And The Oscar Goes To......

Are you effin' kidding me?

Seriously?

When I heard on the morning news that Jean Dujardin won an Oscar, I immediately had the following two thoughts in rapid fire succession:

1.  Oh snap! Someone must have slipped a some wacky drugs into my last batch of Nespresso capsules and I am now having a crazy, laced coffee-induced hallucination.

2.  Holy F*ck. I've had a mild stroke in the area of my brain that controls language because I could swear the TV lady said "Brice de Nice" won an Oscar.

As it turns out, I was neither drugged or stroking out.

Like George Clooney, I spent the next 24 hours in a bitter, hazy cloud of shock, disbelief, and disgust.  And then it dawned on me: Of course the Academy loves him. They don't have to suffer through his crappy french TV show and they've clearly never seen any of his other work.

I dare you to make it to the 5 minute mark without thinking to yourself: 

"This dude won a frickin' Oscar?  For realsies?"

End rant.

Let's fast forward to the part where I give you my 2013 Oscar picks.

My pick for Best Actor in a Leading Role:

Boooyah!

 

Look on the Bright Side. It Could Be Worse!

I just got an e-mail containing the following message from the US Department of State. When I read this stuff I always feel really helpless. I happen to be American. I live in Europe. It's not like I can cut my holiday short and fly home to avoid any possible dangers. I'm not a tourist. This is my home.

So instead of sitting here feeling all panicky and helpless. I thought I'd entertain y'all. Now, don't be skeered, but ask yourself....

Travel Alert
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
Bureau of Consular Affairs Europe
October 3, 2010

The State Department alerts U.S. citizens to the potential for Zombie attacks in Europe. Current information suggests that al-Zombi’ia and affiliated organizations continue to plan terrorist attacks. European governments have taken action to guard against a Zombie attack and some have spoken publicly about the heightened threat conditions.

Zombies may elect to use a variety of means and weapons and target both official and private interests. U.S. citizens are reminded of the potential for Zombies to attack public transportation systems and other tourist infrastructure. Zombies have targeted and attacked subway and rail systems, as well as aviation and maritime services. U.S. citizens should take every precaution to be aware of their surroundings and to adopt appropriate safety measures to protect themselves when traveling.

We continue to work closely with our European allies on the threat from international Zombie-ism, including al-Qa’ida. Information is routinely shared between the U.S. and our key partners in order to disrupt Zombie plotting, identify and take action against potential operatives, and strengthen our defenses against potential threats.


We recommend U.S. citizens register their travel plans with the Consular Section of the U.S. Embassy through the State Department's travel registration website.

This Travel Alert expires on January 31, 2011.

(Wait. Serously? WTF for? Is this the date world peace starts? Oh, Awesome!)

United States Embassy
American Citizen Services Unit
4, avenue Gabriel
75382 Paris Cedex 08
France

Telephone in France: 01 43 12 22 22
Telephone from U.S.: (011 33) 1 43 12 22 22
Website: http://france.usembassy.gov
E-mail: citizeninfo@state.gov

The Magic Garden.

One of our main goals for this year was to finally do something with the Barbie Dream House terrace. It’s been nearly 3 years since we moved in I think and we still haven’t done anything with the space. You see the problem with having a 130 square Meter terrace is…where the hell do you start? Not to mention the obvious question such as how much is this project gonna cost. In the end we gave ourselves a modest budget to work with for this year. Little by little we’ve been ordering everything on our list:

Salon and coffee table? Check!

Over-priced planters? Check!

Ginormous Parasol? Check!

Plants? Oh Fer f*ck’sakes I knew we forgot something!

So after much deliberation and research we took the logical next step. No we didn’t go to the garden center and pick up some trees; instead we ordered some bamboo on the internet. The place came well recommended by a friend of French-Mother-in-Law so I wasn’t really worried about quality. I don’t know exactly what I thought it would look like or how it would arrive. I guess I imagined it would come on a truck or something. Instead, what actually arrived was so much better:

Voila! Say hello to my gorgeous little garden in a box delivered by regular express mail.

