculous) things in one entry.

All in all, the trip was absolutely amazing! I guess I didn’t really think too much about the cities we were visiting before I left (ahem, that I was going to be visiting some post-commie countries), so I had no idea what to expect. Luckily I was pleasantly surprised in each place.

Our first stop was Vienna. Kate and I woke up way too early last Friday morning and boarded the plane for Schnitzel-land. Fighting serious sleepiness, we ventured into the Vienna city center just in time for the rain to start pouring. Luckily for us, we found the bus tour and embraced the touristy-ness of it all for a pretty informative loop around the city. Afterwards we ate a meat and potatoes lunch at a local restaurant. Not bad, but dear God do I have vegetable and fruit deficiency after a week of that cuisine. I’m half-convinced that the stomach bug was the result of eating pure grease for eight days. The next stop was Mozarthaus, aka Mozart’s house, a totally anticlimactic apartment that only minimally covered details of Mozart’s life. I wandered around and hummed the Magic Flute for two hours. After that we retired for a night of taste testing Viennese junk food and watching Olympics. Whatever, I was tired.

Kate’s friend Sheila joined us on Saturday. We saw the rest of the touristy things—Imperial Apartments, Belvedere, the Art Museum (okay well, the outside of the museum), St. Stephens Cathedral, and most importantly the food and drink stands outside of City Hall. There was a huge ice-skating rink, and despite the fact that it was about 50 degrees, people were out and about skating on the slush. I drank spiced punch and watched those poor fools. Saturday night was our one big hurrah; we created our own pub-crawl through the Bermuda Triangle bars. Let’s just say the night ended with me downing a foot long hotdog wrapped in a baguette while the others ate gigantic slices of pizza.

Sunday we finished up Vienna by seeing Schonbrunn Palace. I definitely enjoyed it, even though I had to use one of those damned audio guides. Afterwards we hopped on the train to Budapest, Hungary. Pretty uneventful other than the boozy couple of 80-year-olds next to us on the train. They downed an enormous beer (after struggling for at least 30 minutes to open it) and then the lady took a Jaeger shot. I hope I’m like that when I’m 80. We got in pretty late so we made a visit to the 24-hour grocery and then got some street meat to scarf down.

We woke up the next morning and did a free walking tour. Our guide was great and infused just the right amount of sex-related humor to get a pretty good tip. He made us (well not me) rub the balls of a horse statue and forced us to get our photo snapped with a phallic fountain. I, of course, loved him. We went to an indoor market for lunch to try a local specialty, langos. It was basically a big Frisbee of fried dough covered with whatever you want. I chose cheese, sour cream, chili sauce and ham. Pretty delicious but a definite gut bomb. It started pouring while we were walking around inside so we were forced to buy some cookies at the market and wait it out. Shucks.

We headed to dinner at a place our guide recommended. Not that good. The food is just….not excellent. The redeeming part of the evening was the two pretty cool bars we went to. Definitely local places, they had a really cool, laidback feel. The first one was hosting a DJ who was putting music to slightly creepy cartoons. We were mesmerized. The second one was this place hidden from view. On a deserted street, we never would have found this bar had our tour guide not suggested it. It oozed scene-y coolness. In an authentic, unpretentious way.

An important note about Budapest. THE METRO. The first time it pulled into the station, Kate, Sheila and I almost died. My jaw literally hit the ground. I once watched a movie called Midnight Meat Train (with dear old Yong) and they must have used the Budapest metro to shoot the gory train murder scenes. This thing must have been at least 80 years old. Decrepit and creepy looking, we couldn’t help feeling like we were being rushed to our death every time we stepped inside. I’ll steal some of Kate’s pictures to show you proof. The handle bars hanging from the ceiling reminded me of something butchers would hang their cow carcasses on.

The second day we toured around and then went to the Hungarian baths, which are supposed to be a famous point in the city. I can honestly say that I would have rather swum in the kiddie pool than sat in those filth holes. The water—just barely lukewarm—smelled funky and I couldn’t shake the feeling that soggy band-aids were floating around my ankles. The only redeeming point was the massive outdoor pool. It was hot enough and large enough that I didn’t feel like I was swimming in the other people’s skin cells. The only downside: a skeevy guy swam dangerously close to us the whole time (I HAD to mention him Kate!!). Oh, did I mention that I had to go in my sports bra and underwear? Yea. I naturally forgot to bring a bathing suit, and taking my tour guide’s advice, I decided to sport my skivvies. He said it was no problem! WRONG. The men there were already creepy as hell; add the fact that I was wearing my underwear as opposed to a real bathing suit, and I felt like I was part of a peep show. An old man approaching 100 yelled something to me about amour and j’adore….I cringed.

Kate and I took the night train to Bucharest. 14 hours in a smoky, enclosed space. Luckily we made friends with some Romanian guys our age. After drinking the train’s entire stock of wine, we ordered dinner and then went to sleep. We arrived in Romania and my cousin…..well my grandma’s cousin’s son…picked us up. Kate's friend Chrissy met us in Bucharest that evening ass well. I have to say--both are dears for putting up with my family! Dragosh was an amazing tour guide, never leaving our side. Ever. He personally showed us around Bucharest and took us to Transylvania where we stayed in Brasov. We got to see Dracula’s Castle (letdown) as well as all of the sights in the town of Brasov.

On our way back, I started to feel a little off. This “off” feeling progressed to mock labor contractions, and by the end of the trip, I thought my intestines were going to explode inside my body. Plus, because it was snowing like crazy outside, our two hour car ride home was extended to about 4 and a half hours. I arrived back at the hostel and thought I was going to die. I even contemplated seeing a Romanian doctor (must have been delirious). Dragos, luckily, arrived just in time with a handful of medicine, and I was spared from testing the Romanian healthcare system.

Around 4 am, right as the medicine started to wear off, I woke up to use the bathroom. To unlock/lock our hostel door, the key was needed, so I jiggled the thing in the lock to get out. Nothing happened. I turned the other way. No luck. At this point I started to panic a little. I didn’t want to wake the girls, yet my situation was becoming…urgent. Finally Chrissy woke up. She couldn’t open the door either. I started to weigh my options---window, trash can, breaking the glass in the door to escape. I called the front desk. The woman, who OF COURSE didn’t have an extra key to our room, went outside and waited for me to throw down our key. She literally came in the nick of time, and I made a mad dash toward the bathroom to ralph.

Vacation couldn't end peacefully, could it?

And there is the short...ish...version of my vacation. I have pictures that I'm too lazy to upload and plus I'm about to have to run out of the house to catch my train to go to school. Psh.

Adios!