mcdo and the po-po.

Well, I’m sitting at McDo, painfully counting the minutes until the kids tire of playing tag in the cesspool known as McDonald’s playplace. Luckily I brought my laptop. Unfortunately McDo wireless wants you to keep your internet searching G-rated. No you perverts, I’m not insinuating that I tried to look at porn while waiting outside the kiddie play area. But I did try to read my fave celeb gossip blog Dlisted (hardly G-rated). Since McDonalds also denied me New York Sex Diaries, I’m forced to sit here and write. Not the worst fate, especially since I should have two weeks of material to share with you all.

The month of May has flown by, right? It’s not just me? I now have 66 days left in the land of plenty. If anyone wants me to illegally smuggle something French back home, let me know, I’m taking orders. Stinky cheese WILL be an extra charge. Speaking of stinking and the month of May….bad transition, I know…it has really started to heat up here. It was in the 80’s Sunday and Monday and the sun was out in full force. Awesome, right? Well, not so much. Apparently air conditioning is a foreign concept.

The train is unbearable. The RER (which is a train but less nice) is even worse. I got stuck behind these foreign (think french colonies…) guys around noon, prime stinking time. The sun was beating down and the train was at least 100 degrees. As it started to move, the wind provided a little relief---at least for them. The breeze from the open train windows artfully scooped up their pit stink and carried it right into my unsuspecting nostrils. One second I was enjoying the soft scent of lilac on the side of the track and the next I was invaded by the overly ripe smell of non-deodorized pits. As the french say, BEURKKKK.

It’s not just public spaces though. Our house is an oven. I can’t sleep at night because I feel like I’m going through early-onset menopause. I sweat, I toss, I turn, and I wake up in the morning and give myself an ulcer from the five cups of coffee I need just to stay awake. Tuesday AND Wednesday night I was up til 4 on the couch watching—get this—dubbed versions of Lifetime movies. As if my life hadn’t already hit an all-time low. There’s nothing I hate more than when the mouth movements don’t go with the words. That on top of the fact that it’s c-list actors doing both the acting AND the dubbing---well, I might as well just have jumped off of a cliff.

So yesterday I had my first run-in with the po-po. Ugh. It’s not the self-important, pretentious attitude they undoubtedly have; nor the way they condescendingly ask me why I ran the stop sign. No, it’s the fact that after they drive off I think of at least one million ways I could have been way more sarcastic or biting with my responses. Don’t you hate that you always think of the good things when it’s too late?

So I know I’ve said it before, but my town is tiny. I don’t even live in the city center, so my little lane of village is really miniscule. There are exactly two roads and they intersect to make a T. Well, I was at the T and wanted to make a right. Previously you just had to yield (it’s a one lane road so if there’s a car you can’t go), but recently a stop sign was installed. Normally I just roll up and make sure there are no cars and go. Like I said, this road is so narrow and small that there is really no harm in not stopping. So I did my little California roll and pulled out to the right. Who did I see? THE PO-PO. They waved. I briefly considered smiling and waving and passing on like an airhead, but like I said, the road was too narrow to pass. I stopped.

Arrogant douchebags in rapist van: Did you not see there was a stop sign?

Me: (wishing I had Stevie Wonder glasses and a big cane) Uh, yea. (Not sure whether my accent will help or harm and thus switching to french)…I stopped.

Them: We didn’t see you stop.

Me: Well sirs, aren’t you supposed to stop just before the white line?

Them: Uh, well…hm, well, you should have stopped on the line.

Me: Well, if I had stopped on the line, you would have hit me. I stopped before and that’s why you didn’t see me. There is a fence.

Them: (looking at each other, trying to mentally calculate the length of my bumper and whether or not my car would have actually been hidden by the fence, then getting too confused to know where to direct the conversation) Well, hm, just pay more attention.

I drove away and gave the the doigt d’honneur while muttering various expletives. I mean, of course I ran the stop sign. But what the hell were they doing driving down the frickin’ one lane road of Chaumes-en-Brie?! After mentally fuming for at least twenty minutes I came to the following conclusions.

a) I should have spoken only English.

b) I should have driven off. Nothing like a country lane car chase, huh? It would have taken them 30 minutes to make a 3-point turn in that rapist van.

c) I should have faked some sort of urgent health issue. Like labor. Men distance themselves from vaginal issues.