My 8 baby bamboo plants came wrapped in saran wrap and packed in white packing peanuts inside a medium-sized cardboard box. (Seriously dude. Who the hell still used packing peanuts?) Much to my delight they are in perfect health, and very, very pretty.


Bamboo in a box. Who knew?

Capitalism...Y'ur doin' It Wrong!

I just wanted to share with you a few local businesses and business ideas that have popped up in the last few months here in Metz, France. Sorry the photos are so crappy. It was freezing cold and pissing rain, but I think you can still get the point.

Cheeseburgerz.....Y'ur doin' it Wrong:

Duck Hamburger discounted to only 15,90 EUR.


Gangsta...........Y'ur doin' it Wrong:

For real y'ur too cheap to reprint this sign?

Discuss.

Oh No He Di’int!

You may or may not have heard about the controversy surrounding the new film The Other Dumas. Long story short--Gerdard Dipardoo, one of France’s most famous actors, will be playing Alexandre Dumas, author of such famous novels as “The Count of Monte Cristo” and “The Three Musketeers,”. There is however, one small catch: Alexandre Dumas was kinda Black. Dipardoo is not kinda Black. He’s just kinda fat and kinda ugly as all get out.

When I first heard about this I was offended for obvious reasons. One, Dipardoo makes my skin crawl, and two, he’s daring to play one of France’s most beloved and celebrated cultural icons in black face and a fuzzy afro wig. (OK that last bit was just me being dramatic.) I know it’s tough for Black actors in Hollywood to get the really interesting roles they want to play, but they’ve got it easy compared to Black French actors. Apparently French casting directors don’t even bother trying to find Black actors to play actual Black characters. They just paint the white actors browner and slap a curly wig on their head and say “Whatever. Same diff.”

To clarify, my beef with Dipardoo is not just that he isn’t Black, but that I’m just sick of seeing his bloated face in so many damn movies. I am under the impression that there some kind of French film mafia that requires he be given a role in 40% of the films made in France. I hear he almost beat out Marion Cotillard for the role of Édith Piaf in La Môme, but eventually settled for a supporting role.

There are just so many things wrong with this whole set up that I hardly know where to begin. It’s bad enough that 99% of French people don’t even know that Dumas was kinda Black, did they even try to find a Black actor for the role? My guess is no. I mean does Dipardoo even look like Dumas?

OH SNAAAAP! He does look like Dumas!

OK, that freightening fact aside, the whole thing still rubs me the wrong way. Or maybe I’m just being closed-minded. Film is art and art should be allowed to take creative liberties. For instance when they make the biopic of Barack Obama’s life...

Young Barack should be played by a slightly sun-kissed Zack Efron...

and Rob Lowe can play Obama during his white house years. No fake-bake necessary since he is already lightly toasted.

Gosh darnit! I do declare that I have truly missed my calling as a casting director. I think I really nailed this one, although I am open to discussion. Maybe Clooney would do a better Obama?

Tomato, tomato, keffiyeh, shemagh. Let’s call the whole thing off.

For the past year or so if France I’ve been noticing a curious fashion trend especially amongst the Eurotrash hipsters. Everywhere I go in Downtown Metz I see kids wearing keffiyeh around town with their beat up, yet insanely over-priced, Chuck Taylor sneakers. Just last month at a boutique downtown I saw an entire display done up with these carves in just about every color in the rainbow.

According to the all-knowing gods of wikipedia: A Keffiyeh is a traditional headdress for Arab that is folded and wrapped in various styles around the head. Traditionally worn by Palestinian peasants, the keffiyeh became a symbol of Palestinian nationalism during the Arab Revolt of the 1930s. Increased sympathy and activism by certain Westerners toward Palestinians in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict have led to the wearing of keffiyehs as a sign of their solidarity with the Palestinian people.

I’m a little slow, so I didn’t pay much attention to the scarves until the whole Rachael Ray Dunkin Donuts incident came out in the press. (Also, please note that I didn’t even know who the hell Rachael Ray was at the time. Still don’t kinda. That’s how big the rock I live under is.)
Now, I ususally don’t pay much attention to these University kids since all they do is stand around in groups drinking diet coke, eating potatoe chips and smoking cigarettes, but I’m totally baffled on this one.

