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.