As it turns out, cops are universally douchey. I have to say though that the french police, while 50 times more smug and cavalier than most policemen, let me off the hook a little more than an American cop would have. The best part of it all is that I had Zoe in the car with me. Bless her heart, she is a bit of an airhead. After I pulled away I was thinking "oh shit, Zoe is going to tell her parents". Only thing she said? "Who were those guys?" Whew.

Nothing else to report here. Took the kiddies into the city today and they were ridiculously well-behaved. We shopped til we dropped—or they did at least—and then we ate a huge lunch and vegged out. The only downfall—it was raining. Tomorrow is Friday and I couldn’t be happier…although the kids only had two days of school this week. Thanks to a jour ferié on Monday, no school Wednesday, and a strike today, I got to sleep in a lot this week. Which was needed considering not one, but two nights last week I went to sleep as the sun was rising….

Le sigh.

late.

I'm getting a little lazy about this whole writing every week thing. It's the Thursday deadline that really kills me. You see, Wednesday the kids don't have school, so it's like a little mid-week mini-weekend. When Thursday rolls around, it's almost like Monday, and I have a really difficult time getting motivated. On top of that, yesterday was a jour ferié, basically a "holiday", a french excuse not to work.

And get this. At various points throughout the year (especially in May) there are these little holidays--they fall on a different day of the week each year (duh)--and people don't have to go to work. In a few weeks there is some national old people don't work day and no one has to work. Yesterday was the Ascension, and it just happened to be on a Thursday. When a jour ferié falls on a Thursday, the French have this wonderful little invention called faire le pont. What does this mean? Basically, it means that if you have a Thursday holiday, you take off on Friday as well so that you can have a four day weekend. This is so popular that some schools close today because no kids are there. I mean--we had a two week break two weeks ago. Is it really time for another vacation? And more importantly, how does the average family afford five vacations a year? Luckily my kids are going to school and I don't have to stay home alone in this scary house while they're on vacation.

Somewhere in America we are getting things horribly, horribly wrong.

In other news, I had a fun weekend that included a dinner with at least fifteen bottles of wine, an impromptu dance party, and clubbing with good looking french men that I regarded with loads of skepticism and distrust. I was feeling sassy and tried out my french (verbal) fighting skills. The first victim was a six foot five, 300 lb. bouncer who told Kate and I we couldn't sit in the "VIP lounge". He sure got an earful from us. Twice. As if fighting with the bouncer is EVER a good idea. Luckily we were not kindly shown the exit. After that dispute, we hopped in the hour long coat check line to wait with our friends. Despite the fact that I assured the french girls behind me that I was not in fact getting a coat but simply waiting with my friends, they didn't stop verbally attacking me.

I took this as a sign. I hopped out of line to get a better view of them. I practiced my french death stare. They told me I was impolite because I accidentally kicked the friend when getting out of line. My response? "Wahhhhh, poor baby, did I hurt you?" (in french. In a baby voice.)

Just call me the master of insults. Don't think I stopped there though. The more they told me I was malpolie, the more I said "awwww, ca t'a fait mal?".

Needless to say, my night needed to come to an end. But not before my 3 am kebab frites. As if I needed THAT on top of two bottles of wine, salami and cheese.

This weekend I'm stuck sitting at home while literally all of my friends take a fun vacation. This translates to catching up on The Office, The Hills, The City, 30 Rock, and whatever other shitty "The...." series I can get my hands on. Maybe a solo trip to the movies, a museum outing, a visit to Ladurée to gorge myself on macarons. You know, the usual.

And now I'm off to wander in Paris. Only 78 more days in this magnifique city.

back in action

"Real" life has slapped me in the face this week and told me to stop pretending like it's still vacation. I have to say "real" because let's face it, my life sometimes borders on ridiculously unreal. It has been hard to face the fact that I have three more months of uninterrupted working to do before I can return to the Motherland. Needless to say, it was less than difficult to habituate myself to a two week vacation period every 6 weeks. I'll start the countdown for this vacation-free hell: 86 days. Tick. Tock.

On to the important things. Without making myself look like an gullible idiot girl, I would like to present to you why I think 99% of French men are huge connards. Ladies, don't be fooled. Yes, there are a disproportionate amount of great looking men in Paris. And YES. They are all as big of assholes as you can imagine. I have met more beautiful frenchmen than I can count that have a little somethin-somethin on the side. Beauty does not give you a free pass for cheating. Isn't infidelity a no-no?