So my question here is---What gives? I don’t hang out with many French University students so I’ve never had the opportunity to ask—is this a political statement or some kind of misguided fashion trend? Could it be that these Euro-Trash hipster ids are actually displaying some sort of political consiousness?

Well whatever, call me crazy, or maybe I’m just turning into an old lady, but a hot-pink keffiyeh on just about anyone looks downright silly!

Thoughts?

The One Where I Chuck It.

The weirdest thing happened to me yesterday morning.

I woke up an hour before my alarm went off rather disoriented. I had been having one of my familiar dreams where either I’m chasing someone, or someone is chasing me, and the whole thing culminates in one final apocalyptic battle scene in which I either win, or get bored and choose to wake-up. (I’m a semi-lucid dreamer.)

I opened my eyes at about 6 AM and our bedroom was pitch black due to the fact that sun doesn’t rise these days until about noon these days. I went into the bathroom and went about my regular morning grooming routine, but my feet were cold so I walked back into the bedroom to get a pair of socks. As soon as I entered the bedroom, I saw a small dark object sitting on my side of the unmade bed.

It was my wedding band.

At some time during the night, I had taken off my wedding band...and just chucked it.

This just completely freaked me out. I couldn’t have been more shocked if I had woken up downstairs on the sofa wearing nothing but my sleeping cap. (Yes I wear a sleeping cap.)

I ran downstairs and told FrenchBoy what had happened. His response. “Were you fighting people in your dream again?” At that very second a tiny tid-bit of the dream came back to me. I remember that in the dream I was fighting someone and that my finger hurt so I took off my ring. (“Hold up. Lemme take off my jurry right quick.”) But that’s all I could remember. Anyway, I freaked out a bit more and then we both had a really good laugh about it.

Then a few hours later I’m sitting at my computer, typing another blog entry and WHAM it hit me.

ONE WEEK AGO TODAY WAS OUR FIVE YEAR WEDDING ANNIVERSARY!

Now, how on earth does one go about forgetting something like that? Part of it could be that we’re so wrapped up in Holiday and Birthday preparations (Why was everyone we know born in December?!) that it just slipped our minds. But FIVE years is kind of a big deal, not just because its this many *holding up hand like a 5 year old* but because at FIVE years of marriage I am now officially, no matter what, eligible to become a French citizen!

That’s right. Last Monday morning I could have walked into the Prefecture and asked for a citizenship application. Sure, it’ll prolly take 2 years, and who am I kidding, there’s no WAY the prefecture is open on a Monday morning, but still, it’s pretty cool.

If I want to, I can now become a frog.

Those Crazy Frogs #12: Secret Sales!

So this weekend we did some work on the Barbie Dream House. We’ve been moved in for almost a year now, but we’ve never had "La cremaillere" housewarming party, because we haven’t really finished the décor. We still have bare walls (yeah, yeah, yeah, I should just hang my own paintings.) and a few rooms don’t even have lighting fixtures.

So Saturday we headed over to Leroy-Merlin to get a light for the living room ceiling. (Note to self: next time you build a house, just install spots everywhere. OK? Duh.) Luckily we stumbled upon a very modern set of 4 lights in inox that we liked, and there was a sign stating that it was 20% off that weekend. We skipped on over to the checkout line to pay. As soon as the cashier rung up the light we saw the problem. For whatever reason, it scanned at the regular price. We immediately pointed this out to the cashier and told her that the sign on the shelf stated there was a 20% discount. After a moment of confusion, she turned to us annoyed and said, and I quote: “Well that doesn’t tell me anything. It’s not in the system.”

I, being psycho American and all, immediately flew into a rage. I not so calmly explained to her that I don’t work at Leroy- Merlin, so I don’t know why the correct price is not in the system, and that she should call someone to find out ("You betta aaassk somebody!" ) because I had no intention of paying the full price.

