Blog Ennui. Please Stand By.

Seriously. I cannot be bothered to blog.

There's something in the summer air that has given me blog ennui as of late. Nothing seems exciting enough to blog about. And so I bring you....a random photo dump:

1. The new Metz Pompidou Center down the street is finally getting its chapeau. I think it's supposed to open next year?

2. Obama throws gang signs.

3. Double date with Manu and Emmanuella. We went to a Portuguese restaurant, in Luxembourg of course, where I had Dorado that was to die for.




And then the waiter came out and cooked up crepes in Grand Marnier...which I personally thought was super gross cuz I hate Grand Marnier.

4. Me and a bunch of other drunk Anglophones partying it up at La Fete de La Musique. I have no idea who the guy in the kilt is, but he was as cute as a bug's ear.

The only good band we heard all night:

5. And last but not least. My teeny tiny mom/Yoga Instructor/almost Reiki Master/ordained Disciples of Christ minister with her very tall Drag Queen friend at Gay Pride in Indianapolis, Indiana. Amen!

Ok, that's it. That's all I got.

Why I Heart France Reason# 16: Being French Means Never Having to Say You’re Sorry.

Please carefully consider this conversation I overheard yesterday at the bank:

French Lady w/ pancake-ass: Bonjour, I need to make a deposit into my account.

(she hands him a fat envelope.)

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: Merci Madame, Just one moment.

(Insert sound of dim-witted tapping sounds on computer keyboard.)

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: There you go Madame, Please sign this form.

French Lady w/ pancake-ass: Uhm, Excuse me. This isn’t my account. You put my money in someone else’s account!

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: Oh?

French Lady w/ pancake-ass: Yes! That’s not my name!

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: Ooooh! Good thing you caught that!

(Insert sound of more dim-witted tapping sounds on computer keyboard)

Mr. Dim-witted Bank Teller: There you go Madame, Please sign this form.

(French Lady w/ pancake-ass carefully re-examines and then finally signs form then storms out of bank.)

(End Scene)

Yep. The dim-witted bank teller acidentally deposited this Dame’s 3235€ (make that 4,524.86 USD) into someone else’s bank account (yeah I have the eyes of a hawk and I could easily see the amount written on her deposit slip over her right shoulder.) and then blows it off like it’s no big deal?

Now, after living in France for so many years I’ve grown accustomed to the French inability to assume responsibility for their actions or to make a proper apology, but syriousleee…as soon as I heard him say “Good thing you caught that!” I thought to myself “Good thing it’s not my money you f*cked up buster because I’d have to leap across this counter and mince yur teeny frog brain a bit.”

Ok, my heat and hormone induced violent tendancies aside…wtf? Am I the only one who thinks that since he made a grave error concerning a boatload of cash, that he could have broken the Frenchy Code of diss-Honor and at least offered this woman a "Oh, Excuse me Madame!"?

Heart-felt Sidenote: Just for the record I would like to state that I have nothing against the pancake-assed folk among us. I am well aware that not everyone can be blessed by the great Godess of Junk-in-the-Trunk. But since this poor woman's ass was so insanely nonexistant, that's pretty much all I can re-call about the woman's physical appearance. Please refrain from sending me hate-mail relating to pancake-assed people's rights etc etc.

I even have a hat to prove it. But not really.

Sweet Jesus Get Me to France.

Dear Madame K,

I've been reading your blog for a while now, and I'm wondering how you ended up in France. Partly because I'm interested, and partly because sweet jesus, get me out of Metro Detroit.

Thanks,

Susanne Summers

Dear Susanne Summers,

That’s a damn good question. How did I end up in France? I ask myself that question every day. Twice on bad days.

The quick and easy answer is, I met FrenchBoy. And once we decided that we were gonna get hitched, it was obvious that one of us was gonna have to move. We could have just as easily chosen to live in the US, but since he already had a job and an apartment, it was just easier for me to move to France than to start from scratch in the US. Plus I'm an artist. I have a job that I can do from practically anywhere. It just made sense. So I moved to France, and here I be.

But since I have time and a tendancy to over-analyze damn near anything, I'd like to take this moment to elaborate a bit on that question. How the hell did I end up in France? Well, I like to think that anyone’s life is the sum of the decisions they make. Given, life throws sh*tstorms at us that we definitely do not choose, but the rest is up to us. You know the old expressions about lemons....lemonade. So, I’d have to say the path that lead me to France started when I saw 12 years old. Yep. Before I even had boobs.

When I was in Jr. High, we were forced to take a foreign language. All of my friends chose to take Spanish, but being the contrarian that I have always been, I chose to take French. For the next 5 years of my life I studied French in school. In fact I took so many French language and culture classes that by the time I’d graduated from High-school, I was actually exempt from having to take any language courses at the University level. That fall after high-school graduation I went on to The University of Iowa where I spent the next 4 years drinking copious amounts of vodka and promptly succeeded in forgetting absolutely everything I had learned about France. Or so I thought.

Ok, fast forward like a million years.

After living in Brooklyn for 5 years I decide to leave the thrill-ride of life in New York City behind and I moved to upstate New York to squat live at me mum’s place while I figured out what the hell I really wanted to do with my life. After 6 months I was bored nearly into a coma and thus start planning an escape to….hell who knows...Timbuktu? Nova Scotia? Hell, even Europe? All I was thinking was sweet jesus get me outta Rochester, New York.

By the time I finally made it to Europe and met FrenchBoy, I still didn’t speak French, but having studied it for so many years there was a familiarity with the language and culture that really bridged the gap between us. It just made it easier. Freaky Frog accent aside, he just seemed….familiar to me. And I figured that re-learning French would be a snap! Or so I thought.

So I guess I should blame thank the hell out of my 8th grade French teacher for helping to land me here in the land of the frogs. And I thank the heavens everyday that I came from a family that allowed me to take risks and go for big adventures, even when they were a bit leery of my choices. But I give myself a lot of credit too. Thank god I’m one of those difficult head-strong people that decides to do stuff the hard interesting way. Or at least I like to think of myself that way on my good days.

So yep. Life is full of choices. God knows I've mad a crap-load of bad ones, and as much as I bitch and moan, moving to France definitely isn't one of them. At the very least, my decision to live in France has made for some big adventures that I'll be able to tell my grandchildren someday. The censored versions anyway.

I will however proudly leave in all the parts about the smokin' and the boozin'.

Have a question you’d like me to rant about?

Send your question to: Madamek at ymail dot com.