Apparently here it's not. And that disgusts me. As I sit and write this, I feel the rage bubbling up. Seriously, you chose to be in a relationship. If you want to put your manstick in every female that passes by, FINE, but for God's sake, don't do it while your innocent girlfriend sits at home waiting for you to return and watch Leap Year with her! Example: A couple of weeks ago I met a friend of a friend at a lunch. We did introductions, and I learned that he had a girlfriend. Now, a week or so later, I went to dinner with a group of people, this new guy included. It was fun, we had a few bottles of wine, and all of a sudden I noticed that new guy was getting veryyyyy cuddly with the girl next to him. A girl that was NOT his girlfriend. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought that maybe, just maybe, they were cousins or something.

By the end of the meal, however, the cousins idea was shot down. Well, that is, unless they were from Indiana. Their touchy-touchy had gotten so shameless that I'm pretty sure they were openly making plans about whose apartment to go back to.

THAT IS EFF-ED UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Conniving, mean, selfish, disgusting man. Oh so beautiful though.

Example 2. I met someone recently whose company I enjoyed. As a friend. Didn't even consider dating potential. Friend Zone. We went out for drinks and I suddenly realized that he was maybe hitting on me. Not the drunk, indiscreet american way, but the charming, make your heart melt french way. That's the thing with these damn French. They're all really, REALLY good at putting on the charm. They could make Janet Reno or Miranda from SATC crack.

So, back to the non-friend friend. I thought that he was a friend-zone guy, but he was quickly trying to advance out of that area. Connard. I can't believe after being tricked by those sly bastards so many times I didn't just tell him to go shove it in his french b-hole. But I didn't. Highlights of the night--roughly translated--include:

"You must be the most beautiful girl in America"

"Your eyes are magnificent"

"I just can't believe how lucky I am to be talking to such a beautiful girl"

Okay--I know you are all choking on your own vomit right now because let's face it, if an american guy in a bar said this to you, you'd either crotch kick him or spew in his face. But dear God, in french, it's almost like little angels are singing in your ears. I'm not even joking. A french man has the power to make you feel like the most amazing female specimen on earth. He tells you how cute and sexy and wonderful you are and sweet Jesus is it convincing.

But I digress. So after about the fifteenth "tu es vraiment jolie, ca me fait plaisir de rencontrer une tellement jolie americaine", I got the impression that he was into me.

And let's face it, I didn't mind the flattery.

So the next day we hung out and it was the same deal when suddenly a horrifying realization came over me. I remembered that a mutual friend of ours had once discussed this guy's girlfriend. Despite the fact that I wanted this beau frenchman to continue stroking my arm, I painstakingly ripped it away and asked if he still had this girlfriend I had once heard about.

He started laughing.

WAS THAT A FUNNY QUESTION? DO YOU THINK INFIDELITY IS FUNNY? WOULD YOUR GIRLFRIEND THINK IT WAS FUNNY TO SEE YOU STROKING MY ARM LIKE A FRICKING DOG?!?!?!?!

Gritting my teeth I said "SO? Do you?" His response? "You don't know how many times she has kicked me out of the house".

Excuse me sir, but I'm looking for a yes or no.

And just like that, my very, VERY last hope in the french male population was dashed.

You want to know what's worse? For about a day I justified his shit behavior. I even spent the rest of the day with him AND texted him.

Once he had gotten home though, he didn't text back. Oh yea, that's right, YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.

I feel like I myself am just as responsible. I let him get away with that terrible, terrible crap. And you know what? He's not the first to admit that he has a girlfriend. Are these girls as stupid as me or do they know and not care? Or worse, know and pretend like it's not happening? On a serious note, I think someone needs to hold french men accountable for their behavior. Saying "oh, it's a cultural thing" is a poor excuse in my opinion for completely inexcusable behavior.

And that's enough of my feminist rant. I will say that there are some really wonderful french guys out there! My friend Kate has been lucky enough to find the 1 in 100,000 nice, loyal men in this sex-crazed city.

I could write about my vacation, but I've exhausted my writing capabilities for the day. Plus, I think I may have broken the keyboard with my rage.

Some french infidelity articles:

Why infidelity is more accepted in France than in Anglophone countries, nerve.com

How the French justify their infidelity

Are we Americans (or just me?) too rigid with our marriage/relationship standards?