Without another word, Cashier Bitch gets on the phone, quickly calls the department and gets the discount code. She then turns to FrenchBoy (completely avoiding eye contact with me) and apologizes and then explains that when certain items are discounted, you have to take the item off the shelf, find the department manager, then have said manager hand-write the discount code on a special form for you to take to the cashier. Of course none of this is indicated on the big-ass sign that they went through the trouble of printing and posting next to the product.

Aaaah Bravo!

And this, my friends, is a perfect example of both French customer service and efficiency. It’s not good enough to know about the sale, you have to know all the “secret” procedures involved to get it. And I just gotta ask-- why piss off a customer who is about to plop down a hefty amount of cash for an item, when you could just as easily fix the problem with a five second phone call? And last but not least. Why, oh Why, oh WHY WHY WHY wasn’t the sale entered into the f*cking system in the first place?

*deep sigh*

Did I mention how much I love living in France?

Ahhhhh! I'm Hearing Voices!

When I opened and then posted my email address I didn't really expect to get so much freakin' mail. Y'all are some chatty bastards! I'm kinda compulsive when it comes to returning emails so not to worry if I haven't replied to you yet I probably will...

Unless of course you're the creepy person that requested a pair of my underwear. No, I cannot oblige you. However if you happen to pass a Victoria's Secret please feel free to mail me a few pairs of black Body by Victoria Hip-huggers. On second thought, just save the money and use it to buy your Haldol.

Thanks and good luck with your psychosis.

sont-Ils vraiment cons?

I hate to come back from being away for almost a week and have to start whining, but I can't help it. I read this article the other day and almost flipped my wig.

If you're too lazy to click over, no worries, I'll explain. Basically some assholes broke into the famous Cathedral and vandalised a bunch of stuff. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of visiting it, you're really missing out. It's quite lovely and quite famous for it's Chagall windows. (No the windows in the photo below. They busted up the Adam and Eve ones!)

So these dorks break in and then can't figure out how to get back out so, they punch their way out --you guessed it--throught the Chagall windows.

Nice.

I'm especially pissy since that particular window was my favorite! The worse part is, they seem to have done it just for the heck of it. They didn't even take anything valuable.

That's like breaking into MOMA, not taking anything, and then punching a Picasso on your way out. I mean, we're talking real idiots here. Hence this post will be filed under the WTF category.


Now on to more pressing matters: Did anyone watch "Ile de Tentation" last week?

Now back to your regularly scheduled program.

…So I’m in the café line at IKEA after paying for my crappy new Billy bookcase. I’m already having a tough time deciding whether I should order the hotdog that I know tastes like rubber, or the sugar covered donuts which are always partially frozen, when I hear this kid start screaming in back of me. In pushy French fashion Mother and child arestanding barely 20 centimeters away from me so that the child’s wails of agony are goin directly into my left ear.

Just as I am about to convince myself to completely throw caution to the wind and order the new creepy-looking chicken sandwich thing on the brightly lit fluorescent menu, the kid lets out yet another long earth shatteringly loud scream that sounds something like it may in fact be dying.

And since at this point my bloodsugar is so low that I’m actually physically incapable of caring whether or not the kid is in fact dying. I don’t turn to look. Instead, I say to myself “If that F@cking baby screams in my goddamned ear one more time I swear to god I’m gonna turn round and smack it!”

Almost instantaneously, I hear this un-Godly noise that sounds something like:

“WRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHRFT!”

And with that, I feel a weak, yet surprisingly firm thwack on the back of my neck.

Yep. You guessed it.

A bitchy little French baby just sucker punched me on the back of the neck!

Now, It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened. In fact, I was in a bit of a daze untill I heard the baby’s mother say “arrête!” (“stop”). Instinctively I turned around to face the mother and child. And here my friends, is where it gets that much funnier.

When I turn around, the French mom is desperately avoiding my gaze by looking up at the IKEA menu as if the answer to all the mysteries of the Universe were somehow embedded in that f@cker. Meanwhile L´enfant terrible that sucker punched me is glaring at me like I just stole candy from her or something!

I don't know exactly what to say about this experience beyond that. A baby punched me. A baby punched me and got away with it. I mean it's not like I could punch her back or call the police. I mean, what do ya do?

So, lesson learned. Be mindful of even your private thoughts because apparently some bitchy French babies can read minds.

And they will punch you...

and get away with it.

Shut up about your f*cking kid.

We went to the zoo alllll day yesterday so I have nothing non-kid related to share, but that's not so bad...



Also, I didn't get a photo of the peacock that escaped its cage because I was too busy gawking at the gang of French toddlers chasing it around like it was a chicken dinner.

Total freak show.

Seriously, I have seen some bad parenting in my day, but encouraging your toddler to chase after a big-ass wild bird that has escaped from its cage in the zoo? This is worse than the time I almost ran over a 2-year-old in the McDo parking lots because her mom was too busy lighting her cigarette to notice she had wandered off.

Alas, Just one more piece of evidence to support my evolving theory that French parents love their kids a bit less than say......the Japanese.

Those Crazy Frogs: Torture TV.

I’m sure by now all of you know that one of the things I hate the most about France is going to La Poste. And clearly this isn’t just one of those “ex-pat issues”, because from what I can tell, French people hate going there too. Well, La Poste must have gotten wind of this fact because my tiny local Post Office recently installed a large flatscreen TV.

Ironically, the program playing on the screen was about exotic beach vacations from what I could tell. “Bonjour customers! While you’re waiting in this endless queu, feel free to torture yourself by watching beautiful images of vacations your SMIC earning sorry French ass cannot afford! Merci suckers!”

Toofless Conversations.

Part of the reason this blog is so gosh darn funny is because, well, funny stuff happens to me. Believe me I would love to be able to take more credit for the humorous moments, but alas I must admit, there isn’t much need for embellishment on my part.

And with that admission, I bring you a scene from my so-called life. A lovely 30 second exchange between myself and a drunk toothless guy in the line at the MATCH grocery store this afternoon: (Translated into English for clarity & hilarity).

Drunk Toofless Guy: Bonjour Madame.

Madame K: Bonjour.

Drunk Toofless Guy: Oh, go to the other line, he’s about to open the register! Go! Go Fast!

Madame K: Oh, thanks, but I doubt he will be open soon. I’ll stay here.

Drunk Toofless Guy: Aaaah. You just want to stay in this line because I’m in it.

Madame K: (No response. Continues unloading groceries onto filthy conveyor belt.)

Drunk Toofless Guy: Hey! You’re a Creole!

Madame K: (Still gives no response, but offers her signature WTF glare.)

Drunk Toofless Guy: You’re not a Creole? You’re from The Antilles right? Les Antilles. Les Antilles. Les Antilles.

Madame K: What? No, I’m American.

Drunk Toofless Guy: What? You’re American? American? Aaaaahhhh George Bush?

Madame K: Hey! I’m from New York, not from Texas!

Drunk Toofless Guy: Aaaah. The Towers. The 2 towers. They fell!

Madame K: Uhm ,yeah.

Drunk Toofless Guy: Aaaaah. (turns and wanders away.)

Madame K: (continues loading groceries onto filthy conveyor belt.)

End Scene.

Discuss.

Madame K vs. Mademoiselle K.

OK, this has nothing to do with nothing, but I had to bring this up just for a brief minute.

The strangest thing happened to me while I was in Paris. I suddenly became a “Mademoiselle” again. As soon as I stepped off the train I noticed that everywhere I went in Paris, servers and cashiers automatically referred to me as “Mademoiselle”.

Now, I'm not complaining, but I found this little fact both strange and fascinating. Here in Eastern France I am always referred to as “Madame”. In fact any woman who is obviously past her mid-twenties is a “Madame” in my neck of the woods regardless of whether or not she is wearing a wedding band. But in Paris this is certainly not the case. Even my friend Nat, who is adorably 6 months pregnant, gets referred to as “Mademoiselle” when she is out and about in the city of lights.

So of course now I am crazy curious to hear from the rest of you ex-pat gals in France. (A bunch of you will have to de-lurk for this little poll.)


Where you live, are you a “Madame” or a “Mademoiselle”?

Those Crazy Frogs: «Piou-Piou»

One of the loveliest things about being married to FrenchBoy is the absolutely asinine conversations we have in bed just before we drift off to sleep. Over the last few months we have talked about countless idiotic topics including but not limited to: the spiritual meaning behind snoring patterns, to what degree your brain shuts off your ears while you are asleep, and my personal favorite- a lively debate over whether or not we should start sleeping farther apart so that one night we don’t accidentally die from asphyxiation due to hours of breathing eachother’s carbon dioxide.

So it is no surprise that last night we found ourselves in a discussion about French onomatopoeia. You see, I have one of those alarm clocks that simulates the sunrise. In addition to the gradually increasing light, instead of a normal alarm sound, which makes me wake up in a fright, my alarm plays a recording of birds chirping in the forest. Chirp chirp chirp. While we were talking about my chirping alarm, French boy informed me that French birds don’t chirp or tweet or sing instead they go:

After I stopped laughing, I informed FrenchBoy that no bird on earth, not even a French bird, could possibly make the sound « Piou-Piou» because birds don’t have lips to form the “P” sound. At best perhaps a cow could go « Piou-Piou» seeing as they obviously have lips if they are making the “M” sound in the french «Meuh», but even that is a stretch.

In the end FrenchBoy and I agreed to disagree.

Other French sounds you should know about:
A dog goes: «ouah ouah»
A horse goes: «hiiiiii»
And one of my personal favorites: «Cocorico» for "cock-a-doodle-doo"

If after reading this post you still have time to waste, go to this website and educate thyself on animal languages around the world.

B*tch Betta Have My Money.

Please excuse the title---that's all I could come up with on such short notice.

Look: we have already clearly established that French customer service = oxymoron, so I want to preface this post by saying that this is not going to turn into a rant about how much the French suck when it comes to customer service. Instead I just want to share with all of you some funny interactions I had today while running errands.

So today I had 3 errands to run. 1-Go to Castorama (the French Home Depot) and buy plastic protective sheeting for my studio, 2- go to the office supply store and buy an overpriced calculater, and 3- go to BoConcept and pay for the furniture that we ordered so I wouldn’t have to pay the creepy delivery guy on Friday morning.

Stop #1

I walk into Castorama and begin looking for my roll of plastic. Of course I can’t find it. I immediately notice that whenever I look to find a sales person they see my eyes trying to meet theirs and then they immediately scurry off like frightened rats. I think I actually heard them make squeaking noises as they kicked up dust to get away. This of course is not uncommon in Castorama culture. I think part of their training manual includes a hefty chapter on how to escape actually having contact with the customers. So everytime I’m in Castorama I like to wander around just looking at the other shoppers. It’s like Night of the Living Dead in there! A hundred dazed and lost people walking around, stone-faced, mouths agape like zombies, hopelessly trying to find…..staple guns and what-not. Meanwhile the sales staff runs and screams in horror. Next time I will bring a video camera. P.S. I never found my damn plastic sheeting either.

Stop #2

I walk into Bureau Vallee, grab my stuff, and head up to the cash register. The 98 year old guy who works as the cashier eventually walks over and starts ringing up my stuff as though working there were his punishment for some unthinkable crime. I of course immediately greet him with a hearty “Bonjour Monsieur.” After all, just because he's a Grouchy Old Bastard doesn’t mean my Momma didn’t raise me right. I have manners.

Finally he tells me the total and since I’m numerically illiterate in French I look to the cash register sign and read the total and then hand him my cash. (Seriously, if you want to see me go into convulsions, ask me how to say 94 in French. What’s up with all the math? 80 + 14...whatever man!) Anyway, he gives me change, and although I ain’t a math whiz I know something isn’t right. I snatch the receipt off the counter and glare at it like it just called me a a naughty name. Wait! Grouchy Old Bastard shorted me 1 cent! WTF? Just as I was about to point out his error, Grouchy Old Bastard opens the cash register again and hands me the centime then says: “Oh, good thing you looked at your receipt!”

Correction: That Grouchy Old Bastard tried to steal 1 centime from me! Good thing I looked at my receipt? No. Good thing I don't jump over this counter and break your f*cking hip!

Moving on.

Stop #3

I walk into BoConcept which is dead as a doornail seeing as how it’s 11AM and most normal people uhm…have jobs. Evenso, I am greeted by two chipper sales girls who actually recognize me from when I was in 3 weeks ago. I tell them I’ve come in to pay the balance on my furniture account and they trip over themselves bringing up my info on the computer. I hand the first salesgirl my money. (I can call her girl cuz she’s at least 5 years younger than me.) She then prints, staples and folds my 2 page receipt so it will fit perfectly in my handbag. The second sales girl then says: “It’s so nice of you to come in to pay. You really didn’t have to. If all our customers were like you it would make our jobs much easier!” At this point I am sure someone hiding behind the Volani bookcase has shot me with a poison dart and this is the hallucinogenic effect that one feels right before the poison quickly works it’s way into the nervous system and stops first the brain, then the heart. Clearly this…niceness can’t be happening.

Anyway, today’s lesson is buy 14 euro calculator from Grouchy Old Bastard-- get crappy service. Hand two girls a fist full of 500 euro notes---get customer service.

Live and learn.

You Can’t Make This Stuff up!

One thing I like about living in France is that every outing can turn into a little adventure.

Wednesday I met up with Mademoiselle R. This week's adventure involved us checking out the Chagal windows at the Cathedral, discovering that Rosport Blue tastes like poo, Mademoiselle R getting trapped in the toilet at the tea salon, and then subtely getting accused of shop-lifting in one of the crappiest stores in the world - Maisons du Monde.

What can I say? Never a dull moment.

I Speaka Zee English.

Everytime FrenchBoy and I go out on the weekend to do shopping or running errands we have a moment where mid-discussion we realize people are staring at us. Why? Because we’re speaking English. This weekend in particular, we were enjoying our very mediocre Tex-Mex lunch at a local restaurant and the family at the next table was not so subtly listening in on our chit-chat. Finally when they got up to leave, their young son said to the mother something to the effect of “They aren’t speaking French.” And she replied, “No, They’re speaking English.” At which point I promptly spoke up to clarify that I was not English, but American. Ya know, Just for the record. I mean....I don't even drink tea.

It amazes me that while we live in a very international corner of France that people will actually stop and stare and try to listen to our conversations. When I first moved to France I would intentionally speak quieter in public because I was so uncomfortable about all the attention that speaking English brought. Now, I just clearly don't give a rat's ass, but I do always wonder about these people. Are they listening to see if they can actually understand? I mean, what’s the big deal? Seriously. I'm asking.

The funniest part of this phenomenon is how surprised people are when they realise that FrenchBoy is in fact....French. That's right folks. He's French and he speaks English! You can literally see the flash of confusion rush over people's faces as we randomly switch back and forth between languages mid sentence. (Our future children will no doubt be fluent in neither language if we keep this nonsense up.) Sometimes I do it on purpose just to see if I can make the cashier's head explode. No luck thus far.

Maybe I’m a bit New York jaded and think I’ve seen and heard everything, but it doesn’t phase me one bit when I hear people speaking Mandarin or Japanese while I’m in France….or anywhere else for that matter. And I of course wouldn’t think to actually try to listen in on their conversation. Dude---I don’t speak Mandarin or Japanese (Although wish I did) so what do I care?

So you tell me: what gives? Why are the folks in my corner of France so damn surprised or curious when they hear French Boy and I speaking English in the grocery store?

Madame Snaggle-tooth Update.

Those of you who have been following my 3Suisse and La Redoute adventures will be interested in this little update. This morning I had no choice but to go back to my local tabac to pick up one back-ordered duvet cover. Of course Madame Snaggle-tooth was there as usual. But get this---she was wearing an Hermès scarf!

Ok, I firmly believe that much of life's misery results from comparing ourselves to others, and thus I try quite hard not to do that, but dammit! How the hell can tabac cashiers afford Hermes when I'm still a window licker*?

Whatever. I don't know what to make of all this.

*"leche vitrine" is a French expression that literally means "window licking". It's almost the equivalent of the American expression "window shopping."